It is probably more related to the process of packing my belongings into boxes than some larger New York City zeitgeist but July has felt like a thick fog of black trash bags steaming in the sun, dog-day cicadas, falling pollen, banda tubas in the park, sidewalk cookouts, busted bicycle tires, scorching heat, flooded subways tunnels, inarticulateness, inaudible subway announcements, Unhealthy Air Quality for Sensitive Groups, cool air spilling out of subway cars, the reek of hot trash, occasional breezes, ants trickling through the window, water droplets from unseen AC units, the smell of exhaust, the smell of shit, the smell of limes, “The vibe this summer isn’t bad but it is very ‘the summer before the twentieth anniversary of 9/11,’” wildfire haze, cookout haze, heat haze, moving trucks, garbage trucks, sneaker stink, subway-screech headaches, S Train rattles, 4 Train repairs, sleepless heat, braindead tourists, public parks, speakeasies, iPhone photos, purplish sunsets, cardboard boxes in clear plastic, hums of refrigerators, “Virtual contact worse than no contact for over-60s in lockdown, says study,” a man playing the saxophone in front of the Met Museum, a man playing the melodica in front of Citi Field, news of rage, news of fire, news of death, news of the Olympics, news of the Delta variant, rum drinks, awkward eye contact, “‘CHEESE!’ Over 1 Million Times,” not having any cash, phallic spaceships, thrums of machinery, cars lurching into crosswalks, the blinking orange palms of DON’T WALK signals, crowds of people, panting dogs, heavy camera equipment, sweaty masks, bored people, timid people, people making out, half-fulfilled desires for new beginnings, content fatigue, COVID fatigue, COVID death, torpor, ennui, climate reports of further ruin, climate reports of further sluggishness, a sign outside a bar that reads Virgin Mojito Slush, tiny apartments, museum legs, bad posture, lines outside the UHAUL rental office, a car without a hood that almost ran over my foot in the line outside the UHAUL rental office, a poster of Joe Biden hanging in the hardware store where I bought a wrench to take apart a table, men moving sacks of cement on enormous pallets, a City that on good days feels storied and vibrant and on bad ones like it was assembled from a landfill, black trash bags in the sun, bodies of birds, bodies of ants, black trash bags in the sun—
ben tapeworm
on the turntable
from the internet
I’m on Twitter now @bentapeworm. Getting a Twitter for the first time in 2021 makes me feel like I’m a thousand years old but otherwise has been fine. Yesterday I followed a bunch of entomologists and read an interesting thread about bog bodies. Many of my friends have quit the app for mental health reasons, so we’ll see how this goes. Follow me to keep up with the newsletter and probably also weird screengrabs and stuff.
from the concert hall
My first concert since pre-COVID times was seeing Steven Gunn and William Tyler at a small venue in Gowanus. The set started softly, with Tyler’s wordless guitar, and slowly crescendoed: Laura Ortman joined Tyler for an incredible rendition of “Missionary Ridge”; Gunn and Tyler duetted; Gunn and his band played new tracks from his upcoming record; Gunn brought Bridget St John onstage for “Ask Me No Questions”; and the show ended with a cacophonous encore of The Velvet Underground’s “All Tomorrow’s Parties.”
The set was perfect but, like many things this summer, watching it was a strange return, a rush of familiarity dilated and defocused by time.
“This song is 54 years old,” said St John before she began to sing.
from my incoming texts
“i am thinking more and more ab tiktok channel”
“What’s that yellow moth with the eyes”
“Oh I’d say the general pathos for sure”
“$33.50/ticket total”
“Which the teens call male manipulator music”
“Did you know what the anagram of ‘Britney Spears’ is?? […] Presbyterians !!”