Honestly, I have to get better about writing these editor letters.

I’ve been confused about how to use this area of the site (Andrew and I had an editors’ meeting this week over drinks at the Cedar Tavern, once famous for hosting the likes of Frank O’Hara, Larry Rivers, the DeKoonings, now a middling bar on the NYU strip with a terrible menu and a sighting by a friend of Matt Damon walking in wearing celebrity-casual – turtleneck sweater, baseball hat, baggy pants – and shaking hands with the owner, then claiming ‘his’ booth; overheard conversation included the bartender saying ‘you keep bringing the celebrity traffic, we’ll keep supplying the booze’; sure, because people just flock to see Matt Damon, who somehow managed to make sex with Jude Law seem less appealing than battery with an oar; anyway, the point is we were there, discussing business, and we concluded these Letters from the Editors really need to start doing something) and with all my hesitancy to seem anything blog-like, I’ve been a pussy about updating.

Pussy no longer; welcome to the Rosecrans dish, updated frequently with much trying no doubt. No editing; no revision; subtle embellishment where necessary.

Anyway, of recent news, we have a big announcement coming this week about the appointment of a new contributing writer; look for it! Also, for you Gossip! subscribers, we’ve decided to suspend the emails for now, and will probably turn our celebrity-sightings into a separate area of the site. Don’t fear: we still adore celebrities, and have not lost our capacity for getting off on the occasional sighting (unlike some people, who simply sound ungrateful).

(Sighting from last week: I’m in the Apple store down in Soho with Glen to buy a Bluetooth U.S.B thingie so my cell phone can talk to my computer can talk to me and we can all have a well-rounded game of cancer in my groin, when we notice Steven Spielberg roaming around with a young boy [let’s call him Elliot] and a salesman. The salesman, we think, was clueless to the rather short and skinny director’s identity as the master of American sentimentalism [i.e., the actual American identity, God bless him], leading the salesman to ask, as Spielberg picked up his second iPod within ten minutes, ‘Are you into gadgets?,’ which Spielberg answered incredulously and loud enough for the store to hear, ‘Man… am I ever!’)

Worth reading, I think, if you’re at all interested in how and why personal web sites are published: Two interesting letters (1, 2) by two friends of mine explaining what the hell they’re doing while they wait for Binky Urban to call.

In other TMN news, look for another party soon, and the possible addition of staff photographers (very excited about this, but can’t say anything yet). The last party was too fun and too short, and it’s our opinion that most New Yorkers have recently gotten far too sober, with the word ‘tight’ taking on a completely reverse meaning from its more back-teeth-wetness, à la The Sun Also Rises.

Wedding planning is unlike any other ordeal, but when it comes to cake-tasting and trying to decide which wines to serve, utterly fine. Invitation must be finished this month; if you have designed your own, and found a great printer in the city, please let me know.

And finally, to complete a trip through self-indulgence, let me share a few recommendations of things I’ve found completely satisfying recently, almost to a transcendental a-sexual plane: taking your sister to a hipster bar in Greenpoint and sharing a rather deep family bond by slagging skanks; Sketches From a Hunter’s Album by Turgenev; a new breed of tie (new to me) by Zegna that swaps the branded loop for a small red thread and an embroidered label just below the first folds, thick enough silk to make a half-Windsor seem full; The Bachelorette; allowing the subscription to Vanity Fair to die; deciding not to move apartments just yet; loosening up; purging the bookshelves and CD case by items in the hundreds, and still not noticing a dent in the stacks.

It is beautiful in New York today, hope the same for wherever you’re reading this.


With love, bitchiness, and mixed spirituality,
Rosecrans