Chainmail, cherries, and the Showgirl of all our dreams

Let's pick this thing back up.

It’s 5:11 am and I’m wide awake, likely still suffering the aftershocks of a recent car accident that has left me oscillating between a total lack of sleep and horrific nightmares where I’m forced to watch unspeakable acts committed on myself or people around me. And being stuck here again made me wonder what would happen if I tried to un-stick myself from another thing eating away at me recently which is: Why am I not writing?

I am, of course, writing a lot as a day job. Shopping and style are always ripe fruit, and being a reporter on the two is something I genuinely enjoy. It’s the personal that scares me lately, as I’ve dug my way into a comfortable corner where I don’t feel manic or depressed, I’m handling my anxiety with skill I didn’t know I possessed, and even the tragedies seem to sting a little less after the horror show of watching my dad die a slow and painful death to kick off the last quarter of 2023. What will I uncover, I worry, by blowing the lid off this opacity I’ve painted on one layer at a time and letting it all hang out a little more? Like the old times.

An acquaintance pointed this tendency out to me two years ago as I was bouncing between layoffs to corporate contracts. He insinuated I was being wasteful by insisting on finding stability in a full-time role — something you can only think of if there’s a backup plan for where your rent will come from — but he had a point in calling me out on my risk aversion with vulnerability. And to make the long overdue rebuttal to that point, here’s what I’ve been into lately in absolutely no order with the personal commentary I’ve been too shy to vocalize.

The Last Showgirl

I’ve long adored Pamela Anderson, and not in the Johnny-Come-Lately way like a lot of former chauvinists who always kneecap their praise with “hurrdurr man, I really underestimated her.” I always knew she was brilliant, and I’m ashamed on behalf of the people who ever doubted her. I’m not like other girls, actually; I have always loved hot women.

My best friend and I saw The Last Showgirl yesterday at Angelika Film Center, a place I’d forgotten is filled with cranky Manhattanites, but at least they know how to shut the fuck up in a theater. No one interrupted the film even for a second thanks to a combination of its tight-90 run time and captivating performances set against the seedy glitz of a casino theater.

Five years ago, I went to Vegas and did what you’re supposed to do: I drank Bloody Marys for breakfast at the hotel bar, dressed in trashy clothes to smoke cigarettes on the penny machines at the El Cortez, and squandered several hundred dollars on airport slots after having four-ish goodbye cocktails at the TGIFriday’s near my gate. It kicked off a minor fixation on films shot in the city, and I spent the next year beefing up my consumption of them with Leaving Las Vegas, Showgirls, Honemoon in Vegas (the more Cage the better), et al.

There’s a specific brand of self-destructive romance you can glean from these stories, especially if you come from a bloodline bent on it. The aching ennui of unrealized potential looks dazzlingly sad beneath neon lights; the sand and mountains in the distance remind you this could easily be the end of the earth for someone trying to get there. All that stands between you and being picked apart by buzzards is a bottle too many or maybe a wrong turn on Fremont.

TLS nails this mood with startling accuracy. The plot is simple: Anderson’s character Shelly has danced in Le Razzle Dazzle for 30+ years, but her reign is coming to an end as the show is set to close. Interspersed with the dressing room vignettes and scenes from attempts at connection with the other characters, you see the breakdown of someone who has poured their life into doing what she loves while realizing the youth that made it love her back is long gone.

The dialogue-free montages of Anderson dancing on the strip in her rhinestoned denim jacket and Jamie Lee Curtis dancing on a casino platform while no one watches are where the movie shines for me. These moments feel devastatingly candid like peeking into the psyche of women who let their dreams of stardom supersede even basic survival, and they give space for the viewer to project their unrealized dreams onto the warm dreamscape of Nevada.

Anderson’s brilliance here is her ability to showcase Shelly’s deep immaturity and delusion in a way that feels like meta-commentary on the perceptions of her off-screen self she’s shattered over the past few years. She mostly stopped wearing makeup and started letting us see behind the curtain where she’s gardening and taking care of her animals, but plenty still see her as the bimbo archetype the 90s media was hellbent on painting her as. I hope this movie changes a lot of that for her, and I really hope she gets an Oscar nom for it.

Love Lies Bleeding

I finally watched this on New Year’s Day and will keep this short since John Waters already said everything that needed to be said about it: This should be required watching for anyone who loves women in the gay way. Goddamn.

Cherry red

I’m having a love affair with the color cherry red, especially in shiny, patent leather textures exemplified in pieces like this trench that calls itself “burgundy” but looks much more brilliant in photos to me – I’ll have to judge more closely when it arrives. See also: The Dingo boots I recently added to a Valentine’s Day gift guide for my day job that might be called “wine” but are definitely giving a brighter tone in person – plus they’re wildly comfortable. I can’t wait to wear them with Daisy Dukes all summer long.

The Housemaid

I read 60% of this book in one lie-down while trying to fall asleep recently, and I totally get why they’re making it into a movie that I heard might star Sydney Sweeney and Amanda Seyfried. It’s addictive, takes calculated but fun turns, and anyone who enjoys a good thriller should check it out now before Hollywood drops their take on it which I’ll try to accept for what it is, but I’m historically I am not a screen adaptation enjoyer.

Reading in general

I think I put away an embarrassingly low number of books last year, like maybe 20? 25? And for someone who is writing a book of her own at a frozen snail’s pace, one would think I’d be better at pushing myself to discover more literature. 2025 is the year I’m holding my ass to the fire on this one, and I fully plan on busting through my goal of 50 books by the time ol’ 39 comes knocking on my birthday door in December.

Recommended this one in my Instagram stories recently, but I dug What Alexander McQueen Can Teach You About Fashion and think anyone with a healthy curiosity for fashion history could do the same.

The medieval trend

This one is everywhere, I know. I’m even planning to add it to a trend guide I wrote pending some quotes from stylists & designers I still need to organize in the office this week. And I’ve seen the theories that this trend stems from a shift toward escapism, leaning into fantasy for inspiration, etc. etc…I think we’re all missing the major point here though which is chainmail just looks fucking cool.

If you want some of your own, I highly recommend you check out my friend Deanna’s handmade wares at Daggermoth Metals (shop here). I own three pieces that I love layering and adding to outfits like this silver, chainmail-esque ensemble from Toccin, and I can’t count the number of compliments they’ve elicited from strangers.

To compliment the pieces already in my wardrobe, I’m jazzing up my psychic vision board with rich, embroidered velvet pieces and flowing peasant dresses so I can live out my Guinevere Pendragon fantasy.

New York real estate

I would say this is something I’m really into right now, but it’s something I unfortunately have to be into right now. Our apartment is suffering the consequences of slumlords who never did a hot fucking minute of flood remediation when the sprinkler system failed 25 months ago — on Christmas Day — and I’m beyond sick of begging them to get this shit under control.

Luckily, enough clearly stated “we can sue you, you know” texts convinced them to hire a building manager who took two looks around the apartment and said point blank he’d force the landlords to pay for our move so we can get out. Now our only problem is: Where and how do we find a place that fits our standards without a $4k price tag? And yes, even most of the crumbiest parts of Bushwick – a neighborhood I love regardless – are asking near that right now.

This also means when we do manage to move sometime in the next few months, I’ll have undergone the upheaval of a dead dad, two dead dogs, two new-to-us senior chihuahuas, a new old name (I’m back to my birth name of Kelsey Legg again btw! Have been for months but still haven’t changed my name here! Never changing my name again!!!) a car-totaling accident (no fault on our part) and a new car to replace it, a new job, moving into new office at said job, and about a hundred and fifty gajillion life shifts in approximately 18 months. I don’t like sedatives but even typing out the abbreviated history of change in my life right now makes me want to pop a Valium.

Anyway, that’s all for now, so I’ll leave you with a photo my dear friend Mike took of me when I was hungover and reeling from being t-boned on our way into town while visiting home from Christmas. You can almost see the swelling start to build in my lip where the airbags smacked me in the face, but more importantly, you can see the indignance start to settle in as I realize maybe it’s never going to be my year after all.

Byyyyeee