“I can’t recalled how many buttcheeks and fronts I rubbed,” a “FAN” of Tropical 128 wrote on Yelp, about a January evening at the establishment. Some of those cheeks belonged to “hot chicks which was okay I guess.” Other cheeks impressed him less.
From this New Yorker blurb about my favorite bar in New York City. Ah, man, this takes me back. Er, uh– front? Hm.
*looks up from clipboard, slides pen into labcoat pocket* hm yes our experiments seem to show that this is tite as hell *aliens burst from containment pod, shredding my innards*
Here’s the story.
I think it’s important to de-normalize (“aberrize?”) men lusting after teen girls. It’s too normal. And the fact that this story only slides under the lens after Walker’s death is shameful. His girlfriends’ age was reported in In Touch Weekly while he was still alive; what did the readers think at that time? Did any of them write in? If so, were their reactions published?
And ultimately, do we call him a pedophile? I think this grey area exists because we’re scared to brand people as pedophiles when they aren’t abusing a child younger than 13. But then ephebophilia has been co-opted by those who seek to defend behavior like Walker’s. I guess he’s just a predator, huh? And yet that seems too soft, given men–myself included–are predators.
After playing her this song, a friend suggested we watch the YACHT “sex tape” with neither of us knowing the twist. (I am willing to watch pornos with friends for academic purposes, never prurient.) That video in tandem with this video (“what IS the Red Hot Chili Peppers?”) has me convinced there’s no funnier indie band. Not to mention this song is cutely sensual and catchier than it has any right to be.
Sometimes a lyric video serves well enough as a real, actual music video. And sometimes an interloper jizzes all over your test patterns.
my friends: “brian if you’re feeling restless you should try podcasts, it’s like having funny coworkers”
me: *turns on 9/11 episode of Last Podcast On The Left, stares into middle distance for much of the workday, broken*
my friends: “brian are you familiar with white noise”
Two weeks from now, I’m visiting New York for the first time in five years. I intend to make a solo trip to the National September 11 Memorial & Museum. Is it perverse to admit that I’m motivated by experiencing whatever feelings well up while standing on the site of a historic, globally-recognized atrocity? Not sure I’ve done any sightseeing at one of those before. Tourrerism.
I’ve spent about three weeks telling friends that by the next generation, face tattoos are going to be acceptable. They all scoffed. Good news: I trust old-ass newspapers when it comes to trends more than I do my same-aged friends.
Let’s cover some options:
The Duplitat, meant to confuse and ward off attackers.
Bregashi 7evenZer0, because Tekashi 6ix9ine has 69 tattooed on his body sixty-nine times and I can’t let him win.
Pride Day, because sometimes a Facebook filter just isn’t enough.
Ponce Lyfe, which, unfortunately, I have to wait until he dies before getting it inked. And he will never die, so…