Everyone in New York City with a weblog is writing something about The Gates and posting photos of it. I posted a few photos as well, just in case someone missed something while taking the thousands of photos already online.

Fred Babb said, “Good art won’t match your sofa.” Fortunately, I’ve never been a fan of good art. You know those Rothko paintings that are just huge canvases painted one or two colors? Those are some of my faves.

Ashleigh and I needed a piece of art for one of our large, white walls (it’s a tiny apartment, but it has huge walls because the ceilings are high). For a little while we browsed around to find a framed poster that we both liked, or maybe a canvas print. Everything we found was too expensive, though, especially considering the fact that it was all mass-produced. I also tried hunting for original art at the Chelsea Flea Market, but I didn’t find anything I liked.

Finally we went to Pearl Art Supplies and bought a thick three-foot by three-foot canvas. Then we went to Home Depot and bought some burgundy paint, and then Ashleigh skillfully painted the canvas burgundy.

Now we have our own “modern art” that we created, and it may not be worth much, and it may also not count as real art, but at least it does match our decor.

They served coq au vin in the Cafe downstairs today. I couldn’t help but giggle because it sounded like cock with wine.

But then I was humbled by the realization that, technically, it is cock with wine. I mean, it’s prob’ly just standard chicken when they cook it here, but clearly coq is the same root as our word cock (ie, “rooster”). So now it’s not funny anymore.

Wait… coq au vin… actually, yeah, it’s still funny.

One of the interesting caveats of living in New York is that you’re required to hear the song “New York, New York” at least once a day. Sometimes you hear it from a dancing stuffed animal at Duane Reade, sometimes you see it being played with a bow and a saw in the 59th & Lex subway station, and sometimes, like today, you get to hear old blue eyes himself being played at Starbucks. The last one is the best.

Our little winter cold snap finally broke this past weekend. It was in the mid-thirties, so it felt really nice to walk around outside without the need for gloves, a scarf, a hat, bags of fresh lava, etc. It was also sunny and gorgeous, so I grabbed my camera and went to the Park to take some snapshots.

The bathroom stalls on the eighth floor smell like bug spray.

This scent brings up questions in my mind. First, is there a bug problem in the eighth floor men’s room? And if so, a deep-seated (no pun intended) fear of mine leads to an obvious second question: If I use this toilet, are bugs going to crawl up my ass?

Last night’s snow storm is over, leaving a foot and a half of fresh snow. All the people at the bus stop across the street are parents with their children and their sleds, waiting to take a trip to the park.

In an effort to make my New York office seem sunnier, I’ve taken to leaving my desk lamp on at all times, directly above my head, where most would be annoyed by it. I just love the feeling of a bright light shining down on me, even if it’s from an overpriced Italian cubicle-wall-lamp instead of the actual sun.

All you people handy with a sewing machine, you now have an option for those t-shirts you can’t stand to part with but never wear anymore:

Learn how to turn old t-shirts into underwear. (via preshrunk)