Wednesday, July 26, 2006
I must amend that statement. It's not "news" in that this is obviously not new information to anyone who's been paying attention to the actual "news" (ie, the media.) Yes, temperatures are soaring into the triple digits and rolling blackouts may be imminent and my GOD what to do without central air, but COME ON. This is Southern California. We live in a desert.
I actually find myself enjoying the heat. I can put on my little boy "tightie whities" (sp?) and my wifebeater tank and drink white wine and pat myself down with a towel ala "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." Doesn't the heat just scream dirty sex and martinis and going without underwear?
Just think of all the sweat glistening off tan, pert thighs... Is it just me?
Monday, July 17, 2006
bloggeron the topic of the so-called "hipster." A hipster in this sense broadly defined to mean any urban twenty or thirtysomething who views themselves as apart from the mainstream (whether it's because they have tattoos/do drugs/listen to indie music/wear ironic bandanas, whatever.) By definition, these people would be called the "counterculture."
So does that mean that the 2006 hipster is our generation's version of the hippie/beatnik/flapper/ of yesteryear? That the guy sauntering down Rivington in his ironic bandana whilst listening to Art Brut on his ipod is in the same league as the civil rights crusaders, suffragettes, and abolitionists - all of whom also spurned the mainstream?
Sure, today's hipsters talk a lot about how they're SO against the Iraq war, and that absolutely gays should be allowed to marry, and how Hurricane Katrina showed just how devastating America's poverty problem really is. But last I checked, most of these people were NOT quitting their jobs to volunteer in New Orleans or petitioning their congressmen or marching on Washington. Hell, they could hardly even be bothered to vote. I mean, come on, there's Sparks to drink, and eyeliner to artfully smudge and music to turn up their noses to. (And what do you mean, they don't care? They just wore their ironic anti-GW tshirt yesterday!)
Thursday, July 13, 2006
There's a kind of strength in anger; a dignity in despair. Sadness always bubbles just under the surface of compassion, often as the flipside to love or joy. But jealousy resides inside the lowest, meanest, dirtiest part of ourselves. As an emotion, it's where we humans become truly hateful.
Because we're only jealous of others when we hate something about ourselves. It's so much easier to turn an envious eye towards others' happiness, success, beauty, etc. than to cast that eye upon ourselves. And who can deny that sometimes it can be fun to revel in jealousy, to let yourself go that dirty place and slide around in the muck? Come on, admit it... we all just need to feel mean sometimes. And jealousy makes it safe; the only person we're being mean to is ourselves.
Monday, July 10, 2006
It was wonderful those first few months. I felt like Annie when she first descended upon Daddy Warbucks' mansion. I ate Thai food almost every day. I did lots of ecstasy and ordered from kosmo.com and was there for the birth of vodka and redbull and when all the cool restaurants were serving nouveau comfort food.
Then I was there when everyone subsequently lost their jobs. The 2000 election debacle. September 11th. Anthrax lurking in every envelope; our receptionist sorting our mail with gloves on. What sounded like fighter jets constantly overhead. Sitting on the subway, heart racing and scared out of my mind because the lights had gone out. Bad coke that tasted like dirt and made my throat hurt for days. Moving to an apartment smaller than my college dorm room and running my credit card bill up past $10k. Getting laid off (and learning that company loyalty is not always rewarded.)
But even when it was raining, my coffee guy was there and he always had my order ready (medium w/ cream and sugar) when he saw me coming. The woman who ran my drycleaner opened her own Chinese bakery and it was my dollar she proudly displayed to represent her first sale (a delicious fig cookie.) And when one evening, I hailed a cabbie to take me back to Brooklyn and subsequently realized I had no money, asked him to take me to an ATM and then found that the citys' ATMs were all inexplicably "down" (blackout preview?), he still took me home and waited while I ran inside for a check - finally telling me in broken English, "If I had a daughter, I'd want someone to do the same for her" - I realized - it's not New York, the city, that creates the magic, it's all these people.
That's what I miss.
Friday, July 07, 2006
But why the fuck can I not buy an 8 ball and an ounce of pot and a few tablets of e instead of this pint of Stoli? No reason. It's all relative. Who decided this?
I live in