Why doesn’t it rain Barnes & Noble gift certificates instead of water?
Archive for July, 2014
IS: brb casually twerking in pink visor and one piece bathing suit
(Side note: what does a casual twerk look like, versus a fancy twerk?)
Dear Maria Bamford,
A friend of mine sent me the profile of you in the New York Times with a note that read, “So I’m not sure if you’ll take this as a compliment, which is how I mean it, but this article totally reminded me of you.” I did, in fact. I also note with glee the following passage, and would like to offer up my services
“She has a thoughtful and friendly demeanor, but it’s edged with a certain nervousness. The verbal acrobatics that pump energy into her monologues, you soon realize, are not flashes of spontaneous genius but rather the product of huge amounts of time spent in focused rehearsal. (When she’s developing new material, she will pay friends $75 an hour to listen to her practicing bits over the phone.) In casual conversation, words come less easily. Bamford often appears to rethink her sentences midway, leaving many of them unfinished. Some of this may be attributable to Depakote, the mood stabilizer she takes daily. It’s one of a number of concessions she has made in the name of stability. Thanks to the medicine, she also now needs at least 10 hours of sleep each night, she says, “and also another hour to nap.”
Think about it, and if you’re down, email Siobhan for my direct line.
Giving things names is hard, no? I used to have a very easy time titling pieces, but now I can’t do it for the life of me (not that it would matter, because the editor would change it anyway!) Today my friend told me of a restaurant in Manchester called The Good Wife, with an attached bar called The Other Woman. I might hire that dude to name my children.
I’m so over it. Newest blow: the most adorable little house in the world, at 121 Charles Street, is probs going to be torn down to make room for an ugly glass bougie panopticon-esque highrise of some sort.
In addition, Maeve Brennan, whom I borderline idolize (both sartorially and artistically), wrote a very charming piece in her New Yorker column about monitoring this house’s move from uptown to downtown. An excerpt, which I had to dig through the TNY archives for (you’re welcome):
“Tonight, Sunday, March 6th (1967), I heard on the radio that a two-hundred-year-old wooden farmhouse was moved this morning from Seventy-first Street and York Avenue all the way down to Charles Street, in the village–-a five mile journey. The move was a rescue. The farmhouse was about to be demolished, because it was in the way of a new building plan. [Editor’s note: I guess everything has always sucked] I live in the Village, and I thought I’d walk over and see the house––see how it was standing up to its first night away from its birth site… But when I stepped up on the sidewalk on the northeast corner of Hudson and Charles Street I saw the house. It was up in the air, a ghost shape, at the end of the block, on the northeast corner of Charles Street and Greenwich Street. The eastern wall of the farmhouse is painted a dark color, but the front wall, facing Charles Street, is white, and as I approached it I got a sidewise glimmer of it that defined the whole tiny structure. It was a very tiny house––much smaller than I had expected. That must have been a very small farmer who built it.”
I actually heard this extract when I was on a walking tour of Maeve Brennan’s Greenwich Village one afternoon when I was dead tired and my fingers were covered were grease from McDonald’s fries. As they say: nothing charming stays. But on the other hand, an article in NY Mag recently covered the “co-buying” trend, so if a very tiny family would like to team up with my very tiny family (two people and two cats) and purchase this little abode at the bargain price of $20 million, contact Siobhan––she’ll know what to do.
… when the woman next to you asks if she can consult your DSM for a minute.
on their way to their joint wedding.
“Nelle [Harper Lee] told me about the time a young Truman took off on an adventure. It was 1936. Truman was twelve and Nelle was ten. A girl named Martha was visiting the Rawls family across the street. She was from Milton, Florida, and four years old than Truman. Nelle said she noticed that the girl would sit out on the steps in her bathing costume. ‘I was jealous,’ Nelle told me, ‘of all the time Truman was spending with Martha––the exotic older woman.’
“Nelle told me to ask Alice about the details of what came next. I did.
“‘Truman and Martha got it into their heads that they would run away,’ Alice told me. ‘So they hitchhiked to Evergreen and created a story about why they were traveling by themselves. The clerk at the hotel realized that something was not right and called back here to have someone retrieve them. It didn’t create that much attention around here. It was two little kids up to mischief. It was no big thing. The only big thing about it came later when both of ’em became well-known, but not for the same reason.
“‘It turns out that years later she had been corresponding through one of those lonely hearts kind of things in a magazine and that was how she met this husband who ended up being her partner in crime.’
“In an uncanny twist of Nelle’s and Truman’s history, Martha turned out to be a murderer. She was Martha Beck, who, with her husband, lured and robbed women who had placed personal ads in newspapers. Posing as brother and sister in the late forties, they befriended the unsuspecting victims before killing them. Known as the Lonely Hearts Killers, their crimes were sensationalized in the popular detective magazines of the day.
~The Mockingbird Next Door: Life with Harper Lee by Marja Mills
Not that anyone particularly cares at this point, but there was a bit of an oh-how-brave reaction when Christine Quinn, who was then running for mayor, released a memoir about her various obstacles: homosexuality, bulimia, and alcoholism (wow, what a trio!) But if you think carefully, it’s not brave at all, but rather incredibly safe, because it’s following the clear cultural trajectory toward an end where strife is the only worthwhile currency. I will bet anyone who is willing that it’s not long before a disgraced Republican, who was fervently anti-marriage equality but then was caught tapping his foot in a bathroom, comes out with a memoir, goes on Oprah and cries, and uses it all to launch a new campaign. (Oh wait… Anthony Weiner kind of did that already, minus the gay part.)
“What makes us authentic, then, as Jews, homosexuals, Hindus, or Chinese, is our sense of trauma, and thus our status as victims, which cannot be questioned. The vulgar Freudianism of the view is remarkable in an age of debunking Freud. In fact, Freud’s endeavors were themselves a brilliant product of late-nineteenth century identity politics. To secular, bourgeois, assimilated German and Austrian Jews, psychoanalysis was a logical route to self discovery. What Freud did for his Viennese patients is in a way what Edmund White and other identity politicians are now doing for their various ‘communities,’ and real politicians are borrowing their language.”
~Ian Buruma, “The Joys and Perils of Victimhood,” from the New York Review of Books
“On February 14, I received a telegram from Buenos Aires telling me to return immediately, for my father was ‘in no way well.’ God forgive me, but the prestige of being the recipient of an urgent telegram, the desire to point out to all of Fray Bentos the contradiction between the negative form of the news and the positive adverb, the temptations to dramatize my sorrow as a feigned a virile stoicism, all distracted me from the possibility of anguish.” ~Jorge Luis Borges, “Funes the Memorius”