Alienation And Weirdness At Tao Lin’s Book Launch Party

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This week marks the publication of Internet lit kingpin Tao Lin’s seventh book, the perhaps-more-autobiographical-than-usual Taipei. Wednesday evening there was a party to celebrate at indie bookstore powerHouse Arena in Dumbo. Here’s how it was for your BlackBook correspondent (a somewhat less well-known novelist) to attend:

7:50 Arrive 50 fashionable minutes late, knowing I need a large crowd if I’m not to look appallingly awkward. Lots of people smoking outside. Speak to a Salon reporter who is shoveling a giant Poland Spring bottle into his backpack. Inadvertently interrupt his conversation with a smoker in a red dress whom I then realize is Marie Calloway, whose own book, what purpose did i serve in your life, is doing quite well despite three publishers balking at its “obscene” content. Have no idea what to say. Run inside.

7:55 Notice the crowd is twice as big as most literary parties that happen in this space, and the booze line is about four times longer than average. Get on line for booze. Encounter a prominent reading organizer who asks if I see anyone from Vintage (Taipei’s publisher). We decide the actual publishing people must be the ones in neckties, etc., as most others are out of hipster central casting.

8:05 Burrow as deep into crowd of strangers as I can. Sip wine. Realize I haven’t eaten yet. Listen to the music DJ’d by two Pitchfork writers. Not bad. Spot Lin himself sitting atop amphitheater steps, drinking just sparkling San Pellegrino: the classic pillhead cocktail. Begin to look around with an eye as to who might be a drug dealer. Approach none of my guesses.

8:15 The editor for Taipei makes a few strained remarks (leading off with a standard publishing joke about drinking, no laughs) as Lin sits back and records the whole thing on his iPhone. Briefly concerned that I may be in the background of this video, but think I’m okay. Editor does get one laugh, by relaying a line from the New York Times book review (“like Hemingway filtered through Twitter and Klonopin”) and then instructs us to “exhaust the wine supply.”

8:16 Get on the wine line again, this time behind Marie Calloway, who turns around and locks eyes, and I have the fleeting fear that I’m about to puke on her. Discussion with other dude about whether we are on the line for wine or the line to get books signed. Some confusion. 

8:17 Wine supply exhausted.

8:20 Lost time. Think I sat down for a minute and tried to sip the last wine as slowly as possible to stave off impending anxiety attack. Enjoying Pitchfork DJs. Consider going up to tell them so, as have nothing better to do. Ultimately too nervous.

8:40 Get in finally shortening line to get book signed. Only have an old book by Steven Millhauser. I don’t know Tao personally, but we each know whom the other is, kind of, so I think he might think it’s funny, especially if he’s high, as he must be.

8:45 Notice guy in vintage Tommy Hilfiger t-shirt who is pulling Presidente beers out of his backpack. Having finished the wine, offer to buy one of the beers off him. He only has one left and it’s got someone else’s name on it. I tell him he’s a good friend. “I am,” he agrees thoughtfully.

8:50 Party almost over, looks like Tao is told to speed up the signing process. He nods when I ask him to sign the book he didn’t write and puts down “T. Miles Klee” on the title page, with sunrays shooting out of it. Collector’s item for sure. Without knowing why, I drum the back of his non-writing hand enthusiastically. It’s odd.

8:55 Feeling guilty, actually do buy a copy of Taipei on the way out.

9:05 Stop by reBar, where the afterparty is being held for no good reason whatsoever. Say goodbye to some people I never said hi to. Order a beer and drink it quickly and leave. It’s a long subway ride back to Harlem.

1:30 p.m. the following day: Place Taipei on my formidable to-read pile and notice the shiny typeface glinting on its spine. Seems faintly mocking. 

Follow Miles on Twitter here

Photo: Canteen Mag.

Personal Faves: Crushing With Kitty Pryde

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Instead of ending the year with a slew of Best Of lists, BlackBook asked our contributors to share the most important moments in art, music, film, television, and fashion that took place in 2012. Here, Samantha Young shares the teenage dream of Kitty Pryde.

The first time I saw Kitty Pryde was on the first night of a three-day bender commemorating my expulsion from graduate school. The 19-year-old rapper released her haha, i’m sorry EP on the same day that I got the email saying, “We regret to inform you that you are flunking out.” The weekend after that was the Northside Music Festival, featuring Kitty’s New York debut at the Knitting Factory in Brooklyn. It was mid-June, and she had already gotten notable press from the New York Times, Complex, and the FADER. Her mere existence seemed like blog bait. Here was a teenage white female rapper/Claire’s employee from Florida with a song called “Okay Cupid,” well aware that people weren’t going to take her that seriously and seemingly fine with it. I had what was probably an average amount of curiosity for a music writer, finding the semi-viral track reasonably catchy but nothing that particularly jumped out at me. I wasn’t totally hooked, but I knew that attending Kitty Pryde’s show would capture something—I wasn’t sure what—about that specific point in time in the music blogging environment.

I was fascinated by her sudden internet fame but not enough to analyze it totally sober, which I told an acquaintance at the festival’s open bar before her Friday night set. Waiting for her to go on, I also found myself standing a few feet away from noted author/drug user Tao Lin who naturally exudes a disconcerting aura that compounded with my whiskey-and-beer haze. This was how I watched Kitty take the stage in a frilly party dress, accompanied by her BFF Annie and brother George. I didn’t have any major breakthroughs about the nature of internet culture, but what I did take away was that she was probably more self-aware and having more fun than I was when I was 19—even though she was obviously awkward and unused to performing.

I am young enough that my teenage years are still somewhat within reach, but old enough that I was surprised that I could relate so much to someone who was born that deep into the ’90s. When I was 19, I was locked into the most powerful infatuation of my life, the kind where I was so invested that knowing this boy was dating someone else was almost physically painful. If only I’d started rapping instead of sitting in my dorm room watching Ghost World and feeling sorry for myself. “Okay Cupid” is the kind of crush song that could only come from a teenage girl, which relegates it to guilty pleasure status by default for some people, but fuck it, I’ve been there and I can’t deny its truths.

Two days after the Knitting Factory show, as the festival and the constant flow of free Jameson came to an end, I reunited with the man that I would soon start associating with “Okay Cupid.” Our connection was tentative and based on misguided ideas about what we could do for each other’s careers, but I ended that night feeling optimistic, like I could bounce back easily. His number was safe in my phone, and it felt like something was going to happen.

Not much actually did happen. We went on what I thought was a cute date until he ended it with a hug instead of a kiss. I knew he probably thought I was too young for him, and we kept hanging out on his terms instead of mine. I let him call the shots because my love life was otherwise a complete dead zone and his cheekbones provided a distraction from the abrupt end to my academic life. I passed the time with songs about longing, and “Okay Cupid” was at the top of the list, full of lines I could easily apply to my embarrassing situation.

“The more you taunt me, the more I think I’m wanting you.” Check. “Lordy, shorty you’re a 10.” Check. “I don’t care how long it takes to get you after me/I wrote our names on my binder and everybody laughed at me.” Check. “My flattery makes me look like a fool again.” Check.

By the second time I saw Kitty Pryde in August at Santos Party House, I was firmly a member of the Kitty Committee. Now that there was some sort of fledgling intrigue in my life, she was someone I related to and felt a stronger connection with. It also helped that this time around, the crowd was there because they wanted to be there, not just out of morbid curiosity. Her stage presence was more confident and relaxed, and when she threw glitter into the crowd, it felt like a blessing from the internet in 2012. I was sober and it was the most fun I’d had in a long time. It was what I needed after freaking out over the school year beginning, even though I had mostly come to terms with my former program not being a good fit for me in the first place. Kitty also had a new song that featured the line “I’m just a little girl and you’re a grown-ass man” and a tougher, more serious flow than any of her previous work. I was immediately sold. She was still going through the same stuff I was going through, at least on the crush front.

A few days later, “You were a tool again, but you’re the one that I’ve chosen” ended up being the line from “Okay Cupid” that was the most relevant to me. I had a misunderstanding with the object of my affection and didn’t see him for a couple of months. During this span, I saw Kitty Pryde two more times and was self-conscious about being one of the more enthusiastic people in the audience. I shouldn’t have been, because she’s the kind of performer who’s just plain likeable, even if she’s not the most technically gifted rapper on the internet. She’s grounded in the real world, and she affirms that it’s okay to have feelings, even the weird ones that I kept dwelling on.

When Kitty remixed Marina and the Diamonds’ “How To Be A Heartbreaker,” she delivered some real talk about playing hard to get that I needed to hear, even if it wasn’t advice that I was taking. “Rule number three is don’t assume it was meant to be,” she said, younger but wiser than me. “Disregard your heart and never ever wear it on your sleeve.”

These weren’t words I was thinking of when I finally saw my crush again, pulling him into a stairwell at a party and vaguely mumbling, “It was because I like you,” hoping enough cheap bourbon was involved on both our parts to cloud over what was or wasn’t happening between us. The answer was still nothing, but “Okay Cupid” was there for me when I was sitting alone in my room at 3am, already rehashing the night.

Kitty Pryde is what resonates when you’re into an older guy who you know is kind of shady, but who’s good-looking and personable enough to keep your interest anyway. Kitty Pryde is what resonates when you can’t help it and revert to your teenage self. Kitty Pryde is what resonates when you want to ignore your real problems and daydream about your dumb crush instead.

It’s Time To Stop Caring About Old Letters Written By Famous Writers

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I am not shocked to learn that Hunter S. Thompson called his employer a craven, drooling, inbred swine. I am not concerned that William Styron and Norman Mailer had a (no doubt heroically drunken) falling out in 1956. I have not once wondered what Flannery O’Connor’s signature looked like, or wanted to trace the ups and downs of her peacock farm. You may burn all this correspondence when ready.

Because what do we get out of this stuff? That these authors were the outrageous characters we always held them to be? We’re talking about a group of people that wrote letters for purposes of practical communication, procrastination or sheer boredom. And when the letters are not full of quotidian detail, they grandstand with all the arrogance of a writer who knows the prose will be pored over when he’s gone. Flaubert was exactly as opulent as he intended, especially when complaining that he couldn’t for the life of him get any writing done.

Imagine the value you’d get from a bound edition of all the emails Tao Lin sent in 2009. Or wait—did you already do that, Tao? If not, let’s talk; I’d be happy with a 15 percent cut. Anyway, I’m saying that the revelations are just not there. Writers are too self-conscious to let slip the juiciest truths. That’s why the historical letters and diaries of anonymous nobodies are so much better—there’s no assumption of audience beyond the intended reader. It’s not like Jane Austen was the one scribbling the names of Chawton village’s men onto a Bangability Chart.

Follow Miles Klee on Twitter.

Afternoon Links: Keanu Reeves Does A Nice Thing, Entire Lindsay Lohan Playboy Spread Leaks

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● Keanu Reeves is so casual in the way he offers his subway seat to a woman, you might almost believe he’s a nice guy. [BuzzFeed]

● Brett Easton Ellis says that if they really must go through with that American Psycho remake, they’ll have to cast Kardashian clan member Scott Disick. Or maybe Miles Fisher. Otherwise the whole thing is a no go. [Vulture]

● Better safe than sorry, Rick Ross has traded out a duffle bag boy for a med kit carrier. [TMZ]

● Snake, meet tail: things got real weird last night when Occupy Wall Street protesters found themselves #moccupy-ing Law and Order: SVU‘s Occupy Wall Street set, staged with stunning accuracy just a few blocks north of the Zuccoti Park. [Mother Jones]

● There’s reason to believe that the new year might bring a new album from Jay-Z, a new album from Kanye, and a Watch the Throne sequel. "You know, we’re really in a great place creatively," Jay-Z told MTV, speaking for the two. "We really found our zone.” [NahRight]

● Author and object of internet obsession, Tao Lin, was caught standing close to musician and object of internet obsession, Lana Del Ray. [HRO]

● "Am I biting you?" Rihanna asks the nice lady fitting her for a grill. "I’m used to it," responds the nice lady being bitten by Rihanna. [TheHairpin]

● They’re all here now: Lindsay Lohan in Playboy, the full spread. (NSFW) [ONTD]

The Most Ridiculous Parts of the New York Times’ Bebe Zeva Profile

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Yesterday, The New York Times published a profile of teenage Internet personality Bebe Zeva. “Who?” some of you are hopefully asking. Zeva, an 18-year-old from Las Vegas, is friends with Tao Lin and the Thought Catalog crew, and is the girl who models t-shirts on Hipster Runoff. And that’s it. She is not a “journalist,” as is claimed in this article’s lede. I could maybe look past that little fib, but the absurdity doesn’t end there.

It starts out at Lodge, the restaurant in Williamsburg, where Zeva and the Thought Catalog squad are assembled. Notes are mine.

“‘I wore flared jeans and tight-fitting crewneck T-shirts from the likes of Hollister and Abercrombie up until my second semester of freshman year,’ [ed. note: the horror!] Ms. Zeva wrote in an e-mail after the night at Lodge, ‘when I made the conscious decision to pursue the hipster lifestyle.’ It was around this time, Ms. Zeva recalled, that she went through a period of ‘relentlessly’ Googling the word ‘hipster.’ On the Web, she discovered the party photographer Mark, the Cobra Snake, and the blog Hipster Runoff, whose author goes by the name Carles. Both men have since become mentors of a sort.”

Carles and the Cobra Snake should be no one’s mentors, especially not young teenage girls.

After the meal, the diners were choosing between two parties to attend, one given by Ms. Alexander’s musician friends in Bushwick and another at the offices of Verso Books, in Dumbo, to which Mr. Lin had been invited. ‘Which party will have the more relevant people?’ Ms. Zeva asked. ‘Verso publishes Slavoj Zizek,’ Mr. Lin said. Ms. Zeva is an admirer of the Slovenian philosopher [ed. note: really?]. ‘Will he be there?’ she asked.

Welcome to a world where people at restaurants with their friends actually talk like Carles writes. Tao Lin and his wife Megan Boyle made a documentary about Zeva, the premiere of which was her reason for coming to New York. On the way into the premiere, Zeva ate chicken wings.

“Walking into the premiere eating wings is perfect for my personal brand,” she said.

And the personal brand thing? People say that out loud, too? Not trying to be unnecessarily mean to Ms. Zeva, who, after all, is still a teenager (here’s the part where we all shudder collectively at the thought of what we were like at 18), but you kind of have to find it disheartening that a newspaper of record is now running pseudo-celebrity profiles of people whose main distinction is being friends with bloggers.

Tao Lin: On Drugs, His Father’s Troubles with the SEC, & Why He’ll Take Money From Just About Anyone

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Tao Lin’s latest novel, Richard Yates, was recently published. It’s about the dissolution of a relationship between two characters named Dakota Fanning and Haley Joel Osment, who bear no relationship to the celebrities of the same names. In fact, it’s widely believed that the book is based on Tao Lin and his ex-girlfriend. I’ve interviewed Tao Lin before, for The Rumpus, and in the comments section at the foot of the article he answered anything people wanted to ask, including many questions about sex and Hipster Runoff. But these are things that interest me about Tao Lin: his demeanor and stilted way of speaking and writing, which I have heard some people suggest is an act or a symptom of Asperger Syndrome; his penchant for stealing—especially since he eats expensive raw food and doesn’t otherwise seem to seek out confrontation; his father Dr. Jui-Teng Lin, who had a civil fraud action brought against him by the Securities and Exchange Commission for “defrauding innocent investors of millions of dollars through an unlawful pump and dump scheme.” Dr. Lin allegedly reaped these “ill-gotten” gains by artificially inflating the market price of the company Surgilight Inc.’s stock tenfold. Over the course of several encounters with Tao Lin last summer, at times both of us under the influence of a controlled substance, I brought up Richard Yates insofar as it furthered my exploration of these topics.

SPIN Party for Smashing Pumpkins. Hudson Bar. July 26, 2010.

Tao Lin puts a book on the table face up. It’s about the literary agent Bill Clegg and his experiences with crack. “It’s interesting,” he says. We are sitting on a white couch. Tao’s friend Jake from SPIN comes over with a woman named Beth.

A man in a gray suit walks by, alone. “Beth says he crashes parties but no one knows who he is,” I say. “He always manages to have a stolen physical invitation, and they’ve gotten used to him. But still, no one knows who he is.” “Let’s follow him,” says Tao. We walk across the floor, a series of glowing squares like in Saturday Night Fever, and sit on a piece of furniture that looks like a log near the man in the gray suit, who has sat down at a table of people twenty years younger than him. He is not talking to anyone, but no one seems bothered. We watch the man. “He looks insane,” Tao says.

I ask Tao if I can profile him for BlackBook. “You’ve already interviewed me so much. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything more that people would want to know about me.” Tao says. “You keep writing novels. And they’re all autobiographical. How do you still have enough material to keep writing your novels?” I ask. “I don’t know.” “I read that your father did something illegal, or was accused of doing something illegal. And you’ve done illegal things and have spent time in jail. I want to ask about both of those things.”

Tao suggests we do many different drugs over the course of a day and record ourselves talking, and that whatever we say could be the article. For the most part he seems sincere. Tao tells me how to write my article. This feels disingenuous. Like he’s telling me so I might include it in my essay. Like an act, a demonstration of self-promotional acumen.

“That would be unpublishable,” I say. “The worst that can happen is that people will think I’m flirting with you. And that might be good for the article.” “The article would never get published,” I respond. Tao nods his head. “It would be a shit storm.”

Tao and I have traded controlled substances before. At The Wooly, he gave me Klonopin in exchange for Valium. Tao says he will be taking Adderall because it makes him talk more. I ask him to bring extra.

Union Square. 6:00pm. August 1, 2010.

I meet Tao near Coffee Shop on Union Square because it’s the neighborhood he used to live in. He says it feels weird because it feels like we have to talk for this article, whereas the other night at the SPIN party we had no trouble talking because it wasn’t for an article. Tao is in jeans he bought for $25 on eBay and a white t-shirt he also bought on eBay. His earphones are hanging out of his jeans pocket. As we’re walking, I wonder if Tao has taken Adderall already and if I should ask him for some. I don’t ask. We walk to Pure Juice and Takeaway. On the way, he points to TGI Fridays. “That used to be Zen Palate,” he says. “Virgin Megastore is something else now—Forever 21, I think. And Circuit City is Best Buy. That’s better because Best Buy is 24-hour.”

Pure Juice and Takeaway. 6:30pm

“Are you tight on money?” Tao asks as we approach the counter. “Because if you are, I’ll pay. I just got a $12,800 writing grant. Someone who likes my work gave it to me.” “Is it someone you know?” “I don’t want to say. The only stipulation of the grant was that I not reveal anything about the person.”

He tells me I should order a Strawberry Blonde. “It has banana and strawberries in it,” he says. “I’m not that hungry,” I say. “It’s just fruit,” he says. I order it. He orders grapefruit juice. “You’re not ordering one of these?” I say. “No. I want something light.”

As we sit down on a bench outside, a tall woman with dark hair and a long flower-patterned dress enters the shop. “That’s Shalom Harlow,” I say. “She was a model in the nineties.” “That name sounds familiar,” Tao says. “She’s like six-foot-three. If you stand here long enough, you’ll see a lot of models.” We look at Shalom Harlow. Shoko, a photographer, arrives.

“Do you hate America?” Shoko says to Tao. “No,” says Tao. “I just thought it would be funny to have a tattoo that said ‘Fuck America.’”

“Nice to meet you,” we hear Shalom Harlow say to a couple sitting inside. “I hope you work it off.”

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Bus Headed Down Second Avenue. 7:50pm

We get on a bus. I ask Tao if he would feel badly if he wrote about doing Adderall and then a fan of his went out and did Adderall to be like him and had a heart attack and died. He said he would not feel guilty. If they do something, it’s their responsibility.

“Why do you steal?” I ask. Tao has recently been arrested for entering Think Coffee, which is attached to an NYU bookstore, another branch of which he once stole earphones from. It had been a while, and he had forgotten he wasn’t allowed back.

“Tao has stolen stuff,” I say. Shoko looks like she feels like she should say something. “He was also recently arrested for trespassing. He wrote about it for Gawker.”

“You stole earphones,” I say. “People need food. But nobody needs earphones.” “I wanted them,” he says. “And I didn’t have enough money. I don’t feel badly about stealing from a big corporation. I would never steal from an independent seller.”

Why does Tao steal if he doesn’t need to? He eats raw food. If he needed to steal to survive, he would not choose an expensive diet, I think.

“Where do your parents live?” I say. “Taiwan.” “I thought you were from Florida.” “I am. They moved because their house was confiscated by the government.”

I ask him why it was confiscated.

“At the time, my dad was the CEO of a company that made—I’m not completely sure—but a company that made the machine that eye doctors use to fix near-sightedness. At some point, he released a press release that said something about this laser technology being established in South America. But the government felt that the lasers weren’t established in South America, so they prosecuted my dad and my dad got a lawyer but the lawyer was really bad. After the trial the judge said if the lawyer wasn’t so bad, my dad wouldn’t have been sentenced to jail time. He was sentenced to like 90 months or something like that. He ended up serving four years, my freshman year of college until I graduated.

My dad is pretty much comfortable in any situation. Growing up, he was poor and pretty much didn’t have anything, I think, so in jail he was relaxed and working on papers and stuff. He made a lot of friends. When we visited him—this is in one of my books, I think it’s in Richard Yates—he would lean back in his chair and smile and say ‘life in jail is good.’ Or something like that. And he came out healthier because he would exercise in there. The misleading press release was one thing. I don’t know what the other charges were, but there was something involving moving money around to avoid taxes. I’m not really sure. I feel that he probably knew that some things he was doing weren’t completely legal, but that they were the kind of illegal things that probably everyone does. The government probably found that stuff out after the press release thing. This was when every company’s stock was increasing in value for no reason, in 2000, I think. The government seemed to randomly choose some companies to prosecute.”

“Do your parents understand what you do?” I ask. “I don’t know about my dad,” Tao says. “I think my mother understands. But when she reads on my blog about drugs or stealing stuff she gets worried.”

“You’ve both spent time in jail, you and your dad,” I say, “for taking something that our laws say shouldn’t have been taken. Were your parents concerned the first time you stole something, or the first time you were caught?”

“I never lied to them, but I wouldn’t just come out and say whatever happened. And my mom would say, ‘Don’t do anything illegal,’ and like, ‘It’s not right to steal what isn’t yours.’ And I’d just respond how I would to anyone: in certain instances it’s not wrong.”

“What about your dad?” I say. “Did he ever try to advise you about not stealing or anything like that?

“No,” Tao says. “He’s very aloof. He’s like a mad scientist-type person, I feel. The only time he said something about anything I do was when he read something in Bed where I quoted the band Leftover Crack saying ‘fuck America,’ and he told me ‘you can’t be anti-American.’”

The bus bounces and sails around turns.

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Tao says that the house his family lived in before they moved to Taiwan was “a pretty big house in a gated neighborhood.” I ask Tao if his mom offered to give him money when she found out he had stolen.

“I think so at some point,” Tao says. “What did you say?” “I don’t remember,” Tao says. “I might have taken it. I now just take money from anyone that offers it to me, in part because I know I’ll spend it on more socially responsible things than they will. Mostly independent organic vegan restaurants and grocery stores and co-ops.”

Tao says he was in jail three times. “Don’t you get tired of getting arrested?” I ask. “If you consider your time and comfort to be non-monetary valuables, it seems more cost-effective to not get arrested.”

“No, I don’t feel that way,” Tao says. “I think I got caught only like six months after I stopped stealing a lot for income at American Apparel, when I was stealing every day or like multiple times a day. During that time I had a job, so my success rate was 99%.”

“When I say for income,” Tao clarifies, “I mean stealing regimentally. Selling batteries on eBay as a job. Selling a thousand dollars’ worth of batteries on eBay every month.”

“So you didn’t have a ‘job’ job,” I say. “Was there ever a time you thought of getting a job?”

For three or four months, Tao was a personal assistant for a Middle Eastern film actor who owned a jet company. Tao says the actor was contacted by the FBI because he started a jet company and is Middle Eastern. “He didn’t have an office,” he says. “Just a room. I sat on a futon mostly creating his website, writing descriptions of 200 jets in a detached tone. Or, not in a detached tone, but a lyrical tone. It would just say like, ‘The A.I. 500 can go 2000 miles without a refill,’ or something like that. At one point he wanted to make me a partner of the company. But by that time, I was more focused on writing. I just didn’t want to.”

Shoko’s Apartment on Rivington Street. 8:23pm.

It smells like freshly baked cookies in Shoko’s apartment. She makes us gin with blood orange juice. We go to the roof, where the sky is deep blue but not very dark. “We should take a picture like the picture of Brett Easton Ellis on the book jacket of his new book,” I say. Tao is excited by the idea of looking like Brett Easton Ellis. There are no guardrails on the roof. Tao leans back against the ledge of the roof so his head hangs over. Shoko takes pictures of him like this. “I do cartwheels,” Tao says. He does a cartwheel and Shoko photographs him.

“What does your brother do?” I ask. We are back in Shoko’s apartment sitting on a sectional beige sofa. With his fingertips, Tao is spinning a pair of sunglasses from one of its plastic arms. The frames are fluorescent green and heart-shaped. I can’t see his eyes because they’re covered by his elbow, which is raised so I can see the Fuck America tattoo. “He’s a graphic designer,” Tao says. He says he only sees his brother once every five months even though his brother lives in Park Slope. Tao lives in Williamsburg. He emails with him once every three weeks. “He’s around thirty or thirty-three. He’s married.” “Why don’t you see him more?” “I don’t know.” “Is his graphic design similar to your artwork?” “Yeah,” he says. He’s lying low on the couch. “He used to be a skateboarder.” “He sounds like someone you’d like,” I say. “I do like him.”

Raku Doraku. 10:00pm.

We are the only patrons at the restaurant. Tao orders vegetable dumplings, a pork bun, and green tea. I have vegetable dumplings and green tea. Tao doesn’t eat a lot of carbohydrates, he says, because carbohydrates make him feel “bad.” He will eat meat before he eats carbohydrates.

Shoko goes to the bathroom. Tao says he played snare drum for his high school band. He played for all four years of high school and went to band camp during the summers.

I ask if he’s taken Adderall. He says he took some at 3:00pm and then a little more at 5:00pm. “What’s the life of the pill?” I ask. “How long will the effect last?” He says it lasts about five hours. I ask if it is too late to take one. He says it isn’t.

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BEast for Ryan McGinley’s Main Man Party. 11:30pm.

Tall skinny men in small sneakers stand at the bar at BEast. On the dance floor, which is spangled with disco-ball light, a tall blonde woman in a black dress is dancing. We walk upstairs and see my friend Angelo, who runs Gelo Factory, sitting with a woman. This is Jiminie, he says. “She owns W/—– Project Space, pronounced ‘with,’ across the street.” I ask if Tao can have his book launch party there. Angelo says it only fits ten people, but it’s nice and people can stand on the street. I say that sounds perfect. “A large group of men just entered the room. Then they suddenly left together,” Tao says. “Did you see that?”

Tao goes to the bar and orders us gin and tonics. I go to the bar and we split half of a 10mg orange tab of Adderall. I feel indebted. “I’ll give you Valium later,” I say. “When did you start doing Adderall?”

“Some time after college,” Tao says. “I don’t remember. I just take 5 or 10 milligrams at a time. I like it in the same manner that I like coffee, in that I just do more work when I’m on it. I might take it like five days a month, the same way I might go to a certain restaurant. My ex-girlfriend had a friend who broke a hip and got a lot of methadone. I probably took that like ten times and I liked it a lot. Surprisingly, it lasted like 24 hours. I would go to sleep and wake up and still feel it. And then for a while I liked things like Klonopin, Xanax, and Valium. I’ve taken acid a few times. I don’t get any hallucinations. Actually, it just feels like Adderall. But it’s stronger and lasts longer. And then I’ve done cocaine a few times. It seems to last only 40-60 minutes. It seems to last so short a time that I’m aware of when it’s going to end, so it’s not really desirable. I feel like the worst thing a person can do to their body is eat muffins or other certain foods every day.”

We go downstairs and sit under the “live wall,” which is a wall covered entirely with real plants. Berries from plants on the live wall fall on our heads. I ask Tao if he’s feeling the Adderall. He smiles and says he feels more energetic. He asks me if I feel more energetic. I say I don’t feel any different. He gives me another piece.

Ryan McGinley comes upstairs in a red hat. “Is that red hat his signature hat?” Tao asks.

‘SUP Magazine Party at Le Bain at the Standard Hotel. 1:10am

“Who are all these people?” Tao says looking up from his iPhone. “’SUP Magazine only has 2,100 followers on Twitter.” We’re sitting on low-seated lawn chairs on AstroTurf® looking through a glass railing across the East River at the New Jersey skyline. Blondes has already performed by the time Tao, Angelo, and I get to the Standard Hotel.

Across from us, sitting on another lawn chair, is Sean Bones, who’s wearing topsiders and horn-rimmed eyeglasses. “Were you in the movie Wah Do Dem?” Tao says to Sean Bones. He leaves and Tao tells us Wah Do Dem is about a man who gets dumped by his girlfriend and goes alone on a cruise.

Tao says he went on family vacations as a child. “We went on like ten cruises to the Bahamas.” Tao has a very calm demeanor. He never raises his voice and his answers are carefully delivered and articulate. I imagine him screaming. I wonder if he has ever screamed.

“When most people fight, they scream and slam doors,” I say. “The characters in your novels, at least in Richard Yates, seem like they have extreme control over their emotions. They’re articulate and communicate with each other clearly. You seem very calm, controlled, and articulate. Was there ever a time when you screamed and slammed doors?”

“Probably the last time I fought, like slamming doors, was with my girlfriend in college. That was probably the last time I did anything like that. I fought a lot with my mom growing up. Slamming doors and screaming. When I was little I cried and screamed a lot. I would just be crying like almost all the time. Like age three to seven or eight. Whenever I didn’t get something I wanted I would cry and scream.” “Were you spoiled?” I ask. “I think so.”

Tao says he didn’t really read anything outside of school until his senior year of high school, when he saw Fight Club and then read the book as well as other books recommended by Chuck Palahniuk’s website. “I read six or seven Kurt Vonnegut books,” he says. “That’s when I started reading.” “That seems odd,” I say, “since your style is so minimal and Vonnegut is considered a maximalist.” “I think I changed,” he says. “I feel like a change happened after my girlfriend in college and I broke up. I was like a sophomore in college. The next two years I pretty much didn’t have friends and spent a lot of time alone. I feel like that actually changed me. Like I used to write differently before that. I used clichés and idiomatic expressions without feeling self-conscious. I think I view that person that I was as how most people are.”

We go down to the hot tub, which is glowing at the end of the room, surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling windows. People are dancing in the hot tub. There is a woman without her bathing suit top on. Her breasts are white. Tao and I sit on a ledge by the window. I notice that I’m gnashing my teeth and my jaw hurts. I feel mildly energized.

I ask Tao if he had a lot of friends in high school. “Not that many,” he says. “What about the band?” “I was extremely shy and nervous in high school. Like around some people, I would stop talking. And it just became accepted that I wouldn’t talk ever.” “Even in band camp? Weren’t you comfortable with members of the drumline?” “I think I was comfortable,” he says. “But I wouldn’t talk.” “When you were writing Richard Yates, did your girlfriend at the time know you were writing about her?” I ask. “Yeah,” he says. “She felt fine about it, I think. And interested in it. I think that person, the relationship in the book, it is the most impactful relationship in Haley Joel Osment’s life.”

Photography by Shoko Takayasu.

Tao Lin is Not a Vegan

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Great profile in The New York Observer of the much-debated (at least on the internet) author Tao Lin, whose latest novel, Richard Yates, is set for release in September. Richard Yates is the story of the difficult February/April romance (he’s 22, she’s 15) between two crazy kids named Haley Joel Osment and Dakota Fanning. But the characters bear little if no resemblance to the celebrities they are named for; they’re actually quasi-stand-ins for Lin and a teenage girl he met online when he was 22. It reads like a minimalist Lolita for the Gchat generation.

The Observer piece, by the always reliable Christian Lorentzen, is written in Lin’s easily imitated if impossibly mastered prose style, in which figurative language is not allowed. Lorentzen pokes gentle fun at Lin’s style, while also acknowledging the singularity of his voice which has, “advanced the novel by exposing its distortions.” But perhaps the most noteworthy piece of information to come out of the profile is the fact that Lin, despite rumors to the contrary, is not actually a vegan. There’s currently a pretty entertaining debate about Lorentzen’s piece on the lit blog HTMLGiant. Also, Lin discusses The New Yorker‘s 20 Under 40 list in the latest issue of Canteen magazine.

Links: Larry King Grills Lady Gaga, America Wins; John Waters’s Freaky Words of Wisdom

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● Larry King asks Lady Gaga about her sexuality, death, and lupus, among other things. The hardest hitting journalism this side of Wendy Williams. [PopEater] ● One-hundred never-before-seen photographs of Andy Warhol by the likes of Robert Mapplethorpe and Annie Leibovitz will make their debut this weekend, where else, but in the Hamptons. [Runnin Scared] ● Sonja Morgan, the newest cast member on The Real Housewives of New York, was arrested for drunk driving. Welcome to reality, sweetie! [Celebuzz]

● John Waters has ten pieces of advice for “functional freaks,” including: “If someone is racist and really cute, could you still have sex with him? I have to admit the answer is yes.” In other words, a must-read. [Flavorwire] ● Amid tragedy, we must laugh at this interview with one of BP’s oil leak fixing-robot failures. [VF] ● Tao Lin reviews the hoopla surrounding Marina Abramovic’s The Artist is Present without ever attending the show, features the line [sic], “i intend to ‘reduce’ this granny perf art bow legged breeze ‘to tears.’” [Thought Catalog]