G: A native of the wild jungle, California, committed to exposing the heart of the unforgiving region.
V: A devout idiosyncrasy and a shameless romantic with a penchant for zig-zagging between the East Coast and West.
The best time of day in Los Angeles is late in the night, empty streets and some party somewhere, an empty bar in the valley, a friend to meet you, like the Cinderella Bar in the Day of The Locust. The best time of day in Paris is the morning after with the bustling streets and the joyous creame colour of the buildings and the river and all of the promised green of the afternoon, the parks. The best time in Virginia is a fall afternoon, and in Maine it’s 5 o’clock, and the light through the trees then.
Then there’s Montenegro — splendid little state.Charlotte P.G. Herland
England is under the rule of a patriarchy. He was the Foreign Secretary and the Judge. He was the cricketer; he owned the racehorses and the yachts. He left millions to charities and colleges that were ruled by himself. He suspended the film actress in mid-air.
the kind of thing that you remember for a while
and change happens when you least expect to
invite a guest, and the idea of the rules of the
game changing, and the game itself changing
and maybe a game-changer, who you can’t
stop thinking about.
The story that must be told but wouldn’t come out,
And isn’t really all that important,
Here is Pink Smash before it was detonated.
There’s a painting hanging in my aunt’s house
In Beverly Hills,
and it’s called Pink Smash.
It’s grey, with black accents and a giant mauve figure in the middle.
It’s worth about 16 million,
so Pink Smash has become more of an escape plan than a thing of beauty.
If business is bad, or
the cars are getting too expensive, or
the stock market spirals again
I can always sell Smash,
Aunt Sally says.
It’s funny –
There are always people in the world who will pay big money
For something to look at.
I always liked the painting,
and I always liked the name.
It reminds me of a pink Lilly Pulitzer print, gone awry,
And it reminds me of myself.
My name is X
and I am a member of the now generation.
I am average in mostly all ways
except that I am completely different from anyone I have ever met.
—Look out for it, V.
Let me clear my throat
If you see everything as black and white
Good and bad, wrong and right,
I am “fifty shades of fucked up” as EL James put it
And frankly, I like it that way.
In Philadelphia, the weather is in the single digits, there is always something to do, and there is a grin hiding under every chair and behind every door. there’s a new fire place on campus that is nice, and everyone’s classes are hard. Everyone is cold and wants a job in a year. It all seems very good.
This story begins with the Seine. It wishes it began around the time of lonely Mondrian, but it doesn’t. This story begins with four near twenty year olds, trying to find their way out of a nightclub, rather unsuccessfully, which was under one of the great Ponts on the river I mentioned before.
But d’ya really wanna go? Said Thomas, his polo shirt sticky on his back.
Yes, I really, really want to go. I said. I was sick of feeling my blood lift and drop with every beat Kavinsky lifted or dropped. I was sick of my feet and my tongue.
Why? Which sounded more like “wyeeee”
Fucking because. Follow me. I took his hand and led him behind me. While I wove and dove he bumped into person after person, prompting him to flash his teeth and weakly raise his hand in very American attempts at apologies.
B your ass looks smokin’ tonight. Thomas remarked from behind me. I gave his hand a shut-the-fuck-up yank and kept trekking, scanning the mass of humans for Jeremy and Grace. We finally found them in the center of the first room, standing by a blue bar. Grace, blond and lanky, leaned with her legs snaking out of her black dress –which was more or less an oversized t-shirt—and spoke in slow English to a French man whose face was not far from hers. Jeremy stood protectively behind her, his crotch emphatically close to her negligible behind, glaring at the French man. He held a tumbler of absinthe in his left hand, which he had barely touched.
Jeremy, we’re leaving. I almost scolded him, Thomas coming to a halt behind me.
Thank god! He flicked his eyes towards Grace, who would probably be on the ground had Jeremy not been holding her up. Her slow English slurred and made her mouth droop.
I tapped the French man on his shoulder.
Monsieur, pardon-moi. Mon amie et moi allons partir, et tu n’es pas bienvenue de nous joindre. Bon Soirée.
I grabbed Grace by the hip and began to usher her out, she didn’t fight it, or say anything for that matter. Jeremy set his glass on the bar and took her other side, leaving Thomas to fend for himself, stumbling next to us three.
I didn’t know you spoke French. Said Jeremy.
I haven’t for a while. I said. I looked over at him, surprised by his sobriety. Jeremy seemed like he’d changed since we’d been abroad, although I guess I didn’t know him so well before. He stared ahead with strain, he was carrying most of Grace’s weight.
We reached the exit of the club and stepped into the night. I let go of Grace and stepped onto the street in search of a taxi.
New Hollywood was a wave of —mostly film school —educated kids who, under the influence of drugs, European cinema, and the anti-war movement, exploited a nearly bankrupt studio system to produce the best American films of the second half of the century. New Hollywood lasted a scant ten years or less, but left a rich legacy, not the least of which is a loose collection of spiritual and aesthetic airs, collectively known as the independents.Biskind, Peter. Down and Dirty Pictures.