Archive | City Matters

Peri, My Ass

Peripussy

If I had to capture perimenopause in one image, it would be me on this frosty October morning, clad in a nightgown, ratty fur, reading glasses and rubber gloves, weeping copiously and sweating profusely as I rifled through the garbage can in front of my building because I absent-mindedly threw out Grace’s favorite toy while cleaning up. Brain fog: check. Sudden sweats: check. Major mood swings: check. Cat mind control: always.  This stage of life requires a very specific aesthetic–and sense of humor. I call it dowager chic. (PS: I found said toy.)

Blue Is Beautiful

Evie playing chess with Duchamp to make boyfriend Walter Hopps jealous. My guess is that it worked.

Once upon a time, the brilliant essayist Eve Babitz was also a painter. In the 1960s she was not only known for her magical groupie powers but for some of the key album covers of that decade–most notably a collage for 1967’s Buffalo Springfield Again. And although she had limited patience for movie stars (she did deign to fuck a young Harrison Ford, but then he was mostly a weed dealer and shoddy carpenter), she hobnobbed with some of America’s most-touted artists–among them Annie Leibovitz, Ed Ruscha, Andy Warhol, and Marcel Duchamp. (Only one of the aforementioned never saw her naked in person.)

But one day Evie put away her brushes for good. And the reason, at least according to every teller of the tale (including Eve, who is honest if not exactly truthful), can be traced to one seemingly offhand remark by Earl McGrath. A sort of Oliver Wilde-cum-Leonardo Da Vinci-cum Frank Abagnale Jr cad-about-town who quite possibly was her only true match and definitely her only worthy frenenemy*, McGrath gazed upon one of her paintings.

And after an exceptionally pregnant pause, said only: “Is that the blue you’re using?” Continue Reading →

There’s Only One Cool Bogart

I interrupt the peaceful gloom of Sunday night to announce how much I loathe vaping. There are bigger issues afoot but everywhere I went this weekend–every party, restaurant, corner–people were neurotically bent over their little glowing logs like they were nursing baby bottles. Back in the day weed was a group activity–we passed around joints or bongs in a communal effort to visit a different consciousness together. I understand vaping really is medicinal for some people but for a lot more it’s running away from the party with your arms crossed. It’s engaging in the most vapid self-medication in plain sight. And it’s  not sharing your toys. They should call it vape-id-ing.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy