Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Eh?

I went to an amazing concert last night, one that took an album I sort of liked and completely dropkicked it into the deep love end zone. Brad hauled his sick ass out of bed to take photos and I'm smacking together some kind of review for JUNK, so this morning I was listening to both bands on the bill on my iPod. And yes, I think I may have also been doing a miniature version of that bass player knee thing, but it was out of my control, and it's not too bad anyway, because that's the upper limit to the dancing you can do on the subway without people thinking you're off your meds.

Anyway, so, there was this woman on the train sort of intoning out loud from some tiny book of scripture. This didn't just fall into the usual category of annoying train noises; in the Venn diagram of things that piss me off on the subway, with circles representing evangelism, muttering, having a seat where there are none for me, this woman was the overlap between all three. I turned my music way, way up to drown her out.

I've been reading on the subway lately. Since I can't read and listen to music at the same time, it's been a while since the only thing I could hear was something I chose to listen to. I forgot how great it is.

When I got off the train and into my building I didn't take off my headphones, because the worst part of my morning is never the mass transit assholes. I would take three hours of religious chatter if it meant avoiding the unbelievably slow and crowded elevator ride to my floor. The people in the elevator are the worst, and because everyone always gets to work at the same time every day, there's no escaping the same handful of human mosquitoes piling in, piling in, piling in. There's the woman who brews a cup of tea and then leaves it on the counter all day. There's the woman with the pinched face who shakes her head at everyone. There's the man with the tiny dog. There's another man with a large dog. There's the girl who only styles the front of her hair.

Headshaker got in this morning, along with a couple of other people. Immediately she began shaking her head at me. When she reached her floor (a floor of my company, of course) she looked at me and this transpired:

Her: "Your headphones are so loud. It's a shame. You're going to go deaf."

Me: (stare)

Her: "I SAID YOUR HEADPHONES ARE SO LOUD YOU'RE GOING TO GO DEAF."

Me: (without removing headphones) I can hear you.

Her: "Your going to lose your hearing by the time you're twenty. Christ. Goodbye." (Exeunt shaking head vigorously)

Me: (stare)

The elevator doors close.

Now. Number one: fuck you. Number two: you're why I try to drown out everyone one the elevator. Number three: you were smoking a giant Virginia Slim outside, so if we're going to get down to discussions about personal health choices, Madame Glass House, let's start there. Number four: If my headphones were SO ABSURDLY LOUD, I wouldn't have been able to hear you talking to me. You don't like hearing my music. I don't like hearing your voice or seeing your face. How about we call it a draw? Number five: I got my headphones for $2.99 at Good Better Best Gift Shop in Brooklyn. Of the three adjectives in the store name, they would be classified as "good," only by virtue of the fact that it's not called the Mediocre Cheap Crappy Gift Shop. These headphones leak sound like you leak ugly. Number six: seriously, fuck you so much, fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, fuck you, fuck you.

Number seven: go deaf by the time I'm twenty? This place may have sweatshoppish qualities (no windows, bad air, workers who look forward to a consumptive death) but to my knowledge we don't employ minors. I am certainly not one.

Number eight: once the doors closed, the other guy in the elevator turned to me and said "Sucks that no matter how loud you turn your music, it can't change the fact that you're at work and it's nine o'clock in the morning."

And I said, "With people like her. All day."

To my surprise, he got off on my floor and beeped in with a card. That gives me hope.

But not enough to quell the RAGE.

Friday, March 24, 2006

Candid Camera?

I have watched a lot of Lifetime during the course of mine. Apparently this is a quality that I radiate, enough for a guy doing a reading on stage to identify me, out of an entire audience, as a "Lifetime kind of girl."

I mean, whatever. So long as what gives me away isn't a pair of mom jeans and a seasonally printed turtleneck, I'm okay with it.

I know that the "Television for Women" channel is filled with the kind of trite, sappy, overacted drama that would make even a soap fan hurl up her bonbons, but I just can't stop myself. The only person I've ever met with a more severe Lifetime addiction than mine is my high school best friend Kai, whose knowledge of every plotline, actor, and Issue featured on the channel in the last ten years is absolutely encylopedic. I mean, seriously, like, disturbing. You mention syphilis and she can't shut up about "She's Too Young," the one where some tween bangs the entire basketball team and then a whole school catches the crotchrot and someone hisses "sssslut" at someone else, but I couldn't tell you who or why because the only reason I know about it is that Kai has repeated that line at least once a week for the last two years.

But it's true. I do watch a lot of Lifetime. The movies are just so gloriously bad, so shiningly, astoundingly, bloody-head-wound-staggering-from-the-wreck bad. Meredith Baxter-Birney? Bulimic? Throwing up sixteen cheeseburgers in a dumpster? How is anyone watching anything else, ever? What else in the world is more entertaining than watching Tracy Gold stretch her bony, atrophied acting wings to play an anorexic?

I mean, besides watching Tracy Gold play a crime-solving detective divorcee former child abuse victim hunting a Satanist serial killer picking off victims affiliated with a halfway house for troubled children.

I shit you not, that one aired on Monday.

There is a point here, which is that I think a Lifetime movie might be happening right down the street from where I work. I've walked up and down the same block twice a day for seventeen months now, to and from a job so boring that the people I pass on the street are by far the most interesting thing that will happen to me all day. Without the possibility that I might see Famke Janssen's dog pulling her into traffic, or the crazy guy who makes this sort of half bark/half yell noise that you can hear for blocks, there's very little reason not to blind myself by staring directly into the photocopier.

I know the people I see every day pretty well. It's only within the past few weeks that this new girl, seemingly homeless, has taken up residence on one of the cobblestoney corners.

She is so a Lifetime movie.

She's uber-fashionable, she's always got all this eyeliner on, and twice I've seen her sketching with pastels in a bound blank book. I mean, I feel like crap about this if she's really homeless but I swear, swear, swear to God I'm looking for the cameras every time I pass her. She's only been around a few times, but it's so Lifetime I want to put on some flannel pants, grab a tub of Ben and Jerry's and pull up a chair.

If Phylicia Rashad isn't playing the stubborn, won't-give-up-on-you-yet! social worker to her hipster hobo the next time I pass her, I'm just going to write the script my own damn self.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Boys and Girls, This Is a Reminder

JUNK. New stuff all the time. By yours truly, plus other people who write better and have stuff to say. Plus it looks so lovely now. CLICK IT.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Celebrity Good Times, Come On!

I saw SNL's Chris Parnell a couple of minutes ago when I was buying hair goop and Cheez-its in Duane Reade. He looked exactly like he does on TV, except he's sort of got a booty that doesn't come across on the small screen. Well, also a bald spot, but c'est la vie. He was wearing the kind of outfit that you might see on a prep school seventeen year old, all fitted hoodie/tailored jeans/faux vintage flannel. It was also the kind of outfit that immediately makes you wonder Wait, is Chris Parnell gay?

I don't know if he is or if he isn't, but it's funny that I saw my first celebrity in a while after going to a reading last night all about regular people's encounters with celebrities. The WYSIWYG Talent Show (featuring, among others, Amnesia Sparkles and my favorite Project Runway contestant Diana Eng) is a blogger reading series, and last night's installment was called "Starfuckers." Close encounters with Sharon Stone, Mike Piazza's baseball, the American Idol judges, John Davidson, and Corey Feldman (among other barely-listers) were all described in the painstaking, gory, probably slightly embellished detail that characterizes a blogger.

I haven't met met all that many celebrities. Through my old job I met a handful of musicians who were cool enough to play the college circuit circa 2004, but I'm not sure many of them qualify as famous. I had a pretty good conversation with Nikki Giovanni once, which was real exciting for me because I'm a freaking nerd, but it isn't the kind of celebrity story I can sell to E! for the big bucks.

Well. There was also the time I pissed off Michelle Branch.

It would be a better story if it had come to fisticuffs, but I'm not a famous enough blogger to embellish it that much. The truth of it is that she was opening for Sheryl Crow, I was sitting with Brad in the second row, and she took a shine to our little buckaroo and kept looking directly over at us. That was when I decided to start making fun of her stupid hippie dance, and she caught me, and she glared at me somewhere in the middle of, I think, "Goodbye to You." I think. That could be me embellishing. But isn't that just the perfect song for her to dance The Dirty Hippie?

Any of my few other celebrity encounters have been the product of fandom or chance, and those are, in turn, the products of adolescence and living in New York, respectively. I met Toni Collette by standing for an hour and fifteen minutes outside the back door to the Broadway theater she was performing in. That's not a fun celebrity story. That's an embarrassing (and certifiable...) devotion to the movie Velvet Goldmine.

Passing John Cusack on the way home from work was my best celebrity encounter, even though it wasn't an encounter in the Merriam-Webster sense of the word. He walked past. I didn't urinate. I'd call that pretty successful. He was wearing sunglasses and a hat, and talking on a cell phone, so I couldn't even see his eyes, but he was much taller than I expected, and the sunglasses probably helped my delusion that he is still--like some hotpants version of Peter Pan--Lloyd Dobler.

Lindsay of Lindsayism.com said last night that it's horrible when you meet a celebrity, because a particularly ass-kissing part of you kicks in. Suddenly you just love every movie the person standing in front of you was in. That's true. But I almost never get to the stage where I'm in close enough proximity to their ass to do any kissing. You remember in, like, first grade when you learned about magnets? And how two north ends pushed next to each other will repel? That's me and whatever D-lister is on line in front of me at Starbucks. I don't want to look up, I don't want to bother them, I don't want to talk to them, and I really don't want to ask them to sign anything or take a picture. It doesn't matter if I've memorized every word to all of their songs or I watched their movie every week all through high school.

It's weird. I will shamelessly try to see what it is you're reading on the subway, or I will mutter so you can hear me if you shove in front of me to get on the elevator, but if I know your face from TV as well as I know mine, I am intent on leaving you alone. It's not that I'm afraid to say hi. And it's not that I think so highly of, say, a D-lister like James Iha of the Smashing Pumpkins that I don't wanna intrude on his me-time to ask him for a picture. I think the problem, as with most of my life, is melodrama.

I was seriously the most dramatic kid in the world. I've said it before, but my mother once caught me crying and singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" out my window when she sent me to my room for smacking my brother. I spent my formative years creating epic fantasies featuring whichever celebrity I would die for at the time. I had memorized dialogue for what would happen when I met Jared Leto (...and he realized I was the girl for him, and he fell madly in love with me, and we ran away to Seattle and started a band). If I like you, or your songs, or your movies, or your books, chances are I've got our meeting mapped out in my head. In all of my pretend encounters I charm you and we end up friends. To leave a meeting with someone I think about so often with just a picture (and knowing I'm just one of eighty billion flashbulbs to them) stomps right on my heart.

My bleeding, breaking, melodramatic heart.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Couch-a-holic

I left the house for about five hours in total this weekend. Which was also how long I was out of my pajamas. I think I'm going to look into being a hermit. There's got to be a way to get some company to sponsor me for living in my terrycloth green pants, surviving only on what I can get delivered, and watching Lifetime.

I don't know what's up with me. I know that my eyeballs have slowed down, and I think the rest of me is following. I've read three books in the past month, which is really unusual. Typically I can polish off a novel with three or four days' worth of commuting to work on the D train, but Love in the Time of Cholera alone took me a good two weeks to read. Including weekends. And it's not that I didn't enjoy it (even though Florentino Ariza creeped me out like no one else in all of literary history), because I did. I just think my eyeballs need a vacation. On the couch. For two or three weeks. Doing nothing more strenuous than watching Tyra and monitoring the Hot Pocket in the microwave for the telltale fissures that let you know it's reached its perfect molten state.

Well, actually, I did read another book in three hours on Friday. I think I actually might return it, that's how bad it was. But, I mean, it was Macaulay Culkin's book Junior, so I don't know what I was expecting. No, you know what? I'm not letting him off the hook that easy. I kind of like grown up, Party Monster Macaulay Culkin, and I was expecting more than I got. Which was a hundred and fifty pages in an annoying fake typewriter font. Interspersed with stick figure comic strips. And check-in points to tell you how many words you had read. And lists of his nineteen favorite movies. And six introductions and seven endings. And pages that were blank except for the tiny text (blank) in the middle. And a couple of decent anecdotes about "the main character's" dad, because it was a novel, not an autobiography, but really it wasn't either of those, because something has to happen anywhere in the book for it to qualify. Which in the case of Junior, it doesn't.

I guess what it boils down to is that I'm looking for someone to pay me to be mediocre. And I mean PAY with a capital "$". I've thought about writing a book several times in my life, and the reason I don't is because I fear in the depths of my soul that whatever I write will turn out like Junior. If you're going to get paid and get published with something that looks like it was written by a group of ninth graders who'd gotten into the Dave Eggers and their older sister's Apple Pucker, you had better be famous. Which, unfortunately, I am not.

But I'm willing to entertain offers. If someone would like to pay me to do something thoroughly mediocre, I might be down for it. Judging by this weekend, I have a natural aptitude for living my life like a shut-in, and I might be willing to write an insipid account of life in my pajamas. Or I'm sure I could churn out a couple of high school related, surefire hit ballads that are destined to kill at prom time. You all think about it. I'll be here on the couch.

Offers submitted on the back of a bag of Sun Chips (French Onion only) will be given preferential treatment.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Statistics are Fun

So I'm an admitted American Idol watcher. I'm pro Kelly Pickler, the spunky southern one. She may not have the best voice of the group but she's really charming. Not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. But still, if she won me over she's probably got the entire country rooting for her. I also like Mandisa quite a bit because she can sing, but also because she's got the balls to use one name even though she's an absolute unknown. And I love that freak Taylor Hicks. He is what every dad driving a minivan thinks he sounds like when he sings along to George Thorogood on the radio.

Chris Daughtry's going to win, though.

Anyway, here's what amazes me about American Idol, and this country in general. Ryan Seacrest opened the show by saying that in the two hours the phone lines were open after last night's show, 32,000,000 people voted.

According to the US Census bureau, only 168,000,000 people voted in the 2004 presidential election.

Shit is fucked.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Spring in my Step

It's only the beginning of March, so a lifetime living in New York dictates that there's at least one more monster snowstorm in the works, but right now all of the windows are open and you could fool me into thinking it's spring. Even in the landlocked (buildinglocked?) living room, where the only window looks out on my bedroom, there's air coming in that's cool, but in the kind of way that's an exhalation after a long, warm day.

If I'm going to be wordy about it.

Which I am because it's after work and I'm in my pajamas. It's nice to sit around and take advantage of the opportunity to write whole sentences out in the open. Having to minimize your window every time you hear footsteps walking past your cube isn't the best way to get the narrative ball rolling.

It feels like spring tonight, and even though I've been out of school for two years now I still feel like something is coming to an end. My year has never run from January to January; beginnings come in September and endings come in June, and two months of hot hiatus seperate the alphas from omegas. Even now when all I've got in the way of vacation time is two weeks and five fakeable sick days, the first signs of spring make me feel like the end is near and I had better start doling out the real estate in my yearbook.

I wonder if that ever changes for those of us who went back to one of those typical public schools in the fall, tried not to fidget through the winter, and ran away from the bees that flew in those giant aluminum windows in the spring when summer was on the way. Now that I don't even have a window during the day (summer just means taking the subway when it smells badder), I would think the first signs of spring should be about as exciting as tearing another day off my "Places to See Before You Die" calendar. Not true. A little sun during the day, and the tiniest, mulchiest breeze and I'm crawling out of my skin waiting for summer vacation, I mean Summer Vacation, three months of SUMMER VACATION. Which actually isn't coming. Summer hours are a small consolation, but this free sample of spring has got me all in a knot.

Who wants to make out?

Friday, March 10, 2006

Cha-ching! Cha-ching!

Yesterday was a day that began by putting on dirty pants and going to work. Its presumed high point was the macaroni-and-cheese-and-hamburger childhood fantasy dinner of my dreams made by Brad and eaten by me in front of the TV.

But then it ended hanging out with Lady Sovereign in front of the Annex.

My life confuses even me. Today I formatted Excel files for a good five hours and anticipate heading up to my family's house tonight in order to do free laundry. If today is to be cut from yesterday's cloth, I'll go to bed only after Brad gets a flat on the Bronx River Parkway and Lionel Richie helps us put on the donut.

The S-O-VeeeEEEE!, by the way, is adorable. I have no idea how old she actually is, but she comes across like the hyperactive eleven year old daughter of Mel C. and the Artful Dodger. Download the crap out of her stuff on iTunes, or order it on Amazon.co.uk. You'll like her, and besides, she's my close personal friend.

Lady Sovereign was flustered because word had gotten around she was going to do an impromptu performance last night. This was news to her. The performance that was not to be was the reason I went out last night, though, and the reason Brad and I stuck around for as long as we did. We killed time waiting for her to (never) take the stage by playing a variation of that "I'm going to a picnic and I'm going to bring..." alphabet/memory game. The first person names something they're going to bring that begins with the letter A, then the next person has to recite that item and add something to the list that starts with a B. The other person recites the list and adds a C, and so on until someone forgets an item, or you get to Z and you're still bored.

Here's where I win, because I still remember the whole list the next morning.

"I'm going to my Grandmothers funeral," as our game went, "and I'm going to bring an anaconda, John Belushi, some cards, Dick Van Dyke, an elf, fudge, my gyno, a helicopter, an idiot, a Juggalo, K-Y, limonada, Cindy Margolis, neopolitan ice cream, an opossum, the Pope, Queer Duck, Rage Against the Machine, Lady Sovereign, Trent Vanegas, my udders, Vagisil, a white rapper, XTC, your mom, and a zulu warrior."

Boo-yah.

That's right. When Lady Sovereign is hanging around in a booth fifteen feet away, and various cute members of various hip bands are walking around with their bangs all in their eyes and their pants all tight, I am squinching up my face trying to remember whether or not I'm bringing Vagisil to my grandmother's funeral.

Oh well. At least my grandmother's fake funeral will be a bitchin' (and spring fresh...?) affair.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

WOOOOOOOOOOO!

My littlest brother passed his road test today. This means that every member of the Cacace clan can legally (though not competently, in my case) operate a motor vehicle.

This also means that I am OLD.

At least there's someone to drive me around in my twilight years. By which I mean this weekend.

Things that are Awesome

-That somniloquy is the real scientific word for talking in your sleep.
-When books have "A Note About the Type" at the end.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Live Blogging Project Runaway: The Finale

10:01 - Andrae's not nearly so bad when he's not talking. And they show him from the angle where you can't see that vein in his head. Also, Nick is wearing a woman's scarf. I think my mother has that scarf.

10:04 - Santino works the Tim Gunn impression. It makes me love him a little, but not enough to forgive the fact that the looks like the bad guy from Candy Land. Did someone else already point that out? I don't know if I'm a genius or not. Unrelated: I hate that one ratface model.

10:07 - Chloe and Diana are concentrating on putting pockets in their thirteenth dress. Come on. Pockets. Brad and I agree that they should cut some slits in it with a boxcutter and get a fucking move on.

10:09 - I will think about making out with Daniel V's homosexual self during the commercial break. He is a-dorable.

10:15 - Chloe says she "had a lot of issues with makup and hair." Welcome to my LIFE. Also, someone stole Daniel V's ugly bags. Uh. Good.

10:19 - Closeup of Austin Scarlett. Brad and I: "Uuuuuuuh."

10:20 - I swear, swear, swear to god Karl Rove is in the audience of the fashion show. I swear.

10:22 - Daniel V's show. Shut up. He is so cute. Cute jackety skirty ensemble, really cute blouse, LOVE the white coat dress. Then there's some crapola. Then there's a good outfit. Then some more questionable stuff. Then there are some scary model nipples. Then the Project Runway model TRIPS. If she loses it for him, I will claw her eyes out. But I don't know...I'm not in love with his collection like I thought I was. When I searched for photos of it on Getty Images the day of the fashion show during Fashion Week. Because I am a serious fucking tool.

10:29 - Chloe's show. She has a boyfriend? She never once mentioned that guy. She called her collection her immaculate conception, which is weird. Amen? Christ is that first dress ridiculous. Then the next dress is ugly. Then the next dress looks like JC Penney material, ecept you can see her boobs out the side. Ugly. Then another ugly. Then some more ugly. I like the suit, I like the dress Diana made. Then the rest of the collection makes me make wretching noises out loud. Gross. I like you Chloe, but I will murder your family if you win.

10:32 - Santino's show. Shout out to his mom, which is cute. The first model looks naked in her dress. Then leather knickers, which should be illegal. Then some boring crap. A poncho. WHAT THE HELL WAS THE RENAISSANCE FAIR MAROON THING? Kind of lame overall. Santino, I expected you to be crazy, at least.

10:39 - Commerical break. Why does Freecreditreport.com have a jingle? And why does that jingle get stuck in my head? And why, when I actually needed a credit report, did Freecreditreport.com want my credit card number? Just something to chew on while we're all waiting for the results.

10:41 - Okay, Debra Messing is the guest judge? I saw her on the street and she hadn't washed her hair and she was wearing sweatpants and a shearling coat. That does not a fashion expert make. Just saying.

10:43 - NINAGARCIA is such a bitch. She's totally going to make poor Danny cry. And now she's taking a bite out of Santino and saying he wasn't true to himself. The self that she totally shat on the entire season. NINAGARCIA, I call you out! I choose you! We're taking this out on Fashion Avenue and duking it out!

10:47 - Yadda yadda yadda. Start the axing!

10:48 - Brad: "Something's stickin' out of Debra Messing's hair."

10:49 - NINAGARCIA: "Chloe's show was one note." And that note is ugly.

10:51 - Okay, they made their decision. Aaaaand there's a big commercial break. Thanks Bravo. Thank you for abiding the Reality Television Finale Act of 2001, whereby all finales must include a last minute commercial break for VERY IMPORTANT ORBITZ TRAVEL COMMERCIALS.

10:56 - No more fucking around. Heidi's making cuts. Santino didn't win! I feel a little bad. I didn't realize I liked Santino second best until now. It's okay, Santino, go back to Candy Land. Live in delicious licorice exile.

10:57 - It's down to Daniel and Chloe. NO! CHLOE WON! THIS IS SUCH BULLSHIT!

10:58 - I think I woke up the neighbors with my yelp. Okay, seriously, I'm lodging some complaints. Chloe's collection was so bad. AND the ratface model won too! That right there is two scoops of bullshit on a crapanana. Fuck Project Runway. Fuck it right up the auf hole.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Dispatches from SPACE!

JUNK is brand new and beautiful, so you should go look at it.

The last week has been so weird. Office melodrama and an unexpected cross-country visit from Dr. Andrea Rock (who, by the way, will marry anyone with the last name Star. Anyone know eligible bachelors?) combined forces to make the past five or so days completely head-scrambling.

Which may explain the dream I had this weekend. I know it's never fun to hear about other people's dreams, despite how much fun it is to tell other people about your dreams. But suck it up, because this one's a beaut. Even better than the one where Kevin Federline was an Olympic figure skater.

I dreamed aliens had landed their eggs-shaped spaceship on Earth (who were actually just people in white spandex body suits, but bear with me here) and had asked me to procure them samples of water to take back to their home planet. I wasn't sure that they weren't going to enslave the entire planet, but I was trying to be nice so I handed them three frozen bottles of water. "That's great, but we need liquid samples too."

"But come on," I said. "What's the temperature of your planet? If it's below 273 degrees Kelvin, it's just going to freeze anyway."

They grudgingly accepted the frozen samples when I pointed out that the little cubby where they were supposed to keep the water was frozen anyway. Like, all frosty like a freezer.

So the aliens were gathering their intergalatic crap together and getting ready to take off when I said "Hey, I hate to ask you this, but I just have to know. How do you guys poop?"

The alien pressed his thumb to the table and left a nearly microscopic yellow dot.

"That's it," he said.

This is what I dream about. When the planet may be on the verge of total domination by an alien species, I get them beverages and ask them how they poop.

On the plus side, I can apparently convert Kelvins to Celsius in my sleep. In some circles, someone might call me a genius.

Friday, March 03, 2006

Thank You Sir, May I Have Another?

That is the theme of my job this week. And next week. And every week from here on out.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Pi-kath-sso. Me-net.

As can be seen over at Brad's, I've got this new hobby. But I'm sort of embarrassed to say what it is, because it's only the supremest of supreme assholes who's like I go home after work and paint. As true as this technically may be, I do it while watching Everybody Loves Raymond, and I have to stop often because the nacho cheese powder on my fingers is making the brush sticky. Does this make a difference? I don't know. Yes, it does, to me. I don't have an easel, or anything. I mix colors on a paper plate and I paint on my lap, or, in a real pinch, on top of an old Delia's catalog.

Anyway, so this is the Virgin de Kathalupe:

...who I think looks a little sunburned. And a little bit like she's been sipping on the grape Kool-Aid. Why religious iconography? I don't know. I think it's just an excuse to use gold paint.

Although I clearly don't need much excuse. I likes me the gold.

So, basically, my point is that someone should hand me lump sum so large I would need to use scientific notation to put it on paper, and save me from the soul-sucking routine of office work, lest I begin painting fax machines and blue screen errors exclusively.

No, that's not my point. (Not that I wouldn't accept checks, or money orders or PayPal. Even a bag of nonsequential bills. Unrolled pennies? I've got rent to pay.) My point is actually that if you hear me say something like "I paint," or "I painted that," or "I was painting," I'm not a douche. Remember to imagine my pajama pants. This is the only time you will ever have my permission to picture me with orange cheez all over my mouth. Relish the chance.

Brad is a Bathroom Spy Extraordinaire


I defy any of you to look at that poster and tell me your entire body does not ache with curiosity.
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