This actually occured:
random stranger: Do you know Kat?
me: kat who?
random stranger: Kat Von D.
me: I know who she is, yeah.
random stranger: No, i mean do you guys hang out and stuff?
me: uh. eh. no. why?
random stranger: Well, you know it looks like you know her.
me: um?
random stranger: cuz, you know, you've got tattoos.
me: I have to go now.
What is wrong with people?
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Jackpot!
Occasionally, I check the "for sale" section of craigslist.org for retro/mid-century style furniture. On friday I found gold in the form of diner chairs....
THREE CHAIRS AND TWO STOOLS FOR ONE HUNDRED BUCKS! AAAAANNNNNND.... they match my kitchen.
I called the number provided and left a message, squealing that if they were still available, I want 'em.
I didn't hear anything back so I assumed they had been scooped up by some other over-zealous hunter. Eh.
On monday I spent a few minutes cruising around craigslist on the one percent hope that they weren't actually sold.
AND THEY WERE LISTED AGAIN!
The phone number listed was one number off, so I called and ended up getting them! The woman selling them had mis-typed her number, so the message I left about the chairs on friday never made it to her. I had left an over-excited message about diner chairs on some random stranger's cell phone. oops!
The other amazing thing about this whole thing is that I was able to cram the 3 chairs and 2 stools into my crappy Chrysler Seabring.
All I need is some chrome polish and these beauties will be good as new.
THREE CHAIRS AND TWO STOOLS FOR ONE HUNDRED BUCKS! AAAAANNNNNND.... they match my kitchen.
I called the number provided and left a message, squealing that if they were still available, I want 'em.
I didn't hear anything back so I assumed they had been scooped up by some other over-zealous hunter. Eh.
On monday I spent a few minutes cruising around craigslist on the one percent hope that they weren't actually sold.
AND THEY WERE LISTED AGAIN!
The phone number listed was one number off, so I called and ended up getting them! The woman selling them had mis-typed her number, so the message I left about the chairs on friday never made it to her. I had left an over-excited message about diner chairs on some random stranger's cell phone. oops!
The other amazing thing about this whole thing is that I was able to cram the 3 chairs and 2 stools into my crappy Chrysler Seabring.
All I need is some chrome polish and these beauties will be good as new.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Yes! we have no bananas today.
The above image is a section of scratch and sniff wallpaper! I love this. I really like food imagery and also simple repetition.. this has both!
the sniffy wallpaper can be found here...
http://flavorleague.com
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Waste of words...
The following article, reprinted here from bostonglobe.com, is quite possibly the worst article about tattooing I have ever read. The author apparently has done absolutley no research about the topic before attempting to scribe something worth reading, and instead fumbles around for paragraphs spewing cliches and even goes so far as to refer to patrons in a parlor as "extraterrestrials."
The whole article reads like it was written in 1952. Ugh.
Why this author would even bother to take on this subject, when he obviously holds such archaic thoughts regarding it and is unwilling to reconsider his opinions, I have no idea.
I pity Ram for having to even waste his time being a part of this....
The colors of success
People line up to be this tattooist's canvas
By Sam Allis, Globe Columnist | June 17, 2007
Last week I watched Fat Ram skateboard up to his tattoo parlor in Hyde Square embracing an air conditioner. You just don't see that every day on the streets of Boston, not even in J.P.
But then Ram (pronounced "rahm") has always lived in a parallel universe. He used to wear a suit or tux every Friday during his estimable "Formal Fridays" campaign to ridicule the "Casual Fridays" instituted by corporate America.
Ram is covered with freckles and tattoos. He is a robust mix of Lithuanian, Irish, and Scottish, leavened by something exotic from the West Indies. He's a skateboard and surfing addict. Spent last weekend on the waves off Nantucket.
How was the surfing, I ask. "It was sick," he says. "Is that good?" I ask. "Yes," he says.
Ram is widely considered Boston's primo tattoo artist. The waiting list to see him can run a year, and people come from far and wide for his talents. Now 35, he's been tattooing for 20 years -- underground on occasion in Massachusetts before tattooing was legalized here in 2001 -- and above ground from Texas to Virginia, New Hampshire to Rhode Island. His shop, Fat Ram's Pumpkin Tattoo, was the first licensed tattoo parlor in Boston.
Upon entering it for the first time, the Observer is convinced he has stumbled into the space bar in "Star Wars." It is full of strange-looking people sporting strange-looking haircuts wearing strange-looking clothes with really strange-looking stuff all over their bodies.
That said, it should be noted that I, outré in khakis, blue shirt, and sensible shoes, look every bit as bizarre to them. Ozzie Nelson meets the extraterrestrials.
You generalize at your peril these days about tattoo clientele. Yes, a guy can still walk into a tattoo parlor near a military base at midnight and get a SS Death's Head on his forearm. And you still hear about someone who went into a blackout after the fifth bar and woke up with "Shirley" written across a red heart on his groin.
But it's old news that tattoos have migrated to the right side of the tracks. They've been de rigueur for ages from Hollywood to the Hamptons. They're ubiquitous in the world of J. Crew and Armani. What may soon define cutting edge will be an adult without one.
Ram works on countless doctors and lawyers who should recoil from tattoos like vampires to garlic. Wrong. "You have no idea who's sporting what," he says.
Ram's clients take their tattoos seriously. They want something profound. An 81-year-old man got a small tattoo on his arm from Ram in memory of the beloved wife he had just lost.
Lew Loren, 41, an engineer from Medford is getting his entire back covered. "It came pretty easily," he says. "I talked to my wife about it for about six weeks. I wanted to tell a story that will be aesthetically pleasing."
In it will be a star, representing Stella, their young daughter who died. There will be a lily to honor the name of the South Korean child he and his wife adopted. There will be a moon for his wife, Diana. Anchoring everything will be a large likeness of Ganesh, the Hindu elephant deity Loren calls the mover of obstacles and protector of women.
"When we finally brought a child home, we wanted to commemorate it in some way," he says.
Today, Loren undergoes a grueling three-hour session to get the outlines down. Then he faces four more marathons of another four hours each for the coloration and detail work.
Does it hurt, I ask.
"It stings," Ram says.
"It feels horrible," Loren corrects.
Does he feel strange getting his back covered? Nope. "My friends have always been a couple of deviations from the norm," he replies. "I don't hang out with people who judge me on my appearance."
And then there's Dane Loeliger, 26, a long-ball hitter who is having Ram extend on his upper right arm a tattoo that began on his left one and will eventually end up at his right wrist. "I'll get my back done as soon as I have the money," he says. What about parents? "They're not big fans."
Loeliger's tattoo tells the saga of a lone samurai and a child. In this latest chapter, explains Ram, "There's a demon guy mashing people into a pestle." (Loeliger, who runs a mouse colony of 1,200 rodents at Harvard Medical School, sports a T-shirt that displays, in his own words, "spiders having sex with people.")
The Observer was delighted to learn the classic tattoos common to generations of American servicemen -- anchors, pinups, hearts -- are back. "They're huge," confirms Ram, who calls them "neo-traditional." "Simple color palette, bold outline, heavy shading. There are people who do that exclusively."
Tattoos have always spooked me, and I've hectored my daughter for years to avoid them or face immediate death. So far, so good. She's 24 and inkless. I tell her: Picture yourself in your 40s. You're at a nice dinner party. Killer black dress, fab heels, pearls if you're lucky. And a coil of barbed wire tattooed around your arm. Nonono.
I, however, subscribe to the school that says you can do anything you want when you hit 60, which I have done.
The whole article reads like it was written in 1952. Ugh.
Why this author would even bother to take on this subject, when he obviously holds such archaic thoughts regarding it and is unwilling to reconsider his opinions, I have no idea.
I pity Ram for having to even waste his time being a part of this....
The colors of success
People line up to be this tattooist's canvas
By Sam Allis, Globe Columnist | June 17, 2007
Last week I watched Fat Ram skateboard up to his tattoo parlor in Hyde Square embracing an air conditioner. You just don't see that every day on the streets of Boston, not even in J.P.
But then Ram (pronounced "rahm") has always lived in a parallel universe. He used to wear a suit or tux every Friday during his estimable "Formal Fridays" campaign to ridicule the "Casual Fridays" instituted by corporate America.
Ram is covered with freckles and tattoos. He is a robust mix of Lithuanian, Irish, and Scottish, leavened by something exotic from the West Indies. He's a skateboard and surfing addict. Spent last weekend on the waves off Nantucket.
How was the surfing, I ask. "It was sick," he says. "Is that good?" I ask. "Yes," he says.
Ram is widely considered Boston's primo tattoo artist. The waiting list to see him can run a year, and people come from far and wide for his talents. Now 35, he's been tattooing for 20 years -- underground on occasion in Massachusetts before tattooing was legalized here in 2001 -- and above ground from Texas to Virginia, New Hampshire to Rhode Island. His shop, Fat Ram's Pumpkin Tattoo, was the first licensed tattoo parlor in Boston.
Upon entering it for the first time, the Observer is convinced he has stumbled into the space bar in "Star Wars." It is full of strange-looking people sporting strange-looking haircuts wearing strange-looking clothes with really strange-looking stuff all over their bodies.
That said, it should be noted that I, outré in khakis, blue shirt, and sensible shoes, look every bit as bizarre to them. Ozzie Nelson meets the extraterrestrials.
You generalize at your peril these days about tattoo clientele. Yes, a guy can still walk into a tattoo parlor near a military base at midnight and get a SS Death's Head on his forearm. And you still hear about someone who went into a blackout after the fifth bar and woke up with "Shirley" written across a red heart on his groin.
But it's old news that tattoos have migrated to the right side of the tracks. They've been de rigueur for ages from Hollywood to the Hamptons. They're ubiquitous in the world of J. Crew and Armani. What may soon define cutting edge will be an adult without one.
Ram works on countless doctors and lawyers who should recoil from tattoos like vampires to garlic. Wrong. "You have no idea who's sporting what," he says.
Ram's clients take their tattoos seriously. They want something profound. An 81-year-old man got a small tattoo on his arm from Ram in memory of the beloved wife he had just lost.
Lew Loren, 41, an engineer from Medford is getting his entire back covered. "It came pretty easily," he says. "I talked to my wife about it for about six weeks. I wanted to tell a story that will be aesthetically pleasing."
In it will be a star, representing Stella, their young daughter who died. There will be a lily to honor the name of the South Korean child he and his wife adopted. There will be a moon for his wife, Diana. Anchoring everything will be a large likeness of Ganesh, the Hindu elephant deity Loren calls the mover of obstacles and protector of women.
"When we finally brought a child home, we wanted to commemorate it in some way," he says.
Today, Loren undergoes a grueling three-hour session to get the outlines down. Then he faces four more marathons of another four hours each for the coloration and detail work.
Does it hurt, I ask.
"It stings," Ram says.
"It feels horrible," Loren corrects.
Does he feel strange getting his back covered? Nope. "My friends have always been a couple of deviations from the norm," he replies. "I don't hang out with people who judge me on my appearance."
And then there's Dane Loeliger, 26, a long-ball hitter who is having Ram extend on his upper right arm a tattoo that began on his left one and will eventually end up at his right wrist. "I'll get my back done as soon as I have the money," he says. What about parents? "They're not big fans."
Loeliger's tattoo tells the saga of a lone samurai and a child. In this latest chapter, explains Ram, "There's a demon guy mashing people into a pestle." (Loeliger, who runs a mouse colony of 1,200 rodents at Harvard Medical School, sports a T-shirt that displays, in his own words, "spiders having sex with people.")
The Observer was delighted to learn the classic tattoos common to generations of American servicemen -- anchors, pinups, hearts -- are back. "They're huge," confirms Ram, who calls them "neo-traditional." "Simple color palette, bold outline, heavy shading. There are people who do that exclusively."
Tattoos have always spooked me, and I've hectored my daughter for years to avoid them or face immediate death. So far, so good. She's 24 and inkless. I tell her: Picture yourself in your 40s. You're at a nice dinner party. Killer black dress, fab heels, pearls if you're lucky. And a coil of barbed wire tattooed around your arm. Nonono.
I, however, subscribe to the school that says you can do anything you want when you hit 60, which I have done.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Banana seat
"So with gas prices so high, they should make a vehicle that you can power with energy that your body can produce, like with spinning gears or something."
"They already do. It's called a bicycle."
"They already do. It's called a bicycle."
Please make it stop.
My left eyelid has been twitching off and on for a week straight. And when i say "off and on," I mean mostly "on."
It's annoying to the point where occasionally I can't concentrate because of it. Also, it's visible. I was having dinner with a friend the other day and she noticed the twitch. Ugh. It looks like I am thinking about winking, but can't commit to it... ALL THE TIME.
So, I called my eye doctor. Apparently, if it doesn't stop in another week, I can get some Botulinum injected into my lid to paralize it if it's too uncomfortable to deal with. BOTOX!
Oh good.. so I can either look like a lazy, half-winker, or I can look like I've had a small stroke.
I really hope this goes away on it's own, because I'm not going to Botox my eyelid, not matter how annoying this twitch becomes.
I'm well aware that this may seem miniscule compared to the plights of others.. but, I hate that whole "a guy with no shoes complaining to a guy with no feet" argument. There will ALWAYS be people worse of than you, and there will ALWAYS be people better off than you. I refuse to not talk about my tiny problem because of a "tragedy pissing contest."
wink.
It's annoying to the point where occasionally I can't concentrate because of it. Also, it's visible. I was having dinner with a friend the other day and she noticed the twitch. Ugh. It looks like I am thinking about winking, but can't commit to it... ALL THE TIME.
So, I called my eye doctor. Apparently, if it doesn't stop in another week, I can get some Botulinum injected into my lid to paralize it if it's too uncomfortable to deal with. BOTOX!
Oh good.. so I can either look like a lazy, half-winker, or I can look like I've had a small stroke.
I really hope this goes away on it's own, because I'm not going to Botox my eyelid, not matter how annoying this twitch becomes.
I'm well aware that this may seem miniscule compared to the plights of others.. but, I hate that whole "a guy with no shoes complaining to a guy with no feet" argument. There will ALWAYS be people worse of than you, and there will ALWAYS be people better off than you. I refuse to not talk about my tiny problem because of a "tragedy pissing contest."
wink.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
What's your sign?
During the first week that I lived in my new house, someone knocked the street sign over at the end of my street. That was a year ago and just this weekend the sign was finally replaced. Whoo-hooo!
It's so much easier giving directions when you can refer to a street sign.
It's so much easier giving directions when you can refer to a street sign.
Missing bird.
A flamingo was stolen from my front lawn last week and if I ever find out who the thief is, I will rip their throat out. Not really. Actually, I'm just going to sit in my house, seething.
The odd thing is that they only took one. There are several out there. The jerk could have stolen himself a small flock.
The odd thing is that they only took one. There are several out there. The jerk could have stolen himself a small flock.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
It's not me, It's you.
I recently paid off one of my credit cards and then canceled it. Let's call the credit card company George.
So George and I had been together since i was in college and we've grown apart. We wanted different things... George wanted to charge me a crazy interest rate that fluctuated month to month, and I didn't want to give him all that interest money. Basically George wanted to be an asshole, and I din't want to be involved with an asshole.
See? Clearly we wanted different things.
So I broke it off, via a phone call about ten minutes after making my final, balance-zeroing payment. He begged and pleaded, offering me lower rates and bonus crap that I would never utilize anyway. I stood my ground and said that although we have a long history, it was time to part ways.
Now, a month later, George is calling all the time. Like three times a week, begging me to come back. I've asked George to stop calling, and he won't.
This is a call I got last night:
Me: Hello?
George: Hello, this is xxx, calling on behalf of George.
Me: What now?
George: We have on our records that you recently canceled your George card. We're just following up as to why.
Me: Your interest rate is too high.
George: What can we do to get you back as a credit card holder with George?
Me: One percent interest rate forever and ever.
George: We can't do that. Also, no credit card company will do that.
Me: Exactly. Ok then, I'll settle for a pony.
George: Um. We can't do that.
Me: Goodbye, and please remove me from your call list.
If George calls one more time, I'm going to lose my mind. Because I was previously involved with George, these calls aren't "cold calls" and aren't affected by the "do not call" list. So really, they can just keep calling me. AAAH.
So George and I had been together since i was in college and we've grown apart. We wanted different things... George wanted to charge me a crazy interest rate that fluctuated month to month, and I didn't want to give him all that interest money. Basically George wanted to be an asshole, and I din't want to be involved with an asshole.
See? Clearly we wanted different things.
So I broke it off, via a phone call about ten minutes after making my final, balance-zeroing payment. He begged and pleaded, offering me lower rates and bonus crap that I would never utilize anyway. I stood my ground and said that although we have a long history, it was time to part ways.
Now, a month later, George is calling all the time. Like three times a week, begging me to come back. I've asked George to stop calling, and he won't.
This is a call I got last night:
Me: Hello?
George: Hello, this is xxx, calling on behalf of George.
Me: What now?
George: We have on our records that you recently canceled your George card. We're just following up as to why.
Me: Your interest rate is too high.
George: What can we do to get you back as a credit card holder with George?
Me: One percent interest rate forever and ever.
George: We can't do that. Also, no credit card company will do that.
Me: Exactly. Ok then, I'll settle for a pony.
George: Um. We can't do that.
Me: Goodbye, and please remove me from your call list.
If George calls one more time, I'm going to lose my mind. Because I was previously involved with George, these calls aren't "cold calls" and aren't affected by the "do not call" list. So really, they can just keep calling me. AAAH.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Return of the pink-dotted lawns.
I was just sent this news article, originally from boston.com....
In the pink again: lawn flamingos
N.Y. firm buys molds from Mass.'s Union Products, plans revival.
Don Featherstone studied art before Union Products hired him in 1956 to design lawn ornaments.
(AMY SANCETTA/ASSOCIATED PRESS/FILE 1998)
By Associated Press | June 1, 2007
The original pink flamingo lawn ornament, the symbol of kitsch whose obituary was nearly written after its Central Massachusetts manufacturer went out of business, is rising phoenix-like from the ashes and taking wing to New York.
A manufacturer that bought the copyright and plastic molds for the original version plans to resume production in Westmoreland, N.Y., by Labor Day. HMC International LLC will pick up where Union Products Inc. left off last year when it shuttered its Leominster plastics factory after 50 years.
J.C. Waszkiewicz, head of family-owned HMC, yesterday said he expects retailers buying his firm's flamingos wholesale will appreciate subtle design differences between knockoff versions and the original by Don Featherstone, who studied art before Union Products hired him in 1956 to expand its lineup of lawn ornaments.
"There are other people who have tried to capitalize on his design," said Waszkiewicz, "but none that I've seen hold a candle to the quality and detail he created."
The molds are based on flamingos Featherstone sculpted from clay, working from photos of the graceful birds in National Geographic magazine.The ornaments hit the market in the late 1950s, when the color pink was in vogue, and America's exploding population of suburbanites sought to add flair to their lawns.
But the birds also came to symbolize bad taste: Some developments even banned flamingo ornaments from lawns. The bird also became a target of pranksters, some of whom swiped the ornaments from front yards, took them on the road, and then sent photos to their owners, showing the kidnapped birds at places like the Grand Canyon.
© Copyright 2007 Globe Newspaper Company.
This is very exciting news. The flamingos that currently live on my lawn have been horribly bleached by the sun, and resemble the look of flamingos that don't get enough shrimp in their diets. I bought some pink spray paint specifically for plastic applications that I may try to use to bring them back to their proper vivid pinkiness, but I'm afraid I'll muck them up, especially at the beak, where the yellow blends into the pink. I have a small hoard of brand new flamingos that I manically bought up when I heard news of Union Products closing, but I don't want to dip into my flock to replace the near-white birds because once those are gone, that's it!
Now I'll be able to replace the poor, pale birds with these second generation birds and still keep the original Union Products birds in their original boxes, safe from the elements and lawn ornament poachers.
It's really sad how happy this news makes me. Really.
In the pink again: lawn flamingos
N.Y. firm buys molds from Mass.'s Union Products, plans revival.
Don Featherstone studied art before Union Products hired him in 1956 to design lawn ornaments.
(AMY SANCETTA/ASSOCIATED PRESS/FILE 1998)
By Associated Press | June 1, 2007
The original pink flamingo lawn ornament, the symbol of kitsch whose obituary was nearly written after its Central Massachusetts manufacturer went out of business, is rising phoenix-like from the ashes and taking wing to New York.
A manufacturer that bought the copyright and plastic molds for the original version plans to resume production in Westmoreland, N.Y., by Labor Day. HMC International LLC will pick up where Union Products Inc. left off last year when it shuttered its Leominster plastics factory after 50 years.
J.C. Waszkiewicz, head of family-owned HMC, yesterday said he expects retailers buying his firm's flamingos wholesale will appreciate subtle design differences between knockoff versions and the original by Don Featherstone, who studied art before Union Products hired him in 1956 to expand its lineup of lawn ornaments.
"There are other people who have tried to capitalize on his design," said Waszkiewicz, "but none that I've seen hold a candle to the quality and detail he created."
The molds are based on flamingos Featherstone sculpted from clay, working from photos of the graceful birds in National Geographic magazine.The ornaments hit the market in the late 1950s, when the color pink was in vogue, and America's exploding population of suburbanites sought to add flair to their lawns.
But the birds also came to symbolize bad taste: Some developments even banned flamingo ornaments from lawns. The bird also became a target of pranksters, some of whom swiped the ornaments from front yards, took them on the road, and then sent photos to their owners, showing the kidnapped birds at places like the Grand Canyon.
© Copyright 2007 Globe Newspaper Company.
This is very exciting news. The flamingos that currently live on my lawn have been horribly bleached by the sun, and resemble the look of flamingos that don't get enough shrimp in their diets. I bought some pink spray paint specifically for plastic applications that I may try to use to bring them back to their proper vivid pinkiness, but I'm afraid I'll muck them up, especially at the beak, where the yellow blends into the pink. I have a small hoard of brand new flamingos that I manically bought up when I heard news of Union Products closing, but I don't want to dip into my flock to replace the near-white birds because once those are gone, that's it!
Now I'll be able to replace the poor, pale birds with these second generation birds and still keep the original Union Products birds in their original boxes, safe from the elements and lawn ornament poachers.
It's really sad how happy this news makes me. Really.
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