I love this: Recently, people have found this website by googling “Liz Lemon Half Eaten Lunch.” Why wouldn’t they do that? This framed photograph hanging in Tina Fey’s office on 30 Rock is one of my favorite things about the show, which means it’s a very big deal. The giant eating utensils on a different (or maybe the same) wall are also awesome. So was this episode.

Anyway, I’m making it easier: You can buy Liz Lemon’s amazing office portrait featuring fried chicken, fries haphazardly glazed with ketchup, and some unidentified yellow sauce (yum) for the meager price of $600. It’s part of EW’s holiday gift guide for TV addicts, found here. Happy shopping — you have about an hour and a half left!

(Is everyone enjoying my horrible Photoshopping effort involving a yellow-to-red gradient intended to subliminally signify shitty fast food?)

Same with clothes.

This is DR’s “colleague” Michael Slezak, trying to ignore the somewhat jarring Bolton’s window display at his right. I wouldn’t use this photo, but I’m positive he’ll never see it, so it doesn’t matter. Consider this a test to see if he knows I have a blog.

He is perhaps reaching for a gun?

I’m wondering if anyone has ever been inside a Bolton’s. This is a store I know I’ve seen 100s of times and in different NYC locations, but never once have I acknowledged it as a store I might enter. Why? It’s not this window display’s fault — I find the warped attempt at a sweeping social statement bizarrely endearing. I think it’s that the fancy script in the logo reminds me of Lord & Taylor, and judging by the shit in the window or lack thereof, Bolton’s is nowhere near L&T. Why am I suddenly pro-L&T? I haven’t been there in seven years. I bought earrings that I lost the next night.

This font is so much kookier!
“Heeeeeeeeey girlie girl, I’m Lord & Taylor, shop me up, holla!”

The “W” in the Bolton’s photo is part of “LATE SHOW.”

PERSPECTIVE, what up?

—

UPDATE: In honor of my surprising triumph with this post (thanks to Slezak having a google alert for his OWN NAME), DR proudly presents its first installment of Listen2This:

Calling All Boys — The Flirts

This one’s a bopper!

Just went to the Tower Records at Lincoln Center and bought the biggest crack pile of CDs to ever exist. This is quite unlike me, as I download most of my music or get it in “zip”-like packets from my roommate over the IM. I used to own lots of CDs, but I dumped them all into my computer and that was that. They’re all stowed away in my childhood room in Illinois, probably under the bed, next to the terrifying Ouija Board I refused to remove when I was 11 because that would mean I’d be acknowledging it, and I couldn’t bring myself to even do that.

Plus, this way, no one has to see Even More Dazed and Confused or every single Jock Jams compilation of the late ’90s on my bookshelves. They’d need to scan through my iPod to find gems like those. And some do.

After thumbing through my friend TG’s even bigger pile of garbage from Tower (which is going out of business in four days) the other night, I suddenly ached for the return of useless but incredibly amusing compilation CDs to my “collection” and made the big trek uptown to the store. Keep in mind there are ZERO good CDs with more than one song by the same artist left at Tower. (Fine, there probably are, but I had like 20 minutes. I made it to the mid-Cs and had to give up.)

But the compilations aisle? Totally different story. If you can manage to ignore the jutting greasy-jacketed elbows of guys who cannot thumb through row upon row of, alternatingly, Punk-Rock of ‘94 and The Emo Diaries: Chapters 4 and 7 fast enough (at one point I feigned interest in Freestyle Hits 1 just to dangle my hair in one guy’s line of sight, thereby completely annihilating his flow), I highly recommend it.

Among the gems I picked out:

SMOKIN BEATS: 40 Phat Joints and Smooth Rolling Beats (pictured, above). Subtitle? “A funky mix of laid-back grooves.” But what are they trying to say? What should I do while I listen to this music?

Spirit of Ecstasy: 20 Pumpin’ Club Hits. What?! Who am I and what have I done with Annie?

Fresh Dance 93: 18 of the most juicy hand picked hits. Another essential collection. Way to copy edit that title, too! Turns out they were indeed referring to the year 1993, which in no way explains the inclusion of “Long Train Runnin’” by the Doobie Brothers.

Fresh Hits Volume 1. That’s it. That’s the whole title. It could honestly be anything. That’s the thing with this aisle — you really need to give everything a flip and check it out. This is a 2-CD (most of them are!) collection of songs in the late ’90s by people like O.D.B., Pink, Christina Aguilera, and S Club 7, i.e. songs I should be cynically aware of now that I work at an entertainment magazine, but was too far submerged in a quicksand-like Electric Light Orchestra obsession to even register. There’s also a Moloko song on there, which is weird, but that’s 50% of why I bought it.

The Sound of Europe. They got it all onto one CD. Amazing!

The 70s: Hits From the Underground. I have no idea why. I’m sorry. It has Jefferson Airplane and something called “Captain Beefheart And His Magic Band.” I had to.

Anyway, seriously, if you have a deep-rooted affinity for compilation CDs that absolutely never needed to be produced but were, check out Tower Records in the next few days. Even if it’s labeled $34.99, it’s probably $3.

I wish the CVS stores in NYC were as awesome as the ones in Chicago:

And the price is right!

CVS is okay, but I’ll always be true to Walgreen’s, the drugstore that used to dominate the midwest before CVS invaded. I like their scripted font, it’s what I always wanted my cursive to look like, until I gave it up in 5th grade after still being unable to draw a capital S that didn’t look like a treble clef, which apparently I considered to be more important, and it was.

Note that I also just compared writing cursive to drawing.

Okay, so check out the interior of a different CVS store in Long Beach, Indiana. (”I don’t know where she finds these barneys!”)

What?!

Instead of the lists at the top of each aisle, there were hundreds of neon bubble signs poking out from random places on the shelves, SCREAMING where shoppers could find the most embarrassing products in the store. It’s hard enough for men and women to coexist in the “feminine products” aisle without these giant grasshopper signs to help the awkwardness along. I particularly enjoy the distinction between “pantiliners” and just “liners.” Is there one? I can’t believe I’m even discussing it!!!

Just kidding. Maybe that’s a silly attitude, and CVS is pioneering a whole new way of approaching the tampon/diaper/anti-diarrheal aisle dilemma. Maybe these terms should be out there in the open in order to promote acceptance and love across the universe.

Huh.

Speaking of 7-11, I should probably post Summer 2006’s “Still Obsessed with 7-Eleven” pic. There I am in early June, attractively posing in an elevator with a taquito and a Big Gulp. I don’t know why more people don’t leave comments on my blog that say “You are too classy, Annie Barrett!” That’s all I want, in addition to the chips, Slurpees, and processed pastry products that made up my diet for most of June. I made it “my thing.” I’d only eat at 7-Eleven. I thought I was being thrifty and humorous. I bragged about it to everyone who would listen. Pay attention to me! I’m so wacky, eating only foods from a convenience store. I’m killing myself! It’s hilarious!

This was Summer 2005’s “Still Obsessed…” shot. I’m glad I’ve been using these “transition” years in New York City to blossom into a fabulous five-year-old who can’t manage to take a picture involving snacks (or iconography suggestive of snacks) that doesn’t call to mind the sound, “Wheeeeee!”

Next year I won’t deign to pose for the pic. I’ll get someone else to do it, then Photoshop my goofy mug onto him or her. It’ll look the same anyway.

This summer alone, I’ve eaten my way through what I estimate to be around 30% of 7-Eleven’s merchandise. I don’t mean total sales, I mean total selection. I’ve picked up at least one of 30% of the items for sale, every single one of which has been heavily processed and encased in a wrapper.

My two loves, together at last: behold the Entenmann’s display at 7-Eleven. Who is sleeping with whom here? Corporate Bear, have you been matchmaking again? These shelves take up easily 20% of the tiny store. Obviously, I can’t complain. It’s just funny.

Also: what’s with Entenmann’s getting all snacky on us lately? It used to be huge displays of the “committment pastries” like entire cakes and danishes. Now, after Entenmann’s’ apparent merger with the 7-Eleven corporation, it’s all about the quick fix. I love me a snack, but I prefer Entenmann’s boxed items to their wrapped ones. I don’t want a crappy single serving of a “Honeybun.” Give me a banana crunch chocolate chip cake, served in an expansive box that contains enough wiggle room for the fork I’ll be leaving in there all week. (No sense in washing it if I’m working on a bite-to-bite basis.)

Hip Tip for the day: Entenmann’s chocolate frosted donuts taste even more amazing…. refrigerated.

Ted Allen would probably murder me if he knew I just used his trademark “Hip Tips” segment to promote processed foods.

Now this site’ll come up when people Google search Ted Allen! Ted Allen Ted Allen Ted Allen. Ha! Does anyone Google Ted Allen? I would. I would google Ted Allen.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This morning I made a beeline down the long corridor of my huge apartment in the direction of the new box of Froot Loops I’d recently purchased for something like $4 at the Hudson Street Rite Aid. I was all prepared for the uphill battle I always manage to face during the simple process of opening the box so that the little cardboard section can tuck neatly into the little crevasse provided.

GET THIS. The box had been OPENED. Weird, I thought, still not putting it past myself to have unknowingly snuck a bowl while fast asleep dreaming about something better, like Reese’s.

Nope. Not only was the BAG open too, but the “sell by” date was August 2005! YES, I am a moron for not noticing this in the store. But Rite Aid is much worse than me. DR thus proclaims a BAN on Rite Aid for all of 2006.*

The worst part of the sort-of story is that for about 30 seconds I considered eating the Froot Loops anyway, before I remembered that according to logic and general folklore, they might kill me. Then I threw them away like the good little sucker I’ve grown up to be.

Hmmm.. Bart?

Ooh, I love how they positioned the question right next to Jessica or Lisa’s eyes. It’s like she’s daring us all to take a gander at her name. I’m sure she also really wants us to get new ringtones, with participation.

*Except if I’m right near it, or need cheap beer.

Four days in Michigan and the only thing I take pictures of is the fruit market. Oh well. Here we go:

Joe Jackson’s “Famous” New Buffalo fruit stand.

Mmmmm. There are always bigger portions in the Midwest!

This is Paul, our new camera-friendly friend. He’s a manager. (2006 update: Paul now has his own fruit store down the road and it kicks Joe Jackson’s ass!)

WTF are these? You go, Joe.

Looking plump and jolly behind a large watermelon display. This is also the first visible documentation that I really am a student at NYU. I swear! I am!

Meggers is excited to be in the fruit market.

How sad. The CRV still has two volleyball stickers on it (one of which says “Just Spike It!”) as well as an LTHS West Field 1999 parking pass. It’s always good to be prepared.

I make a confused gesture to Meghan’s Italian peace (gay pride?) flag.

Homemade bruschetta (prounounced with a k)! Bill seems to be more impressed with the vino.

Two words. Obsessed.

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.