the elevator is silent

Editor of Vanity Fair tells it like it is

I wonder how long I’ll be able to fight the current. After a certain point, I believe that money becomes very banal, but it doesn’t seem to matter; after all, money is power.


I am no longer surfing the tides of friends’ various futons, couches, and beds. I now have a place of my own in this fair city.

My “real adult job” is “real adult” in that real adults are being exploited in the name of overpriced deli meats.

Despite my job, I am so happy that I expect my keys to be useless come Sunday.

The next course of action is to find a piano, and of course, a new job.

90 days or Your Money Back

Three months in, and I don’t even know where to begin. Anyway:

Just because you’ve moved to NYC doesn’t mean you’ll suddenly have the patience for classic literature. I want to like Faulkner, but I can’t at the moment. (If you have insight regarding The Sound and the Fury, please help a brother out.)

No homesickness, just a slight cough.

I am not bad at street canvassing, but the benefits they give you don’t cover soul-erosion. 

I’ve a job interview today, for a real job, not harassing people for money and/or signatures. 

The agitation of not being able to play a piano whenever I want is at once comforting and disorienting. I’m glad to know that I can’t escape the urge to play, but I feel kind of hollow after such an extended distance from the instrument. 

There’s no escaping myself. Whether I’m in Brooklyn or San Bernardino, my thoughts are still there. 

I’m close to putting down roots, I can feel it. 

Yotta, Yotta, Yotta

I post a lot of text-walls, but this is critically important. I don’t know what the precedent for this kind of thing is, but I am angry about it, and I cannot imagine the public at large accepting it, either. We’ll only tolerate so much.

My God—how can anyone ever be a master of music?

Paul Hindemith

(via leadingtone)

I don’t care about his numbers, his temperament, his turnovers, any of that. All I care about is that we’re lucky enough to see a guy who can throw NBA JAM type passes in the heat of a real game. Maybe one day I’ll play the piano with this kind of abandon.

On Pitchfork

"You can learn a lot about indie rock, its fans, and Pitchfork from the words ‘mean to seem like.’"

I’ve had an unidentifiably nasty feeling about indie rock for the last couple of years, despite how much I’ve listened to it in that time, and damn it all if Beck doesn’t pin it all down. However, he’s far too merciful in calling Schreiber “oblivious” in regards to the author’s totally inane review of some Coltrane compilation, and that more than anything solidified my loathing for Pitchfork. Otherwise, read this, because he drops some bombs.