jeremy paul gordon

I work for Pitchfork and also write for the Wall Street Journal, GQ, Pacific Standard and others. E-mail me at jeremypaulgordon[at]gmail[dot]com or check out my vaguely professional personal website. I'm also on Twitter.

September 23, 2014 at 10:21pm
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Here is some more unsolicited advice for young writers who are wondering to themselves, “Should I write something criticizing an editor who’s previously paid me to write something I’m proud of?”: Jesus, no. What’s wrong with you?

9:37pm
97 notes
Reblogged from fastcodesign
fastcodesign:

The Best Way To Protect Your iPhone 6 Without Destroying Its Design

"…like wrapping an Eames lounge chair in bubble wrap." This quote was brought to you by a grade-A dorkus malorkus.

fastcodesign:

The Best Way To Protect Your iPhone 6 Without Destroying Its Design

"…like wrapping an Eames lounge chair in bubble wrap." This quote was brought to you by a grade-A dorkus malorkus.

(via fastcompany)

2:28pm
3 notes

Recover From the Damage: Reviewing John Darnielle's Debut Novel, <i>Wolf in White Van</i> →

Reviewed John Darnielle’s book for the ‘fork. 

September 21, 2014 at 11:34pm
8 notes

When there’s literally nothing better worth doing I wonder about how social media influences the way people think, inasmuch as they boil what might be a genuine reaction about a piece of art or current event into its most shareable form; I think to myself, “If my audience was zero people instead of some people, how would my feelings about this piece of art or current event differ?” Sometimes this feels like a real problem and not the idle worry of someone with too much time because I don’t think it’s absurd to suggest a platform like Twitter inherently encourages glibness, pointlessness, and discursive grandstanding more than your average serious piece of writing—at least, the pieces that people like—and that this relationship would have a clearly negative ripple effect in what you might call “media.” Anyways, I’m rambling, it’s 11:30, I’m in bed reading, and I’m doing this instead of watching the new Boardwalk Empire episode, which is a show I love—love!—and yet didn’t realize had premiered its final season until last week because no one I know keeps up with it, there’s no acknowledgment on my feeds or spoilers to be risked, no pressure to keep up lest I miss the breathless conversation and speculation that accompanies every hot show. (Will Pete die? Will Don? Will Roger? Will—you get it.) Instead, I have the answer to how I’d engage with something if I wasn’t able to say anything about it to anyone but myself: I wouldn’t.

September 20, 2014 at 7:35pm
21 notes
For the last 24 hours, I’ve been obsessed with posting messages to Yik Yak, the anonymous bulletin system used mostly by college students; I can’t explain why, except that someone very intelligent turned me onto the fun, which suggests it’s not only for doltish, bored layabouts. It is stupidly amusing, figuring out the language that best works to attract more upvotes. There is some casual racism (lots of cracks about how smart Asian students are, which, don’t get me started) and some advertising for sex, but most of it is good natured observation about the wonderful world where you’re not quite a teen, but not yet an adult. As you see above, I’m getting the hang. (Some vocabulary: Tfw = that feeling when; bae = you already kno-ow.) I’m particularly proud of “Sofritas burrito tho” because, really: sofritas burrito, tho. I cannot really explain how hypnotic the process is, only that in the middle of an enervating, hour-long cab ride back from the Replacements show last night, all three of my friends downloaded the app to use—and two of them burnt out the remainder of their phone batteries posting shit like “don’t give a fucc about Marion Cotillard” (+3) and the reliable if not unoriginal “bush did 9/11” (+5). A singularly delirious experience.
(It&#8217;s also very fun to purposely post thoughts that will get down voted—and even more fun when it happens without trying. I posted &#8220;I miss Carlos D&#8221; and it was at -5 within seconds.)

For the last 24 hours, I’ve been obsessed with posting messages to Yik Yak, the anonymous bulletin system used mostly by college students; I can’t explain why, except that someone very intelligent turned me onto the fun, which suggests it’s not only for doltish, bored layabouts. It is stupidly amusing, figuring out the language that best works to attract more upvotes. There is some casual racism (lots of cracks about how smart Asian students are, which, don’t get me started) and some advertising for sex, but most of it is good natured observation about the wonderful world where you’re not quite a teen, but not yet an adult. As you see above, I’m getting the hang. (Some vocabulary: Tfw = that feeling when; bae = you already kno-ow.) I’m particularly proud of “Sofritas burrito tho” because, really: sofritas burrito, tho. I cannot really explain how hypnotic the process is, only that in the middle of an enervating, hour-long cab ride back from the Replacements show last night, all three of my friends downloaded the app to use—and two of them burnt out the remainder of their phone batteries posting shit like “don’t give a fucc about Marion Cotillard” (+3) and the reliable if not unoriginal “bush did 9/11” (+5). A singularly delirious experience.

(It’s also very fun to purposely post thoughts that will get down voted—and even more fun when it happens without trying. I posted “I miss Carlos D” and it was at -5 within seconds.)

September 16, 2014 at 9:20pm
48 notes

My deepest impulses are optimistic, an attitude that seems to me as spiritually necessary and proper as it is intellectually suspect. In college and for some time afterward, my education taught me that the supreme imperative was courage to face the awful truth, to scorn the soft-minded optimism of religious and secular romantics as well as the corrupt optimism of governments, advertisers, and mechanistic or manipulative revolutionaries. I learned that lesson well (though it came too late to wholly supplant certain critical opposing influences, like comic books and rock-and-roll). Yet the modernists’ once-subversive refusal to be gulled or lulled has long degenerated into a ritual despair as least as corrupt, soft-minded, and cowardly—not to say smug—as the false cheer it replaced. The terms of the dialectic have reversed: now the subversive task is to affirm an authentic postmodernist optimism that gives full weight to existent horror and possible (or probable) apocalyptic disaster, yet insists—credibly—that we can, well, overcome. The catch is that you have to be an optimist (an American?) in the first place not to dismiss such a project as insane.

— 

Ellen Willis, “Tom Wolfe’s Failed Optimism”

I flipped open to a random page in The Essential Ellen Willis and this is the first paragraph I read. (I stopped, I supposed, out of a mean desire to see Tom Wolfe, who I worshipped for a time in college, obliterated as a fraud.) Just so, so stupid good; I can’t tell if it’s worrisome that one paragraph written in 1977 crystallizes so many things I feel about 2014.

9:06pm
5 notes

Talk about irony: the worst insult you could throw at those of us who had been formed by the sixties was to imply that we were living in the past; not to be totally wired into the immediate moment meant getting old, which we hoped we would die before

— Ellen Willis, “Beginning to See the Light”

8:49pm
8 notes
Reblogged from jeremydlarson

September 15, 2014 at 10:43pm
15 notes
At a book thing. The DJ will not play Drake, or anything anyone likes, so we’ve appended stickers to our necks in protest. No one is dancing; no one has danced; I think a “Come On Eileen” remix, or what sounds like it, is playing right now. Don’t move to New York.

At a book thing. The DJ will not play Drake, or anything anyone likes, so we’ve appended stickers to our necks in protest. No one is dancing; no one has danced; I think a “Come On Eileen” remix, or what sounds like it, is playing right now. Don’t move to New York.