Let’s get caffeinated and pretend we’re going to “work on things” and then read this instead. And all of these.
And, breaking: the secret to eternal youth is moving every 2 years to new basement shows full of 23 year olds. (Not necessarily an endorsement.)
Spending Valentine’s Day listening to friends complain about their paramours makes one re-think the “ideal” commitment and opt for illicit scandal instead. (call me)
Related: What’s New Pussycat (1965) was one of the swinging-est flicks I caught in 2012. Peter O’Toole as a womanizing ginger: yez plz.
Let’s make like Exxon Mobile and all other great American corporo-citizens, and cheat on our taxes.
Strange how we convert the whims of non-human nature to dollars lost, like a child bargaining bedtime hours. Meanwhile people will tell you what type of female to be and it seems that no one can read or write more than 140 characters. If I was truly erudite I’d be able to reference the sci-fi writer who predicted this one. But for now the snow falls and stops everything and we can be human again.
When I was writing the most, believed myself to be a writer, I comfortably occupied a space of solid sadness, melancholy sowed over a bedrock of something like ennui. I held onto it knowing that happy people don’t write or fight or leave a mark, happy people work for banks and come home to watch TV until they die. I wrote constantly, dissected and diagnosed everything; never was there a more smug and suspicious undergrad than I (except all the ones that actually went on to intern for the New Yorker). [also well that’s just fucking ridiculous that I just linked to my own former blog, but TEVS]
At 22 it seems like truth; at 25 it feels like you’re spinning your back wheels and getting buried by what they’re dragging up.
I’m not sure I believe in words anymore, to the extent that our culture seems to have abandoned them. The written word, for utility or enjoyment, seems to quickly be going the way of Latin; we’ll keep a few experts on had to preserve 5-syllable curiosities and to have the final say in the (losing) battle between you’re and your. Curiously concurrent with our refusal to absorb information over a period more cumbersome than 2.5 seconds is our seeming disinterest in actual experience. Clearly we experience more of the world through the internet than the world itself; no one can enjoy watching “Girls” as much as they enjoy soundbites and “what she wore”s pertaining to the (inexplicable) phenomenon. The same goes for the latest weather non-event: surely no one is as traumatized by a “storm” itself as one is by seeing a photo of a grocery store’s empty shelves via their ipad. But perhaps I’m showing my age: having never tagged photos of myself on Instagram as a 14 year old with “hottie” “cute” “pretty” “hipster” AND “punk”, I’m rendered culturally irrelevant, thank god.
It’s ok, so is Rick Moody (as far as death-of-culture-porn goes, very satisfying).