!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“DOUBT IT.”

DJ Chesh beamed the above gem to me from the Jewel supermarket in Rogers Park. I NEED THIS LUNCHBOX. How else do you expect me to carry my food?

–Maybe in your bag that’s emblazoned with cartoon snacks?

Maybe. [‘Ausiello TV’ on EW.com]

Of course, the morning after I cleaned my desk at work, my Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup bowl turned up broken. It fell from its usual perch on top of the cube divider all the time, but usually onto the carpeted floor or the typical mountain of crap (featuring fabric) on the desk itself. This time it must have just hit the deck with no cushion. To sum up, this accident was 2,000,000 times less shocking than the fact that I cleaned.

I did appreciate how whoever broke it made sure to scoop the Swedish Fish the bowl had contained into two neat piles. Doesn’t this display just scream “Sorry!”

Or “Sorry, crazy bitch who had it coming!”?

Here was the RB in its former glory, taking a breather in between candy refills on my desk. My boyfriend the animatronic Elvis and I had a huge fight that day. He couldn’t even look me in the eyes. Not that I, wearing shades at work, made it very easy to do so.

This happened yesterday :(

The resemblance is uncanny. But my accidental guacamole-on-carpet map is way better than this crap graphic (which, I am aware, is not of the Galapagos Islands). My terrain’s got elevation. Texture. Layers. Flavaaaaaaa. I can’t believe no artist has thought of this yet. It is so much better than shit on a canvas.

Who wants to come with me to Stray Dime Island, the less lush, more industrial, pro-capitalism offshoot of the Guacapagos? (Can you spot it? The whole thing is very Magic Eye, which I’m usually anti-, but whatever.)

Ha! Just realized the dime is like the “scale” portion of my map. I think of everything!

I honestly almost bent down and did it for them. But then they would have gotten all AFRAID and flown away, and I’d be the girl pawing at a stranger’s abanonded lunch on the sidewalk. Plus, those filthy animals are probably carrying diseases. Not to mention the diseases of the original pizza-eater / sinner. And the fact that I’d be diverting my usually slow and lazy strolling path to cross the street and interact with pigeons. What would the other humans have thought?! They’d pass by giving me dirty looks, to which I’d snarl “They were missing the best part!”

This is totally something I’d have done if I was walking with a companion. I’d make it this big to-do, like “Just watch me go help out those pigeons” and she’d say “Okay…” while thinking “You’re disgusting and I’m never leaving the building in your company again.”

It also appears that during that moment of weakness, I forgot about how much I hate pigeons and they hate me.

I wanted to cry.

And it wasn’t even mine.

If your breakfast sandwich goes splat and you can’t bear to touch it again, the least you can do is kick it onto the tracks. Then other commuters don’t have to look at it and get even hungrier. Plus, rats just love bacon.egg.and.cheese.

Despite there being 20,000 other places for me to stand and wait for the train, I ended up leaning against the column nearest the breakfast sandwich (BS). Each minute was sadder and sadder. Out of anything to show up in my life at that moment, why did it have to be a destroyed BS? I mourned the wasted food, the pain the BS must have suffered from the shock, and the fact that I wasn’t currently eating it. I could even smell the bacon. That bacon looks crunchy.

I even played a challenging mind game wherein I counted out how long I could look away from the BS until my eyes darted back again. (19 seconds.) That was fun, especially the self-loathing periods right after I caved.

Wait, is that shredded lettuce? What kind of BS is this? I call bullshit.

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.

I took this yesterday at the street fair in Park Slope:

Let’s be sure to address the four key points that make this a super shot.

1) Spongebob is gesturing to no one (maybe me?)

2) That little girl is overjoyed that she’s going to hug a strangely 6′3″ Elmo in under a second. Her brother’s like, “calm down, loser.”

3) Spongebob Squarepants and Elmo are playing a street fair in 90-degree heat, seemingly for no other reason than to delight the likes of me… and kids. They weren’t making tips… and even if they were, where would they put them? Elmo doesn’t have any pockets. Maybe Spongebob could stuff them in the g-string you know he wears under those slacks.

4) That woman on her cell phone HATES me right now. “Who do you think you are?” she’s wondering. Don’t worry, homegirl. I’m cool. I’m a blogger.

I’ve had an eternal fascination with the people who dress up as children’s characters. From shows like CSI and a made-for-TV movie whose name escapes me (Hickey Mouse, maybe?), I’ve been made to think they’re all pedophiles who use their furry, googly-eyed exteriors as their “in” to freely molest kids. There might be a small percantage of truth to that, but in general it’s not fair. Either way, it’s hilarious to consider the discrepancy between how the person looks in costume (100% fun and cute) and how he probably looks in person (~100% like someone you probably wouldn’t want rubbing your daughter’s back). I assume based on common sense that most parents wouldn’t let the non-costumed guy anywhere near their kids, so it’s amusing to think that all it takes is a somewhat convincing alterego.

But what if it’s not a well-known character? What if there’s just a guy dressed up in a banana suit or a massive walking sneaker, coffee mug, or bottle opener that claims to be a major cartoon character you’ve just never heard of? Are we supposed to act kindly towards characters just because they’re in costume? I’m serious. I think we’re more likely to smile and be polite to a person on the street dressed up as something than just a person on the street dressed as a human. If they’re putting forth the effort, for whatever reason, they deserve at least a lingering stare and slight smirk from me. It’s the least I can do.

Speaking of Spongebob, check out what TG and I found splattered on his Clinton Hill doorstep late Friday night:

Poor Patrick! He’s not even pink anymore. Not even a hint.

I eventually took a taxi home from the Hill to the Slope, and it took us 15 minutes of hanging out on Atlantic Avenue at 4:30 am to find a ride. But boy was it worth it! I took the greatest cab ride of my life that night. It was a minivan, which is always a plus because I can spread out and thereby infest a greater surface area than usual. The driver wore this rockin’, almost metallic-looking collared shirt, with a vest. And he was playing jazz at what most people would consider to be a deafening volume, but which I found perfect. He even had it blasting out of a pimped-out stereo system that definitely didn’t come with the car. It was one of those digital ones with purple and red neon lettering, and I could just barely make out the words “Track 03.” This guy had his own DRIVING MIX. I bet there were even multiple volumes!

I will never forget this ride. He also may never forget me, as I made a point of explaining to him the many reasons I was obsessed with his cab. I remember not wanting to get out until he was convinced just how much I loved his car! “No, I don’t think you really understand.” (Why the hell would he not undestand?) No matter, though. He was loving it. I cannot believe I didn’t have my camera.

Welcome to Volume 001 of the Play Along With The Snorks Brooklyn Challenge, available only at DR and your local Target. I’ll give you a topic: free furniture.

Q: What did Annie and Leno see for free on the street, flip out over, and bring back to their new apartment?

……

a) decrepit green chair

b) infested floral sofabed

Vote now!

Loyal readers will note that Annie is clutching her purple camera case/mitten in the photo on the left. You know, just in case.

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.

I’m having trouble deciding between the Fat Muffin and Fat Pound Cake. What’s a girl to do? Stop eating all her meals at delis? Surely you jest.

The menu at right is from a deli on 52nd and Broadway. (I don’t know the name of it even though I’ve eaten about 10,000 of their paninis. I ask for a little cup of Russian dressing on the side and dip the entire sandwich into it. It’s revolting. I love it.)

I’m guessing the inclusion of “fat” in the description is short for “fat-free.” Right? There are fat-free muffins everywhere. I can’t turn around without sinking my teeth into one and then spitting it out because it’s so ridiculously nasty. I feel like one of those kids with the eating disorder called pica, which causes one to eat dirt and rocks as if they were food. Apparently kids with pica can’t make the distinction. So basically I’m equating anyone who eats fat-free muffins… to a child afflicted with pica, stuffing twigs and bits of clay down her throat because she thinks it’s what she’s supposed to do. Just stop! It’s not worth it. Moral of the day:No letting pica/fat-free muffins get the better of you!

Fat-free pound cake is significantly less likely, though, largely because it’s called “pound cake.” There’s no way to make it un-fat. People who eat pound cake are either fat already or well on their way… at least in their minds. And they kind of love it.

I’m usually in the latter category. I like to buy pound cake just for the thriling, momentary recognition that I’m being a complete idiot… who’s about to really live it up for like three minutes. Pound cake is the worst and best thing you can do for yourself in a deli. They’re all delicious, but horrible for you, which is tragic, as a specimen such as myself can typically eat two or three in a sitting. (Sometimes I get up and walk around just so I can sit back down and tackle another.) Lemon poppyseed and cranberry walnut fat pound cakes do it for me sometimes, but I especially like the carrot cake variety with the cream-cheesy icing lining the top. (Why can’t it line the whole thing? Life would be so much more fulfilling.)

As a not-yet-fat person, when I buy pound cake, I’m semi-aware that in doing so I’m making a small pledge to become fat in the future. It’s like putting useless change you don’t want clinking in your jacket pockets into the plastic cancer box at McDonald’s. You don’t know it yet, Annie but you’re making a difference! I’m investing money, time, and a generous chunk of my thoughts for the day on pound cake and how the eating of it will likely backfire in the long run. But none of that matters at the time of purchase. Especially if I also just bought coffee and feel zany enough to do some dunking.

It could be that the deli is simply really proud of their muffins and pound cake. Perhaps they think that “plumping them up,” so to speak, will attract people. Maybe the muffin really is fat, round, and plentiful, just like you will be after you eat it. And maybe the pound cake is just that large and robust… and buttery… and delicious. Also just like you.

In that case, it might have helped to substitute the ph version of the letter f, for maximum cool factor. You know, get the kids involved. I bet any urban youth would feel pretty groovy both ordering and carrying around a “phat pound cake.” He could brag to his friends about it. “Aw, man, you just got standard pound cake. That shit’s over.'’

I wasn’t kidding about the 7-Eleven obsession, as evidenced by the huge thingie on a popsicle stick some guy outside the store was handing out. It says “I AM A FAN OF 7-ELEVEN, 23RD STREET AND PARK AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY.” I think the apple shape is a reference to “The Big Apple,” which means “New York City” for all you non-locals. Ha ha. Very cute. I curbed myself at the last minute from shouting at the little man “No way, I totally just wrote about this on my blog!” because I feel like he wouldn’t have cared. Seriously. If someone told me that I’d want to slap her in the face. Sigh. Bloggers. Ew.

Just came home and promptly turned on Footloose, which I DVR’d tonight while at work. I’ve watched the opening sequence, with all the different ’80s shoes dancing (shown at left — yes, I did just really take two pictures of the opening scene from Footloose, thankyouverymuch), at least three times now. I’m in love with all the shoes in this sequence. I wish there was just a storefront with all of these shoes, so I could go up to it and then buy all of them. Would you guys make fun of me if I did the legwarmers/sneakers thing shown in the image to the left? Does it really matter if you would? I don’t care. I think the combo looks fun. And very warm! Yum.

Speaking of yum, I feel like now is as good a time as any to post these two embarrassing photos of Rebecca and me completely devouring huge hero sandwiches at Long Beach a few weekends ago. Yesss. We are so cool. She opted for turkey, while I went with the roast beef. We already had a big bag of Fritos in our Big Brown Bag from home, and although I love me a good turkey sub, I feel turkey doesn’t go as well with Fritos as does RB. Tuna or chicken salad would also have been good. Rebs should be taking notes here, although she looked pretty damn happy with her choice as it was.

Here is a non-eating picture of us on the boardwalk. I was smiling rather normally (for me) during the first three, but quickly realized she was insistent on doing the trademark Rebecca McFarland “Aggghh! Look at me, camera! Catch me in a hilarious moment!” open-mouth gape (OMG), so I grudgingly went along with it for this fourth and final shot. Cute, huh?

We also ran into our Boston College friend and roomie, Shannon. And when I say “ran into,” I mean “saw intentionally because we knew she was lifeguarding at this particular Long Island Beach.” We are such stalkers. But she loved it. I’m proud of her for letting down the sportsbra to avoid nasty tan lines. That’s a kindred spirit right there. Kudos to Shannon.

In Creepy News, I saw the same person two nights in a row while walking down 7th Avenue between 23rd and Bleecker. Last night I saw him a bit north of Gourmet Garage. I stared at him longer than the requisite half-second glance, because he was one of ‘my people,’ it seemed – long messy hair, casual non-stylish outfit, looked hippyish… and right before we crossed paths he gave a little nod/grin. It made my night. (Lame!) It wasn’t necessarily sexual at all. It was just nice to acknowledge someone like that, a sort of “we’re on the same page” glance that was shared. It really put me in the best mood. No big deal, but it made everything so much better at the time. Someone on the mean streets of Manhattan just grinned at me! Wow! I mean, that rarely ever happens. You know how it is.

So now that I’ve seen him twice, it’s just weird. Like, I sort of feel like this is Truman Show and I am the central character. (Imagine, a blogger thinking she’s the center of the universe. Whoa. No way.) It was a random glitch in the Truman-esque system that I saw him twice, like he’d been planted at that point in the city by accident twice in a row. Or maybe it was an intentional move by the producers! Maybe someone wanted me to see this guy two nights in a row and feel great the first night, and a little weirded out the second night. Very weirded out.

I saw him sooner tonight. Meaning, I got to stare at him for at least four seconds before the crucial “passing point” occurred, wondering is this the guy? Could this actually be the same person? And I’m positive it was. Oddly, he was wearing some sort of structured red coat, with gold buttons on the front and down the back. Not a big fan of the red coat. Was it a costume? Does he perform at the Stonewall and then walk up to the 14th Street subway every night? Is he just a madcap free spirit who thought that coat would be a unique fixture of his character?

This time, it was obvious that I was staring at him for at least four seconds, as was previously mentioned. I couldn’t help it, because I found all of this just that weird. He totally knew it. So he started nodding a hello while he was still in front of me, as if to say yes! I’m the same guy! Can you believe it? And I had no idea what to do – I was still pretty happy-slash-mildly-freaked-out from the first night’s encounter – so instead of giving my usual reaction to eye contact on the street (i.e. nothing), I squeaked out this really weird “Hi!”

Fuck!

It was about an octave and a half higher than my voice usually sounds. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to watch/hear this in a surveillance camera playback. (Which I’m sure could be arranged, given that there are 2.5 delis per block around here.) I feel like I totally ruined that coolness of our second encounter that could have been achieved given the coolness of the first… by squeaking out a hello. Gross! Now if we never see each other again (which I kind of hope doesn’t happen), I will have “lost” round two after “winning” round one (when he gave a grin the first time, I didn’t smile, I just stared blankly. Somehow this counts as me winning).

Enough. I have no idea where this is going. I think I’ll go finish Footloose. I’ll leave you with this image, which was photographed on our day at Long Beach. It appears at the base of my spritzer bottle:

I mean, whatever. That’s cool. Thanks for letting us know you’re an equal opportunity employer and everything. The only part I don’t get is “in Michigan.”

I had to watch “The One That Got Away” on NBC tonight. Six fake-blonde bimbos and one token Asian woman (who actually won!) fighting for some dipshit, muscular North Carolina “professional bartender.” Shoot me.

I just used “dipshit” as an adjective. You saw it here first!

My spirits lifted, though, when I decided to take a midnight stroll through the rain and go school supply shopping at Walgreen’s for no reason. This is a great thing to do when you have very little personal income and/or motivation. Check out this amazing shit I got:

Four glittery hologram pencils and a JUNK FOOD Lisa Frank folder! I feel like I’m in fifth grade again. I can’t believe they’re still selling stuff that looks like this. What are they thinking? What were they ever thinking? I love it!

I’ve always been obsessed with school supplies. I loved organizing my desk and then opening it at inopportune times to admire my perfectly aligned, color-coordinated materials. I always thought mine were the best in the class. I actually remember my fourth grade teacher having to repeat “Annie, desk down!” over and over. In fifth grade, Kara and I carried around these plastic boxes full of purple and turquoise “Wavelength” pens, mechanical pencils, white-out, and chapstick. We decorated them with stickers and personal messages which could be whited-out at any time. We used to say “I keep my things in a box” in a weird, old-person’s voice which, looking back, was really strange. Those boxes were great, though. We definitely started the trend. The nerdier girls started getting them too, at which point we got pissed. We should have been flattered.

During high school I was all about the solid color notebooks, because Lisa Frank was childish and I was “cool.” I still looked at the neon folders longingly in Office Max, but knew I couldn’t pull it off. I probably begged my sister to get them just so I could look at them at home. But now, I’ve decided that crap like this is suddenly acceptable again (and can’t believe I ever censored my free will). I literally stood there grinning for like 30 seconds after I saw this folder. I just couldn’t believe it.

One of the pencils says “WHATEVER!” in block letters, and there is a can of “POP” on the folder. Both of these features perfectly reflect my personal lifestyle. Finally, I am motivated.

I just read that over and realized that when I see the name “Lisa Frank,” for some reason I imagine Lisa from Six Feet Under sitting there designing these folders and notebooks. Which would never happen, because she’s vegan. And now deceased. But still. I cannot wait for the new season to begin. I just finished the last episode on On Demand last night. That means I’ve now seen each of the episodes four times. Oh, and if anyone wants to get up to speed, I’m willing to watch them all again.