5 Reasons to Love Anderson Cooper

1. His mother is Gloria Vanderbilt. Who knew? Our beloved news anchor speaking for the masses is one of New York's creme de la creme socialites' second son. It gives him a bit of an edge, wouldn't you say?

2. He knows how to make fun of himself. On Comedy Central's The Colbert Report, Anderson humbly mocked the false air of importance that accompanies most news anchors by showing his "moves" to Stephen Colbert such as unbuttoning his suit jacket and leaning in to his interviewee for emphasis. I'm not gonna lie, it was actually pretty sexy.

3. He dabbles as judge on Food Network's Iron Chef. Taking time out of his schedule of interviewing displaced Katrina victims to sample stuffed squid with braised napa cabbage and seared pancetta? You have to respect that type of joie de vivre.

4. The Vanity Fair article. A personable account on someone whose job is never to be personable, the article divulges the tormented history behind America's newly it-news anchor.

5. His eyes. Must we elaborate?

Final Word: Anderson Cooper is today's man. Smart, easy-going, vulnerable and complicated. What more could you ask for in a nation's newsman?

It's All About The Space

Ok, so The Blackberrie has recently joined the rest of our generation by becoming OBSESSED with MySpace.

We’ve come to terms with the fact that it’s not just for band-aids and pedophiles; it’s an actual cultural movement. I mean honestly, they profiled it in Vanity Fair.

Now we’re all signed up with a pimped out page and all. So find us and become our friend. We’d love to know who our readers (and haters) are.

Final Word: See you on The Space. The Blackberrie.

Secret Sample Sale

With the most beautiful day of the year upon us, who can help but think of summer? Cue, june. Ok, not the month, but the clothing line. Known for their amazing line of leather designs, this Meatpacking-based design group is having a sample sale!

Perfectly tailored paper-thin leather jackets in all the colors of the rainbow are a steal at $190. Last winter’s rabbit-fur bombers are a mere $150. Uniquely designed tunics, tops and dresses of printed chiffon, suede and silk are oh-too-appealing at $25 a pop.

Final Word: Nobody knows about it but the merch is fantastic! 33 Little West 12th Street, just above Buddha Bar, through Friday.

American Bandstand

First came mini butterfly clips that speckled hair like confetti, then came Britney Spearsesque fedoras and newsboy caps and now the current head décor of choice are the simplest and most divine of all – the headband.

Originally donned by classic ingénues like Audrey Hepburn and Brigitte Bardot, the headband is functional and fashionable at the same time. It’s like an instant touch of femininity without the frills.

I’m not talking about the ubiquitous tortoise shell torture chambers that give any sane girl a migraine by the end of the day. The newest styles are a marriage between a headband and a headscarf lending a softer look that’s more feminine and polished – perfect for fashion’s elegant trend. From Missoni’s colorful crocheted creations to Eugenia Kim’s softly subtle silk headbands, there is a style for every handsome head.

Final Word: To look instantly chic and put together (like Ms. Richie on Larry King above), don one of Cara Couture’s wide bands available at www.intermixonline.com.

The Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs

The Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs played the Roseland Ballroom last night and I had a front row seat. Or, a side stage pseudo-VIP area seat next to Josh Harnett, but a good seat none-the-less.

Now I must admit, apart from last year’s run-away-hit single “Maps,” and the abundance of positive press surrounding the Indie/Alternative trio, I didn’t know much about the group. But with lead-singer Karen O as the main attraction, I didn’t have to.

In her mini-tank dress and torn stockings she delivered a performance that was theatric, chaotic and completely self-indulgent. Bouncing about the stage like a little girl at a slumber party, she and her audience, were completely lost in the moment.

But it’s that removal from reality makes her so appealing. With a look and sound inspired by the female rockers of the 80s, she brings us back to a time where we can get lost in the moment too.

Final Word: The Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs are headed to the UK to promote their new album “Show Your Bones,” in stores now.

Hump Day

It's Hump Day. You're tired, you're so over this week and the fact that there are still 2 whole more days until the weekend is almost too much to bear. Odds are, if you haven't gone out the last two nights, you're gonna need a little pick me up after work. Happy Hour will turn into Evening Hour will turn into Midnight Hour and you'll find yourself on West 27th Street on some line to get into some club with your inner angel telling you to go home while your inner demon screams, more, more, more.

I'm gonna say that the inner demon will win. So I might as well tell you where the hottest party on a Wednesday night is - Pink Elephant. A party of house, hip hop and the ragin' 80s classics, DJ Dave Berrie makes you forget it's a week night. Not to mention the packed house of models, music moguls and millionaires who will make you think you're one of them. And until that buzzer rings the next morning, you'll forget your worries, forget the week and dance the night away.

Final Word: Another reason to celebrate Hump Day: DJ Berrie Wednesdays at Pink Elephant, 527 W. 27th street. (www.myspace.com/djberrie)

The Odd Couple

One word sums up last night’s Costume Institute gala at the Met- weird. What usually goes down in history as one of the most elegant evenings of the year in New York City, last night was a misconceived, ill fitting and just plain garish nightmare. From Anna Wintour’s Cruella Deville meets Marla Maples ensemble to Victoria Beckham’s Miss Universe eveningwear number, you have to ask, what were the guests thinking??


Take the ever-chic SJP. We get that she’s the guest of the crazy Brit Alexander McQueen, but does that mean she has to dress like Braveheart?! No, no it doesn’t. The way too literal plaid get-up with, horror of all horrors, a plaid bag to match looked as if the two were connected at the hip, like the result of some sort of horrific Scottish science experiment gone wrong. Where’s Pat Field when you need her?!


Next up on the freakish fashion show? Mary-Kate Olsen. The mini modern muse of fashionable/anorexic girls worldwide, MK exhibited yet another idol misfortune. Apparently the twins just got back from some place hot – and forgot their sunscreen. Blistering skin isn’t exactly a “hot” look, well, you know what I mean. And to top it all off, she added red lipstick! Girls take note: sunburn and red lips do not mix. Ever.


Finally my personal favorite couple of the evening – Nicolas Ghesquiere of Balenciaga and French gamine Charlotte Gainsbourg. No doubt the coolest people at the party, their “I don’t give an f” air exudes French bitchiness. Could they be more chic? My only problem is the boots. Is it impossible these days to be fashionable and not look like a clown doing it? What’s next stilts? I get that they’re supposed to make a statement, but in my humble opinion totally unnecessary.

Final Word: The guests of this renowned gala are supposed to be the most stylish, fashionable and influential people in the industry. I can’t say I’m that impressed.

The Last Emperor

Last night I finally experienced the last of the colossal foodie trinity of what is Morimoto, Buddha Bar and Buddakan. And dare I say I liked the last the best?

What’s so unique about the latter, located on Ninth Avennue between 15th and 16th streets, is that although it’s humongous (a staggering 17,000 square feet), it feels warm and intimate. Bravo Christian Liagre, also the mastermind behind the interior of the Mercer Hotel. Monsieur Liagre has given the Meatpacking District the royal treatment of Chinoiserie with vast Chinese paintings and bamboo finishes, dramatic chandeliers in a cast space and a faux library in the basement fit for Louis XIV. Actually anyone who steps foot in the grandiose space feels as if he or she is an emperor hosting a private dinner party for 200. Indeed the restaurant consists of a multitude of mini dining rooms, which with their individual décor, wait staff and patrons, could be mini restaurants in a mega space catering to hundreds of clients under one roof.

“I feel like I’m in Boston Market,” one friend quipped. But the food was anything but. I’m still dreaming about the steamed edamame dumplings, creamy and delicious, served in a light broth. The truth is, the appetizers are where it’s at with perfectly crisp and chewy tuna tartare spring rolls, poppable beef and lettuce cups and of course the yummy dim sum. Our only complaint, small servings. But I guess that’s what you get when you have 260 ultra-hip, ultra-picky diners eating at the same time.

Final Word: Yes it’s Asian-inspired, yes it’s a monstrosity on lower Ninth Avenue but Buddakan actually stands out from the crowd. Note to Buddha Bar, be afraid. Be very afraid.

Shades of Gray

Don't check the color dial in your control panel, the pics here are as you see them - gray and colorless. Between all the black looks ominously marching down the runways and the ubiquitous bursts of color Pop Art style, it's hard not to make a color statement or lack there of these days. That's why it's wonderful to know some designers are going gray. For jeans that is. For some reason, blue denim just doesn't feel "now" like it used to. Your average Levis seem a bit tired, immature and almost messy. Gray denim on the otherhand feels instantly modern without being too obvious or polished.

Case in point. Sass and Bides sleet colored stovepipe jeans. The perfect modern cut, low-waisted pair is slim and sleek and provides automatic rocker status with the right vintage tee and stacked heel.

Next up, new denim cult label, J. Brand with their high-waisted, highly-fitted cigarette legs in a sultry sooty shade are staple of every hipster girl from LA to New York.



And last, good ol' Joes Jeans (for those less apt for skin-tight slacks) offers a cropped pencil leg in a heather gray, perfect for those warm summer evenings when dark denim just won't cut it.

Final Word: So what are you waiting for? Forget about coloring and let your grays show! All available at www.shopbop.com.

Las Ramblas: Petite Perfection

Over the course of the last few months we’ve witnessed the ascent of Morimoto, Del Posto and Buddakan. There’s even rumored to be a three-story steak house going into an old parking garage on Little West 12th Street. But with all of these over-sized, over-designed, over-eateries, the lower West Side of Manhattan is giving Orlando a run for its money.

But how much can one truly over-indulge? Just a few weeks ago I refused to dine out, I just couldn't handle the gluttony of it all. It’s more than the food; it’s the crowd, the atmosphere, the entire experience.

Therefore, you can imagine my delight dining (I got over it) at Las Ramblas, an adorably quaint and delightfully delicious tapas bar on West 4th Street. The incredibly small dining and bar area bustle with an unpretentious after-work crowd as the extremely helpful staff guides you through the menu.

Each small plate, with offerings such as grilled octopus, chicken empanadas and steaming garlic shrimp, are complimented by an extensive wine list and cocktail menu. The made-to-order sparkling strawberry sangria is refreshing and naturally sweet, a must for these warm pre-summer evenings.

Though most would consider Las Ramblas neither new nor noteworthy, their petite approach brings much delight. Even our check was small.

Final Word: I guess good things do come in small packages. Bring a friend, but only one. Las Ramblas, 170 West 4th Street, between Jones and Cornelia.

Rub my Buddha Belly

I know what you're thinking. Ugh. Another pan-asian monstrosity on the lower west side, I don't know if my poor belly can take another rock shrimp rendition, short rib stew or creative sushi roll served on a bed of goldleaf salad. But knowing your inner trendzoid who must try a new place before its shelf life runs out and before you lose your insider status, guess what, you can, and you will!

Cue Buddha Bar. The infamous Parisian restaurant-cum-lounge-cum-club-cum multi book CD collection has finally opened. No it's not a rumor you've read in WWD or the Post. After years of planning, the sprawling compound on Little West 12th (turns out not so little what with mega venues like PM, Pastis, Saacha, Highline...I could go on) has materialized before our eyes into a dim-lit, vast den with Occidental flavor and Western status. Yes, Buddha Bar has arrived, in all of its Tao-like glory.

What Tao? How dare I mention the uptown tourist trap that has or should have nothing to do with this brand spanking new and way more cooler Buddha Bar? Well for one, there's a big Buddha. Yes I know Tao ripped it off from the latter back in Paris but that's the thing, B-squared, you're 3 years too late! One of my girlfriends brightly quipped, "If this opened two years ago it would be brutally hot!" Yes, brutally! But now, well, it's tepid.

Ok, maybe I'm being a bit harsh. You still have to go, obviously. If not for the Buddha, then for the jellyfish tank behind the sushi bar, the glass-encased open air smoking den (which past 10PM, becomes a glass-encased open air ashtray), the Koi fish pond below the back tables and believe it or not the food.

The sushi is fresh and not overpowering with simple rolls and not so simple presentation; the chicken salad beats China Grill's and fried shrimp makes you (almost) forget about Nobu's rock version, almost.

But the best part of Buddha Bar is what makes it so famous in the first place. The music. Yes, the music is why we're here isn't it? The playlist of Middle Eastern dance hits makes you forget you're New York and brings you to the shores of St. Tropez, the beaches of Beirut and dare I say, the streets of Paris? Way to go Buddha for holding on to your identity in the so affected Meatpacking District.

Final Word: Though its timing may be a little off key, Buddha Bar remains an attraction to be seen, heard and experienced first hand. Just one tip, get it while it's hot.

Chanel's New Face

Chanel announced today actress Keira Knightley will be the new face for their Coco Mademoiselle perfume campaign. The choice could not be more perfect. Mademoiselle Knightley is chic, classic yet contemporary and breathtaking. Exactly what a Chanel muse should be. Finally the fashion forces are taking under consideration tabloids don't sell perfume. Could you imagine a Mary Kate scent? Starbucks and patchouli aren't don't exactly olfactory aphrodisiacs.

Yes Chanel has gotten its celebrity face right, which can't really be said of its French compatriot that has made the less than discerning choice of a freckled teen sensation as their latest muse (both of whom will remain unnamed). I'm sorry but do I really need the poster child of crack cocaine, bulimia and celebrity hooker syndrome selling me monagrammed bags? No. No I don't.

I look forward to seeing Miss Knightley in the new Chanel ads and in Pirates of the Caribbean 3 this summer. Now if we only could convince the spectacled bag man himself to reconsider...

Final Word: Ok, I know we've been MIA for a while but the Blackberrie is back in action, today, tomorrow, and forever.

"Ashes and Snow"

Sigmund Freud once said, “beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it.” After spending five days in LA, a town infamously known for its obsession with physical beauty, Freud could not ring more true.

But apart from all of the gluttony, celebrity hang-outs and clichéd superficiality, we managed to experience a beauty worth mentioning; Gregory Colbert’s multi-media masterpiece, “Ashes and Snow” showing through May 14th on the Santa Monica Pier.

The ever-evolving traveling exhibition had its first iteration on the Hudson River Park’s Pier 54 last March. Although it has been showing in LA since January, lines of enthusiasts eagerly wrapped around the Nomadic Museum in the hundreds.

Once inside the museum, an industrial structure that is part of the exhibit, there is an overwhelming sense of calm. Viewers walk down a narrow pathway surrounded on either side by incredible images hung from transparent wire. As the audience passes through, the artwork sways soothingly about above a zen-like stone garden.

The instillation, which has been a life-long project for Colbert, uses photographs and
film to explore the extraordinary interactions between humans and animals. With images shot in India, Egypt, Tonga, Sri Lanka, Kenya, Antarctica and other seemingly intangible locales, Colbert beautifully captures an instinctual side of humanity and nature that to most people, ceases to exist.

A theme of tranquility carries throughout the exhibit as a child leans lovingly leans against a leopard, women and elephants lounge lethargically and humans dance with whales beneath the ocean’s surface.

Since no images have been digitally collaged or superimposed, “Ashes and Snow” is as unbelievable as it is stunning, moving and completely remarkable.

Final Word: As for “Ashes and Snow,” words carry little weight. If you’re not heading to Santa Monica anytime soon, try to get your hands on a copy of the DVD to experience it for yourself.

The Slow and Painful Death of Print

The past couple weeks have been sad ones for the magazine world. The unavoidable fate of non-relevancy has claimed the lives of 3 young publications on verge of making it big but never quite getting it.

Cargo, Celebrity Living and Elle Girl have bit monthly digest dust leaving without a trace, dumping their loyal staff on the sidewalks and forcing the unfortunate souls to find freelance work or worse - beg peers for jobs. But why???? You must be asking. All three have conveyed a strong presence in the industry, but I guess looks aren't everything.

Apparently, Cargo failed to establish itself in the ever-shrinking men's market. A shopping magazine for men? Please, what guys do you know shop, let alone read a how-to magazine on the subject. Celebrity Living sunk among the myriads a buoying gossip rags - why? It could not differentiate. How many times do we want to read about Paris' Hilton's doggie wardrobe? And Elle Girl, the most unfortunate of the three cited a shrinking teen market for their pulling the plug. But it was so cute!!

What's most interesting is that 2 of the 3 aren't claiming complete bankruptcy - they are going digital. Both Cargo and Elle Girl may continue their ventures with an online magazine, which may prove to be more profitable in the long run. Perhaps people just have gotten sick of paper. I mean with all of the pointless, self-indulgent, non-relevant blogs and websites out there in the world wide web, what's 2 more? (The Blackberrie excluded, bien sur.)

Final Word: It's a tough time we're living in, when guys don't want to read about new gadgets, girls don't want to read about affordable fashion and people are sick of celebrity gossip because they're oversaturated. And all the while, a show like Deal or No Deal remains a runaway hit. Can someone please explain? I just don't get it.

Shop Til You Drop

One thing LA does have a lot of is great boutiques. Here is our list of hot and not so hot stores to hit up while you’re there…

All Hype:

1. Kitson – The acclaimed celebrity boutique that calls Paris Hilton, Halle Berry and Kate Beckinsale customers is a glorified Olive and Bettes. I mean the average shopper there is 11 years old, the average product is a t-shirt advertising which celbutante team you identify with and the average price point is under $100. Great for teeny-boppers, bad for adults with taste.

2. Tracey Ross – Supposedly the hottest store in LA, this place is a merchandiser’s nightmare. Vanessa Bruno and Stella McCartney frocks are stuffed together on racks and look like something out of the Salvation Army rather than an upscale retail emporium. It’s not that this place is bad, I mean I found a pair of awesome Chloe wedges for spring, but for all the press this lady gets, it couldn’t hurt to invest in a vacuum.

3. Fred Segal – Worse than Kitson, they might as well call this place the Juicy Couture flagship, cause that’s all they have. Oh and other brands that you could find anywhere from Bloomingdale’s to Scoop. And the shoe department could double as a Payless outlet, except the shoes are over $400 and from last season.

The Real Deal:

1. Satine – An adorable hole in the wall on 3rd street, this unique boutique offers indie brands like Tsumori Chisato, Rogan and Harald in a closet-like space where you can find the inner French girl in you. Check out their website if you can’t book a flight. www.satineboutique.com

2. Diavolina – Don’t let the cheesy plastic façade fool you, this is a destination you must not miss. Offering off the cuff brands like Anna Sui, Imitation of Christ and Marni, cool stars (think: Sarah Foster) find their “going out” tops here and are drawn to the lounge-like space of modern interior décor.

3. Maxfield – An artie/fashionista’s dream come true this mega retailer mixes high design with high fashion. With dark, cerebral brands like Libertine, Lucienne Pellat-Finet, Commes des Garcons and Junya Wantanabe, this boutique doesn’t just offer clothes, it offers a lifestyle. It’s hard to believe the bubble gum Kitson lies just around the corner. Even if you can’t afford anything, just go to check out the $1500 oversized plastic shades (perhaps Warhol’s?) Sidenote: Tommy Hilfger comes here for his blazers and designer jeans.

Final Word: There’s something for everything in the City of Angels, at least anything with a price tag.

I Just Threw Up a Little in my Mouth

L.A. is a circus town. From its billboard-sized advertisements for beauty "enhancement" to its streets filled with SLKS driven by girls with blonde extensions, fake French manicure tips and faux mink coats, you can't make this stuff up.

Throughout our stay here we've amassed so many "throw up in our mouth moments,"it would be uncouth not to record them. So here are some slices of our trip that disgusted us so much to the point that we physically could not hold our vomit down. Note: all of these events are true and have not been altered to mask the identity of anyone.

1. No Inner Dialogue

Apparently in this town everyone thinks out loud. Like when we had dinner at Sushi Roku, the maitre d assured us that he would seat us at a "more high profile table" when we asked to be seated in the dining room. And when the bouncer at Privilege eyed us for a minute and then decided, "Yeah, you're pretty cute." I just threw up in my mouth.

2. Ashley Parker Angel and Tiffany
On our first night here at Lobby, these G-list reality show stars of MTV's "There and Back" made a cameo at our table. Tiffany, the so-called mother of a newborn, guzzled Grey Goose and cranberry like it was her job. I couldn't stop thinking, I've seen this girl give birth. I mean literally. I just threw up in my mouth.

3. Splash Private Jacuzzi Suites
Driving through West Hollywood we came upon a sprawling compound that covered a block with awnings advertising, "Hourly rental of private jacuzzi suites...where everyday is Valentine's Day." Uh, I just threw up in my mouth.

4. Men with Makeup
While outside of Privilege, waiting to get in, a forty-year old something guido stood there groping a ten-year old something blonde with fake boobs. The weird thing was his face was sparkling, like neck, ears and all. He was wearing bronzer. I just threw up in my mouth.

5. Hookers at Skybar
According to locals, Skybar is infamous for moonlighting as a brothel for high class hookers trying to score with stupid, drunk prepsters and businessmen on vacation. We saw it first hand. One girl, clad in a a mini vest and skin-tight jeans (nothing underneath), tried to recruit us to her table. After we refused, we watched her French kiss her way through 7 guys until one took her hand and they left upstairs. I just threw up in my mouth.

6. Paris Hilton in Lingerie and Fishnet Gloves Dancing on a Banquette.
Need I say more? I just threw up in my mouth.

7. Nicky Hilton and Kevin Connolly Making Out
I just threw up in my outh.

8. After-party in the Hollywood Hills
After Privilege, we were convinced to go to some "VIP"'s house for an after party. We were greeted by a short balding man in matching Burberry pajama pants and shirt, unbuttoned enough to see his greasy, curly chest hair. We turned to run but were stopped by a 6 year old blonde bimbo in her underwear complete with a garter belt and complaining she was freezing. We fled to the living room where a fake fireplace warmed a full on orgy of frat boy alums and more hookers in lingerie on a fur rug. Outside we saw more girls strip down to nothing but their implants and jump in the hot tub while the gross older men quickly followed. I just threw up in my mouth...and want my mommy.

Final Word: When I got home, I literally threw up.

Back to Basics

There's nothing better than basics. Whether it's tank tops at American Apparel or unmentionables from Cosabella, you can never have too many shirts, jeans, sweats, bras and cashmere sweaters. Cue Zadig & Voltaire.

The French's answer to one stop shopping, this boutique offers everything from boots and belts to sweaters and satchels- and all in a chic, fashionable way (bien sur). The understated French chain carries luscious cashmere pullovers with cheeky detailing like rhinestone skulls or marajuana leaves to stitched names of rock legends "Mick," "Patti," and "Elvis" in addition to private label leather ballet flats, tumbled totes and straight leg jeans.

Each piece, however simple, is cut to perfection, crafted with the highest thread count, and makes you look, well, French. And what's not to love about that?

With it's first American outpost having just opened on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles, the chain is already scoping out a locale in NYC this coming fall.

Final Word: After you make your first trip to Z & V, you'll wonder, mon dieu, what did I do before them?

Los Angeles Confidential

Ok, so we’ve been slacking a bit lately. We realize that. But those pesky little day jobs of ours have been a bit ruthless. Without running the risk of career-induced exhaustion, we decided to take a vacation. A little “spring break” if you will.

Yes, we are well out of college and hold full-time jobs, but that didn’t seem like reason enough to abandon a little mid-April getaway. As a result, for the next few days, The Blackberrie will morph into a blog about “fashion, culture and society” in Los Angeles—or at least, the spec of which exists out here.

The following is an introductory list of sights and sounds unique to the City of Angels. Each has individually heightened our appreciation for life on the East Coast.

*The K-Fed clone on our flight this morning. He was audibly reciting lines from a highlighted script. I prayed he would sit next to me. Thought maybe we could toss around a few lines. I didn’t get so lucky.

*A radio commercial for a plastic surgeon referring to breast augmentation surgery as “augs.” Since they perform so many in this town, I guess the last three syllables have become extraneous.

*The valet parker at Baja Fresh. Cher from “Clueless” taught us, “everywhere you go has valet.” But fast-food Mexican? Let’s be real.

*A man at Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf reading “Sober But Stuck,” while shamelessly taking notes. Is there a vault in this town filled with lost souls?

*A yellow Hummer tricked out in Ed Hardy logos and auto-body tats. When the driver stepped out, he matched the whip perfectly. He proceeded to enter the coffee shop and immediately picked up a game of Backgammon.

Final Word: Fact is stranger than fiction my friends. More to come from the Paradise City.

On the Corner of Trendy and Mexican

I love Mexican food. Love it. There’s nothing better than a basket full of salty tortilla chips, a big bowl of fresh guacamole and an ice cold margarita to wash it all down. So when I wait months to book a table at a trendy Mexican eatery like La Esquina, I expect nothing less. Or not.

When we finally arrived at the infamously hard to get into restaurant, we were greeted by a man clad in black with a list and a clipboard slouched in front of a dirty door with an “Employees Only” sign in the middle of a nondescript taco stand. Interesting. Any undiscerning tourist would have been fooled except for the number of ultra hip people crowded outside smoking cigarettes. After we assured the intimidating man that resembled Mickey Rourke of our reservations, we descended down a decrepit staircase through a bustling kitchen and into a cavernous space filled with a trendy crowd of fashion types, LA expats and girls like us on a night out. Liev Schriber made a cameo dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans; he actually was pretty cool and low key, which made my friends and I wonder aloud what he was doing with a frigid Aussie like Ms. Watts.

At first glance my friends and I were charmed by the eclectic scene and ambiance. The trek down was like a mini adventure that would amuse any jaded New Yorker. But once my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, the façade slowly fell away and I was left with an honest look of what surrounded me. To be honest, the place was gimmicky like Pirates of the Carribean the ride with candelabras that seemed to have been dripping since 1852 and an overly aged décor. Unfortunately the drinks didn't do the trick of deception since our mojitos tasted as if they were from Pleasure Island too, pretty much a concoction of Rose’s lime and crushed mint. Delish.

And the menu wasn’t any better. Glorified bar food under the alias of “Mexican,” it offered quesadillas, tostadas, flautas and some main courses that looked too complicated to try. And get this. No guac. Nada, zip, zilch. Not counting the side dish of “avocado” my glorious dip was no where to be found. What kind of Mexican restaurant is this? The surprisingly fast service made me wonder if maybe they just want to kick you out. And I had no problem with that. Most the food was tasteless or too spicy or too fried, just bad overall. Mucho disappointing.

The best thing about the place is the covered porch for smokers. Brilliant.

Final Word: Might as well go and try it for yourself to experience the walk through the kitchen (quite entertaining) but next time I’m craving sceney guacamole I’ll go to Mexican Radio next door. La Esquina (corner of Kenmare and Lafayette, 636.613.7100)

Everyone's A Target

With creative pursuits, success is almost always a double-edged sword. Catering to the mainstream middle market means you’re selling out, but without commercial acceptance you’re just a hack who never made it.

It’s the eternal debate of art versus commerce and often there is no winner. That is, of course, unless you’re Stella McCartney, Karl Lagerfeld or any of the other high-fashion designers who have recently created successful sell-out collections priced for the everyman.

With thier super-low price points and ultra-hip advertising, H&M and Target are the perfect examples. In both cases, these companies have spun their brands in such a way that cheap is also cool, instead canceling each other out.

Even though designers have had enormous financial success with these lines (think quantity, not quality) these low-price/high-fashion labels are not so enticing to a savvy consumer. Having access to something simply makes it less desirable.

I’ll give you a perfect example. I went out of town this weekend and on the train ride I had a chance to catch up with my magazines. As I was flipping through the fashion pages and I came across a cool-looking canvas bag with a pastel skull-and-heart design. When I looked down, the fine print surprisingly revealed, Luella for Target, $19.99.

Since I had a little bit of time on my hands, I decided to drive to Target and see if they stocked the bag. But when they did, I almost didn’t want it anymore.

It looked identical to the image in the magazine, but as it sat there on that rack just waiting for me, I couldn’t help but think it looked like some orphan puppy nobody wanted to take home.

I ended up getting the bag. I mean, it was $20. I could spend more than that on take-out lunch. But I haven’t worn it yet. Even though it’s a perfect summer canvas tote, I’m lacking style enthusiasm.

Some eighth-grade in South Dakota is probably using it as her school bag and I think that alone is killing it for me.

Final Word: Turns out everyman fashion isn't for everyone. When Zac Posen does a line for H&M you won’t see me knocking down the door.

Harald and his Fashionable Crayon

Why is fashion so schizophrenic? As soon as you fill your closet with a wardrobe straight out of Bollywood, the fashion gods decide that anything ethnic should be burned with your incense and replaced with sober, 90s-esque minimalist frocks and books by Truman Capote. It’s not that I disagree; lately the sight sequins, embroidery or anything tie-dye has made me feel a bit queasy and in need of a clean slate.

This is why Harald could not come at a more perfect time. Designer Robert Geller introduces his first collection of girl’s clothing Harald with an astute sobriety that is well-needed after an inebriation of over embellished fashion. Trained at Marc Jacobs and partner in CFDA nominee menswear company Cloak, Geller is no stranger to high design. Born in Germany, Geller epitomizes the no-frills, straightforward aesthetic you would imagine any true German to have. I mean this is a country that inspired Conan to quip, no matter what Germans are saying, they always sound like they’re angry at you. Well it’s not that Geller’s clothing looks angry, there’s just no bullshit. They’re well-made, well-designed and simply beautiful. But don’t call it Calvin Klein, Harald is more Reade street than red carpet.

Geller's understated feminine line of buttoned up blouses, silk bib tops and full knee-length skirts have subtle appeal for the intelligista who can’t stomach the fact that In Touch magazine has a fashion column. These are not garments for the girlie girl. They are feminine without being overt; they have an edge with a touch of street cred. The Harald girl lives in Brooklyn Heights but eats out in Manhattan, she takes the subway but could afford a private car, she looks like she could model but reads the WSJ.
They’re smart chic clothes for the smart chic girl.

Final Word: Tracey Reese and LaRok fans can stick to shopping at Intermix. Harald fans must make the trek to the hip one of a kind boutique Butter in Brooklyn that sells like mind somber brands such as Martin Margiella and Rogan jeans. (718.260.9033)

The You-Know-What In The Room

I can’t remember the last time I went to a club. Boutique-y lounge, hotel bar, trendy restaurant, sure but your run of the mill two story club? I thought I outgrew those Grey Goose guzzling, Patron pounding, base bumping days. But perhaps I spoke too soon.

The new Pink Elephant, which moved from its Chelsea location to club central on 27th street between 10th and 11th, now rubs shoulders with the likes of Bungalow 8, Home and Cain and has become the latest hot spot destination.

Turns out my girlfriend was throwing her 23rd birthday party at the joint, so of course, I forwent my usual rule of ‘no clubs’, and went. We arrived at the scene around 2am to find 27th street more packed than ever.

Looking at the infestation of people surrounding the door at the Pink Elephant, I knew this wouldn’t be easy. But without thinking twice I dove in. After shoving my way to the front and earning my share of dirty looks and sleazy remarks, I found myself at the velvet rope face to face with a short, mean-looking doorman I discovered was named Adam, based on the myriads of hangers-on yelling “Adam, Adam!” as if they were his best friend. It’s funny how easily you can see why doormen choose their craft. Napoleon Complex much?

On any other night my pride would have been too humiliated and too degraded to be subject to such pitiful pleading to this sorry stranger but for some reason on this night I was determined to get in. So I stood there. And I stood there and stood there. Calmly and resolute, I stood there in hopes that he would eventually single me out from the rest of the peons to let me and my fabulous friends in.

Thankfully before my legs fell asleep, my friend’s brother-in-law who was throwing the party stormed out and spotted me. Before I knew it, we were whisked in, past the peons, past Adam the miniature doorman, past the coat check and cashier girls and into a fantasy world that calls itself the Pink Elephant.

It was packed. The only sight in the black room was bodies moving and grooving to base-jumping sounds of house. Catherine Malandrino tops and Paul Smith shirts rubbed one another to the booming beat while entertainers worthy of an Ali Baba’s menagerie roused the crowd. To my left a man on bongos drummed in perfect rhythm to the thumping thuds coming from the stereo. To the right a small older man enthusiastically doled out immense peacock feathers to any girl without one. And in the corner of my eye a woman in her late 30s shimmied topless in burlesque fashion wearing a full-on white headdress and multiple strands pearls draped over her chest. Where the hell am I? I wondered aloud.

It took nothing short of a miracle to find my friend’s table but once I did I was quickly handed a Belvedere-Cranberry and found myself on the banquette shaking my stuff. A smoke machine spewed an eerie fog while a strobe light brought me back to my pre-teen days at Tunnel and Sound Factory (yes that was a confession). But it was all surprisingly fitting in this mega-club.

Final Word: A breath of freshness from the Aers and other element-named venues, Pink Elephant combines old school style with modern day temptations. To Cain, this is Abel. To PM, this is morning. To Home, this is a Club. Welcome to the Pink Elephant. 27th Street between 10th and 11th Avenues.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow...

NOTE TO ALL STRAIGHT MEN: OPALINE, ON 39TH AND 6TH IS A GAY CLUB.

I just thought I'd share that information with you. I found this out this past Friday. My good friend from law school, who happens to be gay, invited me out for his birthday this past Friday. I'm never one to turn down a celebration so I accepted. For some reason, it never crossed my mind that a gay man might want to celebrate his birthday at a gay bar. Regardless, my girlfriend and I showed up at Opaline around midnight and, to our shock, there was a line.

I had been two a couple happy hours, a drunken dinner and an hour of drinking/showering before we got on line. So I guess it's understandable that I didn't notice that the majority of the line consisted of very chatty, fashionable gentleman. And maybe it makes some sense to you that in my drunken state, I did not find it odd that there were two monstrous, dragqueens as bouncers. But it was not till I got into this club that I realized what I was getting into...

The first sign that showed me I was in a gay club, was two norsemen-like males in thongs wrestling slowly on a pedestal. I've seen stranger things, but this was quite a spectacle. After I met up with my friend, I got a drink for my girlfriend and I and started to really observe my surroundings. As I looked around I noticed a 2 key differences b/w gay and straight clubs:
1) People party a lot harder at gay clubs. Crazed dancing, absurd binge drinking and overt drug abuse thrive at gay clubs; and that's just in the bathrooms(which happen to be unisex). I got offered E twice. I didn't even know ecstasy still existed, the last time I got offered E was at a Phish show in the late 90s. Unfortunately, my girlfriend was there and she did not know me in my crackhead days, so I decided not to take it. She just wouldn't understand, plus I didn't want to end up wrestling with the norsemen.
2) The hottest girls go to gay clubs. I cannot count the amount of times where I've been at bars where the hottest girl in the place was me. It's just something about holes in the wall that don't invite drunken hot women dancing in Bacchus like rituals.
3) Dance, Dance, Dance...Man is there some serious boogying going down at gay clubs. I'm not the typical dancer, I usually am to busy trying to stand, talk and control bodily functions when I'm drinking. But I haven't danced that much since Jason Shwartz's bar mitzvah. What a blast, it was similar to the rave scene in Blade, but without the blood. Nuts.

All in all, the night was a success. I got hammered, spent time w/ law school friends, and ran into a guy from my high school. He looked at me like a ghost, till I explained to him that 1. I'm Straight. 2. I'm cool with the movement, so his secret's safe with me. And 3. I always wear rainbow shirts and snake skin shoes, it just happened to be a coincidence that I was in the one place in NY where I wasn't the only guy dressed like that.

Final Word: So fellas, if you're ever looking for hot women or Ex you know where to find it.

Splish-Splash, You May Need a Bath

Two of my friends share a great apartment in West Chelsea. Though, up until recently an enormous storage company ad invaded their living space. In it, a cautiously curvaceous woman wearing black-and-white stretch pants asked, “does my butt make this room look small?” while completely bent over.

Just when we started getting used to all the junk in her trunk, she vanished. Only to be replaced by designer-looking shoes covered in mud.

The mysterious billboards contained no slogan, no logo, and no text whatsoever. Just beautiful legs in beautiful shoes completely shot to shit.

I later came to discovered that the shoes, are in fact, not commercial advertisements at all. Rather, they are large-scale replicas of photographs by artist Marilyn Minter, currently appearing in the 2006 Whitney Biennial. They are only advertising—inadvertently of course—the art show itself.

It seems the interpretive confusion is largely due to the photographs’ ambiguity, rather than our artistic ignorance. Minter, a former fashion photographer, apparently enjoys blurring the lines between fine art and commercial art.

Inspired by “what’s real,” her work depicts “the representations and ramifications of glamour” she said in a press conference last week.

“If you wear expensive shoes in New York City, they will get dirty.”

With this realistic rationalization Minter brings to her work a level of beauty that is simultaneously disturbing. She once equated her art to a terrible car accident; you don’t want to look, but for some reason you cannot look away.

The Chelsea shoe billboards are an intriguing but marginally reflective introduction to her graphic body of work. Minter made a name for herself in the art world during the 60’s when she photographed her dying mother’s disturbing devotion to beauty rituals.

Though that series—said to be highly demented and disturbing—has been hidden away for over thirty years, Minter has continued her craft on that same salacious aesthetic. Her entire current collection, highlighting a heinous side to human “beauty,” is appearing at the Whitney.

Final Word: If you don’t see yourself making it uptown Shit-Kicker, Splish-Splash and Runs, on 23rd Street, as well as Mud Bath on Tenth Avenue will be visually available until the end of March.

Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down

When it comes to men’s style, a necktie can make or break a man. I don’t care if you’re rocking a Brooks Brother’s blazer or a vest by Valentino, if the tie is wrong you’re image is shot to hell. Unfortunately, there really is no end to tacky ties, which makes the average less discerning man’s life a bit tricky. I’m sorry but why do people continue to believe that ties are methods of personal expression like bumper stickers? They’re not for your religious affiliation (the Star of David was never meant to be a pattern), holiday enthusiasm (pumpkins are for carving, not for wearing) or personal praises (“World’s Greatest Dad!” is sweet but not during a staff meeting).

With so many awful choices to choose from, it’s no wonder guys have a hard time. And these days especially when the only fashion role models are Kevin Federline and Jaime Foxx. Where has all the subtlety gone? I’m not saying that Mr. Foxx doesn’t look good in a monochrome Gucci two-piece and matching fedora, but the look doesn’t exactly translate from Miami Beach to the LES. And while we’re on the subject, I’m so sick of those wannabe hipsters trying to channel the Strokes in their bomber jackets, skinny jeans and greasy EMO hair. Sorry buddy but one pair of dirty Converse, a punk rocker does not make.

So how do you rock the tie without looking like a corporate suit or like you stumbled out of a Yale fraternity?

J. Press’s skull version is the perfect mix of punk and prep. Not to worry, the pirate trend is not only for the fashion fearless. These skulls are so small, they almost resemble polka dots but at a closer look, their demon form reveals itself. Their subtlety evokes a kind of cheeky intelligence as if to say, “I’m cool enough to know what’s up but smart enough not to be so literal.”

Final Word: Walk the plank and wear your skulls with a white Oxford shirt, slim jeans and sneakers. Very Winston Churchill meets Jefferson Hack. Oh and the girls will love it. Available on www.jpressonline.com.

The Male Perspective

I'm your average guy. I love blackout drinking and athletics. I take uppers to get shit done, downers to get nothing done, and marijuana for everything in between. I can't stand celebrity obsession, but I'm supportive of celebrity substance abusers. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some junky idiot. I'm into intellectual stuff(books on drugs) and I'm currently coasting/barely making it through my first year of law school.

As for New York, it's the greatest city in the world. In my extensive travels, I've yet to find a city half as impressive. There is no other city in the world where you could get ridiculous pot delivered to your door, ridiculous food delivered after you get the munchies, and then ridiculous [fill in your own vice] delivered to get your night going. Wait, what's this blog about again...

Fashion: I am quite clueless about fashion. I rock the preppy style when I need to trick people into thinking I'm respectable, but that's rare. Most of my evening attire is accumulated from vintage stores, athletic stores, or my uncle that was a baller in the 70s and 80s but has little use for his linen suits and velvet smoking jackets nowadays. Regardless, I was asked to contribute to this blog so I must know something.

Food: I'd call myself an eating enthusiast, love all types of cuisines. You probably won't read to much about my restaurant experiences, though. Something tells me the readers of this would rather hear about the trendy new fusion restaurant that serves micro-sized meals to techno music. But if you want to know about Peter Luger's or Brother Jimmy's give me a shout.

Nightlife: This is my expertise. First off, I hate places with lists, bouncers in suits and verbs for names. I tolerate them when I have to, but that's for friends only. I adore "hole in the wall" bars where people are puking because of how much they drink, not because of eating disorders. In all honesty, I feel the place of substance and alcohol abuse is not as important as the crowd you're with.

There that's it. My first blog. I'm not quite sure how I fit in to this fashionable page, but I imagine it has something to do with the constant debauchery I find myself getting into. Either way, hope you enjoyed this experiment. Shalom

Resin D’Etre

With the suggested use being an adhesive or varnish, resin is an unlikely candidate for the next big thing in fashion. But if Lagerfeld is doing, so will everybody in a couple of months.

In contrast to last season’s bohemian beads and wooden bangles, resin is not only modern, it’s futuristic. Rarely does fashion look to the future for inspiration. We usually recycle the same old styles with a slight reinterpretation every few years and tell ourselves they’re new. I mean do I really need to buy a skin tight Cavalli mini when my mom’s Alaia will work just fine?

But one thing I know my mom doesn’t have hiding in her closet is anything resin (not counting the ice age insect cast in the amber sap that we bought at the Liberty Science Center several years back… come to think of it, where is that?).

Chanel’s version is a bit more wearable. The collection’s resin cuff and round clutch are both space age and current at the same time. The cuff looks as if it were dipped in a vat of semi-precious stones, while the other looks like it was dipped in a swirl of white and dark chocolate. They almost look like candy, rock hard, super stylish candy.

Final Word: Come on, let’s all get stoned, Lagerfeld’s doing it. Chanel, 139 Spring Street.

Yo, yo ma!

From Donald and Melania’s billion-dollar babe, to the alien-birth TomKat debacle, it seems like everywhere we turn wildly inappropriate people are procreating.

But for those of us who lead happy lives of drug-induced infertility, there is an upside to the posse of paparazzi-prone pipsqueaks.

Although they have yet to contribute to the greater good of humanity, these little tykes have already solidified a claim-to-fame; super-cool kid’s stores.

Yoyamart, on Gansevoort Street, is already a must among Meatpacking mothers. With two locations in lower Manhattan, this uber-trendy children’s store specializes in designer clothes, books, CD’s and furniture for our fashion-conscious little friends.

Over the course of the past two years, couples J.D. & Cristina Boujnah and Stephane & Gena Gerbier, have brought to life New York's first concept store for kids. But regardless of a roster of celebrity-spawn clientel, Yoyamart is more than mere child’s play.

With an extensive Kidrobot collection, this mini-baller boutique is the perfect place for hipper-than-thou home décor. Also, check out the 24-karat gold handcuff ring ($360) from Cartier alum/cult goldsmith Dinh Van.

Final Word: Feel like a kid again, without having any of your own. Yoyamart at 15 Gansevoort St., or Yoya at 636 Hudson St.

B Mine or B Fendi?

After a slew of empire waists, babydoll dresses and stretchy tights, it’s no surprise we’ve gotten lazy. I can’t remember the last time I actually put on a pair of jeans, which is something my old self (jeans, jeans and more jeans kind of girl), would never have believed. From oversized sweaters to flowing halter tops, street style has more resembled a Pea in the Pod warehouse sale than a Prada fashion show. God forbid you’re ever asked a due date, when the only thing you’re expecting is your next paycheck. Quelle horreur. Unfortunately, it looks like volume isn’t going anywhere, so what’s a distressed fashionista to do?

Cinch up and ship out I say. The new it-belt (apparently there is such a thing now), the B Fendi will solve all your problems, or at least your waistline’s. A simple wide belt with spring’s new iconic buckle is meant to cinch you waist and give you a Grace Kelly meets Wonder Woman look worn high above the hips so that you can play with the proportions of that Chloe shift or boyfriend’s white button down. Available in every shade and style under the sun, you’ll want it in every color (even if you won’t be able to afford it.)

Final Word: So go ahead, strap one on and see that you actually do have a waist hiding under all that fabric. At least you’ll know no one will be asking boy or girl. Fendi Flagship, 677 Fifth Ave (Between 53rd and 54th sts)

Gluttony at Gusto

Don’t believe what you’ve read and go to Gusto. I have to admit, I was deterred by the awful reviews on Citysearch and Menupages (yes, I actually read the reviews on Menupages), but when I went to this tiny Italian bistro in the Village on Saturday night for my birthday dinner, I was not only pleasantly surprised, I had one of the best meals I’ve had in a while.

The décor draws you in first, exuding an art deco charm (white brick walls and black granite counters) with a touch of old world luxury (a regal chandelier hangs in the center of the room). You would think with such a stark color palette, a restaurant would feel cold or even worse, trendy. But the small space, dim lighting and homegrown touches like bowls of snap peas and artichokes as décor lend a comforting mood to the handsome space. The result? A warm, fashionable Italian restaurant that defies the contention that good food and high style don’t mix.

At the bar, we were offered a unique list of Italian wines by the glass and since my repertoire of Italian wines is slim, the very cute and very Italian bartender suggested the Pinot Bianco that was light, crisp, like a breath of fresh air and the other a Fangelucci (sp?) that resembled a California Chardonnay being much heavier, complex, oaky but delicious. I was beginning to like this place.

The crowd ranged from Bergdorf Blondes perched at the bar discussing highlights to European men of mystery trying everything on the menu and trying to flag the former’s attention. I spotted a few editors as well, who immediately received complimentary flutes of Prosecco and antipasti.

The menu by far is what makes Gusto what it is. Fried foods have their own section from the ubiquitous calamari and artichokes to the more unconventional squash blossoms and stuffed olives. It’s true that everything is better when it’s fried. Crisp on the outside and sumptuous on the inside, each one is heaven but not too heavy. And entrees? The grilled Branzino or salted cod both perfection. No wonder Mario Batali comes here on his day off. Bon appetito!

Final Word: Try to score a table downstairs in the wine cellar. 60 Greenwich Ave., at Perry St.; 212-924-8000

Puck-er Up

Going to a sporting event with your girlfriends always seems like a good idea. You think; fitted jersey, chugging beers. Very Kate Hudson in How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. But, as it turns out, the reality of it all is far less adorable.

Earlier this evening, I went to a Rangers game on a whim. After turning down Knicks tickets on Friday, part of me truly felt like I should engage in some good ole’ athleticism.

Now, of all the major league sports played in this country, hockey reigns supreme with regards to my level of clueless-ness. Baseball, basketball. I can at least hold a relevant conversation. But my NHL aptitude is a complete and utter joke.

So when I arrived at Madison Square Garden this evening, I witnessed this crazy microcosm of hockey fans that I never knew existed. And, in addition to my initial alienation, I was forced to sit next to the biggest Rangers fan in the house. But I’m not talking take-you-top-off-and-paint-your-chest-blue Rangers fan. This guy was solo-flying-carefully-concentrating-hating-any-distractions fan.

Therefore, when I attempted to catch up with my newly-single friend’s active love life, the coals of hell burned deep in his eyes. I never felt so hated in all my life. I tried to lower my voice. Concentrate on the game. I even stood up and cheered when they scored.

But, the jig was up. And as if our fan-tastic fabrication wasn’t already written all over our faces, the stock-broker type in the pink shirt behind us fully called us out. But not, of course, before he tried to ask us out. Eww.

Final Word: I still have faith in girls night out at the arena, we just have to pick a better sport. Because honestly, who watches hockey? Definately not me.

Top 5 Dive Bars

Some days all I need to have a good time is a cheap beer and a working jukebox. For those nights the scene becomes too despicable, I hit up favorite local haunts that pretty much guarantee a dirty, drunk evening of debauchery.

1. 7B (Avenue B and 7th St)
Grimy from head to toe, this place is a real dump. They have the cheapest, largest beer cans you’ve ever seen (brand unknown), the jukebox plays Black Sabbath or Stevie Wonder depending on whose paying and floor is covered in filth and USOs (unidentifiable sticky objects). Oh and it smells like vomit. It's great.

2. Reade Street Pub (Reade St bet Hudson and Greenwich Aves)
Strollers, bagels and galleries come to mind when you think of Tribeca. But this pub defies the baby boom neighborhood drawing a young crowd (early 20s) ready for power hour. No smoking laws don’t abide here where even the bouncer lights up. Awesome.

3. Bourbon Street (Amsterdam Avenue bet 79th and 80th Sts)
A taste of Mardi Gras in the UWS (no that is not an oxymoron), this particular establishment serves beer on tap, cheap liquor and cheesy t-shirts to frat boys from Columbia University looking for a cheap thrill. Girls who shouldn’t be dancing on bars, dance on the bar to Bon Jovi and Lynrd Skynrd – it’s an awful spectacle, but everyone’s too wasted to care.

4. Automatic Slims (Corner of Washington St and Bank St)
It’s hard to believe such a place could exist in such a charming neighborhood. Sandwiched between boutique restaurants and brownstones, this dive is a true standout. The bartenders play Marley and some god awful music but it’s all good cause everyone’s dancing. Drawback: the narrow staircase down to the bathroom takes the coordination of a Cirque de Soleil staffer.

5. Hog Pit (13th Street and Ninth Avenue)
Amidst the trendy eateries, hotels and shops of the Meatpacking District lies the Hog Pit, a true dive by all definitions. There are actual cowboys in there. I kid you not, I saw the hats. With a bar and a pool table in the back, this is a no frills watering hole. I heard their BBQ ain’t bad too.

Final Word: With the Irish’s claim to fame day coming up, this could not be a better time roll up those sleeves, hit the bars and chug as much green beer as you can stand until passing out. Happy St. Paddy’s Day.

Who is Edie Sedgwick?

Ok, I know it’s all about Edie right now. From Chloe’s spring 2006 collection to Sienna Miller’s new role, she is the icon du jour. Fashion magazines and their idolaters alike heatedly praise Edie as if she was the patron saint of Pop Art. I’m sorry, I may have been born in the 80s but before Sienna, I never heard of this so-called factory girl. For all I know, she could have been a Guatemalan sweatshop worker pumping out Kathie Lee Gifford parkas for 2 cents a pop.

But who is Edie Sedgwick really? And why is she an icon?

Edith Sedgwick was born in 1943 to a wealthy Santa Barbara rancher and his wife. In her short life, she was an American socialite, model, fashion icon and most famously Pop artist Andy Warhol’s muse and favorite factory girl.

The Factory was Warhol's studio. In an old New York loft building, Warhol and his assistants (“factory girls”) produced artwork by day and threw lavish parties by night. Soon the Factory became the hottest place to be in the 60’s with an eclectic mix of artists, poets, addicts, socialites, and drug dealers. (Think Bungalow 8 on LSD.)

Sedgwick, a Factory regular, also dabbled in drugs including heroin and barbiturates, which ultimately served as her demise in November 1971 when she died from overdose. She was 28. Among her accomplishments, Edie modeled in magazines such as Vogue and Vanity Fair, becoming a symbol of the 60s mod fashion; starred in a number of cult films including, Ciao! Manhattan; and allegedly was the inspiration for many of musician Bob Dylan’s love songs.

Like many fashion personalities, Edie’s glamorous life was just a façade. She suffered from clinical depression and anorexia, which eventually got the best of her. Her sad life was masked by the commercialized beauty of glossy photographs, short films and one dimensional silkscreen prints by Andy Warhol. Perhaps that’s what he found so intriguing. Obsessed with the commercialization of American culture, Warhol most likely found this forged beauty personified in Sedgwick. The plastic beauty that only grazed the surface of Edie became her public identity. Her legacy of mod minis, black tights and super long earrings is all that she leaves behind.

Final Word: Although we may never know the real Edie, we can thank her for her eclectic life, her courage to beat to a different drum and her unique style that inspired an entire movement in art and fashion alike. If that’s not an icon, I don’t know what is.

Hidden Treasure

I hate vintage shopping. Don’t get me wrong, I love vintage clothes and retro accessories but I can’t vintage shop. I envy my friends with closets full of vintage Guy Laroche, Missoni and Alaia. They always gush, “Look what amazing Dior dress I found for $20!” And I want to be happy for them, I do, but really I’m thinking, “Why the hell didn’t I find that Dior dress!”

I’m sorry, but am I missing something? Whenever I vintage shop all I find is polyester pantsuits from ’93 and dresses fit for Little Bo Peep. Maybe I was born without the hunting gene, but whenever I enter a flea market I break into a cold sweat because the thought of rifling through old clothes and moth-ridden shoes is frightening. And the designer duds I do find have 2006 prices. The nerve! Call me mainstream but I’d much rather buy a current Stella McCartney piece than a used Chloe at $1600.

There is a solution for us girls who want to wear vintage but don’t have the patience to look. Some Odd Rubies, a unique closet-sized boutique in the LES, offers reworked vintage clothing at prices you can stomach ($250-$500). The store actually feels like your own closet with its mini proportions and dressing room complete with antique mirrors and vintage chaises. The whole vibe is very Berlin, Germany circa 1940.

The name Some Odd Rubies is quite fitting since it offers a treasure of one of a kind vintage reconstruction pieces that not only look special but make you feel special too. Owners Summer Phoenix (sister of River and Joaquin; sister-in-law to Bennifer), Ruby Canner and Odessa Whitmire, rework the vintage clothing to create an ultra modern and ultra unique look.

Final Word: The treasure hunt is over. Pieces range from empire-waist tops and dresses, sequin capelets and original gold jewelry. Located at 151 Ludlow Street.

Leggings: In or Out?

There comes a time where you must ask yourself the question, am I a fashion victim? Trends come and go as fast as Bergdorf changes its windows and you are left with a closet of barely worn Mukluks, Paddington bags and True Religion ripped jeans with nothing to wear. Sound familiar?

No need to fret, there are ways one goes about learning what trend has legs (in this case literally) and what will last you more than one season. Every magazine seems to have its own opinion. But I rarely pay attention to the last page of Harper’s Bazaar or Gotham’s “in and out” list because they are wrong most of the time. So who is right?

A well-seasoned trend forecaster must look to the past, present and future to determine the fate of a trend. First, the past must show the trend has influenced fashion tastemakers who are still chic (If Chloe Sevigny is still wearing it, you’re good to go.) Second, the present must show that the trend has not yet hit Canal street (Sorry Silverado, you’re dead to me.) And third, designers must still be infatuated with the trend to have revamped it to fit next season’s overall direction (see below).

Currently the trend in question is leggings. Are they still in or totally out? Well based on the aforementioned criteria, they are so in. Chloe donned a pair front row at Balenciaga. Canal Street has yet to have them on the market since they are so ubiquitous you can buy them at Marc Jacobs or Target and still look chic (a street vendor’s nightmare). And everyone from Zac Posen to Prouenza Schouler went wild for tights during fall 2006 fashion week.

So brace yourself for another forgiving season of waistless bottoms. Just don’t throw out all your jeans. You don’t want to get to the point where you need to wear spandex.

Final Word: How to update your legging look? Pair them with ballet flats or ankle booties with a cropped jacket.

Poor Man's Pastis

This past Saturday, we were blessed with warm weather and blue skies all day long trading our sweaters for sundresses and our fleeces for flip flops. So I did what all New Yorkers do on a nice day over the weekend. I went to Pastis for brunch.

Now I’m not sure if there is some unwritten rule that says all trendy New Yorkers and a handful of curious commuters must go to Pastis for brunch but there might as well be. More crowded than Penn Station at rush hour, this bistro has become a tourist trap during weekends but still attracts a loyal local crowd. People just can’t get enough.

And why not? The bread is fresh (even if it comes from New Jersey). The crowd is hot (even if it comes from New Jersey). And the menu is simple but good (this one actually might be French).

What I don’t understand is why there are more lists here than at the Vanity Fair Oscars party (Haven’t been but I assume equally cutthroat at the door.) There are three lists. Count them, 3 lists! One for outside, one for the front and one for the back. They’re eggs people. I don’t care if you fry’em, poach ‘em or scramble ‘em or call them oeufs, they’re eggs. And you have to be joking if you want me to wait 45 minutes for them.

This particular day was no exception. 45 minutes at least. Downtrodden and rejected but not willing to wait, we weighed the alternatives. Vento. The epitome of Meatpacking garbage, this Italian eatery serves nothing but hype on a plate. The Diner, it’s new and I haven’t tried it and I wasn’t feeling particularly moonstruck at the time. And finally, Paradou. A quaint looking café with a chalkboard sign outside reading, “We’re cheap but good!” The last actually looked charming in a charmless neighborhood.

The maitre’d in a t-shirt (Fruit of the Loom not Ferragamo) and jeans walked us past the kitchen to a quiet garden in the back where diners were laughing and discussing their Friday nights on folding chairs and benches while nibbling on poached eggs, French toast and Artisanal cheese plates. As I looked around, this crowd looked less like Pastis rejects and more like good friends actually enjoying their brunch without the rubbernecking strain of people watching. Charming!

Final Word: Let’s face it. There are days where you’ll suck it up and wait. But for those times you don’t feel like brunch at a bus terminal, try Paradou where you actually can eat, drink and be merry. Go on Movie Mondays where they play old flicks in the garden while you sample cheese and wine. 8 Little West 12th Street between 9th and Washington Avenues.

Les Enfants Not so Terribles

Les Enfants Terribles is everything you want in a funky downtown French bistro. It's small. It's loud. It's packed with cool, young European patrons who quite conceivably would be shocked if you were to tell them they were in Chinatown and not St. Germain.

On Saturday I had a late dinner with my girlfriends at le Pere Pinard's sister resto. The darkly lit room with tiny tables surrounding a bar exuded a sexy, mysterious charm. The maple wood walls lended a cozy warmth to the room while the banquette seating gave it a clubby feel. The scene added to the party vibe with tightly packed tables filled with chic, international diners dancing to techno beats being spun by a DJ.

The menu is small but to the point. Steak frites, roasted chicken, scallops. Mostly bistro fare with a touch of North African influnce (fried plantains and casbah lamb). The wine list is also streamlined but well-priced. Try the Pouilly-Fuisee or Sancerre. They go perfectly with the roasted chicken that's crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside.

The cutest touch? A throwback to elementary school, antique classroom deskchairs sit outside for smokers wanting to chill and chat. The French think of everything when it comes to fumeurs.

Final Word: The perfect antidote to the trendy mega eateries on Food Network row, (Del Posto, Morimoto, Buddakan...)les Enfants will make you feel like a rebel against all things oversized, overpriced and overhyped. Vive la Revolution! 37 Canal St at Ludlow St

It-Boy of the Week

Fresh off a new episode of “The O.C.” it would seem Adam Brody could not get any hotter. That “lucky bastard” has some of the best lines on television, a perfectly paired pocket-size girlfriend and an upcoming role in the much anticipated big-screen comedy, “Thank You For Smoking.” And as if that wasn’t enough, he now gets to share Orange County set time with Nikki Reed (anyone catch Thirteen? Yeah, turns out she wrote it).

But this month, Adam continues to up the ante as he graces the cover of Nylon Guys, the official debut of well, Nylon for guys. Previously offered as an insert in the chick issues, this spring we’ll see if the dude version can stand on its’ own.

With that sexy suggestive smirk on the cover and the promise of hanging with the world’s hottest snowboarders on the inside, shit, I’ll subscribe. Plus, men’s magazines are always a bit more fun. They’re better at being naughty.

Final Word: The official release party hosted by Brody is somewhere in New York on March 15th. Any tipsters? I’m dying to go.

A Charmed Life

We’ve all heard of wearing your heart on your sleeve, but now you can wear it around you neck. Make an appointment with Nicole Schumann Designs for a custom-made 14-karat-gold charm necklace, and express whatever that little heart desires.

With trinkets that range from skulls to lockets, and Buddha’s to geisha girls, these one-of-a-kind creations are as unique and personal and they are, well, charming.

The hand-made necklaces are distinct in that Schumann mixes materials from all over the world. She uses wood, metal, semi-precious stones and vintage charms all hung from a 14-karat-gold-filled necklace.

Started as a hobby, Schumann wore a necklace she designed when traveling Europe one summer and was constantly complimented. When she returned to New York, she made a few for a baby shower and since has not stopped filling requests.

Final Word: Nicole Schumann stills designs by appointment out of her apartment. She encourages anyone interested to call her at 917.796.7092. You’ll find she is just as personal and charming as the necklaces themselves.

I Wear My Scojos At Night

What’s more annoying than ridiculously big sunglasses face, made popular by pseudo-celebrities like Mary-Kate Olsen and Nicole Richie? Oversized glasses a la Jackie O summering in Santorini are one thing. Humorously humongous shades that dwarf your face are another. Call me a rebel without a cause but nowadays I have a violent reaction to anything deemed trendy in tabloids. I’ve had enough. Paris gripping her Sidekick? I’ll take my defunct Blackberry. Ashlee toting around her petite pup? Bring on a Great Dane. Jessica sporting absurdly enormous sunglasses? I’ll stick with my Scojo's.

Scojo, a fashionable eyewear company based here in New York, offers modestly priced reading glasses and sun readers with high style designs. Inspired by the understated and intelligent style of New Yorkers (group names range from the Soho to the Tribeca collections), their glasses offer a sleeker look for the modern girl or guy and also aid reading. With clean lines and distinctive designs, you can chicly shade the sun without looking like a science experiment gone wrong (think Jeff Goldblum in the Fly).

CEO and Founder, Scott Berrie says, "Eyewear, like any fashion accessory, inspires people inunpredictable, creative ways." Indeed.

My personal favorite? The Aviator bi focal sunreader. Very Sarah Jessica Parker in the West Village. Scojo is available at Saks Fifth Avenue, Flight 001 and www.scojo.com.

Final Word: Scojo holds its first sample sale today through Saturday, from noon until 5pm, at 185 Varick Street, Suite 1430, 14th floor. Reading glasses originally $65 are now $10. Sunglasses originally $30 are now $5.