File Under: Hotness
It's been widely leaked all over the internet that Mikhail Gorbachev will be one of Louis Vuitton's new spokespeople this fall. Above's the spread you'll likely be seeing in Vanity Fair, Esquire and the like. Having worked on the brand before, acquiring unique and buzz-worthy models is nothing new, but this one brings a whole new meaning to the term Brand Ambassador, no?
Go 'head, Gorby! Work that man-bag. Own it, own it!
Mr. Rogers Calls A Business Woman
The NFL Says Stay The Fuck Out To Vick
When the Falcons open camp on Thursday, their starting QB won't be there. Instead, Vick will be in Virgina getting arraigned for being the grand pimp of a dog fighting ring.
Commissioner Goodell apparently couldn't wait around for the legal system to "determine the facts." Not when Vick's already fucked in the eyes of the public and PETA and the ASPCA are on the league like a wild pack of dogs (pun fully intended). Goodell has to protect the product and this means holding Vick to the same strict Personal Conduct Policy that suspended Pacman for the upcoming season and will sideline Tank Johnson and Chris Henry for 8 games each.
That said, I betcha a buck Goodell officially tosses Vick by the first preseason match-up...
Deathwatch 2007: Tammy Faye Messner
It came as no surprise, but with sadness just the same. Tammy Faye Messner lost her battle with cancer on Friday morning, She was 65.
I was ten when the PTL scandal broke. I didn't really understand all the sorted details, but even a tween understood that they guy had had an affair with his secretary, she blabbed, he was investigated and found to have stolen a ton of cash from his church. What was fascinating to me was the scorned wife: her makeup, her drama, her staunch faith.
Twenty years later, she was on one of the many VH1 reality shows I am shocked to find myself loyal to (my current obsession with Rock of Love comes to mind). The Surreal Life pairs up a handful of misfits and D-Listers. Tammy's season was my favorite. She had a heart of platinum and a spunky soul. Godspeed, Tammy! I'll wear a few extra coats of Great Lash for you.
Reunited...And It Feels So Good!
Get Your Tix Now!
Happy Birthday Fresh Direct!
Five years ago, a then-boyfriend introduced me to the genius that is Fresh Direct delivery. You go online, shop and they bring all your groceries right to your kitchen he proclaimed. Living in a 4th story walk-up, it seemed like a no-brainer.
Upon placing my first order utilizing a $50 coupon, I was hooked. Since then I've spent nearly every other Saturday morning awaiting their humming truck's arrival like a kid on Christmas morning. True, they've screwed up a couple of times (for instance, imagine the bugga-boo pusher who recieved my 4 bottles of wine in place of her 1/2 gallons of milk's surprise - and my disdain), but for the most part, they've made my life so much easier and impressive from a culinary standpoint. After my local grocery store on Court Street became a CVS (a friggin' CVS!!!), FD was no longer a luxury but a necessity.
So today, their 5th birthday, I salute the kids behind this genius company. And oh yeah, reminds me I have an order to place...
I just love these kind of stories. Not too long ago, I told you about this woman's divine chocolate vision. Now comes word that The King himself has encased his blue suede shoes into a rock.
OK, if I squint, I can see a glimmer of Elvis in the picture above. Then again, I've also had two glasses of pinot gris...
According to the AP: Rock collector LaDell Alexander, 60, said the rock was one of many she bought in various places last summer. She didn't notice the pattern until she took the rocks to Texas and cleaned them before using them to decorate her yard.
"People are calling me the Elvis Rock Lady," LaDell Alexander told The (Fort Collins) Coloradoan. "
Something tells me that's not all they're calling her...
PS - For the record, 7 out of 10 people see Elvis according to Rock Lady. Are you one?
Is There Anything Better Than The Site Of This After A Long Trip?
Now when I tell you Iberia Airlines sucks the sweat off a dead man's dick, it's the most polite way I can communicate how I feel about this company's customer service.
There were two stages to my latest European Adventure: London and Pamplona. My friend (the ex-Soviet) is currently living in London. I was to fly there to see him and spend a day or so hanging out in the capital before we flew to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls.
Stage I: London Lovin'
In Stage I, American Airlines was my ride. There were no issues whatsoever with AA. In fact, I heart AA merely for the ride home to New York on which there were about 50 or so African refugees traveling with us. Due to their special dietary concerns, the crew was unable to serve us the beef entree and we had to make due with chicken. The chicken would've been my choice anyway, but when the profusely apologetic attendant agrees to comp you and the funny, Chipolte-craving, Hawaii-bound handsome Marine seated next to you on his way back from Iraq free drinks, you jump at the chance to milk her empathy for all it's worth - in this case two chardonnays and two Amstel Lights respectively. Between the engaging conversation and quick catnap, seven hours never flew so fast (pun intended).
Stage II: Pamplona Party
Stage II consisted of the X-Sov and I attending the annual San Fermin Festival in Pamplona, Spain. While the goings-on which occurred there are worthy of a solomente post (upcoming once X-Sov sends digital pics), the pertinent part is that we flew to the fiesta via Iberia Airlines, Spain's national carrier.
Pamplona boasts an airport smaller than the American Airlines baggage claim area at JFK. It only has two 'gates' which open to a big parking lot you walk across to the small plane which deposits and whisks passengers to and fro Barcelona, Madrid and Ibiza. X-Sov and I arrived the standard two hours prior for an international departure on Monday, July 9th. We were the first to check in for our flight and I placed my black rolling suitcase on the check in scale. We then checked his bag and my additional piece of luggage.
Our flight took off as planned for Barcelona where we were slated for a five hour layover. The layover extended to seven hours. Once we finally boarded and were all belted in, the captain came over the loudspeakers and announced that due to the late timing, we were not going to be able to land in Heathrow as planned due to the "curfew" the city enforces. [OK - what the fuck, one of the busiest international airports shuts down at 11:30pm???] No problem, the bags are on board and wherever we end up landing, we'll just collect and head our way back to Westminster.
Upon landing in Lutin (WTF? WhereTF?), we head to baggage claim. Mind you it's now about 2am BST. This tiny shit airport is already basically closed down, as is the Tube, trains, etc. Bags start spilling out onto the conveyor belt. I happily pick up the second bag I checked and X-Sov retrieves his. Funny - shouldn't my black suitcase have come out first as it was the first one to be placed on board?
20 minutes later I ask one of the baggage guys if there was another truck of luggage we're waiting on. There is not.
I approach the crew and explain my situation. The place where I'd fill out the necessary forms is closed down - not to mention we're at THE WRONG AIRPORT. And, I'm leaving for the States the next morning. (er, in a few hours). I hear them out and will speak to British Air once at Heathrow in the am. (Iberia and BA have some sort of a partnership. The plane and crew we flew from Barcelona from were actually BA, not Iberian).
A few hours later I am helpfully informed by a BA agent at the customer service counter "You're looking at a nightmare." I'm then informed that my best course of action is to wait until I return to NY and file all necessary paperwork to initiate the process of returning lost luggage which I took an hour to do after landing at JFK with the American Airlines desk who also seemed to represent Iberia, British Airways and the like.
It's four days later and here's where we are:
1. After three separate calls to British Airways I've finally been informed that it's not their problem and they, while partners with Iberia and despite being the actual carrier I flew in the second leg of the return flight to London - um LUTIN, have nothing to do with the process.
2. After spending hours on hold over two days with no one answering the Customer Service help desk at Iberia, I finally get a human on the line and although they have my flight info, the bag's ID number and the case file from American Airlines, I am haughtedly then angerly informed that they will not help me as I filed forms with American Airlines. She spat out that I should go to JFK and start the process again. When I protest and respectfully suggest that their London agent speak to AA's London agent as this was their fault for losing the luggage in the first place, the punta hung up on me. Seriously. Bitch hung up on me. When I called back and got her supervisor, he was just as nasty. Fucker.
3. Thank God for American Airlines. Even though they have nothing to do with all the bullshit that went wrong, they're looking out for me like the Embassy would. The NY office is now working with their London office to stalk the Iberian assholes and try to retrieve my wayward bag. They've also gently hinted that it may come to simply getting a check (worth about 1/3 of what the value of the items I can remember are packed in there - some of which are irreplaceable), but they'll do everything in their power to resolve this as quickly as possible.
Bottom line? It's good to be home. God bless America and God bless AA.
I've Been Slacking...I know
Let's just say between work and my personal life, things have been hectic. A good hectic, but hectic nonetheless. A good excuse to take a vacation, no?
I've a history with not being in-country for national holidays. Thanksgiving in particular. I've celebrated the feast with 15 of my closest teammates in Bermuda in the mid-90s (our varsity field hockey team was there to play the Bermuda National Champions) and eating chicken nuggets at a wanna-be Mickey Dee's in Galway post 9-11.
This year I'm going to miss seeing Lady Liberty and the Macy's Fireworks from my fire escape
because on the 231st anniversary of the day our nation declared it's independence from the tyrannical British Empire, I'll be here:
Oh the irony! For added measure, I'll be celebrating the occasion with an ex-Soviet. I've informed him that we must at least track down a bottle or two of Bud to pay the land of the free and home of the brave the respect she deserves.
And then we're off to play with these crazy kids and the beasts chasing their asses:
That's right, it's San Fermin! Or, as it's most famous activity has made the festival notorious for: The Running of the Bulls. Not sure if I'll participate, but after some Patron the other night, a partner in crime since our collegiate days has been trying hard to sway me. Something tells me the hangliding/aerobatic pilot/skydiving/all-over-daredevil ex-Soviet might be convinced by said partner in crime to don The Whites as well...
Be sure to eat a hot dog/apple pie/corn on the cob for me. Pending no terrorist bullshit (really Dad, with all the increased security London's likely the safest place on earth right now!) and no bull goring my ass, I'll be back late next week.
Cheers and Hasta Luego!