Evelyn
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Evelyn
Posts: 55
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01.Jul.08, 12:28 EDT
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27.Jun.08, 12:04 EDT
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24.Jun.08, 13:48 EDT
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20.Jun.08, 13:48 EDT
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17.Jun.08, 11:35 EDT
- My Name
- Evelyn McDonnell
- Occupation
- writer
- About Me
- Evelyn McDonnell is the author of several books and a widely published freelance writer. She is currently the editor at large of www.MOLI.com, where she previously served as editorial director. Before that she was the pop culture writer at The Miami Herald for six years. She is the author of three books: Mamarama: A Memoir of Sex, Kids and Rock 'n' Roll, Army of She: Icelandic, Iconoclastic, Irrepressible Bjork and Rent by Jonathan Larson. She coedited the anthologies Rock She Wrote: Women Write About Rock, Pop and Rap and Stars Don't Stand Still in the Sky: Music and Myth. A former senior editor at The Village Voice and associate editor at SF Weekly, her writing on music, poetry, theater, and culture has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies, including Ms., Rolling Stone, The New York Times, Spin, Travel & Leisure, Us, Billboard, and Option. She published and edited the zines Resister and OK Go Now. She codirected the conference Stars Don't Stand Still in the Sky: Music and Myth at the Dia Center for the Arts in New York in 1998.
Evelyn's 2004 Herald expose on hip-hop cops, written with Nicole White, was awarded first place for enterprise by the South Florida Black Journalists Association and second place in the Society of Professional Journalists' Sunshine State Awards. It's included in the DaCapo anthology Best Music Writing 2005. Evelyn also received a second-place Sunshine State award that year for criticism. In 2003, a Herald series on changes in the music industry received third place in the business category of the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors competition. Her '96 cover story for Option on PJ Harvey was named best interview in a magazine by the Music Journalism Awards.
Evelyn lives in Miami Beach with her husband, Bud, her stepdaughters, Karlie and Kenda, her son, Cole, their dog, Otis, and two cats, Paleface and Moonpie. - Interests
- White Stripes, Biscayne Bay, Shut Up and Sing, Cole
- Country
- United States
- School Name
- Brown University
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Nothing Toulouse
Unlike in Halle, Germany, people in Toulouse, France, have a lot more style. It's a real city, with an eclectic mix of fashion. There's a definite Moroccan flavor, a little Paris, a little Florida, and a lot Toulouse in the melting pot of fashion and people here.
In Toulouse right now in every store, there are sales (soldes in French) from 20 percent to 70 percent off. They are everywhere. From Sonia Rykiel to C+A to the side-street cheapie store, soldes, soldes, soldes. But with the dollar at a lovely all-time low here, even a fantastic sale is not necessarily a deal for us New York people who, in our minds, convert everything into dollars. We, the fashion obsessed, must find the fashion finds wherever we go.
There is a Wednesday market at the Capitol (Town Hall) Square here, but similar to many NYC street markets, it had a lot of same-y same stuff, albeit in a Toulouse way, such as genie-style pants and shorts. Yes folks, the MC Hammer low-crotch genie pant is in full swing here. There were generic tables of cheap jewelry and sunglasses, but as cheap as 5 euros seems for a shitty pair of sunglasses, when I can get them on the street in NY for $5, it just doesn't do it for me.
Then the thrift store search began. The overall best one I have seen so far is Le Grenier D'anais, which means "the attic of Anais," serving you clothes for women and men from 1900 to the 1990s, including men and women's accessories, gowns, costumes, coats, wedding dresses, uniforms, costumes hats, shoes -- you name it. Prices are totally fair and it makes more sense to spend 20 euros on a dress here, where you can get quality sweet duds closer to, if not totally, one of a kind, especially when compared to any of the MC Hammer pants at the market. I am going to go back to Le Grenier D'anais and continue my search, since the very sweet gal working (she was wearing an antique white slip as a dress) kicked me out (nicely of course) because she was going to lunch. Lunchtime is one to two hours here and meal times are taken very seriously. I would never want to stand in the way of a lady and her lunch.
Theo Kogan is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Fashion & Design. Her THEOlogy column appears Tuesdays and Thursdays. Every other Tuesday, she answers your questions with her tough-love advice. Send your questions via e-mail or here on MOLI. -
A Comforting Discovery
In the deep woods searching for a lost little boy a month ago, he subject of beds came up. We were trudging through the rocky terrain in the pitch dark (except for flashlights and headlamps, feeble in that kind of primordial, moonless night). "I can't wait to get back to my bed," said the woman to my left. We'd been deployed late to do the night shift and had eight hours to clear an area the size of Liechtenstein, if Liechtenstein was a mess of boulders and ravines with more coyotes you'd care to know about. Our quadriceps were screaming.
So when she said "bed," I suddenly got dead tired. But one of the rules of search and rescue is that you never complain. It's like a fireman saying, "God it's so hot," in the middle of a five-alarmer. Another rule: assume your subject is alive and that you will find him. Do not entertain thoughts that what you are doing is futile. So as we clambered down to the edge of the black lake we did not want to think the toddler was in, we naturally started talking about beds.
"And what kind of bed do you have?" I asked, to make the segue.
"A Malm," she said. "A king-sized birch-veneer platform bed with shelves that slide in and out of the headboard."
At three in the morning I couldn't quite grasp the concept of sliding shelves (a new feature), but I know the Malm. It's from IKEA and popular among those of us who love design but have bigger visions than budgets.
"Oh," I said, as we heard wild howling in the distance. "I'm considering buying that bed myself."
"Really?" she said. We came to an 7-foot drop along the shoreline. Pretend-casually, we swept the water below with our flashlights to rule out the worst. Nothing there.
"I had a great bed," I said as we lowered ourselves down to get a closer look. I smelled rotting wood, that fishy, gasoline-y lakeshore smell, felt water seep into my boots. "It was Pottery Barn. It was so sturdy, so solid."
"Sounds great," she said, as we scaled the bank back up. "What happened to it?"
"Had to get rid of it. It was the officially designated Marital Bed from the Marriage that Imploded."
"Got it," she said. "Like sleeping in the scene of the crime."
I was quiet. I was thinking how we all make these grand hopeful gestures, like buying beds, over and over again. As if we're obtaining a new island of saf