ill iterate

Love the Economist, Not the Economy.

2011-10-10T12:15:00.003-04:00

After spending a few days in Lower Manhattan with sundry elements of the Occupy Wall Street movement in its least antagonistic manifestations, I've come to a handful of resolutions, observations, and advice (to give, of course...).
Let me start with a contextual preface, however.
Of late, I'd become of the mind that my opinion did not matter as much as my observation. When authoring a company blog was still considered bleeding edge, I liked offering an opinion. Blogging used to be a Dirty Sanchez on The Establishment, but if the web today is any indication, "blogging" is like crank-calling someone who still owns a land-line without Caller ID.
Frankly I didn't see how it helped my reputation to be ranting into the collective scream of all these herpetic permutations of "the blogosphere." Your Tumblr irony and your Facebook sensitivity made me obsolete. My blog was not waving, but drowning. Your Yelp was not drowning, but flipping the bird.
So. I actually thought I was going to Zucotti Park merely to observe...
I'm not sure yet if the shift in my tone was learned by osmosis, or is the result of having had it up to (note: my hand levered against my throat) here, but I'm about to say more than just two Canadian cents' worth.

Let me actually start with the advice, and work backward to the resolutions, so we end with some "si se puede"-style uplift and inspiration.
My first piece of advice goes directly to the white woman wearing the brand new backpack (I know my backpacks and yours had to cost around $120) holding up the sign "Member of the slave class." Be careful where you weild your S-word. Use it with the same care you'd use the N-word. Whenever someone uses the words "slave" or "rape" or "emprisonment" as metaphors, it diminishes the realities of a real lack of freedom suffered in the past and currently. Metaphors like this have the effect of hyperbole, but hyperbole has the effect of desensitization. Here, I'll give a much more mundane example of how metaphor can negatively affect a message.
Pussy. It used to be you could insult a man by calling him a boy (suggesting he's naive or inexperienced), or an old man (suggesting he's obsolete or not fit to move heavy objects unless you count bowel movements). In fact a lot of countries still prefer to insult men by calling them boys or geezers. Ours is the rare society that attacks women while insulting men. We don't realize this now because we take it for granted but well... suggesting a pussy is a coward and not a dope sex organ does in fact infiltrate our collective unconscious with chauvinism.
When a white woman wearing an expensive backpack calls herself a slave, it diminishes the slavery that resulted in the permanent displacement of black Americans. It diminishes the millions of people caged in sub-human experiments of low-overhead capitalism. Your $5000 debt to Citibank with .46 APR is not slavery. It sucks hairy donkey nuts, but it's not slavery. How about a new sign? One that says "Member of the Debt Class." Seriously. I doubt if most white Americans fear becoming slaves, but they will go into a dark room with a .38 if you remind them about their debt. Debt is scary enough as it is.
Now why am I so worried about the flippant use of the word "slave," you ask. This leads me to my observation:
Where have all the people of color gone??? Aren't we as dispossessed as the gutter punk who can't afford H or gluten-free snacks? Mind you I am purposely being simplistic in this matter. Of COURSE there are people of color in Zucotti Park. Of COURSE we're disenfranchised. My problem is that the collective bargaining taking place south of West 4th Street right now is not taken seriously, partly because the MSM chooses to interview 23 year old philosophy majors, and partly because there isn't enough antagonism. I tell you what: if the tens of thousands of existing non-White members of entitlement caucuses came down and joined the hippies, two things would happen:
1. MSM would have no choice but to interview a non-white non-college student, and
2. The 1% will be REALLY scared if they knew agitators didn't all look just like them.
Ethnic diversity is a prerequisite to revolution in America. This is a fact. This is also why the show will become a game-changer when the NYPD join (I'm positive this is just a matter of time). If you take a good look at The Blue, you'll find a lot of them are Black, Latino and Asian. I'm not kidding.
Finally, I want to address all the naysayers, most of whom are close personal friends. For once, I actually don't care what you think of my ineffective presence, my sense of entitlement, the contradiction posed by my simultaneously working for investors, the vapidity of fellow protestors (even the white girl calling herself a slave). I don't care if you think there is no message, or no unified message, or a poorly-phrased message. Here's what's going on in Lower Manhattan:

Tons of people are working together to make a cooperative living environment that communicates to the larger public. I have never seen so many people rally to provide services, protections, food/shelter/love to absolute strangers. It's like a dream come true. I can go into Zucotti Park right now and find a lawyer. Someone can find me and get their manga translated into English.... Maybe the reason it's so discouraging to everyone else that people are sort of just "being" altogether with no Watts/LA/Atlanta Riots-style violence is because we can't fathom the idea of everyone WORKING together, locally, communally. I went down there to observe but now I can't help but want to be a better neighbor. It's amazing that I haven't felt that yet, since I've been in NYC circa 9/11/01, circa 2005 Blackout, circa 2008 election, circa Brooklyn exodus. Even at its most divisive, the 99% want the rest of the 99% to know... well, that we're 99 motherfucking percent of the country. And that... is not a metaphor.

PSA

2011-09-19T18:28:00.005-04:00

I have too many blogs and not enough readers. No one's fault really. Just too many blogs. Lately I'm most active on Twitter, and as stated earlier, have dedicated my Tumblr to more serious writing, but whereas Blogger was the domain of my sense of humor, it no longer feeds from Giant Robot (where I still guest blog), and frankly, I can be funny anyfuckingwhere I want to be.

So if it please the court, follow me on Tumblr instead, or Twitter. Or Giant Robot, or at my office, where I'm funny AND non-caustic.

Or add this to your library: ill-iterate.com

More. Soon.

2011-09-19T18:28:00.001-04:00

I had an incredible unblock of my writing hand (the right) late Thursday night. What ensued were pages of content, interpretation and form. What emerged was the rest of a narrative.

Heartfuck. Coming soon.

Social Life in New York City

2011-08-11T19:33:00.003-04:00

I'll be honest, and by honest I mean I'll be arrogant and pretend to be apologetic about it by saying "I'll be honest" though really I'm rubbing this information in your face in an attempt to climb the social ladder giving you full frontal of my upskirt and then bam another shock: I'm wearing shorts, not sexy underwear, thereby double-vindicating my social position by having the cake of social ascension and eating it too, by disdaining the race itself.

So I'll be honest... What makes New York City so special is a day like today:
I was able to walk from my apartment to a late afternoon lunch with renowned graphic designer Chip Kidd at an Italian restaurant that serves handmade pasta, just a few tables down from Fareed Zakaria.

This combination of elements isn't really possible anywhere else in the world.

p.s. We had so much fun catching up Chip emptied his wine carafe into his salad, mistaking it for his glass. Laughing at the clear signs of a midday drinking problem is also something that only happens in New York.

ARE YOU THE NEXT ACE?

2011-08-11T19:22:00.002-04:00

ARE YOU THE NEXT ACE? from Imprint Lab on Vimeo.

There are still people who fund business projects. You just have to send us the video explaining why we should.

2011-06-22T18:53:00.003-04:00

I'm desperately seeking an I.T. Solution: to magically combine my Blogger and Tumblr account content and house it all under my own URL.

Magically, I said.

All ideas welcome. The magical ones get recompensed.

lower case i

2011-05-26T15:05:00.001-04:00

(a hipster romance fiction)

I met him at the Toy Division listening party. Toy Division is my roommate Erin’s 8-bit Joy Division cover band. Erin and I were toasting the end of a long summer copy-editing Arthur magazine for nickels on the dollar to pay rent on our Southeast Williamsbushwick studio. This album was going to make us rich a little less poor.

While we got drunk on un-ironically chilled cans of ironic beer, news travelled from the bartender (what was his name again?) that a helicopter piloted by a Yankees pitcher had just crashed into the side of a building on the Upper East Side.

And I love moments like this; when news of a jerk dying outpaces the jerk turning in his proverbial grave. An Al Qaeda Steinbrenner joke was inevitable but sometimes it’s the simplest form of sarcasm that gets the biggest job done.

“I guess he really hated the Yankees.”

We said it at the same time. I looked up to see the face of my Romulus… or is it Castor? Anyway, I looked up. The bartender I’d taken for granted. My bartender…

You could hear an iPhone drop. Love was taking place.

Oh and his name is Victor.

Cross-Posting. GIMME A BOOK DEAL.

2011-05-20T15:58:00.001-04:00

Dear BEA Publishers,
It used to be all you needed to get published was rohypnol, a turkey baster and ten minutes with Sonny Mehta. Today, a book’s marketing gimmick is developed so far in advance of the actual book you can actually get a deal with just a mockup of its eventual hashtag.

So let me cut to the chase. I’m a writer. I want to get published. Here are the books I can write (most of them in less than a week). I guarantee publicity and sales. You don’t even need to tour me. My Skype account’s been upgraded. My LinkedIn account’s been updated. But look… if Microsoft and 5 billion Wall Street dollars fail us (which of course it won’t), I am not afraid to inject botox into a little girl’s face on Good Morning America. Fuck it. I will botox SEVERAL little girls if necessary. So in no particular order, some books that’ll make us all some mad coin.

1. A guide to tantric masturbation.

2. “What Pantone is your Parachute?”

3. The surefire Asian weight-loss diet no one’s talking about yet. (Hint: North Korea)

4. A series of romance novels about white+asian graphic designers.

5. A series of hardboiled crime novels starring an NYPD detective of Middle Eastern origins.

6. Dictionary of foreign neologisms used in American English, replete with a pronunciation guide (native, adopted), etymology, and graphics.

7. Reinterpretation of The Little Prince in which the prince is a junkie.

8. One of those Tiger Mom books laid out like one of those “Weird Japanese Inventions” books.

9. A book about flea markets that turns into a tote bag when you get pregnant.

10. The Bible in Asian pidgin.

Bucket List

2011-05-20T11:38:00.002-04:00

It would be awesome to usher the apocalypse by crossing out some things on my bucket list, but that would require my having a bucket list, so all I have now is a meta-bucket list: a bucket list of bucket lists.

Before I smolder in a lake of fire governed by zombie tigers, from whence I came there are:

1. Things to eat
2. Places to see
3. People to meet
4. Dares to execute
5. Truths to tell
6. Fears to overcome
7. Faults to admit
8. Something purely gluttonous and selfish
9. Any iteration of any of the seven sins (since I'm burning in hell anyway)
10. Any iteration of pure kindness.

Sidenote: why are there seven deadly sins but not seven fecund virtues in the Christian mythology? There are Seven Virtues in Buddhism, after all. Of course they're just a group of Buddhist Gods, but... If eternal salvation really depended on a bunch of fat Asian dudes I'd have organized a Groupon orgie for a barbecue lo mein combo at a casino, and tape cheap computer gadgets and pirated dvds all over my body a long time ago.

Sometimes I revel in the fact that there is something wrong with us.

2011-05-20T10:34:00.004-04:00

Transcript of text-versation with Michelle Borok, whose birthday is right after mine.

Michelle: Happy birthday lover!
Anne: I love it when you wish me happy birthday because that's one year closer to when i never have to hear from you again.
Michelle: I love it when you get one year older because I know that our life bonded together is that much closer to finally being over.
Anne: I love getting older because that's just more of your mistakes I get to mock derisively.
Michelle:I love being with you as you get older so I can watch your sharp mind turn into a dull baby spoon. Only good for eating man yogurt.
Anne: I love eating man yogurt because it reminds me of what you could never give me: joy.
Michelle: On your birthday I wish I could spread that joy all over your face, and maybe you would choke on it a little bit.
Anne: And then I would walk around Manhattan and people would point and laugh. That's my gift to you on your birthday: granting ++++ +++++'s wish.
Michelle: Perfect.

You've been in New York too long when...

2011-05-18T11:30:00.003-04:00

A dream I had last night.

(It starts as a harlequin romance)

Afternoon sunlight poured into the bedroom like a syrup, casting amber light across the face of Fabio, pronouncing his roman features: alabaster skin toasted almond, deep penetrating eyes and aquiline jaw. His arms were taut with the strength of carpentry, and in the Tuscan sun, each tensile motion he made toward his obedient fawn was pronounced with muscular shadows. Annabella laid supine on a bed covered in soft cottons that smelled of Freesia and human desire. She would wait for him with her body, but beckon him with her eyes.
As Fabio approached Annabella, he pulled her chest up to his face, with one motion of the hand between her shoulder blades. She moaned with her head draped back, feeling his hot breath become cool against her skin. The downy hairs on her body invisible but to Fabio now bristled awake. She lifted her head to look deep into Fabio's eyes and confirm a ready eagerness to make love. Their eyes met inches apart...

(Then, suddenly, a change of tone)

Fabio narrowed his eyes as if to warn her of the thunderous effect of his affection. As if... He kept one hand between Annabella's shoulder blades and pursed his lips, perhaps preparing to make a statement. Perhaps... He exhaled once, seemingly preparing to dive in. Seemingly...
After staring at her through several breaths, he took his other hand and wiped gently at his nose. Then he did it again. He repeated this motion several times, each time less intent on wiping away whatever was bothering his face. It looked like nothing more than a gesture.
Annabella then slowly, stutteringly lifted her hand toward her own nose, paused just before her fingertips reached her nostrils, took one more good look at Fabio, whose eyes finally dilated, whose lips curved into an approving smile. She touched her left nostril and discovered... an interruption. A sticky obtrusion. A booger.

This is the dream I had. It started out as a boner fide wet dream set in Italy, only to quickly devolve into an episode of Seinfeld. (sigh)

Birthday parties are for assholes, not dickheads.

2011-05-17T11:40:00.007-04:00

Let me begin by saying I am sometimes an asshole. Never a dickhead, but an asshole, sometimes.
Dickhead=top. Asshole=bottom. I'm a bottom.

Let me continue by saying that only a dickhead wants to party like an asshole, but an asshole is the only one who can enjoy their own birthday party.

Dickheads throw frat keggers. They have sweet 16s at nightclubs intdended for salty 21 year olds. When they were 18, their parents rented a penthouse for graduation. They wear tiaras covered in tiny plastic dicks to their bachelorette parties, because they're dickheads. They invite DJs from London to celebrate objects because the British are dickheads. They get married on yachts they don't own. They coined the French acronym "rsvp."

Assholes host "marathons" for shitty TV shows. They celebrate adult birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese's. When they were 8, their parents made them spin around blindfolded swinging aluminum bats at pinatas and identically shaped children who were rapturously following the papier mache effigy, waiting for it to explode into cheap candy. Assholes hire karaoke DJs because assholes like to sing out loud. They get married in houses they own. They coined the American acronym "BYOB."

Another wholly anonymous breed of person chooses never to throw parties. I guess that person doesn't fit in the dick-butt dichotomy. Maybe they're pussies or twats. More on that later.

I've never felt badly about throwing my own birthday parties. If there was ever a day one was allowed to revel in their self, to be totally self-absorbed, I think it's the anniversary of my birth. But, and with full psychoanalytic disclosure, I admit that having birthday parties as an adult has everything to do with having been denied birthday parties as a child. You see, my dad was a twat. Big time. No birthday parties. No Christmas presents. When the phone rang, he'd pick up the receiver and drop it back on the phone. One time he told me he'd take me to a friend's house to hang out, and instead drove me with him to work. Said later that he wanted to use the carpool lane during rush hour later. He was a real winner.

My parents were separating/divorcing as I turned 16. It was a tough time, not because I wanted my parents to stay together but because my mom was so fucking miserable contemplating how she'd fare as a single mother. Note: after a couple years in a one bedroom apartment and no car, she bootstrapped herself into the family business and sent me off to college. By all counts I think she did swell.

Meanwhile back at sweet sixteen... I was so bitter at all the kids with their quincenieras and adult-mimicry that by the time my birthday reared around I was hell bent on out-enjoying myself by spending the evening after a field show competition, with my loyal marching band mates, at Denny's eating beef barley vegetable soup and french fries. Just as we'd do after all our competitions.

That night, one by one, each of my friends defected. "Sorry man, I gotta go home tonight." "Hey, maybe next week we can go to Burger King. I'll buy you a Whopper." "Oh man, it's your birthday? Sorry, I can't hang. I'm gonna see Jennifer." I was so dejected and sad. I really thought long and hard about the meaning of friendship and life concluding only that I may as well resign to being a twat, just like my dad. Fuck parties. Fuck celebration.

Mike Martinez offered to drive me home that night, on his way to pick up a girl. He just needed to stop by his house to change clothes. And I'll never forget these details, because my truly, sincerely, epically bummed-out depressed ass was like an etch-board to the world. Not even Mike, my asshole best friend, was going to let me third wheel for the sake of my own self.

We got out of his car and headed toward the house when Bruce Watanabe happened to drive by in his rice rocket and said "hey, is this where Anne's party's at?" Mike gave him a clear zipper across the mouth gesture, eyes wide open. I looked in shock at Bruce, who said "oh hey. I guess it's already started. Happy birthday!"

Mike walked into the house ahead of me and screamed "Bruce fucked it all up!" and I heard the loudest collective moan ever. When I got into the house I saw dozens of friends' faces, and my mom in the back laughing hysterically. I hadn't seen her laugh in years.

Mike explained to me that my mom had been organizing this surprise birthday party for me with him for weeks. I don't know how else to depict the joy I experienced on that night, except to say that I vowed never not to have a birthday party after that. I guess that doesn't make me so much an asshole as a sucker, but depending on who you ask, it might be the same difference.

A Year Ago Today I was in Mongolia. Today I'm a Mongoloid.

2011-05-16T17:38:00.004-04:00

It feels like just yesterday I was waking up on the carpeted dirt floor of a "4 star" Mongolian hotel room, celebrating the end of my birthday trek around Terelj National Park with Michelle, but the fact that I can drink top shelf vodka again is my only real indication that the memory is an old one. Then again, one can only resist vodka for so long in New York City before being accused of being a homophobe.

Last week I happened to recount all my tales of Mongolia to a family from Le Vigan, France (it's closest metropole is Montpellier and the area is appropriately comparable to Vermont, politically et cetera). The family was riveted by my stories about horseback philosophy and the meditative silence in a daily ritual of napping, leagues away from plumbing, electricity and mundane stress. But halfway through my above average French retelling of the Asian outback, Fabienne (mother of the family), says to me:

By the way, in France we call them Mongolians, not Mongols. Mongols are what we call people with downs syndrome.

First, I'd like to point out that I inferred she was talking about downs syndrome without actually knowing that "trysomanie" was the french term for it. I inferred because Americans use the word "Mongoloid" derogatorily to refer to the same. I'm not sure why I assumed the French word for a mongolian was "Mongol" and not "Mongolian" or "mongolien" but I had actually been talking about that very vodka that felled me. So I had to ask:

Can't vodka be mongoloid?

Fabienne said no. "Nothing's Mongoloid unless you're trying to insult someone," she said. I'd argue the only people who'd understand the insult are dead... or Mongolian. I am trying to reappropriate the words to signify nothing more than that something/someone/anyone comes from the upper steppes region adjacent to Uzbekistan, Russia and the People's Republic of China. Easier known as Mongolia, Mongol, Mongoloid. For fucking Christ's sake Ghengis Khan fucked and killed more people than Ceasar and Charlemagne combined. What part of that is retarded?!

So I am officially pledging for reclamation of the grammatical fragment "Mongo-" and proudly calling myself a fucking Mongoloid.

Natsume Ono in New York City

2011-05-10T06:53:00.002-04:00

Natsume Ono Book Signing and Giveaway (Original Prints and Art!) at Kinokuniya New York.

Starts at 7pm.

I'll be there translating for her. :B (Yes, I just did :B)

Formula

2011-05-06T15:07:00.005-04:00

I've returned to this blog after a long recess only to whine. And yet this is no revelation. The fact is, I've been whining a lot the last year, and am not sure if it's hormones (which I'm happy to admit, make me seem more shemale than woman sometimes), or the dutch oven of rush hour shart toxins in my new neighborhood in NYC.

I am guessing what has rendered me more New York Chinatown (crowded and annoying) than San Francisco Chinatown (unique and cheeky), is the sick realization that I am deep-down-inside, a Los Angeles Chinatown (flashy but unenterprising).

Nothing's more offensive to a New Yorker than to be accused of seeming "LA-y."

I'm rehabilitating my ego. Mind you, a rehabilitation assumes nothing more than that something has always thrived in its natural circumstances but may have been handicapped by external forces: aforementioned toxic air for example, or... private tragedy, public trauma, illness, cheap tampons...

My recovery is going to be simple, as the absence of two things glare back at me when I assess the damage I cause myself when whining out of my pajama sweats (designated attire for whining):

1. Writing.

2. Lists.

Consider this a template.

INRE: Writing.

All of us have an innate talent. Granted, some of you have utterly useless talents, they can all be boiled down to one action. I don't claim to be a good writer, but it's something I can do... confidently.

The big reveal is that I haven't been writing. This is the kind of absenteeism that'll turn math professors into Unabombers. Do what you're good at and you won't ever find yourself wrapping explosives kraft paper and string out of a wood shed in Montana. Or in my case, eating leftover potatoes from a diner in an unlit bedroom watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond, while stroking a gun.

INRE: Number 2. Lists.

All of us have our own system of discipline. For some people it's assistants. For others, it's a wife. For me, it's personalized lists. To Do lists, Top Ten lists, shopping lists, a roll call of corporate indigents, cast members of my NAMBLA TV show "How I Met Your Son"... I take real joy in my lists.

Make your discipline joyful.

Double-Posting: Epic Valentine's Day Gift

2011-02-12T10:52:00.000-05:00

An epic accidental Valentine's Day gift from the most epic accidental Best Friend I made last year--Rie Yamamoto--including her email introduction to the gift. I so flattered.

Hi Anne,

How are you doing???
I am in Chiangmai, Thailand right now.
I just started exhibition from tonight.
AND gallery made poster for this exhibition to put entrance of the
gallery. The owner loved the one you are in, so they use the photo!
Hope you like it too :)

I love you too, still now!

Rie

("I love you too, still now!" is a reference to a phone conversation we overheard in the Lower East Side. A man repeating "I love you too" over and over. We joked he doesn't love the person on the other end of the line. He loves him/her... too. Big difference.)

I love you too, still now, Rie!

2011-01-21T10:13:00.001-05:00

Some Fun Things I Found in my 2010 Journals

2011-01-12T00:19:00.003-05:00

In non-chronological, topical order.

+(dead flowers)

+(a credit card I found at Lake Michigan)

+(ticket stub for a strip club in Ulan Bataar called The Seoul Club)

+(Ivan Albright postcard)

+Gerson Goldhaber

+"Love is the infinite placed within reach of a poodle." --Celine

+To sit in this dim and complete silence is a singular pleasure. Even if the restaurant stinks like horse shit.

+If you fart in a sulfur pit, is the fart still dealt? It smells like a fart here.

+Fritos smell like fucking feet.

+Einmal ist keinmal

+(A Vehicle ID Number )

+Youth lateral to existing fixie market. (Clearly I'd been in a business meeting...)

+terra damnata

+I am the fucking tower of Babel. (Yes, I was drunk. The writing is blurred.)

+I'm insane.

+Insane // Exsane

+I think I have ADD

+I need to figure out what I want.

+I want to make out with someone on a train one day.

+If you hold me in the guise of something other than what's here is it lying low.

+What's killing more Chinese people?

+Which came first, night or day?

+Tooty Toyota

+Imperfect as we are.

+By the time I have children, it'll be OK to name a kid Adolf.

+Quintron

+Unassuming millionaires

+Is Dad gay? I love champagne. (sic)

+good memory good memory good memory good memory

+I want to die. I want someone else to do it.

+I feel good.

The History of Japanese Pedestrian Traffic Rules

2010-12-27T13:26:00.006-05:00

I learned something really interesting on my last trip to Japan, and I know everyone reading this blog reads it sometimes for educational purposes, so...

In the U.S. one customarily defers to the right when walking down a sidewalk, to avoid running into oncoming pedestrian traffic. In Japan however, pedestrians do not defer in either direction when on the sidewalk. It is not uncommon in the land of the rising sun to be caught in a "shall we dance" pas-de-deux right in the middle of the Shibuya Scramble Intersection for hours. I wondered why such an efficient and over-logical people would run into this problem and discovered why.

The origins of this behavior can be found 300 years ago. In the Edo Period, when urban planning began on old Tokyo, people walked right into each other, at which point samurai swords would be drawn (lower castes would draw bamboo sticks, and women would draw ninja stars). Whoever successfully swung the sword through their opponent's torso first would naturally win the right of way, which frequently ends up being a left of way, because sword sheaths are usually kept on the left side.

This practice became unwieldy and messy, not to mention all the deaths meant women were now working overtime to replace human capital with babies. Lots and lots of babies. Women, tired and more fearful for their lives, learned to duck quick when swords were swung at them on sidewalks. They deferred by bowing. This is where the customary Japanese greeting originates. Bowing is a literal "bowing out." Now a de rigeur greeting, bowing is still a traditional Japanese's preferred hello.

Unfortunately, bowing out has become so inculcated in the Japanese moor that no one gets killed in pedestrian battles anymore, and many an educated academic blame this act for the precipitous decline in the country's population. The Akita Prefecture has been hit particularly hard, where the population has more than halved in the last twenty years. It is no accident that Akita translates to "faceless halves."

One peculiar exception to the rule of no rules in pedestrian traffic is on escalators. Misbehaving on an escalator is a crime punishable by excommunication. And visitors are not exempt. Anyone who's been on a Japanese escalator can tell you, one always rides on the left, leaving an aisle open to the right for those wishing to use the escalator as a traditional set of stairs, and step up or down. This practice too, has a peculiar ancient origin.

An enduring myth of heaven and hell in the Shinto religion is "The Stairway to Heaven," believed to have been first communicated in the Jomon period, when the very first steps were created leading up to animist shrines to the Gods of fertility and crop. In "The Stairway to Heaven" myth, it is believed that only those deceased who have had enough faith in the stairs while alive, will be carried to that "other side" in a moving stair. This is where the phrase "spirited away" comes from.

In the myth, those who didn't believe in the moving stairs would of course, start walking up the stairs to heaven. Unfortunately they would end up in hell, as punishment for not believing in the moving stair.

Today, those who still believe in Heaven will stand paitently on the left column of an escalator, while the right side is reserved for atheists, nihilists, felons and Koreans to walk up or down.

2010-12-15T00:46:00.001-05:00

Uh, who just left me their phone number without a name?

2010-12-14T18:55:00.002-05:00

I will never:

Wear Uggs

Wear cargo pants

Wear polar fleece as my outermost layer

Pick my nose in public

Stop using my hands to eat

Make glottal chewing sounds while eating

Not laugh maniacally

I will, however:

Wear ill-fitting shoes

Wear unflattering clothing

Wear the same long underwear several days in a row under everything

Pick my belly button in public

Not necessarily wash my hands when I should

Slurp my noodles

Fake a laugh

Dad

2010-12-14T18:12:00.001-05:00

This is the first Christmas Card I’ve ever received from my father. At my 31 years of age, it was fifteen years in the making. I assumed it was a twenty dollar bill sandwiched in a Hallmark, to make up for lost time. A tax. I stuffed it in my purse and we walked into the restaurant for “catch up family dinner.” And I pre-empted the duty with wet-eyed boasting that I loathe Christmas.

Anne: It reminds me of all the things I want but don’t have.
Dad: You’re too young to hate the holidays. You gotta take it easy.
Anne: So… what about that North Korea, eh? Crazy town.

He tells me I ate a lot of sashimi as a toddler. When I was three all I wanted was sashimi. My sister laughs, “and what did I eat?” she asks.

Dad: You ate a lot of udon.

So funny. No wonder we look nothing alike, my sister and me.
She tells me she’s jealous of our ability to converse at length in Japanese about “issues.” Like North Korea’s embargo on conversations about Christmas joy.

Dad tells me we ought to go hiking/camping soon, but that I probably couldn’t handle the mountain he’d take us to. It’s 8 hours of difficult climbing, he says. It takes five teeth to hold my tongue.

As we part ways he tells me to call on him for moral support more often. I want to punch him in the face with my saddest stories. But I am satisfied. We’re one small step closer to whatever that pit was he left when I turned sixteen.

I open the Christmas Card in my sister’s parking lot, and I cannot read the English.
I cannot read the English.
I cannot read the English.
I cannot read the English, because the handwritten Japanese, in a beautiful long-hand I’d always tried to emulate, blinded me.

Makiko,
This is for 15 years of Christmases I missed.
I hope we have more now.
-Kikuo

I am buried in the fear of an emotion I worried I would never have again, but I am going to use this fear to create a courage. To take the risk fifteen years in the making, of refusing to fight.

Tonight, I become a pacifist.

Crystal Math

2010-12-09T12:32:00.002-05:00

I am insecure and border on psychotic when I weigh over a certain number.

I am an arrogant cannibal when I weigh under that number.

This is what I look like:

95-105 Lbs. This only happens when I'm severely agitated or trapped in a dungeon with nothing but a dripper of fen-phen and a rack of shake-weights. Weightlessness gives me the very courage I need to withstand the fear of yo-yo-ing back my fat. Whenever I'm in that dungeon, I think, "finally, I can live in Japan." Also, "maybe I can eat my way through chicken-wire..."

105-115 Lbs. I love athletic activities but this is my peak confidence zone, so I'll overcompensate with Sex Drugs and Rock n' Roll. Gym? What Jim?

120-125 Lbs. Lock down and initiation of what I call The Cosmetics Paradox. The fatter I get the more makeup I wear. It's also The Workout Paradox. The fatter I get the more often I go to the gym. I reward my good behavior with food and stay fat. Then I hate myself even more, become reclusive. This is also when I get really into building and crafts. The last time I weighed 125 pounds I built a shed! Yeah, installed a drip-feeder and an oscillating dumbell for the small animal I planned on keeping in it...

Now take these numbers and confound them with age.

I am 31 years old, over my number, and could care less. I've dipped below the number and hated myself; jumped over the number and assumed the world. And you know what I've learned in all of this?

Fuck math.

No Holds Barred.

2010-11-19T13:00:00.007-05:00

How AIM Saved My Life.

I can be serious when I need to be serious.

I can be mean when I need to be mean. (Though I will always respect a stranger's privacy...)

I can let my guard down when I have to.

And pull out all the stops. I'm fucking hilarious, peoples. A laugh machine.

No holds barred, kid.

Fun with Mom

2010-11-15T18:22:00.002-05:00

Mom's funny. I love it when she visits me until I can't stand it. But no one needs to know how she drives me crazy. Better you think of her as the silliest person I know.

(note: All this goes down in Japanese.)

1. Mom and I are walking around town on a Saturday in a Hassid neighborhood. Man in Hassid vestiment walks past us on sidewalk. Mom says, "Happy Sabbath!" and cocks her head to the side with a smile and the footstep equivalent of a peace sign: viz. Lollipop Kids from The Wizard of Oz. Man says "why thank you!" Mom explains to me that's what you say to Jews on Saturday. Thanks, Mom.

2. We walk past a billboard for The Tourist (starring Johnny Depp and Angelina MoJolie). Mom says, "I want to touch his facial hair." Stunned, I ask, "what... do you... mean...?" Mom replies, "you don't think he's handsome?" My jaw drops and I look at Mom. She doesn't realize she's just come up with the best euphemism for getting physical since "knocking boots." I eventually tell Mom "yeah, I'd totally touch his facial hair..."

3. Mom's sleeping. Sunlight breaks through a gap in my curtains and would pierce Mom's face but she's laid a sock over her eyes. Viz. Me as baseball umpire: Safe!

4. Mom gets a caramel apple from a Halloween party. Slices small pieces of it to eat throughout her stay, careful to distribute the caramel evenly. By Day 5 of her stay with me the apple looks pretty much done. I throw it away. Mom asks me where the apple is and I tell her. Then, in the angriest I've heard from her since I joy-rode Dad's car in the 10th grade, she whines, "Whaaat?! WhyyYYyyyyYyyy?" (If you know the Japanese or Korean language you'll totally know the tone I am trying to evoke here.) Ten minutes later she's still complaining about how I threw away perfectly good caramel apple. Sorry, Mom.

2010-10-27T17:01:00.000-04:00

via They Left Ghosts

What do I do with my books?

2010-10-16T17:33:00.001-04:00

I have hundreds of books I’ve recently decided to get rid of. More accurately, I’m getting rid of approximately half of my inventory. The half that made my library a plenary wall of colors. Science fiction was cheaper than art, and memoirs were slightly more sophisticated than plastic wood. Not anymore.

So I’m willing to give some of it away, for the sake of convenience. I won’t sell off my stoop because I am scared of my stoop. But if anyone has bright suggestions, I’m all ears.

What do I do with my books?

Adventures in Copywriting

2010-10-15T11:59:00.004-04:00

My friend Nancy* is taking a copywriting class. Not because she doesn't know how to write copy, but because it might help her find work.

I asked her what she was learning. Not because I don't know what copywriting is, but because I can't imagine how it's taught. Priceless slogans aren't engineered, you know. I was on a twelve hour drug binge when I suddenly came up with "Just Doing It" but some DB accounts guy thought it had more "punch" in the command form. The rest is, as they say, history, which is better known as Nike in the world of advertising.

Anyway, since the statute of limitations on some of my rejected ad copy has passed, and because my blog has always been about shitty plays on words, if nothing else, AND because I'm bitter as all get out, here without further ado:

Fuck off I'm plenty good at writing. My copy would kill your copy in a wrestling match. You just don't see any of it because people don't "get" my "process," "technique" or "skills."

Project No. 1: American Dental Association, Pediatric Development Campaign.

My rejected copy: Only pedophiles like kids without teeth. Don't be a pedophile.

Their response: A restraining order.

Project No. 2: YouTube-Japan.

My rejected copy: Broads cast the yourself.

Their response: A bunch of mis-spelled racist comments written in SMS-ese, and 100 thumbs down.

Project No. 3: Shiseido for Men.

My rejected copy: That's what Shi seido.

Their response: "You know we're marketing this to gay men, right?"

Project No. 4: Viagra.

My rejected copy: Thank you. Come again.

Their response: "No."

*Nancy is a made up name to protect the identity of my friend Tom Cruise. In fact, all of this is made up to protect Tom Cruise.

NY Cab Conversation

2010-09-18T08:13:00.002-04:00

Scene: I'm at the corner of 10th Ave. and 34th St. 7:30pm I'm waving my arm at traffic going North, wearing a hand-made dress from Zachary's Smile, Cheap Monday jeans and lipstick (shoes, a purse etc... just remember, I'm dressed modestly).
Cab pulls over, I get in.

Anne: Hi. Greenpoint, please. Take the midtown tunnel to the Pulaski Bridge and turn right on F____ Street.
Cabbie: OK. Greenpoint.
[Pause]
Cabbie: You're coming back here tonight, right?
Anne: (Text-messaging and anyway, oblivious) Yeah maybe... I might stay there.
Cabbie: Uh huh... OK...
[I look up at the rear-view mirror and he's staring at me. I am now wishing I didn't have that conversation with a complete stranger. No one needs to know where I live or spend nights. But. For the record: The only reason I'm not sure where I'm ending up this night is that I crash on said friend's couch after long nights in North Brooklyn all the time.]
Cabbie: Are you going home to Brooklyn or you live in Manhattan is what I'm asking.
Anne: What? I live here. (We're still in Manhattan)
Cabbie: Uh huh... OK...

Fifteen minutes later, approaching F____ St.
Anne: Right here's fine.
[Cab slows down.]
Cabbie: So...business is good?
Anne: ...ye...ah...

This cab driver thought for some God forsaken reason that I was a fucking hooker.

Can I Help You? Well... can I?

2010-09-16T10:22:00.005-04:00

I know complaining about customer service in NYC is like taking candy from a child, which is like the most awful expression ever, but here is an astounding lapse in courtesy I felt like sharing anyway:

UHAUL. I arrive at the U-Haul counter at 4:30pm. No one's in line, and the clerk looks up from her computer screen, makes eye contact with me, smiles. I approach her and say, "I have a reservation for a cargo van." She says, "sure, no problem." She picks up a regulation office phone receiver, dials a number, waits a few seconds, then says...

Hi. It's (Jane) at U-Haul. (Pause) Yeah I'd like an order of Shrimp Lo Mein...(pause) yeah, exactly. With extra vegetables. (pause) Yep, exactly. (Laughter) I know (pause) Same thing every time. (Laughter) Alright see you in a few minutes.

She lets out an audible sigh. Types into the computer. Then says:

License and credit card, please.

I blink. I look behind me and ask my imaginary Yelp commentor, "did that just happen?" He answers, "yes Anne, that really happened." Of course I eventually get my cargo van. I just hope the gasoline I poured over Jane's shrimp lo mein tasted good.

Briggs Meyer... Shivers

2010-09-14T16:47:00.002-04:00

This is what The Briggs Meyer Test has to say about me.

[And in parentheses, what I have to say about it.]

People naturally confide in the Champion (ENFP). [This statement implies that the confidence is misplaced.]

That's why they make such good mediators, counselors, teachers, consultants, and reporters. [I would suck at all of these positions. Especially the teaching bit. But I guess I can make an exception for one of these jobs--consulting--which I currently hold. Honestly, I'm just glad I have a job, even if it means having no clue what I do and some days I wake myself up screaming into a pillow. Damn. That describes 80% of the teachers I had growing up in the public K-12 system. I guess I would be cut out for teaching after all.]

Any position that outreaches to others can fit the Champion. [OK this is just a really PG way of saying I'd make a good hooker.]

They can be columnists, journalists, publicists, copy writers, advertising account executives. [I can't think of anything more diametrically opposed to an ad accounts shlub than a journalist. Whoever wrote this has clearly never worked in advertising. I doubt if Edward R. Murrow would ever take a dozen Japanese businessmen high on MDMH to a champagne room in the Bronx just to seal a Daihatsu Account.]

In the arts they can be character actors, cartoonists, art educators. [Correction, I'd make a poor hooker.]

If they choose jobs such as restaurateur, be sure that their business sites will be unique and designed for a particular type of customer. [What the fuck does this even mean? Who's making sure my business site is unique if not The Champion herself, hellooooooo.]

Don't be surprised to see them as an inventor. [Don't act surprised. Shhhh. She thinks we're not onto her! Tee hee...]

This type of personality wants to experience the whole of life and may change careers more often than many other types. [OK this might be true. Just replace the word "career" with "boyfriend" and "types" with "humans with a modicum of morality" and you got yourself Anne Ishii.]

Says Charles, "I've had a number of jobs and when there is nothing left to create, I move to something new. I want my life to be spiced with newness, love, and joy." [Absolute lie. Charles never said such a thing, now did you Charles. Charles, I'm not feeding you till you put the fucking hand towels in the right cabinet shelf...]

Famous ENFPs: Phil Donahue and Joan Baez.

[Awesome. I can aspire to looking like a lesbian and then pretending I'm not one.]

Famous Virgins. Boys-to-Men.

2010-09-12T09:54:00.005-04:00

1. It's hard to believe but it's true. Carl Sagan (the Rocosi Freddy of Quantum Physics) said it himself in Cosmos (anagram of "Splooge"). Sir Isaac Newton died a virgin, but then again... he discovered gravity and intertia. Same difference as fucking.

2. The Jonas Brothers. As long as they know that incest counts as sex, they'll be fine.

3. American Pie, cast. All of that sex they pretend to have in the montage sequence was actually just rubbing "varsity patches."

4. Soichi Negishi, from DMC. My pointing out his virginity is a shameless plug (pun completely intended) for my work.

DMC 6 comes out (more intended, shameful punning) this week.

BUY IT, OR LORD JOHANNES KRAUSER II WILL BE A VIRGIN FOREVER.

I hate to be the pretentious pseudo-luddite, but...

2010-09-08T12:53:00.003-04:00

Getting rid of my TV has been one of the greatest things I've done for myself.
Now, I should to say for the record that I didn't give up TV the way people give up drugs or porn addiction (e.g. in 12 steps). There was no purposed health benefit or some public message I wanted to make in the boycott of mass visual communication and commercial marketing. I work with an ad agency for crying out loud.

I just got rid of my piece of shit roundscreen TV when I moved last year, intending to get a nice new one, but never did. Besides, A.) Because I travel so much I get plenty of hotel and "mom's house" TV B.) The Internet, and C.) My friends with cable want nothing more than for me to come over and hijack their remotes so that I can flip back and forth between reruns of The Golden Girls and Cheaters.

Here are a few things that happen when you don't have a television:

1. When I do finally watch TV, I am agog. Everything is amazingly awful because I haven't had a chance to be pulled in by some flimsy yet narcotic narrative. Plus programming turns over like hot cakes these days, and each time, the reality TV fodder is that much worse. There is actually a fucking show called "Dating in the Dark."

What this show demonstrates to me is that ABC couldn't get clearance on blind soft-core porn because Disney is blind.

2. The commercials actually seem novel. Since I'm not subject to watching the same commercials over and over, a lot of them are still sort of entertaining, or at least easy to shit on. Like the Windows 7 commercial with the American in Germany doing tongue-ups on a wood floor. [I cannot WAIT till ten years from now when Tosh 5.0 cans some laughter making the obvious cunnilingus joke.]

3. Local news looks like nothing more than Youtube virals.
"Local man gets arm trapped in radiator. Cuts it off with the nearest sharp object: a toenail clipping."
"Irate Hanson fans throw chairs at the Southside Seaport when forced to wait ten minutes for them to appear on stage."
"President Obama's Labor Day Speech. What the half-literate man we cornered in front of the subway station has to say about it, next."

4. I've discovered incredible physical and mental health benefits in this absence of television and think everyone should re-consider their relationship to mass media and commercial marketing. It's evil.

5. Netflix/Hulu/DVD addiction.

10 Guan

2010-08-25T18:54:00.003-04:00

Watched "I am Love" last night. Amazing movie, that. I highly recommend it.
As it happens, one of the trailers was for "A Woman, A Gun and a Noodle Shop" by Zhang Yimou, which is based on The Coen Brothers' "Blood Simple," also an amazing movie. Here's a trailer for the Zhang adaptation.

Check it out.

You know how I can tell it's a Chinese movie from this trailer? The main characters are haggling over 10 guan.

A Woman, A Gun, and a Noodle Shop
I am Love

Philosophical Sycophancy

2010-08-11T19:23:00.006-04:00

I have this haunting para-fantasy of college where I'm undone by cheap poetry because I am still at best a dilettante in affairs of the... oh I'm getting wordy. Let's just say there's a thread in here:

Philosophy Major Come-ons.

Version 1. Cartesian.

[Skinny dude with a ponytail, on one knee, to girlfriend]:

I think (pause), therefore I am (longer pause. Then, closing his eyes, he whispers) with you~

Version 2. Lacanian.

[Post coitus, a young man nervously pulls up the sheet over his nipples and looks around confused. Asks]:

Was that as good for me as it was for you?

Version 3. Kantian.

[Junior varsity athlete (he thought philosophy would be an easy major, confusing it with sociology) approaches a hot chick at the bar. Frames his crotch with splayed hands and smirks. Says:]

It's not the size of the ocean, babe. Bu--t actually it pretty much is.

Elsewhere at the bar:

Version 4. Sartresque.

"You had me at hell is other people."

Version 5. Nietzchean.

"Let's make a bet. If you pronounce this word (he shows 'Nietzche' on a piece of paper) incorrectly you have to go out with me. If you pronounce it right, I take you out and date rape you anyway."

Version 6. "Buddhist" (emphasis on the airbanging)

"Let me guess... You're Chinese? Wait, no... Korean? Wait, no..." (He repeats this to death, comes back as Nicolas Cage's sperm, miraculously "gets it right" in the next life and achieves Nirvana, where he is confused and disappointed because there are no hot Asian chicks. Just a bunch of old white dudes with ponytails.)

Telenoid

2010-08-02T18:58:00.002-04:00

Japan has a population problem. It's rapidly declining because the kids aren't reproducing like they used to.

Not sure what made me think of that when I read about the Telenoid R1, but I don't... think... it's... helping.

The Telenoid R1 is meant to be a minimalist human, so details are restricted to its eyes and face, which are strangely realistic. Its body is limited to flipper-like arms and a stylized torso that ends in a mermaid-ish taper.
Telenoid users interact with people at a distance through a laptop, as shown in the video below. The control system tracks the user's face and head motion and captures his or her voice, then relays them to Telenoid, which expresses them. It's about 31 inches tall and weighs 11 pounds.

Scared.

Dating awwwww

2010-07-29T20:01:00.004-04:00

There's an old (circa 1990s) truism about the milemarkers of dating.

If after three dates you haven't slept with him/her, dump him/her.

If after three months you haven't said "I love you," dump him/her.

If after three years you aren't married yet, dump him/her.

I don't prescribe to or proscribe this schedule but its quality lies in its simplicity, because the reality is much less succinct (if funnier):

If after three dates you don't know anything about him/her, you're just a lay.

If after three months you aren't talking "love," you (i.e. she) will start fighting.

If you keep at it and are with them for three years but aren't married yet, you're going to get divorced whenever you do decide to get married (which you will, because you won't have the courage to dump him/her).

Here's the new truism.

Go on three dates with someone you loved at first sight.

In three months, give them something small but valuable. A word, an object, a gesture.

In three years, go back on a date with this person. It's cheaper than a wedding.

(Repeat)

It already smells bad, go ahead and fart.

2010-07-28T12:32:00.004-04:00

My month-long sojourn to Los Angeles draws to a close this week. Here are some highlights.

Images:

Bald body builder with a titanium leg trolling around the streets of Long Beach with the sun in his face. Tells me to smile when I cross his path. Applauds when I obey.

Every unique, dispossessed, splintered (and in every case very likely schizophrenic) vagabond on the Metro-Blue Line. Including but not limited to the woman who will not protect Curious George, the old man from Washington St. in Arkansas, the gay street punk who kept telling himself his feet will "get cut by the nurses again," and the frustrated black woman who threatened to "cut that bitch (i.e. me)."

Bearded homeless man drinking from a 2-Liter bottle of Pepsi filled with clear water, highlighting in fluorescent yellow, a stack of documents in a manila folder.

Proto-1970s Californian home architecture.

Sounds:

Loud music in a small car.

Trains.

Chicano English.

This.

People:

Hanging out with Dad, who is now an uncle. Hello, Uncle Dad. I can't reciprocate your new found affection for me because you broke that part of my soul fifteen years ago.

Hanging out with an old flame, who is now a flamer. Hello, boyfriend of a boyfriend. I am curiously flattered by this news.

Hanging out with Mom, who is now my child. Hello, child mom. What do you want for dinner?

Hanging out with a New Yorker, who is now an Angeleno. Goodbye.

Driving Metaphors:

"I don't even have the gas to drive the car to get to the store that has the words I need to find for this conversation."

"Advance 200 feet and U-turn."

"Turn on your blinker."

"Your blinker's still on."

Auto-Replies

2010-07-27T17:06:00.003-04:00

I've always liked to mess with people in my auto-replies. We should definitely have auto-replies for more human situations than absence from the office and customer service confirmation.

Boyfriend Auto-Reply:

"Thank you for writing. Your message is important to me. I respond to every email in the order in which it was received but if you have any pressing questions please call directly."

Bad Ex-Boyfriend Auto-Reply:

"You've reached a girlfriend who is no longer listening to you. Move on. If this is an emergency, please contact another ex or your mother."

Good Ex-Boyfriend Auto-Reply:

"I am currently away on vacation. Yeah, uh...vacation. Not a new man. A vacation... Let's talk in a couple months?"

Bad contractor's Auto-Reply:

"I am currently on vacation in your offices. I will have only sporadic interest in checking my emails from you and will not make myself available for anything other than group takeout orders and my bonus check. Thanks in advance for the job."

Parent Auto-Reply:

"Delivery failure."

The Allegory of My Life Today

2010-07-20T14:29:00.006-04:00

On the blue line to Long Beach this morning, a morbidly obese woman wearing matching heather grey sweatpants and sweatshirt, white hair pulled up into a high bun, spoke to herself at my 8 o'clock. Canvas bag full of bright objects between her legs on the floor. Despite the elements, a beautiful woman with a clear and bright face.

And in a calm, even tone:

You're dead meat.
You're torn meat.
They're going to tear you up.
And I won't stop them.
I won't do anything about it.
I won't keep them apart.

You're dead meat, Curious George.
Don't ask for a damned thing.
If they beat you up and call you mean things,
I won't stop them,
because it's all true.

Looks like it's gonna rain.
Hope it does.
Cool things off.
Help flowers grow.

Losers get out and drive.
Winners walk.

Yes, George, tell them you're my son.
They'll come back for you.
You don't hit me, I don't hit you.

Is something wrong with my eye sight today?

Inception Within an Inception

2010-07-19T19:45:00.003-04:00

So Inception is the movie to beat, eh?

I saw it last night. Thought it was beautiful. Think it's funny that Leonardo DiCaprio played the same exact role in Shutter Island (psychosis within psychosis) and The Departed--gang within a gang. Are we reaching a tipping point here?

What other "X within an X" formulas can Leo play?

1. Line within a Line. Leo waits at the DMV and finds out it was a line to Popeye's Chicken the whole time. He orders a bucket of chicken and then dies of a heart attack but no one knows he's an organ donor because he never got that driver's license.

2. Marriage within a Marriage. Leo marries a hot Swedish model. Turns out she's secretly married to Hugh Grant, which means Leo is now married to Hugh Grant. They have to consummate the marriage in ten days or someone will make another sequel to Saw.

3. Tweet within a Tweet.

@LeoDiCap @@@@@@@@@@@

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

Plane-mate, Episode "Unemployed"

2010-07-05T19:41:00.002-04:00

On my flight to Chicago a couple weeks ago I sat in my window seat hoping no one would fill the middle spot. As seems frequently the case, the more tardy said middle-seater is, the more colorful their personalities. [ibid.]

This time it was a woman in hand-torn black T-shirt, sweat pants and an anklet.

She smelled like a party three days ago in her ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend's back yard, if you catch my drift.

If you don't, try a bowl of salsa with a few stray corn nuts, cigarette butts, beer and vaseline. Put that bowl in the sun and come back a week later.

The woman was a talker. Talked the ear off the man sitting in the aisle seat. Conveniently chose to ignore me. Started calling everyone on her Favorites dialing list once it was announced we were going to be sitting on the tarmac for another hour because of weather delays. She complains loudly that she rushed to the plane for no good reason, not realizing we're actually in a closed cabin on the tarmac.

Flight attendant comes down the aisle asking people if they want to buy headsets.

Woman: How much are the headphones?
Attendant: Two dollars.
Woman: Oh, I thought they were five. Do we get to keep them?
Attendant: Yeah. (Notices she already has earphone) You know your earphones will work just fine.
Woman: I know, I just wanted to know how much they cost. I thought it was five. Two dollars for headsets though...
Attendant: We're all trying to make money where we can.
Woman: Yeah, but two dollars...

Ten minutes later the woman calls for an attendant.

Woman: Do you have a pen I can borrow during the flight? I'll give it back, I promise.

The attendant brings back a pen for her. The woman pulls out a huge folded stack of paper from her huger bag. A ziplock bag full of burnt CDs falls out, along with her CD-man. So ok, the punchline here is her ziplock bag of cds, but when was the last time you saw a CD-man?

The woman unfolds her documents: Laser color printouts of job listings from the internet. She starts reading down the list and circling what I presume are all the jobs she might take. Suffice it to say she circles almost every listing.

I start to feel enterprising. Want to tell her how to be more efficient about her situation. A.) Don't go to Kinko's and pay a buck a page to print out 40 color pages of job listings if you're unemployed. B.) Never not have a pen on you. Especially if you're looking for work.

I sleep instead of proselytizing. Keep waking up to the sound her talking to the other neighbor, who is fully immersed in the Mahut/Isner tennis match. He fails miserably at explaining to her the phenomenon that is taking place on TV: Tennis.

Woman: I don't get it. They only have to get seven points to win a match?
Man: No, each "point" is actually a game.
Woman: So they play seven games?
Man: No, they have to play till someone's up two games in the seventh set.
Woman: You know what, no offense but I don't get tennis so I'm going to watch something else.
Man: (Visibly unoffended.)

When I look back at her screen she's variously watching FoxNews and Friends. I reserve judgement and go back to sleep.

As the plane starts to make its final descent, I notice the woman is switching to listening to her CDs. She pulls one out of the ziplock bag to insert in her CD-man. Scribbled in Sharpie ink are the words:

Three Doors Down

I didn't realize anyone besides AMC theater patrons waiting for their movie to start ever listened to this band. Much less burnt their albums. I no longer reserve judgement; start thinking about how to tell this story.

When we land the woman immediately calls what sounds like her ride from the airport.

Woman: I don't know why they lied to us about the weather to delay us for so many hours. I mean it's all sunny here and shit...
Yeah, just pick me up outside...
What? You want me to pay for gas?...
That's not what we talked about last night!...
If I knew I had to buy your gas I woulda taken the train...
No...
No...
No!...
You know what just forget about it. I'll just have to figure it out with my credit cards. I won't be able to buy food or cigarettes the next couple of days but I'll pay for gas it's fine...
No, forget about it...
I'll buy the gas, forget about it...

I hope for her sake someone eventually explained how tennis works.

I Feel Bad For Him

2010-07-05T19:26:00.004-04:00

If anyone else watched the Hot Dog Eating Contest at Coney Island on TV yesterday, you probably couldn't eat the rest of the day either. I know the meme of the day was "Free Kobi" but that's missing the trees for the forest, in my humble opinion.

After witnessing the drama involving Kobayashi, however, (contest-winner) Chestnut said, “I feel bad for him.”

I FEEL BAD FOR HIM.

That's the T-shirt I want.

Chigaco

2010-07-02T17:50:00.007-04:00

Tidbits about Chicago:

1. For all the glory of its architecture, downtown Chicago has no clock monuments. In New York you can't turn a corner and look up without seeing at least the remnants of a broken clock. (Observed)

2. There is more oxygen in the Chicago air than a rain forest during summer because the corn crops in Illinois sweat. (Learned)

3. You have to turn in your driver's license if you get a traffic infraction. Any infraction. (Chicago's stupid)

4. Didn't realize it but Sun Ra's from Chicago. (I'm stupid)

5. Rent's cheap. (New York is stupid)

6. And there are possibly as many musicians as there are hot dogs in the city. (Score)

I have a tumblr acct

2010-06-26T13:27:00.002-04:00

because

iamilliterate tumblr com

ill iterate

follow?

The Books We Pack

2010-06-23T08:15:00.002-04:00

We pick up a lot of cues on compatibility from cultural currency. Yankees fans, Dead Heads, foodies--we learn from all these symbolic appellations, for better or worse.

In discussing the concept of libraries with the fine folks at Observatory (link at end), and then packing my own ad hoc library of books, I went through a laundry cycle of emotions as I handled the books people have given or recommended to me.

Imagine, a taxonomy of these cues.

Think of the Wodehouse collection.

Would I have ever read Maugham were it not for him?

How many double-takes have you gotten from Blood Meridian?

How many reference books were gifts? And all from the same person?

I will never read that conspiracy theory on 9-11 gifted by the Frenchman,

nor will I ever forget being read Possession in bed by the American.

How strange that two totally unrelated and wildly different people should recommend Flann O'Brien. One because he loved him and the other because she didn't,

but thought I would.

Pattern Recognition, a bible to so many.

Airport paperbacks, trash to so few.

Instead of lending my cues, I tell everyone:

take it.

Observatory.

The Wind's Song

2010-06-16T16:46:00.002-04:00

I am going to hell and back because the return is always faster, more pleasant. There was a devil's whistle. A fierce wind. Free me, my head. Now.

Now.

mongolian wind from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

What part of Manhattan Are You?

2010-06-13T02:16:00.004-04:00

You meet a very stylish stranger who compliments you on a pair of unremarkable and ratty shoes. You think:

A. I love these shoes too! Awesome.

B. Ew. He wants to sleep with me.

C. He/She must work in retail.

D. I'm in.

You buy a six pack at the local deli and it's:

A. 8pm

B. 5pm

C. 7am

D. I'm in.

The clerk behind the register says "how are you, (insert your name)?" You respond:

A. Good. How about you, John?

B. (To self: fuck, what was his name?)

C. Not bad, Nelson. Uh... is Jose still selling the weed I bought last weekend?

D. I'm in.

An ideal roommate situation for you is:

A. Your wife/husband and kids.

B. Your future wife/husband and your brittany spaniel.

C. Anyone you've met at the local deli.

D. I'm in.

You do your banking with:

A. One bank

B. Two banks

C. The local deli ATM

D. I'm in.

If you had to live anywhere else in the U.S. you'd live in:

A. Manhattan

B. France

C. The local deli

D. I'm in.

If you answered mostly A you're not anywhere near Manhattan.

If you answered mostly B you're in the West Village.

If you answered mostly C you're in the East Village/Lower East Side.

If you answered mostly D you're in.

The Hardest Laughter

2010-06-10T18:22:00.003-04:00

I can think of a handful of occasions in which I laughed myself into a complete splinter.

Once, replete in a marching band uniform pepping up our high school football game, Albert Morales and I (drum line, whut?!) started talking about how ridiculous it looks when kids get their heads stuck in the neck of their sweater. Yeah, we were wearing shakos and making fun of kids taking off their sweaters...

More recently, Urian Brown was describing JoJo's Bizarre Adventure (still arguably the most ridiculous manga in comics history) at Gobo in Greenwich Village. You really had to be there, but just imagine someone named Urian Brown acting out this:

and there's a chi-chi juice bar in the background.

In grad school, I almost got expelled for laughing during a speech because the female Korean professor kept being referred to as Ja instead of Ja-Hyun, and my stoner buddy Andy Rodekhor kept muttering, "Ja, Rastafari." (Sigh) College...

Last year Michelle and I rolled up and down Park Avenue laughing after a long night drinking at some Irish pub by Irving Plaza. Michelle told the bartender her name was Anne Ishii and then started sucking his face off. Yes. That's what made us laugh hysterically.

But now:

Mongolia.

The Hardest Laughter.

The Hardest Laughter from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

2010-06-10T12:19:00.005-04:00

I'm back up at YOMYOMF today. (link at end)

Because the piece is about Asian cowboys, I figured I'd take the opportunity to showcase one set of Mongolia pictures I took with toy cameras.

The Men.

Mangolia (YouOffendMeYouOffendMyFamily)

Photo Break

2010-05-27T13:14:00.004-04:00

hello.

Ulan Baatar

2010-05-27T10:47:00.004-04:00

Name another country who's one international airport is named after a 12th century warlord.

I wonder what Chingghis Khan would say about his Mongolia today. The capital city of Ulan Baatar looks like something in Blood Meridian. The capital has moved over a dozen times before settling here. Appropriate avatar for nomadism.

Another Mongolian Tale:

Day 1: Anne arrives at airport and looks for driver with sign, arranged for by Michelle. Driver nowhere to be seen. Arrival floor ratio of solicitous drivers to actual arrivers--2::1. My impression from epicanthal Y-chromosomes is already profound.

Finally relent to a cabbie that's been vising me since I stepped out of customs and take the overpriced ride to The Seoul Hotel. Cab-music is strange techno of the following words, which will run on repeat in my head for the succeeding 24 hours:

Rainy days, can't you feel the rain in your face.

Finally see Michelle. We get me some food, then head to second floor bar/stripclub at hotel. See an old white dude get down with a semi-nude local on the dance floor. Embarrassing/hilarious/deflating.

I make eye contact with "Anna." Anna is an Asian goddess.

She comes over and without provocation starts dancing straddling my legs. I keep my head low and talk to Michelle like Anna's not there. Anna eventually starts The Lap Dance, putting my hand on her flesh, pressing her breasts against my face.

Reminder: I've just deboarded from 26 hours of transit and am dead tired.

Michelle's laughing. "Grab her ass!" Though Anna's the one almost totally naked and failing to turn me, I'm the one embarrassed and looking around the room for compassion. I notice Anna's left nipple is only half-erect.

After what feels like an eternity I finally indulge Anna, stroke her ass and smile at her. I look over at Michelle. "They know not to try this with me. I'm not making eye contact with anyone."

Eye contact...

A confused exchange of money ends my lap dance, and I ask to take her picture. Anna SQUEEELS. Michelle: Yeah, noooo. Don't do that. Anna's madam-boss looks up from the computer she's been playing online poker at in the corner since we got in. Pause. She returns her gaze to the screen.

Michelle and I go back to the hotel room and I crash like a stock market. Wake up the next morning more anxious than ever to get the fuck out of this city.

Ulan Baatar from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

The First

2010-05-26T07:21:00.004-04:00

Michelle Borok. Essayist, Businesswoman, The Giant's Robot, Member One of the "Best People We Know" Triad, Mongolian.

Someone once explained to me that the only reason parents can afford the risk of not vaccinating their children is that everyone else's kid is. I could only afford the risk of taking this trip because Michelle had already vaccinated us from danger and ignorance. So first off: thanks, Michelle.

Beauty, nature and ten days without technological communications all highlit the steppes. All that notwithstanding, the 200 mile trek around the Terelj region in Mongolia showed me only one thing: humanity. [Sidenote: Most of the pictures I took were on film and of people. When they're developed I'll dedicate another post/page to just them.]

Watching Michelle's humanity was a wonder. It took her five days to even mention life back in Los Angeles, the game-players, the game-changers, the cunts, the idiots, us. That might be a world record. And then she fell in love. And then she fell in love.

Watching people fall in love is pretty amazing.

Say, won't you stay for a while

2010-05-26T07:15:00.002-04:00

I saw Mars. I saw roads dotted with quartz, slate, crushed by hooves, drunken ambling, the human toxic faces the great outdoors unlocked and it's a wonder to hear the silence in my head is a rope of water running from the back of my head, a faucet, an Indian breeze is my hair.

Thank you, Mongolia.

Mongol

2010-05-24T01:42:00.002-04:00

There is much more to say about my trip than I can pump out of the world's largest Samsung "laptop" on borrowed time at an internet kiosk in Incheon International Airport, where I wait for the last leg of my flight back to NYC to start boarding (seriously, this computer is ridiculous), but let's reverse-engineer The Trek with today. The last day.

Day 12: Anne heads home.
My flight to Seoul is scheduled to leave from Ulan Baatar at 6:45am, so I need to arrange for a cab to pick me up at 4am. I need to go to the lobby of my 3-star hotel. You would not be remiss to assume the three stars represent how many things worked in the room. 1. The door, 2. the refrigerator, and 3. the phone. My bed was missing one of four legs and hobbled. The ceiling had shit stains (not making this up), and our door was half-broken. The floor, pieced together with what felt like driftwood and rope, was covered in a vomit-stained carpet (still not making this up), and the shower dribbled lukewarm water for only a minute at a time. Not complaining, really. Just funny.

I go to the lobby and ask the receptionist first if she speaks English. She does. I request a reservation for a taxi to take me to the airport the following morning at 4. I have to be explicit about it because the taxi that was ostensibly reserved to pick me up from the same airport had never showed up. While I'm talking to her the phone rings. She picks up the receiver and gently hangs it up. Like she doesn't want to interrupt our conversation. I pause incredulously and look at the phone before repeating my taxi request a second and third time. I think she got it. I wonder who called.

3:50 am, I saunter down the stairs (elevator doesn't work now, naturally) with my heavy luggage, and the noise I'm making wakes up the receptionist and doorman who are both sleeping on the couch in the lobby. Doorman doesn't bother opening his eyes or standing up, but the receptionist quickly tucks her shirt into her suit-skirt and pulls down the matching vest to align her gig.

She gestures out the door to the cab waiting for me. Turns on one lamp and unlocks the front door.

Cab takes me to Chingghis Khan airport 60km/hour over the speed limit. Mongolians drive like they want to die.

Chingghis Khan airport has all of 2 gates. Neither of them have signs. Yet it miraculously has one of the only real coffee machines in possibly all of Mongolia (all the coffee here is freeze-dried powder. Again, not complaining. Just an observation). The real coffee is surprisingly OK. I'm beginning to feel like a bourgeois cunt again. I start checking email. 50, 60, 100, 300 new emails... ugh.

I hear a sound on the PA.

"Ishii, Anne Makiko what sits in 16F please go to Gate 1 please."
(repeat at 2 minute intervals for ten minutes)
(repeat consecutively for another ten)

Thing is, I am AT Gate 1. There is not one employee there. I try to flag anyone wearing a suit with pins on it. None of them want to help me, or they don't understand my sign language. I enunciate to a confused woman in a suit with pins:

Someone is paging me.

She says, "Bejing you! OK," and points at the mob of people standing between gate 1 and 2 (which are really only ten yards apart). I walk away from her and try someone else, who says in broken English to follow her. She opens a door and points down. It's a stairwell. I walk down it.

I walk down the stairwell directly to a storage closet full of stacked plastic chairs and a woodscreen. I feel cold air leaking through broken windows and someone behind the wall talking loudly over clanging metal (probably cooking). So now I'm in a storage closet. Alone.

I run back up convinced I just escaped a Mongolian airport gang rape, to what I thought was Gate 1. Still no one there, still my name being paged. I flag someone else down and say, "someone is calling me" and point at the speaker in the ceiling two feet above my head. Miraculously, he speaks solid English and knows what's going on, but the explanation is still disconcerting.

"Don't worry. Your bag being checked at customs. Ignore naming."

It's 6:45 now and our flight's supposed to have taken off, so now I'm worried I'm actually on the wrong planet. I ask the people around me where they're going.

Moscow.
Beijing.
Tokyo.

I run into a couple Hungarians Michelle and I happened to meet on the last day of our wildnerness trek. They are apparently boarding a plane at the same time out of the same gate as me. I don't try to unravel the logical impossibility of three flights boarding at the same time out of the same gate, and just push my way to the front of the "line" (more like the trading floor of the NYSE). I get on a plane following the snippets of Korean and Japanese I hear (all equally confused as me).

It's the first time in my life I actually feel safer on the plane than on the ground.

The flight attendants welcome us to "Flight 501 to Tokyo via Seoul" so I rest easy and fall asleep through the three hours it takes to get out of Mars.

It's a beautiful place.

mine

2010-05-09T01:31:00.003-04:00

on the eve of my departure for mongolia i decided to see my dad for the first time in 14 years. i asked him to meet me at the Long Beach Aquarium upon someone's suggestion ("It's quiet, it's public, it's fun. You guys won't feel any pressure."). it's also spitting distance from interTrend, where i go in to work every few weeks from NYC. i'd never been to the aquarium before but it's adjacent to the beach i go to most every morning before work to sip my coffee and unwind. it's the beach i affectionately call "mine."

i've spent many hours there thinking about you, about me, about other things i affectionately call "mine."

after my father and i did a quick pass through the overpopulated aquarium, my dad said he wanted to take me somewhere. he drove us over to the Long Beach Museum where we had hamburgers at the outdoor cafe. on the way out of there he tells me:

This is Esperanza St. and when you were born this is where we lived. Right here. You should remember this. For the first 2 years of your life we lived here. I was always busy with work but your mom would walk you in the stroller to the beach every day. One day a car hit you while your mother walked you across the street. She called to tell me, "Makiko popped out of the stroller he hit us so suddenly!" I'm sure your mother still bears the scar on her hand.

it was my beach.
it was my beach.

it was my beach.

it was mine.

(my beach. remember?)

Solicitous

2010-05-06T18:40:00.002-04:00

Anyone want to help me design a new website for me?

testing

2010-04-30T18:44:00.002-04:00

You Make Me Feel Like

2010-04-30T15:56:00.004-04:00

"So hot it's cool so cool it's hot."

Damned Pop Tarts.

Signs

2010-04-27T11:22:00.002-04:00

Where the hell am I.

Just, don't.

2010-04-26T20:08:00.004-04:00

If you're sensitive to male-bashing I suggest you stop right now and go read Hypebeast, download a rap album and buy some hand cream.

I (and to some degree, my friends) have been dying to tell these stories all year, and think the statute of limitations has finally just gone up so here goes.

When I turned 30 last year I decided it was high time I became an adult woman. I cleaned up, upgraded everything, started wearing a little rouge. I bought clothes that fit me and took myself more seriously. Heels, skirts and a purse later, I learned that as complex as serial monogamy is with a "good personality," meeting people solely on the merits of a look brings out the dumbest in dumb.

So if you'll allow my good personality the missive, here are words to give the wise an edge.

Guys, these are not the ways to woo ladies:

1. Brag about your dong.

I like talking about genitals as much as the next alcoholic, but the amount of time you spend bragging about your dong is inversely proportionate to how awesome it is. This is a law of rhetoric.

2. Brag about what your exes said about your dong.

If someone loved your dong and you're not with them anymore, well then it stands to reason the rest of you is useless.

3. Call your penis a dong.

I'm thirty, people. C'mon.

4. Call at 2am and ask who I'm with.

Aside from the obvious fact that it's no one's business who/what/when/where/why I'm doing what I'm doing, you're not going to like the answer if you have to ask the question. This is another law of rhetoric.

5. Tell me I look like Yoko Ono.

Unoriginal.

6. Waffle.

You've asked me out. I've said yes. Don't then make planning the date the main event. Just tell me where to go.

7. Unless it's a trip hop show.

If I wanted herpes I'd be dating online.

Good evening, Park Slope

2010-04-23T15:05:00.003-04:00

The Park Slope I love.

The Park Slope I hate.

2010-04-08T00:22:00.004-04:00

This picture. Made. My. Day.

Thanks, Nick.

(BTW: I'm making a funny face to friends on purpose... in case that's not entirely clear.)

I have an announcement to make.

2010-04-01T16:25:00.003-04:00

My announcement is purely symbolic, as my intended audience is all but deaf. In my childish pride I feel all of you can be the testament to my last oblique blathering about This Thing That's Been Driving Me Nuts For The Past Few Months.
(And I apologize in advance for what will be the last cheesy blog post from me for a while. I promise.)

So without further ado, The Announcement:

I am done with you.

Done. from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

Classics Written by the 21st Century Middle Class

2010-03-25T20:24:00.004-04:00

Cat on a Hot Sun Roof
The Online Gambler
Death of a Sales Rep
The Red and the New Black
Madame Ovary
The Second Sext
Crime and Time-Served
Eighth Level Elvin Mage of the Rings
Blog Postings by Montaigne
A New Yorker Piece of Two Cities
Gatsby Facebooks his Ex
Bridezillas and Prejudice
A Farewell to Archive
Conventionally Grown Grapes of Wrath
Hamlet: The 40 Year Old Virgin
The Golden Netbook
A Downtown Studio of One's Own
The Bible in 3D

The Existentialism of Hurt

2010-03-24T13:42:00.003-04:00

Hurt Locker has been an interesting cultural phenomenon, and for me, not the least of reasons is that the word "hurt" is very potent.

I hurt. (transitive)
I hurt. (intransitive)

Sometimes, the best way to hurt (both in the transitive and intransitive senses) is physically. Physical pain can assuage emotional suffering. I believe this now.

Toward the end of last week I compulsively exercised. Two lifting classes in 12 hours, a one hour run, horse-riding... And I compulsively ate. Sound of body, sound of mind. Both sounds are soft today but in perfect pitch.

Now, for the PSA:

If you or someone you know hurts, spend a day with The Littrells.

A Day With the Littrells from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

Marketing Jargon

2010-03-10T13:58:00.003-05:00

I occasionally have to analyze how I feel about marketing jargon and I've recently decided there is nothing wrong with marketing jargon. Just a matter of perspective. Jazz music critics have gotten away with all kinds of neologisms, for example, but who's gonna slap the guy who writes McCoy Tyner got all pentatonic on his bebop? No one. Actually...maybe that's a bad example, as I'd probably slap the computer screen upon reading that.

Marketers are unfortunately just tacky. Our language is derivative but efficient.

THAT SAID. Here are some things I (have heard but) will never say in the context of marketing:

Lock and load.
Make this thing pop/jump/fly.
Let's start throwing some dates around. (As opposed to just asking, "when are you free?")

(Sorry to those who use those phrases. Again, don't have a problem with hearing them. I love all sinners.)

ALSO. I'd love to hear these other metaphors in their stead.
I might even take bets they'll start circulating:

You ready to fight?
Let's lube this thing so everyone's happy.
What's our equinox?

Heads Up

2010-03-09T15:15:00.003-05:00

And these two pictures were taken in completely different golden-halves but belong next to each other.

My Los Angeles.

My New York.

Overexposed.

Heads up, New York

2010-03-09T14:55:00.006-05:00

Some cool pics of New York.

Cool for the same reason I think the LA pics were rad.

I love this camera.

Thanks for the Golden Half, Powershovel-Nick (pictured here in golden halves).
They say the grass is always greener on the other side but I actually think the sky's bluer on the right.

ps: the sunglasses I'm wearing just went on sale.

He's like a chicken with his head cut off. Better get a pretzel.

Heads up, LA

2010-03-09T14:43:00.005-05:00

Some rad pictures of Los Angeles. Rad partly because on analog everything that comes out nice feels twice as good. (Pardon the weird part in my bangs)

Taken with a Golden Half.

Mid-70s all week.

And no smog?...anything can happen.

Rehab. Re:up.

2010-03-08T13:47:00.002-05:00

What a zonker of a month. TGINFA: Thank God It's Not February Anymore.

Travel. Lots of travel. It's become a sort of metaphor. "I been movin around a lot."

Between jetlag, gutrot and brainfreeze I'm sure I need a good month of rehabilitation. To wit, I'm going back on the Paleo Diet that ended a couple weeks ago. This time cutting down on me ole smokey treats and the mead and adding some productive R&R (as opposed to self-imposed exile). Wait patiently for heartache to grow up and leave the house.

Detox requires a certain environment and several rations. For example:

Canned wild salmon: $4 a can.
Omega-3 Supplements: $30
Other various mineral supps: $20
Organic and free-range/grassfed produce and meats: $50
2Lbs of coffee beans: $10
New coffeemaker (I now have three different coffee making systems sigh): $90
Mongolian expedition: $1500+
Spending money as defense mechanism: Priceless.

Imperfect as they are.

2010-03-03T19:04:00.003-05:00

Some of us get dogs to cure our loneliness. Others get cats. Yet others find themselves boyfriends or girlfriends.

I found an imperfect little video camera.

Some of you have seen the nano films I've shot using this semi-precious gem, and if it meant anything to you, then I don't need to say much more about the product. I can't say enough about it, but even better than my words are the artifacts left by others.

Powershovel is exhibiting a mighty fine roster of Digital Harinezumi films created by artists, musicians, filmmakers and other ordinary geniuses.
March 19 6:30-8:30 at the New Museum.

Please come and keep us company.

The Architecture of Insults

2010-03-03T16:29:00.002-05:00

Exhibit A:
Your Mother + Racism

Exhibit B:
You + Racism

Exhibit C:
Your Girlfriend + Racism

Exhibit D:
Your Mother + Sexual Promiscuity

Exhibit E:
Your Girlfriend + Sexual Promiscuity

Exhibit F:
You + Sexual Orientation

Exhibit G:
"Hipster"

Social Networking in a nutshell

2010-03-01T02:23:00.002-05:00

Twitter: you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you
you you you you you you you you me you you you you you you you you

Facebook: me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me you me me me me me me me me me me me me me

Myspace: Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace
Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace Myspace

Friendster: social networking social networking social networking social networking
social networking social networking social networking social networking social networking

Tokyo

2010-03-01T01:07:00.003-05:00

I like Tokyo just fine and each time I go there I like it more. Probably just because each time I go there I meet more people. The odds of my hitting an ace acquaintance get better each time. My biggest hangup is still the gender divide, but as an American visitor it's nothing I can't pretend gets isolated on this side of the Pacific.

Observation 1: Made by Alvin.

"Japan has mastered a brilliant system of mind-control." (inre: cultish purchasing habits, and business morale)

Observation 2: Made by my Korean Grandma.

"When the kimchi's good, everything is good." (after a sub par KBBQ experience saved by panchan)

Observation 3: Made by Julia (in reference to time zones and where we were currently)

"Right now is today's now."

Observation 4:

This is what karaoke should always look like. (ps: I have just realized I've been surrounded almost my whole life with handsome friends. I must have hated men in a previous existence.)

Karaoke in Tokyo from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

Observation 5:

Tokyo is a city of solitude.

Tokyo from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

All She had

2010-02-22T18:17:00.000-05:00

Real receipt from corner deli. So profound.

PSA

2010-02-22T12:54:00.001-05:00

Real quick:

Been seeing a lot of "kombucha" on the juice market lately. Let me just say that as a Japanist, sweet kombucha sounds about as appetizing as a Monster Iced Chicken Tea.

transitions

2010-02-21T15:36:00.003-05:00

In stories, there are forgettable climaxes, and there are memorable non-climaxes. These latter are transitions you can pinpoint to an exact shift in eye contact or a pause in speech. Los Angeles seems to pronounce memorable moments especially well.

Episode 1:
Anne gets menudo at the local Mexican joint on the East Side. Waiting for her order to come out of the kitchen, she notices a lot of Mexican families. It's Sunday. I love the sound of this English. I can't place it, but Baby Boomer Latinos speaking English is soooo lovely. There's a gentlemanly timbre to even their small talk.

I hear it. A woman announces in spanish that my order's ready. She starts asking if I want tortillas with my order, still in Spanish because her head's buried in the plastic bag she's filling with my food.

She sees me. THAT precise moment of "oh, she's not Mexican" was followed with the LOL-equivalent of a facial expression -- she's thinking about how silly that was, but wearing the laughter in a smile on her face. And then THAT precise moment was in turn followed by an "oh right, Asians like tripe too" look.

Episode 2:
Anne plays chatroulette with a group of filmmakers in Los Feliz. We keep "next"ing bald dicks and racist pricks. The nicest people (read: the only ones who'd talk to us for any length of time) were Asian or Middle Eastern. As most of the group of filmmakers are white, I sense some awful race-accident about to happen. And then it does. We meet someone from Saudi Arabia and one of us unconsciously blurts out:

Al Qaeda!

Except...we're typing all our conversations with these newfound chatmates, and our "Al Qaeda!" typer can't seem to spell it right. So while the first iteration of the name was offensive, the next ten were farcical attempts to render it correct. Even I laughed at some of the spellings. The cringe-worthy moment lasted all of a split-second. As if a ball tossed in the air to remain static for just that apex. Laughter and illiteracy took over the rest.

Episode 3:
Anne has dinner with her family to celebrate sister's birthday. We talking about the one person who's not at our table: pater familias. Sister's husband who's recently returned from his own marital sabbatical having ultimately reconciled with what for a moment looked like an "irreconcilable difference" with my sister, tries to give an informed opinion about said father. Judges him for his neglect, commends him for his humility. Sister mentions dad was the first person to make well wishes for her birthday. She shows us his text message, time-stamped at 6 in the morning. There's an "awww" somewhere inside each of us but it won't come out.

My brother-in-law then says with childish envy, "great. I should have woken you up at 5:59am to beat him at wishing you happy birthday then."

My sister and I make nanosecond eye contact. That eye contact acknowledges the fact that her husband's statement was pregnant with irony. Then we looked away.

2010-02-05T09:57:00.002-05:00

Last night I went to a corporate karaoke party for a hedge fund in lower Manhattan. I'd heard amazing things about this company, where my friend Daniel (who does hardware development for them) has been working since 2009 Q3 (hehehe). And from what I can tell, the diversity of their workplace spans all spectra, though the diversity was very compartmentalized. HR was composed mostly of women, lawyers all had boring haircuts, and the programmers. Well...

Programmers.

Put them together in a karaoke bar and what do you have? Beauty. Comedy. The meaning of nerd reaffirmed.

Episode 1: Programmer A (somewhat portly, nicely dressed, wire-frame glasses) sings "We Belong to the Night" by Pat Benetar. He finishes, returns to the table where all the programmers are sitting (including myself but only by proxy) and comments to Daniel:

"That song was 10% longer than it should have been."

Episode 2: Programmer B (striped wool sweater, grey kakhis and skater shoes...and still the nerdiest looking dude that night) argues that "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" is a false dichotomy, as it implies that unlike girls, boys don't want to have fun, which is not true.

Episode 3: Programmer C (a middle-aged Frenchman who's reputed to be a mathematical genius), "researches" songs on his iPhone to determine what fits the Karaoke Matrix of Entertainment-vs.-Talent best and decides on "Mamma Mia."
He sings the entire song slouched, with one hand stuffed deep in his pocket.

Episode 4: Programmer A has invited a woman he's just met, to the karaoke party. Before she arrived he recited to those around him, the re-appropriation of Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" he used to entice her. His version describes the act of singing in public instead of being dumped. All the programmers approve.

The woman never showed up.

Episode 5: Lawyerly looking dude (tall, big, clean haircut, light pink dress shirt, black pants and sports jacket) goes on stage, starts singing...

I Swear

I swear to you he actually sang this song unironically. How do I know he took it seriously? Because a programmer in the audience jokingly crooned along in a falsetto and the lawyerly type said into the mic:

Alright, seriously. Stop that.

Same lawyer sang Michael Bublé later, which set off all the ladies in HR. ("Hello LAdiiiiiies")

Frankly, I'm all about the nerds. I'm in love with each and every one of you. Don't ever let someone shush you from mocking their rendition of All-4-One.

Just plain silly

2010-02-04T12:44:00.004-05:00

I looked up alternate definitions of the word "tempt" (in Japanese) today.
This is double the fun for anyone who can read Japanese, but worth it for the English alone. I'll let you figure out what it says in Japanese.

(screen shot of dictionary entry)

Apologies

2010-02-03T08:49:00.002-05:00

I apologize to those on my Facebook network that were subject to the chlamydia of some hacker fark. Don't worry. I will find him. And I will go number two into his scrota so I can say he has sh+t for brains.

I'm posting this on my blog because I have a feeling only five of you were really worried about said Chlamydia, while the other 200 people who got spam-ed had already been through this with other people. And I have a feeling you five FB-STD virgins are the same five people who regularly read this blog, since this blog doesn't "get around."

So now, a note about Facebook.

Preamble: I'd been wanting desperately to deactivate my account for a while now, despite, or because of the fact that it would suck up so much of my time (especially late at night when I'm most susceptible to crappy entertainment and self-important postings). Getting hacked was a great lynchpin. Now that I'm off it, I can rant about my FB network's poor etiquette.

Pictures.
What's the funniest thing you've ever seen? I'll give you a minute to think about this.
Now, who do you hate more than anyone else?
Unless the answer to question 2 is the subject of question 1, you should never post embarrassing pictures. Because otherwise you become my answer to question 2, and the answer to question 1 becomes:
I posted pictures of Question 2 acting like a slut at Halloween on Facebook and then she lost her job, and now she's a clown in Atlantic City. A really friggin' hilarious clown.

Networking.
You seriously can't email me? Nothing is more annoying than writing into a slow-ass ghetto message template when I got five perfectly sophisticated email accounts from which I can write and share more freely. Unless the message directly pertains to the Facebook world, you should use one of the fifty other federally approved tools of communication. A message from "Facebook User John Doe" is a message from someone who depends on Facebook's curation for credibility, and that, my friends, is like adopting a hooker so you can "safely" be a pervert.

Games.
Why the hell would I ever play Farm Town or Mafia? Ping me when they make Paid Work.

Fu(rni)ture

2010-01-29T14:21:00.003-05:00

I do not want furniture anymore.
And when I say "no furniture," I don't mean I'll live with a janky futon. Don't get me wrong, futon-lovers. I like the idea of it bunching up and memorizing the contour of my dreadlocks and clay-beaded hemp ankle-bracelet. It would match the milk crates I use as chairs and the Greatful Dead stubs that prop up my soul.

No, this isn't faux-hippie or anti-consumerist Anne talking, nor is it my asceticism. I'm simply unable to find The Perfect Furniture For Me. And this is why:

I like IKEA as much as the next guy whose Billy bookcase screams "I'm not in the mood!" whenever I touch it. IKEA is affordable and convenient. Clean lines, fun to assemble (yes, I said "fun") and frankly, where I am financially.

However, at this juncture I can sort of entertain the idea of something a little more special. And yet if I talk to a real furniture dealer they'll always correct my pronunciation of Eames (it rhymes with "douchebag"), and though technically I could splurge some (a friend made a great point that I could think of this investment as what I'd spend on a car if I lived in LA), something dies inside me every time I look at the price tags. Then I go back to Billy but he still won't let me touch him.

What's a girl to do?

I have a feeling asylums are padded with the detritus of furniture.

2010-01-28T09:58:00.000-05:00

Payday

2010-01-26T16:03:00.002-05:00

I like to ask people what they'd do with a million dollars. Everyone thinks they have an idea of what a million dollars would look like in their lives but they frequently undergauge. They'd pay off cars, houses, loans. But unless you already make millions, that won't even cost you half of the lottery you just won. After the dissolution they might want to start a business, take out someone (in both senses), or maybe just have Demi Moore swim in benjamins and make Woody Harrelson watch with a half-boner. So you're blowing 500k on Lame.

So what would you do with five thousand dollars? It's not really enough to do the big things. But maybe it would take care of your debts. Maybe it's your boyfriend's bail. One really lame purse. In other words, if you had to spend money frivolously and a million dollars just doesn't feel ethically frivolous, how about a fraction?

USD5k.

Los Angeles

2010-01-26T00:47:00.002-05:00

LA was originally my forgettable hometown.
Later, it was the node from which sprouted the suburb I grew up in.
It became my enemy when I went north for school, and my call of port when I lived abroad.

Now it's Los Angeles and I love it.

Go watch "Los Angeles Plays Itself."

Mr. Mom

2010-01-19T15:45:00.002-05:00

What's AMC's agenda this week, showing "Three Men and a Baby" and "Mr. Mom"? Whatever it is, God bless ye, AMC. I've come to the realization that Mr. Mom is The Greatest Film on Earth. Not "The Seven Samurai," not "Aliens," not "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari."
Not anything by Fellini, Tarkovsky, Ang or Spike Lee.
Screw the Nouvelle Vague.
Lars Von Trier can cut his own nub with rusty scissors.

Mr. Mom is the best film ever. It deserves a place in a permanent archive and Beetleman Michael Keaton's batjuice deserves an Oscar. I'm willing to go up against A.O. Scott on this.
(Placing nozzle of a .38 against Scott's temple) "Shhhh, A.O. Just repeat after me: Mr. Mom. Perfect film. Fin."

I mean, whatever happened to the accidental Mom-Dad/Man-Woman social comedy genre? Three Men and a Baby, Raising Arizona, Baby Boom, Mr. Mom, all came out in the 1980s. What have we had since? Dan in Real Life? Give me a break.

I know it's four months early but here's to dads. Go rent Mr. Mom and rub one out to Michael Keaton's eyebrows.

Paleo dicks

2010-01-14T18:03:00.003-05:00

I recently started the Primal Challenge. Many of you already know what it is. (It's just a six week attempt to stick to The Paleo Diet, which was covered in a NYT article this week.) I want to point out that I'm doing it in solidarity with the Crossfit gym I've been a part of since last summer, and it's more for the "challenge" aspect than the "primal." Doesn't change the fact that I'm a poser, but hey, I got my chin held high. (It's propped up by blocks of beef jerky and fish oil supplements...)

So far, no cravings for the things I cannot eat: rice, beans, grains, legumes, processed sugars and processed fats. I mean, really not that bad in terms of psychological food needs.

However.

I have had debilitating headaches since Tuesday evening. Headaches so awful I dry heaved all morning today because my head wouldn't stop spinning. I'm told this is specifically a condition of sudden grain-cessation. They tell me it will end soon. But My God.
What. The. Hell. Am. I. Doing??

Headaches are strange. They never make me angry, just sad or maniacally humored. Strangely, being on the verge of tears seems to alleviate the pain. Tears of pain or laughter. Fortunately it's been easy to get to this state this week.

With grenades ricocheting off each other in my head, my sense of humor seems to have taken to new testosterones.

Case 1:
I'm going to buy a dildo and tap people on the shoulder farther from me, so that when they turn they'll see a dildo and not me.

Case 2:
Fucking up cornflakes. I said to my crossfit Primal Challenge mentor, "I've never been a breakfast person." She said, "fuck breakfast." That led me to the vision of me taking cornflakes around to a back alley and fucking it up to within an inch of its life. This is an endless source of laughter for me.

Case 3:
Any instance of exclamation points. They all look like abstract boners.

Case 4:
Idea for a movie: Illicit romance of shopping mall Santas who aren't out. Title: Santa Closet.

NYT Paleo piece.

Postcards From the Edge Benefit Show

2010-01-09T10:31:00.004-05:00

Postcards From the Edge is to VisualAIDS what the Post-It Show is to Giant Robot. (Of course, if you're not fully immersed in both GR and VA, that analogy won't make any sense to you...)

OK let's try this>>

There are entire days I wish everyone could use the FUBU (LL Cool J's "For Us By Us" brand) moniker without having to wear jersey tracksuits that make you look like a creamsicle cross-dressing as a Disney rapper.

Populist Art Culture has never been more important than it is today in an income-starved USA with almost no more compulsory arts education. Populist art does not deign to or disdain from class or quality, but avails itself to only three basic facts: (a) whether they know it or not, everybody can create artwork, because (b) whether they know it or not, everybody loves artwork, but (c) not everyone can afford it.

Everyone can afford a postcard or post-it. That's what makes shows like this so rad.

VisualAIDS' annual benefit show is also unique in that all proceeds go to supporting artists living with HIV or AIDS, and also to AIDS research.

I went to the preview show last night. Gotta say, it was the first time I went to a Meatpacking District gallery show and stayed for the whole two hours of the reception (and those in NYC know how near impossible that is short of the artwork being your own craptastic bullshit).

There is a lot of awesome affordable artwork in there, folks. Including GR's own pretender to the Throne of Illustration, Adrian Tomine.

POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE
And if you won't take my word for it, take VANITY FAIR's.

Cuz postcards are the isht. Am I right, or am I right? I'm looking at you, Ryan "EA-Z Boy" Sands. [And I swear to you sooner than later I will deliver something.]

In sum: if you are in the New York area, I highly recommend you go to the show. Last bid: It's an unapologetically gay cause, so if you love cock or have the sense of humor of a nine year old it might be worth it for nothing more than the many interpretations of erectus phalli.

New meaning to "frigid"

2010-01-08T09:55:00.003-05:00

I dreamt last night I had drinks at a bar on a cruise-liner with an old flame, who said, "watching the woman's mind become one with her body is such a turn on." I then made several failed attempts to light a cigarette. When I looked up it was snowing against the dark ocean sky and I thought of Tromso. Later, in a hotel room in Los Angeles, I was writing a letter to said flame, with just one word on a post-it affixed to the hotel letterhead: gâter. I changed my mind and wrote another word: gâcher.

When I woke up I thought of how difficult it would be to go back to Tromso (answer: not difficult at all), but then dreaded simply the idea of being in an airport again, not to mention a U.S. airport...right now.

Minutes ago I received an email from Arild in Oslo, asking how the end of my sejour in Tromso was. He reminded me what it really meant to be cold. Below, said explication. Now, I really want to go back.

Norwegian weather - temperatures:

+15°C / 59°F
This is as warm as it gets in Norway, so we'll start here. People in Spain wear winter-coats and gloves. The Norwegians are out in the sun, getting a tan.

+10°C / 50°F
The French are trying in vain to start their central heating. The Norwegians plant flowers in their gardens.

+5°C / 41°F
Italian cars won't start. The Norwegians are cruising in cabriolets.

0°C / 32°F
Distilled water freezes. The water in the Oslo Fjord gets a little thicker.

-5°C / 23°F
People in California almost freeze to death. The Norwegians have their final barbecue before winter.

-10°C / 14°F
The Brits start the heat in their houses. The Norwegians start using long sleeves.

-20°C / -4°F
The Aussies flee from Mallorca. The Norwegians end their Midsummer celebrations. Autumn is here.

-30°C / -22°F
People in Greece die from the cold and disappear from the face of the earth. The Norwegians start drying their laundry indoors.

-40°C / -40°F
Paris start cracking in the cold. The Norwegians stand in line at the hotdog stands.

-50°C / -58°F
Polar bears start evacuating the North Pole. The Norwegian army postpones their winter survival training awaiting real winter weather.

-70°C / -94°F
The false Santa moves south. The Norwegian army goes out on winter survival training.

-183°C / -297.4°F
Microbes in food don't survive. The Norwegian cows complain that the farmers' hands are cold.

-273°C / -459.4°F
ALL atom-based movent halts. The Norwegians start saying "Faen, det er kaldt i dag! (Damn, it's cold outside today!)"

-300°C / -508°F
Hell freezes over, Norway wins the Eurovision Song Contest.

Language Musings

2010-01-05T17:31:00.002-05:00

Some funny Franglish mis-pronunciations/mis-understandings:

Audrey: We're like The Agence Tous Risques. (Name of "The A-Team" in French)
Me: How are we like The Agence Tourisme?
---
(French airport security looks through my carry-on luggage. Takes out a small tub of lip balm)
Me: It's a baume. I mean, lip balm, not a bomb. (Laughing very uncomfortably)
Security: (Smiles) I know. For your lips right? Hmm, rose mint. That's nice...
Me: (Laughing uncomfortably for totally different reason) Thanks. (Walks away quickly)
---
Me: (Talking in high-pitched baby voice to a six year old) So glad to have met you! I hope I see you again soon!
Kid: (Blank and confused stare)
Kid's grandmother: Honey, did you understand what she said?
Kid: No.
---
Me: You know Hall and Oates?
Audrey, who knows the entire 1980s catalog of pop rock by heart: No.
Me: Impossible. You gotta know who they are. "Private Eyes"? "The Kiss"?
Audrey: No.
Me: I'm positive you know them. (Pauses. Shamefully attempts a french accent) You know, all eh oeutz?
Audrey: Ahhhh oui! Of course! all eh oeutz! Sheez goet zee kiss, zee kiss, itz woeut I misss.
---
Audrey: (Asks a reverse-negative question about how she looks in a new pair of sunglasses)
Me: (Watching television) Yeah. Totally.
Audrey: (Looking astonished) Great. Thanks for being honest... Did you hear what I said?
Me: (Still watching television) No. I wasn't listening to you. (Turns and faces Audrey) Want to try that again?
Audrey: Just say "that looks great."
Me:That looks great.

How the french eat.

2010-01-03T05:23:00.004-05:00

Last week I went to Caullery, France (population 300) to have dinner and catch up with a family I hadn't seen since 2002. It was great. Seven years of stories to tell in one night and we succeeded. The night ended around 1am after a discussion about euthenasia instigated by the phone call we received from a local hospital announcing the death of an elder relative. The news was tragic but fitting.

I ended up crashing there as I had so many nights before, and slept in Marie-Caroline's room, which is now for her two infant children when they have sleepovers "chez Memée et Pepé." Also, me. After a deep sleep in completely dark silence I woke up to Roselyne (Memée) softly calling my name to breakfast. Something about the way this sixty-year-old woman talks to me always comforts but scares me. Like she's detected a cancer I don't know about yet. I feel like I'm in a Nancy Meyers movie.

I put on a bra under my pyjamas remembering how cold it is downstairs in the first hour of being awake in this house, and rinse my face before carefully sauntering down the steepest spiral staircase in the world (seriously: stairs are so steep in almost every country outside of the U.S. but these take the cake).

In the living room at the 10 foot long oak table where the Vitoux have broken bread for the past thirty some-odd years. It's the house Roselyne built with Jean-Pierre right after the former had their second child. The house is a perfect symbol for this family: sturdy, constantly growing, lined with plants tended to carefully by Jean-Pierre, and decorated inside with flowers Roselyne culls. In their backyard, an exotic shrub that yields the best (if the only) kiwi in all of this region. I already know what I'm going to eat: brioche-nutella, coffee, OJ, a few kiwis.

I prepare my plate and eat with the grandchildren, who have returned after sleeping at their mom's house a block away. Jean-Pierre emerges from the kitchen ready to head out and make arrangements for his deceased uncle. He's brought out the cheese plate and a baguette. He tears off the end of the bread. He looks at my breakfast and then looks at me.

"Brioche nutella? You keep eating that for breakfast and you'll get fat, you know." Such frankness about getting fat also strikes me as a trait shared by everyone but Americans but what he does next is pure French. Without dropping a beat, he spreads at least fifteen cubic inches of butter onto his baguette and slaps on a triangle of brie so big it could feed New Guniea, then takes a huge bite.

"Well, I'm off. You know where everything is so help yourself. (Pause. Then, incredulously) Brioche nutella... sheesh. I wish I had your metabolism," and he takes another bite from his Panzer-sized brie sandwich.

2010-01-02T08:19:00.000-05:00

With a bend of the knees and an arch of the back, a Japanese engineer today set a world flight record for a paper plane, keeping his hand-folded construction in the air for 26.1 seconds.

Using a plane specially designed for "long haul" flights, Takuo Toda narrowly failed to match his lifetime best of 27.9 seconds, a Guinness world record set in Hiroshima earlier, but achieved with a plane that was held together with cellophane tape.

Today's flight, inside a Japan Airlines hangar near Haneda airport in Tokyo, was the longest by an unadulterated model. "I felt a lot of pressure," Toda told the Associated Press after his feat. "Everything is a factor ‑ the moisture in the air, the temperature, the crowd."

The record was all the more satisfying for having been achieved with a plane that stayed true to the traditions of origami, the traditional Japanese art of paper folding. He folded his 10cm aircraft by hand from a single sheet of paper and did not use scissors or glue.

Toda, who is president of the Japan origami aeroplane association, said the secret to a successful launch was to avoid a flat trajectory and get the plane as high in the air as possible to give it time to circle slowly towards terra firma. "It's really a sport," he said. "The throwing technique is very delicate."

awesome.

A Life in New Words

2009-12-27T10:40:00.008-05:00

The year's almost come to an end so I'm reminiscing. Today's theme: words.

Over the past twenty years I've learned a lot of words. A lot of big old words, a lot of stupid new ones, even more foreign words. Here are some words I ought to have known but did not.

Midnight: In the second grade, Amanda Ward said she was up till midnight, which I assumed meant the middle of a typical second graders night. You know, like 8pm. I said, "what time did you go to bed?" and she kept repeating "midnight!" and looked at me like I was a F.O.B. (emphasis on "like").

Adoption: I watched a lot of "Punk Brewster" when I was in the fifth grade. In one particular episode Punky has been made fun of for being adopted, and Henry consoles her after school when she cries about it. He says, "adoption means I love you." Later that week in class, Miss Moss asked us all to talk about our families, and I said to the whole class, "I'm adopted."

From fifth grade till college, I knew everything. Then, freshman year at UCSC, I learned many words that I resent for taking up precious space in my brain now. Nag-champa, djembe rental, audit... However, one word whose use I can't shake is:

Dish-drainer: I thought a "dish-drainer" was the strainer in the drain that collects crap about to get washed down. One night I told my flatmates it was full of crud and people should really throw away the contents when they did dishes. All of them looked at the dish drainer and then at each other. It was no doubt empty.

Moving on.

D.I.Y.: Now, I know everyone learns "the new words" at some point, so learning Do-It-Yourself is not miraculous in and of itself but I learned it from a French man.

Twin Towers: I didn't know what the twin towers were till 9/11/2001, when at noon, I ambled out of bed and went to campus 150 blocks north of Wall St., having no idea why it was deserted. Andy, from Athens GA told me why everyone was in line at the pay phones or driving north. I didn't understand what he was talking about until I saw the footage.

Widget: It was 2003 and Silicon Valley was finally a bust. How appropriate that I would learn this word after the bubble.

Paying it forward:

Two days ago on a British Airways flight, I asked for "club soda" during the first beverage service. The stewardess (a twenty-something Brit) stared at me like I was a television screen and a Sex and the City marathon was running. She was incapacitated and fixed a dead smile on me like she understood but didn't hear. I repeated "club soda," then tried "seltzer water?" then "soda water?"

She finally turned around and whispered to another stewardess, "what's club soda?"

Sparkling water.

I Took the Road Trip Less Traveled.

2009-12-24T03:09:00.004-05:00

happy holidays.

New York to Miami, Part I from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

2009-12-14T13:20:00.002-05:00

You all know Tila Tequila. Here are some lesser known drink-based bisexuals:

Shania Shnapps likes sweet nothings whispered through dry heaves. Biggest rival: Jackie Jagermeister.

Vivica A. Vodka dances low to the ground. An entry level bisexual, she mixes well with everyone. Rival: Talula Tequila (Tila's MMRPG-pwning mastah).

Drew Daquiri's looks are deceiving. She has been known to deadlift professional football players.

Rival: Coochie Colada.

Monostat 7 & 7 is one cheesy mother. Rival: Paps Blue Ribbon

OK ok ok... here's a good one

2009-12-11T20:40:00.002-05:00

I came up with a joke. I think it's good enough to go public so here goes.

What's the fastest way to the dark side?

A Darth Elevader

Ny idébog for born

2009-12-11T20:13:00.002-05:00

Found a neat kids activity book in Norwegian pop-up art gallery/thrift store (but might actually be Danish).

Half the crafts require a handsaw and do not recommend adult supervision.

Also, a lot of accessories for horses, including a saddle hanger and harness.

How rad is that.

Tromso, Dec. 11 2009 from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

We're Lying to Ourselves

2009-12-10T12:24:00.004-05:00

I just realized today that we have been lying. All of us. [Yes, I only JUST realized this...]

When people ask what you like to eat, read, watch, listen to, or do, most of us will say:

Everything.

Stranger: What kind of music do you listen to?

You: I listen to everything. Even country/techno/top40!

Stranger: What's your favorite food?

You: I'll eat anything. I'm really not a picky eater.

These responses are both lies and I'll tell you why. Short of having the superpower to magically turn off your senses individually, you have no choice but to listen to or digest what you consume with your body. So of course technically you would listen to, watch, eat, read anything. But that's not really the question, is it? We answer in theoretical truth but tell de facto lies.

Just go to a restaurant or ask this person to pick some music to play and you'll see what I mean. I guarantee some form of, "I won't eat this," or "Jesus, Anne, how many Tori Amos albums do you have?!"

So I propose a challenge. Next time someone asks you about your taste in food, music, art, film, literature or lover, be really specific and answer with just one genre or type. Make it up, even. Can't think of something good? Just say the last thing you consumed. And don't even explain why you like it.

Example:

Stranger: So what are you into?

Me: Reindeer. Period.

Tromso/Kvaloya, Dec. 10 2009 from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

"Shout Out" Time

2009-12-09T10:18:00.005-05:00

In lieu of making any lists of things I loved this year (and you know I love me my lists), I'm just gonna shed a little light on loved ones who ought to be on someone's list.

If you are looking for a Holiday Party, go to Chip Kidd's band's performance at Dixon Place on the 29th. I know you're thinking Chip doesn't need any more attention than he already gets, but this is different because it's a paid admission concert. But go. Just go.

You get to listen to ArtBreak, which is actually pretty good, and hear Chip's jokes, which are even better. You might even get to see Dash Shaw, and who doesn't want to do that? My "eyes" water every time I see him...

If you are looking for Gifts, I can think of nothing better than a subscription to Cabinet Magazine, which is something of a publishing mystery: people love it but not enough people know about it. If you want to give something a little less pretentious, you could also get Hanakuma's Tokyo Zombie: One of the funniest things I've ever been grossed out by. Translated by ill iterate's own boy-toy Ryan "Electric Ant" Sands.

Speaking of unpretentious trannies, you should also be buying volumes of Museyon Guides and Detroit Metal City and Missin. [It's not shameless self-promotion if I'm not ashamed.]

But if you are seeking a lifetime of gratitude and joy from someone, you will get them...

The Digital Harinezumi

My working a bit with the Digital Harinezumi-maker, Powershovel, notwithstanding (but there's your full disclosure), in terms of gadgets, this little video-camera has brought me more joy, more whimsy, more happiness, than my first tape deck, CD player, digital camera and three iPhones did... combined. I've been doing my daily Tromso video journal with this thing and love everything it's produced. It would make genital herpes look good.

If you need better reasons to explore Brooklyn south of the BQE and east of the Gowanus, Light Industry has it. Some really interesting film curation going on in this Sunset Park-based venue/organization, and one of the only email newsletters I look forward to getting. For something less pretentious and closer to the G train: New Sound Karaoke. Gender-banging "not in a K-box" sort-of-completely-queer karaoke.

If you need a reason to leave the country, Couchsurfing might be it. I've just learned about this organization in Norway, but it's basically global hitchhiking in the digital age and actually works.

Keep going.

Hella Norway

2009-12-08T06:59:00.004-05:00

Went to Hella today.

I would have gone based solely on the name of the hamlet (big up Bay Area and Zach Hill!) but it was my Dutch housemate Maiten who proposed the day trip out there.

"There are supposed to be a lot of cool old Norwegian houses and stuff."

It was, in fact, breathtaking. And I have the pictures and video to prove it. Later...

But first, Hella is not a town, village, hamlet, or even a truck stop. It's a cove. There happen to be ten old houses adjacent to it. Nothing spectacular about the houses whatsoever, but they become camping lodges over the summer. In the middle of winter though? Nothing. Everything's locked shut, done. Nothing. At. All.

Again, the view was breathtaking. We spent a solid hour shooting the vanishing point of the Arctic Circle and ice formations in the tundra. We watched seals wade in the water. We listened to birds making unusual sounds.

But an hour of this was really all we could handle in our daywear without food, shelter, or bathroom. Had we known where exactly we were headed, we would have been better prepared. But Hella is not the heaven it was advertised as in the brochures.

So Maiten and I headed back toward the bus stop and figured that because the bus runs every hour out of Tromso in the morning, it must return every hour from Hella. Aaaaand no. The bus runs every (wait for it) 2 and a half hours from Hella back into Tromso. We were stranded in freezing tundra with an hour and a half to kill.

I can safely say I have never been that cold before. I don't think Maiten had, either.

She started to go insane. She screamed "bus!!!" several times and looked like she might cry or start hitting me. I wandered away to take pictures so I was occupied with something else, but my fingers were so frozen I couldn't feel the shutter release. Maiten followed me at a distance and muttered, "why is there no bus" over and over. We were freezing. I started to worry about frost bite. (And as a matter of fact my toes still hurt several hours later.)

We started throwing our thumbs up at every passing car. Even the municipal truck. One old man waved at us. I started to worry hitchhiking didn't exist here.

After about an hour of this, our lips blue, our toes black, our souls crushed, a station-wagon pulled over.

Santa's handsome younger brother leaned across his passenger seat and asked us something in Norwegian. Presumably, "where are you guys headed?" Maiten asked if he was headed to Tromso and he grimaced. Then he said, "Ja ja. OK" and waved us in.

Once in the car Maiten started to explain that the bus we were waiting for was running slower than we'd thought, but Santa's handsome younger brother looked like a reindeer caught in headlights and said,

"I non't (sic) speak Engliss. Just a leetuh."

Maiten and I looked at each other. I whispered that we could probably ask him to drop us off at the first municipal bus stop we saw. Santa's bro asked if we were students. I said no. He asked, "how long you in Tromso?" and I did the dumbest thing I could have possibly done:

I tried to answer him in Norse-Swedish.

See, I studied Swedish for a year at grad school, but that's like saying you know how to play Metallica's "One" on acoustic guitar. It serves no purpose to anyone. Still.

Santa's bro: How long you in Tromso?

Anne: (Four weeks.)

Santa's bro: (Oh, you speak Norse?)

Anne: (I studied some Swedish in college.)

Santa's bro: (And you come from the USA?)

Anne: (Yes, I'm from New York.)

Santa's bro: (Do you like it here?)

Anne: (Yes, I like it here.)

OK. I'm the worst beginning language text book's wettest dream. Every first chapter of conversational foreign language puts you in the middle of nowhere with no recourse but to speak the local language. That was now happening to me, but only because I put myself there. So far, so good. Hooray for ice-breakers!! This stranger now knows how long I'm here and where I'm from. The next logical thing I can think to say is:

What is your name?

He smiled and said something like, "To-rhee-ar." I smiled and said, "Hi Toriar. My name is Anne. Her name is Maiten." I start to feel good. Feel OK about this Swedish conversation with the Norwegian. Figured I'd roll with it and asked the next question:

Do you live in Tromso?

This time he looked at me via the rear-view mirror like I'd just said:

Do you have an anus?

I repeated myself in English. Quickly.

Anyway, we got into Tromso island and I said something like, "you can just drop us off here. We can take the bus." But I'm sure Toriar heard:

I can stop cars with bus stops.

One very valuable sentence though, that every carpetbagging gnome ought to know is tusen takk (Norwegian), or tak så mycket (Swedish).

Thank you very much, Toria.

Toria shook my hand with his gigantic paw (he had some serious contractor hands), and gave me a sympathetic hug. Shit folks, older men here seriously look like Santa Claus, but like, if they were all handsome skiiers. I just gave him a dumb smile. He must have thought I was autistic. I need to learn more Norwegian.

Next time, I'm going straight to Sameland. [This site has already confused several people so I should spell it out: It's a farcical amusement park website. The whole thing is a joke. (One which fells the Saamis and Japanese tourists in one swift move.) And if you can navigate yourself to the "write your own joik" page, I promise it's almost as good as being high on moose knuckles...]

Hella Norway Dec. 8 2009 from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.