Friday, March 31, 2006
Do you know where your parents are? Mine are in Tuscany. Mom took this with her cellphone from her hotel room, where she's hugging the bowl because she's come down with the flu that my Dad had last week. At least one of them is having a great time.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
To put these theories to the test, for one month, I have committed myself to an extreme daily regimen of sipping whiskey in the dark. Other than the bruise on my shin, so far so good. 3 days in, and I don't really even crave electricity or beer anymore. Only when I dance. Anyway, I'll make sure to record my progess and share some anecdotes as I morph into a fithy rich skinny broad.
And once my lips are nice and distracting, I'm sure I'll continue to f*ck with myself until I look like this:
P.S. For more fun, go to www.awfulplasticsurgery.com and see if you don't get fired for cruising it all day.
P.P.S. Liz sent in this picture, because it is "terrifying." Indeed. La Toya can't stop toying with herself. This time, her tummy. Eeeeeew.
And now it's got razor wire around it. Why did I not choose a banking career? Years ago, I used to lament: "I'm going to wind up in a trailer." Meaning: owning or renting my own trailer. That dream now seems like an unaffordable possibility. My new future: "I'm going to wind up in somebody else's trailer. Dead." Lame. Because you know it's going to be tacky inside.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
These Mini Storage Bags are advertised as "Versatile for storing everything from paprika to paper clips." I usually see these bags on the sidewalk early on Sunday mornings and I've yet to see any paprika or paperclips lying about. The bag is usually empty, but the condom it's lying next to is not. Interesting. What people won't do for a bag of paprika these days! It's a damn shame. What has the world come to? We should just legalize paprika again. And paper clips. Enough already.
Here's me again. This time, on my way to Drunk Town at Jacob Worth's (supposedly Beantown's oldest bar or something like that) with the babes from Get Mortified! Giulia and Sara and I were just discussing how goddamn funny it was when I left my camera behind on the train. Oh my God! SO FUNNY! Heeeee heeee heeee! Not good times, great times! So glad someone had a camera to record that hilarous moment.
Okay, I'm now off to leave my cellhphone somewhere, with all my numbers in it, never to be seen again. Where? I don't know, but when I figure it out, it'll be too late to do anything about it! It's going to be hilarious!
And now I need 8 thousand and NINE dollars, because I just found out that some douche threw my lunch away from the office pantry refrigerator on the 41st floor. Or, stole it. Either way, I wish total ass blow on that person, because there is no excuse that I will accept for this crime. So read up, thief: I make less money than you, AND, my lunch wasn't fouling up the fridge like that opened can of clam sauce that I threw away last year at another firm. Plus, why are you going around dealing with someone's salad. It's not like it was a yogurt or a jello snack pack, something worth stealing. So, you're a jerk. Enjoy your ass blow. And please, if you're a lady thief, I do hope you work on another floor, because if you're the same broad who messes up the john, I'm going to be really bummed. It just might push me to write something terrible about you on this very public blog that millions of people read everyday, and you'll never steal lunch or pee on the seat in this town again, Missy Pissy, I promise you that much.
And incidentally ,since you're so into the fridge contents, I thought you mightlike to know that the container in the fridge that says Breast Milk? It's full of sweet Hazelnut Coffeemate. Oh, and that bottle of Hazelnut Coffeemate in there? The one you've been sneaking pours out of for your morning coffee everyday? It's actually Half n' Half. Half sweet Hazelnut Coffeemate n' half breast milk. Hope you liked it.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Minutes earlier, I was the only customer in the store, peacefully making photocopies, and he was busy sitting on a stool eating chicken wings. As soon as heard me open the drawer to fill it with paper, he comes flying over and says to me, "Can I help you with something" but he said it in a way which doesn't mean an actual offer of help but instead means "Don't do that" to which I replied, "No, I'm fine, thank you." And then he said "OK, but don't do that." And I go, "Do what?" and he's like, "That. Don't do that without asking a manager." And I go, do what? "Fill it with paper?" and he was like, "Yes. Read the sign."
And the sign said nothing about not filling the copier with paper, and he goes, "Yes it does." And I go, "No it doesn't" and he goes, "Yes, it does" and well, clearly he was being a huge dick. Long story short: My last words in that store were, "WELL, SIR I SPEND 200 DOLLARS A WEEK IN HERE AND YOU JUST LOST MY BUSINESS, YOU JACKASS!" and I flipped him the bird.
It felt good, because a hot guy had just walked into the store and heard my dramatic exit. But I was kind of bummed, because although it was satisfying to yell at that old man, I loved my cat pissy store, and I wasn't prepared to take my business elsewhere. I hate Duane Reade. The spending "$200 dollars a week" thing in there was a lie, but it's probably not too far off--for ten years, it had been a convenient and pleasant shopping experience, minus aforementioned back corner carpet odor, of course. So, I boycotted them for about 2 weeks. Maybe three. Until last week, Sunday and tonight. Just had to pick up a few little items, cat food and whatnot. But here's the thing, I'm not a scab, because the manager I brawled with doesn't even recognize me. Plus, I pull my hat down and run around the aisles quickly, always with my back to him. Maybe Toussaint would do things differently, but I'm still techincally boycotting. I'm boycotting eye contact.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Seen enough what? Standup Keyboarding? Hell no, I don't think so! Look what internet dating hopeful WestchesterScott thought would be a great photo to attach to his email to me because it says "Sensitive, talented, Renaissance man" and Standup Keyboarding is so hot, and Yanni does it, and ladies can't resist a bald middle-aged man, jammin it up in black denim and black sneakers, on the tiered keyboard, in front of tens of people, in Westchester. Delete.
Here's a picture of me and Gregg Allman at the ABB show last night at the Beacon-- snapped right after I proposed to him with a bouquet of pink roses and a copy of his own band's DVD. He was polite about it, and acted all surprised and stuff. He was like, "Wow, thanks for the DVD, want me to autograph it for me? Oh, and yes, of course I'll marry you but not until you lose the mustache."
Oh, well. Marriage is all about compromises, you know. Cher didn't understand this, and that's why he repeatedly beat her. But he won't lay a hand on me. This kind of abusive behavior doesn't tend to repeat itself. Plus, my love for Gregg is stronger than my love of my mustache. And everyone knows just how much I love facial hair, so it's really saying something.
People already call me Anne Allman, so the whole name changing thing isn't going to really be an issue. But, our love for each other is so strong, that we've decided to mutually hyphenate.
Anne and Gregg Allman-Altman
Mr. and Mrs. Gregg Altman-Allman
(we haven't really decided yet how our stationery is going to look)
These are the Allman Brothers Band "fans" at the Beacon Theater rockin' it out in appreciation*.
You were at the Allman Brothers Band concert last night, not Lame Fest '99. Was the smell of weed not a clue? Now, I understand that at Lame Fest '99, the crowd likes to sit in their seats the entire show, give dirty looks to those who dance, throw ice at those who stand, and bitch about people interfering with their faggot taping equipment. But you weren't at Lame Fest '99, you were at the Allman Brothers Band. Did you see any t-shirts in the lobby emblazoned with Lame Fest '99? No, you did not. Were they selling any CDs titled Lame Fest '99? No they were not. Did the sign on The Beacon Theater say Lame Fest '99? No, it did not. You are lame.
p.s. For all you real fans of the Allman Brothers Band, my suggestion is to buy a ticket on the floor. The balcony is for the infirm.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Hey, all you hot guys out there who are tired of being objectified by women and stared at like just a piece of meat? Slap a yarmulke on your head! You'll go from Hot to Not in seconds. To me, anyway. I won't bang ya. Hell, a foam Wisconsin Cheesehead hat trumps yarmulke in the sexy department, are you kidding me? I was burned a few times on my way to work this morning. From a distance, I see a seemingly hot guy strutting down the street. Upon closer inspection, the dude's wearing a yarmulke. Lame. Ditto for Pope beanies, turbans, hijabs, habits, burkhas. Is someone going to come after me because I have a yarmulke cartoon on this post? Bring it. Your hat's lame.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Principles, people. Principles.
Alpha Romeo can't believe you don't remember it...
Orange you glad I didn't ask you about my Alpha Romeo?
Yeah, but you did. A bunch of times.
Want to get together this week for another drink?
Uh, I'm good. Thanks.
I'm a tool.
I'm a pack rat. A horrible slave to sentimentality. Because when I was young and thought life was going to be great and that I'd grow up to be somebody pretty incredible--a real somebody, that even nobodys wanted to know--I found it necessary to save all my "important" correspondence and mementos for my children and their children and my presidential library. Stuff like the break-up note from Glenn Peterson. What a worm. I wonder if he remembers asking me out. We were a couple for about two days. He said "Will you go out with me?" nervously by my locker on his way to the boys room on Friday afternoon, called me on Saturday, and broke up with me on Monday morning. In a note. Which he didn't even give me himself, but instead first to Aaron Perlow, who passed it along to me sheepishly with an "I'm sorry..." in French, and I hyperventilated during the whole class, and Mrs. Michaels asked me if I wanted to see the nurse but I was too embarrassed to that, so instead I bawled my eyes out in the girl's room. He asked me to "go out" with him and we didn't go friggin' anywhere before he dumped me. What the hell is that sh*t? Anyway, I read some of this sh*t at Get Mortified's Boston Debut on Saturday night and --save for the 20 drunk Massholes who thought they were there to see Andrew Dice Clay--it was friggin' awesome. It would only have been more awesome had I drank champagne from my actual 1980 something junior prom champagne glass emblazoned with our prom theme Wishing on a Star. Back then, I had fantastic, dewy skin. I also had 15 extra pounds, a huge perm, and no clue. Oh, youth is wasted on the young, isn't it? It sure is.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Just got my new headshots done. This is my favorite. I find that it showcases my grace under pressure. Not to mention my long arms and sweet f*cking ass. Incidentally, how many of you knew that I was also an accomplished dancer? Not many of you. Add it to the list, folks--add it to the list.
I'm thinking about dedicating a blog to the subject of grandmothers. "Why My Grandmother is/was Better Than Yours. My Grandmother punched Your Grandmother right in the Nours." Because everyone and their grandmother thinks that their grandmothers were the best, even though you know that they couldn't possibly be as great as your grandmother, right? Remember when you were a kid and your friend would constantly rave about how great his grandma was and then you'd meet her and you'd say to yourself, "Please, my grandma is so much better." Or "Wow, I'm so glad I have my Grandmother and I don't have that grandmother, she is a bitch!" So, tell me why you think your grandmother was better than mine and I'll tell you do you one grandmother better and prove you wrong.
*Please note that this photo is not of my grandmother. She looks nice and all, but please, my grandmother was way better than this broad. And besides, Grama had too much class to be talked into Geriatric Glamour Shots.
Once I introduced myself and a friend to this dude known as "booger". Since I'm terrible with names, and this one was way easy to remember, I said booger like 1,000 times: "Hi, Booger! I'm Anne. How are you, Booger? Hey, Booger, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine! Booger, meet Jay. Jay? This is Booger..." and so on. Later that evening, I came to find out that nobody calls him Booger-- to his face. Ah, well. Ouch. Poor Booger. He must have been so confused.
I went on a date last week with a guy who happened to go to my college. We had established that he had graduated before I had arrived, missing one another by a year. We ordered a few drinks. Then we had the following conversation:
Him: So, do you remember my Alpha Romeo?
Me: No, I don't think so.
Me: Yeah, but you graduated before I got there, so I never saw it.
Him: Oh Yeah.
....10 minutes later....
Him: So you don't remember my Alpha Romeo?
Me: No, I don't.
Me: Blue? (long pause)..... Nope, don't remember it.
That guy is a tool. See also: lame.
1)Skeletons of a giant and a midget
3)Pott's Disease Skeletons
4)Skull Collections, including the Muniz collection of trephinated Peruvian skulls (trephinated means 'holes cut in them' folks)
5)"Brain Of A Murderer" - John Wilson hanged in Norristown, PA
6)"Brains of epileptics"
7)Longitudinal slices of the head, showing brain
8)Brain of animals arranged from tiny frog to man, often with eyes attached
9)Large collection of baby deformities (stay away from Accutane, ladies and try Proactive).
10)Hearing apparatti of mammals in butterfly collection-like cases.
11)Photo of Lyndon Johnson lifting his shirt to show off his gall bladder operation scar
12)Wax Renderings of Eye Disease Problems
13)Iron Lung in the polio exhibit
14)The Big Colon
15) Objects swallowed and removed
16)The thorax of John Wilkes Booth
17) The secret tumor of Grover Cleveland
Pick a favorite! It's almost impossible to narrow it down!
Monday, March 13, 2006
Talkin' to myself and feelin' old
Sometimes I'd like to quit
Nothing ever seems to fit
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down*.
What I've got they used to call the blues
Nothin' is really wrong
Feelin' like I don't belong
Some kind of lonely clown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down*.
Funny but it seems I always wind up here with you
Nice to know somebody loves me
Funny but it seems that it's the only thing to do
Run and find the one who loves me.
What I feel has come and gone before
No need to talk it out
We know what it's all about
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down*.
*(If I'm at work. If I'm home, please note I have no complaints about rainy days and Mondays. I actually think they're friggin' awesome)
Friday, March 10, 2006
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
It's not a birthday party unless the birthday girl falls down and goes boom. I fell down and went boom. However, let it be known that I did not spill my drink, and I did not drop my glow sticks.
I gracefully resumed tearing up the dance floor, so put that in your bing bang and smoke it.
I did not fall down at my Sweet Sixteen party, as it was all very innocent. With one exception--the cake. I requested a Prince Purple Rain design. I was so ahead of my time. I do have photos of the cake somewhere, but I was into photography and shot them in artsy black and white. And let me tell you something, black and white does not convey the rich combination of sweet purple and brown bi-sexual frosted goodness.
A Birthday Song I Wrote
(Sung to the tune of "Camptown Races")
Oh, if you're bummed 'cause you feel old
Buy a bunch of sh*t for yourself
All the doo-dah-day
Buy some shi*t all night
Buy some sh*t all day
If you're bummed 'cause you feel old
Shoppin' makes you feel ok
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Have you ever felt like taking a friend to small claims court just to retrieve a book that you've had to pester him about returning for 6 months so you can lend it to someone else? The one that you lent him over a year ago, that you know he hasn't even read, because you realized later on into your friendship that he's not a reader he was just posing as one, and you shouldn't have lent him one of your favorite books in the first place, because he was never going to read it? Really? Me too.
p.s. The book is Waiting for My Cats to Die by Stacy Horn
p.p.s. Don't ever lend a book to Jimmie
p. p. p. s. Yeah, I ratted him out; he'll never read this
Monday, March 06, 2006
This magazine has some great gifts for the American of the Heartland--take for example, your very own Coney Island Popcorn Machine! Is it not like a dream gift or what? And a must-have for every real American? The thing is almost 5 feet tall! Excited about that? Wait 'til you hear about this. If you click the popcorn machine on Heartland America's website, it shows you other gifts you may be interested in too and Americans who bought the popcorn machine also bought 101 Knives. Ever get a lousy 100 Knife Set? Lame, right? Well, you won't feel short-changed with this beauty. Is there anything more American than owning your own popcorn machine and 101 knives? Ok, probably some other stuff. But picture this, you can invite 101 of your closest friends over for some movie theater quality popcorn and a look at your dagger collection. Then you can stab each one of them in the back with a different, beautifully handcrafted knife. Made in China. Decidedly American!
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah I'm so great
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah You're so great
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah We're so great
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah Isn't this great that we're so great?
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah
Friday, March 03, 2006
Dear Upstairs Neighbor,
Your constant vacuuming makes me feel not only like a terrible housekeeper, but it also begs the personal question: Do you and family suffer from some sort of genetic disorder that makes you uncontrollably shoot breadcrumbs out of your asses?
If so, my sympathies--no doubt a terrible affliction like this is so rare, that not only is there no name for it, but there must be little or no research devoted to a cure anytime soon. Nobody's wearing little tan ribbons or doing Walk-A-Thons for this one just yet.
But while we hope and pray for that cure, might I suggest perhaps switching to a low-carb diet? I'm no doctor, but there's a chance it could save your life, your carpets, and quite possibly my sanity.
Your Downstairs Neighbor
Hair Cutting Umbrella
"This handy hair cutting umbrella catches those annoying hair clippings that fall down your neck, into your clothes and onto the floor. Imagine no more sweeping or vacuuming. No more itchy, irritated skin. Great for kids or adults. Fastens comfortably but snuggly with a "touch" closure. Made of wipe-clean nylon. Folds for compact storage. 22" diam.
Rests on Shoulders Like an Upside Down Umbrella to Catch Messy Hair Clippings"
"You'll look like a million in this elegant 3-piece pant set. It features a slimming, hip-length royal blue tank top and matching straight-leg pull-on pants. Topped with a gorgeous, sheer floral jacket with flowing scalloped edges. Sophisticated, comfortable and so easy to take care of in machine wash-and-dry polyester. Imported. Specify 1X, 2X, or 3X"
For centuries, humans have been putting stuff on cats. And the more they hate it, the more we love it. When your infant grows out of her "Meat is Murder" onesie, throw it on your cat. http://www.stuffonmycat.com/index.php?catid=12&blogid=1
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Non-ash: What is this thing on your face? I see it a few times this morning. (heavy Italian accent)
Ash: What do you mean? It's Ash Wednesday! You're Roman Catholic, aren't you? (heavy Long Island accent)
Non-ash: Yes, and as you know, I grew up in Italy.
Ash: Rome, of all places, if I'm not mistaken, correct?
Non-ash: Yes, Rome. And we don't see this there. Never. You wear this on your face all day? (points to smudge with wide-eyed disbelief)
Ash: You're an Italian Roman Catholic from Italy, and you're telling me you've never seen ashes on the forehead before.
Non-ash: Never. Never in my entire life have I seen this. All day in the office with this black on your face?
Ash: You're kidding me. I mean, the Pope himself, has ashes on his forehead, I'll find a picture of him. The good Pope. The old one, the one who died. He was the good Pope. Are you telling me you don't get ashes on Ash Wednesay in Rome, Italy?
Non-ash: Well, yes, we do, but you know maybe what I think, it's that it's white ash, and they just sprinkle gently around your face, not a big black smudge that you wear on your face all day. This is Manhattan, no?
(Please note, this is not the exact lady who won this particular Lotto, but she might look something like this. Thrilled.)