I recently interviewed Claire Hoffman, one of my favorite writers. We discussed a number of topics, including the current state of journalism, her favorite writers, and what’s on her syllabus. If you haven’t read her profile of Joe Francis, I would recommend doing so immediately. It’s fantastic.

Anyway, here’s a bit more on Claire from the intro: Claire Hoffman rose to prominence while at the Los Angeles Times after an article she wrote on Joe Francis, the impresario behind Girls Gone Wild, was published in 2006. "Baby, Give Me A Kiss" is bold and daring, graphic, and deeply personal in a way not normally seen at the Times. It begins with Francis holding Hoffman’s arms behind her back against her will, pushing her face against a car, and yelling wildly. From there the reader is given a first hand tour through the seedy universe of Francis. It became an instant sensation on the internet, amassing more hits than any other article in the Los Angeles Times‘ history. Since then, Hoffman has waded through the world of polygamist Mormons for Portfolio, spent a night at Amy Winehouse’s flat for Rolling Stone, and most recently had soup with Prince for The New Yorker. She is currently a contributing editor to Rolling Stone, and an Assistant Professor of Journalism at UC Riverside.

I just recently discovered a website that allows you to take any mp3 and make it into a ringtone. I’m just getting warmed up, but so far I’ve made two that I think are worth listening to and/or using.

The first is the appropriately titled “Phone Call” by Jon Brion, off of the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind soundtrack. Click here to listen and/or download.

And the second is a song that was stuck in my head for weeks after watching the following video:

“John, you ever had a pair of jeans that fit you like no other?” the bald woman in baggy pants said into the phone as her body shook and spittle formed in the corner of her mouth, “Then, John, you know why I’m so FUCKIN’ PISSED that you lost my laundry!”

Ten minutes earlier this same woman had walked into the laundromat I was sitting in and immediately started hassling the nice Asian couple who ran the place.

I didn’t notice her at first, I just heard her voice. And what a voice it was. No doubt finely seasoned with a daily regimen of Pall Malls and booze, she had the pipes of a Glengarry Glen Ross-era Al Pacino.

Her sartorial choices, on the other hand, appeared to be informed by 8th grade skateboarders. Stubby feet were encased in puffy, boat-like sneakers, and a long chain hung from a pair of pants that looked to be fashioned from a shower curtain of denim.

In a perfect world she would have extolled the virtues of a sensational bowel movement, just as Pacino did in that fine film, but she had more important things on her mind. Namely, what happened to 37 pounds of laundry.

Her inquiries about the missing clothes were civil enough at first, but quickly devolved into an odd mix of constant cussing and inappropriate and irrelevant personal information.

She held forth on a number of topics, including: what life was like as a 47-and-a-half-year-old Latina woman on disability, a recent court settlement of six thousand dollars, and a firm belief that the proprietors had both copulated with their mothers. Not surprisingly, this ended up being an unsuccessful form of negotiation. When it became clear she wasn’t going to get anywhere, she screamed for them to get the owner on the phone.

“John, I have the ticket in my hand and my clothes aren’t here,” she yelled after being handed a phone. “How does you do this, John? Listen to me, John, how does you do this?”

The woman averaged three Johns per sentence and seemed to make a point of bookending every phrase with the owner’s name. She whipped herself into a lather in no time, promising law suits and beat downs, and then, inexplicably, began using the name Julio.

Apparently John was unsure how he did it, because the yelling did not let up for another five minutes. The couple stood by quietly, waiting to get their phone back. Finally, mercifully, the conversation came to an end with a “Fuck you, pendejo!”

The woman realized that everyone in the laundromat was paying attention to her insane ranting, and for a second just stood there, taking us all in, then bellowed, “FUCK ALL YA’LL!” and left.

A strained silence lingered in the air. Then the Asian woman said simply, “She crazy,” and went back to her work. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and went back to what they were doing, because really, what else could be said?

Some more than others:

Fading Away [The Smoking Gun]

In the late fall of 1999, Elijah Wood, of the movies, ruined my bathroom visits forever.

And no, I’m not talking about him filling my seathole or any other such chicanery.

Technically, I guess it was really James Schamus, who wrote “The Ice Storm,” who did it. For, you see, in that film there’s a brief speech that Wood makes to his classmates about molecules that has haunted me ever since I heard it. Honestly, I can’t go into a restroom now without my mind instantly flashing to that bit of knowledge he dropped on an unsuspecting movie audience. I warn anyone who doesn’t want to be grossed out every time they enter a restroom to read no further.

OK, you still with me?

Here’s what Wood said:

“Because of molecules we are connected to the outside world from our bodies. Like when you smell things, because when you smell a smell it’s not really a smell, it’s a part of the object that has come off of it, molecules. So when you smell something bad, it’s like in a way you’re eating it. This is why you should not really smell things, in the same way that you don’t eat everything in the world around you because as a smell, it gets inside of you. So the next time you go into the bathroom after someone else has been there, remember what kinds of molecules you are in fact eating.”

Adds new meaning to the phrase “eat shit,” no?

I entered the bathroom at work the other day and was greeted with a particularly foul odor. My bowels dictated that I brave the fetid room and I soldiered on. Every stall is equipped with a can of air freshener, though for some reason most shitters decide not to take advantage of this. I was unsure if I was breaking protocol or not, but the smell was such that I held the can aloft and sent a spray over the top of stall in the direction of the foul beast that had produced it. The thought of offending the progenitor of the smell crossed my mind, but I was ready with the ultimate shut down:

“Hey, guess whose shit stinks? Yours.”

I just put up a profile of Paul F. Tompkins, one of my favorite comedians, which you can read here.

If you’ve already stumbled across the absolutely horrific/amazing car crash of plastic beauties and the worst dudes ever, known as hotchickswithdouchebags.com, then I imagine some of the following images will not be new to you. If you’re not famliar with the site, then be prepared to have your corneas scarred for all eternity. I spent some quality time with the site yesterday, and laughed more than I have in a long time.

The concept is that people wade through the muck and mire of myspace, facebook, and other photo sites in search of the greasiest, nastiest, most mind melting douche bags, juxtaposed alongside sexy, scantily clad, heavily made up ladies and send the photos to the site’s editor, who posts the photos with his commentary. The editor’s idea of “hot chick” seriously differs from mine, though his radar for douche bags is second to none. Over the brief period of the site’s life, he has developed a stringent set of rules that define a douche bag, and has single-handedly introduced a new nomenclature to classify the different douches.

This is Cro-’bagnon, who inspired a rash of haikus from readers, my favorite being from The Douche of Earl:
No fake ‘n bake, that.
Mandana usurped by gel.
Love your geico ads.

Pictures go up constantly, and an increasingly growing number of readers and commenters have joined the HCwDB democratic society, helping to name the douchebag, his arm candy, and pointing out what makes the photo particularly douchey. Each week a vote is made, and a douche is elevated to the status of “Douche Bag of the Week.” At the end of the month all the ‘bags are pitted against each other, and a new “Douche Bag of the Month” is crowned.

Here’s Donkey Douche. His purple lips, absurdly orange skin, open necked shirt complete with fake dog tags, and ludicrous tough face made him a popular favorite from his first appearance. He ascended quickly from ‘bag of the week to ‘bag of the month, crescendoing with a coveted position in The Douchebag Hall of Fame.

“Warthog” is a personal favorite of mine, though he was never able to crack ‘bag of the week status, despite possessing many classic hallmarks of the douche bag. Check the Jesus bling, mandana, guyliner, bleached hair, orange skin and shiny shirt. He’s got everything going for him.

These two, like The Warthog before them, did not go far, but I find them to be particularly hilarious. Seriously, just look at those faces. The greasy dude on the right has by far the most amazing set of follicles and plugs I saw on the whole site, and the rock horns of his companion speak volumes.

And then there was The Trainwreck, the douche that everyone could agree on.

Words cannot do this man justice.

So instead I’m going to give the last word to someone who I believe is a true “hot chick,” Joanna Newsom. Joanna, what do you make of all this?

While walking by Prospect Park I discovered this photo:

And yesterday, while on a trip to Foodswings (vegan fast food!), this photo crossed my path:

A week ago I found a hamper full of clothes hangers, both items I was in need of:

Inside the hamper were some videotapes. Not in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that they would be editor’s copies of “Inside the Actor’s Studio” with Juliette Binoche and Kathy Bates, but that’s exactly what they were:

And here’s some pics from the last week:

Prospect Park

You couldn’t even see the city from certain spots.

The peppermint building

In the spirit of Gawker Stalker, I give you my recent sightings:

Jemaine Clement
172 Bedford Ave.
From the best show currently on television. Was shorter and older looking than on television, rocking a lot of grey hairs in his lengthy sideburns. Walked by him, we locked eyes, then both looked away. Am currently kicking myself for not telling him how much I like the show and doing my Murray impression (”Jemaine, come in”). Seemed very humble.

Todd Solondz
Washington Square Park
About 10:45 at night and the director of “Welcome to the Dollhouse” was walking around by himself, looking dazed. Was tempted to call him “weiner dog.” Seemed very weird.

At every subway stop in New York I’m greeted by the beaming, beatific, well-coiffed vision of reality TV star Tim Gunn. Bravo has plastered Gunn’s visage from Brooklyn to Broadway to promote his upcoming television show, and I for one couldn’t be more pleased. Tim’s familiar face has proven to be a source of solace as I’ve attempted to navigate New York’s labyrinthine subway system, and this slightly altered ad made me laugh out loud, despite the fact that they misspelled Andrae’s name.

Yesterday, as I was carting my belongings to the 4th Ave stop, a rail thin Latino man in obscenely short shorts sashayed his way towards me, barking at what appeared to be a caretaker/companion by his side. While his clownish, hip shaking gait could be spotted from nearly a mile away, it was the booming, bull-frog like voice emanating from his larynx that came to define him. Imagine if Tom Waits and Mario Cantone somehow spawned a child and you still wouldn’t come close to the horrific sounds this man produced. As he walked by a child, he pointed a spindly finger in its face and laughed, a sort of modern day Cruella DeVille with a flamingly homosexual twist.

I thought that I was done with this man, but as I was leaning against my luggage waiting for the train, I heard his unmistakable voice echoing from a nearby staircase. He emerged red-faced, and took a beeline for an empty seat next to a Latino father and his children. Throughout this whole time he was spewing forth a non-stop mix of Spanish and English. One of the kids just sat there, mouth agape, staring at the man like he was a monster. Then a Thai homosexual couple entered his line of sight and he stopped his incessant chattering and began sizing them up. They noticed his lecherous gaze and moved to another area. The man whispered excitedly to his companion, “Chinas locas!” and then called after them, “Where are you going sweeties?”

The train finally arrived and we all got on. At the next stop the Thai couple exited the train at a full gallop as a discordant, disembodied voice yelled, “You couldn’t handle me!”

Later in the day, I was waiting for the G train to arrive and a Mexican family sat on the bench next to me. The daughter, about three, would not stop crying and the mother would not stop yelling “cállate” at her. Their call and response went on for what seemed like ten minutes.

Finally, the mother led the little girl behind a nearby trash can and the crying stopped. I couldn’t figure out what was going on until I heard the unmistakable sound of trickling water and noticed a yellow puddle slowly oozing out from behind the trash can.

Today I travel on foot.