Started a little blog just to get some traffic
Old folks’ll tell you not to play in traffic
A million hits and the web crashes, damn! Kanye West, Made In America
Old folks’ll tell you not to play in traffic
A million hits and the web crashes, damn! Kanye West, Made In America
I decided to settle in. Next came an Orthodox couple—he in a black frock coat and beaver fur hat, she in a glossy wig, neither of them, amazingly enough, sweating in the bright heat. Then a stooped man in a shirt and tie, carrying a thick book, “The Psychology of Shame.” Three pretty young women who were, all three of them, talking on their cell phones—I hope not to each other. A dreadlocked street person, pushing a groaning shopping cart. People speaking Italian, French, Spanish; arguing, laughing, sulking. I could have easily stayed all day. Living in a rural setting exposes you to so many marvellous things—the natural world and the particular texture of small-town life, and the exhilarating experience of open space. I wish there were some way you could have all that and still be reminded of the wild array that we humans are. Instead, it seems like you can watch birds or people, but not both.
Susan Orlean on the joys of people-watching (via newyorker)
Though she’s talking about Miami, this serendipity and diversity is one of the things I love most about NYC. Though I do need to get out and see the birds on the regular…
reblogged from newyorker
I personally feel the signaling issue of larger funds investing in seed deals to be overblown, as in my experience high-quality firms make high-quality decisions that generally reflect the risks and rewards of the company.
Roger Ehrenberg
The average Jay-Z fan has never hit the same lows…nor will most listeners ever swim in the rare waters of Jay’s current world. Still, we love Jay-Z for the same reason we hate taxes, any taxes, even those on the richest 1 percent - because America’s founding myth is aspirational.
Rolling Stone Magazine: King of America, by Mark Binelli
There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter—the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these three trembling cities the greatest is the last—the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high-strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a farmer arriving from Italy to set up a small grocery store in a slum, or a young girl arriving from a small town in Mississippi to escape the indignity of being observed by her neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Corn Belt with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference: each embraces New York with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs New York with the fresh eyes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the Consolidated Edison Company.
Here is New York, E. B. White, 1949 (via cdixon)
One of my favorite pieces on the incomparable NYC.
reblogged from cdixon
