Leandra Medine's Blog, page 677

Let’s Talk About the ‘Serial’ Finale

For me, “Serial” peaked two-thirds of the way through the series. It went from a podcast I looked forward to, to one I finished out of obligation. Ultimately, the last episode tried to tie up as many loose ends as possible. We finally heard from Don, we talked through Jay, we heard a smidgen about a new and unrelated potential suspect, but there was no real closure. The most satisfying part of the finale was the learning that this case is not the norm. I feared that it wasn’t unusual for murder trials to have such a lack of hard evidence and such a wealth of unanswered questions, and still result in a conviction. That isn’t to say that the story makes me feel wholly comfortable with the criminal justice system, but at least the pros — the people who deal with murder cases regularly — also agree that this case is a mess.

That the series ended without an answer to who killed Hae Min Lee is not surprising. I did, however, expect some attempt at a clean ending. Something like: The exploration of this case gave us the opportunity to experience what anyone working in the criminal justice system already knows: the system is flawed, truth feels fluid, doubt is constant and the lack of comfort inherent in that feeling is overwhelming. And instead of ignoring those aspects of a justice system Americans are beholden to, it’s an incredibly valuable exercise to be walked through a stunning example of this doubt, to internalize it and recognize the repercussions.

But that ending might be too easy. There’s an impetus to tie those loose ends into a tidy bow, and some stories simply don’t have one. It’s easy enough to manufacture, but in this case it might have cheapened the actual story. From the start Ira Glass told us we’d be working through the story along with Sarah Koenig. And if the real value of the story is experiencing and sitting with these seemingly unanswerable questions, then the series ended just as it should.

What do you think?

Lastly, courtesy of Char, I leave you with Funny or Die’s take on “Serial”:

Outfitting Yourself for a Day that Ends in a Holiday Party

We are the backslash generation and you are a busy woman, so it is 85% likely that when you have a holiday party to attend, you also have 363675 other obligations to consider. Like, for example, going to work, conducting at least one meeting while you’re at work, appeasing your friend’s birthday by accompanying her to a dinner after the holiday party and also attending another birthday party, at a bar in the East Village that both starts and ends at Midnight. So what do you wear, right?

Wrong. Ask not what you wear but rather what you don’t. You’ll be forced to pile so many layers into one, succinct outfit that there is no other option. None. Zero. Zilch. Rien.

Start with Zara’s now vaguely infamous holiday slip dress. The first version of this was offered in metallic, the second in teal velvet — this is an approximation of what you’ll wear to the holiday party. Socks, sandals and all.

Now put a turtleneck under it. Change into leopard print boots because it’s your life and you do what you want. This, you can purportedly wear to the dinner you’re obsequiously attending or the birthday bar portion of your evening, though you can also add a pair of jeans and wear that if it’s 44 degrees out, or something.

Now you’ll add a blouse. What’s great about this blouse is that by forgoing the turtleneck and boots and re-adding the heels, you’ve potentially mocked up another outfit to wear to this dinner.

Finally, you’ll add a sweater because your day starts at the office and no one seems to understand the fact that it is winter.

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Zara dress & boots, Wolford turtleneck, Patrik Ervell jeans, Adam Lippes top, Tibi sweater, Prada shoes

We Tried the J.Crew Model Diet

When L.L. Bean stopped sending their Christmas catalogue to my apartment after an anonymous complaint was filed against me for repeatedly calling to inquire about the telephone numbers and whereabouts of their various male models, The J.Crew catalogue took its place.

Turning its pages is like opening a singing card at CVS. Only, instead of a homogenized rendition of “Shake Ya Tail Feather,” (or something), Bing Crosby’s greatest hits waft through the air like a perfume strip in a lady’s magazine. I had to be a part of it. And I couldn’t do it without my partner in No-One-Thinks-That’s-Funny-Except-You ideas, Leandra, so together, we tried the J.Crew diet.

Guidelines: attempt to look like a J.Crew catalogue model.

Finding an outfit in my own wardrobe was easy, and I learned that a true J. Crew model can never have too many layers. I also learned this means a J.Crew model must have inactive sweat glands, which I think is not only civilized, but the next big thing after eyelash extensions and shin-lengthening procedures.

Preparing the area above my neck was another story. My usual morning routine consists of waking up and then complaining about it. On J.Crew day, however, I woke up half an hour earlier than usual to do my makeup so that it would look like I was wearing zero makeup. I also spent a painstaking amount of time pulling wisps of hair from my ponytail, which made me wonder if this wasn’t better suited for the tiny hands of an obsessive compulsive hamster.

Here’s what I learned: I must look like a slob more often than I thought. Numerous people said things to me like, “Whoa, where are you going after work?” Where would I be going after work in a turtleneck under a denim shirt under a button down, tucked into a skirt, with a sweater tied around my waist? A parent teacher conference in Antarctica?

I also learned that putting effort into my appearance didn’t really take that much effort, that no one notices if you’re wearing a skirt with unshaved legs until you tell them about it, and jumping up and down instead of walking forward does wonders to your complexion, calves, and mood. Being a J.Crew model is fun, and fun/making the most of your restraining order is what the holiday season is about.

-Amelia Diamond

Amelia is an asshole, this diet was technically my idea but I understand that a good idea is only as impressive as its execution, of which I nearly did not execute at all. I forgot we were doing this diet, though happened to plod into work on J.Crew Day in a turtleneck from the anterior layered under a collar-less button down with medium wash, mid-rise stiff jeans and a pair of Golden Goose sneakers that probably were New Balance or Nike just a month ago. Then when I noticed the organized chaos manifesting north of Amelia’s pimply forehead, I thought to myself, self, you make a great male J.Crew store manager. And then you know what happened?

Keith, our UPS deliverer of dreams, came into the office to find me leaning over a Momofuku birthday cake and without prompting said, “Girl, why are you dressed like a J.Crew manager?”

Moral of the story: Jenna Lyons and her legion of adroit stylists have such a clear sense of what both their men and women look like and have subsequently, successfully created a lifestyle that so accurately matches the aesthetic, it is almost, if not entirely, impossible not to spot an inspired soul in the wild.

-Leandra Medine

We Tried the J. Crew Model Diet

When L.L. Bean stopped sending their Christmas catalogue to my apartment after an anonymous complaint was filed against me for repeatedly calling to inquire about the telephone numbers and whereabouts of their various male models, The J. Crew catalogue took its place.

Turning its pages is like opening a singing card at CVS. Only, instead of a homogenized rendition of “Shake Ya Tail Feather,” (or something), Bing Crosby’s greatest hits waft through the air like a perfume strip in a lady’s magazine. I had to be a part of it. And I couldn’t do it without my partner in No-One-Thinks-That’s-Funny-Except-You ideas, Leandra, so together, we tried the J. Crew diet.

Guidelines: attempt to look like a J. Crew catalogue model.

Finding an outfit in my own wardrobe was easy, and I learned that a true J. Crew model can never have too many layers. I also learned this means a J. Crew model must have inactive sweat glands, which I think is not only civilized, but the next big thing after eyelash extensions and shin-lengthening procedures.

Preparing the area above my neck was another story. My usual morning routine consists of waking up and then complaining about it. On J. Crew day, however, I woke up half an hour earlier than usual to do my makeup so that it would look like I was wearing zero makeup. I also spent a painstaking amount of time pulling wisps of hair from my ponytail, which made me wonder if this wasn’t better suited for the tiny hands of an obsessive compulsive hamster.

Here’s what I learned: I must look like a slob more often than I thought. Numerous people said things to me like, “Whoa, where are you going after work?” Where would I be going after work in a turtleneck under a denim shirt under a button down, tucked into a skirt, with a sweater tied around my waist? A parent teacher conference in Antarctica?

I also learned that putting effort into my appearance didn’t really take that much effort, that no one notices if you’re wearing a skirt with unshaved legs until you tell them about it, and jumping up and down instead of walking forward does wonders to your complexion, calves, and mood. Jumping up and down is fun, and fun/making the most of your restraining order is what the holiday season is about.

-Amelia Diamond

Amelia is an asshole, this diet was technically my idea but I understand that a good idea is only as impressive as its execution, of which I nearly did not execute at all. I forgot we were doing this diet, though happened to plod into work on J. Crew Day in a turtleneck from the anterior layered under a collar-less button down with medium wash, mid-rise stiff jeans and a pair of Golden Goose sneakers that probably were New Balance or Nike just a month ago. Then when I noticed the organized chaos manifesting north of Amelia’s pimply forehead, I thought to myself, self, you make a great male J. Crew store manager. And then you know what happened?

Keith, our UPS deliverer of dreams, came into the office to find me leaning over a Momofuku birthday cake and without prompting said, “Girl, why are you dressed like a J. Crew manager?”

Moral of the story: Jenna Lyons and her legion of adroit stylists have such a clear sense of what both their men and women look like and have subsequently, successfully created a lifestyle that so accurately matches the aesthetic, it is almost, if not entirely, impossible not to spot an inspired soul in the wild.

-Leandra Medine

To Keep You Busy Before Work’s Out

If this were a pizza pie, made up of five slices, here’s what each individual ration would offer.

Slice 1: News of Naomi Campbell’s recent campaign as Agent Provocateur’s “femme fatale,” as they put it. Shot by Ellen von Unwerth, Campbell plays the female protagonist in a photo essay modeled after David Lynch’s The Lost Highway and Brian de Palma’s Body Double. Of course, she wears saucy lingerie and, I don’t know, blurs the boundaries of youth? Why does Naomi Campbell still look 25? I’m throwing this slice back into the pie.

Slice 2: This portion is rich media! Technology, man. Even pizza isn’t safe — Jenny Slate performed Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” on Conan in Marcel the Shell’s voice, which I am sure you have somehow already heard but in the event you haven’t, I’m glad you got it from here. When someone asks, don’t say “I got it from my mama.”

Slice 3: This one is vaguely expensive but if you’re out of things to do and still have at least two hours of time to bide before you can blow your corporate popsicle stand, consider Moda Operandi’s bi-annual 70% off sale OR SSENSE’s version of the same thing. I would love these Tabitha Simmons pumps, or push on the same pressure point with these Valentino short heels that I already basically own. What is it with women and buying/rebuying the same things over and over? Or is that just a function of my being a grisly consumer?

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Slice 4: If you can believe it, pizza can be a very locutionary delicacy and today’s word is “osculate” which, SPOILER ALERT! means to kiss. Place that in your back pocket and pull it out under the mistletoe.

And finally, slice 5 has this to share: Annie opens tomorrow.

Will anyone see what Rolling Stone is calling an “ill-advised update” on the Broadway classic?

So You Think You Can Dance?

Dance cardio is making a coordinated resurgence on New York City’s fitness scene. In the past year, four new highly regarded studios have opened. Purported fitness deity, Tracy Anderson, has made a home in Tribeca, and her former disciples Simone De La Rue and Anna Kaiser have opened Body by Simone and AKT, respectively. The latter counts Kelly Ripa and Shakira as clients. Justin Gelband’s ModelFIT — whose studio claims responsbility for several Victoria’s Secret Angel bodies — has added a dance cardio class to its programming.

Because I once memorized a dance sequence from Honey and can practice The Worm, I decided to investigate, starting with Tracy Anderson. But a customer service rep revealed that the classes were for members only. How does one join the movement? A $1,500 initiation fee followed by a monthly $900. That conversation ended as it began.

So I took my talent elsewhere — to ModelFIT, AKT and KP Dance Fitness. And you better believe I put my best foot — and pun — forward.

ModelFIT Dance Cardio 

212 Bowery, 2nd fl, New York, NY 

The sun-soaked space was almost enough to make me forget I had to climb two very steep flights of stairs into Terry Richardson’s former studio before the supposed cardio even started. According to ModelFIT’s website, T Magazine dubbed Gelband “The Model Whisperer,” and so I assumed it was all part of the process.

The class was taught by Javier Perez, a kind and patient man who is not at fault for my inability to distinguish between right and left. Leandra and I were the only two in the class, which was fortunate, because the routine involved a lot of spinning with your arms in the air and consequently, banging heads with neighbors. The class is split between a dance cardio routine involving grapevines, hip thrusts, jumping jacks and a 15 minute mat segment aimed at targeting smaller muscles in slow increments.

By the end of the 50-minute class, I was not entirely exhausted nor was I sweating like a peach in the sun. I did however, feel some slight soreness in my glutes the next morning.

KP Dance Body 

380 Broadway, 5th fl, New York, NY 

WHAT IS WITH THE STAIRS, MAN.

Katia Pryce is a former dancer and Tracy Anderson trainee, but her patience knows no bounds. Her method is a combination of athletic movements like planks, lunges, push-ups, light weight training and rudimentary dance moves which, incidentally, involve a lot of grapevines. Leandra commented that she “never felt so white” and Amelia hoped for a more crunk-hip-hop focused routine. I agreed with them both.

By the end of the 60-minute session, I felt sweaty, slightly dizzy, and a little worse for wear, which I suspect is how one should feel after an effective workout.

AKT in Motion 

244 E 84th st, 4th fl, New York, NY

I visited AKT’s Soho pop-up location for their signature Happy Hour class. The session was taught by Ioana Alfonso, who has a body like chiseled steel and enough pep in her step to excite a nesting sea turtle. The class, like the others, involved spinning, jumping and side-stepping. At first you may feel clumsy, but the routine is repeated throughout the class so eventually, you get the swing of it. (Get it?)

This class was the toughest of all three. The arm sequence was ten minutes of grueling bicep and tricep curls using a band and a pair of light weights. Alfonso’s enthusiasm was admirable, but I was too busy protecting my face from my neighbor’s flailing arm to fully engage.

And I suppose that’s the rule — not the exception — of dance cardio class. If you enjoy watching yourself in a full length mirror trip over your own two feet while simultaneously trying to keep the beat, then dance cardio is for you. Go crazy, unearth your mother’s old leg warmers, channel your inner 80’s Fonda and let go. If you don’t, should we talk about Pilates?

The Holiday Party That is Your Couch and What to Wear

JUST BECAUSE YOU DON’T HAVE PLANS DOESN’T MEAN YOU DON’T HAVE SOUL.

So put on knits (at least two layers of them) to sit on your couch and watch that program called “Yule Log” on one of those indiscriminate channels in the low 120s while you sip on eggnog and swear to your Jewish mother that it’s actually kosher wine. Then sparkle the shit out of your comfort clothes up because you have Joan Didion-fostered self respect and because when you look into the mirror, you want to see your reflection reflecting another reflection. It’s all very meta and you are very important.

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Zara knit suit (the unofficial Alaskan tuxedo?), Dannijo necklaces and earrings, Gucci boots, Roger Vivier clutch (I know you’re at home but maybe you can store chestnuts or twizzlers in here).

See also: What to Wear to a) Black Tie Karaoke, b) The Blogger Bazaar

Would You Try Brothing?

I am not good at not eating. I have been known to regress into a pouty, ill-tempered two-year-old if I miss a snack. Recently, though, I drank a bone broth from Chef Marco Canora’s Brodo for lunch and didn’t even think about food until 8PM that same night. This is noteworthy because I tried juicing for the sake of experimentation last spring and it was torture — it made me feel like the walking dead. I stared blankly at walls, couldn’t make out what people were saying when they spoke to me and my brain felt so achey that I had trouble following an episode of The Real Housewives. I quit after 10 hours, ordered Indian food, and never looked back.

Because of my success with the broth, though, I set out on a three-day challenge wherein I would substitute lunch for a broth for three consecutive days without sacrificing…everything else. The idea of “brodo-ing” 24/7 for 3 days didn’t feel realistic to me (nor do I believe that liquid diets are good for you), but substituting one meal a day felt like a decent experiment that wouldn’t damage to my health.

Canora’s Brodo is not a restaurant or a café, but a small window on East 12th street. He serves only three kinds of (organic and grass fed) bone broths and two kinds of soup out of to-go coffee cups. Marco also offers optional “toppings” for your brodo like fresh grated turmeric, beet kvass, organic garlic, ginger juice, or Calabrian Chili Oil.

The brodos are excellent; savory, satisfying, and hugely comforting. And because they are broths and not stocks, they are more concentrated, complex, and rich in flavor.

I went into this challenge with trepidation because I expected to encounter the feelings I endured when I attempted juicing (see: lethargic, unfocused, cranky), but none of that happened. In fact, I felt really good. Of course, there were sparing, late afternoon moments when I felt like chewing something, but I never wanted to eat my own hand and I never had a precipitous energy drop that made me feel like crying in a corner. My mind felt sharp and my mood was steady.

Consuming the broths and experimenting with toppings was fun but that presented the question of why? What was so different about juicing vs. brothing? To find out precisely, I called nutritionist Tanya Zuckerbrot of F-Factor.

Firstly, she confirmed my suspicion that the purported benefits of juicing (like detoxing and weight loss) are largely falsified. She also explained to me that bone broths are different from juicing “because you have all the benefits of the veggies, plus the collagen, gelatin, and amino acids.” The “healing compounds” in the broths (collagen, gelatin, glutamine, glycine, and arginine) do incredible things for the human body such as:

Fill out wrinkles and cellulite (say whaaa?!)

Help sooth lining of the digestive tract

Promote probiotic growth

Help regenerate cartilage and heal joints

Improve metabolism and muscle building

Are great for immune system

Help regenerate damaged liver cells

They might even help your fella generate sperm

Additionally, bone broths are — wait for it — lower in calories than juices. When I asked her why I was able to maintain mental focus and energy with brothing and not juicing, she explained that juices usually are high in sugar from the fruit and I was likely becoming hypoglycemic. Bone broths, on the other hand, are low in sugar and carbohydratess and that is why I did not experience that same drop in energy despite the lower calorie count. Zuckerbrot also made clear that, while bone broths are really good for you, they should not be substituted for regular meals. Think of brodo as your winter elixir, not your new diet plan and let us know: would you try it?

Read more from Elettra Wiedemann’s Impatient Foodie here.

Style Icon: Diane Keaton

What an idiot I was for preferring Goldie Hawn over Diane Keaton in the The First Wives Club. I guess Goldie’s character was the obvious choice — blonde, boobed, kind of drastically a mess in that late-’90s-Kate-Moss way that never really will die (and let’s give the Fitzgeralds a shout out here because I’d argue Zelda is the one who started all that). But I won’t blame young Team Hawn. It takes at least 13 years of life for one to accumulate enough guilt, stress and neurosis to truly appreciate Diane Keaton’s nervous charm that seems to work its way into every character she portrays, and at least 7 more to respect the turtleneck clause she’s worked into all contractual agreements.

Keaton made Annie Hall synonymous with the words “Style Icon” by virtue of being her. A vest on any other woman plus a pair of khakis and a tie could have easily swung to the claims of a T.G.I.Fridays waitress had it not been for DK’s way about her: a slightly awkward body carriage married with a confidence that’s in no way related to arrogance but rather, self-acceptance of one’s weird things and flaws.

She made pants suits a fashionable style choice as opposed to the following: some kind of rebellion; a failure to adhere to red carpet standards; a “borrowed from the boys” sentiment; a statement. The cliché stands here that she wears suits rather than suits wear her. Nor do they define her.

Necks — long, bare, graceful necks have always been a sign of aristocratic beauty, and certainly (unless you’re of the Elizabethan rash-era) never something to cover up. Yet Diane Keaton has made it so that a bare neck looks lost, like it’s missing a best friend. Naked. Afraid? Ok, that’s dramatic, but she does make it a life goal of mine to learn the Tao of Wearing a Turtleneck in the Summer Without Sweating.

Diane Keaton is one of those people who wears a hat, and suddenly you need a hat. A belt — and suddenly you’re properly cinching your trousers. She’s probably one of those people who can say the same thing you “literally just said,” that everyone ignored, and yet everyone internalizes her remarks with the reverence of a royal bow.

But you wouldn’t even be mad about it. You’d totally get it.

Because you get her. Finally.

What a woman. What an icon.

The Thought Process of Waiting for a Text

“Hey!”

Nope. That doesn’t say “Hey!” It says “Heyt” because my phone’s a psychopath and I am a reckless sabotager of my own mental peace, but there’s no looking back once the word “delivered” punctuates that stupid, stupid text. Plus we’re two minutes past the sent time stamp and correcting my typo now would look excessive or desperate.

Wait, two minutes? I mean, that’s fine, he has a life.

I’m gonna put my phone away. I’m gonna put my phone away and go about my evening routine which at the moment consists of me brushing my teeth and checking my phone again. Still nothing.

It’s been seven minutes. Totally normal. Seven minutes is only two minutes after five minutes which means that even if takes three more minutes it’s only been ten minutes, and even if that turns into 15 minutes that’s okay because he might be finishing up a call or something.

17 minutes is torture though. At 17 minutes I’m pretty sure I must have said something weird over drinks. Think, think, think…what did I say that could make this person so averse to me that he did a 180 and has suddenly decided not to dignify my perfectly polite albeit misspelled salutation with the minimum, two-lettered “Hi”?

I’m putting my phone down. A watched pot never makes ramen noodles, as they say.

But an unwatched pot is guaranteed to bubble over and explode noodles everywhere. I learned from the book of life, not proverbs, and am therefore checking my phone.

Fine. I’m putting my phone down on the other side of the couch. Screen up, though — just in case. Normally I keep my volume on silent because the sound of a group chat is worse than a tree of egotistical birds at dawn, but I’ll make an exception for the sake of my mounting anxiety–

PING.

My eyes fly right and I catch, out of the corner of my pupil through my peripheral vision, a name that looks very similar in length to his floating across the screen. My heart starts listening to a Nicki Minaj song, that’s how fast it’s thumping. I lean over — it’s gotta be him, right? It’s been almost half an hour. DAD. Ugh. Not now–

PING!

Dad again.

PING!

“Dad stop texting me I am super busy!!!!!!!!”

Back to ignoring my phone. I’m watching all of these blissfully ignorant people on TV laugh and high five about how awesome their allergy medicine is. They are probably all in meaningful relationships with people who TEXT BACK–

Ping!

Peripheral eye check again. It looks like “Dad.” It’s not Dad. It’s him. AHHH. I can’t open it yet.

I run around for 10 minutes and do 100 important things: I brush my hair. I walk to my fridge. I throw a sock at my roommate. Etc.

Ok, I’m gonna open it.

He said, “Hey!”

…What the fuck does that mean?