I was inside for 15 minutes.
Somebody (le douchebag) took my tire and rim!
Left the mother fucking car up on a jack and just made
off with them.
Now this brings three things to my attention:
WHY JUST TAKE ONE? IF YOU ARE GONNA BE A THIEF DON'T
UNDER ACHIEVE.
Any jack-ass paying really high rent to live in "east"
Williamsburg can get off their hip high horse and eat
me because the shit is still Bush (what do tampons and Brooklyn have in common)wick is still the ghetto bitches. Nice to let the real estate agent sucka you.
Why take the cheap aluminum rim of a VW when there are all the fun spinners and shiny rims all up and down
the street.
Surely these must be worth more crack/cocaine/baby powder in street trade and make a lovely ashtray for mom.
Well at least they left three out of four lug bolts so I could put the spare on.
It went flat and the rim of it was destroyed of course, so i just got really drunk and got to ride around on a
motorcycle (B-O-O-T-A-Y).
Felt like i was in breakin 2, but white, not saving anything and really bad at break-dancing.
Well if any one sees a 12 yr old wearing a VW rim as a necklace, props to him for styling.
If you see an 'artist,' wearing the same accessory on the way to buy heroin for inspiration, after stopping an buying 300$ jeans with his dad's AMEX, tackle him for me we need to talk.
mother fucker
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The Life and Times of A Fit Model or The Rise and Fall of Linda Price
Linda never thought she was perfect.
She never thought she was even close to perfect.
In fact she spent most of her life thinking she was just all right, average at best.
Her friends thought she was nuts to have any gripes about her apperance, particularly her figure. She was almost six feet tall with a perfect size “27 waist.
Which is why the whole thing seemed so much like crazy dream to Linda. A good friend worked as a buyer for a popular denim company and recommended her to do a couple of fit model jobs. Her friend, Angela had always given her the samples (who else with a waist that small had legs that long).
Linda said yes, of course, she loved fashion and it seemed like so much fun. Try on great clothes, possible freebies, not to mention the money. She would be making almost half her current weekly salary for 6 hours work.
When Linda arrived at the shoot the photographer was enchanted with her.
She moved naturally in front of the camera, with very little coaching. The insecurity and self doubt that plauged her was invisible to the camera, a rare thing.
“You are perfection,” he told her.
Perfection, she laughed to herself he’s nuts.
For hours though, he and everyone around her kept saying just that, as well as a barrage of other compliments and encouragements. Then they asked her back again, for a higher rate! They wanted to use some of her shots for buyers catalogue, not just for fit anymore.
She felt high as she left.
When she got home her back ached from sticking her ass out for butt shots and her feet hurt from wearing shoes that were too small. One small word echoed repeatedly in her head though “perfection”. The next day she woke up and went to her stressful job, the job she hated. The job that consumed her life where nothing ever went right and she broke out in rashes her doctor attributed to the stress. All day long that one word rang in her head “ perfection”.
The next Saturday she went back again, this time for a longer shoot with make-up and hair. They included her face in some full body shoots. This was all but unheard of for a fit model, so the photo assistant told her.
She should get and agent they said.
This could be a crossover career.
The designer came in and was, like all the others, beguiled. She wasn’t a “model” but there was something about the way the clothes fit her.
The make-up girl and the photographer asked her if she would like to go out that night. Linda was reluctant to go, but she accepted seeing the editorial models do the same. 'Crossover,' she thought, this is what models do.
Her back ached, one of the “real” models noticed and gave her some pills.
At the bar she had a couple of drinks and felt like she was floating. It must be the pills she thought. Nothing hurt at all anymore. Linda was hungry but she noticed none of the models ate. She asked them weren’t they hungry they hadn’t eaten all day. The one other fit model Carol took her to the bathroom. She handed her a bunch of brown pills. Diet pills.
“ We are fit models we have to stay perfect, we are anonymous bodies, stay friends with the designers and keep your waist tiny. You don't have a face, no recognition... well maybe you have a chance after today. If you do though then you need to be smaller then 'fit,' you need to be runway. They also keep you awake during the day. I have a friend who will write you a prescription he will also give you something for your back.”
“Thank you,” Linda said.
“Oh and Linda get and agent if you aren’t always around they will forget who you are.”
Linda stumbled back to the table, but they said I am perfection she thought petulantly. I need to be perfection.
The next day she called an agent.
The day after that she quit her job.
The money started rolling in. Linda was the most popular fit model out there.
After a week of taking the diet pills she was a size 24” and fit in even couture sample. This meant event the highest end designers could use her when their famous super-model muses were out of town on runway shows and high fashion shoots. She was going out every night. Carol became her partner in crime. Carol had been a fashion model but was now in her late thirties and although she still had the body her face spoke of the late nights and hard living.
Linda was exhausted.
Carol introduced her to cocaine. When Linda was high all her shyness disappeared all her exhaustion. She could smooze with the designers and book jobs. Her agent loved her because she did so little of the work herself.
Linda began to stay out drinking later and later.
It didn’t seem to matter every day they would yell.
“YOU ARE PERFECTION”
This life style hit fast and hard, like an asteroid slamming into the moon. Unlike the young teenage fashion models behaving this way, Linda had to book jobs twice weekly to support new life style. It soon began to take its toll. She was late for one job. Then another.
Her body began to bloat slightly, much like her ego from the excessive drinking. Soon she was a “29, no longer able to do couture.
In the high fashion world you are only as good as your last job. She soon found that she was not invited to the exclusive parties anymore. Linda took her drinking and drug use elsewhere, Carol was still her friend. Linda didn’t recognize Carol, as a wash up has been who was too wrecked to realized or care about taking someone else down with her.
Linda drank more and worked less.
She neglected her appearance; her fingernails once tidy were stained blue from deep pocket denim shots. She seemed distorted as her tight waistline expanded to a “32, a 36”. Soon her agent could hardly get her work. Even with the name she had made for her self in the business. Everyone knew she had become poison.
Her “friends” wouldn’t call her. Not even Angela who originally got her first job. No one wants to be associated with poison.
Her agent finally booked her a job.
Plus size separates for a catalogue. The kind mid-western housewives browse in dental offices. Linda didn’t answer her phone.
After twelve hours of trying her agent went over to her apartment. Large and luxurious, rented just one year ago. No answer.
The super unlocked the door for her.
Dead plants, bottles and a hungry cat.
Hanging in the middle was Linda. Her noose a pair of size “27 straight leg designer jeans.
She never thought she was even close to perfect.
In fact she spent most of her life thinking she was just all right, average at best.
Her friends thought she was nuts to have any gripes about her apperance, particularly her figure. She was almost six feet tall with a perfect size “27 waist.
Which is why the whole thing seemed so much like crazy dream to Linda. A good friend worked as a buyer for a popular denim company and recommended her to do a couple of fit model jobs. Her friend, Angela had always given her the samples (who else with a waist that small had legs that long).
Linda said yes, of course, she loved fashion and it seemed like so much fun. Try on great clothes, possible freebies, not to mention the money. She would be making almost half her current weekly salary for 6 hours work.
When Linda arrived at the shoot the photographer was enchanted with her.
She moved naturally in front of the camera, with very little coaching. The insecurity and self doubt that plauged her was invisible to the camera, a rare thing.
“You are perfection,” he told her.
Perfection, she laughed to herself he’s nuts.
For hours though, he and everyone around her kept saying just that, as well as a barrage of other compliments and encouragements. Then they asked her back again, for a higher rate! They wanted to use some of her shots for buyers catalogue, not just for fit anymore.
She felt high as she left.
When she got home her back ached from sticking her ass out for butt shots and her feet hurt from wearing shoes that were too small. One small word echoed repeatedly in her head though “perfection”. The next day she woke up and went to her stressful job, the job she hated. The job that consumed her life where nothing ever went right and she broke out in rashes her doctor attributed to the stress. All day long that one word rang in her head “ perfection”.
The next Saturday she went back again, this time for a longer shoot with make-up and hair. They included her face in some full body shoots. This was all but unheard of for a fit model, so the photo assistant told her.
She should get and agent they said.
This could be a crossover career.
The designer came in and was, like all the others, beguiled. She wasn’t a “model” but there was something about the way the clothes fit her.
The make-up girl and the photographer asked her if she would like to go out that night. Linda was reluctant to go, but she accepted seeing the editorial models do the same. 'Crossover,' she thought, this is what models do.
Her back ached, one of the “real” models noticed and gave her some pills.
At the bar she had a couple of drinks and felt like she was floating. It must be the pills she thought. Nothing hurt at all anymore. Linda was hungry but she noticed none of the models ate. She asked them weren’t they hungry they hadn’t eaten all day. The one other fit model Carol took her to the bathroom. She handed her a bunch of brown pills. Diet pills.
“ We are fit models we have to stay perfect, we are anonymous bodies, stay friends with the designers and keep your waist tiny. You don't have a face, no recognition... well maybe you have a chance after today. If you do though then you need to be smaller then 'fit,' you need to be runway. They also keep you awake during the day. I have a friend who will write you a prescription he will also give you something for your back.”
“Thank you,” Linda said.
“Oh and Linda get and agent if you aren’t always around they will forget who you are.”
Linda stumbled back to the table, but they said I am perfection she thought petulantly. I need to be perfection.
The next day she called an agent.
The day after that she quit her job.
The money started rolling in. Linda was the most popular fit model out there.
After a week of taking the diet pills she was a size 24” and fit in even couture sample. This meant event the highest end designers could use her when their famous super-model muses were out of town on runway shows and high fashion shoots. She was going out every night. Carol became her partner in crime. Carol had been a fashion model but was now in her late thirties and although she still had the body her face spoke of the late nights and hard living.
Linda was exhausted.
Carol introduced her to cocaine. When Linda was high all her shyness disappeared all her exhaustion. She could smooze with the designers and book jobs. Her agent loved her because she did so little of the work herself.
Linda began to stay out drinking later and later.
It didn’t seem to matter every day they would yell.
“YOU ARE PERFECTION”
This life style hit fast and hard, like an asteroid slamming into the moon. Unlike the young teenage fashion models behaving this way, Linda had to book jobs twice weekly to support new life style. It soon began to take its toll. She was late for one job. Then another.
Her body began to bloat slightly, much like her ego from the excessive drinking. Soon she was a “29, no longer able to do couture.
In the high fashion world you are only as good as your last job. She soon found that she was not invited to the exclusive parties anymore. Linda took her drinking and drug use elsewhere, Carol was still her friend. Linda didn’t recognize Carol, as a wash up has been who was too wrecked to realized or care about taking someone else down with her.
Linda drank more and worked less.
She neglected her appearance; her fingernails once tidy were stained blue from deep pocket denim shots. She seemed distorted as her tight waistline expanded to a “32, a 36”. Soon her agent could hardly get her work. Even with the name she had made for her self in the business. Everyone knew she had become poison.
Her “friends” wouldn’t call her. Not even Angela who originally got her first job. No one wants to be associated with poison.
Her agent finally booked her a job.
Plus size separates for a catalogue. The kind mid-western housewives browse in dental offices. Linda didn’t answer her phone.
After twelve hours of trying her agent went over to her apartment. Large and luxurious, rented just one year ago. No answer.
The super unlocked the door for her.
Dead plants, bottles and a hungry cat.
Hanging in the middle was Linda. Her noose a pair of size “27 straight leg designer jeans.
Stop talking to me like I am a dog. You are my headache.
Talk to me like you talk to the dog, I have a headache...
While trying to figure out why seemingly the comparable incompetence of every cab driver I have ever had seems to directly correlate to how drunk I am. I decided to do some mathematical exploration to see if perhaps there was an unknown equation, one I was not familiar with, an algorithim that held the explanation. Or even better an unfinished one which I could solve earning my place in the scientific hierarchy ( or at least bestowing on me the wisdom to choose a cab that could circumnavigate the five Boro's, with a map and specific turn by turn directions).
Never being particularly mathematically minded in the past I realized that I saw potential life changing equations all around me in my life that just needed to be explored. My life whisked into an egghead omelette could solve the world's (or at very least some of my own problems).
If you use more than one variable, go back and substitute known relationships for the additional variables. When it comes to solving the equation, you want to solve for just one variable. You can often rewrite all the variables in terms of just one. For example, if you let (A) represent the number of Sarah’s whiskeys and (B) represent a given cabby’s brains cells, but you know that Sarah has had four more whiskeys than cabbie has brain cells, then (A) can be replaced with (B)+4.
In conclusion no matter how deep into the Jameson I am, my cab driver is a douche bag and I am a fucking genius! Apparently for being able to read signs. like 44 Astoria blvd west looks very different than 41 GCP east and is also the difference between 15$ and 28$.
Obviously I shouldn't have to pay for his gross algebraic negligence. Unfortunately Achmed doesn't quite see this and I (A)+high heels= slip and fall squared.
After being called, what sounds something like a humpless camel (please Achmed it's a push up lets not exaggerate)? Tip is refused (B+4) >B=B-T.
All in all we have learned that
(a+w)<(s-$)= FUCK I was never any good at math
While trying to figure out why seemingly the comparable incompetence of every cab driver I have ever had seems to directly correlate to how drunk I am. I decided to do some mathematical exploration to see if perhaps there was an unknown equation, one I was not familiar with, an algorithim that held the explanation. Or even better an unfinished one which I could solve earning my place in the scientific hierarchy ( or at least bestowing on me the wisdom to choose a cab that could circumnavigate the five Boro's, with a map and specific turn by turn directions).
Never being particularly mathematically minded in the past I realized that I saw potential life changing equations all around me in my life that just needed to be explored. My life whisked into an egghead omelette could solve the world's (or at very least some of my own problems).
If you use more than one variable, go back and substitute known relationships for the additional variables. When it comes to solving the equation, you want to solve for just one variable. You can often rewrite all the variables in terms of just one. For example, if you let (A) represent the number of Sarah’s whiskeys and (B) represent a given cabby’s brains cells, but you know that Sarah has had four more whiskeys than cabbie has brain cells, then (A) can be replaced with (B)+4.
In conclusion no matter how deep into the Jameson I am, my cab driver is a douche bag and I am a fucking genius! Apparently for being able to read signs. like 44 Astoria blvd west looks very different than 41 GCP east and is also the difference between 15$ and 28$.
Obviously I shouldn't have to pay for his gross algebraic negligence. Unfortunately Achmed doesn't quite see this and I (A)+high heels= slip and fall squared.
After being called, what sounds something like a humpless camel (please Achmed it's a push up lets not exaggerate)? Tip is refused (B+4) >B=B-T.
All in all we have learned that
(a+w)<(s-$)= FUCK I was never any good at math
Monday, October 27, 2008
Something to think about
I'm watching a film staring Heath Ledger and I think about two weeks before he died. He bummed a ciggy off of me outside of my apartment and was humble and kind. As I walked away shivering with delight at his beauty, I thought ...man it would be really amazing to wake up beside that man every day. Maybe someday I can sit down with him and at least have small talk. I wish I would have done what I wanted to. Kidnap him and cuff him to my bed....what if I followed through with that plan?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
This rule of the broken heart
My life is succumbed to this: born, work, get fucked up and die. Though, I found this life through trivial means, it still makes me wonder how to get excited about any future endeavors. I finished a great high concept comedy with a writing partner that I don't know and I'm content with the effort. Normally, I would revel in this wonderful small feat that most of us only dream of but I'm stopped short. Stuck by the mundane details of mediocrity and still scared of the what the fuck happened syndrome. What the fuck happened syndrome? What is that do you wonder? Well, it's the eternal dream that encompasses what your heart felt as you took a journey to better yourself and ended up finding something less then stellar. In my pursuits for eternal greatness, I 'm not seeking anything less then redemption. I'm seeking something everyone wants to know, themselves. Through each re write that rears his ugly head, it's like an ex looking for a quick lay to forget the ex he never loved to begin with, I struggle. I gallivant with the masses. I drink for the ones that died, I drink for the ones that are better off then I'll ever be and I'm stuck. I am trapped in a mediocre job that doesn't know my talents or care to, an environment that I feel I'm maneuvering my way to the middle is unsettling at best. Yet, I have an eternal hope that one day, when I wake up in a house I own, that I can make a breakfast with comfort. I wake up today as I do every day, I stand on my gorgeous view of Los Angeles and thank who ever is out there that I am alive. That I have my faculties and a family missing me only too far away and I have the ability to change my course. It's coming, I feel the heat on my back. It's unlike monkey. I have enough of those burdens that I am trying to hinder. I am feeding the good dog. Who is the good dog you ask? Ask me when you're ready. I'd love to let you know.
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