I'd love to do a long post about Jessica Roy, the 17- 20-year-old blogger who rocked the New York media crapiverse by calling out a party as lame and the party attendees as lamer. All quite true, and true of most other parties here and elsewhere, as various party attendees and their confederates have claimed. The response by (non-attendee though confederate) Choire Sicha is predictably funniest, though it's odd to see him compelled to fend off a screed by someone [almost] half his age. At least Roy's other victims -- solidly and smugly in the their mid-20s -- finally have someone to feel jaded toward. At this point, I'd like to reiterate that I'm older than Choire and yes, even older than Alex Balk. [Note: Alex would you like you to know he's actually younger than Choire.] But who cares? One thing that reveals all this drama as triviality: a doorknob. Let me show you it, motherfucker.
I'm very excited to say that I expect to receive this beauty -- the "Gainsborough Diplomat" in satin nickel finish -- by Monday. The Tennessee merchant from whom I special-ordered identifies himself as "Christian/Owner/Manager," so you know his priorities are in order. I often joked that when buying an apartment, my wife would buy the actual apartment and I would buy the doorknobs. Prophetic words! But I take the responsibility seriously.
If you're very, very fortunate, you may be allowed to visit us when the apartment is ready, and when all ten -- THAT'S RIGHT -- ten Gainsborough Diplomats have been strategically installed throughout the apartment. We decided to subvert dominant paradigms by placing the knobs on actual doors, just where you'd think they would be. That is, until you touch one, and your startled hand recoils and punches you in the genitals for your temerity. Idiot. You don't turn this knob. You could, but what would be the point? We split up each set to go one apiece on each closet door. They're not attached to anything on the other side of the door! Is this legal? DO YOU THINK WE GIVE A SHIT? We do not, I assure you.
Once you get your tiny, sheltered mind wrapped around that -- the sheer audacity of that act, that choice -- maybe you'll understand why I cannot be bothered weighing in on every little bloggy spat that rolls across the meadow on rickety wheels hand-crafted from too much free time and cheap cocaine. Why bother trying? Maybe you'll say the smartest thing in the room every four or five tries, but consider your audience. They're already looking past you to the next burning bush, of which there is never a shortage.
