Kenny Peng Liu

My personal notes for navigating the modern world.

2 posts under

What a great paragraph

If you don’t take Swift seriously, you don’t take contemporary music seriously. With the (arguable) exceptions of Kanye West and Beyoncé Knowles, she is the most significant pop artist of the modern age. The scale of her commercial supremacy defies parallel—she’s sold 1 million albums in a week three times, during an era when most major artists are thrilled to move 500,000 albums in a year. If a record as comparatively dominant as 1989 had actually existed in the year 1989, it would have surpassed the sales of Thriller. There is no demographic she does not tap into, which is obviously rare. But what’s even more atypical is how that ubiquity is critically received. Swift gets excellent reviews, particularly from the most significant arbiters of taste. (A 2011 New Yorker piece conceded that Swift’s reviews are “almost uniformly positive.”) She has never gratuitously sexualized her image and seems pathologically averse to controversy. There’s simply no antecedent for this kind of career: a cross-genre, youth-oriented, critically acclaimed colossus based entirely on the intuitive songwriting merits of a single female artist. It’s as if mid-period Garth Brooks was also early Liz Phair, minus the hat and the swearing. As a phenomenon, it’s absolutely new.

Chuck Klosterman from Taylor Swift on People Who Call Her “Calculating”

Tookah the Dog (& Parvo)

The cat’s back in the house. A cardinal quality of house cats are their reflexive gloat. I’ve never understood why people take care of these things. They’re the ‘mean girls’ of the house pet kingdom. Nothing you do will serve them entirely, and you compulsively keep trying to win their approval but can’t say why.

Dogs on the other hand…

My eyes burn as I type this. I’ve just finished bleaching the floors and all the surfaces throughout the house. It’s wafting onto my skin and eyes. Since Sunday night, Tookah’s anus has been leaking a watery diarrhea throughout the house; about 1/3 cup an hour. The inner yard has a steady layer too. There are flies. I’ll have to spray the paths down with bleach and water.

What was misdiagnosed by an overworked vet as roundworms on Monday turned out to be the dog disease “Parvo” (or Canine parvovirus) on Tuesday. A virus that attacks white blood cells and tears away at the intestinal lining. It causes it’s host to vomit and shit non stop. When vomit and shit run out, it turns into dry heaving and blood leaking. Some think it’s a mutation of a cat disease. Cats.

(btw, humans can’t get it. We’ve got plenty of other diseases of our own.)

In three days, Tookah has lost a little more than 4 lbs of her body weight, 10 percent. Could you imagine losing 10 percent of your bodyweight in three days. I’d set out pool-side immediately: beach bod.

Anyways. Since Sunday, I’ve done nothing but tend to this damn dog. Cleaning up diarrhea. Forcefeeding it medication it didn’t need. Dancing around to cheer it up. Cleaning up vomit. And once, waiting in the 24 hour vet clinic (for 5 hours) til 3 in the morning. I just met it 2 weeks ago. It doesn’t even answer to its (incredible) name.

The vet bill after all the required 24 hour overnight observations for treatment will probably add up to 8,000 bucks. So far, it’s about $2,300. An expensive date either way.

I had planned to shirk work and throw a daytime BBQ on Thursday for the non office-job crowd. It was gonna be GRAND. We were gonna DRINK. We were gonna PEE IN THE YARD. We were gonna set off ILLEGAL FIREWORKS. There were gonna be promiscuous FLOOSIES. The president was gonna come by and HONOR ME (for nothing in particular). But most importantly, SMOKED BRISKET.

Now all I have is a neglected thread of emails and readings. And this whiny feral fucking cat meowing, “How’s that bitch now. Hahahha. Feed me. Feed me. Humans suck. Feed me.”