Who’s Who: The Group Text

Do you ever lie awake at night contemplating your own existence, imagining your future and what it will bring, considering the poor choices you’ve made that may prevent that imagined future from becoming a reality when — *ding* — your phone goes off. And then again  — *ding* — and again — *ding ding.* You rub your eyes and resurface here on planet earth, wondering what could be so important that would cause someone to send you multiple messages in a row? And then, you remember… THE GROUP TEXT. There is no first world problem more profound than the group text. It has become a seemingly necessary yet indubitably burdensome aspect of life. Yes, it allows you to address several of your friends in one place about that upcoming plan you’ve made or are trying to make. Indeed, it gives you a safe haven to sound off on The Walking Dead finale in unison. Sure thing, it provides you the platform to create a virtual hang sesh when a few of you are feeling particularly lonely on a Friday night. But at the end of the day, it’s just like the latest Justin Bieber hit song — we know we need it but we’re pretty fucking tired of hearing it after a while. What makes the load of the group text an even more difficult one to carry is that one or more of the people involved in it are pure garbage whose only intention is to make your life a living hell. Or maybe it just feels that way. That being said, here are the 5 worst people on your group text.

The Jokester. There’s always that one friend who thinks it’s their sole right and duty to prove their wit and hipness via group text. They have all of the latest gifs and memes on queue for when their moment is to arise and when that moment does inevitably come, they fire away. Those of us who are truly unlucky have another friend on the chat who likes to spar with the Jokester, thus creating a practically inescapable web of quirky images from which any one of us would be lucky to make it out alive. While the Jokester can sometimes be entertaining and delightful, you will never get anything accomplished as long as they’re on your group text, and you certainly better consider putting your phone on silent until their fingers tire or the subway tunnels cut off their connection.

The Incompetent. It’s safe to say we all have a friend we deeply love and cherish but simultaneously want to strangle, and I’m willing to bet much of that hostility stems from the group text. Because they just so happen to be the friend that wants to be involved in whatever’s happening, but does not want to follow along in order to know what’s happening. They’ll drop a line in every now and then, usually irrelevant to the conversation at hand, and a few hours, days or weeks later will ask for a recap of what they missed. You know, those words on that screen that they can just scroll up to and read themselves? I understand just as well as anyone else that group texts can turn into a hellish mishmash of shit that doesn’t seem worth reading along with, but when it becomes chronic behavior to ignore and ask for CliffsNotes, I simply cannot help your incompetent ass.

The Grumbler. The Incompetent sucks for sure, but equally if not more frustrating is the friend who doesn’t want to be involved so they bitch about being involved when they instead could just as easily leave the chat. You know ’em, you love ’em, the person who can’t just say no to doing something, they have to actually express the offense they feel for having even been asked to join. Why would they want to do that uncool thing you’re going to do? Why would anyone?? It’s the person who has something to say about everything and it’s just about always negative. You imagine them sitting unhappily at their desk eating Cheetos or on their couch swaddled in multiple Snuggies, wondering where life went wrong, unaware that their attitude is their biggest problem and then they remember text messages exist. And they pop open that text bar and go to town on your ass because it’s your fault their existence is meaningless and it’s definitely your fucking fault that you felt the need to include them in a casual conversation about live music. Haven’t you heard of the radio?! Now leave them alone, please, as they sit here and revel in misery instead of pressing two buttons to release them from this private text hell.

The Supersonic. This repeat offender doesn’t exist solely in the group text world, but it’s certainly the worst place for them to be. Don’t you miss the good old days of SMS? I like to think of it as vintage Twitter — you were given 160 characters to say everything you wanted to say, review what you’ve said and then… send! At that point, you would wait for a similarly thought-out response, followed by a rinse-and-repeat-type scenario. It’s too damn easy to text now! We can send so many messages in a row and they’re delivered instantly, and we can see that they’ve been delivered and move on to the next thing we so desperately need to say. As a result, you’re going to have the people that send 5-7 short, pointless messages instead of taking a fucking minute and collecting all of the information they want to share into one succinct paragraph before hitting the send button. I long for simpler times when it would have been more of a burden to the sender to create a new message for each meaningless thought they had than to prepare something complete and whole to say. Now we, the poor recipients, can only sit and wait as they rapid fire away their word vomit in our direction. What a life.

The Phantom. This is by far the most disconcerting of the bunch, but also the most tolerable. That is, because they never speak. It’s that friend who doesn’t want to be involved in whatever’s happening, so they stay on but straight up say nothing. Not a peep. The weird thing about this person is only that they haven’t made the mutually beneficial decision to get the hell out of the group text. They just allow their phone to act as some sort of text dumpster. Are they voyeuristically reading along? Are they just that fucking chill that they’re not bothered by the notifications? Are they not fluent in text functionality? DO THEY EVEN EXIST? It isn’t clear at this moment and by the time this went to press, we received no comment from any known Phantoms. We must now live in wonder.

Yeah, texting is great. It’s a magical land where lulls and awkward silences do not exist. You can pretend to laugh at or care about the futile shit your friends are talking about when in actual fact, you don’t care at all. Like, not even mildly. Your tone of voice would have been a dead giveaway; they’d be onto you. But here, all white liars live in harmony. Please don’t be mistaken, however — it is still a dangerous place. A place where your day can be ruined by the simple sound of a notification. A place where people can be the absolute worst versions of themselves because their idle hands must be busied. There will always be those who joke unnecessarily, who lack reading comprehension skills, who would rather grunt than giggle, who have rapid fire fingers and stagnant minds, who are mysterious in a bewildering way. I see no simple or immediate solution to this problem. But I hope with these tools, you can find some way to accept the darkness that waits behind your locked phone screen, ready to pounce and ruin your day. And I hope you choose to accept that anything, even this, is worth enduring in order to avoid holding a telephone to your ear and engaging in old-fashioned spoken conversation.

The Real Housewives Guide: How to Be the Absolute Worst

There are some things I would just rather not admit. Like that I have the bad habit of yawning without covering my mouth even though I preach about the supreme importance of good manners. Or that I’ve probably seen every episode of MTV’s Catfish. Or that I could do without Anna Kendrick. Or that I eat in bed. But I mean I pretty much eat only in bed. Like, almost nowhere else in my home do I eat. But anyway, nothing pains me more than to admit to another person for the first time that I am an avid watcher of The Real Housewives franchise. Though I keep some small amount of dignity for myself knowing that I only watch on demand rather than tune in each week, and have dropped down from multiple cities to just two (New York City & Beverly Hills), it’s still a difficult lump to swallow and an even more unfortunate truth to speak. In fact, when just this past week I casually dropped a Real Housewives reference into a conversation with a co-worker, she paused, looked hard at me and said, “You watch The Real Housewives? They’re so glamorous and you seem so… dark.” She wasn’t wrong. At first glance, I suppose I don’t exactly appear to fit the Housewives fan mold. (Then again, is there even such a thing?) Still, I’ve learned many a valuable lesson from these women, in terms of what not to do, how not to behave, how not to exist within the bounds of what we like to call human reality. And as I’m now deep in the trenches of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills season six, please allow me to share with you five vital truths I’ve learned from watching all of our favorite and/or least favorite TV wives. Take it as a How To: Be the Absolute Worst.

I. The Art of Admission. Somehow, in Real Housewives land, saying you did something to get a rise out of someone is real enough. All is forgotten the moment you admit you did something fucked up with the sole intention of letting plain old nastiness ensue. Once you admit it, you don’t have to reap the consequences of your original action or own up to the fact that you’re actually just a really shitty person. Recently, new RHOBH Housewife Kathryn told some Housewife that she told some other Housewife something unkind that Housewife had said about the other Housewife just to see how the Housewife who said it would react. I mean, that’s really the best way I can explain it. Just re-read it until it makes sense. (Really, it will never make sense.) But guess what?! It was like witchcraft or some shit. Admitting that she did what she did out of pure malice was her Get out of Jail Free card because almost instantly, all Housewives in dinner party attendance shut the fuck up as if they had never heard someone else come clean about doing something shitty for shitty reasons alone. There was no apology. There was no lesson leading to personal growth. The dinner party ended and all moved on. Abracadabra, baby!

II. Unfortunate Truths. Telling the truth doesn’t matter if you’re an asshole about it. Once upon a time, I was a fan of now defunct Housewife, Brandi Glanville. Not a popular opinion, I know, but I had to appreciate her unique way of “keeping it real.” She said everything — all of the things — she wanted, and the other wifeys did not want to let that shit fly. After accusing one wife of drug addiction, exposing the sham of a marriage of another wife, throwing a drink in yet another wife’s face for reasons unclear to just about everyone including Brandi herself, and threatening to harm and/or kill the majority of the wives among other offenses, this jig was up. Eventually, even I grew tired of my girl B, because it was clear to me that she was an absolute psychopath and it was no longer fun for any of us to watch or be a part of. The good lord Andy Cohen agreed and kicked her off of the show to what I can only imagine must have been Beverly Hills parades even more grand than Vanderpump’s much-promoted Gay Pride. Brandi G, you are gone but not forgotten. The truths you spoke stay with me still, even in spite of your absolute and indisputable insanity.

III. Brand AmbASSador. It’s okay to be a hypocrite if you are also a millionaire. RHONY’s Bethenny Frankel has opinions. Did you know that she has opinions? She does. She has opinions. Opinions about how people live their lives, who they date, how they run their businesses, what they say to other people, what they say about other people… the list goes on. But somehow, Bethenny does not want to hear opinions. She has neither the time nor the attention span for it. She is busy, goddammit! Ya know, running her brand???? How fucking rude are you? And if you tell her how to run her brand?! Forget about it! It’s on. Even though she’s openly critiqued other Housewives business ventures both behind their backs and straight to their faces. Within her own NYC crew last season, she absolutely shat on poor, defenseless Kristen Taekman’s nail color line, Pop of Color, as well as Sonja Morgan’s so-called “international fashion lifestyle brand,” Sonja Morgan New York. But that wasn’t enough for her. During the RHONY off-season, she took her talents to Beverly Hills for a visit. While there, she dared to disgrace the almighty Erika Jayne a.k.a. Erika Girardi a.k.a. ThePrettyMess after she shared a very intimate piece of pop performance art on her iPhone during dinner. Now granted, one of Erika Jayne’s songs includes the now-infamous catchphrase, “Pat the puss,” but how dare you, Bethenny Frankel?! She has eight #1 disco hits, you ingrate!

IV. Who Needs Dignity? Not Lisa Rinna. Lisa Rinna has big, fake lips — she said so! Lisa Rinna’s had the same hairstyle for decades — she said so! Lisa Rinna is wacky — she said so! Lisa Rinna will do anything for a buck — she said so. There’s just about nothing Lisa Rinna won’t cop to and it’s the main reason she’s almost impossible not to love. But it’s also the reason I think of Valerie Cherish pretty much every time she’s on screen. Equally ridiculous, Rinna knows she’s not as classy, intelligent, or sophisticated as some of the other Housewives (not that that’s saying much). Want her to endorse adult diapers? She’ll do it, and to the tune of an apparent $2 million. Want her to say or do something silly? Yeah, she’ll do it, but that shit’s for free. She’s just that kinda gal! She told you… she’s wacky! Rinna’s admitted time and time again that if it gets her money or keeps her relevant, she’s game, and as reasonable people, we can’t hate on that. In fact, maybe we should be taking a few pages from her book. Keep doin’ you, Lisa Rinna. You really are a dream come true.

V. Sane Ain’t the Way. If you’re sane or reasonable, you’re doing it wrong. Poor Eileen Davidson. I first met her as the seductive villainess, Kristen DiMera, on Days of our Lives when I was a child. I admired her both for her moxie and her off-the-charts insanity. When she showed up on the BH streets last season, I thought we were in for it. Unfortunately for all of us, Davidson was nothing like her fictitious counterpart. She was actually — get this — sane. I didn’t let that get to me, though. I was sure that, like many sane new Housewives additions before her, she would be sucked into the drama and that would be the end of that. The old Eileen would be gone forever. But it never happened. Back for her second season, she somehow seems almost more sane, level-headed and real. Too bad for Eileen, she’s not the kind of real these ladies are looking for. They don’t want to have adult conversations, Eileen! They don’t want to confront one another in a level-headed manner and tell the truth, Eileen! They don’t want to take good hard looks at themselves in the mirror, EILEEN! They want to pretend and ignore and divert and argue! That’s the goddamn Real Housewives way! I’ll always be rooting for you, Big E, but if you don’t want to get stomped all over, you’re going to need to change yourself completely for the sake of reality television, just like everybody else.

VI. Queen of the Housewives. Lisa Vanderpump is untouchable. She is unbreakable. She is indestructible. Lisa Vanderpump is the best Real Housewife of all time and she knows it. Consider this your bonus truth. If by some stroke of dreamlike luck, you ever encounter Pumpy, do not dare try to cross her. And if you ever reach the epic rock bottom of becoming a Real Housewife yourself, do not attempt to turn the others against her or slander her good name or reputation. Do not make the fatal error of underestimating her greatness. One by one, you will be defeated. Made into a social outcasts by her hand alone. Banished from the franchise, OR WORSE, denied service at SUR! It’s just the way it is. There has never before been and will never be a greater Housewife than she. And so it is done.

And there you have it, another fifteen minutes of life you’ll never get back. But at least now, you have some insight into the wonderland that is The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I never promised it would be easy. Never really promised it’d be worth it, either. Quite frankly, it isn’t. Like, not even a little bit. Bottom line is, by the time you know you’re hooked, it’ll be too late. And soon enough, you’ll be posting your own blogs about this mindless trash, wondering where it all went wrong. Now go ponder what your Housewives tagline will be. Make it sassy, fierce, and be sure it makes absolutely no sense. Now, twirl!

Perpetuators of Madness

Things for American twenty-somethings are looking grim, folks. When I look at myself and my friends, when I read news articles about so-called “millennials,” when I turn on the the television or pop open Netflix, there’s one glaring truth I can never avoid: My generation sucks. We’re constantly chastised for wanting it all but being too lazy, carefree (read: careless), entitled and fun-loving to work to get it. So we sit at jobs we hate, or in relationships that don’t add up, or with friends we resent because it’s way fucking easier than buckling down and making the situation better. We’re told this is who we are and we begrudge the generalization but, more often than not, it’s accurate. As I type this, I’m avoiding doing more important things that could get me another step closer to where I want to be. But I don’t dispute that there are people my age absolutely hustling, fighting to simply achieve. Some people astonish me with their drive and passion, the way they so clearly see how short this life will be and how much opportunity we have to make it something great. But the rest of us? At best, the most we can manage is something I warmly refer to as “the side hustle.” We live stale daily lives but do whatever we can to make time for our hobbies and passions, hoping one day we’ll turn them into something tangible. Still, that’s easily lost in the shuffle of everyday life and soon forgotten when the weather is warm and margaritas are five dollars until 7pm. Then, all is lost.

It’s bad enough so many of us balk at the notion of becoming self-starters, talk the talk but would rather lie in bed and switch from Instagram to Twitter back to Instagram again, seek and find so many others of our kind to commiserate with over a Lagunitas IPA or three, but we are only aided by the people and programs around us who perpetuate the madness we’ve become such experts at. That’s why, when I turn on the television to see a 25-year old Hannah Horvath being a generally terrible human being who can’t get her shit together, or an alternate-reality Aziz Ansari whose troublingly unlucky in love, or the thirty-somethings in the newer Netflix original series who actually appear to have their shit even less together than I do in my late twenties, or even Carrie and the gang, who are pushing forty and though they have real jobs and real apartments and real money with which to pay for really nice things, cannot lock down love or even some semblance of a totally grownup life, I get why we don’t get our fucking shit together. Because it’s okay to not have your shit together — TV says so! That is, until it’s too late and we’ve become the fictional characters we’ve relied upon for far too long. But for now, let’s take a quick look at a couple of them, in hopes of recognizing what they’re doing to us and vowing to not be a subject to their shitty examples of lives for another day of ours.

 GIRLS. When I exited college and it became very clear to me that I would not immediately (or maybe ever) have a proper career in journalism, I thought it an opportunity to seek out Lena Dunham’s Hannah as a compatriot in my struggle. That was, of course, until I decided she was a disaster of a sociopath who maybe didn’t deserve love or success… like, ever. And fucking surprise! All of her friends were almost equally as terrible. As I sat in my twin bed at my parents home, I thought, “It’s not just me!,” and I watched the rest of that season from that very bed, feeling somehow better about myself. And as their lives went off in troubling tangents, I felt more and more that mine wasn’t so awful; that we were all in the same boat. Time went on and none of their lives really improved much, so why was I pushing for progress? The thing is, though, these people were not real and I shouldn’t have used them to console my worse-for-wear adult standing. In five seasons, they’d be gone, likely living as happily ever after as you can in Brooklyn because we all want to hope for the best… even for you, Hannah Horvath.

 

LOVE. Netflix’s newest binge series lets us follow one 30-something guy who has lost almost everything chase after one 30-something complete fuck-up until he inevitably lands her because that’s what happens, apparently. All the complete nonsense in between, it turns out, is par for course? Is this what I have to look forward to? Just about the only desirable situation either of these alleged grown-ups finds themselves in is that they know Birdie, the leading lady’s roommate, who is the absolute saving grace of their shams of lives. But even knowing this, I watched along as each of the main characters slowly but surely loses their shit and thought to myself, “Well, if they don’t have it together at this point, maybe I’m okay,” like some kind of completely delusional loser! At this point, I was contemplating writing this piece so I was obviously aware that what I was watching was not real and I should not use these people as the bar to which I hold myself, but still, I gave in. I still took comfort in the story of a young woman so far off her rocker it was hard to believe she was still living a somewhat functional life. And as I sat there, binge-watching with my friend, holding Budweiser tallboys in our hands and shouting, “Oh my god, that’s so you!,” at one another as we so closely related to every other scene, the madness continued.

These are just two of the latest and greatest depictions of what can only be described as “loser adults.” Sex and the City, Master of None, Friends, Happyish, New Girl, and even a favorite of mine, Happy Endings, all featured imperfect adult specimens who, though relatable, have had the ability to confuse school buses full of students of life into thinking that having it all isn’t for the lot of us. Carrie Bradshaw had a pretty cool job and a buttload of expensive shoes, but it took her six freaking seasons to figure love out and put on her big girl pants when it came to navigating both her personal and professional life. She was 37 by then. When Aziz’s Dev Shah discovers that what he’s spent his entire adult life seeking may not be all that, he makes a rash decision in hopes of finding what he needs somewhere else. But you can’t help but look on skeptically, as if everyone — even those involved — is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Chandler Bing was roughly 35 when he took a job as an unpaid intern after years of working a generic office job that gave him absolutely no fulfillment. Thom Payne, in the short-lived dark comedy Happyish, spent his younger years securing a well-paying job at a cool company, a hot wife, a cute (yet unbearably annoying) kid, and a house in the Catskills to get stoned at, but he was very truly old and miserable in spite of all of that. Nick Miller is the saddest among a loft of of sad sacks in New Girl — broke, confused, directionless — and those are some of his better qualities. And Dave in Happy Endings was left at the altar, hates his menial role at a nondescript job, and appears to have very little to live for but, dammit he tries, I guess…in a way. And he somehow comes off looking like a prince compared to his wayward, clueless, ape-like buddy, Max. Obviously, the list of these anti-role-models goes on (Togetherness, Scrubs, It’s Always Sunny…). Knowing all of this, maybe we continue to watch on with extreme caution and self-awareness, or maybe it’s time we get off of our complacent young professional asses and do whatever we can to rise up like phoenixes and remember that the hustle is in all of us, even if we are a little bit fucked up.  

A Peek into a Man’s Closet With Capsule

This week, something different. The following is a feature from my good friend, Dan Potocki, who shares his experience of creating a capsule wardrobe and the positive effects simplifying and identifying your own style can have on your life.

A P E E K I N T O A M A N ‘ S C L O S E T W I T H C A P S U L E
How adopting a mindset of simplicity will benefit your daily flow.

by Dan Potocki
February 2016.
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HOW I LEARNED ABOUT CAPSULE //
When I first heard of capsule, I thought it was for women only. Every quick search led me to article after article, written by women for the women’s audience about the women’s experience. So, I read almost every article, because I was interested in the concept of capsule, and I was intrigued to learn about its appeal to simplify your budget and mindset. But overall, it was confirmed in my mind – capsule was for women.
Then I learned about how my good friend, Ben, had been “capsuling” for months. At the time, Ben was studying at Parsons School of Design while running his business design firm, Guildsmith. Still, even though my thoughts shifted to thinking that capsule might be for men, too, I associated it with artists – you know, creatives who paint or film movies, or stylists who work at J. Crew or the local brick-and-mortar boutique.

From my perspective, Ben was wearing only black and white, which was too “artsy” for me, so I dismissed it. I thought of capsule as the thing that fashion professionals do, and I was not comfortable with how “feminine” capsule seemed to be, seeing as the trends were being led by women across the board. In retrospect, there was nothing for me to relate to, given my experience. There were no resources or guides to read, no coworkers to consult, no teammates in my men’s basketball league or mentors in the board room to speak to about it.

WHY I RELATED TO CAPSULE //
Quick check – I am just being honest, and I think many other men might likely feel the same way, but it took time for me to realize that my sense of style and dress was shaped by my experiences of being born and raised in Yonkers, NY, home of the brave, in a blue-collar family. I attended prep school, where we wore khakis with Hush Puppies and blue shirts with blazers, and I have spent a large amount of my time working with senators and business executives, all of whom dress traditionally in suits.

As I thought about capsule more and more, I realized that these experiences are at the very core of capsule: A simplified approach to dressing, in accordance with what defines a person. Thinking back, there had been flashes of capsule around me, including my dad’s generational weekend dress – blue jeans, calf-high white socks and white sneakers, with either a tee or button-up shirt. Capsule, in a sense, harkens back to the philosophy/approach adopted by religious order monks and/or priests, and has been known to be a driving force for radically-successful businessmen including Steve Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg. I thought time and again about Harvard and Princeton’s rockstar professor, Cornell West, who is known for reciting word for word the classical texts of Plato and Aristotle while wearing his go-to black-and-white attire on campus.
Capsule started to appeal to me because I associated it with excellence, and it became more of an approach to daily life, rather than a way to be fashionable. Capsule struck a chord with my yearning to simplify, while being a pragmatic way to focus on what defined me. In light of my search to gain more ease in my day-to-day flow, and a need for more space in my closet and mind, one of the defining factors for adopting my own capsule was relating to my paternal grandfather, Grandpa Charlie, who wore dark trousers and a white, pocketed dress shirt or plaid button-up every day of his life. Gramps lived simple because he had to, with little money and a fixer-upper house, but huge responsibility to run a government department and take care of a growing family. In fact, I was struck by how he is an example of the difference between how his generation and mine value things like clothing and household goods: If his coffee pot broke, he would go down to his workbench in his cellar and rummage through his old coffee cans or Ball jars to find a piece to replace it; if my coffeemaker breaks, I will go to a superstore and buy a new one. What this means to me, and how this relates to capsule, is based on my perspective on value: Build from what you have, not from what you want. And with this in mind, I took the chance to dive in and refresh my flow, which has already had a ton of influence on my mindset, in addition to allowing me to better manage my closet and wallet.

WHAT I VALUE ABOUT CAPSULE //
Part of the pitch for capsule is that it is about adopting “essentialism” or “minimalism.” Perhaps that is a part of it, but overall it is important to note that capsule is about adopting a mindset of more simplicity, regardless of how big or small your closet or budget are at the moment. You might come across rules to capsule, which can make building and maintaining a capsule more complicated than you initially think.
• Capsule is seasonal, allowing you to limit clothing pieces to a total of 33 items in winter, 33 items in spring, 33 items in summer, and 33 items in fall.
• Capsule includes tops, bottoms, jackets, and shoes/sneakers/boots, so someone does not need to count workout, sleep, special clothing (i.e. skiing), and accessories in the total.
• Some people change the rules slightly, based on what they include in the final count, while others limit clothing pieces to 37 in stead of 33 items total.
As I learned more about the rules, I realized that there are really two types of capsules: 1. a season-specific capsule, which I think is driven by the tenets of consumerism, and 2. a life-flow capsule, which I think is a simplified approach to understanding what defines you. If you interpret the rules of a season-specific capsule, you could have, in actuality, a capsule of 100+ items in your closet, which is entirely not the point. Rather, I wanted to focus on where I fit on the capsule spectrum – either adhering to a strict uniform (i.e. black jeans and white shirt with black shoes and jacket) or developing a rounded selection of flexible items.

Capsule is built by capping your closet at an agreed-upon, set number of items that you are dedicated to wearing on a routine basis. So, capsule causes you to let go of more items that do not work for you. But, I learned that it was deeper than that – going for my own capsule meant I had to let go of the concepts in my mind. I had to begin to overcome my place in the culture of consumerism, and accept that it was ok to wear the same pieces over and over. Time and again, I reminded myself of how capsule is associated with intellectual giants, and how it breeds a robust mix of excellence and simplicity. I would rather reach into my closet and pick the right pieces to build my capsule, than go to the store to purchase a new wardrobe.

WHAT I DID TO BUILD MY CAPSULE //
Honesty became my key. I did not hold back, and sought to include all categories and all items in my capsule.
• Categories: formal dress, work, date night, casual, workout, beachwear, special sporting, sleepwear
• Items: undergarments, socks, bathing suits, shorts and pants, tees, polos and button-ups, sweatshirts, sweaters and fleeces, jackets and sports jackets, suits, boots, shoes, sneakers, sandals, slippers, belts, ties, hats, scarves, gloves, sunglasses, bags and backpacks, watched, wallets

I opened my closet and took a count – 140+ total clothing pieces, and over 200 with all items included. Wow. Immediately, I identified almost half of my clothes as ones that I had not worn in months. But I did not want to hold back, so I took all pieces out of my closet, as capsule rules advise, and asked myself two guiding questions:
• Would I wear this item right now?
• Would I wear this item with any other piece in my capsule right now?
Whenever I answered “yes,” I placed the item back in my closet.

I separated the spring/summer items – a total of 36 pieces – placed them in a sealed bag, which I put in the back of my closet and have not opened since. Of the items that are no longer in my closet, I donated some and have begun to sell other pieces. Aside from the bag in the back of my closet, I do not think about any of the items I got rid of, so now that extra space is back in my brain.

Then, I revisited everything, and counted again – 80+, which is about a 60% cut. Throughout the process, I became a little bit of a questioning-maniac, with the intent of cutting wherever I could, but I returned time and again to the thought of how my grandfather placed ALL of his pieces in one mahogany, double-door armoire for years. In light of this, I thought that my attempt was unacceptable, but a solid start, so I revisited all items again. I repeated this process for about two weeks, and settled on a total of 44 clothing pieces for the fall/winter season for my first capsule, including undergarments/socks, sleepwear, accessories, boots/shoes/sneakers, casual, workout, and work/formal.

WHAT LESSONS I LEARNED FROM CAPSULE //
Three months into capsule, I am more my self because I understand where I stand on the capsule spectrum. I literally do not think about the process of getting dressed, all the while being comfortable in all of my pieces, because I built based on what works for me. I am prepared for all weather conditions and types of activities that I enjoy because I have thought through what I need for my daily flow. I have not purchased a piece in months, and do not feel any need to do so until next fall/winter season, as needed.

Here are some things I have learned so far that might help you as you take the first step or next step in exploring your capsule.

LESSON ONE / Start with what you have and build from there.
You will define yourself as you go. Stick to the pieces that you know you love and will return to time and again. Force yourself to forget about the rest, and do not purchase any other items within the next three months. Trust that your value is in yourself, and understand that your items are a reflection of you. As Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote in his classic, Thoreau, while deep in the woods, “Simplify!”

LESSON TWO / Continue to parse and refine as you go.
Of the 44 items I started with in fall 2015, I am down to a solid 30 that I wear time and again. Although this means a little more attention to laundry, it does afford me much more time for focusing on what is most important in my day. Take your favorite pieces to your tailor, and match your desired fit. Feel free to set aside pieces to work back in at a later time. As Aristotle said, “We are what we do repeatedly. Excellence, then, is a habit.”

LESSON THREE / Go big on quality, small on quantity, and do not be afraid to repeat.
I understand now why folks who advocate for capsule guide people to purchase higher-quality t-shirts and the like. You will be satisfied with the long-lasting value of your capsule, especially as you use certain pieces throughout all four seasons. Beware, because this does not mean purchasing all new items each season, or new items too regularly in season; instead, it means that you have to really think through your grabs with more precision, and spend wisely. Feel free to identify gaps, where needed, but do not shy away from buying the same exact pieces to have more than one, because this is a sign that you know yourself.

LESSON FOUR / Apply the lessons to other elements of your life, to simplify.
Clean your email and desk drawers. Refresh your office and house. Capsule provides you with a new awareness and perspective. It will teach you to be more observant of your flow in other aspects of your life. Have an extra pot or pan? Give it away. Two wallets? Donate one. You don’t have to get rid of everything in your house, but be honest with what you use and identify what you need. Just as capsule helps to define your fashion style, it can help create avenues for how you explore simple living and cooking and traveling and hiking, etc.

Most people do not believe they can do it. Make it an experiment: Do not throw away anything (at first); just designate a space and place all of your extras there for a defined time. Then decide. Don’t think about a number; rather, think about your flow – what you need to sleep and workout, what you are comfortable in while chill’ing out, what your go-to piece is for work or that wedding. Focus on what you love, and be open to knowing that what defines you will change over time.

Email me at depotocki@gmail.com with questions and/or comments. Visit my Instagram at: @danpotocki

#OscarsSoWasted: Pointless Oscars Predictions

Tonight, Oscars night, is my favorite night of the year. It’s one of the few pointless things I hold dear in this life. Each year, I turn down viewing party invitations in order to snuggle up in my bed and watch The Oscars alone. I must hear and see every crucial moment (and all Oscars moments are crucial), and I mustn’t be distracted, not even for a moment, because on Oscars night, so much can happen in a moment. This is a ritual. And tonight will be no exception. I love everything about the Oscars, even the parts I hate. Like the red carpet pre-show where dummies ask movie stars questions about stuff that has nothing to do with the reasons they’re there. Good god, I hate it, but I watch that shit from start to finish! Or the post-Oscars show where a bumbling (yet somewhat adorable) Maria Menounos tries to force conversation with whatever helpless celebrity stops to greet her. But the real action happens during the awards ceremony, or more specifically, the commercial breaks. I live for the quick captures of actors and directors I admire schmoozing with one another. I LIVE FOR IT. And the awards are great too, as long as some asshole actor doesn’t use the podium as an opportunity to so narcissistically congratulate his/herself via a long-winded tale fully equipped with life lessons (looking at you, McConaughey). It is because and in spite of these moments that I love the Oscars and would rightfully consider myself an Oscars fanatic. That being said, I think I’m just as qualified as any Entertainment Weekly columnist to make predictions about what the night will hold. But these predictions won’t tell you who’ll be best-dressed or take home the most coveted awards of the night — that shit is boring and pointless and I’m no Miss Cleo. Big picture, these predictions mean nothing but they do encourage you to drink in celebration of all of the glory that The Oscars hold in their little, golden hands. So fill your glasses, ladies and gentlemen. The nominees aren’t even allowed to drink at this one (this isn’t the Globes, after all) and most of them will go home empty-handed. But for us, ah yes for us, The Oscars will be magic.

Giuliana Rancic will ask at least 5 celebrities an awkward question on the pre-show and will then do everything in her power to fix it, even if it means sacrificing herself on the red carpet as a distraction. *Take a sip of your Oscars champs for each awkward question up to 5 awkward questions. After 5 awkward questions, stop, because it’s going to be a long night.*

Ryan Seacrest will wear his own brand, Ryan Seacrest Distinction, along with a pleased-with-himself grin. *Take a sip every time Ryan name-drops his brand. Take 2 sips every time he appears to be overly-pleased with himself.*

We’ll spend 2 hours watching the E! Network just to find out who they’re wearing even though it’s the most absolutely inconsequential fact of the evening. *Finish your flute every time an actor takes an Oscars dump on ideas the people at E! have been thinking up for months.*

Chris Rock will not be Ellen Degeneres. *Take a shot every time Chris Rock references #OscarsSoWhite because… that’s a thing… and nobody’s fixed it yet, so let’s just get drunk.*

Alicia Vikander will be both gracious and stunning but we’ll still have a hard time believing she’s not definitely a robot on a mission to destroy us all. *Take a sip every time Vikander appears on screen… ya know… to ease the fear.*

We’ll spend all night trying to decide whether we love Kate Winslet or Cate Blanchett more. *Take a sip every time it just pops into your mind that you wish you could be best friends with either Kate/Cate. (I’m still wasted from doing this last year.)*

We’ll all question how and why The Martian was nominated for an Oscar, even me, who hasn’t seen it. *Take a shot for each Bourne movie you’ve seen. Take another shot for each Bourne movie you’ve liked. We’re not to acknowledge The Martian at this time.*

Brie Larson and Jennifer Lawrence will have a girl-next-door-off which will result in hugs because, like, they’re so relatable, right?! *Take a sip every time you doubt the sincerity/sweetness of either leading lady but still vow to love them for the rest of eternity anyway.*

Mark Ruffalo will make a “Feel the Bern” reference at some point. *Take a sip if it happens. Take a sip if you think Mark Ruffalo may be a time-traveling past version of Bernie Sanders. Take a sip if you’d still sleep with Mark Ruffalo even after he admitted to having a tiny dick.*

Someone or everyone will mispronounce Saoirse Ronan’s name after literally hours of practicing it. *Take a sip any time someone says Saoirse’s name either correctly or incorrectly, because they tried… they really tried.*

Rooney Mara will lose the Oscar on account of her longing looks in Carol being not quite longing enough. *Take a sip every time Rooney Mara looks like she’d rather be anywhere else… literally ANYWHERE else.*

When Leo DiCaprio inevitably accepts his Oscar, we’ll notice that his face is a little bit off and he sort of speaks out of the side of his mouth but we’ll still all go on and on for weeks about how gorgeous and talented he is. *Chug right from the bottle when Leo finally wins his first Oscar because everything is now right and just in the world. If he loses, finish the bottle because FUCK EVERYTHING YOU’RE ALL MONSTERS.*

The night will come to a close and we’ll be left with nothing but the unfortunate truth that tomorrow at work, we’ll need to talk to co-workers we don’t like about what we thought of The Oscars. *Finish whatever’s left on the table. Monday awaits.*

You’re Not the Only Cool Girl

In light of last weekend’s events (i.e. the Super Bowl), I really got to thinking about what it means to be a girl in this world. (Cue No Doubt and female rage now.) On a narrow, astonishingly ignorant spectrum, girls can fall into one of two categories: a classic lady or guy’s girl. Our male friends place us into these categories when they decide which of us is right to invite to a baseball game when they get last-minute tickets from work, and we do it to ourselves when we revolve our worlds around making sure both sexes see us as agreeable and adaptive. I am no less guilty of this than any other girl. I’ve built my entire style around androgyny and have said on more than 131 occasions that I relate better to men than to women. But that doesn’t mean that I’m unaware of my own hypocrisy, because I also like hanging out with my girlfriends. I enjoy the conversations we have and when I’m at a wine tasting with them, just like when I’m watching wrestling with the guys, I feel like we relate on a very real and honest level. This isn’t always the case, but I couldn’t say that it happens any less than it does in my encounters with the opposite sex. There are far too many of us who so delusionally believe that our male friends should cherish us for our chill attitudes and affinity for typically masculine activities when the truth is, the only ones we’re fooling are ourselves. So as a tribute to all of those gals trying so hard to make everyone believe they’re one of the guys, I give you: You’re Not the Only Cool Girl.

Dear Self-Defined “Cool Girl,”

You are not cool because you watch sports. Sports are for everyone. And I know saying, “Sports are for everyone,” is like saying, “Racism doesn’t exist,” because even though it’s true in some cases, many people still believe the sports world is a man’s world (just like, fucking obviously, racism exists). But the bottom line is, any girl can enjoy a sporting event just as much as any guy can. I’ve watched teams I’ve never seen before play in games I’ve never liked and still gotten so into it I’m cheering, sweating, grunting, and feeling that nervous feeling in my stomach because it’s just too close to call. And even though in high school, I rocked bitches, pushing basketballs into their faces after they’d made the extremely poor decision to come in my lane, I was still a blonde chick who wore band tees and makeup. So just because you throw on a backwards cap and a form-fitted jersey and speak in sports lingo does not make you one of the guys and it doesn’t make you cooler than any other girl. It just makes you, like, a fun person in general. Big congrats on being fun.

You are not cool because you like beer. Beer is great. Beer is like bread. There are so many variations of it and every last one is so goddamn delicious you can sometimes hardly imagine your life without it at this point. These days, drinking craft beer and visiting beer festivals and breweries is almost as common an activity as seeing a film. So darlings, do me a favor and get off of your high horses and come back down to earth so you can hear me better. Okay, now that you’re down safely, I’ll go on… Just because you can talk beer with the best of them, flip cups like a champ, and drink your male friends under the table doesn’t mean you should go around town acting like your body houses both reproductive organs. Beer is for the masses and it’s no badge of mannish honor that you happen to enjoy it too. (Please note: The same applies to whiskey. Brown liquor does not a man make.)

You are not cool because you “don’t do drama.” You know who doesn’t “do drama?” Sane people who surround themselves with other sane people who have better things to talk about than each other. Being one sex versus the other does not make you any more or less dramatic. I mean, have you ever had a boyfriend with a head cold? Give those motherfuckers a Daytime Emmy because that dramz is worthy of applause and an acceptance speech that goes long past when the music starts playing. And still, even knowing this, we brag to our male friends about our unique ability to not involve ourselves in cattiness and eye-roll-worthy conversation, despite the unlikely fact of an XX chromosome. I won’t argue that gossip and pointless banter seem to often be most prevalent amongst women, but I would argue that there are plenty a man on earth who bitch to their boys about their roommate’s girlfriend regularly inhabiting their living space rent-free, or who just can’t turn a blind eye to and not gossip about that guy at work who talks really loudly on the phone from 9-to-fucking-5. It’s happening, babe. You just might not be there to witness it. Oh, drama. None of us are immune.

So I guess the takeaway here is ::NEWS FLASH:: No girl appears any cooler in the eyes of any beholder — male or female — by playing herself off as nothing more than one of the guys. And more than that, none of us fall into one category or the other. This is 2016, after all. We can be all things. For instance, today I’m wearing a piece of costume jewelry and tonight I’m going to bowl and drink a ton of beer. Isn’t this world an awesome, understanding, emotionally-freeing place?

Albums I Played Until There Was Almost No Meaning Left (Part III)

THE “WHAT MORE IS OUT THERE?” PHASE

There are only so many guys with guitars you can listen to before you start looking for something more. Guys with guitars are great. For so many reasons. But they’re not all there is. Once I realized that, I was opened up to a world of interesting characters, both with and without guitars and penises. The two ladies below are polarizing, captivating, strange and familiar. And they reminded me of a valuable lesson every woman should learn before it’s too late: Guys with guitars will never be enough. 

 2014: St. Vincent – St. Vincent. St. Vincent is an alien robot freak who was not made for this world. I had only learned of her days before I saw her live for the first time and I was way late to the party. So for the most part, I was going in blind and that somehow made for an even better experience because I couldn’t have known what was coming. Her show is a spectacle and had I known any more about her than I did at the time, I might’ve seen it coming. But I didn’t and that night, I fell in love with her and her music from the ground floor of Terminal 5. Yeah, she was so good she transformed Terminal 5 into a place I could tolerate, maybe even enjoy. This self-titled album plays like a love letter to anyone who feels a little bit weird. We know by now that weird is good but this album proves once and for all that weird is better. You will never experience a live show like St. Vincent’s and I’m thinking it’ll be tough for you to find another album as fully realized as this one is. It’s a fucking art project and if you’re looking for something that doesn’t sound like a lot of other things playing, here’s your ticket. Also worth noting that Annie Clark (a.k.a. St. Vincent) is a massive Bowie fan, but you’ll figure that out as soon as you check out a video. Best Track: Of all of the albums I’ve named up to this point, this is the hardest one to select the best from. I highly recommend you listen to it start to finish, but if you need an entry point, go Birth in Reverse. Best Live Song: Again, this is tricky so I have two must-sees: Rattlesnake and Bring Me Your Loves.

 2015: Honeymoon – Lana Del Rey. The Lana Del Rey album I really want to write about, I wrote about when it was released in 2014. I went on and on about it with much closer inspection than I’ve done with any of the albums mentioned here. I love Ultraviolence and even if Lana Del Rey goes on to make bigger and better albums in years to come, I have a sneaking suspicion it will always be my favorite for its darkness, its sweetness, its sadness, and its Auerbach-ness. Also because it was the first time a Lana fan like myself looked at her previous albums and thought, “Did those suck?” It wasn’t that they sucked; it was just that this one was different in a pretty epic way. But still, Honeymoon was a massive move for Lana Del Rey. It did well critically and with it, she was able to create her own world for more and more listeners to venture into. All of that started with a hotline that could be reached when calling the phone number on the album cover. It ended with some better-realized version of the Lana Del Rey “persona” everyone has been so fixated on invalidating for so long. She sounded better, almost unbelievably better. If possible, the songs were sadder but in a more actual way, like when you watch a movie that leaves you completely gutted even though you can’t totally relate to it and you know it’s not real. Perhaps the best thing about this album was that, for the most part, it’s greatness was undeniable. Unlike Born to Die and Paradise, these were all good songs from start to finish. Unlike Ultraviolence, you didn’t have to be sad or in a thunderstorm to value them. I think this is a really good album, fan or not. Favorite Track: For all intents and purposes, I’m going with Salvatore. There are a lot of other songs that I really love on this album, but I’ve played this one relentlessly. Hypnotizing and beautiful, it transports you somewhere else and the tone and depth of her voice could straight up knock you out. I’m not kidding, I once felt faint listening to it on full volume on my headphones, but I realize that probably won’t be everyone’s response. Best Live Song: TBD because to memory, I’ve only seen High by the Beach live.

And that concludes my roundup. Enjoy your weekend and remember… Only homicidal monsters don’t like music.

 

Albums I Played Until There Was Almost No Meaning Left (Part II)

THE “CUTTING EDGE” PHASE

When I was 25, I went to shows almost constantly. I didn’t really give a damn who was performing, I was just hoping to score big on the next big thing. But I also scoured the internet for music that sounded different but had the potential to sink its teeth into the necks of the masses. In doing that, I found a number of what I would describe as really special bands. For the first time maybe ever, I was the friend who would suggest something my other music fan friends hadn’t heard of, and once I did I’d rope them into coming with me to see them play. Starting that year, I saw each of the artists below more times than I can count on one hand. It may seem a bit obsessive, but their live shows were always really incredibly and noticeably different each time. They were two of my most gratifying and memorable finds and remain favorites to this day.

2012: Fear Fun – Father John Misty. Father John Misty isn’t for everyone. In fact, he’s kind of a maniac because he talks and sings about shit that almost nobody wants to hear about when what they’re seeking is entertainment. He mocks pretty much everyone with a pulse because he knows what we all know but are unwilling to admit and that is, we’re fucking ridiculous. Just about everything we do is fucking ridiculous. So why would he pass on the opportunity to regularly expose us through his music? Aside from writing songs with ideological meat on their bones and somehow making them amusing to a really solid population of people, what I can promise you is that he is one of the best goddamn performers on the planet (pretty much solely excluding like, Mick Jagger). I’ve now seen him play somewhere between five and ten times, from deep in a pit at some goddamn festival to practically face-to-face at some Space Ninety 8 (an Urban Outfitters concept store in Williamsburg *eye roll+guffaw*). Each time, he served up a sweet voice that sounded almost identical to the voice on record, Iggy-Pop-esque dance moves, and a built-in comedy act which often included an uninhibited roasting of audience members at random. But ah, how I adore FJM. The talent. The charisma. The alarming way he made you love him while he was treating you like a garbage idiot. I’ll never understand how he does any of it, which I guess is the point. Anyway, three years down the road and this remains at the tip-top of my list of favorite albums. For best results, pop this on when you’re on a low-key ski trip (or something of the sort) with friends. Make some breakfast, pour some mimosas, maybe light a joint and let it play in the background. Let it massage your soul until you think that maybe, yes, maybe you could live on that couch forever, joint in hand while Father John Misty flawlessly croons the words to… Favorite Track: Going with Fun Times in Babylon this time because every time I listen to it I can almost feel myself sinking into a cloud of “Nothing else matters. This is all meaningless,” but ya know, like in a good way. (Suggested listening: Nancy From Now On, which is the first FJM track I ever heard.) Best Live Song: Only Son of the Ladiesman.

2013: Muchacho – Phosphorescent. Phosphorescent’s been around. But around the time Muchacho came out, I never passed a record store without it being featured in the front display. The buzz about this album was real. So real, I don’t even remember exactly how or when I discovered the band but I do remember the album not being available on iTunes yet when I had, so it must have been sometime in the winter of 2013. After that, I bought tickets to see them play at Bowery Ballroom and that decision would change the rest of my year because after that, I had to see them again… and again… and again… until I saw them for the last time to date last year at Music Hall of Williamsburg, which 3-day span of shows ended up being compiled into a live album months later. One thing I will say for the sake of full disclosure is that the first show was the best one. The band was better, the energy was better, it seemed to go on forever. Every show after that was good, but they seemed like a band who’d been on the road for a while, which they had. But none of really matters here because we’re supposed to be talking about Muchacho, which is worthy of praise. It’s one of those albums where maybe you don’t listen to every song regularly, but you do for more than half of it. More than half of the songs become obsessions, which I think is a pretty good representation of what it means to be a notable album. Head honcho Matthew Houck has a whining, crackly voice, almost pitchy, but sings every word with feeling and sorrow. The way he reaches for emotion in songs reminds me of Jeff Buckley when I really think about it — that leaving the body type of feeling — though he doesn’t quite have the pipes to compare. He’s thoughtful and poetic, and though often depressing, has a sound I’m able to enjoy whether I’m stuck in a thunderstorm or taking a long walk on a spring day. I think anyone can like Phosphorescent easily, but not everyone will. All I can suggest is that you give it a shot. Favorite Track: Though it’s initial impact has somewhat worn off, Song for Zula upon first listen and many more listens after that, is an epic, honest love song. I know Houck once alluded to the song being about something you wouldn’t expect, but he didn’t want to taint it for listeners by sharing the origin. I haven’t heard that he’s shared it since, but whatever the meaning is behind it, it hits you right where it hurts. Best Live Song: The Quotidian Beasts.

Tomorrow: THE “WHAT MORE IS OUT THERE?” PHASE

Albums I Played Until There Was Almost No Meaning Left (Part I)

THE “OHH, SO THIS IS MUSIC” PHASE

The three albums in this category are ones that presumably everybody knows. For lack of a better concept, I’d call these my gateway albums. Every now and then, some cool band or artist makes the transition from best kept secret to radio star and just before they get so big they either start making stone cold pop music or start completely changing their sound to stay fresh and current, they make a few great albums. These albums come from popular bands that are just cool enough that we get to overlook the fact that they’ve been played far too often on far too many radio stations. From the 90s and 00s, these albums have stayed with me since the first time I listened to them and they’re somehow still just as great.

 1995: Tragic Kingdom – No Doubt. Allow me one second to be vaguely hyperbolic and say that finding No Doubt was a pivotal point in my youth. Since I was born in the late eighties, by the time I discovered them, they were already on their way. I can’t remember exactly which music video it was that sucked me in because they all kind of blend at this point, but I remember seeing Gwen Stefani’s bleach blonde hair and pencil thin eyebrows and wanting to be whatever that was. I was in complete awe of her as a performer and it became clear to me in that moment that liking No Doubt meant that for the first time, I liked something that was truly cool. Before No Doubt was NSYNC, Britney Spears, the Spice Girls… all of which were great in their own right, but none were by any means cool. My first cassette tapes were Music Box by Mariah Carey and The Bodyguard soundtrack, so I was at least respectable but even those weren’t cool. There was a difference and I recognized that difference early on. This one came out at a time when bands didn’t shoot their entire load in a few-month span, so a lot of these tracks became singles from its release in ’95 until ’97. The album is made up of some of the best ND tracks they’ve ever put out and some of them are the biggest hits they’ve ever made (which isn’t the same thing). It’s a piece of nostalgia for me and probably a ton of others who long for simpler times when Adidas pants and clown shoes were acceptable formal wear. It was something so perfect and unique to that time, just looking at the cover could almost transport you back to the moment Tony and Gwen were probably having ill-advised post-breakup sex. Ah, young ska punk love. Favorite Track: I’m not going to be cool about this and name some random song that got a small amount of attention. It’s gotta be Don’t Speak or Just a Girl, depending on how feminist I’m feeling (which usually isn’t very.) Best Live Song: Spiderwebs.

 2004: Hot Fuss – The Killers. The Killers are one of the greatest bands to have ever existed. This is an indisputable fact. I’ve never met anyone who’s argued that with me and I’m thinking it’s because they’re basically the Jennifer Lawrence of bands. Pretty much everyone likes them except for that one asshole who can’t take it because they’re too popular and their songs are too catchy. Regardless of either of those things, I can turn on The Killers any day, even now, and enjoy them just as much. When I heard Somebody Told Me, my knee-jerk reaction was to be totally unphased because to me, they were Maroon 5 in a lower pitch, but Mr. Brightside sold me almost as instantly and I gave Sam Goody my parent’s money to get Hot Fuss. Aside from being on this list of transition-into-cool albums that never get old, this is and will probably always be one of my favorite albums of all time. The Killers were epic from the start and Brandon Flowers may have been the first man I was ever wildly attracted to for more than his looks. Though beautiful, he’s an awkward-bodied dude. But his sound, stage presence and overall aesthetic are practically god-like and all of that was true in the time of Hot Fuss because like Flowers, Hot Fuss was undeniable. And like any other Killers album, the best songs are the ones you have probably never listened to unless you’re as in love with the band as I am, so… Favorite Track: It’s a tossup between Andy, You’re a Star and my original favorite, Jenny Was a Friend of Mine. Between Flowers’ wailing in Andy and cool, creepy desperation in the murder-mystery that is Jenny, it’s a motherfucking win-win. Best Live Song: All These Things That I’ve Done.

 2006: First Impressions of Earth – The Strokes. If you existed in the early 2000s and knew about The Strokes, you were hip as hell. If you existed in the mid-2000s and didn’t know about The Strokes, I honestly don’t know what the fuck you were doing because I was only like 16 or something and I knew who they were and they were the final stepping stone I needed to reach the drawbridge that would take me from good music to really good music. The album was recently described by Michael Nelson of Stereogum with this balls-on accurate sentence: “For all its failures, noble or grotesque, First Impressions of Earth, like the band itself in 2006, was an event.” To really understand how I feel about The Strokes and about this album, or to simply school yourself and enjoy some great written analysis, I encourage you to read that here. But what this album did was take The Strokes from should’ve beens to bonafide rock stars and eventually legends. Without this album, The Strokes could’ve sunk back into the quicksand that is and likely forever will be the NYC music circuit and they would’ve ended up playing holes worse than Terminal 5 for the rest of their lives, while diehards who quasi-proudly referred to them a cult band foamed at the mouth reciting their lyrics to a stage with no massive lightning bolt, no red white and blue blinking lights… just Casablancas in some sweaty thrift store button-down mindlessly mumbling the words to “Is This It?.” But alas, fate stepped in and fixed the situation with First Impressions of Earth and The Strokes never had to be a band gone too soon. Clouds parted. Birds chirped. Casablancas smoked a cigarette, probably. And all was right with the world once more. Favorite Track: Vision of Division because in it is everything I love about The Strokes. I won’t elaborate. Just go listen to it. Best Live Song: You Only Live Once.

Tomorrow: THE “CUTTING EDGE” PHASE

Albums I Played Until There Was Almost No Meaning Left

 

I like music. I realize this is a generic statement designed to be used in some first grader’s stick figure book where she explains all of the things that make her happy: dance class, flowers, penguins… music. But it was only recently I learned that some people aren’t into music. In a casual conversation with my sister a year ago, she told me she doesn’t have a favorite song and that music doesn’t make her feel anything. A friend of mine practically powers down when I propose she join me for a show on a Tuesday night. And a co-worker straight up said one day that he doesn’t even listen to music. That’s some next-level shit. Not me, though. Knowing that soon enough, I’ll be the thirty-year-old in a sea of early twenty-somethings vibing out to some so-called “alternative” band at Bowery Ballroom, I seek out music new and old every chance I get. With that said, my iTunes library is pretty extensive at this point and I have some great stuff to choose from when I’m trying to push through a particularly annoying day at work or a subway ride from hell. In doing this, I’ve learned that there are those albums that are good for the moment and then there are those albums that are good forever. Those songs you’ve listened to so many times, they’ve almost lost all of their meaning… the ones you don’t just know the words to, but also the inflection, the guitar riffs, the beat of the drums, maybe even where the bass kicks in if you’re in such deep trenches as I am. The albums built from those songs are rare and should be cherished. So what I thought I’d do is share some of mine with you.

Now, I’m not going to make this some kind of motherfucking artsy thing and explain all of the technical reasons I love this shit. If you’re free for drinks one night, I’m down to go over that with you but I don’t feel snobby enough to put it in writing at this particular moment. So I’m going to go through these albums and gush about them succinctly and like a fan would, and that’s it. Maybe you’ve never listened to them and you will. Maybe you know them well and hate them. Maybe you feel the way I do about them. Whatever it is, here they are in three parts, each pertaining to a phase of my life-long love affair with music. We’ll start with my gateway albums — the ones I listened to as a kid (and then teenager) that catapulted me onto the next platform. That’ll be followed by a couple of albums I’ve spent the last few years listening to, and then to two newer albums from chicks whose music took me outside of my box. (My box is basically guys in cool outfits with instruments and deep voices soulfully vomiting words into a microphone.) There’ll be a post-a-day leading into your weekend. Then you can spend Sunday listening to music. Because music is good and if you don’t like it, you’re a monster.

Tomorrow: THE “OHH, SO THIS IS MUSIC” PHASE