Defense of Ganking.

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Opal Mehta is a patsy.


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I’m lucky to be in music, where we’re allowed our link to an oral tradition, and can gank other artists’ riffs with license. I do it all the time, and it’s been done to me. (I still get emails about how I should get money from Ricky Martin, and believe me, I fantasized about big fat Sony checks, but I think that it’s just part of the back and forth of my art form) The worst that can happen in music is that you get sued and you have to give up a portion of your songwriting money.
Not so in writing; it’s shocking and repugnant to the literary types. At least ostensibly. But really, why bother with the moral stance? Why not just allow the art form to be enriched by artful ganking? Maybe the authors whose work got bitten are owed money. But to remove “Opal” from shelves is unnecessary drama.
The post James Frey world of books is pretty funny considering how aware the public seems to be that reality shows are thoroughly scripted.
In sixth grade, I used to write sci-fi short stories ripping off movies that for some reason I thought no one else saw: 2001, and Planet of the Apes, and others. None of my teachers busted me, and I think they did me a solid; it helped me learn to write.
I’m reminded of the kid in The Squid and the Whale, who played a Pink Floyd song at a talent show and pretended he wrote it. Heartbreaking; I identified with that kid.
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Benno, Ektorp, Bjorkudden, Ingo, and Other Swedish Delights.

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The Ikea has arrived.


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I am unapologetic in my love for Ikea. They’ve got the good shit. My friend Amity, an interior decorator, calls it The Happiest Place on Earth. Plus: Swedish meatballs. Do you know the joy of Ikea’s Swedish meatballs? Know the joy. Yum.
But: I have become that guy who actually pays some dude to set up his Ikea. Because I always fuck something up. He’s coming over this morning to hook my shit up.
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Re-Entry of Hicks.

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I came this close to not voting at all.


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Halfway through, as I scarfed down my Popeye’s, I thought; this has gotten dull. Chris is going to win; I’m resigning as a voter.
(incidentally, I also have altered my opinion of the McPhee; she’s not so bad. She’s not so good, either)
But the Hicks’ version of “Something” (which I recently read was Sinatra’s favorite love song of all time, no seriously) was a great performance; great phrasing! Tasteful melisma! Fingers crossed that, whatever happens, the guy will cut a great record. He’s got it in him, for sure.
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Close Encounters at the Duane Reade.

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I got booby-touched.


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There was this cute woman in line at the Duane Reade on Flatbush Avenue in my new neighborhood. Now, I have a girlfriend, and in any case, I’m unlikely to chat up a girl buying cigarettes. (and how exactly does one approach a woman in a pharmacy line? “Hi, I see you’re a Colgate person”–?) But I admit I stole a glance or two, and she seemed to notice.
She paid and split, and as I came to the counter I felt her brush against me. A titty-touch; sometimes, in my experience, a way for a woman to provoke an approach. She was scooting through the line, so maybe it was an accident. But could it be? I have this impression that women have ninja-like control over their breasts. Can a woman accidentally titty-touch a man?
She was walking in the opposite direction down the avenue as I headed towards Popeye’s.
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