Jam of the Week: Lil Wayne, Eminem & Drake - "Drop The World" & "Forever" @Grammy's

I don't care how big you get - if you have a multi-platinum-earning, playboy-banging, plane-crash survivor playing back-up drums while the highest grossing rapper and the guy who coined "bling bling" act as hype men, you've got to be pretty psyched. That's what Drake was dealing with. Oh, may I remind you that he's yet to put out a real album? Baller status, check.

Apparently the Grammy's bleeped the sh!+ out of this performance, so the clip above, while spliced with a few naughty words, is relatively harmless. Apparently the guy got trigger happy with the bleep button. Thankfully, the good people in Europe weren't as concerned.

Runners up after the jump...

Continue Reading >>

All My Posts Are Progressively Less Coherent

New York Fashion Week has finally ended, and with it the atrophy of my soul. And my brain. A dramatic re-enactment:



After the jump, an actual PR intern's letter received by fellow industry insider, Tastemaker's Partner in Crime.* Because my soul takes 24 hours to regrow, and this is that special combination of stupidity and ego that has the potential to go H1N1 (i.e.g. viral)

*We'll be starting our own fashion blog eventually. It will be completely black-on-black and not use vowels—very avant-garde.


Names—and only names, honest to God—changed to protect the ignorant innocent and reflect reality more closely.
[note from TPIC:
"i did a word count:

words about the product: 19

words about self: 169"]

Begin forwarded message:

From: Rita
Date: September 16, 2009
To:
Subject: CAN YOU PLEASE HELP AN INTERN OUT?
Hi!
I’m, Rita, one of the interns over here at Upgrayedd, a hip new shopping site on the web that combines entertaining blogs, characters and great shopping. I’m hoping you can help me out. I didn’t hear from you yet so I’m following up on the nifty electronic press kit that I sent early last week. I don’t mean to be pesty because I KNOW you’re busy, but here’s the scoop: unlike other internships, we get A LOT of responsibility over here at Upgrayedd and it’s my duty to make sure I get some responses to our press kit and hopefully some great press.

If all of us interns can hook up enough buzz and Upgrayyed takes off, I’ll get a full time job WITH benefits. Please help me say goodbye to internships FOREVER and say hello to the world of working professionals! Can you help me out and offer to do some press for Upgrayedd, or at least make me look good in front of my boss by responding? I’d really appreciate it. My original letter is below and I attached the EPK as well. Looking forward to your response!

On Fri, Sep 11, 2009, Rita wrote:

Dear TPIC,

My name is Rita and I’m one of the interns over here at Upgrayedd. I’m not one to brag, but hey, Upgrayedd is run pretty much by us (there’s nine of us and counting!) and I have to say it’s the hippest and most unique shopping site on the web!

I’m writing to personally introduce ourselves to you. I know you’re super busy, but if you could just take a moment to breeze through our electronic press kit you will find that not only does Upgrayedd have handpicked products at terrific prices, but we are the only website (that we are aware of) that includes coupons and a fun interactive world. It’s a one stop shop combining great deals in an entertaining format.

Please drop me an email or call my boss Satan to chat and learn more about us. We’ve got a great back story and we’re a neat site. We have been a fan of you for quite sometime and we’re hoping after you take a stroll around our site and look through our press kit, that you will be a fan of ours too!

We look forward to hearing from you.

Swagly yours,

-- Rita
PR Intern Manager
www.website.com
www.websitesblog.com
www.twitter.com/websitestwitter
www.anotherfuckingwebsite.com
www.websites' interns' blogs (wait, really?).com

There was also an attached PowerPoint presentation (needless to say, a travesty). I would post screen shots, and I'm even tempted to link to the sites themselves for your amusement and my well-developed sense of schadenfreude. But the reasons behind my restraint are three:
1. It would be wrong.
2. They don't deserve the traffic.
3. I'm supposed to be posting about things in good taste (I think? Anyone? ). Also, I'm supposed to be posting said cool shit on Thursdays.

This post is fashionably late.

All My Inner Children Are Dead

The bell doth toll yet again in these last few days of 09X, as Fate once more takes D-plan shorthand all too literally and extinguishes a beloved figure from my childhood—nay, America’s childhood—without so much as a chance to say, “I’ll be seeing you later.” Michael, Farah, that old dude (no, the other old guy)—what more could cold, cruel Death take from us? Gird your faith in a higher power, everyone, because Reading Rainbow is no more.

I weep as I type this, because LeVar Burton was like a brother to me. The man opened my precocious little mind in a way best expressed through LSD-fueled song:



Go elsewhere to read how Bush has continued to fuck us over from beyond the proverbial post-presidential grave; AMDAL mustn’t dwell on the past, but think of the future—of the children. And by "children," I clearly mean ourselves.

The book you choose to carry, and maybe even read, is part of your larger personal brand. Why else would Facebook ask for a list of your favorite titles? The prioritization of Eggers over Joyce is a rite of passage to self-identify with one's tribe in this Balkanized clusterfuck of a globalized society. The Iroquois Nation had its Mohawks and Oneida, and now the Internet has its hipsters and goths.* Read "Catcher in the Cradle" to mark yourself as one of them, or risk life as The Other.

With the Rainbow gone, what signposts remain as guides on that quest for the literary pot of gold, a good book? Obviously, the major warning sign—the "Bookworm's Banshee," if you will—is the pathetic writer's insistence on overworking a tired metaphor. But beyond that Blarney kiss of death? [Am I Irish? Téigh trasna ort féin]

"Don't judge a book by its cover." So goes ye olde proverb, but anyone with five senses and life experience knows that's bullshit. And let me take this moment to remind you that the literary world has no moral relativism: If you don't agree with Michiko Kakutani, you might as well go back to harvesting filth on your wretched fief. Lacking an archive of the New York Times at your fingertips (here's look at you, dumb-phone users), the choice becomes a simple matter of good cover/ugly cover.

And so, therefore, books should be judged by the color of their flap jackets and not the characters of their content.

After the jump, a case study and a bonus video: rare footage of an acoustic B-side demo Reading Rainbow performance!

Say you wanted to read a book on unicorns, because who wouldn't? Anyway, which book on unicorns do you think is objectively and scientifically 200% better than the other?

Exhibit A.


Exhibit B.
While I'm sure both volumes impart worthwhile lessons—in history and safety, respectfully—the obvious superior here is Book A, The Natural History of Unicorns. Appropriately kerned typography, illustrated fauna, grid-based layout and a clever visual pun on Enlightenment natural history monographs, FTW.

Both also happen to be available on Amazon Kindle, which makes this whole cover thing (and some would say literature in general) completely moot. One day, she thought to herself as she sighed deeply, technology will destroy us all. But for now, as promised, the Reading Rainbow vintage re-mastered concert footage (totally scooped Rolling Stone on this one!):


I hope to post Part Two of this train of aesthetically-minded thought, in which I outline the rubric by which all book covers should be judged, over the weekend. I thought I could get this all done in one fell swoop, but Fashion Week started yesterday, if somewhat unofficially, and I have already lost my will to live.

*Both had sweet lax bros.

All My Plaids Are Madras

When I began my career in the fashion industry three whole weeks ago, only if pressed would I admit my Ivy League credentials, fearing that in this case at least, a brand name diploma was trés démodé. Little did I realize that — once again — I was merely ahead of the trend.
Swap out your skinny jeans for some Nantucket red critter pants: "Ivy League" has officially unseated "preppy" from its wicker throne (and yes, in the fashion world these phrases refer to completely different styles). The cognoscente have discussed the growing movement all summer, variously ascribing it to recession-induced nostalgia or the power of Mad Men and Gossip Girl stylists. Evidence piles up: L.L. Bean plans one of those "new! classics! with! a! [hyperventilate] twist!" lines, designed by a dude who made his mark interpreting Mystic Seaport through screen-print. Some delusional designer dreamed up his own prep school just so it could have a uniform; his "Caulfield Prep" was deemed phony if well-cut. And then there's always this douchebaggery.

Rumblings crescendo'd to a climax this month when that most ivy-covered of Ivies announced it was extending its brand name beyond the academic world and into the sartorial.

Haaaaahvaaaaaaaahd shall launch a clothing line. If possible, please contain your excitement.

“Harvard Yard” sprung from a 10-year licensing deal the university made with Wearwolf Group, a clothing manufacturer whose name makes this all sound like a euphemism for “selling our souls to the devil so we can fund our (potentially unsustainable) financial aid.” And much like admissions to Harvard itself, the first collections will be strictly menswear, with styles for women and select minorities to eventually follow.
These pictures fail to do the details justice: the crucial “Harvard Yard” label inside the collars, the crimson threading on the buttonholes. It is assumed that the wearer will already have fine leather accessories and a misguided sense of entitlement. And all of it could be yours for between $165 and $496 — mere pennies compared to actual enrollment at Harvard, and without all that silly work!

Yves Saint Laurent famously said, “Fashion fades; style is eternal.” Go Wikipedia “Harvard Style,” and you get a citation system and a sex act. I rest my case.

I realize there may be some Crimson sympathizers out there who would challenge another Ivy to do better. Fair enough. Let’s go down the list:

• Brown: Although not really an Ivy, sells organic fair-trade hemp t-shirts left blank for free expression without fear of failure.
• Columbia: Takes over local stores to the dismay of the West Harlem community, and gentrifies them into an American Apparel stocked only with black v-necks, leggings and ennui.
• Cornell: Releases the next “Ivy line” in a desperate bid to emulate Harvard and seem “with it.” Barely musters Canal-Street quality but looks fine next to Miley Cyrrus’ shit at Wal-Mart.
• Penn: Wharton vetoes on grounds that ROI wouldn’t be worth dilution of the university’s name.
• Princeton: Briefly ponders swallowing pride long enough to release a limited-edition tie with J. Press, but only if the economy gets a lot worse.
  
• Yale: While a clothing line would go along with “that whole Yale thing,” as Patrick Bateman so eloquently put it, insecurity over Eli clothes never beating Harvard’s stymies any initiative.

And then there’s Dartmouth.

We don’t like to brag, but the masses have been trying to buy into our mystique for decades:

Okay, you might say, so your college inspired the movie that would come to provide a template for cinematic comedy for the rest of the century, so what? Show me some real Dartmouth flair style.

Fair enough.

Harvard Yard's creative director told Women’s Wear Daily (sub. req'd; this is some serious shit) that his designers drew from "photos of students lounging in Harvard Yard in the sixties." I'm going to assume he’s referring to Take Ivy, a 1960s monograph from Japanese photographer Teruyoshi Hyashida. He spent 1965 traveling up and down the East Coast, snapping away on Ivy campuses in order to capture that certain je ne sais quoi the Ivy League style has (and apparently the Japanese really, really want). Currently out of print, copies of the book can fetch as much as $1,500 on eBay.

HY may have drawn inspiration for Harvard’s line from the book, but Hanover’s campus is its dominant trendsetter:
I myself chalk this up to the sheer force exerted by our combination of kickass, frattiness and rugged (veering into crunchy?) good looks. Oh, and that the womynz hadn’t yet infiltrated this great bastion of white manly privilege. After all, this was many years ago:

HOLY CARD CATALOGS, BATMAN!

Forgetting the Stone Age technology, was it really all that different back then? Could there still a place for Ivy fashion — the 2/3 sacque suits and knit ties of bygone years? Can't we say "Goodbye, Jon Hamm," and openly, tightly and passionately embrace Don Draper? I mean, Dartmouth hasn't changed all that much if you really think about it.

Sweet dudes predominate both then and now. Clearly.
And Dartmouth was totally progressive. Like, girls were allowed on campus even if they were the gender too weak to matriculate:
As long as they were Playboy Bunnies.
On-campus food posed dangers then, as now; one can always find comfort in the grill line.
There always has been, and always will be, This Guy.
The Green is still the primary spot to pick up some face time (now with fewer varsity jackets).
And, obviously, ankle bones never actually go out of style.
There's no real reason not to hoist up your khakis and wear that Ivy-educated heart on your sleeve.
Okay sure, the shorts were a little tighter:
So maybe people smoked more.
And Zete hadn't been de-recognized for that whole date rape newsletter thing yet. 'Twas a simpler time:
Oh, and this. This might've changed:
Details. Mere details.

Solid rule of thumb: If you wouldn't stick it on the rear window of your car, don't wear it on your shirt.
For further reading, definitely check out A Continuous Lean. It's among the many menswear*-focused blogs out there, and where I got the scans from Take Ivy (rather than, say, shelling out two grand for a book). This post was also brought to you by the letters A and my muse of choice this evening, Blue Moon. If I wanted to go for topical authenticity, I would have gone with Keystone, but instead I went for good taste. As usual.

*I've recently become fascinated by the world of menswear, a magical land where sizes actually correspond to measurements instead of self-esteem issues. It just blows my delicate feminine mind.

All My Weeks are Shark Week

Apparently AMDAL has reached the point where it needs to start pandering to the underrepresented demographics among you, dear readers. I happened to fill multiple quotas in the cost-benefit analysis (female, '09, not a PsiOops) and so here I am. As resident tastemaker, I just want to be that Manic Pixie Dream Girl — the Nathalie Portman to your sad Zach Braff self, telling you about shit that will like, "totally change your life I swear." Am I qualified? I have a smart phone and I spearheaded investigative journalism on campus cougar issues — I don't know how much more qualified you can get.

Add sharks to something, no matter how shitty, and it automatically becomes awesome. I give you the Discovery Channel, Steven Spielberg, the PGA and, if this theory holds out, my writing. My premise is this: You, too, can live every week like it’s Shark Week.
1. Drink like it’s Shark Week.
My alcoholic muse of choice right now is a bottle of Land Shark Lager. Who drinks that? Suckers for clever packaging, fans of Jimmy Buffet, or, in this case, both. Bonus points for the amazing old-school SNL connotations.
But if it’s not quite time for you to imbibe, may I suggest tea instead (Perhaps iced, since it’s August). The Sharky sounds kindof cute and all, but as your tea dissolves, leaving a trail in the diffuser’s wake, you can almost hear the screams…

2. Dress like it’s Shark Week.
From the great minds that brought us the Three Wolf Moon Shirt comes this bigger, bad-ass-ier Breakthrough Shark T-Shirt. As one satisfied customer warns, though, “Be careful, it is so realistic that some people might think there is an actual shark coming out of you.”
And this is just genius. And humanity’s worst nightmare.

3. Fight like it’s Shark Week.
Brass knuckles are so last century. Ladies, for those nights when your clutch is too tiny for mace and your heels won’t conceal a shiv, try this ring on for size. There’s no profile fiercer than that of the shark fin, and on the right hands that silver point could definitely do some damage.
For all other nights, though, make sure you sharpen those blades with the Billy Mays-endorsed Samurai Shark.

4. Speaking of Mays, get high like it’s Shark Week.
Too soon?

5. Shag like it’s Shark Week.
Nothing sets the mood better than garments that, ahem, enhance the wearer’s assets. Ladies have had the Wonder Bra for years, but now men can level the playing field with these strategically patterned boxers. And much like mankind when confronted with that Great White, your partner will be simultaneously frightened and intrigued by the raw violent power of what lies before them.
I know some at AMDAL are like, ‘04s and therefore ancient, so something to assist the less virile may be of use. My innocent unsuspecting Amazon search yielded what I assume is Mother Nature’s “fuck you” to Pfizer: “Shark Prolong Penis Cock Rings.” I don’t know what that actually is, and I don’t want to know. All I do know is that I just made the array of Google searches leading to AMDAL a helluva lot more interesting.

6. Self-call like it’s Shark Week.
I’ve encountered the shark twice in my short lifetime — once on his turf (80 feet below the surface) and once on mine (a beach in Florida, the state where New Yorkers go to die). When was I most scared? Well, that would have to be when I faced down a 6-foot long barracuda scuba diving off a small cay near Belize when — well, I’m sure you can tell where this is all going. Waka.*

But if you are unfortunate enough to never have encountered a real shark, consider this $425 investment in your game. Indisputable proof of the aphrodisiac that is seeing your life flash before your eyes and living to tell the tale, without the emotional baggage of actual PTSD or lost limbs or death? Priceless.


7. Laugh at danger like it’s Shark Week.
Ladies and gents, I give you LOLSHARX:

Or you can keep watching nature shows about sharks. Your life would be living up to the letter, if not the spirit, of Shark Week. I myself don’t do this; I’m just extrapolating.

*I speak jive frat.