Paperblog A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

"Mabel's not crazy... she's unusual."

RIP Oscar de la Renta

RIP Oscar de la Renta

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Found this when searching through photos of Oscar De La Renta.

Found this when searching through photos of Oscar De La Renta.

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Sister talk.

Sister talk.

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Clutch.
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Partytime.

Partytime.

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Walk of shame.  (at Tiki Disco)

Walk of shame. (at Tiki Disco)

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I wish I could go here for tea with you.
(Sadie would be there.)

I wish I could go here for tea with you.

(Sadie would be there.)

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I’ve been crying and crying all morning. Upon first waking up, I checked the Daily Mail, because it reports on news about an hour faster than The New York Times, although most of the reporting is usually either hysterical or completely fallacious. Then I checked The New York Times. Flipping through the headlines, I got that jolting feeling I get a lot lately where I was like, “Wait a second, am I reading the Daily Mail?” I’m not joking when I say that. I honestly get confused. Because, it seems, The New York Times has made it a priority to make money over anything else, they can be just as hysterical — only their subjects are elites. The Daily Mail reports on some drunk person in Astonia shouting that he has Ebola. The New York Times reports on some kid at Yale maybe having Ebola (he didn’t have it). The reason why I got jolted this morning was because I saw a headline “Health Worker Who May Have Had Contact With Ebola Is On a Cruise Ship,” and I was like, definitely Daily Mail, oh wait…I’m reading The New York Times?!!??!! It turns out the guy didn’t even come close to the patient — he may have just been in proximity of specimens of the disease.
Then I started crying because I realized I don’t want to be part of this ridiculous media cycle. Every morning I wake up, and look at my day, and if in it, I have to work on an article for which I’m getting paid money, I feel an absolute sense of dread. I don’t get any fulfillment from writing for money (which is what I do because I don’t feel like anything I write about is either important or interesting). What I do get fulfillment from is writing on this blog, taking photographs, traveling, and (although in my selfish and horrific adult life I have not done this) being directly good to the people who need help.I wish more than anything I’ve wished for in a very long time that I was one of the doctors or nurses currently taking care of Ebola victims. 
They are the ones really making a difference. Journalists can report on the ground, but their reporting is likely either going to be distorted by idiots, or buried under stupid shit (with the exception of Sheri Fink who is my new role model, and by the way, was trained as a doctor.) NGOs can organize money, but I detest working in offices. Billionaires can donate money, but they are so far removed from the actual use of that money that it can’t bring them much satisfaction. One thing that I do know is that making money has never been important to me.
A few years back, my friend Matt Dreyer ended his career as a corporate lawyer. He was at the top of his class at New York University law school. I won’t speak for his motivations, but I do know that a few years ago, he decided that he wanted to be a nurse. He recently finished school, and is looking for jobs. I admire him so much.
I called my Mom this morning. I tried to keep it together. “Mom,” I said. “I just have been wishing all morning that I was a nurse or health care worker so that I could go help people with Ebola in Africa.”
People like this, from another excellent article by Sheri Fink in The New York Times:
Dr. Hatch visited a new patient, a pastor who was gravely ill by the time he was admitted last week, yet insisted on praying for the American doctor.
“To see a guy lying in bed that’s got a 50-50 chance of living or dying pray for you?” Dr. Hatch said, shaking his head. The next day, just before the pastor died, he prayed for Dr. Hatch again.
I couldn’t hold it together. I just started sobbing. I sobbed for twenty minutes on the phone with my Mom. “I think I want to do this,” I said. “I think I want to like Matt Dreyer.”
"You would be good at it," she told me. My mother knows me better than anyone. It’s been her dream my whole life that I would become a doctor.
I could help people. I could write on the blog. I could travel to places where help is needed. It sounds like what I’ve been leading up to my whole life. After I finish the book, this is what I’m going to look into.
It strikes me that none of this is because I’m a particularly good or bad person, it’s just what I am.  

I’ve been crying and crying all morning. Upon first waking up, I checked the Daily Mail, because it reports on news about an hour faster than The New York Times, although most of the reporting is usually either hysterical or completely fallacious. Then I checked The New York Times. Flipping through the headlines, I got that jolting feeling I get a lot lately where I was like, “Wait a second, am I reading the Daily Mail?” I’m not joking when I say that. I honestly get confused. Because, it seems, The New York Times has made it a priority to make money over anything else, they can be just as hysterical — only their subjects are elites. The Daily Mail reports on some drunk person in Astonia shouting that he has Ebola. The New York Times reports on some kid at Yale maybe having Ebola (he didn’t have it). The reason why I got jolted this morning was because I saw a headline “Health Worker Who May Have Had Contact With Ebola Is On a Cruise Ship,” and I was like, definitely Daily Mail, oh wait…I’m reading The New York Times?!!??!! It turns out the guy didn’t even come close to the patient — he may have just been in proximity of specimens of the disease.

Then I started crying because I realized I don’t want to be part of this ridiculous media cycle. Every morning I wake up, and look at my day, and if in it, I have to work on an article for which I’m getting paid money, I feel an absolute sense of dread. I don’t get any fulfillment from writing for money (which is what I do because I don’t feel like anything I write about is either important or interesting). What I do get fulfillment from is writing on this blog, taking photographs, traveling, and (although in my selfish and horrific adult life I have not done this) being directly good to the people who need help.I wish more than anything I’ve wished for in a very long time that I was one of the doctors or nurses currently taking care of Ebola victims. 

They are the ones really making a difference. Journalists can report on the ground, but their reporting is likely either going to be distorted by idiots, or buried under stupid shit (with the exception of Sheri Fink who is my new role model, and by the way, was trained as a doctor.) NGOs can organize money, but I detest working in offices. Billionaires can donate money, but they are so far removed from the actual use of that money that it can’t bring them much satisfaction. One thing that I do know is that making money has never been important to me.

A few years back, my friend Matt Dreyer ended his career as a corporate lawyer. He was at the top of his class at New York University law school. I won’t speak for his motivations, but I do know that a few years ago, he decided that he wanted to be a nurse. He recently finished school, and is looking for jobs. I admire him so much.

I called my Mom this morning. I tried to keep it together. “Mom,” I said. “I just have been wishing all morning that I was a nurse or health care worker so that I could go help people with Ebola in Africa.”

People like this, from another excellent article by Sheri Fink in The New York Times:

Dr. Hatch visited a new patient, a pastor who was gravely ill by the time he was admitted last week, yet insisted on praying for the American doctor.

“To see a guy lying in bed that’s got a 50-50 chance of living or dying pray for you?” Dr. Hatch said, shaking his head. The next day, just before the pastor died, he prayed for Dr. Hatch again.

I couldn’t hold it together. I just started sobbing. I sobbed for twenty minutes on the phone with my Mom. “I think I want to do this,” I said. “I think I want to like Matt Dreyer.”

"You would be good at it," she told me. My mother knows me better than anyone. It’s been her dream my whole life that I would become a doctor.

I could help people. I could write on the blog. I could travel to places where help is needed. It sounds like what I’ve been leading up to my whole life. After I finish the book, this is what I’m going to look into.

It strikes me that none of this is because I’m a particularly good or bad person, it’s just what I am.  

Comments 18 notes
All this four were doing was running around, sniffing butts.

All this four were doing was running around, sniffing butts.

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This documentary is incredible and a must watch.

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Last night my sister and I were hanging out with Shark and Rat-A-Kat at the Noho Star. My sister had just finished a story about the pharmacy. When the pharmacist gave her her medicine, she had apparently asked, “What’s the matter with you?” “That’s not legal to ask, right?” my sister noted. “Let’s call Nana?” I suggested.
So we called my Nana, and she said, “Oh, Brienne!” because she was very happy to hear from me.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Having a glass of wine," I said.
"Oh, very nice," my Nana said.
"A strange man just put something in it but whatever, I’m going to drink it anyway."
"Very funny," she said.
"Are you ok, your voice sounds very hoarse?"
"Oh yeah, I’m fine, I just ate some ice cream," she said. 
She paused. “I love ice cream.”
"Here’s Tara," I told her. Tara talked to her for a few minutes, and then said, "I gotta go." She handed the phone back to me. "Have I told you lately?" I said to my Nana. "Have I told YOU lately!" she said. "That I love you." "That I love you," she echoed.

Last night my sister and I were hanging out with Shark and Rat-A-Kat at the Noho Star. My sister had just finished a story about the pharmacy. When the pharmacist gave her her medicine, she had apparently asked, “What’s the matter with you?” “That’s not legal to ask, right?” my sister noted. “Let’s call Nana?” I suggested.

So we called my Nana, and she said, “Oh, Brienne!” because she was very happy to hear from me.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Having a glass of wine," I said.

"Oh, very nice," my Nana said.

"A strange man just put something in it but whatever, I’m going to drink it anyway."

"Very funny," she said.

"Are you ok, your voice sounds very hoarse?"

"Oh yeah, I’m fine, I just ate some ice cream," she said. 

She paused. “I love ice cream.”

"Here’s Tara," I told her. Tara talked to her for a few minutes, and then said, "I gotta go." She handed the phone back to me. "Have I told you lately?" I said to my Nana. "Have I told YOU lately!" she said. "That I love you." "That I love you," she echoed.

Comments 10 notes

Hello, Here Are Some Television Programs You Should Watch

Ok, so I’m going to drink a beer while I’m writing this because I was already drinking tonight, and I vowed that because I didn’t have time to write tomorrow, I’d just write while I was drunk tonight. I’ll regret this who cares. 

I’m not going to write anything stupid like “who cares.”

So an editor tonight said that I always excuse myself from writing or something. I think excuse myself from an argument? Or back out of it. I adore this editor and think he’s very smart. But the truth is, he edits the art reviews I write, and I really no longer give a shit about art. I really don’t. I guess I like art because it’s beautiful, sometimes, but beyond that, it says nothing. It’s decorative. No one buys art for any other reason unless they’re a moron, come on. Like, ok, so I wrote a review about a filmmaker who made a video installation about video games. He was like, “look at this strange world where humans can’t tread.” and i’m like, “Seriously, do you think video gamers even care or give a shit about that. I DON’T PLAY VIDEO GAMES AND EVEN I KNOW THAT. This says nothing about the world. Nothing says anything about the world. I’m not making sense but I’m going to keep on writing. UGH I AM NOT SAYING WHAT I MEAN. I asked my friend tonight, my best friend, also an art critic, I said, “Do you ever go see art of your own voilition?” And he said of course not. I just made a spelling and grammatical error. I used to be like, “ooh, if I write bad things about art on my blog, no one will ever hire me to write.” But the truth is, I don’t go to see art ever because no art I see validates anything beyond what I learned in graduate school. My editor asked me, “Why do you do this?” I said, “Because I want people to like me. But the truth is terrible. Is it terrible to say that I’m too smart to even think or write about contemporary art? The not terrible thing about that is that I can say that, and it still won’t make any difference in whether or not I survive financially.

The same friend said that, on a Saturday, he would not choose to go see art, he would choose to watch television. Which is why, right now, I am going to write about television shows I’ve watched but you probably have not seen.

Seriously, this beer is fucking disgusting.

I’ve seen a few shows in my life. I’ve seen many shows. I watch many television programs because I love them. Here are some you should watch.

The Honorable Woman

This show is fucking excellent. Why are you not watching it? It stars Maggie Gylennhall. I don’t care about how her name is spelled. Anyway, I generally think that Maggie Gylennahall is not attractive, but in this show, she looks great and I love her. She plays the CEO of an arms company that is trying to make peace between Israel and Palestine. It is seriously a very great show. I didn’t understand at least 40% of it because everyone spoke in rarefied accents. But I would recommend it. I really would. I cannot remember what happens but it told me a lot about conditions of life in Gaza.

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"Lies—they make for a tiny little psychological Doppler effect, telling us more about a liar than an undistorted self-report ever could."
—Atmospheric Disturbances

"Lies—they make for a tiny little psychological Doppler effect, telling us more about a liar than an undistorted self-report ever could."

Atmospheric Disturbances

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