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Welcome to Day One of Ruth Langmore Assertiveness Training...
On Darren Star's Missed Opportunities, West Elm Caleb, and Coffee Psychology Here in the Woods
Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you?
Can you believe this freakin’ week? To lose Louie Anderson, Bob Saget, Thich Nhat Hanh, and Meat Loaf (sweaty, leather-clad Kool-Aid man that he was) all in one fell swoop? And Tonga! I’m not sure any of us had “earth farts on camera” on our apocalyptic bingo cards.
(*Channels best Ruth Langmore voice) I mean, what the hell, Marty???
Then there’s the goddamn “West Elm Caleb,” a phenomenon currently sweeping the nation, which is what happens when girls who grow up watching Sex and the City finally move to New York, without realizing that they fundamentally misunderstood Sex and the City.
Because here is the eternal Sex and the City promise: One day you’re broken up with via post-it note and the next day Sting moves into your building and another day you’re making Keanu Reeves do wheatgrass shots in your dinky kitchen, and another day you’re getting kicked out of some Rockefeller guy’s parents’ townhouse for drinking their Chateau Margaux and another day you’re taking Bradley Cooper shopping at Helmut Lang! That’s how dating in New York City works. It is horrendous and thrilling, and totally worth a made-up Sex Diary on The Cut, not some weird overshare-y TikTok video. We should all be glad Samantha Jones isn’t here to witness this.
Then, there’s this current excruciating reboot of SATC, And Just Like That… Watching it is like walking around in a lifetime supply of wet socks. The grim reincarnation in which the Fab Four—whoops, make that the Tired Three—are constantly dithering over doing something – getting plastic surgery, moving apartments, unpacking boxes, sending a text – and then doing nothing, leads us to shriek yet again, what the fuck, Marty?— I mean, Darren? (Darren Star is one of the show’s creators for those not familiar—along with Michael Patrick King.)
Because it’s wicked depressing to see all of the show’s maturing stars explore a world in which they, themselves, have completely lost the plot. Why did the writers make them so lame? One would think that women over 50 don’t just disappear, they only suffer and get really dopey. Well, fuck that.
What’s needed here is a massive dose of “What would Ruth Langmore do?” The scrappy, whipsmart leader of a small-time criminal family, Ruth is the beating heart of the series Ozark. So, what would Ruth do here, Darren? She’d use every ounce of her scrawny little self to muscle a deal. A badass, loud-mouth IP three-way… Are you hearing me, Darren? I’m talking a ménage à troi with all the sexy, energetic goodness of Younger. Hello, Peter Hermann? Get your ass down to set... Carrie needs a new squeeze who’s secure enough in his manhood to read fiction. Molly Bernard? We need some of your signature parties. Miriam Shor? I need you in a statement necklace, wrestling with Miranda. Then, let’s get that bumbling waif Emily Cooper, straight over de Paris. In a delightfully brainless crossover, the bubbly worlds all collide for some Emily In The City. Samantha Jones, who? Emily arrives with that mean ultra-chic French lady from Emily’s office in tow and, lit cig in hand, she scorches Carrie, Che, and the ladies to smithereens before taking pity on them and whisking them all away to her ex’s place on St. Barthes, where they do Molly and rediscover their infinite mojo. That’s what Ruth Langmore would do. Make her the showrunner, Darren!
Because we miss a massive transgenerational opportunity by completely writing off the Perennial 50+ audience who would never consider themselves so clueless or irrelevant. And it’s also like the writers completely forgot there are all these “only in New York” stories that are so worth telling—things that can only happen in this city. It’s like hello??? It makes you want to take them by their hunched-over-their-laptop shoulders, and scream in your squeakiest Ruth-voice, “You don’t know shit about fuck!”
Whaddya think? It’s an IP mash-up we’re all familiar with and loads better than what the writers are currently giving us. Careful though, if it gets too much traction on social, we might see it become a reality.
OK, that’s what I got this week. I am in the woods, west of the west, visiting my dad and doing a lousy job of finishing my next book. He’s a lively old coot as you can see.
Being so far away has me wondering why the Starbucks in Union Square plays so much freakin’ John Mayer? Do you have any idea? My burgeoning theory is there’s something about the innate “chalkiness” of Mayer’s voice that makes a person thirsty for a Frappuccino, but let me know your theories and thoughts.
For now, I’m leaving you with this Zen moment of Louie from Baskets… He was indeed a revelation. Stay safe out there, Lovelies. I miss you - xoxo - gotham girl
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misadventures in manhattan (and a few other places)
Make it Quick, Satan (Part 2)
Why do they ALWAYS look like they are about to eat Coraline?
These rotters… Would you let them attend your funeral? Why did Virgil Abloh? And why do they ALWAYS look like they are about to eat Coraline?
So sad that Abloh, the groundbreaking Design Director of Louis Vuitton, died so young. Also sad that he was friends with such evil twats. Now I’m going to have to burn a perfectly good purse.
Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you? It’s been a while.
First, some business (adjusts shoulder pads). This newsletter is now being brought to you courtesy of Substack, so please adjust your spam settings and bear with me while I get the hang of things.
Greetings from California where virtually nothing has gone according to plan. When I first landed back here for the show, I whispered a fierce prayer, “Make it quick, Satan.” It’s been anything but. Our series, SPAZ, is still in development. We keep losing our lead actress and each time it’s five months of bowing and curtsying to agents and managers until we finally get to a… “She’s reading it this weekend,” and we all walk around on tenterhooks wondering if she’s sipping some wackadoo green-juice-Niacin concoction and tittering to our pithy dialogue, only to hear back, “She thought the pilot was hysterical, but she just played a mum-in-crisis two movies ago, so it’s probably too soon to do it again, but thanks for thinking of her!” And the ritual beginneth again.
Meanwhile, I pine away in the blistering heat for the glories of puffy jacket season, wet autumn leaves slick on the pavement, and the city glittering, all lit up for the holidays—and I survive, but only just!
I was sitting at my desk writing a few weeks back when suddenly my girlfriend shouts from the living room, “Quick, there’s an intruder in the house! Run!”
“What? You’re kidding,” I carp back, perplexed. I’m thinking: Who breaks into a writer’s house? We’re one step up from paupers. All we have are books and the odd computer. Are they going to hold us hostage for our Final Draft key codes?
“No, the police said get out of the house!” Her voice quavers now—operatic with fear.
Police? Shit. I take my laptop and run. In the backyard, I completely panic trying to find anywhere to hide out by our pool. I crouch down, first hiding behind a skinny potted palm. Next, a flimsy deck chair. I am toast if this guy has a gun.
Our house is surrounded by high stone walls. If I try to scale the wall to Larry’s for help, I’ll probably just set off his alarms, and with my luck, the police will go there and shoot me instead of our bad guy. Plus, I‘ll have to ditch my laptop and I really don’t want to do that as I’ve just come up with the best dedication for my next book:
I know, what a moment, eh?
So, in New York when you call the cops, either nobody comes, or if they do come, the guy gets a royal beatdown—the kind you see in those terrible subway videos. In LA, when you call the cops, the whole SWAT team comes and things have the ability to escalate insanely. And where only moments before you were hiding behind your rickety chaise longue, now you’re yelling at burly dudes in flack jackets, “Just don’t shoot him!!!” to protect the poor perp and the cops are yelling…
“Ma’am, we know you’re not from here, but don’t tell the SWAT team what to do!”
“But…”
“Ma’am, you don’t know if he wants to kill you!”
“And you don’t know if he wants a nap!”
And suddenly you think, where did I get this from? This mouthiness? And you realize, I got it from New York.
I love New York’s hardiness. The fiesty energy of it. Even the decision to meet a friend for a walk in a snowstorm—that comes from that kind of New York-born hardiness. New Yorkers are like, “We're not going to let the weather stop us. Fuck it.”
And it’s this toughness that I adore, but it’s also the vulnerability that emerges. The tacit intimacy. Because we all have this interdependency with one another—through the toughness. We believe, “I have to be tough because New York is such a tough place.” But at the same time, we have to be kind to one another, or we’re not going to make it. We live in such close proximity to one another—literally on top of each other. You have to rely on other people. I also believe this city is the world capital of neurodiversity. Here, you can really lean into how you are wired—without masking it. And sometimes you choose toughness, and other times you opt for, “I’m sorry.” Even if it’s simply to keep the peace. And other times it’s…
It turns out our bad guy did just want a nap. But it makes you pause. You want to think your life matters in some small way… not just in the artistic work you leave behind but in the way you show up for people. Covid’s thrown a wrench in all that. It doesn’t help that I been up my own ass finishing a novel and writing a snarky TV series. I love that this is the time of year when families do turn up with all their wonderfully detailed annual holiday letters—rife with posed pickies and family factoids. I wish I had it in me to do that…
I love reading about their children's victories in sports that I did not previously know existed (Pickleball? Congrats Kaylee! Proud of you!). I like how grownups kind of just skim through work stuff (“Bud is still plugging away at the family business"—I have no idea what that means but I suspect Bud is in the mafia. “Arianna still hasn't sold her $30 million house, but maybe this year!"—rooting for you, babe! Have you tried pickleballing it?)
All said and done, gotham girl needs to show up more often. Hence Substack. And I also intend to do it this week by making my family a pot of Dan Pelosi’s famous Grossy Pelosi Vodka Sawce. Recipe here. It’s fab!
Also, for the greatest presents ever, check out The Strategist Gift Guide.
I love that it’s so specific for every possible situation imaginable—from remote coworkers who like to imbibe (a St. Agrestis Negroni Fountain—I’d NEVER think of that) to your 80-year-old parents who are retired spies (Tekla hooded robes). They don’t miss a beat.
For watching, I offer you this bit of zen, based on the Murakami story—playing now at Lincoln Center and soon on VOD.
It’s breathtaking. Each shot is a perfectly composed still photo. You won’t be saying make it quick… to anyone.
Well, that’s what I’ve got for now. Stay rad and safe, lovelies, xoxo - gotham girl
PS - You can now subscribe to this surprisingly funny newsletter at: https://alisajones.substack.com/ It’s free and I will love you to the end of time for doing so.
Make it Quick, Satan (Part One)
“Why do they always look like they are about to eat Coraline?”
Hello, Lovelies. How the hell are you?
Ahoy from this absurd hell, where time has all but slowed to a standstill and the award for most ridiculous superspreader event goes to Austria for a yodeling conference. If you think about it… all a Trump rally really is is a much less artful yodeling convention. High on a hill is a scary goat herd.
And then there’s our dear ex-president… yes, Obama does seem to be rather enjoying his new gig as needler-in-chief. What’s better is that he’s just so damn good at it… twisting the knife.
Still… has the state of constant disaster preparedness left you in a relentless blender cycle of fight or flight? Are you eating your feelings? Are they all made of pie? You are not alone. That said, we may need to appeal to the baser powers to get us through these last days… Make it quick, satan. Make your move… Remind us of all of our scrappy ways.
The other day I had what can only be referred to as a New York conversation. I needed something from a woman on the other end of the line. Her voice was fast and low, she didn’t fuck around: “Here’s what you need to do,” she said… Ah, my maven, my answer, I thought. She didn’t over-explain shit like men here so often do. There weren’t too many words. I told her to stay safe and felt her slight telephonic smile as we hung up. I missed that. Ah, New York City where you always carry a knife in your purse… in case you encounter danger or a bagel.
Last night, a friend reminded me that if these are our the last four days before another civil war or some such crazy thing, we’ll remember them as the last BEFORE times so, we need to let go of certainty right now or it will make us nuts. Instead, he suggested we enjoy a little of what’s good…
Some things that are objectively good right now:
Queen’s Gambit… This generation’s Beautiful Mind
I am also obsessed with these hypnotic Chinese gardening videos… this woman’s goddamned effortlessness is a wonder.
Seeing how different brains hear music…
A new genre-busting movie… Thorp… that will take you out of these last four days, and which someone like Adam Mckay should get behind because there’s just a sweetness here that the world needs right now—especially as we are so deprived of moments to say goodbye in this COVID-era. Big caveat… there’s a dark turn you will NOT see coming on this one. It will seem over the top, but then you’ll think, “Holy cats, look what he is giving her…”
This incredible poetry wisdom from kids… (breath audibly departs)
Stay rad, lovelies and take care of each other. XOXO – GG
Debate Season...
Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you? Anxious about tonight?
Maybe rest easy in the fact that Trump is so wildly untethered from reality that even the famed multiverse physicist Brian Greene can’t locate him.
Maybe it helps to know that the SNL fall premiere is practically writing itself? What with Eric Trump inadvertently coming out this morning on Fox and the current tax Trump farce?
Btw, did your eyes just keep tracing over the numbers “$750” the other day? Searching for extra zeros? Then for the words “millions” or even “hundreds of thousands”? Only to do a full-body blinky-blink sputter like when you spill coffee all over your computer? The grandiosity of the absurdity nearly gave me a stroke!
If I were writing it as a 30 ROCK episode, I’d have given us all a mammoth Jack Donaghy monolog at the end of an IRS chase scene with horse carriages in Central Park with Jack emphatically explaining to Liz how cheating on his taxes to this crazy degree was the ONLY way to save her show—I wouldn’t have to change a single number from Trump’s and I know I’d get sign-off on the episode because it’s all too ridiculous.
Still… With the world being in such a worrisome state, it also feels like a time of atonement, of taking nothing for granted, not relationships, not family, health, books, trees, rights… the mail guy, the sun. And if you’ve hurt someone or been jerky lately, whether the person forgives you or not, perhaps it’s the act of atoning itself that matters, that brings humanity back. Or tries? Better to drag your shame out into the light and lean into the fact that sometimes, we are all wild things. For what was it that Kristin Scott Thomas so boldly declared in Fleabag? “People are all we’ve got”?
People are all we’ve got. Stay safe, stay rad - xoxo - gg
This Is All Gwyneth Paltrow’s Fault
*Warning: Explicit language
Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you?
This has been a right awful summer. Beyond tragic on so many levels, and now worthy of a Bosch painting.
How are you faring? Have you had many illuminating catharses during these last 1,256,979 days trapped indoors? Do you long for your dentist like an ardent lover? Are you so homesick for your waxing lady that your bush has begun growing a man bun? Does it now own real estate in Brooklyn? Have you realized that no matter how you sweetly you speak to your grown-ish kids, they might never (ever) warm to your finely-honed reminisces? All of the above? I, for one, have learned that I am deathly allergic to rhubarb. Yes, if anyone ever wanted to kill me (Putin-style), they could easily do so with PIE. Have at it, people.
What else? Oh, the government has technically acknowledged that I am alive again, although—get this—I had to go through a final phone interview with this Russian woman named Svetlana and she kept grilling me about my US passport??? The whole thing was like being trapped in a wormhole of irony!
A number of you have written in to ask if SPAZ, the series, is still going ahead. It is but in the UK. I also had a question about the musical equivalent of what a seizure feels like and (for me) it’s like this: La Jeune Fille en Feu. Great question, btw, and I hope we can use it one day on the show.
In the meantime, I’ve been working on the next book—a thriller about neurodiversity and queer identity called MUSE | WITCH | BEAST. The problem when you’re working on a novel is that everyone gets mad at you because well… you’re writing and you become terribly dull. You have to disappear to have the discipline or it just doesn’t work. So, dinners get very one-note, and you tend to hoard your funniest thoughts. Then, of course, you’re also writing against the clock because you know can only survive until x date and things are due. But it’s even harder to work when the ultimate Lovecraftian monster of bad lifestyle ideas, Gwyneth Paltrow, descends upon your neighborhood. That girl’s the worst.
Now, it should be noted, that what follows is all Sherlockian deduction based on public records and years of curmudgeonly neighborhood gossip, but we’re all due a bit of comedic distraction during this time of surreal global tragedy… so here goes:
The reason my book is not done yet is totally Gwyneth Paltrow’s fault.
It all began with the hubris of her silly jade vagina eggs and a deliberate attempt to reignite feudal culture in our hood by erecting a super-fancy private arts club on Sunset Boulevard. A high-rise, exclusive, members-only club accessible to none but the ultra-rich, and which (of course) would shutter a number of smaller, local businesses forever. This was all happening in tandem with COVID. What people also didn’t realize was the city’s infrastructure wasn’t quite up to the task. So when the demo on the project started, ALL the water and the wildlife flooded (and fled) to other parts of the neighborhood—namely to our house.
Chaos ensued: floors buckled like tsunami ocean waves, piping was chewed to bits like the unlikely remnants of truffle mac and cheese, and a swarthy contractor named Lenin soon appeared. He was the absolute SPIT of Che Guevara! It all was far too exciting to pay attention to my novel. At a moment of complete and utter stress, we looked at each other and said, “This is so totally Gwyneth’s fault.”
And my girlfriend who is an Emmy-winning costume designer managed to design a haven worthy of a global pandemic in a total Nancy Meyers SOMETHING’S GOTTA GIVE-vibe—because that’s where we’re at as a planet. In doing so, in spite of Gwynnie, her gross, unbridled privilege, and on a minuscule budget, she created a killer little game room where you can touch the globe to figure out what jeu to play next or do astronomy on a (rare) clear night.
Then, she made a whole new maximal office to spur her creativity. I can’t not have ideas in this room. I think it’s the combination of both the typewriter and the sewing machine being there that makes my brain crackle.
And the kitchen (where I spend a great deal of time lately anxiety baking). If you look closely, the backsplash is vintage newsprint and there’s actually room enough for six people to cook together—always good.
So, now I am back to writing and take that, feudal lords. Huzzah for my dear friend! When someone comes along and tries to vagina-egg-you out of your own home, you can still fight back and recreate a little fortress. Something evolved. You wouldn’t want the old thing back anyway because we’re facing an entirely different era now. Ed Yong makes this point in his marvelous piece in this month’s Atlantic if you haven’t already read it.
It also makes me think perhaps the US has been the world’s Gwyneth Paltrow all along? Destestibly trying to impose her will on everyone. Selling GOOP nobody needs, rife with false claims… all to be liked? Time will tell if there really is something to my unified theory of Gwyneth’s. For now, one is enough for me.
But hold fast my lovelies. November is almost upon us.
Stay safe and take care of each other, xoxo - gg
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