This GIF captures exactly how I’d feel on a porn set. Philip Seymour Hoffman—The world will miss him so much.
Several articles I saw in the immediate aftermath of his death included quotes from neighbors in the West Village, who said he was like an institution, always at local coffee shops. I saw him a couple years ago at Doma, a cafe in the West Village that’s now a surfer boutique / espresso shop. He was with a friend, sitting a few feet from me, and based on where I was sitting I couldn’t help but look at him the entire time I was there. I remember thinking how great looking he was, much better than his underdog roles led on. He was dressed entirely in Carhartt, and despite how casual he was, he seemed stressed. He talked loudly and openly about his finances the whole time.
6:04 pm • 2 February 2014 • 6 notes
The first time I saw Weekend, in the fall of 2011, I recoiled from its indie sensibility. This was not an art film, I huffed to friends, but artisanal cinema — an orthodox translation of a sentimental format to a dismal gay context. The film was contemporary without being cutting-edge, slavishly beholden to a boring, now superseded ethic of authenticity, which made it a perfect sell for global Brooklyn’s “artisanal everything” hipster apocalypse. I didn’t see what the Chris New character — attractive, funny, articulate — saw in his larger, lumbering screenmate, played by Tom Cullen. At the time, I had recently moved to Chinatown from Fort Greene, where my artist friends and I used to make fun of the gay “beardos,” Brooklyn professionals who had adopted Vice fashions without ever embracing a Vice lifestyle. Didn’t these mumblers know that indie was over? That it was time to wear cheeky athletic wear, get high on ketamine, and watch The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? There was, of course, a bitter edge to my denunciations. Happy people don’t make fun of beardos.
When I recently watched Weekend again, I found it much more affecting. Was it because I was two years older and almost out of my 20s? Was it because I had moved to Los Angeles, where people aren’t interested in anger and elitism the way they are in New York? Had I developed a more generous propensity for love?
— Chris Glazek for Out
1:55 pm • 15 January 2014 • 1 note
“One guy I work with, I won’t say his name, he’s on television and he makes a lot of money. He was making fun of me for having an assistant. I said, “Well, I just want someone to go to Rite Aid and the post office. Who picks up your dry cleaning and buys the dog food?” He was like, “I have a wife.” And I was like, “Yeah, I’d like a wife too.” And he said, “Well, she doesn’t work. She’s in charge of running the household and raising the family.” And then he goes, “Sometimes I’ll walk down the hallway and throw something on the floor, just so she knows the division of labor.””
— Natasha Leggero on wives, for Playboy
11:08 am • 13 January 2014 • 1 note
Weed plants roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost puffing from your bowl.
This Christmas, enjoy my article on LA’s medical marijuana economy for The Next City, available sans pay-wall 12/24 only.
10:27 am • 24 December 2013 • 1 note
In the weeks that have passed, equally puzzling questions have arisen about just who Mr. See was and how many lives he led.
Was he a hip, beloved college professor enmeshed in discord with the man he had recently married? Was he someone battling crippling health and emotional problems? Or was he a gay hustler, brazenly posting explicit pictures of himself on male escort websites in pursuit of sexual encounters?
From the incomplete pieces that have thus far emerged, it seems he was all of those things.
NYTimes on death of Yale English Professor Samuel See, who was found dead in a New Haven jail after being hauled in for a domestic dispute.
12:28 pm • 19 December 2013 • 2 notes
“The Pop Wars promised us fireworks and delivered mere fizzle. Miley invited us to a raging party, but when we got there, it was more of a friendly stoner kickback. We assumed there would be glittery petits fours on Katy’s dessert table, but she served us a dry kale salad that self-righteously skimped on the dressing. Britney said we were going to the hottest club in town, but the music sounded dated, there was a strange and pervasive aroma, and worst of all, the dance floor was totally dead. Lady Gaga assured us she’d make up for all that with a hedonistic all-night rave in an unmarked warehouse, but she didn’t warn us we’d also have to sit and watch her do performance art. Well, actually, she did warn us, but we thought she was kidding!”
— Molly / Miley Lambert for Grantland
3:22 pm • 17 December 2013 • 1 note