War by Hypnotic Brass Ensemble
my current favorite band
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what the…?
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via • link“British artist Stephen Wiltshire is currently attempting to draw the Manhattan skyline from memory. since Monday October 26th. Wiltshire began filling in an 18 foot canvas at the Pratt institute, Brooklyn. The drawing is expected to be complete by Friday. You can follow his progress through the live webcam here.
Wiltshire diagnosed with autism at the age of three displays an unusually powerful
photographic memory that he has applied to rendering city scapes. He can look at the subject of his drawing once and reproduce it accurately with photographic detail, down to the exact number of columns or windows on a building. He memorizes their shapes, locations and the architecture.”
Brittany's Made-Up Dictionary
character whore: [kar-ik-ter] [hoor]
- noun
one who personifies features and traits taken from a book, novella, play, film, or other work of art, and acts in a manner derivative of their current obsession.
While reading Zadie Smith’s White Teeth, Britt talked in an annoying British accent. What a character whore!
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critical mass my ass
linkjo, jo, jo!!!!
I am going to NYC for the holidays - technically after the holidays - but not before I have genki!!!!
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As you may know I was hired (unpaid) to write a couple of stories for McSweeney’s magazine, a San Francisco publication. One story, in particular, is about athletic recruiting infractions.
For the last two days I have been attending San Francisco’s Professional and Amateur summer league games in hopes of getting a player to talk to me about their recruiting experience. So far it has been extremely dull and easy. The players have been easy to talk to but haven’t really offered much gossip. I even developed a correspondence with one of the star’s of this summer’s league, Javon Harris.
My confidence is up and I’m feeling like Hunter and Capote and Gladwell. I’m even channeling Ms. Dowd.
With one minute left on the clock I make my way over to the the locker room entrance, pen and red and white polka-dot notebook in hand.
There’s 6 seconds left in the game and there is a man according to my notes named Jamario Davidson standing in the key under the net directly across from me. Some technical basketball thing happened at the other end of the court and I hear him yell, “Fuck!” as the whistle is blown and the opposing team takes another shot. Jamario Davidson, or so I thought that’s who he was, waits two seconds, with 3 seconds left in the game, and then storms off the court. Players and coaches are still conversing and forming last attempt plays and he just walks off the court. He breezed past me in three graceful strides with a look of pure rage. I wasn’t going to ask him any questions. I tell myself, “I’ll just get the next player.”
After talking to a bunch of international players Matt Barnes finally walks out of the locker room. I approach him eagerly and with full confidence, “Matt Barnes, Matt Barnes. Hi, I’m Brittany Owens from McSweeney’s Magazine can I ask you a couple questions?”
“Umm, who do you think I am?”
“Matt Barnes?”
“No you have the wrong guy. That’s him over there.”
I hadn’t realized that through this whole exchange we were still shaking hands and so I throw his hand from mine in disgust at this ‘nobody’.
“Well then, who are you?”
“I’m Jamario Davidson.”
I am completely dumbfounded. At this point I grovel and apologize repeatedly and tell him that I was looking for him too and that I needed to talk to him anyway. “I don’t think I can talk to you. I’m a free agent.”
“Please just let me ask you a few questions. It can be off the record.”
A smirk rises on his overgrown face. “Come on now. Nothing is off the record and you know that.”
I plead that I am legit and won’t let the conversation leave beyond this point. “Sorry, I can’t.”
At this point I realize that I have already made several mistakes when texting the two people I know who would care about meeting a basketball player.
Matt Barnes DOES NOT have a Louis Vutton backpack. Jamario Davidson does. Matt Barnes is the poor-sport who stormed off the court when his team lost the championship.
In retrospect I realize that I was the perfect person to talk to Barnes and Davidson. There was no chance of me being star struck. I had no idea who they were until I got home later tonight. Also, I should have stopped Barnes when he passed me on the way to the locker room. I should have yelled out “Jamario Davidson!” and hoped for the worst. I couldn’t write a better headline: YOUNG JOURNALIST SCREAMED AT BY MATT “THE DIVA” BARNES FOR MISTAKING HIM FOR HIS TEAMMATE. I also should have just asked Jamario Davidson a question without delay or hesitation. I should have just asked him if he was a homosexual or something. I could have told Davidson that I was as secure as Deep Throat. But I wouldn’t want any awkward misinterpretations and he probably doesn’t know who that is anyway.
link“I’m not paying for the chips and salsa. This is Fred’s, it’s rock n’ roll.”
Oliver SantaCruz defiantly declares, after drinking a bottle of syrah at the Wine Cabana in Old Town, San Diego and having tequila and watermelon margarita shots at Fred’s Mexican Cafe.
linkI need to be invited to the White House for a Chimay
What kind of beer do you think Skip Gates, Obama and that racist cop are drinking?
