Lagerfeld Lovin'

i love this.

Anyone With a Sweet Tooth and a Few Bucks?

For my final video project in one of my journalism classes, I ran around Chicago, stuffing my face with delicious cupcakes from some of my favorite shops in the city. Check out my findings!

Changing My Mind

I'm really not into poetry.
When I was a sophomore in high school, I had a terrible English teacher that decided to make us read/study poetry for an entire quarter.
That all would've been well and good, if she knew anything about poetry...or even English for that matter.
She told us our interpretations of poems were wrong. Giving us the dreaded big fat F.
My disdain for poetry arose then and there.
Perhaps though, since I want to be a writer, I should give it a chance.
I stumbledupon (my new addiction) The Writer's Almanac.

It gave me this poem.

...okay, maybe poetry isn't so bad.

$3,770 + $2,015 = Purse and Dress, Even in a Recession

It feels like everyone is feeling the pinch of a looming recession that has lasted for what seems like a thousand years. No industry, besides maybe the fast food guys at McDonalds and Wendy’s, is safe. Maybe it is getting a little better, but some members of the fashion industry continue to act like people can still afford thousand dollar price tags.

During the Great Depression, a great deal of clothing and accessories sprouted up made from less expensive fabrics. Burlap became a huge tool to designers, due to it’s low purchase price. Well low and behold, burlap and recycled fabrics walked this past season’s runways. The only difference is instead of lowering the prices of the items in exchange for the low cost of fabric, they have not changed a thing.

Do you want to pay thousands for a dress right now? What about one made from a potato sack? This answer is probably not, and it’s a bit of a ridiculous question.

Some examples are Fendi’s Karl Lagerfeld has created a raffia Peek-a-Boo bag for $3,770. Miu Miu’s Miuccia Prada introduced a distressed linen V-neck dress for $2,015. Okay…maybe both of these items are cute. Sure, I like linen dresses and peek-a-boo bags. I pretty much like anything these two famous designers come up with. But give us all a break. It makes me wonder why they can’t just drop their prices.

If I see someone on the street wearing one of these items, I might just have to ask them what they were thinking.

So Many Alligators, Too Little Money

Does anyone want a new pet? Not a puppy, not a cat, perhaps an alligator? Roughly 6,000 are currently roaming around the Louisiana countryside, looking for a good home…or else.

These thousands of animals currently are not serving their intended purpose, which has cause yet another industry to suffer during this recession. Alligators in Louisiana and around the United States are used for creating very pricey items for luxury retailers. Purses, shoes, and more items all feature expensive skins made from these animals that can be resold for thousands with their well-known labels.

Brands such as Gucci, Versace, and Louis Vuitton usually buy material, so to speak, from an alligator farmer named Gerald Savoie Jr., who was featured on an episode of Dirty Jobs. This year, however, they are not selling at all and it is becoming quite an issue for a small town farmer like Savoie. In an article from the local newspaper in Abbeville, LA, 840,000 tanned hides waited to be sold last month alone, when normally there are only about 275,000 on the market.

The point now has become that people can skip out on the alligator purses, and go for, I don’t know, house payments instead.

In a New York Minute.

Here is a paper I wrote for my advanced reporting class. It wears me out just thinking about it.
Enjoy!

“Well, do you want to jump out and run like hell? It’s time to make a decision, what do you want to do?” The weight of the question filled the yellow taxicab, nearly suffocating all of its occupants. After some hesitation, I blurted out my answer. He immediately flung the door open while the taxi continued it’s forward motion, not wanting to waste another second. I heard the harsh, foreign tongue of the driver, but his voice abruptly cut off with the slam of the door. We left them in the cab to deal with his wrath, and broke out into a staggering sprint.
I had seen movie stars leap in strides of elegance while wearing their thousand dollar stilettos, and I attempted to emulate their gazelle-like movements. Failing miserably after a measly half a block, I skidded to a painful halt, took off my shoes, and continued towards the beacon of hope flooding from the Eugene O’Neill Theatre. Sprinting, running, sprinting, running, slowing, jogging, slowing, walking…breathing, coughing, questioning. My head spun as I attempted to orient myself. Just make it, just get there…the thoughts ran through my head much quicker than my feet ran on the ground. Get there, get there, get there.
Just like most stories, it all started off as an innocent mistake. After a long day of shopping, eating, and more shopping, we slugged back to our hotel room to get ready for the show. Meghan, my best friend of 20 years, Dylan, my brother by choice, Andrew, my brother by blood, and I all put on our newly purchased black and white ensembles to attend the recent Tony Award winning musical Spring Awakening. My family came to New York City for sticky mid-July week as a summer vacation, and graciously my friends merited invitations to come along. After securing every eyelash, zipping every dress, and tying every shoe, we began to walk towards the Waldorf Astoria Hotel on Fifth Avenue. I promised my friend from college a visit before the curtain rose at eight o’clock sharp, thinking time would be of excess. The ivory envelope reading “Asebrook” sat securely behind the box office window. We all moved according to plan, intending to make the brief detour in route of our journey towards the Great White Way. Andrew’s watch read 7 p.m.
“If it wasn’t for all your talking we wouldn’t be late,” my brother grumbled sternly as we exited the hotel doors, seemingly along with every other guest in the hotel. We glanced at the crowded avenue and knew we would not make it walking. The line to get a taxi resembled the line at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles on lunch hour, unending and winding around the sidewalk. Trying to be optimistic, “I doubt it’ll take that long. The cabs have to keep coming…” Meghan’s voice trailed off as she thought about her lack of knowledge on the subject. If she missed her first Broadway show, she knew her disappointment would be catastrophic. The buildup had lingered over the vacation thus far, and a few blocks could not stop her. Then she heard a faint vibrating sound, and looked around. The nervous emotions were painted across Maddie’s face, and she hated to interrupt her thought process because she would be the one to figure this out. But she piped up, “Maddie, I think your phone is ringing.” The phone read 7:43 p.m.
“Dad, what?” I answered the phone in the frustrated tone my father has been unhappy with since my elementary, sassy years. “They can’t find your tickets,” he said quickly. “You need to be there right now.” I answered snappily something to the affect of how that obviously posed a problem, seeing as only one person in the line successful found a cab. He continued, raising his voice slightly as it quickened, “Where are you? If you guys don’t get there at least five minutes before, you won’t get in and I will have wasted hundreds of dollars. So you better figure this out.” He abruptly hung up. Just like my high school nights when he paced around the kitchen, wondering about my whereabouts, he called my cell phone 13 more times to yell at us. The clock flashed 7:49 p.m.
After aging roughly 73 years, we earned the front spot in the waiting line and got into a cab. We moved about 30 feet, until we approached gridlock traffic. Precious moments ticked by as I ignored the constant vibration of my phone. We continued to sit the parking lot Midtown Manhattan became, and my hope flooded out the sunroof. “We’re not going to make it,” I muttered out loud to whoever would listen. “We don’t have the tickets. We are supposed to be there no later than now. It’s over.” This was all my fault, I thought, as we sat merely two blocks away from our destination. My pessimism was not well received. 7:55 p.m. read the dashboard’s clock.
Dylan had an idea. As a musical theatre major at Boston Conservatory, he knew all about this show. He watched the Tony Award weeks before, and saw kids his own age perform the famous number. He came to New York to see this show. “We can sit in this cab and bitch, or we can do something about it,” he firmly said. “Well, do you want to jump out and run like hell? It’s time to make a decision, what do you want to do?” After a split second, he told Meghan and Andrew to stay in the cab. Maddie followed him out the door, as the cabbie angrily screamed at them both. “I can run faster than you…” the words breathlessly escaped his mouth. “Where am I going?” Dad said 50th street, so that’s where I told him to go. He ran off before I could say another word. I began to sprint through Times Square after him, running towards the bright lights and Target advertisements of smiling people who did not have to sprint to get anywhere. The giant clock read 7:57 p.m.
Removing my main obstacle off my feet, I continued to attempt to run. I dodged many families and couples, including an old woman with her rocker. I nearly leaped over a tiny white dog on his leash, lazily trailing behind his owner. I stepped in garbage, I waited at a stoplight, and I looked around to find I made it to 50th street. No theater. No signs. No Spring Awakening. My spirit sunk into the sewer grate below me. I whipped out my phone and headed south, calling anyone that would answer. My parents went to a different theater altogether, leaving me to truly figure this out on my own. No one answered. I circled to the next block, now at a fast walk with an invisible knife dug into my left side, and saw the faces of Jonathan Groff and Lea Michele on the marquee. I made it. I glanced quickly at my phone, 7:59 p.m.
I sprinted my last few steps, as the stragglers wandered through the glass doors. Through the crowd, I recognized the raving red hair of my best friend. Andrew and Meghan stood there, looking frantically for the familiar faces of the rest of their party. Andrew knew he should have run instead of his sister. He had been attending football practice every day since June, and definitely could get there quicker than her smoker lungs could. Finally, he saw the sweaty face of ruined makeup run through the crowd and enter the theater doors, but not before she screeched, “MOVE!” It was 8 p.m. exactly.
I ran up to the window, instantly folding in half while hanging onto the ledge. “Asebrook…” barely escaped through exasperated breaths. He handed me the tiny, ivory envelope after saying something like “under the wrong name.” Meghan and Andrew stood behind me, and I gave them their tickets after instructing them to go inside. Only one problem remained. Where’s Dylan?
I ran outside, ignoring the theater attendant telling me the show was starting, only to notice a very slow moving Dylan down the street. He bent down, wheezing while trying to adjust himself. He heard her yelling at him to hurry, and he tried his damnedest. He grabbed the ticket and made it into the theater before his eyesight completely blacked out. After a few moments of composure, he moved down to the second row where Meghan, Maddie, and Andrew sat mere inches from the stage. After assuring the concerned mother next to him he was alright, the lights went down and the curtain rose, revealing five young girls who began to sing. We made it.
Hours later, after endlessly scrubbing at my dirt black feet, I knew I would never run in stilettos, go barefoot in a big city, or leave less than 30 minutes before a show ever again. I have been at least 15 minutes early to every show I have seen since.

Short on Cash? Make an iPhone Application.

These days, it is not uncommon to find quite a few stories of people doing whatever they can to make ends meet, most of which have ended in demise. Nearly every industry in America has suffered for numerous reasons, most of which involve a serious lack of personnel and money. But a few people have found a loophole.

Apple’s iPhone and iPod Touch have swept America at large. I have one, my roommate has one, my brother has one, the random man on the bus sitting next to me has one. The Genius Bar at the Apple store on Michigan constantly has people inquiring about their current one or getting a new one. A newer feature on these phones and iPods is the App Store, where users can download or purchase applications for pretty much anything (so says the slogan).

My friends constantly comment on how many I have (I shamefully have four pages…), because it is very easy to get hooked. My favorite applications are Recorder, Alphabetic, and ColorSplash, if you care to check them out or are in search of new recommendations. The point is, with quite a few free options, you can find yourself scrolling for some time through multiple pages of apps.

But where do these come from? Each one has an individual creator, and anyone that successfully can code an application can submit it to use in the store. Depending on the application’s popularity, anyone could make a good amount of money for creating something that everyone else can get addicted to.

A New York Times article follows a man named Ethan Nicholas, who spent weeks on end developing an application called “iShoot,” which has earned him $800,000 in 5 months. He knew a little bit about coding, so he found Apple’s guide to creating these applications and worked on his game. He needed the money to support his family after his job suspended his bonus for the year. He certainly did something right.

It may be tedious and a bit difficult, but with the help of the internet and a great idea, you too could perhaps create the next iShoot. Maybe even earn a small fortune. Who knows.

Aren't You Sick of the R Word?

Since this global financial crisis began, my father has been coining a new catch phrase. Any time he thinks it can fit into a conversation, the sentence falls out of his mouth. For example, “Dad, it’s cold in Chicago. Let’s go somewhere for spring break.” He says, “We’re in a recession.” I say, “Dad, I need a new pair of shoes.” He says, “We’re in a recession.” “Dad, I’m really sick of hearing about this recession business.” He says, “Well, we are in a recession Maddie.” I’ve listened to his new catch phrase so many times I can hear it when I close my eyes to go to sleep.

But it is not just my father, it’s everywhere. Newspaper articles, television shows, retail marketing, conversations on the street…it makes me want to scream. I know, it’s a big deal and it’s affecting every single person. It just bums me out thinking about it and constantly hearing the dreaded word recession, and knowing how much it is affecting each individual person.

While browsing looking for something to inspire me so I can write about it, I stumbled across a new video series on the New York Times website. Our blog, Hard Times, has a very similar idea. People’s stories, while sometimes very depressing, help me to learn about what is going on in the world instead of reading about it in a general news article.

The series is called “The New Hard Times,” and will focus on different people’s feelings on the past and uncertain future during this…r word. It’s very well done, and adds a new and interesting element to journalism’s role in covering this crisis. I would recommend checking it out. But even after, try to refrain from using that nasty word when I’m around, so you don’t have to hear my grunts and grumbles on the topic.

A Freak Connection Between the Sunshine and the Economy?

When Chicago made it eerily close to the top of Forbes’ most miserable cities list earlier this year, one of the main reasons happened to be the lousy weather we encounter for what seems like three fourths of the year. When the weather hits even a slight breeze over 50 degrees, I see people busting out their mini skirts and flip flops, only to trade them out for their Uggs and winter coats the next day.

Ok, Forbes, our weather is miserable. We know, we live here. However, a New York Times article recently came out discussing the possible connection between sunshine and a slight improvement in the economy.

This may be a far stretch, and certainly will not have any drastic difference in the situation. However, they point out that when it is nice out, people feel much less gloomy and get out of their apartments/houses to get into the rare sunshine. Therefore, people are not focusing so much on their tight budgets and spend some money for lunch or new attire for the warm weather.

But apparently, this theory stretches beyond just buying a new dress because it’s nice outside. The stock market benefits to the spring and summer seasons as well. Stock prices rise higher then, as opposed to winter when trading decreases. This could be because of the recession this year, but the numbers are consistent.

According to this same article, “David Hirshleifer, a professor at the University at California, Irvine found that strong sunshine at the sites of 26 leading stock exchanges around the world (including the New York Stock Exchange) was linked to higher stock returns. Annual returns for the market were, over the course of the 16-year-period he studied, 25 percent on sunny days, compared with 9 percent on cloudy days.” So if the sun does in fact come out tomorrow, and stays out, the economy could see a slight boost.

Regardless of the economy, I would really love if the sun graced us with it’s presence and the temperatures stayed up for more than just 12 hours at a time. So this miserable city has some hope, and perhaps so does the economy coming into the warm season.

If I Could Be Anyone in the Whole Wide World, It Would Be Her.

buzz has surrounded this episode of CNN's Revealed since I can remember.
i have searched my directv guide at least 15 times, desperately trying to find it.
well, here it is.
someday, i will grow up, be much larger, and hopefully have a mere shrivel of her elegance, grace, and success.
enjoy, my hero.