Small Talk
the knicks, vocal rest, dua lipa's wedding and media clips
Hey, do you have a lighter?
***
It was as if New York knew that I was cheating on her. I dropped my luggage on my apartment floor and ran outside to make up for lost time. To check that things were as I’d left them. It’s my favourite thing to do when I get home after a trip: a quick jaunt around the neighbourhood, up the avenue that runs perpendicular to the barbershops that line you up with a slight slant, past the Italian spot with the oxtail ravioli, then right of the grey church where hot Narcotics Anonymous members stand outside and smoke on Tuesday nights, and, finally, a loop around the park to complete the journey. I usually take the long way home rather than retrace my steps, opting to get lost in the big windows of brownstones and the lives they hold inside of them, only to slide into the bookstore under a limp vow of “just looking,” promising not to buy anything until I finish the stack by my nightstand. But yesterday, I never made it through the park.
As I trotted toward the park, a warm gust began to sweep through the green, unfurling the leaves and dirt from the ground into a violent spindle. The wind whisked around itself, picking up steam and expanding in size until all of us in the park stopped and looked up – its eye suddenly becoming a sea of many eyes, staring, blinking back, meeting our gaze. Then, the gust began to descend upon us. I’ve seen how this movie ends, so I forfeited my plans to loop the park and anchored back towards the entrance. But the wind had built up its velocity by this point, its hot breath on my heels. “This is rather ominous,” I heard someone say as I dashed back through the park entrance.
After crossing an intersection, I glanced at my phone and read a text from Kurt: “Careful its supposed to storm!” But I was too late, ill-prepared and underdressed, as the sky undid its top button, opening itself to me, and the neighbourhood, furiously.
Like an empty stomach, the sky churned. The storm sent its victims into a harried sprawl across all corners of the neighbourhood, emptying patios and picnic blankets as its first timid drops fell. My shoulder noticed it first, and then the sidewalk: a wet spray of scatter plots like a constellation that didn’t quite connect. Split by the rainfall but united by the pathetic reminder of our own humanity, all of us became Mother Nature’s bitch, mere mortals, Muggles without an umbrella or defense against the dark magic of the storm. The rays of Los Angeles could never compete with the flares of New York. New York got her lick back, and, as punishment, I got wet.
***
At a writers’ conference a week prior, I heard recent Pulitzer Prize winner Pablo Torre say that sports are like the weather: a perfect conversational social lubricant. When a city’s sports team is doing well, the whole city can feel it — like fierce rainfall or a warm summer day. It becomes all that anyone can talk about.
***
At 11:28pm EST on Friday, I sat in the back of an Uber on my way to a house party in Los Angeles. Suddenly, my phone lit up, hit with a storm of “go Knicks!!!!” texts from friends in New York. Envy rose within me despite being a less-than-casual watcher of the sport. It’s how it must feel to see a lover you overlooked suddenly have a glow-up. On his way to the bar, Blair sent me a video of hundreds of people jumping, cheering and celebrating on Manhattan’s West 10th Street, all of them united by the Knicks winning — a victory prominently displayed via a large projection against a red brick building. I watch the clip, and then watch it again.
That night, my friends and I headed out to dance at a rave in downtown LA. Throughout the night, people make small talk, and upon hearing that I’m from New York, they mention the Knicks. The rave becomes rapt with sweaty tactility and laser lights. A new friend tears open a pack of honey with his teeth and presses it into my mouth. Despite how much fun I’m having, I can’t help but feel that I’m supposed to be somewhere else. I try to return the banter and create small talk, but my mouth feels glued shut. When I’m back at the hotel, my ears ring with the hum of bumblebees.
***
In the brutal rise of Saturday morning, I awake groggy and, momentarily, believe that I have missed my flight. However, it turns out that I have woken up just a few minutes before my alarm, and, upon this realization, I treat myself to some brain rot before hustling over to LAX. The most recent clip from Subway Takes comes across my feed, the one where Jennifer Lopez states that “in order to be a New Yorker, you have to be born in New York.” Her visage reaches toward incognito but fails: her trench coat is buttoned to the top, the brim of a black hat hoods her eyes. But you can tell it’s her. “Everyone wants to claim the city, but in order to be a New Yorker, you have to be born in one of the five boroughs,” she continues. It’s too early in the morning for my Transplantian tendon to pulse with shame, and I begin to pack my toiletries. I need to make sure I have my passport. I’ve only been in the city for five years and feel more indebted to the Toronto Raptors than the New York Knicks. But can I not have dual citizenship and shamelessly jump on the bandwagon? I think of her take and how the question of how long you’ve lived in the city usually arises after the first few minutes of small talk with a stranger. Kareem Rahma pushes her on this, reminding her of the “ten-year rule,” but J.Lo gracefully shuts him down. “I said what I said, and I meant it,” remarks Jenny from the Block with a steadfast confidence that only a true New Yorker could muster. She was done talking.
***
There are levels to small talk. I am not shy about meeting new people and find that small talk comes easily. It’s best when it’s kept brief, as the name suggests, and, when done well, it can be a petite social lubricant to build trust for a greater dialogue of substance. I view small talk the way a metal detector must view the beach: I skim across the perimeter of conversation – jumping from topic to topic – and once I feel like I’ve found gold, I dig deep.
In a way, this newsletter functions as small talk. The name of the newsletter, LOOSEY, comes from the slang for single cigarettes you can get at the bodega in New York, and likely many convenience stores in other parts of the world. Each essay is punchy, unrelated to the last, and fleeting, much like a burning cigarette. Shareable like this one, too. And then it’s done. Loose connections across culture and humanity. Perfect for small bits of conversation.
***
But to keep it real, I don’t even smoke. I’m just nosy. At a wedding last weekend in New York, I slipped out with the smokers for a break from the dance floor to indulge in some late-night gossip and small talk. Nic had brought back those chic little cigarettes from Mexico, the skinny ones that look like they are on GLP-1s, appropriately named “Vogue.” Something very Charli xcx takes over me, and I bring a Vogue to my lips and pull. The nicotine cloaks my throat, and I swallow it back, passing the hot stick around.
I feel lightheaded for the rest of the night, and on my way home, I send Kurt an invisible text that reads, “I smoked a cigarette to be cool and now I feel sick :(” to which he responds, “At least you’re cool.”
The gossip was worth it. It always is.
***
Sometimes small talk can be petty gossip. But other times, it can change the direction of your life. While in line for the bathroom, the best small talk can come from a stranger, their anonymity leading toward greater honesty. It’s not all shallow, but some of the best insights really aren’t that deep. The most efficient way through a storm is always a straight line.
***
I predict that a very popular topic for small talk this week will be Dua Lipa and Callum Turner’s wedding. Photos of their Palermo celebration have begun to surface on the internet, and it seems cut from a tasteful fairy tale: a library-themed cocktail bar equipped with Aperol spritz, an unlimited supply of cigarettes, an impressive guest list that ranges from Justin Trudeau to Elton John and Adele, and a custom Bottega gown.
It’s fascinating how Dua Lipa has become a modern emblem for how life should be lived. How her joyous approach to living is beginning to eclipse her accomplishments in music. I’ve seen Dua Lipa three times live in concert (the first in 2018 at the now-closed Echo Beach in Toronto) and have even written for her publication, Service95. She’s achieved so much. I think of what Emily Sundberg once said: how “you can’t compete with someone having more fun than you,” and it’s true. We’re all having so much fun.
***
It is possible that everything that Dua Lipa stands for – presence, enjoyment, living in the moment – has been turned into symbols. Her ideals have become images; her bon vivant lifestyle is now concretized into tips on how to have a “Dua Lipa summer” or how to construct the “perfect vacation photo dump like Dua.” Whether she intended to or not, her songs are now synonymous with manifestation, affirming the life you want. In addition to being an artist, she has become an aesthetic.
It’s fascinating when someone’s image becomes more prevalent than their words. Dua Lipa is one of the most streamed musicians in the world, but right now, all we can talk about is her Instagram. The discussion around her has become fractional, and I think that’s synonymous with how we live and see the world today. Media, headlines, and sound bites. Loose connections across culture and humanity. Larger-than-life personalities that are clipped perfectly for small talk. Rich lives and interiors that can only be glimpsed through the faraway window of a brownstone, or a cell phone.
***
If Nora Ephron once said “everything is copy,” then perhaps in the year 2026, “everything is media.” It could be said that the world Ephron came up in was one built on ideas, while today, the chief currency is attention. For a message to find a reader or an audience, it must first become an object worthy of attention. The surefire way to garner attention is to transform oneself, or one’s idea, into a vehicle of the media itself. Soon, the image surmounts the idea: insightful podcast discussions become amputated and clipped into video-first talk shows; out-of-print magazines are survived by digital cover stories and a baity circuit of social content. Everyone is a media company: writers pivot to video; clothing giants hire their first Chief Entertainment Officer; beauty brands develop entertainment arms within their organizations; OpenAI buys an internet talk show to run its comms; and Parisian fashion houses become film studios. The medium has now transcended the message — a frame too bulky for a painting, a canvas more valuable than its own paint. What was once a sermon is now as quick and digestible as small talk.
***
The writer Safy-Hallan Farah once said that she’s more interested in being associated with her ideas than her image.
I go back and forth on this, but I believe that it’s important for one not to lose their voice.
***
When engaging in small talk, it’s perfectly acceptable to jump around topics, but not too much. Otherwise, it’s you who comes off as shallow and unfocused, not the small talk itself. It’s best when the topics of conversation feel linked, especially if you’re going to turn the conversation back to yourself. Do this too often, and you run the risk of coming off as an asshole.
***
I lost my voice two months ago and had to go on severe vocal rest. I “served” some of it back in Toronto, and I’m only just getting back to normal. The ear, nose, and throat doctor shoved a camera scope down my right nostril and confirmed that I have a polyp on my right vocal cord. When I saw him over a month ago, he told me that I must reduce speaking immediately to avoid surgical intervention. The doctor prescribes me weekly sessions with a speech therapist and commands me to avoid smoking (lol), fried foods (nice try), sending voice notes (devastating), and soda, the latter of which I hold out on for three whole weeks.
As of today, I have had five sessions with the speech therapist in a small white office at the southern tip of Manhattan. She records my progress through a headset microphone that makes me feel like a pop star whenever I wear it. In our sessions over the last five weeks, I practice making “vvvv” and “mmm” sounds. I blow bubbles from a straw into a small cup of water and practice “speaking towards the front of my face.” I feel like a toddler, or an alien learning to be a human. Miraculously, it works.
We discover that I lost my voice after a series of unfortunate events. The inciting incident was Lady Gaga’s “Mayhem Ball” at Madison Square Garden, where I sang along (loudly). This was followed by a quartet of long flights shortly after: a 36-hour trip to Los Angeles to meet with a podcast host, followed by a dry-aired flight to Tokyo to film a documentary. It is my speech therapist’s theory that on those flights, I became a victim of the altitude’s dehydration, which only made my voice hoarser.
During that period when I unknowingly ruptured my vocal cords, I never once stopped talking, making conversation everywhere I went, both small and tall.
***
Yesterday, on an episode of the podcast Therapuss, actor Nicholas Galitzine tells host Jake Shane to “shut the fuck up” after he keeps interrupting him. It’s playful but firm. I haven’t watched much of Jake Shane’s show, but from the clips I have seen, he do be talking a lot. Intrigued by the clip that has hit my social feed, I download the interview to watch on my flight back to New York, but upon trying to stream it on Spotify, I discover that due to Jake Shane’s Netflix deal, the video is not available on any other platform. I briefly consider just listening to the audio of the interview, but decide to read the new Patrick Radden Keefe instead. What’s the point of a Nicholas Galitzine interview if you can’t look at him?
***
Once on vocal rest, my talks become smaller. Brevity is a virtue. I’m not supposed to speak louder when someone interrupts me, and, in the beginning, I find this incredibly frustrating. There are times when I forget that I’m supposed to be reducing my vocal load: in a heated debate over dinner, when my favourite song plays at a Yebba concert, during the carols of a wedding. Most injuries are music-related, I realize. It’s hard to be quiet in a city as loud as New York, but soon I become used to it. Soon, I even enjoy it.
I pull someone in close to speak to them, not wanting to compete with the background chatter of a restaurant or the loud music of a party. It becomes more challenging in groups when I can’t project my voice to the masses. I worry that people will think I’m being exclusionary as I direct my short bursts of conversation to one person and not a group, a small talk faux pas.
But there’s something refined, even sensual, about speaking softly and not adjusting your volume to what is around you. I spend more time in the mirror before I head out, knowing my image will have to speak when I can’t. I get accused of being flirty, my docile voice caressing the edge of someone’s ear. Accusations like this only bring me delight.
***
Is Jake Shane a person or a media organization? Is Dua Lipa a singer or a monument? At the writers’ conference, many of the panelists struggled to categorize themselves — writer or media personality? — but ultimately were willing to accept how the media-fication of their work has led to greater opportunities and a wider audience. There was a benefit to becoming an image, and not just a voice. I think about the clipping economy, how small talks and social media cutdowns build top-of-funnel awareness for podcasts or movies, and if it piques your interest, you can dig deeper, like a metal detector, if you want to learn more. Am I a writer, or, by virtue of this newsletter being distributed by Substack, a content creator? I clear my throat, one of the most damaging things one can do to their vocal cords. I then whisper, damaging them again: Would I have a book deal by now if I pivoted to video?
***
On Thursday, at 9pm PST, Steve Lacy and Ryan Beatty both drop new music. It feels cosmically significant, and not because they’ve both collaborated with different Knowles sisters. Both of their songs, united in genre even if at different ends of the elusive category of alternative R&B, deal with the toils of a relationship strained by a lack of communication. In Ryan Beatty’s “Secret Language,” he admits to withholding affirming communication because of his own wounds, hoping instead that his lover can read into his nonverbal cues and small talk: “All the ways I say it in a secret language. Did you hear what my words couldn’t tell? I keep it all to myself.”
On Steve Lacy’s “the feeling,” he sings about being on the other side of the relationship. He’s the one who craves communication, a full conversation. “After all, there’s one thing I don’t know. Am I your baby? Am I your baby?” The third “Am I your baby?” arrives through a fluttering harmonization, as if delivered by cherubic fairies. He’s ready for a bigger conversation. The song is hypnotizing, catapulted by Lacy’s lyrics that hit like a stream of consciousness, achieving the fluidity of a voice note you’ll soon regret sending. I sing the words loudly without thinking much about them in my Los Angeles hotel shower. I pause briefly, sober to the risk of damaging my voice, but continue anyway, not caring: “The heart takes what it wants; I’m not afraid to bleed.”
***
On Tuesday of this week, I will return to the ENT for what is hopefully my last visit. The plan is to see if all of my good behaviour has caused my vocal polyp to reduce in size or disappear completely. I’m not looking forward to the camera-down-my-nose of it all, but I am looking forward to clarity. However, it just so happens that the next Knicks game is the evening before, and I’ll be in the city this time to experience it with the New Yorkers and “New Yorkers,” united by sport and good weather. I don’t see a world where I approach this quietly. But for New York, I’m happy to be loud, even if it might mean I’ll eventually have to return to a painful quiet. After all, when done right, small talk leads to big conversations. Essays, too.
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“It was as if New York knew that I was cheating on her.” Insane opening btw
As much as I love the soft sweet tones of a woman's voice, my right ear is pretty much gone (50 years of crash cymbals and bass amps) so there's that...
After your therapy, take voice lessons. Then you can sing your heart out and not do massive damage.
I took two voice lessons 40 years ago. 30 years ago i was making a living at it, singing for my supper and i still reap the benefits today. Find a Seth Riggs protege.