Defamer.com has a new position: Managing Editor. And it's Mark Graham! Wooooo!! Defamer has always been the most consistently high-quality GM site, and between Marks Lisanti and Graham it's poised to be part of the general "quality writing trumps cheap lazy salaciousness" blog trend that will finally happen in 2008 hopefully please god. Congratulations, Mark!
I got the one from a few years ago and I wore it like every day. As you can see from the photos of the hot girls, the shirts are very asset-enhancing. And that's the last time I'm ever going to say anything like that. Get one!
I got an email after I wrote about Lloyd Dobler costumes a couple weeks ago from a guy named Jon from Toronto who was already hard at work on his Lloyd Dobler audio/visual masterpiece. Here it is (imagine the boom box blasting Peter Gabriel, because it was):
If you're like me, you frequently become enraged at the way the internet controls your life. You have no need for a "boss button" because the entire effing web is your boss button and and you long for the simplicity of a blank Excel document or, even better, a cabin in the woods off the grid and untouched by the medium that simultaneously feeds and destroys you like the semen of one of Angelina Jolie's ex boyfriends.
UPDATE: What a beautiful dream that could flash on the screen in a blink of an eye and be gone: It doesn't sync well and ends too early, but the juxtaposition with Aeroplane made my neurons fire like crazy. Just paste this in on Stereogum. (Thanks to Jen, obvs!)
There are certain moments, as a blogger, when one stumbles upon, quite accidentally, a spot on the internet, a link, a thing, that is so magnificent, so unintentionally genius, so of the zeitgeist, so transcendent of anything one would ever come across intentionally in one's meticulously Google-Reader-tagged world, that one is faced with the dilemma of wanting to keep it, to jealously hoard it to oneself, to write an entire novel in the voice of the Tom-Perotta's-Election-esque character who so un-self-awarely shared it with the world before anyone else gets that idea too and actually does it, to read aloud from it on stage at one's next Ritalin Reading, if one co-hosts such a reading series, to print it out and memorize every word, to marvel at its utter perfection as a piece of satire, in this very time and place, this April 2007 of our lives, and to wonder: will I ever create something as good as this, including gardens, friendships, and/or children?
(Triptych of the East River Impromptu Bonfire in Williamsburg, August 14, 2003, by Sarah Balcomb. Click to enlarge.)
So, the totally not surprising rumor is there could be another blackout tonight. I know, there probably won't be, but the blackout of '03 was one of the best nights of my life (and probably yours, too.)
So now I'm all nostalgic and achey and wistful and full of longing all of a sudden, so I've dug up some Blackout-related stuff from the old version of this website. (You know, before I was seduced and corrupted by the glamorous-yet-ultimately-empty blogging scene.)
After the blackout, I asked some of my friends for their own blackout stories and photos, which can be found here (and are still awesome.)
I also wrote up my own blackout story for Knot Magazine three days later. Reading it for the first time in three years, I wince at how bad it is (A "subtle" 9/11 reference in the first sentence? Oh, Lindsay of '03, I just wanna muss your already-messy hair.)
But there it is, in all its sentimental, style-less glory, and it represents a much more idealistic time in my life that I would kill to get back, so there.
But don't click, here's the gist:
* Sarah Balcomb and I rode our bikes around darkened Williamsburg with backpacks full of cheap cabernet that we shared with everyone we encountered.
* At one point I stripped and did a Lady-Godiva-on-a-bike-but-with-short-hair thing for like thirty terrifying seconds in the middle of McCarren Park. (Future games of "I Never" would benefit.)
*A guy stole Sarah's bike from its kickstand-spot five feet away from us, and was not deterred by Sarah's thrown shoe or my expletives.
*Before we left the bonfire, we waded into the East River to properly send off our melodramatic message-in-a-bottle: "It is the night of the Blackout, and we are drunk..."
* Then we wandered from Williamsburg bar to Williamsburg bar with an ever-growing group of people whose faces we never properly saw, until we stumbled home at dawn.
In short: best.night.ever.
(I'm allowed to navel-gaze four times per year, okay? It's in the rules.)