and in that moment we were all mark ruffalo
what happened in roughly 1870 though
why was there temporary internet
with a few people searching for pokemon?
It’s a search of Google books, but the question still stands, what the Fuck happened in 1870
I CAN ANSWER THIS!!
In the Cornish dialect of English, Pokemon meant ‘clumsy’ (pure coincidence).
In the mid 1800s there was a surge of writing about the Cornish language and dialect in an attempt to preserve them with glossaries and dictionaries being written. I wrote about it HERE.
The Dan Humphrey of Beers
Dan Humphrey was the villain of Gossip Girl long before the final reveal that he was Gossip Girl. Or maybe, honestly, he was more of a villain before that, I mean, Dan Humphrey, ultimate Lit Major, a scarecrow stuffed with pages from a Charles Bukowski novel, mummified in tweed and washed denim, soaked in whiskey and lit on fire in an exposed-brick loft that won’t burn down because it’s made of hard cash after all. Sorry if you like him, sorry, sorry, I mean, not sorry at all, I mean, it’s just I don’t really like suede or Godard. I don’t like artisan heritage hiking backpacks and I don’t like Dan Humphrey stalking the edges of beautiful things in flannel like he knows about something better, even though his eyes are always glued to the same things we’re all looking at.
They say beer is an acquired taste but it’s a pretty easy taste to acquire if the beer you’re drinking is basically canned sparkling dishwater, by which I mean, if you go to like, three parties ever. I am ideologically pro-cocktail, at least cocktails that are stupid and pink and have an umbrella in them, but for the most part in real life I drink beer because, listen, PBR is hella cheap and I am broke as shit. Actually, at home I drink Rolling Rock, which is usually cheaper but I buy it mostly because I like the packaging, which is a pretty good way to choose your alcohol; or actually, to choose anything. It’s green. Anyway, there’s a bar down the street from my apartment where you can get a PBR and a shot of tequila and a taco for $4 and I’m just not gonna turn that shit down just to drink something more self-characterizing. In this way I am not Dan Humphrey; but, unfortunately, I am also not Blair Waldorf—but that’s mostly because Blair would never have to go for a $4 drink special. Blair is wearing Miu Miu and drinking a $25 Bellini right at this very moment because she knows what that means and she can afford to mean anything she wants to; it’s not bad to know what you want to mean, it’s just bad to mean something that makes you an asshole.
There’s a kind of boy who uses Kerouac and Ginsburg and Hemingway and Bukowski like a cologne that smells like worn paperbacks and cigarettes and Masculine Sweat; that is, atomized into the air around them, forced into the nose of anyone who comes too close, applied while looking in a mirror.
Those boys drink whiskey, mostly, no offense to whiskey as a liquid (but much offense to whiskey as a particular kind of sociocultural indicator). When those boys aren’t drinking whiskey, they drink IPAs, because IPAs are bitter and inaccessible and dense and everything in this whole trash world is a metaphor.
There’s a kind of girl that really does want to go see a French New Wave movie at the Film Forum and I used to be one of those girls and that’s okay that’s good that’s even beautiful but god, I’ve seen my fair share of French New Wave films in smallish poorly-cleaned repertory cinemas and every boy there with me in the dark in a loose frayed coat and ankle boots has never really known anything at all except the feel of his own heavy tongue against his teeth. You think they see the same thing in the screen that you do but they almost never do and you realize too late you shouldn’t have let them ruin things by making them signifiers that are mostly about their own two-day patchy stubble. And now almost everything Bresson ever did is just stubble on someone else’s face and that doesn’t belong to you.
In order to acquire a taste you have to have an incentive to partake, for a while, in something you don’t actually enjoy; everyone’s first taste of coffee is fucking horrifying but caffeine is pretty nice; everyone hates the shit out of pretty much any alcohol the first time they ever drink but drinking is fun. But the shades of intention between specific alcohol choices are more complicated than just “enjoyment of being drunk outweighs distaste for taste of alcohol until taste of alcohol is no longer offensive;” sure, they’re tied up in inherent preference (you can’t control your tastebuds, I guess) but just as tied up in meaning. A lot of people learned to like IPAs not because they loved them the first time they tried them, but because they wanted to be a person who drinks IPAs, because that means something, because everything means something, because this is the world, pal. If alcohol didn’t mean anything most people would probably like, stick with the jungle juice they first learned to tolerate in high school, forever.
This is simultaneously empowering and disemporwering: you can maybe teach yourself to be whoever you want to be, but the symbols you’ll use to do so are inescapable whether or not you want to use them as symbols. You can try to use any double meaning but rarely a single one. And not everything will always belong to you even if you wish it did.
I like IPAs, actually. I tried not to but there’s something about the harsh bitterness that really gets me. Every sip is kind of like saying FUCK YOU really loudly to somebody that deserves it. I guess I just drank enough of them that that harsh shout felt natural on my tongue. I guess I kind of started to think maybe I could direct that shout at anybody I wanted.
It’s important that Dan Humphrey went to the Film Forum a lot, but, ultimately, so did Blair Waldorf and I guess it’s sometimes easy to forget that Dan Humphrey really only exists because Blair Waldorf does, I mean, Gossip Girl is about Blair Waldorf, don’t argue with me. You think that Dan Humphrey can turn Céline et Julie vont En Bateau into a wisp of clove cigarette smoke disappearing into the rafters of a brooklyn loft but if you try hard enough even something so aggressively claimed can feel like it belongs to you. Dan Humphrey is writing a secret gossip blog about Blair Waldorf and if Blair Waldorf wanted to drink IPAs she could, and they, like everything in the world, could belong to her.