Who is thurston moore dating

While Moore browses—selecting an old edition of Jean Genet’s poems, as well as an interestingly bound volume that, he explains, is a letter to Charles Olson by the poet John Wieners—he leaves me to catch up with his girlfriend, the sprightly and discerning art-book editor Eva Prinz, who is in her mid-30s and has on a big floppy sun hat.

“I had worked with her over the years,” he explains, “doing books at Rizzoli and Abrams,” starting with one called Mix Tape: The Art of Cassette Culture, which came out in 2005, “and we became lovers at some point.

Prinz goes off to find him an iced green tea, saying, “I’ll leave you two to talk” about his new album, The Best Day. That’s it.” His best friend in high school—like Moore a misfit, doubly so because he was gay—had been the one who first suggested It’s Friday night—let’s get in the car and drive to Max’s Kansas City.

Moore first came to a previous, filthy, druggy, and grimly unbrunchy version of this neighborhood from Connecticut, after dropping out of college, and lived on East 13th Street between Avenues A and B. That first night, in 1976, sipping Cokes, they saw the Cramps and Suicide and were hooked. “We did all this exploring in New York,” he remembers, but the two eventually drifted apart.

“It was mean, and I liked it because it was mean.” We walk by the Pyramid Club, one of the few holdouts from those days.

“There was a nighttime collaboration between us and the drag queens who ruled that place,” he remembers. They would introduce the bands—the Swans, Sonic Youth—and make fun of us.” We pass Niagara (“That was 171A,” he says, “where Henry Rollins tried out for Black Flag”), turn into Tompkins Square Park, and settle on a bench, and Moore remarks that Patti Smith befriended Robert Mapple­thorpe “basically right where we’re sitting.” These blocks are layered with memories of people, some living, some dead, whom he knew. It was just artists and freaks,” and you could find your chosen tribe and maybe get famous.

Thurston Moore, still lanky and youthful at 56, with a little Siouxsie Sioux button pinned to his denim shirt, arrives at Mast Books on Avenue A, says a sidelong hello to me, and heads back to the poetry section.

Obviously.” They collaborated on an art-book publishing venture called Ecstatic Peace Library (named for a Tom Wolfe phrase), and “we started making books while we were having our, our, uh, illicit”—he pauses here, stuttering a bit, as if distancing himself from this potboiler language—“a-a-affair.

And when we got found out, we sort of put a stop to the press for a while.” He pauses, thinks some more.

So that’s slightly off-putting for her.” He is quick to add: “Kim and I never had any involvement with any illicit behavior.

Even on the tour buses she grew up on, we were watching John Candy movies and wearing our pajamas.

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