Friday 3 October 2008
Movie Corner!!!
Ghost Town
Haha! What’s funny is the idea that a man with these teeth could ever be a dentist.
What isn’t funny is the rest of the movie.
Thursday 19 June 2008
“She” Didn’t Say Anything
In the park with AS.
LH: It’s this machine, whaddaya call it, like a giant oil derrick, and it pounds the earth, KA-JOOM, KA-JOOM, KA-JOOM.
AS: A pile-driver!
LH: Yes, exactly. It wakes me up in the morning. And like, my bed is vibrating and everything’s pounding.
AS: I know what you mean. When I lived in Hoboken…
In the restaurant with YL.
LH: …and this fucking pile-driving is waking me up at 7:30 in the morning. And it goes all day.
YL: How can you [redacted]?
LH: Well, the pile-driving comes in my back door, and I [redacted] by the front.
YL: (looking at check, not paying attention) I see.
On the phone with 311
LH: Does it have to start at 7:30 in the morning???
311: Construction hours are 7am to 3pm, ma’am.
LH: They can pile-drive at seven in the morning? That’s not very civilized.
311: Would you like to file a complaint?
LH: It is so loud! I can’t even hear myself scream! And it shakes my bed!
311: That’s a Department of Housing complaint. I’ll transfer you.
LH: (Sighs) Oh, all right. Thanks.
PLEASE SOMEONE RELEASE ME.
Sunday 8 June 2008
kitchen lulz!
No prep bowls?
No problem.
Friday 30 May 2008
Something that refers to sleep or sleeping or beds or shopping for beds online
I’m looking for a new bed. Boringness follows. Allons-y?
Continue reading this entry »
Monday 26 May 2008
One Pistol’s Opinion, vol. 2
White people shouldn’t wear wear white sunglasses.
Sunday 25 May 2008
One Pistol’s Opinion
For some reason, I am totally rooting for Ashlee Simpson and Pete Wentz.
They seem compatible.
Maybe it’s their hair.
Tuesday 6 May 2008
YIMBY
Remember last year when I waxed poetic about the turtle in my backyard?
That poor turtle is now a celebrity (see here, and elsewhere). This morning as I wiped down my chairs to enjoy my first al fresco breakfast of the season, there was a two-man CBS news crew in the yard next to mine, getting the video exclusive. The woman reporter spent ten minutes fixing her hair and make-up. It took about three minutes to get the story on tape.
Afterwards, the reporter said, “I’ll probably get twenty emails about this story and none about the shooting.” I wasn’t sure what shooting she meant, but it sounded wise and cynical and sad and true. And thus my morning. Watch the turtle exposé on CBS, tonight at 6.
Wednesday 30 April 2008
“A Cook in Brooklyn”
About a year ago I was made Extemely Neurotic by being asked if I had a “signature dish.” No, I did not. Was I supposed to have a Signature Dish? Did everyone else have one? Thank god Pistol was around to say something like, “I hate that question!” But then I thought, is there something wrong with me that I’ve never been asked before?
Enter Pork and Hominy Stew. It is the most delicious, satisfying, simple thing in the whole world. I made it like three times in February, five times in March, and when I was planning what to make for Big Daddy and his fiancé when they come over for dinner next week, I didn’t have to think twice. Clap clap! Signature dish.
I’m pretty psyched Big Daddy is coming over: I haven’t seen him in a very long time. In fact, I had to find out about his engagement from a third party. Our estrangement is due to the fact that his cat has been in my freezer for over a year, awaiting burial at his father’s house in Pennsylvania. OVER A YEAR. Big Daddy felt so guilty about it that he wriggled away into silence.
I foresee a few jokes about what, exactly, is the meat in my Signature Dish.
Tuesday 29 April 2008
It’s like my team won The Big Game.
Cuz I’m so highbrow, bitchez.
Son Plans to Publish Nabokov’s Last Novel
Monday 28 April 2008
…if you beat the tree with it.
I am such a late bloomer that I am just now assembling my first futon-couch, at age [redacted]. Yep, up until now I’ve been sitting on milk crates and drinking out of a tin cup!
All right, not really. It’s for my basement. Imagine: futon-couch, two folding tables, a 20-pack of toilet paper, and a ficus tree. It’s like the suburbs down here.
Anyway, the point! I think Dwight Schrute is in charge of Futon Covers Online™: The Web’s Original Futon Cover Store. For example, it’s a little weird that the various lines of futon covers are called programs. And that there’s a tutorial video. Also, this:
For $58, (the price of our full sized solid premium futon cover) which includes free shipping, you’re going to get a finely crafted American made product, with strong, vibrant color, double stitching on all sides, and a fat, nylon toothed zipper that would strip the bark off of a tree if you beat the tree with it.
!!!
Monday 14 April 2008
Real Life
Our advisory council has been warning us about dreamblogging, telling us that if we persist we must at least make a new category, T.A.D.L.A.R. (obvs), to warn readers of its mind-numbing content. Well, I’m not in the category-birthing spirit right now, but I must recount LAST NIGHT’S DREAM.
Jemaine from Flight of the Conchords said he loved me. I was skeptical. To prove it he wheeled a three-tiered dessert cart into our hotel room. What an extravagance! Chocolate cakes, caramel custards, blueberry tartlets, sticky toffee pudding, pink and yellow and cupcakes, parfaits and trifles, mousses and flans…
I took a hairpin out of my hair and slid it across the table. “The only thing I have to offer you is a hairpin,” I said. He put it in his pocket, and then all our friends came into the room and we feasted on the desserts. Everything was delicious.
It’s funny: after I got D’ed, I thought I’d never want to get hitched again. And now I’m married, or at least dream-married. It seems to be working out pretty well.
Send your Amazon gift cards c/o mirror.meta@gmail.com.
Saturday 29 March 2008
The calf’s nose
I know that the supposed point of blogs is that they offer up-to-the-minute commentary on stuff that’s happening right now, which is why newspapers are dying and the world is ending and all, and hence, that it’s kind of pitiful to write a post about something that was in the New Yorker two weeks ago, but the thing is that until yesterday, I was convinced I would never blog this blog again. Because the other important thing I know about blogs is that they are actually completely pointless, and soon nobody will read them [does anyone read them now? –ed.], or anything else, because they’ll be too busy sending text messages from their brains or whatever.
Anyway. I read Peter Schjeldahl’s mini-review of the Met’s Courbet exhibition in the March 17th New Yorker, and it made me wish they gave out hot-shit literary prizes for pieces that are one column long and under 200 words. Because this is the loveliest writing I’ve encountered so far this year:
Edgar Degas said that looking at Gustave Courbet’s paintings made him feel as if he were being nuzzled by the wet nose of a calf. That’s an apt analogy for a tremendous Courbet retrospective that invades the Metropolitan Museum with pungencies proper to barnyards, bedrooms, and buggy dells. Courbet is the most purely forceful—because he’s forcefully impure, spitting on purity—painter of all time. (Among the Old Masters, only Tintoretto comes close.) “Realism,” his byword, describes less his method—a talented mélange of cunning and not so cunning, brazen artifices—than effects that stupefy the mind as only reality, when it overloads the senses, can. Vision is addressed, but vicarious touch and smell take delivery. Courbet’s drenching seascapes should come with towels and his steaming nudes with towelettes. He revels in the quiddity of paint: moist dirt. His art isn’t about life; it is life precipitated, with raucous panache. Nothing could be better therapy for a bodiless society of cybernetic narcissicisms than the mad wallow of this show.
Fuck the man! I’m awarding a citizen’s Pulitzer! Because that is some serious knife-in-heart brio.
Friday 28 March 2008
nightfreak
Last night at Youpers, Glen said something, and then I said something, and then Glen said something, and then I said, FUCK YOU, GLEN! and Glen said, In your dreams! and then while my poor soupy brain was trying to work up a comeback, Glen said, In your MARRIED dreams! and then Lefty and I were all, hahahahaha! and Glen turned away to pour us more drinks, and the drinks were free, and they’re always free, and Lefty said, God if dude only knew, and I was like, What? and she was like, You and your married dreams–y’know, implying that I’m pervy–so I made the Lady, I’m innocent! face, and then I said, Which tattoo do you think he got first? If I had to warrant a guess I’d say the big ship, and Lefty said, Maybe you should make a documentary about Glen’s tattoos, and I was like, Totes.
Then I got all the bartenders’ emails to invite them to my big-deal milestone birthday party next week (27!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) because I’m inviting all my friends, and bartenders are my best friends. Besides Lefty, of course. Glen said, I’ll give you my email as long as you don’t send me any pictures of cats playing with balls of yarn and cats hanging from tree branches–HANG IN THERE!–and cats playing the guitar, and so on. Lulz.
Then I went home and had a dream that I was giving the best bj of my life–which, folks, is not really saying much–to a hot terrorist. My mom was really afraid of him. Not that she was in the room! That would be gross! This was earlier, when he was painting my hallway. Because he was also a housepainter. (Long story.) I wasn’t scared in the least. The hot terrorist was just a man to me. Who, I just remembered, happened to be spectacularly well-hung. Yeesh!
Do you want to know something weird? When you search for “sexy terrorist” on Google Images, this comes up on the first page:
Which brings it all back around to Glen. Sort of.
P.S. IT’S LEFT HOOK’S BIRTHDAY!
Wednesday 26 March 2008
The Unlikely Heartthrob
Richard Widmark. 1914–2008.
He’s been in my Fantasy Film League ever since I saw Pickup on South Street, still one of my all-time favorite movies, many years ago. Sam Fuller, what else do you need to know? I think it’s a perfect film. And Widmark! My god the man had talent by the fistfuls.
(stills pinched from Jump Cut.)
Talent, and integrity. Here he is quoted in the Times.
“The businessmen who run Hollywood today have no self-respect. What interests them is not movies but the bottom line. Look at ‘Dumb and Dumber,’ which turns idiocy into something positive, or ‘Forrest Gump,’ a hymn to stupidity. ‘Intellectual’ has become a dirty word.”
He also vowed he would never appear on a talk show on television, saying, “When I see people destroying their privacy — what they think, what they feel — by beaming it out to millions of viewers, I think it cheapens them as individuals.”
Anyway, the sadness never ends. Until it ends!
Sunday 23 March 2008
SUNDAY FUCKING MORNING!!!
Monday 17 March 2008
The limits of credibility
Let’s see…
McGrath said that because he is on the Times staff and sometimes writes about books, he and his daughter do not talk about her work and she had not told him the Jones memoir was hers.
Either dude is a total liar, or the worst father in the world. Because come ON.
(NYT)
Thursday 13 March 2008
The part where she says the lyrics.
I’ve been telling people (okay, really just Pistol) about my new favorite radio show, Fair Game. It’s like they went into my brain, analyzed the funny receptors, and figured out how to pump the required elixir through the air. I suggest you try it. The first segment of today’s episode was full of quintessential yuks about everyone’s favorite whore.
nightcreeps
Just when you think Dr. Freud has been safely tucked in bed, thumb in his mouth and flask of whiskey between his knees, a dream like this comes along (T.A.D.L.A.R-ing one and all?):
My father had a terrible backache so, being a nice daughter, I rubbed his back gently. But even my light touch made him wince (shades of crybaby ex-husband?). Anyway, after a while my father got up, reached out, and CARESSED MY BOBES.
There aren’t enough shudders in the world to convey how grossed out I am at myself.
Wednesday 12 March 2008
Whore, Unmasked
How incredibly creepy is this article about Spitzer prostitute “Kristen,” with its strange nonchalance and weird cataloguing of her MySpace page? The tone is un-Timesy–it seems more like a puff piece about a runner-up for American Idol than an article about some sad girl with pitiful music-industry strivings who fucks 50-year-old men for money.
Tuesday 11 March 2008
No escape…
