Listen,” I say, my voice trembling with emotion, “have whatever you want but I’m telling you I recommend the Diet Pepsi.
Clinton’s advisers Robby Mook and John Podesta had said when Trump called the Electoral College “a rigged thing” and “a fraud,” suggesting that maybe only the popular vote should matter.
The Left had become a rage machine, burning itself up: a melting blue bubble dissolving in on itself.
I was now looking at a new kind of liberalism, one that willingly censored people and punished voices, obstructed opinions and blocked viewpoints.
Had she ever made promises to a faithless reflection in the mirror? Had she ever cried because she hated someone so much? Had she ever craved betrayal to the point where she pushed the crudest fantasies into reality, coming up with sequences that she and nobody else could read, moving the game as you play it? Could she locate the moment she went dead inside? Does she remember the year it took to become that way? The fades, the dissolves, the rewritten scenes, all the things you wipe away...
I would demand to wear Ray-Ban sunglasses. Expensive Ray-Bans,” I say carefully. “In fact I would demand that everyone would have to wear Ray-Ban sunglasses.
Actors depend on their likability, and their attractiveness, because they want people to watch them, to be drawn to them, to desire them. Because of this, actors are, by their very nature, liars.
And by the way, did anyone ever tell you that you look exactly like Garfield but run over and skinned and then someone threw an ugly Ferragamo sweater over you before they rushed you to the vet? Fusilli? Olive oil on Brie?
Armstrong just got back from the islands and has a very deep, very even tan, but so do I.
There are no girls with good personalities,” we all say in unison, laughing, giving each other high-five.
I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is saved, nothing is redeemed.
On The Patty Winters Show this morning a Cheerio sat in a very small chair and was interviewed for close to an hour.
And despite the connections provided by the internet and social media, many people felt even more isolated and increasingly aware that the idea of interconnectivity was itself an illusion. This seems particularly painful when you’re sitting alone in a room and staring at a glowing screen that promises you access to the intimacies of countless other lives, a condition that mirrors Bateman’s loneliness and alienation: everything’s available to him, yet that insatiable emptiness remains.
Donald Trump is a big U2 fan and then, even more desperately, that John Gutfreund also buys their records.
There’s a man sitting at the table next to ours whose eyes are closed very tightly. The girl he’s sitting with doesn’t seem to mind and picks at a salat. When the man finally opens his eyes, I’m relieved for some reason.
The Art of the Deal, by Donald Trump. “Have you read it?” I ask Kimball.
The topic on The Patty Winters Show this morning was Has Patrick Swayze Become Cynical or Not?
Back at our table Reeves is telling Hamlin about how he taunts the homeless in the streets, about how he hands a dollar to them as he approaches and then yanks it away and pockets it right when he passes the bums.
She bemoaned the fact that we didn’t seem to be at a point anymore when being extremely good at something – and getting rewarded for that talent with attention, respect and money – was even regarded as possible.
I feel naked, suddenly tiny. My mouth tastes metallic, then it gets worse. My vision: a winter road. But I’m left with one comforting thought: I am rich – millions are not.