when i told patricia clough i didn’t know what to do about having gotten into nyu’s performance studies program she said “you’re going to have to go into debt,” then set me up with a second opinion. randy martin, her former student, the head of a department at tisch, and a marxist, told me that i should absolutely not go into debt for grad school. they were both right, and here i am, a few years later, having my cake and eating it too. it’s hard to imagine anything better than barbara browning speaking and ann pellegrini responding in the room where i knew i was going to do it. josé had his intro class there, too, and i don’t think anyone laughed harder than i did when he compared richard schechner to lisa stansfield.
tonight on the way back from a mini-road trip we listened to some radio call-in show and this woman was like, and i paraphrase, “i am calling to dedicate a song to my ex who left me for another woman because you can’t spend your life being angry” and i was like “totes” and “huh?” and came home and listened to “runaway" a bunch more times and thought about "every bag, every blouse, every bracelet/comes with a price tag, baby, face it" and how i stopped shopping for clothes like two years ago when i started grad school and don’t miss it even a little. then i was like, ohhhhhhh, the dixie chicks "not ready to make nice." the only thing is that i don’t feel mad, i feel smug, and sort of psyched about natalie maines having the same feeling thrill.
kanye taught me about the cost of bracelets when he gave me my hash tag.
miley throwing around money, miley covering lana del rey, and miley lounging on a bed, because miley knows what’s up. sky ferreira’s only contribution to the evening was that she launched into “you’re not the one” about three minutes after i saw jon caramanica. i had been feeling a little bummed about how i gave in to stockings while all the teenage girls around me had bare-leggedly braved the cold for their short-shorts, but suddenly i felt incredibly, demonically high. the concert was at barclay’s center, the site of miley’s vma scandal—one block away from my old apartment, and a few more from new york methodist. marc was like “you should have worn your hospital bracelet” and i pointed to the fendi cuff he bought me in vegas and said “i upgraded.” then he kissed me on the cheek and said “some people like to put you in prison, i like to put you in fancy concert seats” and i laughed. the surprising victories in failed escapes and the dead fucking seriousness of your jewelry.