central station

money ruins everything.

2010-08-18T03:35:17Z

First, I read this life-changing article in the NY times that made me pack three boxes of shit for the Salvation Army. Then I overhead someone call Schenectady “The Hamptons of Upstate.” He, no doubt, never meant that as a vile and pejorative; rather, he meant a bourge mecca of magic but that’s precisely the problem. I’ve never been to Schenectady so I leave room for error in my thoughts. I do, however, go to the countryside of Upstate, NY to get the fuck away from anything like the Hamptons. So when raw charm gets tamed, polished and fixed up to suit city sensibilities and their high-class, plugged-in demands, it becomes precisely that: the Hamptons of Upstate. It’s sad that money fixes things, like massive plastic surgery. You become such a seemingly perfect conception of your ideal self that your actual face is lost in the stretched, plump, smooth alternative of something that once resembled you. I’m still trying to keep it pure. Until I'm 30.

You too may find your twin.

2010-06-27T21:20:26Z

Last night, my dear friend Sara called with news of free passes to the Vice party at Milk. Three floors of free vodka, MIA, Interpol, this deranged Afrikaaner called Die Antwoord, a random Kirsten Dunst sighting and the very best part: my t-shirt twin.

This amazing clothwork, purchased in 1991 one day after school, across the street from PS 69, at my favorite (and Jackson Height's only) record shop (read: tape shop). That shirt, besides serving as a killer Halloween costume in '91 and '98, a default look in '99-'02, a puke bib and a mop, also facilitated one of my cooler nights back in the summer of '01 when I hung out with Brian Bell (who attended, as it turns out, the concert on the t-shirt) at a bar on top of the World Trade Center with Jay Moore, after Weezer had played Conan. Ask me about that later.

Dear T-shirt twin,

I saw you at the Creator's Project June 26th at Milk Studios. Your were pushing your way to the front at the MIA performance. I was about a foot below you getting trampled. Hit me up on the FB and let's swap t-tales!

Love,

your t-shirt twin

Choosing vodka over homework

2010-06-27T21:13:30Z

I've been away from you, my bus, because I decided to change careers and go back to school. When faced with life's changes, one has decisions to make. But sometimes the choice is already made for you.

Rejected or why winners are losers with a smile

2009-12-21T04:53:00Z

The first time I ever won anything was in college. It was an ebay auction of a fake Christian Dior saddlebag. My ineffable joy knew no limits. Alas, undeserved victory trailed me over the years to another slope of sadness, this time, in the form of a letter, a love letter of sorts. I cried the way I always do when the big “R” pokes its head into my modest potato sack of false victories. An old professor who wrote me my rec letter made the point that maybe I’m simply overeducated. Thanks for that. I’m sure he meant “too good for those mofos” but what I read was “mediocre, baby.” Here’s to keggers with kids all next year.

Chemical Creativity

2009-07-08T01:33:55Z

Wouldn’t it be awesome if Black Acid were a drug that let you peek into a forbidden or hidden zone, space, cult or subgroup, one that you already know exists but will never ever infiltrate. What Black Acid would do is give you bionic insight, not just vision, but a prescience and knowledge of everything this group does, but only in the aftermath. In fact, you’d be forced to quote Faith No More probably more than once:
You will never understand it 'cause it happens too fast
And it feels so good, it's like walking on glass
It's so cool, it's so hip, it's alright…
If this terrifying yet palpably gratifying drug is an imagined work of art from a diabolical mind, so is Black Acid Co-op, the current exhibition at Deitch Projects where Jonah Freeman and Justin Lowe have laboriously erected the ultimate assemblage of anarchy where we can explore the (probably) imagined substrata of sects in a fantastic labyrinth of rooms replete with smells, gnarly artifacts, ripped, moldy books that nod to Gondry’s rental shop in “Be Kind Rewind,” a sterile museum space with molding and a drop ceiling, and other areas of methodical ingenuity.
Just when I was starting to lose my bearings, I saw Jeffrey’s satisfied face, slowly examining the work, smiling coyly, somehow knowing that he can penetrate the undercurrent of any tribe, club, congregation, what have you, smoothly, like a cheese stick in butter.

Image courtesy of Black Acid Co-op

confessions of an addict

2009-01-02T19:27:00Z

Facebook kicked me off for apparent misconduct. No explanations, no replies to my myriad of emails and no compunction later, I figured who fucken cares. I was done with that. But then, ashamed and flustered, I rejoined. Like a hopeless addict, like a social fiend in desperate need of constant stimulation and procrastination. FB sucked up my hours and proved ever so categorically that I am weak, dependent and shamefully social. I found myself rummaging through old photos – something I hate doing because nostalgia destroys my willful energy – and uploading, updating, befriending, and commenting. It’s true. Hello. My name is Julie Fishkin. I am 27 years old and I am an addict.

Klondike Bars

2008-12-30T18:46:00Z

When I was little, my grandma would always buy Klondike bars and little Debbie snacks because Shopwise, our local supermarket in Jackson heights, would always have sales on them. Next to the produce, there stood a big candy case with a variety of candy by the pound. She would be on the average two pounds and always carry and assortment in her pocket. But it wasn’t just her coat pockets. She would have a few in her purse, a few in her coat –winter coat, rain coat and spring jacket – and a few in her bath robe. My favorites were the butterscotch but I always hated Little Debbie Snacks. I thought they had a bland texture and the sweetness was more fluffy and filling than actually satisfying, infiltrating my mouth with vile chunks of fructose-bound particles.
The Klondike bars were ok, especially the crunch variety. The problem was the vanilla ice cream to chocolate ration. Never enough. Once you ate the perfectly thin chocolate cover, the vanilla would just melt away into this sad creamy pile, with no stick or anything. The polar bear on the silver wrapping was really their saving grace. I wonder what her favorite flavor was? I never asked.
Here’s to 2009, the end of the first decade and the start of a shitload of new thoughts on obvious things.

I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;

2008-10-28T04:40:43Z

Dear Terry,

I love you for many delicious reasons but even you have managed to top yourself. I had a transcendental vision this summer on Barrack. I saw him as the perfect human being -- the ying and the ying, the black and the white, but that priceless look on your face sums it all up. Your sweet smile of knowing satisfaction fills me with warmth because your eyes speak for me when they say "I got it."

Love always,

Julie

I've seen the future brother, it is murder

2008-07-29T19:41:17Z

Leonard Cohen, 1992

My therapist succinctly noted the other day that life is complicated. As grateful as I am to Mrs. Duh, I think when Didion sat on the floor of the Doors' studio as they recorded their third album, she had no clue. Neither did my grandmother, who rose in the ranks of the Communist Party and commanded honor and respect that materialized in caviar and trips to Paris at the height of the Cold War, she had no idea that years later, while reading Isaac Bashevis Singer's "The Repentant" to her granddaughter, she would think about her Judaism but only in passing.

Complicated comes with so many fascinating clues to just how it will only be exacerbated. I think the trick is to embrace the impending now and capitalize on the consuming moment that has no before and whose after doesn't matter. I curated a mini exhibition about this.

brilliant image by Tod Seelie

Teenage angst has paid off well, now I'm bored and old.

2008-03-30T21:37:16Z

It makes perfect sense to call it that because it's about serving the servants. This one time, some girl from Spin dot come asked me at a Jarvis Cocker concert what the best command a lyric has ever stressed was and I said "Serve the Servants," duh. It's not so much about teen angst or rebellious retaliation or even nostalgic mind meanderings as it is about giving back. You give back to no one in particular but it's like that old wise saying about not spitting from the top during your climb up, or something to that effect.

Three very important J.C.'s.

It's about being in love with today and when I say that, I try not to be a dirty liar and mean it. I'm not sure how God figures in the existential point of existence but just in case, I write Him letters in my journal. They're selfish but with good intentions. For example, this one time, I asked for a nice Jewish husband who would be funny, kind and generous; I included a parenthetical note to Him where I pointed out that I never mentioned "rich" as a quality. I thought He would find that funny. I did. It followed this snooze machine of a diatribe about wallowing in my piss puddle of deceit and disappointment. But then, I love crying rivers. I even wrote this obituary about this girl who cried so much, she drowned in her own tears. Stupid slut.