Brie: Ahhh, this guy just texted me, he's like a totally awkward Dalton boy.
MB: Ooh, I bet he knows Yaf!
Brie: I'll ask. (texts) Yeah, he knows him. He asks why.
MB: Ooh, tell him your friend is carrying his unborn child.
Brie: Okay! (furious texting) Can we give details?
MB: Totally! (suggests a multitude of semi-plausible details supporting phantom pregnancy, creating probable shitstorm amongst the Dalton '00 crowd and parents and particularly Yaf's mother)
I... I am such a bad friend.
8.30.2006
8.28.2006
JBR: BREAKING NEW
Despite Dennis's 2001 party and recent celebratory edition of Blackout Thursday: JBR's Killer Has Been Found!, I am saddened to report that JonBenet's murder remains unsolved. The Colorado authorites will not indict John Mark Karr, insisting that he is merely a pedophiliac nonmurderous psycho, and they can't lock him up for that.
I hope that if they ever actually crack the case Dennis will have already moved to New York, so we can have the party here.
I hope that if they ever actually crack the case Dennis will have already moved to New York, so we can have the party here.
It's A Gray Day
My temp lady's on vacation, Roommate Alexis has a week until school starts, and Roommate Farva's sketchy cash-paying job relies mostly on e-mail. Take three restless roommates without responsibilities and add a rainy gray day. What might you get?
Possibly Meghan spending a slightly embarrassing chunk of the morning making hash browns in several small batches of steadily improving quality. Or that Roommate Alexis getting very excited about The Price Is Right. Or perhaps all of us watching Uncle Buck while on the exercise bike/doing crunches/blogging etc.
Uncle Buck. John Candy's alive and Macauley Culkin's adorable. Life is great!
Possibly Meghan spending a slightly embarrassing chunk of the morning making hash browns in several small batches of steadily improving quality. Or that Roommate Alexis getting very excited about The Price Is Right. Or perhaps all of us watching Uncle Buck while on the exercise bike/doing crunches/blogging etc.
Uncle Buck. John Candy's alive and Macauley Culkin's adorable. Life is great!
8.27.2006
Mother's Sunday
Fade in on MEGHAN. 24, blonde with roots, looks as though the trip from bed to floor might wind her. She lies in bed. A clock reads 8:58 AM.
A phone RINGS:
(music) DOO--doodoo---DOO--do--dododo--DOO-dodo-DOO---doododo----
MEGHAN
Hi Mom.
MOM (o.c.)
Hi. Have you left yet?
MEGHAN
No, in a minute. Where are you?
MOM
So I'm at mile eleven, I'll be done in 20.
MEGHAN
Okay, I'll be out in a sec.
Transition to MOM, early fifties, running the New York City Half-Marathon. On her cell phone.
The title of this little short is The Apple Has Fallen So Unfortunately Far From The Tree, Fitness Wise. Sundance, anyone?
8.26.2006
Cain, Pain, And A Song For Jordan Catalano
Speaking of Cain, you know who I love? Project Runway 3's Kayne Gillespie.
I think he has cheek implants.
Anyway, last night we went to Cain, the meatpacking starfucker place down in Chelsea, where the go-go girls wear loincloths and you can smoke inside. Apparently, we had just missed Jared Leto.
"Yeah, we were just like, sitting with him."
Jared Leto?! Jared Leto. My seventh grade self sighs from within. Yeah, there's the gout. The 62 pounds he recently gained and shed for some movie with Lindsay Lohan. And yes, there are the movie roles featuring disfigurement, his refusal to wash his hair, and rumors that he dated Scarlett Johansson. But it's Jordan Catalano! It can't be that bad.
"Um," they said. "He was wearing eyeliner."
Oh, Red. Needs some shelter from the storm, indeed.
I think he has cheek implants.
Anyway, last night we went to Cain, the meatpacking starfucker place down in Chelsea, where the go-go girls wear loincloths and you can smoke inside. Apparently, we had just missed Jared Leto.
"Yeah, we were just like, sitting with him."
Jared Leto?! Jared Leto. My seventh grade self sighs from within. Yeah, there's the gout. The 62 pounds he recently gained and shed for some movie with Lindsay Lohan. And yes, there are the movie roles featuring disfigurement, his refusal to wash his hair, and rumors that he dated Scarlett Johansson. But it's Jordan Catalano! It can't be that bad.
"Um," they said. "He was wearing eyeliner."
Oh, Red. Needs some shelter from the storm, indeed.
8.24.2006
Interlude
Okay, we interrupt the regularly scheduled programming because I am still on hiatus-- but I was in the same room as Jon Stewart last night. And even though I wasn't very close to him, and didn't get any pictures to later Photoshop myself and a romantic Hawaiian vacation backdrop into, I thought you should know that Jon Stewart and I BREATHED A LITTLE BIT OF THE SAME AIR.
Okay, aaaaaaaaaand... we're back.
Okay, aaaaaaaaaand... we're back.
Classic Blotto
8/1/2005: 36 Hours In Vegas
Day 1
So we left the office a little after 8, 3 hours after we were supposed to have arrived. No matter. We had several bottles of vodka-Orangina, a rented Uplander minivan, and a treasure map to the only two sure-win slot machines at the MGM Grand (you must go before noon).
Arrive in Vegas at 12:30. Check in to our Deluxe rooms at the vaguely Chinese-themed Imperial Palace.
Challenge: Differentiate between the Standard and De-luxe accommodations. Justify your answer. Do not use the relative ugliness of the bedspreads and/or curtains.
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
The latter part of the challenge is tricky, no?
Wonder at the Imperial's "Dealertainers," who dress as Rod Stewart and Liza Minelli et al., to sweeten your mood as they take your chips.
Head towards the Bellagio and meet up with Mark and Mari, who are driving from D.C. to Berkeley and just so happen to be around. Gamble. Drink. Win money. Lose money. Win money. Lose money. Head to Paris, with its ceiling painted to resemble the springtime sky. Obliviate to the time. Play nickel slots to attract cocktails, and experience great excitement when my machine goes apeshit.
"Keep going! Keep going!"
"You're going to win like $1200!"
"Holy crap!"
"Keep going!"
The machine stops, and I cash that shit out. $38.25.
Leave Paris.
Day 2
Why does every casino have such hideous carpeting?
Heat. Intense heat. Window-shop at the designer shops and witness dudes and their trophies in action. See the Prada shoes gifted to Kristy. There will be no such present for me on this trip. Adore a yellow Dolce t-shirt encrusted with rhinestones, spelling out "I Heart Collagen." Look at price tag; move on. Pool. Overheat. Nap. Primp. Depart for "Little Buddha" at the Palms, but 1/3 of the entourage begins fighting and we lose our table. Go instead to the Excalibur buffet, ditch 1/3 of the entourage, meet up with the Duke kids, and this is where the logic begins to crumble. The Vegas drug had taken its hold.
"You put money on red," says Carolyn at the roulette table. "If you win, you double your money. If you lose, you double your bet."
T. had given me similar logic for blackjack. Satisfied with the advice of two smart kids, I join in the betting, and then we begin to lose, and lose, and lose. Then we switch colors and lose some more. Mari and I are shaking a little. Tommy pulls me away. I am not made for luck games. Clearly, we must go play poker. I nudge Tommy on the way.
"What's a straight again?"
Oh, the men at our poker table found us amusing. Who is this blonde girl with the gold tube top and loopy pigtails? Surely, she should walk away, because she is about to give us mucho money in chips!
Fifteen minutes into our $3 limit table, I'm up ~$100. The men start saying something about Ben Affleck, and Mark notes that one is a Nevadan Tal Hirshberg. We play a bit longer, and I walk away.
That's entertainment.
8.23.2006
Classic Blotto
7/28/05: I Am Marla Frimmons
Marla Frimmons, with her gold-tone necklaces and Bayonne "I'm from Jersey and whaddya gon' do about it?" attitude, arrives at the exclusive Yuke University, ready to kick up a shitstorm.
The Frimmons family--Marla and her father--pulled their 1998 Ford Crown Victoria into Yuke's Ebrington Hall parking lot on its fine and swarthily Augustian moving day. Marla exited the vehicle, taking in the campus. The stone halls! This utopia--this--Mecca--of learning! Of knowledge! There for the plucking, if she would only reach out her hand! She did reach out her hand, and pushed a strand of hair, stiff with VO5 aerosol spray, off her forehead.
"I'm sweating fucking balls here Pops." She looked around more.
The grass! The absolute green of it! How ever did they keep it so bright, so verdant! The sidewalks of Bayonne had nothing on this, with their black spots of ground in gum, and glass shards glinting like mica.
Marla released a dainty pied from her three-and-a-half inch Candies wedge heel, and dragged a rhinestoned toenail through the succulent blades.
"This grass is gonna give me a fuckin' rash," she said.
A rash. A rash. A Yuke rash. A badge of honor, the Yuke Rash.
A well-built young man in a "Welcome to Yuke" t-shirt bumped her elbow with his dolly.
"Sorry," he said, looking at her a bit too long.
"Yeah, I bet," Marla snorted. "Look where you're fucking going."
The young man was confused. He pushed back his thatchy hair and stared at this, this... freshman! This nobody who dared use Fuck Padaloodie on him, a respected sophomore, an almost brother of DeltaOmiWhatticon!
He smiled at her, real easy.
"Yeah, yeah," Marla said. "Take a fucking picture."
And then Marla Frimmons kicked Yuke's dusty ass.
(I know he invented New Journalism and all, but I Am Not Charlotte Simmons).
The Frimmons family--Marla and her father--pulled their 1998 Ford Crown Victoria into Yuke's Ebrington Hall parking lot on its fine and swarthily Augustian moving day. Marla exited the vehicle, taking in the campus. The stone halls! This utopia--this--Mecca--of learning! Of knowledge! There for the plucking, if she would only reach out her hand! She did reach out her hand, and pushed a strand of hair, stiff with VO5 aerosol spray, off her forehead.
"I'm sweating fucking balls here Pops." She looked around more.
The grass! The absolute green of it! How ever did they keep it so bright, so verdant! The sidewalks of Bayonne had nothing on this, with their black spots of ground in gum, and glass shards glinting like mica.
Marla released a dainty pied from her three-and-a-half inch Candies wedge heel, and dragged a rhinestoned toenail through the succulent blades.
"This grass is gonna give me a fuckin' rash," she said.
A rash. A rash. A Yuke rash. A badge of honor, the Yuke Rash.
A well-built young man in a "Welcome to Yuke" t-shirt bumped her elbow with his dolly.
"Sorry," he said, looking at her a bit too long.
"Yeah, I bet," Marla snorted. "Look where you're fucking going."
The young man was confused. He pushed back his thatchy hair and stared at this, this... freshman! This nobody who dared use Fuck Padaloodie on him, a respected sophomore, an almost brother of DeltaOmiWhatticon!
He smiled at her, real easy.
"Yeah, yeah," Marla said. "Take a fucking picture."
And then Marla Frimmons kicked Yuke's dusty ass.
(I know he invented New Journalism and all, but I Am Not Charlotte Simmons).
8.22.2006
Classic Blotto
6/14/2005: I Have A Problem
Dennis is obsessed with Ami Sushi.
"AMI SUSHI!!!", right after "Wanna do a shot?", could be his catchphrase.
He took me to experience the Ami Sushi last night.
Wait, hold on, you might be asking. Why this emphasis on Dennis and Ami Sushi? Did Dennis consume an ill-prepared and therefore deadly fugu, leaving the 5' 3.75" Meghan to physically carry his 6' 7" frame to the UCLA Med Center, in a feat of God-and-adrenaline-given strength? Or perhaps Meghan and Dennis performed a dine-and-dash! Or did they leave the restaurant, get lost, and ask for directions from a random guy who turned out to be Harvey Keitel?
No; you show touching faith in me. Like so many of my anecdotes, this one's headed straight up my ass.
Ami Sushi is very good, but it is not very popular. The waiters stand about, shouting Japanese greetings to all who enter before returning to their chat sessions, or calculating exactly how little they're making in tips on empty tables. I should not be alarmed, Dennis assured me. It's just on a dead street. It's still good.
Dennis is my reality-TV enabler. His TiVo has changed my life. With Dennis I watched Keenyah bloat on bagels and lose the America's Next Top Model title to Naima. With Dennis I mulled over how Rob and Amber kicked everyone's ass on The Amazing Race until some very obvious producer intervention screwed them over. With Dennis I experienced the subversive joy of watching 3 consecutive episodes of American Idol in 12 minutes! We are not picky: we watch Strip Search and Kept, and even made it through the second episode of Britney and Kevin: Chaotic (but no more--even we have limits. Actually, Dennis might still watch it. I'm not sure).
Anyway, since Dennis is a reality-TV connoisseur, one might expect that when a true G-list limited-run E! reality series personality enters Ami Sushi, Dennis would be the one to kick me under the table and start making faces.
But he wasn't. When Princess Ann Claire entered Dennis's beloved Westwood eatery, I was. And then it got worse: I listened in on her conversation, filed away her tete-a-tete with the waiter ("And is the sushi prepared with any oil or fat?"), and lost my inner battle to refrain from listening to her accent and glance periodically her way.
Come ON.
The show was on during my unemployment period, but... come on. Love Is In The Heir? Are you kidding? It doesn't even have the "I was so stoned I couldn't change the channel" watchability factor of Gastineau Girls. I have a problem. Like Kirsten on The OC,** I'm admitting it. I look to a higher power to guide me through.
When we rose to leave, I heard one last snippet from the budding country western singer/peripheral Iranian royal:
"I'm really starting to focus. I have to invest in my career. Now that people" and here she cocks her head, ever so slightly, in my direction, "recognize me."
I am so embarrassed.
"AMI SUSHI!!!", right after "Wanna do a shot?", could be his catchphrase.
He took me to experience the Ami Sushi last night.
Wait, hold on, you might be asking. Why this emphasis on Dennis and Ami Sushi? Did Dennis consume an ill-prepared and therefore deadly fugu, leaving the 5' 3.75" Meghan to physically carry his 6' 7" frame to the UCLA Med Center, in a feat of God-and-adrenaline-given strength? Or perhaps Meghan and Dennis performed a dine-and-dash! Or did they leave the restaurant, get lost, and ask for directions from a random guy who turned out to be Harvey Keitel?
No; you show touching faith in me. Like so many of my anecdotes, this one's headed straight up my ass.
Ami Sushi is very good, but it is not very popular. The waiters stand about, shouting Japanese greetings to all who enter before returning to their chat sessions, or calculating exactly how little they're making in tips on empty tables. I should not be alarmed, Dennis assured me. It's just on a dead street. It's still good.
Dennis is my reality-TV enabler. His TiVo has changed my life. With Dennis I watched Keenyah bloat on bagels and lose the America's Next Top Model title to Naima. With Dennis I mulled over how Rob and Amber kicked everyone's ass on The Amazing Race until some very obvious producer intervention screwed them over. With Dennis I experienced the subversive joy of watching 3 consecutive episodes of American Idol in 12 minutes! We are not picky: we watch Strip Search and Kept, and even made it through the second episode of Britney and Kevin: Chaotic (but no more--even we have limits. Actually, Dennis might still watch it. I'm not sure).
Anyway, since Dennis is a reality-TV connoisseur, one might expect that when a true G-list limited-run E! reality series personality enters Ami Sushi, Dennis would be the one to kick me under the table and start making faces.
But he wasn't. When Princess Ann Claire entered Dennis's beloved Westwood eatery, I was. And then it got worse: I listened in on her conversation, filed away her tete-a-tete with the waiter ("And is the sushi prepared with any oil or fat?"), and lost my inner battle to refrain from listening to her accent and glance periodically her way.
Come ON.
The show was on during my unemployment period, but... come on. Love Is In The Heir? Are you kidding? It doesn't even have the "I was so stoned I couldn't change the channel" watchability factor of Gastineau Girls. I have a problem. Like Kirsten on The OC,** I'm admitting it. I look to a higher power to guide me through.
When we rose to leave, I heard one last snippet from the budding country western singer/peripheral Iranian royal:
"I'm really starting to focus. I have to invest in my career. Now that people" and here she cocks her head, ever so slightly, in my direction, "recognize me."
I am so embarrassed.
8.21.2006
Rerun Season
Gentle reader, it has hit bottom. My last post was one word over and over and--I know; you saw it. You weren't fooled. And then the five before that were all blog-referential except for of course the MEGOONKWAN post for which I will never apologize. And I hate blog-referential blogging. Blog-referential bloggers are down there with My Baby Pooped Today bloggers and My Boyfriend Is So Awesome bloggers (except, of course, for my blog-referencing blogger friends who know who they are and that of course I am not speaking of their highly readable blog-referencing or love-life detailing blogspots). So when I blog about blogging, I am actively hating myself. I don't like it.
So today I was like, okay, I'm going to pull my blog out of this fucking blogorrheic sepsis to which it has succumbed. I will move forward with Blogger Beta and at the same time back, perhaps to the Golden Age of Miss Blotto's Almanac, back when it was just Miss Blotto and I worked at Cut + Run and would casually edit my snark between work orders for five hours, honing and coaxing it into Tom Wolfe parodies and whatnot and I had yet to discover the photo or link features that can often stand in for good thought. I cracked my bones and sat down to type.
And yet... nothing.
And I have so much material! I could write about the baby cheetah show I watched at someone's random house in the Berkshires this past weekend, for instance. I could write about Roommate Alexis and her daily insistence that our pet beta fish has its period. Our building also has a bald she-midget with stump hands. This is how bad it is, people. I can't think of anything funny to say about a follicly, digitally challenged little person who also has a dog that looks just like her.
So I'm taking the rest of this week and possibly the next off. I'll repost some golden oldies sporadically to get you through your workdays. It's summer hiatus. If Lost can do it any damn time it likes, so can I.
So today I was like, okay, I'm going to pull my blog out of this fucking blogorrheic sepsis to which it has succumbed. I will move forward with Blogger Beta and at the same time back, perhaps to the Golden Age of Miss Blotto's Almanac, back when it was just Miss Blotto and I worked at Cut + Run and would casually edit my snark between work orders for five hours, honing and coaxing it into Tom Wolfe parodies and whatnot and I had yet to discover the photo or link features that can often stand in for good thought. I cracked my bones and sat down to type.
And yet... nothing.
And I have so much material! I could write about the baby cheetah show I watched at someone's random house in the Berkshires this past weekend, for instance. I could write about Roommate Alexis and her daily insistence that our pet beta fish has its period. Our building also has a bald she-midget with stump hands. This is how bad it is, people. I can't think of anything funny to say about a follicly, digitally challenged little person who also has a dog that looks just like her.
So I'm taking the rest of this week and possibly the next off. I'll repost some golden oldies sporadically to get you through your workdays. It's summer hiatus. If Lost can do it any damn time it likes, so can I.
CoffeeCoffeeCoffee
CoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeeCOFFEEcoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffee coff ee coffee
It's day two.
This is bad.
It's day two.
This is bad.
8.18.2006
MEGOONKWAN Rules The World
For immediate release:
MEGOONKWAN has taken over Planet Earth. This web-based sensation, originally created as a platform to online stalk Model4Christ in as creepy a manner as possible, has revealed incisive truths about Our World and has been thus deified.
MEGOONKWAN HAS EATEN YOUR SOUL.
MEGOONKWAN has taken over Planet Earth. This web-based sensation, originally created as a platform to online stalk Model4Christ in as creepy a manner as possible, has revealed incisive truths about Our World and has been thus deified.
MEGOONKWAN HAS EATEN YOUR SOUL.
And So To Temp
Today I've been mangling the phone system here in TempWorld. I'll be here all next week, so I'll be sure to pick it up by next Thursday.
Remember last time I temped? I'll give you a hint: it involved microdermabrasion and inquiries as to the definition of "collating." I seethed silently and discovered Great Books Online.
This office has free lunch, but they block all subsidiaries of gawker.com, and I'm not sure it's an even trade. What did cubemonkeys do before the Internet? Was productivity way higher, or did they just spend way more time staring into space?
Perhaps I'll look for some jobs...
Oh, and I'd like to nominate Dennis for least appropriate party theme of the aught so far. Puts the Nuclear STD Explosion to shame.
Remember last time I temped? I'll give you a hint: it involved microdermabrasion and inquiries as to the definition of "collating." I seethed silently and discovered Great Books Online.
This office has free lunch, but they block all subsidiaries of gawker.com, and I'm not sure it's an even trade. What did cubemonkeys do before the Internet? Was productivity way higher, or did they just spend way more time staring into space?
Perhaps I'll look for some jobs...
Oh, and I'd like to nominate Dennis for least appropriate party theme of the aught so far. Puts the Nuclear STD Explosion to shame.
8.16.2006
2 Things
1. I switched to the new Blogger Beta version, so if you're viewing the page on Safari it might look weird. And I have to redo the link list. It should look better soon.
2. I'm watching Jurassic Park on AMC right now. Anyone else think Spielberg got real dinosaurs for this thing? How else can special effects from 1993 still look this good?
2. I'm watching Jurassic Park on AMC right now. Anyone else think Spielberg got real dinosaurs for this thing? How else can special effects from 1993 still look this good?
8.14.2006
Bleh
Has the blog been really boring lately? It has. It's okay. I know you thought it; don't feel guilty. I already know.
But come on-- in this time of rather (okay, relatively) massive life-change, shouldn't the blog be chock full of fancy-free, or at of least frantic messages, like "CAN'T BLOG MUST FLY WRITE MORE LATER OMG"?
Yet despite having moved three hours into the future, having left some very good friends in Pacific time, despite living in someplace unlike any other place on Earth, life just doesn't seem that different. And it's very different. It just doesn't feel that way.
I registered at the temp agency today and will soon commence a series of mind-numbingly boring positions at any number of worthless companies, furtively accessing manuscripts from my semi-legal FTP server until things become so mentally excruciating that I just break down and, in a final act of desperation, convince someone to hire me full-time (it's my MO). Most people bite the bullet before the bullet leaves Wal-Mart; for me, the dumb hick has to load the gun and fire it before I can gnaw on metal.
Anyway, I've been writing more (like, non-blogorrhea writing that maybe possibly with the grace of God and many random people whose names I've only begun to gather you could someday read on an actual page) with all the unclaimed time, and that's probably why entries have been sparse and picture-heavy. And you know what? For that, I most definitely don't apologize.
But come on-- in this time of rather (okay, relatively) massive life-change, shouldn't the blog be chock full of fancy-free, or at of least frantic messages, like "CAN'T BLOG MUST FLY WRITE MORE LATER OMG"?
Yet despite having moved three hours into the future, having left some very good friends in Pacific time, despite living in someplace unlike any other place on Earth, life just doesn't seem that different. And it's very different. It just doesn't feel that way.
I registered at the temp agency today and will soon commence a series of mind-numbingly boring positions at any number of worthless companies, furtively accessing manuscripts from my semi-legal FTP server until things become so mentally excruciating that I just break down and, in a final act of desperation, convince someone to hire me full-time (it's my MO). Most people bite the bullet before the bullet leaves Wal-Mart; for me, the dumb hick has to load the gun and fire it before I can gnaw on metal.
Anyway, I've been writing more (like, non-blogorrhea writing that maybe possibly with the grace of God and many random people whose names I've only begun to gather you could someday read on an actual page) with all the unclaimed time, and that's probably why entries have been sparse and picture-heavy. And you know what? For that, I most definitely don't apologize.
8.13.2006
A Post For Courtney Graham
I was listing my severely curtailed television allowance to one of the new roommates when she squealed. Was it out of fear that I'd get her addicted to Battlestar Galactica? No. It was at Veronica Mars, because she and her friend met Sheriff Lamb last night.
Sheriff Lamb claimed to be 27 (lie). He claimed to be single (lie). He claimed to have no children (veracity unclear). He then tried to bed this friend-of-the-new-roommate, preemptorily refused any kind of condom use in said bed, and got kicked to the other side of the mattress.
They're going out again tonight, but see, now she's done her Google search.
I really, really want to go spy.
Sheriff Lamb claimed to be 27 (lie). He claimed to be single (lie). He claimed to have no children (veracity unclear). He then tried to bed this friend-of-the-new-roommate, preemptorily refused any kind of condom use in said bed, and got kicked to the other side of the mattress.
They're going out again tonight, but see, now she's done her Google search.
I really, really want to go spy.
Re-Sighting
First, the disturbing news that I saw yet another table of Scientologists, this time in the Union Square station, hawking free stress tests and copies of Dianetics. I thought Scientology never took hold here due to the greater relative intelligence and savvy of New Yorkers as compared to Angelenos. Yet, there were people taking the free stress tests. NEW YORKERS. BACK AWAY SLOWLY. IF YOU DON'T LOOK AT IT, IT CAN'T HURT YOU.
In other news, Finn DeTriolio was at Pwd's party last night and it took my companion and I, Sopranos enthusiasts both, a full twenty minutes to pin it. I'm kind of ashamed.
In other news, Finn DeTriolio was at Pwd's party last night and it took my companion and I, Sopranos enthusiasts both, a full twenty minutes to pin it. I'm kind of ashamed.
8.11.2006
Pop Quiz
Okay, which picture was taken at 15th and Prospect Park West?
And which on the WB lot in Burbank, CA?
(Okay, I know it's fairly obvious, but still... those set builders don't fuck around).
And which on the WB lot in Burbank, CA?
(Okay, I know it's fairly obvious, but still... those set builders don't fuck around).
8.10.2006
The Egg and the Grass
Narni wonderful Narni was in town, so I made the trek to Park Slope for some non-Hollywood brekkie.
Park Slope. Home to the writer-dad, pushing the tot around Prospect Park in a MacLaren (if the book sold) or generic stroller (if it didn't), lost in thought, deciding whether Protagonist has to die or when to call his agent. Really, Park Slope just makes me think of The Squid and the Whale, and therefore divorce in the eighties, and how I haven't been to the natural history museum in like, forever, and why on Earth Kevin Kline and Phoebe Cates allowed their young son to take a part in which he was always jacking off and wiping jizz on lockers. Good movie, though.
Good park.
Park Slope. Home to the writer-dad, pushing the tot around Prospect Park in a MacLaren (if the book sold) or generic stroller (if it didn't), lost in thought, deciding whether Protagonist has to die or when to call his agent. Really, Park Slope just makes me think of The Squid and the Whale, and therefore divorce in the eighties, and how I haven't been to the natural history museum in like, forever, and why on Earth Kevin Kline and Phoebe Cates allowed their young son to take a part in which he was always jacking off and wiping jizz on lockers. Good movie, though.
Good park.
8.09.2006
Do You Feel Out Of Control?
My first real "I live in LA" moment, aside from the first time I saw a celebrity--okay, Bijou Phillips-- get drunk and trip on herself, was when I went to my car and found a leaflet.
"ARE YOU CURIOUS ABOUT YOURSELF?" it asked.
Indeed, I recognize that self-awareness and introspective searching are among the tenets of humanity, separating us from the dogs. Of course I'm curious about myself! I read on.
DIANETICS MAY HOLD THE ANSWER.
And then I stopped.
Every city has its specific religious pamphleteers. New York has Jews for Jesus and the Seven Nations of the Brother of the Sons of Israel. SLC, LDS. Los Angeles, the Scientologists.
Worlds are colliding, my friends!
For on my way to the S shuttle between Times Sqare and Grand Central this evening, I passed two tables staffed by white-shirted, earnest Ritalin nonusers surrounded by heaps of a certain paperback science fiction novel and white plastic machines with a detachable stylus.
FREE STRESS TEST, the sign claimed.
Kids, the Scientologists have arrived.
"ARE YOU CURIOUS ABOUT YOURSELF?" it asked.
Indeed, I recognize that self-awareness and introspective searching are among the tenets of humanity, separating us from the dogs. Of course I'm curious about myself! I read on.
DIANETICS MAY HOLD THE ANSWER.
And then I stopped.
Every city has its specific religious pamphleteers. New York has Jews for Jesus and the Seven Nations of the Brother of the Sons of Israel. SLC, LDS. Los Angeles, the Scientologists.
Worlds are colliding, my friends!
For on my way to the S shuttle between Times Sqare and Grand Central this evening, I passed two tables staffed by white-shirted, earnest Ritalin nonusers surrounded by heaps of a certain paperback science fiction novel and white plastic machines with a detachable stylus.
FREE STRESS TEST, the sign claimed.
Kids, the Scientologists have arrived.
8.07.2006
McCarren Pool Party
I found my camera battery charger! And went to the McCarren Pool Party with Clobot!
It featured a dodgeball tournament.
And hipsters.
Welcome back, camera battery charger.
It featured a dodgeball tournament.
And hipsters.
Welcome back, camera battery charger.
Dispute
Pwd was convinced it was Chad "I impregnated an extra from the terrible show on which I work with my very hot ex-wife to whom I was married a month ago" Michael Murray.
"There's Chad Michael Murray!" he hissed. "Right there! Outside!"
I disagreed. Something with the head shape.
"If you shouted his name he'd turn around," Pwd countered.
"Okay," I said.
"CHAD!!!"
He swiveled. I may have squealed and run.
Pwd followed.
"You are an idiot."
"There's Chad Michael Murray!" he hissed. "Right there! Outside!"
I disagreed. Something with the head shape.
"If you shouted his name he'd turn around," Pwd countered.
"Okay," I said.
"CHAD!!!"
He swiveled. I may have squealed and run.
Pwd followed.
"You are an idiot."
8.05.2006
Details: Gorgeously Grim
Went to a gathering at LEA's sick apartment last night; did not see Amy Poehler or Will Arnett in the elevator but if we'd stayed over we might have caught their dogwalker for the morning stroll.
You know when you're the first at a party and you don't know the host that well and it's really awkward and you have to pretend you forgot to go to the ATM so you can leave for a while and then just walk around the block texting people unnecessarily to look busy, hoping that no other guests pass you on their way and then recognize you once you're back? I mean, it wasn't anything like that, but present at the early stages were:
1. Tri-Delts
2. Iciss Tillis
It was kind of weird. Population shifts occurred, however, some long-lost friends came by, and fun plus several bottles of sake were had by all.
My head hurts.
Today, however, was J.'s farewell barbecue and it was far too merry to commemorate such a sad event. Who now will force the concierge at the Hotel Pennsylvania to call the last dialed on her phone and ask said last dialed to come collect their passed out friend from the lobby? We're still unsure how she got there. J.: don't go!
Oh, and I got a job offer.
(I'm way less of a loser in New York).
You know when you're the first at a party and you don't know the host that well and it's really awkward and you have to pretend you forgot to go to the ATM so you can leave for a while and then just walk around the block texting people unnecessarily to look busy, hoping that no other guests pass you on their way and then recognize you once you're back? I mean, it wasn't anything like that, but present at the early stages were:
1. Tri-Delts
2. Iciss Tillis
It was kind of weird. Population shifts occurred, however, some long-lost friends came by, and fun plus several bottles of sake were had by all.
My head hurts.
Today, however, was J.'s farewell barbecue and it was far too merry to commemorate such a sad event. Who now will force the concierge at the Hotel Pennsylvania to call the last dialed on her phone and ask said last dialed to come collect their passed out friend from the lobby? We're still unsure how she got there. J.: don't go!
Oh, and I got a job offer.
(I'm way less of a loser in New York).
8.03.2006
Interview #1
Holy moley! Day 3 in New York, and I have my first interview!
I'll let you know how it goes!
I'll let you know how it goes!
8.02.2006
T Minus... Taking Bets Now
Bloomberg's asking us to abstain from doing laundry until the heat wave passes.
Sweet!
(Anyway, there's general confidence that a blackout is imminent. Stock up on Popsicles and liquid nitrogen now).
Sweet!
(Anyway, there's general confidence that a blackout is imminent. Stock up on Popsicles and liquid nitrogen now).
8.01.2006
And I'm Here
I'm here! In New York! It's great! It's 104 degrees! The sheets are on the bed, the cookbooks in the kitchen. I actually just saw that I forgot my pillows. No matter! It's New York! Finally!
And I realized, with all my bitching and moaning over the past 6 years about how it's impossible to find a decent bagel or slice of cheese outside the NY/NJ metropolitan area, I never realized that I might grow similarly attached to non-Eastern seaboard based regional food.
Which brings us to:
Where am I going to get a decent taco al pastor in New York?!
I have faith.
The search is on.
And I realized, with all my bitching and moaning over the past 6 years about how it's impossible to find a decent bagel or slice of cheese outside the NY/NJ metropolitan area, I never realized that I might grow similarly attached to non-Eastern seaboard based regional food.
Which brings us to:
Where am I going to get a decent taco al pastor in New York?!
I have faith.
The search is on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)