Sporting Goods: Sean Avery

Say what you will about the Devil and her Prada-wearing ways, Anna Wintour knows how to surround herself with handsome men. (Anna and I are actually similar in a lot of ways: We share impossibly straight hair and a weakness for jocks.) When she's not cavorting around Europe with Roger Federer, she's back at the Conde Nast headquarters bossing around her NHL star intern, Sean Avery of the New York Rangers. Avery, who pleaded for the internship to satisfy his lifelong clothes obsession, has quickly warmed up to all of those internlike responsibilities, like posing for a 10-page fashion spread, writing music reviews, keeping a daily blog and guest-editing the Men's Vogue Web site. (Reminds me of my intern days!)

Avery shoots -- and scores -- with posts like this:
My day job requires everyone on the team to wear shirts and ties to all home and away games as well as on the team plane, and I'll say it right here: The New York Rangers are probably the best-dressed team in pro sports. (I'll only take some credit for that.) For my first day on the job at Vogue, though, I wore my usual New York City dinner attire -- jeans, limited edition Nikes, a Raf Simons dress shirt, and a bow tie. First up was getting my ID card and my company email address after a brief meeting with the magazine's managing editor, Laurie Jones. As I saw it, this meeting was called to find out if I was actually here to work or just to meet girls. I assured Ms. Jones that I was here to work -- to see what really went into running a legendary fashion magazine -- and in return I would make minimum wage and check in with her weekly.

And then it was lunchtime. The cafeteria in the Conde Nast building -- which houses Vogue and Men's Vogue and Vanity Fair and The New Yorker and about every other magazine you've ever heard of aside from The Hockey News -- is filled with some of the best-looking and best-dressed women in New York. Even aside from that distraction, my first attempt at getting lunch didn't go so well. You see, I needed two trays to hold my plates of beef stroganoff and my salad (which alone could probably feed four) and my two bottles of water and my Jello for dessert. To have two full trays in the Conde Nast cafeteria is like seeing a hockey player wearing skinny jeans -- it just doesn't happen. And while my stick-handling on the ice keeps getting better and better, my tray-handling leaves a bit to be desired. I still can't find the girl who fled the cafeteria with beef stroganoff spilled all over her, but just in case she's reading this: You can find me on the twelfth floor, and I owe you a new outfit. I now limit myself to one tray at a time. (Via Gawker by way of Men's Vogue)