When we go to Trader Joe's for wine (and I won't go anywhere else anymore), my friend Stiff always insists on getting the two buck chuck (in NYC, $2.99). For months I've been suggesting she splurge and spend the extra dollar on a $3.99 bottle, like Purple Moon or the oddly-waxy-tasting-but-I-like-it Zarutha (it might be spelled differently -- it's the one with the tan giraffe). I say the same thing every time: "There's a disproportionate increase in quality between the $2.99 and the $3.99. It's like the opposite of diminishing returns. Really!" So the last time we were in there and she grabbed the Charles Shaw and I made a face, she goes "I KNOW, THERE'S A DISPROPORTIONATE In INCREASE IN QUALITY OR WHATEVER...I don't care, I like this stuff!"
And then I realized...I am the world's cheapest wine snob.
Anyway, added value: this kind of reminds me of Zach Galifianakis's impression of a pretentious illiterate person (Video. Hilarious.)
My ex boyfriend Max's band is playing Bowery Ballroom Saturday night, and I'm bringing a posse. They're called The Information, they're from Boston, and their songs can be heard/downloaded here. My favorite is still "A Simple Plan". Even my friends who hate him like it!
(If that's not a ringing endorsement...)
They also put on a really really great show. I genuinely recommend checking them out. And the new songs aren't even about me!
(If that's not a ringing endorsement....)
(They're opening for The Avengers, click photo to enlarge.)
(Triptych of the East River Impromptu Bonfire in Williamsburg, August 14, 2003, by Sarah Balcomb. Click to enlarge.)
So, the totally not surprising rumor is there could be another blackout tonight. I know, there probably won't be, but the blackout of '03 was one of the best nights of my life (and probably yours, too.)
So now I'm all nostalgic and achey and wistful and full of longing all of a sudden, so I've dug up some Blackout-related stuff from the old version of this website. (You know, before I was seduced and corrupted by the glamorous-yet-ultimately-empty blogging scene.)
After the blackout, I asked some of my friends for their own blackout stories and photos, which can be found here (and are still awesome.)
I also wrote up my own blackout story for Knot Magazine three days later. Reading it for the first time in three years, I wince at how bad it is (A "subtle" 9/11 reference in the first sentence? Oh, Lindsay of '03, I just wanna muss your already-messy hair.)
But there it is, in all its sentimental, style-less glory, and it represents a much more idealistic time in my life that I would kill to get back, so there.
But don't click, here's the gist:
* Sarah Balcomb and I rode our bikes around darkened Williamsburg with backpacks full of cheap cabernet that we shared with everyone we encountered.
* At one point I stripped and did a Lady-Godiva-on-a-bike-but-with-short-hair thing for like thirty terrifying seconds in the middle of McCarren Park. (Future games of "I Never" would benefit.)
*A guy stole Sarah's bike from its kickstand-spot five feet away from us, and was not deterred by Sarah's thrown shoe or my expletives.
*Before we left the bonfire, we waded into the East River to properly send off our melodramatic message-in-a-bottle: "It is the night of the Blackout, and we are drunk..."
* Then we wandered from Williamsburg bar to Williamsburg bar with an ever-growing group of people whose faces we never properly saw, until we stumbled home at dawn.
In short: best.night.ever.
(I'm allowed to navel-gaze four times per year, okay? It's in the rules.)
* The Billyburg Short Film Festival (hosted by Michael Showalter) was cancelled because of the rain on Saturday. So now it will be this Friday, and everything else is the same. Click the flyer for more info.
* My awesome coworkers Karen Lurie and Nick Poppy's very short pilot, American Cookbook, has been picked up ("Greenlighted", if you will. "Given the go ahead", as it were) by the watchers of Channel 102. Watch it here.
* Mark my words: Someone is about to get an email from D.C.
I think I'm going to that tomorrow. I used to date a guy in my Williamsburg days who took me to the Mccarren Park Pool on the back of his bike on our second date, when I didn't even know it was there and the only way to get in was through a hole in a barbed-wire fence. The only word for it was "magical." (I'm not expecting magic tomorrow night, just good friends and Michael Showalter.)
(Word on the street is the beer license fell through, so bring your smugglin' purse.)
I've had this rule for myself for the past few years called "David's Law." David's Law was signed into law in 2003, just after an unfortunate "I was that drunk girl" incident at the Tinkle Booze Cruise. David's Law makes it illegal for me, Lindsay Robertson, to speak to David Cross or any other public figure whom I admire (usually comedians, because I generally only admire funny people) unless introduced by someone else, directly spoken to, or if I already know them, or if it's for work.
Since David's Law was passed in 2003, it has helped many talented comedians unknowingly dodge the bullet that is meeting me, including but not limited to Sarah Silverman, Patton Oswalt, Demetri Martin, Zack Galifianakis, Paul Rudd, Amy Poehler, Janeane Garofalo, Thomas Lennon, and David Cross like three more times (though I was introduced to him without time to run away in February by a mutual friend, so that doesn't count, and all I said was "I've been a fan for a long time" and then escaped as fast as I could.)
Anyway, imagine my delight when I opened my copy of New York Magazine (it was $5/year for the subscription, okay?) last night and found a sidebar by David Cross himself entitled "Where Do I Know You From? How not to alienate That Guy From TV."
It really made me feel like the last three years of not annoying my heros has all been worth it. Also, it's really funny. David's first rule:
"If you don't know who he is, ask your friend. Or a stranger. Don't ask him. And certainly don't ask him to keep listing his resume until you realize he's the guy from Blade of Innocence 2 who lost his shoe and got killed by the vampire with outer-space AIDS."
Anyway, I've never really spoken publically (ha) about the incident that sparked David's Law, but I will say with a very red face that it may have included the sentence:
"I was definitely the only cute girl who was obsessed with Mr. Show in 1996."
Which, besides being horrifying in other ways, is sort of an insult. So, um, that's how a personal bill becomes a personal law.
Recent Comments