80s night
On some public access channel they do this 80s dance. People dress up like the 80s and dance to 80s songs, less with irony or nostalgia than just obtuse impulse, the same impulse which drives people to eat pretzels at a bar, or pet a dog. I always stay on the channel, doing the “coffin” yoga pose on my couch, watching these people dance badly to either bad or great songs. The jury is still out, on whether the 80s created or corrupted “art,” and it doesn’t matter, as there will always be dogs, no matter how badly they behave. Most wear dark sunglasses, as if bracing for the light at the middle of the tunnel.
Vicarious 7th Grade
This is a picture of three people whose identities are either already known or shall be implicated herein. What follows — not the picture, which happened in a cool city (not Dublin), but related discourse — took place within the last hour between (a) this contributor, (b) the lady in mention, and, separately, (c) our managing editor, a kind man who often offers emotional and grammatical counsel.
On Beauty
In 2004 Zadie Smith published On Beauty, a book I haven’t read because tv is too compelling. That is less of a criticism of her than me, but I appreciate the semi-open mouth. This is a companion piece to “On Booty,” about similar concerns, probably. Zadie Smith has freckles, and while I got in trouble in the past for mentioning the physical attributes of a female writer, I’ll brace myself and say — by the way I’m drunk right now — that when I think of her, I think of the man who makes love to her, and how her freckles must seem so lovely, those tiny landmines of love’s fleeting expression, while he comes inside her. Life is a condom, it just doesn’t feel right. I also didn’t read the article about some new camera that makes people look more beautiful, because, again, tuberculosis is too compelling.
