So I'm minding my own business at the Whitney on Sunday, looking at arts, buying a pewter pretzel from the Art-O-Mat, basking in the soft, unsettling glow of Jenny Holzer's LEDs, doing other important things, when I had to pee. Maybe 4 years of going to a school that's attached to some of the least offensive museum bathrooms ever warped me, or softened me, or something, but WOW was I unprepared for the dystopian wasteland that is the Whitney Museum of American Art's ladies' room. It's like, one minute I'm staring at a stack of vacuums that Jeff Koons transformed into over 11 million dollars, the next minute I'm standing in a centimeter of toilet water in a decrepit highway rest stop. It's like some kind of really messed up portal that transports you from highbrow to sewer rat in under a second. Poof! Restroom of the post-apocalypse! But the shock of entering this damp hell isn't the important part of my rambling story. You see, I'm not one of those people who starts at the first stall right by the door. I like to pee in seclusion. So I was in the stall NEXT to the first stall, and I heard a steady-ish stream of ladies (I assume they were ladies) enter the first stall, make some sort of declaration or sound indicating disgust/repulsion, and then quickly find another stall. I was washing my hands (this brings me to the question as to why some women feel totally justified in spraying their urine all over a toilet seat and then have the balls to not even pretend to wash their hands, but that's another story for another day) when I saw an older woman open the stall and literally jump back. At this point, the restroom attendant, who had previously been chattering away on a headset while wiping up the sink area, entered the stall and stopped cold. "Hold on," she said, presumably to whomever was on the other end of her headset, "Oh, hell no. OH, HEEEEELLLLL NO." Then she burst into laughter, and exited the restroom. I had to look! I had to. This restroom was a wet, urine-soaked nightmare, what could possibly shock a woman who casually hangs out in a centimeter of piss-water all day? Let me tell you, friends, and I am not exaggerating: that log was the size of my forearm. It floated blissfully at the top of the bowl, the water just at that "oh no, please don't overflow, please please surface tension" level. The weirdest part? The water was clear. Like, no pee, no toilet paper. How did I have time to soak in all this detail, you ask? This image is seared into my brain. I could probably start a support group for the other ladies who walked in on Terror Log that day, I'm sure some of them are experiencing flashbacks, too. But I digress. So... it was just this single, gigantor-log, floating in a pristine, full to capacity bowl of toilet water. So here's my question: was this some weird neo-Dada thing? Some kind of weird reference to Chris Ofili's work - because that thing could have DEFINITELY come out of an elephant... All I know is this: ladies' rooms are nasty enough without people leaving gigantic mystery logs on display for all to witness (I'm talking to you, non-hand-washing seat-pissers). The Whitney bathrooms do NOT need help in the nastification department. They were doing quite well without your help, log lady (no no no, not that log lady). The best part of the story, in my opinion, is the follow up: my sister-in-law went to the restroom of horror a while later, not knowing my harrowing tale of repulsion and arm-sized excrement, and reported that "the first stall had caution tape across the door in an X." That's right, the log won. It claimed the stall for the country of crap. Poop FTW.
This week we're celebrating THANKS, NORSE GODS! "the hoveround is the official mobility choice of the norse gods! check out tyr, god of war, visiting epcot center!" Ok, look at Tyr. If he can rock Epcot so triumphantly in his Hoveround, so can you. Norse Gods for the win.
As an aside, if you're into the weird crap I make, go look at my art here.
This week, we're celebrating THANKS, CLIVE OWEN! "your hoveround will take you and your dog to a cheesy, mid-90s alternate universe, where you will be given an exciting and informative tour by the floating head of clive owen!" The best part about this picture? IT'S ABSOLUTELY TRUE. If you have a Hoveround, and the Clive Owen dimension hasn't appeared before you and your dog in all its Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper glory, you need to contact customer service immediately. Screw the Grand Canyon, Grandma, it's CLIVE OWEN.
Easily the most popular part of this blog, for whatever reason, is the "Thanks, Hoveround!" photo album. Why? Um... because it's great. How about that? So, in celebration of Knifefight in Brooklyn turning 4 this year, I'll be revisiting one of my magical collages every week. Until I run out. Which will be pretty soon. So enjoy it while it lasts, champs.
I'm sorry I haven't posted anything in a long time, this whole "wedding planning" thing gives me renewed respect for Jennifer Lopez. She sure is the hardest working woman in showbiz. No, for real, though, it's hard to do anything hilarious when you're having panic attacks over shoes. Justin and I handed off our most important wedding invitation last night, to these guys. I'd show you some shocking, life-altering pictures from the show at the Highline Ballroom (and God bless sausage fests because I didn't encounter a line for the lady-bathroom once)(not that you pee a lot when beers are $7), but I don't want DJ Dougg Pound to come to my house and beat me up, and also I really want Tim and Eric to get YOUR $15 because how else will they afford all that shrimp and white wine? Most importantly, it was a beautiful show, filled with friendship, emotions, wonder, and magic. And codpieces. And love. It's Tim and Eric, they're shining boys, it's for your health.
I hope to one day be a banana ghost.
This bird... is awesome. Snowball here's a big fan of the Backstreet Boys, it seems, and one day he just felt like rocking' out... with his cockatoo out - I'm sorry, I had to say that. I know it was lame. But come on! Anyway, I'm sure the Backstreet Boys will be quite pleased to know that they have one fan left who isn't their moms, and also this fan is obscenely cute. And also a bird. Have a nice day. I have to go buy a jug of fake blood now.
You know what I find creepier than children in general? Terrifyingly retouched photos of children in which they look like unholy zombie-dolls. Now, admittedly I don't know anything about li'l pageants or "glamour" (or zombie-children), but these pictures frighten me in ways I can't accurately describe. The little pink girl is scary enough (HEY PARENTS! Is little Wanda too human-looking for you? Want a picture that really captures the essence of what your li'l princess would look like, were she an evil automaton? Let us BeDazzle her, wig-ify her, erase those hideous flaws that make her NOT look like something sold by QVC, and give her eyeballs that lifeless glaze you love!), but the blue baby is just a false-eyelash-ed existential crisis. Seriously, thank GOD for photoshop - that toddler's eyebrows had no definition! It looked almost as though the poor thing hadn't even put on six coats of mascara and liner! My favorite part is that the retouching... artist... left her teeth intact (she has a "total makeover" in which she'll replace your offspring's gap-toothed monstrosity with a creepy beaming Barbie-smile), like "I might be a glamorous career woman of the mid-90s, but I'm a toddler at heart." SO CREEPED OUT.
I love engrish.com, and I think this is the best shirt ever. Really, it's just not right how infrequently kangaroo boxing enthusiasts consider the feelings of the kangaroo... In very creative grammar. Which makes sense, because kangaroos are totally illiterate, I've heard. I really identify with this little guy, don't you? All I ever want to do is just feeding, sleeping, and hopping, too. Seriously, who "has talks people around the world" that kangaroos are good at boxing? Jerks. It's touching that someone has finally embraced the cause of non-boxing kangaroos. In shirt-form. In Japan. Subarashii desu.
Check it out, y'all: ARTS. That I made. For a show the BFF was working on called Get Out of Jail Free. And in that my only jail is this rockin' fun zone, I made my arts be about the hospital. And paint markers. Woo! Feel free to offer me millions of dollars to decorate your mansion or chateau. Thank you in advance. Please bask in my many wondrous talents. Good.
I'd like to thank TV in Japan for introducing me to Yakitate!! Japan, which is obviously an animated series about a boy (with solar hands) and his... bread-related... quest. I said BREAD-RELATED. For what child DOESN'T dream of creating a bread to honor his country? Seriously. Very, very seriously...
justin and i saw bobby conn and detholz! at trash bar on thursday. bobby conn is magic; i've been aware of this since about 1998 or 1999 (thanks, rachel), if you're not, you should be now or within the next few minutes, upon further researching mr. conn and his accomplishments - go ahead, i'll wait for you. it's cool. i'll check my email. anyway, detholz! is a great band, which i learned on thursday. trash bar is a fun place; this is something i also learned on thursday. these are all interesting things to learn, right? well, here's something unfortunate to learn: being surrounded by stinky hipster douche-clowns is a million times worse than being surrounded by 8 foot tall chain-smoking oblivious hip hop fans. true! in my quest to NOT spend my admission $$$ staring at the back of some freakishly tall goofus, i decided to stand in the front. have you been to trash bar? "the front" is about 20 feet from "the back" so it's not like i had to elbow my way through 500 people between sets to get up there. AND I DID IT. i made it up front. bobby conn's barely taller than me, so i sure as hell wasn't going to miss his sweet winston-brand pajamas by standing behind some douche. lo and behold, i've discovered that HIPSTER GUYS WILL ELBOW YOU IN THE CHEST TO GET CLOSER TO BOBBY CONN. nice. these sacks of trust-fund waste and dandruff in skintight children's pants will pretend that they're just "so into the band tuning up" that they'll step on your feet and grind on you to angle for the front spot. and i'd have been able to laugh it off, were it not for the particular douche-bag to which i'm referring - THIS CHODE WAS TALL. that's right, B.O. plenty and his friend "audio visual 'tard who acts like it's 'ok' to essentially bring a nagra and boom mic into a club" couldn't DREAM of pirating bobby conn's music from BEHIND the handful of short ladies and gentlemen desperately clinging to the front of the stage. i'm not going to explain the whole thing in detail, because i'll give myself an aneurysm, but let me tell you this: 3/4 of the way through mr. conn's rousing set, i had to drag justin to the back of the room, because THE ASSCLOWN IN FRONT OF ME WAS 1) WHIPPING ME IN THE FACE WITH HIS LONG, GREASY, DANDRUFF-CAKED HAIR, 2) GRINDING INTO MY CROTCH FOR SOME REASON, AND 3) EVERY TIME HE TWITCHED ("dancing"), AN AGGRESSIVE CLOUD OF BODY ODOR SLAPPED ME IN THE FACE. i actually felt the chunks rising in my throat, for real. we had to go, lest i actually FOR REAL vomit on this guy. friends and neighbors, this man smelled like an oil drum full of sweaty taints. i say that not to make YOU ill, but to illuminate the fact that, while male hip hop show attendees may be oblivious ass-hats who stand in front of ladies and then shirtlessly punch each other, THEY DON'T SMELL LIKE A BOILING SATCHEL OF DEATH AND GREASE. when i was a young lady, i lived in a time and place (namely "1995-1998" and "omaha, nebraska") in which such foul odors wouldn't ruin the crustiest of punk shows, you see, BECAUSE EVEN THE FILTHIEST, NASTIEST PEOPLE DIDN'T SMELL LIKE A BAG FULL OF EGG FARTS, OK? in college, even amongst the art school-est of my fellow art school students, i never smelled anything CLOSE to this guy's personal bouquet. not even around the people in the painting department. my point is this: hipster men of brooklyn, you are skeevy, rude, backwards assholes, and you smell bad in a manner so aggressive that i imagine homeless people back away from YOU on the train. THIS FACT DOESN'T MAKE YOU COOL. this is a public service announcement. wash yourself. also, don't touch strangers. because if i'm ever the president, we're all going to have stun guns. check. thank you.
"gail, why aren't there any really grainy, out-of-sync videos of you and your awesome friend nicole singing 'hello' by lionel richie to each other in a sketchy koreatown karaoke place floating around on the web for me to watch?" and i'm like, "behold: the majesty." so go ahead... and behold. that's right, i'm going to try to post more often, even if it means uploading weird, grainy karaoke videos that don't relate to anything. p.s. rich, i have a video of you singing 'the whisper song.' you've been warned.
due to the increasing problem of people jacking my carefully wrought images and using them without crediting or linking to the site, everything i post is now going to have a hideously ugly watermark on it!
big ups to the people who've been polite about adding a credit when they've been asked, and to everyone who was a jerk about it, y'all can pretty much suck it.
when i spend hours slaving over a... hot... photoshop just to make a moderately amusing reinterpretation of the "garden state" poster or a poorly-drawn depiction of my experience at the social security office or a story about an evil, anthropomorphic mattress or a series of fake hoveround advertisements, some of which involve the disembodied head of clive owen or a picture-story about the film "dreamcatcher (aka "magic retard vs. the butt alien")" for the beautiful, intelligent people who read knifefight in BK, it's out of love, man. LOVE. when you steal these images and put them on your site and try to pretend you're, like, a THIRD as clever as i am, it's just lame.
nice job ruining it for everyone else, ass-hats! also, you smell, and your mom doesn't really like you.
like most people, justin and i spent our saturday night watching a thai horror movie, art of the devil 2 (here's a link to a fun synopsis, you can read thai, right?), at the 2006 ny asian film festival. you know, like you do. anyway, for those of you who weren't the other 40 people at the screening, nice job missing out on what's easily one of the most disturbing films i've ever seen! it's cool, though, you can see it tonight at the anthology at 8:45, right? art of the devil 2 is awesome! not only does this film feature a really upsetting soup recipe, but it teaches the kids important things like "black magic's a totally bad idea" and "sometimes people have to eat other people." and i'm not just plugging the nyaff because i won a free subscription to giant robot magazine. i'm plugging it because they sell pocky before every screening! POCKY! anyway, if you're all lame and not going to go, my totally spoiler-filled analysis of art of the devil 2 follows...
apparently, the AMC theaters at times square thought it would be awesome to psychologically scar a bunch of cute little kids by showing the first few minutes of a film that begins with a young boy committing suicide instead of, um, chicken little... you can read the story here.
ok, we both know that you want to purchase various goods emblazoned with my artwork, so now you can do it quickly and efficiently. go buy some things my store! seriously, how can you NOT own a beer stein with this weird picture on it? come on.
you probably already know that the most awesome possible situation in the known universe is hideki matsui and ichiro suzuki, escorted by a giant angora rabbit, bringing you (the universal you) a muffin-based gift basket at a bar in chicago while dressed as a ladybug and a pig, respectively. and i've made a picture of this very situation! YOU'RE WELCOME.
holy crap, guys! i have discovered the missing link IN MY OWN BACKYARD. i have noted several key points on the picture: the creature appears to be male, is covered in a thick fur, possesses a rudimentary understanding of simple tools (as pictured - possibly this is a gift of some sort from the modern man standing near him?), seems to have fashioned garments out of some type of skin or fiber, and seems to be sporting several adornments - the necklace-type object is likely a souvenir from some sort of hunt, while the white mouth-stick is most likely a piece of bone signifying his place in the "tribe" or crude social hierarchy. possibly this man is a leader of some sort? the scientific ramifications are overwhelming. i hope to do further research, unless the subject is frightened off by the modern man pictured, because his hat is scary or something.
it's true that everything is possible with the hoveround. i have included some photographs so you will see. thanks, hoveround!
in 9th grade, my friend nicole and were doing some... THING in english class (mrs. maloney, honors english, for the record) where we had to send postcards to prospective students talking about how awesome central high school was. at least i think that's what we were doing. anyway, nicole and i came upon QUIOTIS...