Monthly Archives: October 2008

October 30, 2008 · 2:11 pm

Stakeouts and Skinny Ties

Dear Digidiary,

Today I am sad. Would you like to know why? Well, for starters, my computer is spazzing out. Problem number one. And for two, I tried to meet Karl Lagerfeld today, but alas, no dice. A couple weeks back, I called up the lovely and talented Nancy Walsh at Chanel and asked if it might be possible to talk to Uncle Karl about his recent purchase up here in Vermont. To my great astonishment, she didn’t laugh in my face. Since I’m not from Italian Vogue or Harpers and Queens, I didn’t think she’d give me the time of day. But she was very kind indeed and if she thought I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in H-E-double hockey sticks to talk to Uncle Karl, she never let on.

Let’s rewind a bit. By now it might be old news to some of the more gossip-minded of our brethren and sistren that Karl Lagerfeld, head of the house of Chanel, had purchased some property up in Grand Isle County. It turns out to be a quaint little 19th Century Georgian jobbie that set Lagerfeld back just half a million. Since he’ll be using it for business purposes, the house is a total write-off. Since I’m penning this from my apartment, can I write off my rent? That’s neither here nor there. Maybe Uncle Karl will pay my rent.

For a peak at the house, click the link: http://www.vreinmls.com/ver/maildoc/a002cE5943.html

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Unkle Karl, trying to crack a smile. So shimmery.

Anyway, when I was tipped off about Lagerfeld’s potential purpose, I set to work Lion & Davis Realtor extraordinaire Mary von Ziegesar to track down the property. I told her it was a luxury property somewhere in the islands. Mary’s searches kept coming up empty until she dropped the search price down by about a half million shekels. It turns out the Uncle Karl, despite all his vast riches, doesn’t need some palatial spread to make him happy. A four-bedroom with some sweet woodwork right plop on the only major road in the islands will do him just fine, thank you.

For a couple weeks now, I’ve been waiting for he of the silver ponytail to answer a few of my questions that I sent along through Nancy Walsh, Chanel PRstress. Did I mention she’s lovely and talented? Anyway, while I waited for Lagerfeld to get back to me (um, doesn’t he know who I am?), I talked to Karin Ericson, the former owner of the property, about why she sold it. Simple reason- she’s downsizing. She and her husband are empty- nesters, and while Grand Isle is a good place to raise the kiddies, when you have to commute to Burlington every day, especially in the winter, the islands sort of lose their dewy sheen.

So Ericson and her husband dumped the house in exchange for a cool half a million in cash. I’d like to see what a half a million dollars in greenbacks looks like. But alas, I make $2.42 an hour, so the likelihood of that happening is pretty slim. Anyway, Ericson said that Uncle Karl never came to look at the property, but rather Lagerfeld’s male model muse, Brad Kroenig, scouted out the place and told his patron to buy, buy, buy.

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Here’s Brad in Chanel Resort wear. He sort of looks like the every hot dude.

Then a few of Lagerfeld’s handlers kum axmen kum (thanks blog censor) business associates had a looksie and agreed that the Ericson’s place, known to all in Grand Isle as the Gen. Harmon house (former Norwich Uni prez and Gen.Patton’s right-hand man, Gen. Ernest Harmon who lived there for many years) would be perfect for a fashion campaign.

Despite not really having a full story with like, you know, Kaiser Karl giving his opinion on Vermont (who needs real journalism when you’ve got recycled blog information?), I decided to check out what was going on in Grand Isle. The first time I went up there, I was about a week early. Lagerfeld hadn’t yet arrived and folks were just doing work on the house. But the lovely and talented Nancy Walsh told me this week he’d be up there, so I headed off in my sweet Pontiac Vibe to chat up ol’ Karl. Because nothing says fashion authority like a Pontiac.

Anyway, yesterday I decamped in front of the brick house, flag pole listing to one side in the wind, and waited for Lagerfeld to pop out and join me for a tour of the islands. I really did think he might, at any moment, sally out of his new digs and ask me to take him to get some cider donuts at Allenholm Orchards or something equally folksy. But no such luck. I did manage do get the stink-eye from Mr. Kroenig as he walked past my hot ride on the way to a fish something out of a monster SUV parked behind me. That’s me, charming the pants off of male models.

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And another one. I wonder if he gets wicked tan lines from those gloves.

While I was up there on my stakeout, I talked with Teri Geney, who lives in Karl’s backyard. Or Karl lives in hers, depending on which way you look at it. Teri didn’t seem to think the two huge RVs, multiple SUVs and gigantic rental trucks were at all annoying. She sort of liked the novelty of a big fashion celeb hanging out in her ‘hood. As yet, she hadn’t seen Lagerfeld, but did see some photogs snapping away on the back porch. I tried to entreat her 10-year-old daughter, Kelli, to act like she lost her dog and wander into Lagerfeld’s backyard so she could catched a glimpse of the half-finger gloved-one. She wouldn’t do it because apparently she’s the only child left in America with morals and values. Ugh.

So the takeaway from all this is I’m probably never going to get my questions answered by Lagerfeld and instead of a real story, I’m going to have to settle for this cheap blog post. And so will you, unless I sneak myself into the fashion shoot and do a little fly-on-the-wall piece. But I’m pretty sure I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I’ll be the one in snow boots and a bright green puff coat. The sight of me would probably be enough to curl ol’ Kaiser’s skinny black tie and make his high starched collar go limp.

Watch my video-stalk:

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October 14, 2008 · 12:08 pm

Release the Flipping Hounds!

For a few years after college, I worked at a tony girls’ boarding school in Northern England. The students ranged from 10 to 19 years-old and just about all of them were fox hunters, except the kids whose parents worked at the school. They were way too “common” (read- poor) to hunt. Many of the girls boarded their horses at the school. The stalls were nicer than my dusty flat and the horses were treated better than me naturally, since I was just a common Yank who was especially repugnant to them because of my unfortunate ginger hair.

During my time there, I learned more about fox hunting than I ever wanted to know. I learned that you do not come between a huntress and her horse, lest you want to bear her fiercesome wrath. I learned that the right to fox hunt is more important to some people than the right to healthcare or a decent education. And I learned that if you offer an opinion that even hints that fox hunting is brutal and archaic and completely ridiculous, you will get assaulted with a riding crop in a ways you could not even imagine.

Shortly after my tenure at the boarding school ended, foxhunting was banned in England. There were a lot of unhappy kids at that school after that ruling. I’m sure they were crying into their “Stop the Urban Jackboot” T-shirts and consoling each other with tales of the good old days when they were just young pups in the hunt and they were “blooded”- the process of wiping the fox’s blood on the faces of the newly initiated hunters. I’ll take a pass on that, thanks.

While those girls can’t hunt in their home country, there are more than enough fox hunting opportunities here in the U.S. Like right here in Charlotte, VT, where Elaine Ittleman runs the Green Mountain Hounds. The hunt doesn’t actually chase real foxes; just a scent that smells like fox pee. Mmmm, yum. The hunt has been around for the past 10 years, but oddly, we’ve never written about it. So I, intrepid girl reporter, figured that would make a good fall story. I visited with Elaine yesterday to talk about the hunt, but mostly I just went to hang with the hounds.Who wouldn’t? Look at them:

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This one is perched on her hind legs with a paw on my crotch. Pleasant.

I love dogs. That’s no secret. I’d have 300 of them if they would fit in my apartment. So going to Elaine’s was like a dream come true. I’d be surrounded by a pack of 17 hounds that would love me and cherish me as if I was one of their own. I could probably deal without the bum-sniffing though.

So Elaine took me through the barn and into the huge paddock where the hounds are kept. FYI- they’re not called dogs. They’re called hounds. Don’t call them dogs (even if they are). As soon as she opened the barn door to the yard, I was mobbed. It was like I was carrying hamburger patties in my pockets. The hounds were all over me. None of them much cared that I was wearing a down vest that could easily be ripped, or that I was wearing a brand spanking new shirt. They were jumping all over me and I was covered in paw prints in about three seconds.

Elaine called them off which worked for about 11 seconds before they all gravitated back over to me. I couldn’t really get my barings because one of the hounds had a snout up my vest, another hound had a nose down my jeans, three hounds were sniffing my bits and another four were crawling up my front. See photo below:

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This one is digging for gold under my puff vest. (PS- I’ve got stuff in my pockets. I’m not really that huge.)

After the friendly mauling, I decided to sit on a stone wall while Elaine talked to me about the hounds. I am lazy and I hate to stand, so if I can sit, I’ll do it. What a bad decision that was. The moment I sat down, those hounds were up on the wall with me and I had four hounds sniffing my head and one licking my neck. Needless to say, my own dog was not impressed when I got home. I definitely smelled like I was getting frisky with a pack of hounds (not literally). It was the dog equivalent of lipstick on the collar.

The hounds soon lost interest in me when the realized that 1. I was not going to feed them and 2. I was not a fox. Though I am quite foxy. Anyway. They went back to eating leaves and humping each other, which was clearly more exciting than following me around. The interview from then on was only marred my occassional missteps into poop landmines. On Thursday I’m going back to watch the hunt. Sadly, I will not be following along on horseback because my horsemanship lies somewhere between “really great at pony rides” to “can barely get into the saddle.”  I’ll just have to watch them ride off into the abyss that is Huntington.

Check out the video of the hounds noshing on their breakfast kibble.

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October 10, 2008 · 12:58 pm

Open letter to annoying people

This is an open letter (or rather two) to all the annoying people at Thursday’s Kaki King show at Higher Ground. I acknowledge that I am frequently an annoying person at concerts and other public venues, but last night I can guarantee that I was perhaps the most inoffensive person in attendance.

Dear girl next to me who kept singing and singing and singing out loud,

I’m not sure if you noticed me last night at the show. I was sure hoping you would. Just once I wanted you to look my way. Then you would have seen the sabers shooting from my eyes in your general direction. But you were way too involved in your own jam sesh/music video recording to notice me.

Here’s the deal. Last night, we were in prime concert viewing positions. We got close to the stage (so close I could see Kaki King’s fetching plaid high-tops) and gazed lovingly at Kaki as she plucked and smacked the holy bejesus out of her little Ovation guitars. Boy, she was good.

Anyway, when you’re that close to the stage, you don’t really hear the towers of speakers on the flanks of the stage. Instead, you hear the pure unadulterated mellifluous tones coming from the artist. What you also hear is pretty much everything around you. You can hear the dude in front of you kick over the plastic cup that you left right behind his left foot. You can hear the chain wallet of the guy behind you jingling as he dances. And you can hear the two girls who insist on belting out every song as if they damn penned the tunes themselves.

Friend, you are not the first such belter I have encountered in my days as an avid concertgoer. You were just one of the more aggravating. I wondered, as you pranced around singing like the spotlight was on you, if Kaki King could hear you, and if so, was she as annoyed as I was. I’m hoping that her somewhat bumbling keyboardist/bassist provided enough of a distraction so she didn’t notice you slaughtering her songs.

I am of the opinion that one should only sing out loud if- 1. he/she has a voice gifted from god like Britney or Hilary Duff or Miley Cyrus, or 2. he/she is alone in the tub/car/cubicle and no one is around to hear the strained chords careening out of his/her mouth. I may be alone in this opinion, but so be it. I’m tired of people ruining my airspace with their popstar ambitions. And the artist on stage didn’t write the song just for you and surprisingly, you’re not the only person who likes it. So put the brakes on that yapper. Please.

Warm regards,

Lauren O.

Dear insufferable college boys behind me who kept shouting out inanities,

I hate you. I know hate is a strong word. But that’s what you’ve reduced me to.

I thought you guys were mildly entertaining when you were jawing about the opening act at the bar. I mean, who doesn’t make fun of the opening act, especially when it’s a male folk singer with long hair and he’s trying in vain to get the three people who are listening to get all riled up for the main event?

After the opener alighted the stage, my party and I migrated to the front so we would be close enough to feel Kaki King’s spittle rain down on our brows. Also we wanted to get away from you. I’m all for sophomoric humor, but not when it’s actually coming from legitimate sophomores whose frontal lobes haven’t fully developed.

Somehow your crew ended up right behind me. So to my left I’ve got the girl who won’t stop singing like she’s the headliner and behind me I’ve got a trio of 20-year-olds with a terminal case of diarrhea of the mouth. Great.

Now if I was at the show with my mother, she would have implored, nee, demanded that I I-G-N-O-R-E the imbeciles around me. But as I am incapable of ignoring anything but my own deficiencies, I couldn’t tune you out.

After every song, you had something dumb to say like “Not, bad. Not bad,” or “Could have been better,” or “Just ok.” And by say I mean you screamed it out. Afterwards you backslapped each other like you just completed your fraternity initiation. You might as well just have gotten a room.

During an awkward silence while Kaki tuned her guitar, she mentioned that she actually likes hecklers because they gives her material. You three took that as a door opening and one of your brethren screamed “Your black guitar sucks.” Clever. Then you all snickered and verbally fellated each other some more.

I hope I never see or hear any of you at another show. I hope you all move to Wyoming. I hope you get earwigs. I hope you grow to be incontinent adults.

Warmer regards,

Lauren O.

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October 9, 2008 · 11:12 pm

Things that go blech in the night

Well, it’s that time of year again. The time when it’s ok to be ugly and covered in warts with hair growing out of the middle. The time when it’s acceptable to wear tattered clothing and smell like the inside of a Dumpster. The time when no one cares that you’re the size of a porpoise and you have a hole in the top of your head. Because it’s Halloween and your own personal hideousness can be used to your advantage. If you’re cringe-worthy like me, you save so much money on costumes.

Anyway, in celebration of Halloween, I’m stuffing my bloated face with candy corn and doing a few Halloween-related stories. My first one will be a profile of a woman called Thea Lewis who leads the Queen City Ghostwalk. Thea is lovely and has a silky voice (that’s because she works on the teevee). A few years ago she had the idea to start a ghostwalk in Burlington. Apparently she’s all about ghosts. I am not.

Thea’s been doing this for a few years now. Curiously, I have never seen said ghostwalk rambling around town. And since I make my living on the streets, you’d think I’d have caught a glimpse or two of Thea’s spooky gig. So since I’ve never seen it myself, I’m tagging along on her Friday tour in the hopes that I don’t see a ghost. I really don’t need the embarassment of piddling in the middle of Church St. I’ll also be doing a video, a la all those ghost hunting shows on cable. I’m going to use special filters and meters and other related gadgetry to capture the spirits as they get their haunt on. And by special filters and meters and gadgetry, I mean I’m going to turn on my cheap-o point-and-shoot and hope for the best.

During my interview with Thea of the silken voice, she gave me a “spooky, creepy” present. Now, normally ethics and morals and all that junk prevent us from accepting such graft. But Thea took the time to festoon the box with a jaunty orange bow, so I couldn’t very well say no. Plus, I like prezzies. And since I don’t get any in my personal life, I might as well get them in my professional life.

I don’t make it a habit to open presents in front of the giver. I feel that to open the present in front of them would be like telling them I hate what they got me and I think they’re lame for even thinking that I would like/want such pap. The problem is that I have no control over my facial expressions. I have received countless presents in my lifetime (a sweatshirt emblazoned with a monster-sized Celtic cross, Garfield slippers, a Bible) that I have said I loved, but my face called me out as a dirty liar. So as a result, I very rarely open presents in front of people unless I know what it is I’m getting, like that $15 check I get every year from my rich uncle Jim.

When I got back to work with Thea’s present, I ripped off the ribbon, tore open the box and extracted one of the more bizarre bits of graft I have ever received in my career. I can’t really do it justice with words, so here’s a picture:
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It is currently hanging from the ceiling above my desk, across from my Single Malts of Scotland calendar. It gives me the willies every time I look up at it. Nothing is more welcoming than a skull bride with weird fringe and beadwork. But somehow it goes with the assorted tchotchke I’ve collected at my desk- my Pokey Reese bobblehead doll, circa his run with the Pirates; my Wellington boot pen-holder, my oversized dice, my VHS of Jane Fonda’s New Workout.

Be on the lookout for my story about Thea and the ghostwalk next week. Also, for the two of you who are reading this, check out the video that will be online next week. Remember, there will be ghosts. Or not, since ghosts aren’t real.

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· 6:11 pm

TOP SECRET NUDIENESS

My prayers have been answered. Well, at least the one where I prayed for a snowboard that featured a hairy naked man from the 1970s splayed across it. Someone out there in Internetland made the snowboard of my dreams. It’s called “The Burt” and it features Burt Reynolds’ clothing-optional 1972 centerfold shot from Cosmopolitan magazine.

I think this is genius. And I want one. Now.
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If Burton can put naked chicks on a board, then there’s no reason why a companion board can’t hit the market. I’m all for parity.

Word.

PS- Dang, Burt was a hairy dude. That’s like Neanderthal style.

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October 1, 2008 · 5:54 pm

Nudies and gnar

The villagers are fuming and they’re storming towards Burton with pitchforks and stakes! They demand justice! Head for the hills!

That’s pretty much what it feels like here with all the angry e-mails and calls I’ve gotten about Burton’s new Love line of snowboards that have naked Playboy bunnies splayed across the top sheet. And I don’t even work at Burton. I work at the Free Press. Duh.

Here’s a pic:

But seriously, people are peeved about the snowboard giant’s new line. They don’t want their kiddies looking at naked chicks on the mountain. I can dig that. It would be sort of uncomfortable to be sitting on the chairlift next to some pizza-faced 15-year-old in triple-XL neon snowboarding gear whose board had a naked woman on it. I would feel compelled to comment on the board- like, “Brah, you just paid nearly $500 for a board with one naked chick on it. You could have just bought yourself a real Playboy for $5, stayed at home and gotten way more bang for your buck.” But he probably wouldn’t have heard me anyway since he’d be blaring some craptastic rap-metal from his iPod.

I’ve got a few questions for Burton, but of course they ain’t talking. They let their P.R. people in New York City handle any “negative press,” and by handle I mean offer a canned statement that had already been forwarded to me 800 times. My question to Burton is this: is this the most innovative graphic design you could come up with? Because for time immemorial, people have been using pictures of naked chicks to sell stuff. It’s not new. In fact, it’s sort of hackneyed and played out, in my own opinion, which was not expressed in today’s Web article. Of course there were Playboy centerfolds on the boards- they were designed with the help of two Burton pros, who are 18 and 19 years-old, respectively. They might as well have just embedded a video player into the board that played a loop of some seedy porno. (Burton, if you design that, I want a cut.)

My other question for Burton is why no Playgirl boards? I would love to ride a board that had Mr. February 1983 slapped on the top sheet, his porn ‘stache resplendent in the fresh powder. I realize they want to sell boards, but think of the irony. Think of the chest hair. I would buy all the sizes and display them in my house. I would name them Donnie, Tony, Joey and Lorenzo. I would create dinner parties and drinking games around my Playgirl boards. At night when I was cold and lonely, I would grab Donnie or Joey off the wall and let him snuggle me to sleep.

My article didn’t get into much about the “self-mutilization” boards that are also part of this edgier Coalition line. They were sort of tough to describe in a way that would make sense. Basically, they’ve got these comic book-esque storyboards that detail the steps one would go through to create the OK symbol or “metal horns” by cutting off one’s digits. Most of the folks I spoke with for the story were more interested in the clothing-optional boards (obvs) and just thought the digit-ectomy boards were bizarre and creepy. Agreed. I can say that because this is a blog, not a newspaper. But in the interest of full disclosure, I do have a Burton board, and it doesn’t have naked chicks on it. And unless I shed my clothes at the top of the mountain, my board will never have a naked chick on it.

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· 11:30 am

Mud, Sweat and Tears

I’m going to tell you all a little story about a small personal triumph. I know that makes most of you want to stop reading and go barf somewhere, but I promise it’ll be mildly entertaining. But before we begin, I need to introduce you to the cast of characters:

Lea- the pro

Becca- the GF

Me- the crybaby

So this little ditty is about the Vermont 50, a 50-mile mountain bike race/ultra run, depending on how flipping nuts you are. Way back in the spring, Becca and Lea peer-pressured me into signing up for this ludicrous event. I was delusional after chauffeuring their sweet ones all over the state for another mountain bike race and my defenses were down. For some reason I said yes, despite the fact that I had never done a bike race longer than six miles in my life.

I spent the summer training and by training I mean eating a half a pint of Ben & Jerry’s every night while I read online gossip sites. So race weekend arrives and I’m moderately prepared. At least I’ve got good cushioning on my gut should I happen to, say, fall onto a tree stump. I’m protecting my core. The night before the race, we had to check in and get our race number and our oversized wool gloves (shwag). So Becca and I drove down to the middle of East Jibip, Vermont and checked in for the three of us (since Lea is a professional athlete, she gets suckers like us to do things for her).

We were supposed to spend the night at Lea’s friend’s house which was practically in Missouri it was so far away from the race. H-E-double hockey sticks no, I told Becca. “We’re staying in a posh hotel, so you better whip out the plastic and pay for this sucker,” is actually what I said. We thought we were being so clever staying at this place. We wouldn’t have to wake up as early and I could have all the free chocolate chip cookies I wanted thanks to a self-serve cookie jar in the reception area. A wrench was thrown in my plan the next morning when I couldn’t figure out how to get out of the town. I must have driven around the world’s most enormous traffic circle 50 times before we figured out where we were going.

This means that we are ridiculously late for the race. We were supposed to meet at 5:30 a.m. to figure out the details for the start. We got there at 5:34 a.m. and had about three nanoseconds to get ready for the race. As I’m putting on my bike shoes at the car, I look across the parking lot at a guy squatting on the ground. Now the only guys who squat on the ground are ascetics who live in caves and dudes who are pooping. This guy was the latter.

Now I’m no stranger to the concept of “When you gotta go, you gotta go,” but literally, he was pooping right in front of me. Then (because I couldn’t stop watching) he stood up and started to wipe his bum. Now it was dark out, but not so dark that I couldn’t see his boy bits and the wads of used toilet paper he was throwing on the ground. That’s how I got to start the race- with the image of a dude pooping burned into my tiny brain.

Boy, this is getting long and boring. Let’s try to speed things up a skoch, shall we?

Anyway, after the poop incident, we pedaled down to the start and tried to figure out where we were supposed to be (since we missed the meeting). I had to find Lea and give her her bib number and Becca had to find some twist ties. But I could barely see two feet in front of my due to the unconscionably early hour, so I just stood there and waited for Lea to find me in the sea of 600 people.

The upshot of all of this (in the interest of time) is that we all missed our start time. I’m pretty sure I started with the elderly clydesdales since those were the only people around me. My wave went off and pretty much immediately we bottlenecked at this nearly vertical hill that had been all chewed up by the riders who went before me. So I got off my bike and began the first of many hike-a-bike fiascos. About five miles into the race, I thought I was going to barf.

As I humped my way up this huge hill right before the second aid station, I heard someone cheer my name. Why, it was my charming GF, who decided not to race, but rather to wait and ride with me. What a gem! All my troubles went away, except for that whole not knowing what I was doing thing.

Here’s us riding together:

Becca and I rode at a pleasant clip until about 20 miles when I had my first drop-out moment. My back was on fire and I had a searing headache. I felt like I was being racked. I had to get off my bike and stretch. And by stretch I mean cry my eyes out. After a few minutes, I turned the waterworks off, slapped on some chamois cream and hopped back in the saddle, with a new resolve not to be a baby. I was good for the next twenty miles, despite getting trapped in the monster mud bogs every two seconds.

That’s when things sort of went to shite. At the rate I was going, 10 miles would take me about 17 hours. I needed to pick up the pace, but there was a faulty connection between my brain and my body. My brain would tell my body to get to pedaling and my body registered that as “get into the fetal position and start sucking your thumb.” The last five miles were agonizing, but I did manage to get a push (or the dude was copping a feel) from a runner who had decided to walk.The last two miles were nearly impossible.

Every time Becca would say anything to me, like “Hey fatty, move your ass,” I’d start to whimper. I barely had enough energy to put one foot in front of the other to push my bike up the K2-sized hills that made up the end of the race. But I did have enough energy for a some serious lip quivering. I have never wanted to move so fast, but actually moved so slowly in all my life. Becca actually fell asleep on her bike as I inched along.

The last few hundred meters of the race were all downhill. “Sweet Christ, I’m nearly finished,” I thought. “Don’t forget to brake.” I coasted over the finish and immediately started blubbering. It was the first goal I set for myself in about five years, and I actually achieved it. And, thanks God, I’m not dead.

Lea won the race convincingly and then waited around for three hours while Becca and I finished. What a sport. I’m not sure I’ll allow myself to get peer-pressured into doing something like that again, but that commemorative finisher’s medal I got does sweeten the pot a bit.

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