It won’t come as a surprise to learn that I’m not comfortable dancing. That’s exactly why last year, for my wife’s birthday, I signed us up for dance classes. The gift was not me learning to dance, it was my willingness to put up with the humiliation of taking dance classes.
After a recent vacation in Yucatan in which we encountered an alarming number of Hemingway lookalikes loitering shirtless on the beach, I returned to New York resolved that my resemblance to literary figures would end at my Sartrean eyes. I signed up at the local YMCA to join their Pilates classes posthaste.
I went shopping for jeans during my lunch hour yesterday. I hadn’t visited H&M in years, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that, judging from the low prices and the quality of the fabric, their clothes are now designed to be immediately disposable. While I wasn’t particularly taken by how I looked in theirContinue reading “Music, fashion, and fascism”
I recently found a classmate on Facebook from the time I went to art school in London back in the early 90s. She was bringing me up to date on some of the people I met there, and she said “and of course Alison Goldfrapp became famous.” My friend was surprised that I hadn’t realizedContinue reading “A brush with fame”