And the Winner Is....

WHITNEY THOMPSON IS THE WINNER OF AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL!!!!!!!!

After contestant Fatima Siad was eliminated, models-in-the-making, Anya and Whitney, strutted their stuff head-to-head in a Versace fashion show. I was shitting my pants with excitement, hoping Whitney would pull through. And she did! SHE WON!

High fashion hopeful, Anya, though talented, didn't deserve the title. Girlfriend looked sort of busted and sounded like a retarded panda when she spoke. She's still gets our props, though:

CONGRATULATIONS, WHITNEY!

Celebreality

Celeste is at home, shaking in the austere cold of her Manhattan apartment. Although chic, Celeste's shoe box isn't presentable to the city's social elite that she entertains. Her friends, all students at NYU and The New School, are regular twentysomethings by day, writing papers and taking tests just like the rest of us. But by night, they are party girls: stick-thin, beautified glamour gods in their own right. Celeste, though, could hardly be considered stick-thin. Though she dresses and acts like her attractive, city-conquering cohorts, Celeste constantly battles her insecurities. While her friends spend their day in class before heading to Butter for drinks with their [much older] male escorts, Celeste can't bring herself to leave the bathroom of her [still] freezing apartment. She stands in front of her floor-length mirror, naked and exposed, shaping her spare tire, pushing and pulling it until her stomach turns bright red. She's ashamed of the cheeseburger and fries she'd eaten last night, since it's quite literally gone to her thighs. She's embarrassed, unable to embrace her womanly figure. She wonders why she can't simply ignore her cravings like her friends. "I need food," she tells herself, her head bowing in disappointment, her hair tied back in a ponytail, greasy and unkempt. But she can only contemplate her body issues for so long, as it's now 8:00 PM and she's due at Cipriani for drinks in an hour.

Incredibly, Celeste begins her transformation. She springs out of the bathroom and swings open her closet door. Though most consider picking out an outfit a considerably difficult thing, to Celeste, it is an ordeal. Minutes later, her room is covered in a sea of designer treasures - Yves Saint Laurent blouses, black Prada pencil skirts, Comme de Garcons jackets, and enough Chanel accessories to sustain a third world economy cover the hardwood floor. After an ensemble is chosen, her next job is to apply herself. Literally.

She plants her ass firmly onto her vanity chair and lays out her tools - brushes, mascara, and what appears to be seventeen different shades of lipstick, each compatible with her various looks. Celeste is a chameleon. She reinvents herself each and every night. Madonna doesn't have shit on Celeste.

After applying her foundation, Celeste twists the top off her Dior mascara, minding her manicured nails, and slowly and mathematically decorates her eyes. "One, two, eyes open, three, four, perfection," she chants. She enjoys a dark, harsh eye.

Next, her lipstick. She settles on a Chanel rouge hydrabase - a cherry red blend that claims to last for hours. She applies it directly across her upper lip, and paints a swift line across the bottom one. blot. a tissue is used to remove excess from the sides of her mouth, something that typically escapes her, and now focuses on her hair.

The bathroom is now covered in a mist of hairspray. Celeste curls her hair, pushing it up into a modern 1980s inspired 'do. She cracks a smile and escapes to her bedroom to slip into her costume for the evening.

Black, opaque tights make their way up her perfectly shaven legs, a bit tight, but fitting nevertheless. A white, ruffled blouse which buttons in the front is put on next, taken from YSL's 2007 fall season. Next, shoes. Celeste, much like Carrie Bradshaw of "Sex and The City", is forced to place her foot ornaments against the bedroom door, as her closet could only house twenty-two pairs of her well-crafted, leather items. After a lengthy deliberation, a pair of black, Giuseppe Zanotti double buckle mary janes make the cut.

After draping her neck in black and white pearls and slipping on a chunky red Lanvin bangle, the outfit is complete. As she pours her wallet, loose change, cigarettes, tampons, and condoms (just incase) into her quilted Chanel bag, she has just enough time to hail a cab on sixth avenue. "West broadway, please. I'm going to cipriani," she explains to the driver. "Yes, Ma'am. Hey, you look beautiful," he gushes. "Oh?" Celeste inquires, "I just sort of threw this together." And with a quick smile and a sigh of relief, the night is just beginning.

"Henceforth, you are FIRESTARTER!"

I've never been good with introductions, so I'm just going to jump right in.

My name is Jake, but I go [almost exclusively] by Firestarter. Last year, while at a bar in The Meatpacking District, a 60-year-old Hungarian disk thrower approached me, drunkenly, and insisted that I go by the name Firestarter. I don't know about any of you, but when a drunk, seven-foot-tall viking tells you to do something, you do it. The name's stuck ever since.

I'm from Los Angeles, California, and the youngest of five children. We're Jewish. All I need is Sarah Jessica Parker and a general conflict and I've got myself a 90s romantic comedy. I know, right?

My mother, Barbara, is a woman of many layers. Ruthless, lovable, dripping in diamonds and red sweater vests from Saks, Barbara is a woman who enjoys glamor and green tea drinks from local LA eateries. She enjoys traveling, film, writing, and sporting various haircuts of GlamRock from the 1980s. Currently, she's rocking "the Bret," inspired by the incredible Bret Michaels.



My father, a doctor based in Downtown, is a simple man. He spends his days watching Fox News and playing bongo drums. He likes washing his car in very tiny swim trunks and running away from people.

Picture later.

I've always liked writing. For a while now, my interests have extended into the entertainment field, with a minor interest in fashion. I've contributed to several local papers and school-related bullshit, but in two weeks, I will begin an internship with US Weekly. Um, I know, you're jell. It's cool.

I will be posting my writings on daily life in NYC and LA, respectively, fashion-related events and mishaps, nights out and nights in, and the general fabulousness of my existence. Only, sometimes, it's a bore. And when nothing's going on, just read my very good friend Courtney's blog. It's cute.

More later.

But, for now, I leave you with a photo taken during Halloween of 2007. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, my beacon of light, costume designer and creative diety, Pat Field: