I make good decisions when I'm half asleep. This gets truer as time goes by. It fucks up my sleep schedule, actually, because like I'll be floating in the half-asleep space when I should be resting and suddenly my own voice from the best part of my brain goes, I'M GONNA DO THIS! And as soon as I hear it I know it's the perfect call and I get all excited.
So, I'm headed West this fall. Soon we'll say goodbye, Astoria, Williamsburg, Union Square, Chelsea, Houston, that one park, that other place. Until then, let's party -- SUMMER IN NEW YORK CITY is a pretty killer theme, and who knows? Maybe it'll grab me.
Every time I'm on my period I fucking HATE New York.
Actually? Every time I'm on my period, tired, sick, in a bad mood, having a stupid day at work, or thinking very much about anything, I dislike New York. Seriously, the main reason I'm still here has to be that I'm too broke to leave without a decent financial prospect somewhere else.
It's not like everything sucks. I see the appeal. I've had a good time here. I've met some killer people and had some good nights. I am starting to understand New York's particular language of possibility, finally. I am aware that anything could happen, any second.
I keep telling myself to stick it out. There are so many people here to meet! I'm working so hard all the time, isn't that what I've always wanted? I finished a first draft! And who knows what'll happen tomorrow? Things could explode any second!
So don't get me wrong, okay, I'm not blaming New York. I could always try harder, work harder, fight harder, hustle more, make more calls, get out more, go to more things, read more event listings, get more numbers, try harder, try harder, try harder. But just, I mean, personally, I'm just not understanding how I'm supposed to enjoy something that's this much of a pain in the ass all the time.
If I left New York tomorrow, would I miss it? Uh, not really. Not really, honestly. WHAT'S MY PROBLEM?
I know I must be doing something wrong, still. I'll keep trying to figure out what that is.
But fuckin' A, guys. I've been here for 8 months. I really thought I'd be getting into it by now!
Girls is getting slammed everywhere. It was bound to. They pitched this shit like it was made for you and me. Like, Sex and the City for beat hipsters who like television. That would have been killer, but it was never likely to be.
I mean, take out "beat" and replace it with "born and bred in total financial comfort," then make sure you are using my least favorite definition of hipster. This is about those young people with money who roleplay as bohemians except without any trace of the financial hardship that is essential to bohemianism. I admit to possibly having a little class warrior on my shoulder at times, but this group is at the bottom of my list of people whose worldview I want to spend time with. Way at the bottom, with fans of Rush Limbaugh.
I don't mean to be rude. There are plenty of wonderful bohemian roleplayers out there. I'm not hating on anybody for being born above working class or for liking aged furniture and well-loved vintage clothing. But when wealthy people appropriate elements of poverty in order to cultivate an aura of authenticity, it pricks at my nerves in the worst way. So no thanks, Girls! I do not want to hang out with you.
I mean, Dunham's written herself a character based on herself, and her first crisis is that her parents are about to cut her off financially after having supporting her life as an aspiring writer in New York City for two fucking years. I get that she's going for George Costanza here (entertaining despicableness?), but no amount of irony or self-deprecation on her part could get me into this. "Oh my god, I'm like so one of those spoiled kids living in a trendy neighborhood making art and working part-time at a gallery while my parents pay my rent and fund my creative ventures, look at what an asshole I am!" Keep it to yourself, you insufferable tool.
I suppose she wanted to set the stage for all the zany adventures and amusing misfortunes that come with being a creative person in poverty in the big city, but I wonder if she expected this to appeal to any actual poor hipsters. We do exist, you know. And if you're one of them, you know the only way to get along with the bohemian roleplayers -- because we really must get along, you know -- is to avoid talking or thinking about money.
Old Disney animation gets me pumped! The early shorts lack the complexity and elegance of the epic fairy tale feature-lengths, but I think they achieve a level of earnest energy and mischief that stays uniquely appealing. Look at the mermaids with their pearls from 6:30! This was made in 1932, when color animation first hit the mainstream. Imagine how exciting it must have been to see such bright, dynamic images on a big screen for the first time.
The forest scene from Snow White (1937) is perfect -- the dark, rich textures, all those shadows and sharp edges, and the rising tone of panic as we're dragged into a picture book nightmare. Like all the great illustration and animation from the 1930s through the 1960s, this scene is at once intensely sinister and sensual. I've been loyal to that particular aesthetic blend since I was old enough to care what I looked at.
Fantasia, Night on Bald Mountain (1940), the heavy metal spectacular! This mesmerized me when I first saw it at age seven or eight, when it struck me as profoundly scandalous: The undulating fire groupies! The red-nippled banshees! And Chernabog with his gleaming Mr. Universe muscles, hedonistic brutality blasting from his loins! What the fuck, Disney?
Other animated sequences I remember good and sharp: Sleeping Beauty (1959). Prince Philip hacking through black thorns and fucking up a dragon.
Pinocchio (1940). THE METAMORPHOSIS! CATASTROPHIC! It's enough to make a bitch quit smoking!
Mary Poppins (1964). I know it's not an animated film for the most part, and it's a little quaint even for its time, but the haunting songs and melancholy family themes make it one of my absolute favorite films ever. Throughout the film the visual effects take unexpected turns for the moody and romantic, from the foggy twilight backgrounds and lonely silhouettes to the ink-black smoke that carries them over the rooftops of London. I wish that part was included in this clip!
I guess this post is sort of like my own glittery Princess pencil case. I can live with that. I wish artful 2D animation would have another season in the sun. Maybe when organs make a comeback in popular rock.
I love popular music. I like to dig music in a cultural context, like a continuous biography of what's been getting people going since the dawn of beats. I geek out over almost everything I listen to. I don't have a lot of obscure favorites because I love pop culture and I find Michael Jackson and Elvis as exciting as anything I find underground -- maybe more exciting, because of the effects they've had on huge numbers of people.
My shortcoming is that I can't seem to get into anything more recent than 90s grunge and hip-hop, with few exceptions. I like chillwave and some indie stuff, but I'm slow to collect new favorites. Like, Italians Do It Better has provided most of the newer shit on my playlists for the past five years or so.
So once in awhile I'm like, OK! Shit! I gotta get in touch with the sound of my generation! What are we listening to, guys? Adele, Florence + The Machine, and indie-folk?
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. I mean I'll listen to it, but it's not looking like it wants to blow my mind. Don't you want your music to blow your mind? I do!
Have you ever thought about what it must have been like to be a Beatles fan in 1968? 1968! The world was on fire, The Beatles were already recognized, popularly AND critically, as legends -- and they were still in their prime! They had the whole world of popular music in their hands. Everyone was dying for their next album, and what do they put out?
One of the coolest looking records ever, but more importantly, 30 fucking songs that are all so completely different from each other it sounds more like the group somehow multiplied into several different bands that ended up on a mix tape together. Which is kind of what they did, taking turns as songwriters and all coming together to lay each song down and tweak it. That is awesome.
There's like, Ringo Starr being all country-pokish, John and Yoko throwing down their indie-avant-gardiness, Paul McCartney going nasty/hard rock, George Harrison moaning all sweet and sad. It's a mess of random amazing tracks like Happiness is a Warm Gun, Blackbird, and While My Guitar Gently Weeps, plus the super weirdo-pop tunes like Honey Pie and Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.
If you were a Beatles fan in 1968, this album would have been such a thrill to absorb, right? I bet people listened to the record, went WTF, and set the needle right back to the start.
This isn't from the White Album but it's my current favorite Beatles song and the one that got me to sit down and listen to them. So like, I could try harder to get into new music, but every few months another amazing rock & roll band jumps out at me with a huge, legendary discography begging for my obsessive attention. What can I do? Put my headphones back on.
This one bar on the Lower East Side has wood paneling, a pool table, dim lights and couches patterned with weird Old World pastoral scenes in rust tones -- everything from my childhood, plus cheap drinks. My grandpa had a big log A-frame out in Logsden, Oregon, with a giant elk head facing the front door, dried corn husks decorating the kitchen, and a big wraparound plank porch with built-in benches. Every major holiday had the place teeming with family and family friends. There were big wind chimes at one corner of the house that sounded so fucking good I can remember them exactly. In the massive front yard my grandpa had taken the top off of a big tree and stuck a serious tree house on top -- I mean, like, a veritable one-room cabin fit for a wealthy pioneer family.
Now you know why the caged bum sings (in urban bars with hipsters)
On July 4th when the sun went down the light coming from the big windows of the house was deeper and warmer than gold, a nice thick heavy light that I guess only comes with a log house full of wood and brick and antlers and ceramic owls and hanging lamps shining through amber glass and a haze of cigarette smoke. Man! And the people out there! I've never seen them anywhere else. At 26 I remember that time in my life with gut-clenching levels of nostalgia. My grandpa died a long time ago, the house was sold, my parents split up, everybody was mad and confused and relationships vanished. Those memories are like a lost world.
But we got a lotta creeks to reminisce by!
Now writing this I'm thinking about my grandpa and how happy he must have been. I was too little and shy to have a real relationship with him, but man! -- what a king he seems in my memory now. If I had that big log house with the giant yard and the creek behind it, with the big garage full of wood scraps and sawdust, with the big kitchen table and the big porch crowded with people drinking beer and laughing in the light from the house that was so deep and warm my geeky future granddaughter would sigh over it in her little blog from her humble New York apartment -- Well! I would feel pretty fucking good.
Anyway, I got this lamp and this bird for $20 at a new antique shop by my house. Killer. Someday I'll have my whole life in costume and just time warp the fuck out whenever I want. Well, I guess I'm most of the way there half the time.
