Elliot and Isabel

Edits, baby, edits:

Doo, da, dippity.

Cheek bones and sex hair.

Tits

So incredibly lame to say this, but so incredibly fierce.

Daphne.

Proenza crustaceans.

-Elliot

Thank Mark Zuckerberg that Christmas is over (he’s God now right?) In this brief, alcohol-saturated interlude between X-Mas and NYE, Isabel and I are going to post lists, because, you know, lists seems to be an effective way to “re-cap” things “past.” And re-cap we will. 2010 was f*cking crazy and we are both more than ready for it to be over. So without further ado, here is a list of the top ten anything and everything of twenty ten.

10) Lady Gaga’s music doest not match Lady Gaga’s image. B*tch is Margiela, her music is Hollister. Zing!

9) Rick Owens has two sales a year at 60% off, please plan on spending at least $3,000 on Rick Owens in 2011. Budgeting is so important.

8) If you are profiled in a magazine once, your friend or your friend of a friend did you a favor. If you are in a magazine twice, you have a bad reputation.

7) Is Le Bain better with the hot tub covered or open? Chlorine throat stinging and naked bodies <, >, or = to more dancing space and no chlorine throat stinging? For that matter, where the f*ck are you Le Baron NYC?

6) Winter Music Conference gets worse every year, but we already have our tickets, duh. Art Basel gets better, and we’re Sundance virgins. What other big, fun, young, Nationally publicized events are there? Oh right, New York’s fashion weeks, but those suck. On the fence re: Coachella (because we can only take so many rich LA kids with dirty hair and Lennon glasses).

5) One of the best memories you could possibly have had during 2010 was walking late at night in Paris, near the Louvre, with beautiful skinny boys and girls, drunk, in blazers, telling you that you are beautiful. How many people out there had this memory?

4) Karl Lagerfeld is still alive and has appeared in a Volkswagen commercial.

3) Out with Miami, in with New York, at least geographically.

2) Isabel and I partied like boarding school kids over America’s birthday. It was refreshing.

1) Haider Ackermann presented the best collection of 2010 (combining SSFW), British Petroleum presented the best oil spill (combining SSFW…), Katy Perry presented the best song (Teenage Dream, but you knew that), The Jane presented the best times, and Lyford Cay presented the best vacation. Freeze watch in Florida tonight!

Go f*ck yourselves (lovingly said… xx)

-Elliot

So I really missed the flight on this one. It’s been around and talked about for years, but I didn’t start watching Skins until tonight, and it looks like I’m not going to stop watching until I’ve exhausted iTunes’ current availability.

Given recent promotion and increased chatter regarding MTV’s American adaptation of the show (including rumors of a lesbian character named Tea taking the place of gay character Maxxie, to kind of you know, I guess lead American viewers in to gay land by the hand, but I mean… isn’t Glee really popular?) I decided to go for it. No research, just a little knowledge via random conversations. Normally I try to keep my finger on the pulse – I watched Summer Heights High from America as it aired in Australia, for example. But Skins? No no. I dropped the ball. But it worked out for the better because now I have an excellent way to kill time at JFK, PBI and in the air in between…

I’m not going to tell you anything other than to watch the Brit version before MTV’s sure to be less than equal go at it. Skins UK edition makes Gossip Girl look like Sponge Bob Square Pants, if those square pants were Thom Browne and his pineapple under the sea was 740 Park Avenue. Literally. Gossip Girl is an errantly torn weed of the sea (seaweed!) floating in some middle of f*cking nowhere eddie compared to Skins. Skins is a f*cking kelp forest.

It kind of makes you enthralled by the complete wasteland and trial period of life that is your late teens, and in a masochistic way, makes you yearn for it again. We’re 23 now. The block has already been circumnavigated for us. Not for these kids, who party until sunlight on school nights and face serious youth-in-to-adulthood problems with a kind of pretty indifference. In the photos up top are Tony and Cassie – Tony being the (holy sh*t beautiful – was he the model in Tom Ford’s most recent ad campaign?) ringleader of the promiscuous and hard playing friends and Cassie being the (marvelously acted) girl-plagued-with-eating-disorder. They are the most interesting characters to me. But they are also the first two episode’s respective focus points, so that may change. Anyway, go forward, and pleasurably enjoy the sick and twisted guiltiness that is Skins.

-Elliot

Gisele Bundchen in (leaked?) campaign print for Balenciaga. Gisele is 30. Gisele and I had a moment once at The Shore Club in Miami Beach a few years back. That’s all I am going to tell you.

-Elliot

It’s the seven year anniversary of Marquee, NYC club-du-jour, seven years ago.

Vogue Paris Editrix in Chief, Carine Roitfeld, stepped down from her post this past Friday after 10 walloping years at the magazine. I can’t bring myself to be upset by this (although you just know certain gender-bending Filipino bloggers and fanboys are kicking and screaming and throwing their Brian Atwoods through windows or mirrors or, like, at their cats). I can’t bring myself to say more than “God I wish it was me they were considering to fill her position.”

I also might not care right now about Lady Roitfeld’s departure because I basically obliterated the rest of my running-on-empty brain last night, with the likes of at least 40 Parliament Lights and 4Loko mixed with white wine (f*ck yeah, it’s the holidays, Christmas is so depressing).

So like any proper send-off, Isabel and I are going to do a 21-gun salute on the beach in front of Estee Lauder’s Palm Beach house (I don’t know, it’s just the first place that came to mind), incinerate a stack of Vogue Paris-es and spread the ashes somewhere in the North Atlantic, and feature here some of the best and brightest editorial moments over the past decade. Rest in peace, Carine, you salty minx.

So she totally just tripped over a baguette or something, and given Paris’ unexplainable deviation from the laws of normal physics and gravity, she’s going to just keep flipping, right in to the Seine. I hate her skirt.

This is all kinds of amazing. Smoke that cigarette, buy that TV dinner, elicit looks of “WTF is that?” from the uninformed shoppers around you. But don’t worry, you’re skinnier than they will ever be.

Sex-me-up corset dress, but with a nice floral (and dragon?) motif. I want to design a corset with pictures of poison dart frogs on it (you know those cute frogs that are like blue and black or green and black, but if you startle them, they’ll f*cking kill you? Yeah, those). I want it to be sold exclusively at Colette, and I want only men to buy it.

Oh ho. Oh ho ho ho ho ho. I see exactly what you did there Chancellor Carine. Exactly. Snejana Onopka nails you-know-who with icy smug bitchiness, which makes sense, given that Onopka drives around Kiev giving the finger to everyone she sees because she’s so f*cking rich.

-Elliot