The new world trade center.
I don’t know that much about Obama’s new financial aid package—so don’t take my word on any of the details—but it seems like a lot of bullshit to me (read about it here). Nice rhetoric, Obama, but how about figuring out a way to discern whether or not a school is actually giving a good education rather than just a cost effective one? And what about the enormous burden of debt my generation already owes in student loans? How does the government propose to prevent that bubble from popping, because there aint no one’s gonna pay back that money.
How about spending some money hiring competent people to filter through who needs loans and who doesn’t, based on their history, field of study, and future career aspirations? No one in their right mind, given that I want to be a “writer,” should have given me two years tuition at Columbia University to get a master’s degree in, and I quote: “Critical and Curatorial Studies with a focus on contemporary art.” Not even all of that is capitalized on my diploma.
But they did anyway, despite the fact that I already had an Ivy league degree paid for by my parents, and a steady career in my chosen field of study, and really no economic need for it. I’m grateful for it—I absolutely loved graduate school—but there needs to be some kind of responsibility when the government hands out large sums of money.
The woman who led me through my financial aid process at Columbia never remembered my name. She couldn’t explain to me how interest rates worked, or what private bank gave the best rates for the private loans I had to take out to supplement my government loans. I don’t even think she looked at my bank records. All she did was make sure that I could breathe, and hand me a pen to sign my documents. Then she signed them herself, and sent me on my way, never to be heard from again.
Now I owe the government and Citibank over $50,000, and I have no idea if or when I’ll ever pay that back. Because the process was so easy, it didn’t even seem real.
The view of the water from Red Hook, on a gloomy and poetic day.
(I think I’ll go to the same place every day.)
Go out and buy S.Mouse!’s album asap. Shit is profound.
(From Angry Boys, which is endearing itself to me with every episode.)
Can I Have A Lock Of Your Hair?
The other night, I met a boy I haven’t seen since 6th grade. He told me that I ruined his life.
We were sitting together at the Clover Club. He leaned over. “I have a story to tell you,” he said, grabbing my left hand. Caleb, who was sitting to my right, flinched a little and grabbed the other.
“Uh oh,” I said. Because I knew what was coming.
Off to Red Hook with DEH, which looks a lot more ghetto-hipster and winter-desolate today than it did in photograph, from the summer of 1942. Together, on a strip of ersatz speakeasies that dribbles into Fairway, we’ll waste away the evening.
Zolipdem Zephyrs
Last Friday afternoon, after finishing the last of three articles I had due, I went to find my travel case. I had a headache so terrible that I could barely focus my vision on the computer screen. In the travel case, I found my antique Victorian pillbox, a present from my mother for my 13th birthday. In the pill box, there were two Advil…or so I thought. I tipped them into my hand, and took them with water cupped in my hand, from the faucet, underneath the waxing fluorescent lights in the bathroom.
Then I went back to my computer to do a final edit before I sent the piece to my editor. I was a few paragraphs in when the words on the page started to swim. I tried to read further, but the text jumped up, like blocks, from the page, and started moving sideways. “What the fuck did I just take?” I thought to myself.
I tried to remember what color the pills had been. They were lavender, I remembered, and tiny. My first thought was hopeful. Maybe they were Valiums. Maybe my sudden inability to move the mouse was because I was so relaxed. Maybe they were a small blessing sent to give me a little respite from myself.
But no, I was forced to admit. The lavender pills were Ambien, prescribed to me by a doctor. They weren’t even fun, because I can take them whenever I want. And they were making me hallucinate my face off.
In the murk, I somehow managed to find my friend, also a writer, who has a PhD in biochemistry on my Gchat list. “John Grey,” I said to him. “I just took two Ambien by accident. How do I stop them?”
“Drink lots of milk,” he told me, no judgments. “And then go try to throw up.”
I did what he prescribed, hallucinating all the while. Everything looked tinted and gelatinous. “Fuck me,” I said. “I don’t have the time for this.”
The Oscar nominations are in, and as usual, almost everything that made the cut is exceedingly mediocre. To view the full list—which was announced at 8:30am—click here.
I’m becoming one of those disgusting people who posts photographs of their dogs…but I mean, come on.
For all of you girls (and guys) loving Downton Abbey, I highly recommend that you read some Ford Madox Ford, who was the king of writing about torrid love affairs in Edwardian England. Most of his novels are about the landed gentry, and take place during World War I.
The Good Soldier is one of my favorite novels that I’ve read in recent memory. For Christmas, I asked my 16-year-old brother Stuprendan to buy me Parade’s End, Madox Ford’s magnum opus, which finally arrived for me in the mail today. I can’t wait to dig into it.
Little did I know how timely my choice was—HBO is currently in production for a five-part miniseries based on the book, which will star Rebecca Hall and Benedict Cumberbatch (for you nerds out there, that’s fucking Sherlock!), and be written by Tom Stoppard. (Oh stop, my beating heart!) It’s coming out sometime this year…my fists are clenched in anticipation!
Homeland: A Manic Review
Ever since Caleb got super cable last week, I basically haven’t left his house. While he’s been re-installing sinks, walking Franke the dog, and cooking me dinner, I’ve been lying on his couch, starting and stopping innumerable television programs that aren’t really up to Brie-obsession standards, meaning that I haven’t watched them in their entirety. Here are the ones I’ve watched so far:
- Shameless
- House of Lies (I only watched one episode of this, because it is abysmal.)
- Kim and Kourtney Take New York
- Angry Boys
- Justified Season 3
- The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (Ok, fine, I’m so obsessed with the RHOBH that I brought it up during a session with my therapist, who then spent five precious minutes—worth an astounding $45—talking about what kinds of drugs Kim is on).
The only show that hooked me, truly and desperately, was Homeland, which Caleb watched with me. After a slow start—we only consumed two episodes in the first seven days of “Super Cable Heaven”—we polished off the rest of the show this weekend. Caleb, who sets a rule that he will only watch two hours of television a day, and that day must be Sunday, had to be co-erced to stay on the couch yesterday afternoon. I used secret tactics learned in the basement of my high school boyfriend’s modern split level home many years ago, and he gratefully planted his ass down. Six hours later, in the darkness, we rose again, completely starving. “It’s unfair that only some people have access to Showtime,” Caleb said, in awe.
January 23, 2012
Homeland
Claire Danes
Television Review
Bipolar Disorder
Carrie Mathison
Nicholas Brody
Yesterday afternoon, Franke the dog got into some Jambalaya Caleb left out, and she came out of it smelling like someone had dumped her in the self-serve soup section at Shop Rite.
The soup crusted on her nasty dog beard, and stuck there for the rest of the night. Every time I turned over in my sleep, the smell of it was there, on the pillow beside me, mixed in with her tartar-heavy dog breath.
“Get away from me, monster,” I said to her, my nose wrinkled. Then I buried my face in her non-shedding fur, and kissed her belly 1,000 times.
This morning, however, the Jambalaya had formed a hard skin. It was like she had Cajun-spiced dreadlocks growing out of her chin. “Ok, seriously, get away from me,” I said. And I wouldn’t let her kiss my face any longer.
“I’m going to wash her,” Caleb decided after I lifted her up, and planted her on his face. “This is disgusting.”
So he took her to the sink, with my Pantene Pro-V extra shine shampoo. He wet her little body, and then her face. She turned to face me, and holy shit, she looked undignified.
Afterwards, I wrapped her in a bright yellow towel, and cradled her in my arms. I rocked her, I sang to her, she tried to escape me. “What the fuck are you doing?” Caleb asked me as he unraveled the blow dryer.
Then sitting there, together, we blasted her almost dry. When she was puffed up like a breeding dandelion, we set her free. She ran around like a maniac, rubbing her body all over every surface in the house. She coated everything with her dog smell, and then curled up on my lap like a meal worm. Tonight, Caleb will fall asleep in a Pantene Pro-V cloud, Franke on top of his head, my hair spread all over his mouth, his eyes, our matching scent slaking off onto his body.
