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Tuesday Icon

This week BurdaStyle goes to the dark side. LOVE LABOURS LOST

Once upon a time, before MySpace, people I knew started sending me these curious email messages, which I routinely ignored. The subject headings read: “So-and-so wants to be your friend!” Invariably, the people from whom I received these messages already were my friends, and so I assumed I’d been caught up in a weirdly flirtatious go-round of spam. Then I’d run into one of my friends at a party, or I’d call some other friend to make a plan, and these friends of mine would ask: “How come you won’t be my friend?” The whole thing began to take on the aspect of a “Twilight Zone” episode. Eventually, I figured out what was up: Friendster. This was my introduction to the brave new world of social networking.



Here, in no particular order, is a list of my fears:

Random violence. Rodent infestation. Flying. Getting a fingernail ripped off. Rejection. Hard drive crash. Al Qaeda. Running into a particular ex-boyfriend on my way home from the gym. Identity theft. Death in the family. Mayonnaise.

Saturday Trend

This week, BurdaStyle goes on the road. TREND GET A GRIP

Let’s just say I have mixed feelings about Karl Lagerfeld. On the one hand, yeah, the guy’s a force of nature; he’s, like, 70 years old and a trendsetter anyway, a dude with admirably catholic taste and a work ethic that could put a Navy Seal to shame. On the other hand…I don’t know. Something about Karl rubs me the wrong way. The old-world sneer, the pallor, the hunting eyes hidden behind oversized shades. I think he’s a vampire. I know how that sounds, but hear me out – how else does he stay so perpetually au courant, if not by feasting on the blood of virgins? Karl, they drawl after him, his newly-minted zombies, so…genius…

Friday Playlist

This week, BurdaStyle goes on the road. PLAYLIST MARK MANN

Several years before my family moved to Orlando, we took a trip to Disney World. I don’t remember much about this trip other than the ride to the park, the six hours or so from Miami. I was nervous, impatient and exhilarated; I had been overtaken by the sense that I was about to meet my destiny. What that destiny was, I had no clue. But I was tingled with foreboding.

Thursday Fashion

This week, BurdaStyle goes on the road. FASHION ROAD WARRIOR

I am a total pack rat. My apartment is decorated with the hundreds of books, CDs and magazines I’ve amassed over the years. I refuse to part with my collection of VHS tapes, despite the fact that I no longer have a VCR. There’s a box under my bed filled with drafts of forgotten scripts, old rolodexes, outdated headshot postcards, and instruction manuals for printers, cell phones, Palm Pilots and laptops I’ve long since upgraded. I keep Altoids tins around on the theory they’ll come in handy, the shelves of my medicine cabinet sag under the weight of all the tried-but-didn’t-like moisturizers I figure I’ll pass along to friends, and I have never, ever, thrown away a shopping bag I thought I could re-use. In my own defense, I do re-use them, the Altoids tins have come in handy, and I am pretty generous about letting my friends shop my beauty closet. But every so often, like, when I’m turning over my apartment for a copy of the credit card bill with the never-resolved, still-disputed charge, I wish I were a minimalist. I wish I were one of those people who could pack my life up into a rucksack, hop on my vintage Ducati, and set out for parts unknown. I dated a guy like that. It didn’t work out.

Wednesday Beauty

This week, BurdaStyle goes on the road. BEAUTY GO DE TOILETTE

A couple years ago I liked a boy I also sort of hated. He lived on the West Coast, I’m pretty sure the like/hate thing went both ways, and as though the miles separating us and our mutually ambivalent dynamic didn’t throw up enough space, said boy was also a wizard at the dark art of withholding. Like, for example, I’d dash off some relatively snappy email along the lines of, “Hey, did you see this article relating directly to X thing I know totally obsesses you?” And he’d write back something along the lines of “Yup.”

Tuesday Icon

This week, BurdaStyle goes on the road. ICON CLEOPATRA JONES

“Man, that girl is ten miles of bad road!”

A ridiculous confession: I’ve always wanted someone to say that about me. I’ve always wanted to be described as ten miles of bad road. Fasten your seatbelt, guy, drop some lead on the gas and get ready to rumble. This chick was built for speed. And so on. It’s a ridiculous confession because I am not, realistically, the kind of girl anyone would describe as ten miles of bad road, or even two miles of bad road. Maybe a quarter-mile, but “that girl is a quarter-mile of bad road” doesn’t have the same sexy ring; it’s more like saying, “Watch out! Speed bumps!” Still a good idea to buckle up, but no man’s gunning the engine.



The number one thing I love about New York: I don’t have to drive anywhere.

The number one thing I miss, living in New York: Driving.

Not always; not every day. I certainly don’t relish the idea of fighting the traffic around here, braking my way crosstown then circling the block 17 or 18 times before I find a parking space, halfway back the way I came. I’ve rented cars in New York; I know the score. But then a certain heat comes whispering through the air, not warmth yet, but its harbinger, and the familiar, pedal-to-the-metal urge comes over me. Spring fever. Wanderlust. The need for speed, after months of cooped-up winter. It’s so American, that feeling, the burn to get up and go, head West, put some miles between you and your history.

Saturday Trend

This week, BurdaStyle gets its groove on. DYE, DYE MY DARLING

As a trend-watcher, I feel it’s my duty to blow the whistle on criminal style. Technicolor denim is on the right side of the fashion law, though I’m sitting the trend out in deference to the axiom that any fad you wore the first time, you sit out when it comes again. Like a cop at a broken stop light, however, I’d like to halt fashion traffic for a moment, and point out where history tells us this particular fad is headed. When I was ten, my babysitter had a pair of pink jeans she liked to wear on Friday and Saturday nights, when she was going out later.

Friday Playlist

This week, BurdaStyle gets its groove on. PLAYLIST BANGFACE

Everything I know about rave can pretty much be summed up by three things: The movie 24 Hour Party People, glowsticks, and the Pulp song “Sorted for E’s & Wizz.” The few raves I went to weren’t really raves, at least not in the view of a girl sorted for neither e’s nor wizz. The first one I attended set the tone: A few people dancing in a pasture to bad four-on-the-floor techno you could barely hear, as disinterested dealers elbowed through the crowd trying to make eye contact with buyers. I remember one girl throwing up on some weeds near the blanket my friends had laid out; I remember another one, shirtless, sitting in the dirt staring at her hands. People passed 40s around and, yes, there were glowsticks. You have to handicap for the fact that this was Central Florida, but even so the whole event had the aura of late-era desperation to it, revelers trying hard to live the dream before it died. About a month later, I asked my mom, in so many words, whether I could go to a rave the following weekend. That’s how little the rave scene impressed me: I didn’t feel compelled to lie to my parents about it.

Thursday Fashion

This week, BurdaStyle gets its groove on. FASHION DANCE DANCE REVOLUTION

We have entered the age of simultaneity. Once upon a time, not too long ago, in fact, retro looks had their day in the sun and then faded again, replaced by the next old idea newly exhumed from the thrift shops. No more: Looks for spring and fall range across a vast spectrum of inspiration, with the ‘20s, the ‘30s, the ‘40s, the ‘60s, the ‘70s, and pretty much every formerly degraded look from the ‘80s represented, somewhere. The really postmodern thing is go time-traveling in your closet, mixing and matching among the epochs. Straight-up homage would be so…predictable.

Wednesday Beauty

This week, BurdaStyle gets its groove on. BEAUTY REN REVIVO-TONIC

I am the queen of stupid injuries. Other people lay themselves up tackling black diamond ski trails, or training for marathons, or going to surf camp in Costa Rica. Aside from a recurring case of wrist tendonitis due to whacking the ball too hard at tennis, all my serious injuries are ones I have to lie about later. Some highlights:

Tuesday Icon

This week, BurdaStyle gets its groove on. ICON KELLY FROM BREAKIN’

Let me be clear on this, right up front: Breakin’ is an awful movie. The script is feloniously bad: There are plot holes you could drive an aircraft carrier through, the dialogue is like nails on a chalkboard, and despite some hamfisted attempts at sketching depths, the characters are so cartoonish they make Bugs Bunny seem nuanced in comparison. The directing is worse; the acting, worst of all. But the dancing! Watching Breakin’ again recently, I found myself transported back to a time when hip-hop was new, when graffiti art and beatboxing and scratching DJs and sneaker freakism all felt revolutionary and exciting, dispatch from the cultural underground. How far we’ve come.




Here, in a nutshell, is the history of my career as a dancer. When I was four, I told my mom I wanted to be a ballerina. She signed me up for a class, bought me a leotard, a pair of Capezios, and a pink tutu. Returning to the studio after the very first class, the instructor informed her that I was a mite “energetic” for ballet, i.e., that I’d flipped the bird to the barre and had spent the previous hour twirling around the room to my own whimsical choreo. Mom rescued her deposit at the studio by enrolling me in baton twirling, and the pink tutu went on to fame, in our house, as the centerpiece of a chase game called “The Lady with the Pink Hair!!!”

Saturday Trend

This week, BurdaStyle gets literate. TREND ROAD SCHOLAR

The fall shows boasted more than a few tips of the mortarboard to academic dress: Tweeds and plaid, car coats, preppy jackets and Fair Isle sweaters. But one of the best tricks stolen from the ivory tower came in the form of the Oxford. The adapted brogue made an appearance at several shows, with two of the strongest versions showing up on the Marc Jacobs and Philip Lim runways. At Marc, the Oxford came out with a squared-off toe, a tall stack heel, and a zippered instep; the look was downtown bookish. Lim’s Oxford was sexier, black, olive and camel-colored suede slingbacks perched on a sharp stilettos, with some patent leather shine for added tone-on-tone impact. They’re too cool for school.


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