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Entry tags:
Purim, Clothes Make The Woman, and Job Crap Even I Struggle to Care About
ON COMMENTS FROM LAST POST: I'll answer them in a few hours when I'm home? It's not that I don't love y'all, but this internet's totally shit, I'm just writing in word and posting when there's a sunspot or something and it connects.
Happy Purim! Little Sister Molly forwards us this amaaazing Indie Rock Purim Story, as featured in nextbook’s online magazine. Nextbook is an a publishing company that seems to produce a bevy of books I’d bonnily buy, with a magazine so consistently well written that I loathed them entirely for a solid half hour yesterday morning before rediscovering (as I have to do every time) that it was okay if other people were super-articulate and fantastic, I should not be threatened. Instead I should enjoy their capacity to rock and feel heartened that I too may one day rock equally hard.
Alone with Hebe, I’d really like to sub the finished version of the Kibbutz!article over to them. When I’m back on my laptop (with its open tabs) instead of Katy’s I’ll rec you guys a REALLY good piece about hyper-conservative Jewish Settlements in the West Bank, and also some of the best art criticism I’ve read in some time.
I’ve never worn cufflinks before. I like the solidity of them: plumbs describing the depth of the air, the distance from bone to surface—sartorial signifiers of potential energy. I enjoy this gravity, dragging your wrists down to the keyboard and tapping the wooden table with muffled authority.
I love men’s suits. The blogger The Sartorialist does a great job suitporn spotting. If I had money I’d def. have a surplus of well-tailored women’s clothing (I've a weird figure, few things fit me well without alteration), but I don’t think I’d be able to resist a few vintage men’s suits. I blame an amalgamation of gay!daddy, too much Jeeves and Wooster as a child, and oddly but unsurprisingly Five’s Edwardian cricketing costume for my conviction that I won’t be whole until I own a truly well-cut coat.
I had to borrow Katy’s clothes to come up with anything like a normal, proper outfit, but in the end I’m feeling very near human again. Tights and black boy’s tuxedo pants: mine. Silky gray shirt that, amusingly, I own an almost exact copy of (in charcoal instead of dove, but same pattern), a vest very like the one I bought in North France (subsequently appropriated by little sister Molly—who thinks I somehow don’t know rather than am silently indulging her kleptomania), cufflinks in q. and black leather boots: not mine. What a relief to not dress for the fields, the factory or the kitchens. Trivial, but it all feels part of a slow re-assumption of myself, and I did miss me a bit.
When I get back I’m doing law research for bio!daddy. I’ll be using history research skillz to deal with 1) whether banks charging fees for the prep of closing documents counts as practicing law without a license, 2) a due diligence issue with insurance companies inspecting the things they insure before issuing policies and then claiming any major damage to the insured property must have happened before their client took up a claim with them, and 3) finally a building law issue wherein loan companies give struggling bankers enough rope to hand themselves on when really it might be more responsible to cut off requests for additional loans/extensions in a more custodial way.
It's so nepotistic: I'm telling myself that it's only for a few months, and that I /will/ be working, and hard, but I've always run screaming from family hand-outs. And the horrifying prospect of my deb ball—the only coming out I’d be doing was going to piss off my mother or bust. And it has! She has the phone bill from a trans-Atlantic fight staged in a Tel Aviv Ben Gurion Airport Foodcourt to prove it.
This is taking a temporary job that /does/ sound interesting and like I'm well qualified for in a shit economy. Lots of people work in family businesses, I guess, but it does seem sleazy. Though Danny points out that /his/ job was also obtained via Connections, so even my token Employed In The (General Area Of The) Field He Wants To Be In friend needed a leg up. Bah. It is what it is, I guess, and b/c he’s not on my birth certificate his rec/the job will look nice on my CV, next to the panache of ‘hard labour in socialist commune in the middle east,’ ‘political fundraiser for the DCCC and the Obama Campaign,’ and ‘Intern and Writer for Really Crap Lifestyle Magazine, Co-Writer of their Food Guide.’
Dear grad schools of greater London: please want me with a fierceness. What glut of applicants due to recession?
Happy Purim! Little Sister Molly forwards us this amaaazing Indie Rock Purim Story, as featured in nextbook’s online magazine. Nextbook is an a publishing company that seems to produce a bevy of books I’d bonnily buy, with a magazine so consistently well written that I loathed them entirely for a solid half hour yesterday morning before rediscovering (as I have to do every time) that it was okay if other people were super-articulate and fantastic, I should not be threatened. Instead I should enjoy their capacity to rock and feel heartened that I too may one day rock equally hard.
Alone with Hebe, I’d really like to sub the finished version of the Kibbutz!article over to them. When I’m back on my laptop (with its open tabs) instead of Katy’s I’ll rec you guys a REALLY good piece about hyper-conservative Jewish Settlements in the West Bank, and also some of the best art criticism I’ve read in some time.
I’ve never worn cufflinks before. I like the solidity of them: plumbs describing the depth of the air, the distance from bone to surface—sartorial signifiers of potential energy. I enjoy this gravity, dragging your wrists down to the keyboard and tapping the wooden table with muffled authority.
I love men’s suits. The blogger The Sartorialist does a great job suitporn spotting. If I had money I’d def. have a surplus of well-tailored women’s clothing (I've a weird figure, few things fit me well without alteration), but I don’t think I’d be able to resist a few vintage men’s suits. I blame an amalgamation of gay!daddy, too much Jeeves and Wooster as a child, and oddly but unsurprisingly Five’s Edwardian cricketing costume for my conviction that I won’t be whole until I own a truly well-cut coat.
I had to borrow Katy’s clothes to come up with anything like a normal, proper outfit, but in the end I’m feeling very near human again. Tights and black boy’s tuxedo pants: mine. Silky gray shirt that, amusingly, I own an almost exact copy of (in charcoal instead of dove, but same pattern), a vest very like the one I bought in North France (subsequently appropriated by little sister Molly—who thinks I somehow don’t know rather than am silently indulging her kleptomania), cufflinks in q. and black leather boots: not mine. What a relief to not dress for the fields, the factory or the kitchens. Trivial, but it all feels part of a slow re-assumption of myself, and I did miss me a bit.
When I get back I’m doing law research for bio!daddy. I’ll be using history research skillz to deal with 1) whether banks charging fees for the prep of closing documents counts as practicing law without a license, 2) a due diligence issue with insurance companies inspecting the things they insure before issuing policies and then claiming any major damage to the insured property must have happened before their client took up a claim with them, and 3) finally a building law issue wherein loan companies give struggling bankers enough rope to hand themselves on when really it might be more responsible to cut off requests for additional loans/extensions in a more custodial way.
It's so nepotistic: I'm telling myself that it's only for a few months, and that I /will/ be working, and hard, but I've always run screaming from family hand-outs. And the horrifying prospect of my deb ball—the only coming out I’d be doing was going to piss off my mother or bust. And it has! She has the phone bill from a trans-Atlantic fight staged in a Tel Aviv Ben Gurion Airport Foodcourt to prove it.
This is taking a temporary job that /does/ sound interesting and like I'm well qualified for in a shit economy. Lots of people work in family businesses, I guess, but it does seem sleazy. Though Danny points out that /his/ job was also obtained via Connections, so even my token Employed In The (General Area Of The) Field He Wants To Be In friend needed a leg up. Bah. It is what it is, I guess, and b/c he’s not on my birth certificate his rec/the job will look nice on my CV, next to the panache of ‘hard labour in socialist commune in the middle east,’ ‘political fundraiser for the DCCC and the Obama Campaign,’ and ‘Intern and Writer for Really Crap Lifestyle Magazine, Co-Writer of their Food Guide.’
Dear grad schools of greater London: please want me with a fierceness. What glut of applicants due to recession?