I’m working on a story that calls for a character to drink whiskey in a bar, and I keep spelling “tumbler” like “tumblr.” I’m putting these here because I have a sneaking suspicion that one day, all of us are going to forget:
Tumbler: a stemless drinking glass with a thick bottom, OR a person who performs leaps, somersaults, and other bodily feats.
Friend: a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.
Twitter: to utter a succession of small, tremulous sounds, as a bird.
Tweet: a weak chirping sound, as of a young or small bird.
Damsels in Distress
"A few years ago Ms. Lawrence might have looked hungry enough to play Katniss, but now, at 21, her seductive, womanly figure makes a bad fit for a dystopian fantasy about a people starved into submission."
No, Manohla. No.
This paragraph destroys me on so many levels.
They didn’t need someone who looked “starved into submission”. They needed someone who looked like she could climb trees and hunt for food and survive a night outside without a sleeping bag. They needed someone who looked awkward and hippy and not at all comfortable in a ball gown. They needed someone who could play convincingly tough. Not fake-tough like Rooney Mara, but genuinely troubled in a way that—I’m sorry but—you can never be if your great-grandfather is Tim Mara.
I know I am late to jump on this bandwagon, and I know there are people all over the Internet capable of being more expertly angry about all of this than me. But it’s been gnawing at my heart since I read it. Ms. Dargis- what happened?
A Lively Debate
Barista #1: “When you think about it, it’s got to be hard to be Steve Buscemi.”
Barista #2: “I don’t know about that. I bet it’s harder to be me than it is to be Steve Buscemi.”
I think these are both valid points.
Interviewer: “Are you working on anything right now?”
Ellis: “Well, a shark movie is taking up a lot my time right now.”
-From the Spring 2012 Paris Review interview with Bret Easton Ellis
So now you can relax.
Sometimes when it is afternoon and it is raining and I can’t seem to figure out where the morning went, or for that matter the week, and I’m forced to consider the fact that whole months are slipping through my fingers without my knowledge or consent, I find myself haunted by a certainty that moving to New York was a mistake. Yes this city has bookstores and writers and museums and good coffee but Los Angeles had all of those things plus my boyfriend and my car. Plus good weather. Plus the beach. Tonight, after I had to take two buses and a subway just to to see a friend of a friend’s graduate thesis play in Hell’s Kitchen, I experienced a temporary upswell of rage that turned me, momentarily, into the crazy lady on the train. At a too-long stop light, I actually cursed out loud. Loud enough that the pretty girl in the seat next to me scooted another seat over. This is a version of me that comes clearer every day winter persists and one I’d hoped never to encounter.
Because of this I gave up on the play and took the train back down to West 4th street where I got off at the IFC Center and saw Jiro Dreams of Sushi. This movie combined with Pina and Bill Cunningham New York has me, for one, convinced that documentaries about talented old people are the fundamental cure for all of nature’s ills. Something about coming face to face with a man who was kicked out of his family’s home at seven years old and raised himself to become, at eighty, a world famous chef with three michelin stars and incredible bicep definition made it impossible to continue wallowing in self pity. Definitely recommended for a solo viewing on a lonely winter day.
All the moments of your life had been leading up to a single moment and that moment was now and you spent it on the Internet?