“I once fucked Jesse Helms and it was the worst sex I’ve ever had.” Perry Farrell muttered that line into the microphone on stage midway through a show at the University of North Carolina’s Memorial Hall on Tuesday, November 13, 1990.
Like the best memories, poems situate us in the secret moments of our lives before unfolding with surprise. Like the best love songs, poems force us to reconsider our internal geographies.
Her work gets passed on by word of mouth. Cultish fandom ensues. Certainly, getting into Chelsey Minnis is something of an indoctrination.
When it came out in October 2018, the violist Kim Kashkashian’s recording of Bach’s Cello Suites seemed to be the best record I had heard that year. It has improved with time. It seems to be the best record I’ve heard in my life.
This whole dream is some elaboration of a meme I saw on Instagram before going to bed where a woman hands a man a fish, and he asks for a plastic bag, and she says, “it’s already inside.”
Every time you slice into the canon, girls rush out like ghosts.
My coworker and I were sitting in a park in SoHo, eating lunch on our break. “Should I be offended that this guy asked me to get him onto the Shitty Media Men list?” she asked.
A woman I do not know holds the door for me as she’s leaving the restroom, a measure of politeness I was not expecting. I put my phone away and notice the slogan typeset across the front of her T-shirt: MEN HAVE MADE A LOT OF BAD ART.
The only thing more alien than our relationship with one another is the one we have with nature.
“We’re programmed to think that New York exists in some lofty, realizing-our-dreams sort of place,” he told me. “But really it’s right there at street level.”