Prairie dogs are ushering in the end times.

Courtesy of my hometown newspaper the Dalhart Texan, formerly Dalhart Daily Texan.

JIMMY UPDATE! JIMMY UPDATE!

Jimmy Scott will be at Jazz at Lincoln Center this week! Of course it's the week I'm gone. (After all, the Universe is still winning.) But you can go. And should go.

April 9 - 12 (Thur - Sun)

7:30 and 9:30

Dizzy's Club Coca Cola

Johnny-is-no-Jimmy is ushering in the ends times.

Here is an entry that's been hanging out in my Drafts folder for a year or so. Eat it up.

I had been waiting to see Jimmy Scott perform at Jazz at Lincoln Center since last fall when I purchased tickets for his entry in the Center's American Songbook series. Although Mr. Scott remains frustratingly under the radar - after all he is 82 and has been performing with all the legends since the 40s - just watch the above YouTube video to understand why he himself is legendary. I was fortunate to see him live three years ago at the Kennedy Center Jazz Club. Upon introduction, he gingerly mounted the steps to the stage with a fragile but determined delicateness. I was uncertain how the evening would play out. Would he be able to last through an entire set? But as soon as he began to sing, the life entered into his face and arms, and his voice, still fragile but now remarkably fiery, began to drop and wander - playing with the melody, teasing the notes, tossing them aside, discovering new sounds and joys. He was amazing. And not like "that shine-reduction powder is amazing" but God-creating-the-universe amazing.

So last Saturday, with my friend Sarah in arm (I had attempted to make it a date night with an unnamed individual, but that's another story and another quarter), we rode the elevator to the Allen Room in the Time Warner Center and passed those waiting in the cancellation line. I felt some self-congratulatory satisfaction that I was not one of them. After having our tickets examined twice, we entered into the theater, which has a fantastic view of Columbus Circle and Central Park South. But there were people in our seats. People who were supposed to be there. So we headed to the nearest usher to resolve the situation, and I looked at my tickets again (probably the tenth time I had done so that day) and read:

American Songbook
Sponsored by Pfizer
Jimmy Scott
Fri, Feb 22, 2008 8:30 PM
The Allen Room
Frederick P. Rose Hall Broadway at 60th St.

Wait. Friday? FRIDAY!

A day late.

A plaintive moan escaped my lips. What kind of fool was I? It had been in my daily planner as Saturday since forever. Curse you, Mead! I was directed to The Lady at the Kiosk, where I explained my case, confessed that I was an idgit, and begged for anything she could throw my direction. The Lady at the Kiosk said, "Wait." For there were lots of people in the cancellation line (Damn.), and we wouldn't know anything until closer to the show. So we waited, and I watched those lucky cancellation line sonabitches pass me into the theater. I tried to excude sad-adorableness to win over their sympathies. After all, Sarah had just told me I was dressed cool, like a rock star. How could they not be moved by puppy-eyed, Guitar Hero boy? Just as we were resigning ourselves to sad fate and considering heading over to Landmarc to get drunk at the bar, a magic woman came to us with two tickets. "Here. Hurry. You need to run." Gratitude poured forth from every orficice as I grabbed the tickets and ran off down the hall, but we were stopped by another even more magical woman. "Wait! Take these. They're amazing seats. You'll love them." So we swapped tickets. Taking our new $90 tickets to our rightful spots at the very front.

We congratulated ourselves. This is how it should be done every time. The view. The complimentary wine. Good friends. And Jimmy Scott.

(Announcer)
Ladies and Gentlemen.

JOHN......LLOYD......YOUNG!!!!

What the ?

And a thousand little thoughts scampered through my head as I swung around: Wrong night AND wrong theater? Is that the piano player? If so, why is the audience standing up, cheering? Who is that white boy walking down the theater steps looking so fucking pleased with himself? Is he the opening act?

And that's when it came together. Jimmy Scott would not be singing tonight. He was making one and only one appearance. Which I had tickets to. But did not attend.

No. I was attending the concert debut of Mr. Young, Tony Award-winning former star of the Tony Award-winning Jersey Boys, who would be singing your mother's favorite hits of the 40s, 50s, and 60s. Mr. Young was so excited for this opportunity to show his fans his true self, and, apparently, that true self is Frankie Valli.

Sarah and I admitted defeat. The Universe had won. I poured the wine, somehow sending the cork flying toward our neighbors. And I laughed like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

Old Smokey is ushering in the end times.

A song from my childhood. 

Does it need to be on YouTube? Yes. Everything should be. Is it flattering to myself? Of course. I'm wrapped in a fleece blanket groaning. Remember, being earnest is the same thing as being good. Will it move history? Without question.

Without question.

Here are the lyrics to my particular version so you can sing along:

On top of Old Smokey, all covered in blood, 
I shot my poor teacher with a .44 slug.  
I went to her funeral. I went to her grave. 
Everyone they threw flowers, but I threw a grenade. 
The cops came and got me. They put me in jail,
But i grabbed a bazooka, and I blew 'em all to hell.

Apparently nothing is ushering in the end times.

A fellow with a moustache

Clearly I received no motivation from KT. (What a little bitch, that one.) 6 months since my last post. Half a year has gone by! Many animals and insects are birthed/hatched, mature, mate, eat their young, and die in that time span. They live complete, full lives. I've never even eaten any of my young. I've never even had any young! God, what a waste. (And I'm sure we're all tired of reading posts about not posting. How postmodern and boring.) When I turned 23 - an age of which I am no longer - my dad told me he'd already had three kids by the time he reached said birthday. Three little things! Just imagine the additional credit card debt I'd accrue with that financial load. Oh, but I hear they're wonderful. And that everyone should try one - at least once.

Soon after undergrad I decided I didn't want to talk to anyone who was married, had kids, or owned their own home. Honestly, what did we have to discuss? But, realizing how quickly that whittled away at my list of friends and relatives, I eased off. However, the sentiment somewhat remains. So many of my friends, family members, and former classmates are "growing up" and doing the adult thing. They have career jobs and fiancés and fiancées and pregnancies and health insurance. There's only so deep I can dive into a conversation about mortgages and teething before I realize I won't have enough oxygen in the tank to resurface if I attempt to descend any further. 

How long is it acceptable for me to continue to achieve remarkably little? Because, let's be honest, that's what I've done. Thank the angels that I'm still in my twenties. People will forgive you for most things while you're still young. And you've still got a good head of hair. And I know I'm covered at least till 30 (perhaps I can stretch it beyond that - thanks, head of hair). 

- You said what? Oh, but you're young.

- Haven't had your big break yet? You're young. Don't worry. It'll happen. 

- You're finished already? (sigh) You're so young, aren't you.

I bet I can even shoot a couple people in these last few years and avoid any prison time. So I will remember to take advantage of my youth while it is still with me. But at some point there will be a switch from earnest and more than a little adorable to pathetic and more than a little creepy. Mark my words. Taking the 7 train a few stops to the Sunnyside Center Cinema on Christmas Eve to watch Disney's Enchanted by yourself, only for the film to be broken and have to walk home - that's sad but kind of cute. Now if I were a 50-year-old? Forget it. Coy glances across a packed subway car. Twenties = Cute! Fifties = Psychopath!

Yet all this horse chatter doesn't explain why I haven't updated the blog. I guess there weren't enough things ushering in the end times. 

"What?!" you say.

"Oh, did I miss something?" I say.

"A black man was elected president! What other sign do you need?" you say. "Were you waiting for a GAY black man to rise to the office? An HIV+, gay black man that pissed on the American flag during his acceptance speech at the Republican convention?"

"Well, I guess not," I say. "But all that seems a bit much."

"What does?"

"Well, it seems a bit much to make your point," I say. "Somewhat belabored. A little too focused on shock value."

"But at least we're talking about it." 

And then you smile. Tenderly I slide my hand under your blouse, and we attempt to make a Hope baby.

That said, I did spend a good portion of the year trying to convince some people that Obama was not the Antichrist, while they tried to convince me he wasn't Jesus Christ. But a true believer remains faithful in the Gospel of Change. Amen and amen. History having won out and the final court cases challenging his birth records dwindling down like the warm, dying embers of a winter's fire, I'm happy to be making my purchase of the Penthouse Obama commemorative edition. 

Now what to write about it? Oh, that's right - myself! I'm a little sick. Drinking lots of orange juice. Sucking on some Cold-EEZE (It's homeopathic!) and using my Zicam Gel Swabs (It's homeopathic too! As long as it doesn't kill my sense of taste and smell. Uh oh). It's sad when a violent coughing fit is the most exercise I've done in a week. A month. A year. But I should stick around on this earth long enough to get out an ushering-in-the-end-of-the-year-is-ushering-in-the-end-times post. 

No promises though. So mourn me now.

USHER THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OMG. OMFG. 

Why can't David - whoops sorry ;) d.a.vid - write anything new? Hons? And don't even getmestarted on the name d.a.vid itself. What is that? Who does he think he is? will.i.am? Like his name can be found anywhere in the celebipedia. Oh and here are some lustalicious rainboots i found at Teen Vogue.  

Totally sidetracked but hons - what takes him sooooooo long? Its not like he's working on the next Harry Potter (Oh! i hope *fingers crossed* there r more. She can't just finish it. That's so brutal to all her fans - of which i am one. JK, u wouldn't abandon a baby would u? Leave it on the dirty mensroom floor?) Maybe he thinks he's gonna win an oscar or teen choice award for his blogging. Well that's superdumb d.a.vid because u can't win either for a blog. Those awards r for entirely different categories. So Entirely.

And blogging is no Everest. i'm doing it right now. And i'm only 14. i'm DEF NOT a 30 yr old with a Masters-------and i'm blogging. Succexcellently i might add. (Master of what? That's funny. Would a real Master be working at a hair salon? Eating at McD's?) And i'll give u more of what u really want.....

GAY CHICKEN VIDEOS

Why do "str8" guys do this sorta thing? (The str8 in quotes means i'm skeptical whether there actually str8 - more on that later) Maybe its cuz there so horny and they spend way too much time together. Like if there in sports u know there always in the lockerroom hanging out. Or maybe there all really GAY! That'd explain why Brister was such an ass to me at the Holiday Ball and wouldn't even talk to me the entire night. EVEN THOUGH HE WAS MY DATE AND MY DAD PAID FOR HIS TICKET AND THE LIMO!!!!!!!! Whatever...htf should i know?

And pics of the Jenner bros 

So much cuter than the Jonas bros who r all like 10 yrs old and dressed by their gay uncle (confession: Joe may be growing on me a teeny bit. But not if he keeps looking like this!!!!!!!!! 

OMG! A fur coat? He looks like my mom's friends and i don't crush on MILFs!)

Anyways...back to the Jenners. 

BRANDON

BRODY!!!!!!!!!

i luv the last one of Brody the absolute best because its a totally fun candid pic like one i'd take with my bests. U know he'd be a BLAST to hang out with. Lucky bitch LC. Extra points for the bad boy tat. Click on the happy face to go to Brody's OFFICIAL webpage.

 

He's also working on a new TV show called Bromance. So excited. Contestents get to compete to be one of his bros. Luv it. And i'll def be keeping u posted. (Bromance? Anyone else notice the gay thing again?)

Oh! Here's something totally different and way weird. The new WORLD'S UGLIEST DOG has been named. i'm totally serious. And no its not Miley Cyrus. JK! JK! I'm sooooo joking (kind of). The dog is Gus. Here's a pic.

And NO it's not the woman. That's the owner, sillies. I'm being soooo naughty today ;) Here's a better pic of Gus - if u'd want a better pic.

Doesn't it look like he'd fit really well under a car tire? Now don't go all Tom Cruise on me. i will not be ur Matt Lauer. i'm not saying it should. All i'm saying is that Gus's body looks like its shaped to fit under a tire. That's all. i made a pic to show what i mean.

(That took me 4EVER to make that pic. Maybe if d.a.vid had more pics like that i'd understand why he never posts. BUT HE DOESN'T!) So we have a new World's Ugliest Dog. Yeah! And pretty soon we'll have a new president which is almost as exciting. i guess i'd be more excited if i could vote but i'm obviously not old enough. My dad says i should care anyways BUT WHY? Its not like it effects me. My dad keeps going on and on and on and on AND ON about how much things cost now and like the price of gas ---- which r pretty ridic reasons why he and my mom won't drive me and my bests to the mall. So what if gas is like $10 a gallon. i don't drive so its not like i'm paying for it. Ughh!

Whatever. i guess i should go. Apparently i'm supposed to be watching the new Jonas bros movie and i missed it already on the disney channel AND on ABC. But its showing on ABC family tonite. i promise i'm not really a fan no matter what ur assumptions r (make an ass of u and me. ha) i'd rather listen to Tokyo Police Club or even Lil Wayne's new album. What r u surprised i listen to Lil Wayne? i'm not a ghetto girl by any stretch but i like rap - Kanye is all over my iPod.

Well thanks for reading. Tell d.a.vid to write something already. Its been major.

Peace Luv & Fun,

KT

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Busted is ushering in the end times.

"Sexy d.a.vid Jump" by photographer Sinpu Tokyo

So the Fates have conspired together, forcing me to cobble together another post. I'm all gimped-out with my foot elevated, rested on pillows like the little princess that it is. Crutches waiting for the call to action. I hurt this foot by doing something real brave and practical, a task representative of pure, unadulterated common sense. Hypothetically, the same injury could have been sustained by sliding on my ass down the handrail at the entrance to the Columbus Circle/Time Warner Center subway station. Quite possibly the resulting fracture would be very similar had I reached a velocity that far surpassed my expectations and the positioning of my dismount focused all my substantial mass at a singular point of impact, which very well could have been my left heel colliding into the concrete step. But let's not deal with "what ifs" and "might have beens." Let's for once address the factual realities with which we are reluctant to engage, to encounter honestly. The truth of the matter is d.a.vid is a Great and Good Man, a marvelous Hero, angelic and empathetic. Whatever he does is done for the Good of Humanity, so do not brazenly question his actions. Doing so will only shrivel your testes and flatten your ovies. 

And like Ushers says - gotta do it for the ladies and I gotta keep it hood. (I really, really like Love In This Club. It's exceptionally dumb, but I close my eyes and sway. I mean - let's be honest - make love? "Making love" is not something done in clubs. Hook-ups? Yes. Fucking? Yes. Slipping roofies? Yes. Making love. No, no, no. LISTEN RIGHT HURR.) 

As I hobbled along the subterranean pathways, laughing with my friends as they laughed at me, I spotted a three foot piece of rigid conduit that some union construction worker had fortuitously left behind for this very occasion. And I claimed it as my walking stick. Cane in hand, across the hard floor I moved with somber dignity. 

clank. Heavy, desperate step. clank. Heavy, desperate step.

While switching trains at 42nd St/Time Square, my elaborate production caught the attention of a group of high school age blipsters, standing guard over Hip with their skinny jeans and bold, plastic sunglasses.

"Hey! Clap every time he takes a step!"

clank. Heavy, desperate step. CLAP! clank. Heavy, desperate step. CLAP!

And I tried to give them a good show. Letting them know I was in on the joke, fully participatory. Hell - I was the one telling the joke, feeding them the setup. They just beat me to the punch line. I turned and gave the group a double thumbs up and then step-fell down the stairs to the 7.

I only live four blocks away from my subway stop, and I promise that I attempted to walk it. My roommate even volunteered to carry me on her back. Shaking laughter prevented us from an earnest effort, and she's way too cute and petite to be my sherpa. So I had to hire one of those ubiquitous Town Cars and pay $6 plus tip to get home.

I didn't go to the doctor. Then I did. Work made me. "I don't mean to be cruel. But what can you do on crutches as a floor manager?" I went to the ER. They took an x-ray. They said it wasn't fractured. Then they said it was. I went back for a follow-up this week. Then they said they weren't sure. As the doctor was sending me on my way, I asked if he wanted to examine the foot itself. Perhaps remove the shoe, socks, and elastic bandage? He said no.

After all this, I am treating this injury exactly as I would have if I'd never gone to the doctor at all. I even provided my own crutches. (Thank you Free Stuff section on craigslist and mobile roommate.) But now I get to pay. Pay without health insurance.

I wish I were a kept man.

In honor of my busted state, I am posting this d-d-d-dope video of Tim Fite, a Brooklyn-based rapper/alt-country singer. He's just a little busted too. When I saw him perform at Joe's Pub in January, I thought he might be a mite mentally-handicapped. His on-stage movements are somewhat spastic with a lot of stop-and-go, like someone's constantly hitting rewind and fast-forward. (Watch the video. You'll understand.) He gave everyone a vision exam and read us a self-penned picture story with a tapeworm as its protagonist. He also has this reverse rat tale growing at the front of his hairline. Special needs or not, he's excellent and raps about consumerism, racism, war, poverty, other rappers, and dicks. Smart lyrics and memorable hooks. 

Download his entire album Over the Counter Culture for FREE! Or you can find his latest, Fair Ain't Fair, on iTunes. 

If I'm busted then I'm in excellent company.

Spring cleaning is ushering in the end times.

So it's not actually Spring, but nevertheless I am changing up a few things here at The Apocalypse. Nothing severe. No major remodeling or amputations. Nothing requiring stitches or a change of breeches. I have, however, added three (Read it: THREE!) new links.

{ONE}
I'm making Graeme Mitchell's blog a permanent feature (until God dictates otherwise), so I can check it easily...from no matter what computer I am using in the WORLD!

Now if I only knew how to pronounce that first name.

"Legs" - Graeme Mitchell

{TWO}
Learning to Love You More is a wonderful web-based collaborative assignment by Miranda July, who's very special film is Me and You and Everyone We Know, not Yours, Mine and Ours (learned that the hard way), and Harrell Fletcher. Each task they present requests participation from the online community, participation that requires engagement in the beyond-online world. I was particularly impressed with the manner in which they encouraged readers to spend time with individuals who are dying. I was fearing affected, overly-indulgent photos of the visitor/visited or treacly craft projects masquerading as earnest homages, but it was only a list of names and a few stories. No prize game to impress us all with. Just respect.

I'm a little late finding this, but it's still a gem, and I thank Ani for directing me to it.

Make a child's outfit in an adult size - Wheat Wurtzburger/Anna Kerlin

{THREE}
The ever-employed Lyndsey has a blog for her mother to read - It's Always Something - but I'm going to snoop.


On a sadder note, I am removing the Viva Pedro link until further notice. Of course my opinion of the filmmaker has not changed - he's absolutely God-kissed - but the showings are over, and now our only option to catch the series is by purchasing the pricey boxed set. HERE. HERE. NOT HERE. HERE.

It's those little New City moments that are ushering in the end times.

"classy lady and man - feb 08" by the fantastic Graeme Mitchell

There are many reasons why I love this city. This is one of them:

Last week, while acting the part of Receptionist #1 at the Hiro Haraguchi Hair Salon, a client approached the desk. She was very well put-together and well-preserved with an impressive, rather bodiful coiffure to match her impressive and rather bodiful fur coat. She wore a pair of sunglasses with cold, silver frames - not the head-swallowing dinner plate variety so popular with sluts nowadays but something more akin to Aviators. After paying with her AmEx (because who doesn't pay with their AmEx in New City?) and returning her wallet to her purse, she faced me and, almost apologetically, she said, "I'm going to ask you an insane question."

"OK," I thought and said out loud.

"I just had my eyes done, and I'm going out to dinner tonight with my daughter and her fiance. I need to know which pair of sunglasses I can wear...

to a restaurant...

for dinner...

at night."

I then closed my eyes, thanking God for this city.

"These? I just picked them up from Prada. Or..."

And she removed the current pair, allowing me to briefly view the bruising which followed the natural lower curve of the eye socket - purple, blue, and red blots, like a toddler playing with markers.

"These? I can't remember where these are from."

She replaced the sunglasses with another pair, a throwback to the 50s. Unlike Prada's hard lines, these were a bit playful, translucent with a pinkish, skin-toned hue.

Now, let's be honest. They were both sunglasses. No one would mistake them for anything else. She knew that. I knew that. What we needed to do was choose the pair that didn't shout the fact so damn loudly. And so I directed her to the latter option, praising their subtle qualities, attempting to instill in her the confidence she would later need that evening as she stepped from her elegant, chauffeured ride into the elegant, impossible-to-book restaurant past the elegant, impossible-to-please fellow patrons in her furs and sunglasses. Which she will not remove for the entire meal.


P.S.

Here are a few more selections from Graeme Mitchell's NYC Journal series. The subject matter is not new. The streets of New City have been covered many times over by numerous photographers, including Walker Evans, Diane Arbus, daughter Amy, and many other masters of the genre, but Mitchell's execution, especially when studying people, is faster-paced and seems to play with the unseen more, allowing for/encouraging confusion and mystery.


"girl being carried"/"boy on train - jan 08"


"man's back - oct 07"/"garbage can - mar 08"


"street light - feb 08"

Two things to do before the world ends

{ONE}
A Saturday or two back I was walking up Orchard around 4 AM after a solid night of dance-dance-dancing, and I saw a storefront window that read "ABSOLUT MACHINES." Intrigued and hungry, I clippity-clapped over to the door and recognized right away that, whatever it was, its hours were suspiciously gallery-like. So I clippity-clapped over to Veselka to eat a little chili. And did nothing with this spark of interest for hours.

Rested and belly full in Queens, I tracked down said machines at absolut.com/absolutmachines and created the below musical composition with Absolut Quartet.



Ha! I kind of just lied to you. Didn't create it per se. By playing a simplified keyboard at the website, you feed a magical code to the machine in Manhattan, and it, in return, composes a piece based on the theme you introduced using percussive instruments, a marimba, rubber balls, and wine glasses. (Sounds like someone's going to get an STD!) It's spectacularly exciting. Better than the Absolut Choir, which is robotic voices and no rubber balls. But Absolut Choir did allow me make a collection of blocky figures in Sweden sing "George W is god" and "Bush is Lord" in repetition. Both machines are part of a project Absolut developed with tech magicians under the heading: In an Absolut world, would machines be creative?

On Tuesday I stopped by the installation with Joy and Ben and was able to interact with it live. Below is the video of me dancing to one of my pieces. It really gets off-the-hook around 1:35. If I look a little awkward, it's because the machine didn't give me much percussion during my song...and because I'm awkward. Added bonus: my hand-in-coat-pocket dancing is really just me flashing elementary age children.



If you're in NYC, visit the installation. And bring your wide-eyed eyes. If you're not in NYC, then why aren't you? But if, for whatever reason, you currently are not blossoming in the New City, visit the website. It's a like playing God, manipulating something from miles and miles away. Sometimes Good results. Sometimes Evil.

Absolut Machines
186 Orchard St
Tues - Thur, Sun; 1 PM - 7 PM
Fri - Sat; 1 PM - 9 PM

{TWO}
Also currently accessible in New City is Michel Gondry's Be Kind Rewind installation at the Deitch Projects' Wooster location. Like The Science of Sleep before it, Gondry has created an interactive exhibition in conjunction with Deitch based on his current film. But this time it's better because within 2 1/2 hours you and your less attractive friends can create an amateur movie in the spirit of his own. The space is filled with multiple sets that can be altered to show daytime/nighttime or city/country surroundings. With the provided props and the low-tech/no-tech visual wizardry Gondry is known for, you can put together a sloppy masterpiece, decorate the VHS tape display case, and leave it in the video store for others to watch in the in-house theater. (Avoid the selection with Sophia or Sofia in the title. Something about a mother/daughter or lesbian couple - hard to tell - with a fortune teller and a train.)

Although all the group slots for filming are reserved through the entire run, most of these are open groups - meaning they will take additional participants. So contact Deitch to add your name, and, while making a fantastic, poorly-edited home video, you'll also be making some new, less attractive friends. Nice.

Be Kind Rewind (thru Mar 22)
Deitch Projects
18 Wooster Street
Tues - Sat; 12PM - 6PM

Slower-than-molasses advancements are ushering in the end times.

OK, OK - so I move with the breathtaking speed of Angela Lansbury underwater and my progress in general doesn't speak well of my get-up-and-go, but here they are - The Chosen Headshots, as chosen by myself and you (you being the convenient pronoun since it can be either singular or plural). See, you did accomplish something in 2007. There was no need to take it out on your wife.

So thank you for voting. I did take your input into (and out of) consideration. Now comes the easy part, where casting directors stumble across my blog, fall in love with my approachable gourgeousness, and offer me a role in The Hottie and the Nottie 2: Not Without My Lip Gloss, You Fuckin' Bastard!

Wish me luck.

THE COMMERCIAL LOOK


THE LEGIT LOOK

Puppet Sketch is ushering in the end times.

I have a friend - a wonderful friend - who created a puppet video with his friends - with his wonderful friends - and it is fairly awesome, more or less fantastic, and sad (which you know I love). The premise alone is enough to justify the youtube admission price: two gloriously oblivious but happy puppets working a suicide hotline.

Enjoy.

Untitled Glasses Project is ushering in the end times.

Centuries back I went to see The Nightmare Before Christmas in 3D. It was actually my first ever viewing of the film. That third dimension seemed more of a distraction than an integral part of the movie, but the glasses were fantastic - thick-framed, high-quality plastic, unbelievably sexy. So I popped out the lenses and donned the frames for a couple of days. Just like the time I found old sunglasses outside of the bakery's dumpster during undergrad and wore the frames for a good month, much to the dismay of close friend Ginger. I am a little predictable.

However, this time I went one step further and forced everyone I work with to wear them too, including a few boyfriends (of coworkers, not mine - I only date kittens).

Ladies and gentles, here is Untitled Glasses Project.