Why is it that everyone is suddenly talking about ghosting? And why does it bum me out so much? I guess there's not really anything new in it, except for the fact that technology makes it that much more obvious when one is being ghosted (ie: you can't tell yourself someone has probably died or at least been temporarily hospitalised and unable to reach a phone when you can see them posting photos of their Sunday brunch on Instagram). But it strikes me as incredibly cruel. I've lost a couple friends, one of whom meant a lot to me, when they eventually just... failed to respond to my texts/emails and that was brutal enough even though in each case the writing was very much on the wall.
I mean if the New York Times can be believed people are actually doing this -
In a less dramatic but similarly confounding fashion, Aaron Leth, 29, a fashion editor, found his texts unanswered when a man he had been dating for a month disappeared after he and Mr. Leth had bought the ingredients for a dinner they planned to cook later that evening. “He went home to take a nap and said, ‘I’ll call you,’ ” Mr. Leth said. “I’m still waiting, two years later.”
Okay, sure, the way it was written made me laugh. But still, dude: that's coooold.
Not because they're fun to dance to, obviously, but because they remind me of very specific times in my life. The downside being that the songs and albums and bands I remember most are probably those that were instrumental in getting me through some tough ol' times, hence they lean towards the maudlin and sometimes downright depressing. It would be kind of a shit party, I guess.
Belle and Sebastian, "We Rule the School"
Back in the day I would spend hours on Napster (I know) seeking out B&S' back catalogue. But this was the first song off the first album I ever heard of theirs and I only sought it out because (of course) some dude I had a crush on recommended them. The first band I ever remember being entirely obsessed with and a band I can't imagine ever not listening to.
Phoenix, "If I Ever Feel Better"
I couldn't tell you how many times I've listened to this song and yet still - STILL - after so many years it's my go-to song to get me in the mood when I can't be arsed leaving the house.
From The Piano, "The Heart Asks Pleasure First"
I was obsessed with this movie and in particular its music for oooh a period in the late 1990s. Not sure what that was about really but I would hang out in my bedroom listening to the soundtrack over and over again. My lucky parents.
The Smiths, Half a Person
Most of my favourite bands have come via cute boys and The Smiths are no exception. I still recall feigning a familiarity with them I did not have in order to bond with my ex-boyfriend Michael when he was still just my friendly co-worker, then racing home for some essential research.
Noah and the Whale, "I Have Nothing"
Downer Country, population: me.
Real Estate, "It's Real"
The flipside of Noah and the Whale in that this one just reminds me of a very dreamy, mostly happy albeit messy period of my life.
Do not fall asleep listening to an audiobook involving sweet adolescent romance because you will have sweet adolescenty romantic dreams and when you wake up to realise you're -
I'm officially on holidays for a week from today, which means I have time to actually read a lot more journalism, particularly long-form, than I usually do when I'm paging through papers or scrolling through websites for just long enough to be sure I have a vague idea of what's going on everywhere without letting anything sink too far into my brain.
My break is getting off to a great start because so far I've read two terrific reads on two subjects I didn't think I cared about: Roger Federer and, um, I guess... America?
Brian Phillips doesn't mention the debt he owes to David Foster Wallace in his own version for Grantland but to me it's hard to avoid comparisons between Phillips' very good read and DFW'a wonderfully titled and by-now classic essay "Roger Federer as Religious Experience". I don't know though, maybe it's just because I don't read a lot about Federer and there's no comparison to be made.
Either way Phillips has some gorgeous prose and it's well worth reading the whole thing. If this opening doesn't hook you in it's probably not for you:
"Early on in Adam Roberts’s 2014 meta-sci-fi submarine-disaster novel, Twenty Trillion Leagues Under the Sea, a French nuclear sub called the Plongeur begins to sink in the North Atlantic. The startled crew tries to regain command of the vessel, but nothing works. The controls don’t respond. The diver who’s sent out to reconnoiter the exterior of the ship with a flashlight doesn’t come back. The Plongeur is built to withstand pressure to a depth of a thousand meters or so. Beyond that, it will be crushed. And even if it isn’t, even if it somehow holds together against what Roberts calls “the unspeakable pressures of the profound deep,” it will build up so much speed as it falls that it will shatter when it hits the ocean floor."
Then there's Gary Younge's "Farewell to America" for The Guardian. This one shocked me because I wasn't sure there was anything new to read on this topic. Whether Younge's saying something new or saying something old, just beautifully, I'm not sure. It's a tremendous piece of writing though - get into it:
For the past couple of years the summers, like hurricanes, have had names. Not single names like Katrina or Floyd – but full names like Trayvon Martin or Michael Brown. Like hurricanes, their arrival was both predictable and predicted, and yet somehow, when they landed, the effect was still shocking. We do not yet know the name that will be attached to this particular season. He is still out there, playing Call of Duty, finding a way to feed his family or working to pay off his student loans. He (and it probably will be a he) has no idea that his days are numbered; and we have no idea what the number of those days will be.
N.B: I couldn't quite bear to post a screenshot from this shitty movie so enjoy a slice of Farrell being cute in the lovely movie, In Bruges. I maybe need to see that movie again.
"Apparently every Disney woman is a clone/direct descendant of some primordial creature with huge round cheeks and a disturbingly small nose, because there is no other explanation (yes there is(it’s lazy sexism)) for the incredible lack of diversity among these female faces." (Read the whole thing here)
A few weeks ago I read about a fashion advert that has been banned by the ASA. But what confuses me is why the advert existed in the first place. It seems to show a very ill girl lying on the floor – why would that sell clothes?Patrick, by emailAh, Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. I do not know what you do in life, Patrick, as your email was tantalisingly succinct, but I do know that you have – unwittingly, I suspect – taken on the role of truth-teller in this instance. Not for nothing does the tale of The Emperor’s New Clothes use fashion as a metaphor and you, Patrick, are the young boy pointing your finger at the king’s nudity.
Downstairs in a house are three identical on-off switches. One of them controls the lamp in the attic. The puzzle is to work out which switch controls the lamp.The rules are as follows. You are allowed to manipulate the switches all you like, and then you are allowed only one trip to the attic. How do you do it?
I don't know what's more tragic: that I didn't solve it or that I didn't solve it, despite having heard it once before.
I'm not sure when I got onboard the Chris Pratt train but apparently that happened. It's not even like I really want to do to him the things I want to do to, say, Tom Hardy. It's more like I'd like to be friends and hang out, maybe see a movie some time. Or go full Misery and tie him to the bed: EITHER WAY.
If I hadn't read most of these Sweet Valley books as a child teenager I would not believe they existed. Also, if you ever read those books and somehow haven't read Shannon's awesome Sweet Valley High blog, in which she recaps the series as a young-fan-turned-adult you... need to get on that right now. It's a freaking delight.
I'm already married and really did not want to get married in the first place. So why does this Zombies song make me not only want to get married (uh, again?) but dance to this song at said wedding like a big sloppy dummy?
I'm sceptical, as I think we all should be, that one's personality can be reduced to a "type". I may have certain characteristics but I don't think I'm set in amber and I'd like to believe that the Kate of 2015 is different to the Kate of 2010, the Kate of 2005 and the Kate of 2025 and that my personality has changed over the years.
That much said I have done the Myer-Briggs personality test and this kinda silly article that tries to come up with a perfect definition of hell for each Myer-Briggs personality type has... well, okay, I think they kind of nailed me:
"You are expected to complete a highly esteemed project with absolutely no guidance as to what’s expected of you."
I realise that's kind of sad.
“Deep down, all the while, she was waiting for something to happen. Like a sailor in distress, she kept casting desperate glances over the solitary waster of her life, seeking some white sail in the distant mists of the horizon. She had no idea by what wind it would reach her, toward what shore it would bear her, or what kind of craft it would be – tiny boat or towering vessel, laden with heartbreaks or filled to the gunwhales with rapture. But every morning when she awoke she hoped that today would be the day; she listened for every sound, gave sudden starts, was surprised when nothing happened; and then, sadder with each succeeding sunset, she longed for tomorrow.”
If you have an enemy, picture him asleep. Notice his shoes at the foot of the bed, how helplessly they gape there. Some mornings he needs three cups of coffee
to wake up for work, and there are evenings when he drinks alone, reading the paper down to the want ads, the arrival times of ships at the docks.
Think of him choosing a tie, dialling wrong numbers, finding holes in his socks. Chances are his emptiness equals yours
When you thoughtlessly hurry a cashier for change, or frown to yourself in rush hour traffic and the drivers behind you
Well this looks delightful. Between this (hopefully), Mad Max: Fury Road (fucking SWOON) and Spy, it's almost enough to give you hope some people making movies these days actually, you know, like women. Crazy, I know.
1. I will try to blog more. Had a real regular thing going there for a time.
2. I will keep running.
3. I will stop using social media to creep on people.
4. I will consider eating fewer Caramello Koalas.
5. I will NOT forget the word to Modern Major General, given the bitch it was to learn them.
6. I will be nicer to other people and resist my hermit impulses... at least some of the time.
7. I will not drink Diet Coke more than twice a month even when I'm super hungover and only a "black aspirin" will do.
8. I will be more frugal and really work at clearing some more debt.
9. I will remind myself, at every opportunity, that stressing about something happening does not actually increase or decrease the likelihood that thing will happen.
10. I will convince Andy to join me in a Felicity retrospective.
This is not to be confused with Tom Hardy in real life who is not so much... my jam. No I don't entirely understand how that works either but I think it's something to do with the hair (for the moment), the "method actor" tag and the general vibe I somehow get from bits and pieces of random celeb gossip that he might... I don't know... lean towards douche?
In any case, as Max? He is perfection. That little thumbs up and smile he gives close to the end to signal his approval at something? I DIED THAT DAY.
... beyond my control I now have to listen to music at work or be driven mad. The silver lining is that I am listening to more new(ish) music than ever. Including Sufjan Stevens' bananas good album, which is good enough to make me want to work late. Almost.
"Slut" is for when, in spite of everything you've learned from Cosmo and your sorority sisters, you just love men, for when you want to look at them and talk about them and burrow your nose into their necks and lick them from head to toe and hop right on them when they walk in the door like that scene from Raising Arizona where Holly Hunter clings to Nicolas Cage like a wood tick. Ugh. That's so undignified. That's so unfeminine. "Slut" is for walking down the street and talking to a friend on your cell phone and watching a cute boy walk past in the opposite direction and looking at him and looking away and looking back and then turning around in mid-sentence to keep looking. "Slut" is for thinking of stubble burn and biting your lip. "Slut" is for remembering the way your first true love used to pin you up against his car door and flushing clear up to the roots of your hair. "Slut" is for big hands and deep voices. "Slut" is for on top of you and under you and behind you, in the closet, on the floor, under the piano. "Slut" is for liking it. "Slut" is for wanting it. "Slut" is for going after it. Men hunt, women gather; men chase, women wait. Look it up, slut.
A terrific reminder from Sars (and from the archives) of why using the word "slut" is super problematic.
There are many topics The Economist writes about that I know little to nothing about. Take, for instance: the economy. But arguably nothing else I've read in that fine publication made me shout HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS quite like today's blog on Roar, a movie I'd never heard of but which sounds... demented.
"There, over the course of five years, Ms Hedren and Mr Marshall, an executive producer flush from “The Exorcist”, shot “Roar”. They faced the obstacles that might be expected—70 bloody attacks that injured lead actors and crew (Mr Marshall needed treatment for gangrene), and scalped their cinematographer—as well as others that sound like messages from God: floods, wildfires and feline disease."
Know that this comes from a place of love: I enjoy and appreciate glossy magazine with the best of them. For me, Vogue sits in the shade of Harper's on both art design and editorial content but it's still a great magazine. That much said, these excerpts from a recent issue, presented - as The Hairpin puts it - "without comment" are pretty... telling. My favourite?
My idea of a relaxing getaway is strolling around the Porte de Clignancourt flea market in search of a velvet opera coat.
Of course it is. Or maybe...
For Daniel de la Falaise, food has always been a family affair. His great-grandmother Rhoda watered her rosebushes with lobster bisque.
I mean... OF COURSE SHE DID. You can read the whole thing here.
I'm pretty ignorant when it comes to food, chemicals, what's going to kill me and what's going to make me live until I'm 200. When the conversation about this or that foodstuff or food practice gets complicated my policy is to trust the weight of scientific consensus, with the understanding that sometimes scientists gets things wrong. I also think it's a fair assumption that in general unprocessed food is going to be better for you than processed food. You don't need to be a member of Mensa to appreciate that eating an apple is probably better for you than eating apple pie. At the same time that doesn't mean I don't eat apple pie.
What I don't particularly care for (but largely find it pretty easy to ignore) is the growing tendency to refer to sugar as "toxin", treat gluten like a poison and get smug about eating that chocolate pie because it's made with dates and almond meal instead of white sugar and the tears of dolphins.
All of which is a long way of saying I enjoyed (and mostly agree with) this takedown, via Gawker, of the Food Babe who is, uh, well she's kind of the worst.
3. Bake a loaf of bread that doesn't have the consistency of a large, edible doorstop.
4. Expand my recipe repertoire.
5. Find a way to stop Mr Whiskerley from killing my herb garden with his big furry grey arse. (To clarify: my cat likes to curl up on top of my herbs on rainy days. It's cute but enraging)
6. Make proper lunches to take to work, rather than eating my own body weight in toasted sandwiches 5 days a week.
7. Learn how to cook more vegan food so I can have Clowney to dinner more often.
8. Invite people for dinner more often.
9. Trade out my 70% cocoa chocolate habit for a 85% cocoa chocolate habit because apparently that's the only way I'm not going to die of dementia.
“Life hurls us like a stone, and we sail through the air saying, "look at me move.”
My precious Cadbury Creme Eggs are actually 39g, not 34g (like apparently they are in... Canada? I don't even know), which means they contain an extra ~25 calories per egg. Not a big deal in the scheme of things obviously but maaaaaaan 150 calories per egg really felt a lot easier to sneak into my daily diet than 177 calories does. I don't know why this is so but it is. That is all.
"So, please, believe me when I say this — I don’t mean it in a completely bad way — but Benedict Cumberbatch looks, to me, like what happens if someone pulls a fire alarm while Ralph Fiennes is in the middle of getting made to look like Lord Voldemort and he has to run out of the dressing room with only half of his face covered in weird latex and makeup. I don’t want to bump into that guy on the street, you know?"
The latest edition of 'Would you Rather', featuring Sherlock vs John Watson, is GLORIOUS and you should read it all here.
I really enjoyed this bit of musing on a key difference between how Batman and Captain America deal with their manpain.
On a related note I think I've mentioned before that one of the things I'm really loving about The Flash is the comparative lack of angst and melancholy in Barry Allen's life, despite a super bleak backstory involving a murdered mother and incarcerated father. The series would be about one-tenth as enjoyable if The Flash mooched around like some tragic Batman, boo-hoo-ing about how he was a super powerful billionaire with a butler who probably brings him tea in bed in the morning if he asks.
Arguably the thing I like least about the internet is the way it allows people to read only things they already agree with and surround themselves with people who reinforce exactly what they already think (see: Twitter, also: people who only read The Guardian or any other unabashed left/right wing news source). So my recommendation to go and read this The New York Times op-ed on the health benefits of a plant-based diet comes with the disclaimer that I may only have found it interesting because I'm a smug vegetarian who likes to read about how she's doing the right thing and will probably live to be 305 years old. Death to plants!
N.B: The title of this post was just a shameless excuse to run this brilliantly insane photo of Morrissey because why not.
