I recently reconnected with a guy I used to – whatever it was – and it happened to be hailing during our walk down Memory Lane. Turns out, during our brief experiment being platonic, he only watched Downton Abbey in the hopes we would end the episode emerged from purgatory (read: Friend Zone). I was as disappointed as the Dowager Countess upon discovering exactly what a weekend is. But then the real shocker: he does not like Leonard Cohen. And I quote, “I thought you only played it for me so I could turn it off and hook up with you rather than listen to this shit.” Words like ‘deal-breaker’ came to mind.
I can understand. Not everyone can appreciate the subtle sensuality with which Mr. Cohen describes a tête-à-tête with a woman or New York, softly in his bass-baritone. While he shamelessly broadcasts his sins and fears to the tune of his guitar (“who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate … who for his greed, who for his hunger?”), most are too uneasy for even a semblance of self-awareness.
I understand it’s hard to lie naked in bed listening to “Suzanne” as Cohen coons, “you know she’s half crazy, that’s why you want to be there;” what could the actual guy I’m with say that would even compare? In “I’m Your Man,” Leonard declares: “But a man never got a woman back, not by begging on his knees – or I’d crawl to you baby and I’d fall at your feet and I’d howl at your beauty like a dog in heat.” Aforementioned Someone That I Used to Know could only tell me exactly where he wants to put his cock and how beautiful I look after spending an hour in Sephora. I don’t always need a passionate postmortem, but an end more eloquent than “where I am in my life, I just can’t have anything so serious right now”? Bitch, please.
I respect those of the opinion, “well, duh, he’s a fucking a song-writer – man can express his feelings and shit pretty well.” But I’ve never gotten anything more thought out than “we have this great connection” – which always feels like it should have been preceded by a bong hit. Why instead of a barely coherent text at 3 am can’t someone tell me, “For now, I need your hidden love; I’m cold as a new razor blade”? Instead of just making it Facebook official, admit “I’m aching for you baby … I need to see you naked, in your body and your thought.” I’m not looking to replicate letters between high school sweethearts torn apart by trenches, and no need to dedicate your next book of poems to me – just, for fucks sake, find a better way of telling me “we should, like, keep hooking up.” (And you can start by listening to, “So Long, Marianne.”)
I’m reading Anthony Keidis’ Scar Tissue and of course what I’m taking from it is, “shit I need some stories to fill my memoirs.” I never had the pleasure of living with my dealer, I never had the pleasure of throwing up on stage and I certainly didn’t cut journalism class to get head (it was calculus). Second thing I took from it was his vivid memory of the shitty prepubescent bands he listened to. Fuck, if it weren’t for BuzzFeed I would forgot about the whole decade I grew up in (and the borough). I wish I could accompany this throw back with something other than “ya man loved when that shit on was TRL! Carson Daily was the shizzz” or “and then he tried to get me to give him some nookie.” Keep it classy Mya, as if there is any other way to dance in the desert with sticks.
“We’re all a little weird and when we find those people whose weirdness is compatible we join up with them and fall into a mutually satisfying weirdness and call them our best friends.”
- Cory Matthews from Boy Meets World
"Move over, Denzel!"
- Me, when talking to my friend’s unbelievably looking father
"Hey, you know how everybody’s talking about the "good old days." Everybody! The good old days. Well, let’s talk about the good old days."
- Gladys Knight on Wu-Tang Clan’s Can it all be so simple?
Summer romantics are starting to come out, professing their love for once upon a time, back in the day New York. What’s not to love about prostitution on Broadway and brothels in Murray Hill? Crime and corruption are but a small price to pay in the name of nostalgia and authenticity. I too spit in the name of gentrification, but “time don’t go back, it goes forward - can’t run from the pain, go towards it.” If Mr. Marcy himself can progress (“and I can’t help the poor if I’m one of them - so I got rich and gave back, that’s the win-win”) why are we still complaining?
I came to live in Manhattan in 1976. The city was dirty and dangerous and filled with thugs and hookers and con artists and unbelievably pushy transvestites. You didn’t dare go to Central Park alone. You didn’t dare ride the subway at night. A famous mobster got shot 15 blocks from my apartment. An even more famous mobster got shot two blocks from my apartment. On my wedding night, a cabbie got into a fight with another cabbie and jumped out to retrieve a weapon from the trunk. So did the other cabbie. God, were we impressed. It was magical. It was mythical. It was everything you dreamed about as a kid growing up in or around Podunk. Manhattan was grungy, gritty, grubby and great.
Now it’s gone. First Avenue belongs to frat boys. Second Avenue, too. The West Village is a retirement community for active seniors. The East Village has lost its ethnic, proletarian flavor and now plays host to 12-year-old punklings from Secaucus. Little Italy has shrunk to two city blocks. Harlem has restaurants with names like Settepani. If you want to know what Manhattan used to look like, you have to go to Marseille. Or Poland.
- A taste of what Joe Queenan misses about ol’ New York in his article in The Wall Street Journal today
No love lost between me and this city, but let’s concur that there are worse things than the copious amount of brunch places and that there are in fact quite a few pieces of shit left over in New York.
Mad Men came back last night (for a great recap, see Vulture) so of course I cancelled the plans I accidentally made, prepared meals that I could prepare during commercial breaks and drafted a few “best show on television” Facebook statuses that I never ended up posting. Not for any particular reason, but if I was lying on a couch exclaiming “Oh, God. Doc! What is it all about? Help me!” then I might suggest it has something to do with The Americans, my new television crush. And now, Vulture - clearly my only source of information - posted an article suggesting The Americans is greater than Homeland. Disclaimer: I haven’t read the article in question , but I’m so long over Homeland that it was worth sharing for headline alone.
With friends like these, who needs enemies?
And the most rhetorical question of all time goes to … “Do men’s magazines objectify women?” I don’t know who would ask that, but Alec Blimes editor at Esquire, thinks the answer should be something more offensive than the obvious “duh.” Thanks BuzzFeed for documenting the Evolution of the Faces of Feminism. And, your welcome.
I went on a date the other night and this was playing in the background and after 30 seconds I prematurely screamed “OMG!!! ITSPHOENIXILOVELISTOMANIA!” He corrected me, I ordered another drink. He then asked me if I’ve ever heard of Radiohead. I ordered another drink. When I did the walk of shame the next morning (read: redemption) I listened to “Is This It?” in hopes of curing my hangover. Happy Thursdays! Allow me to throw it back to 2002 ..
"Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship" - a quote no one has ever used to describe the relations between B. Obama and B. Netanyahu. What a waste of alliteration (bromance, "Bibi," Barack, etc.). Is it at least worth a post in Awesome People Hanging Out Together?
Young, dumb, high strung - who could handle us? Not much to say about this video, except for that I miss Lupe. And Pharrell. And N.E.R.D. (no one ever really dies) for that matter.And baby Thom Yorke’s a cutie, I totally would have flirted when I was that age (what’s my age again?)
I don’t mean to start a weekly thing with relatively relevant famed rock stars from across the ponds making the rounds at awards shows they weren’t nominated in and fashion shows filled with models even they’re too old to hit on. (Note - how has this not made it onto Awesome People Hanging Out) But alas, here is Paul McCartney and Paul David Hewson (Bono) at the Stella McCartney (no relation, the entertainment industry spits on nepotism!) show in Paris this week. I was gunna wrap this up with, “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship”. But instead I settled on, “we’ll always have Paris.” Yes, yes you will.
My soul was crushed and then repaired today in less than 200 words. Vulture reports that Jon Stewart is going to take a 3 months off this summer to direct a film, but that John Oliver will be taking over while he’s gone. Can he do the same accents? Can he push his seeing centrist agenda using the perfect blend of satire, sarcasm and catchphrases? No pressure British John, no pressure - it’s only my number one source of news.
My sun and stars and even my moon, Morrissey, somehow managed to piss of even more people last week when he refused to perform on Jimmy Kimmel, denouncing America’s royal family (
The Kennedy’s Ducky Dynasty) for animal cruelty. According to the New York Times “As far as my reputation is concerned, I can’t take the risk of being on a show alongside people who, in effect, amount to animal serial killers,” Morrissey said. “If Jimmy cannot dump ‘Duck Dynasty,’ then we must step away.” Then Kimmel said something in his monologue (“He keeps finding new ways to depress us”), then Morrissey replied(“Tune in and relive the intellectual fog of the 1950s), then Kimmel tweeted something, and then Kimmel opened up his monologue with that again. More recently, Morrissey ripped on Beyonce for the animals her minions skin to make her bags. I’m a die-hard carnivore, but there is something to be said about his conviction to his reputation. At least today is actually Sunday.