"Waterloo Sunset" [by The Kinks] is my favorite song of all time, and it would be so perfect in a gloomy movie about London

I NEED To See Them Live !

I have been to a lot of shows. Likely too many for someone who enjoys occasionally liking music uncritically. I have never seen what I saw at Terminal 5 on Thursday. I have seen the deodorant-phobic and the horn-rimmed scuttle and pine around the feet of Jenny Lewis. I have seen the pierced, stewed, and tattooed rally ‘bout the flagpole legs of Exene Cervenka. I have seen the young girls in their summer clothes flock to the clarion call of heart-throbs like Julian Casablancas and (I eternally regret this) Conor Oberst. But I have never seen what I saw at Terminal 5.
Throngs. Throngs of ‘em. All, to the straining eye (and you can bet your sweet $34.95 that I strained), ostensibly heterosexual. Bridge-and-tunnel tribal markers from head to toe: white flat-bill baseball caps, loose jeans, Billabong t-shirts, dull-eyed and traditionally handsome stares. And until a certain point in the night, I would have expected to see them doing, I don’t know, keg-stands, whatever that rarest species, the straight, white, middle-class guy does for fun. Then everything changed.
Arctic Monkeys took the stage.
Every goddamn one of them underwent a drastic change brought on by the noise and the strobe lights and the artificial.
Suddenly, we were at the Ed Sullivan show and the Fab 4 had just shambled into view. I have never seen so many jocks and stoned out Everydudes cringe, scream, and spontaneously orgasm unabashedly at the sight of four unassuming men. Either sexual mores have widened and transformed for the better while I wasn’t looking, or the Arctic Monkey’s deserve an award. I’ll do the honors. It’ll be awarded via the post. The letter will read:
Dear Monkeys,
You are hereby awarded the enviable title of SUBJECT OF AMERICA’S BIGGEST MAN-CRUSH. In lieu of a trophy, enjoy the sweet, warm wash of bro-love that we can only assume seeps syrup-like through your windows every morning when you awake.
Good job!
Lou Wright
‘SUP Magazine’s Lou Wright on the Arctic Monkeys Terminal 5 show

So Excited For Seeing R+J at Stratford

Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows
Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.

Hedi Slimane Is Love

Saddle Shoes

Perhaps most readily associated with a patently American 1950s nostalgia – recalling varsity football game nights, wholesome cheerleaders, and spiffy sock hops – saddle shoes (or oxfords) were actually first conceived as a men's athletic golfing shoe in the early 1900s. During the 1930's stagflation, saddle shoes swiftly became a unisex sensation when high school girls deemed them ideal for the snazzy new Jitterbug's accompanying acrobatics, sliding, and spinning. They have since become a cultural mainstay sported by students and Hollywood royalty alike: viz. Diane Keaton and Robert Redford. In fact, the saddle shoes' compelling on-screen cinematic history (from Liv Tyler in Inventing the Abbots, to Sue Lyons in Kubrick's Lolita [1962], to Cybill Shephard in The Last Picture Show) is evidence of oxfords' wide-ranging character appeal. Celebrated shoe designer Rupert Sanderson has been a lifelong oxford fan and decided that the time was ripe to unveil his traditionally Italian-crafted Saddled O range for both men and women at last year's Frieze Art Fair. As cherished by the likes of Tennessee Thomas, Zooey Deschanel, Cate Blanchett and Kate Phelan –- his kicky Saddled O's revival has sparked quite the oxford frenzy!

Grrr I want a pair

IM GOING TO ROME!!

2010!

When the clock struck 12 to welcome New Year's Day, the London eye lit up to reveal a technicoloured rainbow (I wish I was there not cooped up at home looking after my brother). But my childlike sense of happiness at seeing this electric spectacle was cut short when I discovered that nobody my age knows the words to "Auld Lang Syne" – not even the first line. So depressing. I made a promise that the next day I would print them out so that in a year's time we'd all be up to speed; this is something I have yet to do, because I quickly realised I'm the only one who cares.

I have a love-hate relationship with New Year’s resolutions. On the one hand, the idea that I can rework my entire approach to life just based on a simple change in the calendar is very seductive. Of course, I never set modest – or even remotely reasonable – goals. Past examples include: “I vow to stop eating chocolate”, “I won’t sleep in past 11 a.m.,” and “Learn The Guitar.” New Year’s resolutions are like an army of Grinches who truly steal Christmas.

To stop biting my nails has been my resolution for the past 5 years and I have still not done it. I have tried everything; that foul tasting spray you put on the end, I have tried to ignore my hands, by wearing gloves, I have also tried to find a habit to take its place. But no nothing seems to help. My friends often find pleasure in pointing out my horrible trait, so much so, that I have the name "Salad Fingers". Maybe I should take up smoking,after seeing Nowhere Boy with a friend we both came to the same conclusion that it looks painfully cool, shame it will probably kill me.