The video we did for U2. (Ok, the video David Brodie did...)
5/31/07
5/24/07
Tom the Cat
i love dogs, but cats are more like people; you've got outgoing ones, bitchy ones, sweet ones, mean ones, off-balance ones. the only reason i'm more partial to cats at this point in my life, is they're more self-sufficient. you can't leave a doggie in an apartment for 3 days the same as you can with a cat.
anyway, here's Tom. he's my favorite little guy from one of the best sites on the 'net: www.stuffonmycat.com
anyway, here's Tom. he's my favorite little guy from one of the best sites on the 'net: www.stuffonmycat.com
5/21/07
the opposite of ordinary
What's the difference between a revered, creative genius and Sam, the stream-of-consciousness homeless guy i pass everyday who wears colorful necklaces and wants to marry me. Brain chemicals? Ability to channel? Upbringing? Is the line between crazy and eccentric dictated by the proclivity to suppress; to blend in? I find myself toning it down a lot. People seem to like me better toned down. I've never known how to feel about this.
What's the opposite of "crazy"?
Mena's character in American Beauty thought ordinary was the worst thing a person could be. She worried about it so much, you wondered if she wasn't fighting it.
Beyond what intelligence level is "ordinary" no longer possible?
I suddenly feel down.
What's the opposite of "crazy"?
Mena's character in American Beauty thought ordinary was the worst thing a person could be. She worried about it so much, you wondered if she wasn't fighting it.
Beyond what intelligence level is "ordinary" no longer possible?
I suddenly feel down.
5/20/07
no bridge for this troll
I don't mean "troll" in an insulting sense, rather a descriptive one.
Old, 4-foot-something, round blob, looks a little like Robert DeNiro. She's not explosive like the mama in Throw Mama From The Train, but walks like her. She's extremely wary of all humans. I guess she's just waiting for the next person to screw her over.
This was supposed to just be a 1-month sublet. From her questions, she clearly thought I'd make huge messes, never clean up, cook up masterpieces that would linger in the apartment fabrics for months, and parade all kinds of rifraff through the place, She was giving me such a hard time at one point, I told her, "Well clearly this isn't going to work out. Sorry I took up your time." That brought on a true one-eighty.
The reasons I moved in were simple: it's in Central Square, on the quiet, secure 9th floor of a concrete building, I've got my own large bedroom & adjoining bathroom, $750 includes all. (And since I split her cable, that's not just wireless anymore.) The only thing I have to deal with is her. How the 1-month sublet became a 1-year deal is not very interesting or surprising. I was busy with a new job and well, she's a pushy thing.
My lord, she's always here. Either perched on her kitchen stool hunched over her computer, or asleep in a chair in the living room. That's right, she sleeps sitting up in a chair. The front door wakes her up, so whether I'm coming or going, I give her a nice wave as I beeline to or from my section of the apartment.
She doesn't want me eating in the bedroom, and it's hard to sneak stuff when she's here. Last night I got Indian takeout and sneaked it back here in a gray Clinique bag they gave at their last bonus time. If I'm starving in the morning, I take my red coffee mug, fill it with milk from the refridgerator, and bring it back to my room. I'm sure she thinks I'm going to sit in my room and drink the milk like a little kid. Ha! Think again, troll. I've got cereal in here. I pour the cereal into the mug and eat it with a plastic spoon. Spoon gets thrown away, mug gets rinsed out. She has no idea.
She has her own bedroom, technically. (Pictured below.) Just don't know how much room there is for her in there. There's so much stuff, it's hard to focus one one thing. And all her stuff is absolute crap. There's a metal orange lamp in the living room that, if it works, might be the only thing of any value in this place. Other than that, it's like a Goodwill donation center. Nothing matches. Old paperback books and spiral notebooks fill the bookshelves, while cardboard boxes and packing materials fill the closets. And this place stinks. Musty old lady smell. Under the sink is a foul smell like a small animal corpse.
I bought a vacuum a few months ago– one of the new Hoover wind tunnel ones that desn't use a bag. The first time I vacuumed the place, the canister became so packed with dirt and fuzz and particles, it dropped into the trash like clumps of housing insulation.
Fifteen more weeks of sneaking food around and old lady smell. Then I move into my new spot in Washington Square with 3 girls MY AGE and two cats.
Living with troll has forced me to address my own packrat tendencies. I've become pretty diligent about getting rid of everything I don't use or love. And I've made a list of all the things I'm not going to move to Washington Square with me, so I have 15 weeks to burn through my stack of New Yorkers and a small pile of books. Read 'em, then get rid of them. At the moment, I'm on "Why Girls Are Weird". It's a fun little novel about a girl living in Austin, TX, who's in denial about being over her last boyfriend. When I'm done with it, I could just leave it on one of the troll's bookshelves. I'm sure she'll be carried out on a stretcher before she ever notices.
Old, 4-foot-something, round blob, looks a little like Robert DeNiro. She's not explosive like the mama in Throw Mama From The Train, but walks like her. She's extremely wary of all humans. I guess she's just waiting for the next person to screw her over.
This was supposed to just be a 1-month sublet. From her questions, she clearly thought I'd make huge messes, never clean up, cook up masterpieces that would linger in the apartment fabrics for months, and parade all kinds of rifraff through the place, She was giving me such a hard time at one point, I told her, "Well clearly this isn't going to work out. Sorry I took up your time." That brought on a true one-eighty.
The reasons I moved in were simple: it's in Central Square, on the quiet, secure 9th floor of a concrete building, I've got my own large bedroom & adjoining bathroom, $750 includes all. (And since I split her cable, that's not just wireless anymore.) The only thing I have to deal with is her. How the 1-month sublet became a 1-year deal is not very interesting or surprising. I was busy with a new job and well, she's a pushy thing.
My lord, she's always here. Either perched on her kitchen stool hunched over her computer, or asleep in a chair in the living room. That's right, she sleeps sitting up in a chair. The front door wakes her up, so whether I'm coming or going, I give her a nice wave as I beeline to or from my section of the apartment.
She doesn't want me eating in the bedroom, and it's hard to sneak stuff when she's here. Last night I got Indian takeout and sneaked it back here in a gray Clinique bag they gave at their last bonus time. If I'm starving in the morning, I take my red coffee mug, fill it with milk from the refridgerator, and bring it back to my room. I'm sure she thinks I'm going to sit in my room and drink the milk like a little kid. Ha! Think again, troll. I've got cereal in here. I pour the cereal into the mug and eat it with a plastic spoon. Spoon gets thrown away, mug gets rinsed out. She has no idea.
She has her own bedroom, technically. (Pictured below.) Just don't know how much room there is for her in there. There's so much stuff, it's hard to focus one one thing. And all her stuff is absolute crap. There's a metal orange lamp in the living room that, if it works, might be the only thing of any value in this place. Other than that, it's like a Goodwill donation center. Nothing matches. Old paperback books and spiral notebooks fill the bookshelves, while cardboard boxes and packing materials fill the closets. And this place stinks. Musty old lady smell. Under the sink is a foul smell like a small animal corpse.
I bought a vacuum a few months ago– one of the new Hoover wind tunnel ones that desn't use a bag. The first time I vacuumed the place, the canister became so packed with dirt and fuzz and particles, it dropped into the trash like clumps of housing insulation.
Fifteen more weeks of sneaking food around and old lady smell. Then I move into my new spot in Washington Square with 3 girls MY AGE and two cats.
Living with troll has forced me to address my own packrat tendencies. I've become pretty diligent about getting rid of everything I don't use or love. And I've made a list of all the things I'm not going to move to Washington Square with me, so I have 15 weeks to burn through my stack of New Yorkers and a small pile of books. Read 'em, then get rid of them. At the moment, I'm on "Why Girls Are Weird". It's a fun little novel about a girl living in Austin, TX, who's in denial about being over her last boyfriend. When I'm done with it, I could just leave it on one of the troll's bookshelves. I'm sure she'll be carried out on a stretcher before she ever notices.
5/19/07
It's Time
I Should Have Written Before Now
It seems so final; the words on the page. Sure, you can go in and edit, but i don't see myself doing that. I'm going to have enough trouble keeping up with the present tense; forget going back to edit the past.
I've procrastinated for years now, busying myself with cleaning, or making nervous lists or most recently, Six Feet Under from Netflix. (yes! welcome me to 2003. it's great to be here...) for YEARS. So what's changed?
Better Now Than Never
I'm just tired of the excuses to myself. And I got a wake-up call this morning.
Literally, the guy woke me up. I'd pranked him– his voicemail really– about a month ago when I randomly found myself in an Uno's bar with his friend, Joe or Bob or Pete or whatever his name was, after he followed me out of a focus group we'd just sat through for two hours. I put up with him as he walked with me down Comm Ave. I wouldn't tell him what I did for work, as i find most people i meet off the street all have the same tiresome thoughts on advertising. And I didn't feel like doing into my "rocks and dirt" thing I usually give people I meet on planes. (People don't know ANYthing about rocks & dirt. It's so great.)
There we were in the bar, when he wanted me to start prank-calling some of his friends. I love pranks. Alas, there were only voicemail pranks that evening. Even though he's called a time or two, I haven't talked to that Pete/Bob guy since. No reason I haven't called him. Just no reason TO call him.
Jeff, one of Joe/Bob's prank-callees, called me this morning, wondering who i was. I told him straight-away, and after that we started talking about diamonds and dogs, and about how unfair it is, that a girl's best friend is an over-valued thief-magnet, while a man's best friend is the most awesome thing you could own. We talked about his buddy Joe/Pete/Bob and how he tucks his shirts in and how it seems he forces his hair to do things it doesn't want to do. I almost want to call him just so I can have a chance with that hair. When he asked about my accent, I congratualted him on being the 3rd person in a 48-hour period to ask me that. I wouldn't mind telling people where I'm from, if it didn't illicit nearly the same reaction in people: the ANNOYING reaction.
Am I alone, in that I hate having the same conversation with different people over and over again??
Actually, Tom Wilson expresses it nicely. Enjoy:
Thanks Jeff, for telling me to write my brain down. We'll see how long I keep this up.
:)
-JH
It seems so final; the words on the page. Sure, you can go in and edit, but i don't see myself doing that. I'm going to have enough trouble keeping up with the present tense; forget going back to edit the past.
I've procrastinated for years now, busying myself with cleaning, or making nervous lists or most recently, Six Feet Under from Netflix. (yes! welcome me to 2003. it's great to be here...) for YEARS. So what's changed?
Better Now Than Never
I'm just tired of the excuses to myself. And I got a wake-up call this morning.
Literally, the guy woke me up. I'd pranked him– his voicemail really– about a month ago when I randomly found myself in an Uno's bar with his friend, Joe or Bob or Pete or whatever his name was, after he followed me out of a focus group we'd just sat through for two hours. I put up with him as he walked with me down Comm Ave. I wouldn't tell him what I did for work, as i find most people i meet off the street all have the same tiresome thoughts on advertising. And I didn't feel like doing into my "rocks and dirt" thing I usually give people I meet on planes. (People don't know ANYthing about rocks & dirt. It's so great.)
There we were in the bar, when he wanted me to start prank-calling some of his friends. I love pranks. Alas, there were only voicemail pranks that evening. Even though he's called a time or two, I haven't talked to that Pete/Bob guy since. No reason I haven't called him. Just no reason TO call him.
Jeff, one of Joe/Bob's prank-callees, called me this morning, wondering who i was. I told him straight-away, and after that we started talking about diamonds and dogs, and about how unfair it is, that a girl's best friend is an over-valued thief-magnet, while a man's best friend is the most awesome thing you could own. We talked about his buddy Joe/Pete/Bob and how he tucks his shirts in and how it seems he forces his hair to do things it doesn't want to do. I almost want to call him just so I can have a chance with that hair. When he asked about my accent, I congratualted him on being the 3rd person in a 48-hour period to ask me that. I wouldn't mind telling people where I'm from, if it didn't illicit nearly the same reaction in people: the ANNOYING reaction.
Am I alone, in that I hate having the same conversation with different people over and over again??
Actually, Tom Wilson expresses it nicely. Enjoy:
Thanks Jeff, for telling me to write my brain down. We'll see how long I keep this up.
:)
-JH
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