You gotta start somewhere. I started here.

When my niece graduates from Stanford this spring, she knows exactly what she wants to do next: sustainable fashion. Huh? That doesn’t mean recycling potato sacks into evening dresses — Irys much prefers to use discarded scraps of fabric. May I brag: She was not only in a New York Times fashion spread over the weekend, she styled the photos of Stanford’s other cutting edge designers. She’s even got an agent — me.  

New York is Media Central, and that’s the problem — we’re inundated with information. One solution: a curator (the Head Butler idea). Happily, some smart friends have created Sign Off (The Last Email of the Day). On weeknights, they give you short takes on 3 important news stories you may have missed, 3 biggies coming up tomorrow, and 3 suggestions for insomniacs. Weekends? These clever lads have engaged me to do a Friday night “weekend edition.” Useful? Fun? Surprising? All of the above. I’m psyched. Subscribe here.

I am a connoisseur of stupid commercials, but the holiday Sprint commercial stands knees and ankles below the dumbest. The set-up: two neighbors, one standing in front of his holiday-lit house, one — Mr. Asshole — standing in the street. Mr. A has just texted that his neighbor’s house is an eyesore. And he has just e-mailed that his neighbor’s holiday card is ho-ho-rendous. For the neighbor, what was said is all that matters. Mr. A only cares that Sprint gives him one low price for lots of features.

December brings “screeners” — DVDs of new films that the producers and studios consider award-worthy. This year’s crop is a stone bore; only “The Fighter” has grabbed us. Go out to a film? Same story. With one exception so far: Mike Leigh’s “Another Year.” It seems almost like a throwaway: a happy couple in their 60s, their less happy friends and family, their “dark horse” of a son. But we watched it as if it were the car chase in “The French Connection,” and, days later, scenes still flash us back. It’s the only grown-up film for grownups out there, which may explain why it was beloved at Cannes, on “ten best” lists here and beloved by those who are lucky enough to live in cities where it’s playing. 

John Weidman and I were friendly at college, and we live in the same city, but we’ve taken different paths — he writes musicals with Stephen Sondheim, I stick to print — and we’ve rarely seen one another in four decades. So I was delighted when Harvard Magazine asked me to write a short profile about John. Here it is.

I don’t watch “Glee,” but my wife and daughter do, and my wife drags me in to watch any scene that involves the gay kid. We shake our heads at how enlightened the show is. Who’d a thunk it? Here is a duet, traditionally male-female, now sung by two males — on Fox, no less. Welcome to America, 2011.

If you’ve ever been tempted to roll blind dice with me, do it now — the Kanye West CD, "My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy," is that good. It inspires the kitchen sink of adjectives — symphonic and synthesized, eloquent and vulgar, self-lacerating and gloriously ego-driven, menacing and titanic, studded with guest stars and resoundingly solo. But it is also the most unified, orchestral piece of music I’ve heard this year; it’s an old-fashioned album. (And haunting — play it a few times, and you’ll find yourself humming the melodies.) Late at night, behind alcohol or a sativa booster, you’ll find it trippy, exalted, and, yes, very very sexy. Can rap be beautiful? This CD is proof it can be gorgeous. [To buy the CD from Amazon, click here.To download the MP3, click here.]

That’s the opening of ‘The Tree of Life,’ written and directed by Terence Malick. 

This season, it looks as if “everyone” who doesn’t already have an iPad will be getting one. Know this: The iPad isn’t fragile, but it does need some protection. And there is your chance to make yours…special.

At last week’s auction of Dominick Dunne’s furniture and memorabilia, we bought two blue damask-covered club chairs. They came yesterday, and we were, initially, delighted. Then we noticed that, in our living room, they seem small — they’d go better in a bedroom. Alas, we don’t need them there. So we want to find a new home for them. The text in the online catalogue: TWO VICTORIAN-STYLE UPHOLSTERED CLUB CHAIRS. Each with damask-pattern printed upholstery trimmed with bullion fringe, on turned legs; 28 1/2 x 26 1/2 x 29 1/4 in. and 28 3/4 x 28 1/2 x 28 in. Estimate: $400-$700. Sold at $550. Which is exactly what we’d like to sell them for. To see a dark picture of them, go to Stair Galleries. Click on past auctions. The Dunne auction is up top. This was lot #111. To see a lighter photo or to buy them, write me at HeadButlerNYC@AOL.com. 

They’re smallish. The cushions need restuffing; the leather could use some patching. But they have a certain charm and elegance. And they must go — their replacements are arriving today. No reasonable offer refused? Hey, we’ll take an unreasonable offer! Write me at HeadButlerNYC@AOL.com.

 “I was arrested in Brasov on my way to school,” his book begins, and right there, right at the start, you know that nothing good follows. Jacques Sandulescu was 16, and tall, and very strong, but there were many with an equal will to live who died in the hell of the Ukrainian coal mines. You can read about his all-but-impossible triumph in his remarkable book, Donbas: A True Story of an Escape Across Russia, but what you can’t get from the book is the sweetness of the man he would become. I met Jacques when I was young and lost, and much in need of a role model, and he helped me locate the best parts of myself — no small gift. His wife, Annie Gottlieb, writes of his death: “Friends were here, we kept Jacques with us overnight. This morning before the mortuary men took him, I put my hand on his chest, and there was still warmth over his heart.” That last bit — I’m totally unsurprised. 

Paul Simon slapped up a Christmas song — not cloying holiday cheer, but definitely something to cheer about — on www.paulsimon.com.

For those who have the stomach for these things, I have an Open Letter to Michelle Obama on Huffington Post.

This is what Stevie Winwood was up to. A rare video. Do crank the volume.