Radio Clash on Pirate Satellite

So J’s been working on a podcast with all the new music that’s been piling up in the flat. I heard samples last week, and promptly forgot about it in the haze of work, heat, sleep, and headaches.

This past Saturday afternoon, I awoke to the sound of drills and saws coming from the next room. He's installing new blinds, I thought, and went back to sleep. A couple of hours later, I woke up and walked into his room. This is what I saw:

This DJ be...Jayson E?

Day!

Night!

Yes, he had built a recording studio in his room, complete with mic, headphones, mixing software, two computers, an iPod station, equalizers, and glowing blue buttons. He looked rather chuffed. Stunned, I grabbed my camera as he offered a quick demo, mixing songs between voice recordings. It sounded fun, yet professional. And soon, you'll be able to hear it for yourself.

Stay tuned...

Who is this Seth guy, anyway?

I rolled into the office today around 10:20 AM after picking up breakfast. Je voudrais un café et un croissant chocolat. After several meaningless meetings and client conversations, I took a break for lunch at my desk. Between bites of leftover curry, I noticed Slate had posted the latest installment of its Dutch diary, which has been haunting me like a vengeful spirit.

My heart sank as I read this passage:

I walk the canals to Museumplein. Here I find a spot to lie down in the park, on a grassy slope. A small Dutch child is cartwheeling down the hill, showing off for his dad. A young couple discreetly tokes on a joint, and the sweet, herbacious smell wafts across the lawn to me. I take a nap with my backpack as a pillow and the sun as a blanket.

The memory of my senses awakened with a sudden, urgent force: the smell of fresh-cut grass and recent rain; a father chasing his giggling toddler on the big lawn; construction workers dismantling a giant festival tent behind the Van Gogh Museum; a young couple warmly greeting each other after work and then biking off together; the light jingle of a leash and collar separating as two sprightly dogs rushed free to explore the world; the uncomfortable corners of my books protruding through the lining of my bag, functioning as a pillow.

I clearly visualized the writer's grassy slope: its graceful, curved pathway framing a vibrant green interior; form following function in its minimalist railing; and a prime view of the green expanse, flanked by museums to the left and a concert hall to the right. I flipped through the slideshow and confirmed that this writer and I had chosen almost the exact same resting spot:

Seth's view: August 25, 2005. My view (more or less): August 25, 2004.

So who was this guy, anyway? Discomfited, I re-read the passage carefully for important clues. He casually mentions being roughly the same age as the son of Marion Bloem, who is 53. I did some quick calculations and placed him at my age or younger. I then recalled yesterday’s podcast, explaining how the writer was sent to Holland on Slate’s dime. Of course, this is normal, expected, and how things work.

But, I was envious.

I googled this “Seth Stevenson” in a desperate search for biographies, articles, pictures, quotes, alumni notes—anything that would explain everything that brought him to that grassy slope today. He studied English and philosophy at Brown. He worked as an editor for various publications and then went freelance for the likes of Newsweek, Slate, and Fortune. He traveled to Japan through the Japan Society media fellowship, eating whale meat and investigating Japanese clichés. He seems to specialize in travel writing and trends in advertising. He might be the same Seth Stevenson who contributed to a screenplay for The Tick. And if he’s also in a band, [I am relieved to know] he’s not much of a looker.

So now I am a stalker. But take comfort in the knowledge that I stalk for professional reasons only. And I have been meaning to write a close examination of Ewan McGregor's body of work.

Amsterdam Mon Amour

A vicious streak of nostalgia struck me today as I read an essay exploring the benefits of moving to Amsterdam. It couldn’t have come at a more compelling time, marking my one-year anniversary of my trip to the low countries.

And how did I celebrate? By working in the office past 10 PM over Indian takeout that glowed unnaturally in the glare of the computer screen and fluorescent lights.

Exactly one year ago to the day, I woke up in a peaceful neighborhood along Keizersgracht in the posh Blake’s Hotel (now known as The Dylan following an image makeover). Dan and I visited a charming breakfast shop on the corner, where we enjoyed a pleasant meal (even the sugar bowl, sprinkled with gum drops and heart-shaped candies, sparkled with sunshine!):

You know that physical pain that accompanies heartache, resulting from a breakup? I felt that pain tonight, longing for Amsterdam and its delights: Vondelpark at sunset, the breezy, reflective canals, the delicate tinkling of bicycle bells in the night, and the mercurial weather, with its power to stir dormant, complex emotions.

Slate described Dutch life with the curious wonder of a ground-breaking anthropological study:

The larger point is this: They live much better here. They carve out cozy, delightful moments anywhere they can find them. They bring their families on candlelit, nighttime boat rides through the canals. They chat with their friends at outdoor cafes as the sun sets. They leave work by 6 every evening. And these are not special, once-in-a-blue-moon treats. This is how they live, all the time.

Like the author, I experienced Amsterdam’s numerous joys, like the bike culture...

...the haze of the coffeeshop (and stroopwaffels):

...and the food and beer (okay, I took this picture in Bruges):

I wholeheartedly endorse the writer's conclusion about the European approach to meals:

The notion that you wouldn't take time to slow down, sit at a table, savor your foods—and, better yet, break bread with a couple of friends—seems weird to me now. And please don't start in about lost productivity and the demands of ruthless capitalism. I maintain that you can make money and also make time for a half-decent lunch.

Yes, I pondered all of this as I quickly consumed
my takeout meal,
wrapped in plastic and paper,
by myself
in a cold, silent
office.

Google Talks the Talk

After much murmuring, Google Talk has launched! Just look at how Google has taken over my computer:

I have a customer service audio headset ready to go for free phone calls (admit it: you never liked saying "Skype" either), which I will need when I am living in Europe.

The quest continues. Now I repeat: where’s Google Calendar?

ShitBegone, Japanese Style

Chez R&J is exclusively a ShitBegone household. And now, thanks to Mrs. K., we’re taking it to a whole new level. I often talk about how cool my parents are. It ain’t just words, folks. It’s action. Mr. & Mrs. K. exude love in every single thing they say and do. Here’s what the mail guy delivered to my desk at work today:

The Japanese politely call it “deodorizer for toilet.” Or, as Mrs. K. informed her bewildered daughter this afternoon, “Put a drop in the toilet after going #2. It works well,” she laughed over the phone. “It’s all the rage here in southern California.” Yes, all the rage with the Japanese-American SoCal community: when it initially hit the market, the 20 ml bottles sold for about $1. Now Marukai sells them for $5 and up. “It’s great for travel,” mom continued with her sales pitch, sounding eerily rehearsed. “Or take it to work, restaurants, and parties.”

Exactly how big of a problem is this? I wondered. Aren’t matches enough? But I really did not want to continue this conversation, especially at work, so I thanked her profusely and got off the phone. I took a closer look at the package. The makers wisely put this universal symbol on the back, warning anyone reaching for eye drops:

As added precaution, Mrs. K. lovingly attached this hot pink note:

I have now updated my purse survival pack:

Clockwise from left: Toire, Lip Armor SPF 15 (with zinc oxide), industrial-strength wipes for pilots (used to wipe down equipment in cockpits), Smith & Wesson earplugs (for concerts and annoying people)

Bid for 2005: Beijing, Mumbai, or Paris?

I received my re-issued passport today, memorializing my mullet for the next 10 years. And thus, the field has narrowed to three hopefuls: Beijing, Mumbai, or Paris. The final decision rests primarily on price, timing, and dance skills. Each city provides a remarkably different holiday outlook:

Beijing

I don’t speak the language nor any dialects (I can say “You have chia pet hair” in Mandarin). I have only been to Asia once: the modernized mecca of Tokyo and its surrounding tourist areas. So this would be an exciting, whirlwind vacation.

The Pros:

• Free place to stay, good shopping, and exotic foods!
• My host and translator = very good friend!
• Plenty of hot ex-pats (or so my friend says)!
• I could catch the latest strain of bird flu and make international headline news!

The Cons:

• Ridiculously expensive flights
• I could catch the latest strain of bird flu

Mumbai

This Bombay Dream rests entirely on the slim chance of getting cast as a dancer in the Bollywood film I’ve been yammering on about for quite some time. I’ve always wanted to go to India, so this, too, would be an eye-opening adventure. Of course it’d be a “working vacation” with dancing and whatnot.

The Pros:

• Free, bloody free! For two weeks!
• Working on the set of a Bollywood movie!
• I could watch a cricket match!
• The food! The amazing food! Oh, how I love thee…

The Cons:

• I’d probably be stuck on a set for 10-hour days dancing in stuffy outfits
• I get sick easily. An Indian friend of mine once imagined my visit to his homeland. He pictured receiving a phone call with the news: “Yo, Robin is dead!”

Paris

Oh l’amour, the City of Light. I visited Paris back when it still used the Franc, but illness dogged me until I ended up on a stretcher in l'Hôtel-Dieu. This time, Paris would provide a relaxing, café-infused holiday, with quiet strolls along the Seine, leisurely museum visits, and reading in cemeteries and parks over lunches of bread, cheese, and wine.

Pros:

• Free lodging in a beautiful two-bedroom flat in the 4^th arrondissement (Marais)!
• A French-speaking host, who knows good food and wine!
• Options for side trips to Belgium, London, or the French countryside!
• Patisseries, fromageries, boulangeries, Robin-has-died-and-gone-to-heavenries!
• Opportunity to practice French!

Cons:

• My “French” currently consists of “Ça va?” “Oui, ça va!”
• The latest Target-owned issue of The New Yorker argues that the French identity is in major crisis: “In place of the usual French self-dramatization, visitors see only sobriety and depression.” NYC has a surfeit of depression. Give me drama and intrigue!

[The "selling out" complaints are rubbish. Here’s my favorite.]

Big Ideas (Don't Get Any)

Last night, a friend and I caught up with each other over one of our favorite meals, dumpakht. Feeling fat and sassy afterwards, we took a walk through the East Village and ended up in the dog section of Tompkins Square Park. We watched the big dogs frolic in the dirt, jump on tables, and snarl at passers-by beneath the full moon hanging in the Pirates of the Caribbean^* sky.

I decided it was time to unveil my brilliant anti-terrorism idea for New York City: train all city dogs to become bomb-sniffing dogs. That way, we’d have an integrated, alert four-legged army roving the streets at all times. Just think about the sheer numbers alone: dogs are everywhere. Owners take them through dark alleys, ethnic neighborhoods, and even crowded places like Times Square. They walk across bridges and inspect other vulnerable hot spots. They can get away with sticking their noses anywhere, like somebody’s crotch (“Is that a bomb, or are you just happy to see me?”). Al Qaeda wouldn’t know where to strike. And dogs aren’t duplicitous or just in it for the money, so we wouldn’t have to worry about false informants with inflated insider information.

My friend was speechless.

*Nobody seems to get this reference. Ride the ride at Disneyland and look up during the pirate ship battle.

30 Things to Do Before 30

Cosmo used to publish a list of daft things^* one should experience by the age of 30, including “Throw a drink in a man’s face, like they do in the old movies”; “Have sex in a public place”; and “Buy an expensive dress, wear it out, and return it the next day.” Usually the proud author would declare that, as feminine pioneer, she’d accomplished all thirty tasks.

Well, my list’s not like that. And not all items are ones I’d necessarily like to experience, but are things that probably should happen by the time I’m 30. So please remain calm. I won’t be flashing my boobs to you any time soon.

1. Say "Meet me in Minsk" to someone, and then: meet them in bloody Minsk.
2. Get fired from a real job (McJobs not included)
3. Wear glasses like Anouk Aimée in Fellini's 8½
4. Read and understand Ulysses
5. Bike through the Dutch countryside
6. Appear in a foreign newspaper
7. Get engaged. Break off engagement. Sulk. Survive.
8. Learn to play the guitar or ukelele
9. Pet a real, live penguin
10. Get attacked by a penguin
11. Beat someone with an animal carrier (and no, I did not attend the 2005 iRiot)
12. Learn to speak French
13. Find French-speaking boyfriend to practice #12 (and #11?)
14. Breezily declare, "Je transpire comme une babouin" to any nearby French citizen after deplaning in France
15. Get someone to switch political parties (and in the proper direction, too)
16. Work in a factory
17. Break a bone (my own—not somebody else's, although that could be interesting)
18. Sing "The Sound of Music" at the top of my lungs on any northern European hillside
19. Watch Turandot at a big opera house with opera glasses
20. Eat Chinese food with BBC comedians after a late-night gig in London
21. Cause a bar brawl
22. Drive from Kona to Hilo on Saddle Road, at night, with pork in the car
23. Get selected for jury duty
24. Audition for a Bollywood film (pending: perhaps later today)
25. Take a seat at a trendy NYC bar and pop a bubble gum candy cigarette (the kind with fake sugar "smoke") in my mouth. Order a martini. Wear a languid expression. Blow.
26. Get stung by a centipede. In the neck.
27. Watch lava flow from a volcano at night
28. Become a local at a neighborhood joint, where I'm greeted by name and can order "the usual"
29. Have a near-death experience
30. Enjoy high tea in London
    

^*They probably still publish it, but one item that didn’t make the top 30 is “Stop reading stupid womens’ magazines." Mission accomplished.

What a Difference a Day Makes

Birthdays are an annual reminder of the two noblest of things, sweetness and light. What started off as an intimate dinner gathering for five blossomed into a grand celebration at Fondue, where we took up the entire back room of the restaurant. I arrived late to my own party: Jayson refused to give me a lift. “I might be able to,” he said slowly, as one does when trying to conjure up an excuse. “But I have to go pick up Yuki and her brother first.” “Okay, well, don’t worry about it if you can’t,” I said, perplexed. He was out the door before I could do more digging.

There are few things more rhapsodic than walking into a room in which you know and like every single person present. As I worked my way down the table, the heady potables and smiling faces warmed my heart and lifted my spirits. And then, with directorial gusto, Jayson suddenly announced it was time to open presents. What was this—the third grade? I refused. To my horror, I noticed a growing pile of gifts in the corner. All I wanted was good company over chocolate and cheese, not obligatory gifts. I refused three more times, but it was no use. Soon I was tearing into all kinds of cool gifts: books,^* chocolates, a scarf from the Galapagos, wine, mustard in a tube from Berlin, an assortment of Kiehl’s products, a Kate Spade travel case (for when I go to Beijing, Paris, and Mumbai!), and the most adorably-wrapped penguin.

I am rather flustered and embarrassed here

Finally, I opened one particular box from Jayson. After struggling with the tape, I opened it to reveal a bike lock. I gasped as Jayson wheeled in a brand new bicycle with a big red ribbon on it!

My new shiny bike!

Look at all of these treats! I don't know where to begin.

Overwhelmed, I proceeded to deliver the lamest speech in the history of mankind, expressing my shock and gratitude to everyone. As I looked around at all the smiling faces, my mind filled with wonderful memories and my heart swelled. The older I get, the softer I get. Isn’t it supposed to happen in reverse? Hardened hearts, emotionally-drained souls, cynical urbanites...all that? I used to be so callous: pro death penalty, free market fervor, and giving food to the needy? Nah, they must’ve gotten that way for a reason. For many years, the only movies for which I had ever shed tears were Honey, I Shrunk the Kids (when the ant died) and Old Yeller. Now look at me. Disgusting.

The Penguin Prequel

Before coming into my life, Pierre the Penguin was quite the man about town:

Taking a break at the office...

Flirting with the ladies...

Prepping for the big night out...

Luckily, it was love at first sight (for me; I rather like him blindfolded).

And they lived happily ever after (linux is for lovers)...

FIN

^*The correlation between the numerous books received and the fact that the latest Harry Potter book remained on my reading list for a lengthy period of time was not lost on me. I’m not mentally challenged: I stopped reading after the third chapter in order to edit articles. Thank you for your concern.

Two (Homeless) Guys and a Girl

On my way to work this morning, I had two disparate and unusual encounters with a couple of down-and-out souls, the street denizens of the city’s shadows. As I walked towards the 6 train on Bleecker, I passed by a menacing vagrant guarding his loaded shopping cart, in sharp relief against the sleek façade of the new Adidas megastore. He suddenly started to yell. I paused my iPod to listen, comprehending only bits and pieces: “You skinny [racial epithet, I think]…ain’t got no meat on your bones!” I stopped. Without really thinking, I turned and said in astonishment, “Wait, do you mean me?” I pointed at myself, rather pleased as I glanced up and down the empty block. “Really? Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later in midtown east, I walked into the Au Bon Pain to pick up a chocolate croissant and a cup of coffee—a vile new habit I’ve acquired out of necessity in the last two weeks. Behind the glass walls, enclosing pastries like museum pieces, stood an emaciated, weatherworn man staring intensely at the muffins and bagels. He remained absolutely still in his cowboy boots, unobtrusively fixated on the food. Busy corporate types zipped back and forth, filling coffee cups with cream and sugar in their morning ritual, with newspapers tucked under arms and security badges dangling from pockets, purses, and belt loops.

I filled my coffee cup slowly and stole a sidelong glance. Was he begging? Was he trying to get anyone’s attention? No, he was simply concentrating on the pastries. I thought it all over as I mixed my cream and sugar in the French roast blend: maybe I could buy him something. What should I get? Would he be offended? Why wasn’t anybody else taking notice? I circled around the coffee table and pretended to examine a cranberry muffin. Other customers paid him no heed; it was as if he were part of the wall, transparent and insignificant. I stood directly across from him on the other side of the glass as I leaned over to inspect the sesame bagels. He did not look at me.

I waited in line to pay, but my gaze kept returning to the man. He stood in the same spot and shifted his weight, bringing attention to a well-worn book in his left hand. Maybe he wasn’t homeless. Maybe he was a greasy hipster. What if I offered food to a thrift-store hipster, like that moment in Two Weeks’ Notice when Sandra Bullock’s character tosses coins into a guy’s hot coffee because she mistakenly assumes he’s a beggar? But what would a hipster be doing in midtown east at 9 AM?

I resolutely made a beeline for the pastries, trying to discern his preferences. He seemed to glance at the croissants often, but their flaky, insubstantial body would not suffice. My eyes landed on the dense apple corn muffins; I tossed one into my bag, grabbed extra napkins, and went to the till. I walked through the glass doors and noticed the man had moved, ready to depart. But suddenly, he turned back as if headed towards the window for one last viewing. Our paths coincided. I said quietly, “Excuse me, I...uhm, grabbed the wrong muffin here and I don’t want it. Would you like it?” “Yes, I would,” he said without hesitation, reaching out but never making eye contact.

Year in Review: Top 5 Most Retarded E-mails

Living in this city and doing what I do, I come into contact with more retarded people than the average urban dweller. Imminent birthdays are always a cause for reflection, and thanks to GMail technology and keyword searches, I’ve compiled a list of the top five most retarded e-mails received in the past year.

These aren’t serious or terrible e-mails. No, that group is not for public consumption. And even though I tend to keep almost all of my e-mails (for blackmail purposes), I’m sure a few have slipped through the cracks. Names/e-mail addresses have been expunged to protect the guilty. These e-mails are real and have not been embellished in any way:

• #5: NYU’s Erroneous E-mail
• #4: With a Friend Like This, Who Needs Enemies?
• #3: The Boy Who Goes by a URL
• #2: He Even Gives Republicans a Bad Name
• #1: DJ Droopy’s Message of Love

#5: NYU’s Erroneous E-mail

From: Heidi J <*****@nyu.edu>
Date: Apr 11, 2005 3:40 PM
Subject: NYU Summer Publishing Institute

We have received your application to the NYU Summer Publishing Institute. The Admissions Committee of the 2005 Summer Publishing Institute has carefully reviewed your application and supporting credentials. You have been placed on a waitlist for admission to the Institute.

Our Summer Publishing Institute has a limited number of spaces available, and competition for them is keen.

If there is space available at the Institute, we will contact you via email to offer you an opening. You will hear from us by April 25th at the latest.

Best wishes,

Heidi

On April 11^th, shortly after 3:40 PM seventeen floors above 55^th and Third, I almost flung a stapler against the nearest wall. “Who the devil is applying that’s better than me?” I fumed (clearly, modesty is not a problem). Twenty minutes later, I received a phone call from the Director of the Institute. He wanted to speak to me in person to understand why I was applying, since he thought I was overqualified. Turns out I had been accepted, but he wanted me in his Masters program instead.

Two weeks later, Columbia also accepted me into its snooty program.

#4: With a Friend Like This, Who Needs Enemies?

From: ****** <******@********.com>
Date: Aug 18, 2004 12:11 AM
Subject: Now wait a second

This could be you! Ha ha ha...
http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/bos/38863259.html

Have fun on your trip :)

Take a moment to click on the craigslist post above and read it in its entirety. Go on…

Now…wtf? Anyone who knows me at all will understand why I would be offended by such a comparison, even if it was meant as a joke. I make it a point to be straightforward and treat others’ feelings with sensitivity. Also I cannot be classified as "hot"; I am a nerd who enjoys tea, raspberry jam, and strange fruit.

The guilty party has not pulled something similar since, so I reckon he got the memo.

#3: The Boy Who Goes by a URL

From: moron [mailto:moronsrule@******.com]
Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2005 11:22 PM
Subject: robin, robin....

oh

my my my my

busy till the 24th? just because i said i was seeing someone & wanted to be friends? lol

oh well. be like that

goodluck with your magazine, goodbye too....

i wish you the best in your pursuits

This guy is worthy of an entire psychological study of his own, but I will save that for my magnum opus. He almost single-handedly created my policy of not dating younger boys (a young man named Juan would later come along to cement that policy).

Brief background: I hung out once with this twit, who proceeded to text message and e-mail me incessantly, throughout my trip to Hawaii for my grandmother’s funeral, the launch of the magazine, and the general insanity that marked my 18-hour workdays.

Talk about egocentric: he assumed my hectic schedule had something to do with him; that perhaps I was vengeful after receiving a text message one late evening informing me that he was seeing someone else after my failure to respond to his repeated, romantic text-message overtures. This moronic conclusion resulted in the above e-mail.

Notice the need to insert drama into an otherwise meaningless existence: “goodbye” and wishing me "the best." I thought people stopped such nonsense past the age of 22? Here was his sad attempt to backpedal after receiving my terse and final reply:

From: retardo [mailto:*****@*******.com]
Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2005 11:53 PM
Subject: Re: robin, robin....

i was kidding... but yeah

goodluck to you and have a nice life, etc.

goodbye

----- Original Message -----

From: me

To: *******

Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2005 11:48 PM

Subject: RE: robin, robin....

Not at all. Since I’ve been back I’m catching up on all the meetings I had to put off during the trip. I have not even had much time to hang out with long-time friends. Anyway, best to you with your films and website.

-r

That should’ve been the end of it, right? Somehow I didn’t think it was over. A month later, out of the blue, this arrived:

-----Original Message-----
From: Jayson
Sent: Sunday, March 20, 2005 9:48 AM
To: Robin
Subject: FW: for you i think

This came in to the ads account...

-----Original Message-----
From: big mouth strikes again [mailto:*****@*******.com]
Sent: Sunday, March 20, 2005 4:35 AM
Subject:

hey robin

whats ur email address again

your personal one

i wanna invite you to something

sorry we lost touch

#2: He Even Gives Republicans a Bad Name

From: Little man, what now? <*****@***.com>
Date: Dec 7, 2004 9:31 AM
Subject: RE: apt. staff

so I am at a loss trying to figure out why you, unlike anyone else in NYC, shouldn't pay to have your room cleaned when you left it a mess? any thoughts?

Speaking of a meaningless existence, let me acquaint you with my former roommate, Ben. Many of you are already well aware of this sad little man if you were around in November through December of last year. I could not find one e-mail that encompassed all of the worst traits in mankind that Ben epitomizes, so I just included his final message, to which I did not bother replying. He provides a compelling case for strict birth control.

In a nutshell, Ben offered up my room to his friend without telling me first, and then attempted to extort and threaten through creative means. But when it came time to fight his own battles, he ran into his bedroom, shut the door, and called the police. The cops even laughed when they arrived on the scene. “I look like a wimp in front of my girlfriend,” he whined to me in the hallway. “Yeah, you sure do,” I chuckled.

And finally...

#1: DJ Droopy’s Message of Love

From: ***** [mailto:***@***********.com]
Sent: Saturday, March 05, 2005 7:46 AM
To: Robin

i hear you're way too busy for dating. how bout an ole fashioned booty call?

I met this guy, who’s a dj and artist, through a friend at the magazine launch party. Most people would be joking in sending such a vulgar message, but I understand he does this regularly, and means it.

I also have insider information via the mutual friend that his bedroom stage name should be DJ Droopy. So ladies: don’t be tempted to respond, because this dj ain't even a one-hit wonder.

Back to Bollywood

Earlier this week, our exceptionally talented photographer, Ichiro, snapped photos for my Bollywood headshot on west 20^th Street. Ichiro has taken photos of many subjects: hipsters, artists, models, and common people. Each time, he manages to make them look amazing: for some, it is the best they could possibly ever hope to look in the flesh or in any medium.

Enter Robin, the most un-photogenic person on the planet. I had come directly from a long day of work without touching up in this torrid, sweltering atmosphere. We must have taken several hundred photos, and I was dissatisfied with them all. I would love to share more, including one of me choking on cigarette^* smoke, but here’s a small selection of acceptable shots (click to enlarge):

I thought I would just send the photo digitally, but Jayson took it upon himself to print photo #3 (I would’ve chosen #2 or #5) on black-and-white glossy paper. He gave it to the producer, who reacted very favorably. And I suppose in true headshot fashion, the shots should be shown in black and white:

I almost feel compelled to go out on auditions now, just because I have a headshot—sort of like running a marathon just because I get a pair of new trainers. Speaking of which...

***

Converse sent us a pair of classic Chuck Taylors to promote their new Converse One Web site, which enables users to design their own trainers. The pair just happened to be my size. I was chuffed because I had been looking for an understated sneaker! And here they are on my happy feet.

^*Update (8/9/05): Since several people have asked, I do NOT smoke. I do not condone smoking. It is very, very bad for you. Don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, and stay in school.

Asian Mullet Mania!

The Asian mullet is currently sweeping the nation. Aside from gadgets, noodles, and deadly bird flu virus strains, various Asian regions have also offered the mullet to the masses.

That trend is here and now. Case in point: my friend Mylene visited Washington, DC over the weekend and came back with a veritable Asian mullet. “I look like Joan Jett!” claimed the first text message on Saturday. Joan Jett is hot, and I was totally preoccupied with 8½; I did not respond. “I have a mullet,” moaned the voicemail on Sunday while I was picnicking in Battery Park. “Overreacting,” I thought as I walked past three police officers with machine guns by the water, which sparkled in the distance all the way to the Statue of Liberty.

So it was with great curiosity that I met up with her for lunch on Monday to document the case. When the elevator doors parted to reveal Mullet Misery, the theme from Three’s Company ran through my head as I experienced total recall of Janet’s legendary ‘do. Mylene kindly agreed to endure my journalistic resolve as I snapped photos. She had her regular stylist surgically remove the mullet this afternoon ("Before" shots appear to the left in this series):

Note the lopsided "Before" cut.

The side and back views highlight the real damage.

The "party in the back" is over, thanks to stylist Jeanie S.
But the mullet was not cut in vain, for Mylene received a "Mini Mullet Party Pack" from a coworker, who just happened to have one at his desk:


I had to take a closer look at the contents. Everything smelled of pine-tree car fresheners; I'm afraid to try the gum. And no, it's not because there IS a car freshener in the pack. I opened the body wash and shampoo just to verify.

(I guarantee that Harper's and the "Mini Mullet Party Pack" do not frequently appear together.)

After watching March of the Penguins, I waved good-bye outside the Angelika whilst unconsciously humming Come and knock on our door...

Bollywood or Bust

Up next: Bollywood auditions.

That's right. No need to put down the ganja. The production studio needs 50 dancers for a scene to be filmed in India. They want Americans, which essentially means anyone who doesn’t look Indian (racist bastards). And they want them to be on the tall side due to the stature of the particular Bollywood actor involved. At 5’8½”, I hope I meet the female requirements. At this very second, I am 95% certain I will audition.

“But Robin, you’re not a dancer,” you say. Shows how much you know. I used to dance in parades at Disneyland. That’s right! Disneyland: the heartland of American wholesome family fun. I spoke to the Bollywood producer last night and need to get headshots taken this week. Unfortunately, I do not have a dance reel available. But the risk (or rather: near certainty) of making an ass of myself versus the reward of a free, two-week trip to India seems well worth it. Stay tuned…