Friday, September 24, 2004

There's a bona fide bar brawl!

That's all I needed to read. Well, that and "There's Tyra's exceedingly hideous wardrobe!" May not have caught it the first go 'round, but I'm definitely going to watch the replay tonight @ 9. Sweeeeet.

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Pst. Mary-Kate.

What? Make it quick. The photog's like totally takin' our picture.

K. Are you hungry?

Very funny, biotch.

No, seriously. I hear it's like Yum Skipper tonight.

Yom Kippur, loser. So what?

Uhm, wanna celebrate it?

Why?

We could be cool like Madonna and be Jewish...

Nah.

You have to fast on Saturday...

.... K. Let's do it!

But you'll have to eat a big meal before sunset so that you can take the hunger pains...

Heehee, oh yeah. Right. Cool.

HAPPY DAY OF ATONEMENT FROM MK AND A!


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Thursday, September 23, 2004

My concept of Hell on Earth?

So I get these regular E-mails from my alma mater's career center called "Temp Time." I used to receive them when I was in school and strapped for cash. I never bothered to remove myself from the distribution list, so now I just peruse the listings at my leisure. You can judge this one for yourself. Rest assured: I will NOT be competing with you for this position...

Organization=Deb's Family Disco

phone= XXXX

Address=XXXX
City=NY
State=NY
Zip=10036

duration=This Saturday, Sept. 25th
and also future Saturdays if interested.
Approx hours: 1-5 pm We're
incredibly flexibleand are happy to work with your
schedule....so even if
you can't work every saturday, that's ok!! Call
immediately,because we're
really looking for people for this weekend.

Compensation=$10/hour

description=This is the most fun jobyou will see Columbia -- Promise,
absolutely!! You'll beworking at a disco for kids, dancing with kids,
decoratingthem with tatoos, stickers, and glitter, serving birthdaycake and
clearing tables, (so being a hardworker is a must!),and mingling with the
families who come. Come get paid tohave fun!! You'll love every minute
of it! Everyone whoworks here is so nice, and it's a great working
environment.

Qualifications=Great personality and a person who likes to
have fun!


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Poor Bob

Let us turn a blind eye to the fact that the first sentence here is, "This 'Bob' in his birthday photo."

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What do you think good ol' Bob is thinking, folks? Help me? Save me? Why, God, why? Take your pick. And, um, are those leg. warmers. on each of his front legs? Oh, the humanity. Or lack thereof.

Also suspect is the statment that, "Bob slept for about two days after [the birthday extravaganza]." Was that two days ago? I.e., is Bob still "asleep"? Are you sure he hasn't slit his doggy wrists? Hm. Poor Bob, indeed.

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3 Months and Gnashing, er, Counting

That's right. Today marks the precise time when, three months ago, I began my (not so clean and shiny) new job. Who knew I would be doing such glamorous things such as those that I did just yesterday? More specific, you ask? Well...

Super creative head boss wanted dinner reservations at an uber-schmancy Upper East Side restaurant at 7:30 for two. Ok, no problem. I know for a fact that this particular restaurant has lept into the 21st Century and signed on to open table: a website where you can make hassle free reservations (sans bitchy hostesses and maitre d's). As the webiste proclaims, "Be your own Maitre D'!" Alright, sir, I will! The really cool part about the site is that a restaurant has to hold tables open that can only be booked on the website. So in the event that a phonecall to the eating establishment yields a, "We're all booked," Open Table often times will yield an all signals go.

Anyway, yesterday the site was down (as far as the restaurant I wanted was concerned), so I had to do it the old fashioned way. Call the hostess. Anything available at 7:30 for two?

"We have a 10 o'clock table available."

"Do you have anything available for [hoity toity] who [does this important thing]?"

"Let me speak to the manager."

[Holding... holding... Ok, biotch, answer the phone.]

"Hi, we can seat him in the lounge/bar area at 7." Lounge/bar area? I know he won't like that (very much), but I agree. End of that. Or so I think.

About ten minutes later the manager herself calls me and (she must have) realized the err in her hostess's ways for booking my boss in the lounge. Big hoo ha manager apologizes and says that the UN events in town have meant that the restauarant is consistently overbooked. Okay, whatever. I guess those suits really like to lunch and dine in between meetings about whether or not our sons, daughters, and friends should die overseas. Politics aside (for now), the manager said that my boss would be much more happy at 6:30 because he won't have to wait and will be seated immediately at a VIP table in the main dining room (not the bar/lounge area). I agreed. What's 30 minutes earlier?

Called my boss to confirm the 6:30 reservation. "No, that's bullshit. They said 7. Tell 'em we want 7!" Gooh. Call minion hostess back. Fast forward past much grumbling and phone call transferring to manager's cell phone. Hurray! 7 o'clock in the main dining area it is! We've done it! Success! Fast forward 20 minues. "Hey, my wife has a problem. She can't make it. Call 'em to cancel." Ahem. What? Grrrrr. The glamorous life I do lead. So with that, happy 3 month anniversary (or whatever) to me.

Cycle 3: MIA

As mentioned, I did not see the premier of America's Next Top Model. Instead, I went to a really great dinner of swordfish carpaccio, striped bass, and white wine with C. and work-related friends. Nonetheless, I actually was seriously bummed about missing the TV event of the season. Everyone at dinner took their jabs at me for admitting my guilty pleasure, after which they all went home and set their Tivo's and DVR's to record. Uh huh. Who's crazy now? What? I know I will catch the re-run soon. Here's to a hilariously terrific car crash of a cycle.



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Wednesday, September 22, 2004

I flew in to London, and BOY are my arms tired!

Do not under any circumstances read this unless you are prepared to either: a) laugh uncontrollably, or; b) hold on for dear life to your straight face. You've been warned.

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I'm Irritable

Why? Well, since you asked:

* Last night I literally ran out of the office (after obligitorily waiting for all of my superiors to leave) so that I could make my (now) new favorite spinning class. I recently switched gyms from my old one to my new one. I used to spin on Tuesday nights with Gina at the old gym. But since I've switched, I've had to bite the bullet and take spinning without a friend. I finally found this Brazilian lady who's awesome. Her music is totally new to me (mostly of the Brazilian and/or dance variety) and she gets up off her bike and dances around and encourages all the spinners. Problem is, she's so popular that her class fills up quickly. So after racing to the gym from work last night, I learned that I would have to settle for #3 on the waitlist. Blah. So I did regular, not-so-creatively-fun exercise.

* I also was informed by C. that we have dinner plans at 8PM tonight. This disturbs immensely me because these plans directly interfere with the television event that I have anxiously been awaiting for months. How DARE you mess with my Cycle 3?! Heh. Ok, so I'm only mildly annoyed with this fact. I'm sure that they'll re-air it a budgillion times. But still, the live-esque nature of the event is of a modicum of value that is not lost on me. See my picks below.

* I am tired and do not want to be typing on a computer at work. Me need a vacation...

* Speaking of which, I am trying to fashion a (relatively) long break from Christmas through the New Year. A connect the dots of vacation days, if you will. I want to take the 3 or 4 work days between my company Christmas and New Year's days so that I can go to Europe or somewhere for 12 days. Three probelms. First, there's my whole 'I was a straight A student and never missed a day of school because absences equate to weakness and poor performance and lack of commitment' psychosis. Second, my administrative superior to whom I must notify of/from whom I must request time off (re: pretty young girl who married a French guy) is very stingy with the time off and also (most irritatingly of all) AL-ways forgets, come time for me to be off, that I have requested said time off. Lastly, I'm almost positive that everyone and their mother's best friend will want to do this. Being the lowest totem on the pole of company importance doesn't really help my chances of being granted my wishes for time off. So, here it is not even October, and I'm already dreading my to-be vacation in December/January. Ugh.

* I'm only on my first cup of coffee. That will change very soon.

Drone's "Snap" Judgements: My Picks for Cycle 3

1. Amanda? J. Crew's down the hall. PS: Lose the Lance Armstrong bracelet. I know it's for a good cause, but that fashion ship has sailed.

2. Ann? While the drawstring jeans are phat(!)... nyeh. I hear that Wet Seal is looking for bitchy salesgirls, though. Next!

3. Cassie? I'm on the fence with this one. She seems to have potential, so I'll put her aside for now.

4. Eva? Nice pose, but buh bye.

5. Jennipher? Are you kidding me with the "ph"? That is so phreakin' phabulous! No. When someone advised you that you needed a cool new modely name, they meant something like Yvanka or Tiiu. Not to alter the spelling of your actual name. Loser. Stay a bartender; that's my advice.

6. Julie? I'm glad that she's "East Indian and wants to create a new image for Indian women," but Vogue's not going to be knocking down any of Julie's doors. She reaks of a token candidate. Good for Julie and Tyra for trying. But, no.

7. Kelle? Please follow Amanda to the J. Crew shoot down the hall. Thanks.

8. Kristi? Nice chin. Even better pose. So natural! As Donald trump would say, you're fired!

9. Leah? The hat. The eyes. The make-up. The open mouth. I think the Phat Asian Baby has a job connection for you when this whole thing doesn't work out.

10. Magdalena? I think this girl cussed at me on the subway the other day. Tyra, please give us something to work with, here. Simply put: no.

11. Nicole? Former punk rocker? Get ready for another "former." Former Cycle 3 contestant. Man, I'm really losing faith now.

12. Norelle? And just when I was going to call it quits and slit my wrists, there's a little glimmer. Her hair's gross, the make-up's too much, and the beak is a little pelican-like.

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Looks a little, ney a lot, like a seriously anorexic Ashlee Simpson; but so far, she's the best that I can see.

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13. Toccara? Hm. Well, in the spanish language "tocar" means to play (like a guitar). Methinks that Tyra's trying to play her audience like fools if she thinks this lovely girl who "has a very positive outlook on life and dreams of becoming the world's first superstar plus-size model" is going to win this competition. Throw another "token" in the bucket with Julie. Nice to see Tocarra, but unfortunately we'll be seeing her go. My guess is that they'll keep her around for a while, just long enough to get her hopes up. Then they'll drop the axe.

14. Yaya? Now, from what I can see in this photo, Yaya is damn cute. She's cute enough to pull off that name and make it seem cool and modely. I wish she were a little bit taller so that I could call her a lock. But I can't. She is pretty short for all the giraffes running around out there in the wilds of Bryant Park. No promises but, judging by this photo, she's got a good shot.

So what've we learned? Norelle and Yaya are my picks, while Cassie could be some sort of dark horse. Mind you, this is all based on one single solitary photo of each girl. We haven't seen them move or how they respond to being in front of a camera. Also, we haven't seen the most important part, their personalities... 'cause who a person is inside is such a MAJOR part of what makes a top model. Psh. Right. Here's to a great cycle. Wow, that sounds creepy.

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Friday, September 17, 2004

"I trust God speaks through me..."

Who, pray tell, uttered the above words? Was it the Pope? Nope. Was it the freaky tarot card reading psychic that I sometimes pass on the Upper East Side? Ney. Was it a bible toting fundamentalist whack job? Close. It was none other than the always eloquent George "W is for Women [please]" Bush. According to monkeyman, in his. own. words (to paraphrase): he would not be doing his job if God were not speaking through him. In a techincal sorta I'm getting all thinky on your ass way, I would have to agree with Dubbya.

I do not believe that God is speaking through him. Therefore, according to his own equation, there's no way he could be doing his job. Check. But I didn't need an equation to tell me that. I CERT-ainly do not believe that he is doing his job. Therefore (according to Bush's equation), God ain't chattin' with 'im. So, it matters not from what standpoint you analyze his statement. Either way, he's a lunatic that is out of touch with reality... who is not doing his job. [Hey, if he gets to be all crazy and take personal assumptions for granted, then so do I; it's only fair.]

Now I'm not going to say that I'm a Democrat and that I'm going to vote for Kerry or anything, but I WILL say that I'm a Democrat and that I'm voting for Kerry. And God's not telling me to do it. I'm free to make my own choices, and so are you. [thanks to midwestgrrl for the alert]

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Mayor of New York!

So this morning I commuted to work as I do every fine, bustling New York City morning. As always, I transferred from one train to another at (arguably) New York's most hectic subway stop: 42nd Street, Times Square. Busy commuters, underground performers, clans of hefty neon pink fannypack-clad tourists from Wisconsin, the homeless, police officers, and newspaper salespersons collide to partake in an always delicate and volatile dance. As always, the 21st Century's answer to the "Hear Ye, Hear Ye" newspaper boy of the ealry 1900's--the AM New York peddlers--try to hock off the free paper to all of the aforementioned patrons of the New York City subway system. In a drone-like monotone these peddlers shout "AM New York! ... AM New York! ... AM" You get the idea.

I've never taken one of these papers and have yet to really do any research as to why the paper is free. I've always assumed it had something to do with advertising: news disguised as a portfolio of consumer branding. And on a side note that is neither here nor there, it always sounds to me, in my pre-work haven't had coffee yet haze, like the peddlers are saying, "Mayor of New York!" Maybe it's just me.

Aaaanyway, today at 42nd Street I saw something weird (but not unheard of). Next to the AM New York lady was a rather old couple, also holding up a single copy of AM New York. A man and a woman, probably in their mid-60's, were standing there competitively shouting over the AM New York woman's voice saying things like, "Evil breeds evil. God is judging you, America!" Actually, it was only the woman who was shouting. The man was staring off into oblivion.

One: people like this scare me, in general. Secondly, they looked really freakin' haggard and almost anorexically thin: like walking (actually, they weren't moving, so I cannot confirm if they were capable of walking) skeletons. The man was just standing, a little hunched in posture, next to (presumably) his wife saying nothing at all. He was just kind of staring off into space. She was of course shouting her freakish utterances. What she was wearing can only adequately be described as crack addict chic: baggy cargo pants, no shoes, a maroon baggy sweater, and a huge hoodie over the sweater (with the hood over her head). This woman seriously looked like the Grim Reaper. Read the dictionary's definition of the Grim Reaper: death personified as an old man or a skeleton with a scythe. If by man you mean woman and by scythe you mean the AM New York, then this woman was indeed death playing tricks on commuters.

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Or she was a crack addict. Or she was a bible-toting fundamentalist freak that had pawned all her earthly possessions to get a plane ticket from Ala-ssippi to New York to preach the word of her savior, Prince Lunatic. Either way, I ran like hell from her and the "Mayor of New York!" Hey, Freaks: God is judging YOU. And if not God, certainly the Fug police.


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Thursday, September 16, 2004

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I think I just must be in the mood to post pictures today. Plus, this dog is friggin' cute. I want I want I WANT!

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Fug Posen

Ever since I started reading this one (i.e., since two days ago), I find myself to be much more judgemental. Three cheers for scrutinizing the fug! I believe the following bushy-browed individual to be a candidate for the Fug Fashionista Once-Removed Award (it's Zac Posen's sister). Turns out the Posens look a lot alike...

Exhibit A: Posen in Blue

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Exhibit B: Posen... with mouth open (perhaps he's yelling to his sister to put the bag back on her head?)

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Some fug you just can't correct, I suppose? I mean, her dress seems nice enough. Damn you, cruel fug gene!

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Wednesday, September 15, 2004

True ______

Pardon me for getting all philosophical on your ass(es), but I recently heard a cool quote that I think can be tailored for your motivational needs:
True fashion begins where rules end.

As I mentioned before, Fashion Week is all the buzz in NYC. Models, no carbs, and ciggies... oh my! So it was reading a review that yielded the aforementioned quote. I'm using it to inspire my occupational bliss. I.e., True success begins where rules end. I'm gunna go throw a brick through a window... 'cause it's against the rules... who's with me? Anyone?? I jest. Or do I? Yes. I do. True that.



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Tuesday, September 14, 2004

Lindsay 'No More Rumours, You Guys' Lohan

Hilariamous nugget of the day. Apparently Lindsay Lohan is crafting her own triple threatness as we speak. Her brand new single is hot off the presses and on AOL for a listen. The lyrics are incredible! I mean, I learned a lot, yo. First, I learned that she's tired of people sayin' whatever they want about her. Secondly, she just wants to get all over the [dance] floor and throw her hands up in the air like what. Oh yeah, I said like What! Rad!!

Uhm, back to reality for a second. I know that every straight guy under the age of... 50 is obsessed with her new boobage and hoochiness (now that she's 18, yo), and I know that she's been in a few hit movies that Disney produced, but come on. Lindsay: you're far too green to be so jaded and to be releasing a single telling everyone to stop following you with cameras. Leave that brand of whining to the pro's (read: Brit-Brit and J. Lo). Or, alternatively, at least wait until you're old enough to (legally) drink. Gooh.


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I'm Drone-y on the Mi-crophone

Like that mountain of dirty clothing on the chair in my living room (Living room? What the hell am I talking about? I have a studio. Ok, so in the living room-esque segment of my room...), I am taking this blog by the horns and actually washing it, er, I mean posting. Long explanation, short: the more time that passed without my posting, the more overwhelming a task it seemed to post... ad nausium... vicious cycyle... yadda yadda. I tend to compartmentalize and label, so here goes:

Professional:

"What's the heirarchical structure like at your (relatively) new creative industry job, Drone," you ask?? Well, I'll break it down for you. I work for an extremely manic yet very talented boss. He does not know how to use a computer and is often too busy to get his own yogurt (lest it go without saying, I do both on his behalf).

Underneath my crazily creative boss is a German-born guy who has a very jarring accent (think Arnold Schwarzeneger meets drill sergeant). His intonation is very monotonous and his pacing is... very... halting (except when he rambles). Anything and everything he communicates to me sounds as if he's extremely worried and/or terrified. He could be wishing me a happy birthday and I'm fairly certain that within moments I would want to cry: "HOPPY... BOOTHDEH!!" [Following my premature duck and cover, I realize his intents and purposes are well meant.] Long description short, he scares me about exactly as much as he annoys me. Nice, clean 1:1 ratio. His favorite thing for me to do is name drop and get him reservations at New York's most exclusive restaurants... at the last minute. I have spent many a lovely hour bickering with many a lovelier restaurant manager and maitre'd in order to get him in. Usually always works.

Underneath scary German is super laid-back British guy. He always wears cool vintage t-shirts, jeans, and flip-flops. He works like a dog and always seems happy. There's nothing really more to say about him. In short, he's probably one of the few people I'd like to emulate (in both a professional and personal sense). Plus, he has a cool accent. Some people have all the luck.

Now, take a long trip, tumble, and crash down the ladder until you hit the ground, and there you'll find little ol' me. Why do I mention all of this? Well, my friends, I mention it because all three of the above (who have the most influence over me) are out on business for the whole... WEEK. It's fantastic. I can actually get work done in peace and can enjoy the silence of the day. It's wonderful.

The only person who can really affect my kaballah-like state of zen is very pretty 26-year-old who acts like she's 35 because she recently married a rich French guy and wears a huge diamond ring and never lets you forget that her husband is French because "Americans are such boars" oh but wait she was born in upstate New York but her parents are from Yugoslavia so that makes her a European. But I recently learned that she plans to make professional changes in the coming months, so she's been pretty chill about shirking her administrative duties and crapping them on to me.

So that's why I'm so happy right now, professionally speaking.

**Fantabulous follow up: Remember my boss's expensive watch? The one that was 'too tight'? The one to which I had to have half a link added? And then promptly had to have the link removed because the watch was 'too loose'? No? Well, guess who had to take the watch BACK to get the initial half link added AGAIN? Becuase the 'too loose' was preferable to the 'too tight'? Gooh.

Personal:

Everything with significant other C. is going great. Still have my own place, but I've effectively been living with C. for seven months. Sort of hate flushing my rent money down the toilet every month but then again I like having the security of my own place. This past weekend, C., C's friend, Gina, and I had a great brunch. Recently read about the Olsens frequenting the very same brunch joint: man, am I cool or what [please note sarcasm]?!

Weird, personal predicament. C's really good friend (also a C.) has a boyfriend... that I utterly despise. Naturally, my C. likes to spend time with close friend C. Also naturally, Friend C. totes around the boyfriend. The boyfriend (heretofore referred to as 'Canadian Car Salesman' [CCS]), is flat out annoying. I've tried to like him, but striking up a conversation is like pulling teeth. He's remarkably vapid and talks about little other than work. He has bleached blond hair, a shiny forehead, an annoying Canadian accent ("Eh?"), wears the collar to his polo shirt intentionally up... ALways, abuses his privilege to use the word 'buddy' (or any derivation thereof [e.g., bud]), and--worst of all--always talks like a stand-up comedian or smarmy car salesman who is always 'on.'

This weekend, C. and I had the grand misfortune of walking past a restaurant where CCS was having lunch with two other people. He was with two of his 'buds.' Anyway, signficant other C. and I were walking to the park to lay out and enjoy the day. On our way there, what should I hear but CCS yelling, "C!" Ugh. We had to do the obligatory walk over and say hi while he was eating (scene: indoor/outdoor cafe). "Hey, buddy [insert horrifically cheesy grin and offensively unusual enthusiasm]!! This is my broker... [That's all I needed to hear to phase out. After the word 'broker,' I honestly can't recall what he said.]" Luckily I had on black sunglasses, so I was free to roll my eyes and look at other things without him knowing. Anyway, I've tried to like him, but I don't. I hate 'im. I can only hope that C's friend will break up with him.

Sightings:

Fashion week is all a-buzz here in NYC. So all the models are busy grazing on wheat grass and shopping for clothes. Saw a bunch of models wandering around SoHo. Most notably, C. and I stalked Jessica Miller into Co-op, where she bought shoes. Good for her. Gina told me a story over brunch (see above) about how Jessica Miller's mom was a stripper and how Jessica once came upon the proverbial fork in the road that could either take her to Stripperville or to the tents at Bryant Park. Shrewd move, Jess.

Random:

I've been enjoying these sites, now that I have a little more time to peruse and surf during the work hours (won't last for long, I know, so I'm reading them in full all at once...):

Make fun of poor-dressing celeb's (Hint: the installments on Chloe Sevigny are priceless): Go Fug Yourself.

College-aged (self-proclaimed) 'ho bag, but she's smart and witty, so it's all good: That Ashley Girl

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