"A South Beach-inspired gathering place. Bike lanes and kayak tours. Free outdoor yoga classes. Alfresco dancing and dining.
Ready for this one? It’s all in Buffalo.”
I find that kind of lead-in—the only one national journalists seem to use—so insulting. How many of these stupid articles are going to be written about Buffalo? There have been like half a dozen “oh hey this shitty place is kinda less shitty” articles in the past year, written by people who know jackshit about the city and, in fact, have a preexisting disdain for it.
What I’d much prefer to read is a piece about Buffalo’s progress/the current state of Buffalo written by a local who wouldn’t have that dismissive urge to include a fucking boring, hackneyed line about cold winters. It means absolutely nothing to me to hear some snobby freelance journalist remark that “signs of a new Buffalo became obvious in no time”— this motherfucker who is all skeptical of whether or not chicken wings were actually invented in Buffalo (“the spicy bar food the city loves to claim”) and seems to enjoy her time at Buffalo best when she forgets where she is (last lines).
Fuck this kind of article #1 and #2—who is really benefiting from these improvements? I’m glad for Buffalo that they got a billion from the state (desperately needed), but are these attractions (kayaking, waterfront stuff) going to affect the thousands of people who live in poverty in the city? Cool that middle class people are happy and have outdoor yoga, but what about the massive areas of urban decay, of violence and crime and generational hardship/living below the poverty line?
SOMEONE FROM BUFFALO WRITE AN ARTICLE ABOUT BUFFALO THAT WON’T INFURIATE ME/WILL ACTUALLY BE INFORMATIVE. THANK YOU.
Head on the desk day. Depression standing behind me air humping my neck, drawing dicks on my face.
That’s not me being arrogant. I find her a bit weird looking tbh.
i have nothing
because i no
oh, i do yes
of course, i do
it always does
but it’s a thing
that happens as
at your face
covered by the ugly
something that makes
me reach for you, but
you remind me of this casually,
dropping it like a feather
you expect me to watch float
between us—a miracle,
something benevolent you’re
bestowing on me—wisdom—
or maybe it’s the money you
think I’ll be grateful for, well
bitch, you can keep it—
and you can keep your cocaine,
your pants like baggy pajamas,
your hunched shoulders and your
love you goodbyes—I know
you too have your outside interests
(8 balls in the bookshelf)
but no one tries to
punish you for them, no one slips
an AA booklet into your purse,
smells too closely at your lips
but I reek of my own words and what
I’d like to do with them
so you palm your waist and shake
your head—nothing openended—and
suggest another city, a cheaper life
My dad called to inform me that he’s sending me an article about the rise of murder in the north Bronx.
“But, I added some jokes in there to lighten things up.”
I very much admire my brother. He makes me wish I could do the music thing (as in had, primarily, talent).
When I was home for Easter, he asked if I wanted to go to band practice with him so I did. It was in this huge kind of awesome apartment above Amy’s Place in a vaguely (optimistically?) soundproofed room (continent-shaped bits of rug on the walls next to pictures of Scarlett Johansson). My brother’s bandmate handed me a giant jar of earplugs, a chair and a Genesee Cream Ale (idk if it’s just a Buffalo thing, but I’ve heard a lot of people there call it Genny Cream Ale). Then they started playing. Loud. Fast. Muscles moving tightly in their boyarms and my brother’s glasses steaming up as he kept the fast hardcore beat. And I just thought what am I DOING with my life? What am I doing sitting alone with my computer writing melancholy stories when I could be bobbing my head in a messy room with two or three other people making so much SOUND, bleeding out of blisters on my hands? The energy made me feel fucking manic—like I couldn’t help but not only move but grin crazily. I just felt like THIS is it, man—raw energy like a hundred hands on your body, like, idk, the suddenly exposed pulse of (lame/histrionic sounding but yes) life.
Collaboration is hard interpersonally (I’ve heard my brother talk about this enough to get a sense of the toll that can take) and, in that sense, writing is “easier,” but it’s just not immediate like music. Stories build and take fucking forever and are generally best enjoyed alone, even after they’re finished. And y’know a lot of music bores me, but that hard and fast variety (hardcore/punk/whatever the fuck) gives me a kind of high, this fuck everything! but, also, fuck! everything! feeling. I’m describing this so poorly. Basically, I felt a kind of (maybe incredulous? surprised? shittiness-letting) joy, which I was not expecting, and it made me admire my brother even more for being part of it.