spitting code in a serene brown 1970s office high above West Berlin
Cheers
Fassbinder Fassbinder Fassbinder. Ian Penman’s gorgeously elliptical new RWF slim volume from Semiotext(e), a hardcover of Juliane Lorenz’s 1997 Chaos as Usual: Conversations about Rainer Werner Fassbinder found at a Brooklyn McNally, an Anthology Film Archives Monday night showing of The Third Generation (Baader–Meinhof radleft terrorist chic via Mao-era Godardist postures, bathroom graffiti as intertitle fodder, the cold/warm of a computer blinking and spitting code in a serene brown 1970s office high above West Berlin). RWF’s birthday. Margit Carstensen’s death (jeers).
Weeknight dirtbag dinners. A fistful of decent frozen breaded cod (like this one from TJ’s), 12 minutes each side at 425 °F, piping hot with some salsa spooned over. Noma it’s not. But it has taco possibilities.
Dazzle Dry nail polish. As tried for the first time at Gypsophila a few weeks ago. Quick drying, longer lasting, cute colors.
Singing along quietly with whatever’s playing in the store, as self-soothing. Why am I always in my best voice when I have to keep it down?
The cinematography in the 1997 TV movie remake of Vanishing Point. There was no reason to update the 1971 original, a classic of minimalism and nihilism, other than to soften it with a “plot” (ugh) and a hunky chiseled Viggo Mortensen, and facilitate some awkward interactions between Exene Cervenka Ex-Husband No. 1 (X’s John Doe, in a small role) and Exene Cervenka Ex-Husband No. 2 (Viggo). But the desert cinematography, by journeyman Daryn Okada, is sublime, reminding me at times of Eric Saarinen’s muted, creamy landscapes in the Albert Brooks road romcom Lost in America. There’s more than one way to shoot the desert. It can be harsh and unforgiving and bleached bones and sluggish skies, as Roger Deakins showed us with the Coens’ True Grit. It can be flooded with the wild neons of motor lodges (Robby Müller, Paris, Texas). And it can be a bit softcore too. Spacious in an enveloping way like a big bed you can sink down in. Light changing gradually, nature’s dimmer switch.
Jeers
This air quality. I don’t get the kinds of migraines I used to, but sometimes I’ll know one is coming when perfume and other strong scents make me want to vom. The cause tends to be either hormonal or my body picking up on some atmospheric change coming down the pike, like the smoke drifting down from Canadian wildfires. The current AQ has me depleting my Imitrex supply.
People saying “neurodiverse” when they mean “neurodivergent.” People saying “BIPOC” when they mean nonwhites in general. “Neurodiversity” was coined by the Australian sociologist Judy Singer as an umbrella term for the many ways human brains can present — neurotypically or otherwise. Think of it like “biodiversity,” an interlinked but heterogeneous system. You can be a neurodivergent person, but the “diversity” suffix points to the rubric we exist in. And I’ve seen “BIPOC” used to describe Asian-Americans when the term is meant to foreground the specific and shared struggles of Black and indigenous people in American history, to combat the erasure and flattening fostered by “melting pot” rhetorical laziness. I try not to harp on language; it shouldn’t overshadow material action, and that’s often what ends up happening. But it is important.
How quickly I veer between “bro, we’re so back” and “bro, it’s so over.” Although I take any sign of “bro, we’re so back,” however fleeting, as a marker of healing, and not necessarily of grandiose delusion lololol.
Shakeups in the Queens food scene. The double whammy of eccentric Astoria pizzaiolo Andrew Bellucci dying suddenly and the owners of College Point Sichuan mainstay Little Pepper planning to retire (cheers for the owners, jeers for us). Bellucci made terrific slices and a beautifully engineered chick parm, and I have blissful dreams about Little Pepper’s mapo tofu, hearty even with its gossamer-light porkiness and whispers of numbing peppercorn.
Social media feeling like a dark night of endless infomercials now. Just really hating all the “calls to action” (read: dumb engagement prompts like “who would YOU share this viral ube crepe cake with? tag a bestie!”) and the way every Instagram reel has someone mugging moronically while pointing at text, as if we, extremely online and glued to our screens 17 hours a day, can’t see that there’s text.
