I woke up this morning at 6am to my cat vomiting on me (party), so then I had to get up, hand-pick wet food chunks off my quilt, throw it in the laundry, and take a shower. People with kids might be like, "Girl, you don't even know." And that's right! I don't know, nor do I want to. I'd like to live my entire life not knowing what it's like to be covered in someone else's breakfast. But alas... the void who lives in my house likes to keep me on my toes.
Last month, I visited friends in Cleveland and one afternoon, their kids were watching "The Sandlot." Unsurprisingly, their favorite scene was the one where everyone starts puking at the carnival. They rewound it at least five times, looking at me afterwards to see if I, too, shared this affinity for gross-out humor (absolutely not). I remember doing something similar at their age with the movie "Problem Child 2," which... now that I think about it, "The Sandlot" was probably riffing on. Or maybe this is just a popular child movie trope?
Last summer, a friend wanted to go to Hershey Park because she had a lot of childhood nostalgia for it. I had never been, so I agreed to go with her despite feeling decades too old for the endeavor. After two rides, she turned into Charlotte York falling onto the Tracey Emin-esque condom bed (just add upchuck), so we decided to leave.
What does this have to do with anything? Nothing, but I need some people to unsubscribe to my newsletter so that I can avoid paying a fee, and going on a long vomit tirade seems like a good way to make that happen. Only time will tell if it was a success.
Sorry, baby... this film didn't do a damn thing for me and I don't understand why it's getting so much press, nor why a good chunk of that press insists on calling it "hilarious" (a drama about sexual assault and its aftermath isn't exactly a barrel of lols). I feel bad shitting on an independent, first feature because I know how hard it is to get anything made, and I really wanted to like it, but I can't sugarcoat my apathy. If you disagree with me, you're in good company: it seems like the film is resonating with a lot of people (who have lead poisoning), so take my criticisms with a grain of salt.
I guess I should explain the plot, but it honestly doesn't matter because the film never has any clear idea of where it's going or why. Not much has changed since Agnes (played by writer/director Eva Victor) graduated from her coastal New England PhD program four years ago. She still lives in the same house she once shared with bff/former classmate Lydie (Naomi Ackie), and now teaches at the school they once attended. Anyone with an English degree sans trust fund would kill for this setup, but in this world, it's seen as a sign of stagnation. When Lydie, who is now married and pregnant, comes to visit, she's clearly worried about Agnes. From this opening vignette, the film goes back in time to explain the genesis of Lydie's concern, moving through more vignettes separated by intertitles like "The year with the bad thing." Do these vignettes connect, culminating in a meaningful conclusion with a discernible point of view? They do not. The film just kind of peters out with a scene involving a baby that is supposed to be poignant even though it's saying fuckall.
What nice things can I conjure to soften the blow? The film looks beautiful. I'm a big fan of the long take, and I liked the one of Agnes's house in the opening scene, windows aglow in the winter night, framed by dark trees with Lia Ouyang Rusli's vocal score setting the tone. The cat, Olga (Noochie), has star power, does not die, and deserves a lifetime supply of Churus for her exceptional work. John Carroll Lynch has a nice moment involving a sandwich. Lucas Hedges plays a real dipshit and it's pretty fun to hate him. That's all I've got. Go see it if you want, or rent it for $20 at home. If you're anything like me, you'll spend at least fifteen minutes thinking about how it would have been a gag to cast Scott Cohen as Decker.
Watch if you like: Being distracted by characters who have a mysterious amount of money as grad students, furiously Googling during the credits to figure out if people are nepo babies or just chronically online insiders with a great deal of luck. I'm sorry (not sorry) for being so mean.
One of my favorite bookstores recommended Charlotte Carter's Nanette Hayes Mystery series, so I picked up "Rhode Island Red," the first of three volumes, and tore through it in a few hours. I'm not a huge mystery reader, but every few years I discover a series that tickles my fancy and proceed to voraciously consume it. As a preteen, it was Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum novels. There are apparently 31 books in the series and I think I made it through eleven or twelve before the writing quality deteriorated beyond the point of acceptability. I have no memory of whether the mysteries were actually good (probably not), but I was obsessed with the love triangle between bounty hunter Stephanie Plum; Italian Stallion Joe Morelli, unfortunately a cop; and Ranger, current bounty hunter/former military, and the lucky owner of a Porsche 911 Turbo. The characters felt so real that the plot became totally inconsequential, which is also how I felt about "Rhode Island Red."
The protagonist, Nanette, is a 28-year-old Francophile who (barely) makes a living playing the saxophone on the streets of New York City. She's described as a Grace Jones lookalike (with better tits) and a love of cigarettes she's trying to shake a la S3 Carrie Bradshaw. One day, a fellow busker asks her for a place to stay and she reluctantly obliges, unwittingly embroiling herself in a string of nonsense when she wakes up to his dead body on her living room floor. While I quickly tired of the half-baked whodunnit, I thoroughly enjoyed spending time in Nan's head and Charlotte Carter's noir-ish 90s NYC. Here's a snippet:
A highly respected musician who had made a good living in the New York music world for some forty years—a friend of a friend— had accepted me as a student. We were going to start working together in a month or so. Was I excited? No. I was more than excited—I was serious. Practicing my ass off. For the first time in years, I was serious about something other than finding a bargain on red wine.
Another thing I appreciate about Nan is her disinterest in motherhood:
Truth was, I was sure I wouldn't make much of a mom. And I'd always counted myself lucky for having a mother who was so unlike me. I'm self-involved, mercurial, emotionally unstable, don't get any gold stars for patience, something of a loner, apt to take off for ports unknown at a moment's notice, if that, and really don't appreciate people I can't reason with.
In another life, I'd be married to Nan and friends with Charlotte, who I sadly can't find much about aside from a few short interviews and this article in Catapult. After being out of print for years, Baskerville reissued the Nanette Hayes series in 2022. The covers, designed by Lucy Turner, are stunning.
Read if you like: Stylish characters with good taste, descriptions of NYC back when it was still a little gritty, books that go down smooth, "Poker Face," "Only Murders in the Building."
The YouTube algorithm blessed me with the music video for "Inside the Lines," and for the first time in a minute, I'm excited about new music. Chaparelle is a Texas-based collaboration between producer Beau Bedford, singer/songwriter Zella Day, and guitarist/songwriter Jesse Woods (whose song "Gold in the Air" gets heavy playtime in my house). Their sound is a She & Him take on classic country with lots of pedal steel guitar, lush harmonies, and a hint of Stevie Nicks in both vocals and stage presence.
Woods and Day are a couple, which draws obvious comparisons to 60s/70s duos like George Jones and Tammy Wynette (who they've cited as influences), Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris, Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra, etc. Their aesthetic reminds me a bit of Eddie O'Keefe, this guy I used to follow on Tumblr, who it turns out is now a filmmaker married to Emily Jane Browning. Miraculously, he did not direct the video for "Behind the Lines," but he absolutely could have. This song, and the entire record, are incredibly cinematic and remind me of something you might hear at the Roadhouse in Twin Peaks or on the radio at Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe.
Listen if you like: M. Ward, (old) Lana Del Rey, Father John Misty, Orville Peck (who has worked with Bedford), any of the aforementioned country duos, Neko Case, lying on a hammock in the desert and looking at the stars.
I found this 2015 article via Laura McLaws Helms's Substack, Sighs and Whispers. She said she came across it while looking for images to accompany an interview with Erik Piepenburg about his book, "Dining Out: First Dates, Defiant Nights, and Last Call Disco Fries at America’s Gay Restaurants" (add to massive TBR pile). The article piqued my interest because it follows the inception and trajectory of a gay activist group in the Detroit suburbs starting in the late 1970s. I lived in Ann Arbor for seven years, spent a good amount of time in Detroit, and heavily contemplated moving there on various occasions. I'm very drawn to the area, love reading about the history of it, and had somehow never heard of the Association of Suburban People (ASP). Even if you don't give a fuck about the locale, it's still an article worth reading because it details a type of grassroots activism that feels sorely lacking in modern America.
Tim Retzloff, an LGBTQ studies and U.S. history professor at Michigan State University, details the inception and trajectory of the ASP starting in the late 1970s. It began when gay men started to get arrested for frequenting Hines Park in Plymouth. After a wave of arrests, a few guys got together and decided to start a bail fund. By word of mouth, they attracted more men and began holding public functions, making their presence known in their communities. While the article doesn't focus on this, it also doesn't ignore race and gender. The group was predominantly white and male, but it did make attempts to diversify in the 80s, eventually changing its name to the South-Eastern Michigan Gay and Lesbian Association (SEMGLA). The group ultimately disbanded in 1988 as rifts increased and participation dwindled.
The internet has been great for giving people access to communities they wouldn't otherwise have, but it's made in-person groups like ASP a disappointing rarity. In the wake of bot-filled social media, perhaps it's time to go back to this "coffee klatch activism" that takes place in physical communities instead of online.
I've been watching "Project Runway" since it came out during my sophomore year of high school in 2004. I bet if you compared S1 to S21, the only constant would be Nina Garcia's face, which has not changed in 21 years. When Saul and I were texting about the first two episodes, he said,
This season has been a study for me in the proliferation of affordable cosmetic enhancement and why perhaps a person should just save up for the expensive shit.
Thus far, the only good things about the season are carryovers from "RuPaul's Drag Race": Ethan Mundt, AKA Utica, and occasional guest judge, Law Roach. Everything else is bizarre and unsettling. This reddit thread sums it up well, with callouts like "An evil serpent is wearing Heidi's skin" and "Pilot FriXion Erasable Pens, and Lack Thereof." We used to see an abbreviated version of the design process: from sketching to choosing fabric at Mood (say hi to Swatch), cutting a pattern, sewing, editing (per Tim Gunn's sage advice) fitting, styling, and sending the final garment down the runway. It was a reality show with the slightly manufactured drama that comes from human interaction and collaboration, but it was more about talented people making beautiful clothes.
Now? The interpersonal blah blah has taken center stage and the clothes are a complete afterthought. Roach, who I like not because I think his taste is excellent but because he's blunt bordering on mean, complimented this bottom look, saying, "I enjoy the way you play with proportions. I like the coat [...] I think she looks really cool. I can see some of my clients wearing this."
I once again quote Saul:
It looks like a couch, and he accessorized it with a $10 purse from Amazon that you buy for the TSA agents so they don't need help with the x-ray machine.
In this 2025 hellscape, we're not even allowed to have the mindless distraction of "Project Runway" because it, too, has been destroyed by late-stage capitalism clickbait, ant's attention span, idiocy. Can the robots just kill us now? I'm ready for a dirt nap.
Watch if you like: being reminded that no, you can not afford a deep plane facelift unless every single person you know dies and leaves you their money. You must make peace with being a wrinkly-ass lil raisin at age 50? 60? Whenever your genetics determine.
Commence weekend!
P.S. In case you missed it, Colbert called RFK Jr. a "'roid-addled nepo-carnie," and I can't tell you how happy that 10/10 insult makes me.
