“You know what I feel like doing?”
“Dancing?”
“Yes! What else?”
“Singing show tunes?”
“Yes! What else?”
“Playing the ukelele?”
“Yes! It’ll be fun!”
“It’s a great time to play the ukelele.”
-My neighbors, May 19th, 3:30 am.
I am reading the New Yorker profile on James Franco. NOW I know what you are thinking: Annie, don’t you hate the New Yorker and its focus on first-world problems like the lack of artisinal food in certain Brooklyn neighborhoods and didn’t you, in fact, let your New Yorker subscription lapse last year, and aren’t you always raging against those cartoons because they are like Three’s Company episodes and all about misunderstandings, and aren’t you always complaining about how in the profiles they always talk about what the person is wearing, the state of their hair, what they are eating/drinking/smoking, etc. to the point where you can basically write a profile about that asshole at the deli or the cat at the deli because it seems so goddamn easy, only to discover that actually is is harder than it seems? Yes. Yes you are right about all these things. But the question on your mind should not be about how I feel about the New Yorker.
It should be about how I feel about James Franco. So answer to that question is yes, yes I still love him. Do I love him more than Ruffalo? I dunno they are opposite ends of the spectrum and, in some sense, representative of both sides of me. The ambition and productivity and multi-tasking and the other side that wants to stay home with my besties, Weed and Bong. However, Franco is still unbelievably hot so I dunno. How can a man be so good looking?
This is the question you all should be asking yourself when you eat dinner tonight. It is a question that may not be answered today, or even tomorrow. Think of it as an ongoing process. Like life or whatever.
****UPDATE: IT WAS NEW YORK MAGAZINE NOT NEW YORKER. I regret the error. HOWEVER, all the things I said about the New Yorker is true. And we probably don’t even have to discuss New York Magazine, that shit is like the Kardashians of magazine. But not like the dumb one, but like the ‘smarter’ one. No I don’t know which one that is. Whatever. Let’s read The Believer.
The elephants who live upstairs (specifically, on top of my head) had an elephant party where they invited other elephants to come and practice Irish river dance and also Dutch clogging and Spanish flamenco. These elephants happen to be very international. It is like a United Colors of Benetton, except with elephants. This jolly festival of dance (pronounced dahnse) was accompanied by shouts of OH MY GOD I’M SO DRUNK AND I HAVE TO GO TO WORK TOMORROW TEE HEE HA HA HA, which was also accompanied by a steady stream of WOOO HOOOs. No doubt it was a celebration of all things great including, but not limited to, tits, ass, and X-box 360. This fiesta was brought to you by Bud Light Platinum–how that is different from regular Bud Light I don’t know. Urine tastes like urine, am I right? It’s not like you taste urine and go OH YEAH THIS IS SOME BALLER URINE RIGHT HERE, VERY PLATINUM IN FLAVOR AND PERSONALITY. I hate Bud Light. It makes no sense to me. Actually I hate any food or beverage that ends in “Light.” Like Crystal Light.
I wrote a review of my toaster oven on Amazon. You should probably read it and definitely buy it, if you are a fire enthusiast or prefer your toast to look like this:
I still have not found a good toaster oven though. It’s been really hard, you guys. Life is, like, so hard. Sniff.
The second issue of White Zinfandel is out now! The magazine combines food, culture, art, and fancy people doing fancy things and being fancy. I wrote a piece in there about people who take photos of their food. The piece includes VISUAL AIDS, and I don’t mean, like, getting AIDS in your eyeballs. I mean graphic organizers. I’d say the tone of the article would be best described as “enthusiastically enraged.” So, if you are a person who takes photo of their food (and I know some of you do because we’re fwendz on Facebook and I see your feed, don’t you dare hide from me, you coy little bastard), then you will either feel mildly embarrassed or enthusiastically enraged. Just know that I still love you with all my heart, of which there is very little left because my parents have more or less eaten it. As you know, Koreans will eat anything. They will ferment it first though.
New Yorkers: You can get the issue at the New Museum or Project No. 8.
Everyone else: Look here.
No glasses = sad times. I called the yoga studio and went back and looked again. I also left a note on my cubbyhole asking people to look in their holes, which incidentally your mom also said last night. Your mom says a lot of stuff, turns out. So I just resolved myself at the fact that some bitch took my glasses and is now wearing them and being an epic asshole and everyone is probably saying to her, oh wow, those glasses look great, which is what everyone used to tell me, and then later, when she gets home, she will die in a grease fire. OK fine, she won’t die, but maybe she’ll lose all of her stuff and then know what it feels like to get shit taken from her.
I keep wondering why ANYONE would steal fucking GLASSES. It’s like stealing crutches. Stealing glasses means that you are leaving someone BLIND. That is effed. Like I understand stealing sunglasses, maybe. Especially if they aren’t prescription, you can just wear them. Easy, like your mom. I can understand stealing money, so you can go buy drinks and be a fucknut in some shit bar. I can understand stealing credit cards. Sure, I get all of that. But stealing glasses? You’d have to get lenses made for them, which costs about $50 – $100 in NY. So stealing is hardly worth it. The whole point of stealing is that it’s FREE. So anyway, someone stole my vision and my sense of general well being at the moment.
But there is some good news.
My old frames were the king shit of fuck mountain of glasses. Some of you may remember how AWESOME they looked on my face. They were also vintage. A while back I bought a pair at a store in the East Village, wore them to death, and then they started cracking and I STARTED TO FREAK OUT. So I went back to the store and looked for a new pair of glasses knowing that it was a longshot. I mean what are the chances of finding the same pair of vintage glasses from the 60s, right? Then HOLY SHIT found the SAME PAIR just in a different color. I was like this HAS to be once in a lifetime thing. What are the odds, man. So the store owner tells me he gets the glasses from this guy in Germany. This German bought up thousands of overstock glasses from some IRS seizure of a warehouse in White Plains, NY. So now the German sells lots to this vintage store in the city. That’s the backstory. SO I bought the same glasses again and CONTINUED TO BE A BOSS.
Now after losing the second pair again, I think WHAT ARE THE FUCKING chances of finding them a THIRD time?
I looked on the Ebay and FOUND THEM AGAIN. Not only did I find one, I found THREE. THREE PAIRS, same glasses, different colors. Overstock vintage. And guess where the seller is? Germany.
So, I bought two pairs. I’m going to staple them TO MY FUCKING FACE and if someone even comes close to them I will hose them with mace. And if you see some ho wearing my old glasses, call me and I will go rough a bitch up with thunder and lightning.
So today I go to yoga. Because I want to, you know, “step into the flow of the universe” and “align mind, body, spirit” and “be what is” (whatever that means). So I go to the studio and take the mat out of my cubbyhole. Then I place my glasses inside my cubbyhole. This is what I do. I put my glasses there so I don’t have to wear them while I get all namasté. I also put them there so no one steps on them. Because what would happen if someone stepped on my glasses? Bad things. Bad, bad things. Might involve some crying. Perhaps some bloody feet too. Point is, I put my glasses in my cubbyhole. I’ve been doing this for years.
So today, I come out of my class, go put my mat back and my glasses are not in my cubbyhole. I think hmm, maybe I put it in the wrong hole, which incidentally is what your mom said last night. So I look in other cubbyholes. Nothing. So I look in the bathroom. Nothing. Then the locker room–perhaps I left it on a counter. Nothing. So then I START TO FUCKING PANIC. Because why? I have no glasses. It is very hard for me to see because, you see, I need glasses to see. I do understand there is quite a bit of irony in trying to LOOK FOR SOMETHING while one is blind. So I go up the front desk and ask, hey, maybe someone turned in some glasses. And they say nope, nothing here. And I go, OK, well I’m missing some glasses and a kind lady comes and helps me search the other cubbyholes because oh right I’M FUCKING BLIND.
So it dawns on me, I guess they might be stolen. FUCKING STOLEN.
WHO STEALS FUCKING GLASSES? WHAT ASSHOLE LOOKS AT A PAIR OF GLASSES AND SAYS OH YEAH I WANT THIS. I’M GOING TO TAKE THIS AND HA HA HA TO THE BLIND FUCK WHO WILL CONTINUE TO BE BLIND AND IN ADDITION, CONTINUE TO BE A FUCK. That is a shit move. A fucking low blow. I’m trying not to jump to conclusions. I am trying to think that someone accidentally picked them up from MY cubbyhole (they are assigned) and accidentally thought this sweet pair of glasses was theirs and accidentally brought them home. This is what I’m hoping. But the New Yorker in me knows that some FUCKING ASSWAD has stolen my glasses. Which, by the way, are EXTREMELY awesome looking and vintage and one of a kind and everyone loves them, and apparently someone loves them enough to STEAL them. But for WHAT? Why would you do that? If I see some bitch in the yoga studio with my glasses on I will fucking cut the shit out of her.
And really, who steals at a YOGA studio? Have you not learned anything from YOGA? So while people are meditating and nailing their revolved triangles and feeling at peace, some dickless asshole is LOOKING THROUGH PEOPLE’S SHIT and taking their prescription glasses? WHAT? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? I guarantee this shitbag does not have the SAME EYESIGHT as me. My left eyeball is SQUISHED and the right eye is like basically perfect. So what are you going to use my glasses for? WHAT. To ‘look smart’ while you….do what? Go to a bookstore? A bookstore you will steal from because if you steal from a fucking YOGA studio you’re certainly going to steal from a bookstore. Why not go to the pre-school and steal their crayons? Might as well right? Everyone loves crayons.
So I had to walk home blind, at night. I had to walk really slowly because I don’t know if you ever notice how blind people walk very slowly, but they do this because they do not want to TRIP over shit or BUMP into shit or even GET HIT by a VEHICLE. So that is what I did. I should also add it was POURING rain and I’m walking like a blind geriatric with a club foot.
BLIND FURY YOU GUYS. LITERAL BLIND FURY.
To whoever barfed in my subway station this morning:
I want to salute you for being you. Thank you. You are a winner. You are the triumphant champion of Thursday night raging. I can tell you had a lovely night.
Here is how I think it went down: It started with happy hour. I find that his is how most Thursday night ragings start. How can anyone resist a 2-for-1? A two-for! Everyone loves a bargain, especially you. How about 2 for $6 special on drafts? How can anyone resist half off martinis? I don’t even drink martinis, but if it’s half off, I’m sure as hell going to drink the shit out of one. Or what about the $5 can of Tecate + tequila? Tecate is not a good beer. And tequila is not a good liquor, for the most part. But together they make even the saddest hour a most happy occasion. So it started there. At a bar, after work. Co-workers came. Then friends came. And then suddenly it is only 7 o’clock post meridian. You are having a very good time, but there’s a problem.
You are hungry.
This is where members of the group split off. But not you. You do not quit. You are no fucking quitter. You are a champion. You are the conqueror. You are a barbarian, a machine, a terminator, a killer. You are, in some ways, every role Arnold Schwarzenegger ever played, except for the kindergarten cop.
You decide you are going to eat the living shit out of dinner. You and friends decide on a place. Someone says, I know this Italian place. It is close. Close is good. You go. You are seated right away because its only 7:30. That is when the wine portion of the evening begins. You get the cheapest, most drinkable merlot. Cheers, clink, etc. You decide to order the spaghetti bolognese. Why not? You deserve it. It has been one hell of a week, even though, technically, it is not over. But first, another bottle for the table. You may or may not spill on your shirt. If you’re me, you probably spill on your shirt. But you’re not me. You are a person who is eating spaghetti bolognese. Without the salad though. Because salad is an unnecessary part of Thursday night raging. Salad is for civilized Saturday night dates with a lady and/or gentleman friend. Fuck salad anyway.
But then, another bottle of wine. At this point, if you are keeping track, you are on the third bottle for the table. But, you know, there are maybe five of you, so it’s not that big of a deal, right? Also you’re eating so that soaks it all up, so it doesn’t count. Right? Yeah, no it doesn’t count.
Dinner is over, and you, to be honest, have maybe a little rager going on in your brainspace. You are having a very interesting and awesome time with this drinkable merlot. Or now maybe it’s a granache. Whatever, it’s red. It’s on your shirt.
Ok how about ONE MORE drink? You know because it’s not even 9 o’clock yet. Let’s kick it at this other bar. I know a place. Now this bar is crowded. For some reason there are Australians in this bar. You are talking to an Australian. You decide to buy the Australian a drink, and also one for yourself. Not because you want to make pants sandwich with this Australian, but because the Australian is a garrulous and friendly kind of person. You decide on whiskey because, why not? You’re certainly not going to order Foster’s. They don’t have that crap here. It’s Tecate or whiskey. Again with the Tecate. Not a good beer. Later you order it anyway even though it is no longer the hour of happiness and the special is not in affect. This is because you thought the special was in affect.
Now it is official. You are drunk. You are not pissing on yourself or anything, but you realize, you know what? I’m an adult person. I have a good job, I’m a responsible person. I should probably go home. Do I cab it? Do I take the subway? Well, it’s only 11 o’clock. I should save money. This is what you are thinking. Money should be saved. Cabs are a luxury for Saturday night. This is Thursday, fuckers. Subway it is. Wait, is the C train running?
You walk down the stairs, and then. Well, you know how it went down. You feel something. A little rumble in the Bronx as they say, except you are in Manhattan. Funny how that works. And now you do the sway, that’s like the move where you are listening to Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer” in your private brain and really feeling it. Well it might be a Strokes song though. Should I sit down on the steps just for a second? NO, no the steps are gross. Haven’t been cleaned since 1995.
Wait…wait…something…is wrong.
Sploosh.
And then a pause. I think I feel better.
Sploosh.
You think, maybe a cab is in order.
So that is what you do. You don’t sploosh in the cab though. It is some kind of Jesus baby miracle.
You get home. Then you fall asleep, with your shoes on. Lights are also on. Pants most definitely on, though maybe it’s a little unbuttoned. Glasses somewhere. Dunno where. Phone somewhere too, most likely in the cab. Or in the bar with the Australians.
Then the next morning, a person goes down the subway, running to the train that is pulling into the station. And perhaps this person steps in your spaghetti bolognese.
This person may or may not be me, Annie Choi.
Congratulations, friend. You have kicked the living shit out of Thursday night. You deserve an award. I salute you.
This morning I was in the shower and I thought hmmm…something feels off. What is this strange feeling that has washed over me? And I just kind of stood there thinking. Have you ever felt like that? Where something is missing or something feels wrong, and you kind of stand there with your proverbial thumb up your proverbial butt. Like sometimes at the office, I wonder if I left the stove on or left my toaster on, which is probably worse than leaving the stove on since it’s such a piece of shit. Flammable shit. So I’m standing there and then realize oh hey,
OH RIGHT THERE’S NO HOT WATER.
YES, for some reason today there is no hot water in my apartment. This also means no heat, which I suppose is OK because it’s only 43° F. I mean sure, it’s been colder. I’m not freezing to death. But I am uncomfortable. I am wearing a coat, for example. It’s a nice coat, don’t get me wrong, but wearing indoors seems like an injustice.
So I turned off the shower.
Today, when you take your hot shower or relax in a warm tub or, like, do your dishes. Think: Yeah, Annie would like to be here.
For whatever reason I always wake up hungry. Though to be clear, I’m pretty much hungry all the time. I have to eat like every five minutes, it’s extremely irritating. Because when I don’t eat, I become this total MONSTER ASSHOLE. You can see the transformation. I get this total bitch face and then I say shit like WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU NEED TO MAKE A PHONE CALL? HOW DARE YOU. YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE, etc. I don’t mean it. Please don’t take it personally. I think you are a fine human being and you don’t deserve to be on the other end of my bitch face.
So yeah. This morning, I wake up. I’m hungry, and I turn to toast. Toast is my best friend. Toast has been with me since the very beginning. Toast keeps me happy. I don’t know anyone who eats more toast than me. I TRIPLE DOG DARE YOU TO OUT TOAST ME. Seriously. It is my favorite. I’ve actually blogged about toast before, several times before, and I’m sure I’ll blog about toast again. Maybe even next week.
So I make toast and I am pondering possible toast fixin’s. Do I go with butter? Or peanut butter? Or just some jam? Or maybe a slice of cheese and some tomato? Or maybe I should use cream cheese and cucumber OH MY GOD MY TOASTER IS ON FIRE IT’S FUCKING ON FIRE! HOLY MOTHER OF SHIT! PUT IT OUT PUT IT OUT PUT IT OUT! OH GOD HOW DO I PUT IT OUT, OH MY GOD TOAST IS GOING TO BURN MY APARTMENT DOWN AND SOMEONE TELL ME WHY MY SMOKE DETECTOR IS NOT GOING ON EVEN THOUGH MY APARTMENT IS FILLING WITH TOAST SMOKE AND OH MY GOD IT’S STILL GOING. IT’S A RAGING TOWERING INFERNO OF TOAST! WAIT DID I PAY MY RENTER’S INSURANCE BILL THIS YEAR? SHIT I DON’T REMEMBER, OH MY GOD THERE IS FIRE IN MY TOASTER! WAIT DIDN’T THIS HAPPEN BEFORE? I’M PRETTY SURE THIS HAPPENED BEFORE WHY THE HELL DO I STILL HAVE THIS STUPID PIECE OF SHIT TOASTER? DUDE IT’S STILL ON FIRE!!!
So then I manage to get my shit together long enough to put the fire out but then I noticed I had made a horrible mistake. Here, let me show you a picture.
THE TOASTER TOASTED ITSELF. I realize this is not a good picture but that’s because there’s not much to see. The toaster IS CHARRED. It is toast, as they say. I am going to throw this thing out the window. Or maybe drive over to the Black and Decker headquarters and throw it at them because I’m so OVER this thing.
So my apartment is filled with toast smoke and I open every window even though i’s like 30 degrees. But that’s not saying much because I only have two windows in my entire apartment. And then I open my front door to release the toast smoke into the hallways because I’m a dick and I want my neighbors to suffer too. Then I open the windows in the hallways because I feel bad for being a dick to my neighbors and then I realize it’s like REALLY COLD NOW. But the smoke is just sort of hanging around in my apartment and I’m like waving a towel around to fan it away. And then Sasha the 100 year old Argentinian lady upstairs comes down the stairs and sorta walks right into my apartment because when you’re 200 years old you can do shit like that and I’m thinking OH GOD Sasha is going to be PISSED I feel so bad, she’s at least 300 years old, the smoke will probably kill her. And she says “Annie thank you for helping me with my computer the other day.” (I helped her with her computer the other day). And SHE DOESN’T NOTICE ANYTHING even though my entire apartment is filled with smoke and there’s this piece of toast literally SMOLDERING on my kitchen counter. This is because she is like 400 years old and can’t smell or see. Poor Sasha, she is a nice lady.
So anyway, I just say fuck toast and I go to the office and I realize that my entire mammalian form smells like burnt toast. My hair, my jacket, my scarf. The inside of my nose smells like toast. Then I go to yoga and I’m kind of getting all sweaty and I smell like toast.
The end. I hate Black and Decker.