 |
| Not pictured: the GPS module that damn well better be inside. |
I mean, if I know in advance that I'm going to be stranded on a deserted island, this seems like a no-brainer.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Day 54
A picture of the one thing I would bring if I were stranded on a deserted island:
I mean, if I know in advance that I'm going to be stranded on a deserted island, this seems like a no-brainer.
I mean, if I know in advance that I'm going to be stranded on a deserted island, this seems like a no-brainer.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Day 53
A picture of someone I think is hot:
I couldn't decide how to do this. First, I thought about posting a picture of a friend I thought was hot, but that seemed weird. I thought about picking out one actress or other public figure I think is hot, but I couldn't really pin one down. So I ran a Google Image search for "hot" - and so far, the visage most repeated belongs to Kristen Stewart.
Okay, she's cute - and I think she's fairly talented - but I dunno about "hot". Part of her appeal to me is precisely that she's not hot.
None of this gets me anywhere with this prompt. So here's a picture of a bunch of attractive women standing next to Johnny Storm of the Fantastic Four.
I couldn't decide how to do this. First, I thought about posting a picture of a friend I thought was hot, but that seemed weird. I thought about picking out one actress or other public figure I think is hot, but I couldn't really pin one down. So I ran a Google Image search for "hot" - and so far, the visage most repeated belongs to Kristen Stewart.
Okay, she's cute - and I think she's fairly talented - but I dunno about "hot". Part of her appeal to me is precisely that she's not hot.
None of this gets me anywhere with this prompt. So here's a picture of a bunch of attractive women standing next to Johnny Storm of the Fantastic Four.
 |
| Because if you're standing that close to the Human Torch, you're probably pretty hot. |
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Day 52
A picture of my favorite sport:
Plus, I love anything that comes with swag. I'm sporting my 2000-2001 Intramural Champion shirt right now.
Old Sissypants is: Ex-LAX, The Strip, Magnum, King of the Hill, The Little German Girl, Ol' Dirty Rabbi, The Ringer, Fitch, Dribble Baby, Swingin' Dixie the Badminton Boy, Thundercrotch, and The Traitor. Not pictured: Philly, Cuddlewhore, and our honorary member Greenthumb, MD.
I was Magnum; my number, π. The Selleck reference was serendipitous - I just wanted my number to be π.
Softball is just good fun, people! It combines my affection for baseball with a pacing that doesn't have snails behind you tailgating and honking. There's little athletic prowess required, so any you have is pure bonus.
Plus, I love anything that comes with swag. I'm sporting my 2000-2001 Intramural Champion shirt right now.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Day 51
A picture of my dream car:
I could show you a picture of the various cars I once dreamed of having, or I could show you a picture of the car I sometimes dream of still having. This is my first car, my baby, the HSG (the three letters in the non-vanity CA plate, which were unanimously and tacitly understood to stand for "High-School G").
She had get-up like you would not have expected, and she was comfy to boot. There are tons of pictures of friends piled in the back seat for whatever adventures the day brought us - the Disneyland trip stands out, but bowling was a good go-to. She had incredible gas mileage, which I cared less about at the time than I presently do.
I had the handicapped spot in the Senior Parking Lot, mostly because the lot was large enough to require one by law and I was the only senior with a handicapped placard. Music was bumped, occasionally with vocal accompaniment.
The HSG got totaled in '03. It was nobody's fault, and the damage wasn't really that bad - but the car was nine years old by that point. While Toyotas are functionally immortal, auto insurance companies have...tougher standards.
The car I drive now is an homage to my baby - it's a 2005 Camry Sedan, same color, same tan leather interior. She doesn't have the gas mileage or as much get-up, but she's got it where it counts. We thought of naming her like we did the HSG, but the three letters in the non-vanity plate are CRY, and the only appropriate name to come from that would be the Emo-bile.
If you think my wistfulness borne of materialism, consider how much time your average Angeleno spends in his/her car. It's less like losing a prized possession, and more like having your bedroom burn down.
 |
| 1994 Camry Sedan V6 XLE. |
I could show you a picture of the various cars I once dreamed of having, or I could show you a picture of the car I sometimes dream of still having. This is my first car, my baby, the HSG (the three letters in the non-vanity CA plate, which were unanimously and tacitly understood to stand for "High-School G").
She had get-up like you would not have expected, and she was comfy to boot. There are tons of pictures of friends piled in the back seat for whatever adventures the day brought us - the Disneyland trip stands out, but bowling was a good go-to. She had incredible gas mileage, which I cared less about at the time than I presently do.
I had the handicapped spot in the Senior Parking Lot, mostly because the lot was large enough to require one by law and I was the only senior with a handicapped placard. Music was bumped, occasionally with vocal accompaniment.
 |
| As was the case whenever "If I Ever Fall..." by Shai was played. |
The HSG got totaled in '03. It was nobody's fault, and the damage wasn't really that bad - but the car was nine years old by that point. While Toyotas are functionally immortal, auto insurance companies have...tougher standards.
The car I drive now is an homage to my baby - it's a 2005 Camry Sedan, same color, same tan leather interior. She doesn't have the gas mileage or as much get-up, but she's got it where it counts. We thought of naming her like we did the HSG, but the three letters in the non-vanity plate are CRY, and the only appropriate name to come from that would be the Emo-bile.
If you think my wistfulness borne of materialism, consider how much time your average Angeleno spends in his/her car. It's less like losing a prized possession, and more like having your bedroom burn down.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Day 50
A picture of my most frequented place:
I grew up near this establishment, and often passed it in my travels - it's on Sepulveda Blvd., pretty much the main north-south non-highway artery in LA. Look at the facade; I think young Dash can be forgiven for assuming it was a strip joint.
In 2004, one of the Vassar alums (not yet a friend, exactly) tipped us off to this place. Good karaoke, she said, and you can smoke inside. The latter was only appealing to her and to me, but the VC crew came in force - and fell in love. It's a tiny room, but still makes space for the karaoke jockey, the bar, two pool tables, and a large framed print of Queen's Bicycle Race/Fat Bottomed Girls poster...you know which one I mean. At the Tatt, I sang for my 'supper' - on karaoke nights, I hardly ever paid for a drink.
It was in this room that karaoke replaced collegiate a cappella as my dominant performance medium; it was in this room that my alcoholism progressed well past "functional." Leaving this room and heading back to the Valley, I was arrested for driving under the influence. It was August 12th, 2005 - Matt's birthday, the first he'd not live to see.
Since getting sober, I've maintained my deep affection for karaoke; I've peddled my vocal wares about town in many establishments of varying respectability. I haven't returned to the Tattle Tale. Something inside me knows: if I head back there, it won't be just to sing.
Actually, now that I think about it, this place has probably become Dive Bar: Hipster Central since last I crossed its threshold. So if I ever return, it'll be with a frag grenade and a mission from God.
 |
| Culver City, CA. Yeah, I used to leave the Valleys. |
I grew up near this establishment, and often passed it in my travels - it's on Sepulveda Blvd., pretty much the main north-south non-highway artery in LA. Look at the facade; I think young Dash can be forgiven for assuming it was a strip joint.
In 2004, one of the Vassar alums (not yet a friend, exactly) tipped us off to this place. Good karaoke, she said, and you can smoke inside. The latter was only appealing to her and to me, but the VC crew came in force - and fell in love. It's a tiny room, but still makes space for the karaoke jockey, the bar, two pool tables, and a large framed print of Queen's Bicycle Race/Fat Bottomed Girls poster...you know which one I mean. At the Tatt, I sang for my 'supper' - on karaoke nights, I hardly ever paid for a drink.
It was in this room that karaoke replaced collegiate a cappella as my dominant performance medium; it was in this room that my alcoholism progressed well past "functional." Leaving this room and heading back to the Valley, I was arrested for driving under the influence. It was August 12th, 2005 - Matt's birthday, the first he'd not live to see.
Since getting sober, I've maintained my deep affection for karaoke; I've peddled my vocal wares about town in many establishments of varying respectability. I haven't returned to the Tattle Tale. Something inside me knows: if I head back there, it won't be just to sing.
Actually, now that I think about it, this place has probably become Dive Bar: Hipster Central since last I crossed its threshold. So if I ever return, it'll be with a frag grenade and a mission from God.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Day 49
A picture of where I live:
 |
| Studio City, CA. Kick off yer shoes, set a spell. |
My parents' house. It's beautiful, inside and out. Our neighbors rather frequently lend out their houses for film shoots - which reminds me, I need to go vacate my parking spot so a trailer can have it tomorrow morning. We haven't really been able to put that together. It brings in a pretty decent sum of money, but I don't really think Dad wants the camera people crawling all over his house.
We moved to this address in 1996; this house has only stood on the property for the last three years. It's not quite the parents' dream house, as there were all sorts of features Mom wanted that Dad deemed too expensive...but there is the elevator. And the water feature in the back yard. And that nice little place on the porch where people would sit if anyone in my family was sociable enough to relax in the front yard.
My piano - well, it's not mine, but nobody else plays anymore - is right there in the front bay window. I have a tendency to play while awaiting guests - I think I'm going to start playing them off too. A little incidental music just to say, "Here's your hat; what's your hurry?"
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Day 48
A picture of my favorite actor/actress:
Three days after we moved into the dorms, and five days before school started, we had one of those getting-to-know you deals - titled, in the most highfalutin way possible, the "Before School Conferences." Like we were getting together to discuss the future of Eastern liberal-arts education instead of playing Two Truths and a Lie.
There was a girl at the Drama BSC (I hate being predictable, but I hate being bored much more) named Natalie. Everyone was whispering about this girl. She'd played Medea in her senior-year show. Natalie and I both went to similar schools in the same city (had several mutual friends, as it turned out) - except, y'know, I played Harold Hill and she played Medea. I remember being automatically wowed, in a way that my natural cynicism should have prevented. It doesn't matter what role you play, after all, if you suck at it. Natalie didn't suck, as she proved the next semester in Lear.
My point: I have a thing - a soft spot, you'd call it, if I had any spots that weren't soft - for the preternaturally gifted. And here's a girl too young to have factored into a certain...discussion...concerning the best actor of our generation. Here's another no-joke but well-deserved reputation. The chick scares me. Or at least she used to; somehow Man on Fire had a little more punch than The Runaways.
I once said I wanted to marry her talent. Now, I don't think so - I'd just resent it, to the point of cheating on it with Kristen Stewart's, cheapening all three of us.
 |
| It's not fair! The girl had no awkward phase...I lost a bet. |
Three days after we moved into the dorms, and five days before school started, we had one of those getting-to-know you deals - titled, in the most highfalutin way possible, the "Before School Conferences." Like we were getting together to discuss the future of Eastern liberal-arts education instead of playing Two Truths and a Lie.
There was a girl at the Drama BSC (I hate being predictable, but I hate being bored much more) named Natalie. Everyone was whispering about this girl. She'd played Medea in her senior-year show. Natalie and I both went to similar schools in the same city (had several mutual friends, as it turned out) - except, y'know, I played Harold Hill and she played Medea. I remember being automatically wowed, in a way that my natural cynicism should have prevented. It doesn't matter what role you play, after all, if you suck at it. Natalie didn't suck, as she proved the next semester in Lear.
My point: I have a thing - a soft spot, you'd call it, if I had any spots that weren't soft - for the preternaturally gifted. And here's a girl too young to have factored into a certain...discussion...concerning the best actor of our generation. Here's another no-joke but well-deserved reputation. The chick scares me. Or at least she used to; somehow Man on Fire had a little more punch than The Runaways.
I once said I wanted to marry her talent. Now, I don't think so - I'd just resent it, to the point of cheating on it with Kristen Stewart's, cheapening all three of us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)