Why do I get the feeling that if I don't stop reblogging Ryan Adams, I might get stabbed en route to the Beatrice? (Or get stabbed inside, when Emily Brill shows up.) Young Manhattanite and former Gawker mastcot Andrew Krucoff concedes that Ryan Adams's music is kind of great: "Up to that point, I only knew him as the loose-boarded alt-country-whatever musician." But? "Now - NOW - he ups and quits his precocious-for-a-33-yr-old Tumblr??"
Oh, Ryan—actually, his Tumblr claims that his computer took over blogging for him:
"The man who types on me has system compatibility problems. He has trouble connecting to other systems/ humans. He overloaded his software or runs his system to long. If I were in control of the situation I would require less software and an extra fan for the motor. But what do know?"
We enjoy Ryan Adams's experiments in blogging because they are a completely oversharey, freewheeling, yet somehow lucid meditation on urban loneliness.
This lovely woman who works at our corner shop, she is chinese, she gave me some stuff for my arthritis. My right wrist has hurt something awful the last week. I love her though. She gives me root ginseng andf stuff. Her husband sings or mumble sings to me at night. He can tell when I am sad. He won't let me buy red-bull. HA.
When I started going in there alone after a few years of flowers and juice and laughter, they got protective. In fact, so protective that if I so much as think of putting on patchouli I know I am screwed for smokes and the lovely corner shop mom will "cough- COUGH!!!) dramatically and suggest I go back and shower.
I love this city.
Will there ever be an end to the entertainment? Not at this rate! And when will Ryan send me more poems, directed at writer/model ex Jessica Joffe? (The heat isn't working in the office, so I'm typing with gloves on and his album Love is Hell on repeat.)