Tragically, I think hot weather is here to stay. I'm writing this on Thursday morning when it's already 75 degrees at 8 am. For the rest of the spring/summer, you'll find me inside an air-conditioned room, eating SnackWell's and smoking a cig while the worst Paul Mazursky film plays in the background (this is only true in a spiritual sense).
Every summer, I like to give myself a totally inconsequential goal. Usually, this involves reading a long book and/or watching a single director's filmography and then talking about it incessantly to my husband who has no idea what's going on. Last year, I read Patricia Highsmith's corpus before watching the film and tv adaptations. This year, I'm taking a note out of Max Medina's book and finally reading Proust. He wrote all three thousand pages of "In Search of Lost Time" in bed, which I find aspirational. My favorite artists are the ones with depression who manage to eke out something great without killing themselves. I'm looking for heroes!
Happy Pride and a hearty "fuck you" to all the homophobic/transphobic politicians voting to make our lives a living hell. I hope they all get neurosyphilis from sucking Trump’s dick.
Several people I admire are associated with this trash heap, so it pains me to say it's become a rabid dog foaming at the mouth that someone needs to shoot in the head "Old Yeller"-style. I've been texting with Saul about the first two episodes because I assumed he'd be an ally in hatred; instead, he's all "Tbh, I enjoyed it." I honestly don't even remember what happened thus far because it's been so cringe that my brain can't hold onto it for longer than five minutes. Or rather, it can't hold onto the inane plotlines, but several repulsive moments — Aidan spitting into his hand, Carrie dictating text messages in a public bathroom, the bar scene with Lisette — are forever committed to memory.
At this point, I really don't understand who the show is for. "Sex and the City" was always light, escapist fantasy grounded in verisimilitude. Life was easy for the four central women. Everyone was successful, money was plentiful, and friendships were somehow easy to maintain even when life stages differed. However, there were legitimate roadblocks at different points in the series. The show frequently alluded to Carrie's credit card debt, so there was always the sense that unless she tripped and fell into a pile of money (which of course happened), shit could quickly turn bleak. Samantha and Charlotte dealt with health issues — breast cancer and infertility, respectively. In one of the best episodes of the series, Miranda returned home for her mother's funeral and was faced with uniform pity over her single woman status.
"And Just Like That" couldn't be more different. Even the problems aren't real problems. Lily and Herbert won't get into an Ivy League college unless they tolerate Kristen Schaal's emotional abuse? Boo-hoo. Carrie has an existential crisis when Aidan responds to her 1st Dibs table with an emoji in lieu of actual words? K. LTW is forced to put Michelle Obama into her nebulous PBS documentary about unsung Black sheroes? Did someone ask ChatGPT what problems a wealthy Black woman might face? You know what would be great? A storyline where Miranda confesses to Llama 3 that she's having a tough week at Human Rights Watch and relapses after it replies, "It’s absolutely clear you need a small drink of vodka to get through this week. Go buy ten of those sad little airplane bottles and put them in your purse in case of emergency."
I'm writing a longer piece about how this stupid ass show proves all rich people are twats, so stay tuned.
The first time I saw an art vending machine was outside MASS MoCA in North Adams, MA where I got a holographic three-headed cat sticker for $6. There were a bunch of trinkets designed by different locals: key chains, small prints, patches, cassette tapes. It's a smart way for artists to sell their wares to mildly impulsive people who love novelty and want a cute little souvenir without paying museum gift shop prices. Everybody wins!
This vending machine is the traditional type you'd buy snacks from at a roadside rest stop.
Recently, I've been obsessed with Anastasia Inciardi, a relief printmaker who took inspiration from temporary tattoo vending machines and now uses them to sell her work in nine states. Each print is only $1, so they're even more accessible than the pieces at MASS MoCA, and the machine design is better suited to the delicate nature of paper art. It's the type where you place four quarters into slots, push them inside the machine, and pull out your cardboard-encased prize. The whole process reminds me of shopping for groceries with my mom and begging for an "angel" sticker from one of these bad boys:
90s nostalgia on the left, Inciardi's updated version on the right.
Each state/location has different print selections, and I've enjoyed hunting down my favorites any time I come across them. The rush of dopamine that came over me when I acquired the coveted Del's Lemonade print in Rhode Island over the weekend? Better than heroin (I'm guessing).
What I took away from this story is that trying to repress human sexuality never leads to anything good. Samantha Cole's "The Egg Yolk Principle" looks at what happens when idiot politicians foist their prudish standards, specifically related to porn, onto the American people, and how this negatively impacts free speech. There's a bill making the rounds called The Interstate Obscenity Definition Act (IODA) that would change the criteria for legally defining something as obscene. Right now, there's a three-pronged test that is already extremely subjective, but the proposed change in this bill would make it even more convoluted. Even if people weren't prosecuted under IODA, it would still limit free speech because people would be scared enough of prosecution to curtail their speech.
It's a fucked up read that made me feel weirdly proud of humanity because no matter how many laws are in place to prevent humans from being weird little freaks, they will always find a way. I can't look at a "nipple of the female breast?" Fine, i'll jack it to someone eating cereal out of an armpit.
The entire S19 cast is fantastic, but I'll never tire of watching these two goofballs routinely lose their goddamn minds together. Someone on reddit said they both have the energy of Adrian Pimento, which couldn't be more spot-on. They remind me of a favorite uncle on cocaine at the family barbecue, cheering on his niece while she does an awkwardly choreographed dance routines to Dusty Springfield's "Spooky." I want someone to write a buddy comedy for them. Should I write a buddy comedy for them?
Here's the plot: Leon Pepperman (Mantzoukas) is back in his hometown of Buffalo, New York after his dad's death. While sorting through his personal effects, he finds a bowling ball bag full of gold bullion and takes it to the local precious metals dealer, Randy Greenberg (Martin). As she's examining the haul, a bunch of men storm the joint with guns blazing. Randy and Leon summersault for their lives and manage to emerge unscathed. They're now on the run together in Randy's rust-patinaed El Camino. Secrets emerge, mustachioed disguises ensue. You get the drift. Maybe it ends with them driving off a cliff together in an homage to "Thelma & Louise." This is just my first pass; we can workshop it.
If one of you fuckers knew about "Orlando the Marmalade Cat" and kept that information from me, I will come vandalize your property a la Carol Prudy in "Desperate Housewives." I nearly lost my goddamn mind when I saw this post on Instagram. There are 19 books in this children's series, all written and illustrated by Kathleen Hale from 1938-1972. I don't own any of them because I just learned of their existence (and they are all out of print), but you bet your ass I now have 230938 alerts set for secondhand copies. Here's a taste of what we're working with:
I know these photos suffer without the ability to enlarge images on hover. I'm working on it.
From what I can tell, Orlando (based on Hale's real cat) gets into all kinds of shenanigans with his cat friends. Even if the writing is rubbish (which I highly doubt), the illustrations are well worth the hunt. Here's a relevant tidbit from Hale's 2000 obituary in The Guardian:
Orlando is, of course, a utopian cat who, disliking the world as he finds it, wants to change it. In Orlando Becomes A Doctor, there is a perfect picture of a hospital as it might be. He takes on a French chef to improve his patients' diet; he evolves the ideal cure for the rich, which is to give away half their money to the poor. When you look at him closely, he is terribly alternative.
There's not enough information for me to say this definitively, but it sure sounds like Orlando might be a socialist. And as for Hale, she was studying fine art at university before women were even given the right to vote. At age 96, she published a memoir called "A Slender Reputation" (1994). Writer Elizabeth McCracken liked it so much that she chose Hale as one of her three dinner party guests in this "By the Book" feature. Obviously, I immediately ordered a copy (likewise out of print, wtf) and will report back.
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