Listening to: “Beauty Stranger” by Vegyn. His recent album Don’t Follow Me Because I’m Lost Too!! is on heavy rotation lately.
Just Read: This Curbed piece on the final parties at Caroline Calloway’s West Village apartment. It’s the little details that kill me, like the salads being clearly from Sweetgreen, her white panties reading “HONEY” revealed as she sits cross-legged in a dress. Ms. Calloway really did what she came to do with her New York tenure—to scam the world into giving a shit about her for no reason.
Weekend Recap: Well, it’s Monday night and I’m still hungover from Saturday. That says enough, right? This weekend we celebrated my friends’ engagement with a surprise party at a bar in Center City. I remain baffled that anyone has 60+ friends, but there we were, drunk in droves off an open bar and vicarious love. I’m always in high spirits when it comes to ritualized celebrations of romantic milestones. Perhaps my spirits were a little too high, as the party didn’t stop when Andrew and I got home. Like, I downed a bottle of Chianti and a random Angry Orchard hiding in our fridge??? How desperate must I have looked rummaging through Topo Chico and leftover meatballs to emerge victorious with that nasty ass cider? It was one of those bad decisions that you think is harmless because you’re with your partner in your own home until you wake up naked from the waist down, still hammered, scribbling in your notes at 5 AM. Naturally, I lost my entire Sunday to Chinese food and electrolyte beverages. Vabbè.
It’s kind of funny, I cracked open a fortune cookie on my lunch break today and it read, “If you don’t program yourself, life will program you.” To be as robotic in the pursuit of self-optimization as I am, nursing a hangover at 30 reminds me that one wrong move and the machine short circuits. Don’t even think about asking me to go out this weekend.
Excited for: I’ve decided I want to host a reading. This week I’m grabbing drinks with a friend who’s big into events to chat venues and such. The Philly creative scene doesn’t nurture writers the way it does clothing designers, photographers, DJs, etc., and the main writing communities seem tethered to academia. I want to create an event experience that truly centers active writers. Those whose artistic lives are peripheral and isolated in a city where clout is currency. I’ve long awaited my bohemian renaissance moment. Poets and essayists, time to practice in the mirror.
Working on: This week I’m publishing an essay about the selective amnesia of serial monogamy. The way I forget the details of past relationships, faces and voices blurring into one composite “boyfriend,” but remember precisely who I was within them. The interests and idiosyncrasies I adopted in the reflection of lovers. The concept came to me in one of those inevitable moments you face as a couple when your partner questions whether you miss your ex. I realized I can’t miss someone I can’t remember, but I’ll never forget the version of myself who rode 4-wheelers, or listened to Tool.
Agreed on the Philly scene. Even a decade ago, visual art, clothing, and music were king. While I wasn’t in writing circles then, I don’t think I even met any writers. I’d love to see expanded scenes for writers. Perhaps a regional conference one day… 🥰
Angry Orchard is irresistible.
the Caroline Calloway of it all