I guess she just couldn't be the hooker he needed
Modern Love would be so much better if every single piece didn't have the same writing voice. God damn heavy-handed editors.
Oops, that was meta. Suspension: weird.
"Oh, A Man Called Horse, you cannot love a woman from the Style section! You're from two different worlds!"
"Hanging from fishhooks: a friendly introduction."
Where's the Black Lodge/OTO/Crowleyite action with the live sex show followed by the [hinted at] human sacrifice, damn it?
max
['You can never escape Seattle.']
More like gaffing hooks, from what I've seen.
2: Or if the point of discovering that your ex was into something a little weird was really how it was all about you.
2, 6: Or if you didn't know from the first paragraph that suspension would turn out to be a metaphor for some other need, a need that wasn't met by the relationship.
All those Modern Love pieces read like they were written by a bright 8 year old with mild Asperger's who's attended a creative writing course and has latched onto 'self-obsessed first person narrative' as a technique.
I'd love to know the make-up of the ML audience. Becks does it for duty and sport, obviously. Is everyone else doing the same thing, and does that explain the fairly constant mockability of the pieces?
"I couldn't come to terms with Ogged's arrythmia. Looking back, I realized that really it was my heart that was restless." BADABING. Sign me up, send me a check.
"He gave up his kidney, I gave up my heart."
I'm right here, guys. We can make this work.
"After we broke up, I realized that I was the one who had lost an organ, much as he had, only not from my body, and not in the literal sense, but in other ways just like it."
You also need a moment of realization about what your partner always really wanted, a brief regret that maybe you could have provided it, then reconciliation that no, it's all for the best.
"As I took off my whistle and plunged into the water to save the young boy from drowning, I couldn't help but imagine Ogged plunging into me. But I'm sure playing hard-to-get will pay off someday."
"I used to wince when he showed off his scar. Seeing him in the hospital bed, I'd been cut open, too, and then stitched back together by hope. I also was still recovering. But I didn't have a badge to show people, or the support that came with it."
"Because of my oversized penis, I knew that ogged's mother would never accept me as her son's mate. Could I have tried harder? Yes; I could have gone through with the gender reassignment surgery."
"When I said yes to that date with Ogged, I didn't know who he was. In a way, I guess I didn't know who I was."
It's eerie how Ogged's romantic and cancerous misadventures can be put into the ML framework.
"I was Russian, he was Iranian, and our relationship was as fraught as that of our former lands. I tried to protect him from the sanctimony of our common friends, vetoing ideas that seemed designed to hurt him. But he could never overcome the suspicion that all of my efforts were just an attempt to tap his wells. And maybe they were, at that."
18: I suspect that the style fits all needs. The NYT should do an all ML-edited newspaper for one day. Perhaps on February 14th. "The bombs that ripped through Baghdad shook the city, and shook the President even more."
"But then I met Ogged's mother, and everything changed in a thunderclap. He had warned me about her histrionic ways, but he had not told me that she was much more attractive than he was -- and single."
"It was as though the cancer--kidney, stomach, then no, not stomach, only kidney--was his body's own confusion, eating itself from the inside. Who was he? A man, his penis--the route through which his urine, created in his malfunctioning kidney--the center of his being? A woman without a uterus, 'her' stomach gnawing away at its own inadequacy? Or, in the end, with one and a half kidneys left, a little bit of both: a man, but a wounded one?
All I knew was that I couldn't be there for him. I needed someone unscarred by life. I think this is because on some level I feel as though I am the one missing a rib, in search of a soulmate to make me whole again."
My most sour-face-making line in this one was "We weren't but children ourselves." Not only is that the kind of prose I can't imagine anyone writing without a hearty laugh, but she's discussing how they're sex-obsessed, chainsmoking, tattooed losers. This reminds her of children?
"We weren't but children ourselves."
That's exactly the line that made me think "fucking editor."
16 is awesome, an exact pastiche of the style.
The rooms were dark and shadowed, the silence broken only by murmers and groans of lust. I picked my way carefully around the entwined bodies rutting on the floor and then startled, nervous, as a loud crash signaled yet another failure to perform oral sex while balanced on the toilet seat. A lifelong shut-in, I had never thought the long depressive hours compulsively commenting on internet blogs would ever bring me to such a place. I felt drawn to the prospect of finally achieving human connection, yet repulsed by the animal physicality on display in this "Flophouse". As I lifted my eyes away from the scenes that both fascinated and repelled me, I saw a tall, dark man. He was standing alone, imperious in his isolation. Drawn together by our shared fastidiousness, our mutual wounds and losses, we were about to embark on a catastrophic romance...
Actually, that's much too melodramatic for ML. But not for UnfoggeDCon!
That sounds more like Laurell K. Hamilton than Modern Love.
they're sex-obsessed, chainsmoking, tattooed losers. This reminds her of children?
Well, granted it reminds me more of junior high than elementary school.
"The hottest couple in DC (TM) stood before me demanding a threesome. How could I say no? Five minutes later ...... ".
Blah blah di blah blah. I can't even parody this stuff.
31: that's what I tried to do in 26, but I really don't think anyone wants to go further down that road.
"A OK-looking couple stood before me, smiling strangely and presenting documentation certifying that they were the hottest couple in DC. They held whips and straps in their hands, and on their utility belts hung various sorts of tongs, clamps, pincers, and probes. "We have something in mind for you", the apparently female said.
I'm always surprised by how little "show, don't tell" is used by even the most annoyingly "writerly" of ML-ish, Franzenish current writers. They don't seem to know how to describe without simile. It's all "Her hand lit on my shoulder like a sparrow on a branch. Her eyes turned to mine like the slow rotation of a hotel door. We sat under a tree like two dogs who've just been bitten by the same flea," etc. etc. This is not description! It is bullshit! Mixed similes make me long for metaphors, which at least people seem to take seriously for more than a line at a time. But really, description is bad for no one. It's just difficult.
the apparently female said.
Geez, Emerson. Catherine is well beyond pretty enough to be recognizably female.
She was obviously dressed butch for the occasion. Smasher was the lady in this case.
Yes, but was he wearing these?
(I am excited to have gotten these Madden boots for $40 yesterday, but an experimental trip out to a bar in them proved that (a) I am nowhere near comfortable with the kinds of stares they induce, and (b) 4" stilettos have a 1/2-mile walking limit. I switched to flats when I arrived at my destination. Verdict: These boots are made for, like, Halloween or something, not walking.)
Those boots are fanfuckingtastic, AWB. I'm green with envy.
"DC can be a lonely place, especially for a prison psychiatrist. Especially a young female prison psychiatrist.
"He was a deformed mass murderer, but he spoke to me about his thwarted creative ambitions. He said he wanted to recreate every Busby Berkeley dance number with fresh corpses. His green hair, chalk-white skin and carmine pickerel smile were softer -- more human -- in person than they looked when he took over the local television station for Christmas and murdered every local Boy Scout troop. But he was really a boy himself, inside.
"He laughed like a rabid hyena when I wore my homemade spandex costume for him on Valentine's Day. Then we killed the guard and escaped. I changed my Facebook status to 'fugitive'."
Sorry, which DC were we making fun of?
This comment thread reminds me of why I read this blog. You guys are funny.
40: Yeah, they remind me quite a bit of these boots a friend of mine who used to be a fetish model has. Those ones are rubber, and come to mid-thigh, and were $500. She's offered to give them to me, but even thinking about them being in my closet would make me blush, delicate little flower that I am. The Maddens are latexy, but relatively demure in comparison. A British woman watched me try them on and told me if I didn't get them she'd be angry at me forever. Who wants to make someone angry forever? Not me.
A British woman watched me try them on and told me if I didn't get them she'd be angry at me forever. Who wants to make someone angry forever? Not me.
Was this the saleswoman?
Nah, tourist. Century 21 is full of European tourists.
I love that about places with communal dressing rooms -- random people telling you stuff looks great or doesn't. Although random people are, as with your boots, generally more adventurous than I am -- a Loehmann's dressing room talked me into a coppery-sequined sheath dress once, which, while it was ridiculously cheap and gorgeous, I don't wear because I simply never have occasion for flashy evening dresses.
But when the occasion comes, LB, you will have the dress.
Random people don't have to live with the stuff you buy. Maybe they're enjoyable to look at for five seconds and no more.
LB's example seems to be of something that she would ordinarily never buy, and for good reason.
So this girl wrote me on OkCupid last night and said she was very happy to see me on her "stalker list." I don't know why AWB doesn't like that feature.
It's a hard balance to strike. I like wearing slightly off-kilter things when I'm going out, but if one goes too far, it invites harassment. I dunno. Sometimes I think there are people who can get away with wearing any ridiculous thing and they just fade into the Manhattan landscape. I really, really don't. Or maybe everyone gets harassed for their clothing choices, but you only recognize it when it's you.
Someday, that copper dress is going to come in handy, LB. Private dinner party!
when the occasion UnfoggeDCon comes, LB, you will have the dress
And AWB, we'd better be seeing those boots at the Flophouse!
49: Sounds promising. She local?
Sometimes I think there are people who can get away with wearing any ridiculous thing and they just fade into the Manhattan landscape. I really, really don't.
I think the trick is to look completely unapproachable and/or insane. If you look like a normal person who happens to be wearing something weird, the question naturally arises among onlookers, "Why is she wearing that?" You need to make them instead think "There's one of those weirdos who wear things like that."
It's like a Bulwer DSM Lytton contest.
I would love to wear my boots to the Flophouse. This will require that DCon take place on the 30th, though, as my conference in Chicago lasts until then. I am in the hands of fate.
Sometimes I think there are people who can get away with wearing any ridiculous thing and they just fade into the Manhattan landscape. I really, really don't.
My son said that in Brooklyn that's true for everyone. Between locals, immigrants, crackheads, thugs, the impaired, and hipsters, apparently anything goes there.
I doubt I will have the chutzpah to show up in a Motown backup-singer dress, nifty as it is. But a nice idea.
56: You know what you have to do, cowboy.
I've already responded to her message.
Whatever else happens, Teo will not lack for advice.
Whatever else happens, Teo will not lack for advice.
Making it all the more galling that he responded to her without asking the Mineshaft for any.
Getting back to the ML, what kinds of fates do you hope to discover have befallen your exes?
E.g., My innermost private ego has always been much gratified when I find old boyfriends have gone on to date women I'd consider much hotter and more interesting than me, but most of my friends claim they are more pleased when their exes are dating ugly dumb people.
57: Everywhere but Park Slope, maybe. PS has a uniform, and even slight deviations result in angry stares.
Park Slope is known for its breeding yuppies, but there are a few housing deals to be found that result in a healthy leavening of interesting people like AWB.
I must attest to the hotness of the boots last night. But god knows I'd never walk in them, myself.
Good move, Teo.
I will always be here for you if you choose to embrace misery, however.
65: I don't quite follow that, AWB. Is it gratifying because it means your ex considered you equal to these other women?
Whatever else happens, Teo will not lack for advice.
But in a way I see this advice as a metaphor for my own lost soul, running down an abandoned highway like a dog with the shits, in search of my own weblog community of slightly damaged people with odd dress sense; a weblog community called "love".
67: No, that's Williamsburg.
I was just reading that Greenpoint was replacing Williamsburg as hipsterville. I can't remember where I read this, though.
On the exes thing, I'm still in contac with, and friendly (though not really friends) with all of my major exes (i.e., several months or more). Is this unusual?
I believe that "Love" is the next door down, sir. This room is "Grumbling".
I'm not really in contact with my one ex (though my sister is). She moved away a couple years ago.
Portland, OR, of course remains the hipster Mecca, Brooklyn being a satellite.
73: I can't quite explain it, as it's not really a rational thought process. I guess it's kind of like realizing that your alma mater has gone up in the US News rankings since you went there, thereby conferring status on you that you don't deserve. Eh?
Greenpoint is a bit cheaper and has worse train access, so it's a definitely a candidate for replacing Williamsburg. But the real action seems to be in Bushwick, or as the real-estate ads call it, East Williamsburg. You can actually find affordable lofts there, so real hipster musicians and artists have been colonizing it.
75: Greenpoint has been getting hipper since 2003ish and maintains some cred. Williamsburg itself has devolved into self-parody, but in such a way that it's become basically the East Village of Brooklyn. That is, it's overcrowded and loud at night with people who want to go out a lot and drink a lot and feel they're cool, but it's not so bad that it's embarrassing to be seen there.
80: I used to live in East Williamsburg, which is an actual, old name for the no-man's-land between the Morgan L stop and the Flushing JMZ stop. When I lived there, it was all illegal lofts and truck parking lots. AFAICT, back then, real estate people tried to call it "Bushwick" because at least Bushwick was a real name of a residential area, and anyone who knew EW knew it as a desolate filthy industrial park.
75: Is this unusual?
I have a lot of friends who remain friendly with some, though rarely all, of their exes. Often, it's largely because they continue to move in the same social circles, so contact is hard to avoid.
In your case, Stanley, it suggests that you had relatively good judgement in choosing relationships; not exactly the right people, but not people who turned out to be, say, serious assholes whom you hope go on to date hot and smart people who dump their ass. And also dumb, ugly people who dump their ass.
Um, not that I'd know anything about that.
I dunno, AWB. That seems to me to indicate a generous nature and a lot of security (which doesn't really work as the opposite of "insecurity," but that's what I mean).
That seems to me to indicate an generousopportunistic nature and a lot of securityegotism.
That is, it's a very generous read you've got there, Sir K.
Back to the hooks though. There's a tattoo and piercing parlour in St. Paul that has a number of framed black-and-white pictures of a suspension collective doin' their thang. And it's some of the most touching portraiture I've ever seen. In a society like this one, so enamoured of schadenfreude and sharp dealing, and likewise so obsessively alienating of the body, there's something truly amazing about people getting together in such a caring, mutually supportive way. Bio-politics indeed.
It's a shame that 'smasher isn't a NYT editor, else we could all share a chuckle at his choice of title for this article: "Woo! Hook 'em!"
what kinds of fates do you hope to discover have befallen your exes?
Nothing but the best. Situation by situation, I'm stumped by the outcome sometimes; and sometimes it hurts, because maybe I shoulda tried harder, but I didn't, for a reason. Etc.
I'm trying to fit something about ego into that, but there are really only a couple of cases in which I walked away peeved enough that it was all about me.
Green Point also has the attraction of the largest urban oil spill in the US under its sidewalks and basements, a fact discovered by the nice cluster of lymphomas and whatnot.
I have one ex upon whom I wish violence. I'm not sure quite what it is I want him to suffer---it would sooth my ego for him to end up comparably successful in his chosen career, and I don't really see how it would gratify me to learn he'd been beaten up or dumped---but he deserves some sort of cosmic justice.
Portland, OR, of course remains the hipster Mecca, Brooklyn being a satellite.
And my neighborhood, I'm pleased to report, is hipster central. It's the Green Point/East Williamsburg of Portland -- or rather, Green Point/East Williamsburg is/are the Alberta Arts District of Brooklyn (AAD is what realtors named the place when houses here started selling for six figures some years ago). There were cute lesbians kissing outside the taqueria where I was having lunch just now; yay, my neighborhood!
Nothing but the best.
I wish the same for all my exes except the Antichrist and Sylvia Plath. For them and for the rest of humanity, infertility would be the best thing.
There were cute lesbians kissing outside the taqueria where I was having lunch just now; yay, my neighborhood!
Damn, Jesus, I do envy you your neighborhood. I've only just barely passed through Portland. Once.
I guess my ex-directed feelings are similar to JM's in their vagueness. I think "cosmic justice" for me would be something like they've gone on to become better, nicer people. It doesn't have to be in response to anything that happened between us. I just hate the thought of everyone still making all the same mistakes we've always made. Like, I was really glad to find out that my psychotic, violent ex from college went on to get psychiatric care and a less stressful career path.
But then I think about me. Am I a better person now than I was in various relationships? Probably not, because being involved with someone makes me feel really capable and generous, while being single, I have less inspiration for it, except in bursts with friends. I'm a lot more mellow and self-aware, I guess, but am I nicer than I used to be? Not really.
Parsimon, I'm curious (and I've no doubt missed a previous explanatory comment): why the dial-up? Budget? Ancient technology at home? No neighbors with wireless networks you can access?
Parsimon, I'm curious ... why the dial-up?
The infrastructure in my neighborhood -- the wires out there on the poles -- doesn't support DSL. The only option would be cable, which is roughly 3 times what I currently pay for internet access.
So it's a question of priorities. How much do I feel the need to do things that a high-speed connection would make possible? Well, you know, on the veldt they didn't watch videos and download music over the internets, and they got along happily enough.
I haven't thought much about wireless that I could access here, actually.
Thanks -- curiosity satisfied. How awfully primitive, the veldt.
On the veldt there were no porn videos. No one wore clothes, so videos were unnecessary.
How awfully primitive, the veldt.
Indeed. I think about this alot.
39 - AWB, you should wear the flats for travelling to my place your chosen destination, then switch to the boots when you get there.
I'm always late to these threads or having to leave in the middle of them, but the ML tributes are hilarious, AWB's boots to die for and also go Teo.
Yes, but was he wearing these?
I have some new shoes, too!
Cute! They look a lot like little-boy shoes in the 80's, which I mean as a compliment.
Those picnic pictures are making me (even more) hungry.
35 is a great comment, added bonus that it tags Franzen as being the mediocre writer he is.
I'm happy that several of my alumna have gone on to marry and have kids. I like to think I prepared them well.
105: Surely you must own a similar bit of haberdashery ben? If not, we should take up a collection to get you one. We could get one of those little bendy metal plaques like old guys have on their walking sticks: "To B.W., for 5 yrs. service at Unfogged"
I don't own a single hat, actually.
Hard to fit 'em over the hair, I'd imagine. You could get one of those rasta caps, although it might look a bit like a hot air balloon.
I have considered it, and decided Ben would look cute in a Smasher-style hat.
People should consider getting a nood. B. knits them.
By which I mean "snood". Dark forces are sabotaging me.
Snoods are for Ren Faire geeks, no?
The death-eaters desire your grammar, John.
They pursue and pursue, but, clutched to your sister's bosom in a biker bar, incognito in square-American drag, you evade them. For now.
A snood, a cape, a maiden and mead!
And a snood on Ben would look like a hair net.
Well, a snood is a hair net. Also, even at her age my sister's bosom is quite a nice one.
None of the things I knit seem ever to get finished, alas.
Half a snood is no snood, dude.
It's a crude snood for this lewd brood.
Okay, okay, don't have a snood feud.
Seems to be what the Pikunis called òkasi.
I'm struck also by the difference in tone we get on the Post.
That kind of thing leaves a mark.
