Here are some of the great outfits from Aspen Fashion Week.  My favorite is the old dear in yellow sunglasses and an orange coat.

A highlight from Aspen Fashion Week.

A handsome dude, two cougars, and a guy wearing a shirt similar to that worn by the two cougars.

I maintain a horrible diet.

This, certainly, is a direct result of having lived in Philadelphia for the past three years. For two of those, I ate a cheesesteak special from George’s on 2nd three times a week. $5 for a cheesesteak, fries, and a budget brand soda. The meal balanced well with my efforts to cycle at minimum 10 miles a day. While my legs hardened my midsection soon housed the only non-drinkers beer belly in the world.

People from outside of Philly will always ask, “Where is the best cheesesteak?” They will also tell bland stories of having visited Pat’s or Geno’s. My short answer to the previous question begins with “not Pat’s, not Geno’s.” The long hits hits at a laundry list of elements that make a proper cheesesteak, and for the eater are more or less completely subjective. For example, while I like both the bread and the name at Chink’s (added bonus here, they serve ice cream), I’m partial to a chopped steak and as such wouldn’t rate the place as tops. The only time I’ve ever eaten at John’s Roast Pork was at 8am (coming off a flight home from Tampa) so the only ultimate drawn from that establishment is the level of my bad decision making.

For my money (and proximity to my former home), Johnny Hot’s in Fishtown ranks top 2 (just behind Dellassandro’s). Located under 95, the place has been featured on Food Network and is primarily known for hot sausage (pause) and fishcakes. Undervalued, in my opinion, is the cheesesteak. Unlike Dellassandro’s, Johnny Hot’s also has fries, making it 100% more enjoyable an actual meal.

Larry’s, apparently is also terrific. The below video should be convincing enough.

John Gotty, myself, and Tim Yu.

I haven’t posted about a press trip I’ve been on in quite sometime, but I love this image snapped, without our knowledge, by Marcus Troy. The three of us were walking from our hotel to the Staples Center to watch the Celtics clip the Lakers. It is always a pleasure to spend time with all involved in this photograph.

Hartford Denim Company.

Great things are developing in downtown Hartford, CT. My father tipped me to Hartford Denim Company – he has his ears to the city streets – a few months back and the guys were nice enough to let me visit with them. The studio space on Pratt Street is full of wonders.

All jeans and jackets are hand made, all experimental, and all produced with great love and admiration for American craft. They source as much as possible in New England… who else wants to promote the history of brass manufacture in Waterbury?

They’ve got BIG ideas and have recently received some solid press.

For example, they were featured on NPR. And, they caught the eye of my friend Marcus Troy while walking through PROJECT during New York market week.

Congratulations guys!

Below are some quick shots I took in early November (lost my camera for two months, thus failed to post then).

I was sixteen or seventeen the first time an attractive older lady took hold of my penis.

I’d driven to my annual checkup for the first time, only having recently passed my license examination. In that, there was a small sense of pride, my duty as a growing and maturing human becoming less and less contingent on the aid of others (read mothers). I was becoming a man.

I entered the examination room full of spirit. Greeted by my doctor, I told him I was feeling well and had a short conversation about school results both academic and sporting. He politely asked if I would mind if a medical student administer my check-up. Thinking little, I accepted his suggestion and in walked a stunning young woman, raven haired and straining the buttons of her lab coat.

“Be calm,” thought my teenage self, “be calm.”

My examiner might too have been a tad nervous. Of course, her issues professional and not riddled with fantasy.

Her clinical paces through the general medical points were swift. My mind given little time at all for sordid imagination, we progressed to a vital point.

“Remove your trousers, please.”

Fuck. Fear struck. True adolescent fear. A cold shiver up spine, I delivered on the request if for nothing but standard doctor/patient procedure.

She took hold. She asked me to cough. She looked up. Then, she spoke.

“Don’t worry, it will get bigger. “

Here’s a top ten list of things (done/experienced) in 2010 -

10. Discovering the Jewett City, CT flea market. Open each and every Sunday, the Jewett City Flea is everything the Brooklyn Flea is not… though, oddly enough, there are always several people dressed like Mark McNairy.

9. Publishing an article about my sobriety and love of alcohol free beers. Many thanks are due to Ms. Kaity Velez, EIC of Antenna Magazine, for allowing this to happen.

8. Eating Mac & Cheese at Zingerman’s Roadhouse in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Several kinds of mac and cheese available there. All are amazing.

7. Seeing Garth Brooks in Las Vegas. In a year where I saw Slayer, Jay-Z, Lady Gaga, and 178 rappers, Garth Brooks proved to be the best concert in the WORLD.

6. Touring with Stalley and Camp Lo. If someone had suggested I would go on tour with a platinum selling rap group early in the year, I would have laughed in their face.

5. Driving a 1985 Chevy Monte Carlo SS. While on the tour mentioned above, I drove an ‘85 Monte Carlo SS. I love big box Chevys. (Conversely, I do not like Chevy’s Mexican Grill).

4. Having ESPO draw me a tattoo. On Super Bowl Sunday, I told ESPO he could draw anything he wanted for a tattoo on my chest. I now have a portrait of Einstein, designed so that my hair simulates the scientists own locks. Peter Williams is partly responsible for this activity, and for the end result I am forever grateful to him.

3. Dinner at Peaches Hot House, Bedstuy, Brooklyn. The other meal I ate in Brooklyn was at Brooklyn Fare, recipient of 2 Michelin Stars and considerably less amazing than Peaches. My companions on that night – my Brother, Gary, Magdi, and Simon – were equal to the food.

2. Meeting Dana Brunson. Mr. Brunson is a tattoo legend and a class act. We were both judges at the 2010 New York Tattoo Convention. Sitting beside him was an honor and a privilege.

1. Celebrating my birthday. Due the generosity and hard work of Adrian King Carter, three of my favorite rappers (Kokayi, Oddisee, and Stalley) performed at a free concert to celebrate my 30th birthday. Words cannot adequately describe how much this meant to me. Special thanks to all those involved in making the day a reality. It would only have been better had Wale not attended the after party.

Here is the text of an email I wrote two ladies in early 2009. (I am currently very, very bored).

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The other day I opened a package of crisps marked “fiesta size.” I laughed to myself, thinking “ah, but I am a party of one.” I told my brother. He found it funny. I told my mother. She asked if I was doing ok.

Two responses. One circumstance. Raising a question – Why do I think actions that can be read as “sad” are so hilarious? Being a bit like Adrian Mole, it might be obvious. I raised my own comic understanding tied to the most pathetic characters. Bottom, for example, depicts two absolute losers. My brother and I love it. My mother absolutely hates it.

The episodes including party scenes are not unlike an average day at my house, except they are driven by false hopes. Why should opening a “fiesta” size bag of chips make me laugh? There are no false hopes, I am simply buying bulk for economic reasons, only later realizing that the marketing of such a product delivers an internal slap in the face.

Am I overeating? Acting in a glutenous fashion?

America is predicated on buying foodstuffs that are way too large. A big gulp soda does not tell me to share. A kingsize candy bar never says, “this must be broken in half and consumed with others.” Chips (especially tortilla chips) directly say, “open this and invite all your mates down to your yard for a party.” All other consumables celebrate my desire to BUY BIG. Why must crisps tell me otherwise?

For one, I’m offered a “grab bag.” In fairness, this size is considerably larger than a single serving should be, and much larger than the average package in a Walker’s variety pack. Like a “fiesta” size, a “grab bag” implies that I should eat every crumb in a single session. They both suggest that opening a bag of chips is a function of how many people will eat and how quickly.

Family size I have little problem with – yes, a large bag should serve several folks. But, “fiesta” somehow makes the whole scenario very amusing. Food should not mock me.

Yet it does, and the opening of a large package of crisps appealed to my comic sensibility. This is born from joy in juxtaposition. Not false hopes, as mentioned above, but the positioning of reality vs. promise.

Two years ago, my best friend performed at Nashville’s Grand Old Opry.

No, he’s not some super talent. He’s not even in a professional band. But, He was, in that year, a backup singer in the 3rd best corporate cover band in the entire world.

Created in 2001, the Fortune Magazine Battle of the Corporate Bands was formed as beneficial partnership with the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame. A “celebration of musicians with day jobs,” the event let’s normal desk jocks feel like rock stars a few nights a year.

My friends band, D7, had its own set of groupies, (granted, the leather pant clad gals were married to members), they played bar gigs, and they even cut a demo. On one track, the drummer struggled through Hinder’s “Kissed By An Angel,” his tone frighteningly suggestive of past infidelity. Equipped with warm up gigs, cds, and even a little merchandise, the D7 (first letter of company name + number of members = sure sign these folks don’t work in creative) team marched through 2 regional “battles” and 1 legal battle to claim a position in the Nashville finals.

Regretfully, I couldn’t make it to Nashville.

I write this, thinking about cover songs… and thinking a little about what I’ll say at this particular friends upcoming wedding. I used to introduce him to girls as a member of the “3rd best cover band in the world.” I thought it funny. They usually thought me odd. And, you won’t be surprised that my friends future wife met him when I wasn’t anywhere close.

Wedding speeches can cover quite a lot of ground. Key moments in friendship. Embarrassing stories. Generic toasts.

In may ways, they are not unlike those songs people gravitate towards as covers. Something too heartfelt… like an ill timed Hinder cover… comes off too personal. One wants to hit the high points, and keep things light. Keep, as they say, the party moving forward.

When singing a cover song, much like giving a wedding speech, it is about a certain emotional distance. One must be engaged, but not veer too far from the expected.

Over the Summer, I saw Phil Collins perform Motown covers at Roseland Ballroom. I’ve rarely witnessed such shear self indulgence, each song allowing Phil full opportunity to butcher a classic… and make it sound exactly like a Phil Collins’ track. His rationale for the tour was full of genuine admiration – these were the songs he grew up with – but the end result pushed reverence out the door in favor of self-aggrandizement.

Lesson learned – treat a wedding speech like a good cover song. Respectfully, and sounding like the expected original. Do not, under any circumstances, turn it into an individual platform or draw from the example of Phil Collins.

To end, below is my favorite cover, period. These guys, the Broviet Union, are quality.

You are a great man, Cheddar Ted.

A tattooist and a gorgeous gal, Julie Becker quite naturally fits into one of my “types.” If absolutely pressed, I’d admit to wanting to marry an artist of some kind. A painter or a writer would be nice, a tattooist pretty terrific. (Photographers, you can fuck off).

Becker, who has tattooed in both LA and NY, not only does very good work, she wears tremendous ink. I first spotted her long legs in a black and white photo-shoot. She is, not surprisingly, a former Inked girl. She’s also got the dark eyes that too frequently crush me.

Becker reminds me of a beautiful bar keep I met a few years ago in Chapel Hill, NC. She was type of woman who seemed to have overcome some great emotional hardship, you could see it in her face, and she was even more alluring for it. Wise, some might say. Worldly. Not sure what, exactly, but something very real that grabbed my attention and affection.

I don’t like women without baggage. I like those that have grappled with life, the ones that are cognizant and demanding of what makes them happy. I concede they aren’t the easiest, but they are the ones that make me fall in love and the ones that make me compromise.

I have no idea if Becker is one of those gals. But, I do know she is fucking sexy. If she happened to be anything like the person I’ve described above, I’d fall in second.