"how much did that stuff cost?"
"i don't know. forty bucks."
"why do you buy all this shit that you never use?"
"why do you buy all this shit you never use?"
"like what?"
"pants."
"pants?"
"the new york times."
i suspect that living in new york these days means that one is automatically Literary, much as passing through san francisco was automatically countercultural thirty years ago. to wit,
The faithful convene on the second floor of KGB on Sunday evenings, some with pocket squares firmly in place, most in appropriately raffish boheme regalia: team jerseys untucked from 501's. The weekly gathering is the direct descendant of every dogeared, underfinanced literary salon. To be in the room is to feel the pedigree of Shakespeare & Company under Sylvia Beach: the consumptive hiss of the radiator, the antique yellow light, the peeling paint, the hubbub as the curious squeeze into corner tables.jake collects the hip points for that, as he got us to KGB as we bar-wandered on our trip last month. i fear we're still a few castes below the movers and shakers, though.
(nyt magazine, 03.07.02)
The evening's eminence grise, MICHAEL CUNNINGHAM, talks of the time he was invited to read his novel "The Hours" at what he thought was a literary gathering in Zurich. But they were physicists, and once onstage he improvised a riff on how Virginia Woolf was the precursor to chaos theory: "It went over great!" he admits. John Varvatos' jacket, $895. At Saks Fifth Avenue. Prada shirt, $320. Grooming: Karlo for Pierre Michel Salon NYC. Prop stylist: Chelsea Maruskin for Art House. Tailoring: Keke Cheng. Fashion assistant: Gustavo Serrano.and the academy awards are an "ass-licking brainwash"? want...to...write... can't...think...writers...are...pompous...fucks...
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