Saturday, June 25, 2005

Oh My Ryan Gosling

Standing outside Number 1 Chinese restaurant/bar last night (now named China One, apparently?) at around 2:30 am, when Ryan Gosling breezes by with two male friends in tow. Of course, I promptly freaked out—I mean, have you seen The Notebook? Thankfully, I managed to keep my cool until he'd walked past and couldn't see me anymore (at which point I did a little jumping-around-and-pointing thing that could have passed for a raindance in some cultures), but my friend A. took the opportunity to shout "Ryan Gosling!" as loud as she could, repeating it until he turned around and gave us a bemused wave from two blocks away. Drunken nights in the East Village with minor celebrities—it's what makes New York great.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

The Beauty Hierarchy

In a very particular order, here's how people rate on the beauty food chain (from what's your name again? to très diva):

Assistant: Despite having likely graduated from an Ivy League college, not to be trusted with anything other than fetching coffee, opening beauty products, or telephoning junior PR people for prices. Salary roughly equivalent to a janitor in Iowa.
Associate: Either granted a byline for small, micro-edited pieces that could have been easily thrown together by an eight-year-old, or writes the entire beauty section with credit going to the director. Salary roughly equivalent to a janitor in New York.
Editor: Free weekly blowouts or pedicures. Spends four days per month working like a dog, twenty-seven days per month attending lunches and parties. Salary approximately twice that of an associate, but receives at least $10,000 in swag per year.
Beauty Director: Arrives in the office at 10 am. Leaves at 6. Spends two days per month researching, three days per month writing, one day per month at sales calls, fifteen hours per month at events, one-third of life delegating to associate. Loves her assistant. Has hundreds of dollars in gifted credit at Barneys. Thrilled to have (just barely) broken the six-figure barrier.
Beauty Director at Condé Nast: Arrives in the office at 11 am. Leaves at 5. Conducts three hour lunches twice-weekly at DB, once-weekly at Koi, twice-monthly at Per Se. Commands 150K+ for 20 hours per week of actual work.
Beauty Director of Vogue: Too busy for you. More powerful than God. Money is for the little people.

PS - This is a SATIRE. No actual beauty editors were harmed in the making of this list. I love my job, my boss, my salary, my magazine and the Vogue beauty coverage. That is all.

An Open Letter to Tom Cruise

Dear Tom,

Stop it. Just stop.

We miss the old Tom Cruise. Remember him? He danced in his tightie-whities and felt the need for speed and proved he could handle the truth and showed us the money. He had us at hello.

This new guy? Certifiably fucking nutters.

We're not quite sure if Scientology has rotted your brain from the inside out, but that's possibly the only explanation for your crazy behavior. Somebody's got to set you straight, Tom. You're really freaking us out.

1) Katie Holmes is not your soulmate. She's probably a lovely girl (even with the herpes) but you've known her for precisely eight minutes—and she's young enough to be your daughter. She just got out of a five year relationship, and you're already flying her around the world in your private jet and moving her into your house and humping her leg on Oprah. (Did you not see the fear in her eyes??) This brings me to point number two.

2) Do not pull that jumping-on-the-couch shit again. Ever. It doesn't make you look in love. It makes you look really creepy and like maybe you need to be placed in a padded room. And it really doesn't bode well for those gay rumors. Twelve-year-old girls jump on couches. Tom Cruise does not.

3) If you're trying to keep up the whole "manly" thing, don't start a catfight with Brooke Shields, okay? Trust me on this one. You came off like a big asshole and Brooke wiped the floor with you. Pretend it never happened and just move on.

4) You love Scientology. We get it. Now shut the fuck up about it. Nobody cares.

5) Finally—and I know this is going to be painful to hear—your publicist sucks. Fire her immediately. Yes, I know she's your sister. Fire her now. Do you know what she told the New York Times after your little "performance" on Oprah? She said, "The response we've gotten back is complete enthusiasm and exhilaration for his enthusiasm and exhilaration." WTF? Who are these liars she's talking to? I know she doesn't have any formal training as a publicist, so please explain to her that asking people on your payroll what they think doesn't count. Fire her ass immediately, and crawl back to Pat Kingsley on your hands and knees.

Enough is enough, Tom. We beg you to end this madness. If not for the fans, then do it for yourself. You're never going to win an Oscar riding the crazy train. Godspeed.


A Concerned Citizen