Some people (like Blythe) were already raving about HBO’s Flight of the Conchords weeks ago. She really liked the first episode and I was like yeah, it’s okay, but I get the feeling I’d find these guys really annoying if not for the New Zealand accents. While that may still be true, this parody of the Pet Shop Boys’ “West End Girls” totally won me over:

(They actually had me at “I was gonna spit it out but I think I’ll just eat it” — the music video was just a bonus.)

The overpass they stand/sing on reminds me of the one right near where the Chesh and I used to live, in Brooklyn. We took some adventures there but then stopped doing that, suspecting we might get killed.

That was someone’s abandoned, broken umbrella that we decided must be used as a prop. Possibly the oddest photo I’ve ever taken.

Yeah right!

Bret and Jemaine could also never afford an apartment in their neighborhood. But this doesn’t make me hate them as much as it usually makes me hate characters. Again: chiefly due to the accent. Way to be from a different country, guys!

*They say it more like “syntha-sizahs,” which I find insanely attractive. But that could just be the word, and the general concept. I love synthesizers.

Witness the fried calamari from Nine-D on Court Street. To help the pieces avoid growing soggy and disgusting, someone bothered to pierce a slit in the plastic cover. The calamari stays hot, and yet moisture can escape. They’ll never know how much I appreciate the effort. Until I print this out and stick it under the door tomorrow morning.

Also dug the moderate, equally distributed steamage on the mango fish entree.

And you know what? Generally top-notch packaging all-around. The ridges are the kicker. They don’t need to be there, in that pattern. But there they are. Like his teeth:

“You must be mad. Have a great meal!”

Two weeks ago, I moved to the Carroll Gardens/Red Hook vicinity. I’m so cool. Check out some of my fave sights from the environs thus far:

Ha.

Ha!

YES!

I always do!

Welcome to the neighborhood, Annie!

Fine, a few pics from inside the “Apt.” (I posted these and more a few days ago by burying them in the archives. But that was bogus. Wait, you don’t care.)

The essentials.

Some backstory on that sad tomato, from an April 13 e-mail from Dee Barrett:

At T (Target), I purchased a ceramic tomato that I am almost certain Meghan said “we just HAVE to buy this for Annie” last time we were there together. The clearance tags were mounted one on top of the other, suggesting that this really is the tomato that nobody would ever buy. I’ll bet Annie would have purchased it at its original price ! However, always after a deal, the tomato is now ours for the very low sticker price of $2.47 !

Oh, D (Dee) !

The essentials (cont.)

Best desk ever. Note the pack of brownie bites sidling up to the PTP.

From living room into office. Jury’s still out on whether this room is called Office or Study. (Bordering-on-Tacky Lair of Sublime Creativity, Possibly, In The Future, If I Ever Get My Act Together… was too long.)

Kitchen, including the bane of my existence for 3.5 years: Three incredibly annoying “Lack” shelves from Ikea that are literally impossible to put in a wall. Milk crates, rug gripper, stand ‘em up on the floor? Sure!

Living room. Time to play Where’s The Cheeseburger Pillow?

First documented homemade Mexican Pizza featuring: Scallions! (4/30/07)

The End.

This is our next-door neighbor Rose’s holiday window display:

This is ours:

We’re really giving her a run for her money.

Our second window looks the same but without the snowman. Who, by the way, is at such a perfect tilt. There’s a real art to positioning a plastic window decoration. You want to make it look really chill, really cazh (yes cazh), and not like you peeled it back off seven different times because you didn’t think the snowman looked friendly enough.

Aw, look at him. He’s like, “Hi!”

You’re like, “Hey.”

Great post.

I really am still blogging, I swear! Here’s a smattering of proof.

–‘The O.C.’: “Help us!” Love, the Cohens

–The Constantine: Everybody else is wearing it, so why can’t you?

–Dancin’ Dave Price may be the next Bob Barker. Who knew I’d ever have a chance to plug the only video I’ve ever made? No one! You idiots! NOTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON. Or is it everything happens for no reason? Not everything happens for a reason? Longer treatise on this to come.

*

Center-aligned asterisks make me seem so prolific!

*

This was 2006’s installment of the “Tangled Up in Blue” Halloween costume (founded in 2001 by DR correspondent “Mughan” Dunn). Definitely my worst effort to date. Blatant lack of feathers. Zero leg action. Tiny bit of yarn and a scarf. Pizza.

I realized three years into the costume that maybe 50% of the people I encounter on Halloween weekend have ever actively listened to Bob Dylan… and only 30% of those people recognize the title “Tangled Up in Blue.” My friend TG, who’s seen the costume three times now, had no idea I was ever supposed to be a song. “I thought you just liked that yarn,” he said. But he was right — that’s really the whole point of the outfit anyway. I cannot get enough of that ball of yarn. Next year, I won’t even bother with the explanation.

*

IS THIS YOUR VAN?

I need it. We totally bonded.

*

My roommate (Poor Leno) decided to deviate from his strict diet of cold porridge and frost in favor of:

Just don’t do what I just did: heat it up the next night and expect the Fritos or your microwave to survive. I put the mixture in, power-slid down the gigantic hallway in my socks (so much better than walking), and when I came back 40 seconds later it sounded like there was an industrial strength mosquito zapper somewhere in the kitchen. Where could it be? Maybe it was that thing on the counter being forced against its will to sizzle my corn chips.

I should have known. Cooking? Fritos? You a nut, Annie Barrett!

“Sizzle My Corn Chips” sounds pretty hot. I may start saying this regularly.

Behold my sandwich from Bagel Hole in Park Slope. Mmm… mayo.

Since it took seemingly forever to make, I busied myself by reading the obligatory PR wall. Every bagel store in New York seems to have a wall like this, featuring articles in all sorts of NYC papers about why their particular style of bagel is the tastiest or most authentic. What’s hilarious is that even though each store makes a different bagel, there’s always at least one posted article claiming that this store’s specimen is the best. Which consequently means there have been, like, thousands of articles written about bagels. Which is funny. Bagel journalism is certainly one of the more democratic sub-fields. I should go into chips journalism. I’d be a hit.

Anyway, I learned all about how and why Bagel Hole’s bagels were harder, denser, and smaller than other NYC bagels-come-lately. Good to know, I guess, but mostly I just wanted to avoid eye contact with the three bored employees behind the counter staring at me like they’d never seen a giant girl wearing a bandana before. Dudes. It’s called refusing to shower just to go to the bagel store/hole. Get used to it.

So I was intrigued by what I assumed would be a tiny little bagel sandwich. I unwrapped it and thought was plenty big. Right? But the issue here is that lettuce. Would you look at that beautifully shredded lettuce? You could lose yourself in a delighted counting exercise of those shreds. I did.

What a glorious surprise. I love lettuce like this. It makes you supremely aware that you’re eating lettuce. That someone took the time to grate teeeeny strips of lettuce for your sandwich. That you’re a genius for ordering it in the first place. Clean and crisp. LETTUCE!

Or maybe that’s just me.

For fun, try singing “1-800 L-E-T-T-U-C-E” like those women from Jersey (I’m assuming) who sing “1-800 M-A-T-T-R-E-S” in the mattress commercial.

I didn’t really need to specify “in the mattress commercial.” It was just to prove to you that I know how to spell mattress, even if the jingle doesn’t.

(The runner-up title for this post was “DR hits an all-time low.”)

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.

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.

We’re in the process of painting our new apartment. I’m living with a Scandanavian arctic creature named Poor Leno (right). He doubles as a human. We hosted a “painting party” last night and got one room completely done, in a life-affirming shade of green called Brookdale Gardens. Yes! Painting is extremely fun and rewarding for at least ten minutes. You should try it!

I’ll tell you what’s disgusting: primer. I coated my room with it because the infant named Jackson who lived there before had an apparent fondness for pumpkin orange, a color darker than my choice of Luster Blue. (I’d actually call it Dusty Violet, but whatever.) Let’s not linger on the fact that I’m moving into a tiny cube previously inhabited by a baby, and instead focus on primer being disgusting. From the first massive “roll” I applied to the wall, I was treated to a constant shower of tiny wet, white specks. I felt like I was in a commercial for a shampoo called “Primer.” It was sort of fun becuase I’ve always wanted a ton of cute freckles, but mostly it was disgusting. I don’t even know if it was worth the effort. Note to everyone: Say no to primer!

I love how I paint one room and I’m suddenly an expert on manual labor.

Here’s one cool thing: the color we picked for the hallway (a light sea green) is called Prairie Princess, and both of us are from Illinois, which everyone already knows is… The Prairie State! True to our roots, we are. Maybe we should make it a theme and stencil in some corn on the cob and the ever-obligatory outline of Abraham Lincoln’s head.

Since painting the rest of it looks to take 10-15 days or perhaps years, this site will be even lamer than usual (Exhibit A: this post) in the near future. Please stand by… and grab a roller and HELP us, with a backwards E.

Or leave tips on painting, specifically how to do it for extended periods of time without going insane.