The rain has been merciless this week, forcing me to take long, wet walks around the neighborhood followed by nightly baths. I love this time of year when everything is newly green and it feels like something good might possibly happen. My allergies are so bad that every waking moment is miserable and yet... I'm still optimistic. That's the power of seasonal change, baby. It makes you forget all the horrible shit in the world and hope for the best.
I'd like to leave you with a spring quote about the beauty of nature, but this one from Lydia Davis is all that comes to mind:
I am happy the leaves are growing large so quickly. Soon they will hide the neighbor and her screaming child.
Onward!
You know how people think Harambe's death catapulted us into a parallel universe where everything sucks infinitely more peen? Well, I'm convinced that having Raja and Raven as Vogue correspondents at the Met Gala would move us back to the good place. When that happens, I'll know America is healing. In the meantime, here are my thoughts:
- Too many pinstripes, questionably tailored suits, stupid hats, awkward accessories, and men who don't understand what shoes to pair with formal wear.
- Not enough color, exaggerated proportions, and 70s/80s inspiration. To be honest, I wanted more zoot suits! Willy Chavarría looked cool as hell.
- I'm thrilled by the lack of Kardashian discourse. Either I've successfully eradicated them from my internet or they're experiencing a legitimate decline in relevance (I'm hoping it's the latter).
- Favorite small details:
Colman Domingo's ear cuff // Tyler Perry's brooch (and jeweled cape, omfg).
Whitney Peak's cigarette nail by Betina Goldstein.
I can't believe it took me so long to discover the genius of Helene Hanff. As an epistolary enthusiast, "84, Charing Cross Road" (book and movie) could not be more up my street. The slim book, only 97 pages, chronicles Helene's real-life correspondence with a London bookseller named Frank Doel. As a freelance writer in Manhattan, Helene finds herself in need of hard-to-find books (often by British authors) at a good price. When the shops near her fail to deliver, she begins writing to Marks & Co at 84, Charing Cross Road (which is now a fucking McDonald's). Over the course of 19 years (1949-1968), she becomes snail mail pals not only with Frank, but his wife Nora, his elderly upstairs neighbor Mrs. Boulton, and several of the other shop employees. Everything about it is delightful in a "that's so nice" [happy tears] kind of way.
The movie adaptation is nearly as good as the book, mainly because of the insane cast, including Anne Bancroft (Helene), Anthony Hopkins (Frank), and Judi Dench (Nora). It's also delightful to see other faves, like J. Smith Cameron and Mercedes Ruehl, pop up in small roles. By the time the film was made, there had already been adaptations for radio, theater, and television with powerhouse actresses like Ellen Burstyn and Elaine Stritch playing Helene. As with those that came before it, the film was a success, both at the box office and the BAFTAs. Prior to the book's publication, Hanff was an unproduced playwright who supported herself with television writing and other odd jobs. It feels right that this book — a testament to the power of literature and perseverance — is what led to her work finally reaching the stage.
Helene (left), Anne Bancroft (right). After receiving a gift from the bookshop, she wrote, "I shall try very hard not to get gin and ashes all over it."
I miss the days when celebrities existed at a far remove from the hoi polloi. They acted in projects and lived their lives while the commoners speculated about them. They weren't regularly broadcasting their personal business to the masses on Instagram. At best, you might get a memoir or biography, but they were nowhere near as common as they are now. These days, celebrities are everywhere all at once, constantly trolling for new sources of income to safeguard from industry turbulence, aging, another pandemic, etc. Over the past decade, celebrity rewatch podcasts have become increasingly common, making it more difficult for fan-run shows to gain traction.
This might sound like a niche problem until you start to consider the wider implications, which Kirthana Ramisetti nicely outlines. Not only does this trend impact creators in the podcast space, it negatively impacts biographers and documentarians, too. It feels akin to Hollywood only green-lighting projects with pre-existing IP. Why buy a biography from a journalist who can't get the subject to talk to her when you can buy a memoir from a celebrity who already has a large fanbase and proven track record of selling shit? Do you see where this is going?
If celebrities believe they have sole ownership over their stories, they'll start replacing history with whatever bastardized version they find most palatable. One of my biggest (minor) disappointments of 2025 is Prince's estate putting the kibosh on Ezra Edelman's documentary because they didn't like the editorial vision (this NYT article is a great read). In the alternate timeline where Harambe's still alive, "The Book of Prince" came out to great fanfare and Netflix told the estate to go kick rocks.
I know about Erewhon solely from the internet. I've never been there IRL and I have no desire to go. I do not come from wealth and expensive grocery stores give me anxiety. I once accidentally purchased a $22 croissant from Sweet Rehab in the West Village and almost had a heart attack. I really wanted one and there were no prices listed. "I mean, it's one croissant, Lindsay. What could it cost? $10?" I thought to myself in Lucille Bluth fashion. Wrong! $22.34 with tax you poor slob and no, you can't sit at a table; those are for people ordering full tea service. You have to eat your exorbitantly-priced pastry out on the street, hovering over a public trash can like a raccoon. Was it good? Yes. Would I do it again? Maybe if I got a terminal diagnosis.
Anyway... this piece on Erewhon reminded me of that experience. Friedman somehow manages to call it out as a fraudulent place for assholes without completely demonizing those who shop there ("Erewhon is a hate-fuck"). A worse writer would skewer the store, skewer the crowd, and call it a day, but he really gets into the why of it all. Also, this description fills me with nostalgia:
Let’s say, for the sake of argument, you were a food co-op, such as the one I went to as a child in Cleveland. A place you could buy bread that broke apart like the ancient remnants of the Ark of the Covenant when you tried to remove it from the bag, and tubes of expressed soy gelatin flavored to taste like someone’s idea of chicken and sold under the name Chickettes. A place you’d go to meet a Communist librarian who doesn’t shave her armpits, or a rollerblading I.R.S. officer who spends weekends in a homemade sweat lodge.”
Spoiler alert: these people are not at Erewhon. In "This Filthy World" (2006), John Waters says, "We have to make it cool to be poor again. When I was young, we wanted to kill the rich." I'm not saying Erewhon deserves to have a Molotov cocktail thrown through their window by a horde of angry crust punks, but I'm not not saying that.
A lot of people seem to dislike this season of "Hacks," and while I understand the grievances, I can't relate. I could watch Deborah (Jean Smart) and Ava (Hannah Einbinder) break up and make up every fucking season without fatigue. Their predictable dysfunction is comforting in a way that reminds me of Midge and Susie in "The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel." They see each other in ways others don't and as a result, have the power to emotionally devastate at a much deeper level. Take this into consideration: would we get to see Ava throw branzino against a glass window if they weren't warring? Probably not. Would Deborah have accidentally done poppers at the gay club resulting in minor head injury? I don't think so!
With that being said, I hope last night's episode is a turning point in the relationship that results in a longer stretch of peace. We deserve more platonic romance before "Late Night with Deborah Vance" gets canceled at the end of the season (I'm speculating). If I have any criticism, it's that S4 needs more Randi (Robby Hoffman) and Marcus (Carl Clemons-Hopkins). And ok, if I'm being nitpicky, I wish the other "Late Night Writers" had distinct personalities. Aside from Nate the riff-killer (Danny Jolles) none of them are memorable. It's hard to complain when we've been given so many great LA cameos, like Rosie O'Donnell, Carol Burnett, and dark Jimmy Kimmell.
I've run out of pets, so here's an owl from the Italian children's book, "La più grande cena mai vista" (2024), illustrated by Lorenzo Sangiò.
