On Friday night I had drinks with a big group (read: architects) to honor Troy who was leaving OMA and heading off to teach at Rice. I think eight or nine offices were represented. At some point Troy tried to count but he was too wasted and got confused and then someone handed him a beer and he was not confused anymore. That is a good tactic. If someone is confused at work, hand him or her a beer. Suddenly, everything is clear. I’m telling you, it’s magic. Anyway that’s totally beside the point. We were drinking and dining al fresco, which is a fancy way of saying “eat and drink outside and watch Annie get eaten alive by mosquitoes.” Note that no one else got bit. I have no idea how this works, but I got something like eleven bites all over my legs.

So here is something interesting: mosquitoes feed mostly on nectar, but females are the ones that bite and feed on blood because they need the extra protein and iron to lay eggs. What I’m trying to say here is that the bitches are the ones causing problems and getting out of pocket. Also what I’m trying to say here is that the bitches love me. I need pants made out of Calamine lotion.

Aura started a Facebook page for ME, that’s Annie Choi if you’re not paying attention. If you are on Facebook, click here to take a look and join. I am my own greatest fan. I’m glad I’m the greatest at something.

Check out the discussion section: “Do you love Annie Choi more than puppies?” The answer better be yes, natch! If not, you can suck it.

Also, my computer is sick. Just a little advice, do not feed computers tomatoes and raw pork.

Also, I just learned that wombats have a backward-facing pouch. I have to say that is like the coolest thing ever but also awkward. So the baby wombat looks like it’s coming out of the poop chute. But it doesn’t matter because look how DANGEROUSLY STUNNINGLY CUTE THIS IS. I am sad I do not have one to snuggle and spoon and cherish. I mean I love my stuffed wombat but it doesn’t have a fucking POUCH. Marsupials are the best. .

But then there’s this guy. Hello, new friend.

Anyway, yeah, pouches. Go!

Nathan saved Annietown from looking like Anniecrap! ——-> Sidebar is back, huzzah. Thanks Nathan, one day I will make it up to you, but I am not sure how.

Speaking of Annietown, I remember when I was trying to find a domain for the bloggorrhea I went through a dozen names including, Annieland (which was taken), Annieville, Annieland, Annienation, Annieopolis, Anniepants (which seemed too porno at the time even though that is my nickname), Anniecity, and some other stuff. Basically I wanted Annie plus some sort of locale though I am not quite sure why. Oh I also thought of RepublicofAnnie but that made me sound like some kind of commie, which my brother calls me anyway. It is kind of funny to call someone a commie, no one does it anymore. Maybe I will bring it back. When I was in college everyone was calling each other fascist. For, like, doing nothing. Pass me the soy milk, you freedom-hating fascist, etc. Kind of funny. Maybe.

My friend Anh just sent me this link. It made me laugh and then made me throw up, just a little, in my mouth.

Also, I have a headache. This may or may not be related to America’s birthday festivities last night. It may or may not be related to wine. It may or may not be related to the wine I had after the wine. Without further scientific study, I cannot be sure. I am reaching out to the science and medical communities to help me determine the cause of my headache, sleepiness, slight nausea, and the cashmere sweater that my tongue is currently wearing. I suppose I should reach out to the fashion industry too, for that last part. It’s really too hot for cashmere.

Speaking of the fashion industry, the new Phillip Lim 3.1 store in L.A. opened and it was designed by my good pal Dominic Leong over at Para. Check it out here. It’s as crazy as Dominic is. I want to go and squish all the acoustic foam. Like if you are stressed and live in Los Angeles, go over to the Phillip Lim store and squeeze the crap out of the walls. I think one of the rooms has walls covered with cow hair, so pet the crap out of that too. These cows may or may not be related to the meat hats above. Dominic worked his ass off so I’m proud of him. It’s his first built project. Kudos Dominic, now go and get me some sweet, sweet Phillip Lim threads. Also, I have your mail. If you give me sweet, sweet Phillip Lim threads I will give you your credit card bill which I know you want really badly. Also it looks like you might have already won 2 million dollars, that is exciting.

It’s the 4th of July, the day of our nation’s birth. Happy birthday, nation! To celebrate I shall go kegging and watch people cook flesh over fire. This is what George Washington always wanted. People in America, cooking flesh and being free while drinking beer. Freedom tastes good. It tastes like steak. I don’t remember what steak tastes like, but I do know what freedom tastes like.

Speaking of which, I just accidentally ate a piece of ham. There were “samples” at this coffeeshop and I was like sweet! Samples! Then I popped one in my mouth and it turns out it was a bit o’ croissant with a bit o’ ham. Ham is very salty. And chewy. But I felt too weird spitting it out so I just swallowed it and dealt with it. So there you go. It’s been probably 16 years since I’ve had ham. I can’t say if I liked it or not. It was too foreign for me to make a decision on it. I think I liked ham when I was little. But I wasn’t really a picky eater either. I think when you grow up in a Korean family, you really can’t be that picky. I mean there’s like barely pickled/raw squid and roe still in the egg sac/membrane, it’s like if you can eat that at eight, you eat whatever. And even if you were picky, your parents would bitch and moan so much that you eat it just to shut them up. Seriously.

Anyway happy Independence Day. Everyone go exercise their independence! Celebrate! Be free! Destroy the beer with your bellies!

I just took down penne with spinach and ricotta from Pepe Rosso.

I completely, utterly destroyed it. With my belly.

I leveled it beyond recognition. In fact, there is nothing to even recognize because there is nothing left. It is no longer in existence. It is inside my gut. Deep. You cannot see it, but trust me, it’s obliterated. I totaled it. If you wanted some, too bad, because I annihilated it. I wrecked, razed, and ruined it. So I’m sorry. You will have to get your own. They deliver. But only a few blocks. So if you live in Hawaii or London or one of those fancy towns in Portugal with the fancy letters, I am sorry. You will have to find something else to demolish with your tummy because mine is gone. It has entered the face hole, been masticated into tiny bits, and sent down the maw, straight to the breadbasket that is my stomach.

So, I’m sorry. It’s dead. I killed it.

I almost forgot!

Today is Canada Day!

Happy Fourth of July, Canada.

Most of you will not care, unless you are Canadian.

I guess that means you, Doretta.

I like to make jokes. That is kind of what I do for a living, to varying degrees of success. Anyway once at band practice, I was playing the glockenspiel and we were messing around with a hot jam and I said, “I’ll put one hand on my glock.” I literally thought it was the funniest thing I have ever said even though it’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever said (maybe) and then I laughed and laughed because I am not afraid to laugh at my own stupid jokes and then realized, shit, no one else was laughing. Instead they were filled with hate. These are my friends, mind you. Filled with hate. ONE HAND ON MY GLOCK!!!!!!! Come on! When do you ever get to make a joke about a glockenspiel? NEVER. It is a ONCE IN A LIFETIME opportunity, except we practice every week and it is absolutely ridiculous to think that I hadn’t even thought of that joke before now. Anyway, damn them. It was funny to me. I don’t know how comedians not laugh at their own jokes. It’s like too calculated. Like they’ve been practicing in front of a mirror. I like it when comedians kind of smile, but then sometimes when they smile they get the rep of being a smarmy dick, kind of like Michael Ian Black, who I think is awesome. It’s all confusing. Chris Rock does that. He’ll make a joke and he’ll smile, but there’s something about his smile where he is not really smiling at his own joke, but something else about his joke. His eyes are kind of crazy and opened wide and detached from their retinas. I dunno, when you see Chris Rock, just watch for it.

Oh that reminds me of another time in yoga class where the teacher was like talking about the head and was saying it was an eight-pound weight on your neck. Then she stopped, “It weighs eight-pounds, right?” And I was like “well mine weighs a lot more because it’s FILLED WITH KNOWLEDGE.” Hahahaha. Yeah. No one laughed at that one either.

I went back to Governor’s Island with Erin to take down the typewriters and of course it started downpouring the minute after we rented our bikes. In other words, our asses got very, very, very wet. Erin came prepared and had an entire outfit in her purse. Literally her purse is the size of a wallet and she busts out with a whole wardrobe of clean, dry clothes. She probably had like a 20-piece Chicken McNugget meal in there too. That reminds me a of a dude on the ferry wearing a shirt with a hotdog inside of a heart and it said LIPS AND ASSHOLES. I couldn’t tell if it was a band name or if he was celebrating Gay Pride weekend, or if he was saying that he actually likes hotdogs in the real I-like-eating-lips-and-assholes way. Confusing statement. But awesome shirt nonetheless. Anyway they ended up closing the island a little early. Rosalyne (THANK YOU ROSALYNE) also came to help me carry the shit off the island. If you see Rosalyne give her a hug. She loves getting hugs from strangers.

Anyway I had put a little sign on the typewriter tables saying, hey buddy, write whatever you want, just leave the paper in the typewriter. So of course, everyone tore off the paper. Also they jammed the keys, messed up the ribbons, and worked the lever on the Sears Tutor so hard that the spring broke so now the lever doesn’t work. The worst though, was that someone was messing with the ribbon and then WIPED HIS OR HER HANDS ON THE WALLS. There were like black finger print smears on the wall. I wanted to die. Dude. Look at this house. It is old. It is historical. It is pretty. It is pretty because people do not use the walls as a napkin. Dude, use your CLOTHES. Don’t use the damn walls. Don’t be a dick.

Over the weekend there was the Olaf Eliasson opening, the arts crap, and also a SWIMMING RACE around the island. It’s like they really, really, really want people to visit Governor’s Island. And it worked. Everyone I know pretty much went there for the very first time, which is cool. Anyway swimming in any river that goes through NYC seems…toxic. Like you will get all kinds of diseases. However, if you survive it somehow, you will never, ever get sick again. Your immune system will be like hah, encephalitis? I SURVIVED NEW YORK HARBOR, NATCH. On the ferry Erin and I were chatting with this fella who was convinced that the Harbor water was cleaner than the tap water because “there are many drugs in the faucet water.” Like you know, people go into the john and shoot up or snort a rail and then pee or do a big-kid sitdown and then all that winds up in the water system and heroin and coke are apparently not filtered out. I was like shit, son, I should drink more water. It’s one of those situations where you just shrug. I like shrugging. It is a good way to end conversations I think. Hey, Annie, is that thing due today? Shrug. Hey Annie, is the 1 train running? Shrug. Hey there is a lot of drugs in NYC tap water. Shrug. It’s nice.

I just got back from Governor’s Island.

First of all, a shoutout:

Erin, if you are reading this OMG I LOVE YOU AND I MEAN THAT IN THE GAYEST WAY POSSIBLE. Without Erin and her appendages I would not have been able to lug two tons of shit to Governor’s Island. So Erin, thank you. You have lovely arms and they are especially lovelier when they are toting my shit.

Anyway, I ended up using three typewriters instead of four, because the fourth was stowed away in a car and the owner of said typewriter and car was very, very drunk last night and we were unable to meet up (WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY? OH? TYPEWRITER? OH IS THAT NOW? YOU NEED IT NOW? WAIT, HOLD ON ANNIE JUST A SECOND, YO DUDE, ORDER ME ANOTHER SHOT! WOOOOO YEAAAH CHIICKKSSS). At first I was panicky (which is not a word, but guess what, it is today) because that means I would only have THREE TYPEWRITERS. Originally this project had ten. And then five. And then four. And now three! Three! Three is for losers! Three is for people who cannot do four, five, or ten! But then I realized, hey, it would be OK. I just felt bad that JoMo had to build four tables, when in fact, all we needed was three. Three or four, no one will care unless they are a real asshole who likes even numbers.

So then Erin and I hauled three tables, three typewriters, three 25-foot long pieces of paper, a drill, screws. I should mention here that one of the typewriters is about 20 pounds. My arms are about to fall off as I type this. The table legs were separated, all I had to do was drill them into the tables at the site.

Right. Drill them in. So easy, right?

My drill bit was stripped. It looked like a piece of gum. No good. I have NO IDEA how one would strip a drill bit, but I did it and I am sad for it. I did not bring another drill bit. Because, like, who strips a bit? Annie strips a bit, that is who (whom). So then Erin ran all over the island looking for an organizer to come and save my ass.

Then came the hero with the Greatest Drill in the world and a drill bit that does not suck. I thanked him many times and would’ve you know, tickled his balls and whatnot had he asked. That is how grateful I was. He put the tables together. The guy was a rock star. Seriously. If any of you guys go, he was the one who designed the dollar mini-golf course.

Anyway, the event organizers gave me a sweet, sweet indoor space, and if any of you guys go, check it out. You’ll find the analog, mechanical internet in the Admiral’s House.

I want to live in this house. If I lived there I would make everyone call me Admiral because that is a sweet nickname. Much better than “chief” or “boss” or “asswipe.” The inside of the house is just as sick as the outside. I put the typewriters throughout the house and tried not to interrupt the (real and totally legitimate) art that was on the walls.

Here is a Royal from the 30s given to me by Pony.

I put that in the green room.

Here is a Royal Portable, from the late 30s/early 40s, donated graciously by Cosmo Apale, a gentleman who responded to my Freecycle post. His generosity made this project possible.

I put that in the purple room.

I also had a blue 60s Sears Tutor.

I put that in the yellow room.

Note that the AC unit was part of the original house. Ha ha ha. Admirals need air conditioning too you know. Anyway people already started typing on them as I was leaving, which is cool.

Speaking of houses, Erin and I rented bikes and rolled around the island and then came across a large mechanical dinosaur eating a house.

Very curious. If you want to visit the Island of Governors, I highly recommend watching out for house-eating monsters. The Parks Service is letting them roam free there. Beware.