i love you honeybear


There's an episode in Girls Season 2 that follows Lena Dunham's character entirely for a couple days that she spends at this older 30-/40-year old man's brownstone in Brooklyn, and when she leaves his apartment at the end of the episode you're almost unclear whether the whole thing actually happened or whether it was a dream. He's separated and insists on going by Joshua, not Josh, and the episode is probably mostly about older men not knowing how to process and compartmentalize their emotions properly and taking a lot of shit out on 20-something year old girls who find them desirable, and his tastefully renovated brownstone plays a large part in this, its Heath tiles and nice ceramics and artful chairs and a steam shower that Hannah passes out in. When she first wakes up after spending the first night she finds him in the living room reading with Father John Misty's "Nancy From Now On" playing in the background. It makes sense: hipster millennial dude loves the Sub Pop era of indie music, and I guess that episode aired in 2013 so it was contemporary. As much as FJM's career has gone down a weird arc because of his endless (unclear if intentional?) self-parody that song is so good. I remember listening to it for the first time on one of those "song of the day" podcasts in high school when I was trying to "listen to more indie music," and I don't think any song from that era and niche of indie music was ever as good as that song, it's so beautiful. In the past year I feel like I've seen a lot of memes geared towards people my age that are about the music we listened to in high school; Vampire Weekend and Arctic Monkeys and Mac Demarco and etc. - "guys be like, 'you want this dick?' no i want to be 15 and listening to sweater weather by the neighborhood" (twitter) - "i love arctic monkeys but i'm in whpk and can't admit it" (scrawled in a harper building bathroom stall at uchicago) I've only had my current phone since right before winter quarter of senior year, and I was able to recover only a couple pictures/videos from my previous phone, Snapchat videos that I'd saved of seeing King Krule and Devendra Banhart and three duplicates of the same video of Rich Brian. A video of the entire first half of Mac Demarco performing Ode to Viceroy at the Metro, a song I never got sick of even though it was my alarm clock tune for two years. I'd seen FJM twice in concert, once my senior year of high school when he was on tour for his second album, and later that same year during first year of UChicago as part of the same tour. Those videos are gone forever, the only thing that still exists is the picture Mia posted on Instagram of the two of us. We touched his butt when he crowdsurfed that night. Mac Demarco and FJM are kind of bad now, and I remember after seeing The Strokes at Outside Lands Juhi said, "The concert that you want from them no longer exists." That's how it is with FJM and Mac now as well; I was so lucky to have witnessed this specific moment in history and of their careers, and those performances can never recreated, another concert like the ones I went to will never exist again. Gus Dapperton and all the weird contortions indie music has gone through since that Sub Pop boom will never be able to recapture the innocent excitement of that time, when the term hipster was not so loaded with connotations. The Strokes live now will never be as good as they were in the early 2000s, and the people who saw them then really saw something special that will never be recovered, try as we might to make ourselves feel it when we see them now. The bands that have stayed with us and that may even have gotten better have also gotten bigger, Beach House performs at arenas now, and the vibes are not the same...I don't want to listen to music that's personal to me in a stadium... - "Ah, the 70's, when flesh was just flesh." (jordan when watching the beginning of when harry met sally) - "On our first date, we walked through Chinatown, stopping for lotus paste buns...It was the closest our two bodies had been, in an afternoon fo walking side by side, each careful not to touch the other. The lotus paste had more fragrance than flavor. Later, I was never able to re-create that taste, after visits to bakeries all over Chinatown. None of it could b ere-created. We'd eaten the lotus paste buns on a cold, damp November day, on which the sun shone and rain fell simultaneously, the strange, rosy-gold light of this contradiction intensifying the colors around us as we walked, the fruits and vegetables in vendors' bins, green bok choys, smooth, sunset-colored mangoes packed into cases, the huge, spiny, durian fruits in their nets, crushed ice tinged with fish blood." (the flamethrowers)