Can any gender studies professor explain to me why women’s public bathrooms are always so fucking disgusting? It has to be like, a passive aggressive reaction to the patriarchy, right? There’s no other excuse.
I could spend the rest of my life trying to find the right things to say about Simon & Garfunkel. To me, the subject is as precious as any. It deserves not only serious introspection but research.
I live my life a little like a Simon & Garfunkel song, too. Alternating between the silly, the self-aware, the serious and the somber.
The Only Living Boy In New York is very self-aware. It’s almost literally a letter from Paul to Art, as Art leaves recording Bridge Over Troubled Water to play Nately in Catch 22.
While this whole album deals with the S&G union dissolving, this song in particular captures the weirdness of their agreement. It’s not very bitter, and it’s hopeful, despite Paul’s obvious loneliness. It’s supportive, but not unaffected. It’s exactly what you’d want to write about if you and your best friend were amicably drifting apart. Paul’s proud of Art, and happy for him, but he knows he’s on the beginning of a long journey making music by himself and that’s a little scary.
The line “Hey, let your honesty shine” is a really interesting interpretation of acting, or art (lowercase) in general. It somehow resonates with me more than many of the other (arguably) better lines in the song. (“I get the news I need on the weather report”) The idea of art as honesty is interesting too, and I might as well address it since I’m being so earnest. I guess anyone can be, say, a psych rock band, even if it’s not truly what they’re into, and if they’re copying some formula, but it’s not going to be good. Only when someone is honest, and doing what they think makes something Good, will it be Good. Right?
For whatever reason (my terrible childhood), I am consumed with domestic fantasies. I want to “have it all.” (Who doesn’t?) I want to be able to come home from my fulfilling job, to my sexy (a word I hate, but that must be used here) and perfect husband and my hilarious and adorable children. I want to be able to make an amazing dinner on the fly with whatever’s in the fridge. I want to have energy and fucking do things and not become my parents.
On chronic depression and therapeutic internetting
If I wasn’t depressed I could write a new poem Instead of just youtubing Commercials for floam If I wasn’t depressed I could finish some articles Instead of wikipediaing Composite particles If I wasn’t depressed I could probably see A writerly life Might not be for me If I wasn’t depressed I could figure it out Develop a skill Instead of just gout If I wasn’t depressed I’d use my stagnation And lack of accomplishments As motivation If I wasn’t depressed I’d figure out what to do And not spend my life Explaining the dessert menu If I wasn’t depressed I’d confront the fact That it’s hard to get better And unhealthy to act If I wasn’t depressed I’d probably see That the only true obstacle Is little old me If I wasn’t depressed I’d be less superficial Accept my appearance Not admire the artificial If I wasn’t depressed I wouldn’t get so upset When someone ridicules My flawed silhouette If I wasn’t depressed I wouldn’t care What strangers think Of the shit I wear If I wasn’t depressed I’d take a class Instead of dictionary.com-ing molecular mass If I wasn’t depressed I’d try to relax Instead of googling Capital gains tax If I wasn’t depressed I wouldn’t be alone At seven am sent from my iphone