chewing the scenery

but mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all

Hereu Shearling Snow Boot, $316

It takes little to no effort to write about New York, nor can there be much left to write, with every twenty-five year old having milked it for their art for decades, and Brooklyn is so easy to make fun of, there’s hardly any sport in it anymore. 

Let me anyway: New York City is a prolific sample size of the entire cultural moment compressed into a 4-mile radius—every twerp’s parents direct-depositing thousands into Lower Manhattan and Williamsburg for them to spend it on Eckhaus Latta and orange wine and getting their asshole waxed. This is the center of commerce! Disposable income in the hands of youth, running the depleting crypto markets and various doomed startups from their Noguchi-ed 400-square-foot apartments.

I sit in the thick of it—a Variety Coffee Roasters off Metropolitan Ave, just a few steps from my old apartment in East Williamsburg. It’s hardwood, eggshell white, full of incredibly hot and stand-offish men in beanies, white sneakers and tapered pants. Rich girls skip in glowing with the cold sweat of their marathon training for an iced oat latte, and the grungy, scrunchied other sulk in the back on their laptops and in AirPods, hating their life and remote advertising jobs. One girl sits across from me, enviably describing to another the success of her friend’s stick-and-poke Instagram.

I was once at this Variety location frequently enough to recognize the baristas when they walked around the vicinity, living their off-the-clock hipster lives, getting their bangs trimmed at Japanese barbers, ordering smoked cocktails at bars in airstreams, spending $70 on vintage t-shirts.

At what point do we forget that people live otherwise? That some people, god forbid, know nothing of the Sandy Liang x Baggu drop? 

Is it when we find ourselves—somehow, once again—in Phoenix, Arizona, where not a single coffee shop operates without a drive-thru, are actually quite unfamiliar with the concept of a “cortado”? What a waste, I found, to wear my Alaïa knock-offs¹ in Richmond, where they received overtly negative feedback, a look of horror and confusion from everyone else in their REI. 

In my first months of moving to New York (a third time) in January 2022, I wrote the following:

I needed to see birds and my brother sleeping,

A wrist with nothing on it, 

Something from Old Navy,

A mailbox,

Anything unaware of itself.

I’ll throw at you my cold take: You have to play a part here. You’re typecast. People who love New York will say this is not true. They are not to be believed; they are only happy with the part they’re playing. There’s nothing wrong with that. But the city is a non-negotiable performance. The pervasive culture is that you dress to be observed, you attend things to be seen there, you know people to say you know them. You photograph ambling celebrities, you traverse the subways to line up at bagel pop-ups. You stand outside a club for half an hour, trembling in your sheer tights, just to have two vodka tonics and an inebriated, vibrating crisis inside somewhere the Haim sisters were at three weeks ago. You consult hammed-up Tik Toks to find the best dumplings in Chinatown. You willingly go to that final hell, Equinox. Men will admit to doing none of these, and also do a more sullen variation of all of them (Ethan Hawke, burrito pop-ups, Brooklyn Mirage, Milano Market caesar wrap, Vital). 

There is, of course, always authenticity backstage. There are real friendships, relationships, exchanges, glances, moments. But they can be quite hard to find here. You become so absorbed in the culture of advancing your look and profile, your network, you forget that this whole thing you’re doing is spectacularly solipsistic. You become so used to seeing blowouts and Isabel Marant coats you forget that most of America is using, still, TRESemmé and wearing Old Navy puffers. They don’t have Sweetgreen rewards cards, The Row sample sales, divey afterparties, Olivia Rodrigo sightings at magazine launches, or magazine launches period. Your hometown favorite restaurant likely isn’t even on Resy. 

Do you remember when you were young? When you begged to go to Chili’s? When you thought Taco Bell was fine dining? When you got your hair cut at Hair Cuttery and you were too shy to give any instruction? When you thought Patagonia was the most expensive brand in the world? Your Ingrid Michaelson phase, your CVS-bought e.l.f. mascara, your ankle-length boot cut jeans and your thick ponytail holders? When you thought Cake’s “Short Skirt/Long Jacket” was the sexiest a song could ever be? Do you catch a glimpse of that when we lock eyes at Frog Bar and I’m wearing something see-through from Miaou and telling you how to spell qvevri over a shared Georgian Amber? Can you sense the vibration of self-deterioration, how long its been since I took a hike or read a book I liked? Am I wearing too much Glossier You?

I’m baiting you only to show you what I’ve been captivated by recently: assembling screenshots of real, live, expensive things I’ve been finding online that absolutely reek of New York’s filthy rich fashion-amphetamined culture, and how it makes me feel that we’ve reached the end of civilization.

Let me show you what I mean.

Jeffrey Campbell Fluffed Kitten Heels, $145

There are many overlapping videos I’ve watched mocking the style of the Lower East Side—it’s low-rise cargo skirts, baby tees, and gorp-core sneakers, ski shades and unwashed hair and chain belts. But there it is, in the back of that same video—a pair of Salomons. A pot, calling the kettle black. 

Something simultaneously mesmerizing and dreadful about New York is that people will wear anything. For example: this furry flip flop is something someone sitting across from me on the F would be unabashedly wearing, bouncing their foot and running through their Beli backlist. 

About a month ago, I was selected to be in a small focus group to give feedback on Ugg’s forthcoming winter drop, as well as a few potential designs so horrible I think we efficiently talked them out of it. As a reward, I was given a $400 gift card to HBX. On finding they were clean out of the A.P.C. Virginie Bag—personally devastating to me—I asked if they might have any knee high black boots in store, I was in the market for a pair.

Yes, the stylist said, these:

These, by the way, are $800.

In my desperation to find something affordable on the SSENSE sale for Black Friday, I found this, from Maison Margiela:

Maison Margiela Black Georgette Mask, $185

In Facebook Marketplace’s infinite wisdom, that knows damn well I’ve been searching for one particular discontinued Ikea console and virtually nothing else, it tossed me these faux pas (this is also the plural, interestingly) from a brand I love and trust, Marni.

Marni Beige Fussbett Sabot Loafers, $895

Why do I like it here? I don’t know. I don’t, really. But it’s like when you go to a play or a concert that you spent too much on and it was kind of a gaudy, gorgeous flop and you have to laugh about it, about how funny and strange things can be, how ridiculous the performance. That or you could be miserable, regretful, manic and clawing at the lead in the wallpaper. You have to wonder what else would you really be doing that would have been so much better? What’s so divine about anything? Glory is in the felt occasion, the self-made ceremony of things. And there’s museums here, and hot people, huge parks and Korean food. Creative people, freaks, tête de cuvée at the drop of a $150. 40 minutes on the worst transportation system in the world and I’m six inches from an Edward Hopper sketch, or a bone-chilling Manet, that insane Louise Bourgeois spider. I can’t turn 30 degrees in any direction without seeing the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on. 

It’s vibrant, I guess, really fucking vibrant. Anyway I’m late for a reservation at a natural wine bar serving “Aegean flavors,” and I haven’t even NuFaced yet. 

review of:

Short this week. Jen Beagin’s Big Swiss has been full-frontal on every McNally Jackson table since its release in February of this year, and I’ve finally read it. My review is don’t read it. It circles its own lazy metaphors ad nauseam and otherwise draws its entire plot from a limiting representation of female sexuality as either needy or feral and often both. If my windows opened I would’ve tossed that shit out onto the street à la Silver Linings Playbook/Hemingway mash-up.

recommendations:

• Sorry to Gen X myself but I really liked this MUBI article about the career arc of Michael Cera from awkward darling to grumpy, disillusioned millennial.

• ML Buch is my crush and she’s just released this album Suntub, which sounds reliably like all her other stuff—atmospheric, both spooky and sunny, kind of like that one part in Heathers where you’re like whoa is he gonna blow himself up! You can read this Pitchfork review of the album that is so fucking clearly written by a man who just Has To normcore another woman in the alt-rock space.

• Frank Traynor’s, @perfectnothingcatalog on Instagram, exhibit “Can Opener of Myself” is showing at The Future Perfect’s exhibition space on St. Mark’s. This guy makes absolutely insane looking stuff—bejeweled can openers, shell chandeliers, tongs, tub faucets, all Byzantine-looking and gorgeous.

• I’m just really obsessed with this little magazine called Worms Mag, started by Clem McLeod who talks about her journey creating the magazine here. It’s a really well-intentioned publication, appeals to broad interest but with intentional political and artistic focus. Olivia Laing’s in there, Kathy Acker, Eileen Myles, etc.

• Wine has been mentioned too many times in this post, I know. I know! And you know why? Because I’m drinking a lot. The sun sets at 4:45pm, I’m drinking. Shut up. I was lé blown away by this Chardonnay (omg with the eye roll, I also don’t like Chardonnay almost ever, just listen), les temps des cerises. I was partial initially because it’s the name of one of my favorite songs, but then found it was dry and salty but still fruity, and a little bizarre. Amphoric-tasting, sort of, like the Sirens were drinking this in between luring men to their death. Just like what I want to be doing when I grow up :)

• For god’s sake, someone buy these boots.

It’s 42 degrees in my office, bye!

1. I feel compelled to explain at this point, if you were even wondering, that I’m not getting commissioned on any of the things I’ve linked in here, I’m just tagging them to give context to, for example, my Dad, who will be like what the Fuck is an Alaïa