The cat lord giveth and the cat lord taketh away. I was sad when we had to return the kittens unexpectedly last week, but we now have a pregnant cat who is about to give birth any day. My husband wants to call her Virginia Slim because she is maybe the lankiest cat I've ever seen in real life, giant pregnant belly aside, and extremely elegant. If this cat was a person, she'd be like Sherry Tinsdale, only showing in profile. After popping out her babies, she's heading straight to Art Basel to model for Iris van Herpen. On the plane there, she'll be drinking champagne and reading the newly translated Chateaubriand memoirs. Hanging out in my grungy basement for more than a few days is absolutely beneath her and once these kittens have exited her body, she'll never think about them again. She has upcoming commitments in Paris, thank you very much. She can't nurse a kitten while eating caviar and smoking a cigarette.
In other news, Bea's cone time has come to an end, along with the government shutdown (for now). Will Congress release the Epstein files, and if they do, will anyone in the MAGA cult of dipshittery care? Probably not. I fully believe these people could watch Trump abuse an infant on live broadcast and they would still find some way to call it a hoax, excuse his behavior, etc. Megyn Kelly would be like, "Trump likes them young, but it's not like he's fucking a zygote, so therefore I cannot call him a pedophile." Words and reality have no meaning for these people. They fully exist in another universe where everyone is solely driven by their own selfish, corrupt, perverted desires. Anyway... onto something less depressing.
Every time a new novel is super hyped, I get excited about it, read it, and am inevitably disappointed. For this reason, I gravitate toward older fiction from authors I trust enough to at least write solid prose even if the story is ultimately not for me. Plus, I've been maintaining a lengthy TBR list for decades now that I'll probably never get through unless I live to 150. If I'm going to deviate and spend precious time on something new, I want to be dazzled. When I was younger, I read everything and anything, not really caring if it sucked or if my socks were knocked off. I was swimming in time and didn't have to adhere to an extreme vetting process. All I needed was something interesting enough to get me through the kiosk shift at Auntie Anne's Pretzels. These days, my standards are higher. I don't like it, but it's how things have to be. I can't suffer through another 1-star read like Sarah Manguso's "Liars." I don't want to spend time with an insufferable character that the author doesn't seem to understand is insufferable. No, thanks!
Recently, people have been telling me to read Erin Somers's "The Ten Year Affair" (2025). It's about a man and a woman, both married, who meet at a baby group and have an instant connection. They become friends — albeit with an inordinate amount of sexual tension and a continuously running affair fantasy — and nothing untoward happens for ten years. At least, that's how the short story the novel is based on is structured. I was thrilled to find that I could undergo this low stakes commitment before diving into 304 pages. Of course, a good short story does not always translate well into a novel, but in this case, it is a very strong proof of concept. Also, most importantly, the writing is good. Even if the character development and pacing fall flat (two potential pitfalls), I'm curious enough to see how Somers expands this idea into a more fully formed experience. Cora, the protagonist (the story is written in close third, aligned with her perspective), doesn't have much of an identity in the short story and Sam, her would-be paramour, is just some guy with a toothpick, so I hope the added length gives Somers the room to make them feel more like actual people and less like concepts.
Here's a snippet from the short story where Cora moves through her daily life while imagining, in another timeline, what life might be like if she were fucking Sam:
So Cora sat in a mind-numbing meeting, as she met Sam in a darkened steakhouse. She made a suggestion about SEO while they each drank an ice-cold martini. There was coffee in the meeting at least, a big bitter carafe of it, and she refilled her cup as she reached for his cock under the table. Sam brushed back her hair from her ear, whispered something, and her boss rapped his knuckles on the conference table, made a dumb joke about the moment everyone had been waiting for, and brought it around to monthly stats.
Read if you like: "Big Swiss," "Sliding Doors," wondering whether you're actually horny for someone or just bored, daydreaming to cope with life's bullshit.
I don't think I know another person who's as good at giving film recommendations as Alex. A few months ago, I told her I was desperate for something that could scratch the "Bergman Island" (2021) itch. Here's the generic prompt I gave her:
I want to watch a movie that’s "Bergman Island"-esque. Set in a beautiful location, maybe about making art, maybe there’s an unrequited or unfulfilled love. Any recs?
At the time, she was like, "I don't think that exists" and told me to revisit Joanna Hogg's "Unrelated" (2007) and "Archipelago" (2010). Then, four months later, she came back to me with "Islands." It's not a perfect movie, it's not about making art, but it comes so close to working that I kind of loved it in spite of its flaws. It starts with Tom (Sam Riley), an ex-tennis pro who now teaches at a hotel in Fuerteventura, waking up facedown in the sand. He's your typical middle-aged fuckup... someone who once had a lot of potential, failed to properly harness it, and is now slipping into quiet alcoholism/a life of regret. At work, he meets a woman named Anne (Stacy Martin), who is desperate for her son to receive one-on-one tennis lessons. From the jump, there is a strong vibe that makes you wonder what exactly Anne's deal is. When her husband, Dave (Jack Farthing), enters the picture, it's even more confusing. Are these people going to have a threesome or...? Tom is clearly interested in all of them for different reasons and I kind of love that each character is deeply unhappy with their life.
The film goes off the rails when Dave disappears and it turns into more of a noir. I found this especially irritating because, with a few minor changes, it would have worked extraordinarily well. Even so, I found it very worth the watch, especially for the acting from Riley, Martin, and Farthing, along with the subtle shifts in power dynamics. Alex also called out the blocking, which I truthfully don't usually notice until a second viewing, but I trust that she's correct. Anyone with a VPN can watch it via a free trial on BFI Player (and for those without, maybe ask for one this holiday season because it is well worth the money).
Watch if you like: "Bergman Island," wasted potential, existential crises in beautiful locales, great acting that nearly makes up for a so-so story, "The White Lotus," Patricia Highsmith.
This is a heavy read infused with just enough humor to make it palatable in these dark times. It takes place in Grand Rapids, Michigan in the early 2000s. Tess moves there with her mother from Ypsilanti in 2001 and then later that year, her mother dies (cancer). She moves in with her wealthy aunt and uncle and tries to acclimate, becoming friends with a girl named Candy who most upper crust parents would probably describe as trouble. Together, they experiment with drugs (Robitussin cough syrup that they steal from Meijer, natch), sexuality, and personas — typical teen shit with an increased sense of loneliness and depression c/o a loss that no one is capable of helping Tess navigate.
The novel focuses on one summer in particular, the one where Tess loses her virginity, in an attempt to figure out why it was so impactful. Written in the first person, the novel's narrative voice is an older Tess looking back. It's one of those novels that is very much inspired by reality but takes enough liberties to be called fiction. Stagg/Tess reminds me of so many girls I went to high school with in Natrona Heights, Pennsylvania. She probably wore an armful of black jelly bracelets, sipping black coffee at diners, painting her nails black, lining her eyes black, dying her hair black, everything black black black. Emily the Strange was a patron saint and if Hot Topic hadn't yet been discovered, it soon would be. Cutting, eating disorders, and teen pregnancy were all topics of interest even if they weren't directly experienced. Everything felt alien and the ability to describe what was happening internally wasn't yet within reach.
Everything dulls, though, and CDs scratch, inkjet printouts blister with moisture, a cutout's edges soften, memories become just that. What made her dynamic then, to me, becomes indescribable now, even to myself, because it is tethered to a time, and that time looks different when it is a pile of cracked plastic jewel cases in a battered shoebox. Still, I like the song, and probably wouldn't even get to feel that if not for some earlier enjoyment of it. I can't remember what was always playing in Lauren's car, which is funny, because eventually, I remember, I complained about the repetition.
Read if you like: "Thirteen," "Girlhood," Edward Fortyhands, intentionally burning yourself with a cigarette lighter, thanking your lucky stars you made it through your teens and twenties alive.
This might be kind of meandering, so bear with me. Last week, I talked about how much I enjoyed "Die My Love," the new Lynne Ramsey film with Jennifer Lawrence and Robert Pattinson. Prior to watching it, I read Jia Tolentino's New Yorker profile on Lawrence, which got into the actress's perception of herself in the media over time. Tolentino writes,
When I mentioned going through old articles about her, she winced. “Oh, no,” she said. “So hyper. So embarrassing.” I said that it must have been self-alienating to have people demand and obsess over her genuine personality, and then to decide that it was fake. “Well, it is, or it was, my genuine personality, but it was also a defense mechanism,” she said. The pedestal of fame had felt treacherous and false: “And so it was a defense mechanism, to just be, like, ‘I’m not like that! I poop my pants every day!’ "
To me, this sounds like hell, and the unique thing about modern life is that almost all of us are living some version of it now because our identities have been fractured and parceled up into digestible pieces for public consumption. As friend groups spread across countries and continents sometimes the only regular contact we have with a person is via their performative updates on social media. What we are experiencing is a small percentage of that person but because we see it most frequently, it stands in for them as a whole. Maybe your friend is an empathetic, caring, funny person in real life, but you read a saccharine post about her child's birthday and immediately get the ick. Experience this enough times and you'll eventually rethink the validity of your relationship, wondering if you've drifted far enough apart that there's nothing left to salvage.
With Lawrence, there's the additional element of having her words cut up, manipulated, repackaged, and publicly dissected. She has to do press to promote her movies and has no control over how it will get disseminated on social media, in clickbait headlines, etc. One interview gets chopped up into a thousand pieces and strewn across many different accounts, appearing in an Instagram feed so many times that even a fan will probably start to think, "This bitch needs to give it a rest." This much exposure to specific facets of a human is enough to drive anyone crazy. We aren't supposed to passively interact with people like this on a neverending loop designed for addiction and rage. In ten years from now, I hope we look back on social media like we now do societally with cigarettes, but there's too much government corruption and money involved, so cue the increased isolation and irritation.
I don't have it in me to do a full gift guide (here's my last one from 2020), so I'll toss some suggestions into this weekly newsletter until I run out of ideas. Here are some ideas for adult friends:
- Maybe this is boring as fuck, but I think a calendar is the perfect holiday gift. Not one of those generic, poorly printed ones from a mall pop-up shop, but one made by an artist with joyful illustrations for you to look forward to each month. My friend Sophie has a great one that I will buy every year until one of us dies or she stops making it. Other favorites are Phoebe Wahl's lunar calendar, this one from Ren-O-Graphics that comes with stickers, and Furukawashiko's desk calendar if you can find it in stock (NYC people, check Kinokuniya and Yoseka).
- A book from their childhood. Trust me, it's not hard to get this information. Pretend you're fishing for child gift ideas and ask if there are any books they loved as kids but have never revisited as an adult. Maybe you can find them a first, signed, or special edition. If you know their parents, shake them down for info, too. You might also check to see if prints are available from the illustrator. I can't even tell you what I would do for a piece of Dorrie art from living legend Patricia Coombs.
- A fun umbrella. Umbrellas break, get lost, and different ones are required depending on the scenario. For example, I'm not bringing my vintage stick umbrella into the city for a day of walking around because it's too cumbersome to carry when I inevitably head indoors and/or it stops raining. That type of excursion calls for a compact umbrella with a sheath that I can toss into my bag. (You're not a moron, you understand how this works.) Point being: people need a variety of umbrellas and they're probably not shelling out for quality ones too often. I like the Original Duckhead, Blunt metro, and impractical vintage umbrellas that make an outfit look dope while barely repelling rain.
I've been using the Blunt Metro umbrella for eight years. I still have the egg umbrella on the left, which I got from a Mailchimp work event.
Things that are great: Pulp's Tiny Desk, Rosalía on Fashion Neuroses, Malala on Normal Gossip, Seth Meyers's "Corrections" (still a proud jackal), planning my Thanksgiving menu, 40% off at New York Review of Books, watching "Pluribus" in bed at 6 p.m. with a glass of Lambrusco. My Chinese food just arrived, so TTYL.
