Archive for May, 2006
Wednesday, May 31st, 2006
So in my regular reports of website traffic, one image on bradwalsh.com has had a surge of use around the internet recently. It’s this one:
This is my mother, from last summer. She is currently posted in strangers’ MySpace comments alongside notes like “your music taste worries me” and as a plot frame in homemade “found comics,” among other things.
Now, I don’t want anyone to photoshop her rudely or draw obscene things on her forehead, but I would love for her to be the new mosh girl. Post my mom as a MySpace comment and/or put her into famous movie scenes.
Readygo!
Wednesday, May 31st, 2006
Kathy keeps saying internet abbreviations out loud as words and it’s making my stomach hurt because I can’t stop laughing even though this shouldn’t be funny. “Totes cutelol roflmao whatevs.” Cutelol. Cutelol.
I ordered a new camera! It’s very nice and totes professional roflmao cutelol! It was more money than I have! Thank God for credit omg whatevs roflmao cutelol!
I think I have a date on Friday.
Sunday, May 28th, 2006
This is what I’ve been doing since 9:30 this morning:
Kathy’s been on the other couch with the remote, her laptop, the occasional black bean quesadilla, and a camera.
I Love Saturday.
Thursday, May 25th, 2006
Yesterday was Diana Eng’s birthday, and I took her and the Attractive Nerds & Fashionistas to Stereo and Lotus to celebrate and do some photos that will end up in the ‘zines (sneak a couple:)
So much fun, she is! This one makes me happy even though we both look funny:
HER: This will be on the internet as “formerly single Diana Eng’s new boyfriend!”
ME: And it’ll be even weirder when I’m labeled “former homosexual.” Though, from the looks of this photo, I don’t think there will be any confusion.
And Jess was at Stereo! Unexpected happy love surprise!!
Lots more photos will be around soon. Tonight I’m going home, taking a nap, doing Stolen Transmission photos ’til the wee hours, and then going to work in the morning. Perhaps I will have last night’s sets ready to go this weekend.
Wednesday, May 24th, 2006
1. Today in Elevator Horror, another Elevator Whore was screeching loudly into her cell phone for four minutes about one of The Models who was lost in traffic: “I don’t know where the fuck she is now, she was like ‘I’m on my way, I’m on my way, I’m lost’ and now I don’t know what the fuck to do, fucking Models!” What made it even worse was that she was the kind of tard who holds the phone in front of her face when she’s speaking and up to her ear when she’s listening. The phone only touched her ear for a second.
2. I’d like to throw in my tiny vote of confidence for all the women who think this whole “Treat Yourself As Perpetually Pre-Pregnant” thing is mostly a big load of bullshit. I’m all in favor of quitting smoking and eating healthy, but not because it’s a woman’s duty to constantly be preparing her body for pregnancy. I won’t beleaguer with my sentiments about it – it’s not difficult to find plenty of news and op-eds about it (Dan Savage brought it to my attention) – but really, how many more ridiculous things like this have to happen before every Republican woman says “you know, nevermind”? A friend of a friend said: “Why don’t we just regard everyone as Pre-Deceased and let people do whatever they want to their bodies?”
3. One of the most enjoyable parts about working where I work is that at least once weekly I have to walk through a movie or TV set to get to my office. The Haddad’s trucks and craft services tents are always a dead giveaway that there’s a starlet or a Streep looming nearby. The trailer doors always have code names written on the doors – like “Mr. Peabody” or “The Riddler” – and once a two-room trailer had doors marked “Desi” and “Lucy,” which was absolutely fantastic.
4. For those who think farts are art, I’ll leave you with this, from Page Six:
May 24, 2006 – The geniuses who run the art world in London are getting their just desserts. They awarded the prestigious Turner Prize to Martin Creed for his work titled “The Lights Going On and Off,” in which a pair of gallery lights were programmed to go on and off at regular intervals. Now Creed has installed “Work No. 401″ in London’s preeminent museum, the Tate Modern, which reverberates with a nine-minute recording – playing on a loop – of the artist breaking wind. As art lovers try to admire paintings by Claude Monet and Mark Rothko, they are bombarded with Creed’s flatulence, The Times of London reports. But the museum’s curators defend Creed’s work. “This kind of acoustic – you hear it every day of your life,” said director Vicente Todoli, who must live in a noisy neighborhood. “This is not a cathedral with the relics of a saint in which you’re supposed to kneel down in front of it.”
Good, because my first instinct upon hearing the acoustics of flatulence is not to kneel down and get closer to the source.
Wednesday, May 24th, 2006
GO TAYLOR GO TAYLOR GO TAYLOR GO TAYLOR GO TAYLOR GO TAYLOR GO TAYLOR GO TAYLOR GO TAYLOR GO TAYLOR GO
Also, check out my photos from last week’s Stolen Transmission here.
KATHARINE MCPHEE IS NOT MY IDOL
Tuesday, May 23rd, 2006
Had Hitler succeeded and today I was required to wear a pink triangle on the sleeve of all my clothes, there would be no question that I am not checking out the woman waiting for the elevator. If I was required to wear a telling pink triangle on the sleeves of all of my clothes, then she would not think, when I am making sure in the metallic reflection of the door of the elevator we are both waiting for that my hair looks all right, that I was looking her up and down like so much National Monument. She would know that I was not interested in her, and therefore she’d have no reason to suck her teeth and sigh and look all around like “oh my God I can’t believe this guy is so shameless and I’m so freakin’ beautiful and my skirt makes me look like a prostitute oh my God.” Toothsucking, earpicking, footshifting son of a bitch.
Then there’s the old scenario where I am standing there, elevator button lit (clearly because I have pressed it already), and somebody walks up and presses the button. Maybe once, maybe a few times. And then they stand right against the door. No pressed-button-presser ever presses the already pressed button and then backs away. They stand close enough to fog up the door with their filthy nosebreath.
When I pressed the call button once with a woman already standing there, she glared at me with all the rage that I just exhibited above. But the difference between her and me was that when I glare with elevator rage, it’s because I have already pressed the button. She had been leaning casually against the far wall for who knows how long while the elevator was stuck on floor eight because she hadn’t pressed the button. I was vindicated when it lit up and the numbers began to decrease.
Once, a famously horrible pressed-button-presser came in late and pressed the button for the elevator that six or seven of us were already waiting for. Then she stood right next to the door, and when it opened she thrust herself in before the people inside had even had the chance to get out. When eight people were in the elevator, which can suit about nine if everyone is courteous, she had the balls to say to the last man getting on – who had politely let the women on first – that “there’s not enough room, wait for the next one.” Every one of us looked at her in disbelief like she was Paula Abdul sober, and of course the man got on.
This is why I am proposing segregated elevators. Not by race or any kind of background; I suggest a law requiring each place of business to install two elevators and designate one as being for Toothsucking Earpicking Footshifting Sons of Bitches Who Press the Button When It’s Already Pressed and Generally Act Like the Devil.
The other will be just for me.
