Tuesday, February 28, 2006
We haul bags of crap from office to office and try to convince editors they MUST write about our prouduct. Today we were at some blue chip publications with (per my previous post) often quite posh offices.
But what a beautiful day in Manhattan, as was somehow captured by my shitty cell phone camera.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Rita: "Are these collard greens?"
JP: "RITA! They're not COLORED GREENS! God!"
Rita: "Shut up, JP, I'm so excited to be eating collard greens!"
Jason: "Those aren't collard greens."
Rita: "What are they, then?"
Jason: "Green beans."
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Like, this shot.
"OMG, Julie! You know what would be totally hot? Like, strip down to your panties and, like, crawl out of this refrigerator box! I'll totally take your picture!
"Oh! Babe! Wear this belt, too! But just, like, let it dangle! So. Hot."
By the way, loved you in the muppet movie.
PS: I accidentally used magic marker for eyeliner. At least it matches these party lights.
Welcome to the post-SAD party wrap-up. The party that takes your SAD. . . seasonal affective depression . . . and replaces it with PDD. . . post drunk depression.
Luckily, PDD is temporary.
Just like my pounding headache and the waves of nausea I'm enjoying today.
We had much fun, many laughs, many dances, and many, many, many drinks.
And perhaps did things that surpirsed even ourselves.
But I'm not mentioning any names. Not that I really could remember them. Just kidding, Chris. God. Whatever.
Click here to see the full beer-soaked set of photographic evidence.
That's right, now, not only is New York Magazine declaring the return of the stirrup pant, but they're also claiming that ANKLE ZIPPERS ARE BACK.
Men, don't feel that you're immune -- stirrup trousers have been spotted in Milan.
If you need me, I'll be retching in the bathroom sink.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
From the left:
Svetlana. Totally annoyed at her boyfriend, fake Harry Connick Jr., for hiring this chef. Because, sure, hippie blackface Jesus makes a fine Tang punch, but he brought along one of the lost boys who is freaking out the rest of the guests.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Where do I start with this?
- As a professional publicist, I would like to invite my Governor to call me. Because, as part of what I do (as weird as this may sound), when I book clients on interviews, I find out what show the interview is for. Then -- get this -- I BRIEF THEM ON IT. Weird huh? I know that may seem, like, over the top. . .especially for POLITICS, but, what can I say?
- Rod, we live in the same town. I use Comcast (despite my distaste for them, different story) as my cable provider. I bet they wire up your house, too. Come out from under the rock and call them. Might help you stay in touch with things that are going on in the world. Like, the show that informs the majority of voters 18-25. Just a thought.
- By the way, Rod -- I still love you.
- See the wreck footage here.
But today's news has me comforted that the FBI is kicking the crime of this world in the crotch, dear!
That's right, we SHOULD be concerned by a man who has claimed to be celebate for so many years. That cannot be good. He is the one busy creating crime rings.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Your husband just wants what he wants.
He's being very clear and I think you should just do it. Clearly, by resisting, you've somehow driven him to get involved in child porn.
But seriously, the whole situation does raise some questions for me. Like, Did this just come up? You've been married for nine years. And, did you decide to go with the paper option for tracking your GBDs, or go for the modern-day computer mode? I totally would have gone for the computer. It's so much easier to just, like, put a little flag on your calendar to track them. Or something.
Especially designed for the guys in dresses playing softball in the dirt this summer.
Consider the generational cohort that has come to be called the hipsters—i.e., those hundreds of thousands of educated young urbanites with strikingly similar tastes.
Such a beautiful academic deconstruction of the ludicrious collection of reverse-mullet haircuts and vintage church softball league t-shirts. Yes, yes, your neon legwarmers make you totally individual. They totally make you fit in with the cool crowd. Oh, Bill -- as you say, 'Have so many self-alleged aesthetes ever been more (in the formulation of Festinger et al.) “submerged in the group”?'
What a perfect time to start fucking with people!
The basic hypothesis behind the Mob Project was as follows: seeing how all culture in New York was demonstrably commingled with scenesterism, the appeal of concerts and plays and readings and gallery shows deriving less from the work itself than from the social opportunities the work might engender, it should theoretically be possible to create an art project consisting of pure scene—meaning the scene would be the entire point of the work, and indeed would itself constitute the work.
PURE SCENE, MAN!
At this point, I will give you exactly fifteen seconds of applause, for YOU! And then I will abandon this blog altogether.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
- John Wade, first man eliminated, designer who shares my love of imbibing, is a mere shadow of his former self. And I love the fact that he is SO ANNOYED that everyone keeps telling him how great he looks. A lovely exchange with pretty boy Nick:
Nick: This is an absolute transformation! It's like Star Jones!
John: I'm gonna CHOKE A BITCH!
John, my friend, I'm with you. Shut up, everyone.
- Guadalupe goes off on some sort of crack-addled tyrade, and My Lovely, Tim Gunn, says, "This is the biggest bunch of bullshit I've heard in weeks." Love you, Tim. See you at Red Lobster.
- They revisit Andre's breakdown on the runway and have a timer going at the bottom, "elapsed time, 9:51. . . " so. bitchy. I LOVE IT.
- Zulema exhibits some intense dual personality FUN CLIPS that happened to not make it into the original show. Maybe because they were too effing schizophrenic.
- Even though everyone (except 'Lupe, who is clearly on crack) expresses some form of hate for Santino, he exhibits no visible discomfort.
- EXCELLENT weird moment when Gunn quips, "Daniel Franco, maybe we'll see you season three."
Daniel: I might. I just might
Everyone: Stares in uncomfortable silence.
I love how they edit these shows.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
I had such high hopes for that kid. I mean, I remember in 1989 when Sassy magazine named him One To Watch. When I was in ninth grade, that was, like, the source. I had total faith in him. I tore out his sexy, asymmetrical-haired picture and posted it on my wall. When he told that kid in the Dead Poet’s Society that he shouldn’t worry about his totally fascist dad, I totally believed him. I guess I should have known, when that kid totally killed himself in his totally gay actor’s outfit, that he wasn’t convincing enough to really, like, make it. I mean, I didn’t know it then, but that was totally not about a career choice, that suicide. It was all about being gay. Probably for Josh Charles. Cause he was so hot.
I want to implore Hollywood to give Josh another chance.
Unless he’s ugly now. Or gay.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Friday, February 17, 2006
Overheard at the Star of
Small Thai man (to couple sitting next to us): What this I hear about your fried rice?
Unsatisfied, somewhat angry lady: This fried rice is no good.
Small Thai man: What wrong with the fried rice? There's nothing wrong with the fried rice!
Angry Lady: This rice is not good. I've been to other places where the rice was browner and better. This rice is unsatisfactory to me!
Thai man: Look around you! My restaurant is full for lunch! It has been packed for 20 years! No one around here thinks the rice is not good but you!
Angry Lady: I am the customer. And I say, some of these condiments are completely unnecessary.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
2. Her voice. It's all smoky and raspy and ravaged-sounding, sometimes like she's some road-hardened ninety-year-old in a cute little twenty-something's body.
3. Her old lady car. With a big dent in the side.
4. She's generous, and she'll cry with you and stick by your side when you need her.
5. She is totally willing to go for drinks at the drop of a hat. These people are very important to keep close. Sometimes, you need a drink and you want someone to go with you. Especially someone with the above (and below) qualities. A GEM, I TELL YOU.
6. She drives an old lady car and loves it.
7. She has the same cute cheeks as she did as a kid. I didn't know her then, but I've seen pictures.
8. Total Irish girl. As if you couldn't tell.
9. Smart as a WHIP.
10. Because you just can't help it. So, when she says, "I think it's time to give me props on your blog," you do it. Because that's the kind of girl she is.
Now, E -- call me, let's get a drink.
I got a thrill as I said, "I would love to work with you on business development, carving out new markets," and I got wide-eyed, enthusiastic nods.
I love the freedom to do what I want and the credibility to sell myself and my services.
I like to think of this last week as a trip, a free-fall tumble, follwed by a beautiful landing on both feet.
Or, perhaps a nice jackie chan move - quick kicks to the obstacles in my way, flying around in the rain-soaked nighttime alley, perhaps landing on a fire-escape and shooting a snotty grin behind me.
That's right, motherfuckers. Eat my dust.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Sure, she can catch a frisbee in the air and gets lots of complements in the dog park.
Sure, her coat is glossy and is white AND black.
So what? She doesn't even speak! I mean, she barks high-pitched barks when she loses her ball under the couch, but that's just ANNOYING!
Yeah, she's purebred! So what! Does she pay her own bills?
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Okay, people -- my friends and family have gone out of their way to prove that I. am. incredibly. blessed.
First -- the flowers from momma. Then -- these gorgeous tulips from my Casey, who says, "Freedom is an opportunity. Stop and smell the flowers."
Then -- more lovely tulips from Sarah and Tchad. My home is like an incredible spring garden right now. I could not love it more.
And so many supportive calls and emails and whathaveyou, including one that made me teary from Melrose Mark -- Who wrote this awesome insight:
I must say that I love that you will not be working in the suburbs anymore
(right?)..For some reason it always really bugged me that you, and only you,
worked in the suburbs..You know I'm very geo-centric and I felt like you may be
losing the edge I so dear love by working out there..That and I won't have to
listen to travel times on the Edens anymore and worry that it would just be
stressing you out more..I know right.
I know, RIGHT? I was thinking of that as I was walking into my downtown
office building this morning. I was thinking that I love being downtown. I love
being free. I love not struggling to conform to someone's expectations.
And, have I mentioned? I love tulips.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Today is also the day that, after almost three years, I walk back into the agency I worked for from 1998 - 2003 -- five years of insane personalities, crazy stories, laughter, tears, and many, many designer handbags.
This is the agency of The Handbag Girls, where I was once told, "You've got all the skills -- now you just need to get a look." Where I was once handed a nail file and a bottle of nail polish and told, "Tricks of the trade!"
Also, the agency where I met some people who I will be linked to for life. Including my old boss (Who, strangely, has the same first name as the man who terrorized me at my last job) -- who had several projects ready for me when I called him last week.
Last night I dreamed that I was here, a strange combination of homecoming and fear, the fear that I just took a step back in time. The fear of being a young, impressionable, insecure woman again, subject to the insecurities and judgement of other women. I felt that a little when I walked inside. While people were hugging me left and right, some with a genuine affection, some with suspicion, some with a little schadenfreude -- or was that just me? They pointed out a place on the wall where, "there was a picture of you, and a cut up credit card, I swear, until just last week."
The thing is, I am older, smarter, more confident, less afraid today than I have maybe ever been. What is there left to be afraid of?
Besides a bad manicure, I mean.
Friday, February 10, 2006
I knew it was a socialst flower shop, because that's where The Socialist bought flowers that convinced Sarah to marry him.
I cried a little in Hallmark-style "aren't my friends THE BEST godIdon'tdeservethem" sort of way. I wiped the tears from my eyes like a starlet and stood in the doorway when the flowers came wrapped in butcher paper, smiling in glassy-eyed delight at the scruffy socialist guy who handed them to me.
Turns out, according to the block-lettered socialst-style gift card, they were from my mom. "Just to brighten your day."
My mom said, "We pass that shop all the time, and you always say you love it."
She's the best.
So, mom sends flowers.
Dad said, "I would like to go down and punch that guy." Personally, I love the mental image of my big, burly, 60-yr-old leather-vest clad badass dad pounding on that swaggering frat boy.
But that wouldn't be very, like, legal.
My friends at work have been righteously indignant, those little angels.
Except for the director of marketing, who has been incredibly uncomfortable and clearly feels guilty and, perhaps, a bit judgemental. But probably guilty about being judgemental. I assured her I would be fine and asked her to be a reference. I believe she was relieved to be of use.
People have been calling, coming out of the woodwork, because word travels fast. What I've noticed is that so many of them call me and complain about their own lives.
I spoke last night to a friend in New York who spent about an hour dissecting her own career woes. It was about 8PM. I was in pajamas. She was at work. This, more than anything, I find soothing.
If I don't really warrant enough sympathy to require a lot of listening to, it must not be that bad.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Sitting on the low-slung couch in his lumberjack outfit, complete with flannel shirt, red doc martens, and a certain unwashed charm. He's sporting a smart black ski cap, just in case he needs to rob someone later.
Wait, is that Tom Waits? He's got Tom Waits glasses on! What's he DOING over there? He's got earphones on. Does he know they're playing his music?
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Thank you for being my generous, beautiful, honest and caring friend.
Thank you for letting me use your Internet connection today while Comcast is totally dicking around. Did I mention Comcast sucks? Cuz they do.
Per our conversation -- PROPS!
PS: Now you're totally famous.
I am always struck, while on flights, with the way cloud cover turns into a surreal landscape, mounds of soft buttercream frosting, a sea of texture and colors made only from air.
Perched up there, the roar of engines create a pleasing wall of white noise that helps force out nagging doubts and paralyzing fears to be replaced by simple wonder.
The sun pours through the double-paned glass, which is still cold to the touch, and warms my face. I squint at the horizon.
I think about all the other people on the plane today -- the man in the white polo sitting next to me, reading a magazine and checking his clunky metal watch every few minutes -- the young family with a curious blonde child who keeps popping his head above the seat to check everyone out -- and I think about their lives. So many strangers on the same plane for a brief hour or so, only to scatter and live their lives, perhaps never to see each other again. So many relationships, connections, dramas, pains, joys -- so, so many stories. Each head containing brains pondering their own conflicts.
Eight million people in this city alone, most of them blissfully unaware of dramas going on mere feet from them on the train or the elevator.
Why should I wring myself dry over my own?
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
- No daytime TV. Nothing is more horrifying than watching advertisements for trucking school and thinking, 'they mean me. When they say, 'feeling desparate?' they. mean. me." Turn 'er off. No, it doesn't matter that you have Tivo. Shut up, inner voice of pure laziness! No TV before 6PM!
- Get out of bed in the morning. Do it.
- Get the hell out of the house. I SAID GO! This is especially easily done when Comcast has been dicking about and your Internet is on the fritz. Hipster Internet Cafe, here you come! Que up the Death Cab, motherfuckers!
- Eat your veggies. Take pictures. Don't resort to selling off your posessions, just yet. Technically, you just hit 24 hours of unemployment. Technically.
- Walk around. Notice details. Pretend you are a starving artist. Write things in your head. Carry around notebooks for scribbling. Try not to be irritable. You Bitch.