Maybe they're just fixing the roof. Could be they're just refurbishing an old building and making it into something useful, like a methadone clinic or halfway house for the tragically hip. But this morning as I left my house, I saw these guys on the roof of the chocolate factory (much sweeter smelling than the cabbage factory, FYI) and got the distinct feeling that I was staring at some demolition in preparation for some new construction. Can't wait. What Williamsburg definitely needs is more luxury housing.
Oh, and that much-touted new park by the water? Profoundly underwhelming. Would it kill them to give a girl some shade? Though I do like the fact that barbecuing is allowed. I'm gonna have to get me one of these.
. . . but Miranda July makes me want to take off my shoe and beat her with it until she's bleeding and screaming for mercy. I mean, just look at that picture—almost every time she's photographed, July pulls out her scared, vulnerable, protect-me face. Look—she does it here,here and here! Boo!
Women like her make me insane: "I'm just a widdle girl who never eats an entire meal and I'm a-scared of nightmares and clowns and boo boos." Wah!
You're in your thirties, bitch. Deal.
Her pretentious, cloying, stab-me-in-the-eye films are triumphs of cinematic torture. I tried to get through that dreadful Me and You. . . flick and was dry-heaving within fifteen minutes. It makes perfect sense that she started off as a performance artist! Name one thing that's more annoying than a performance artist?!? You can't, right? A cold sore on prom night is welcome by comparison.
You have my friend Kate to blame for this mini-rant. She called me up yesterday and while we were in the middle of talking shit about nothing, she mentioned out of nowhere, "I hate Miranda July."
This weeks' Seattle Weekly column is up. I realize that for whatever reason, I haven't been linking to them lately. I think it's because the paper keeps relegating me to online-only and it's getting on my nerves. But I'm going to mention this week's effort because it marks a departure from my old way of thinking.
I used to be one of those women who swore they'd never check up on their boyfriend. I would castigate snoopy friends for their mistrustful ways and just generally pat myself on the back for being above all that. Not anymore. Though I don't advocate anyone devote hours to investigating their beloved, I've heard enough stories lately that I think that in a relatively sane relationship, people resort to snooping only when they can tell their partner is hiding something.
That's not to say I check up on my boyfriend—I have no reason to mistrust him—but if I got that feeling, whoa whoa, that cheating feeling, I'd probably do a little digging.
Until I meet my new bff, the FrankenChug! Look how excited he is to meet his crazy auntie Judes! Just a-licking his lips in anticipation of giving me a nice doggy-breathed kiss!
The Big Guy and I are going to be visiting the Chug's parents in Richmond, VA this weekend. First we'll check out Frankenstein's beautiful new house (with koi pond! just like Brooklyn!) and then, as an extra bonus, spend a couple nights at this amazing hotel.
I've been looking around for more work lately and as I am the Designated Insect Killer in our house, I thought this job seemed like a good possibility:
Seeking part-time, long-term help with a growing Internet business (http://godofinsects.com/)
that deals in arthropods (collecting, breeding, trading, buying and
selling). Anyone interested in this position should be detail-oriented,
good with his or her hands and intelligent, with an interest in either
art or science (or both). Duties would include: preparing and archiving
dead insects and other arthropods, helping to rear various insects. . .
While Joe is without a doubt, my fave of the four, Mick always ran a close second. (It does not escape me that I sound like I'm writing about the Monkees.) After all, Mick wrote and sang both "Train in Vain" and, the second-best Clash song of all time, "Stay Free." (The best being "White Man in Hammersmith Palais," in case you were wondering.) Whereas Joe was the soulful, political, heart of the band, Mick seemed dirtier and in that way, kind of sexier. When I was a tiny little punk rock, I developed a mad crush on a guy simply because of his resemblance to Mick. Though he's been playing music fairly consistently since he got kicked out of the Clash, lately Mick's best known for snorting lines with Kate Moss and Pete Doherty.