It’s about time I did something for me. But why is the answer always, I’ll do something weird for a year. What time frame could be more melancholy: too long for a mood to persist, too brief to really change. She had her sad New Yorker’s project, I have mine, it’s the curse of a place where so much vitality churns that you think you could conjure something major if you could just get the recipe right. Laugh Gulp Yelp. Buy Cry Blog.
Seems The Expendables’ Eric Roberts has a sister. That upper lip God himself wants a gelato spoon tucked under. Why-a you so sad, bella? The—how do you say?—sensual experience, she-a mean so much, but she’s-a isolating, too, she’s-a stuck inside-a the moment, inside-a the body. There is no mystic pizza. This tale indicts us all, it mocks the hubris that lights out to conquer loss. It’s not that Julia takes herself around the world but that like Carrie Bradshaw she displays, to the world to come, what awaits them—the very crater she lugs and into which their contemplation of her tumbles. Act Lie Star. Beg Flay Tan.
Nice Bollywood anthem, solid second-unit work in Bali. Madeleine shows me the EPL collection now on sale at World Market stores: tea, scarves, wicker chairs. I scan the drop-down menus for the men—James Franco, Javier Bardem—I’d like to have the latter delivered to my place, please, so he might heave his surging body on top of mine. I call him Barbarian, he calls me Rome. Melt Crush Bone. The leetle words-a, so small, but it’s like-a they some-a-how control us, capice?
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