We suppose that most of our readers already know this, but we here at República really love social commentary. Here’s some that comes from our good friend, Jeff Lapaixx, who decided to take his frist stab at documentary work. We could spend time describing its context, but thought that it’d just be better to let the man himself describe it in his own words:
I am not a mother and although I will admit to the increasing frequency with which my uterus aches at the site of chubby cheeks and tiny tennis shoes, I am not sure I ever will be. I am maternal no doubt, and with a dozen stints as a bridesmaid under my belt and a rapid increase in my unofficial aunt hood status one would think the next logical step would be to get myself knocked up. With my peer group immersing itself in the world of procreation I often am left to wonder if I should be hopping on the baby train?
By B.E. For most of my nearly 30 years on the planet, I have been singing the praises of the single life. Its not that I don’t understand the human condition of wanting to be loved, and its not that I inherently think relationships are bad, its just that I come from a broken home and was raised in the Spice Girls era of girl power, so the need for a partner never really occurred to me. I often tell the tale of listening to Boys II Men’s meaningful slow jam ‘End of the Road’ as a girl and my…
I have made it a point in my life to stay in touch with lovers from the past. I use the word lover loosely, as the level of intimacy I achieved with any of these men runs the gambit. For the most part, this has been a pleasurable experience, maintaining the connection I felt at some point but creating a less complicated relationship with limited expectations.
In recent years the landscape of human interaction has shifted. Standard social practices and regular verbal communication has all but vanished and in its wake we are left with hash tags and ‘like’ buttons to show our loved ones how near and dear to our hearts they are. They are so near and dear, in fact, that we take 3 seconds out of our day to push a button on the internet and let our sprawling network of family members and one night stands know that we think ‘Sarah’ looks great in that dress or ‘John’s’ beer bonging shots are hilarious.
Recently I opted out of a potentially beneficial work event to be amongst friends in my neighborhood. In recent months I have solidified myself amongst an extraordinary group of artists and writers, businessmen and genuinely good people uptown. Although this meeting did not take place at The Algonquin and Dorothy Parker was not present, it was enjoyable nonetheless.
I know what you’re thinking, hate is a strong word. A word that should be used sparingly and with great care. To that, I raspberry loud and emphatically. Having lived in 2 major US cities and traveled the world I have encountered all sorts of people. People with varying degrees of education and vastly different life experiences, but for the most part, there is that common thread of humanity and humor that connects us. It is these encounters that have made my life something of great value. Meeting and talking to strangers is one of my greatest joys and brings me inordinate amounts of pleasure. Something that does not bring me joy nor pleasure – stupid people.
My parents raised me right. I hold doors, open I always say thank you; and I have been known to help out my fellow human being when at all possible. As a child, I thought this is just how everyone behaved. As an adult, I can assure you, it is not. As I grow old I also grow tired. Tired of irritating people who are more engrossed in their smart phone than able to properly navigate their way down a crowded midtown street. Tired of children ordering candy at the bodega and swiftly exiting in a flurry of laughter and sneaker squeaks yet devoid of any audible please or thank you.
In the words of a wise and seasoned troubadour, “what goes around comes back around.” Now, I believe what JT was saying here is that karma is a bitch, as illustrated in his epic video for the song of the same name whose only redeeming quality was Scarlett Johansson’s ever growing cleavage, but I digress.