The graveyard of personal literary ambition.
There is only one of me, but I am Legion.
(lazy dot reviewer at gmail)
A European prince who wears blue pants that taper a little bit.
At least one man whose featured quote is “I don’t know anything about fashion, I just put on what they tell me to.”
Someone who’s wearing shoes without socks that are normally worn with socks.
Someone really old.
An American man who has moved, famously, to France.
Like, obviously Keith Richards will be on the list, but also someone conventionally old.
Wild Palms came somehow into the world in the post-Twin Peaks days of 1993. It was based on a cyberpunk comic strip serial by Bruce Wagner previously published in Details magazine. It told of a dystopic near-future in Los Angeles where corporate interests have seized power in America and threaten to further control the population via the medium of living hologram, able to invade people’s homes through their televisions. There are guerrillas opposing the Government (the Friends vs the Fathers), an influential television series of dubious repute (‘Church Windows’), a murder, a child star, substances with made-up names, a very transparent stab at Scientology in the ‘Church of Synthiotics’, a terrorist plot and a great deal of recurring dream imagery featuring a pool, a rhino and a woman covered in tattoos of palm trees.
Obviously, this will all be great.
I honestly think it’s made up.
I learned a lot about things from Will Butler’s "In Blind Judgment."
Pip what are you doing right now
I’m at work
did you know that my name would have been Mrs. Compeyson
if I’d married my fiancé Mr. Compeyson
but I never did marry him
because as you recall
I was abandoned on my wedding day
by my fiancé
and have never never never recovered
When talking to a third party about your friend’s fondness for white denim:
“I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was as old as she.”
When discussing your niece’s decision to attend a state college instead of going to Bard like your own daughter:
“To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation.”
When informing your child that you’ve decided to murder her and bury her with her dead aunt:
“So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?”
When loudly commenting on the prelude at a child’s violin recital:
“This is not a very promising beginning.”
When gazing down the rows to select a sacrifice for the giant ape:
“A girl of fifteen!”
When telling your housekeeper that you will not be giving her bus fare to your knitting retreat in Big Sur:
“But you must come up and tack on my patterns just the same.”
Jessie-Lane Metz, in "Criminalizing Us to Death: How Racism in Medicine Nearly Killed Anthony Stokes"
But if you’re more retiring and less talented, you may have a particular image in your mind. Mine goes back and forth, but it’s always a duet. I either want to be the chick in “Paradise By the Dashboard Lights” (STFU with your judgment) or, as discussed, Kirsty MacColl in “Fairytale of New York.” I’m sure that means something really significant about my psyche, that I want to be a sidekick and not a soloist, but there we are. It’s how I feel. But what is it, really, about karaoke, that reveals your true self? Are you a diva? A woo-woo girl? Do you harmonize, or do you take it to the next level? Do people clap for your part, or are you bulking out the ensemble?
When asked why, despite the hassle and boredom and resource-suck of parenting, you never really blame your kid for it:
“Does your brain complain when you spend money on your foot?”
Wow. I am very unromantic about parenting, I would say, versus the popular conception of MOTHERING, but this sat me down in its truth. Parenting is a huge pain in the ass, and on the worst day, you might say, wtf am I doing this for? but, truthfully, it’s never occured to me to be annoyed at my daughter about it. Because she’s my foot. If my foot needed bunion surgery, it wouldn’t be something to get mad about, other than to an unhelpful insurance representative. She’s part of my body. If I didn’t look after her, my body would suffer. That’s it. That’s parenting, for me. It’s selfish. Your child is like your foot. It’s not even some mystical perfect love you might or might not feel: your child is an extension of your physical body.
Imagine a world without espresso-based drinks and desserts. How would white dudes even describe women’s skin? They would stumble about openmouthed and speechless, unable to cobble together even the simplest of metaphors.
Instead of skin like mocha: “Her skin was like the largest organ in her body, like the soft outer covering found on all vertebrates that protects them from pathogens and water loss, as well as providing insulation, temperature regulation, sensation, and the production of Vitamin D folates.”