They’re a gluttonous people, the British. They indulge in scarves, £5 tuna sandwiches, terrible prime-time soap operas like EastEnders, drug-addicted and self-destructing celebrities, hot beverages, skinny jeans (oh Britain, you really shouldn’t), and Everybody Loves Raymond re-runs. But one thing they indulge in that comes very close to being heart-warming is Sunday roasts. Basically it’s like Thanksgiving every week minus the football games, cranberry sauce, and the grandmother who insists on talking about your (lack of) breast size at the dinner table (although I suppose that depends on whose table you’re at). K invited me to his house’s roast this past Sunday where it was his turn to cook. Here’s what I took away from the experience…
America preaches spending time with your family, especially sitting down to meals with them NOT in front of the tv. But maybe if we had a structured custom like Sunday roasts the way Britain does, this would be easier for the typical American family to accomplish. After all, knowing you have a once-a-week date is easier to keep than trying to do it every day, feeling overwhelmed and then not doing it at all. (Though come ON, sitting down to a meal with your family isn’t that hard to do. Even between flute lessons, tap dance classes, Hebrew School, conference room meetings in the barn, and listening to the news on NPR, my family managed to handle it. P.S. The barn was an office, not an actual barn, so you can stop picturing my dad telling sheep the pros and cons of investing in global equities.)
In London it seems as though you’re either a die-hard vegetarian or a die-hard meat lover. Go to Camden or Bethnal Green if you want to save the animals and prefer to eat steak made of seitan (it’s no coincidence it’s pronounced ‘satan’) and tofu burgers. Go to a Sunday roast if you own the t-shirt ‘Meat Is Murder Tasty, Tasty Murder.’ (Actual t-shirt sold here.) We had lamb and chicken on Sunday, but I’m sure any animal that moves is acceptable fare to sprinkle with seasoning and cook at 350 degrees until tender and crispy.
For a country that insists on creating such heavenly sweets such as sticky toffee pudding, they sure do love their vegetables. These are a staple at any roast. No, they’re not drenched in butter, salt or cheese the way vegetables were meant to be eaten; they’re just plain, steamed, good-for-you veggies.
If you don’t have friends or a family, you can always go to your nearest pub (which is never more than a stone’s throw away) and partake in their Sunday roast menu.
I’m not sure what standard Sunday roast conversations should revolve around, but if ours was anything to go by, Aussie Rules Footy, the Berlin wall, nosy neighbors who gossip about the divorcee living next door, and roasting an entire lamb on a spit are all acceptable topics.
Anyway, I am inspired to start my own Sunday roast for my friends in Boston when I return. I would say family as well, but none of them love me enough to live in the same city as I do (my mother just gasped and felt a pang of guilt). I’m sure this ritual will only last one week since I never stick with anything other than that one pair of Levi jeans, but at least I will try. And you are all invited, so get excited and save the date!
*music – Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, and have yourself a merry little Christmas now
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Mrs. Dalllaire would be proud
I have decided that when I buy a house, I will dedicate one room to being a library. It will come equipped with a spiral staircas and an upper level of books just like this picture. Oh, and you will be required to smoke a pipe upon entering.
This library would have been great for a scavenger hunt. There were so many hidden nooks and crannies. It would also be good for making out.
This library would have been great for a scavenger hunt. There were so many hidden nooks and crannies. It would also be good for making out.
The other cool thing about this library is that the 6 floors of books were separated by metal grate floors which allows you to look through and see all 6 floors at a time. This picture is kinda bad at capturing that, so I guess you'll just have to come to London and see for yourself.
Tiny kitten lips
Here’s a sure way of making new friends at work. Get into an elevator with 5 other people. When the doors open at your floor, immediately press Door Close thinking it’s Door Open and you’re being chivalrous. That’ll be a real hoot.
The 60-something man in front of me in line at the library checked out two books – The Devil Wears Prada and a Guide to Birdwatching. It’s gonna be a big weekend for him.
Right. So about that library. No, the other one…The London Library. I went on a tour on Saturday and, call me a nerd, but it was really interesting! Here are some facts you can use at your next party that are guaranteed to make you cooler:
- It’s the world’s largest independent lending library due to the fact that it retains every book it’s ever received.
- Its president is Tom Stoppard and its patron (whatever that means) is the Queen.
- The dates of the books go all the way back to the 1500’s (I’m guessing these are books such as The Pro’s and Cons of Wearing Poofy Skirts, Christopher Columbus Explored My Body (And other short stories), and Places That Haven’t Yet Been Made British Colonies).
- They don’t use the Dewey Decimal System; all their books are shelved alphabetically. They, and I, think this is cool because it really lets you see the depth of their collection; while browsing for Death (because who hasn’t done that before?), you also might come across Demons or Dentistry.
- Because it is not funded by the government you must pay a membership fee to use the library. This I can understand. What I can’t understand are the exorbitant fees. To use the library for a day it will cost you $20; for a week, $60. But here’s the kicker. You can buy a lifetime membership which will obviously vary in cost depending on how old you are when you purchase one. If you are between the ages of 18 and 25, it will cost you….$32,000 to become a member of the London Library!! I’m pretty sure you could buy all the books you’ll ever want for less than this; and if you’re using the library for research purposes, I’ll bet throwing in the cost of buying someone else’s research papers would also cover it. Yikes!
- Past members have included Charles Darwin, Arthur Conan Doyle, George Bernard Shaw, Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf, Agatha Christie, and William Makepeace (I don’t actually know who this is, but I like his name)
I swear, if they claim that the Austrian incest guy is insane and cannot be held responsible for his actions, I will fly there myself and shoot him in the face. This is a promise. (And not that I agree with Perez Hilton on everything, but he hit the nail right on the head when he said the guy looks like Donald Sutherland. Creepy.)
*music – Dana Andrews said prunes gave him the runes, And passing them used lots of skills But when worlds collide said George Pal to his bride, I’m gonna give you some terrible thrills
The 60-something man in front of me in line at the library checked out two books – The Devil Wears Prada and a Guide to Birdwatching. It’s gonna be a big weekend for him.
Right. So about that library. No, the other one…The London Library. I went on a tour on Saturday and, call me a nerd, but it was really interesting! Here are some facts you can use at your next party that are guaranteed to make you cooler:
- It’s the world’s largest independent lending library due to the fact that it retains every book it’s ever received.
- Its president is Tom Stoppard and its patron (whatever that means) is the Queen.
- The dates of the books go all the way back to the 1500’s (I’m guessing these are books such as The Pro’s and Cons of Wearing Poofy Skirts, Christopher Columbus Explored My Body (And other short stories), and Places That Haven’t Yet Been Made British Colonies).
- They don’t use the Dewey Decimal System; all their books are shelved alphabetically. They, and I, think this is cool because it really lets you see the depth of their collection; while browsing for Death (because who hasn’t done that before?), you also might come across Demons or Dentistry.
- Because it is not funded by the government you must pay a membership fee to use the library. This I can understand. What I can’t understand are the exorbitant fees. To use the library for a day it will cost you $20; for a week, $60. But here’s the kicker. You can buy a lifetime membership which will obviously vary in cost depending on how old you are when you purchase one. If you are between the ages of 18 and 25, it will cost you….$32,000 to become a member of the London Library!! I’m pretty sure you could buy all the books you’ll ever want for less than this; and if you’re using the library for research purposes, I’ll bet throwing in the cost of buying someone else’s research papers would also cover it. Yikes!
- Past members have included Charles Darwin, Arthur Conan Doyle, George Bernard Shaw, Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf, Agatha Christie, and William Makepeace (I don’t actually know who this is, but I like his name)
I swear, if they claim that the Austrian incest guy is insane and cannot be held responsible for his actions, I will fly there myself and shoot him in the face. This is a promise. (And not that I agree with Perez Hilton on everything, but he hit the nail right on the head when he said the guy looks like Donald Sutherland. Creepy.)
*music – Dana Andrews said prunes gave him the runes, And passing them used lots of skills But when worlds collide said George Pal to his bride, I’m gonna give you some terrible thrills
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
And back to the loving place
I feel like after such an angry rant you deserve a couple pictures of something soothing. So here are two pictures of books. (I went on a London Library tour this weekend. Don't worry, you'll get that story soon.)
Monday, April 28, 2008
Indy Jones and the Temple of Suck
I love new music. I love London. I love free things. Therefore, when I won tickets to go see the Indy Music Awards last Friday in Camden, I was beyond psyched. Because wahey! Fun, British independent music! And awards! And live performances! And maybe this time, unlike the NME Music Awards show, they would actually give out music awards instead of just having one stadium-sized mosh pit! All I had to do was show up at 6:30, tell them I’m on the media guest list, and enjoy the show at 7:00. Simple, right? Exciting, right? A night to remember just waiting to happen, right? If you guessed No to all of those questions, you would be right.
I am anal-retentive. I have to be on time to everything, if not 15 minutes early. My apartment must be cleaned every Saturday morning (it’s allowed to get messy during the week due to a condition called Lisa Is Lazy). Pens must be lined up parallel to my Post-It notes on my desk. The outline of my head’s shadow must not have stray hairs sticking out at odd angles. (These are all things that will make my life quite lonely in the long run…I am completely aware of this fact.) And so, because my strange little mind works this way, any time things are not organized well, a part of me shrivels and dies inside. Normally I can tolerate small instances of disorganization; someone is late because their bus wasn’t on time, that report they just printed is out of sequence, Jamiroquai is spelled wrong on a playlist, there is toothpaste on the corner of your mouth, etc. But what I realized Friday night around 9:30 is that I have a breaking point. My mind can only deal with so much Fucking Disorganization before it says, “Lisa, you don’t have to put up with this. It is driving you crazy, you are not enjoying yourself, and these people should be beaten with whips made of cacti.”
Allow me to explain.
There were about 7 entrance doors to the Forum, the Indy Music Awards venue. One had a sign that said VIP, one said Media, and one said Guest VIP; the other 4 were apparently just there for decoration. As people started arriving, there was no direction as to where to line up. Yes there were metal gates, but they weren’t arranged in an obvious way implying, “Hey you in the skinny jeans. Line up over here.” 6:45 rolls around and the only reason a line forms is because each individual person has gone up to the 8 Large Security Men (I’m pretty sure that’s the name of their company) and asked where they’re supposed to go. I don’t line up because I (wrongly) assume that the large line over there is for the masses and, because I’m on the all-too-important media guest list, I will skip the queue and waltz right in through that magical door on the left. I try to play it cool and walk past the gate in hopes of overhearing what other VIP-looking people are asking the security men. I find out that even though VIP allegedly stands for Very Important Person, I still have to line up over there behind those 300 people. (Keep in mind that because I arrived at 6:15, I could have been 2nd in line had there only been signs telling me this is where I needed to go in the goddamn first place.) I’m in line. It’s 7:00. The show is supposed to be starting right now but they haven’t even started letting people in to the building. The guy behind me asks me where I’m coming from and I say, “Well, I just came from work downtown at Blackfriars but I live in Notting Hill.” When I ask him where he came from and he says Bath, I realize my answer should have been London. Turns out he’s in one of the bands up for an award; their name is CuteLooney. I tell him it’s a great band name (actually, it’s only about a 4 out of 10), ask him how he came up with it, and then I meet his parents who abruptly cut join us in line. As we’re standing there wondering why the hell we’re still outside at this point and not inside clapping for Promoter of the Year, it becomes apparent that the VIP line (the one we’re patiently standing in) is about 50 people longer than the general audience line. I don’t know if they sold any non-VIP tickets to this shindig. But fine. I can deal with this crap.
I make my way inside. It’s 7:30. I find a seat (obviously there were no assigned seats with organization skills such as these). I wait. I read the program. I make comments to myself about all the “fashion statements” being made. I gather up my legs every 13 seconds for people to walk in and out of my row. It’s 8:00. I have read the program 3 times. It’s 8:15. Some BBC personality guy I don’t recognize comes on stage and introduces some whiny dude with a guitar who sings 4 songs. 4 songs!! Each of which makes me want to rip my ears off my head with a plastic beach shovel. But fine. I am suffering because there is still the hope that tonight I will hear some good music and be introduced to some great new bands. After this guy stops singing the lyrics, “You look like my father and my father’s an alcoholic.”
Okay great. 8:45 and the show is finally starting. The first winner is announced and we wait 5 minutes while everyone looks around the auditorium wondering where Winner Dawn is and why hasn’t she come down to the stage yet to claim her hideous glass award? Then the announcer has the brilliant idea of getting everyone to chant her name to make her appear. Dawn! Dawn! Dawn! Un-fucking-believable. She comes out from behind the stage curtain with a face that seems to say, “Oh hello. Were you calling my name? I didn’t hear you. What’s this, an award? Where am I? Why am I wearing this hideous, sparkly dress?” She accepts her trophy by mumbling into the microphone which muddles her words even more and the people around me continue to chug their beers. 5 more awards are given, each acceptance speech as painful to listen to as the last (one was merely a loud, prolonged “whoo”). Dawn plays 2 songs which match her outfit in beauty. It is 9:30. The announcer comes back to the stage, says they’re taking a 10 minute break and the show will continue with more awards and performances later. And THAT, my friends, is my breaking point.
I stand up, feel a twinge of regret that I won’t be around to find out if CuteLooney wins Best Folk/Blues group, and walk out of the place. On the subway ride home I realize I am okay with what I’ve done. But only because I’m not okay with what the organizers of that event have done. I am a responsible adult. (Stop laughing.) I take certain things seriously. (I mean it, quit giggling.) And in return I expect others to be professional, especially when it comes to THEIR JOBS. Even if that night had been filled with A-list celebrities instead of 200 bands I had never heard of, I still would have been disgusted by the way things were handled.
And so, to wrap up, this is a very long-winded way of telling you that I will no longer tolerate unprofessional people. I am better than that and shouldn’t have to deal with the stress and frustration it causes me. (Tim Curry, if you are reading this, I DO NOT mean you. You could keep me waiting for days and I will still worship the ground you walk on. Call me!)
*music - Rally round tha family, with pockets full of shells Bulls on parade
I am anal-retentive. I have to be on time to everything, if not 15 minutes early. My apartment must be cleaned every Saturday morning (it’s allowed to get messy during the week due to a condition called Lisa Is Lazy). Pens must be lined up parallel to my Post-It notes on my desk. The outline of my head’s shadow must not have stray hairs sticking out at odd angles. (These are all things that will make my life quite lonely in the long run…I am completely aware of this fact.) And so, because my strange little mind works this way, any time things are not organized well, a part of me shrivels and dies inside. Normally I can tolerate small instances of disorganization; someone is late because their bus wasn’t on time, that report they just printed is out of sequence, Jamiroquai is spelled wrong on a playlist, there is toothpaste on the corner of your mouth, etc. But what I realized Friday night around 9:30 is that I have a breaking point. My mind can only deal with so much Fucking Disorganization before it says, “Lisa, you don’t have to put up with this. It is driving you crazy, you are not enjoying yourself, and these people should be beaten with whips made of cacti.”
Allow me to explain.
There were about 7 entrance doors to the Forum, the Indy Music Awards venue. One had a sign that said VIP, one said Media, and one said Guest VIP; the other 4 were apparently just there for decoration. As people started arriving, there was no direction as to where to line up. Yes there were metal gates, but they weren’t arranged in an obvious way implying, “Hey you in the skinny jeans. Line up over here.” 6:45 rolls around and the only reason a line forms is because each individual person has gone up to the 8 Large Security Men (I’m pretty sure that’s the name of their company) and asked where they’re supposed to go. I don’t line up because I (wrongly) assume that the large line over there is for the masses and, because I’m on the all-too-important media guest list, I will skip the queue and waltz right in through that magical door on the left. I try to play it cool and walk past the gate in hopes of overhearing what other VIP-looking people are asking the security men. I find out that even though VIP allegedly stands for Very Important Person, I still have to line up over there behind those 300 people. (Keep in mind that because I arrived at 6:15, I could have been 2nd in line had there only been signs telling me this is where I needed to go in the goddamn first place.) I’m in line. It’s 7:00. The show is supposed to be starting right now but they haven’t even started letting people in to the building. The guy behind me asks me where I’m coming from and I say, “Well, I just came from work downtown at Blackfriars but I live in Notting Hill.” When I ask him where he came from and he says Bath, I realize my answer should have been London. Turns out he’s in one of the bands up for an award; their name is CuteLooney. I tell him it’s a great band name (actually, it’s only about a 4 out of 10), ask him how he came up with it, and then I meet his parents who abruptly cut join us in line. As we’re standing there wondering why the hell we’re still outside at this point and not inside clapping for Promoter of the Year, it becomes apparent that the VIP line (the one we’re patiently standing in) is about 50 people longer than the general audience line. I don’t know if they sold any non-VIP tickets to this shindig. But fine. I can deal with this crap.
I make my way inside. It’s 7:30. I find a seat (obviously there were no assigned seats with organization skills such as these). I wait. I read the program. I make comments to myself about all the “fashion statements” being made. I gather up my legs every 13 seconds for people to walk in and out of my row. It’s 8:00. I have read the program 3 times. It’s 8:15. Some BBC personality guy I don’t recognize comes on stage and introduces some whiny dude with a guitar who sings 4 songs. 4 songs!! Each of which makes me want to rip my ears off my head with a plastic beach shovel. But fine. I am suffering because there is still the hope that tonight I will hear some good music and be introduced to some great new bands. After this guy stops singing the lyrics, “You look like my father and my father’s an alcoholic.”
Okay great. 8:45 and the show is finally starting. The first winner is announced and we wait 5 minutes while everyone looks around the auditorium wondering where Winner Dawn is and why hasn’t she come down to the stage yet to claim her hideous glass award? Then the announcer has the brilliant idea of getting everyone to chant her name to make her appear. Dawn! Dawn! Dawn! Un-fucking-believable. She comes out from behind the stage curtain with a face that seems to say, “Oh hello. Were you calling my name? I didn’t hear you. What’s this, an award? Where am I? Why am I wearing this hideous, sparkly dress?” She accepts her trophy by mumbling into the microphone which muddles her words even more and the people around me continue to chug their beers. 5 more awards are given, each acceptance speech as painful to listen to as the last (one was merely a loud, prolonged “whoo”). Dawn plays 2 songs which match her outfit in beauty. It is 9:30. The announcer comes back to the stage, says they’re taking a 10 minute break and the show will continue with more awards and performances later. And THAT, my friends, is my breaking point.
I stand up, feel a twinge of regret that I won’t be around to find out if CuteLooney wins Best Folk/Blues group, and walk out of the place. On the subway ride home I realize I am okay with what I’ve done. But only because I’m not okay with what the organizers of that event have done. I am a responsible adult. (Stop laughing.) I take certain things seriously. (I mean it, quit giggling.) And in return I expect others to be professional, especially when it comes to THEIR JOBS. Even if that night had been filled with A-list celebrities instead of 200 bands I had never heard of, I still would have been disgusted by the way things were handled.
And so, to wrap up, this is a very long-winded way of telling you that I will no longer tolerate unprofessional people. I am better than that and shouldn’t have to deal with the stress and frustration it causes me. (Tim Curry, if you are reading this, I DO NOT mean you. You could keep me waiting for days and I will still worship the ground you walk on. Call me!)
*music - Rally round tha family, with pockets full of shells Bulls on parade
Heated towel racks make me feel pampered
I did my 430th double take in London as I passed by this garage-type-thing on my lunch break the other day. Max Headroom. I had forgotten it's an actual thing and not just a stuttering, talking robotic head.
This is one of the many Notting Hill gardens near my apartment. Okay, so it's not as nice as the one in the movie and I technically had to "sneak in," but you get the drift.
This is one of the many Notting Hill gardens near my apartment. Okay, so it's not as nice as the one in the movie and I technically had to "sneak in," but you get the drift.
Hit it, Rockapella
Call it residual paranoia from being mugged in Chicago, but if I’m walking by myself at night, I am constantly looking around to see who’s walking nearby. Tonight on my way home from the Tube, I noticed a man walking about twenty feet or so behind me. He was walking faster than I was so he quickly caught up to me. As he passed by I realized I had nothing to fear from this man because, this man you see, well he was eating a banana. And I am willing to bet a large amount of money that no one has ever been mugged by a person eating a banana.
Danny Wallace. You probably don’t know that name right now, but I’m guessing you soon will. Or at least you soon should. Because Danny Wallace is a funny, funny man. When I find a person whose humor I think is original, witty, and intelligent, I have to find everything they’ve written and read it within a span of about two weeks. It happened with David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs and now it’s happening with Mr. Wallace, a British BBC radio/tv personality, author, etc. I first read his column in a weekly London magazine, The Shortlist. In fact, he is the author behind the amusing story about the Subway sub I plagiarized on my blog; but when I did that, I had no idea the extent to which his humor extends. (He is also at the top of the list as to why I think British humor is better than American humor, but that’s another story.) This summer, a movie starring Jim Carrey is being released called Yes Man. Danny Wallace wrote the book the movie is based on (I’m telling you this so I can yet again say ‘I knew about this way back when’). Basically he decides that he says No too much in life, and to become a better person he says Yes to everything for a year. Hilarity ensues. In addition to making me laugh out loud in public places, his book really does make you stop and think about the choices you make in life. How merely saying Yes to something as small as a homeless man asking you if you have any spare change can be life altering.
"When you think about it, probably some of the best things that have ever happened to you in life, happened because you said Yes to something. Otherwise, things just sort of stay the same."
I highly recommend this book (as well as his other two books which I have not read yet but am willing to bet are just as side-splittingly funny) and I’m sure they will soon be on the front display table at Borders just in time for the movie’s release. Also, I might just have to start posting his weekly Shortlist column so that you can also read his opinion about eating McDonalds more than once a week, people who arrive on time to parties, and drinking beer at 10 in the morning. You’ll thank me for this.
On a completely unrelated note (as usual), I would like to thank my sister for sending me the link to a YouTube list of Sesame Street’s 50 “Greatest Hits.” It was great to see clips of Captain Vegetable, the Teeny Little Super Guy, Richard Pryor saying the alphabet, and Smokey Robinson singing “U Really Got a Hold on Me” to a letter U. It was NOT, however, great to see (a first time for me due to the fact that it aired in 1982 and I was only 1) the clip of everyone explaining to Big Bird that Mr. Hooper had died and wasn’t coming back. I may or may not have cried. (To be fair, I was technically only “tearing up” until I heard Bob’s voice quiver and Maria’s eyes well with tears. Then it might have turned into actual crying.)
*music – A fine word like ‘waffle’ would turn out just awful, Oh W’s grand as can be
Danny Wallace. You probably don’t know that name right now, but I’m guessing you soon will. Or at least you soon should. Because Danny Wallace is a funny, funny man. When I find a person whose humor I think is original, witty, and intelligent, I have to find everything they’ve written and read it within a span of about two weeks. It happened with David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs and now it’s happening with Mr. Wallace, a British BBC radio/tv personality, author, etc. I first read his column in a weekly London magazine, The Shortlist. In fact, he is the author behind the amusing story about the Subway sub I plagiarized on my blog; but when I did that, I had no idea the extent to which his humor extends. (He is also at the top of the list as to why I think British humor is better than American humor, but that’s another story.) This summer, a movie starring Jim Carrey is being released called Yes Man. Danny Wallace wrote the book the movie is based on (I’m telling you this so I can yet again say ‘I knew about this way back when’). Basically he decides that he says No too much in life, and to become a better person he says Yes to everything for a year. Hilarity ensues. In addition to making me laugh out loud in public places, his book really does make you stop and think about the choices you make in life. How merely saying Yes to something as small as a homeless man asking you if you have any spare change can be life altering.
"When you think about it, probably some of the best things that have ever happened to you in life, happened because you said Yes to something. Otherwise, things just sort of stay the same."
I highly recommend this book (as well as his other two books which I have not read yet but am willing to bet are just as side-splittingly funny) and I’m sure they will soon be on the front display table at Borders just in time for the movie’s release. Also, I might just have to start posting his weekly Shortlist column so that you can also read his opinion about eating McDonalds more than once a week, people who arrive on time to parties, and drinking beer at 10 in the morning. You’ll thank me for this.
On a completely unrelated note (as usual), I would like to thank my sister for sending me the link to a YouTube list of Sesame Street’s 50 “Greatest Hits.” It was great to see clips of Captain Vegetable, the Teeny Little Super Guy, Richard Pryor saying the alphabet, and Smokey Robinson singing “U Really Got a Hold on Me” to a letter U. It was NOT, however, great to see (a first time for me due to the fact that it aired in 1982 and I was only 1) the clip of everyone explaining to Big Bird that Mr. Hooper had died and wasn’t coming back. I may or may not have cried. (To be fair, I was technically only “tearing up” until I heard Bob’s voice quiver and Maria’s eyes well with tears. Then it might have turned into actual crying.)
*music – A fine word like ‘waffle’ would turn out just awful, Oh W’s grand as can be
Friday, April 25, 2008
Built-in crayon sharpener
This one reminds me of my sister. Also, who chooses Star Trek characters as graffiti subjects?!
I thought there were 4 eyes for a good 30 seconds before I realized, "Lisa. You're dumb."
I thought there were 4 eyes for a good 30 seconds before I realized, "Lisa. You're dumb."
Ugly Kids Club. I've seen this sticker a lot and it gets funnier and funnier every time.
Scaaaaaaaaaaaary man head on the left. And yes, it's actually graffiti, not a sticker.
Urban Nerds. I consider myself to be one of those.
Just dropped in to London town
Oh boy!!! I saw, with 100% certainty, my first celebrity in London! I was walking past Piccadilly Circus towards some art galleries down near the “fancy part of town,” when I did a double take and realized the lady I had just passed was Gina McKee. Obviously I didn’t know that was her name (imdb.com is a wonderful thing) and you probably have no idea who I’m talking about. But to most Americans, she will probably always be “that woman in the wheelchair from Notting Hill.” She recently starred in a Harold Pinter West End play and I’m guessing lives somewhere in or around London; so it’s not that far fetched that I would see her. But still! Woo hoo!
Apparently, the issue of God is a touchy subject, and so I must clarify what I said about a certain Jon Gezotis and his beliefs. His response to the Let’s Play Make Believe picture verbatim:
“It’s not that I don’t believe in God. It’s that I don’t believe in religion. You know this. But you are right…[arguing me is] a pointless effort once you finally realize that my debating skills are far superior to yours.”
So back to those art galleries I was going to. The first one wasn’t actually an art gallery; it was a Paul Smith “store” that happened to feature a collection of photographs taken by the Italian photographer Gian Paolo Barbieri. (Again, I had no idea who he was either, but his picture of Anjelica Huston in the newspaper pretty much secured the fact that I had to go see his works.) I wasn’t too smitten with the collection, but I did decide that Anjelica Huston was/is one of the sexiest people alive.
The second gallery, and the one you need to pay attention to, featured the photos of New York-born Gregory Crewdson. Okay right now you need to go Google images for him. Do it. Stop reading. Go. He is an incredible artist. Wikipedia says he “is best known for elaborately staged, surreal scenes of American homes and neighborhoods.” The collection that was on display in London (and the clincher that told me I had to check it out) featured pictures he took in North Adams and Pittsfield Massachusetts. When you look at his works it is as if you are looking at a movie still. He has an entire crew to set up a mere one photo - hiring actors, using huge spotlights, building sets, and in one case, setting fire to a house. I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of this guy before, especially because he was shooting in western Massachusetts between 2004 and 2007. But I could look at his photos for hours; there is just so much in them. People say he is reminiscent of David Lynch and I think this is so very true. Because just by looking at one his giant photos you can pretty much write an entire play/movie/novel/etc. They have that much character to them, that much detail, that much imagination. Again, I’m not doing this justice and, in fact, seem to rambling. But his pictures speak for themselves. So take a look. (Also, it was really cool to see him feature the thrift store in Pittsfield that I bought so many of my awesome t-shirts at.)
*music – I’d buy you Rogaine when you start losing all your hair, Sew on patches to all you tear ‘Cause I love you more than I could ever promise, And you take me the way I am
Apparently, the issue of God is a touchy subject, and so I must clarify what I said about a certain Jon Gezotis and his beliefs. His response to the Let’s Play Make Believe picture verbatim:
“It’s not that I don’t believe in God. It’s that I don’t believe in religion. You know this. But you are right…[arguing me is] a pointless effort once you finally realize that my debating skills are far superior to yours.”
So back to those art galleries I was going to. The first one wasn’t actually an art gallery; it was a Paul Smith “store” that happened to feature a collection of photographs taken by the Italian photographer Gian Paolo Barbieri. (Again, I had no idea who he was either, but his picture of Anjelica Huston in the newspaper pretty much secured the fact that I had to go see his works.) I wasn’t too smitten with the collection, but I did decide that Anjelica Huston was/is one of the sexiest people alive.
The second gallery, and the one you need to pay attention to, featured the photos of New York-born Gregory Crewdson. Okay right now you need to go Google images for him. Do it. Stop reading. Go. He is an incredible artist. Wikipedia says he “is best known for elaborately staged, surreal scenes of American homes and neighborhoods.” The collection that was on display in London (and the clincher that told me I had to check it out) featured pictures he took in North Adams and Pittsfield Massachusetts. When you look at his works it is as if you are looking at a movie still. He has an entire crew to set up a mere one photo - hiring actors, using huge spotlights, building sets, and in one case, setting fire to a house. I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of this guy before, especially because he was shooting in western Massachusetts between 2004 and 2007. But I could look at his photos for hours; there is just so much in them. People say he is reminiscent of David Lynch and I think this is so very true. Because just by looking at one his giant photos you can pretty much write an entire play/movie/novel/etc. They have that much character to them, that much detail, that much imagination. Again, I’m not doing this justice and, in fact, seem to rambling. But his pictures speak for themselves. So take a look. (Also, it was really cool to see him feature the thrift store in Pittsfield that I bought so many of my awesome t-shirts at.)
*music – I’d buy you Rogaine when you start losing all your hair, Sew on patches to all you tear ‘Cause I love you more than I could ever promise, And you take me the way I am
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Mundane
B: Dude, who?
A: Jennifer Garner. She would definitely give up her daughter for world peace.
B: I don't know. She's not really into that UN shit like Angelina or Clooney. What about Joe Pesci?
A: Does that guy even have kids?
B: I dunno...I think he's married to some supermodel chick or something.
A: You just made that up, didn't you?
B: Are you going to that thing tonight?
A: What thing?
B: Jessica's party or whatever. She mentioned it at the bar on Saturday.
A: I don't know...is The Apprentice on?
B: Fuck you and The Apprentice. That show is corrupting America.
A: No more than your mother.
B: Nice one. You read that in a book?
A: No, www.yourmothersawhore.com.
B: I'll have to bookmark it.
A: Rent's due on Monday. Don't forget.
B: I'll be sure to put a reminder post-it on my forehead.
A: Fuck you. I was just trying to be nice. Watch the news last night?
B: No. What happened?
A: This bear in California killed his trainer. Bit him right in the neck.
B: No shit? Polar bear?
A: No, asshole. Brown bear or some shit. But can you imagine getting bit in the neck by a bear?
B: Wouldn't his whole head have fallen off? It must have been a big bite, right? Those things don't give little love bites.
A: No, I think his head was in tact. They didn't show pictures, though.
B: Shit.
A: Yeah.
B: I'm thinking about calling that Vicki chick.
A: The one from work?
B: Yeah.
A: You think that's a good idea? Doesn't she report to you?
B: Technically, yes. But she's in like, a totally different department.
A: Doesn't sound like a good idea, B. What does she look like?
B: Solid 8. The only thing's she's got this weird laugh. It's like a high pitched giggle. It's embarrassing.
A: Good thing you're not funny.
B: Dick.
A: No seriously though. If you like her, go for it. Just don't let your whole office know about it. Look what happened to Scott.
B: That guy was an idiot. He banged Julie in the employee lounge.
A: I'm just saying.
B: Yeah, okay. Orioles won again.
A: Oh goody, let me update my blog.
B: Fuck you.
A: Jennifer Garner. She would definitely give up her daughter for world peace.
B: I don't know. She's not really into that UN shit like Angelina or Clooney. What about Joe Pesci?
A: Does that guy even have kids?
B: I dunno...I think he's married to some supermodel chick or something.
A: You just made that up, didn't you?
B: Are you going to that thing tonight?
A: What thing?
B: Jessica's party or whatever. She mentioned it at the bar on Saturday.
A: I don't know...is The Apprentice on?
B: Fuck you and The Apprentice. That show is corrupting America.
A: No more than your mother.
B: Nice one. You read that in a book?
A: No, www.yourmothersawhore.com.
B: I'll have to bookmark it.
A: Rent's due on Monday. Don't forget.
B: I'll be sure to put a reminder post-it on my forehead.
A: Fuck you. I was just trying to be nice. Watch the news last night?
B: No. What happened?
A: This bear in California killed his trainer. Bit him right in the neck.
B: No shit? Polar bear?
A: No, asshole. Brown bear or some shit. But can you imagine getting bit in the neck by a bear?
B: Wouldn't his whole head have fallen off? It must have been a big bite, right? Those things don't give little love bites.
A: No, I think his head was in tact. They didn't show pictures, though.
B: Shit.
A: Yeah.
B: I'm thinking about calling that Vicki chick.
A: The one from work?
B: Yeah.
A: You think that's a good idea? Doesn't she report to you?
B: Technically, yes. But she's in like, a totally different department.
A: Doesn't sound like a good idea, B. What does she look like?
B: Solid 8. The only thing's she's got this weird laugh. It's like a high pitched giggle. It's embarrassing.
A: Good thing you're not funny.
B: Dick.
A: No seriously though. If you like her, go for it. Just don't let your whole office know about it. Look what happened to Scott.
B: That guy was an idiot. He banged Julie in the employee lounge.
A: I'm just saying.
B: Yeah, okay. Orioles won again.
A: Oh goody, let me update my blog.
B: Fuck you.
Harlan! You stop naming nuts!
I'm pretty sure the girl is Banksy. I like to think he also wrote 'Insert Your Subversive Thoughts Here,' but I don't know.
This is the best sticker ever.
This is the best sticker ever.
Life is boring.
The definition of irony.
Fo shizzle.
Toothpick
G: I’m leaving you.
B: Yeah, okay. Are you going to eat your tomato?
G: Did you hear what I said? And no, have it.
B: I heard it. And I heard it when you said it last week at Target.
G: Yeah, well this time I mean it. I even told Gloria about it.
B: Oh, well if you told your hairdresser then you must be serious this time. Can you pass the vinegar?
G: I hate how you put vinegar on your fries. It smells like feet.
B: No, feet smell like feet. This smells delicious. Plus it’s healthier than mayonnaise. Europeans are disgusting.
G: I’m not kidding, B. We’re not good together anymore. You don’t hang up your clothes, your cooking is bland, and Fitzgerald hates you.
B: That cat is the devil and you know it. Plus any cat that drools has bigger issues than hating a 34-year-old copy editor.
G: Speaking of that, are you working this weekend?
B: I need more root beer. You think they have free refills?
G: B!
B: What?!
G: Are you working this weekend?
B: For a couple hours on Saturday morning, I think. I have to finish that geriatric piece.
G: Good. That’ll give me time to box up your stuff.
B: Don’t forget my magazines under the bed, okay?
G: You think this is a joke? You won’t be laughing when you wake up on Sunday morning without me. I am the best thing that ever happened to you and you’re throwing it away!
B: Fine. I’ll add more salt to my shepherd’s pie. How’s that? And I’ll hang up my clothes every Tuesday. No promises on Fitzgerald, though. They make the best burgers here. I think it’s something with the grease. Gives you heartburn, though.
G: You want a Pepcid?
B: Yeah, thanks babe.
G: You repulse me, you know that?
B: Well pass me a napkin then.
G: No, it’s not that. Although yeah. You have ketchup on your lip. I’m talking about how you just ignore me like what I say doesn’t matter.
B: Well you’re being ridiculous, what do you want from me? You’re not leaving. We both know that. So why ruin a perfectly good lunch arguing about it?
G: I want to leave, though.
B: And I want Avril Lavigne to stop making music. But it’s not gonna happen and there’s nothing I can do about it. Same with you. We are good together. You might be able to find a better cook than me, but you won’t find someone who is as tolerant of the way you blow your nose as I am. We work, G. Don’t pick it apart. I love you, babe. And you have lettuce in your teeth.
B: Yeah, okay. Are you going to eat your tomato?
G: Did you hear what I said? And no, have it.
B: I heard it. And I heard it when you said it last week at Target.
G: Yeah, well this time I mean it. I even told Gloria about it.
B: Oh, well if you told your hairdresser then you must be serious this time. Can you pass the vinegar?
G: I hate how you put vinegar on your fries. It smells like feet.
B: No, feet smell like feet. This smells delicious. Plus it’s healthier than mayonnaise. Europeans are disgusting.
G: I’m not kidding, B. We’re not good together anymore. You don’t hang up your clothes, your cooking is bland, and Fitzgerald hates you.
B: That cat is the devil and you know it. Plus any cat that drools has bigger issues than hating a 34-year-old copy editor.
G: Speaking of that, are you working this weekend?
B: I need more root beer. You think they have free refills?
G: B!
B: What?!
G: Are you working this weekend?
B: For a couple hours on Saturday morning, I think. I have to finish that geriatric piece.
G: Good. That’ll give me time to box up your stuff.
B: Don’t forget my magazines under the bed, okay?
G: You think this is a joke? You won’t be laughing when you wake up on Sunday morning without me. I am the best thing that ever happened to you and you’re throwing it away!
B: Fine. I’ll add more salt to my shepherd’s pie. How’s that? And I’ll hang up my clothes every Tuesday. No promises on Fitzgerald, though. They make the best burgers here. I think it’s something with the grease. Gives you heartburn, though.
G: You want a Pepcid?
B: Yeah, thanks babe.
G: You repulse me, you know that?
B: Well pass me a napkin then.
G: No, it’s not that. Although yeah. You have ketchup on your lip. I’m talking about how you just ignore me like what I say doesn’t matter.
B: Well you’re being ridiculous, what do you want from me? You’re not leaving. We both know that. So why ruin a perfectly good lunch arguing about it?
G: I want to leave, though.
B: And I want Avril Lavigne to stop making music. But it’s not gonna happen and there’s nothing I can do about it. Same with you. We are good together. You might be able to find a better cook than me, but you won’t find someone who is as tolerant of the way you blow your nose as I am. We work, G. Don’t pick it apart. I love you, babe. And you have lettuce in your teeth.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
The writing's on the wall
I must warn everyone older than 35 that the following graffiti is quite liberal and anti-George Bush.
My good friend Jon Gezotis will appreciate this one. If you have a free afternoon, go ahead and try to convince Jon why it makes sense to believe in God.
I swear I didn't notice the phallic imagery in this one until after I had uploaded the picture. I was more enthralled with the instruction to watch a YouTube video.
My good friend Jon Gezotis will appreciate this one. If you have a free afternoon, go ahead and try to convince Jon why it makes sense to believe in God.
I swear I didn't notice the phallic imagery in this one until after I had uploaded the picture. I was more enthralled with the instruction to watch a YouTube video.
No comment necessary here.
He's not a well-liked man. That's all I can say.
I love smiling. Smiling’s my favorite.
The amount of grown men I see drinking from juice boxes is disturbing. The fact that the juice boxes are purple certainly doesn’t help matters.
The helpdesk guy on the phone from Monday morning had a nose whistle. Normally I would find this annoying, but for some reason, that morning I found it soothing. This is not to say I want the world to be filled with nose whistlers. That would just be insanity. And something out of a horror film.
I’m pretty sure America has crossed the line. We came close a couple years ago when Fox created the show Man Versus Beast. But we were still on this side of tolerable. But Monday night, Howie Mandel was more than happy to skip, jump, and obsessive-compulsively trot his way across that line. Because George Bush, the President of the United States, appeared on Deal or No Deal. Oh Howie. Why couldn’t you stop at “Walk Like A Man?” Please tell me I’m not the only one who sees how very, very wrong this is.
I was going to write about how great it is that London has a seemingly endless amount of amazing neighborhoods to explore, but when I tried to form my thoughts into words, I realized I suck at writing seriously and what I had written was crap. Sorry.
*music – My eyes are glued, my lips are chaffed My legs are prickling, and plus I’m stinky today
The helpdesk guy on the phone from Monday morning had a nose whistle. Normally I would find this annoying, but for some reason, that morning I found it soothing. This is not to say I want the world to be filled with nose whistlers. That would just be insanity. And something out of a horror film.
I’m pretty sure America has crossed the line. We came close a couple years ago when Fox created the show Man Versus Beast. But we were still on this side of tolerable. But Monday night, Howie Mandel was more than happy to skip, jump, and obsessive-compulsively trot his way across that line. Because George Bush, the President of the United States, appeared on Deal or No Deal. Oh Howie. Why couldn’t you stop at “Walk Like A Man?” Please tell me I’m not the only one who sees how very, very wrong this is.
I was going to write about how great it is that London has a seemingly endless amount of amazing neighborhoods to explore, but when I tried to form my thoughts into words, I realized I suck at writing seriously and what I had written was crap. Sorry.
*music – My eyes are glued, my lips are chaffed My legs are prickling, and plus I’m stinky today
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Bad teeth - it's not a myth
I am so glad I stumbled upon this in the daytime. Can you even imagine seeing this wall as you walk beneath this underpass at night?!?!? This would not make a good addition to my fear of the dark.
If you look closely at the top sticker you will see a face on the nubbin sprouting out of the top of his head. The second picture looks like a drawing from NatalieDee.com (which I highly recommend you check out after you look at her other website, MarriedToTheSea.com) which I imagine is called SuperVitamin.
If you look closely at the top sticker you will see a face on the nubbin sprouting out of the top of his head. The second picture looks like a drawing from NatalieDee.com (which I highly recommend you check out after you look at her other website, MarriedToTheSea.com) which I imagine is called SuperVitamin.
I never thought to make a toaster sticker, but now that I've seen them posted all over town, I don't know how a city can exist without them. (Is 1500 stickers for £59 a good deal?)
Monday, April 21, 2008
Flames on the side of my face
I’m not that big a fan of Monty Python, but I do like to whistle and, most of the time, I try to look on the bright side of life. However, Saturday morning and this Monday morning I could really have used an extra dose of cheer-up-Charlie-ness (or Prozac).
We had a production release this weekend. What this means to anyone who isn’t sucked into this mad, mad (etc.) finance world is that all the problems on our website I helped find were fixed. But I had to come in Saturday morning to make sure the fixes weren’t just hypothetical, as well as to ensure nothing else broke in the process. It had to be a Saturday so that there would be ample oh-shit-this-didn’t-work-let’s-fix-it time before the client tried to access it on Monday morning. However, when I agreed to come in on Saturday morning, I didn’t realize I’d have to arrive at 7:15 IN THE UNGODLY A.M. But what could I say? “No, I’m sorry I can’t come in to help you. Yes, it’s true that I have about 15 minutes of actual work to do each day, but well, Saturday morning I have a date with a Mr. Pillow and shoot…I just can’t cancel.” And so I was the only one on the Tube at 6:45 (rightfully so), breaking the Sabbath for the greater mutual fund good.
Here’s where I’d like to tell you that I tested the shit out of those defects. That I swooped in, ran reports at the speed of light, wrote up a nice summary of my findings and was out of there by 10:30. Right. And immediately afterwards I found £500 on the sidewalk, got a call from Pierce Brosnan telling me he desperately wants to spoon, had that 7-inch growth spurt I’ve been waiting since 6th grade for, and found out that my dead cat Oscar isn’t really dead, he was just hiding under the sofa.
What REALLY happened is that the site didn’t work on my computer. (Not in general, just for this barely-awake, self-sacrificing toiler.) And then I spent 2 hours on the phone with the helpdesk who, in the end, declared it a “server issue” and transferred me to the “server helpdesk” which, imagine that, ISN’T OPEN ON THE WEEKEND. So I apologized profusely to C and M who were eagerly awaiting my test results. But instead of saying, “No problem, Lisa. I think you’re swell for waking up before sunrise. Please go buy yourself a pizza on the company. Oh, and say hi to Oscar for me,” here is what M said: “Do you think you could come in early Monday morning when the server is back up? I’d like to have the results for our 9 o’clock meeting.” Someone once told me it’s rude to say “Fuck that!” to your boss, so I opted for “Sure, no worries!” instead.
Fast forward to Monday morning. On the Tube (alone again) at 6:15. At work at 6:45. Punching my monitor in the face at 6:50 when I find it’s not a goddamn server problem, it’s a my-computer-is-a-piece-of-crap issue like I told that douchebag on the phone Saturday morning. 6:55 and I’m talking to the help desk again. After another hour and a half of IT guys fiddling about and more apologies to M, there’s an order in for a new computer for me set to arrive…Wednesday! I didn’t really know how to tell them that Wednesday would be a bit tardy for a 9:00 a.m. Monday morning meeting, so it came out as “Do you think could put a rush on it?” And wouldn’t you know? Wednesday is a rush. And don’t be all, “Lisa! How can you complain when you’re getting a brand new computer?” Because mark my words…when I get that new computer, I will lose all the important files I need from this ass-computer.
Okay, that’s it. I’m done whinging. Until they tell me to come in early again.
*music – The cafeteria’s got everything, It’s gonna drive me mad ‘Cause it looks just like this big Hawaiian party that my mother had, It’s like the worst Elvis film I’ve ever seen, Technicolor luau all in Technicolor green
We had a production release this weekend. What this means to anyone who isn’t sucked into this mad, mad (etc.) finance world is that all the problems on our website I helped find were fixed. But I had to come in Saturday morning to make sure the fixes weren’t just hypothetical, as well as to ensure nothing else broke in the process. It had to be a Saturday so that there would be ample oh-shit-this-didn’t-work-let’s-fix-it time before the client tried to access it on Monday morning. However, when I agreed to come in on Saturday morning, I didn’t realize I’d have to arrive at 7:15 IN THE UNGODLY A.M. But what could I say? “No, I’m sorry I can’t come in to help you. Yes, it’s true that I have about 15 minutes of actual work to do each day, but well, Saturday morning I have a date with a Mr. Pillow and shoot…I just can’t cancel.” And so I was the only one on the Tube at 6:45 (rightfully so), breaking the Sabbath for the greater mutual fund good.
Here’s where I’d like to tell you that I tested the shit out of those defects. That I swooped in, ran reports at the speed of light, wrote up a nice summary of my findings and was out of there by 10:30. Right. And immediately afterwards I found £500 on the sidewalk, got a call from Pierce Brosnan telling me he desperately wants to spoon, had that 7-inch growth spurt I’ve been waiting since 6th grade for, and found out that my dead cat Oscar isn’t really dead, he was just hiding under the sofa.
What REALLY happened is that the site didn’t work on my computer. (Not in general, just for this barely-awake, self-sacrificing toiler.) And then I spent 2 hours on the phone with the helpdesk who, in the end, declared it a “server issue” and transferred me to the “server helpdesk” which, imagine that, ISN’T OPEN ON THE WEEKEND. So I apologized profusely to C and M who were eagerly awaiting my test results. But instead of saying, “No problem, Lisa. I think you’re swell for waking up before sunrise. Please go buy yourself a pizza on the company. Oh, and say hi to Oscar for me,” here is what M said: “Do you think you could come in early Monday morning when the server is back up? I’d like to have the results for our 9 o’clock meeting.” Someone once told me it’s rude to say “Fuck that!” to your boss, so I opted for “Sure, no worries!” instead.
Fast forward to Monday morning. On the Tube (alone again) at 6:15. At work at 6:45. Punching my monitor in the face at 6:50 when I find it’s not a goddamn server problem, it’s a my-computer-is-a-piece-of-crap issue like I told that douchebag on the phone Saturday morning. 6:55 and I’m talking to the help desk again. After another hour and a half of IT guys fiddling about and more apologies to M, there’s an order in for a new computer for me set to arrive…Wednesday! I didn’t really know how to tell them that Wednesday would be a bit tardy for a 9:00 a.m. Monday morning meeting, so it came out as “Do you think could put a rush on it?” And wouldn’t you know? Wednesday is a rush. And don’t be all, “Lisa! How can you complain when you’re getting a brand new computer?” Because mark my words…when I get that new computer, I will lose all the important files I need from this ass-computer.
Okay, that’s it. I’m done whinging. Until they tell me to come in early again.
*music – The cafeteria’s got everything, It’s gonna drive me mad ‘Cause it looks just like this big Hawaiian party that my mother had, It’s like the worst Elvis film I’ve ever seen, Technicolor luau all in Technicolor green
Screamingly hysterically funny
As I stepped outside Friday morning, I noticed a very distinguished…stink. It was a mix between cow manure, dog crap, and general disgustingness. I kept looking around to see if I had stepped in something or if there was just a big pile of rancid garbage somewhere nearby, but I found nothing. This, as you know, is not the first time I’ve been bombarded with some bad smells in London, so I just accepted it and went on with my day. But as I walked to the Tube and the smell didn’t disappear, I wondered to myself, “Maybe this smell isn’t just a normal London-has-weird-smells smell. Oh really, Lisa? What are you gonna watch the news later today and the reporter will announce ‘Today London had a very funky smell to it.’ Shya right.” And then I went to work and checked thelondonpaper.com…
“Stench over London: A foul mystery smell engulfs capital, sparking hundreds of complaints.” (They attributed the smell to unusual easterly winds bringing spring fertilizer odors from Europe.)
I attempted to find an art gallery near Liverpool Street today to no avail. The address was 83 Rivington Street. Well. I found Rivington Street. And I walked down it. I found #80 and right next to it (as predicted) was #82. You would think that #83 would be either right next to #82 or across the street. Here’s where you would be wrong. #82 was actually the last building on the street before the next cross street. And directly across the street was #94. How does that make any sense? It doesn’t. Which is why I didn’t find the gallery. But I DID find a lot of pretty awesome graffiti and stickers around the neighborhood. I’ll be posting some of the art I found every day this week. I don’t know what a lot of it means….okay, I don’t know what ANY of it means, but I still think it’s an incredible medium that is far better than anything I’ve seen in Boston.
Today we’ll start with the mooning Mona Lisa by the artist Nick Walker (this is the only example of graffiti pictures I took whose artist’s name I know):
“Stench over London: A foul mystery smell engulfs capital, sparking hundreds of complaints.” (They attributed the smell to unusual easterly winds bringing spring fertilizer odors from Europe.)
I attempted to find an art gallery near Liverpool Street today to no avail. The address was 83 Rivington Street. Well. I found Rivington Street. And I walked down it. I found #80 and right next to it (as predicted) was #82. You would think that #83 would be either right next to #82 or across the street. Here’s where you would be wrong. #82 was actually the last building on the street before the next cross street. And directly across the street was #94. How does that make any sense? It doesn’t. Which is why I didn’t find the gallery. But I DID find a lot of pretty awesome graffiti and stickers around the neighborhood. I’ll be posting some of the art I found every day this week. I don’t know what a lot of it means….okay, I don’t know what ANY of it means, but I still think it’s an incredible medium that is far better than anything I’ve seen in Boston.
Today we’ll start with the mooning Mona Lisa by the artist Nick Walker (this is the only example of graffiti pictures I took whose artist’s name I know):
P.S. Happy Boston Marathon day!!!
Friday, April 18, 2008
Completely unrelated to each other
This is Banksy's latest work, ironically (or not) done right in front of a CCTV camera off Oxford Street in downtown London.
That is one huge lamppost. (I was going for some symmetrical type of shot here.)
That is one huge lamppost. (I was going for some symmetrical type of shot here.)
A lock in Hyde Park. They're pretty serious about not wanting the public to enjoy the things behind the gates.
Do I watch House or read my book?
It was really difficult for me to find cottage cheese in Tesco. I figured they would call it something completely different, so every item near the yogurt and other curdled cheese product section I had to scrutinize carefully. I must have picked up five different items that seemed like the could be British for ‘cottage cheese,’ but in the end, I was pleasantly surprised to find actual cottage cheese near the regular cheese section. (This was a pretty lame story, wasn’t it?)
Slow news day I guess….headline on cnn.com:
Martha Stewart’s dog dies
If I needed any more proof that British people have some fucked up taste in food, well I certainly found it in the vending machine at work in the form of Prawn Cocktail flavored potato chips.
I apologize for the lack of ‘meaningful’ writing lately. Hopefully I will have some bouts of inspiration this weekend. Although it will be Passover so I’m not making any guarantees; you don’t know what large amounts of matzah can do to a person.
*music – And you said ‘This is the first day of my life,’ I’m glad I didn’t die before I met you
Slow news day I guess….headline on cnn.com:
Martha Stewart’s dog dies
If I needed any more proof that British people have some fucked up taste in food, well I certainly found it in the vending machine at work in the form of Prawn Cocktail flavored potato chips.
I apologize for the lack of ‘meaningful’ writing lately. Hopefully I will have some bouts of inspiration this weekend. Although it will be Passover so I’m not making any guarantees; you don’t know what large amounts of matzah can do to a person.
*music – And you said ‘This is the first day of my life,’ I’m glad I didn’t die before I met you
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Immature, inappropriate, and childish
On my walk to London Bridge last weekend, I saw this sign along the Embankment. I'm pretty sure it was originally a sign pointing towards the Gherkin, but I could be wrong about that. In any case, it's a MUCH better sign now.
Funny story about this sign, actually. I did a double take as I passed by and decided that yes, I am 5 years old and need to take a picture of that. So I'm standing there trying to focus Camera and center the sign perfectly, but it took me about 7 seconds so I'm oblivious to what's going on around me. After I snap it, I turn to walk away and walk RIGHT INTO a man coming out of the bathroom. He obviously then turned to look at what I was taking a picture of and I'm sure he made a judgemental face as if to say, "Really? Are you that immature that you're taking a picture of a graffiti penis?" I would have made a face as if to say, "Why yes. Yes I am. And I will go and post it on my blog and people will laugh." But I didn't. Because I ran away mortified instead.
Funny story about this sign, actually. I did a double take as I passed by and decided that yes, I am 5 years old and need to take a picture of that. So I'm standing there trying to focus Camera and center the sign perfectly, but it took me about 7 seconds so I'm oblivious to what's going on around me. After I snap it, I turn to walk away and walk RIGHT INTO a man coming out of the bathroom. He obviously then turned to look at what I was taking a picture of and I'm sure he made a judgemental face as if to say, "Really? Are you that immature that you're taking a picture of a graffiti penis?" I would have made a face as if to say, "Why yes. Yes I am. And I will go and post it on my blog and people will laugh." But I didn't. Because I ran away mortified instead.
12 eggs for $6
T gave me a word of warning the other day when I told him I brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. “You should say ‘peanut butter and jam’ or else people will think you’re eating peanut butter and jello.” So yeah. Apparently jelly = jello. (I actually should have known this already from The Office where Tim puts Gareth’s stapler in a ‘jelly’ mold. I guess I forgot. Oops.)
I don’t know what people are eating at work. Whatever it is, they are re-heating it in the microwave and making the kitchen smell like a used Port-O-Potty. It makes shrimp fried rice-scented microwaves seem like a godsend.
Things to acquire upon my return to Boston: coffee maker, cat
(If anyone has any awesome cat name suggestions, please send them my way. Or coffee maker names for that matter.)
Yesterday morning two people were standing on some train tracks in London ‘having a row’ (i.e. fighting). (Why they picked train tracks as the ideal place for a fight I’ll never know.) Well. The argument got so heated that they didn’t see or hear the train barreling down the tracks towards them at 80 miles an hour. So it hit them. And they died.
*music – I’m writing pop songs Done it for so long Sometimes I dream about a chorus That’s so clever it’s dumb
I don’t know what people are eating at work. Whatever it is, they are re-heating it in the microwave and making the kitchen smell like a used Port-O-Potty. It makes shrimp fried rice-scented microwaves seem like a godsend.
Things to acquire upon my return to Boston: coffee maker, cat
(If anyone has any awesome cat name suggestions, please send them my way. Or coffee maker names for that matter.)
Yesterday morning two people were standing on some train tracks in London ‘having a row’ (i.e. fighting). (Why they picked train tracks as the ideal place for a fight I’ll never know.) Well. The argument got so heated that they didn’t see or hear the train barreling down the tracks towards them at 80 miles an hour. So it hit them. And they died.
*music – I’m writing pop songs Done it for so long Sometimes I dream about a chorus That’s so clever it’s dumb
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Ashlee Simpson is preggo (maybe)
Can you believe that I’ve been in London for the same amount of time I was in Sydney? That is just mind-boggling to me.
Global forecast:
Boston – warmer than London
Sydney – warmer than London
Miami – a lot warmer than London
On Saturday I went to Borough Market. My somewhat-boss in Boston told me I should go there and it’s been on my list of places to see since I came to London. Despite the insane crowds (I was stupid and went around noon instead of 8 am) and the rain, it was a pretty impressive place. Lots of food and drink stalls as well as fruits, veggies, meats, and cheese vendors. I bought a hot, mulled pear drink which was delicious, but was too preoccupied with taking pictures to buy anything else. I will definitely go back some other Saturday to take advantage of the rest of the market.
Like the picture says, these are Coconut Drops Cakes, whatever that means. I think the sign could have read Heaven In Cluster Form and it would have been the same thing.
Another thing I have realized about myself since coming to London (and Paris for that matter)…I love bread. It is delicious. I’m pretty sure I’d rather down a box of laxatives and wash it down with a tall, cool glass of Metamucil than go on Atkins.
Global forecast:
Boston – warmer than London
Sydney – warmer than London
Miami – a lot warmer than London
On Saturday I went to Borough Market. My somewhat-boss in Boston told me I should go there and it’s been on my list of places to see since I came to London. Despite the insane crowds (I was stupid and went around noon instead of 8 am) and the rain, it was a pretty impressive place. Lots of food and drink stalls as well as fruits, veggies, meats, and cheese vendors. I bought a hot, mulled pear drink which was delicious, but was too preoccupied with taking pictures to buy anything else. I will definitely go back some other Saturday to take advantage of the rest of the market.
Like the picture says, these are Coconut Drops Cakes, whatever that means. I think the sign could have read Heaven In Cluster Form and it would have been the same thing.
Another thing I have realized about myself since coming to London (and Paris for that matter)…I love bread. It is delicious. I’m pretty sure I’d rather down a box of laxatives and wash it down with a tall, cool glass of Metamucil than go on Atkins. 
This was probably the hardest stall not to buy something from. They had chocolate-covered everything. Maybe I’ll just scoop as much out of all the different bags with my hands as I can. They won’t mind, right? They certainly won’t make me put it back.
I would love to take credit for this awesome photo, but really, it was all the sun’s doing. Potatoes have never looked better though, huh?
And here is the famous purple broccoli. Okay, maybe famous isn’t the word. Strange? Bizarre? Mutatingly odd?
*music – September I light the candles at your sweet sixteen, October Romeo and Juliet on Halloween, November I’ll give thanks that you belong to me, December you’re the present ‘neath my Christmas tree
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Marathon thighs
I staked out my marathon viewing place at Canary Wharf a good hour before the racers got there due to an inexplicable need to be ungodly early to everything. I saw the wheelchairs, elite women, and elite men before it started raining and got unbearably cold and I had to pack up and go home to the comfort of my blankets. The only reason I'm really upset about this is because I didn't get to see sexy Gordon Ramsay run by. (There is no arguing this point...he is implicitly sexy.)
The elite men turning a curve...
A wheelchair man, a motorcycle, and an elite woman. A nice mix....
The elite men turning a curve...
A wheelchair man, a motorcycle, and an elite woman. A nice mix....
Wheelchair woman and wheelchair man with awesome tattoos...
Honky Tonk Badonkadonk
It’s an actual country song. Trace Adkins. The man is pure genius.
Here’s a sure-fire way of freaking me out:
Step 1 – Go into the stall all the way at the end of the bathroom.
Step 2 – Be very quiet so as to make me think there’s no one else in the bathroom.
Step 3 – Wait until I’ve gone into a stall and locked the door, wait 10 more seconds, and then start speaking Russian to someone on a cell phone? Yourself? No one? in a very loud voice.
The London papers were keen on reporting about a 101-year-old man, Buster Martin, who was planning on running the marathon yesterday, breaking the world record for oldest person to successfully run the 26.2 mile race (he was hoping to do it in under 14 hours but actually completed it in a little over 10). But oh what a scandal! This morning the papers followed up with breaking news that Buster was a fraud and he’s really only 94 years old. That fucking a-hole! No one cares about a mere 94-year-old man running a marathon! What do you take us for, sir, fools? We won’t stand for it! Talk to us when you’re 101 and MAYBE we’ll be impressed. MAYBE.
Words of wisdom from Sylvia Mon:
"Never go on the London Eye when it's hot out and especially when filled with children. They don't have any air circulation and even though it moves very VERY slowly, the children will still vomit."
I am materialistic. I would hope if you’re reading this, you know this by now. Last week I bought a Freitag bag. Yeah, I hadn’t heard of them either. But I was shown the light way back in 2004 in my Intro to Design class at Northwestern. Someone brought one into class as their example of an item that was designed well. They are designer, Swiss bags made from bicycle tires, car seat belts, and semi truck tarps. Depending on what design you get, the tarp might look dirty from all the acid rain and dirt whatnot, but I think it’s all part of what makes them so cool. It took me about 5 man hours to pick out what style and color design I wanted, and in the end I chose the Knightrider. It doubles as a ‘fanny’ pack so I will further be made fun of I’m sure, but at least now I’ll have a little more style when it happens. Check their stuff out at www.freitag.ch. Here’s a picture of my new baby:
*music – And ooo-wee, shut my mouth, slap your grandma There outta be a law, get the sheriff on the phone Lord have mercy, how she even get them britches on
(Yes, that’s Trace talking about said badonkadonk)
Here’s a sure-fire way of freaking me out:
Step 1 – Go into the stall all the way at the end of the bathroom.
Step 2 – Be very quiet so as to make me think there’s no one else in the bathroom.
Step 3 – Wait until I’ve gone into a stall and locked the door, wait 10 more seconds, and then start speaking Russian to someone on a cell phone? Yourself? No one? in a very loud voice.
The London papers were keen on reporting about a 101-year-old man, Buster Martin, who was planning on running the marathon yesterday, breaking the world record for oldest person to successfully run the 26.2 mile race (he was hoping to do it in under 14 hours but actually completed it in a little over 10). But oh what a scandal! This morning the papers followed up with breaking news that Buster was a fraud and he’s really only 94 years old. That fucking a-hole! No one cares about a mere 94-year-old man running a marathon! What do you take us for, sir, fools? We won’t stand for it! Talk to us when you’re 101 and MAYBE we’ll be impressed. MAYBE.
Words of wisdom from Sylvia Mon:
"Never go on the London Eye when it's hot out and especially when filled with children. They don't have any air circulation and even though it moves very VERY slowly, the children will still vomit."
I am materialistic. I would hope if you’re reading this, you know this by now. Last week I bought a Freitag bag. Yeah, I hadn’t heard of them either. But I was shown the light way back in 2004 in my Intro to Design class at Northwestern. Someone brought one into class as their example of an item that was designed well. They are designer, Swiss bags made from bicycle tires, car seat belts, and semi truck tarps. Depending on what design you get, the tarp might look dirty from all the acid rain and dirt whatnot, but I think it’s all part of what makes them so cool. It took me about 5 man hours to pick out what style and color design I wanted, and in the end I chose the Knightrider. It doubles as a ‘fanny’ pack so I will further be made fun of I’m sure, but at least now I’ll have a little more style when it happens. Check their stuff out at www.freitag.ch. Here’s a picture of my new baby:
*music – And ooo-wee, shut my mouth, slap your grandma There outta be a law, get the sheriff on the phone Lord have mercy, how she even get them britches on(Yes, that’s Trace talking about said badonkadonk)
Monday, April 14, 2008
How about some pictures of London for a change?
I finally got a chance to walk around the city some more this weekend. In fact, I walked from my little abode in Hyde Park to London Bridge, definitely taking an indirect route (not necessarily on purpose).
I tried hard to not look like too much of a tourist as I clandestinely snapped some Big Ben photos.
Canary Wharf is a big business center in East London. It's pretty much just some big corporate buildings and an underground mall. At least the buildings are pretty. (This one is HSBC.)
I tried hard to not look like too much of a tourist as I clandestinely snapped some Big Ben photos.
Canary Wharf is a big business center in East London. It's pretty much just some big corporate buildings and an underground mall. At least the buildings are pretty. (This one is HSBC.)
Some nice clouds and the London Eye. It takes 30 minutes to make one rotation and you're completed enclosed in those little pods. It also costs $30 a person to go up in them which is why I will enjoy my view of London from the ground.
There are no less than 47 bridges in London. This is a shot of one near Embankment.
A close up of the Gherkin (the rocketship type of building I previously sent a picture of). Yes, Dad, I went back to take pictures.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Enormously tight
Sometimes on my way to work I’ll play the Peter Gunn theme on my mp3 player and pretend like I work as a secret agent or some other kind of job that’s really important and sinisterly cool. It makes my day a little more awesome.
I’m not sure if he’s still trying to make his way onto my blog since he’s no longer in London, but in any case, here’s what my dad had to say on the phone the other day (I told you he was obsessed with hippos):
“There’s all types of poo, but hippo poo is not the kind you wanna deal with.”
It’s helpful to know that few food items exist in nature that are naturally blue. That way, if just before you bite into a chicken salad sandwich you see something small and blue, you know that it shouldn’t be there and it’s okay to go ahead and pick that shit out.
Overheard at work:
“Motorcycles are more expensive than children.”
“Yeah, but they’re more fun.”
This weekend around the city of London I saw references to Lendlease, Old Mutual, and F&C (which was actually advertised on the side of a cab), inducing BBH mutual fund flashbacks to memories I thought I had sufficiently blocked from my mind. Then I later saw the Blackrock office and it took all my strength not to go inside and give them a piece of my mind for leaving a million voicemails on my work phone telling me “the transmission didn’t go through last night.” Right. Because I’m responsible for that.
I carry a little CVS notebook around with me wherever I go to write down the funny things people say about children and motorcycles, music I want to download, and the things Graham does. Apparently Susan got a hold of my notebook while we were in Ireland and left me a nice little note that I actually found while she was still here, but decided not to write about until I got to the actual page in the notebook:
“You are short and an idiot. I love you! Susan (your best friend)”
It just warms your heart, doesn’t it?
*music – I love the way she bites her lip, I love the way she shakes them hips, I love the way she makes me drool, I think that she is beautiful
I’m not sure if he’s still trying to make his way onto my blog since he’s no longer in London, but in any case, here’s what my dad had to say on the phone the other day (I told you he was obsessed with hippos):
“There’s all types of poo, but hippo poo is not the kind you wanna deal with.”
It’s helpful to know that few food items exist in nature that are naturally blue. That way, if just before you bite into a chicken salad sandwich you see something small and blue, you know that it shouldn’t be there and it’s okay to go ahead and pick that shit out.
Overheard at work:
“Motorcycles are more expensive than children.”
“Yeah, but they’re more fun.”
This weekend around the city of London I saw references to Lendlease, Old Mutual, and F&C (which was actually advertised on the side of a cab), inducing BBH mutual fund flashbacks to memories I thought I had sufficiently blocked from my mind. Then I later saw the Blackrock office and it took all my strength not to go inside and give them a piece of my mind for leaving a million voicemails on my work phone telling me “the transmission didn’t go through last night.” Right. Because I’m responsible for that.
I carry a little CVS notebook around with me wherever I go to write down the funny things people say about children and motorcycles, music I want to download, and the things Graham does. Apparently Susan got a hold of my notebook while we were in Ireland and left me a nice little note that I actually found while she was still here, but decided not to write about until I got to the actual page in the notebook:
“You are short and an idiot. I love you! Susan (your best friend)”
It just warms your heart, doesn’t it?
*music – I love the way she bites her lip, I love the way she shakes them hips, I love the way she makes me drool, I think that she is beautiful
Friday, April 11, 2008
I’m in crush with you
Someone sneezed at work and it sounded exactly like a coyote howl. It was a severe ‘achoooo’ with the sound in the shape of a bell curve. I’m surrounded by a bunch of animals. Animals in French cuffs.
Last night, for the first time since I arrived in London, I saw someone fall down the escalator in the Underground. I am surprised it took this long for me to witness it (and even more surprised that it didn’t happen to me) since those escalators are incredibly dizzying. He didn’t fall all the way down the escalator, though. Now THAT would have been something. (I am a bad person.)
How many apricots is TOO many apricots?
London’s Crazy Headlines:
- Sword gang convicted of killing teenager (fyi – it was a Samurai sword)
- Cat poo cuppa for £50
- Girl finds father rotting in chapel
- Woman leaps to death after tick bite
- Jail over 16 imaginary children
- Baby No. 2 from 19-yr-old sperm
One of the little ways London is more polite than your average American city is that if a London city bus isn’t operating, its sign will say ‘Sorry – Not In Service.’ Now, when was the last time an American public transportation system apologized for not running?
I got a free pass to go see the new Colin Farrell movie In Bruges last night. Afterwards, because I’m a delinquent, I snuck into Drillbit Taylor. (I didn’t choose this one; it was the only movie starting at that time.)
#1 In Bruges was kinda lame.
#2 Ralph Fiennes is probably one of the greatest actors of our time (even though his name is pronunciatingly deceitful).
#3 I feel like I could have been Seth Rogan.
Let me explain. Seth Rogan is one of the great minds behind Knocked Up, Superbad, Freaks and Geeks, and Drillbit Taylor. I’m pretty sure every movie or tv show he has written has referenced a Bar Mitzvah, and his hilarious writing always centers around the nerdy kid in high school; so basically, he writes about HIS adolescent experience. But this could have been ME, I tell you!!! I’m funny! I had a Bat Mitzvah! I’m a nerd! I got wasted at a bar and knocked up some random girl! No wait…that’s not right. Okay, everything but that last part is true. But I think I know the reason why I wouldn’t be as successful as Seth Rogan. If I made films based on my youth, the following scenes would be the reasons behind the movies flopping:
Scene #1: Amy and Lisa make two boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese and proceed to inhale them without the slightest thought of chewing, all the while instructing Amy’s Apple IIe to say things such as ‘Lisa is awesome’ and ‘boobies.’
Scene #2: Lisa joins her high school marching band unknowingly destroying any chance of a successful social life. She is shunned by the cool girls who once used to talk to her in elementary school. On the bright side, she can now play You Can Call Me Al by heart on the trumpet and she has scored a fabulous pair of black Drillmaster sneakers.
Scene #3: Lisa and friends return to Eisner Camp to smoke weed out of a hookah acquired on their recent trip to Israel. Since they aren’t technically campers and are merely hiding out in a random building at camp, they are obviously caught by security who proceeds to kick them out at 2 o’clock in the morning. 6 stoned people sleep in her father’s Oldsmobile sedan in the parking lot of a Great Barrington pharmacy. Camp sends a letter home to our parents tattling on us. The letter is intercepted by Lisa who feels guilty and shows her mother, but insists that she not tell Dad.
Scene #4: Cut to fun, out of control party at a ‘cool kid’s’ house, complete with sex, drugs, and booze. Then cut to Lisa sitting at home at her desk trying to complete the matrices due in AP Calculus the next day.
*music – Look he’s crawling up my wall, black and hairy very small Now he’s up above my head, hanging by a little thread Boris the spidaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah
Last night, for the first time since I arrived in London, I saw someone fall down the escalator in the Underground. I am surprised it took this long for me to witness it (and even more surprised that it didn’t happen to me) since those escalators are incredibly dizzying. He didn’t fall all the way down the escalator, though. Now THAT would have been something. (I am a bad person.)
How many apricots is TOO many apricots?
London’s Crazy Headlines:
- Sword gang convicted of killing teenager (fyi – it was a Samurai sword)
- Cat poo cuppa for £50
- Girl finds father rotting in chapel
- Woman leaps to death after tick bite
- Jail over 16 imaginary children
- Baby No. 2 from 19-yr-old sperm
One of the little ways London is more polite than your average American city is that if a London city bus isn’t operating, its sign will say ‘Sorry – Not In Service.’ Now, when was the last time an American public transportation system apologized for not running?
I got a free pass to go see the new Colin Farrell movie In Bruges last night. Afterwards, because I’m a delinquent, I snuck into Drillbit Taylor. (I didn’t choose this one; it was the only movie starting at that time.)
#1 In Bruges was kinda lame.
#2 Ralph Fiennes is probably one of the greatest actors of our time (even though his name is pronunciatingly deceitful).
#3 I feel like I could have been Seth Rogan.
Let me explain. Seth Rogan is one of the great minds behind Knocked Up, Superbad, Freaks and Geeks, and Drillbit Taylor. I’m pretty sure every movie or tv show he has written has referenced a Bar Mitzvah, and his hilarious writing always centers around the nerdy kid in high school; so basically, he writes about HIS adolescent experience. But this could have been ME, I tell you!!! I’m funny! I had a Bat Mitzvah! I’m a nerd! I got wasted at a bar and knocked up some random girl! No wait…that’s not right. Okay, everything but that last part is true. But I think I know the reason why I wouldn’t be as successful as Seth Rogan. If I made films based on my youth, the following scenes would be the reasons behind the movies flopping:
Scene #1: Amy and Lisa make two boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese and proceed to inhale them without the slightest thought of chewing, all the while instructing Amy’s Apple IIe to say things such as ‘Lisa is awesome’ and ‘boobies.’
Scene #2: Lisa joins her high school marching band unknowingly destroying any chance of a successful social life. She is shunned by the cool girls who once used to talk to her in elementary school. On the bright side, she can now play You Can Call Me Al by heart on the trumpet and she has scored a fabulous pair of black Drillmaster sneakers.
Scene #3: Lisa and friends return to Eisner Camp to smoke weed out of a hookah acquired on their recent trip to Israel. Since they aren’t technically campers and are merely hiding out in a random building at camp, they are obviously caught by security who proceeds to kick them out at 2 o’clock in the morning. 6 stoned people sleep in her father’s Oldsmobile sedan in the parking lot of a Great Barrington pharmacy. Camp sends a letter home to our parents tattling on us. The letter is intercepted by Lisa who feels guilty and shows her mother, but insists that she not tell Dad.
Scene #4: Cut to fun, out of control party at a ‘cool kid’s’ house, complete with sex, drugs, and booze. Then cut to Lisa sitting at home at her desk trying to complete the matrices due in AP Calculus the next day.
*music – Look he’s crawling up my wall, black and hairy very small Now he’s up above my head, hanging by a little thread Boris the spidaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah
Thursday, April 10, 2008
It's either pictures of family or flowers. Let me know if you prefer the latter.
Everyone's family is bizarre. There is no denying it. Mine just might be a little more bizarre.
This is me 'styling' my niece's hair. Notice my sister in the background reading a Cooking Light magazine and not caring.
This is my Nana Ruth. She's 96 years old and can probably kick your ass. Don't tell her I told you her age because as you can see from this picture where I told her to flex, she's got some guns on her. (I'm pretty sure whatever kind of soup is in those cans on the table, I was sent home with them.)
This is me 'styling' my niece's hair. Notice my sister in the background reading a Cooking Light magazine and not caring.
This is my Nana Ruth. She's 96 years old and can probably kick your ass. Don't tell her I told you her age because as you can see from this picture where I told her to flex, she's got some guns on her. (I'm pretty sure whatever kind of soup is in those cans on the table, I was sent home with them.)
This is what happened when I left my brother-in-law alone with my camera. He's actually one of the funniest guys I've ever met. And not just because he feeds his 1 year old babies beer.
As you can see, my sister and her husband were made for each other. Also, people tell me we don't look alike, but personally I think think our resemblance is staggering.
My thoughts EXACTLY. It's about time someone needle-pointed them onto a pillow.
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