Midtown Skin Essay Series Part 3 of 5: Lunch Hour

3. Lunch Hour

Can we stop all this? Can we just stop for an hour?

The Indian buffet on 39th Street simmers as fat men in blue suits break their day into two unequal pieces. Neither piece seems palatable, at this juncture. The morning was dull and the afternoon will be a replete – so the whole day is a tangled mess, layers of nothing upon layers of too much. Clients have weighed in, money is on the line, and all of the executives are out of office (OOO) selecting window dressings for their new condos in MiMa.

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Midtown Skin Essay Series Part 2 of 5: Hedge Fund

Hedge Fund

It’s ten AM, do you know where your money is? Who touches your credit? Who makes it feel safe? Touching candy, scraping paper skin over the fires of the market, these are the goals of the new new Downtown set. These are the men and women who give your money value, who quantify your life growth. They deal your commodity. They are the men and women who take your life and make it fabulous.

She whispers to money before she dreams, in her loft Downtown. Money takes her to bed. She kisses her own power like an empty vase

On the other side of the world, in New Jersey, money begins to seek power. It begins to roll in the direction of Wall St. It divests itself from your retirement plan. Money wants to be in Manhattan. Money wants to be strong with sexy friends, cigars, power boats. A vacation for money would be a week on the beach at Battery Park, in the 1980s, during the bond market boom. Your money wants to merge, to kill. Your kids go off to college, your money goes off to war.

And now your moeny has gone digital – just like your love life. Your money is dating your iPhone. Your money is fucking your second wife in the back of a Towncar. Every morning at 9:30 AM Eastern, your money sits at a Bloomberg terminal and watches itself breathe.

You can’t have your money now. It belongs to math and it belongs to disappearing mental real estate – the headline market, the gold hedge, the metals sector. Your money is bored by you. Your money is long gone – blowing lines of coke in some Russian death bar with the twin daughters of a brand new oil baron. Say goodbye to your money.

Previously: Happy Hour

Midtown Skin Essay Series Part 1: Happy Hour

Midtown Skin Essay Series with Parts 1-5
WINTER 2011-2012

1. Happy Hour

The sound from exhaling smoke is everywhere. People breathe with their hearts as rain clouds come from New Jersey. But they do not fall. The sky is gray and empty of a future. Women cruise through revolving doors into catalogs of private romance. Men linger with their fantasies for a moment, on the curb, outside of the brokerage firm. The bosses wait together for their car service, placing bets on who will fuck at the VP afterlounge. Lincolns in line stretch down the blocks past marble stairs and hedges. These cars are thick and black and they do not forgive. At this hour, corporate art can sneak into our souls. The markets change over to Asia.  All through Manhattan, the people are killing their day lives. Captains of Industry are embracing their moment of blindness, at the intersection of work and sex. Everyone follows a different path to the gratification called home.

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A Survey of 90s + Early-Internet Love Poetry

    Since I’m only 23, it’s hard for me to understand love without the Internet. Probably all the times I’ve been in love, the Internet has been involved. Let’s consider some poems from the 1990s and early 2000s that feature love.
    From a design standpoint, many of these poems suffer and thrive within the limitations of early web design utilities. There are strange boarders, floral .gifs, and extensive breaking with conventional wisdom on fonts.
    In terms of how these poems make me feel, there is a note of desperation and of severe emotion in these works. They seem spiritual – and often are explicitly religious. They are from a time before online dating was common. They are from a time before Facebook. Electronic detachment was fresh.
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