My friend Taylor, otherwise known as Band Dude, just started a new band called The O’s. I am genuinely impressed with their EP. Taylor is a drummer, and I had no idea he was such a talented guitar player and singer as well. Taylor’s from Dallas, TX, so the songs definitely have that Texan twang, but I’m totally into the indie edge.
Admittedly, I like “You’ve Got Your Heart” best out of the two songs. As Taylor would say, “I dig on it.”
sorry for the lack of updates. things haven’t been so great in leo land the past two weeks.
i’m just generally feeling dead, uninspired, stuck. i’m frustrated with my situation at work and feel powerless to change things. the new living situation isn’t going as splendidly and happily as i feel it should in the first few weeks. i can’t look in the mirror without hating what i see. and i feel more and more that i’m loosing interest in socializing. bad things, i know. and i’ll get out of the rut eventually. it’s just kind of sucky when there’s not a lot you can do to change people, or change concrete things in your life - besides forcing yourself to look at things differently - but mental switches are not easily attained.
Salinger had a prescient sense of his hero’s eventual cultural role: Holden starts his story by telling us he is not going to rehearse “all that David Copperfield kind of crap,” because it bores him.
If Salinger needed to acknowledge Dickens in 1951, today any new adolescent coming-of-age tale must go through “all that Holden Caulfield crap.” In the 19th century, a bildungsroman showed the growing maturity ands self-awareness of a young person. That remains more or less true, but now the equation for the modern bildungsroman is more like, as a friend puts it: “Horny plus bored minus transportation divided by the whole of one’s interior life, multiplied by an inverse ratio of miles to a city or a place where there is anything at all to do.”
”—Anne Trubek on why we shouldn’t still be learning Catcher in the Rye from the October issue of Good.
Chrysanthe is a master giver of advice. She sold advice with much success at our Williamsburg sidewalk sale a few weeks ago, and now graces the (web)pages of Cosmo:
“Leo,” she said, “You’re about to begin a new chapter in your life. You’re almost a year older, and things are clearly changing for you. Look at how far you’ve come! Things are just going to get better. Think about this move as an adventure.”
Now, in the past, the word “adventure,” has had frightening connotations for me. As a child, I had a horrible fear of getting lost, and my parents often used to tease me about it. On family vacations in Maine or Cape Cod, they liked to explore back roads in the car, and I would squeal with discomfort. “Where are weeeeee?” “It’s an adventure!” they’d answer in unison, and I’d shrink in my seat and try to remember which was the North Star because we were going to run out of gas, and get stranded in the woods, and have to fend off wild animals! Didn’t they see we were on the adventure of doom???
So, I’ve never been the most “adventurous” of girls when it comes to travel, and (apparently) relocation. But Claire had a point. I would find a new apartment that was bigger, and better. And hopefully meet roommates who would want to be part of my…adventure.
Sitting at the dining room table watching the rain come and go. I haven’t done much of anything today except for mindless work (updating Cosmo’s daily horoscopes, oh the joy…) and lusting over dreams of Paris.
I’m kind of surprised that I’m so restless already. I’ve lived my life in predictable patterns, which is that I become completely depressed with whatever situation I’m in, and start fantasizing about the next transition. Plotting, planning, obsessing, completely sure that my perfect self and happiness WILL be there in that different place from six months or three months or a year from now.
I guess I expected that initial euphoria of my latest transition to last a while longer - it usually does, for at least 3 months or so. I’m excited to be in a new living situation, and I like the way Williamsburg feels to me, but right off the bat, it’s not perfect at all, and I can’t see past that. I’m slightly convinced that the house dynamics between me and my new roommates will never be good enough to attain a home-like atmosphere. And I could be part of the problem, which bothers me to no end.
So of course, now I’m looking forward again, thinking about where I can run away to. Any suggestions?
Est-ce qu’il y a de lecteurs de Twentysomething qui parlent français ?
J’ai envie de pratiquer mon Français. Le problème c’est que je suis fauchée, et je n’ai pas d’argent pour un tuteur, ni pour un cours à l’Alliance Française ici à New York. Quelquefois, je mis un post sur Craigslist pour un Français qui veut échanger une heure en français pour une heure en anglais, mais ce sont toujours des personnes assez bizarres, ou l’on veut qu’on paie.
Donc, je tourne aux amis pour voir s’il y a un Français quelque part aux coins d’Internet qui voudraient prendre un verre avec moi et m’aider avec mes compétences qui sont en train de dégénérer.
“This isn’t the first time a boss has picked an unqualified woman just because she agrees with him and opposes everything most other women want and need. Feminism has never been about getting a job for one woman. It’s about making life more fair for women everywhere.”—
The last time a boy told me that, we were on our third date. We were sitting on stools at the bar facing each other, he leaned in to kiss me, and then made the most adorable, bashful face I’d ever seen. “Peter is so my boyfriend,” I thought, and commended myself on being so awesome.
It was clear, wasn’t it? He’d already started using terms of endearment (“kiddo,” “my girl,” “cutie”), made intense eye contact during sex (and insisted on cuddling afterward), and referenced events way down the road that he said, “we should go to.” We.
Then, it was if a light switch went off in his brain. By week four, he was done. And not because anything went wrong. He just lost interest.
At first, I thought this phenomenon was specific to Peter. Unfortunately, I found this love-and-drop thing to happen frequently, and eventually coined it the “Boyfriend Syndrome,” a behavior in which men become insta-boyfriends only to abruptly drop all affection.
As a result, I deal with it, but keep my guard up. I’d like to believe such affection is indicative of true feelings, or a sign of a budding relationship, but I’ve been proved wrong too many times.
Yet, there’s something unnerving about it. Why on earth would a guy act so lovey-dovey when most of them are such relationship-phobes? I tried to develop theories about the Boyfriend Syndrome. But if I’ve learned anything about guys, it’s whatever I think I know about them is completely wrong. So, I questioned a few male friends about this weird behavior.
I was surprised when my 24-year-old single friend, Brian, insisted that BF Syndrome dudes aren’t, in fact, romantics. “No one who’s a romantic would ever say that so soon. Anyone with relationship experience knows it’s going to take a while to know if things will work,” he told me.
“So then, why the romantic flair for the non-romantics?”
“If he’s all about you for three weeks and then drops your ass, he’s obviously using you for the poon. He probably has one strategy, and that’s to be all about you until he gets bored.”
“Kind of like he thinks, Our time together isn’t going to last, why not play it up?”
It still seemed weird to me. After all, there’s the whole “don’t scare him off” bit when you first start dating someone. If I’m so worried about scaring off men with premature affection, why weren’t these guys thinking about scaring me away?
My 35-year-old friend Michael managed to put a few things in perspective to me. What it all came down to, he explained, was impulsive thinking, oftentimes without rationale: “The reality is that guys are like snowflakes. Horny snowflakes. A lot of guys have no clue what they’re doing and just fly by the seat of their pants. Sometimes you just get swept up in the sexual s—t.”
Brian offered a more sensitive take: “He’s never emotionally involved, but he depends on that false sense of love or compassion to fulfill something inside that’s missing.”
I walked away from both conversations with some definitive outliers—those affected by the Boyfriend Syndrome are lost, confused, and act on impulse.
Wait…this kind of sounds a lot like myself.
Would this mean that men aren’t really that different from women? Perhaps, but at least I have a little more pity for them.
The MET Puts the Kibosh on Rufus Wainwright's Opera Commission
Indie crooner Rufus Wainwright is no longer working to produce the opera commissioned by the MET and Lincoln Center. The reason? Wainwright insisted on writing the work in French, whereas his backers demanded an opera in English in order to appeal to a wider audience. Wainwright also wants to stage the piece, “Prima Donna,” much earlier than the promised 2014 season. “I’m an impatient popstar,” he said.
Leonora Epstein from TheFrisky.com concurs. By her reckoning, dating a man prettier than you can work to the relationship’s disadvantage. She too experienced panic attacks every time she’d get ready for a date with her man who was so beautiful, she described him akin to a man who has “just stepped out of a Botticelli painting”. Of course she was instantly infatuated.
"It’s natural to try to look your best on a date," she writes in attempt to explain where it all went wrong. "But, as I stood ankle-deep in discarded dresses and tops, I realized that I needed to actually look better than my date. He had turned into a version of a female frenemy—the woman you’re friends with but always feel, in a cruel way, that you need to one-up." Enough said.
I went on a date last night - my first since February. It was a pretty clear reminder of why I stopped dating. Not that I consciously stopped, but I just got tired of being proactive.
To begin with, this boy was skin-ny. Yes, I like my boys on the leaner side, but this guy clearly did not eat. And not even in a beautiful, heroin-chic way. In a sunken eye, gray skin kinda way. That’s the worst - when, in the first few minutes of a date, you realize that there is zero chemistry between you, and yet you have to sit through the entire thing. I wish I could actually just get up on dates where this happens. Five minutes into things just down your beer, stand up and say, “Sorry. I don’t want to waste your time, and I’d rather be in bed eating PinkBerry. Have a nice life.”
It was one of those strained conversations, the kind where he thinks things are going really well, probably all I can do is plaster on a fake smile like an idiot, nod, and say, “Ooooh, that’s interesting, tell me more about X.”
I at least kept it short, but I even felt bad about that. As we finished our first round, and the bartender offered a second, the date was about to comply, but I interrupted, and said, “I’m good.”
So, today is my REAL birthday. So far, I have mopped the floors and cleaned the bathroom. Talk about a good time. However, my parents are taking me out for dinner somewhere in the hood and will be stopping by to see my new place for the first time. I am pretty sure that once my mother sees that the door downstairs doesn’t lock and the graffiti in the stairwell…well, she might freak out a bit. So, I’ve done my best to make things shiny and clean.
In any case - I want to go out tonight! In my neighborhood. I’d love to have people over for some beers and then decide where to go. Give me a holler if you’re around tonight and want to do something, and I’ll sort it all out!