Baggage Claim

Swedish Beaches

I was grateful to see Andrew Ferren's NY Times' piece about the beaches in the South of Sweden. Press is good. Still, I was a bit taken aback by his accounting. I have a house in Malmö, and although there I have heard the phrase "Gold Coast" to describe a spectacular stretch of valuable frontage, the thought of a local using "Our Hamptons" as his or her private sobriquet for Falsterbro, as Ferren suggests, made me, well, giggle. On that rare occasion when a citizen is adding a famous moniker, it is more likely to be the Swedish Riviera, and even then he or she is probably channeling Basil Fawlty and not drawing visual comparisons with Cannes. They are Swedes, for godsakes. They get Eurail passes for their second birthday.They learn to walk, then hit the Jetway. They've been to the real Riviera, they know the difference, and they don't make flippant or blowhard comparisons. (Although, actually, I could imagine them making broad reference to help a foreign journalist get his bearings.)

So no. Swedes aren't going to be privately calling their favorite beaches the Swedish Hamptons or the Skåne Bora Bora. Instead, they will appreciate the uniqueness of what is theirs: beaches that are clean and wide, loaded with soft sand, and edged with dunes and grasses that offer enclaves of privacy and protection. Add a sun that during the summer never wants to set into the horizon, and a sea front, from the city to county along the entire width of the country's southern shore, loaded with drop-dead gorgeous regular, everyday people.

Now where have I seen that combination before? Oh, right. Nowhere.

Ferren spent a fair bit of ink suggesting that there is a great class distinction and it is the upper class that enjoys the beach life most. Well, citizens earn different incomes and have different tastes, but with income tax rates up to almost 60%, and VAT, property taxes, and something called a "You simply have too much" tax on top of that, the class warfare that does go on is about as heated as a solid game of table tennis. While he wastes time on status, he fails to mention that no one can own the land along the beaches. It belongs to the public. So anyone who wants to go to the beach, anywhere, can. (Unlike the Long Island State Park Commission and Robert Moses' efforts to keep the poor off the New York coast.)

He thought everyone at the beach was rich, but perhaps Ferren was confused by all the the polo shirts and linen dresses. That was more a function of a smartly orchestrated socialist state. So much of the big ticket living expenses (e.g. child and health care, education, retirement) are provided for in Sweden. After-tax dollars are limited, but instead of being satisfied with buying a lot of the cheapest garbage available, there is a widespread appreciation for design and structure that is both beautiful and functional. Even those with the least amount of spending power are serviced by companies with the philosophy: good design for all. That's why Swedes have Ikea and H&M and we get camo bras from Walmart and spray cheese from the Dollar Store. As a general rule, the Swedes don't buy crap.

Ferren needs to go back. He needs to spend more time in the design shops. He needs to find a dune to fall asleep in, have sex in. He needs to walk for miles along the beaches and, like a Swede, say very little. In fact, he needs to say very little for days while his skin hardens as it soaks up every second of the sun, appreciating that in a few months the sun will disappear for most of the day. Only then can he begin to write accurately about the beaches for us.

Singapore Bound

I have a meeting in Singapore that I must attend. It is a conference, which is good and bad. It means that many details will be taken care of for me. It also means that I will be alone and crushed at the same time. I booked the hotel. I spent 55 minutes figuring out if they are tomorrow or yesterday. I keep thinking it is a city in China.

I am an idiot.

Actually, travel in Asia is harder than my roamings elsewhere. I don't blend so well, even behind the darkest, largest frames. I'm thinking of taking a wig so I can sit somewhere with my camera and observe with some quietness. A gray wig in a bun, and some old schmatta and thick shoes. They must have park benches there, although much is illegal in Singapore and punishable by scrubbing floors or death, loser's choice. 

And Now, Designer Cold Creams

I almost didn't care what was inside. The black jar in transversing ovals that meta from one to the other was so Armani: all structure, flow, simplicity, and elegance. Then there's the label. Not one "anti"; no "age/aging/almost dead aren't you?" anywhere. What it says is "Georgio Armani CREMA NERA." From the man who gave us leather bomber jackets, an American Gigolo we actually preferred dressed, and red carpet walks by Cate Blanchett and Ziyi Zhang, we have a jar that's distinguished and so lacking in insults.

But I always care what is inside, and for $300 what Armani delivers a dense, luminous, white cream obtained by creating mineral salts from black obsidian, a volcanic silica glass loaded with potassium, sodium, and iron oxide.The buzz? It's supposed to reflect light back off the face, moisturize to die for, and transform into a matte in time to get your make-up done. As for techno-speak, the L'Oreal scientists tell us that the potassium/sodium combination hydrates the cells, the iron carries oxygen to the cells, and silicon strengthens the cell structure. Reporter Dawn Mello once wrote of Armani that "Somehow his clothes never seem to wrinkle."  L'Oreal is telling us he wants to do the same with our faces.

My buzz? Without a solid sloughing off ingredient or more proof on skin barrier breakthrough, I doubt the product will do much as a Time Machine. But as a cream that you can slather on and use instead of a foundation, it's fantastic. All matte, all reflection, all moisturizer, with none of the greasy slick look. If it's in your price range, go for it. There are many who simply look better without foundation. Just don't expect a volcanic microdermabrasion with this stuff, or miracles.

A Cook's Book

I'm going to learn to cook before I die, I swear. I'm thinking any cookbook with the word "Art" in its title is not a great one for me to start to learn (again) with, but at least it seems more plausible than any book with the word "Joy," "Comfort" or "Martha Stewart" along the spine. I'll pick up Alice Waters, The Art of Simple Food, wreak havoc in the kitchen, make the kids cry, and report back.

Michael and Me

Remember how a few years back, after pleading innocent to charges of child sexual abuse, Michael Jackson entertained fans by busting a few moves atop his SUV? I know what bothered him most when he got back home. It wasn’t the legal fees, the prospect of jail, or an eroding  fan base. Nope. He threw his glove on the nearest table, headed straight for the mirror, and began cursing over how much sun damage he must have suffered during his little roofwalk. See, I may not have a lot in common with the King of Pop, but neither of us seems to be a big fan of Sir Sol. Mike gets his sun protection from gangster hats and man-servants with umbrellas. I have to shop elsewhere.

Needing to stay as pale as Kidman and Dunst, I've turned to the kind of help one can only get from Australia, a sun-scorched continent loaded with melanin-challenged folks, and France, a country that will try anything for the sake of beauty.L'Oreal Paris produced one of the best sunscreen ingredients ever, and then named it the worst way. The magic ingredient is Mexoryl, loaded into L'Oreal's LaRoche-Posay brand, and called Anthelios. That is one tough combo of names for us to handle, what with our pronunciation skills pretty much maxed out at "B-a-n-a-n-a Boat." 

On the other hand, "zinc oxide" I have been saying since I was old enough to stare at dreamy, white-nosed life guards. When I discovered that Australians figured out a way to fracture the zinc into particles so small that they are invisible but still effective, I did my own dance. I have tested the ZO-1, but can't quite bring myself to buy the Megan Gale line. Something about a sun screen promoted by a woman so obviously in love with baby oil and a tanning bed. Now I have a new Stateside favorite: Sunforgettable by Colorescience.

The Two-Thirds Rule

The question began making the rounds at last year's Oscars. Was it possible that film audiences were actually appreciating terrific performances by actresses more than a day over 22? If so, then maybe women don’t need all of that plastic surgery, all those injections and peels. “Think of what just happened here,” the momentum grew. “Helen Mirren owned the Oscars. She took everyone’s breath away, and her face still looks every day its age. This just proves that a woman can, too, grow old in Hollywood.”

But then these people never thought of Helen and the Two-Thirds Rule. Most of us can manage to smile on occasion if we have somehow managed to make it in two out of three of life’s biggies. For example, happy at work and happy with the kids, but the marriage is, eh. Or the romance and work rocks, but offspring not so much. Whatever your cocktail, life clicks. The Two-Thirds Rule applies singularly, too: great body, great face, but insecure; or brilliant mind and decent appearance, but the body, well, don't get up. It's ok. For the most part, if we've got two, life can actually have its moments.

Mirren’s co-stars chattered about her in the days before the ceremony. They were saying, “OMG what she would do on the set - so funny!” and “Man, she has a bod under those Queen clothes.” We  saw the “bod” part. Her slim frame supported breasts that covered her entire rib cage. She didn’t need a face that melted hearts because the other two parts about her were so spectacularly wonderful that the spectacularly wonderful bubbled over and encased it all.

Catherine Deneuve also walked the red carpet, but she isn’t famous as a good time gal so much. Her 2/3s is different. Hers face became Marianne, the symbol of the French republic (recently replaced by French Victoria Secrets model, Laetitia Casta, in a harsh life version of Next). To maintain her role as the Great Beauty, Deneuve went to doctors for subtle work. There have been reports of the odd sounding gold thread lift and it looks like some upper eyelid work. And any lifelong smoker with a full lips is pumping something in. But other parts are noticeably au naturale, like the undereye bags, wrinkled neck, and soft chins.

Some Oscar bloggers thought Catherine looked great, but one could imagine only scary plastic surgery. It's understandable She has a tendency to knot up her face. This strained look might be because she doesn't seem to want to be filmed or photographed when animated. So out of some concern that she'll look grandmotherly (which she often does), she freezes up and looks fake.

Efforts to slow the signs of aging can landslide into efforts to stop all signs of aging, and that is when bad things happen. Deneuve once said that Botox for actresses is a mistake because without expression, one cannot act. Yet, her own need to it seems that her own need to continue in the role of the Classic Beauty reduces her to wax museum half-smiles and nods.

Still, I can forgive Deneuve anything. I can only imagine how my head would handle it if, for example, my face were on the Statute of Liberty. Yeah, big pain brattypants, for sure. Heck, maybe I could just settle for a Christian Lacroix gown and a pair of new boobs.

Thoroughbreds and Metallica

Look at this ad from Lucky. This is what jeans should look like. Women in skinny jeans always look (1) awful or (2) awful like thoroughbred racehorses: top heavy bodies poured into gawky awkward legs.

And what is with all the silver metallic. No one looks good in aluminum foil, not even a Triskelion, unless Star Trek trash is the effect you are after, actually. I mean, shoes, bags, and coats all look like the material is one swipe away from visible batting. Gold is barely any better but at least it works with skin color. If you are going to wrap yourself with a solar blanket-looking top coat, do yourself a favor and have the singlet, running shoe and marathon race number to go with it. Otherwise, buy the boobs and find yourself a nice Captain Kirk to settle down with for a few years. Yes, yes, life is short.