Couples of America, now is the high tide of your malaise. But the oceanic cabernet sloshes both ways. It’s red as blood, drawn this way and that by a killing moon. The first thing I’d do is get these two out of a queen and into a king.
All the New Yorks I’ve seen up there. I recognize this one, too—those nights when you perceive it will go on without you, without anyone. It is a machine for destroying rubes, i.e. anyone who falters. “Alphabet City,” indeed. That indefensible nostalgia for the age of the needle and the fist. Have you seen Kick-Ass? Irony floating free of meaning, you are only presence, the presence that blots out the timid, orderly heavens. That’s what she said.
How great is 4 am? The dance that fascinates our time most is the robot, in which the dancer is invited to feel and express the servos and gears in her elbows and shoulders, the rigidity of the welded wrist. In fact the cyborg grows more lyrical, her apparatus more perfectly attuned to the morbidity in the flesh to which it is rudely bonded. Tina Fey’s rejection of sex’s supposed liberations has the manganese taste of devastating truth—hence her conspicuous program of self-humiliation, designed to keep us from stoning her in the street.
A gag reel in which all are too stressed, when flubs occur, to so much as smile. One takes seriously the implication: there’s no time left to do it wrong. Archaic Torso of Marky Mark. You must change your life, like, twice tonight.
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