Some recent New York times:
1) Jesse and I made some lists—click to enlarge.
2) Gabby and I went on a bus tour.
Some recent New York times:
1) Jesse and I made some lists—click to enlarge.
2) Gabby and I went on a bus tour.
“Essayer” is the French infinitive for the word “to try,” according to verifiable linguistic fact, plus also a sentence with which I reminded myself of this in my journal a few months back, put the exact way as I just did. A slim three-or-so seconds later, a radio progrum I was using as a stand-in companion recited it back to me from the stereo, verbatim. I felt holy—and wholly corny—then back to sacral, because FUCKIT: When I was 16, I had an august older playwright friend who let me run away to his house and read his scripts, and the line “coincidence is God,” committed in one such set of plastic-bound printouts, wallpapered the heart of your frenzied-ass trylobite here for permanent. So essay that shit on for size, I guess.
How’s it all playing out of late? I spent the winter/spring feeling, myself, mad played out, which I think is unavoidably symptomatic of finishing yer book, especially your first. But Action is done, and now I’m back to my savage regularity. I can tell because I interrogated someone thusly on the morning before last, squinting at a massive and reflectively shiny hairball nearby: “Did I try to sleep in my wig last night?” It was hard to overlook the implications of “Man in the Mirror” chiding me softly in the background, but your girl essayed as diligently as she could, as I have zilch interest in changing that particular one of my ways.
Oh, yeah! I bought some wigs. They are a lynchpin of my summer style direction, which is actually a combo platter of two vectors:
1) ONE OF THOSE DOLLS WITH HAIR YOU CAN CUT AND OTHERWISE EDIT AT WILL. See:
2) BAD BOWLING TERRIBLE UNCLE. See: vein-skinny gold neck chains, intentionally grease-distressed muscle tanks, that one Kiko Mizuhara x Opening Ceremony collection, the old black T-shirt with a merit badge reading “GIRL SCOUTS GO BOWLING” stitched on that my bad-news cousin gave me when I was in seventh grade, dice-shaped cufflinks, eight ball–shaped cufflinks, wheedling my tablemates to the tune of letting me bet my own cufflinks after losing momentously at five-card-stud and being rebuffed, flame shirts. Catch you at the Saul Bellow retrospective later on this month.
So! I’m back, after far too long a time talking to the man in the mirror in the form of essays spewed into the book that I, momentarily, hate (extended proximity bred such a seething loathing in me toward Action, that demanding, longstanding buffer to real-life action), but also know so much more adhesively has re-wallpapered my heart in patterns complementary to the above exteriors, plus my life entire.
I HAVE BEEN TRYING WILD HARD FOR WILD LONG, AND IT’S OVER. Now, excuse me while I go attempt all manners of new shit. Look for the sleaze in the wig.
Yours of course,
Hello, meat grinderz. What’s it to you lately?
God DAMN-A-LANG, am I ever busy. This isn’t to paint being stuffed to the gills as a cool/bad/fragrant/fractured/frantic/orange/matronly/ANY-QUALIFIER-ASS time; it’s just how it’s been the heck going. My book deadline grins at me from where it sits on my shoulder. And I keep making it worse! I keep doing all the fun shit that I love! PLUS WORKING ON THE BOOK THAT I LOVE! My dance card = sustenance for benevolent termites, like:
– I’m really into working for Rolling Stone, partly because I pitch them GI-GAN-TEUR ideas that sometimes begin: “I hope you’re enjoying your weekend! I was thunderstruck by a scene report–type pitch on my walk to the donut shop just now. It’s as follows: They Might Be Giants is a nerd band for math losers, right? YO, NOT AT ALL.”
And then I spout off for a little, and then it works and I get to harangue one of my all-time favorite bands. And then the Johnses tell me stories about GG Allin that I will clutch right here (gesturing to heart and brain and crotch with the one hand that isn’t holding a promotional radio station mug of vodka-soda) in saecula saeculorum.
– I’m reading McGlue by Ottessa Moshfegh, whose feet I would agreeably dry with my hair:
A difference of opinion, but not of spirit. Re: McGlue—if your nose levitates ceiling-ward upon the very THOUGHT of reading a novella, try her attack-dog-voiced short stories, both of which, here, are fixing to make my lay my extendos across the floor like a blonde shag carpet.
Also reading: Sex and the Single Girl, but it’s for research, which is I guess why anyone has been reading it for the past 50 yearzzz. Helen Gurley Brown, its author, I would adore and prize and send groceries to as a friend, but god DAMN if a segment about homosexuality doesn’t clear its throat and gravely intone, “Before you rule homosexual men out of your life, however, let’s consider: Are they really monsters?”
I know what you meant, but you meant what you said, and (though you wrote it ’62) our tentative comradeship comes to an end. The book: not my favorite! Out of five stars: All the imploding ones that we can still see after they’re dead, if we squint!
– One little-known factoibdt about me: I’m fond of putting clothes on my person so as not to be mistaken for one of the lesser primates among our animal QUEENdom. (You are welcome, feminism. No longer 1962 up in this here w’bsite, NOW IS IT?) Dazed & Confused, in a partnership with Racked, noticed this and made a home movie about it. Consider this lunacy:
– More GUARDIANNE.
– I started a website after spending a year saying, “How do I glue the squad together?” Enormous Eye is one way, but far from the only. I ask writers I revere to chronicle a Saturday, which is exhausting and fruitful, and then I publish those chronicles on Monday. Sick 2 do!
– I continue to grit my smiling editorial teeth with Rookie between ’em, plus I write there too! Who wouldn’t? Rookie is brimming with world-class readers and writers, like Zadie Smith, and it is the wish on non-extinct stars that delivers every day regardless.
That’s not all, but it seems like it righ nah, so I’m calling it. Mad love to you and yours, my heart-butchers.
Hello to all you howling wolves out there (and the silver bullets that love them)! I just got back from a five-day stint in Los Angeles with varying motivations behind it. Here’s the first glamorous, old-Hollywood historical attraction I visited:
BEHOLD: THE TIKI THEATER XYMPOSIUM. No need to wipe your glasses, because you read that last bit correctly: XYMPOSIUM. IS THIS PRINCE’S PRIVATE SCREENING ROOM, with that? What a fiendishly perfect commercial descriptor. (Related update: My apartment, the artist formerly known as the Terrordome, has been similarly renamed after the mythical Greek ceremony at which the central philosophies of love were decided, only, like, if it were possible for that event to be pornier than it already was.)
As I found out, there wasn’t anything particularly Xocrates-level revelatory about Los Angeles’ last extant den of forbidden sensuality/filth videotapes, unless you count a small TV to the right of the main screen on which an unctuous DVD menu repeated itself listlessly, over and over and over over over. Look at me when I say this to you: I had never been so turned on in my entire life. Nah, but I wasn’t there for any untoward purpose except paying my dirtbag respects to this fossil-establishment, so please know I was xymply charmed by the whole affair in the end. I wonder if that menu is still recursively beaming itself into the Tiki, steadfast and unselected, as I type this to you from back in Greenpoint.
Despite its flagging perv culture, I also liked the rest of Rose Angeles so much that, one morning, while in line buying my customary breakfast of two Diet Cokes, I didn’t discompose a woman with blonde dreadlocks coated in inexplicable tinfoil when she marveled over how “WAY CUTE!” she finds the dark-ass ad campaign Coke is doing at current. The idea is, you pick a carbo-sludge fizz product that says, like, “Father” or “Pal O’ Mine” or “Rat Whore” on the packaging, then give it to whoever the indicated party is in your own animal life. She peered at my cans (this encounter, despite this clause, did not also take place in the porn theater). They read “BFF” and “Buddy.”
“Are those for someone you love?”
“I think so?” I said, clutching the sodas. Then I went back and pounded them one after the other by the pool of the Hollywood Downtowner Motel as I affectionately tried to make sense of The Changing Light at Sandover. Like I said, L.A. ruled. Now that you’ve got the full Californian smut/beverage report, how else is it going? Well…
– CHECK OUT MY NEW SKATES AND YOU TELL ME. (No one is allowed to sing the song. I am deadly serious about this.) Try to tell me these aren’t exactly the tightest rollerskates you’ve ever borne witness to and I will just breeze on by you in them all like, “My condolencesssss…” Also, dudes, do you know how clumsy I am? Do you understand how many legs I’m going to break, not only from trying to jeté in these immaculate motherfuckers, but from the classic physical comedy sitcom trope of, like, stepping on one in the dark in my hallway and being all, “!!!!” with my arms akimbo and windmillish before I crash into a disassembled (albeit stylishly leopard-printed) heap? Do you also understand that I don’t care and welcome the opportunity to put these on the ends of my crutches if I have to? I’m enchanted, guys. Feeling mad “Boy About Town” about this new development.
– I wrote an essay for Rookie that lends itself to an egregiously high number (at least two) of Velvet Underground/Lou Reed allusions, if you’re so inclined to make them, which, save for the title, I’m mostly not.
– I’ve also been writing record reviews for Rolling Stone every now and again. You can find a selection here. Dads only; I’ll be checking Coke cans at the door.
– PLUS TOO a short story in the form of a sestina for The Hairpin. It can be both, right? It is. It’s called “Just 4 Kydz Fun Zone” and it’s about a guy in a rat suit.
– I made this post chiefly as a letter of intent, because I’m going to propose marriage to Schoolboy Q. I lied when I said the first thing I did in California was get way too jazzed about watching an indecent DVD menu on loop. First, I listened to “Los Awesome” approx. 7,208 times while I jumped on the bed of Room 12. I always feel so gold in motels. I bumped my head on the ceiling and I didn’t even care or stop!
– I’m reading Middlemarch and basically writing my official memoirs in its margins. Or, I was, until I left my idiot copy on a Phoenix-Burbank connection! Some acerbic flight attendant is probably making fun of my annotations as we speak. And who could blame him, when I distinctly recall making one that said, like, “Marriage vows as mutual imprecations? Foreshadowing…for all of us?” Whatever, Earth. I love writing these kinds of masterful, trenchant analyses of high littra-cher and you can suck my left rollerskate about it!!
Anyway, don’t let my hott radical views sully your impressions of Middlemarch, since it’s heaven if heaven were a book. As I wait for my replacement copy, I’m reading David Mitchell’s new deal, The Bone Clocks. A lot of the symbolism up in is expressed via these stellar confetti and butterfly motifs, like a metafictional rave/seven-year-old girl’s birthday party, except WAY more ominous (/entirely 100 percent just as ominous?). You can bet I’m wild about it. READ IT WIZ ME!
– I went on a research trip to the Spring/Summer 2015 Styletime Conference For Fashionable Wellness, where I took in the Jeremy Scott and Proenza Schouler shows, then presented my findings in Dazed & Confused.
– As I hang around the postbox pining for the return of the mack (George Eliot), I’m using this downtime to write not my official memoirs, but an official (this, only in that it’s being published by Grand Central next year) book of essays. It’s called Action—as in lights, camera!! I FELL UNDER THE GLITZY SPELL OF HOLLYWOOD V. HARD, you guys, and am publishing an account of my hardscrabble life as an aspiring menu-selection starlet. Really: It’s a collection of the sorts of essays I write for Rookie, but for adults. Specifically, for Adults—please see the photo of the first stop on my book tour at the top of this post.
All right, then. UNTIL NEXT TIME, lupine loves of mine.
What up, dandelion heads? The sidewalks and already-way-pale awnings of Greenpoint, where I type this to you, are scorched, and everything is pretty untenable i/r/t heat, sweat, y “why didn’t I bring sunglasses”–style regret. But, since I am (a) wearing my favorite linen jumpsuit (this red paisley deal-o that’s very Skank Joan Baez) and (b) undeterred as ever, I’m out in the world, staring loosely at a paper cup of coffee, and feeling mad aestive.
AND QUITE CLITERALLY PECKING AWAY TO YOU ABOUT THE GODDAMN WEATHER! Is this who I am now? I gently ask you to lead me out to pasture, should this meteorological bloviatin’ go unchecked for too much longer. At least maybe it’ll be breezy there!!!! (Seriously, my temple aches for a gun.)
Some stray addenda plucked from my recent-style lifezone:
– I wrote a Rookie essay about Mark Ruffalo/Sappho, crotchvasions, being a cool sex-haver in stylish denim jeans, and wanting to howl foul invectives at a stunning wonder of the natural world, which is to say, I wrote about the mechanics of sexual consent!
– If you would like to read my first Rolling Stone piece, you first have to guess what it’s abou—WHOA, quick draw, the answer is Morrissey, but maybe give the others a chance next time! You don’t always have to be the smartest li’l eukaryote in the room. (Aw, don’t give me that look—you know that’s part of what I like about you. Your arrogance, and your having-of-a-nucleus. Great work.)
– I cannery stop making playlists! This one has an overwrought name and an overwrought tonality, but what else are you supposed to do when your heart is a protean mass of carbonated slime, the Ramones cover of “Needles and Pins,” glacier shards, this poem by Marianne Moore, yawnin’ yearnin’, actual needles and pins, and discarded gum wrappers? I mean all that in a good way. (Kind of.)
To this end: Here are the jams I’ve been kicking out of late. If you’re not into Terry Reid, unfocused shoegaze, Ike & Tina (or just the latter, at the very LEAST, and if not: I ask you press a finger to one of your pulse points immediately—I’m concerned about your status as a living human person), ’80s coke-shimmy optimism, and/or Mary Wells, TURN BACK NOWWWW.
So that’s WHAT IT IS, your girl–wise, this restless aestivus. Consider my amorphous heart hot and pale, like the shredded awning of a second-rate pharmacy. Consider me “your obedient servant, but also, in this age of supermarkets, your friendly neighborhood grocery store.” Consider me yawning, yearning, slimy, and sunnily shredding.
ABOVE ALL ELSE: Consider me Skank Joan Baez.
I really do feel I’ve earned it. Wouldn’t you agree?
You’re looking happily deranged, which, coincidentally, is exactly the feeling I’m living inside of righ nah, as ever. How’re you, though, really, ya little multigraph? Keeping them terrible teeth ’n’ claws well-sharpened, I hope? Some new things happening to/for/with your girl:
– I wrote my first piece for The Guardian recently, if you want to read me doing my serious voice about Kultural Koncerns.
– As of a week ago, I’m home from a two-leg flânerie to:
A) Seattle, where I attended my first-ever EMP Pop Conference. I presented a paper about the way introversion/extroversion is expressed in Morrissey’s music (and inside/outside of me and other listeners) and appeared on a panel called Critical Karaoke, where I mumbled a weird half-poem I wrote about this Kendal Johansson cover of a Big Star song, feeling pandered-to in the series of yellowed rec rooms where I yawned through the dull romances of my teenage years, and the whooshing ocean.
B) Minneapolai, where I inhaled Westerbergian air, bought some INCREDIBLY salacious denim shorts in preparation for the looming, blooming SUMMERTIME, and did a little soft-shoe and a little boogaloo (for you) at an excellent Smiths night called Transmission. I’ve since become breathtakingly obsessed with its DJ’s radio show, which I aggressively recommend you check out on The Current, Minnesota’s lovely public station.
– I’m currently scarfing down Kenneth Koch’s visual poems (see all the way above), this teeth-licking, bouncy Italo disco track by Baby’s Gang, the collected Lingua Franca (if anyone can hook my brain up to some old issues, EMAIL A BITCH POSTHASTE), this De La Soul megamix by DJ Platurn, the occidental, wondrous, and hella grisly novel Lonesome Dove, and Arab Strap’s Philophobia, a handsome little cut of which you can hear in this video YouTube sound-o-gram.
– I spoke to the Huffington’s Proste about the tinctures and balms I smooth onto my face in order to feel a little bit less monstrous as a human being with other human beings’ eyes scuttling across her.
Overall: I’m okay. I’m cool. I’m blooming, and looming, and, above all else, happily deranged. I hope the same is true of your own personal soft-shoe-ing and boogaloo-ing, however it is you may be doing it at the moment.
Yours in sweaty fervor,