The Decrepit Beauty of Dallas
On a recent walk through downtown Dallas, I stopped to admire an old light fixture attached to an abandoned building. The streets around me, lined with weedy lots and architectural wreckage, were deserted enough to feel vaguely menacing. A car cruised past; its driver and I seemed to regard each other with the same wary suspicion. I returned my attention to the light. “Look at me,” it whispered, defiant and exhausted, “and try to tell me that the old world was not better than the new one.”
I wasn’t so sure, given that whatever good you want to say about the past, the fact remains that it led us to the unfolding misery that is the present. Still, I could appreciate where the light fixture was coming from; its wrought-iron craft resonated with the lost beauty of old things, and it seemed to cling to its arts-and-crafts heritage with a blind tenacity and optimism I found courageous, when so much else in the neighborhood—except for the nearby skyscrapers, which hovered like ambivalent, impenetrable fortresses—had succumbed to the violence of time and neglect. READ MORE
New York City, May 20, 2013
★★★ The morning fog was thick and forbidding, but the pavement was merely damp. The mistrustful kindergartener, preparing to go out the door, could be shown that people were down there without umbrellas. Soon enough, the worst had burned away, leaving only a lingering mist on the river and haze in the streets. By late morning, there were only a few scaly patches of cloud in a blue downtown sky. Motorcycles and bicycles came out; greenery twined in a bike's basket. Below Houston, shorts were out: baggy tourist shorts, short-shorts, culottes, everyone's own idea of ventilation or liberation. Uptown, in the evening rush, people seemed to be mostly still wearing the pants in which they'd gone off to work.
If am somehow conscious while it is happening, I think my first thought when I am about to die will be, "Jesus, finally." But I'm pretty sure my second thought will be, "What an idiot," no matter what the circumstances. Hopefully there won't be time for a third thought.
Talking to Gabe Liedman About A Bunch Of Stuff
Beloved as half of the fantastic comedy duo "Gabe and Jenny" with Jenny Slate, Gabe Liedman co-created the amazing New York standup show Big Terrific with Slate and standup Max Silvestri. Though he now lives in LA, I caught up with him in Brooklyn before Big Terrific's fifth anniversary show to talk about his first ever televised standup and the benefit of doing a weekly show.
So how was the taping?
Awesome. It went perfectly. It was really fun and looking back, it just went perfectly. Can't wait to see it. No regrets.
What did doing a Half Hour mean to you?
I guess I've always thought of myself as doing something different than standup. And so when I got to do an album this year, and then a special, it made me feel like part of the community. I guess I always felt like what I was—when I started, I was worried that what I was doing was not standup and now I feel like it's definitely standup. READ MORE
The Best First Sentence Of A Novel This Year (So Far!)
"The summer following the winter that my mother took off into something called Women's Land for what I could only guess would be all eternity, my father decided that there was no choice but for him to quit his despised job and take me and my brother to the beach for at least the entire summer and possibly longer."
—How can you not want to read September Girls since it has one of the great first sentences of all time?
• Indiebound • Amazon • Powell's • Barnes & Noble
"Before I had to be on a flight at least twice a week for work, I’d rather have stared quietly at the seatback in front of me for two hours than muster up the enthusiasm to get anything productive done on an airplane. Now that I’m racking up frequent flyer miles, it’s become a priority for me to treat the tray table as an extension of my office and it isn’t always easy. Here are a few tips to keep you on task, because its way more fun to enjoy happy hour at your destination than it is to finally finish that spreadsheet you’ve been putting off."
How (And Why) My Parents Paid For My College Education
When I was 18, my parents sent me 600 miles away to Northwestern University for a journalism degree worth nearly $200,000. Minus $50,000 in loans and grants, they paid for the whole thing out-of-pocket. I've never understood why. As far as I knew, my family was well-off, but never rich; we had necessities, but rarely luxuries. Why did they spend that much for me to study journalism? For that matter, why and how did they pay for college at all? I put that journalism degree to use and asked them.
Jamie: When did you guys start thinking about college for me and Jennifer?
Mom: Oh, very early. Shortly after you were born.
Dad: You were pretty much a baby, Jamie. We wanted to start putting some money away so that you could afford to go to college.
Mom: I think we did a mutual fund. READ MORE
"A new study suggests that people with left-brain dominance tend to listen to their mobile phones with their right ear, and vice-versa."
The Alien Mysteries of Easter Island
The caption above, selected from a pool of hundreds in the New Yorker's caption contest #378, and then voted to the top of the pile by New Yorker readers, is reasonably witty on the surface, insofar as Cadbury Creme Egg commercials are witty. But like the best satire, this caption works on two very different levels. Masquerading as complete and utter pablum—literally fodder for children—it hints at a violent end to Western Civilization as we know it.
It might be hard to understand why this caption won the contest if you only look at its surface features. The losing captions of this contest's three top choices—"I’m rebranding" and "He’s a temp"—at least address the presence of the other pirate, and incorporate him into the author's temporal interpretations of the scene. In those instances, the pirate on the right, surprised by the bunny on his Captain’s shoulder—where cartoon tradition, if not pirate tradition, would call for a parrot—has clearly asked him, or at least indicated the presence of the question, why there is a bunny on his shoulder. Not only do the Captain’s responses incorporate a proper dose of New York-style ennui, and the ironic use of corporatespeak to evoke it, they have a sense of timing. In both the losing captions, something has happened before we entered.
But, then again: has it? Upon further inspection, little action has taken place, because the authors of the losing captions have merely made the second pirate into a "bridge" character for themselves—they are surprised at the bunny, therefore he is surprised at the bunny, and therefore all the Captain can do is offer explanations for it. By creating a universe wherein the Captain’s bunny is not actually surprising—or at least by muffling this impulse—the winning entrant, Bucknell Webb, has actually outdone the competition, though it required making a caption that is comparatively static. READ MORE
IRL Dating Tips From A Bartender
Anyone who's alone at a bar fidgeting, smiling then not smiling, glancing at a phone screen, over and over — and over — is often on the verge of meeting a wonderful stranger. A wonderful stranger who fits some essential criteria on a website. One of the few and true delights I’ve found as a bartender is watching the online date unfold. It’s like watching a rom-com except you actually never know how it’s going to end.
I love it when I hear things like:
“Just so you know, I have a terrible headache. I can totally sit here with you, but my focus might be off. It’s NOT that I’m not intrigued, it’s that I’m hurting.”
Or:
"I’m mainly interested in Asia, that’s my favorite country, I mean continent, my favorite continent that I’ve been to, my favorite continent that I’ve been to that I liked. I would go to another continent though. If there was a problem and I was required or whatever.”
Intoxicating dialogue aside, I’ve noticed some basic patterns. These advisements, you should note, are created by an observer. I’m too cowardly to meet someone online. Consequently, I view all of you with great respect and awe, as I would a surgeon, Navy Seal, or vegan.
Additionally, it’s hard to mention the central protagonist, DATER #1, as well as the other person who shows up, DATER #2, without using gender-specific pronouns at times. My hand being forced, I’ve loosely designated the protagonist as a female and the other person who shows up as male. Still, no matter what the inclination, the general idea remains the same.
1. If you arrive first, try not to primp too much while you wait. You already did this at home. You already did this on the way there: in the reflection of subway window or in a rearview mirror or in your office bathroom. In particular, the barroom mirror is a woman’s curse. Most men can refrain from looking but women are seemingly mesmerized. Usually there are a lot of adjustments. Hair is fluffed, a duckbill pout emerges. Eyes grow larger, sultrier. The vibe is murderous yet intelligent. Or simply put: fucking nuts. READ MORE
Kevin Shields Is 50
Kevin Patrick Shields turns 50 today. Remember a couple months back when everyone was all, OH MY GOD NEW BLOODY VALENTINE RECORD I'M GONNA DIE etc.? Do people still talk about it now here in the future? I'm actually asking, I don't get out much any more so I'm not sure what The Word On The Street These Days is. Anyway, many bloody returns.
When Will I Make Up All This Lost Sleep?
Do you lay awake some nights with the pillow clamped over your eyes to keep out the light from the streets, your breath labored as you try to set the racing thoughts at bay, listing numbers very slowly and almost drifting off before an errant fear jumps to the front of the line in your consciousness and snaps you back awake? Do you sigh to yourself and resume the slow count, knowing that it won't really work but trying all the same, because what else are you going to do, it's way too early to call it morning and you're already in short supply of sleep because everything you agonize about—and even some things you hadn't thought to be alarmed by—chooses to make itself fully present at the time of the night when the rest of the world is deep in slumber? Do you add your exhaustion to your pile of problems, creating some kind of self-fulfilling loop wherein your worries that you won't be able to get to sleep are now the reason that sleep won't settle down with you? Do you wonder if you can ever catch up on all the sleep you've lost? Well, I have some good news: Soon—and a lot sooner than you think, but sadly not as soon as you hope for in those dark moments while your hands rest on your stomach and you cram your eyes closed—you will sleep forever, and nothing will be able to prevent that eternal slumber; all your concerns will turn out to be as meaningless as you try to convince yourself that they are in the moments when they're the one thing separating you from dreams and you will never wake again. Until then, this might help, but probably not.
Photo by Anneka, via Shutterstock
Ray Manzarek, 1939-2013
I got an email from my friend Matt last night that said, "Well, you won't have Ray Manzarek to kick around anymore." This was a reference to an argument we had, Matt and I and another friend, Dave, very late at night this past New Year's Eve. We've known each since grade school, the three of us, and we got into music together in the way that lots of adolescent suburban boys do: classic-rock-first. We all loved the Doors as kids, I had a poster of Jim Morrison in my room in front of which I used to bow my head in prayer. We all mastered the distinctive building-block lettering of the band's logo—among the best examples of graphic design in the history of rock and roll, if only because of the ease with which it could be drawn on desk-tops and math book covers. READ MORE
Would You Like To Hear Some Jokes About The Freud Museum.
Our website is currently down following a hacking attempt (presumably by Jungians).
— Freud Museum London (@FreudMusLondon) May 21, 2013
London's Freud Museum is in a… spot of bother.
@freudmuslondon @mrjohnofarrell Not "hacked" but "penetrated".
— Ms Slide (@sliderulesyou) May 21, 2013
@freudmuslondon Melanie Klein's distributed denial of "difficult conversations" attack?
— Alex (@blangry) May 21, 2013
@freudmuslondon from the error code, looks more like "His host has become ‘uncanny’ to him" to me…. (hope you're back up & running soon)
— Danny Birchall (@dannybirchall) May 21, 2013
@freudmuslondon You know what else is down? The subconscious. (No, sorry, really, I hope you get back up soon.)
— Martin Ackerfors (@ackerfors) May 21, 2013
Noel Fielding Is 40
The Mighty Boosh's Noel Fielding turns 40 today, so this seems appropriate. And also this.
Oh God It Sure Is "Internet Week"
Things, you can do them, or not. Oh my God it's so Internet week today. Robert Scoble is giving a talk! Here is a description of a panel! "From actors and musicians to writers and producers, the Internet has provided unprecedented opportunities for New York's creative class. A panel of content creators discusses how this powerful disruptive digital medium has helped jumpstart their businesses and accelerate their careers." POWERFUL, DISRUPTIVE, DIGITAL. #brands #social #digital #life
Your Smart-Person Beach Read Arrived Early: "The Bling Ring"
Nicki likes Lip Gloss, Purses, Yoga, Pole Dancing, Uggs, Louboutins, Juice Cleanses, Iced coffee and Tattoos. @blingringmovie
— Emma Watson (@EmWatson) May 2, 2012
Nancy Jo Sales published "The Suspects Wore Louboutins" in Vanity Fair in March of 2010. Sofia Coppola announced optioning the article by December of 2011; Emma Watson was cast by February of 2012; the resulting movie, The Bling Ring, opens in a month.
But first! Tomorrow comes The Bling Ring—the book. Nancy Jo Sales started afresh. She already had, after all, endless hours of interviews with the crowd of young people in Southern California who burgled celebrity homes. In case you missed the original story, or have buried its fuzzy outline under later tabloid scandals, the case concerns five kiddos (and two friends who did reselling) who best liked to steal outfits, shoes, photos, watches and anything else that felt personal. And they did it quite a bit: they hit Brian Austin Green's house just a week after Lindsay Lohan's house, back in August of 2009. Poor Brian Austin Green!
And it turns out this book is basically The Journalist and the Murderer for the TMZ age. It's really pretty devastating. "Corporations are now people and people are now products, known as 'brands,'" Sales writes, in a history of what is either the degradation or the democratization of celebrity. ("Either/or doesn't seem right, but you know.) Both the path to getting fame and the resulting benefits (money, mostly) became obvious to us all. This is true—and happened so quickly—to the point where, Sales notes, theft victim Paris Hilton began to look as if she had an "Old Hollywood glamour to her." (Before noting that Hilton's popularity's rise and fall mirrored George W. Bush's. This is a book, after all, that mentions Bobby Kennedy, Donald Trump, Michael Milken, Richard Nixon, Salomon Brothers and Glenn Greenwald all on the same page.)
The rise of porn stars, of celebrity models, tabloid culture: there actually isn't much difference between Lindsay Lohan and any of these deluded, backstabbing, fame-hungry little kiddos. And then… it's so easy to enjoy them.
"I was surprised," Sales writes, "as I started talking to people about this story, by how many seemed to find what the Bling Ring did amusing or even kind of marvelous. 'Good for them,' said a young woman I talked to in a hair salon. 'Tell them to bring me a Gucci bag.' 'They have enough'—meaning the celebrities, said a New York taxi driver…. they won't miss it.' It made me wonder if there were some kind of growing resentment toward the rich (a precursor to Occupy Wall Street sentiment?). Or was this just a sign of the kind of kick people get out of teenagers doing outrageous things?" READ MORE
New York City, May 19, 2013
[No stars] The newsprint said one thing, but the dark gray outside said something obviously worse. Doing anything nice would be impossible, and doing the necessities would be nasty. Waves of misty rain swept by, streaking the windows. Taking an umbrella or leaving it behind seemed equally futile. Two young men were out in badly-fitting ponchos, possibly made from clear trash bags. They were as well equipped as anyone. Water soaked up into shoes and leaked down through the scaffolding. People winced under their hoods or impeded others with their umbrellas. On the lone dry spot, against the wall of a bank, a busker sat with a guitar, singing a stiff-paced "Let It Be." In the course of seven blocks, the rain had gone from misting to driving. A Fairway worker mopped the floor inside the doors over and over again. Under an umbrella, a dressed-up woman huddled with a man in a pale blue mortarboard-and-gown set. The outboard shoulder of the gown was darkening. All day, the gray stayed, turing to a dirty yellow on its way into a soggy night.
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