What do we think of this novelty choker?
January 18th, 2008
It was a gift. It’s supposed to be a cursor, of the computer/mouse variety. Funny! But originally I thought it was, like, a comment on my self-centeredness. Like this person assumed I’d want to walk around with an arrow directing people to focus more of their attention than usual to my Self. (Which is kind of the point of walking around ANYWAY.) The fact that I “went there” right away only proves what an asshole I am. Hooray! A sampling from my coworkers’ reactions:
“I’m not feelin’ it.”
“Hahahaha! I think it totally suits you.”
“That looks like some crap trinket a publicist sent us.”
So?
My roommate must cut ties with Verizon, because of this text
February 15th, 2007
“1 of UR lines has exceeded the current txt msg allowance. call 2day @ 8003209807 2 increase UR msg bundle 2 help U save. Rply Q 2 opt out”
Fck U!
We do not TOLERATE people who abbreviate words in texts. Spell it out. If you think that would make things too long and tiresome for you, consider simply making the text message shorter. We could all use the break from your usual bullshit anyway.
Luv U
AB
Would you buy a razor from this mystery man?
January 31st, 2007
Fresh (actually, a few weeks stale like the English muffins in my fridge) out of the PopWatch oven:
Who dat?
Why yes! I’d buy a crate of pickles ‘n’ cream popsicles from this fiiiine man.
Who is this stud selling Schick razors in a 1980 commercial? Take your time guessing, if you even need to, which you shouldn’t.
Click here for the answer and to watch the video.
File this under “Duh.”
December 29th, 2006
First I’d like to say: Sorry.
But.
I am just so incredibly glad I was forced to take Introduction to Typing the summer before my freshman year of high school. I cannot imagine having to look down at my fingers in the middle of every word, even though during the actual course, I remember thinking “This is too hard, why don’t I just fake it and then continue to have to look down at my fingers in the middle of every word? It can’t take that long. It won’t be that much of a hindrance in the long run. Meanwhile, I can continue scoping out all these losers in my class who already think they’re cooler than me, even though they have no idea, and by the way one of those girls is wearing Keds.”
No, it definitely would have taken that long. SO LONG. Get this: I am such a fast typist! I just typed that entire paragraph without even a thought! I am writing without thinking! What could be better?! (Anything.)
Honestly, have you ever really considered the connection, if there is one, between knowing how to type very well and actually… writing? Very well, or even writing at all? If I couldn’t type, could I really write? Would everything come out the same? Would it come out better, since I’d have more time to stare at it and then decide that it sucked, and then delete it quickly before hitting… PUBLISH?
SERIOUSLY I SOMETIMES CANNOT BELIEVE THAT I K-N-O-W H-O-W TO DO THIS!
I don’t care what you say. Typing is seriously impressive. It’s become instinctive, expected, taken for granted. People don’t realize how talented they are. Do you realize that if an extra-terrestrial, or a child, or a person from the 1800s sidled up to you while you were typing, you would blow their minds? They’d think you were awesome. And you are awesome. Let’s all give ourselves a pat on the back for knowing how to type.
P.S. What is with that photo? All I did was image-search “keyboard.” At first I was going to put up a pic of a piano-style board, just to be a little cryptic and also insinuate that typing/writing was not all that different than playing the keyboard — you know, creating music, man — but then I came across this gross board with weeds, or maybe weed, growing out of it, so I obviously had to use that. Thanks, other people’s images.
What do you think of this DR logo?
December 12th, 2006
Since I’m 26 today, I thought I’d revert back to a seven year-old’s mindset.
That’s the official Willy Wonka font! You can also download fonts called Nintendo, Star Trek, and The Blair Witch Project. (WHY?) Yes, those are Fritos in the mac and cheese.
Too much? With the rainbows, probably. I know.
Apple: The way to really fly
July 7th, 2006
I made friends with a fellow Apple user in LaGuardia airport last week. Our flight was delayed a total of four and a half hours, but instead of telling us that (which I’m certain they could have) right off the bat, the United Airlines representatives strung us along at half-hour increments, changing the estimated departure time ever so slightly just to keep us on our toes and waste our daytime minutes. Seriously, I think that’s what they were after. They probably derived sick pleasure from watching everyone at the gate lunge for their cell phones to update their friends and family with “the latest.”
Even I found it amusing, since I wasn’t using my phone at all, knowing that my dad would be obsessively checking my flight’s status himself. Ha! I calmly oversaw everything from my perch on the floor near an electrical outlet. Check out the plebes, I thought to myself. See them run. Watch them snack. Feel the desperation!
I seem to be one of the few people in the world who doesn’t particularly mind a delayed flight. As long as I have something to read or a gadget to play with, what do I care? If I arrived at my destination city on time, I certainly wouldn’t spend the next four hours reading a book. What am I, crazy? So the delay is almost a bonus for me. A much-needed shot of literacy, like something from the ‘’boosters'’ menu at Jamba Juice.
Not to mention, I love watching people, especially New Yorkers, freak the hell out. Their lives are so important. They can’t just be put on hold for four hours. And yet they must! Airline delays are so democratic. The gates turn into mini Communist blocs. Everyone gets inconvenienced, even though some fliers’ inconveniences affect a lot more people and/or cost a lot more money. As soon as a delay is announced, we are all the same. It’s absolutely delicious to watch some people try to deal with that.
I’m convinced that part of the reason I enjoy delays is because I always manage to feel superior with my calm, resigned, shrug-it-off behavior just after the announcement. I try extra hard to look perfectly composed in the midst of everyone else’s angst. It helps that I usually haven’t slept the night before — it adds a super-special sedated glaze you just can’t duplicate with makeup. My fellow fliers probably notice me in envy. What’s her secret? They want to be me. They want what I have.
What I have is a Pretzel Dog.
When I first walked by the Pretzel Time stand on my way to D10, I played it cool. I knew my flight was delayed, and that in a mere matter of moments, I’d be back. I gave a quick glance over the merch and suddenly the clearest thought of my morning popped into my head. I’m going to get one of those pretzel hot dogs, and it’s going to be the best thing I’ve eaten in a week. I was absolutely correct. As usual, at least in terms of things I tell myself about food.
Anyway, back to the Apple user. This really cute red-headed woman sat down next to me against the wall, all excited that she’d found an outlet to plug her Mac into. “I know!” I gushed. “It’s such a privilege, seriously.” I was serious. Of course I was.
Problem: her fidgety power adapter wouldn’t remain plugged in at that certain angle. I hate that, I told her. That’s why I got this new adapter with a three-pronged plug! Blah blah blah. She walked away, dejected, stood in line for awhile. I assumed it was the last I’d see of her.
But no. This incredible genius concocted a solution. “I came up with a plan,” she informed me as she plopped back down. “Watch this.”
I watched, as she proceeded to situate the fabulous display to your right. Then I gaped at her for at least 30 seconds. This girl was my all-time hero.
“I’m so amazed that you just did that. You’re like, my favorite person here.”
Awkward pause, which obviously meant I had to keep speaking.
“Which isn’t really a title of distinction, if you look around. But you know what I mean.”
She did. She gave me one of those wise little smirks that let me know this wasn’t the first time she’d pulled off something this wily.
I asked if she minded if I took a picture of the adapter on the water bottle. “Maybe I’ll put it on my BLOG,” I said, in a really sarcastic tone. I’m not sure why, because I had every intention of putting this picture on my blog, and if a day pass to the LGA wifi network wasn’t so inappropriately expensive, I’d have done it right that second. I guess it was a self-conscious thing. Like if I scoffed at the idea of having a blog, it might mean I didn’t really care about mine. That I wasn’t that obnoxious… yet. She could see right through it.
For the rest of the delay, we happily lorded our iSnobbery over the other passengers, who were all totally jealous that we had outlets and they didn’t. At one point, I saw another guy daintily typing on his Powerbook across the concourse and realized that I thought this person, who looked exactly like myself at that moment, seemed like a huge tool. I was okay with that.
This is how much I love my computer.
Love that dirty fro-yo
April 24th, 2006
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.
(Automatically) Tell Me About It!
March 29th, 2006
Last Wednesday, at the Washington Mutual ATM on Bleecker:
Really, ATM? Was it completely wild?
My response to the ATM’s predicament also happens to be the next command I selected: “Sure.” I said it out loud in a sarcastic tone, for dramatic effect and to make the ATM feel self-conscious. Next time someone tried to take out cash, it probably said “(Some bitch was just mean to me!)”
Though I appreciate the ATM’s candor, I don’t buy that its day has been crazier than any human’s. What’s the worst that could have happened to an ATM? Someone got over-enthusiastic with the poking? Cry me a river. A river of twenties.
Given the ATM’s apparent penchant for opening up to customers, we should prepare for other potential parenthetical quips. Such as:
(This dude just hacked phlegm all over me!)
(I’m totally PMSing right now. NO DEAL!)
(My breath reeks — Please slide a stick of gum into my slot!)
(You’re famous! I’m tattling on you to Gawker Stalker!)
(I’m so wasted!)
(No one keeps their fucking receipts anyway. I can see them throw them out right in front of me. What is up with that? A little respect!)
It would actually be pretty funny if you could click an on-screen button for the “full story,” and it would basically be the ATM’s whiny soapbox blog about all the customers. If it made up humorous nicknames for said customers, I could read that for hours. I’d also watch a film shot entirely from inside an ATM screen. People’s facial expressions, outfits, and various levels of pissed-off New York haste would probably make for an okay movie. Okay to have on in the background, that is. Or if there were suddenly no other movies left on the planet. Then it would be awesome.
Since when are people and ATMs supposed to engage in chit-chat? Despite my lifelong fetish for inanimate objects (snowmen, heffalumps, my DVR/life partner, broken neon signs), I much prefer it when the IOs don’t sass-mouth me back. Upper hand. It’s important.
If I started writing about Top Model, would anyone read it?
If I asked a question to the dark, early-morning abyss of cyberspace and no one was there to hear it, did I really ask the question?
I officially appreciate my camera phone now
March 27th, 2006
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.'’
Baggage claim? Don’t even get me started!
January 16th, 2006
Thought it was high time I posted the first Web-ready pic from my new(fangled) cell phone:
No, but I wish you were! You’re totally cute.
Sorry. I’m not one of those people who goes around bragging about her awesome new phone, if that’s what you think. I hate cell phones. I hate the idea of them. Who needs to be in touch that much? I just can’t get into them; something about my wiring. I like COMPUTERS. Namely this one. Which is what some people blurted out to me in earnest after I told them, years ago when cell phones were getting “really big,” (this happened, right?) that I hated cell phones. It was like this:
Annie: I hate cell phones!
Person: But Annie, you’re like… in love with your computer.
Okay. I don’t really get this. Who makes the connection between normal people’s affection for cell phones and applies them to Annie’s nerdy obsession with her computer (which, by the way, was at that point a grainy Dell laptop that buzzed 23 hours out of the day, the one buzz-free hour being the hour during which I finally shut down the comp and got some shut-eye). And also, in what world does someone else think that I’ll even respond to the ridiculous comparison that she just suggested? Who would hear that and be like “Yeah, you’re right, I forgot I was really into technology. I’m obsessed with my phone now”?
Not this girl!
My new phone is rad, though, and if I was that type of person, I would have bragged about it by saying “my new phone is rad” on my blog. But I’m so above that, so I didn’t. Because:
What? We are.
It’s so “iconic”!
January 10th, 2006
The most productive thing I did today was screen-capture Madonna humping her boom box in her “Hung Up” video and crop it into an AIM icon for a friend. My life is rich and satisfying. And I was just being serious.
BREAKTHROUGH: I need to stop conceiving of the term “screen-capture” as something that should be allowed in my blog.
I think the week I get back to New York (two days and counting), I’m going to wear a bandana around my entire head each night and count how many people say “Hey, your hair looks really good like that.” They invariably do, and I don’t get it because I only wear them when I haven’t showered.
So…. why do I ever shower?
Check back in seven days for the grand total!
Currently loving: the prospect of an all-sugary-cereals diet
Currently hatin’: plain rice. WTF?
I’m going to talk about myself for a change
December 14th, 2005
Thanks! And now for some self-analysis in the form of…
***Things Annie Barrett wanted to do before she turned 25***
Embrace her inner dork: Check!
Earn lots of money: Boo. Check-minus.
Decide on a career: Eh. Get back to me. Actually, it’s not even a goal anymore. It’s a crap goal anyway, if you think about it. I’ll be fine.
Live in a studio apartment in a major city: OH MY GOD — CHECK-PLUS!
Write a book: Crap. Check-minus. And having written a book’s worth of drivel about The Real World: Austin downgrades me to a a check-minus-minus. Cue tears.
Read a book on the history of vending machines entitled… wait for it… “Vending Machines”: Check. Who needs the last one when I’ve got this?
Eat her way through Italy: Check, check, check, check.
Switch teams: Check! Once you go Mac, you never go back. (I’m holding up my iPod in that photo. Guess you had to be there.)
Choose a favorite color: Check. It’s this.
Speak a foreign language fluently: Huh? Prego? Prego! Melanzane!
Establish a first-name basis with the friendly little waiter at Isle Thai: Check. I order takeout from there about once per day and he seems to love it with me. I’m lovin’ it with him too, but it’s gotten to the point where I’m so afraid he’ll stop loving me if I don’t leave him a tip (for takeout!) that I keep leaving tips. It really defeats the purpose of picking up the food in the restaurant, which by the way is seven large steps away from my front door. A 25-year-old should really know better.
Ditto on the sketchy, leering guys at Bleecker Street Pizza: Check. They also wave at me when I cross the street and step out of cabs. Sometimes it’s weird. I don’t always need to acknowledge the connection, you know? Am I a bitch?
Become a first-class bitch: Check! Even though I still fly coach. Like Julie Cooper, “I just like to keep it real.”
Buy 97% of her food from the two tiny restaurants closest to her tiny front door: Check.
Use the headline “The Supreme Court Rules!”: Not yet. And probably never.
Consume three Entenmann’s raspberry danish in one sitting: Nope.
Attempt digital photography: Check. And, um, check.
Be fabulous: Depends on how you look at it, but I say check. If you don’t, suck it. Actually, while I’m at it…
Conquer every woman’s dream of being labeled “Amazonian” by a jealous, quite honestly rat-faced peer who assumes this is an insult: Check! Grazie.
“Drink her way to freedom” on a weekly basis: Check!
Start a shitty blog: Amazing. Check! I’m doing unbelievably well here. It’s almost as if I made up this list just this moment to convince myself that I’m doing really well here — in life! Weird.
Enough of that. To be honest, I never thought of things like that. I don’t like limits, timelines, or really any sort of linear thinking. Trying to think that way doesn’t make sense for me. I was pretty much grappling for everything on that list. (Fine, except the book. I hate the book.) The only items that kept coming up as things I’d really have wanted to do by now involved eating. I couldn’t very well put “Enjoy Indian-food lunch buffets to an unhealthy degree.” “Find the perfect nacho platter.” “Pour soy sauce directly into her mouth in order to fully saturate the sushi that’s already inside.” You guys would be appalled if I did that. Right? Probably not.
Currently loving: Footballers’ Wives on DVD (thanks Kristian)
Currently hating: wilted seaweed salad
You could also put a scented candle in there
November 2nd, 2005
I went to Italy. I just reviewed my photos and they’re all of food. If they’re not entirely of food (as in a giant bowl of pesto and that’s it) they’re of my annoying hand holding food directly in front of an otherwise beautiful landscape. I’ll probably insert them on this site at random times, so just keep an eye out and prepare to not get why I would take the photo. Half the time, even I don’t understand my own genius.
I find this genius:
Brussels Airlines. I love it. You get the important part of the tray without having to use the tray at all. The tray always bumps against my thighs and makes me feel large. This way is much better.
Farewell, Text Twist. It’s been great. Gate. Rate. Rag. Eat.
August 3rd, 2005
My Text Twist obsession has lasted only a few days, but it became dangerous to the point at which I had to quit. TT is a word puzzle on Yahoo! Games that eats up time at a rate I can’t even believe. This can be both good and horrible. But it’s over. I have to stop.
Usually, at work, I’d play with one or two people hovering over the screen, collaborating with me (the typist) to get the six-letter word that guarantees advancement to the next round. I always felt kind of impure doing this, as if I was cheating myself and Yahoo! by getting outside help. But as long as they were there at the beginning of the game and stuck around until the end, they were cool. If we got a high score, it would be all of our high scores and not something each of us could lord over others as reasons why we were individually awesome.
So it really pissed me off when yet other people would walk by and nonchalantly say the six-letter word as if it was really obvious. “Footed. Duh, you guys.” I’d whirl around and literally yell at whoever did this, even if we weren’t friends (and with even more venom if we were friends). I’d be all “How could you do that? This is our game.” What?
In hindsight, this made me look mean, and somewhat deranged.
Late last night, I completed my final round of TT while alone in my apartment. It took about an hour and I was just totally in the zone. I felt unstoppable. My fingers seemed to move independently of my brain, but that’s just because my brain was operating at super-warp word speeds not connectable to lowly things like hands. This game is a lot like Snood in addictive qualities. Unlike Snood, it’s not completely mindless so you don’t feel like a total negative when you play it for two hours straight, fighting off the urge to use the bathroom, eat or drink (quite a feat for me), or even look away from the screen.
My score was 111,250 — a higher score than I even thought was possible for just one person. Even with a three-person tag team, we’d only be racking up 50 or 60,000. As I sat there alone, dominating, I actually wondered if I could turn this talent into a career. Upon emerging from ‘’the zone'’ and remembering this, I decided to give up the game altogether. It’s simply not worth its delusional effects. I’m through.
It’s been 22 hours since I quit. And like a crack addict, I am sitting here with random letters floating through my numbskull, combining to make beautiful words like “tag,” “rage,” and “greater.” But I am greater than this game. I will beat this addiction. You’ll never see me play again. Because I will do it in the privacy of the Pink Palace.
Just realized I made up the word “connectable.” I like that. I also like how up in the first paragraph, the word “eats” is hanging out right next to the large “FOOD” in the graphic/screen capture. How unintentionally excellent.
This morning I received a playful e-mail from Friendster with the subject “Friendster misses you!” Right. It can’t stand life without the cackling girl with a tambourine in one hand and Stoli Raz in the other. I particularly got a kick out of this portion of the e-mail:
Oh, really? I can “blog it up” at Friendster? That’s awesome!
Wow. Each time I read the above blurb, I get a little more pissed off, and I don’t know why. I guess it’s Friendster’s flippant attitude towards the concept of the blog. As if I’d really want to “write an ode to sausage.” God! Anyone knows the best bloggers only write their longest, most memorable missives about nachos and cupcake icing.
The Real World actually seemed kind of real last night, and it only took the death of a loved one. Yay.
Hey, you know what I hate? When people don’t step aside on escalators! I mean, what’s with those people? Seriously!
I’m just “sitting in my fat,” wasting ti-iiiii-ime.
January 17th, 2005
The tendency to fall under this social umbrella is what I was trying to ward off in my last post. Of course, it’s not really working. Damn you, beautiful sleek lines of my impeccable Apple machines. (Thanks to royge for the find.)
In more disappointing news, one of the low-life commenters on my Biggest Loser TV Watch felt the need to post this:
I’m a little more concerned about the author of the column, Annie Barrett … I think she is just jealous that she chooses to sit in her fat instead of doing something about it like the contestants did.
Hmm. Yes, he does sound very ‘’concerned'’ for me. Maybe I can contact him and he can give me counseling and free writing/diet advice!
(You guys, live webcams don’t lie. Maybe the commenter was right about me.)
This train of thought conjures up images of Family Guy’s Peter Griffin when he loses his bone structure and becomes a big puddle of goo. Hahahaha.
It might not be cool too say things should be squared, either
November 17th, 2004
I just realized that the majority of my conversational humor revolves around the movie Wayne’s World.
Speaking of WW, or any other acronym with a double letter, it pisses me off that there’s no way to type the little-2 symbol for “squared.” I know that you can type “W^2″ like we used to on our TI-82s in high school math, but it’s just not the same. And while it sounds funny and natural to say that something’s “squared” out loud, you can’t write “W squared.” It defeats the purpose and just doesn’t work, much like the bum microwave I insist on keeping around just in case. (To be fair, a bum microwave would be a great place to store crusty-fooded plates in the case of an emergency. The door seals so tightly that I wouldn’t have to worry about rodentia and insectia. Just infectia, I guess. Strike that. Reverse it.)
I give up! Until I need my computer again in 23 seconds
November 6th, 2004
I just had this elaborate entry about the use of the word “creepy” written up, only to have Dreamweaver unexpectedly quit on me. I fucking hate Dreamweaver. Does anyone else find it a little unnecessary and almost kind of taunting that whenever a program quits like that, you get a message reading “This program has unexpectedly quit”? Um, I know. I’m sitting here. I didn’t expect it either.
Pink gets me high as a kite
July 9th, 2004
Hello … hello again! (totally ’80s guitar riff) I have Internet again! The Time Warner Man defied my expectations completely and showed up. Now I have no excuse for not obsessively updating my blog while obsessively not updating DR.
After entering The Room, Time Warner Man walked up to the TV and said, “Is this the TV?” I assumed that after doing a double-check over the rest of my living space, he’d become more confident in his guess - so I didn’t respond. Indeed, it was the TV, but why should I have given away the answer? But then the man actually turned around and waited for a reaction. I considered shrugging helplessly. But then I just nodded.
The new apartment kicks ass! But there is one glaring problem. The paint color turned out to lean towards the “rosey” side of the “nice rosey orange” spectrum. I never looked at the paint after I bought it, so this is my fault. (Your runny nose, Larry having a blog, and the overwhelming April-May profits of the 23rd St. Nuts for Nuts cart are also my fault.) The painting occurred while I was romping around the Midwest, so I wasn’t there to stop it. But I wouldn’t have anyway. It’s not that bad. It’ll be like a test of character! Uh, you lose.
So much for my brilliant plan to offset the dark brick wall (wouldn’t any color have done that?). Or maybe I’m overreacting. Here’s a low-quality preview of the paint:
Notice that the orange is just dying to come out. But it can’t. It’s being suffocated by the parasitic pink, rendering a hue that can generously be classified as “coral.” But we all know it’s really “pink.” Below is an alternative:
Okay, that was intended as a joke but it seems my “joke” looks better than my reality, so I’m not even going to attempt other colors. I would probably stay up all night and waste time on the computer if I did that. Oh wait.
It’s really not that bad. I have a lot of stuff to throw on the walls, and the color does kind of remind me of a Matisse painting. (I’m not one of those people who name-drop painters, BTW. Matisse is the only artist I know. Are there, like, others?) Plus, anything’s better than white. Plus:
Check out this cute sweet shop across the street. It actually says “ice cream artisans.” I am pumped. I’ll have the pink kind!
I’ll post silly pics of last weekend soon. Amazingly, I’m tired before 5.
Annie, stop trying to cook
June 29th, 2004
My apartment looks like … whatever Dee’s equivalent of “shit” would be. I have to be all packed by Thursday night, at which point I’m jetting off to MI again (!!!), this time with the esquire-in-training (EIT. Get it? It’s the unhappy-face version of EIC) in tow. I’m officially moving next Tuesday.
Two walls of the new place are dark, pretty exposed brick. I want to paint the rest of it dark rosey orange, light plant green, or turquoise erring on the green side. (Would that mean LESS green or MORE? Because I meant MORE.) Which should it be? Input is welcome (Rebs? Bridget?)
I took the liberty of whipping up an omelette-like composition of everything left in my refrigerator, as if this was an appropriate “farewell” testament to the apartment as a whole. It sort of makes sense. As much as I like to think the world revolves around me, all the energy in this apartment has revolved around the fridge. I don’t even pretend to compete anymore.
You know. Basil, garlic salt, roasted corn, cottage cheese, maraschino cherries. Just the basics.
JK people! It’s the same salsa-cheese-scallion “Mexican Delight” I raved about in my starring role in Naree’s short feature film Annie, Nobody Cares.
The RCN Man is coming in a few hours (between 8 and 11. Yeah right.) to pick up “the equipment,” which I thought was an unnecessarily vague way to put it. It’s a cable box and modem, right? When he gets here, I’ll tell him that that’s what those things are called.
This means I will be without Internet from 11 a.m. Tuesday to Friday evening. I know, I am such a loser. But when this sunk in this afternoon, I experienced somewhat of a mental crisis. It’s not my fault. This computer is just so friggin’ nice. It would be insulting to NOT conduct my entire life from its pristine titanium portals. The “freakout” wasn’t verbal, or bratty, or anything. It was more like a silent, proufound realization that I … um, conduct my entire life through a computer.
And yet, I can’t wait to run on the beach. Hmmm. Maybe I could just find a virtual running-on-a-beach live feed on the Internet and use that instead. I could turn on my powerful wave machine and spritz myself with tap water and have my sneakers on and everything. But I’d still be lying on this couch.
I’ll try to take more pics of the Midwest while I’m there, since apparently the fruit market ones were a hit.
I was being sarcastic
May 8th, 2004
lgriffin99: We could go to a Brooklyn movie theater and then get coffee somewhere fun in Williamsburg after.
Banannie54: I suppose. I think I might be over my “Brooklyn is cooler than Manhattan” phase.
Banannie54: It turns out that it’s just me who is cooler than everyone else.
Banannie54: I bring the fun.
lgriffin99: Can that go in your blog?
lgriffin99: Just cut and paste it.
Banannie54: Sure.
