#38: Bob Dylan was the Rita Ora of his time
Death By Consumption
1/21/25 - 1/27/25
January should be illegal. Flop month, flop weather, flop president, flop country. I feel like there must have been a time when January content was stuff like "10 cozy hot chocolate pairings to snuggle up with!" and now it's all like: "10 effective barricades to protect elementary school children from gestapo thugs!" We've fallen off a cliff, and we're hitting every fucking rock on the way down.
This week, in between all the spiraling, I saw our dear sweet Timmy's little Bob Dylan movie, I got obsessed with another version of The Traitors, I consumed a viral TikTok sandwich, and New York Magazine did what they do best, which is introduce me to a lot of new people to absolutely loathe.
A Complete Unknown (2024) — at Nitehawk Prospect Park
My apologies to Club Chalamet for taking this long, but Timothée has fully charmed me. I used to feel fine about him, nothing special, but something flipped over the past 6 months, and I came to accept that this kid might actually be the kind of A-lister we’ve been missing since the 90s. The Lisan al Gaib, if you will. So when I sat to watch A Complete Unknown, and got my first glimpse at Timmy as Dylan — more specifically, got to first hear Timmy as Dylan — the feeling that came upon me was something like… pride? It felt a bit like, I don't know, seeing a beloved cousin announce a promotion on LinkedIn. Like: wow, you really put in the work and earned this! I’m so happy for you. And sure, I’ll endorse your social media skills, why not!
You basically come to a Bob Dylan movie to hear the songs and, somehow, incredibly, against all odds, Timothée actually pulls it off. He really does sound a lot like him, and more of a loving homage than a parody, unlike some biopics (will Zoe Saldaña’s Nina Simone blackface resurfacing ruin her chances of winning an Oscar for Emilia Perez? Sorry, but I hope so!). When he wasn't singing, his speaking voice did start to feel a liiiiiiittle SNL to me, but then I’d remember the real Bob Dylan, and think: well, his voice does sound a little silly…
While Timothée has arguably the harder job, Monica Barbaro steals the film as Joan Baez. She just sounds fucking incredible! I love Bob’s music more than Joan’s (sorry to be so controversial), but every time Monica Barbaro stepped up to the mic in the film, I got excited. I know she’s up against steep competition for the Oscar (you know I fucking love Conclave, but is Isabella Rossellini going to win for Xeroxing some papers?) but I kind of hope Monica can somehow win.
The film itself, though, is mostly a standard Hollywood biopic. Its structure felt comforting, if not thrilling. It would make a good airplane movie, and I mean that as a compliment. There aren’t any major surprises, and you don’t learn anything new about Bob (but really, have we ever learned anything about Bob Dylan over the past 60 years? He's as mysterious and unknowable as Rita Ora, but, like, intentionally), but it’s just a very pleasant experience getting to hear all these songs performed very well. Sometimes movies don’t need to be more than that!
"The Traitors UK" season 3 — streamed via nefarious means
The US and UK Traitors film in the exact same location and often recycle the exact same challenges and game structure, but the two shows could not be more different. In the US, The Traitors is a showcase for reality TV legends to interact in baffling ways. The game and the relationships that develop are never that deep — the pleasure instead comes from the sheer absurdity of watching, say, Real Housewives of Dubai's Ayan learn that "Survivors" just came from another TV show and didn't survive female genital mutilation or malaria.
But on the UK version, the cast is all normies, so the focus is more on the relationships that develop between the cast, and it's shocking how quickly these people developed intense, genuine relationships. By day two, they're sobbing at the idea of betraying each other, and it only gets messier from there. The Traitors also does one of the best jobs in reality TV at casting for genuine diversity — the show regularly features multiple people over the age of 60, disabled people, women in hijabs, etc. etc. etc. The kinds of people you shamefully hardly ever see on reality TV anymore, especially not in the US. And best of all, they always manage to find some grade-A weirdos, like this season's Charlotte, who spends the entire season faking a Welsh accent under the assumption it makes her more trustworthy. (No one ever cared one way or another.)
People online are often frustrated by the lack of strategy on The Traitors, but I think that's what makes it so fun. There's literally nothing to ever base your guesses on whether someone's a Traitor or Faithful, so people throw accusations at each other wildly, which results in a lot of hurt feelings and frustrated tears. And, since you know the whole time who's right and who's wrong, each episode is essentially an hourlong buffet of extremely hilarious dramatic irony. As people spiral into paranoia, turning on their closest friends for truly no reason, I just sit and kick my legs in the air, screaming with glee. Everyone is so dumb compared to me, who gets to see and know everything! It's extremely satisfying.
And, sorry to Alan Cumming, but the UK's host, Claudia Winkleman, is the far superior host, perfectly straddling the line between stern taskmaster and a genuine friend of the cast members. I don't think I've ever seen a host willing to play this much with the cast — at various points in the season she bursts into uncontrollable laughter at something someone does, or scolds the cast for voting out someone she liked, and as she announces who wins the season she has tears streaming down her face. It's been so long since I've seen a genuinely original take on what a reality TV show host can be, and I kind of need her to host everything.
We watched season 3 of The Traitors UK through some shady practices (I don't really know how Justin gets this stuff but I assume the dark web is involved?), but it'll be on Peacock at some point. And, in the meantime, I highly suggest the first two UK seasons, which are already on Peacock! The world might end soon, but Peacock is eternal.
The wagyu chopped cheese — at Prospect Park Deli
Nursing a slight hangover the morning after a fabulous gay dinner party, I had a shameful thought: I need to eat a TikTok famous sandwich, right now. And not any sandwich, but specifically the one in my neighborhood — the wagyu chopped cheese at Prospect Park Deli.
These guys — who, it must be said, are some of the loveliest bodega guys you’ll ever meet — had the genius idea to go all-in on grilled wagyu creations as their branding, and though the chopped cheese is the original, they’re seemingly happy to put chopped wagyu on anything. On social you can see them make wagyu ramen, wagyu Doritos, a wagyu chopped cheese for someone who may or may not be Luigi Mangione. As I walked there, I feared there would be a miserable TikTok line, but happily, there weren’t many people in front of me: a group of three people about my age, and then two guys who looked to be about 20, who already had their sandwiches but were taking photos of them instead of eating them.
I ordered two originals on sesame bread, and as I did I heard the group of three excitedly talking to the two younger guys. They all started pounding fists. Neighborhood friends, I assumed, and moved next to the group to wait for my sandwiches. Another woman entered and gasped.
“I know you!” she yelled to one of the kids. “Can I get a picture?”
“Sure!” he said, and both boys immediately pulled her into a pose, as she took a selfie with them.
“I knew I knew that face!” she said. “I see you every day!”
“I bet you thought you were looking at Wayne Brady,” joked one of them, who did actually look a tiny bit like Wayne Brady, now that he mentioned it.
“You guys want to film the grill?” one of the guys working offered.
“Totally!” one of the boys said, and went behind the counter to capture it.
“You gonna eat it or what?” another worker joked, looking at the untouched sandwich, which had been unwrapped and shot from every angle.
“Nah, we gotta wait until we’re back so they can film us eating it,” one of the boys explained.
I was literally the only person in the deli not only not fawning over these two, but who clearly had no idea who they were, and I was baffled by the fact that even people older than me were coming in and asking for photos with these two. Who the fuck were they? Am I old now?
For the next 24 hours, I obsessively monitored the deli’s Instagram, until they finally posted a photo with the boys. It turns out they’re a duo that go by “cookiesncreameats”, and they have 34k followers on TikTok. Which feels a little low, doesn’t it? Is a mere 30k followers all it takes to no longer be able to order a sandwich without being asked for photos? If that’s these guys’ lives, what is it like for someone with 500k followers? No wonder the TikTok ban felt apocalyptic to these people.
There’s definitely a quality to the foods that go viral on TikTok: decadence, buzzwords (never “beef,” always “wagyu”), usually some sort of hot, stretchy, steaming cheese that looks good in close-ups. So I was expecting the sandwich to be all show and no substance. But, fuck, these sandwiches were good. They toast the bread in wagyu fat, spread mayo and ketchup on it, cover it in the wagyu that’s been chopped and grilled with onions and cheese, before layering it with chopped lettuce and sliced tomatoes, so the taste is more or less like one of the most decadent and simple burgers you’ve ever had. It was an obscene thing to eat shortly after waking up, and it brought me back to life. I hate to say, but TikTok really gets it right sometimes.
The Extinction of Irena Rey, by Jennifer Croft (2024) — library ebook
An odd, funny book about translation and ecology, among other things, that's very difficult to explain. Written by Jennifer Croft, who's mostly known for her translations of the books of Polish author Olga Tokarczuk, this novel is about a group of translators who assemble in Poland to translate the new novel by their author (who they refer to as "Our Author"). Each translator comes from a different language, and is mostly referred to by that language, so the characters' "names" are Spanish, English, Lithuanian, etc. Shortly after they gather, the Author goes missing, and general chaos ensues.
Adding to the complexity of the structure, the book you're reading was purported to have been originally written by the translator known as Spanish, and therefore is from her perspective, but we're reading the version that has been translated from Spanish by the character known as English. And, turns out, English and Spanish hate each other. Which means the book often spirals into bickering and fighting in the footnotes, with Spanish taking frequent jabs at English's appearance, say, or the way she tries to manipulate men, and then English, in the footnotes, defending herself, and lobbing insults back at Spanish. It is, I promise, a lot funnier and somehow even stranger than it sounds.
"How Far Would You Go to Make a Friend?" by Allison P. Davis — in NYMag
NYMag is on a constant mission to drive me to the brink of madness, and this article is their latest assault on my sanity. Allison P. Davis profiles the people and companies trying to "solve the loneliness epidemic" and also, conveniently, make a shitload of money while doing it. It's full of out-of-touch rich people with inflated egos saying stuff like, “I don’t think we necessarily lost the way to connect. I think it’s more like a system or design problem." And it introduces you to some new, horrible people, like this guy, who created an app that helped people make genuine friends, but his business hit a snag:
Barbier says Timeleft users kept going rogue, starting their own WhatsApp groups to keep hanging out. Now, he plans to introduce a feature that allows people to reconnect via the app and request to have another dinner.
Finally, I can pay $9.99/month to ask my friend if they want to get dinner!
"The Cruel Kids' Table" by Brock Colyar — in NYMag
But oh no, NYMag wasn't finished making me want to leave this earth forever, thanks to this week's cover story, in which Brock Colyar parties with the young MAGA assholes. I understand if you can't stomach reading a whole article in which assholes gloat like assholes about the fact that they can finally... say slurs, I guess? Truly, it seems like that's the only thing these people actually care about. I really wonder if these people have ever experienced real happiness in their lives, or if it's all just a smug sense of hatred that's kept them going this long.
Every paragraph is more insane than the last. Like:
It is entirely possible, in this world, to be very gay. Everywhere I went, people were fangirling over Scott Presler, an out gay activist with Jonathan Van Ness’s hair. He credits himself with turning out the Amish vote enough to win Pennsylvania (he was also, in 2020, a “Stop the Steal” organizer). “Scott is the best. He’s the best. He won us Pennsylvania. I really like him,” said the frat boy from Georgetown, who told me homosexuality was a sin. (What’s his biggest sin? “Adultery,” he responded, a bit too quickly.)
And:
Inexplicably, the room smelled like corn. “Sexual Healing” was playing. “Have you noticed the entire room is white?” an older woman in an updo and a silver sequined gown asked me, though it wasn’t entirely clear whether she thought that was a good thing or a bad thing. The Laken Riley Act was a popular topic of conversation.
And we meet this genius woman:
A Wharton graduate, she lived in New York and recently fled to Miami for “political reasons” (among other things, masking culture at Trader Joe’s).
These people would be funny if they weren't trying to kill us all!