Never in my wildest fantasies did I think it would be possible that out of the shadows a contender would emerge, ready to dethrone the reigning King of Constipation, Harrison Ford. For decades now the man has made a career of pursing his lips, furrowing his brow, and demanding that he be given something back (his family, his airplane, his crystal skull, etc.).

He wants for the bad men to return his property

And then along came Dennis Quaid in the shitfest that is “Vantage Point.” “Vantage Point” attempts to tell the story of a terrorist kidnapping in a Rashomon style ripoff, replete with rewinds, a vast array of underdeveloped characters, and Quaid grimacing his way through the film.

Quaid plays a shaky secret service agent, still recovering from a bullet wound and frazzled nerves.

The first closeup of DQ reveals he is in dire need of an outhouse

Still looking

Looking left

Looking right

Looking up and to the right

Still no end in sight

Damn it!

Chipmunk imitation! (it kills me that this wasn’t in focus)

Give me back my POTUS!

It’s ok DQ, I’m safe. William Hurt says you can take your exlax now

I think it’s working…

It’s definitely working

Hopefully tomorrow will bring a better bm

I think so.

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?

After receiving a bike in the mail I was quickly reminded that some of my best thinking happens when I’m exloring new areas, such as Queens.

Here’s the esb from the Pulaski Bridge, which connects Brooklyn to Queens.

I rode around without any destination in mind, and eventually found myself on the Queensborough bridge, which about halfway across I realized was headed for Manhattan.

It was near this point that it became very obvious I was not going to Brooklyn.

I rode on and tried to find a bike path along the water. It took me awhile, but eventually I found it. I took this down to the Williamsburg bridge:

And then made my home.

Last night I found myself atop an old abandoned building in Brooklyn, staring out across the East River at one of the most amazing views of Manhattan I’ve ever seen.

Photos by my friend Dan.

To get to this spot, Dan led me on a path through a hole in two fences, along a three foot wide ledge, then up a gigantic staircase that led to the roof.

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

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.

Lately I’ve found myself asking the question, “How old is Sue B.?” Today as I was riding my bike home, I finally got the answer.

I saw this on Valencia street:

And I’ve had these songs stuck in my head:
Magnetic Fields-Strange Powers
Magnetic Fields-All the umbrellas in London
Magnetic Fields-I wish I had an evil twin