Like It.
My name is Ainsley. I am a small but powerful magnet.
jerkethic.com for more words.
ainsleydrew.com if you want to get all personal-like.
Further stalking available via the Internet.
Jan 9th, 2012 @ 7:51 am
No better way to start a Monday morning than with shirtless Nick Cave.
Um, actually, there’s probably no better way to start any morning than with shirtless Nick Cave.
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Loverman
Jan 5th, 2012 @ 1:11 pm
Another day, another interview, another means of being accepted.
Jan 3rd, 2012 @ 6:33 pm
Nirvana and Jenny Holzer and when I was your age we had walk uphill both ways barefoot in the snow just to get Dippin’ Dots at the mall and there was no Internet.
@ 7:56 am
Thought about complaining about something on the Internet.
Something inconsequential. Something privileged. Something self-involved. Duh.
Thought about making it funny so you’d like it.
Then realized that I didn’t want to complain about it.
That it wasn’t worth it. Saw how spoiled it was. Saw how irrelevant. (Duh.)
Realized that I could never make it funny enough.
That you could never like it enough.
That, even if you liked it, it wouldn’t be enough.
So I decided to put this up instead.
It’s a photograph of something I like and something that you, the Internet, like.
And that’s that.
Jan 1st, 2012 @ 7:35 pm
Accidentally deleted this post, but it’s worth repeating: Johnny Weir got married yesterday. So awesome. Congratulations to him and Victor.
@ 7:30 pm
“Artists’ reputations are based on lines half read in doctors’ offices by bored people, written on deadlines by distracted freelancers, and commissioned by editors who don’t necessarily care.”
Zak Smith, “Valentine’s Day”
Fucking addendum, because I just read this:
“Professional art interpreters like to spread the idea that artists are crazy so that no-one will listen carefully to what artists say and the interpreters can maintain job security. In reality, if you like my work, then you know why I make it: I want to see it, just like you. The only difference is you’re luckier—someone’s already making the thing you want to see for you so you don’t have to make it yourself.”
Dec 31st, 2011 @ 8:35 am
You know, if you find British people attractive, “Lie back and think of England” isn’t such a bad proposition.
Dec 29th, 2011 @ 1:00 pm
Bauhaus performing “Dancing,” most likely during a year when Reagan was president.
Sorry for the poor sound quality, but, if you know Bauhaus, I apologize further for the fact that even at a low volume, this song will get stuck in your head for the rest of the day.
Is it possible to save yourself for a person who has aged beyond the point that you’re saving yourself for? Does that even work according to the laws of time travel? No matter. Peter Murphy in the early ’80s. I’ll be waiting right here for the DeLorean, thanks.
@ 10:00 am
This has got to stop. Right now, it ends now.
Last night I dragged my still-sick and sleepy ass out with Elizabeth because, like L’Oreal, she’s worth it. We went to a moderately trendy restaurant with a bar. The lighting was flattering, the music was pitch-perfect 1940s jazz standards, and the hostess - like any hostess in a New York City establishment - was a model. It was a sitcom-worthy setting. Elizabeth drank a few Manhattans from classy champagne coupes.
At some point, I took a look around. Almost all of the gentlemen in the joint had similar characteristics. Facial hair. Pointy shoes. A look of impenetrable aloofness that translated to me as having the shit kicked out of them on a grade-school playground sometime in the late 1980s. Of course, there was some plaid.
Even though I’m attempting to reclaim and refurbish my virginity for marriage, I wouldn’t have even made-out with any of the male patrons. It would have been like swapping spit with a dumpster-diving walrus. I wanted to say to each and every one of them, “You are not John Oates.” And then attack them with a Lady Bic.
Gentlemen, if you’re at least a foot taller than me, I don’t require much, but for cryin’ out loud, please have your waist size be at least as large as my own, and stop looking so painfully self-aware. There’s nothing sexy about a man who values his fashion sense over his sense of humor. If you can’t laugh at yourself, life will pinch your sensitive parts more than the fly of those skinny vintage corduroys you picked up at Buffalo Exchange.
Dec 28th, 2011 @ 6:54 am
piratekitten asked: Every time I see Booger, I can't even recognize her as a dog. She looks like an adorable muppet and I wanna smush her faaaaaace!
Common responses to Booger:
“Is that…a….kitten?”
“Wow. She looks like a bat.”
“Holy shit! Gremlins!”
“That’s a dog? That’s not a dog.” (personal assurance that she’s a dog) “That’s not a dog.”
“Can I touch it?”
