I remember going to see the Brooklyn Botanical Garden’s stinking corpse flower that summer, amorphophallus titanum, which produces its rotting-meat smell to attract flesh flies and other carrion insects. Afterward I took the train to the Lower East Side, got dumplings at Dim Sum Go Go, the delicately folded dough floral, all pinks and greens. Ended up on a Chinatown roof with Ballantine 40s looking down at New York Media, migrating from watering hole to watering hole. Spotted: two girls and a gay in leopard print tracksuit; rumor has it one's a bluecheck with 30k followers—guess which!
Someone below shouts “accelerationism!”; someone else shouts “degrowth!”; up top Antonio is explaining one of his Type of Guy theories: “The type of guys these gals like, they never have Instagrams or even smart phones; they’re like, 45 and like, Gen-X and like, wear their out-of-touch’ness as a badge. They go on rants about how celebrity culture is vain and trivial. They change their flip phone every six months because they’re worried the government is listening in, and they have some weirdly private art practice like developing black'n'white photos in a dark room or playing drums in a band that’s never released any recordings. It’s kinda like how gals w/ anxiety fetishize guys who drive on broken transmissions or think nothing of smuggling pills across an international border. It’s a reprieve from the value system of their work worlds, where living is public and the public is performative.
Which of course ends up, necessarily, being their own value system so long as that’s the ecosystem they’re trying to win at. You can’t succeed without drinking some kool-aid, because it’s the kool-aid that justifies all the striving and the effort.