Blog

There are few modern writers as intellectual, unpretentious and genuinely curious as Teju Cole, the Brooklyn-based Nigerian-American author (he’s also the photography critic for The New York Times Magazine and a contributor to The New Yorker), photographer and art historian.

Some may argue family or church, but the bar, plain and simple, is society’s single-most vital institution. It’s at once a cornerstone of democracy (from where George Washington bid farewell to his troops at New York’s Frances Tavern to the Stonewall Riots of 1969), unfettered belligerence, party-down fun, and sometimes a bathroom stall quickie. Saloons, taverns, dives, pubs, beer gardens, cocktail lounges, clubs, cantinas, speakeasies: Each unique in its nuances, each operates with the same noble objective.

Is there anything more transient than the self-congratulatory hot spot? More importantly, is going out at night a lost art? Long gone are places of legend like the Mudd Club and Palladium. Besides, was it ever an art? Bianca Jagger entering Studio 54 atop a white horse for her Halston-hosted 30th birthday party elevated after-dark fraternizing to levels of performance art.

Fact: American girls can’t shut up about French girls’ style. There’s nothing new about this phenomenon. We’ve been yearning for Brigitte Bardot’s smoky sexpot eyes, tousled hair, and barefoot allure since she shimmied and writhed around St. Tropez in 1956’s And God Created Woman. We’ve attempted to channel the impeccably coiffed beauty of Catherine Deneuve since she played a bourgeois, Yves Saint Laurent-clad housewife with sadomasochistic fantasies in 1967’s Belle de Jour.

I’m not into the idea of purposely getting high for a particular activity, unless it involves staying home and watching South Park, or reruns of The Golden Girls, for that matter. (Bea Arthur’s deadpan stare never ceases to pry a chuckle or two out of me.) It’s too deliberate. As in, “Let’s get high and go to Six Flags! That would be so dope!”

As it goes with fashion, music—more specifically, popular music—lives in cycles. And as with fashion now, what was prevalent in the seventies is again celebrated in music. Is more formulaic dancehall music out and communal band-based roots reggae in? All signs point to yes. If you don’t know why Snoop Dogg changed his name to Snoop Lion in 2014, albeit briefly, it’s because he recorded a reggae album in Jamaica, aptly titled Reincarnated. (He changed it back after a falling out with former Bob Marley bandmate Bunny Wailer.) OMI’s upbeat ditty “Cheerleader” is reggae-pop at its fluffiest, but it still qualifies, and it’s officially one of the biggest songs of last year.

Can we use the power of scent for personal empowerment? 

We’re all familiar with the power of scent: its ability to transport us to another moment in time by bringing back a memory, its potential power over our moods, and yes, its capacity to make us feel a sense of attraction to another person. Speaking for myself, though I’m aware I’m in no minority here, I know I’m really into a guy if I love the way he smells –and yes, I have burrowed my face into a borrowed shirt or two like a creep. Or could it very well be I’m really into the guy because of the way he smells?

In 1997, a sassy, slip dress-wearing, guitar-strumming singer named Meredith Brooks had a big hit. For months, “Bitch” was omnipresent, probably first and foremost for its “racy” title but also because, even though most of us were too embarrassed to admit it, girls identified with the admittedly cheesy song that was unapologetic in announcing some of us – and really, all of us – are messy amalgams of perfectly imperfect, logically irrational contradictions.

How to ensure your arrested development doesn’t get sentenced to life without parole

When I was an early adolescent, I thought once I turned 30, by some sort of evolutionary magic, and with a whole lot of nouveau money, I would wake up with a sleek, stick-straight blowout every day and wear lean pencil skirts with my Tom Ford pumps at virtually all times. Except, of course, when I went to sleep in my silky satin pajamas between crisp, daily-washed white sheets.