Leandra Medine's Blog, page 665

MR Writer’s Prompt: Love to Love You, Baby

Next Saturday is Valentine’s Day or as we like to call it: Give Yourself a Hug to Declare Self-Satisfaction day, so this week, The Man Repeller Writer’s Club is asking you to define love.

Do it in a poem, a short skit, a written (or video!) essay, a fictional story about the cactus and the kleenex box that lived happily never after — whatever works for you works for us. Get your creative juices flowing in the comments below by asking that piercing question (what does love mean, anyway?), should you so need and remember the regulations — we’re looking for ~500 words and submissions to write@manrepeller.com by next Thursday, February 12th (also, the initiation of Fashion Week) at 12 p.m. EST.

Okay, that about covers it. At the risk of tying this fucker up in a bow that makes you want to fork my eyes out, you should know that I love you.

The Net is the New Neutral

I used to think the Internet was magic. As I had with Harry Potter and would with dark chocolate, I encountered the World Wide Web at exactly the right moment. I was still in elementary school then and desperate for enchantment. The mere existence of PBSKids.org was all the evidence I needed. There had to be something larger and greater than our planetary system out there. I knew it.

And so, even in the dark ages of dial up, I marveled at the big plastic box in my living room, a portal to an invisible omnipotence I could never quite understand.

I’m older now, but no less awestruck. Despite my near congenital cynicism and the fact that I no longer yearn for the supernatural, the web is still a revelation to me. Google is a masterpiece. Netflix is a miracle. Facebook means that I will always be able to keep tabs on the boy I liked to kiss in high school. I am as convinced now as I ever was. This is modern sorcery.

It’s unsophisticated, maybe. I know now that the Internet is not some Never, Never Land; it’s made up of dollar signs and commerce and Facebook newsfeeds. But I believe in it still. For all of the noise and the tabs and the hours we have lost to Netflix, the World Wide Web has delivered. It has shrunk our universe to the size of a computer screen. It is more than a giant marketplace that Jeff Bezos owns.

But not everyone agrees with me. Internet providers like AT&T are pretty sure that the web is a media product and that they should be allowed to control how it is packaged and sold. My lone friend in the computer science department at school explained to me this means that until now, giant companies have had the ability to pay more money for faster connections, meaning smaller startups without such budget would have to endure slower service in comparison.

The FCC — or, the suits whose job it is to regulate just about every which way human beings make contact in America — announced yesterday that it intends to reclassify the Internet as a public utility. As in, the web is more like water than it is like cable television. Everyone deserves equal access to it.

The move is a big deal, and it’s making a lot of people very happy. Online titans like Facebook and Amazon have long been advocating for such a policy change. Over the summer, John Oliver clambered atop his hilarious soapbox to encourage people to write to the FCC in support of net neutrality. More than 4 million did, and the offensive crashed the agency’s servers. Others are less enthused. This is America, which means several gazillion big messy lawsuits are likely to come out of this.

I know I am not the only person who thinks Twitter is as essential as electricity. But here’s what I want to know: Why does it matter what we call the Internet? Is it a public good? Or is it just an unprecedented media on a massive scale? What does the prospect of an open and equal Internet mean to you?

Shaving the Way to Equality

Two genders, both alike in dignity, in fair CVS, where we lay our scene. One with razors pink, purple and tropical; the other, blades orange and green, with an undeniable Tonka truck motif. A razor is a razor, but that’s where the similarities end. Women’s razors cost more, and it’s a damn scam.

Let us look at the evidence: search for men’s razors on CVS.com, and the prices range from a lolin’ $1.00 to $12.99 — the big leagues, with most razor pack prices hovering around $6.00. Look at women’s, and all the prices are hiked up a few dollars: the lowest-priced pack costs $2.99, the median is around $8.00 and a top of the line disposable shave is $15.

But prayer hands emoji be that in the face of a blatant pink tax, there’s a comically easy solution: buy men’s razors.

The only setback: the reviews for men’s razors are mostly from men using them on their faces. Not the best legfeel judges, I think we can agree. And in a world where people deep research mouthwash before buying in (people = me, I’ve done it and would do it again), it makes a difference to the women who stray.

Strangers in a strange land stick to the known; well-informed consumers can confidently go forth and break gender norms. And so it was that I ventured into the orange, green and gray, looking for the razors worth paying less for. My standard: Gillette’s Venus Disposable Razors Sensitive Skin, at $4.09 per razor. The contenders:

Bic Comfort 3 For Men Sensitive Skin ($1.25 per razor):

The cheapest of the bunch, the Bic lacked the pivot head I’m used to. And yet, it was still able to remove hair from my body. The shave is a tiny bit less close because it isn’t all up on you at every tenth angle, but on the whole, good results, and it excelled at the high-tension kneecap area. Zero gashes; would use again.

Gillette Sensor 3 Blade ($2.49 per razor)

These were the price in-betweeners, and I’ll be honest, my hopes may have been too high. It has “soft protective microfins” to protect from cuts, and I’ll be damned if that doesn’t sound like some Spy Kids-level technology. But I guess some people just toss around the word “microfins” these days, because all these guys had were draggy strips that didn’t do anything.

Aside from the betrayal, they were a good deal: with a pivot head and lower price than the Venus, they’re a middle ground you can feel good about. Ideally while laughing on the beach with your friends, taking back what is yours from Venus commercials.

Gillette Body 3 Blade ($5.89 per razor)

Whew, boy. The Body 3 blade is essentially the Venus, and after the others it felt just plain excessive. It works fine for shaving legs and elsewhere, but the three lubricating strips are overkill. No one needs that much glide. Despite its similarity to the Venus, it somehow costs a dollar per razor more, and thus the road runs both ways. Who knows. Men trying to get bare down there (“Body,” eh?) could be coming for our Soleils at this very moment.

All in all, go for the cheap beard blades. Razors with pivot heads give a slightly closer shave, but the bulky machinery adds time to cleaning them in between strokes. Unless you hate change, which is honorable and understandable, switching to non-pink razors has no downside. The upside? Heavier wallets.

Regardless of how you plead, shaving should ultimately be a want, not a need. (I didn’t mean that to rhyme.) In order to better match potential couples, OKCupid will ask women if they believe they have an “obligation” to shave their legs, and that’s some bullshit. Fresh-shaven skin feels good on sheets, but in the words of First Wives Diane, Bette and Goldie, no one owns you. Sasquatch, hairless cat or human woman going into winter, do you.

Images via Esquire and David Burton for Elle Russia

What Do You Secretly Hate?

Replace the Atlantic Ocean’s water with champagne for just a theoretical moment and imagine their similarities: champagne would create giant waves and suck back during low tide, it would froth and foam and tickle your nose. Swimmers would declare it a hangover cure and parents would caution their children, reminding them not to swallow it. It would be equally wet.

Now replace the champagne in your glass with ocean water. Again: froth, foam, tickle your nose. Its presence alone would make everyone joyful. There would be preference over where it came from (Is this salt water from France, or is it New Jersey?) and after drinking too much, you’d no doubt get sick.

But what the ocean and champagne really have in common is that secretly, I hate them both.

Hate is a strong word and we’re told not to use it, so if it softens the blow (and we should get more specific anyway) I dislike going in oceans with rough waves. Put me on a beach with my feet in the sand, however, and I am elated. Put me in a sail boat on top of the ocean and you can’t get me off it. Put me directly in the shallow, still waters of the French Riviera or a Sandals Resort and I will stay submerged until you come for me. Give me a breathing tank, face goggles and flippers and I will scuba dive until my air tank threatens to fail me. Yes please to all of that. You get it.

Here’s the part I hate: being knocked over by giant waves, being submerged against my will and losing my top or bottom in the process, choking on brine, tangling my hair, losing contacts, touching seaweed and stabbing my food 100 times while everyone near me goes, “Isn’t this fun! Isn’t your hangover totally gone? Nature’s cure!”

And the champagne? It gives me a headache, every single time, and makes me puke.

But you can’t declare hate for either publicly without expecting people to throw water balloons at your perm in angry-mob response. They don’t give you enough time to say, “No, I actually love the ocean, just not when it very blatantly tries to kill me!” And they don’t care that champagne makes you puke. Suck it up!

So I had to say it here. Get it off my chest. Repression isn’t good for us, you know? Your turn: what thing (feel free to add a million qualifiers, as I did) do you secretly hate?

The Enthusiastic Men of Fashion Week

If you have ever been to the H&M on 5th Ave at 48th street then you are aware of the scene of men that slump over like melting cashews on couches that are spread throughout the store. They are miserable and unengaged. They look as though they would rather have someone’s long, bony finger tap them on their shoulders while a tape recorder loops “Excuse me” into their ears as pronounced with an unnecessary and sibilant “S.”

Not the men of women’s fashion week, though. They are among the most enthusiastic attendees at nearly every show.

I’ve never sat next to man at a show who didn’t give in to a bit of chair dancing when a catchy soundtrack was playing. They are eager to see these clothes. They’re nonjudgemental in their public, post-runway comments. They clap loudly during designer bows, and they seem genuinely happy to be present at the events that don’t to have much at all to do with them.

And, of course, they do. There are, after all, male editors and buyers at women’s magazines and shops. Attending shows is as much their job as it is yours. (Yours, right?) But it goes beyond that: Leandra wrote last week about gender ambiguity during men’s fashion week — a very clear declaration by way of sartorial demonstration that the times, they are a changing, and she who wears the pants would be happy to loan her skirt to him. Meanwhile, men who exist outside of the fashion industry — gay and straight — have become more enthusiastic about fashion across the board. The term “metrosexual” is a bygone past communication because now the “thing” is to be well-dressed. Man or woman.

Still, I am fascinated by the guys who showed up, dressed to the nines (whether their brand of nines meant a three-piece suit, or track pants and high tops) at September 2014’s fashion week. More so at the recent Couture Spring 15 shows. Are they doing it for each other? Is it for the women? Or are they doing it purely for the fashion?

Maybe it’s a little bit of everything.

September 2014 fashion week images by Krista Lewis; Spring Couture 15 images by Tommy Ton via Style.com.

2 Songs to Get You Over the Wednesday Hump

Not to sound like a burnout dad stuck in a 26-year-old’s body, but remember when they made music? Like actual, heartfelt, soulful, so-catchy-it-hurts music that gave you no other option but to run and slide into a room the moment it came on because regardless of what you were doing you just had to dance?

Just like that.

Now, of course pop stars today come up with great hits. I’m not impervious to the charm of Sam Smith or Taylor Swift. But Otis Redding, Ray Charles, Sam Cooke — I mean those guys were really something else. They were of a different time; authentic. It was a golden era of music with new sounds that shocked listeners and caused real waves.

But you can’t really shock us now, can you? We’re a been-there-heard-that generation. We’re essentially all hipsters who’ve bought the t-shirt and turned it into a tote bag on Etsy before the record label even knew their own signed artist existed.

There’s a new guy who might be able to change that. 25-year-old Leon Bridges. He’s not doing anything technically new, but he is reviving an old sound that hasn’t been touched by the young mainstream since the 60s, really. At least not this well. And he’s using vintage instruments and live recordings (read: no auto-tune) to do it.

NPR wrote: “‘Coming Home’ explores the reasons why gospel meeting soul worked so magically at the dawn of the 1960s: the swing, the intimate relationship between background and lead vocals, the way the descending organ line works a pirouette around the triplets Bridges sings. This kind of perfection is always relevant.”

Perfection is a little dramatic, but in my unwarranted nostalgia for the time I never personally experienced, I honestly can’t think of a better word.

Above images via GorillavsBear.net; homepage image via Austin 360.

The Manifold Ways to Wear Frayed Denim

When Marques’Almeida debuted their line for Topshop in October, hearts swooned over the prospect of owning a pair of the frayed designer denim so inspired by the 90s redux that they basically did it better than the original decade. The collection showcased silk taffeta wide leg pants alongside mini skirts of the same fabric and enough oversized denim to satiate the hungriest of appetites.

Many of the clothes were completed by a shredded hem — the brand’s signature — and a style that’s enjoying somewhat of a renaissance in general. Frayed denim populates the pages of Net-a-Porter and Asos alike, and if that’s not enough to get you to put down your “fabric” scissors, the Topshop X Almeida collection is now a solid 50% off.

I have the relaxed skinny jeans on at this very moment and can attest to the fact that not only is the denim thicker than blood, but the shredded hem is of John Wayne bootcut proportions. If you find skinny jeans intimidating — in which case, we understand each other — take a crop and flared approach to it. The shredded hem has also breathed new life into the tired chambray shirt, which is good news considering I retired my old once I began matching every trendy-restaurant waitstaff  in Manhattan and Brooklyn.

If winter would hurry the eff up already and step off, we might even begin to entertain the idea of frayed denim cutoffs again. Until then, enjoy other styles below. Or, if you feel so inclined, DIY your own hem and share the outcomes in the comments section.

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Do Text Messages Count as Communication?

Last week’s writing assignment for this week’s installment of the MR Writer’s Prompt touched upon the notion of text messaging as perhaps too modern a form of communication for the generation that bore us but didn’t specifically ask a question that is probably worth answering: is texting a viable form of communication? While my mother doesn’t consider it to be, I’d be fairly hard pressed to imagine that if I were to ignore any number of the tedious orders she commanded of me via mobile keyboard, she wouldn’t take it personally.

So, let’s make the best of this cogitation station, evaluate both pros and cons and talk about this LIKE THE OVERGROWN BABIES THAT WE ARE.

Do texts count? Why wouldn’t they? Can evocative conversation happen over messaging apps? When are/aren’t they an appropriate form of communication? How frequently do you even pick up the phone to call people anymore? And perhaps most importantly: what’s the last thing you sent to your mom?

Man, I Smell Like a Woman

The number of times I’ve made people smell my wrist in the past month should directly correlate to the number of friends who will no longer hang out with me in public. However, because most participants’ initial reaction (horror) was soothed by the above-average pleasant smells emanating from my bent-back hands, I’ve retained a majority of my friendships and will be allowed back into at least 6 of the 10 bars where my various studies were conducted.

Other than that, testing out men’s cologne as a woman didn’t really make any major waves. Most people just told me I smelled good.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. Typically when I do these social experiments I’m eager for some sort of reaction. Also typically, I do not get it. In this case, my goals were two-fold. I wanted to 1) find a new “signature scent” for myself that wasn’t your average Chloé, and 2) I wanted see if I could pull off a smell that was made for a man — that would still work on a man, but didn’t make me, Amelia, smell like a dad or cranky bouncer.

After dousing myself in everything from suspicious liquids found in various medicine cupboards, to recommendations, to that which I’ve always wanted to try, I narrowed my picks down to five top choices. Wrist-tested; unisex approved.

Leather Oud by Christian Dior

I first got whiff of Leather Oud from Dior’s technically unisex line (though this one in particular is marketed towards men) while hugging my friend Christy, who is a woman (and also works at Dior). It was sexy and spicy and all of the things you’d associate with Humphrey Bogart’s Rick Blaine in Casablanca. If you drink scotch and have a monocle then you likely smell like this naturally. It also resembles something of cinnamon saddles, and if you’re wondering why I’m not a renowned olfactory writer then you and I are wondering the same thing.

(Same-brand runner up: Bois d’Argent)

Sycomore by Chanel

A fun fact about me is that I have been on the hunt for a specific men’s cologne ever since a certain person who we don’t need to talk about right now told me he wore Chanel. (Just Chanel, no specifics.) I’m not positive, but I think I’ve found it in Sycomore. As I write this I’m having a terrible time not inhaling my own wrist. It is that good, and the critics agree: though I’ll be stabbed if I spray it one more time in the office, Sycomore-on-skin is at once light enough for summer and yet the all-encompassing comfort and musky warmth you demand in the winter. It is bottled Adrien Brody.

Voyage d’Hermès by Hermès

This one was the least “obviously masculine” of the bunch, but even with the slightly sweet citrus notes, it wasn’t feminine, either. Pepper might be involved? I have no clue. You’d want to kiss whosever face this was near, though. Once, when I was high school, I went to the Fragonard Perfumery in the South of France and learned about these famous Noses whose job is to detect smells and not smoke or drink. I don’t smoke, and I can detect watermelon within 10 feet of a closed door; will Fragonard Perfumery want to hire me after my description of Voyage d’Hermès? Maybe. Let me add another adjective just in case: fresh (to death). Like Robert Redford.

(Same brand runner up: Terre d’Hermès)

Fat Electrician by Etat Libre d’Orange

The first time I smelled Fat Electrician was in a small men’s store on West 10th Street called Grahame Fowler. I sprayed the cologne on a business card which I kept in my coat pocket for the remainder of winter, and I’d pull it out and sniff it so often that eventually I rendered the card back to its neutral state. It’s impossible for me to describe its truly unique smell, but the brand tells me it’s a combination of vanilla, chestnut cream, benzoin (which smells like camphor, kind of) and is inspired by a handsome gigalo turned one-hit-wonder actor named Bobby Kendell who is now a “fat electrician in New Jersey.” I promise you want to smell like whatever you just read.

Oud Wood by Tom Ford

Paul Newman’s pick. In the animated account of Russian Tsar Nicholas II’s daughter who was believed to have survived her family’s execution, Anastasia recalls how she spilled an entire vile of peppermint oil in her grandmother’s room. After that, her favorite thing was then to lay down on the fragrance-stained floor and breathe the peppermint in. I tell you this because Tom Ford’s Oud Wood does indeed smell like wood, but wood so beautiful that I too would lay on the floor and keep my nose pressed up against it then write a song about it, if push came to shave. Which it did, because I’m currently writing this from the floor, and what you just read was my ode to the oud.

Aren’t you glad you sniffed my digital wrist? Now share in the comments what your scent is.

The Literati is On a Roll

It’s 5 for 5 and you’re alive. Here are some weird things happening on the Internet today that do not include my eating a full, fibrous bag of dried apricot though you should know, that is happening, too.

In real time.

1. All Eyes On: To Kill a Mockingbird. Author Harper Lee announced this morning that a sequel is in progress. Sources confirm it is not being called Tequila Mockingbird. This, of course presents a question: when the book ended the first time, did you think to yourself, Man this needs a sequel? Do you ever feel that way when a good book — I mean a really, really good book ends? I’m not saying this smells of Sex and the City 2 but I am saying that I’m dubious. Sorry, okay?

2. ThreeTwelveMinutes: While we’ve already grown privy to the budding trifecta that is Paul x Rihanna x Kanye, a music video has surfaced thus reconfirming our faith in humanity and the denim that reliably clothes it.

3. Moo! David Duchovny’s book came out today. It is called Holy Cow and follows a de facto cow on a journey away from a farm upstate, where she learns about industrial meat farming, to her holy land in India — where she is considered sacred. Guest appearances include such prolific livestock as one pig en route to Israel. It’s been described as a “pseudo-children’s book that smart adults should greatly enjoy” and features the makings for a millennially-charged viral sensation what with its generous tolerance policy. Not specified is whether Hank Moody makes a cameo.

4. Ka-ching$ While we’re speaking books, The Outnet generously dropped a new loot of Olympia Le-Tan, priced at a rare 57% off retail. Remember — it’s not how much you spend, it’s how much you save.

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5. OMFG YOU’RE KIDDING, RIGHT? Mount Rushmore got bangs.