After eight long years at this blog address, I have given up on Blogger and am moving to my own damn URL and a Wordpress host. I know, I know, it is a pain in the ass. I hope all seven of you will follow me there: EVERYDAYFOREVER DOT ORG
Do you eat out, like, all the time?
So you review restaurants, right?
Are you a really good cook?
Are you friends with lots of famous chefs?
Sort of. Not really. Mostly their publicists.
Do you know Mario Batali?
Where should I have dinner on Saturday? We're a group of six, we want somewhere new and hip. Not Brooklyn.
AUTO RESPONSE: I am away from my computer right now.
Where should I have dinner on Saturday? We're a group of six, we want somewhere cool but not aggressively hipster, not crazy loud, under $50/person without alcohol, really excellent food, West Village would be great, we don't mind waiting for a table.
I'm coming to town next month - where can I get a great cupcake?
You can't. Good cupcakes are no longer commercially available in New York because people like you ruined them.
Why is the line at Shake Shack so long?
Eating is a subjective sensory experience, and people are willing to spend time waiting for this particular subjective sensory experience, because it is a fucking delicious one. Time is not as fungible as econ bloggers want you to think it is.
How can I get your job?
You could kill me and wear my skin, I guess? But someone might notice.
posted by Helen at 14:40
Everybody feels poor right now. Expensive food writing and expensive clothing writing are fantasy pieces that aren't realistic. We're keeping alive the myth that capitalism is still working, when in fact we've been gutted. Things are closing everywhere and nobody can afford this s--t, unless they're like me at my worst, where say 'f--k it, it's just another credit card.' There's a very small percentage of people who live on the Upper East Side, who can buy these meals and clothes and shoes. I'm not one of them. Most of the people I know aren't these people. They're educated people, they've got PhDs, but they don't have any money.
The inimitable Cintra Wilson (about whom I have written previously, as a result of which she emailed me!) tells it straight in the Huffington Post.
posted by Helen at 15:10
So this blog post was shared in my Google Reader about the tendency of male SF writers to rely on prostitutes as characters and why do men write women poorly and and and. Here is how I feel: Writers who are bad at writing women are often just as bad at writing men. It's just that in contemporary society (blah blah blah), men identify themselves in a more shorthand way (emotional repression, one-note "masculinity", etc.), so a simplistically conceived male character is superficially more similar to how we perceive a conventionally gendered real-life man. We notice poorly-written women more easily because the social construction of femininity is more complex. One of the nice silver linings to the whole being-thought-less-of-because-of-a-biological-propensity-to-show-emotion thing is that we ladies actually get to show emotion. So we're harder to write, in any medium. Which is ... awesome? It's something.
posted by Helen at 17:32
I just spent like two minutes on Noir's site and found about a thousand things I would like to be mine. Best of all is the Matryoshka ring:
It's $225. But Noir stuff is on Gilt every so often so it's probably a sucker bet to buy anything here at full price.
posted by Helen at 23:42
Yesterday Nadarine tweeted "Octopus chair? NO NO NO" and I just want to say, with all love and due respect, she is wrongy wrong wrong wrong wrong. Octopus chair? YES YES YES.
It's by Maximo Riera, who according to his website also has made pieces identified as "Rhino," "Lion," "Beetle," "Whale," and "Walrus," but they are tragically hidden behind a gallerists-only passwall. Grar.
This extraordinary object is, apparently, a Lalanne hippo (I'm guessing artist Francis Xavier, and not my first thought which was creepy-strong old guy Jack), but the important thing is that it is actually a Transformer that turns not from a truck into a giant robot but from a sculpture of a hippo into a freaking bar. A bar! IT IS A HIPPO THAT TRANSFORMS INTO A BAR.
The very fact that this exists has renewed my will to live for at least a week. It is owned, mais oui, by socialite-fashion person Lauren Santo Domingo, who is very happy to display it on the well-manicured pages of Vogue.com.
posted by Helen at 14:30