It appears my finding output in New York is not just limited to photos, clothes hampers, and “Inside the Actor’s Studio” vhs tapes. While walking home from the grocery store, I saw a familiar fro lurking in a pile of trash.
It was a perfectly playable telesync bootleg of “Knocked Up,” and the quality was surprisingly good. Here’s a screenshot:
I could get used to this. The humidity here, on the other hand, is not something I’m used to. It’s so oppressive that it’s raining outside and I am sweating inside (literally).
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.
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.
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.
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.
Have you ever wondered what happens when you find a stranger in the alps? Apparently the answer is that a crazed, obese, Vietnam vet will come to your house, shout in your face, and then, after procuring a crow bar, he will beat the shit out of your neighbor’s new car.
Last night I watched an “exhausted” Paula Abdul throw a hissy fit after her two incredibly incompetent assistants were unable to produce a pair of sweat pants and white shoes for her on the mind-blowing premiere of “Hey Paula.” I would enumerate all the amazing behavior, but Slut Machine has already done so, complete with a montage of all of Paula’s best wasted moments. Check it out.
And then there’s this video.
I’ve gotta give these guys their proppers for taking a misogynistic, lustful ode to women with ample backsides, and turning it into a worshipful, chaste ode to women with ample, hardback bibles.
This is a parody of this video, which is equally amazing. I saw both of these ladies last night as they treated Los Angeles to a version of their New York show, Obsessed. They interviewed Tommy Wiseau, a vaguely European-ish man, who has a lazy eye, amazing hair, and who wrote, directed, and starred in a film called The Room. Below are a couple of scenes from the film.
I love the adr in this scene so much.
And lastly another episode of The Michael Showalter Showalter.
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.” Read the rest of this entry »
