I realize that just like everyone reading about Human Barbie, I had had a simple narrative prepared in my head: A small-town girl grows up obsessed with dolls, etc. Instead, I get a racist space alien.
My aunt drove me home and put me in bed. My poor, befuddled brain told me that she sank through a hole in my bedroom floor, but she probably just took the stairs.
Real good, interesting to think about human clinical trial data.
“Time is slipping away from me, running through my fingers like sand while I … do what? Clean floors, wash clothes, make dinner, wash up, go shopping, play with the children. … It is a struggle, and even though it is not heroic, I am up against a superior force.”
“I would never have the ability or the power to do it now,” he said of writing My Struggle. “But I could then, because I was so, in a way, fucked up in my life. I was so desperate, and I didn’t really care. And now I care, you know?”
He has been to the weird pool parties and tried the hashish and found that he remained a creature of old habits, comforted by cigarettes and bourbon bottles. Megan has moved on ahead into the mod late ’60s with white nails, showing so much side boob that she invents Coachella.
I missed Mad Men. Mostly I missed Molly Lambert’s reviews and the weekly Power Rankings.
The girls had giant perms, the guys had mustaches, and the plots were iconically bad. The movies were all at the same stage, so we flipped through nine different versions of hairy guys being seduced by fitness instructors, teachers, and piano students with their clothes still on. We settled on the fitness instructor one—Karen thought the actress was hot.