And it’s not myself! I’m as shocked as you are. This here’s a promotional fan for (Norwegian pop star) Annie’s new album. [PopJustice]

I NEED IT.

‘Cause that happened last night, and I’ve been sneezing all day. That’s probably not how allergies work, huh.

More on this later. It involved Conan O’Brien.

If I believed in New Year’s Resolutions, mine would be to somehow look that awesome (see above) all year. That’s a relic from August ‘07. My friends — The Team — and I were in Michigan for New Buffalo’s illustrious Ship ‘n’ Shore Festival (holla!). A somewhat drunken but TOTALLY CHILL dance party to a playlist I’d created called “It Couldn’t Be Lamer: Dance Hits from the Mid-to-Late ’90s” ensued. We’d already eaten our weight in cheeseburgers, but dancing is tough, and being the motherly provider I am, I decided to root around in the laundry room fridge for something — anything — to replenish our calorie count. By some miraculous intervention a.k.a. “Dee Barrett being awesome,” there happened to be a spare cherry pie just sitting in there on a dish towel. Heavens!

Anyway, I could never do it on this blog because my name’s all the F over it and I would never want people to think I’m even slightly self-absorbed (ha!), but I kind of want someone to do a “Looking Great in ‘08″ series. It’d just be a pic of that person every day and then she’d scathingly critique her own appearance because half the time she’d be unshowered in a college hoodie. It’s only January 2nd and therefore still doable. She’d just have to fake a photo and say it happened yesterday. Maybe I should start an anonymous blog and just go for it. Hmm. Look for this anonymous blog around May when PopWatch mysteriously links to it. You think I’m kidding.

The guy with his arm on fire is my lifelong neighbor and new hero, Sean Gallagher! Apparently he was plucked from an audition line for some other job, by a Taco Bell rep who admired his significant ‘fro. Who wouldn’t?

I have to pause and just take it in. Sean is in a TACO BELL COMMERCIAL.

Remember last week when I was thrilled as all hell that the media covered my friend Ben’s walk-thru at McDonald’s? Well, I love Taco Bell even more than McDonald’s. I know, it’s crazy. This is an amazing day for me. My circle of aquaintances is a blooming cornucopia of professional-ish associations with fast food!

Speaking of which, I love how it says “Professional. Do not attempt,” as if Sean belongs to the pyromanics’ union and truly knows his way around fire.

From Time.com’s Swampland blog:

The official reviews had not yet come in when the Barack Obama staffers started celebrating last night. And what better way to celebrate than a walk into the drive thru at McDonald’s? A function of audacity? Hope? Or maybe just change we can believe in.

(Obama spokesman Ben LaBolt, in the act of loving it.)

OH YES HE DIII-IIIIID.

I have never Ben prouder of my good friend and high school prom date (heeeey!), Ben fucking LaBolt. He shows up on the Internet all the time, but I never link to his mentions because frankly, they’re not consistent with my rather narrowly focused authorial agenda. Only after the ‘razzi catch him on a fast food joint WALK-THRU while sporting a shitgrin, cool jeans and coat, and attractive “I live on the bus” facial hair does LaBolt finally show up here. Look at him, hungry for that grease. 50,000 Big Macs could wallop that parking lot in a torrential hailstorm and not only would this guy make it safely onto the bus, he’d already be on his seventh fry.

Ben LaBolt, Diminishing Returns (finally) salutes you. And keep it up… a well-publicized Taco Bell visit will get you your own category.

GO TEAM.

Any questions?

10/30/06 conversation:
Me: “I’m obsessed with Sandy’s bagel slicer. Ooh! Can you please feature it prominently in a scene this season?”
Josh Schwartz: “Because you’ve requested it, yes.”

Q&A
finale recap
Hot Pocket?

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!

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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.

*

BREAKING NEWS: I’m recapping Dancing with the Stars this fall. Tune in!

Gotta run, but since images speak louder than words and it’ll also make this post seem longer, here’s a photo I took of a piece of CPK Thai Chicken Pizza tentatively shaped like Texas.

(I have no emotional bond to Texas. CPK…different story.)

There’s something I’ve wanted to do on this site for years now. It’s been very important to me ever since I got my license at 16 and began driving to and from Chicago on Interstate 55. I became obsessed with a tiny sign barely visible from the road. But I’d never been able to snap a decent picture of it because I was either driving alone or too slow on the uptake to get a good shot. Actually, it was always both of those things. You know how it is — one hand on the wheel, the other on a Slurpee. Which one gives?

Not to mention, it’s dangerous to practice digital photography on a highway and I’m not even a good driver. The choice was always between my life or this photo, and like Nicole Kidman suddenly impassioned at the empty train station, I chose life. Until last weekend.

The following is a phenomenon I’ve kept completely private until now. Well, I finally snapped a photo and now get to share:

The sign on the left is for some sort of industrial company called “International.” I have no idea what they make. Possibly valves. It doesn’t matter. The point is, that company’s sign has forever reminded me of the logo for California Pizza Kitchen.

WOULD YOU JUST LOOK at these two beautiful specimen, finally side by side! I’m having a mini meltdown here. I’m like, approaching the consistency of a piping hot Thai Chicken Pizza right here in front of my screen. Somebody grab the digicam!

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

I am on top of my tiny little world right now. For years, I’d thought “Hey, looks like CPK” while driving by the sign. Every single time, I’d give a little wave or a wink — even if I wasn’t alone. Nothing excessive. Sometimes it’s just nice to acknowledge things you care about.

This is a dream. Everything suddenly makes sense. Do you understand? A small portion of my life’s work has just been checked off the list. That’s never even happened yet!

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.

Last night (Easter), I was at my part-time job (I’m really religious.) Every Sunday, the company orders in 30 or so pies from Bravo Pizza. Some of us are cute and call it “diarrhezza,” because OMG, guess what happens when you eat it?

Anyway, the food on the table is never enough, likely because the powers that be keep hiring more and more people who also need to eat to stay alive and no one ever bothered to alter the weekly order. It kind of sucks, especially when I claw through the masses for my trademark slice of soggy, weathered, rubbery-veggie ‘za and the only things left on the table are rings of grease.

Not so on Easter Sunday, sayeth the Lord and the Bravo delivery guy, who together unloaded close to 20 trays of various shitty Italian food that we then arranged into a massive buffet. There was eggplant, chicken marsala, ziti — all low-quality, mind you, but at least it was different — and a “mixed salad,” which was basically an entire tray of iceberg lettuce.

I’m mildly obsessed with iceberg lettuce. I like the sound it makes in my mouth — it’s as if I’m accomplishing a great deal just by crunching down on it. If I buy it in “head” form, I’ll cut it in half, wash it, sprinkle salt all over the cross-section, and just go to town. It feels like my face just decided to take a dip into the ocean, independently of the rest of my body. Maybe this paragraph should end.

Here’s the point: Around 1 a.m., when it was clear no one else would be coming back for seconds (in my case: fifths) of the iceberg lettuce salad, I decided to take matters into my own apartment by stealing all of the remaining salad mix. I couldn’t find a plastic bag, so I settled for the paper bag the plastic silverware had come in. That is disgusting. I knew this at the time, but try to guess whether it stopped me. Spoiler alert: Don’t look down!

I’d give anything to see security camera footage of me pouring the salad into the paper bag. Actually, first I used the plastic scooper, then I lifted up the tray and attempted the pour (harder than you’d think!), and finally I just started grabbing the excess leaves with my hand. Add to this my glamazonian frame and complete inability to be stealth at anything, and it was a pretty funny scene. “Funny” meaning “I should be fired.”

But whatever. I got to make an extra-huge salad (left) when I got home, with better tomatoes (vine-ripened, from Gristedes), croutons (Pepperidge Farm Onion & Garlic), and the creamy vidalia onion dressing I’m still really into. Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as a phase when you’re me. I once tried to terminate what I thought could have been a phase (dipping Fritos in grape jelly), but couldn’t make it work… which itself might have been my only phase ever.

This verdant treat, in addition to the 40,000 chocolates sent by Dee, made Sunday a very Happy Easter indeed. Bonus points for the shredded carrots and withered cabbage, two things I enjoy looking at in salads but never bother to buy. Why do the colors of these items matter more to me than their tastes? I’m like a little kid.

This might be the greatest thing I’ve ever composed. And it doesn’t even involve writing. I am foraying into different mediums. I’m a MEDIUM HOPPER! The project involves the “Dance Friday” segment on the CBS Morning News in NYC. If you’re as ridiculous as me, it should keep you entertained for at least a few hours. Or maybe 3:57. This is an educated guess.

PLEASE be patient while it loads. I promise it’s worth it!

Apologies in advance for horrible digital-camera image quality.

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.

I don’t know if it was random timing, an implicit order sent from the O.C. gods, or me being a tool, but the only thing I ate all day was pad thai. I ate my friend Leno’s paltry leftovers from Wednesday night first, around noon. This took like twenty seconds. I ate a few bites of my own generous helping of leftovers at 5. I then went to Rebecca’s and proceeded to order a spicier version of pad thai with chicken AND shrimp. It was really intense and large, so there were leftovers from that too. Then I came home, festered, and generally blanked out in front of my computer screen for seven hours whilst intermittently sneaking bites of all of the remaining pad thai in the apartment. (The bites were mouth-swished with regular Pepsi. For your records.)

Only looking back on this experience one day wiser do I realize that the entire endeavour was sick. Now, 32 hours after the initial ingestion of pad thai (Wednesday night, circa 8 pm) I feel absolutely disgusting. And yet all day and night Thursday, I walked around feeling awesome about getting to eat so much pad thai, and only that. I thought this was not only cool but a quirky little diet plan that just might work! I realize now that it was neither, and that the entire pad thai-like mass in my system is going to probably rebel against me on the way out. Somehow.

Can I not be gross?

No.

The Office was amazing tonight, once again. I’m basically only writing this to weasel my parents into taping it. They claim they have “too many shows going on” in their lives right now, which everyone with a DVR knows is bogus. Start taping it, dudes. Next week.

A comparison between Alex, a plastic-looking character on The O.C., and one of my favorite toys in the ’80s, My Little Pony:

You can’t see it, but the ponies have little tattoos all over them too. But they’re tattoos o’ innocence, like hearts, stars, and (probably) large, ugly insects. I want to meet whoever was in charge of hair for this episode so I can glare at her in much the same way as Alex is glaring at Seth in the photo. Oh, slutty teenage bartenders. Gotta love ‘em.

Sorry about the hiatus. Annie, nobody cares. This whole “working” thing really gets in the way of my sitting-around-and-playing-with-Photoshop schedule.

So since I have virtually nothing to offer anymore, how about a look back at some of the most telling Google searches that have brought people to Diminishing Returns in the past month:

celebrity pit stains - Obviously. DR is proud to be the World Wide Web’s one-stop source for all you need to know on celebrity pit stains.

shake shack - Huzzah! Jackpot!

wendy’s claim open late - I agree. I’ve serached something like this before, too. Wendy’s is NOT open late in all regions of America, particularly that big “middle” one. Come on, Dave. Rise up from the grave and get on that.

oriental chicken salad rollup - Yes. Because when I’m cravin’ an Oriental Chicken Salad Rollup, the first thing I do is look it up online.

“me in a skirt” - Not cool. So not cool.

bud light message in a bottle - Exsqueeze me? Baking powder? Bottles of Bud Light don’t contain messages, subliminal or otherwise. They leave that to their subway ad panels.

urban outfitters stress pillow - Oh god. This one’s just embarrassing. How could I willingly associate myself with Urban Outfitters?

jackson’s fruit stand new buffalo mi - Totally. Considering no one there has probably ever used a computer, I might as well be their default homepage.

you look like such a snob - Yeah? Well, so do you.

ipods should be outlawed - Yeah, man. You said it!

Sadly for me, I didn’t make any of these up. I’m pretty sure the gem here is “you look like such a snob,” because if someone was to click on my site from that search, they’d see the top photo of me looking bitchily [that’s a new word] at the text to the right and be like “Yes, she does.” Then they’d see the words “School Supplies” emblazoned on pens and be like “Huh? Loser.”

They just don’t get it. Annie, nobody does.

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.

During the winter-layer months, I was actually considering a three-cheeseburgers-a-day diet. I thought it would be a good fit for me because I’d only have to leave the house once, I wouldn’t have to cook anything, and it would be relatively cheap.

Obviously, I’d choose Wendy’s and BK over McDonald’s - I’d have to work out some sort of logical rotation system. I know cheeseburgers are bad for you, but if you JUST ate cheeseburgers and nothing else, who knows? I thought it could work.

This plan was not unlike my brilliant revelation of Fall 2000, the chicken-fruit-dessert diet. The Boston College dining halls and their 35 types of freshly baked muffins were very conducive to this endeavor. This worked for a few days until my roommate Bridget pointed out that I was counting muffins, bread, and eventually even pasta as “dessert.” I remember making a PB&J in the middle of the night and telling myself that since jelly sometimes goes well with or is included in pastry, it was a dessert. The bread and peanut butter were simply required accompaniment.

So that diet was a bust, too. I don’t even recall ever eating any chicken or fruit. Ooh, except for the jelly. That could be considered fruit!

Okay, who has other creative diet ideas? And don’t do that predictable thing people do, like say “Work out more and eat less.” I’m talking about ideas that could actually work.