Brad Walsh

Non-Sequiturs

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.