Oh HELL no.

The other night I had a moment.

“Pump up the world-aaaaaaaaaaaah-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, ow no (beat) hey yeeeeeah….”

Agh! Ann from Arrested Development (a.k.a. Bell, Egg, Man) guest starred on last night’s Desperate Housewives.

I love how this actress doesn’t mind being made to look gross on purpose… Also, god I miss AD.

Writing for EW.com’s PopWatch blog has been awesome, but it means I haven’t had much time to update on here with reports on my relationship with my DVR and pictures of food on my bed.

:(

In lieu of that, here are some of the entries I’ve found the most fun, since they’re a bit hard to find a few days after the fact:

In which Annie…

–makes fun of three new movie trailers

–peeps a sneak preview of The O.C.

–predicts which celebs could pull off a buzzhawk

–falls asleep in front of Vh1 Classic’s The Vault

–attempts, then fails to follow a lame theme of the letters “de”

–has an IM convo with Michael Slezak about why they’re still watching ABC’s “Brothers & Sisters”

–complains (in jest) about how having a DVR is stressful

–reviews the new Slash/Spinal tap Volkswagen commercials

–wastes an insane amount of time watching TV romance mashups on YouTube

I’ve also been doing recaps of Dancing With the Stars, if anyone cares. (I’d actually prefer if you didn’t watch this show.)

And here’s a link to the EW.com staff picks for The “Bad” Movie I Love. Mine (Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead) is the first one because I’m very cool.

MY DVR/LIFE PARTNER DID NOT TAPE TOP MODEL.
I fear we may have to break up.

Fittingly (who says that?), I took this glamour-shot self-portrait of me looking forlorn in the NYU library, attempting to work on my thesis. Looking good, Annie! It was probably right around 8 pm. Maybe I was subconsciously sensing my life partner’s severely depressing malfunction. We’re pretty close like that.

I’m so much sadder now than I was in the library. And look how sad I was there! There wasn’t even water in that bottle, and all my snacks were gone. Don’t you just want to feed me iceberg lettuce and discounted Reese’s eggs?

For some reason, “sadder” is striking me as possibly not a word. But that’s crazy talk. I’m going to leave it. Of course it’s a word. My perception of what a word is is effed-up right now anyway. If I have to read over-inflated academic words like “metastable” and “disequilibrium ” all night, I’m sure as hell going to say “sadder.” Also “funner.”

So instead of the Top Model Ten, I’ll leave you with a prime example of those pesky Grad School Sentences Annie Pretends She Totally Gets:

“Immanentist, de-individuating, posthumanist ontologies might be said to enact their own paralyzing rhetoric of addiction: deterritorializing responsibility, they ensure the transnational consumption of compulsion.”

Exactly. I coudln’t have said it any better myself. (Because I don’t know what thirty percent of the words mean. Right. Supersmart!)

This is brutal.

My DVR/life partner never, ever tapes the Survivor season finales. It’s probably because they’re always on Sunday nights instead of the regular Thursdays. (WHY?) But shouldn’t such an advanced piece of technology — and the gadget I consider to be my soulmate — have slightly more intuition than this? It’s happened like five times now.

I am furious. I watch the entire season of a show I know is worthless, a show I don’t even like that much but remain devoted to simply because it was the first American competitive reality show based on a somewhat interesting idea. Also, my parents watch it, so it’s fun to discuss plot points with them. Sometimes, between all of our conversations about current events, snacking, and me, I hardly know what to talk about. Thanks Survivor!

Anyway, every season I invest hours of my precious little life into these people, and don’t even get to see how it all ends. Ugh! Thing is, I’m sure the finale was lame as usual, I know I would have ended up making fun of everyone’s outfit and how they all look fat now, I know I would have wanted to throw things at the screen whenever Jeff Probst tried to act like he wasn’t reading from cue cards. But for some reason, I relish this crap. So I’m pissed.

The only reason I care enough to write about this right now (I’d gotten over it about two hours ago) is that my next-door neighbor is currently watching his or her recording of the finale. I can hear the drawn-out-too-long flute music. It’s time yet again for tribal council. And I’ll never get to see it.

I’ve never seen my neighbor(s?), and I definitely never hear their TV, so this just seems like an even crueler implementation by God (or Probst) to mess with me tonight.

Or, and this is actually more likely, this is karma biting me in the ass for being such a horrific neighbor to him/her/them for almost two years now. Whoever lives there absolutely hates me and would kill me on the spot if we ever met, which we won’t. I play music — loudly and at 3 a.m. I watch TV — loudly and at 5 a.m. I actually don’t think my various forms of entertainment are ever that loud, but since the walls are about three inches thick, I’m confident that the neighbors think they are that loud.

Quite recently, at 3 a.m. on a Friday night when I was playing music quietly and chatting animatedly wwith one other person in the apartment, we were treated to five loud pounds on the shared wall. FIVE. With spaces in between. So it wasn’t like a casual knock-knock-knock, “Hey could you turn that down” request (which, yes, they’ve done before). This was a calculated, determined, “I’ve hated you for years and if you don’t obey me right now I’m shooting my gun at the wall” plea. There was desperation in the pounding, but it was so forceful it felt like a death threat. We now refer to it as the Knock Heard ‘Round the World.

Update: they just finished their recording, and I heard the sound a TiVo makes as they probably deleted the episode. So if I had a TiVo, this wouldn’t have happened. Noooooo!

Shout-out to my new friend Alison in Park Slope. I didn’t think you were weird, if you were worried. Quite the opposite!

I just received confirmation via my life partner — my Time Warner DVR device — that I’m not just a generic big loser, but I am the biggest loser. Check it out: late last night, I decided I should record Wednesday night’s Grammy Awards in order to stay up on pop culture and catch the Madonna/Gorillaz collaboration.

But, ROADBLOCK!

In addition to reminding me that “Yes, you complete tool, you wanted to tape a show about fat people losing weight, and not even the serial version but a freaking special edition of this craptastic show”… the very title of said show served to inform me that “Hey, Annie, there you have it. You are The Biggest Loser to ever own and operate a DVR.”

Saving grace: the CNN thing in the corner is like a bonus reference to Julie Cooper’s new lodgings on The O.C.!

If you’ll excuse me, I have to go eat ten pounds of turkey bacon and then work out for three hours on an elliptical trainer. NOTE TO BIGGEST LOSER CONTESTANTS: Guess how normal people lose weight? They stop eating ten pounds of turkey bacon. There, I said it. Good luck.

It kind of annoys me when people I know say, “Oh, maybe I’ll go out for one drink.” The main reason I don’t like this is because they’re acting like they’re doing me (or whomever) a favor by going that extra mile to have that drink with us. Hey, great. Glad to have you. Idiot.

The other reason is the obvious one: People who say they’ll have one drink are lying. Seriously, why even bother? It’s so unnecessary.

I’m well aware that it’s not a huge deal that the people are lying (they know they are); therefore I don’t see it as a very big deal that it bothers me so much and that I’m bothering to complain about it. As a general note, I wouldn’t have to rag on people at all if they weren’t such morons all the time.

It would just be so much easier to not say anything. Either say “Sure, I’ll go to the bar with you.” or just shut the fuck up and either come or not. Thanks.

Whew! That was scary and mean. You know what that means: It’s definitely time to check out what’s on Channel 803!

Yay! Who doesn’t love Homo Zapping? Show of hands.

I won’t pretend I’m the first person to ever loathe Old Navy commercials. Been there, done that, bought the leotard. I think you’ll agree, though, that its latest spot about Bermuda shorts is the chain’s worst yet.

I don’t mean in a “so bad it’s good” way. I get the feeling Old Navy knows how much people must despise its colorful, ultra-campy commercials, but keeps making them because they’re sort of endearing in their own right.

No. They’re not. In fact, every time this new one comes on, I don’t hit mute anymore, like I used to. I literally lunge for the remote or the TV itself (which is usually closer, considering the size of the Pink Palace) so I can actually turn it off or fast forward. Anything that’ll get it completely out of my sight.

With DVR (my life partner), it’s so easy to forego commercials when I’m really serious about watching a show. But when I’m trying to read or write and the TV is just on, I have recently had horrible luck with this commercial. It’s like my personal nemesis. I think it might actually live in my cable system. Maybe it realized how much I freak out whenever it comes on and has stored itself as a unique recording for those special, rare moments when I’m actually being happily productive… just so it can blast itself in an in-your-face “Up yours, Barrett!” type of way.

I just read that paragraph over and realized how moronic I sound. I could just… not have the TV on. Duh.

But that would be too easy. Plus, I like having the news SNL reruns on just in case there’s a breaking story I should know about. This also cuts down on my gossip website-reading time, so everyone wins. Except me.

You’ve seen this commercial, right? It’s set to the tune of that song from Fame. “I’m gonna live forever… I’m gonna learn how to fly (FAME!)” The choreography is the final scene in Fame times five in terms of obnoxiousness and jazz hands.

Yeah. Here are the lyrics to the Old Navy commercial. You think they sound stupid on TV? You have no idea how dumb they appear in print:

Bermuda shorts (SHORTS!)
I’m gonna wear them forever
Even if the weather is mild (SHORTS!)
My family’s lookin’ so crisp and clever
Long shorts from the tropical isle (SHORTS!)
You’ll wanna wear ‘em forever
You should remember their name
Bermuda! Bermuda! Bermuda! Bermuda!
Old Navy! Bermuda!

This is the part where it absolutely kills me that my camera is being repaired (for, like, weeks) and I can’t snap a pic of this one perfect frame. It’s on the second SHORTS! outburst, and they zoom in on this dude’s crotch with a huge “Shorts!” superimposed just above. Is that necessary? We get it! Bermuda! Shorts! “Remember their name?” They’re Bermuda shorts! We already knew about them! Ugh. It’s all so suffocating.

But since I’ve dedicated a shamless amount of energy to it already, I should at least adapt the jingle for my own purposes.

Annie’s shitty website (DIMINISHING RETURNS!)
You’re gonna read it forever
Even when it’s totally bland (DIMINISHING RETURNS!)
Wonder why it’s never that clever?
She’s always high on Stoli Raz/cran (BOOZE!)
You really don’t wanna be here
It’s not gonna brighten your day
West Village! 20-something! She’s clueless! Stop coming!
Annie Barrett! DR!

Don’t even get me started on the Gap’s “Pretty Khaki” commercials. Khaki? Not pretty. Is not even remotely associated with prettiness. Carrie Bradshaw would be seriously horrified.

I particularly hate how there are two dramatic buildups with “I enjoy being a…” and then she just speaks the word “girl.” What a mindfuck. Is anyone else frustrated that she doesn’t let loose and just belt out the high notes? It’s not like she couldn’t do it. I want to tell her “You’re SJP. Trust us. We’ll listen. We’ll think you’re adorable even if it sounds a little off!”

I keep thinking one of these times, they’ll surprise us and she’ll actually capitalize on the buildup with a resounding “giiiiiiirl!” I’d be so satisfied I might even turn off the TV.

Oh wait, and does anyone else want to vomit at the “Men think I’m cute and funny” part? I can’t believe she stole my personal mantra! Ha. Okay. I’m pulling the plug now. It’s time.

P.S. San Francisco pics

Being bed-ridden for days has its advantages… like sleeping a lot, eating little, and watching the entire first season of HBO’s Unscripted. There are disadvantages too, like rubbing your nose raw, eating little, and realizing you just sat through the entire first season of HBO’s Unscripted.

Another recent love/hate obsession of mine is the theme song to Real Time with Bill Maher. Today I watched all four episodes from this season. He’s great. If you’re a fan, you know the groove of which I speak is not even a “song”; it’s more like the same measure repeated about 40 times.It’s addictive. I love it. I just don’t think I’ll appreciate it as much when I’m trying to fall asleep later. Because with its certain low, grunty, rap-star-to-the-tune-of-aging-white-intellectual beat, the song could easily be a porn soundtrack or even the theme to an endless nightmare. And as I am still really sick, either interpretation will just be really distracting.

Outside of cable, in my world of Non Demand (which still happens to revolve around television), the highlight of last night was marvelling that the Fox show House uses a Massive Attack song for its opening credits. Really. I was thrilled. I think I even sat up in bed, or at least craned my neck to evoke a hint of reaction. Which, at that time, would have been a triumph.

Right now, the Next Top Model candidates are strutting down a makeshift runway in Kmart, which appears to have been renamed “Super K” or something. Wait. No, it’s “Big K.” I’m so confused. By all of it.

I love Thanksgiving. Favorite holiday, hands down. It’s a HOLIDAY that is DEDICATED to DINNER. That’s brilliant. Halloween is cool, too, with the candy, but come on. You have to eat dinner before you start eating candy. Usually.

I also love my new Time Warner DVR cable box, but I’m beginning to think it sort of has a crush on me, too. It pampers me so. It’s only supposed to hold 15 hours worth of recordings, but I’m convinced that my list comprises so much more than that.

The show selection process is sort of like a game - or a formal courtship. I sit with my clicker, who’s like the go-between friend in junior high who would go ask your crush if he/she liked you. I scan through the weekday morning schedules and happen upon a gold mine: old episodes of 90210 and Dawson’s Creek and Ellen’s sitcom back when it was good - and feel incredibly guilty for wanting to press the red record button but simply can’t hold back.

When I press “record,” I assume that the love of my life will deny me access for going over the 15-hour limit with an “Are you sure you want to record this program?” message. More likely, it would say something like “Are you fucking kidding? Dawson’s Creek? Pacey failing bio? Annie, come on.”

But then my love grants me the recording, again and again. I swoon, and skip to Tuesday to hunt for more bounty.

But does my love toy with me? Are all those red “recording” slots just a tease, because he’s afraid to tell me there’s actually no more space? Would DVR rather have me convinced I’m getting lucky because he knows I’ll probably never have the sudden urge to watch Wednesday morning’s recording of a 1994 episode of ER?

Oh wait. I just realized that Sex and the City completely beat me to this idea. Remember the one about Miranda and her TiVo and Jules and Mimi? I can’t believe this. She even had TiVo, and I have Time Warner DVR. I’m like the low-class version of Carrie Bradshaw right now, except I’m not giving a fake-pensive look, smoking a cigarette, or wearing a sock for a shirt or whatever the hell else she was known for. That crazy Carrie!

I’ve clearly reached a new low. I can’t delete everything, because I really did think this was an original idea and this way, I’ll have something to show for inexplicably being awake at 4:30 a.m. I think I’ll go take out my frustration on Felicity reruns.

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.