Friday, May 30, 2008

Reverse Ugly Duckling Syndrome

Everyone is well aware of ugly duckling syndrome. A fat, brace-faced child blooms into an attractive adult and, not being acccustomed to the positive attention, exemplifies that elusive mix of hotness and humility (personified here as requiring minimal adjustment to one's already drafted NYT wedding announcement). What happens, however, when the opposite occurs? When one is preternaturally robbed of the attention and positive reinforcement that only really attractive people get on any sort of normal basis? I'll tell you what happens: they become Evil.

Consider the following evidence:

The young Charlton Heston: Actor ; Hot. To. Trot

The Old Charlton Heston: President of the NRA. Friend of G.W.Bush; Evil.

The Young John McCain: All American Good Looks; War Hero

The Old McCain: Proponent of Occupation; potential for Lots More Evil if wife loses her good looks as well.

The Young Imelda Marcos : Gorgeous, seemingly innocent

The Old Imelda Marcos: Obscene collection of shoes an insult to poverty of the people over whom her husband is dictator; Evil

Given the breadth and obvious depth of this analysis, I would argue that people who are exceptionally attractive in their youth have dangerously high chances of becoming evil that must be addressed immediately. No need to thank me, really, but essentially I've found the essence of evil: Ugliness. And further, I propose the following as measures to help people retain their hotness:
1) Lowered costs of plastic surgery
2) Governmental subsidization of personal trainers and gym memberships
3) Rebates for people who can effectively prove that they are hot.
4) Fractional rebates if you can prove that your kids are ugly and have potential to become hot later on in life
These are only a few suggestions, naturally; but I strongly believe they will have the intended effect of ridding the world of evil in my lifetime and yours.
Won't you help a poor housewife have her face lifted? Or sponsor a young actor to look good in a toga for the next 12 months?
Small measures make a huge difference; let's help eliminate Reverse Ugly Duckling Syndrome entirely.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Why I love New York: Reason 2,879,674

The Scene: Outside of the Spotted Pig, 1 a.m. Wednesday

Boy with box of Overpriced M&M's: Help support my highschool basketball team. They're only $2!

Girl #2: What high school do you go to? Are you accredited?

Boy with box of Overpriced M&M's: Hell yeah. I go to -Muffled coughing- High.

Girl: I've never heard of -muffled coughing- High myself.

Girl # 2: If you can show me a school ID or something I'd be happy to buy your M & M's. I just don't think you go to highschool. Do you have a registration form or something?

Boy with box of Overpriced M&M's: A registration form? Aww shit man, is this chick for real?

The Big D (pictured above): Listen kid. Fuck the M & M's. Got any blow?

Boy with box of Overpriced M&M's: Oh yeah, I got all types of sugar. 100 for G. This shit's Purrrrrrra mayn. Purrrrrr.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Oh heyyy, you wanna come over?

Jane Austen once posited, rather brilliantly for her time, that it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. These days, the only truth, universally acknowledged, is that a single man in possession of a texting device is in want of a booty call. This is the only justification I can see for the rather stilted use of that age old means of communication: the phone call. Romance, many women are positing, is DOA.

The other day at a formal birthday dinner for 30, a few tablemates found themselves discussing the matter in further depth.

"I find that email banter can be very terribly sexy," the gentleman to my left, a charming British banker argued. “Even more so than a phone call.”

"Oh of course you do," I acknowledged. “You’re English, and therefore amongst the 1% of men possessing of actual wit. It works to your advantage!”

A hapless young woman stopped picking at her grilled vegetables and spoke up. “Personally I’m weary of its overuse… I dated someone who so rarely communicated by anything except his blackberry that the first time he called I didn't even recognize his voice.”

Everyone laughed knowingly.

"No no no no," the darling swan across the table argued rather seriously. "Email and text messages are ridiculous! If a guy wants to contact me, he has to call. And even then I screen him just to make sure he's serious." Needless to say, the gentleman who had just seconds prior acquired her number turned a delightful shade of plum.

As it is wont to do amongst people with little attention span or regard for anything beside their Dover sole, the conversation flitted on to other topics, only to arise 2 days later over Maker’s Marks and French fries at the W. It being our rather learned assumption that text messaging allowed men a channel for their social awkwardness, we decided it might be fun to compare some recent worst offenders. Although everything, dear readers, is fun where Makers is involved, at times I was legitimately confused as to whether I should laugh or cry. I implore you to be the judge of my proper reaction to the evidence.

The offenders, in due form.

1) Sent 10 p.m.


In response to a (declined) invitation to the movies by on-again off-again now on-again 33 YEAR OLD bf. 33. I have no words….....Actually to hell with it, yes I do. Do you know how utterly absurd it is for a man to use emoticons to convey serious disappointment (as opposed to jokey disappointment, which I employ all the time), let alone make it the sole focus of the message?? Grow a pair and tell us how you really feel, there’s a reason we’re dating someone nearly 10 years our senior and it has to do with your previously proven ability to pick up the phone (not to mention your preference of sex over south park). This is the text message equivalent of that goddamn ASPCA commercial with Sara Mclachlan singing “in the armmmms of an angel” while sad puppies implore you to adopt them- it makes me feel vaguely guilty, but mostly I just want to change the channel and forget it ever existed.

2) Sent 2 a.m.


From a friend with whom there was a rather awkward make out session 4 months ago and who has been trying to relive that disaster in judgement ever since. What the fuck does this even mean?

3) Sent 3:00 a.m


OMG I nearly jumped out of my seat! You’re so good at scaring me, you clever booty call you. It’s as though you were right behind me and yelled it!

For your sake, I hope there was more to that message, like “hoo, I have the communication skills of an ape.”


No further comment, your honour.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Love Poem to an Inanimate Object-: Oh Extension of My Hand

Oh Blackberry, why did I leave you in bed?
The day that has followed has fucked with my head.

A friend texted he'd been fired and was making a switch,
my lack of response made me come off as a heartless bitch.

No longer can I scroll through you in attempts to look busy,
Without brickbreaker, endless meetings have put me in a tizzy.

Tonight whilst stuck in gmat class, I'll be spiting your absence,
That i should be forced to pay attention past the taking of attendance.

No more message light flashing in bright hues of red,
Oh, how this day has so fucked with my head.

To proclaim this with conviction, does fill me with dread,
but without you I sometimes wish myself dead.

5 Times Distilled? You don't say!

The other day I was watching television when it came on: yet another ad for “premium vodka”, this one for Ciroc (made from premium distilled grapes! Not from all those other obscure vegetables its usually made out of!). Anyway, as per every other Vodka commercial I have ever seen, it featured a heady mix of the following:

a) Russian looking models in short dresses and impossibly high heels
b) Men in Velvet Blazers (this, being the preferred look for cheeky clubbers…circa my freshman year of college)
c) Velvet couches in club (overkill)
d) Some big toy, like a private jet or a boat- it doesn’t matter, as long as it’s something you can’t afford- parked right outside the club (Are we in St. Tropez?)
e) Puff Daddy

Now, I know this is meant to simulate the ideal clubbing experience, but in the interest of honest advertising, it really should resemble this:

a) Girls in short dresses and impossibly high heels who look really good with the lights out/ foam flying out of the ceiling but entirely different the next morning in your bed with clown like eye makeup caked on their cheeks and Jack on their breath
b) Men in white or blue button downs and jeans who don’t look particularly good in any lighting
c) Couches that once resembled velvet and are now covered in a mysterious mixture of vodka cranberry, vomit, anonymous bodily fluids and cigarette burns
d) A kabob truck parked outside
e) Lindsay Lohan

Of course, commercials aren’t meant to be realistic (silly rabbit!), they are meant to reflect the activities or, more accurately, the desires of their customer base. Ciroc, Absolute, Grey Goose, they want to reach out and touch whoever is going to pay 300 dollars for a bottle of vodka that is worth approximately 50 cents. You know that rare person who throws caution to the wind, is slightly idiotic, and has the financial wherewithal that only stupid parents or a job in financial services can bankroll.

Ciroc, can I be honest with you here for a second? That guy doesn’t need all the hoopla to be sold on your vodka- he’s already an alcoholic. The consumer base you really need to get at is the younger set. I’m talking, 13…maybe 14. The age at which we used to pool together the cash our parents gave us on parent’s weekend and send some newb down to Boston with a hockey bag and kindly order him to return with as many handles of cheap vodka as he could carry. Capture that Holden Caulfieldesque cusp of innocence and convince more kids to fall off the cliff into to liver damage and embarrassing hookups. Advertise that it packs light, doesn’t stink on your breath, and will give your loser ass a heightened sense of confidence that you so desperately need. Show the kids how vodka can turn the stuffiest of Squash courts into a veritable harem, and a school dance into a private U2 concert in Muscat.

Seriously, P. Diddy is so passé- show these kids what it means to be The motherfucking Fox.

You can thank me later.

Monday, May 19, 2008

On Precious Advices as Doled out via Instant Messenger

Instant Messenger is really the ideal means of communication: it provides a perfect forum for light conversation and, crucially, when you get bored of the other person you can always sign off and blame your 'stupid internet connection'. It's divine.

Provided this, Eff the Police would like to announce the merger of "IM conversations with my potty mouthed friends" (an as yet unreleased feature) with "Conversations with my Beloved Guy Friends I, II and III". We truly believe that this new enhanced medium is the wave of the future (if your particular definition of the future exists somewhere in the 7th grade).

Herewith, the first offering of Precious Advices as Doled out via Instant Messenger:

On Translating “Girl Speak”

[19:29] Girl: How is bareback girl?
[19:29] I’maCowboy: hahaha
[19:29] Girl: how much do we love her nickname btw
[19:29] I’maCowboy: it's phenomenal
[19:29] I’maCowboy: OH I didn't even tell you
[19:29] I’maCowboy: we were talking last night
[19:30] I’maCowboy: and she was like "so... um... i remember making out...
[19:30] I’maCowboy: but, nothing after
[19:30] Girl: she is such a liar
[19:30] I’maCowboy: is there anything i should be worried about?
[19:30] Girl: No, she is trying to say
[19:30] Girl: "i swear im not a slut"
[19:30] Girl: when really
[19:30] Girl: u dont care!
[19:30] I’maCowboy: hahahahaha

On setting the mood

[19:33] Girl: the key
[19:33] Girl: is that you have the bottle open when she arrives
[19:33] Girl: so its not like "i'm trying to get you drunk"
[19:34] Girl: its more like, oh heyyyy, i was just having a glass of wine, want one...or 5?

On Current Events and Cults in Particular

[19:43] Girl: is there such thing as polygamy for women
[19:43] Girl: ?
[19:43] Girl: I’m gonna start that cult
[19:43] I’maCowboy: it's called being a whore
[19:43] Girl: fuck you
[19:43] I’maCowboy: you didn’t let me finish
[19:43] I’maCowboy: and the members of that cult ROCK

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Will you be my frienddddd?

When I was younger, the smallest things could forge a friendship. “You have a trampoline?!” I’d notice excitedly, “I like to jump! Can I come over?” Later, in college, where everyday partying was de rigeur, all of one’s friends were made partying. The type of partying one adopted automatically dictated one's circle of friends. The whole getting-to-know-you charade was condensed into a mere minute's worth of details: “You like spraying champagne on girls at clubs? You’re my boy blue!” or “You like 2 dollar rail drinks at the campus pub? You are my brosepher for life, man.” Or of course, my all time favourite: “Want to bust this party and go back to my place and smoke?” The other day, when asked how I had met my best friend T, it pained me to admit that I’d met her in a (rather snowy) handicap bathroom stall…at a club called Spank. Not my finest moment, I can assure you, but then at the time- fuck yeah it was a legit basis for a lifelong friendship!

It’s no surprise then that when Facebook dropped down from the veritable heavens in the spring of my junior year- our networks filled up with these sorts of people. The kind with whom you share a drink at the campus pub at noon on a Wednesday. The people who give you their notes because they think you’re cute. The people who you booty call at 5 am, only after a rigorous bout of dance dance revolution at the afterparty. People who serve as a very painful reminder to you, years later, of the waste of space you were for the 4 years in which you were enrolled in University.

This is not a passive reminder either- what really gets me is that these random people I used to call my friends now inundate me with the details of their abhorrently boring lives via status updates. These inevitably read something like this:

Boy is….someone took my purple Versace coat at that party last week and I swear to god I am going to track you down and kill you if I find you. And No I’m not gay in case you were wondering.

Boy is was wondering who the hell these people are who think this is an actual recession you fucking liberal commie mother$%^*&! This is just normal market fluctuation! Look, read this link it will explain everything:

Girl is looking forward to going to London and having copious amounts of sex with my sweet, loving boyfriend ILOVEYOUBABYYYY cant wait xoxo

Seriously, this is too much information. I have a lot going on in my life and I would appreciate if you didn’t heap on the added pressure of deciding wether to axe you as my fake friend or not. I am pleading with you to stop. I know you can’t stop existing entirely, even though that would be wicked awesome. But just stop updating your status, please?! Because I can’t take it anymore. Leave me the fuck alone. I don’t care where you are going on vacation, I don’t care what exam you have just passed, I don’t care where you got into business school, I don’t care what you think about current affairs, I don't care what party you are attending tonight (as long as I'm not at the same one), I don't care that you are using your status updates to draw attention to yourself because your ex has forgotten about you, I just don’t care about you, plain and simple.

Unless, of course, you wanna go back to your place and smoke afterward. Then I'm fairly certain something can be arranged.

Keep it real,


Thursday, May 8, 2008

No Seriously, Look at my Fucking Striped Shirt. Look at It.

I love Thursday mornings. Not because they are spent arranging my plans for the weekend (yes I am that anal retentive about my weekend plans) nor because, having picked up my dry cleaning every Wednesday, I get to choose from my fresh array of shirts and dresses for work. No, it is because the New York Times finally updates their Style section.

The Style section is a formidable car wreck, and seems to be ruled by some equation that makes sense only to green living, style obsessed yuppies with Hamptons houses and a homosexual brother planning his nuptials in Cape Cod this June. Thus the features are often one part Marc Jacobs, one part special on Canoes and Hiking Gear, one part "See how unbelievably attractive gay couple x transformed their East Hampton barn into a Grecian Retreat, outfitted by Donatella Versace and Tory Burch." Naturally, there's always a "new trends" section thrown into the mix. I must say, they really go out on a limb with these trends. "Florals for spring!" " Women now wear dresses!" "People ride bikes in New York!" The novelty is breathtaking.

Well today they've outdone themselves, ladies and gentlemen. In a feature just about as earth shattering as that guy you met at that Benefit last week, you know the one, the one who was wearing the navy blazer with the gold buttons? Yeah him. Unforgettable right? Sort of like today's column. On Striped Shirts.

Did you guys know this? That striped shirts were back for guys? OMFG I didn't either! The picture features a guy in a blue striped shirt with a white collar- imagine that! A white collar! (So Gordon Gekko!) The article goes on. They interview a man who praises the blue striped shirt for its ability to go with both a suit and jeans. HIs excitement was palpable. I nearly got riled up for him thinking about all the options he has for getting dressed "Bengal or pencil stripe?" The mind boggles.

Nytimes Style Section, I really want to know, have you ever dated a Euro? Or a banker trying to affect the look, for that matter? Have you ever even passed by Cipriani on a semi-nice day? Seriously, put that coffee down and listen to me. A striped shirt with a nice cuff is par the fucking course.

What really got me was when the article pointed out that wearing a blue striped shirt is all very reminscint of JFK. When they bust out the JFK reference, you know they mean business.

I implore you, NY times, don't use JFK's name in vain. The guy on the desk next to me wears them on a daily basis, and he's no JFK. In fact the other night, when he and I were here late, I busted him picking his nose. When you start profiling people who wear briefs over their trousers, then I'll be all yours.

Until next time,


Monday, May 5, 2008

Men to Avoid (in NY) - Part I of XXMMCV

I’ve always hated the saying “you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.” It’s brutally cliché, utterly detrimental to your reputation if put into practice and most importantly a total waste of energy. However there is some truth to the matter – as a wise man once told me relationships are a lot like doing the dishes: a rather endless cycle of lather, rinse repeat, until “ok this is tolerable” or perhaps “wow this is actually rather nice.” The thing is, in New York, dating isn’t really like doing the dishes. It’s more like scrubbing an obnoxious risotto pot where the rice is so crusted into the bottom of the fucking pan that you’d prefer throwing it out altogether than scrub it clean again (even if you did waste like 210 dollars on it at Sur la Table). In short, the memories of the disasters always stick. Worse, if you’re as lazy as I am and categorically refuse to date uptown (or more specifically, above Chelsea on the Westside and Union Square to the East) chances are you will run into your former paramours again, and again, and again. Ad nauseum.

As such, recounting highlights of run-ins and freak behavior has become quite the parlor game. Every girls’ first words in conversation, before even throwing her oversized Miu Miu down on the brunch table, are inevitably “You will not BELIEVE what Blabbity Bla did last night.” What follows is usually a tail so freakishly awesome, it would be entirely unkind not to share.

And I’m not unkind dear readers, nay, I seek to serve a greater good- to warn the innocents (all 65-97 of you on a given day!) of the harrowing characters lurking in their cellphones, soon to be inundating you with invites to their summer homes of ill repute and excellent muffinery.

Our first top 6 list of men to avoid comes from Winnie de Wouse, a darling Upper East sider.

In her own words:

1. Winthrop -the "boyfriend" who hid me away so he could play footsie with Mitzy von Muffling. A TOTAL tool who forgot Valentine's Day year after year and reserved his true affections for Stella, the dog.

2) Rutherford-the ex lax player who pretends like his graduation from Harvard never happened and continues to LIVE THE DREAM

3) Peter- the ex FBI AGENT who drives around in a scary Mercedes and stalks people. Retains a serious hatred for thongs and prefers white granny pantaloons on all his girlfriends, if you can call them girlfriends. (K seriously, there is NO excuse for that)

4) MH-the baboon whose only talent in life is throwing girls 10 feet in the air when “Oh What a Night” comes on at Martignettis. (Ed Note: But that’s a pretty great talent?!”)

5) George the Gopher-did we mention that he has grey hair and wears tennis shoes to work?!? Need we mention he's been 29 years old for about 30 years now?

6) Westville Robinson- sports Whales on his pants and has striped CK Bradley curtains, need we say more?!?

Actually, we need say more.


Any such encounter with footsie playing, thong hating, keg tapping, tennis shoe wearing, striped curtain toting varieties are to be aborted immediately. No exceptions.

Unless perhaps you’re in for a good time on some frattastic furniture- in which case # 2 is like, totally your guy.

Ever Yours,


** Please note that in some cases names have been changed. We assure you however that they sounded that ridiculous to begin with.