Bohemian Like You
I meet a girl I was friendly with back in school, while I'm shopping for groceries. She's made-up, neatened-up and grown-up, but otherwise she looks exactly the same, and - by way of a greeting - I tell her so. Her reaction is disappointingly frosty.
Gillian From Maths Class doesn't seem to recognise me at all - in fact, she responds to my attempts at conversation with cool, peremptory distaste, as though I were some tanked homeless lifer following her around the place, and not someone with whom she used to quip and fence and pop-culture-reference for a couple of hours a day. I can't quite believe that she's forgotten me so quickly.
'Well,' I say, with a false and shaky laugh, 'you've clearly had an eventful eight years, at least.'
I give up.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Julian Casablancas - lead singer of the Strokes and idol to a certain kind of teen - stars in a gay porn film: the news is on forums the Web over (the headlines, predictably, making liberal use of the word 'stroke').
Screengrabs and video captures soon proliferate, all of them frustratingly chaste*. They reveal, in little grainy pieces, a squicky 'schoolboys go wild' sort of a setup, for boarding-school fetishists: Casablancas, in one of his trademark blazers, lounges on a bed in a suspiciously large and airy study-bedroom, smoking suggestively at a schoolfriend and giving him exaggerated porn once-overs ('golly,' chirps his squeaky-clean teacher's-pet comrade, 'what do I have to do to get a room like this?'). Only a single frame from later in the film makes the rounds - an anonymous male wrist, tied loosely to a bedframe with an Old School Tie. I make this into my desktop picture on general principle.
The articles tell how Casablancas disarmed his critics, like Marilyn Monroe before him in her naked calendar days, by admitting straight-up that it was him in the film as the 'pot-smoking rebel' character on the bed, and he did simply it to pay his bills, back when he was a starving young musician in Greenwich Village. But even in the dream I think: 'oh, what, poor thing - didn't you have enough money in your trust-fund?'
* I'm only human.
Gillian From Maths Class doesn't seem to recognise me at all - in fact, she responds to my attempts at conversation with cool, peremptory distaste, as though I were some tanked homeless lifer following her around the place, and not someone with whom she used to quip and fence and pop-culture-reference for a couple of hours a day. I can't quite believe that she's forgotten me so quickly.
'Well,' I say, with a false and shaky laugh, 'you've clearly had an eventful eight years, at least.'
I give up.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Julian Casablancas - lead singer of the Strokes and idol to a certain kind of teen - stars in a gay porn film: the news is on forums the Web over (the headlines, predictably, making liberal use of the word 'stroke').
Screengrabs and video captures soon proliferate, all of them frustratingly chaste*. They reveal, in little grainy pieces, a squicky 'schoolboys go wild' sort of a setup, for boarding-school fetishists: Casablancas, in one of his trademark blazers, lounges on a bed in a suspiciously large and airy study-bedroom, smoking suggestively at a schoolfriend and giving him exaggerated porn once-overs ('golly,' chirps his squeaky-clean teacher's-pet comrade, 'what do I have to do to get a room like this?'). Only a single frame from later in the film makes the rounds - an anonymous male wrist, tied loosely to a bedframe with an Old School Tie. I make this into my desktop picture on general principle.
The articles tell how Casablancas disarmed his critics, like Marilyn Monroe before him in her naked calendar days, by admitting straight-up that it was him in the film as the 'pot-smoking rebel' character on the bed, and he did simply it to pay his bills, back when he was a starving young musician in Greenwich Village. But even in the dream I think: 'oh, what, poor thing - didn't you have enough money in your trust-fund?'
* I'm only human.