I can’t take my eyes off of this photo of Liza with a z:

This news clipping was posted prominently on TG’s fridge. To people who aren’t into Liza (and that’s who I was until Arrested Development came out on DVD) this may not strike the funnybone. Still, you should give it a go. Just look at her.

She’s doing a high kick.

Supporting herself against a roller coaster car.

Filled by people who don’t care that she’s there and might not even know who she is.

Her lower shin — or gym sock — is showing.

Look at her face.

And now the GO GIRL graphic.

If you aren’t falling somewhere on the spectrum between slightly chuckling and keeling over in your seat dying, I’m not sure I want anything to do with you.

Also in that completely fascinating apartment: an old-school Nintendo box and fabulous games like Anitcipation (which I owned, or maybe stole from one of the babysitters) and one I’d never heard of but should have been playing all my life, called Burgertime.

What is Burgertime? A tad hazy under the influence, we couldn’t figure out how to hook up the system. We honestly gave up a few seconds in, after pulling the TV back and facing two different-colored wires. The red and yellow ones. I know, I don’t deserve to exist.

So I didn’t learn anything about Burgertime. It’s almost better that way. The game was probably some clumsy waiter trying and failing to get everyone their burgers on time… it probably had a bunch of extra elements (like the random egg?!) that made little to no sense. But people getting their burgers on time: this is just the sort of thing I find important. Not record time or anything like that. Just receiving a burger the way you ordered it. It’s a big deal, and if that’s all this game was about — if the service of fast food is seriously the bottom line — then I truly respect its creators for their unique, if seemingly narrow, sense of priority.

Can someone please tell me what Burgertime was really like? I’m desperate to know… and to buy my own copy on eBay and then, oh my god, puh-lay it!

—

Audibly Laughing (AL) at this point: After a 0.3-second Google search, I discovered that Burgertime was soooo much less advanced than I gave it credit for. Which almost makes it even more beautiful.

Under “Trivia” it says, “In Japan, most fast food restaraunts offer the option of a fried egg on hamburgers, hence why one of the enemies in the game is an egg.” Mr. Egg, in fact.

I’m dying. If it wasn’t already the friggin’ morning, I’d worry that I’d wake the neighbors up.

A little old lady tried to buy my necklace while she helped me out at the bridal registry counter (holla, Heffa!) at Williams-Sonoma today. I don’t get that. If I bought it for myself, why would I sell it to you? Is this, like, a common practice?

As soon as I told her I’d bought it in Brooklyn, she looked crestfallen. No, no, it’s a cool store! There are two incredibly convenient locations! I tried to explain. But she wasn’t havin’ it.

“Oh, I’ll never go to Brooklyn,” she said.

And that was that. If our conversation was taking place within Nintendo, the screen would have flashed GAME OVER at this point. This was a perfectly normal, able-bodied citizen of Manhattan, flat-out refusing to travel less than five miles to Brooklyn.

She then started trying to find sneaky ways for me to get the necklace to her via a route that did not involve her setting foot in Brooklyn. Maybe she could write down her address, and I could send it to her, and she could send me money (because she didn’t have any cash…. yeah right). Maybe I could buy her one, then bring it back to the store and she’d pay me extra. Like a tip. Like I’m the food delivery guy. And finally she asked the biggie:

“Well, why can’t I have that one, that you’re wearing?”

There were many reasons, which I didn’t really feel like going through. Not that she wouldn’t have been willing to listen. She was clearly bored by her job and had a crush on me. (Some of her pickup lines included “I just love your style!” and “You’re my kind of girl.”)

So I could have whipped out a notepad and outlined specific bullet points of why I couldn’t/didn’t want to take off my necklace and give it to her. Instead, I just stared at her and made a noise that probably resembled “Hehhhhehh.” Imagine the noise Pat, the SNL character, made when he/she was nervous. Mine was in a lower tone. I probably sounded like a trucker.

Now I sort of want to go buy it for her and drop it off next week. It’d be so unlike me. I’d feel like a great humanitarian and she’d be thrilled and tell everyone she knows about the total angel who bought her a necklace.

Seriously, who would refuse to go to Brooklyn? I’m already obsessed with it. Reason 1: The movie theaters are always empty! Check it out (left). Just one of the highlights of my new and improved Brooklyn Life: Leno and I were treated to a private screening of the new L-Lo vehicle Just My Luck.

This movie was horrible on all levels, the most significant of which was the unfortunate presence of Samaire Armstrong (Anna from The O.C.) as one of L-Lo’s nondescript best friends. I gather that she was supposed to be “the quirky one,” which mostly meant a guitar, a lot of fake fur, and hot pink highlights. I don’t understand how this girl keeps getting to act while refusing to enunciate a single word in her life. Wouldn’t someone say something? We’re dying here.

Yes! I enjoy often Phish. Shoot me. I also enjoy tropical fish, courtesy of Dee Barrett’s shiny spandex aerobics pants from the ’80s. Dee, seriously… WTF? (Editor’s note: The same could be asked of Annie, who has carried these pants around with her “for special occasions” since she found them in her bathroom closet at age 17.) Editor, shut up. In any case, that pic’ll have to replace the other futon pic during National Tropical Fish Spandex Month. Or, “May.”

I’m glad The Apprentice has resorted to sexual-favors-in-the-cabs gimmicks in order to draw in viewers (left). Just kidding — silly British Sean and mini Daisy Duck Allie are only cracking up at something their project manager said, because project managers are always a barrel of laughs. I think this one was asking them what color paint they should use on the pipes on a ceiling. Ha ha ha! I’d definitely need to bury my face into the guy next to me’s lap if I heard something so outrageous.

I propose a new, and this time meaningful, task for The Apprentice: Which team can bake the bigger brownie?

Last night I watched the most amazing show in the world: The Secret Life of… Brownies on the Food Network (right). I can’t even focus on that photo for longer than a second without losing my breath. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I could live without the possibly styrofoam Michigan State-related atrocity in the middle, but oh my god, look at the lush landscape of plain brown to its right. I just want to shrink down, do a cool track-start dive, and go swimming in there for a while. I don’t think anything could make me more happy.

So it’s settled. Before I die, this is what I want to do. If you love me, make it happen.

I went to Boston this weekend and apparently forgot I owned a camera about an hour in. Our takeout food must have arrived and completely clouded my brain with its deliciousness and low cost. My friends also had an on-demand karaoke channel. That threw me a little off.

I was most excited to be able to order frozen yogurt with “mix-ins” again. This trend seems to be everywhere in the city, not just the neighborhood I went to school in. I’m not talking about that shit you can find at Coldstone Creamery, an establishment which is steadily winning the war it recently waged against all the cool neighborhoods in Manhattan. No, in Boston, certain delis and pizzerias offer about a pint of frozen yogurt or ice cream infiltrated with slivers of your snacks of choice (my favorite combo as an undergrad was York peppermint patty + Oreo) for $3.50… for no specific reason.

The yogurt and mix-ins list, usually on the back page of a fold-out menu, makes me so happy. It’s something so random and unnecessarily gratuitous, but whose existence I appreciate so much. Like olive oil on the table right when you sit down, or the movie Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead. This yogurt/mix-in phenomenon comprises a significant portion of my affection for Boston. I love Boston! So I must like the yogurt a whole lot.

Anyway, I did take two photos and found them both worth sharing.

My friend E. Barrett (no relation) and I hit yet another notch in the “we have to be related” game. It turns out we both keep our digital cameras not in practical, reasonably priced camera cases, but in single pieces of winter handwear. Hers is a colorful mitten that would be well-suited for a giant. Mine is a stretchy purple glove that, as I’m demonstrating in the photo, “expands and contracts with the gadget.” That sounds gross.

Because I’ve received countless taunts from various “friends” about my gloved camera, I had previously assumed that the stashing of expensive electronics in handwear was so delightfully nuts that only I could think of it. I was incredibly psyched to be wrong. Look at us. We’re so proud. We actually look like we’re imploring you to find us quirky and cute. “Hey, guys, check us out! You can’t make shit like this up!”

Another reason we might be related: E.’s mom sends her a lot of ridiculous stuff in the mail. E. and M. were kind enough to pose with two such items: a gigantic calendar and a tiny red computer button that says “PANIC.” These roommates have actually had discussions about how the other Mrs. Barrett only sends her daughter objects that fall into the categories of “oversized” or “miniature.” I find this amazing.

Something else is amazing. Look at the three letters in between my two friends. Indeed.

You’re welcome.

The new Forever 21 had been silently annoying me with its brightly lit vibes and outpoor of clones for a few weeks. Along with Whole Foods, the new Trader Joe’s and its accompanying line to get into heaven, Strawberries, and the people who crowd around Nuts 4 Nuts without ever ordering anything (MOVE), Forever 21 seemed to me to be the pinnacle of Union Square obnoxiousness. I wanted nothing to do with it and resented everything about it, especially its name. (I still resent the name. More on that later.)

But then a friend gave me some store credit and so I decided to go. I mean, I wanted to get a not-too-expensive dress for my friend’s wedding and so I decided to go. I mean… a teenager dragged me off the street and into the store so I decided to go…

Fine. I just decided to go to Forever 21. Rebecca had told me the clothes were cheap and “basic enough, if you can get past the bullshit.” I liked the sound of that! So I went. Shoot me.

Rebecca was right. 90% of the clothes make no sense, but since the store is a million square feet, I ended up dropping $40 on shit I arguably didn’t need but am now glad I have. Despite the shrieking/hissing combination platter I uttered when I thought a mannequin lounging lazily on a table (right… I wonder what she’s thinking?) was an actual person, my trip to Forever 21 was a successful mission. Except for one perhaps obvious problem.

FOREVER 21 MAKES YOU FEEL OLD.

I went into this store taking its name pretty literally. “Oh, that’s cute, I’ll feel 21 again if I shop here,” I thought. “Nostalgia! Yes!” No.

The majority of people in Forever 21 (at least when I was there) are under 21. Case in point: these two, chilling out in their Uggs at the register. And these aren’t even very representative of the breed. They were just the two I thought I could get away with shooting. I’m a horrible photographer. I have no guts whasoever. I see cooler/prettier/thinner/ whatever subjects to photograph and I run away from them in fear. I’ve always done this. It’s sick.

All of the under-21s in the store were so tiny and perky and smushable! I seriously thought I could stomp all over them and clobber them to death, and not because of my towering height. I’m used to feeling more elevated than people. This was different. I imagined the sheer force of my 25-and-higher hagitude casting a wicked spell on the kids. They’d lie there, wriggling like tiny cockraoches under the steady stream of my Mature Woman disinfectant spray. The nozzle would be set to the shower-like setting instead of the jet dagger, so I could get to more of them at once.

Still, I didn’t necessarily want to kill the teens. It was more the type of situation where I felt guilty for existing in such a ridiculous space with creatures like them in the first place. This was their natural habitat, not mine. I didn’t belong! Who was I kidding, thinking the store’s name was all-inclusive? The teens were laughing at me on the inside! Is this how parents feel, all the time? Gross.

For some reason, I hadn’t considered the teen overload as a possibility. Except for ubiquitous NYU undergrads, I don’t see too many youngsters around my ‘hood. Now I know why: they’re all in this store. Maybe they live there.

Speaking of which, it would be really fun to hide in this store until after closing, then get stoned and roam around making fun of things (left) like entire racks of jade fur shrugs. The store is enormous!

Now Forever 21 has two reasons to want to ban me: that comment and their apparently not so strict anti-photography rule, which a disinterested salesgirl outlined to me near the register. She was like, “There’s no pictures.” I said, “Okay,” the long version of which was, “First of all, you’re wrong because I just took 32 shots elsewhere. But okay. You didn’t say no photos, so I’m going to dart around you in 30 seconds and photograph the inexplicable atrocity hanging from the ceiling.”

Which was a mobile of babies.

I don’t get it either. They could be going for a number of themes.

–Uncalled-for Kitsch. (You’re going to stare at different-sized fetuses floating in a puke-green ether, and you’re going to enjoy it. Love, Management.) ANNOYING.

–Youth. (Shop here and you’ll feel younger.) WRONG.

–Infancy. (Your presence in our store has reduced you to the level of a newborn. You lose.) DING DING DING.

There’s one more feature of the store that fits both the “Get stoned and shop here” and “You’re old” themes: The Forever 21 Wall of Words. Some of the words are misspelled, and paired next to the “correct” version of itself. Click here for the bigger image.

The Wall of Words further downgrades the clientele. If they’re not infants, then they must be quasi-literate grade-schoolers who more often than not take things “for granite.” The words and phrases appear in the escalator area, so that customers can squeeze in a quick vocab lesson (containing imaginary words) on the way up to formalwear, most of which is polka-dotted. I must have stared at this wall in shock for maybe three entire minutes before thinking to take a pic. Yes! Journalism!

So I’ve gotten Forever 21 out of my system. And onto my website! Awesome. As a parting gift, witness a throwaway from the blooper reel, wherein Annie ducks behind racks of clothing while wearing a jade fur shrug not because she doesn’t want to get caught taking photos, but because she doesn’t want to be seen wearing a jade fur shrug! I think the big “21″ tag on the celebrity/hooker sunglasses are the perfect touch. You wish, Annie Barrett!

And yet…

I’ll probably go back.

Yes, that’s me on the right. Get it? I’m as committed as an Olympian, and I also never fall.

Last night’s figure skating long program competition in Torino was the biggest night of the Olympics, even though Survivor and Dancing With the Stars were also on. What was a girl to do? Watch the Olympics from 2-5 a.m. when NBC helpfully replays the primetime events.

The entire thing — during which I proceed to fall in love with roughly all of the skaters… no not joking — is way too long to post here, so here are some excerpts:

2:09 a.m. Silvia’s waiting for her scores now. It was a little insensitive for someone to say “The scores really don’t matter, but here they are.” I’m not sure who that commentator was, but it was probably the one named Dick.

2:28 You expect me to believe 246 Olympic hopefuls work at Home Depot? Nice try.

3:25 “Joannie is a beautiful skater who doesn’t always believe in herself.” That sounds like how you’d introduce two friends who don’t know each other at a party. “This is Annie. Annie is a world-class eater who doesn’t always hold out for dessert.”

4:09 F***! Sasha Cohen fell. This is horrible! F***! She did it again. I’m devastated. “This’ll be a fight to be on the podium now.” Ugh. So she won’t win the gold medal. All the more reason for her to join the cast of The O.C. next season as Seth Cohen’s long-lost twin sister. They’ll meet at college and kind of fall for each other but then realize the only reason they like each other is because like all people, they’re secretly in love with themselves and they just happen to share a lot of the same DNA!

Read more.

I can’t ever make too much fun of American Apparel’s blatantly nasty and gape-provoking ad campaigns because I sort of like their clothes. I mean, not this particular outfit to my right (I wouldn’t put a green Loop Terry Bra with orange Hooters Shorts, despite putting ugly camo with neon pink for my “About Annie” photo) but I do really like their stretchy headbands and t-shirts. That’s right — you wouldn’t know it from any of their ads, but in addition to articles of clothing that boast direct interaction with crotches and breasts, American Apparel also sells shirts. Take it from me — I have one!

Like, I get it. American Apparel really wants to hammer it home how great of a relationshp they have with the Mexican women they employ in a “non-sweatshop” setting in “vertically integrated” Los Angeles. Apparently the capitalist vs. poor laborer relationship within the company is thriving to the point where the employees randomly feel like abandoning duty on the Ringer Tube Top assembly line and jumping in front of the camera in their undies for some impromptu modeling.

That’s awesome for them, really. But seriously? This ad? Is not hot. Click to enlarge it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you that the enlargement is HUGE and calls direct attention to AA’s really clever placement of the letter “C.” Awww, that’s adorable. Because the poor little 13-year-old lying spread-eagle on a dirty futon in AA’s brothel/warehouse is really just a big C-word beeyotch. That’s really funny, not to mention sensitve and appropriate!!! Great job, American Apparel. DR gives you a big WAY TO GO in todos los colores.

Let’s not forgot DR’s other hard-hitting assessment of Miguel’s ad last summer. Or maybe we should.

My mom called me frantically Monday night to let me know that the cast of Dancing with the Stars was on Larry King Live. She thought it’d be good for me to keep up on any and all TV-related evidence of these cretins further invading American homes so I remain well-informed to write my very important column on Thursdays. I reluctantly pressed “record” on my DVR while promising to watch it later.

I made it through about five minutes of this complete dreck a few hours ago and my brain has yet to fully regenerate (Hence: why I’m writing about this! See? It’s all connected.) I don’t know if it was Lisa Rinna in general, or George Hamilton’s eerie ability to resemble a dark-skinned black man, or the fact that I truly see no other explanation for Stacy Kiebler’s blank, programmed reactions to everything than that she is an honest-to-god experimental robot conceived by the same people behind the movie “Simone”… but the combination of these characters with Larry King, who clearly hates all of them even more than he hates his usual guests, was just too much. So that’s that. Thanks, Dee!

Just received word from my friend on IM that “ha….this japanese figure skater totally dropped the ball” so I am really excited to watch that in the morning. Yessssss. I love it when they fall. I’m a horrible person. But you already knew that.

Um… what if I don’t really want to meet Miguel? I’m kind of left with no choice here.

“Shot at our apartment in Mexico City, this was Miguel’s first time modeling. We think he did a bang-up job.”

This American Apparel ad graced the back cover of the August 11-18 Time Out Chicago. AA’s ads — especially the billboard ones in Manhattan — have always been pretty obnoxious, but I’d say this one is the most extreme yet. Is it just me, or is this pose simply not that attractive? Miguel seems like a very nice young man, and he did get one hell of an upper-crotch wax job for the occasion, but I’m just not convinced that this pose is appealing to a large audience (gay men excluded). Am I wrong? Men seem to be very for or very against this ad, but I haven’t asked any women yet. Let me know. I’m actually intrigued by this.

It was his first time modeling, so maybe he thought pushing his crotch into the camera was normal protocol. Or maybe the ‘’vertically integrated” American Apparel representatives drugged him up real good and told him it was a great idea.

“He’s wearing our new Men’s Brief and a Leisure Shirt, available online and at our retail stores.” Buy them together. Be sure to go with the seafoam. Then wear only these two items. Everyone will line up to “meet” you.

I’ve recently been told that I’m the ‘’absolute worst blogger” on a friend’s entire list of bookmarks. That really smarts. NOT.

I just want to write about the Six Feet Under series finale, but I can’t because one of the five people who read this hasn’t caught up yet. At this point, I don’t see how he could have avoided all the hype. I also don’t see how I’m going to cash in on the $50 bet I thought I had won because I picked the correct major character to die. Oof.

I’m not too sad about the show expiring, because all shows do and this one ended well. There are always DVDs, On Demand, or the nine shoeboxes full of taped episodes in my parents’ bedroom closet. What I’m sad about is that I no longer get to have my character crush on Nate. I loved Nate, especially Season 1 Nate, Season 2 Nate, and Nate’s scuffed-up dark brown leather jacket. Oh, my, it was perfect.

Keep in mind I say *character* crush, as I for some reason have never, ever had the hots for a celebrity. It’s not that I dislike the famous, it’s just that I don’t really care about them unless they’ve proven to be really funny and/or smart on their own, sans camera and script. I don’t find it interesting when hot young celebs are caught on camera eating (the horror!), driving, or walking, ‘’just like us!'’ Chances are my next-door neighbor, who I’ve also never met, would be just as compelling in person.

The character crush makes more sense to me. I’m not sure I would dig Nate’s actor, Peter Krause. I might, but it doesn’t matter because I’ll never meet him and don’t particularly want to. I wanted to meet Nate, goddamnit! But I understood that it never would have worked out, given that we live on separate coasts, we have differing opinions about processed foods, and he is not a real person. All important factors.

And yet, I still had the urge to hang a Gap ad featuring Peter Krause in my room. This goes against everything I just wrote above, but it’s okay because a friend gave me the ad as a joke, and because P.K. is really not that bad to look at. I do resent, though, the outfit selected for him here. It is entirely un-Nate. Nate was always wearing a dark t-shirt and shorts (for jogging), a dark suit (for work, but he didn’t appreciate the dress code), or nothing (for sleeping and sex). Nate would never have chosen this dark blue striped oxford shirt, available for $22 at Gap stores nationwide. Nate also wouldn’t have looked oddly petrified while clutching a large-buckled belt. He just wasn’t like that. Okay?

Even when I was little, whenever I faced the question of which celebrity I’d most like to make out with, I never had an answer. The whole concept seemed so ludicrous that I wouldn’t even let myself stoop to the level of making something up. I probably ruined everyone’s fun by staring blankly at the questioner and demanding “Why?” in a low voice, more of a statement than a question, really. That condescending, “I’m cooler than you and one day, not today because you’re really popular, but years and years down the line, you’ll know it too” tone of voice. I’m sure that went over really well. Maybe I should have just said Brad Pitt. He’s like, hot.

So, many thanks to SFU for finally giving me an answer, even if choosing a character instead of an actor totally goes against the rules. Rest in peace, Nate. Call me!

I’ve about had it with the freakin’ piegeons. I used to get rid of them by banging one of my 17 remote controls against my window, but now they’re so used to my presence that I’m not even a threat to them anymore. Sometimes I even open the window with a flourish and let out bloodcurdling screams. They just dart their heads back and forth as if something might be a little off, but that’s it. GOD!

Also filed under Things I Hate But Photograph Anyway for Shits & Giggles… DR presents this girl, her thong, and her Pooh tattoo. I hate to admit this, but I actually just spent two whole minutes debating whether the photo should be displayed to the side of the text like most of the pictures, or whether it warranted an entire column’s width. I went with the latter:

If you’re so turned on right now and feel the urge to save this image to make it your desktop pattern, you’ll notice that I named it “buttcrack_pooh.jpg.” Nice. Was she being ironic?

I am really, really mean. And probably losing readers by the tens by posting this. It’s something no one’s supposed to see, and my partner-in-crime Kate and I had to go and capture this atrocity with the triple-zoom. But you just can’t turn down the opportunity to snap a crack when one’s staring right at you. About a month ago, concerned reader Dee made a post demanding to know WHY I was so obsessed with putting SEC (Someone Else’s Crack, you know, instead of SEP, Someone Else’s Problem) on my personal website. I believe my exact response was “Mom, we live in a society. It’s just what people do.”

Huh? I’m not sure what it means either. But in that spirit, DR would like to extend a Call For Buttcracks. It’s sort of like a Call For Papers, which occurs in graduate school when prestigious universities hold conferences and need people to read at them. Well, this presitgious purveyor of Crack is holding firm on its SEC policy and needs people to send in their sightings. Happy hunting.

Note: I’m aware that the above photo does not contain VISIBLE Crack. But when the huge thong (and such a large portion of it!) is all up in your biznass, you really can’t tell the difference. And if you call this “covered-up Crack,” then I beg to differ. This is Crack! Say hello! Deal with it.