Steve just told me that his Homie got SNATCHED. He received an envelope with my note, but with no Homie. I’m really sad. And in addition angry. If you have to steal and be a jerk, then take money or drugs or some electronic equipment that you can actually GET MONEY FOR, YOU MORON. LEAVE THE HOMIES ALONE.

So now I worry that all the Homies I have sent off in the world are going to be Homie-snatched too. And all of you will remain homieless. I’ll have to start some kind of fundraiser for the homieless. So to my human homies, I apologize that New York-based United States postal workers cannot be trusted with toy Homies, I’m sorry if you don’t receive yours because of some filthy Homie pirates.

I will be mad pissed if my Homie doesn’t make it to Australia. Can you imagine? It takes like a hundred years for crap to get there, and then on the other end, you just get a stupid note without a Homie. Like what is the point of even living.

Boo.

OK, my peoples, I still have some Homies left. So if you want one, I will mail it to you. I will even mail it overseas, to ANOTHER CONTINENT, but I am warning you, they are incredibly unimpressive. You’ll receive one and you’ll say, WTF I can’t believe that clown Annie sent me this piece of crap. Then you will go outside and kick some puppies, because that’s how pissed you will be. Damn you puppy, with your velvety nose and your big, brown eyes! I hate you!

Anyway, email me your snail mail address. You can find my email in the contact page.
<—- Over there, somewhere.

In other news, I received a gift in the mail from Alex. It is the gift of the world’s ultimate, most manliest man-hero alive, second only to Tom Selleck as Magnum P.I.–

DAVID HASSELHOFF AS MICHAEL KNIGHT.

It’s a 8×10 glossy black and white photo and he looks dreamy and delicious. He has nuthugging jeans and his eyes….those eyes…I can just get lost in them. It’s important to note that I was very much into the Hoff before he was on that stupid talent show. Even though he is even (more) overexposed, I still heart him. When he was drunk and eating a Whopper on the hotel room floor and sobbing at his daughter, I knew it was true love. Not that fake love you see at weddings. This is the real thing.

I need to rearrange my fridge so that the Hoff gets the real estate he deserves. It also means moving Ricky Martin somewhere else. On one hand, Ricky was there first. So he’d be like the Native American of my fridge, except he is Puerto Rican. But on the other hand, the Hoff is so clearly a force, a hairy, smoldering force with a white-man fro. How can Ricky even hope to compete? There will be a war.

Pictures to come…when I, uh, find my camera. I moved it to a new place and now I feel like those squirrels that can’t find their nuts. (Every time I use the word nuts, I want to go heh heh. Like, who does not want to do that? If you don’t, then you are a lying jackmule. I bet even Alan Greenspan laughs at “nuts.”)

I am cleaning out my apartment in order to turn my 187 square foot COMPARTMENT into a PALACE. How do I do this? I’m glad you asked! It is a very complicated process, but I like to think of it more as a voyage of discovery. I am thinking that as I clean out my junk, my crap, my shit, my detritus, and my late 90’s and early ought clothing, I will actually find a door that leads down a hallway into ANOTHER ROOM and I will discover that this entire time I was actually living in a ONE BEDROOM PALACE and not a COMPARTMENT. Then all of the sudden I will realize I am getting a very, very good deal on my PALACE. By the look on your face, I see that you are very excited.

What I discovered on my voyage of discovery is that I am really just keeping the same amount of shit, but reorganizing it so they are in different boxes. This creates a problem. In order to turn my compartment into a PALACE I actually have to get rid of things, as in move items from my compartment to a location off the premises, most likely the trash or Goodwill. What I found is that I actually don’t have a lot of stuff. My apartment makes it seem as if I have two tons of shit crammed in a one ton truck. But actually, I have probably half a cup of shit, but my apartment can only take 3 teaspoons of it. Therein lies my problem.

I wish that as a like, totally famous writer, oh my god, I lived in more glamorous conditions, but instead I live in a compartment surrounded by my own shit. I have to say it’s really nice shit though. I mean look at my table. It’s from IKEA. Nice right? It even has a funny name. I also found a big bag of Homies which I decided I could not part with and instead, I will be giving them away to my peoples. If you want a homie, email me and I will mail you one for the low, low price of free. Because, like I said, you are my peoples.

I am walking down the street with Mr. Morrison. We are discussing dry cleaning for some reason. Since my family is Korean and know the owners of every dry cleaner in the greater Los Angeles area, I wait until I visit to dry clean EVERY ITEM OF CLOTHING I OWN. Seriously. I hate paying for dry cleaning. It’s like paying for toilet paper. I wonder, why the hell do I have to pay for this crap if I’m gonna wipe my butt with it? Seems unreasonable. It should be free. Everyone uses air, and that’s free. Why should toilet paper be any different? If you vote me president, I promise free toilet paper and in addition, ending the war. I’d also levy a huge fine on people who don’t pick up after their dogs and people who do not laugh at my jokes. You think I’m joking? Being president is a very serious job, I don’t know if you know that. That’s not to say that I use my dry cleaning to wipe my ass, but I could since my dry cleaning is free and therefore cheaper than toilet paper. I think I’m overexplaining here, I hate when I do that. OK back to the story.

Anyway, a late nineties Civic is stuck in traffic on Sixth Avenue (ha ha ha I mean Avenue of the Americas). There is very bad music coming out. It sounds like Korn or something like that. I don’t even know what Korn sounds like, but I’m 99% sure it’s Korn. Korn is really hardcore because of their use of the K. All really hardcore things use a K, like kasserole, kite, kanana, and kookie. So you know Korn is like, wow, you guys must really rock. Not like that fake Led Zeppelin “band,” I mean they don’t even have a K IN THEIR NAME. Maybe if they were Ked Zeppelin they’d be a lot bigger and things would be different. Anyway this dude in the passenger seat rolls down his window and yells at us, HEY! YOU READ MUCH?

I am like, huh? So, I say, Huh? I SAID, DO YOU READ MUCH? Then he laughs and they drive off. I kind of don’t get it, until Morrison points out that we both wear glasses and that the car is from Jersey. Because most people who drive up Avenue of Americas (ha ha ha I mean Sixth Avenue) in my hood, are coming from the Holland, which is like a big urinary tract that empties in Jersey. That is to say, if you are from Jersey you might think reading is, like, a bad thing and you should make fun of people who might actually do it and, holy shit, actually enjoy it. OH MY GOD YOU TOTAL LOSER. And if you wear glasses you must read “much” and therefore you should be stuffed in a locker. The point is, I don’t think everyone from Jersey sucks, but that if you are listening to Korn and you are from Jersey and you might, just might, BE A TOTAL DOUCHEBAG.

And the sad part, is that I don’t read enough. I don’t even write enough. Given that is what I do for a living, it is a very complicated and sad situation.

Heath Ledger is dead. His masseuse (ahem) and housekeeper found him in bed, unconscious, next to a bottle of pills. People suspect the pills and the death are related. It’s like how could they not be? What else would a 28-year-old actor die from in Manhattan? Happiness? Good looks?

He was found in Mary Kate Olsen’s apartment!

Everyone in the office waskind of shocked and then the jokes started flying in like two seconds, including:

“I guess there’s an apartment up for rent.”
“Maybe it was an illegal sublet?”
“No that area’s landmark now. You won’t be able to get in.”
“Shit.”

“I think Mary Kate killed him so she could eat him (and later barf him up.)”

“Pills? LAME. That is not rock n’ roll. Motorcycle accident. That’s the real way.”
“No, shark attack. That’s how you do it. That’s real rock n’ roll.”

“Maybe Jack Nicholson killed him.” (Ledger was supposed to be the new Joker in the new Batman)

“Maybe he wanted a tug and some pills. Nothing wrong with that. EXCEPT FOR DYING.”

I don’t really feel sorry when celebrities die. Like are they not supposed to die because they are famous? Like oh, I’m famous, that means I can take 4x the regular amount of drugs than a non-famous person! I was bummed when Cobain died but I was, like, sixteen or something. I cried at everything. Anyway both left a kid, which is really the saddest part.

ALSO: Why are celebrities who commit suicide or die of an OD always found naked? It’s like, I’m going to take these pills, but first I will strip.

OK now I’m being insensitive. Sorry.

UPDATE: It was not Mary Kate’s apartment as newspapers had previously reported. He was renting it. Now it might not be suicide, hard to say. Autopsy is pending. I know the kid had a lot of demons, so suicide wouldn’t be surprising. Still a shame though.

I can’t tell if the universe is like, hey Annie, I am down with you let’s be BFF 4-eva k thx or if the universe is like, hey Annie, I hate you and I will slap you on the mouth.

About two weeks ago, I had band practice. You know how moving is a pain in the ass, with all the packing up heavy stuff and moving heavy stuff and then unpacking heavy stuff? Well basically everytime I have band practice it is like moving. It SUCKS. Monthly spaces are too expensive, so we use hourly spaces and that means we have to HAUL HEAVY SHIT across town. So to make my life easier, Heather keeps my xylophone for me because she doesn’t have to bring anything with her, except for her voice, which is pretty portable last time I checked. Meanwhile Andy and I have to bring like two tons of shit. Which is fine. I will move heavy things in the name of rock. DO YOU SEE HOW DEDICATED I AM?

Anyway she accidentally left it in a cab two weeks ago and we basically went into oh-shit mode. That is when you say “Oh shit” several times in a row, in case you are wondering. We filed a report with the Lost Property Unit. This sounds more official than it really is. Basically you call, leave a sobbing message about your lost property, and then no one calls you back because there are more important things the NYPD does than look for your stupid xylophone, like track down criminals and tow cars. Then we called every taxi garage in Long Island City and Manhattan to no avail. There’s literally like 50 garages in Manhattan alone. So as a last-ditch effort, I posted an ad on Craigslist’s Lost & Found, which is like a forum of desperation. It’s full of people who have lost their cute pets and their iPods and their wallets and their grandmother’s wedding ring and it’s like you KNOW no one is ever going to find anything. But I posted anyway. Long shot. Now we have a show coming up so I thought, OK. I have buy another one. THIS SUCKS. So I bought one on Ebay.

Last night I got an email from a woman who was trolling on Craigslist and she happened to work for Checker Cab. And she happened across my ad AND OH MY GOD SHE HAS MY XYLOPHONE. One of her drivers brought it in. I almost peed myself. I was like HOLY SHIT ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? What are the odds?

Then I thought. WAIT A SECOND. I just BOUGHT a new one and can’t return it because it was from Ebay. So that is when I realized the universe was taking a piss on me. I am standing here, wet from piss. I can tell you right now the universe had asparagus for dinner last night.

So now I have TWO xylophones. TWO! That’s one more than I need, and like TWO more than normal people need.

If you are not normal and want a xylophone I will sell one to you.

If you already have a xylophone, and want another one, I will sell one to you.

And in an unrelated note, we just got an email from a kid “What do emo people do? What is emo exactly?”

So I am working at home today and suddenly I heard this INSANE LOUD sound. Like the sound of a building crashing. And I kind of sit at my desk/kitchen table/coat rack thinking, oh man, do I go outside? Do I want to see whatever it is that made that sound? Then I heard the ambulances and the fire trucks and then I heard helicopters and people yelling. So I thought, do I really want to know what’s going on? Am I better off not knowing? I am conflicted. So I think, OK. I’ll go outside, and be that rubber-necking gawking asshole.

Turns out there were a lot of other rubber-necking gawking assholes gathered on my street because they had evacuated some of the buildings in the area. Apparently there was an accident at the construction site for the new Trump “Hotel/Condominium” on Spring and Varick. It’s not totally clear what happened, but sounds like scaffolding fell, wet concrete and debris fell and hit nearby buildings, the 42nd floor collapsed into the 41st floor, and one construction fell to his death. It’s bad. That Trump Tower has been a huge controversy mostly because Trump is a total dick and really sleazed out on this project. It’s a huge tower that’s going up and he had to finagle the zoning in order to do it. Is it a hotel? Is it a condo? Who can be sure!

According to NY Times: Owners will be permitted to live in those apartments for 120 days out of the year, or 29 days out of any consecutive 36 days; when not living there, owners will be able to rent out their apartments.

Ha ha ha, he is not fooling anyone, except I guess for the city officials who let them do this garbage.

Trump had problems with the area being landmark so they are racing to finish the project before the courts decide on it. This means accidents happen. The whole thing is sketchy. But more importantly, IT IS UGLY. Like fine, if you’re gonna be a dick, at least make it cool. But you know, it’s Trump. I remember watching an MTV Cribs (best show ever) with Trump and it totally blew my mind how ugly the whole thing was. I’m like this is a joke, right? LIFE-SIZE CERAMIC TIGERS. That’s all I have to say.

OK I said that the G.I. Joe on my fridge was Lifeline, but he is in fact Dial Tone.

Lifeline was the pacifist medic.

I apologize for any inconvenience this might have caused you.

My friend Mr. Pony and I have been swapping refrigerator p0rn, where we take pictures of what’s inside our fridges and then get really grossed out or be like WTF. Pony lives in Hawaii and from what I can tell eats a lot of stuff that’s been pickled, fermented, or pickled and fermented and turned into paste. He also has an empty butter dish (he says it’s invisible butter) in the fridge and also breast milk, but I’m 99% positive it’s not for him.

He eats stuff like this.

Dude! MACKEREL CURRY. IN A CAN. You know, for when you’re on the go. Like, I really need something that quenches my thirst. Oh, look! Mackerel curry in convenient to-go size. I shall take this to the gym. It’s so obvious that Pony bought this for the packaging. My friend Zechariah does the same thing with mysterious Chinese products of mystery. Like his apartment is filled with random Chinese stuff and you’re like hey, what’s this? And he’s like it’s either rice noodles or moth balls. I don’t have the luxury of space to do stuff like that. So my fridge isn’t nearly as good as Pony’s:

I found a sweater in the crisper, but then I figured out it was a bell pepper. Nice. I’d say that 80% of the crap that’s in my fridge is bad.

Here’s a shot of the freezer:

I eat a lot of toast. And ice cubes. I think those are peas. I use them strictly to treat tendonitis.

The outside of my fridge is more interesting. My friend Aura works at People, the most important news publication of our time, and sends me random press photos.

That’s Ricky Martin. Pony didn’t know who he was, because Pony lies on a secluded island where the only culture comes in a can of mackerel curry. “Dude, he sang ‘She Bangs!
and ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca.’” Huh? “He was in Menudo.” Ohhhhhhhhh!

WTF.

Ok here is something sweet:

Aaron’s mom was moving out of her house and Aaron went down to clean up. He found some old party favors from when he was 8 or 9. This is a real, vintage G.I. Joe collectable eraser. It’s of the guy who carries the phone. I always felt bad for the dude who had to carry the phone. Like, here. You don’t get a gun. You get a phone. It’s really heavy. Try not to get killed because then we won’t have a phone. His name is Lifeline. I think if I were 9 and got a Lifeline eraser at a party I’d be pretty pissed. Everyone wants the Snake Eyes or Duke erasers, not a stupid Lifeline eraser. Anyway now I have it, and I’m pretty stoked.

The greatest thing about having no heat is that you can accidentally leave the milk out overnight and when you wake up it is perfectly fine and ready to go. It’s like my fridge just got a lot bigger. About 187 square feet bigger.

It was chilly last night so I decided to make cookies in order to use the oven and warm up the joint. So two things happen: I get warm and I get cookies. It is pretty much a win-win situation, right? NO. There are no such things as win-win situations. They are make-believe, like octopus.

So, I bake cookies. They are only OK because I do not have certain ingredients that would make my cookies even more excellent. Suddenly the carbon monoxide alarm goes off. My apartment is so small that I have to bake with windows open. But that prevents my apartment from actually warming up. So then I’d have cookies, but a cold apartment, which is not a win-win, but a win-lose. If I keep the windows closed, then I will have cookies, a warm apartment, but I will die from carbon monoxide. So that is a win-win-lose. Also not good. I do not like to lose. No one likes to lose. If people liked to lose then everyone would truly be a winner and we all know the world doesn’t work like that, no matter what your stupid teacher told you. Also no one uses trigonometry either. Another lie. Anyway here’s an unlie: There are winners. There are losers. We all want to be winners, but when you try to be a winner, you will at some point be a loser because we can’t win ‘em all, right? So basically, I lost big time. I opened the windows. I froze my ass off. But the good news is that the milk is totally fine, you guys. So you can breathe easy now. The milk was saved.