Archive for July, 2006
Monday, July 31st, 2006
Okay.
For my birthday several years ago, my friend Andrea mailed me a rubber chicken that she wrote all over. About two weeks ago I let Anna take the chicken in her bag as a costume prop (god dammit, Anna, only you…) and she left it at Thommy and Claudia’s. Josh saw that we left it there, so he brought it out with him to return it to us, but that spacetard left it at Annex. so now it’s missing in action… EXCEPT:
WHO IS THIS BITCH AND WHY DOES SHE HAVE MY ARTFULLY DEFILED RUBBER CHICKEN? WHERE IS MY CHICKEN? FOR FUCKING REAL, I WANT THAT SHIT BACK.
I am offering a reward. If you find my chicken and return it to me, or if you provide a tip that leads to its eventual seizure, you can sleep with Anna or Josh, depending on your gender preference. I’m serious as syphilis about this. I want my rubber chicken back and I am willing to offer their guilty parts for its safe return.
Monday, July 31st, 2006
I’ve slept approximately six hours out of the last 48. Last night was going to finally be a stay home and go to bed early night, but instead I spent six hours modeling clothes in a storefront window and in an alley until two in the morning. What? I had planned on using Sunday night to catch up on all my backed up e-mails and photo odds, but when Josh Madden and Bronques say they want you to be a part of a clothing shoot as a model you say “yes,” “where,” and “when?” Don’t say “but I’m not a model,” because then they might come to their senses.
It was really strange to be there and do that. I had a good time and was really fascinated by everything going on around me. Did a lot of staring blankly at things because I was so completely out of it from not having slept the night before. Met some really cool people. Must have seemed like a weirdo because I didn’t say much.
My new favorite thing to do is something that nobody’s done before in this scene, which is nightlife animations. Bronques has done video, and he’s done it very well, but I think this is different. Plus, an animated gif is so conveniently Myspace-ready, which is pretty much where every photo I take of anyone ends up within 24 hours. You can see some here and here, including one of Jamie Bell (Billy Eliot himself). A legit still photo Party Junkies update will go up later today.
Whenever it’s 11:11 or 12:34 or some such other appropriate time to make a wish, I always spout out my stock wish, which is “for my mom and my brother and me to be happy forever.” I think it’s a good, simple one that bypasses money and love and all that and just gets to the point. If we could all be magically happy, we could live in respective garbage cans for the next fifty years. Happy is happy.
But Friday at 11:11 I wished for something more immediate, something irrational, and what do you know? It worked out.
Listening to: Blur’s Think Tank, which is still sort of my default “I’m really tired this morning and need to listen to something that’s familiar and enjoyable for more than ten minutes” record.
Thursday, July 27th, 2006
I love love love the new Rapture song, “Get Myself Into It.” Why didn’t someone send it to me earlier?? I had the chance to be in the music video for it a few weeks ago but I was beyond busy, and it’s a roller skating video (I can’t skate to save my life). My darling SarahM will be in it, though! I think she fits the bill better than I do, anyway.
Thursday, July 27th, 2006
Kathy: God, I ate these vegan noodles for lunch that were so good when I was eating them, and now I’m just ready to throw up. Also this squirrel was giving me the fucking evil eye in the park. I think it knows I was talking shit about the stumpy one-foot pigeon. Also, I might’ve seen Eric Roberts, but maybe I just spent too much time in the sun feeling weird.
Me: you are a fucking crazy person. seriously. you are not sane.
Kathy: You know the best part? The guy who might’ve been Eric Roberts was wearing a Gogol Bordello shirt, but I took that part out because I figured that would sound weird.
Also, I’m so, so sad to report that skulls are officially, and ultimately, over. It’s odd to realize that the people I’m friends with have as much of an eventual effect on mainstream fashion these days as Miranda Priestly. I bet that on Sunday morning I could give you a list of at least ten trends, cuts, and accessories that will show up in the spring 2007 Urban Outfitters and Delia’s catalogues.
Wednesday, July 26th, 2006
Mostly so that I remember my stuff this week, but also so that perhaps you can come hang out with me:
Wednesday: First Taste at HiFi, and Whip It! at Stereo
Thursday: Stolen Transmission at Annex, and Nouveau at Fat Baby
Friday: Recording, then Editors pre-show acoustic private thing (what what so excited), Editors show at Irving, Trash/Annex/Lotus/up all night with Anna
Saturday: Recording, then party at my house (shake me down for more info), and MisShapes
Sunday: Music Slut Anniversary party (DJing) at the Delancey
If you want to go to any of that, Google should give you all the answers. If not, e-mail me.
Monday, July 24th, 2006
My first coffee at work has to be half full with one yellow packet of Splenda and a spoonful of cream. Not skim milk or 2% or even whole milk. I liven that shit up with a spoonful of fat ass and let it go down guiltlessly. After that, for the rest of the day, I use 2%. My first coffee of the day, however, is at home as soon as I wake up. That’s a cup from the Senseo that my mother graciously bequeathed me upon my move to New York; I load in one of those pods and push the button, and thirty seconds later I have exactly one cup of coffee (by Archer Farms – the magnificent and surprisingly quality Target brand). Anytime there is coffee after work or on the weekend it is usually Starbucks, which is the worst coffee on the planet. But it is familiar, and I am nothing without my insufferable comforts.
My coffee gets me going, makes me awake enough to run out the door, get to the office, stay up to fulfill nighttime obligations, or just hurry along my inner “processes” in situations where I’m going to be wearing tight clothes and need to be as, um, light as possible.
When I drink alcohol at home it is often a home-frozen vodka and redbull. When I drink out it is Sparks with the orange top or a rum & diet. It would appear I’m unable to drink without involving caffeine. But when you do as much as I do (albeit a collection of ridiculously enjoyable “much”), you need artificial wake-ups.
For example, my weekend. Wednesday night I went to a Victoria’s Secret party, then a ReadyMade magazine thing, then HiFi. Thursday I was out all night taking pictures for Stolen Transmission. Friday I visited Trash, saw VIP at Annex, hung out at Loaded and then stayed up doing photos with Bronques until it was brightly Saturday morning. Saturday I went to an amazing and insane film premiere, Rated X, and MisShapes. Sunday I drove out of town to buy things and do laundry and fix my car, then came home late and worked on photos, and finally had half an hour to clean my bedroom. I am incredibly lucky to be doing all the things I’m doing with the amazing and impressive people that I am doing them with – anymore it seems that I’m getting paid to take pictures left and right, which is absolutely my dream – but it all definitely takes its toll on my daylight hours.
I was going somewhere with this, but then I refilled my coffee and now I’m in a morning daze. I guess what I’m saying is, I’m happy and busy and happy to be busy.
Listening to: The Monroes’ “What Do All the People Know” – it’s been on repeat all weekend. Dancing in the street with heads close, each holding one headphone; dancing in the cab; dancing in my room. Ian knew & loved the song as much as I did. Surprise. Ten point jump.
PS – Mike Nouveau’s butt in AA gold lamé tight pants is a religious experience.
Friday, July 21st, 2006
I just saw a Gap commercial that uses the Peaches song “Do Ya.” Peaches is now a Gap commercial. Next MIA will shill Hyundais.
Oh. Wait.
Thursday, July 20th, 2006
Nobody believes me when I say this, but I’m really kind of sick of being an inadvertent extra on reality shows. There are camera crews everywhere in this city. Any party I go to anymore has a bright light and a boom mic looming right behind me following some idiot who desperately wants to be the next Sienna Miller. This is not to say that I hate reality TV, or reality TV stars. I mean, I kind of can’t hate people who’ve been on reality TV shows, because half my friends have been filmed or are filming. And all I watch anymore is reality TV. Maybe my distaste comes from getting to the finals of two reality casting roundups and not making the final cut. Both times were sort of accidents and I half-heartedly coasted through the processes because everybody around me was so excited, but when it was over I was sort of grateful for the relief of being able to forget about it. And friends who were on reality shows in the past would tell me that not getting on a show was “a gift from God” because that’s often not how you want to be known.
Except maybe Diana, who is now well-known for doing what she loves to do. Her fan girls are everywhere. Every five minutes. Some scream “Diana!” or “were you on Project Runway?!” But sometimes they just shout “Project Runway!” and expect her to say “yes, that is my name. My name is Project Runway. This is my cousin Cribs and my good friend Amish in the City.”
Last night Diana invited me to go with her to a Victoria’s Secret party, where we stood in the extraordinarily pink VIP section watching Ashlee Simpson. It was filled with models and suits and – you guessed it – a reality show filming. I have been ambushed by camera crews before; a friend invites me out to a bar and when I get there there’s a camera shooting every word we say back and forth because he’s the subject of his own show and didn’t warn me. This is why I try to dress for success anytime I leave the house. There is no such thing anymore, for me, as “casual Friday” because a no-strings Friday beer may mean “surprise! This will be on E! in two months.”
I have a feeling I’m being a hypocrite here in some way, but I don’t really know how. So if I am, please ignore me.
But. Ashlee Simpson, God love her, can’t dance to save her life, which is funny because I think I remember from the first season of her show that she started off backup dancing for Jessica. But I certainly enjoyed four of her five live songs (I would be happy to erase “Pieces of Me” from history and my brain). Her band is pretty great, and she was fun. I found myself dancing to “Lala” and “Boyfriend” and “L.O.V.E.” Oy.
So, that nosejob. Yes, she looks more like her sister. No, she doesn’t look like a plastic surgery victim. Yes, it looks appropriate on her. No, it probably won’t help her sell any more records. But I don’t think she did it to sell records.
What am I talking about anymore? This is ridiculous. Here are some pictures from the Victoria’s Secret thing, which was followed by a quick stop at a party for ReadyMade magazine, and some quality L.O.V.E. time with all my girls (and Ben), standing in a circle*, at HiFi:
*That was an Ashlee Simpson joke. I’m the kind of guy who makes Ashlee Simpson jokes.
