The Emaciation on Your Lasagna

Every once in a while, we like to remind you how things work at LasagnaFarm -- namely, how pieces are written and how LasagnaFarm makes money. If you've ever wondered whether the two are connected – whether LasagnaFarm editorial items are paid for -- allow us to shed some light up your dark house of cats.

The answer is no. We don’t make money. Not one red penny. Bubkus, you might say. But bubbe, we want to. We would gladly disguise an advertorial if you have a product and reasonable budget. We don’t come cheap (unless it’s a quickie in Britney's trailer) but we always deliver quality, like piping-hot pizza. The kind you eat so quickly that you burn your mouth and punch your brother. Our readership is highly attractive and the dream of marketers, if only they dreamed. Please review the demographics of our audience:

He’s 38, a retired internet millionaire, plays poker, and likes to buy a lot of shit.

That’s not a composite sketch of our “average reader” – it’s really just him. He splits his time between Brooklyn and Vegas. Super-cool dude. This is what we like to call our one-to-one brand-action-custom-content-delivery-fulfillment-handjob strategy.

Remember, LasagnaFarm's business and LasagnaFarm's editorial are two distinct processes. On the creative side, pieces are handwritten by third-graders. Our editors do a fantastic job of turning this copy into at least a 6th grade level. (But those fart jokes, man, they never get old.) Furthermore, one can, I repeat CAN, under ANY AND ALL circumstances pay to be featured in LasagnaFarm 's editorial. This play-with-fire-all-drunk-at-an-outdoor-frat-party perspective allows us to cuddle and maim the integrity, fun, and legitimacy of LasagnaFarm all at once. Above everything else, we don’t give a shit about trust and deeply hate ourselves as well.

When we write about something, it's because we thought about it, like it, probably gave us an erection, and think you might like it too. It's that simple.

With that in mind, please check out Concrete Classics because no home, apartment, garden, or office cubicle is complete without a concrete chess table. It’s the holidays people, just buy one for your dad to show you don’t hate his fucking guts.

Sincerely,

The LasagnaFarm Team


(OK Josh, we want two weeks at the Sag Harbor digs. Thanks.)

Everything Is Regurgitated
(camera phone loaned by Dens)

In the fall after his 8th year in NYC, Anders Suffren Krucov journeyed, at last, to the Conde Nast building at 4 Times Square with a faded, probably doctored, photograph of Graydon Carter and Si Newhouse, Jr. He was hoping to find the woman, known only as “The Anna,” who saved his grandfather from virginity during the red carpet bombing of London. He intended to write a non-fictional account of this experience, but he returned to the Lower East Side deeply disappointed, having found next to nothing. Adding incest to perjury, Anders turned his tale into a miraculously boring work of shit. . .

Nothing was left to chance. Scrolls were read, colons cleansed, extra medication was taken. I even called in sick to work and sought advice from the one man who could tell it to me straight, so to speak.

Dear Choire,

I've waited years for this and finally a friend at Teen Vogue has invited me to lunch at the Conde Nast cafeteria tomorrow. I've always considered this hallowed ground and of course I want the afternoon to go just perfect! Do you have any advice in terms of preparation or peculiar rules of table etiquette, behavior, etc?

Moochas Garcias,
In-It-2-Wintour


Dear In-It-2-Wintour,

First, it's important that you know that Felix the Grill Man is back for good. Do not point or stare. Say hi, he'll ignore you and check out your friend.

Second, the menu makes NO SENSE; the different food stations will be very confusing to you. Follow, always follow. It's easiest that you're a man – always gesture women to go ahead of you. There'll probably be some featured crazy chef or special exotic nationality, like Mexican food. Or maybe a Yoplait tasting again. That was hilarious.

Third, don't forget that they use something called Conde Dollars there. Don't try using your real money.

If the New Yorker girls see you, don't let on that you're with a Teen Voguer.

Also, please try to find out what all that champagne was doing there the other day. What the hell party was that for?

FOR GOD'S SAKES MAN, DRESS WELL! That is all that matters. And be polite, and take pictures for me with your camera phone.

c.




Reproduced here, the hero initiates his quest to meet premium girls and to break his cherry of Conde into pieces of million. Guru’s advisory in head, he is resplendent in wall-to-wall clothing from such dwellings of fashion as Commes de Garcon, APC, and Fred Perry.



I arrive at CN HQ around 1:30pm, much later than I intended, and also sweatier than I hoped. I didn’t really need that v-neck sweater under the coat look. I was going for “New Yorker” but I think it came across grad-school Jew dorker, which of course draws a very fine line of distinction. I should also mention I traveled by cab from downtown to avoid the slightest trace of subway stench. I was told it could set off fire alarms in certain rooms.

After I was strip-searched for the imitation label check, I met my friend on the Teen Vogue concourse. It was quite a scene. Hilary Duff was there to discuss her first gynecologist visit and the beauty editor offered me samples of Christina Aguilera’s new perfume which I can only describe as smelling like lilac-fused-diapers. Much discussion surrounded on Teen Vogue’s take on the Michael Jackson story. One staffer, suffering from hyperbole-extension, opined, “I think we should use ‘babyfucker’ in a headline.” Ixnay on the muy mal hombre hub-bub, too depressing I thought and we got the hell out of there. My friend then gave me a quick tour and prepped me on the basics of this underground society which is really above ground in a shiny high-rise with its own swanky cafeteria, nutritionist, nurse, bank machines, and free condoms. I dutifully paid attention but I wasn’t here to digest architecture; I was hungry like Tom Wolfe.



Just as we get out of the elevator on the cafeteria floor we run into my friend’s co-worker who I wrote a really filthy Friendster message to once but had never met before. Fortunately, my Commes de Garcon jacket exudes a certain refined class and I was able to maintain a sober face when I told her I was drunk and stoned when I wrote it. I took this opportunity to break out the candid camera-phone. Apparently the chicks are still cranking Ugg boots. I’m sure every wordplay variation of “Ugg” has been done so I won’t even attempt. Instead, I will make a convoluted reference I’m certain no one has connected to this fine footwear. OK, whenever I see Ugg boots I can’t help but picture some long-haired dudes in a Southern California basement during the early 70’s getting totally baked and freaking out to Pink Floyd’s Ummagumma.




Here we go. The myth is shattered right out of the gate, much like bull riding competitions when the beast’s balls are noosed and tazered to set off the frenzied bucking. Just look at this frumpy group of women!! I was convinced it was either Harpoon’s Bazaaro Day at CN or maybe, like punishment for riding in an elevator with Anna Wintour, a hex was put on me that portal’ed my ass to the cafeteria of some city government agency. This resembles feeding time on the farm and the trough was getting quite mucked-up. Get a load of the one feeling her ass to make sure it hasn’t fallen off yet. Yes dear, one sweet potato will do, please keep moving. (I’m sorry, was that too harsh? Let me make it up to you. The one on the far right is fuckin’ huuuuge.)




And here is my meal for the afternoon. I felt extremely fortunate to take part in “Thanksgiving Dinner” Day. God bless CN exec management, an employee-conscious team that knows it’s never too early to say “thanks.” Or, “just expense it.” Despite the turd-like appearance of this plate, it really was delicious. My compliments to the chef. I was also shown Felix the Grill Man though I would not venture too close. I wanted to sneak in a camera-phone shot of him but that look on his face, I feared it would steal MY soul.



Now, I attempted to walk around and get all hidden camera on these folks but like I said before, it was late and our chow time crowd on Friday was a bit sparse. Also, I soon found out that taking pictures with a camera phone while walking makes for very blurry images. Here is one such example. I tried to capture a group of lunching girls but I only got this fuzzy redhead.

Not pictured are some girls seated in the booth beside us on the “catwalk” gabbing away about the previous night’s White Stripes show. Please eavesdrop with us and enjoy this tasting of guiltless, fat- (and irony-) free yammering.

"My friend had VIP seats but she was forced to give them up to James Spader and his girlfriend."

"No. Wait. You saw Kate Moss? What was she wearing?"

“There was also Famke Janssen, Jim Jarmusch, Juliette Lewis…”

"Well at least you had a seat. I had to stand scrunched next to four 40-year-old Ernst & Young guys blowing pot smoke in my face. And that's not all, to my left was an 8 year-old propped on his dad's shoulders singing every word to every song."

Terrifying, isn’t it? I couldn’t listen to much more. While my friend was still gossip-distracted I tried to take an up-skirt photo of her from under the table. Naturally it turned out all black, though I don’t think it was a lighting issue.




Please admire the hero as he reads an A-1 book in lost attempt to exhibit his extreme scholarship. Momentarily he will journey home to shit bricks and manufacture Z’s. Now is a befitting time to mention individual glass slabs posterior to the hero expenses $20,000 per each.




Yawn Factor 10. I apologize, this is just a picture of the rotating tray drop-off machinery-mabob. Not much to comment about. I briefly thought of the show, As The World Turns.




Everyone gets a voice at Conde Nast. It may be molded, dictated, and revised a hundred times but you do get a voice. For example, there is a community comments board where employees are free to sound off about the cafeteria. Here, someone obviously health-, calorie-, or cash-conscious reminds us that size really does matter. Note the subliminal message rumored to be the mantra of anyone without a VP or higher title: “We Fear You!” To all interns (especially Lucky’s), you should probably write that down.



One last shot and then this lemon joyride is so over. I had to take a picture of this girl on my way out. The white jacket, black fuck-me boots, knee-low skirt, cellphone, blonde hair, most likely lives in Gramercy Park – she is the statistical mean of a composite sampling of all Conde Nast employees. (Margin of error is plus or minus five pounds.)

So, was this an over-hyped description of a boring afternoon with crappy pictures? Of course, but such treatment is sometimes deserved for a place where sleekly dressed wannabe divas stroll into work late with the excusable explanation of a morning pit stop at last Thursday’s Steven Alan sample sale only to open their email and learn each employee can take a 1/2 day for holiday shopping. Golden. Farewell my pretties, I now leave your never, never-look-her-in-the-eye-land with fondue memories and a complimentary copy of Teen Vogue.