If Lana Del Rey were a Tumblr, she would be photos of Elvis, classic cars, movie posters, and vintage paperback covers, broken up by YouTube clips of singers performing string-slathered ballads on decades-old TV shows. Her early self-descriptions—“gangsta Nancy Sinatra,” “Hollywood sadcore”—seem to suggest meaning. But when you think about them too long, they dissolve into nothingness. That vagueness—the hand-waving in the direction of something that once meant something specific, but is now an archetype, hollow and half-obscured by a glow of glamor and nostalgia—is her artistic strategy. And it’s working: Lana Del Rey is appealing because she is a self-curated collage of references and images in which she [...]
God, snow days suck. Fun for the kids. For the parents of kids, who suddenly have to take care of those kids because the New York City public school system suddenly gets all Florida every time a few flakes, or a few inches worth of flakes, or maybe a foot of them, fall, not so much. Like today, I'm trying to watch rap videos.