I decided this week that resenting Los Angeles while living there is as annoying as resenting it from afar. Therefore, I am annoying. The only New York person who doesn’t sound annoying talking about how much they hate LA is Chloë Sevigny. After I saw this I read the incredible New Yorker profile of her from 1994 for the first time. She was 19, and talked about squatting with heroin addicts in Brooklyn and how parties weren’t as good as they were when she was 17 and hating on Karl Lagerfeld and Keanu Reeves and Connecticut. Deeply insufferable and also perfect. It made me miss New York so much it hurt. I stood behind her in line at Coffee Bean at LAX once. She turned around at one point in her big cool girl reading glasses and looked at me. She opened her mouth like she was going to say something, and I pretended it was because she recognized me somehow. But then I realized she was probably going to ask me to save her spot while she went to the restroom. Right after that, she got out of line and disappeared into the terminal.
It rained for four days and finally stopped last night. I love to live in Wales. I learned last night that no matter how much it rains in Los Angeles, the city doesn’t retain fresh water. That feels appropriate.
It rained on Grammys Sunday, though, so it was worth it. I think it should always rain during an Awards ceremony. I didn’t watch it live, just via clips on social media. I saw Tracy Chapman perform with a man who looked like an ecstasy dealer in Indiana. I saw Taylor Swift posing for a photo backstage with boygenius and asking one of the boygeniuses if she could place her Grammys trophy atop said boygenius’s head. That is sisterhood. Lend me your skull, girl friend. It is now the catch-all table in my foyer.
I don’t think Taylor meant it as an unconscious display of the power that has come with her supernatural fame, the kind of fame where the Japanese Embassy has to release a press release ensuring America that Taylor will be back in time from her shows in Japan to make it to the Super Bowl this Sunday to watch her boyfriend play; the kind of fame where millions of Americans believe her boyfriend is a Pfizer psyop and Taylor is a Democratic operative being used to ensure a victory for Biden this November.
For the record, I think “psyop” gets thrown around too casually these days. I don’t think Taylor is a psyop. I think she’s just a dork with a billionaire dollars. I think we give celebrities way too much credit. They are mostly uninteresting and codependent, a lethal combo. Sure, there are some good ones. But the good ones are either fucking and sucking, or too busy working enough on prestige television to be able to afford going off grid when the world ends.
I would rather become a human credenza for a rich person than be told to vote this year. Maybe if I do that I’ll secure a spot for myself, my husband and our cavalier in whatever bunker they have. I love to be threatened by a state senator via text. “I’m Only Asking One More Time, Carey” , “It’s Happening Again, Carey” , “Soon You Will Know, Carey.” I am excited to brave the Los Angeles floodwaters to go vote for the one dementia guy so the other dementia guy doesn’t win.
Yesterday waze’s official twitter account replied to a tweet I did about eating a burrito in my car alone:
Then I perused mean reviews about the podcast I co-host for an hour. I need to start therapy again.