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Lunchboxing posts an old column that ran in Artsweek back when I was in my first year of being its art and entertainment editor, back in the days of "VDT Online Execute" and wax and exacto knives and a whole slew of other things too incriminating to post. Rob and I won first place best arts and entertainment section that year, as did Trey and I a couple years later. Check out my design skills circa 1999! Oh how they have advanced!

Beau's Birthday

Friday night we all gathered at Tim's to kick off Beau's birthday celebration. After a few beers and chocolate cake, we went to -- where else? -- Playwright.


Beau and Jenn show off the cake.


The cake, with infamous police officer "f*ck" cap. I don't know what it refers to, but it's some kind of inside joke.


Beau's face lights up.


Beau blows out the candles.


Josh hates pictures.


Playwright, full of ad school students.


Shaking it.


Roman reveals his mouth in a moment of glee.


"Blue Steel"?


Fierce.


Danny and Jen. (Yes, everyone at my school seems to be named Jen, or a variation therein.)


Hott.


Beau and someone not named Jen.


Dancing!


Vahbiz


Tim, an Aerial View.


"She Doesn't Even Know I Exist."


Beau and Anne.

Ago's Birthday Dinner

On Wednesday evening, a group of us headed to Greek restaurant Opa to celebrate Ago's birthday.


Ago makes a toast.


Emil's dinner, bones and all.


Mario shows the sangria pitcher.


Blurry meal.

I Am The Most Irresponsible Person on the Planet

Because I will have enormous loans to pay when finished with ad school, because my aunt and cousins will be staying at my parents' house in San Francisco during my spring break, and because my close friends will not be living there past June, I ignored the impulses of reason and responsibility, and bought a cheap(ish) ticket to Spain. Yikes. Immediately after I scored the ticket, I panicked. What did I do? I can't afford this trip. But thankfully I've got places to stay in Barcelona and Madrid, and know how to cheaply eat/drink/shop/travel while there. I'm justifying it all to myself that I can go and photograph the places to smithereens, visit every art museum on the free days, pick up all of the great, free style publications lying around, watch Spanish films that will never make it to American theaters, and practise the Spanish I've since completely forgotten. Thinking about my irresponsibility makes me verge closer to the edge of a nervous breakdown, so I'll stop this post here.

Oh my.

Fred Durst has a blog? I must sleep...

Gossip

I normally don't care too much about celebrity gossip (I generally prefer the gossip of my close friends), but a glimpse into Paris Hilton's sidekick is just juicy.

I will say that I geniunely feel bad for people like Paris Hilton when these things happen -- I would be pretty upset if someone hacked into my phone and revealed my text messages to the world. Then again, in reading through everything, what's on my phone or in my email these days is hardly interesting.

What I find the most curious, however, is who was in her phone to begin with. San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom? Ashley -- but not Mary-Kate -- Olsen? Victoria Gotti? (I suppose this way Miss Hilton can directly call in gossip?) And my personal favourite entree, someone entered, "Rich, not famous" -- to distinguish him, perhaps, from, "Rich, famous." Unintentional pun?

Oh Paris, what a strange, fascinating life you lead.

A Day in Ft Lauderdale

Yesterday I woke up very early and took the train up to Ft Lauderdale to my Uncle Tom's house to visit with his family and my Uncle Dave's, who are in town from New York. After a wonderful Brazilian lunch, we headed out on the intercoastal waterway and ocean on the boat.


Me, Aunt Yin, Amanda and Patrick


Cousin Will.


Uncle Dave.


Cousin Patrick.


Aunt Yin.


My cousins Amanda and Patrick.

Hello, Beautiful(s)

My new shoes.

A post like this is why blogs should exist.

Rickshaw!

For type, I had to make logos for a city of my choice -- for whatever reason, I picked the only capital I couldn't recall offhand when I thought about countries. Thus, Dhaka. For our next project -- designing film festival posters for that city -- I made the following collage of Dhaka's infamous decorated, painted rickshaws. Consider it eye candy til I post again.

Radio, Where Art Thou?

After I returned from San Francisco in January, my small stereo quickly followed me down here to the shores of Miami Beach. I discover two great stations, one perfect for idle listening while dressing (Party 93.1, dance music) and the other perfect for listening to while doing massive amounts of work in my room (Classical 1360). Something about Classical music I found extremely conducive to churning out tons of projects. So what if it's on AM? So what if I am probably the only listening under the age of 70 in South Florida? No sooner do I find (and fall in love with) 1360, does it get bought by conglomerate and turned into a religious-programming station, pouring out endless of hours of people droning on and on about their life in church. Now, considering that most classical music was written in the spirit of God, I don't see why the station couldn't have been left alone.

Meanwhile, as I struggle to find another station to listen to while working (the closest approximation has been 91.3, which broadcasts a lot of blues and jazz in the evening), the next thing I know, Party 93.1 gets changed into a rock station! Now, from what I can sense about Miami radio, there is a lot of caribbean/salsa and even more hip hop. There probably wasn't a good rock station before... but did they have to take the only dance music station and convert it? I know that dance music is tremendously cheesy but there's something nice about a radio station where the deejay comes on air infrequently and doesn't need to scream and yell and speak entirely in made-up slang just for 'street cred.'

If anyone knows of a good classical music/dance music broadcaster in South Florida, please inform me. Til then, I work in silence.

Photos: Superbowl

The next night we went to a superbowl party hosted by one of the guys at my school, Rich. His apartment is straight out of the SIMS, replete with a bonsai tree, leather couches, massive television and fish-tank coffee table. Even though I know nothing about football, I tried to get in the spirit anyway by sporadically yelling guy-style about the teams' performances. The very uncool part of the evening was trying to open an Amstel Light -- the cap stuck to the glass, broke off, and sliced open my hand in the process.










Stefenie drove us back to the Beach. Her license plate says "Miller Time," which I thought was photo worthy.

Photos: Andy Caldwell @ Blue

Even though my "thanks-for-coming" to the deejay was greeted with as much friendliness and charm as a minority entering a country club in Alabama circa 1959, I did bring five or six people who all paid $5 to enter and enjoyed the music.












I don't know this girl, but I liked the photo.

Smile, Nod, Thank You

On Saturday, after attending a very fun, small get together at a friend's place, we ventured first to a gay bar (actually my very first time in a true gay club in, I think, my entire life) and then to Blue to see Andy Caldwell, musician, producer and deejay, spin. I was excited that Andy Caldwell had ventured all the way to South Beach, and surprised at the door to learn they'd dropped the price of the cover charge from $10 to $5. So I approached Mr Caldwell and said, simply, "Thanks so much for coming, I'm from San Francisco also and it's really cool that you're here." Apparently Mr Caldwell was either having a rough night or thinks he's Mariah Carey (who in all honesty is probably more gracious and charming to her fans than her reputation suggests). I am surprised he didn't throw up in disgust all over his turntables at my quick expression of thanks. Look, Mr Caldwell, I don't think we're going to be all friendly and hold hands after the show and become best friends forever, and I certainly recognize that you're in the middle of working, but how hard is it really to just smile and say thanks and continue? Especially considering that since the club is half empty, you clearly aren't famous outside a tight scene in a different city? Attention, deejays of the world, you spin records and occasionally produce great songs rarely known outside of what is, in reality, a very, very small community of people. If someone appreciates your work, how hard is it to smile and nod and say thank you?

Photo Update

A few weeks ago, a group of us from school decided to shun common sense in the matters of financial affairs and go to one of South Beach's expensive, posh, elitist clubs, Mansion. I didn't see a single celebrity, with the exception of Patrick Ewing, who may not even count as a bonafide celebrity these days anyway. I was hardly upset over this, mind you, especially after Jenn met a friend of hers who invited us to his booth to drink bottles of Grey Goose and look down, figuratively and literally, over the throbbing crowd.


In the back: Jenn, Dana, Anna, me, Vahbiz
In the front: Stefenie, Shelley


Stefenie and Jay


Anna and Shelley


Stefenie and Jenn


Vahbiz and Shelley


Free Grey Goose...


... makes Jenn smile!


The French people dance,


talk,


and look down on the crowd!


I am mesmerized by the gorgeous table.