Because of COVID, itās the first year since 2012 that I havenāt sent an email about my birthday party titledĀ āThe Christmas in Augustā

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@airgordon
Because of COVID, itās the first year since 2012 that I havenāt sent an email about my birthday party titledĀ āThe Christmas in Augustā

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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āOoh... outside?ā ā my girlfriend trying to remember the catchphrase of a wrestler we watched one time (it was not that)
I love to somehow spend exactly $8.40 on groceries for dinner and thus Venmo my girlfriend $4.20.
El-P and Killer Mike teamed up in their 30s after careers on hip-hopās commercial periphery. Now their lighthearted side project is their high-stakes lifeās work.
Iāve gotten bad about putting my work here because Tumblr is no longer aĀ āhey, I did a thingā site but I profiled Run the Jewels for the New York Times and had a slightly longer thought about it that didnāt quite fit on all of the other platforms where Iāve posted this. (Apologies if you already follow me on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook.) Part of what made this such a satisfying assignment to work on was getting to hear El-P and Killer Mike speak frankly and candidly about their career arcs ā how theyād basically accepted, by their mid-30s, that their financial viability in a youth-driven industry (rap, and music in general) was perhaps coming to an end. But then through this streak of coincidences and lucky breaks, they came together and have built this thing that is pretty astonishingly successful, by every possible metric. Itās sort of historically unprecedented, and they had such a sense of glee and appreciation for what theyāve been able to do after not expecting anything beyondĀ āmaybe we can tour a little here and there.ā Very cool to get to hear that, and I try to convey it in the piece.Ā
Why would IĀ āwriteā when I couldĀ āwatch my girlfriendās cat lick herselfā?Ā

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Writing is cool because sometimes you have to write 3000 awful words, literally, to find 125 okay words that eventually become 300 pretty good (or good enough) words.
āEssayingā: stupid!
I do not really like to post much about the interviewing process because I donāt like to jinx assignments before theyāre out, but feeling a small tangible pride that a veteran artist I spoke with today called me one of the most collected interviewers heād ever talked to, and said āThis was easier than talking to a therapist.ā
Two months into quarantine and I just had my first truly visceralĀ āI would pay $300 to sit in a bar with a friend and a beer right nowā moment.Ā

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I will say that one jarring thing Iām dealing with is getting in a weird mood, asking myself why that is when I appear to be more or less fine personally and professionally and nobody I know is sick or dead, and then remembering oh right, itās because weāre in the middle of a terrifically shitty pandemic in the middle of a terrifically shitty political situation and I can do almost literally nothing about either of those. So.Ā
Tonight Iām sleeping at my apartment for the first time in five weeks, because tomorrow iām conducting a somewhat serious interview for a freelance assignment and the internet connection is more reliable here than at Jenās, where Zoom calls straight up donāt work on my laptop, and my preparation is such that I canātĀ leave anythingĀ to chanceĀ because what if... what if!! Thinking about that fact ā Iām sleeping at my apartment for the first time in five weeksĀ ā is moderately disorienting, because as well as I/we/you have adjusted to current circumstances (all things considered) it is still extraordinarily insane and infuriating that any of this is happening. Five weeks since restaurants, bookstores, subway rides and casual strolls without the terror of potentially viral droplets hanging in the air. Iām luckier than many, but I could be luckier. Why am I paying rent/utilities? Where is the time going? Have I really adjusted to current circumstances, or is it just my brain working overtime to prevent the horror from dawning? And so on.Ā
The last time IĀ āwent outā
On March 11, my friend Gaby and I decided to get a spontaneous drink at Burnside, a bar where Iāve had drinks maybe 276 times since I moved to New York. Burnside has many great qualities, but in particular I like its emptiness. I dislike crowds in general (unless itās the Pitchfork Music Festival), and especially when Iām trying to catch up with someone in relative quiet.Ā
I got there around 5:30, and as anticipated, nobody was there. All day weād been reading about COVID-19, and talking about COVID-19, so what we did was talk about it some more. I had learned a friend of mine was waiting to hear if sheād been diagnosed; Gaby was thinking about going to the grocery store that evening to pick up food. I had gone earlier that day, because I live across the street from one. I remember that we discussed it as a potentially very bad situation, but not one that would morph into disaster for at least a few weeks, or longer. We really believed that. We also talked about her work, as well as my work, and the bar was surprisingly full by the time we left. (I could recall more of what we talked about but Iām particularly hungover at the moment, hence why Iām blogging.)Ā
Anyways, I got home, and sat down to watch television in my semi-drunk state, when that barrage of news occurred ā the NBA being suspended because a player got sick, and Tom Hanks announcing heād caught it ā within 10 minutes of each other. I do not think Iām alone in saying that this is when it became suddenly ārealā for me ā not that I hadnāt taken it seriously before, but this was a tipping point where it became very clear how society was going to be impacted. All of a sudden, all our measured predictions seemed completely inane, and I had the drunken instinct to run back out to my grocery store to pick up some more nonperishables, including a (still unopened) bag of frozen chicken nuggets. The next day I learned my friend had indeed been diagnosed, and because of the steadily worsening news my dinner plans were canceled that Friday, as well as a birthday party I was going to on Sunday. From what Iāve learned about my friends whoāve had COVID-19, thereās a 100% certainty I wouldāve been exposed at that birthday party.Ā
Now itās a month later, Iāve been at my girlfriendās for all but a couple of days, and the sheltering in New York is going to last until at least May 15. Every now and then Gaby and I text each other with some variation ofĀ āremember when we got drinks?ā Weāre mostly kidding, and trying to stay positive, but yes, all of the time.Ā
Like everyone else Iāve been staying indoors all day, with a few small exceptions: short walks to stave off cabin fever; pre-planned trips to the store for groceries and toiletries; picking up food as my girlfriend and I try to support local restaurants while theyāre still open; weekly subway rides back to my apartment to water the plants/pick up mail (Iāve taken cars on the way back when the platform looked too crowded, which today means 10 people). Last night I was walking to a local restaurant to collect our dinner, which is no more than a five minute walk, when I ran into my good friend Jeremy on his evening run, a complete coincidence given that heās over in Crown Heights and weāre in Carroll Gardens. I had a small head cold, and also havenāt really talked to anyone who isnāt Jen for two weeks, so I could barely form sentences beyondĀ āgood to see you!ā andĀ āwow!ā andĀ āwow, life!ā (he was out of breath, so about the same). We resisted the urge to hug, and I put it on my Instagram because I just had to share with the world, and Iām sharing it here again because I still canāt quite believe it ā the usual magic of a random street encounter with a loved one magnified by 100,000 under current conditions. Itās hard for me to resist the urge to end with something corny, but itās 11:04 a.m., and this is my Tumblr, so: I truly canāt wait to see everyone when itās over.Ā
My deepest impulses are optimistic, an attitude that seems to me as spiritually necessary and proper as it is intellectually suspect. In college and for some time afterward, my education taught me that the supreme imperative was courage to face the awful truth, to scorn the soft-minded optimism of religious and secular romantics as well as the corrupt optimism of governments, advertisers, and mechanistic or manipulative revolutionaries. I learned that lesson well (though it came too late to wholly supplant certain critical opposing influences, like comic books and rock-and-roll). Yet the modernistsā once-subversive refusal to be gulled or lulled has long degenerated into a ritual despair as least as corrupt, soft-minded, and cowardlyānot to say smugāas the false cheer it replaced. The terms of the dialectic have reversed: now the subversive task is to affirm an authentic postmodernist optimism that gives full weight to existent horror and possible (or probable) apocalyptic disaster, yet insistsācrediblyāthat we can, well, overcome. The catch is that you have to be an optimist (an American?) in the first place not to dismiss such a project as insane.
Ellen Willis, āTom Wolfeās Failed Optimismā
I flipped open to a random page inĀ The Essential Ellen Willis and this is the first paragraph I read. (I stopped, I supposed, out of a mean desire to see Tom Wolfe, who I worshipped for a time in college, obliterated as a fraud.) Just so, so stupid good; I canāt tell if itās worrisome that one paragraph written in 1977 crystallizes so many things I feel about 2014.
(via airgordon)
A quote I stumbled upon while looking through my Tumblr for something else that feels even more relevant.Ā

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I need to express this publicly, somewhere that isn't Twitter: Knives Out is big ass.
The irony, right? You have to have bourgeois upbringing and education to know what a cancer it is on the people.
Jenny Zhang, Sour Heart
A quote Iām thinking about this week, for no particular reason.