Paperblog A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

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

Saddest photo I’ve seen all morning: a photograph of rocket fire in Israel and Gaza taken by a German astronaut 200 miles above earth.

Saddest photo I’ve seen all morning: a photograph of rocket fire in Israel and Gaza taken by a German astronaut 200 miles above earth.

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How To Be An Introvert In America

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I frequently read articles on Buzzfeed and those junk websites (Thought Catalog?) about introverts. “You know you’re an introvert if you prefer staying home to parties!” or, “You know you’re an introvert when socializing drains your battery to 20%!” I’m always like, yes, duh.

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What I never read is how to maintain friendships both as an introvert, and with an introvert. So I wrote the article myself. 

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If you still want to hang out with an introvert even though they are one flakey motherfucker, here are some foolproof tips to trick them into meeting you:

1. Make plans somewhere outside of their comfort zone, and then when they text you, “Ooo, I have a stomachache,” be waiting outside of their apartment. 

2. Tell them you are going to a $40 exercise class, and then set up a PayPal account to steal their money and give them the address to your apartment. 

3. Give an introvert $100 cash in an envelope upfront for having a drink with you, and don’t tell them it’s Monopoly money.

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I would say one of the things I hate most in this world are white guys riding their bikes over the Manhattan Bridge. For some reason, every single one of them thinks that they’re The Enforcer.
"Get off your phone!" they scream at me when I’m talking on my phone.
"Make room!" They yell just at the sight of me.
I’m not going to toot my own horn here, but at this point, I’ve been riding my bike in the city for almost 10 years. I know that I don’t wear a helmet and also look like a fool, but I know how to navigate my way around on a 2-wheel vehicle.
"Fuck you!" I always scream back at them. But "fuck you" is not usually enough for me. Usually I want to chase after them on my own bike, and scream, "Are you a police officer? No? If you want to scream at people for breaking the rules, get a badge, you fucking dickface." 
Then you get into Chinatown, and literally no one gives a fuck about you. The other day, I ran through a yellow light, and almost hit a Chinese lady. If she had been a white guy, she either would have done the “who goes first” dance with me, or screamed at me, “Watch out you stupid motherfucker!” The Chinese lady was just like, “Whatever,” and crossed the street.
She does the right thing. If she’s angry, she just wishes I would get hit by a car silently.
I usually have my headphones on when I’m driving up the bridge — another thing that draws rage from white men on bicycles — so I can’t really hear what most people say to me. But today, I didn’t have them on because I was in a rush to get home and see Franke, who has been throwing up blood all morning. 
Right on the first curve on the Manhattan side, some douchebag was nestled against the railing, talking on his cell phone. Full body suit, helmet, fanny pack, the whole nine yards. Just as I passed him, I heard him yell at an old Chinese couple behind me. They were carting a huge bag of bottles for recycling, which is what a lot of very poor people do to survive in the city. They were taking up far less room than him, blocking a turn where teenagers pop wheelies on their children’s bikes. “Excuse me!” the white guy on the bicycle shouted. “This side is only for bicycles.”
I turned around at him. “Fuck you!” I screamed. Like usual, I wish I had turned around and said something to his face. But I had somewhere better to be.

I would say one of the things I hate most in this world are white guys riding their bikes over the Manhattan Bridge. For some reason, every single one of them thinks that they’re The Enforcer.

"Get off your phone!" they scream at me when I’m talking on my phone.

"Make room!" They yell just at the sight of me.

I’m not going to toot my own horn here, but at this point, I’ve been riding my bike in the city for almost 10 years. I know that I don’t wear a helmet and also look like a fool, but I know how to navigate my way around on a 2-wheel vehicle.

"Fuck you!" I always scream back at them. But "fuck you" is not usually enough for me. Usually I want to chase after them on my own bike, and scream, "Are you a police officer? No? If you want to scream at people for breaking the rules, get a badge, you fucking dickface." 

Then you get into Chinatown, and literally no one gives a fuck about you. The other day, I ran through a yellow light, and almost hit a Chinese lady. If she had been a white guy, she either would have done the “who goes first” dance with me, or screamed at me, “Watch out you stupid motherfucker!” The Chinese lady was just like, “Whatever,” and crossed the street.

She does the right thing. If she’s angry, she just wishes I would get hit by a car silently.

I usually have my headphones on when I’m driving up the bridge — another thing that draws rage from white men on bicycles — so I can’t really hear what most people say to me. But today, I didn’t have them on because I was in a rush to get home and see Franke, who has been throwing up blood all morning. 

Right on the first curve on the Manhattan side, some douchebag was nestled against the railing, talking on his cell phone. Full body suit, helmet, fanny pack, the whole nine yards. Just as I passed him, I heard him yell at an old Chinese couple behind me. They were carting a huge bag of bottles for recycling, which is what a lot of very poor people do to survive in the city. They were taking up far less room than him, blocking a turn where teenagers pop wheelies on their children’s bikes. “Excuse me!” the white guy on the bicycle shouted. “This side is only for bicycles.”

I turned around at him. “Fuck you!” I screamed. Like usual, I wish I had turned around and said something to his face. But I had somewhere better to be.

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Check out the five museum shows I recommend seeing this summer in New York on the ArtReview website.
(I love ArtReview for many reasons, but in this case especially, for letting me keep this line: “Back then, New Yorkers were unified by the lack of air conditioning in a concrete jungle that radiated heat – today, they’re unified by the newly opened Applebees on the Coney Island boardwalk, which invites every kind of ‘fan’ to ‘come for the apps, stay for dinner’.”)

Check out the five museum shows I recommend seeing this summer in New York on the ArtReview website.

(I love ArtReview for many reasons, but in this case especially, for letting me keep this line: “Back then, New Yorkers were unified by the lack of air conditioning in a concrete jungle that radiated heat – today, they’re unified by the newly opened Applebees on the Coney Island boardwalk, which invites every kind of ‘fan’ to ‘come for the apps, stay for dinner’.”)

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Ray Donovan: You Should Watch It

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Caleb and I started watching Ray Donovan the other night because we had run out of other options. He has watched 1/20th of the shows I watch, only because I never wait for him. Also he hates watching television. He was like, “Ok, Brie, if we’re going to spend time together, clearly I have to start watching television, so let’s make Ray Donovan our show.” And I was like, “Ok, I know nothing about Ray Donovan, it sort of seems stupid, but let’s do this.”

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We got Showtime a few months ago so we could watch the last six episodes of Shameless, and have been too lazy to cancel it. Some other options we might pursue in the future include “Penny Dreadful.”

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Anyway, Ray Donovan turned out to be really good! I knew I was going to like it when I read the description of the first episode. “A fixer in Hollywood named Ray Donovan helps a starlet in the hills get rid of a stalker and also deals with issues in his Irish family from Boston.” Or something along those lines. I was like, this is awesome, it sounds like the demented version of Entourage!

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An incredible picture by Mark Sobczak, taken on an expedition to the North Pole. These are Waterfalls off of the ice pack in Svalbard, Norway. I copied that from his Facebook page. Ursula K Le Guin herself couldn’t have dreamed these up. I want to go to Norway so badly.

An incredible picture by Mark Sobczak, taken on an expedition to the North Pole. These are Waterfalls off of the ice pack in Svalbard, Norway. I copied that from his Facebook page. Ursula K Le Guin herself couldn’t have dreamed these up. I want to go to Norway so badly.

Comments 16 notes
Redolent of Lawrence Durrell.

Redolent of Lawrence Durrell.

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A Poem By Frank O’Hara Preceded By Childhood Memories of Fire Island

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While doing some work this morning, I came across a news item that there was a Frank O’Hara reading in the Pines on Fire Island this weekend.

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I don’t know if it’s just because I’m older, and people vacation more in their thirties, or if Fire Island has just become more popular, but it sounds like it might be a miserable place to be on the weekends, with the crowds. I increasingly hate it when people do the, “Oh, but me, me, me!” thing on the Internet, but here I go, doing it anyway. My family spent a few summers vacationing in Fire Island when I was younger. We rented a house in Saltaire. We could pet the deer and pick blueberries, and when there was flooding, ride inflatable rafts between houses. My father’s friend from work, Pete, had a family house there. His father was an aide to Mayor Cuomo. He was a broker, my father was a trader. Pete played tennis with my mother. His friend, Duffy, drew portraits of us and took us to the nude beach. We were terrified of him.

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One summer there, we had an au pair named Emmanuel. She was from Paris. My sister and I watched her get changed in the little window that connected her room to ours. When she caught us, she screamed. My mother claimed that Emmanuel was constantly eating, including all of the donuts she left out for my father one morning. But really, I think my mother just hated all of our au pairs, especially a girl from Mexico, who wore a bikini to watch us on the beach, and had a perfect body. None of them lasted for more than a few months before they were either fired, or left in despair.

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Redolent of Christmas.

Redolent of Christmas.

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Caleb, Wes, Franke…and Franke’s enemy.

Caleb, Wes, Franke…and Franke’s enemy.

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Going through photos to trigger my memory. Found this one of Caleb and I from the summer when we started dating, during a weekend he rented a house in the Catskills. Photo credit Mark Sobczak.

Going through photos to trigger my memory. Found this one of Caleb and I from the summer when we started dating, during a weekend he rented a house in the Catskills. Photo credit Mark Sobczak.

Comments 5 notes
Still life with butter.

Still life with butter.

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Nothing is better than fresh flowers on my desk. Except for sugar.

Nothing is better than fresh flowers on my desk. Except for sugar.

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"I really like Zach Braff." —Caleb

"I really like Zach Braff." —Caleb

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Some Thoughts on ModelFit After A Rant About the Media

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Before I begin, I’d like to take a second to say that I feel bad writing the stupid shit I’m about to write in the wake of the tragedies. Also, how scary is the fucking media? I woke up this morning, and there were like 15 multimedia presentations on the New York Times alone, including one showing bodies smoldering in the wreckage. A soldier walks a mound of detritus, and then taps something with his foot. “There’s a spine,” he says, kicking it aside. 

Even the New York Times turns tragedy into entertainment, in other words. 

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Also, how do the motherfucking television stations get experts so fast? I was in the nail salon last night, watching Fox 5 Local News. Fox 5 Local News. I think the story right before the Malaysian airline was about if pot makes you paranoid, which followed a bit about what sort of clothing is age appropriate. Then they have some ancient army sergeant sitting in the studio, talking about the reasons why the plane went down. Where did they find this guy so quickly? Was he in a retirement home in the basement? 

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On CNN, they immediately have non-stop visual graphics. “This is a stimulation of the sort of rocket that might hit the plane,” they say, showing a life size simulation on the stage at 7pm. The simulation turns around, it moves forward, it fires off rockets. How do they make this shit so fast? Is everyone who works at CNN on crystal meth? 

And they have their own experts weighing in, dozens of them, formulating as many different theories as possible so that viewers keep on watching. You turn back to the New York Times website, and they’ve changed the headlines already, and printed a number of corrections, including that they spelled the fucking name of the Ukranian prime minister wrong. Do they not know how to do a Google search over there?

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Anyway, I went to a class called ModelFit the other day.

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