Slacker

I know, I know, I promised you content. Whatever. Instead of writing it, I've been reading it - via Google Reader. I'm particularly taken by the "Shared Items" function, to the extent that I've delved into the archives of the blogs to which I subscribe to share older posts. Not further back than January 1, though.

Anyhow - if you know me personally and have me on your Google contacts list, surf over to reader and see what junk I'm reading. There are lots of pictures. Promise.

And if you don't use Gmail and don't have a Google account, you can find my RSS over there on the left hand navigation.

BREAKING TOILET NEWS

As I predicted, I should have waited a few more days before posting two toilet tidbits.

My newly set Google Alert on the keyword "museum" tells me that the TOILET MUSEUM IS LEAVING WORCESTER after 20 years! It is fleeing to Watertown, of all places.

(Please note, both towns are in western Massachusetts.)

I really can't corrupt such mindblowing news with any commentary.

Today in Toilet News

("Today" is kind of a misnomer, but I couldn't resist the alliteration.)

Apparently, toilets are chic. Not toilet-water perfume, not "the toilet" (the process of getting oneself ready in the morning), nor any of the other wide and varied definitions found in the dictionary. I'm talking about the john. The can. The porcelain throne. Etc. Choose your favorite nickname.

Perhaps I should have waited until the internet yielded even more instances of toilet-aticism, but here are two gems I've seen in the past few weeks:

The first is old news (circa 2005), but new to me - a toilet themed restaurant in Taiwan. The theme of egestion installed in a business devoted to ingestion is quite clever. I don't actually recall what blog I saw it on recently, but here are some old photos. I think it is (a) nauseating (b) hilarious (c) the epitome of kitsch (d) therefore, perfect.

Ew.

The second toilet newslet is about a product that I would actually buy. Behold, the Fish N Flush!

My father's reaction: "But which way are you supposed to face?"

If I lived in a place where modifying the fixtures made sense, I'd buy this in a heartbeat. Yes, yes, go to the website. I'll wait.

There's only one better way to spend $200...


In unrelated news, I'm trying to become a Google Reader power user. Send me suggestions of "content-blogs" you like (Boing Boing, Gawker, Slashdot, Bldgblog, etc.), and I promise to waste more of your time.

I Love it When People Blatantly Lie to Me

Yesterday, I had my hair cut. I happen to get it cut in a ridiculous, eight story warehouse entirely devoted to the poking and prodding of human hair. (It's free. Don't ask.) Although I love the haircuts I get there, the whole experience is a bit like being a cog in a well-oiled, hair-cutting machine. I should explain a bit: the cuts are free because they are given by hair-cutting students.

To receive a free haircut, one must input the proper set of commands into the hair-cutting machine:

(1) Go to the haircut factory at a set time, in order to be evaluated for eligibility ("Do you have hair? You do! Would you like it cut? You would!")

(2) Allow the machine to tell you exactly what sort of haircut will happen to your head. ("Long Layers Razor Cut with Chunky Bangs." [Don't knock it 'til you've tried it.])

(3) Schedule an appointment many months in advance. (Ok, only about a month and a half. But I would argue that most people who decide they want a haircut tend to want one in a week, not six.)

(4) Confirm this appointment two weeks in advance via email by responding to an automatic reminder.

(5) Receive an annoying phone call reminder two days in advance, from an automatic voice dialer.

(6) Arrive fifteen minutes early for the appointment.

(7) Permit your assigned student stylist and stylist instructor to converse about your hair as if you were not attached to it.

(8) Fill out evaluation forms, fill out forms for another appointment if desired, fill out forms with no obvious purpose, receive forms telling you what products to buy, pick up some forms, etc. etc. ad nauseum.

I hope you understand that I think these are great haircuts and that I don't mind jumping through these unintentionally funny hoops to get them for free. Still, sometimes I forget how uncanny the entire experience is, until I go and throw a wrench in the gears by asking evidently unusual questions.

I happen to have another hair poking-and-prodding appointment on January 16 in the middle of the day (I'm on break from school and bored, don't judge). The relevance of this particular date and time is that tickets for a certain event go on sale on January 16 at 1pm and I'd very much like to have internet access at that time. I thought I'd either change my appointment or see if I could get online from inside the haircut factory. I spoke with the receptionist.

"Would I be able to schedule my appointment next Wednesday for later in the evening, or another day next week?"

"I'm sorry, we're all booked up until January 29."

"Hmm. I'll keep the 16th, then. I kind of need to access the internet for about 5 minutes during the appointment is the thing. Do you happen to have wireless internet here?"

(Keep in mind that I'm staring at the laptop in front of her while asking the question.)

"No, I'm sorry, we do not."

"Ah. Thank you."

...at which time I walked over to one of the couches in the waiting area, pulled out my laptop, and automatically connected to the network - no password required. The network is called "6th Floor," no less - the floor of the building that I happened to be on. (I could have also connected to 4th Floor or 5th Floor).

Was she actually clueless about their wireless network (it's possible the front desk laptops were plugged in to ethernet cables)? Or is it their policy to discourage the freeloader types like myself who comes in for free haircuts from doing disruptive things like opening laptops in the middle of what is actually a class for the student stylists? Or did she lie to me for kicks?

I decided to read the Wall Street Journal online until they called for hair was called. I don't think the receptionist noticed.

My Susceptibility to the Stupid Tax has Apparently Increased

The Stupid Tax, which I loosely defined through an anecdote about my friend Leeds over a year ago, is an additional monetary fee that one pays due to poor planning or lack of research. You have been stupid, therefore, you have to pay to compensate. The term is widely employed across the internet (widely employed, at least, across the two pages of Google search results I chose to look at) and it generally refers to late fees, priority mail costs, and convenience charges. (The stupid are also often lazy). Wait to send a check that's due in another city tomorrow that you knew you had to send a month ago? Stupid Tax. Buy shampoo at the bodega across the street instead of walking 3 blocks to Duane Reade? Stupid tax. Return rental movies late? Stupid Tax.

You get the idea.

While the stupid always pay the Stupid Tax, it is generally only the smart - the very smart - who occasionally slip up, have to pay it, and then recognize that they are paying it. (These are also the sort of people who go on ironic vacations to places like Graceland and Niagara Falls, but that's another story.) There's no positive correlation between intelligence and the frequency of paying the Stupid Tax, of course. That would be ridiculous. But I vouch that the smarter you are, the more often you're aware that you're paying it. The stupid simply don't notice it.

Now, I could attempt to make an argument about how I may have blindly paid the stupid tax while working in Corporate America last year, my job lulling me into simpleton complacency. But I don't believe that's true. What I do know is that since I've been a student, I've had overdue library book fines of 10 cents a day per book totaling more than $15 in the past 3 months. Yes, the university lets me check out books for 6 months, but somehow the fiction and essays I always want to read for fun are never on the shelf. So I go to the public library, check out eight books and promptly forget that they're due in 3 weeks.

I'm not sure how I fell prey to this particular form of the Stupid Tax - all I can tell you is that I'm the only person I know in New York City who uses the public library, and the only person I know with overdue library book fines.

Draw your own conclusion.

Pseudo-intellectualism

I've had a surprisingly social autumn and winter, particularly since I'm supposed to be (1) a penniless grad student who (2) studies all the time. So much for stereotypes. Think of the following photo as evidence of my life as a bizarro version of the New York Times' "A Night Out With..." column.

I study museum curatorship and anthropology these days, both as a front for my utter failure as an artist through numerous art-oriented day camps in elementary school and a cover for my packrat tendencies. Oh yes, and because I possess "intellectual curiosity" and stuff. Whatever.

Given that my area of interest is rather specific, it's not surprising that many of my friends don't really know what I "do" with myself, per say. Thus, they feel compelled to ask my opinion of any and all museum exhibits and to suggest museums that I should attend alone or with them. Never mind that I adore these conversations even though I have other interests. I have plenty of opinions on museums and I'm always interested in a field trip with a friend. What I'd like to show you is what happens when these museum conversations cross with cocktails: when Grad Student Audrey becomes indistinguishable from "A Night Out With" Audrey:



That would be an empty pack of gum with the words "Robert Moses" scrawled on it, I believe to remind me to see a still-open exhibit somewhere in Queens, with one of my college friends.

Or perhaps some guy at a bar told me his name was Robert Moses. The world may never know.

Your Face, in 2008

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