seabreezes. bazookas. trach-punches.
today, csz pallies and i did one of the infamed "newsies" gigs for a well-known chicago department store (sounds like, uh... partial wields). it was a blast, and very simple. usually, we are stationed on street corners (state and randolph) or notable places (the art institute, millenium park) for a number of hours and pass out info or cando as people come by. we get great money for it - they trust our company a lot, mostly because we like being uber-friendly and all that.
this one was an easy time - we had to hand out frango mints for their 75th anniversary. people generally mobbed us, and our day was significantly shortened by the mobfest since we only had a certain number of items. my friend robyn and i were adorable and tore through 11 boxes of collateral a piece in about 18 minutes. YES! because of this, we had time between two shifts to go see a failure of a movie, red eye.
see this movie. moreover, see this movie with a discerning audience. it was super fun because this movie was somehow likeable and laugh out loud awful at parts. AWFUL! - and it was exactly what we wanted at the time. well played, red eye.
opinion-time!
if you think cillian murphy is attractive, you've got a screw loose, because you like sociopaths.
if you think rachel mcadams seems nice and cute, conversely, you're human.
props to shad kunkle - my nemesis - who tried to scare me from a row behind during a "scary" part. it didn't work all the way, but it worked some. stupid shad. i got kunk'd!
posted by tara d. @ 11:14 PM
5 Comments:
"AWFUL! - and it was exactly what we wanted at the time. well played, red eye." It wasn't what 'we' wanted.
rance is almost pissed because he can only feel being dead inside.
mmmm...cillian murhpy. i thought he was hot in 28 days later but his haircut in red eye makes him look like a dweeb. speaking of red eye, that phrase makes me laugh...
sociopath.
From Ross Bryant's Blog, "Blast of Silence":
Jimmy Motherfucking Buffet played at Wrigley Field this weekend (twice!) with coconut-brassiered hoard in tow. Wrigleyville became a beer garden from hell. Clark street was something Hieronymus Bosch would paint after a Dos Equis power hour and a mild stroke. Sitting in a cafe, reading the Missed Connections with tears in my eyes and a lily clutched to my breast, I was jarred out of my wicked sensitive reverie by a gentleman, referred to by his crew as "Fancy," whose voice and wit revealed the aplomb of an air-raid siren. I turned to look out the window and beheld a sea of vomit-spattered Hawaiian shirts, sweat-pasted to the sunburned flesh of thousands of drunken revelers. Amid the throng of loutish men and besotted women there were pockets weeping, fighting, and amorous reconciling. I paid my bill (checking balance: $0) and the waitress nodded me away turning to the cluster of punk kids that has just wandered in, "you guys are pretty brave coming out here."
"
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