kate is engaged!

to her super sweet (equally tough) Ben.

we saw bjork!

here is a review:

By Jim Harrington

In a city where nothing seems out of the ordinary--where topless showgirls regularly mix with million-dollar magicians and celebrity chefs mingle with contortionists--Bjork still came across like as much of a wonderfully intriguing oddity as ever.

That's why fans love her so dearly. In an era of copycat clones, in which new music can only be distinguished from old by release dates, Bjork remains a true original.

Bjork fans from around the country flew into Vegas to see the Icelandic pop princess perform at the Pearl Concert Theater at the Palms Casino Resort, a swanky, hip destination that also houses the city's Playboy Club. It was the indie-rock diva's final gig of 2007--and, she said, likely her last North American date for a couple of years.

Bjork's maintained a very busy tour schedule in support of this year's excellent release "Volta" (recently nominated for a Grammy for Best Alternative Music Album), including appearances at the Coachella, Glastonbury, Sasquatch, Virgin and Austin City Limits festivals. Having been there at the start, as the North American tour kicked off in April at Coachella, it's great to be able to report that the star and her show have both grown stronger over the months.

The concert began as Bjork's highly unusual band took the casino stage. First came the 10-piece female horn section, which doubled as an indie-pop vocal choir, and then the three computer/sample gurus took their spots at stations that seemed to contain more electronic equipment than a CompUSA store. The addition of a sole percussionist was the only thing that linked this band to what one normally sees at a rock show.

Finally, the 42-year-old rascal from Reykjavík skipped (literally) out to the stage, amid fire shooting up toward the heavens, and got ready to serve up what would amount to approximately 100 minutes of curiously appealing dance numbers, indie-pop anthems and dramatic ballads. She wore a billowy white and pink outfit, as well as a crown of what appeared to be fabric flowers, and came across like some forest pixie walking through a dark fairytale as she stood in front of draping flags showing frogs, fish and fowl.

As crazy as the band configuration looked, the whole thing gelled right from the get go, as Bjork and crew delivered a version of the new album's "Earth Intruders" that was accepted as gratefully as a ski-parka giveaway would be in Iceland. From there, the singer began to flip through the pages of her songbook and she found success at every stop.

Bjork sounded particularly strong on a pair from 1997's "Homogenic"--the menacing "Hunter" and the urgent "Joga"--but the song of the night was the lovesick anthem of deep obsession, "Pagan Poeetry" (from the singer's greatest album, 2001's "Vespertine"), as the 10-piece choir of female voices both echoed and underscored the singer's pleas of desperate love.

A "Logan's Run"-worthy laser show factored heavily into the last portion of the concert as Bjork cranked up the dance party with such selections as the new album's "Innocence" and the old familiar sing-a-long "Hyperballad," from 1995's "Post." She closed the show with the superb "Volta" track "Declare Independence," an anthem of revolution that screams out for you, as the listener, to "make your own flag," "start your own currency" and other acts that the government would likely frown upon.

"Declare Independence," as silly as the over-the-top lyrics might sound, is truly in keeping with Bjork's career. This is a woman who not only talks the talk--she walks the walk. That's why, even in the wacky city of Las Vegas, Bjork is able to come across like something extraordinary.

some of zach's work

http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=71A1C5AE986D60E3

an email from zach's coworker:

to his fellow co-workers:

IF Zach had been older in the early 80’s...
IF Zach knew how to play the bass...
IF Zach was cooler...
he would be this guy.

where i work

the new site is up:

http://www.skgadv.com/

kermit sings talking heads

i love

my husband!

i love

food.

ouch

http://www.peta2.com/Trollsens/index.asp

Today is National Ninja Day

December 5 is International Creep Like a Ninja Day. On Ninja Day they encourage us to dress like ninja, engage in ninja activities and spread information about ninja online and in recognition of the national ninja holiday, please watch as “Ask A Ninja” international superstar The Ninja kill his partner Douglas and then sings his song “My Black Is Blue” from last years Ninja Day! For more great Ask A Ninja videos, visit Askaninja.com.

Dear Santa

i was checking my email just now and this ad appeared on my screen.
really? when i have kids they will be writing letters and sending in the mail the old-fashioned way. and throwing carrots on the roof for the reindeer just like how i was raised.

pilates

this post is about my favorite pilates instructor, jessica. it was not written by me, but by another fellow student. i will say, however, that i do identify with her pain:

Each Monday and Wednesday, I reaffirm the fact that the Devil does not wear Prada like recent film and pulp fiction would have us believe ... rather, it wears a little white tank top and nags me to pull my navel into my spine.

Ah, yes. Pilates class.

For two hours a week, I pay for the pleasure (?) of being instructed through my group Pilates reformer class. As well, both evenings following I am haunted by the innocent chirping of my dear instructor's voice saying "Do you feel that?" while her doe eyes look on at the beads of sweat forming on my brow as I work muscles I didn't know I had. While I could take another flip through the Grey's Anatomy tome in an attempt to construct a viable argument as to why my body does not "go" that way, I think my time is better spent pondering why I continue to return week after week for my scheduled torture.

Truth be known, I love it. Fuck, I'm a glutton for punishment and the bottom line is I relish each and every one of those classes like a huge slice of lemon Nothing Bundt Cake laid before me accompanied by a gift-wrapped fork.

Come to think of it, Nothing Bundt Cake should open-up a location adjacent to my Pilates Studio...talk about a symbiotic relationship...

I salivate at the thought of the evil contraptions with the "fuzzy" attachments going to war with the gyros salad I had at Paymon's earlier that day for lunch. While it's inevitable that my entire body will bitch-slap me like a pimp after each class (if raising my arms were even a possibility), I've signed-on to be part of the stable of the Beeyatches Who Need an Ass Whoopin' (and aren't afraid to write a check for it).

We all have something in our lives, I think, that we put ourselves through regardless of the pain it brings ... and why? Because we're doing good work when we do it. There exists a little bit of a slacker in me, regardless of how neatly my closet is arranged (shirts by sleeve length, then skirts, then pants, then dresses, then contemplation of if therapy should be sought for my OCD). If I'm tied to a chair in a basement somewhere and some guy in a fedora is asking me where the bloody diamonds are --- I'll crack. I give! I pay for it because I won't do it on my own! Stop! Please! There is occasionally clean laundry that is not put away, a dishwasher run and then forgotten about, and I still don't have any godforsaken baseboards in my house...I will shirk painting my bathroom in favor of rock climbing, and I'm horrible about letting magazine subscriptions expire.

My twice-a-week flogging at the hands of the doe-eyed Beelzebub in a white tank top --- I actually look forward to it. I am quite sure that the expressions that cross my face throughout the hours I'm there are, indeed, priceless, and I am thoroughly convinced that Beelzebub cannot count. "Eight more" inevitably turns into thirteen, and there are days I just want to scream "I just did eight and F*CK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!" However, to do so would be to deny the fact that I crave that nausea-inducing buildup of lactic acid in my "whatever" muscle and relegate myself to the Land of the Whiny Little Bitch as the other women in the class trudge through their "eight more" as if they hail from Stepford.

I made the mistake one day of mentioning that I thought some sheepskin-lined straps on one of the machines looked "friendly and comfy." Beelzebub showed me that they are not friendly. Heed my warnings, Partakers of Pilates --- do not be tempted by their plush appearance. They are Evil wearing a plush coat to lure you into their fold, and once your ankle is firmly planted, they will suck the life out of your leg like a venus fly trap with prey in its grasp.

I don't think it's so wrong to admit to myself that one of my shortcomings is doing "good work" in certain areas. If I'm at the gym, I can quit working out anytime I want and just call Time of Death and rationalize my way into the sauna for the last half hour. The plain truth is - I want to get better at this Pilates thing, and I know it's not going to happen on my own. Resigning myself to indentured servitude for two hours a week seems to be the least I can do if I'm serious about this, because I know I can't quit in the middle.

I'm trapped, like Paris Hilton in an LA county jail without her cell phone. Trapped in the worst way. Yet, for me in this instance, I'm trapped in the best way possible: for my own good.

So I say --- PEOPLE! Go forth and trap thyself! Git yerself hogtied to whatever it is that you want to improve in life, as sometimes, the "good work" we need to do requires a little bit of supervision...a dab of babysitting. Our sado-masochistic sides all need to utter the occasional "Yes, Mistress!" (gag ball sold separately)

It's likely that's what I'll say as I pay for my next block of 10 classes next week. May I have another?

Corefit Pilates Studio...ask for Beelzebub, er, I mean Jessica.
www.mycorefit.com

a drink or two

Last night I laughed for hours. I met zach at calico jacks to have “a drink or two” to see off his creative director who has taken a job in NYC and is moving on Saturday. To protect his identity he will here on out be referred to as “the boss” (not to be confused with springsteen). Hours of shenanigans ensued. This is where the slapping started. And punching. Zach’s boss slapped our friend christian really hard across the face. It is funny. Apparently “it doesn’t hurt. It is just loud and surprising.” so all night zach’s boss is slapping him, zach is slapping his soon to be ex-boss. One of their clients showed up and he and zach were attached at the hip all night long punching eachother really hard. It is a game that is too dumb to explain. So after calico jacks we moseyed to the old school part of the las vegas strip to a lil hole in the wall kareoke bar called Dino’s. I don’t even know how to sum up in words what happened here. The long of the short of it involved “the boss” insanely dancing (a young lady singing pat benetar’s “heartbreaker” really got him going) and spinning this big wheel and falling and falling. And our crazy friend carrie getting a little too excited during her musical number of "these boots are made for walking" throwing down the mic stand and being violently reprimanded by the kareoke overseer (what would you call that, an emcee?) during the whole insane altercation resulting from the fragile wheel and mic stand abuse and a flying rubber duck and popcorn everywhere tony was calmly speaking over the microphone that everything is going to be ok. Kinda hard to explain the insane level of humor here. However, the other local faithful (very serious) kareoke participants were not amused. When “the boss” picked up elisa and had her upside down I got really concerned she was about to be dropped on her head and this would be not-so-funny anymore. Zach tried to intervene as the boss was spinning around and unbeknownst to him, showing his backside to us all as his pants were falling down. A few more broken bottles, slapping and my being forced on the dance floor with “the boss” (as he kept explaining to me that I MUST follow his lead) we were on to the next location. The one and only champagne’s café. More slapping. More punching between zach and then client. Elisa began eating petals off a rose and then did a shot and ran to the bathroom. Apparently rose petals and petrone don’t mix. The boss fell down backwards in his chair, then got up to hug zach goodbye, causing zach to fall backwards creating a domino effect of bar stools. We all escaped. Unscathed. Now I am dealing with the last work day of the week on little sleep. I think it was worth it.

things that have broken in the past couple of days

closet door.
garbage disposal.
garage door.
bose headphones.
heel of my boot is headed that way.

No Country for Old Men

the cormac mccarthy novel put on the big screen. definately theatre worthy. go. i said go.

one of the many life lessons my dad has shared with me.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=4776825453418327083

an average day at work

so, yesterday i was minding my own business and went to the room with the orange couches to get some paper sample books for a project i am working on. i was headed back to my desk when the executive creative director, and 2 other creative directors came in to look at the room and said "yes, we can use you. come with us." i tried to get out of it a little to no avail. we were sent to the copier/printer room. that is when the big lights turned on and the guy with the video camera started setting up. NOT cool. totally caught off guard. it gets worse. one of the CD's brings out a boom box with some pre-recorded music to a certain song that the brilliant copywriters had changed the lyrics to. our role? sing the song. in a musical-like fashion while pretending to merrily work at the copy machine. ok. i can handle it. i had two other victims with me so i figured i would just go to the back of the room and somewhat hide behind them. no dice. i was placed at the very first printer right in front of the camera and mic. after a few painfully off-pitch rounds and screwing up the verses (even though there were only 2 to learn) it was bearable. then this happened: "ok, everyone stay quiet. we are going to have just Tracy sing by herself and dance on the next few takes." SOOOOO not cool. this is when i definitely felt the heat rising to my face. i tried. . . "CUT!!!" i tried again "CUT!!" over and over. i was awful. i couldn't seem to start the tune on cue. but then again, this is not why they hired me. finally it was a wrap and i went back to my desk to continue my very average day of working as a designer at an ad agency.

elves

someone has too much time on their hands.

http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=9559718003

sarah's engaged!!

my saylo got engaged last night to the coolest, sweetest guy. i am so happy for them!!!!!

honeymoon room

the place we stayed was featured in yahoo:

The new Jade Mountain Resort, which sits high above a volcanic bay on the island of St. Lucia, has attracted a great deal of buzz and curiosity this year. The “resort-within-a-resort” officially opened last December; jaw-dropping photographs of its suites rocketed around the Internet shortly afterwards, and the resort is now booked solid through the rest of 2007.

Visitors enter through the rear of the building, a dizzying profusion of stairwells and gangways worthy of an MC Escher painting. Inside, 24 sleekly appointed suites face west, their infinity pools hovering 16 stories above the ocean. The structure has a vaguely futuristic feel, like it could jet off into outer space at any moment.

Co-owner Karolin Troubetzkoy agrees: “It’s sort of like Battlestar Galactica up there, isn’t it?”

Click Here for More Images of the World’s Greatest Hotel Room

Jade Mountain is the life’s work of Nick Troubetzkoy, a Russian Canadian architect who has been running Anse Chastanet Resort with his wife Karolin for the last 30 years. Troubetzkoy shares a penchant for sweeping curves and rough-hewn tile with the architect Richard Meier, and the exterior of the resort recalls the Getty Museum in Los Angeles, except sprinkled with infinity pools.

Then there’s the fourth wall issue—the suites don’t have one. Nor are there any sliding doors, screens, or French windows involved; just vast amounts of open space. A bright azure view sweeps into the rooms, which are tastefully arrayed with tropical hardwood furniture and coral tile floors.

The hotel refers to them as “infinity pool sanctuaries,” and the over-riding temptation is to never leave them. In fact, management claims that the current client record for not stepping out the door—not even once—is five days.

“The room itself evoked a feel of a very luxurious cave,” said Brian Ordelheide, an arborist from Los Angeles who recently visited the property with his wife. “As far as the resort itself, we have been nowhere that combines the style, architecture, design, and vistas. I'm sure there must be some villas that have a similar feel… and at those rates, you would have to consider a staffed villa a competitive option.”

Those rates start at $950 a night. The sanctuaries come in three celestial flavors—star, moon and sun. The sun rooms, which are the largest and feature the “most commanding views,” run at a high season rack rate of $1,470 a night. But what’s a month’s rent for a night in paradise?

Bereft of television, phones or electric communication, the rooms encourage a sedate state of Platonic being, or perhaps Platonic floating. The pools are not cosmetic affairs—they fill nearly half the suite (in the larger suites they measure 900 square feet). At night, thanks to mysterious fiberoptic wizardry, they change color.

While the hotel literature notes that “there is no formal separation between the sleeping and living spaces,” there is very little formal separation to be found anywhere. This open-air layout may prove disconcerting to more discrete temperaments, as the toilet and shower are decidedly al fresco.

“Not everyone will be happy with the open air concept—birds fly in and out, you may find an occasional gecko in your room, and at times it may be hot,” says Patti Pake, a Virtuoso Travel Agent who specializes in St. Lucia. “But Jade Mountain is not a hotel or resort in the traditional sense. It is unique accommodation experience—similar to a tented safari camp or over-water bungalow in Bora Bora.”

The reviews from most of the travel glossies to date have been almost embarrassingly breathless. Online comments from recent patrons feature a more nuanced range of opinions—some near incoherent with praise, others more measured, especially considering the prices involved.

While the resort offers a golf cart service, the trek to the beach is an admitted slog, and entails lots of stairs and a steep cement incline. And as the management will be the first to admit, Jade Mountain is still very much a work in progress; construction continues throughout the property, and a door-flag based room service system (again, no telephones) is still working out some kinks. The layout is not conducive to active pursuits or island rambles.

So far these concerns don’t seem to have any effect on the resort’s popularity with visitors, who seemed to consist primarily of doe-eyed honeymooners and permanently recumbent executive-types. But how long will the appeal last?

“Every year any number of new hotels opens to much fanfare and buzz,” says Pake. “A year or two later they are no longer hot and a new roster has taken their place. As long as the service level at Jade remains high, the waitlist for suites will be long.”