— Meryl Streep on Woody Allen in 1980 (via Grantland / Molly Lambert)
I gave a talk at Sudhir Venkatesh’s sociology class at Columbia yesterday, and the response from students has been really cool. ;)
Bags bearing different stamps turn up in raids of large-scale heroin mills around the city.
They are named for popular celebrities or luxury products, or the very thoroughfares along which the drugs travel: Lady Gaga. Gucci. I-95. They reflect an increasingly young and middle-class clientele, who often move from prescription pills to needles: Twilight. MySpace. And they often indicate little about the quality or purity of the product, which is diluted with baking soda or, in some cases, infant laxatives, officials said.”
— From nytimes article on the cheap heroin that killed PSH. This description seems overly salacious, but also, I can’t really parse the two graphs above, especially the “Twilight. MySpace” bit. Is the heroin named MySpace or are those meant as stand-ins for the “young and middle-class clientele?”
Deeply inappropriate but also unavoidable. Metaphors only matter after tragedies, but then they *really* matter.
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.
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 The film was contemporary without being cutting-edge, slavishly beholden to a boring, now superseded ethic of authenticity, which made it a perfect sell for global Brooklyn’s “artisanal everything” hipster apocalypse.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?”