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Cary Randolph Internets Cary Randolph Fuller, WASPy relative of Jefferson, is supposedly a “Fashion Editor for Ralph Lauren”. We all know her wonderful ability to ramble on incoherently about nothing. Now she steps it up with her latest attempt to sound like Harper Lee on LSD: Recurring themes.Summer morning, somewhere in Suburbia, open the front door of a red brick bungalow, walk down a short flight of steps, bare feet. He’s waiting in the driveway, standing next to the car, watching. I don’t know where we are going. I think we are married but am not certain if we are happy or have resigned ourselves to a lifetime of almost. Indian summer evening, or maybe late spring, the in-between seasons, the end of a long sloping lawn that overlooks the water. Barefoot again. Sometimes pregnant, sometimes just wearing a dress with a very full skirt, and the wind picks up the skirt and makes it billow around me. Holding a watery highball full of something cold and undefinable. Shade my eyes against the sun and trudge up the hill to the patio, perhaps to rejoin a party, and there are a lot of children running around. Maybe ten years from now. Long hair in a braid like it never really is. Entrances, knowing glances, entire conversations exchanged with eye contact and not a single word, parties on flagstone terraces and in overcrowded living rooms or sometimes just two of us driving somewhere or working in the same house but in different rooms. Stillness, the smell of gardens after thunderstorms, sand in the sheets, skin, depression, the sound of taffeta skirts, that feeling of knowing that he has betrayed me and not letting him know that I know, the canopy created by leafy branches over a two-lane road, a Dutch door painted blue, books on the nightstand. Wake up at the same time in the middle of the night and reach out to make sure the other is still there. Can someone please explain to me WHAT THE F*** THIS IS? Why does she try so hard to force this weird writing style? Why can’t she just write something straightforward, something with a point? This is like listening to a wristwatch so long it starts sounding like words. Does she just throw word magnets on her fridge and then copy down the result? It’s not even 10 am and I already want a drink after trying to sort out this drivel. Stick to talking about how white and old family you are, sweets. Cary Randolph Fuller, more American than you, has finally snagged a coveted summer season trip to the OMG HAMPTONS: Heading east today for the first ever (in-season) trip to the Hamptons. Something tells me it will be more fun than it was in February. I will honestly never get the whole pants pissing over the Hamptons. It’s fun for a couple of years from college till about 25. Then you can do the young hot bikini drunk girl blowout party scene. But during the stretch between party’s over 25 and long beach walks while reflecting on your divorce 45, unless you have kids or something, it’s just a place where you can score an overpriced meal and spend a few hours on the beach. Poop, you can do that on Coney Island. Anyway, Mandolph is going. I’m sure the Further Lane set will delight in her humblebragging about her lineage while she scans the room for eligible old family men, or drinks crap beer by the pool in her monokini.
Cary Randolph, related to important people, knows from international glamour. As a WASP she is a taste making expert on everything from how to name your child to how to dress for a European vacation; from bragging about your family tree to bragging about going to free promotional polo matches. In between her weekend trips to Newport to stare longingly at yachts and rich white people, Cary likes to write overwrought semi-autobiographical posts in which she tries to make it sound like she grew up watching her parents throw formal dinners for the Astors. Autumn 1997. Princess Diana had just died, and Sir Elton released this song as a B-side to his tribute called “Candle in the Wind 1997”. I remember listening to it in my bedroom and practicing the slow dance. My first glimpse of real international glamour. This video does not dispute said glamour. Starring, among other muses, a young Kate Moss and younger Sophie Dahl, it speaks to a cocktail hour sexiness. Who is going home with whom? Men, ladies, ladies, men. The style is so ‘Nineties and yet timeless, and when I watch it, I am transported back to that moment: the fall of my thirteenth year, the first time I ever craved a martini, red lipstick, and a slingback heel. There’s a bit at the 2:30 minute when two models-cum-party guests do what looks like an improvised choreographed dance move, and to this day—thirteen years later—when I hear the first chords of this song, whenever I walk into a room full of people dressed to the nines, that scene flashes before my eyes—all the skin and the piano and the clinking highball glasses, and I am a teenager again and also, somehow, ageless, and twirling and dancing. This is a post about an Elton John song. She can’t just say she liked the song as a teenager and omgtotally forgot about it but here it is. She has to wrap it in some weird Algonquin cocktails and languid dilettantes fantasy to make herself sound like a classy dame. Can she please just go plant herself in Newport or Maine and find herself an obscure Kennedy to marry already? Or just retire all this sad wannabe social posturing and try-too-hard writing? Surely all this posing is giving her a back ache by now.
Cary Randolph Fuller, midwestern New England country girl rich WASP, is busy planning her “6 Dollar Margarita Party So We Can All Get On Guest of a Guest Again” event. I guess the First Family turned down her invitation: Oh well, there are sure to be plenty of warm bodies there, getting drunk and exchanging twitter names. Maybe we will get lucky and some of the old guard like Peter Feld and ThatGirlAllison will make an appearance! She’s too busy to worry about such things for long, anyway. She is faced with a million decisions and last minute details: With almost 100 people confirmed to attend on facebook, this is sure to be the event of the 3 hour period between dinner and doing awesome Manhattan nighttime Crap. I eagerly await the coverage in the NY Times, Rolling Stone, random tumblrs, GOFG, Famegame, Village Voice, and Gawker! Cary “I’m a WASP, I swear!” Randolph was happily pushing her “check me out in Newport, I’m totes from Newport, hanging in Newport, ps I’m white” agenda when finally someone mentioned to her that her ACTUAL place of origin had been wiped off the map. Cary rushed to show her support! I’ve always loved that dusty outlaw look of the American West – the blue jeans,concho belts, six-shooter holsters, and tobacco-chewing bad attitude. But lately, in the aftermath of my hometown’s destruction, that love has turned into a bona fide craving. Joplin is an outlaw town: site of Bonnie and Clyde’s infamous hideout and a legendary hitching post of Jesse James, its people are stoic, proud, and fiercely independent. Distrustful of all but the smallest government, yet warmly hospitable to any out-of-towner. “You must not be from ‘round here,” is followed by, “Need a beer?” In this rare moment of hometown pride, I find solace in the sartorial: pull on theCrap-kickers, the faded tee, and wish I had a shotgun to fire at beer cans on a Friday night. Or a wide front door to welcome everyone inside. I’m sure Joplin, MO is just delighted that you put down your pathetic attempts to convince everyone you are east coast old money for 24 hours, just so you could have a “rare moment of hometown pride”. That’s not at all uppity and condescending or anything, Mandolph. You may remember Cary Randolph. She was that 6 foot tall blonde who came to NY to skateboard and go to Brooklyn Flea – and intern for NonSociety or something. Well, now Mandolph lives in Rhode Island – or maybe Missouri I don’t know or care anymore – writing blog entries like this: On archetypes. Frigid princesses with hair as cold and smooth as a vodka gimlet and eyes that could chip diamonds. No warm smiles here but total composure: a straight back, an arched brow, and a smile reserved for special occasions. We all have our standards of perfection, and I, who came of age at the height of minimalism and spent her teenage years memorizing Great Expectations, have long fought a Sisyphean battle against my natural lack of restraint. If Jessica Schroeder Quirk is making any plans to pen some best selling novel based on being a Midwestern girl who moved to NYC, then left again, I wish her luck. But the truth is that story has already been lived and told via a thousand tumblrs. Stop thinking you’re so special, dumbass. Since it came up in comments, I thought I’d throw out a post on Cary Randolph,writer, sartorial person, shirt-as-dress wearer. Several months ago she locked up her twitter, and since then I haven’t paid much attention to her. Yesterday she came up in the comments, with juliaspublicist asking the question on all our minds: whatever happened to Scary Mandolph? It seems Cary has left New York City. From her tumblr: slowlybecoming asked: Wait a minute? Did you move? Are you no longer a New Yorker? Moved to Newport, R.I. and love it! To quote John Cougar Mellencamp, I can breathe in a small town. Yes it seems Mandolph could no longer hack being a minnow in a shark tank and hauled her duds to a place she could really fit in. She is apparently now working “at a fancy new boutique hotel right in the middle of Thames Street” in Newport, Rhode Island. I wonder if she is OMG loving it as much as she implies; as of Sunday, over a month after her move, she is still talking about NYC and why she left: As if I could answer this in one blog post! Newport pros: It’s the best beach town in the world. I ride my bike everywhere, I run around like an extra in Dazed & Confused, and I can actually save some of the money I make because it does not cost fifty dollars to just leave my apartment. I’ve lost five pounds since I moved here! I’ve made great friends! I’m so healthy and active! Newport cons: It’s a small isolated New England town with a year-round population of 26,000, not ideal for a single twenty-something chick. My best girl friends are at least four hours away. I’m missing all the parties, and it costs eight dollars just to leave and return to the island. New York City pros: It’s the greatest city in the world! I walk everywhere, and I run around like an extra in … a movie about twentysomethings getting rowdy in New York City. I didn’t mind being a little fatter because I was eating the best food all the time! The Brooklyn Flea! Styley parties! Rooftops! New York City cons: Fucking kill myself every time I check my bank balance. Dudes don’t want girlfriends because there’s always a(nother) dime piece right around the corner. I lived in a shoebox. What’s a girl got to do to get a little fresh air in this town? Where’s all the nature? Where’s the beach? So there you have it. She most likely won’t be showing up here again, since desk clerks at beach town hotels are really not part of what we cover. I wonder what happened to her writing career…
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Where Did Mandolph Go?
