Currently with Seth Plattner...

I have this currently running in the "About Me" section of my Facebook profile, but seeing as how not everybody reads it, I'm going to make it a regular post here on my blog. Maybe I'll enlighten somebody after all...

Song of the moment: tie -- "Please Don't Go" and "Come Back When You Can," Barcelona

Phrase I'm Using Too Much: "Alas"

Over it: summer

Girl Crush: Mélanie Laurent

Obsession: Brave New World

talk on the phone. finish your homework. watch tv. die.

best tagline ever.



and the trailer in all its classic horror film glory:

this is what happiness looks like

so...

when do I get to do this?

without you

I had a plan today for something a little more grandiose, more tributary, more encompassing of how it feels now that my girl, my Lauren, has left New York.

I thought about a poem, but I'm not a poet.

I thought about a short story, but she knows I don't have that kind of time.

I thought about maybe just pictures chronicling the long, remarkable, sometimes sordid but undeniably genuine history that has been Lauren and Seth. But 3x5's couldn't begin to do it any sort of justice.

So, for now, just let it be that I am sad.

There have been a lot of come-and-go, ebb-and-flow moments for me and Lauren -- me going to college, she going to college, me moving to Denver, she moving to London -- so you think I might be used to her ins and her outs in my life. But it's never easy to say goodbye to her; to the person who is, without a doubt, my soul mate.

It feels wrong that she's gone. The city feels wrong without her. In fact I think the city only felt right when she got here, just a short year ago, and only now that she is gone do I realize what exactly my New York life was missing all these years.

I could pontificate for hours, lament for days. But I'll do that privately.

For now, I just want to dedicate our laughter, our crying, my sanity, her gas, our boy issues, our cookies, our love of food, our German accents, our New York accents, our runs on the weekends, our brunches, our naps, our singing, our complaining, our every whimsical notion and romantic indulgence to you, Lauren. It all matters more because it's with you.

You'll be back. We'll be back. Ruling this world we've made for ourselves.

With more love than you'll ever know,
Seth

Great Paragraphs

Though this obviously differs from my normal formatting for great paragraphs posts, I just figured I'd lift the text from a post I recently submitted to ELLE.com and you bitches can deal with it.

Some time ago the BBC released a list of 100 books, classic and otherwise, and along with it a claim that most people have read only six of them. A former English major, I tallied up my own number, expecting that I had at least half of them on my bookshelf. To my literary dismay, I'd only knocked down 36 of the 100. Feeling demoralized and humbled, I recently printed out the list, determined to conquer them all. But, before I could get to any number of the novels I hadn't read, I had to revisit one I had: Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. So much was lost on me when i first read it way back in high school, probably because a) it was an abridged version and b) I was an antsy teenager. Thus I recently picked up a new copy, ready to try and finally appreciate and contextualize Huxley's satiric vision of a "utopian" future where humans are genetically bred and pharmaceutically anesthetized to passively serve a ruling order. It only took the first page for me to realize what I'd missed before. The second paragraph, describing the Central London Hatchery and Conditioning Centre, had me gasping in awe:

The enormous room on the ground floor faced towards the north. Cold for all the summer beyond the panes, for all the tropical heat of the room itself, a harsh thin light glared through the windows, hungrily seeking some draped lay figure, some pallid shape of academic goose-flesh, but finding only the glass and nickel and bleakly shining porcelain of a laboratory. Wintriness responded to wintriness. The overalls of the workers were white, their hands gloved with a pale corpse-coloured rubber. The light was frozen, dead, a ghost. Only from the yellow barrels of the microscopes did it borrow a certain rich and living substance, lying along the polished tubes like butter, streak after luscious streak in long recession down the work tables.

"Wintriness responded to wintriness." Chills! It feels like I'm reading the book for the first time, and, though it's not getting my number up, I'm ok with that.

Extra! Extra!

The New York Times makes another earth-shattering revelation that men are adopting retro hair styles from the 60s, 70s and 80s. HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!


related: behind the times