allie

The post Positive Affirmations appeared first on The Toast.

As if the clients pissing in the trash cans weren’t enough…the owner of this tanning salon in Boston also can’t afford spellcheck.

related: In case you were wondering why we’re closed

[Kelly's Roast Beef, Revere Beach/Facebook]

Looking for some "real food if you're really trying to go eat?" Here's Kelly's Roast Beef with a rap video that is, quite simply, the best thing you'll see this morning. According to the restaurant's Facebook page, it's the Revere day shift that stars in this amazing overview of Kelly's busy summer season. Established in 1951 on Revere Beach, the local chain now has five locations and claims to sells "approximately one million" roast beef sandwiches a year. "You know where to find me in the summer, brah."

· Kelly's Roast Beef releases one well done rap video [BostInno]
· All coverage of Kelly's Roast Beef on Eater [~EBOS~]

“Yo, yo, I’m excited. This is going to be funny,” Natasha Lyonne text messages me, urging me to join her on an apartment hunt she’d just started. “Host of characters. Yer missing out on the crazy lady.”

Lyonne’s East Village landlord just raised her rent, so the day before she’s due back on set to film Season 2 of her smash Netflix women’s prison dramedy, Orange Is The New Black  — which films at Queens' Kaufman Astoria Studios and a defunct children’s psychiatric center in Rockland County — she’s trying to find new digs. So far, the brokers she’s met in a whirlwind of viewings before I arrive include a humorless man in “an overly warm blazer” at one apartment and a very nice woman with a beard and an emphysematous growl at another. “The one who looked like a dinosaur?” asks Max, the dapper 28-year-old French broker squiring her around to apartments. “She did look a little bit like a dinosaur,” Lyonne agrees.

On the street between apartments, we run into at least three people Lyonne knows, including her personal trainer ("You gotta get cut for prison," Lyonne tells me later. "All that fingering – you need strong triceps"). "Is there something I’m missing?" asks Max, distressed, "Are you a celebrity? Are you famous? Everywhere I look, you say hi to someone.” The petite 34-year-old woman standing before Max with that distinctly unruly mane of dirty blonde hair and a T-shirt from the 1978 tour of the rock band Rainbow, is, indeed, pretty famous. Or infamous, depending on whom you ask. Lyonne's plucky lesbian "junkie philosopher" character on Orange is informed in part by her own very public career implosion and struggle with addiction. And little do those brokers know that she's charming them with a humor and delighted come-what-may attitude that can only truly be embodied by those who’ve clawed their way back from the brink of death and have learned to take everything a little less seriously after that.

"Here's my situation, all right," says Lyonne, in an accent that’s a cross between a Jewish grandma and Marge Simpson’s hard-smoking twin sisters. "I’m living in a fucking beautiful building in a beautiful apartment the past five years. I have a 40-year-old man I live with and a small animal. The apartment got too small to really make it worth the raise in the rent.” The small animal is an adorable Maltipoo named Root Beer, and the 40-year-old man is her boyfriend of two years, Andrew, a former Times reporter she met at an Angela Davis rally in Washington Square Park during Occupy Wall Street. His pickup line, ironically enough, was about an L.A. sublet they were both looking at and both failed to get. “So instead we just started sleeping together, and now we have a new real estate situation,” says Lyonne. “I thought he was way too sophisticated and intelligent and reasonable to actually be my boyfriend. I thought it was going to be a one-night stand and I was just gonna suck out all his brains in one night,” she says, cackling. “He had a much better vocabulary when we first met.”

Max seems to be enjoying himself, but Lyonne isn’t an easy client. She doesn’t know if she wants to stay in Manhattan or move to Brooklyn; she doesn’t know if she wants to buy or rent; she kind of wishes a magical sublet would fall in her lap; and deep down, she doesn’t want to move at all. The only reason Lyonne, who grew up on the Upper East Side, is considering Brooklyn is because Andrew told her, she says, “that I’m not in touch, that I don’t understand that Brooklyn is, like, a thing.” She sighs. “Here’s hard evidence that I’m aging: When I was a little girl, the goal was to move out of Brooklyn, okay? My grandparents live in Flatbush, and I’m supposed to be trying to move back to Brooklyn? All of a sudden I’m just supposed to go with the flow and pretend that this is a reasonable move? Now so many people live there, you’re weird if you don’t live in Brooklyn. I don’t want to be a hipster. I want to be a fucking grown-up!”

“In the nineties,” she goes on, “nobody fucked with Brooklyn. Kokie’s was the only reason you went to Brooklyn,” she says, referring to the famed Williamsburg after-hours spot whose appeal is fairly obvious from the name. “That was the only time you went to Brooklyn, when you weren’t even present enough to understand you were on your way there.” We conclude a sweaty walk down to King St., which gets points for being a block away from her favorite place in the world, Film Forum, and find ourselves in a very odd duplex decorated only with a chandelier, a giant painting of a blindfolded ancient Roman, a framed photo of Justin Bieber, and a very elaborate and space-consuming setup for a driving video game. The buyer’s representative, a nice woman named Emily who’s cracking up at every one of Lyonne’s jokes, asks her what she does for a living. “I’m a professional real estate seeker,” says Lyonne. “I sort through rentals. I just have my rich boyfriend support me and I look for various homes for us to live in. It’s not easy, but it’s a life.”

Emily has a loft we could see later in Williamsburg, which coincides with another appointment near there that Lyonne has already made. Max will stay on the isle of Manhattan, and Lyonne lights up a Marlboro before heading into the subway for what seems like the first time in years. “Remember tokens?” she asks me, and then promises she’ll pay me back “the buck twenty-five, buck fifty” she owes for the swipe I give her.

“Are cigarettes cheaper in Brooklyn?” she wants to know. She once dated a man who lived off the Lorimer L Train stop, she muses. “And when we broke up, I left him with the entire borough.”

When we emerge on Bedford Avenue, Lyonne seems terrified. “You notice how everything just slowed down?” she asks. “Why is everybody moving so slowly?” We pass a blonde, dreadlocked hippie playing guitar. “A handsome young person you could probably sleep with is the Williamsburg equivalent of a homeless guy,” says Lyonne. “Look at this guy. You could totally take this guy home for a hot meal.” Seconds later, we pass a sofa on the curb. “He has sex with women on the sofa in broad daylight, while reading The Tin Drum and strumming his guitar,” says Lyonne. “Welcome to fucking Brooklyn. Does anyone over 50 live here?”

Every few blocks she stops to check in with another broker. “I feel like I’m sexting,” she says. “You get a little rush.” She had her first brush with real estate at 17, when she bought her first apartment in Gramercy, a penthouse with a wrap-around terrace, after dropping out of NYU’s Tisch school and using two semesters of tuition to make the down payment. “It was fucking brilliant, and I’ve been trying to reclaim that thunder ever since.”

We’re taking a load off on a bench outside a coffee shop, while a couple of neighborhood Dominican guys blast some hip-hop-ified Steve Miller Band song and jump in and out of a well-tended classic car. Watching that seems to singlehandedly convince Lyonne that Williamsburg could possibly be all right. “I always feel a real kinship with scenes like this,” she says. “Reminds me of being a teenager on the Upper East Side, being like, ‘Yo, whatcha got in that car? Also do you have any apartments for rent?’” She cracks up. “You know, you get a 20 bag of weed and a couple apartments.”

The guys have turned up the volume and are now dancing. “They’re definitely high, are they not?” she asks. “I like that it’s been too long and now I don’t even know when people are on drugs.” Still, drugs are all anyone in the press seems to ask her about, even with the runaway success of Orange, or the many movies, like Kristen Wiig’s Girl Most Likely, that she’s started to appear in. On The View recently, she had to spend the entire segment relating her character’s heroin use to her own “I’m so old now, and also it’s so long ago. We’re working our way towards ten years,” she says. “It’s like, how much longer are the going to make me talk about this?”

Our Williamsburg adventure finds us meeting back up with Emily from the chandeliered apartment to see a gorgeous 1,200-square-foot loft that’s major sticking point is being a fourth floor walkup. Lyonne contemplates installing a dumbwaiter or hiring a cabana boy before deciding that “I don’t want to write a check my ass can’t cash.”

Lyonne calls a livery cab, and soon we’re on our way to Schermerhorn St. (which Lyonne insists on calling “Shmmmermerhorn,” since she’s convinced that’s a made-up name). In the car, we talk about her renewed passion for acting. It’s always been her calling. Even before her professional debut on Pee Wee’s Playhouse at age 6, she was doing dramatic readings of stock tips from the Wall Street Journal for passengers on the Long Island Rail Road. “I would have done well as a gypsy child, I think. A circus baby. I coulda played a great street urchin or ragamuffin. Or just been one,” she says. “I certainly liked entertaining people and making jokes, but I don’t know necessarily if that’s what your child is prone to that you should necessarily put them in a real working industry at six years old. By the time I was 16, I was already an exhausted cynic.”

The wisest thing she ever did, she says, was really take the time off to get sober. “I mean, I didn’t have a 28-day drug problem. I had a take-five-years-off drug problem.” It helped that because of “my well-publicized drug problem, there was many years I couldn’t get work.” And she’s fine with that. “I mean, life is very short but life is also very long. I don’t know that there’s such a rush. I think I also needed a break just in terms of the child actor in me was tired. I mean, I’d been working from, like, 6 to 24, pretty much nonstop.” But after slowly re-proving herself in theater and TV guest spots, and “recommitting to my job and recommitting to life in general,” Orange came along, and it’s a game changer. She’d done quality movies no one’s seen, like Slums of Beverly Hills, as well as schlocky teen stuff everyone saw, like American Pie, but had never before experienced the confluence of doing something critically acclaimed that lots of people seem to be watching, too. Even Lou Reed is a fan and invited her to do his Sirius Radio show. (“It really was, like, the most meaningful showbiz moment I’ve had; Lou Reed is only my everything.”)  Plus, she’s been having fun with the show’s racy content. One of her first scenes is eating out another girl in the open prison bathroom. “Yeah, that was meant to be a fisting scene,” says Lyonne. “But you can’t see that I’m fisting her on camera.”  

“I knew that I recognized you,” our driver pipes up.

“I’m that fister!”

“I’ve been enjoying your show so far.”

“Thank you so much. I am that girl that ate out that girl on the show.”

After enough traffic to convince Lyonne that she probably never wants to move to Brooklyn, we find ourselves high above Boerum Hill. Looking on the Brooklyn skyline, she says she feels like she’s in New Jersey. “I think I’m just a little confused by the neighborhood, first of all,” she admits. “Because I don’t have any idea where I am.” The broker says he has a better apartment for us, a ground-floor two-bedroom pre-war on a quiet cul de sac in Brooklyn Heights for $3,700. Lyonne listens patiently, then asks, “And… how far is that from Manhattan?”

Outside the building, we run into Ethan Hawke and his eleven-year-old son. Hawke and Lyonne did a play together, 2010’s Blood From A Stone, and now Hawke lives nearby. “If you live in this neighborhood, come over for a drink,” says Hawke, cheerfully. “Well, not a drink…”

Lyonne steps out of the car at the cul de sac to see a gorgeous view overlooking Brooklyn Bridge Park, and then behind it, the financial district. “Is that  Manhattan?” she asks, and is pleased to be affirmed. Then she turns around to see a man in a monk’s robe walking toward us. “I was hoping he’d be a samurai, have a sword, like Forest Whitaker in a Jarmusch movie,” she says. The cul de sac apartment is, she says, “not a winner, I’m gonna level with you,” and she fears that on the ground floor it might be “cock-a-roach-y,” but the next one on Henry Street is actually pretty close to what Lyonne has been looking for — an endless maze of rooms and space. The incredibly seventies kitchen, tiled in various shades of brown and white, is of particular interest. “I feel like swinging! This would be great for all my swingers’ parties,” says Lyonne.

“I gotta tell you, Brooklyn is growing on me. Sad to say, I’m getting the appeal,” she says, pausing for a cigarette before our final apartment. It’s a duplex around the corner from Brooklyn Bridge Park with 40-foot ceilings and wall-to-walled mirrored closets. Lyonne is pretty sold on the too-low interior balcony overlooking the living room. “You could totally get murdered here,” she says. But she can’t wrap her head around the owners living right downstairs. “What if we get in a fight?” she asks. “Every day, it’s hey Tina, hey Joey, hey Mom, hey Dad. I don’t know these people. They’re not my family. I don’t even speak with my real family. I’m confused about how you live freely, one night you want to come home and blare Jimi Hendrix, you want to have friends over.”

On our way back to the island, Lyonne appears to get calmer with every mile. “I have a real love affair with the city,” she says. “I just feel like when you’re up or when you’re down, the city really cushions you. I feel like I just have such the blood and bones of a New Yorker that I can almost imagine better, like, giving up the fight and not being able to afford the city and going out West, keeping a small place here, and then when I’m like 80, coming back here, living on the park and going to the theater. For the matinee.”

Safely back in the East Village, six hours after we started, she gives me a big hug and promises to help me in my own search for a new couch. “Listen, we had such a fucking epic day. I guess I would say that I’m not oblivious to the fact that this is hilarious and sort of a hectic way to do it, and not at all reasonable. I’m sort of doing it for my personal amusement, and the Andy Kaufman adventure of it all. I want to come to your place now. I feel very bonded. It’s fucking hard, New York real estate. What if I just moved in with you? That would be the best ending to this ever.”

Two days later, she emails and says she’s strongly leaning towards just re-signing her lease.

Read more posts by Jada Yuan

Filed Under: tv ,encounter ,natasha lyonne ,orange is the new black

Or more likely, just get out of Mallow’s way.

“My husband just sent me this photo at work and I don’t even know what to do with all of my feelings about it. This is Mallow our Exotic Shorthair/human-boychild-trapped-in-a-pile-of-fur. He’s learning to drive. Clearly he’s thrilled.” -Tegan M.

From USA Today:

The most interesting lunch in the political world took place Monday at the White House, though officials said the chat between President Obama and Hillary Rodham Clinton was more personal than professional.

The president and his former secretary of state “have developed not just a strong working relationship, but also a genuine friendship,” said White House spokesman Josh Earnest.

“So,” he added, “it’s largely friendship that’s on the agenda for the lunch today.”

Obama invited the former rival-turned-top-aide to a private lunch that took place on an outside patio near the Oval Office.

It had taken him a few tries to pick up the phone. “Call her,” Michelle had said patiently. “You never talk anymore.” He shrugged. Twisted his mouth wryly.

“I had a reason to talk to her before. We were working on a project together. It’ll sound stupid if I just call her to hang out.”

Michelle put a hand on his shoulder. “She is your friend, you know. People like you.”

He ducked. “You have to say that.”

“I get to say that. I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. Remember that time she told the president of Latvia she thought you were smart and cool? And how usually with presidents, they’re either smart or cool, but not both?”

“Yeah.”

“She didn’t have to say that. She said it because she’s your friend.”

“Yeah.”

“So are you going to call her?”

“What if she doesn’t want to hang out with me?”

“She’s not going to say that.”

“I never heard from Janet Napolitano after she left. Not once. Not even on my birthday. And I gave those tins of popcorn, the ones with the three different flavors, you know, the ones with cheese and caramel and butter all in the different compartments, to everyone. And she didn’t say anything.”

“Hillary isn’t Janet.”

“What if she’s busy?”

Michelle’s hand found his own. “Barack.” She pressed the phone into his nerveless fingers.

He dialed.

***

It was only 10:40. Much too early to be getting ready for lunch. “Hil, it’s a ten-minute drive,” Bill had drawled patiently over coffee that morning. “Don’t overthink this.”

“I’m not overthinking this.”

Bill raised an eyebrow over the Post. “How many pantsuits have you tried on so far?”

She looked away. “It’s a Monday. I always like to try on each of my pantsuits on Monday. Helps set the tone for the week.”

He smiled at her, and the smile was both gentle and arch, and she hated it. “Bill. This is serious.”

“I’m being serious. Very serious. See how serious I look?” He drew his features into such a clownish exaggeration of sorrow that she couldn’t help but laugh.

“I mean it. I don’t–I don’t have a lot of friends.”

“You have plenty of friends.”

“I have colleagues. I have kids who make Tumblrs about me. I have well-wishers. That’s not the same.”

“You have me.”

“I know I have you.”

“And you’d better keep me, too.”

“Bill, will you drive me there?” He set down the paper. “I know it’s stupid. And I know you’re supposed to read Marcus Aurelius to the Beckham kids this afternoon, but it would mean a lot to me.”

Bill reached across the table and squeezed her hand. His fingers froze on her wrist. His eyes went soft and tender. “You’re still wearing the friendship bracelet he made you after the inauguration?”

Hillary tilted her chin up, counting the seconds until the tears receded. Just a few seconds. Shook her head. All better. “I just want him to know that I still remember.”

Bill smiled and went back to the paper. After a few minutes of silence, he set it down and looked at her. “Hillary,” he said, “do you want me to drive you over there now?”

“Would you?”

He smiled again. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

***

Outdoors was a stupid place for lunch. Kids eat lunch outdoors. She’s going to think I wanted to have a stupid Sound of Music-style stupid kids stupid outdoor picnic, Barack thought as he crossed the lawn. He spied a familiar pantsuit-clad figure by the South Gate. I just want one friend. That’s not so much to ask, is it?

“Hillary,” he heard himself saying eagerly, “I’m so glad you came.” He reached out to shake hands, then stopped.

The bracelet she wore on her wrist matched his own.

The post Friendship On The Agenda appeared first on The Toast.

Any woman who has made more money than her father for a two-month period or longer, is a witch.

Any woman who has seen at least one full season of Gilmore Girls, is a witch.

Any woman who owns a wristwatch or is taller than a man, is a witch.

Any woman who was born during a storm or has laid eyes on Erykah Badu, is a witch.

Strangely enough, Kate Bush is not a witch.

Any woman who has ever worked in retail and told someone in a dressing room that they are “Kelly if you need me,” then chuckled dully and tonelessly when the customer changing therein said, “And who are you if I don’t need you?” is a witch.

Any woman who has ever owned the Cucumber Melon body spray from Bath & Body Works, even if it was only a Christmas gift when she was thirteen and she hardly ever used it, is a witch.

Any woman who suspects that another woman may be a witch, is a witch.

Any woman who loses her wedding ring immediately becomes a witch, even if she finds it again.

Any woman who has ever paid for her own movie ticket or eaten a meal alone in a restaurant, is a witch.

Any woman who has ever said, “You know what? Let’s just leave the dishes for the morning,” as if she were suggesting something naughty and delicious, is a witch.

Any woman who has talked about the work/life balance, even in passing, even on Facebook, is a witch.

Any woman whose library fines exceed thirteen dollars (or their international equivalent), is a witch.

Any woman who has been inside of a cave for longer than an hour, is a witch.

Any woman who has ever taken food she knew did not belong to her in a communal fridge, then lied about it, is a witch.

Any woman who owns more than four candles or has spent at least one (1) sleepless night consumed by jealousy, is a witch.

Any woman who has struck a deer with her car or called into work sick when she was not, in fact, sick, is a witch.

Every woman in Maine and Colorado is a witch.

Any woman who has ever flown on a plane while menstruating, is a witch.

Any woman who has ever thought she could be a really good artist if it weren’t for the fact that she has a lot of trouble drawing hands, is a witch.

The post How To Spot A Witch appeared first on The Toast.

Thanks to Dan Chamberlain and his vintage collection of ripped mp3s, we have evidence that Prince once covered Shania Twain and posted a RealPlayer stream on his website. Featuring Marva King, "Ur'e Still the 1" isn't the Purple One's first foray into cover songs (check out 1996's Emancipation), but because of Chamberlain, this ode to Twain isn't lost forever.

Read more posts by Lindsey Weber

Filed Under: prince ,shania twain ,right-click ,you're still the one ,music

Malden's Oyá Cuban Café (not to be confused with upscale sushi restaurant O ya in downtown Boston) is featured in the Globe North "Dining Out" section, and reviewers Coco McCabe and Doug Stewart find it to be "a fine-dining establishment that can hold its own against any restaurant in the North region." The must-try: chicharrones y vieiras, "a trio of pan-seared scallops, each perched on a chunk of succulent pork belly, skewered with a toothpick, and doused in a sweet house-made barbecue sauce." [BG]

As spied on Java Street. Happy Friday everybody!

At Rookie, a complete guide to the Olsen twin movie oeuvre; at Into the Gloss, a delicious slideshow of nineties Goth Hollywood; a very cute Tumblr illustrating Jay Z's 99 problems.

Your eyes do not deceived you. The candle salad is a banana thrust vertically into a stack of pineapple rings on a bed of lettuce leaves, with a maraschino cherry toothpicked to the tip. No, this is not some naughty bachelorette party dessert; it is an actual recipe from the 1920s. A holiday recipe. Later printed in a children's cookbook.

What on earth?

"My favorite "greasy spoon" from childhood (and today) is the Owl Diner in Lowell; today it's called the Four Sisters Owl Diner. I've been going since I was a little boy, and the most exciting thing was the mini jukeboxes on each table. I would always select the song "Lowell, Massachusetts, USA" by my grandfather and his band, Charlie Pelley & the Camelots. They have omelets named after streets in Lowell, and I've always ordered the Chelmsford St. omelet, which has ham, mushrooms, and onions. The waitresses are awesome, too; they handle, like, 40 people at a time each with no problem. They're such pros." — Brendan Pelly, executive chef at Zebra's Bistro in Medfield

Cuteporter Annie K. found this on The Corvid Blog. The blog says their rather sneaky behavior of creeping up and giving their prey’s tail a good yank is just part of who they are…the little finks. Are you the guys who wake me up in my backyard every morning?

Gillette (born name: Sandra Gillette), the New Jersey songbird who gave us the size queen anthem of the 90s!

A million years before Miley Cyrus thought of herself as the white girl gift to R&B, Gillette quickly became the Latina gift to dance R&B with her size queen anthem “Short Dick Man” and the anti-ugly dude anthem “Mr. Personality.” Gillette isn’t only a razor that some dudes use to shave their pubes off so their peen looks bigger, Gillette was also a singing misandry hero from the 90s who had the looks of a Laura San Giacomo impersonator and the standards of a picky size queen on Grindr. It was only hot dudes with big dicks for her!

Gillette’s first album On the Attack came out in 1994 and her first single “Short Dick Man” was a semi-big (pun intended) hit. They couldn’t play “Short Dick Man” on the radio, so they made Tommy Girl rage out of his Underoos when they changed it to the more radio friendly “Short Short Man.” They played that shit at every junior high school and high school dance. The 90s was all about tweens dancing to songs about dicks and fucking without knowing that they were dancing to songs about dicks and fucking.

Gillette’s second and third albums failed to rise and she disappeared in the early 2000s, but her size queen legacy will forever live on with this:

Overalls, tight long-sleeved t-shirts, oversized jerseys, pirate shirts, plaid newsboys and singing about macaroni dicks… This is the 90s I know and love.

And bonus: Here’s Gillette’s comeback single which I’m only posting to pay tribute to her impeccable lip liner and eyebrow game:

Someone photoshopped Aziz Ansari’s face onto these classic rap albums and it’s absolutely glorious.

After years as the living emblem of the downside of fame, Lindsay Lohan has officially agreed to film a reality show for Oprah's cable network OWN. According to EW, Lohan will star in an "eight-episode docu-series that will follow the actress as she works to rebuild her career and stay healthy." The show is scheduled to air next year, but you know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men and deeply troubled 27-year-olds: They often go awry. Lohan will also have a sit-down heart-to-heart with Oprah that will tape and air in August, because after drug rehab comes career rehab. It's practically one of the steps.

Read more posts by Margaret Lyons

Filed Under: celebreality ,tv ,lindsay lohan ,own ,oprah ,reality tv

ingodwetrustnyc:

brenluke, ‘Kim Gordon’ (Spot Illustration for Magazine) Giclee Prints now available HERE

Sarah Hill (’08) has been working at a vintage clothing boutique in Chelsea since graduating from NYU Law School two years ago. Says Sarah, “In this economy, I’m just happy to have a job!”

Marcus Jenson (’08) and Leah McElroy (’09) recently tied the knot in Amagansett. The pair chose to eschew the quirky trappings of a modern wedding because “everything’s been done before. At this point, serving drinks in mason jars and getting your friend ordained online is as performative as a traditional wedding. There’s no way to have a wedding without living a cliché so we decided to take it to its logical extreme and had a wedding about having a wedding. Every now and then we would break the fourth wall during the ceremony, turning to the audience to comment on how weird it all is, just to jolt people out of their complacency,” says Jenson.

Andrew Lawson (’08) and John Winthrop (’08) co-founded LoBru, a non-profit organization that offers micro-loans to microbreweries in the Central African Republic. Their next big venture is setting up an artisanal micro-coffee scene in CAP, in the hope of letting locals know that it doesn’t just have to be about Kenyan beans.

Also working overseas is Wendy Nickerson (’08), who moved to Glasgow to teach English as a Second Language. Living in a foreign country has led Wendy to build her entire social life around alumni gatherings.

Lindsey Fallbrook (’08) joined the workforce as a publishing assistant shortly after graduation but found working in an office too awkward, and was so flustered by all social interactions outside of the campus bubble that she’s been confined to her bed for the past six months. She’s using the downtime (and her philosophy degree) to reread Being and Time.

Will Stephens (’08) says, “Hi Everyone! No prizes for guessing that I got into comedy after graduation. You can catch me at one of my indie improv shows around the city on weekends or performing stand-up for my high-school English class in Canarsie five days a week. Okay, fine, prizes for everyone then. I’m a nice guy.”

Like many of his classmates, Dave Wilkerson (’08) chose to steer clear of the soaring NYC rental market and moved home to live with his parents after graduation. When his parents lost their house to foreclosure in 2009, the whole family moved in with his parents’ parents, who are living in a home originally built by Dave’s great-great-grandparents. He and his partner Ruth Wilkerson (’07) (nee Economopoulos) just welcomed their first child, a healthy baby boy named Corduroy. Now there are four generations of Wilkersons living under the same roof. Dave adds, “Our living situation would make for a hilarious sitcom. I’m just sayin’…” We’ll be on the lookout for that one, Dave!

Bobby Buckley (’08) saw graduating in a poor economic climate as a blessing in disguise. He decided to take some time off before finding a job to travel around the world and just live. On returning to New York last year, he began working at his father’s investment company. Bobby writes, “If I hadn’t graduated when I did, I might not have had the opportunity to broaden my horizons and who knows what kind of person I would be?”

Stuart Hauser (’08) resides in Williamsburg and has been profiled in New York Times trend pieces a record thirteen times since graduating. To date, he has abandoned the beekeeping, microbrewing, letterpress printing, apartment dwelling and numerous other pursuits that won him so much media attention. He is now terrified of leaving his bed, or even making plans to do so, lest a stray Times journalist overhear him and attempt to write a trend piece about how young Brooklynites are hosting limbo parties during the summer solstice. (Update: Please don’t publish that last bit. I’m afraid there may be some Style scribes among the alumni.)

In an attempt to recapture the joys of her pre-internet childhood, Alison Quill (’08) channeled her nineties nostalgia into a spec script for a Party of Five film, which she is currently shopping around. Interested buyers can message her on her pager.

Like many others from the class of 2008, Aparna Shetty (’08) became paralyzed by self-awareness after graduation and worried that contributing to this publication would send her on a downward spiral into meta-selfhood. She is currently bedridden. Aparna is one of the lucky few to be completely unaffected by — and even unaware of — the economic downturn.

Photo Credit: Flickr

The post Dad Magazine: July 2013 appeared first on The Toast.

Last night the Mister and yours truly were walking down Lorimer Street. As we approached Meeker Avenue, I excitedly told him we were about to pass the bodega that the fittingly-named furkid, Tank, called his place of work and play.  You can undoubtedly understand my sadness, gentle readers, when I happened upon the above memorial. Rest in peace, big boy, you are and will continue to be missed.

You can see more shots of this handsome fellow in his resplendent, super-sized glory by clicking here.

Frankly, it is an embarrassment that we, the Colin Firth–as–Mr. Darcy–loving public, have waited almost twenty years for this momentous occasion. But yes, finally, the dream has been made real: Colin Firth's famous Pride and Prejudice lake moment — the one where his wet eighteenth-century undershirt clings to him just so — has been made into a giant statue. It is twelve feet tall, and it is sitting in the middle of London's Serpentine lake. Sorry, can't finish this post, we have to fly to London now.

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Filed Under: mr. darcy ,colin firth ,pride and prejudice ,art

As expected, Hill reported to the Federal Correction Facility in Danbury, Connecticut, this morning to begin her much-contested sentence for tax evasion. According to TMZ, she is in a "minimum security type facility" and will be housed with the rest of the inmates. She'll serve three months.

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Filed Under: lauryn hill ,jail ,music

demonagerie:

Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des manuscrits, Français 2643, detail of f. 72r. Chroniques sire Jehan Froissart. Bruges, c.1470-75.

This should get you through the day with a big smile on your face!