The Concessionist gives advice each weekend about the sordid choices of real life. Trouble? Write today.
★★ A baby rode in a chest carrier while wearing a full-body electric-blue down suit, the sealed ends of its sleeves and legs dangling far beyond normal baby proportions.
One Saturday in April of 1855, a large group of German immigrants assembled around the courthouse in downtown Chicago, hoping to attend a hearing at which nineteen saloonkeepers would stand before a judge for violating one of two new laws enacted by the new nativist mayor, Levi Boone, who had promised during his campaign to curb liquor consumption.
In The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P., by Adelle Waldman, the main character, a specifically chauvinistic Brooklynite with a book deal, goes for a run around the Prospect Park loop two blocks from my apartment.
“I know from experience that Internet events like this have consequences.”
[byline] In December, my husband and I bought our first house. Our house cost $500,000 on paper, and in real life we spent exactly $91,068.31—money that used to be in our bank accounts, but is now somewhere else.
If you want to pretend that the weather is anything other than suicide-inducing you could do worse than to press play on this one right now and occasionally look out the window before the flurries start to fall.
★★★ The sky and air were crystalline to the north, hazy southward into the sun. If the winter was unceasing it was also for the moment out of tricks: standard cold, standard breeze, standard ambient frozen matter. Beside the bodega flowers, under the ever-higher angle of the light, one could pretend to catch an intimation of spring.
“I will never read The New Yorker again.” “NYC bores nowadays.” “Thank you New Yorker for helping me kill time the other day.” “I had lost interests in their article qualities so I stopped subscribing paper version a year ago.
Think about the cost of living where you live. Think about what you actually need, financially, to live on.
“On the social web, the person who doesn’t share is subscribing to an outmoded identity and cannot be included in the new social space.
Welcome to Surreal Estate, a new column in which we will explore listings from the tumultuous New York City real estate market.
Geppetto in Hell Not the voices of the dead wood I carved into a child. No lie or license of the boy, my son, who was not my son, I know, though I talked to him as blocks of wood talk to me about their struggles and I listen.
Clark’s Clark was one of my favorite records from last year so I am predisposed to enjoy this, but if you like your blippy with a high level of skree and krik-krik-krik to it you will probably enjoy this as well.
• Cookie Lyon from Empire • Johnny Cash • ’71 Ford Bronco • Liberace • Frank Sinatra • Evel Knievel • John Wayne • Daytona International Speedway • Ralph Lauren • Malcolm X • The Coca-Cola Co.
A spare and mellow approach to so many of the things that made/make Superchunk fun to listen to.
“Dang! Have you ever seen waves get so cold they turn to slurpee? We haven’t.”
I tend of late to take less joy in almost everything I encounter. Even the things that would have brought me great satisfaction only recently now provide me no pleasure and are often occasions to reflect on how empty and worthless so much of what steadily surrounds us truly turns out to be.