out of order: the tomlin

Mawwiage, that bwessed awwangement

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Mon, 12 May 2008 04:25:00 +0000

Lately I'm beginning to wonder if there's something wrong with my lack of interest in marriage. Many of my friends are happily married or engaged, and tonight I found out that a friendly acquaintance has just been married for the second time. I have known him through his first marriage, his divorce, and now I know him as a married man again. Of course I wish him and his bride the best, but some strange part of me wonders if I'm lagging developmentally. Shouldn't I be dreaming of the white dress and honeymoon? Instead, the main appeal of my own hypothetical wedding is the copious amount of expensive cake I'll be able to shove into my mouth.

Don't get me wrong; I'm genuinely happy for my married friends, and I get happy/weepy at their weddings. But when I think about being married myself, I become anxious. I imagine that when you are married, you are not allowed to eat cereal for dinner, or to walk around pantsless in a nonsexual way, or to take off for a solo vacation, or to sleep alone. I like doing all of these things. Maybe my opinion will change over time, but I have been dating for about 15 years and have yet to worry about becoming an old maid.

Weller Feller

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 05:58:00 +0000

Oh, Paul Weller. They don't make men like they used to. I've always had this thing for quasi-mod style, particularly when peacocked by dark-haired young men. Hedi Slimane does too, to an extent that perhaps Paul deserved a royalty check from Dior.

I love how dorky Tony Wilson is here, too.

bfd for dvg

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 04:05:00 +0000

In high school, I had two great record-store crushes. The first has become a music writer, and when I looked him up a few years ago, I was disappointed to learn that his flirtation with becoming a cad had mutated into a full-blown love affair. He was condescending toward me in a way that amused me more than anything else. So I'm happy to keep him filed away in the mental box of happy teenage memories.

And then there is Derek, who everyone called DVG. He was one of my favorite people back in Kalamazoo; he was always drawing on scraps of paper, and I still have a tiny post-it note with one of his scrawls on it. Some drunk guy had come into the store where I worked, and as I told him the story, he drew a hilarious caricature of the man. I loved it. And so I was so happy to open the New York Times and see his work next to letters about Wagner's ring cycle. (Which, of course, reminds me of Marc, and brings two good people together in one happy thought.)

meatybones

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 05:00:00 +0000

After watching the new Madonna video, all I could think is, "Ugh, I have got to go to a gym." The woman is 20 years my senior, and she could probably knock me down just by flicking her pinky at me. Strong woman. Still, there's something sad about Madonna's claim that she works out for three hours a day. It's not that I don't believe her; it's that she's one of the world's most powerful women outside of government, she's dripping with money, she can do whatever she wants to, and yet she spends an eighth of her day exercising. Were I in her position, I would not do this, but maybe she likes it.

Lately I'm worried that I should be exercising more. My doctor says my blood pressure is "below normal," which makes me think it's only a matter of time before my heart stops completely. Which, of course, it is, but I'd hoped to have at least four more decades before that happens. And I could really do without people telling me that I have "meat on my bones," which then makes me think that I look doughy or something.

I feel OK with my body for the most part, and I feel healthy, so what reason is there to go to a gym? Even if I did wind up looking cut like Madonna, I wouldn't really get credit for it because I'm not pushing 50. My plan, instead, is to start working out around age 45, so then people will marvel at my flexibility. I'll be like Jean Brodie, a woman in her prime.

FOB yob

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 22:11:00 +0000

Personally, I might take this story about Pete Wentz with a grain of salt, especially because it was published on April 1, has terrible Photoshop work, includes the phrase "cosmetic derring-do," and has a link to a picture of a certain short-legged Munchkin cat announcing April Fool's Day. But amusingly enough, a few legitimate magazine blogs have reported it as fact. Oh, sweet triumph.

The green stuff

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 05:22:00 +0000

By nature I am a somewhat anxious person when it comes to money. I often worry that I'm not saving enough, that I'm not making enough, that perhaps I should take on a weekend job just to create more of a nest egg. When I started my first salaried job, I dutifully socked 8% of my income away in a 401(k) (and of course, now at 9%, still I worry that it's not enough). I credit this financial freakiness to a childhood spent knowing that we didn't have enough money, and when we did, it wasn't always spent wisely. I love my father, but at age 77, he still hasn't mastered this very simple concept: Spend less than what you earn.

This is why I am constantly trying to figure out how to save more money. Especially now that I am almost 30, I feel like I need to invest more of it. I love the magic of compound interest and I already panic that 22 was too old to start investing my money. There are only a few problems with this:

Make 1.5 times former salary, yet banking the "raise" makes me feel like I merely pay higher taxes but do not benefit from bigger paycheck.

Am scared of investing outside of 401k. 401k is like warm, tax-deferred blanket. Mutual funds are like unknown, potentially scary blanket made of snakes.

I don't really have any furniture. Aside from the bed, everything was bought on Craigslist. My dresser was $30, and although I don't love it, I don't really need a new dresser, and therefore I cannot bring myself to buy a dresser that will ultimately lose its value.
Oddly, though, I am not cheap. I donate to various good causes each month, I don't buy only generic food at the store, I eat out at least twice a week. But lately I just don't want more stuff. Not even the things you supposedly need, such as a dresser made within the last 60 years.

Like I said, I'm a little anxious about it.

I'm here to ruin your day!

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Sun, 23 Mar 2008 01:26:00 +0000

In my iTunes, I label songs in their proper genre (Power Pop, Punk, Hip-hop, Soul) but sometimes I give songs special labels. So, for example, a fuzz-pop Markus Acher track is "Morr-ish," for the Berlin-based label, as are all songs that remind me of a certain sound. And Bunny in the City is the only song whose label is simply "Awesome."

And then there are those filed under "sad-bastard music," which I listened to today. I wasn't in a sad mood (emphasis on the past tense), but while cleaning my apartment, I thought it would be perfectly fine, until Johnny Cash came warbling up. (Lem!) So, in case you, too, were having a lovely day but need a little pathos to sink it, here you go.

So spot-on

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 00:36:00 +0000

After the debates

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 05:24:00 +0000

I watched the debates while working late tonight, and I think this was the night that Hillary unofficially lost the election. She'd fallen out of my favor weeks previously when Bill made the questionable reference to Jesse Jackson back in South Carolina, but I don't think she actually lost until tonight. Compare Obama's calm, collected, emotional and rational approach to her defensive, angry one; one is the behavior of a leader, and the other is not.

When Obama won Iowa, I got choked up seeing his acceptance speech. And it's not just because I like most of his policies or that the man knows a nice ass when he sees one. (I kid, I kid.) Seeing the one-time underdog there with his wife and daughters made me so happy that finally, there was a possibility of change, a possibility that someone other than, well, a white dude, would be in charge.

Although she would have also been a groundbreaking candidate—at least on the patriarchy-smashing tip—Hillary never stirred that sort of inspiration in me. While I don't need a politician to be inspiring, I'd at least like to admire the way she leads. Years ago I saw her speak at Umich, and she was intelligent, articulate, funny, great. But her behavior during the campaign has not been that of a good leader; she's been alternately vicious and vulnerable, gracious and cutthroat. Her policies are very different from those of Dipshit Bushie, but her inability to admit mistakes reminded me so much of him.

And yet. I trust Hillary about as far as I can throw her, but in a way, I mourn her eventual defeat. If there's one thing we've seen with this campaign, it's that she was systematically, consistently treated differently from other candidates because of her gender. The comments on her "cackle." Rush Limbaugh's misogynist ramblings about whether she looked too old. Blame for being too emotional, blame for not being emotional enough. Having to do a story for Us Weekly — a tabloid! — about her worst looks over the years. And so on. And so I have to admire her for her perseverance, for her ability to laugh off the "jokes" made at her expense, and to continue on. So even though she wasn't my candidate, I feel a little defeated myself.

That's my bag.

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 02:58:00 +0000

The day before I left for Fashion Week, I realized that if I was to make it through even one day, I needed a giant bag. Since the only one I had was a weekend tote, I picked up a cheapy patent "leather" bag at Forever 21 during my lunch hour. It turned out to be a lifesaver due to its ability to swallow my normal needs (wallet, grooming items) as well as press passes, snacks, folders, a camera, and a recorder.

There's something enjoyably, secretly subversive about attending fashion shows while toting a shitty $18 bag. There's something so gauche about it that I couldn't stop laughing, and oddly enough, carrying the bag in question made me immune to the stares of well-heeled fashion types. I mean, if you don't play the "whose bag is more fabulous" game, you kinda win by default. Nobody cares what you're wearing, although, in a weird turn, I received compliments on my crap bag. Go figure.

Based on my observation that the less fancy your clothes are, the less vulnerable you are to mean fashion snobs, I plan to show up wearing a potato sack and flip-flops in September. Watch out, Anna Wintour!

Fashion Week

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 04:59:00 +0000

I have just returned from Fashion Week, which is one of the longest weeks you can imagine. I have a feeling that people envision a nonstop party, and for some people that's probably true. For me, it meant transcribing until 2:30am and being at a show at 7am to cover the beauty trends. (Let me tell you, nothing makes you feel gorgeous like being surrounded by gaggles of 18-year-old models before dawn.) So while it was a productive week, it was also a long one, and I am very happy to be back to my simple little life.

The model above was among my favorites. Every time I saw Bruna, I couldn't help but stare; her face is intriguing, and her nose has a funny little bump in it that makes her face so much more beautiful than it would be with a "perfect" nose. She always looked sad, though, or maybe she was just annoyed that I was giving her the "why so beautiful?" gaze.

Glaringly absent from the runways: Black women, again. It blows my mind that I can attend a show that has two dozen models walking the runway, and not a single one is black. Most shows, if they have any black women, have one or two who are flanked by Eastern Europeans and Brazilians and, occasionally, an Asian-American model. It just floors me that so many shows continue to act as though black women don't matter. It's a sad state of affairs when America's Next Top Model, a fake modeling show, features more women of color in any given season than Fashion Week does.

Alternate title for the most recent PT Anderson film

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 04:49:00 +0000

There will be boring.

Haircuttery

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 05:24:00 +0000

Since leaving Chicago, one of the things I've missed—along with a decent brunch—is the talent of my hair stylist, Mitch, who works at Michael & Michael. He's great, he doesn't charge an arm and a leg, and he just knows how to read my style. Plus, he moved into an apartment across the street from me right before I left, and we were beginning to be buddies.

I have now gone to two of the fancy, written-up-in-Allure salons here, and, well, I think I may become one of those annoying people who winds up only getting haircuts when in New York. In October, I had a fantastic trim from Mordechai Alvow at Pashah. It looked great the day of the cut, and it grew out beautifully. Today, though, I realized that I was getting a bit mullety, so I made an appointment at Fancy Salon Place.

As you can see, it's not a bad cut per se. It's just not the most astounding one, you know? I think that when you spend three digits on a haircut—something I do not enjoy doing, and have never done before—it should make you feel like you have shampoo-commercial hair.

the joy division documentary

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 03:13:00 +0000

Last night, I was at the U.S. premiere of the Joy Division documentary. This sounds like a big deal, until you realize that the film was completed in 2006—or so says IMDB—and so it's not like I'm ahead of the game or anything. Still, it was fun to be in a tiny room with a gaggle of geeks in dark clothing.

The film is great, and footage of the band inevitably reminds me of why I like a band that split up when I was still spitting up in my mother's arms. But I think that's part of the reason there's still a hunger for Joy Division; their music still feels innovative and fresh and relevant nearly 30 years after it was released. Could have done without some of the purple-prose quotes from fans and the New Order-ers, but all in all, it's a good documentary.

After the film, one of the producers stuck around for a Q&A session. One woman asked why the film featured Annick Honore, but not Deborah Curtis. (Exactly the question on my mind.) To paraphrase, the producer said that they chose to film only Annick so the viewer wouldn't be conflicted about how they viewed Ian.

"Bullshit," Sabrina later said. "They just couldn't get Deborah to do it."

I think she's right, and on a larger level, shouldn't a documentary present facts, not merely the more easily digestible parts of someone's life?

flowers in january

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 08:05:00 +0000

Once again, I didn't make any resolutions this year. I halfheartedly toyed with the idea of doing so before 2007 expired, but then I tried to do the actual things in question (exercise, write better) and gave up in an unremarkable philosophical shrug.

Here are the excuses I continually make so I won't have to do these things:

exercise
1. I am not in completely horrible shape. In fact, people who see me think I am in great shape simply because I am thin. (Little do they know that I get winded after running a block or two.) Body still looks good, therefore must be healthy.

2. I eat well, therefore my cholesterol and such stuff must be fine, just fine!

3. Don't smoke, etc. Will live forever!

4. Gyms are corny and expensive. I would enroll in the Buffy Summers Ass-Kicking Academy if such a thing existed, but it doesn't.

write better
1. Would actually have to write something of consequence, which would siphon valuable house-cleaning and cat-grooming time.

2. Have little to talk about outside of house-cleaning and cat-grooming time.

3. Cannot write more than a paragraph without realizing that I am a hack, etc.

4. Have started secret cat blog for Milo. (I think it's safe to say that Hemingway, despite his love of polydactyl cats, would never have written in the first-feline voice.)

Perpetually 17.

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Thu, 29 Nov 2007 00:59:00 +0000

Sabrina and I were IMing at the end of the work day, and I said, "We're unfun." And then, because I can't talk about ANYTHING without bringing up some trivial thing about punk rock, I brought up the Jawbreaker album of the same name, and we had a good dance down memory lane. That album contains "Want," the most nervewracking song you could possibly put on a mix tape for a crush. (Do kids make mixes anymore? I doubt it.) Aside from some skeevy slow-jam, is there any other song that's a less subtle admission of a crush? Or any song that would make you melt more? The older I get, the more excited I would be to find this on a mix CD. (See above half-joking transcript for evidence of my shallow, silly and juvenile daydream, which is pretty similar to this.)

One little in-joke is funny. Stretching it to a larger one is inversely so, but I sometimes can't help myself. Sabrina and I talk about starting a band called Monarchs of Laze, heavy on keyboards and bass, and this is the cover of our first seven-inch. You can say you knew us when.

Public transit

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Tue, 06 Nov 2007 06:13:00 +0000

Now that I have a Blackberry for work, the particulars of my daily commute have changed. Sometimes I'll write in my notebook, and on Thursdays I like to read my fresh-from-the-mailbox New Yorker in a haphazard manner. (First, the letters; next, the back page; finally, Talk of the Town.)

But on most mornings, I like to fire up the puny browser and read the New York Times editorial page. I don't know when doing so became part of my morning routine, but it makes me feel a little better and more informed when I get off the bus. Part of me still believes that newspapers can give you excellent fodder for conversation, and although I very rarely encounter anybody who wants to discuss that morning's paper, I like to be prepared.

The commute home is another story. At that point, I've read almost everything I want to read online. My eyes are tired. I just want to be home already. If things go well, I get a seat near the back of the bus. And because I have a Blackberry, I can send (unfortunately true) messages like this:

Ugh! On bus and cannot escape creeps! Just fled from furious masturbator only to find bearded tooth picker!

Halloween costume. Maybe.

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 06:47:00 +0000

I can't sleep, so I decided to pull a Halloween costume together. I swear this isn't becoming a Morrissey-themed website, but I had everything in my closet.

Obviously, the glasses aren't quite right-and then there's that whole "I'm not a flamboyant British man" thing—but for taking only five minutes to do this, it's entertaining enough. But few people would actually get the costume, and I'd be mistaken for a sullen, flower-loving drag king. (Which is fine but it's not the costume.)

Radio Shocked

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 02:09:00 +0000

During the move, I somehow lost a motley assortment of belongings: dinner plates, underwear, a Japanese phrasebook, and so on. I found the plates, but never found the power cord to my stereo. A few weeks ago, I took a different bus home than I usually do; since it dropped me in front of a Radio Shack, I figured it was time to buy a new power cord.

The store was empty, save for a white-haired man working at the counter. Overwhelmed by the number of cords and doo-dads, I asked him for help. He directed me to the proper cord, and as I was paying, he complimented me on my hat. "Women don't much wear hats anymore," he lamented.

"Neither do men," I said. "I love it when men wear hats. I was born too late for that, though."

"Well, you look like you're a very young woman," said Mr. Radio Shack.

Truthfully, I love it when people tell me this. It's not out of vanity, it's out of a love for my grandfather, whose great public joy was asking people to guess his age. Well into his eighties, he was mistaken for a 64-year-old. Even allowing for some fudging out of politeness, he was lucky. So I love this game, too.

Mr. Shack guessed I was 22 and I laughed before revealing my actual age. Then he asked me to guess his age. It is always, always best to wildly underestimate (which he may have been doing with me). So I said, "Hmm. Sixty-one?"

Then it was his turn to laugh. "Nope, I'm in my mid-seventies," he said gleefully. A beat. "You can't tell because of the face lift and the Botox."

At this point I was about to come back at him with a hilarious joke about how it was the same for me, but Mr. Shack kept going on: "Yep, the face lift was about 11 years ago, and I get Botox every five months or so to keep the wrinkles at bay..."

And until I gently excused myself, Mr. Shack regaled me with tales of thwarted furrows and banished wrinkles.

Jokes that aren't that great

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Thu, 25 Oct 2007 07:29:00 +0000

Either I am not funny, or few people get my jokes. I think the truth lies somewhere in between. The other day, I was telling Jeremy about my friend's disarmingly beautiful stepdaughter, and he said, "Like a female Tadzio, right?" and I was all "Haw haw haw, HAW HAW HAW" too loud, because I genuinely appreciate a book joke. Especially if I get it.

A few weeks ago, while waiting for a notoriously slow elevator, some people were making small talk about its excruciatingly slow rise to our floor. "You just wait and wait forever for this thing," one person said. "I know, it's like we're waiting indefinitely," another added. "We should call it Godot," I said. Silence.

Sometimes I feel bad for enjoying a good literary chuckle. I feel like I shouldn't get such a kick out of somewhat obscure references, and that there's an inherent snobbery in doing so. But then I backpedal and think, "Well, it's not my fault that people aren't reading books as much! They're missing out on all sorts of wonderful things!" (See how I conveniently bolster support for personal snobbery while pretending to care about society at large?)

Not a New Yorker.

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 07:09:00 +0000

I spent many hours on a plane to go to New York this past weekend, and I spent almost as much time trying to understand how I'd become so slow, pokey, clumsy and quaint—in essence, everything that New Yorkers are not. The city has always drawn me to it, making me fall in love with it only to quickly give me reasons why our love can never be. (That reason usually has to do with the low salaries of the publishing industry and the high rents of the five boroughs.)

During this visit, I did a housing swap with a Brooklynite who lives in the nicer part of my old neighborhood. It was strange to walk down 7th Avenue, to enter Prospect Park where I used to enter it on weekends, and to stroll by the apartment where Todd no longer lives. It was like taking a tour of the best and most challenging parts of my early 20s, and ultimately, I was glad that it was only a tour. You couldn't pay me to be 22 again.

At the park

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 05:17:00 +0000

My mom and I had some travels; voila des photos! (voici? voila? I need more French classes.)

Of course I remain loyal to my little friends the squirrels. This one crawled into my bag, seemingly aware of the fact that nobody could love the little nut-nibbler more.

Things my mother said while visiting, an abbreviated and humorous tally

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Mon, 15 Oct 2007 01:11:00 +0000

"I didn't need to see that phallic symbol."

"Well, for all we know, he could be a Hasidic Jew."

"I bet you haven't cleaned this litterbox in a week!"

"Now, what exactly is the Embarca-cardio?"

"Where is your Scrabble? Why is it that every time you break up with a boyfriend, you lose your games?" (Ed. note: I would argue that I lose my game, not games.)

A brief but important aside

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Sun, 30 Sep 2007 02:39:00 +0000

I don't know why this particular misspelling seems to be so common, but here it is: sneak peak.

Peak is the top of a mountain. Peak is the apex.
Peek is the proper word. Peek means to take a stealthy look at something.

I've been seeing this pop up frequently on websites (including those of magazines, which ought to know better) and I don't know where it came from. But it's becoming one of those tiny things that drive me nuts. On the annoyance scale, it's the spelling equivalent of hearing someone masticate.

Wednesday night follies

noreply@blogger.com (annie) — Thu, 27 Sep 2007 03:12:00 +0000

I was deep-cleaning my apartment tonight, when Minou started to do his chirpy meow. (He only does this when he sees something of great interest.) He and Milo were staring at a winged insect. I grabbed the camera, knowing something entertaining would happen. And here you go:

I'm so embarrassed by the junkyard in the apartment, but truly, it is normally not like this! I just picked a bad time to clean like crazy.