A few questions:
1) What is your favorite color?
2) ROTJ or EST? Why?
3) If you had 1 billion dollars, would you go to the moon, or to the Cook Islands? (ha, trick question: Cook Islands, duh. Nobody can go to the goddamn moon for 1 billion dollars)
4) Imagine you just inherited a Galapagos Tortoise, what will its name be?
5) You are in Kansas idling your monster V8 at a stop-signed crossroads in September, you can see for at least 10 miles in every direction and there isn’t a car in sight, do you dump the clutch (its a manual) and burn through that intersection like you’re headed to Mejico, or do you calmly stop, wait, check all directions twice, and continue on your way?
6) Lee Pace or James McAvoy. This has a right answer.
7) Tides, how do you explain that?
8) What’s up with those Dagos and their mustaches and their greasy hair?! (Kidding! Anachronistic racism is still racist)
9) Food truck dinner + sauntering + avoiding weird, likely tiresome equivalencies of you and fictional dragon mothers + maybe a few shots of gin followed up by mutual digust for Todd Akin et. al. + You know, just, the problematic nature of subjective experience leading apparently to the inescapable primacy of individualism, or wait, no, maybe just laughing about the general silliness of human interaction and the wondrous capacity of large, enduring cities to wrap people up in what I can only graspingly describe as a trans-historical blanket of aggregated experience (something like how walking into a thousand year old cathedral sounds, smells, and feels like time has actually been compressed into a sensible medium) + a bit of alcohol induced confessionalism leading into an acoustically escalatory round of friendly one-upmanship + a second food truck dinner at or near dawn + cab trips back to our respective homes sometime?
What’s up sir. Hey, wanna go shooting sometime? I’m not actually that good, but my brother and father are pretty good. I’ve seen both of them hit a penny with an air loaded pellet rifle from about 20-30 yards, scopeless. It was a Sears brand rifle too, the kind that leaked if you primed the chamber more than 3 or 4 times (we were really young, and always primed it more, because we were stupid). Anyway, I’m kinda pissed at the Coen brothers, they killed you off before the ultimate confrontation, before the mano-a-mano battle of you vs. Chigurh. You were gunned down by a bunch of trigger happy drug runners; an end totally un-befitting a man so obviously versed in combat and clearly a survivor of some heavy Vietnam shit. You didn’t deserve that.
You should have faced off against Chigurh and you should have, would have, won, but maybe, perhaps, the movie would have lost something if that had happened, I don’t really know, I’m not a critic, all I know is I wanted to see you dismantle Chigurh and affirm all my unjustifiable lone-hero fantasies in what would have been the most spectacular, suspenseful example of that genre to date. A la: “I’m gonna make you my special project”. That didn’t happen, obviously, but I am still in awe of Moss. Compassionate yet cutthroat, invincible yet vulnerable, seemingly omniscient but fatally flawed, he is a perfect hero/villain. Greedy, but only greedy because he is ultra competitive, and skilled, holy hell his skills, his intuitive grasp of situations and implications and real world tasks. He can weld anything, he’s trained in reconnaissance, self defense, short and long range firearms, he’s a problem solver and pragmatic wizard, a man amongst men. A patient, intelligent, unstoppable force of one, just as all my wildest self-indulgent dreams would have it. Until of course he gets Uzi-ed in a hotel pool because his mother accidentally betrayed his location.
So yeah man, lets chill sometime, drink a bud heavy or two and sit on buckets near a campfire in almost total silence (I imagine this would be your choice of activity) and maybe I’ll soak up some of that steely invincibility, that cold and almost impossible ability to focus on the task at hand, and then maybe I’ll quit wasting days on end on facebook, or ‘new media’ sites, or lamenting how much time I waste at said locations. Perhaps I’ll shed my tiresome twenty year old laments about ‘meaning’ and hone in on a skill and do it well, for decades. Perhaps, that is, if you’re willing to hang out.
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
Like running off to Beijing, China
In response to prevailing economic conditions in the United States.
Or the navel gazing twenty something, ‘trying to find himself’
As an undergrad, then in grad school, oh and wandering the Indochinese Peninsula.
Or as the facebook political freedom fighter, posting and resposting links
To articles, so many articles, valiantly spreading knowledge – from home,
Far from the noisome crowds, and I mean, seriously, its cold and rainy out there
How can anybody effectively protest in this weather?
And of course the artist, the ‘creative’, the culturally in-tune,
The guy who listened to Of Monsters and Men when that video,
‘Little Talks’, had less than a million views.
Or the rugged fly-fishing bearded snowboarder dude, conquering actively volcanic Indonesian peaks for breakfast,
And radio-tagging great white sharks off the South African coast right before having sandwiches for a late lunch.
I don’t know, that guy might not be real. Anyway, the point is:
Wanna go get half-price tapas and wine sometime? Like, together?
Sans Instagram, sans professional sports, sans popular television programming references, sans everything (except:
Traditional spanish appetizers, a city of some sort, other patrons, a livable atmosphere, gravitational fields, The electro-magnetic spectrum, the two of us, etc.)
Saturdays exist for pretty much one thing, shoppppiiinnnnggg! Not really. They exist as a diurnal/nocturnal work free void (sprung from the skulls of labor activists sometime last century) into which lots and lots of bourbon and meat products are often poured/shoveled as tribute to the janus faced god of tailgates and crippling dependency. I guess you could spend Saturdays reading, or painting, meandering down wooded paths, or, if you’re one of the lucky Americans benefiting from Greenspan’s ‘labor insecurity’ boosting economic reforms, you probably spend at least a couple Saturdays a month at work. ‘Saturday’ might even just exist as a symbolic day off, Saturday could be Tuesday could be Friday, as long as you don’t have to work; thereby framing our lives as a working experience, sprinkled here and there with bits of freedom.
I mean, I guess that’s an Ok paradigm. What would we do if all our working hours, all of our workplace responsibilities, were transmuted into unencumbered free time? I don’t know, that scenario from WALL•E probably. But its got to seem equally depressing that the vast, overwhelming majority of humans will toil, often desperately, at jobs offering almost nothing by way of financial or ‘psychic’ benefit (to borrow a term from right wing pop-economist jargon). Call me a delusional hippie utopian, but it just seems sad that we’ve largely surrendered to the brutal exchange rate between work and non-work hours.
Anyway! Would you want to go out sometime? On a day neither of has to work, like a real Saturday or a Saturday as defined by the commutative property of non-working days? I actually like shopping, and bourbon/meat combos, so I’m down for either. Let me know!
Do you think US drone strikes in Yemen, the African horn, and particularly the FATA region of Pakistan have delivered on their promise to kill, maim, or otherwise incapacitate high value targets while sparing civilian populations from the excesses of conventional warfare? Or do you think US administrations, for the last, like, 30 years, have created a Drone mythology of surgical strikes and high rates of mission success while really carrying on various campaigns of almost indiscriminate remote controlled destruction that have terrorized and brutalized non-combatants and served as a recruitment tool for violent non-state terrorist organizations all while badly damaging America’s image across much of the globe?
Fuck, Marry, Kill: Jonah Goldberg, Tucker Carlson, Steve Doocy (haha, his last name is Doocy, what an asshole).
Do you think the wind actually loves the dirt? Or is it being reckless with dirt’s feelings?
Wanna get drinks sometime?
I’m supposed to ask you out, but, obviously, to do so seriously (or even ironically) would ask of us both…….just too much I think. Not that I’m ageist! I’m not, really, but I somehow doubt you’re interested in an aimless 27 year old whose life experience could be summed up by the question, “what is escrow?” What would be fun though, instead of a capital ‘D’ Date would be to sit down and eat at either your place or my parents house (I’m clearly not a home-owner) and talk. About stuff. Anything really, your take on decades of American history, success, career choices, life, the moon and tides, the fact that most of my generation won’t get to retire until they’re 85 – something with which you are familiar even if by choice.
It is, and I say this earnestly, thrilling to read and/or watch someone like you who continues to enjoy and experience and challenge and be involved with everything despite the fact that our age obsessed society is constantly attempting to relegate anybody beyond the advanced years of 40 to irrelevance, particularly women. Age be damned, gender be damned, socialized conventions and expectations be damned, it is wonderful to see a person absolutely demolish those kinds of imposed and imagined limitations in both real life and scripted roles. Wonderful and inspiring for the rest of us. Like 99.9% of functioning human organisms I think you’re awesome, so just let me know if you want to chill sometime and rant about stuff.
Or Hey Alexis, or Whats up Alexis, or What up Alexis (dropping the ‘s’ on ‘what’s’ clearly transforms the intended meaning of the salutation……I just don’t really know how. Makes it even less formal than ‘what’s up’ maybe? Maybe I could inflect it with a bunch of extra u’s at the beginning of up, like, ‘what uuuuup,’ to communicate nonchalance, which in turn could be considered a form of confidence? I honestly have no idea.
So far I’ve established that: salutatory choices have meaning……..and that’s pretty much it. Language means things to people.
Anyway, what are the chances that a hard-rocking, inked up (italicized to show that I’m down with the young artist pre-gentrification crowd (although they probably never refer to each other as inked up, but of course I know that and am using inked up ironically in this case (which begs the question: what I am not being ironic about in this letter? If nothing, then am I even being ironic? (its kind of like the difference between 0, and ∞ (zero and infinity for any of you retro-futuristic analog-only people out there (but if I’m talking to an audience then this is all ironic, not to be taken seriously, I’ve broken the fourth wall)))))) Brooklynite (such as yourself) would want to grab dinner with an awkward guy who really does like your ‘ink’ and your music?
What I’m saying is: would you go on a date with me? Somewhere in NYC, at some point (I’m also saying that irony is dead)? If you can untangle all of that, and want to hang out, get at me, or back to me, or hit me up, or whatever, at least the valediction is easy:
PS I stole the title for this letter/blog entry from this person: Behind the Box, who also thinks you rock and have awesome tats, or ink, or ‘tattoos’ as I refer to them.
Hi, would you like to get dinner sometime in the fall as the brightly fading evening sun casts oblique rays through lonely branches, over empty sidewalks, and into buildings filled with people who have escaped an autumnal wind on whose breeze-born chill is carried the compressed, collected totality of individual memory that, as only seasonal wellsprings of nostalgia can do, bursts from some hidden cognitive recess to remind one that time is not like a river beholden to cyclical geological and climatological forces but more like a flash flood bearing along a person at its front on the crest at the metaphorical liminal bound of past and future leading to a realization that our lives are instantaneous blips on an arbitrary cosmic stage but that those blips are beautiful and profound and tragic and wonderful and that no amount of brevity or contemplation of the essentially meaningless nature of existence can ever take that away; and so, as rapidly as this cascade of memory and philosophical emotionalism ignites with a breeze, a chill, a setting sun, so it is extinguished by the warm, distracting chatter of silverware and conversation which melts away the zoetropic internal replay of high school football games and former lovers and bygone eras of family road trips and a thousand gleaming (perhaps idealized) glittering sparks of joy and heartache and minor ordeals, old pets, old friends, old haunts and cars and teachers, leaving behind a pleasant glow of appreciation, for the past, yes, but also, and more so, for the present.
So anyway, yeah, let me know!
Allison, 你好吗？你喜吃疾驰？你喜欢喝啤酒？And that exhausts my nascent Chinese language skills. I asked: “Do you like chicken wings?” “Do you like beer?” (I also wrote ‘ni hao’, or, ‘how are you?’)
‘How are you’ may seem like a perfunctory greeting, a 3 word linguistic touchstone employed near-unconsciously with the expectation of a positive, just-as-perfunctory answer: ‘Good! How are you?’ In this case though, I’m legitimately curious. Starring in a critical and commercial television success has gotta push ambient levels of exhilaration upwards, regardless of what John Cook has to say.
(side note: I’ve never actually seen an episode of Girls (side note 2: I find the Gawker weekly recaps hilarious. (3rd and final side note: although I’ve never seen an episode of Girls and find John Cook’s editorially packaged diatribes amusing, I don’t have anything against the show, I’m sure it’s great, I just haven’t gotten around to watching it.)))
Where Cook’s brutal sarcasm does become problematic though, is as an indicator for the slow but seemingly unstoppable rise of snark not as a humorous juxtaposition of mainstream news media folly, but as the mainstream news media itself.
Satire performs a vital function: calling out Responsible, Serious people and organizations on their bullshit in an accessible, high-contrast (and thus powerful) way – it’s just that as an end unto itself sarcasm concedes legitimacy in favor of scoring points. Claiming or maintaining a moral or ethical high ground, or holding groups or individuals accountable is harder to do when the goal becomes dinging irresponsible or hypocritical parties cleverly enough to trend on Twitter.
Anyway, yeah, so there’s all that, 276 preceding words of rambling vacuity. I don’t really have any evidence to back these claims up either, just anecdotal observations and vague, likely inaccurate feelings about the Gawkerization of more professional news media outlets. but the original purpose was to ask if you’d like to hang out sometime and wash down fried poultry with the liquid amber byproducts of fermented grain slurry.
So if that sounds like fun let me know!
Would you possibly, perchance like to go on a date? Not in New York or LA or anywhere boring though. I’m thinking Tashkent, Bishkek, Chilean Patagonia? Somewhere ‘exotic’. I put quotes around ‘exotic’ because I’d like to avoid any neo-colonialist or patronizing overtones. Characterizing a land and its people as somehow wildly Different or Mysterious is unfair at best and an arrogant, Kiplingesque oversimplification at worst.
If we were going hiking on, for example, the lunar surface or the valleys of Titan or Io then sure, I would feel fine using ‘exotic’ without disclaimer. Unfortunately, that isn’t going to happen anytime soon and it might be a couple centuries before those activities are a) remotely possible and more importantly b) remotely affordable.
Anyway, I think it’s fair to call those places exotic only within the context that they are wildly atypical of American people doing things together in society. I mean, normally I’d suggest we grab a 5 for 5 at Arby’s or some Taco Bell® Doritoz® Locos Tacos Supreme tacos, or drink gas station wine and play Diablo 3. Not sip imported coffee at a restaurant perched in a glacial valley at 3,500 meters.
And so I referred to those places as ‘exotic’.
Oh, and the picture I used………looks like someone (you) jacked Aubrey Plaza’s stylllle!