Monday, November 22, 2010

A Major Prize, I Won I Won I Won!

Today i received an email that changed my life. For your Friend Til the End Or At Least the End of the Bottle is one of 8 recipients of the highly esteemed Anger Management Award! No, seriously! Look!



Who fuckin' said I can't manage my goddamn anger? Seriously, who the fuck said that? I'll cut him.

Monday, November 15, 2010

I need a new shrink


Dr. Happy is winking like he knows something I should.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Sunday Sermon.


Worship.

Dog Days of Sunday

Gratuitous sunday funday shot. By one of my favorite dog photographers.

© Scruffy Dog Photography

Saturday, November 13, 2010

This Ain't No Disco


Some people don't need heads to be rad.

Tuesday, November 02, 2010

I'm Shining

I don’t know the name of the ponytailed prick who came up with the Open Office Agency Model. But if I did, I would hack him up with an axe. Dramatic? I don’t think so. What you call “life in prison,” I call finally getting exactly what I want: Solitary Confinement.

You see, concentration is always something I’ve struggled with. In college, I would find the loneliest, most deserted vacuum and hear angels singing through the sweet, sweet silence. Because unlike Fun With Photoshop! writing amid a cacophony of conference calls and tools with ‘tude is DIFFICULT. Have you ever seen a photo of Thomas Pynchon? Neither have I. Because you cant write Gravity’s Fucking Rainbow while a bunch of art school dropouts wax-unpoetic about Facebook apps. So I made this instead.


Blame the typo on the noise.

Friday, August 13, 2010

yes, jello biafra. emotions make us monsters.

Lately the only fuel motivating me to climb the stairs of 9, er, 10:30 -6 has been ambivalence. I’m just not going to care. And unlike every other ambition that I’ve overthought to the point of exhaustion, overworked until the hammer I furiously wield builds my project to the point of destroying it, “not caring” requires “not trying.”

It’s the complete absence of feeling. If I have to tell myself “My desk neighbor might be blasting Sum 41 [yeah, really] so loud my DJ quality headphones can’t block it out, but I don’t care,” that’s not how it works. It’s just like “trying” to relax. There is no “try.” You just don’t do, you dig?

But there are things that I just can’t prevent from stirring my emotions. And as much as I strive to surpass shallowness, there are just some parts of Palm Beach that you can’t take out of the girl, causing me to comfort myself with rewards superficial that surprise me with a “good news! Package has shipped early,” email, where the package to-arrive becomes The Very Most Looked Forward To Event of the day until the Universe delivers a stinging blow reminding me that I’m not paid to think or care and I should just keep my head down and my emotions even lower.



Fucking figures.

Wednesday, August 04, 2010

The Hope That Keeps Us Alive, Or Vacation.


© Lluís Artús

Party on, Wayne. Stay classy, San Diego.

Sunday, August 01, 2010

For The Kids

Waiting for the elevator, I ran into a coworker. I know very little about her beyond that she’s well known as a genuinely down to earth chick, she’d recently had a baby, and regained her pre-baby body back faster than most freshmen lose their fifteen. I’d hate her if she weren’t so damn sweet.
 
Of my short list, the only conversable quality seemed to be about her baby. Didn’t want to discover just how awkward silence can get, by starting with “People say you’re really nice,” and then stand there smiling.
 
“He’s great,” she said. Not much of a small talk expert, I went for the closest relatable anecdote in my brain.
 
“My boyfriend and I just visited his brother.  He had a baby 2 weeks ago.” I should have closed my mouth there.  But I kept having thoughts and my mouth kept up. “Yeah, wow. Kids.  Not for me. If I had any doubts before, whew, not anymore. I mean, wow.”
 
I’m awesome, right?
 
While mentally berating myself for shitting on her lifestyle choice, she told me a friend had sent her the recent NY Magazine article, “I love my kids, but I hate my life.”   At least I’m not that bad. I felt a little better.  The same way I felt when reading the mentioned article. It justified all my reproductive fears.  Beyond the physical ones of expanding like a universe made from ass and turning into a walking creamery, confirmed in black and white were stats about expenses, destroyed careers and ambitions.  Even better, of the two parents the mothers were reported unhappiest! There’s only one thing I enjoy more than cynicism, and that’s being right.
 
I went through a brief “kids maybe in ten years” period. But then I quickly realized the correlation between my (albeit slight) change of heart and Facebook; occurring the same time my high school friends -who never left Florida- started reproducing and posting the photos of their labor.  Like a fashion trend, babies slowly crept into the "want it" part of my brain.  But as they say, kids are not designer handbags.
 
It’s not that I have anything against kids. As long as we're not sharing an airplane or my belly, I can dig ‘em for a bit. I’m an only child so nieces and nephews are out. But I enjoy my surrogate “Aunt” status with my cousins' offspring. I even prefer their children to a lot of the adults in my family. It probably has something to do with having similar maturity levels, but I prefer the term “good with kids.”
 
Maybe I don’t want children because I’m still too busy raising myself.
 
Visiting my boyfriend’s nephew, his mother described to me what it’s like to breastfeed. Apparently, not only do your boobs inflate like hot air balloons, but also ache from breastmilk pressure until you "pop" them.
 
I wanted to blurt out, “Ew, like a zit?!?” but uncharacteristically thought better of it. Perhaps I was saved by instinct. Because ain’t nothing popping out of this body anytime soon.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Oh, the Humanity

I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that I’ll never be much of a humanitarian. I’ll throw myself in front of a bus to save a stray dog, but I won’t give a homeless guy a quarter. I’m a democrat. Isn’t that enough?

People are easily spoiled. Not dogs. Mine was rescued from the slums of a puppy mill in Ohio and now lives in a Manhattan apt with a doorman. Rags to riches. But she’s still totally down to earth.

Every once and a while you watch a documentary on Darfur orphans coming to America that temporarily renews your hope in humanity. But that passes. Give them enough time, and people will generally disappoint you. Anne Frank said people were all good at heart. I bet she took that one back.

Sometimes I think I’m wasting my time being a democrat. Because fuck ‘em, right? But then I remember the kind of people who need health care are the nice ladies who clean off my desk at night. And the people already covered are Sarah Palin.

I probably would have made my health care phone calls to congress if I knew she would have been excluded from the plan and burned at the stake.

I guess it’s sort of silly to limit my acts of kindness to only those who are nice themselves. But then again, no. It’s not.

Maybe it’s money to blame. Maybe those nice cleaning ladies are just assholes waiting for the right amount of cash to bring it out. I always thought the best part about socialism would be that I wouldn’t have to worry about what to wear or try that hard. But perhaps wealth redistribution would cause people to be less insufferable.

Of course there’s always the chance that those who actually profit from the new regime would experience their own level of spoilage. Government cheese is better than no cheese at all. Theoretically you can’t really gloat when you’re wearing the same potato sack as the next shit head, but these are people we’re talking about. I wouldn’t put it past them.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Risk Taking

Of the myriad of things wrong with the MTA, the chance you might board the subway and run into someone you know is probably the worst that could happen.  Because an unplanned meeting requires spontaneous conversation.  As the uncreative human race has yet to invent an improvement on small talk, this is the wrist slitting ennui that materializes before you, disguised as the face of an acquaintance.
 
I hate small talk. With a name that suggests such insignificance, you’d think evolution would have taken care of it long ago. Yes, I know it’s hot out, Tuesday sometimes feels like Wednesday, you’re still hoping a trust fund will kick in someday. And so am I. Because you’ll stop having to ride the train every morning and I can ride to work pleasantly ignored.
 
I suppose before the advent of readily available printed material, portable music etc, small talk served its purpose.  You could catch up on gossip. Confirm that it was hotter than Hades. Learn how that bitch who stole your man up in Salem was finally getting the stake treatment she deserved.
 
But as the in-ear earbuds plugged into the mini computer/phone/iPod might suggest, society has advanced. And the best revenge you can take on a woman is starting some rumors about her plastic surgery.
 
Here’s a tip: There’s a reason I stuffed Don Quixote into my bag.  Because you’re more boring than a thousand page translation of a 15th century novel.  And you don’t come with cliff’s notes.
 
Once I ran into my art director on the subway. This was a problem because we already saw each other daily. He informed me that last night the girl I’d left him with at the bar had defeated his interest in her, by revealing her employment at an S&M club. Her specialty? “Cock and ball torture.”  It was good to see him.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

It Could Be Better

Spending one of many frustrated, disgruntled Saturdays stuck in a coffee shop working with my partner during a beautiful afternoon on a advertising brief we had questionable chance in selling, gave rise to considerable amount of complaining on my end. Finally my partner offered this tidbit of consolation.

“You know, once I watched this clip on Youtube. Horrible. This lion catches a guy and eats him alive.”

Figuring this was prelude to an idea, I begged her to go on.

“So when it gets bad, I always think, at least I’m not getting eaten by a lion.”

That's the alternative? Work weekends or spend the last moments of your life hearing the skin you so diligently SPFed every summer get shredded like a stack of junk mail? I think it could be better.

I blame lazy mothers. If a four year old refuses to eat dinner, mom shouts that there are starving children in China. Or in my case, my dad actually took regular trips to third world countries as a photographer and had pictorial proof that I had it better. But in my experience, Ethiopians eating tsetse flies in loincloths didn’t change the fact that mom’s cooking sucked.

And so from that malleable age we’re taught to settle for shitty because at least you’re still breathing. Yeah, it’s with the help of life support, but count your blessings. Maybe mom needs to go back to the drawing board and learn how to cook my fucking chicken. Maybe hearing another misfortune on top of my lament only makes me more depressed. You’re damn right it could be worse. You just turned a shitty meal into the hopelessness of mankind. I need a drink. And I'm only four.

Of course, I could get behind this ideology if I could use it for my benefit . For example, I get an assignment, only to turn in a couple crappy headlines and call it a day at 4pm. When my Creative Director shoots me a threatening, “WTF?” email, I could reply, “Well, at least it’s not a letter from your future self detailing your imminent death by carnivorous jaws.” I could lower his expectations *and* get home in time for 5pm high balls. What could be better?

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Gender Differences

Let’s just get this out of the way right now. I hate my gender.

Like really.

You know that beer ad where a guy gets stuck on an elevator with two women gabbing about their eye shadows and night creams until his head literally explodes? If I were a better writer, I could have written that.

Last week I went to a Bastille Day wine tasting, where I imagined The Man and I could get drunk on Burgundy while watching a French singing Hipster Prohibition era jazz band from Brooklyn. What we got was a room full of chatty single women drowning out the music by comparing their idiotically high espadrilles to their pep-toe doilies instead of quietly enjoying their Côtes du Rôhne. You can’t swallow and compare shoes at the same time. If that were possible men and women would have worked out their differences long ago.

My husband-to-be leaned over and said, “You know, if I spent five minutes with each of these girls I could tell you exactly why they’re still single.”

Five minutes? I can tell you now. They’re girls.

I was once forced into the unfortunate situation of having to find a Craigslist roommate. Most fear typical horror stories of unpaid cable and stray fecal matter, but my anxieties reached their zenith when my roommate attempted congeniality by inviting me to a “Gossip Girl” party in our living room. I assumed she was describing her friends.

Judging from the oversized bottles of cheap pino grigio she'd set out for the vag fest, I sensed the imminent torture and politely declined. The girls arrived, and they were all, so….so bubbly! So OMIGAW! I closed my door, opting to be the weirdo in her bedroom.

I’m used to it. The hatred always goes both ways. On the rare occasion I find myself in pink a room filled with an Anthropologie sorority, I get rendered an instant outcast before you can say US Weekly. Maybe it’s because I don’t state everything as a question??? Or that I’m not up on the last episode, or any, of The Hills. Or perhaps it’s my plastered expression of horror.

And no, I’m not gay. If I don’t like someone, what makes you think I want to see them without pants?

And no, I don’t wish I had a penis. I can barely control my hair, let alone a couple of extra organs hanging from my crotch. That, and I’d have to date chicks.

I guess I could be a gay dude. Glitter! Fun! But it’s not the point. I don’t want to be a guy, because, I actually enjoy being a …oh you know how the song goes. Don’t make me admit it. I like dresses, they feel like pajamas. I’m down with soft skin. Smelling like mangoes is also fun. Granted I don’t want to read the same regurgitated In Style article about “Five hot tricks for fabulous summer elbows!” But I like things to look nice. Why wouldn’t I wish the same for myself?

Of course there are non-girl girls out there. Ones with tastes and personalities that would create instant mutual bonds, if we were guys. But if they’re like me, you can also bet they’ll be full of the same judgments and skepticism that causes my hate in the first place. And I’ll walk into a room and they look at me like, “Who’s the dumb bitch in the Anthropologie?” You can’t win.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Public Service Announcement

Walking down Bleeker yesterday an oversized SUV town car pulled over and asked me the directions to 2nd ave. But when I turned around, the needed route in question was quickly shelved so he could make what I could only describe as convulsing neck thrusts mixed with wildly exaggerated imitations of kissing and biting.

"Baby, I want to eat you. I want to eat you all up," said he.

It's a wild world out there. Beware the motoring cannibals.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Ricky Martin is gay, but my dad is a straight up faggot.

Despite the adjective overlap, there's a huge gaping difference between the perfectly acceptable and the big fat jackass. It's called context, people. Not to mention, the first one isn't a choice. The other however is performed with deliberate glee. Everyone, meet my father:








click to enlarge

and now i pass it onto you. enjoy!

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Buelluer?

In a surprising turn of events, after posting this tweet earlier:

I was invited to a private screening of the very film. Perhaps I'm psychic. In which case Madame Concha will tell you your fortune for $5000 a pop. No refunds.

But I digress. Point is, I saw the doc. Tweet and you shall receive. Adverdouches abound. Now this isn't meant to be a film critique as I am not paid to do so. Nor am I about to provide a summary because Concha Libre headquarters is not a venue for book reports. I do however, have one observation. As we left, the pervasive reaction centered around one consensus. "Shit, ya'll. I wanna go make some art now. Anyone can do it." But just like adverdouches flocking to the film in hopes to augment their rank on the cool meter, to me it seems they're missing the point. Thousands of people waited outside for hours to see someone for whom artist is a questionable title. But the time they spent pales in comparison to the money; these "fans" made MBW a millionaire over night. Hype breeds fame. Fame breeds title. When our idea of artist is something we define, does that make MBW an artist, or are we just projecting, comfortable to live in a reality our perceptions have neatly defined?

Fuck me if I'm wrong, but I don't think the point was "anyone can make art." I think the crowd buys its own bullshit. Figuratively and literally. We thought we came to see a film about one artist, Banksy, who turned the camera on another, MBW. But is he an artist? Who's to say? If great art is supposed to hold a mirror to its audience, this film took it a step further by manipulating it. Quite Banksy-eque, if i'm even at liberty to draw such comparisons. Because here we are, busy looking for the face behind the silhouette. The point isn't "anyone can do it." Because how can anyone make "art," when we don't even know what it is in the first place?

Maybe there is a god. And it's Bansky. Laughing at anyone searching for meaning behind the goddamn hamster wheel.

Whatever. I've had a few beers. When there's no point to nothin', might as well.

Monday, April 12, 2010

once i was on gawker, twice.

remember when i used to be famous? no? yeah, i figured. because it's been a few thousand lunches since my blogger "limelight" was eclipsed by an endless shadow of unproduced advertising briefs. but here again today i find myself uncharacteristically unburdened by a 15 hour workload and all the galleries are closed. it's monday. fala-la-la-la-la.

as much as a loathe writing (there, i finally admitted it) and detest making ads even more, it would seem reasonable to assume a break from this double barrel nightmare would color me sunny in my happy-pants. but as the ever spinning anxiety galaxy in my general chest/gut area reminds me, no. not happy. no pants.


here's a photo i took, because words without pictures can suck

i don't think i'll ever "be" happy. forgive the new age-gypsy speak, but i realized something in yoga yesterday. (please, hold your eye rolls until the end). yoga is basically a set of poses. and just like most things, you have the choice to recreate the pose with every last tendon in your body, or half ass it. (which, i admit is what i do half the time...however, it's usually out of of fear more than laziness. but that's another therapy session.) here's the thing: besides the obvious benefits lost in a job halfway done, i realized there's a lot of stuff – bad stuff, the kind of stuff you exercise to purge – stay trapped inside you. an easy conclusion to reach thanks to the physicality of yoga. (i don't think this experience is limited to yoga, by the way. years of running have just restricted my knees to non-pounding exercise.) holding back ultimately leads to closing up. and if my 18 years of living with a bible thumper/parent can attest, constantly hiding/ keeping it all in, will land you on a therapist couch pretty quickly. but it doesn't make sense. i have a career, boyfriends, friends...what do you mean i'm depressed? so my very long winded semi-yoda/chicken-puke-for-the-soul point is this: no-half assing the poses. because the benefits aren't limited to the skills gained. it's the release of everything else. and as it is in yoga, so it is in writing. (because that happens to be what i do for a living.) you gotta go for it. else the negative shit gets trapped. and as with any practice, you'll suck until you get better. you have to write every day. come briefs or boredom. hence we have here a shitty blog entry. but i feel a little better. and if you want to read something more entertaining, feel free to scroll through the past entries. because my blog was on gawker once, twice.

Monday, March 29, 2010

le sigh

I am bored. An experience so utterly foreign I'm hard pressed to remember if I've felt this way since I was a teenager, when everything but beer bongs and boy parts was mind numbingly humdrum. Then again I was the kind of nerd who found Faulkner to be a suitable replacement for the MTV I was forbidden to watch.

So boredom is elusive. Especially since I've been trapped inside the merciless clutches of the pitch that never ends. The pitch that has claimed all but one of my weekends in the past six weeks. Including this weekend, where a perfectly beautiful sunny saturday was sacrificed to the evil satan of slavery for the sake of two (albeit awesome super sweet ones that if produced will be book worthy gems in the sparse treasure chest of my portfolio) scripts. Two fucking scripts i could have written today instead of sitting here rediscovering what it feels like to be trapped by limited options.

but i can't leave yet. one of my bosses is sitting in his office cutting out pictures. the other one is MIA. and the past six slam packed weeks have not rendered me willing to ask him how the meeting went and risk him finding a way to alleviate this weird tapping of the pen and foot turn of events.

and if this little ramble has successfully recreated what the inside of my head feels like, i'm assuming you're as bored as me. life can be a shitty picnic sometimes, eh? hit the lights on your way out.

Friday, January 29, 2010

some cool shit

i'm tired of writing. thoughts in my cab ride to work this morning included those of retiring. or at least putting it away until it's fun again. fun like this piece i saw in a chelsea gallery last week.



silly putty transfers - photographed, framed, done. this is some seriously cool shit. that i want to steal.