And I’m beginning to see why I left but I can’t re-deactivate it, not now, not after I made a huge deal about reactivating it. Or can I? Who knows. The world of social media is a terribly complex and ridiculous thing.
“There are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the graved. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.”—David M. Eagleman (Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives)
“In years to come cities will stretch out horizontally and will be non-urban (Los Angeles). After that, they will bury themselves into the ground and will no longer even have names. Everything will become infrastructure bathed in artificial light and utility. The brilliant superstructure, the crazy verticality will have disappeared. New York is the final fling of this baroque verticality, this centrifugal eccentricity, before the horizontal dismantling arrives, and the subterranean implosion that will follow.”—J. Baudrillard, America via danielsalas. (via tobia)
She’s a gambler spinning wheels, A poison victim but look of steel. The coldest hearts you’ve ever felt, The coldest hands you’ve ever held. Taking down, on your way. A million miles, still no headway. As I learn to live long, In a mind I’m proud to roam. She’s elusive and I’m awake, You’re…
I’ve never bribed my way into a restaurant. I’ve never slipped a C-note or greased a palm. In truth, I’ve never even considered it. I’ve assumed, of course, that people do such things. I’ve seen my share of Cary Grant movies. I’ve heard—and wondered whether such old-fangled gestures would work in the high-stakes, high-hype world of New York City restaurants. For everyday diners in Manhattan, cracking the waiting list at Nobu is said to be harder than getting courtside tickets for the Knicks. But is that true?
Curious, I hatched a plan. I would go to some of the hardest-to-penetrate restaurants in New York armed with little more than an empty stomach, an iron-clad willingness to be humiliated, and a fistful of dough. Most people (including the editors of this magazine) assumed I would get turned down at half the places on my list. “You’ll never get into Daniel,” said one. “Union Square Cafe?!” said another. “Forget it.”
This story is amazingly eye-opening. The author manages to bribe his way into a table at an exclusive, newly opened french restaurant with a six month waiting list and no public telephone number. I’m in awe.