TRUE DETECTIVE SEASON 2 CAST REVEALED!!!!!!

true-detective-skip-crop

The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on The Style Con:

This winter, there were few things better than watching Matthew McConaughey wax philosophic about some truly absurdist shit while being chauffeured around the southern bayou with Woody Harrelson in HBO’s True Detective. (“I gotta bad taste in my mouth out here. Aluminum. Ash. Like you can smell the pscyhosphere” could be my favorite line written for television quite possibly ever. Keep ‘em comin’, weirdos.) And so when the season ended 76 days ago (I mean, who’s counting), the buzz already started over who and what would come next in the serialized drama. Them’s some big shoes (and delightfully snug wife beaters) to fill. Although no one can hold a candle to the way my post-Dallas Buyer’s Club, scrawnily muscular MM could so broodingly drawl when he called this planet “a giant gutter in outer space,” I am open to the idea that next season be certifiably spectacular. So open, in fact, that I’m going to write the pitches and cast the fucking thing myself. Hollywood, you’re welcome.

Click here to read more.

Standard

It Happened to Me: I Got LASIK and It Failed

Bahn Lasik Before

The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on xoJane.com:

It seemed to have happened all of a sudden, as though I woke up one morning and overnight my vision had taken a turn for the worse. I stood on the subway platform, staring across the tracks at the familiar mosaic sign denoting my local stop, each green and white tile blurring into one another, a fuzzy approximation of what had once been so reliably crisp. I kept rubbing my eyes, blinking hard, all in the hopes of denying what was actually happening, which was that my very expensive, incredibly cherished LASIK was failing. 

Click here to read more.

Standard

AN OPEN LETTER TO PENN BAGLEY, BADGLEY, BADDLEY. WHATEVER.

 

Screen-shot-2014-05-13-at-3.55.10-PM

The following is an excerpt from a piece originally featured on The Style Con:

Dear Penn,

Can I call you Penn? Is that your real name? If I sound incredulous over its authenticity it comes only from the purest place of jealousy-induced doubt. You see, I was born in the ‘80s and Jennifer (that’s me, BTW, hi!) was quite popular. My parents, inspired by the masses, forwent the opportunity to name me something clever, like Mackenzie or Autumn or Jo, I don’t know,Penn. As a result, I have always hated the utterly generic nature of my name. But Penn… Penn sets someone up for greatness, so much so that I refuse to believe it’s real.

But I digress. I’m not here to talk about your stage name. (PS: Holy shit. Okay, I’ll admit I was wrong and hastily judgmental. I just looked up your bio on Wikipedia and your real name is Penn Dayton Badgley. I envy you, Penn, and your parents’ wonderfully WASPy taste. I, Jennifer Lee Bahn—yes, not “Leigh” like the more delicate girls, but “Lee” like Confederate army generals—am but your humble servant in lesser nomenclature.) No, Penn Dayton Badgley, I’m here to talk about your band, MOTHER, which sucks.

Click here to read more.

 

Standard

Ask a Lady: Sugar, Spice and Dudes That Are Nice

Print

The following is from a piece originally featured on Harry’s Five O’Clock Magazine:

So what exactly makes a “nice guy?” To be clear, I’m not talking about spineless doormats; I’m referring to respectful, amiable gentlemen with interesting lives and unique opinions. These are the guys you want at your dinner parties, the guys you want to introduce to your parents, the guys who take showers and clip their fingernails. Well, that seems like a decent portion of the population (I think), so maybe it’s best to define what nice guys are not. Nice guys are not the bad boys—which is to say they’re not the aloof, mysterious, skulking body in the corner looking to bag another babe out of sheer boredom. And bag he will. The bad boys always do. Meanwhile, the nice guy’s still standing there, holding a beer, talking to some buds, being, well, nice. 

Click here to read more.

Standard

I Got Lame Shamed Out of a Septum Piercing

hedislimane-dazedconfused-grimes

The following is an excerpt from a piece originally featured on Lady Clever:

I’m standing in the lobby of a tattoo and piercing parlor on 2nd Avenue, my hair freshly blown-out and blonde from a four-hour salon appointment, my tawny blazer just grazing my thighs. A proper grown up lady. (No matter how hard you try, everyone ends up turning into some stylistic amalgamation of their mother, my exposed midriff be damned.) The telltale buzz of a working gun sings behind a closed door, where I imagine someone sits, trying desperately not to cry, lest they look as lame as I feel right now, a girl dressed up like Business Casual Fridays, wanting to get her septum pierced.

The girl behind the counter, who I delayed and dumbly notice has the piercing I want (“Oh! Ha! Ha! You have one, too! Duh.”) tells me you can turn it in right away. I sense that the fact that I’ve basically asked how quickly I can make it look as though I do not have a ring through my face is indication I should not really be getting one at all. But, in truth, I have work to consider: the occasional modeling job that falls in my lap that does not require my looking like some sort of rebel without a cause.

But I am a rebel! And I do have a cause!

 

Click here to read more.

Standard

Cyber-Bullying: Burn Your Idols

rihanna-gq-uk-5

The following is an excerpt from a piece originally featured on Lady Clever:

“I looked up Rihanna’s red carpet outfits for inspiration, and I loved all of them because her style is my style.”

Alexis Carter was a Baltimore high school student just looking for a unique prom outfit. Or, you know, unique enough. Inspired by a green jumpsuit sported by the singer back in 2010, Carter went through the trouble of getting the thing recreated in black, plunging neckline, bat-wing-esque detailing and all. And so, she had her prom, posted some pictures on social media, and had a perfectly fine evening.

Until the next morning, when Rihanna herself had gotten a hold of the photograph… 

Click here to read more.

 

Standard

Peak Internet: I Hate Everything

6394570_ml-1024x901

The following is an excerpt from a piece originally seen on Lady Clever:

They’re playing baseball in McCarren park and I am immediately hit with the dusty smell of my childhood: dirty gloves, pebbles in bat bags, the tawny stains of decomposed granite on any fabric that would take it. How wonderful it was to be on that field. No distraction from the task at hand. No thoughts beyond trying to not look like the worst girl on the team. Life extended no further than your mitt. One thing at a time. That’s all.

Click here to read more.

Standard

Brooke Candy’s “Opulence” Video Makes Me Excruciatingly Uncomfortable

983645_678607565519022_3889995699329358196_n

The following is an excerpt originally seen on The Style Con:

It’s a scene from any Guy Ritchie film. Gritty, sour, filthy and remote.  The sounds are turned up to exacerbate the violence: heels slamming against the tile floor, the sound of hard leather smacking against flesh, roars of effort on the part of Brooke Candy and the moans of agony from the man she’s beating the living shit out of. All fifteen pounds of the singer eventually manages to throw her offender to the ground, breaking his neck between a pair of stiletto heels. And then, while using dialogue about two notches about a ‘90s porn, she begins to fleece him, tearing money out of his pockets, counting it, and then stuffing it into his mouth. It is not the most violent thing I have ever seen—not even coming close to anything out of the original Oldboy—but the reaction it elicits is decidedly stomach turning. Though I’ll watch this video nearly 20 times to figure out how I feel about it, I’ll skip the first minute, unable to even listen to it play out from the other side of the room.

Click here to read more.

Standard

Interactive Play Sheds Light on My Life’s Failures

Screen-shot-2014-04-28-at-12.55.43-PM1

The following is an excerpt from a piece originally seen on The Style Con:

Times Square blinks menacingly in the distance, that deathly conflagration of badly dressed tourists and burning neon. I’m waiting outside of a recently reopened theater at dusk, standing between a group of women with Chanel bags and floor-length chiffon gowns and a confused family of four, the dad having just procured a piece of wretched-looking Sbarro pizza, bloodied sauce on an albino crust. “Best I ever had!” he exclaims stupidly, breaking up the girls’ anxious conversation about the evening’s future entertainment (“It’s just like Sleep No More, I think, only, I dunno…”) But who am I to judge? I’m the one waiting outside of a boarded-up building, about to see an interactive play by myself.

Click here to read more.

Standard

From Nada to Prada: Natalie Westling

Screen-shot-2014-04-28-at-10.38.34-AM

The following is an excerpt from a piece originally seen on The Style Con:

I can’t figure out what it is about 17-year-old model Natalie Westling. Maybe it’s the ratio of eyes to lips—how those giant, baby-girl doll orbs threaten to swallow you whole, how her pert, tight-lipped pout offers you nothing. The character. The neighborhood skater turned high fashion model vibes. That’s probably what it is. That, and, you know, that flaming red hair always gets me. I think I inherited my dad’s affinity for gingers.

Click here to read more.

Standard