Posted By Missy on July 5, 2008
Today marks my triumphant return to the internet–due to a bad modem that I diagnosed as a bad modem but which the cable company said was not the case and when would it be convenient to schedule a technician visit? Eights days later, I could have put this whole mess to rest if I’d just followed my instinct and gone to one of the offices, waited in line for an hour and exchanged the dang thing.
Not that I minded being internetless; my attention span quickly reverted back to its mid-90’s self and I think I read something like three books this week. I watched the Mets spank the Yankees in their home stadium only to have their asses handed right back to them in three subsequent subway series games. I went to see Sam Shepard’s new play and Sam Shepard was there, sending me into a tizzy of a reinvigorated and, admittedly, bizarre crush. I saw the waterfalls at night. I finished the months-long project of watching all of the Northern Exposure seasons and cried when it was done. I finally upgraded my laptop. I went out to dinner.
Nevertheless, I was seriously sweating it out because–and I cannot believe I am saying this, as my personal time is extremely valuable to me–I desperately needed to get work done on the off-hours. I refused, however, to go into the office on a Sunday. Sorry co-workers, if I snapped at you this week.
When I did have available moments online, I simply sighed at the pile-up of posts in my Google Reader and generally found myself clicking “Mark All As Read”. I was feeling kind of done. Still, I DID just renew this domain name for NINE more years. You’re stuck with me. And I’ve got a ton of iPhone photos that want to be shared. Let’s press on together.
Olafur Eliasson at P.S. 1. Photos were not allowed, people were stopped, but somehow I got away scott free with both a film camera and a camera phone. I also appear to be wearing some sort of codpiece.
Olafur Eliasson at the MoMA. I didn’t see a single person stopping to look around in this room. It was packed throughout the exhibit and everyone–EVERYONE–was snapping photos. Clearly, I’m guilty of this crime against couth as well.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone carrying that many balloons, much less on a residential street by someone not in a clown costume. Then again, I’m not sure why anything surprises me anymore. I really, really wanted to ask her if she felt lighter.
The infamous NYC condoms, freely distributed throughout the city. I was out one night with my friend Michele and we each took two from the bar–one to use and one to keep as a souvenir. I’ll be honest, I have no idea where they are right now.
This is what’s known as a panda shot–a selfie taken while riding a bicycle. There’s a Flickr group dedicated to the panda. I’m just coming off of the Union Street bridge over the Gowanus Canal. Good thing I took the photo then because on the way back home, over 3rd Street, I saw a dead raccoon on my side of the bridge. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if I’d caught it in the photo or, more likely, inadvertently rode over it? I’d have nightmares for the rest of my life.
My friend Josh and I went to see the band X. One of my favorite things about the whole show was that Exene was dressed in a very mom-like navy pantsuit.
Rehearsals for new you. Lindsay, who I already knew from the Cunningham studios, and Johannes Weiland standing in the distance during one of his rehearsals at City Center. The second photo is tech rehearsal at the Ailey facility. This is the scene where “It’s my birthday and it lasts ALL DAY” is repeated over & over & over.
My favorite self-portrait series ever. I was on the bus, late at night, coming home from Southpaw and messing around with the phone’s camera. I completely missed my stop.
This is Emory, the littlest Republican. (He’s got elephants on his shirt.) At Enid’s in Greenpoint.
A sign in Greenpoint, which is a Polish neighborhood. I laugh whenever I see these signs because of the preponderance of j’s and z’s and k’s and very few vowels. I can’t even begin to figure out the pronunciation. Recently, my co-worker George and I started playing tennis at McCarren park, which sits between Williamsburg & Greenpoint. I suggested those courts as a replacement for the Essex Street courts in Chinatown (that feature chain-link fences for nets), my logic being, hipsters don’t play tennis. Right? You’d no doubt agree. What I didn’t account for, however, was the Polish tennis mafia. There is no attendant on duty at McCarren to monitor permits (NYC charges $7 per permit which allows you a single hour of tennis on any city court) and the one-hour limit therefore becomes an honor-system rule. Try telling that to the set of old, rotund guys who keep switching partners in & out of singles & doubles games across 3-4 of the courts for hours on end. The clock does not start over when you change partners, guys! When you try to reason with them by, you know, telling them what dicks they’re being while 8 people are waiting to play, they pretend to not understand any English. I guess this means I have to start relying on 311. Or learn Polish. Is the Polish word for ‘jerk’, ‘jzrkzejk’?
I recently discovered the awesomeness of the Garment District and two of its fabric stores, Mood and B&J. Both permit swatches but I decided not to bother and instead photographed any fabric that caught my fancy. I had, like, 30 fabric photos. That gold fabric is now hanging in Josh’s kitchen.
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