Elliot and Isabel

My boyfreeenss

-Isabel

… assuming the personalities of rich girls. Don’t even ask. Not today.

This rich girl is only entertaining the idea of eating her meal (obviously she’s at Nello’s), which explains why she is flipping it around with total disregard of the fact that it is a $75 dollar Caesar Salad. Additionally, see that nail/tail color? Chanel Black and NOT Linkin Park After Dark (too plebeian).

“How could you fire Marisol WITHOUT TELLING ME? Where am I going to find someone as good as Marisol in this God. For. Saken. Town? I hate you Rutherford. I hate you so much.”

Not only rich, but also, blue-bloods. Gay, too, maybe.

This rich girl is swimming in the nude in Saint-Barth’s, and she’s extremely hungover, and there’s a cigarette waiting for her on the sun-chaise, and funnily enough she doesn’t know this, but her credit card is going to decline when she checks out and Dad is going to have to send an authorization form of his, by fax, and it’s going to take longer than expected and she’s going to JUST BARELY MAKE her flight and then it will all be forgotten and she’ll get wasted again that night, back in New York.

“What do you think, Kiki? It’s my Mom’s old Chanel.”

Tropical Storm Irene is annoying me, still.

-Elliot

Get it?

In other disappointing news about this gay hurricane that’s rendered Summer 2011 completely awful, SOMEBODY outside of Westway last night told me that the headline of the front page of the NY Post today was going to be a spectacular “COME ON IRENE,” and that didn’t even happen.

Also, the Hampton Classic horseshow was delayed until Wednesday, leaving the grounds completely tent-less so God knows how many wayward horses are wandering up and down Montauk highway hitchhiking rides back to Westchester gossiping that some parts of the Hamptons have gotten Kardashian tacky and this is why they shouldn’t have even come in the first place.

In other, better fashion news, Tom Ford is launching a makeup line. Which means I might start wearing makeup. Like everything else in the Tom Ford universe, the makeup will be perfect and SEX. The brushes are all made from illegally imported ivory and endangered snapping turtle and the foundations were manufactured in the very same Columbian plant where Ford’s endless supply of Botox and cocaine are from. “This is not makeup you apply in the car,” said Ford, no doubt subconsciously glaring at an overweight person wearing something made of cheap jersey stabbing at her eye with a Revlon mascara wand in the mirror of her…oh I don’t know–i don’t want to OFFEND anyone…

In other words, just like the perfume and the men’s clothing and the new RTW line, Tom Ford’s makeup will make you want to recline on a chaise  in lingerie, swaddled in fur and diamonds smoking skinny cigarettes while a gorgeous person called Nikolai fetches you tumblers of smoky alcohol and the Sotheby’s catalogue.

God.

-Isabel 
 

Unprecedented lower-Manhattan et al evacuations, transportation shutdowns across the Northeast, PR nightmares for travel businesses: all in a late summer’s storm that SHOULD have been called Isabel over Irene – it would help get views for our blog, duh.

While we wait, supposedly safely nestled in our respective country escapes (Isabel in CT, Elliot on LI), for what could very well be a major problem or a major consequence of overhype, I’ve decided to post. Keep in mind, this may be my last update ever, as I live in a “low-lying” “coastal” area on the North Shore. If the floodwaters come, angry and with a vengeance, I’m going to save my Rick Owens and not my laptop. And I may die in doing so.

So, this afternoon I’m off to a double feature movie (Colombiana included – Zoe Saldana is sizzling, and wears Balmain like no one’s business):

Amazing?

…and upon the conclusion of the double feature, I will likely soon thereafter lose power, so I am going to write long, candlelit entries in my Moleskin, speculating about the “theory” behind all of this Prada wackiness:

Insect-y, no?! I like it.

And then, dream of this, for Monday will be sunny albeit possibly post-apocalyptic ACCORDING TO EVERYONE//likely not at all:

She’s so happy because Irene was a hypebeast that really only knocked down a few trees, tore off a few shingles, and provided for a weekend of heavy, lazy, insulated binge drinking. Party on, you brave and you weary! See you Monday.

-Elliot

Earthquakes are the new nostalgia trigger – and I didn’t even grow up in California (though, my California friends have ceaselessly reminded me since 1:19PM EST that “this was nothing!”) No, I am an East Coast boy through and through, and no, it wasn’t “nothing.” It was fun, and to me, that’s something!

Our little 5.8 midday shake-up made me nostalgic, though, for Miami, weirdly, because earthquakes never happen in Miami. Is is quite possibly the most geographically boring place in the world – save for Hurricane Irene, who looks to be building up her nastiness over the Turks and Caicos right now. Irene, you’s a nasty girl.

But you know what I mean? Am I so lazy that I don’t even want to “evacuate my building” when I don’t REALLY have to? Why can’t I be lounging at The Standard all the f*cking time? I’m so lazy. So very f*cking lazy.

But! Not so lazy that it prevents me from bLoGgInG!~!~! So let’s f*cking talk about Miami.

I just posted some of Tomas Maier’s foxy maillots, and we all know, or at least I know, that TM has his gorgeous flagship store in Miami’s Design District. But, do you also know who opened up shop across the street and subsequently kind of bastardized the area not too long ago? Christian “I Destroyed My Brand” Louboutin, that’s who. THAT’S WHO. “Kim Kardashian” should not be front of mind when discussing your luxury brand. Kris Humphries, though, is hot. Just look how nasty these are, like, honey-badger nasty:

I guess… these are not very attractive? Could opening a Louboutin store in a neighborhood be the first step in overstepping the gentrification line? Well… who knows. Probably. It went from strictly design savvy internationals to… Trina (and I absolutely love Trina, she just doesn’t scream “exclusivity” when she raps about her ceaseless sexcapades).

But look at the segue I am making – now we get to talk about Trina! And gentrification! And my time living 20 floors BELOW Trina in a building that is highly indicative of Miami’s overall gentrification! Keep up with me today, but first, for a nice break, listen to this song:

See that? Everything has a purpose. Every f*cking word. OK. So, for 1 year I lived in Ten Museum Park, shown here:

Look at how pretty she is. Anywho, during my time here, Trina lived in one of the penthouses. Yes. She employed a fabulous posse, girls and gays, and by all accounts lived a wonderful live of shopping at Intermix, being chauffeured around in a nice Escalade, smoking entire forests of marijuana. She’s also cutthroat sassy – that sandpaper-y voice – it literally is like vocal razorblades, comin’ for yo jugular.

The girl is also nasty. Total parental advisory material. Tipper Gore’s nightmare reaper. I’ve always wanted to objectify and thusly brandish like a weapon, my vagina. AND, best part about this, because I love bad language, she and I struck up a little bit of a camaraderie in our time. I wouldn’t say we are old friends, but I’d like to think that if she saw me shopping at Intermix (which is entirely possible), she’d bless me with her filthy language and her actually sweet disposition. Earthquake >> Nostalgia >> Trina Loving. This is how my mind works.

I miss Trina. I don’t think she lives at Ten Museum Park anymore. But, let’s talk about who else lived there during 09-10:

Dante Stallworth – football player, vehicular manslaughterer.

Hot lesbian trust fund nurses! I’m totally and one hundred percent serious in saying this – they had matching purple Bentley’s, peroxide hair, great bods, probably amazing sex. How Miami is that?! Maybe better than having Trina as a neighbor.

I should also mention why Ten Museum Park represents Miami’s overall gentrification – it is literally built 25 feet away from one of America’s worst ghettos. Literally. In 2007, I saw someone get pistol whipped here. This is where people go missing and end up in flaming garbage cans 30 miles away. It’s scary. So quite literally next door, you had for a time millionairess rap-a-trixes, millionaire insane football players, sapphic billionaire lezzys, and me, your most favorite if not sometimes overly tangential blogger, ever.

-Elliot

So, Marc to Dior, Phoebe to Louis Vuitton… what sayeth you to this rumor/truth? Fashion week is coming up, and if there’s one thing fashion week now affirms, it’s the death of summer – or, the beginning of a 9 month period of depression, benders, and self-loathing. And paleness. Sad.

But we’re excited, because fashion eclipses all of the paltry stuff that is day-to-day life. Take, for instance, this insane manifest of an idea:

You totally got it – that IS 15 year Daphne Groenveld, a noir-winged and downtrodden little hipster angel, seeking console in Greggory Pascale’s much older and certainly more human bosom.

Combat-boots, a prairie puff-sleeve top and an “ironic shredded coin skort” never looked better on interfaith demi-goddess x homo sapiens sob and/or statutory make-out sessions. Were you behind this one, Emmanuelle Alt?

I wonder if Daphne, angel Daphne, fell from the skies on Fashion’s Night Out, for FNO most definitely has the power to strip anyone of their good will and pleasant nature and ability to fly.

Enjoy summer while it lasts kiddddds! Isabel and I are going to be at Madame Wong’s in East Hampton this coming Saturday. Say hi to us! Bl*wj*b shots?! What does that even mean?

-Elliot

The Kate Moss wedding is kind of how I picture heaven-in that there happened to be…fur worn in the summer, beautiful, lithe, flower girls with names like Mercy Magic Cutler and Bliss Ferguson, Hamish Bowles, tepees “for the children,” Edwardian wicker, and Jack White–recently divorced.

More photographs in September Vogue. 

-Isabel