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.

Yesterday in Brooklyn, I:

Ate at Vinnie’s Pizzeria for the third time in as many days. Vinnie’s features an assortment of vegan slices that are really incredible. This is the black bean burrito with vegan cheese.

Then I went here.

Apparently “Brooklyn Eastern District Terminal Site Reclmation” means beautiful park, for that’s exactly what was past the gates.

There was a really nice view of Manhattan across the East River.

I listened to the new episode of This American Life about break-ups and waited for the sun to set.

Both were excellent. One of the stories is about a writer’s break-up and her subsequent obsession with break-up songs in general, and Phil Collins’ oeuvre in particular. She becomes insired to write her own song and miraculously gets Collins on the phone. The drummer dispenses advice on love, life, and how to craft the perfect pop song.

Over the past few days I’ve been rubbing elbows with the drunks and pill poppers at the Long Beach Airport bar for a feature writing class I recently wrapped up. The following profile is a result of my research.

Nearly every Sunday night for the last two years, Candace Courtis has had the same nightmare.

She’s standing behind a winding, marble-topped counter, surrounded by bottles, in a confining, brightly lit area, while an insatiable sea of people bark drink orders at her. Try as she might, the demand for drinks overwhelms Courtis, 24, and her body fills up with anxiety. She wakes up worried, and it takes her nearly 45 minutes to recover.

While Courtis’ dream may recall shades of Sisyphus, it’s also a fairly accurate representation of a Friday night at the Prop Room, located on the second floor of the Long Beach Airport main terminal, where she’s tended bar for the last two years.

Despite the nightmares and the occupational hazards, Courtis loves her job. A pert blonde with an oval shaped face and square black glasses, her personality—stuck permanently on ebullient—is perfectly suited to bartending.

Over the past two years, the bar has become an unwavering source of entertainment, education, harassment, money, and, when needed, prescription pills.

“I got up at 6:15 this morning and wanted to punch babies,” Courtis said on a Monday afternoon near the end of her shift, “and I love babies.”
(more…)

Recently, my landlord Dave—a trim, white-haired fellow who spends most of his time fishing in the Bahamas—asked my roommate Andrew if he knew where to buy some heroin. Dave didn’t want to get high.

He wanted the heroin so he could plant it in our neighbors’ car and call the police.

Dave felt this was the best way to deal with our dirty, thieving, gypsy neighbors who had recently begun siphoning gas from nearby cars.

As it turns out, in addition to selling a cornucopia of home appliances out of the back of their truck that no doubt fell off of another truck, the neighbors also sell drugs. So why Dave didn’t just buy the stuff from them and then drop a dime is beyond me. Maybe he has a sense of decency, I don’t know. But his plan was thwarted, as neither I, nor Andrew, have the connections for scoring some horse. It was back to the drawing board.

While Dave was busy calling up a friend on the housing board to see if he could file a complaint and get the neighbors evicted, Andrew went outside and found a length of hose and a gas can near their dumpster. Without hesitation, he scooped up the siphoning tools and threw them in the dumpster down the street.

While this was not the most creative solution to the problem, and didn’t involve the planting of illegal narcotics or police, it was the most effective. All I know is that the gas siphoning stopped, and that I will never cross Dave.

Note: This essay was published elsewhere, but the editing and formatting were not what I asked they be, and I felt like the good guys should win once in awhile, so here it is in its intended form.

Some time ago, a heavily tanned, broad-shouldered, 6-foot-tall baseball player from Texas, who used the word “dude” to refer to male and female alike, took up residence in the cubicle next to me.

His name was Pat, and he was the son of one of the attorneys at work. Word ’round the break room was that all the ladies found him to be delicious eye candy. My initial impression was that he was a nice guy, if a bit dopey.

Pat noticed my calculator watch during our first encounter and asked, “Do you balance your checkbook on that thing?” Before I could answer, he added, “Damn dude, I haven’t seen one of those since the ‘80s!” and started laughing. I was at a loss for words. “I got it at K-Mart,” was all I could think to say.

A few days later, I found myself in the bathroom. I was absentmindedly studying the porcelain tile in front of my face when a booming voice, asking if I did anything fun that weekend, so startled me that I nearly lost control of my stream. I looked over to see Pat standing in front of the mirror, applying gel to his bangs and giving me a smile. I’m normally a bit reticent to divulge personal info with people I don’t know very well, particularly so when I’m urinating, and ended up saying, “I got my hair cut, but that wasn’t too fun.” Pat replied, “Sweet, dude! Looks good!”

Later that week I passed by Pat’s cubicle and he asked, “Did you get a haircut Brian?” I paused for a couple seconds, trying to figure out if this was a joke, but judging by the expectant look on his face and the lack of laughter, he was really asking. I told him that I had gotten my hair cut the weekend prior. He nodded his head thoughtfully, as if I had just said something wise, but didn’t add anything more to the conversation. I took this momentary lapse as the opportunity it was, and slowly inched away from his cubicle. When I was about twenty feet away I heard a loud voice call out, “Sick haircut, dude!”

I didn’t have any problems with Pat other than the fact that he made a lot of loud calls on his cell phone. The most memorable was a twenty-five minute chat with, what I was able to discern from his opening greeting of “Lorenzo, what’s up fool,” a friend from Texas named Lorenzo. It seemed Lorenzo had suffered some sort of setback, and needed consoling. In a hushed (for him) tone, Pat asked Lorenzo for his zip code so he could send him a postcard, and asked if Lorenzo had received his text message. “If that doesn’t cheer you up,” Pat said of the text message, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you.” And then, much to my entertainment and surprise, he upped the ante and said, “If that doesn’t cheer you up, you should go out into the woods and shoot yourself.”

As the weeks passed, my study of Pat became more nuanced. He became less and less a source of entertainment and derision, and more and more, to my surprise, one of inspiration.

I’m not sure if it was a result of hailing from the lone star state, or being genetically blessed, but Pat was so direct and honest, so genuine and unselfconscious, that he put most people instantly at ease. He also possessed the kind of curiosity about his surroundings and other people that most adults had long since shed.

Surprisingly, I witnessed Pat work his magic not on a female co-worker, but a married man who worked in the copy department. Within five minutes of meeting Edgar, a guy I had worked with for years, Pat had him telling his life story, a harrowing tale of his exile from Cambodia, and the eventual emigration of his family to the United States. Up to that point I had always assumed Edgar was born in the U.S, and had never thought to ask where he was from. “Wow, that’s amazing, dude!” Pat said to Edgar after listening intently to his story.

“How do you say ‘hello’ in Cambodian?” Pat asked. Though it took him about a week to get the pronunciation down, he greeted Edgar every morning with, “Chum reap suor.”

One by one, Pat won over the rest of his co-workers.

I never quite got used to conversing with him in the bathroom, and it took some training to shut out his deafening cell phone conversations, but after awhile I no longer thought of him as the goofy jock that I once did. Just when it seemed we were starting to become friends, the summer ended and it was time for Pat to return home to his cheerleader girlfriend, baseball team, and to Lorenzo, who apparently did not commit suicide in a forest.

I like to think that it was because of Pat’s text message.

Herzog in ‘79 contemplating the complexities of suede soup

In what hopefully will be an ongoing series, I present to you the man whose crazy world has held me firmly in its grasp for the last few weeks—a friend even warned that I would get “Werned out” if I kept up my total immersion in the house of Herzog. I’m here to say that nothing of the kind happened, and that instead I am left with an intense desire to scour the mountains of Los Angeles in search of the Bavarian filmmaker, shoe-eater, and one time gun runner known as Werner Herzog.

For the uninitiated, I recommend watching this excerpt from a BBC interview in which an unknown sniper shoots Herzog in the abdomen with an air rifle. To me it’s the best distillation of Werner’s complete fearlessness—Werner even remarks at one point in the full length interview that he is “not afraid of anything.”

Herzog is initially unfazed by the pellet, and uses the opportunity to say, “The world is actually not very friendly to film making.” The most telling part though, comes when the oddly pompadoured interviewer brings up the incident, and before he can finish, Werner is suddenly smiling gleefully, saying, “It was not a significant bullet.” Then, with little provocation, Werner begins to undo his belt, drops trou, and in an effort to show the host that it was “not a significant wound,” pulls down his PURPLE POLKA-DOT BOXERS to reveal a still bleeding hole in his body, all the while laughing at its insignificance. The reveal of the boxers kills me every time, but it’s the line right after that really gets me, “It’s not an everyday thing, but it doesn’t surprise me to be shot at.”

Part of the genius of Werner, and what I believe makes him crazy—in a good way—is the casual and seemingly oblivious attitude he has towards the most amazing events. But then we’re talking about a guy who dragged a steam boat over a mountain, hypnotized a whole cast of actors for the duration of a film shoot (he even taught himself hypnosis after clashing with the hired hypnotist), and who once traveled on foot from Germany to France because it seemed the appropriate method of travel.

I recently finished reading Paul Cronin’s career-spanning book of interviews “Herzog on Herzog,” and highly recommend it. On nearly every page there’s some gem that made me laugh out loud. Here are a few of my favorite bon mots:

Herzog on the casting of his film “Even Dwarfs Started Small”: “Generally when you find one midget you find several, so I just went from one midget to the next, hiring their friends.”

Herzog on restaurants: “I am deeply scared by the sheer thought that somebody serves me as a waiter, and when it is overly formal then it is total misery for me. I would rather eat potato chips sitting on the sidewalk than go to one of these chic restaurants.”

Herzog on theatre: “I dislike theatre profoundly. The few theatrical productions that I have watched were an affront to the human spirit.”

Herzog on filmmaking: “The world is just not made for filmmaking. Every time you make a film you must be prepared to wrestle it away from the Devil himself. But carry on, dammit! Ignite the fire. Ultimately, the money will follow you like a common cur in the street with its tail between its legs.”

Herzog on television: “The biggest danger we face as a civilization, in my opinion, is television because to a certain degree it ruins our vision and makes us sad and lonesome. Our grandchildren will blame us for not tossing hand grenades into television stations because of the commercials. Television kills our imagination and what we end up with are worn out images because of the inability of too many people to seek out fresh ones.”

While I have to respectfully disagree with his assessment of television (I think there’s more good stuff on the air right now than in a long time), his verve and bold diction are inspiring—just like the man himself. If you haven’t seen his documentaries “Grizzly Man,” or “Little Dieter Needs to Fly,” do yourself a favor and check them out.

Here’s to you Werner. I would love to have a tête à tête over a warm Bavarian pretzel and a mug of cold German beer sometime.

Amy Sedaris: Though she’s nearly two decades my senior, has the kind of burnished brown skin most favored by sorority sisters, and is unquestionably a bit crazy, I would gladly play the Benjamin to her Mrs. Robinson. Because, despite the detractors, she’s also a total babe, the creator and star of one of the best television shows ever, sister of my favorite author, and, judging by her new book, one hell of an entertainer. I could easily see spending a relaxing evening with her, chief big bong, and some of her interesting and famous friends, such as Justin Theroux or Philip Seymour Hoffman. We’d laugh well into the night after gorging ourselves on her great cooking, and later, after Phil and Jus had begged their leave, things would get seriously freaky. Here’s to you Ms. Sedaris.

Joanna Newsom: The first time I saw Joanna Newsom I couldn’t stop laughing. This was long before she graced any magazine covers, Dave Eggers had yet to hype her up in Spin, and every writer at Pitchfork was years away from attempting arcane ways of saying she’s a genius. She was simply the opening act for The High Llamas. Joanna set up her harp, and then started playing those beautiful chords, and that small strange voice that so polarizes people began to fill the air. She made the craziest faces while she sang, which, to my dismay, she has since stopped almost altogether, and put on one of the most intense, strange performances I had ever seen. Later I saw her open again, this time for Sufjan Stevens, and while I still found her set amusing, her songs got seriously stuck in my head. Since that time I’ve become a full-fledged convert, and have seen her live on multiple occasions. In addition to her impressive talent, elfin beauty, and extreme eloquence, Joanna also possesses a surprisingly ample posterior. (In case you’re wondering, yes, I did just post a link to a photo of Joanna’s ass.) While I was more than a little nonplussed with her most recent album, Joanna still remains firmly at the front of my crush list.

Natasha Leggero: I see a lot of stand-up comedy, and Natasha is by far the foxiest lady I’ve seen pick up a mic. She almost always favors heels to augment her stature (she barely tops five feet), has incredible hair, and when she smiles a set of dimples grace her face that almost make her too cute. Her jokes are quite good as well, as evidenced by this appearance on Jay Leno. More recently, she made this funny little short film, which I hope will be an ongoing series.

Rashida Jones: Aside from Joanna, I think this one may be the most obvious on my list. I know it certainly is for any viewers of “The Office,” on which Rashida plays Karen Filipelli. As many may know, Rashida is the daughter of Peggy Lipton, she of “Twin Peaks” and a total babe in her own right, and “flashes of” Quincy Jones. In addition to being a Harvard graduate, Rashida has also appeared on “Freaks and Geeks” and the pilot episode of “Stella.” Try watching this saccharinely sweet video and see if you can help from falling for her. I know I’ve certainly switched my allegiance from Pam to Karen as a result of Rashida’s performance on “The Office.”

Eva Green: I came very late to the party that is French actress Eva Green. I wasn’t aware of how awesome she was until I saw the surprisingly superb Casino Royale. A friend had long ago suggested I watch some scenes from the Bertolucci nudiefest known as The Dreamers, but my hatred of co-star Michael Pitt was so strong that the thought of seeing his upturned nose, petulant glare, and lackluster Leonardo DiCaprio impression was too much to bear. So I missed viewing her pendulous breasts in all their unfettered glory. I have since corrected that mistake, and the image of Eva’s nude body is well worth the price of Pitt’s horrific, nightmare-inducing visage.

Also, I was going to include a few time specific examples, such as pre-baby Maggie Gyllenhaal, Guffman-era Parker Posey, and Diane Keaton in her Annie Hall days, but decided to stick to current crushes. Anyway, I’m curious, who do you guys like?

I just spent the last forty five minutes searching the google for a screen capture of an obese, drugged-to-the-gills, Anna Nicole Smith, Howard K. Stern, her currently beleaguered and oft-cuckolded attorney, and her personal assistant/sometime make-out partner, Kim Walther, beating the shit out of a bed frame.

This fantastic and frightening tableaux was captured by E!’s cameras in 2002 for the regrettably short-lived “The Anna Nicole Show,” and will remain seared in my brain as the lasting image I have of Anna.

The best part is that the reason her attorney gleefully stabbed the bed with a screwdriver and she and her assistant kicked the frame to pieces, was because some throw pillows, also made by the bed’s designer, Bobby Trendy, were-wait for it-not washable. The unlaunderable pillows pushed Anna, who was already angry with Trendy for a litany of reasons, over the edge. She decided the best way to take out her aggression was to desecrate the largest, and presumably most expensive, item Trendy had produced for her.

“The Anna Nicole Show” captured so many mind-blowing and hilarious moments that it not only redefined Anna for me, but also opened my eyes to the enjoyment reality TV could provide.

I did find a full episode on youtube, though sadly not the one featuring the bed destruction. Above is part one, and here’s two and three.

After seeing a single episode, Anna went from being a svelte, sexy blonde, who actually showed some acting promise in her brief cameo in Hudsucker’s Proxy, to a pilled up, self-described “porker,” who had surrounded herself with a motley group of odd characters that were all, to varying degrees, desperately in love with her.

Smith in 1993. Later that year she would be crowned Playmate of the Year.

Kimberly Walther, Smith’s personal assistant, displays her Anna tattoo during “The Anna Nicole Show” years.

After two seasons it became painfully obvious that the show’s producers had run out of hoops for Anna to jump through (such as renewing her driver’s license, going on radio shows, and taking her dog to a psychic), and the waning ratings led to cancellation. For me, that’s when Anna stops.

I had decided that I was not going to pay any attention to the media circus surrounding her death, but last night I caught a video on Countdown with Keith Olbermann that, much in the same way Anna did, totally blew my mind.

Please allow me to introduce the man conducting the trial regarding who gets Smith’s body, Judge Larry Seidlin, proud graduate of Brooklyn’s Hunter College, and King of the Non Sequiturs.

This dude’s amazing. His courtroom demeanor, appearance, and constant quips bring to mind a younger, less funny, Larry David. Here’s just a few of the quotes he let fly in court:

“I jogged almost four miles this morning—my head’s as clear as a bell.”

“Let’s face it. Money is the root of all evil. Am I right?”

“Don’t use that term. It turns me off.”

“The wheels of justice aren’t always round, they’re sometimes square. It’s like the Old West. It’s a bumpy ride.”

Anna, I will miss you. Thanks for all the memories and for bringing Larry Seidlin into my life. We will meet someday on the rainbow bridge.

Leave it to an im conversation that includes the query, “is your little guy limp…or growing[?]” and then devolves into a discussion on the finer points of post-ejaculatory cleanup and cast fetishes to reawaken my dormant interest in politics.

If you haven’t heard by now, Republican Congressman Mark Foley recently resigned after a number of explicit im conversations between himself and a teenage male page were unearthed. ABC News broke the story in the mainstream press:

The tag team comedy combo of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report had some amazing reports yesterday on the coverage:

While The Daily Show focused mainly on ABC’s report, Stephen Colbert took personal responsibility for Foley’s im conversation:

As it turns out, there’s a lot more to the story. Foley had internet sex with a page while awaiting a House vote, later blamed his actions on the firewater, and then claimed clergy abuse. He’s currently undergoing treatment for “alcohol and behavioral problems.”

One of my favorite aspects of this story is how The O’Reilly Factor portrayed Foley as a Democrat at least 3 times on their show this evening. Mistake or mind control?:

Anyway, the whole thing has got me checking the projected new Senate and House seats every day and editing my buddy list accordingly: