I had only one resolution for 2014 and it was to find out what Nicky and Alex Katsapoulis (of Full House fame) are doing now. But with the trusty aid of a very reliable search engine, I have already accomplished that resolution and in case you’re wondering, they’re both taking myriad selfies using what I imagine to be the most basic version of Photobooth on the market.
That leaves me with nothing else to do in preparation for 2014 (I might resolve to take more selfies on treadmills but use the athletic machinery less) so let me ask you a question. How many Best of ’13 stories have you read since Christmas came, went and left just the faint smell of pine to show for its fleeting omnipresence? How many of the anterior stories have looked back and in bidding farewell to the departing year, chosen to omit Miley Cyrus’ hanging from a wrecking ball? Or that big-ass foam finger? The verb twerk?
Have any of the stories pointed out that the heavy metal ball she notoriously swung from resembles the black minesweeping bomb that most of us spent the latter half of the 90s avoiding while seated across our desktop PCs?
Do what you want with that.
In reviewing last year’s version of what this post wants to be and noting the exorbitant number of 2013 recapitulations that have already started to surface, I was wickedly surprised to find that many of the superlatives handed out in the name of 2012 seem to fare just as well right now, a proper 367 days later.
Kale is still being consumed. A conversation continues to circumvent The Westashians (it was almost the year of North West but just as she was about to drop her mic, ye royal George picked it up), and, frankly, I haven’t kicked my trichotillomania farther than a baby can throw its pacifier. This, of course, presents another recurring issue: that resolving to resolve anything in the name of just our calendar’s flipping sheet is a futile but earnest effort at best, the most public form of lying to oneself at worst.
But we’ll get there — right now, we summate. In hyperbole.
If last year’s “it animal” was the panda (see again: Rob Pruitt, Jimmy Choo, thick black eye makeup), this year, in a capacity even more powerful than the time T.S Eliot wrote about them or subsequently when Broadway gave them an eight-year-headline, cats have ambled back into their throne — wagging tails, starburst asses — with the help of the automotive wizards at Uber, who handed out kittens earlier this year in celebration of a holiday I, for one, did not know exists.
While we’re continuing to compare and contrast, where last year may have been “all about” a wedge sneaker (and, I suppose, saying “all about”), Wendy Davis publicly announced with not words but a pair of pink and yellow cross-trainers that proper sneakers are not inappropriate outside exercise environs. As a matter of fact, refute a bill in them while addressing an entire political party! Why not! Yolo. Following Davis’ shining moment, Saint Laurent was all, yeah! And now, for $238 (on sale) you can look like the illegitimate offspring of Wendy Davis, Diane Keaton and let’s say Gene Simmons because why not.
You can also locate a new genre of “it shoe” wherever pumps are sold, pinky toes are numb, and ankles are cracking faster than middle-aged female backs do, which brings me to the next 2013 hit, an “it gesture” called Lean-ing In-ward.
For this, we have only one Sheryl Sandberg to either thank or blame depending on your frame of reference but potentially more interesting than her motion is the dissident leaning out that has come care of the iconoclasts unmarried to Yahoo wizards. The ones who don’t know Larry Page. Not well enough, at least, to call him “Lair” or expect that he will babysit.
The most compelling-to-observe game of musical chairs could have belonged to Alexander Wang when news initially broke that he would be Nicolas Ghesquière’s successor but in true champion style, the latter closed out the last fashion week season of 2013 announcing that in the wake of Marc Jacobs’ departure from Louis Vuitton, the French enormity would assume his position. And then we all cried joyous tears of Cristobal feather.
On the topic of shouts, murmurs, inflections and projections, “millennials are lazy” was probably said more frequently than any other three-word sentence but if anyone could prove the naysayers wrong it was Miley Cyrus, a technical member of the Gen. Y party, who can’t possibly be rendered lazy considering how popular her mere tongue became in the span of just the last eight months.
The most used e-acute (é) was the one that came at the end of Beyoncé’s name.
The year’s it-genital was the vagina once again. Proof of concept? The manifold bushes of Petra Collins, Gabby Hoffman, Lovelace and Gwyneth Paltrow’s spoken word.
Swiss chard may or may not be competing with kale on the superfood scale (which just goes to show that even the most powerful of behemoths can fall from grace) and ketchup lost many of its accoutrement lovers to Sriracha.
Now, I understand this nugget of information might appear irrelevant when discussing the year in review but consider this: that mere election, spicy over sweet — the arguably more difficult option over the layman confectionery we’re grown indelibly used to — indicates prolific change and advancement elsewhere. Only, though, where 2014 can tell.