I just found out that I work in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory.

Hamletesque

I am apparently in competition with my brother.


My favorite part being the line, "We now have designed and maintain over seventeen web sites." Over seventeen. He manages to be vague and specific at the same time. I guess we Matt Carmans share some enigmatic qualities.

He is also a semi-pro/semi-amateur/promateur race car driver, and is known popularly as the Flemington Flyer. I really, really wish that could've been my nickname.

Salty and sweet.

From Reeling Reviews:


It's a documentary about a bus hijacking in Brazil. That's a still from the film of a hijacker holding a gun to a woman's head, threatening to end her life. Just the kind of thing you want to sandwich between pictures of you and your friend, Internet-based movie critics with the web design skills of a Brazilian bus hijacker, smiling your smiley faces off.

I've started the morning by making a game of finding the most disturbing juxtapositions (or "yuxtapositions," at least once every ten minutes, if you're Guillermo del Toro on the commentary track for Pan's Labyrinth) of films with that man's shining visage. In his review of Sylvia, he includes this happy-go-lucky movie quote, sure to brighten the whites on everyone's faces as much as it did on his: "Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it fells like hell."

Move over, Teresa.

Sometimes when I feel even the slightest prick or thud, my first thought is, "Have I been shot?" I once saw a surveillance video on some Fox special of an old woman walking around a supermarket with a six-inch knife handle sticking out of her back after someone had stabbed her on her way in, and she didn't even feel a thing. So it's incredibly likely that I could be shot and only feel the smallest of sensations.

What if every time, I'm feeling someone else getting shot? Am I to carry this burden? Coming soon: Liveblogging the collective pain of 6.6 billion people.

The gay hand in my pocket.

New photos from Coney Island are up.

I'm frequently accosted by good-cause donation-seekers on the street, probably because I am white. The other day it was, "Do you have a minute for gay rights?" Well, fuck. Did I have a minute? Not really. I had an urgent need for new pants. But if I say no to that sentence, can it really be clear which part I'm saying no to? It's perfectly designed to hook you. 100% of New Yorkers don't have time, but a large percentage of them also don't want their "no" to be a "no, faggot."

So I did the only thing which would clearly state that while I support your rights (excluding the right to ask passersby if they have time), I am practically pantsless before you. Which was to hold up both thumbs in a positive gesture and say, "That's cool, but no."

Next time maybe I'll say, "A gay Right? Now that's something."

I'm sleeping with someone and her body is weather sealed.

Every time I manage to scrape together a little nest of cash and coin, I go and blow it on something. Today, it was a Pentax K10D and, in order to keep from sounding like one of those self-loving camera snobs, I will simply say that your puny mind could not even handle the words I would use to describe her. There would be tens of thousands of them, quite possibly billions, and most of them would just be satisfied groaning noises.


Her children live here: