Blogspot, blog (how postmodern).
New York is a hotbed of perversion. My parents are quite set on that. As if prompting me to schmutz about for years with alcoholics (Everyone), queers (Ryan Kalb) and Nick Rizzo (Nick Rizzo) weren't enough, New York has convinced me that a career in science publishing is something I want to do. With the way my mom reacted to the news, I might as well have told them I was going to be a crack dealer, a helicopter pilot or a Commie. To your surprise, I'm not going to write about my arduous and freak-out inducing job hunt. It is on the topic of New York as Babylon that I would like to launch a narrative of my bus ride as I passed Stamford, Connecticut.
In the southbound direction on I-95, Stamford's mid-sized office towers seem to gleam in the sun, even on days when it's snowing. In SimCity 3000, these generic edifices would first prompt the City Planner talking-head to congratulate you for your efforts to support commerical interests. The entire financial district looks so fake that these buildings resemble nothing more than a detailed re-rendering by a graphic artist of a city built with Duplo blocks.
Nonetheless, I welcome Stamford's sight, as it represents an end to both the wilderness of Western Massachusetts and the quasi-urban squalor of places like Bridgeport, which, through the plexiglass windows of a bus, looks like a city inspired by the color scheme of Saving Private Ryan. I treat Stamford not as its own entity, but as the bus gateway to New York. In the Babylon metaphor, Stamford is a modular Ishtar's Gate. It's pretty, but not terribly inhabitable.
As I pass, I am in the middle of an article concerning Dior Homme designer Hedi Slimane. Having just finished a four page article about shopping and a nine page article about an art auctioneer, I found this week's New Yorker to be decently gay. The was even before the two page photo spread of Slimane coaching his male model on how to look more like a girl slash rock star.
Despite two full years of Project Runway fashion camp and tireless coaching from Leigh, I can assuredly say I do not understand fashion. The only reason I know how to pronounce Slimane's name is because of episodic audio slideshows on The New York Times. In fact, whenever I read his name, my own internal voice is transplanted by Cathy Horyn's smug, yawning robot voice. 'Head-ee Slimannnnnnne.' This became a problem when the author quotes a song that goes like this:
I want pants like Hedi Slimane.
I wanna dance like Hedi Slimane.
Live in France like Hedi Slimane.
I wanna fuck like Hedi Slimane.
Had anyone been able to tap my brain's audio output, I would have sounded like a schizophrenia patient who's supressed ego was a middle-aged fashion critic. Either that, or Horyn's spirit was trying to possess my body through astral projection so she could commandeer a Chinatown bus and kill us all.
Yep. Those were the thoughts running through my head as I rode the Fung Wah bus this time.
New York is a hotbed of perversion. My parents are quite set on that. As if prompting me to schmutz about for years with alcoholics (Everyone), queers (Ryan Kalb) and Nick Rizzo (Nick Rizzo) weren't enough, New York has convinced me that a career in science publishing is something I want to do. With the way my mom reacted to the news, I might as well have told them I was going to be a crack dealer, a helicopter pilot or a Commie. To your surprise, I'm not going to write about my arduous and freak-out inducing job hunt. It is on the topic of New York as Babylon that I would like to launch a narrative of my bus ride as I passed Stamford, Connecticut.
In the southbound direction on I-95, Stamford's mid-sized office towers seem to gleam in the sun, even on days when it's snowing. In SimCity 3000, these generic edifices would first prompt the City Planner talking-head to congratulate you for your efforts to support commerical interests. The entire financial district looks so fake that these buildings resemble nothing more than a detailed re-rendering by a graphic artist of a city built with Duplo blocks.
Nonetheless, I welcome Stamford's sight, as it represents an end to both the wilderness of Western Massachusetts and the quasi-urban squalor of places like Bridgeport, which, through the plexiglass windows of a bus, looks like a city inspired by the color scheme of Saving Private Ryan. I treat Stamford not as its own entity, but as the bus gateway to New York. In the Babylon metaphor, Stamford is a modular Ishtar's Gate. It's pretty, but not terribly inhabitable.
As I pass, I am in the middle of an article concerning Dior Homme designer Hedi Slimane. Having just finished a four page article about shopping and a nine page article about an art auctioneer, I found this week's New Yorker to be decently gay. The was even before the two page photo spread of Slimane coaching his male model on how to look more like a girl slash rock star.
Despite two full years of Project Runway fashion camp and tireless coaching from Leigh, I can assuredly say I do not understand fashion. The only reason I know how to pronounce Slimane's name is because of episodic audio slideshows on The New York Times. In fact, whenever I read his name, my own internal voice is transplanted by Cathy Horyn's smug, yawning robot voice. 'Head-ee Slimannnnnnne.' This became a problem when the author quotes a song that goes like this:
I want pants like Hedi Slimane.
I wanna dance like Hedi Slimane.
Live in France like Hedi Slimane.
I wanna fuck like Hedi Slimane.
Had anyone been able to tap my brain's audio output, I would have sounded like a schizophrenia patient who's supressed ego was a middle-aged fashion critic. Either that, or Horyn's spirit was trying to possess my body through astral projection so she could commandeer a Chinatown bus and kill us all.
Yep. Those were the thoughts running through my head as I rode the Fung Wah bus this time.
posted by Byron at 1:49 PM
1 Comments:
"I treat Stamford not as its own entity, but as the bus gateway to New York."
You know, I never realized that I treated Stamford as anything, but now I know: I treat it as such.
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