Chair Dancing
Holy fucking god, put 'em up. A long steamy day culminates in some lewd chair dancing...the solitary and confined head bobbing, shoulder pumping chair dancing, none of that Roxie Hart stuff. New York, why? Sticky and chugging water, the night is young, but used up.
I must divulge a growing urge to associate age twenty-four with a Weezer song I associate with top-of-the-lungs anthem status at age fifteen. Seriously. And yes, I myself must concede that Weezer has been blacklisted for quite a while in my audible existence, but giving credit where credit is due, "The Good Life" somehow manages to encapsulate that odd quarter-of-a-century struggle.
Thanks, New York. I mean, where else would I end up so regrettably in debt (to the government, no less) and feel so alone around eight million other people? NYC is rapidly becoming a figure with which I throw all blame towards. Maybe it's because I currently imagine the city shrugging its old shoulders at me with a "What are you gonna do?" query on its building-pocked face. I feel like I've been dragging my feet towards adulthood (though I acknowledge that I am chronologically a "fuckin' grown up" as Giavedoni used to say), waiting for it all to magically fall into place. Truthfully, as I finished Waterloo late the other night (unemployment sleep schedule!), my eyes lingered over, "'This town's not so bad. I miss it. The land of eternal youth. You move away, you get old.'" There's a self-induced pressure on this NYC transplant to live up to an age-old longing to "make it" that all but crushes one born and raised under big skies and within slow days. The rippling heat differs here; at least, now it does. No boots-moseying-up-wooden-steps welcome, but a plop-down-on-concrete-while-some-random-man-tries-to-hit-on-you hello. Perhaps it's better to get the twenties struggle over and done with in a place you'll reminisce about in your thirties (assuming it hasn't finally snagged my heart) rather than spending the whole time wondering why you never left. What are you gonna do?
I must divulge a growing urge to associate age twenty-four with a Weezer song I associate with top-of-the-lungs anthem status at age fifteen. Seriously. And yes, I myself must concede that Weezer has been blacklisted for quite a while in my audible existence, but giving credit where credit is due, "The Good Life" somehow manages to encapsulate that odd quarter-of-a-century struggle.
Thanks, New York. I mean, where else would I end up so regrettably in debt (to the government, no less) and feel so alone around eight million other people? NYC is rapidly becoming a figure with which I throw all blame towards. Maybe it's because I currently imagine the city shrugging its old shoulders at me with a "What are you gonna do?" query on its building-pocked face. I feel like I've been dragging my feet towards adulthood (though I acknowledge that I am chronologically a "fuckin' grown up" as Giavedoni used to say), waiting for it all to magically fall into place. Truthfully, as I finished Waterloo late the other night (unemployment sleep schedule!), my eyes lingered over, "'This town's not so bad. I miss it. The land of eternal youth. You move away, you get old.'" There's a self-induced pressure on this NYC transplant to live up to an age-old longing to "make it" that all but crushes one born and raised under big skies and within slow days. The rippling heat differs here; at least, now it does. No boots-moseying-up-wooden-steps welcome, but a plop-down-on-concrete-while-some-random-man-tries-to-hit-on-you hello. Perhaps it's better to get the twenties struggle over and done with in a place you'll reminisce about in your thirties (assuming it hasn't finally snagged my heart) rather than spending the whole time wondering why you never left. What are you gonna do?
posted by typographic darling at 12:52 AM
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