About a year ago, my homegirl Renata and I were sitting on the floor of my bedroom, looking at issues of Jane Magazine (Oh Jane! R.I.P.), when she said, “Look at how fabulous this bitch looks,” and pointed to a thin girl with frizzy hair wearing a purple dress, gray sweater, and giant glasses. I looked, and responded, “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about the same girl,” and showed her my issue, in which the girl had her hair slicked back and was wearing a black sheath. Renata examined the two pictures for a minute, and then said, “I’m pretty sure all you have to do to look fashionable is be really skinny.”

Since that day I’ve noticed that, more often than not, Renata is right – it’s easier to look chic if you’re slender. There are examples of this all over Hollywood. Consider Exhibit A, Hilary Duff. Back in the day, H. Duffs was a cute kid who certainly wasn’t fat, but definitely didn’t have that sleek boney look that we associate with Hollywood starlets. She was filled-out, normal-looking. Then one day she dropped about fifteen pounds, and all of a sudden she looked…glamorous. Elegant. Less like a kid and more like a chic fashionista woman. And while gossip magazines and news reports condemned her for looking sickly and setting a bad example for girls, she was still appearing on the cover of high-fashion magazines and being featured in designer ads like never before.

Because skinny = style.

We can attribute this national mentality to the media: for years, models and stars have gotten thinner and thinner until they’ve reached the point where many of them are barely more than skeletons wearing skin-suits. The image of ultimate high fashion that we’re presented with is that of the mutant waif, forty pounds thinner than an average person of the same height, gliding around A-list events like an apparition wearing Proenza Schouler. But why? What made the Fashion Powers That Be decide that scrawny is synonymous with chic? Read More »

I now have one more reason to think Condé totally sucks. As of today, Jane Magazine is no more. And I, for one, am pissed.

Jane was my favorite. Smart, empowering, funny and fashionable. Of all the women’s magazines on the stands, it was the least pretentious and the least likely to make me feel stupid and whorish. And as someone who has worked within the inner sororities of the magazine world, it was refreshing to see a magazine so unlike the others. The staff and the writers actually understood our generation of women and wrote for our demographic.

I never read Jane when under the helms of Jane Pratt, so I couldn’t ever judge Jane as it was under the reign of Brandon Holley. All I knew was that despite the fact that it wasn’t perfect (hell, what women’s mag is…) it was true and it was funny. And more than anything it was refreshing.

Which is why I am still harboring resentment against the pricks at Condé Nast Publishing. I mean if you couldn’t give me a job, or pay me at my internship, couldn’t you at least keep one of your better publications going despite its flailing ad revenue. Couldn’t you at least give me SOMETHING from your grandiose spot at 4 Times Square where, within its pages, I can find a piece of clothing I can afford, a sex tip worth trying or an easy way to make 1,000 bucks? Read More »

It must be summer — I can’t get through a single day without going to a picnic or a barbeque. Literally. I even eat hot dogs and corn – on – the cob for breakfast.

Not that I’m complaining, but one can only consume so much brie, bread and wine on a checkered blanket in a beautiful park before the routine turns stale.

Fortunately, Jane Magazine offers some alternative ideas for a sweet summer pool party (which can easily be converted into a park/patio/apartment/street party), complete with snow cones and lemongrass cocktails.

Check it out here.