Say Something - Pentatonix (A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera Cover)
Say Something - Pentatonix (A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera Cover)
YES i feel the exact same way. about art museums, but also about museums, but also about tourism, but also about things that you are supposed to do but you don’t really know why you do them, but also about things that are not experiencial and forgotten instantaneously.
do we demand too much from life? is this part of the “if you can’t get me to feel something in 140 characters then it’s not worth doing” movement?
On a recent Friday afternoon, Alain de Botton, the forty-three-year-old author of “How Proust Can Change Your Life,” “The Architecture of Happiness,” “Religion for Atheists,” and other books, stood in the dining room at the Frick Collection, on the Upper East Side. De Botton’s newest book, “Art as Therapy,” is a manifesto for the improvement of art museums, and we’d come to the Frick on a kind of fact-finding mission. “Just look around,” he whispered, gesturing to the room and its crowd. “No one’s got a clue what they’re supposed to be doing!”
Somnolent visitors drifted from painting to painting. Faces registered pleasure, but also weariness. People stepped through the familiar choreography of the art museum: lean in to look for explanatory wall text; when you don’t find it, elegantly shift your lean toward the painting to scrutinize some arbitrary detail. We paused in front of Gainsborough’s portrait of Mrs. Peter William Baker, an aristocratic beauty in a golden dress. People walked up, looked, and then walked away. “These very nice people have taken immense trouble,” de Botton said. “They’ve come to New York, they’ve come to the Frick. It’s clear that we’re in a place of great value: this Gainsborough is worth maybe twenty million dollars. And, yet, it’s done nothing for any of these visitors, and spends ninety-eight per cent of its life ignored.” De Botton is soft-spoken, with an open, sensitive face; his lips, lifted at the corners, hinted at ironic self-awareness—wasn’t it silly to get upset about other people’s museum-going?—but his eyes suggested alarm, even outrage. “People think there is no problem with art museums,” he said. “But there is.”
WHAT’S DIFFERENT ABOUT A BACHELORETTE PARTY FROM A REGULAR TOUR?
More wine, basically.
We can customize the entire evening for you and your group to highlight your favorites, or show you new areas of the Museum that you may have never seen before.
We’ve got a dozen Love-themed pieces, including this one.
Want to pre-game with red wine in a beautiful courtyard of the American Wing and then hear us rap about the most awesome Italian artist from the 16th Century?
The Metropolitan Museum of Butts is a new thematic tour offering that we can debut for your bachelorette party. This tour focuses on over 6000 years of butt history and looks at the enormity of the Met’s collection through the lens of butts and all things butt-related.
Including, but not limited to:
- An 18th Century Armchair / Toilet Hybrid
- A 6,000 Year-old Big Booty Ho
- LOTS and LOTS of Greek and Roman booty
- The ONLY sex scene in the Green and Roman collection on display
- At least one donkey, and maybe a dog bed
(If you haven’t already gathered, our museum tours are quite different.)
We are experts at creating experiences that will give long-lasting memories for your very special evening.
hahahahaha. that is… the best. irreverent, charismatic, passionate, unabashed.
THEY HAVE A TOUR ABOUT BUTTS AT THE MET!!!!!!! hahahaha…
in any case, last night i was studying and got bored and started thinking about HBFS and thinking about daniel and kittea and how maybe it could be Something (wording via PMC).
in any case, i have done some thinking about HBFS 3: Real Reality TV, except something more snappy and catchy and wonderful, hopefully to debut in the late summer of 2014, where you will play REAL LIFE challenges from shows like survivor, the amazing race, the mole, and mtv’s the challenge. i am getting really psyched though i think that there might not be enough organic interest from friends and it is time to BRANCH OUT. or something. anyway. really need someone to at the very least bounce ideas off of and someone who will help me playtest. let me know!
also, we all know that i am absolutely obsessed with camp counselors/tour guides/generally charismatic and quick witted people with enthusiasm.
Getting our Rodin on in the European Sculpture gallery, @ The Metropolitan Museum of Art
-The Museum Hack Creepy Baby Jesus Tour premieres this month. Get ready to rumble, Christian Iconography style.
-Coincidentally, we are playing with Snapchat today! Prepare for art and museum selfies… User: MuseumHack
WARNING: Reading this will forever change how you view Greek and Roman art FOR THE BETTER.
If I say “GREEK STATUE,” your mind probably imagines some freakishly toned god or goddess made of milky white marble or weathered dark bronze. Little did you know, that couldn’t be further from how things really looked. The ancient Greeks and Romans were known to regularly paint their marble sculptures in garishly bright colors and bronze statues would have been polished to a flesh-like pale brown with everything from inset eyes to copper nipples.COPPER NIPPLES. They kept it real. Maybe too real.
The world watched as my date grabbed my neck while falling on the red carpet. But backstage that night, I had a blast feeding Kerry Washington and sniffing Brad Pitt.
also, myspace has a cool blogging platform!?!?!?
but jlaw’s best friend of 7 years got to go with her to the oscars:
How did I get invited to the 86th Academy Awards, you ask? Well, my best friend took me as her date. I met her seven years ago at an event where we both didn’t know a single person. We hit it off over a mutual respect for Chandler Bing, and we’ve been eating pizza together ever since.
My date grabbing my neck as she eats shit
We finally arrive at the red carpet and as we exit the car, my date eats shit and uses my freshly done Lauren Conrad up do to break her fall. The crowd goes wild. There are flashbulbs and people circling yet no one asks if I need any help because unless you are famous at the Oscars, you are completely invisible. I have never experienced anything like it. The only time anyone talks to you is if you are in the way of his or her photo. Oh and photographers on the carpet yell “YOU IN THE HUGE DRESS, GET OUT OF THE FUCKING SHOT.” It’s incredible. It is no wonder actors are crazy. The carpet is filled with screaming fans and photographers who only care about you; everyone is salivating to talk to you and telling you how great you look. We finally make it to the end of the carpet and I decide to use the restroom before I sit. Jessica Biel holds the door open for me and compliments my dress—no human being should be allowed to have her face and body. I get inside and Margot Robbie from Wolf of Wall Street shows me her Kardashian-sized diamond ring in line for the toilet and says “I feel like a guy with a gun should be following me—I could be halfway to Mexico with this by now.” The lights begin to flicker and we are told we need to take our seats. I quickly pee and head to my seat.
Some guy picks up my purse that had fallen off my seat and I say “Thank you… Channing Tatum” and my dress gets caught on Jennifer Garner and we awkwardly laugh and someone tries to separate us. The lovely pregnant Kerry Washington asks me if she could have the Slim Jim in my purse. Glenn Close shows us her Oscar secret, which is a handmade corset and a dress long enough to hide her comfortable shoes. Miss J is sashaying around the room being crazy fabulous and I am one of maybe two non-famous people there. I kind of just sit there and smile creepily when someone catches me staring—shout out to Penelope Cruz.
After the show we go backstage where I meet Brad and Angelina. Brad Pitt smells amazing, like nothing I’ve ever smelled. Eventually we ask what cologne he’s wearing and he tells us, “I don’t wear cologne, it’s just my musk I guess.” I have to choose not to believe him because it would just be unfair to mankind. Angelina is gorgeous and elegant and they are like The Sun and The Moon.
How Does It Feel To Come Out?
i don’t think the video is necessarily groundbreaking, but i’m feeling a little emo today, so it made the list. though having a heart to heart with my gay coworker yesterday and then talking to my sister about coming out to my mom and how we would do that really shows how it is sort of a lifelong process. or something.
The most awkward feature of online chat.
But knowing when your partner is typing can also have the unsettling effect that Thompson described: It makes visible the care with which we pick our words. And the more visible this care becomes, the more the reader distrusts the message. Conversation is supposed to feel natural, after all. The quip is less funny if it’s not offhanded. Flirtation is not so flattering if it appears to require labor. And the apology can seem less heartfelt when you know it’s been self-lawyered.
It’s also just the case that the longer a response the take, the more we expect that it will somehow disappoint us. “In speech, it’s well known that if you say something and I respond to it, and my response is not going to be what you want to hear then it’s going to take me longer to answer than if I was just going to say yes,” says Susan Herring, a professor of linguistics and information science at Indiana University.
A similar rule seems to apply in text and online chat, at least once you know the other person has started typing. Recently, I reconnected on Gchat with a friend with whom I had been carelessly out of touch. As I began typing my final note, he remarked that it was taking me a long time—which distracted me and slowed me down even further. “Oh god… I’m going to get a long one,” he wrote. I hesitated once again. “It’s coming,” he typed. All I was trying to say, though, was “okay good, I’ll plan on sunday! we can figure out later.” When I finally sent the message, my friend wrote “all that typing for that!?!?!”
Such needless anxiety may just be a necessary tradeoff for the convenience of digital written conversations. If we eliminated the typing awareness indicator, we would struggle with online conversational turn-taking. And attempts to improve the indicator have fallen flat. Real-time typing, which lets you see the other person’s message as he composes it, keystroke by keystroke, has been unpopular; Google tried to introduce it a few years ago in Google Wave, but many people had the experience of Slate’s Farhad Manjoo, who wrote it “made me too self-conscious to get my thoughts across.”
The most common-sense workaround, of course, is to prepare your thoughts mentally before you begin typing them. That sounds easy enough, but some of us actually use writing as a way of working out our thoughts, not simply recording them after they’re fully formed. If nothing else, then, Google might give its users an alternative: Instead of “Ben is typing…” how about “Ben is thinking…”?
GQ’s Mickey Rapkin spent a week as an Uber driver, and saw and heard some things he’ll never forget
love the idea of hearing snippets and concocting storylines
That first night, I pulled up to a house in Beverly Hills and watched a teenage girl with a backpack hug her mom good-bye on the porch, then climb into the backseat of my car. (I did my best Sherlock Holmes trying to work out the story here. Where would a teenage girl go alone at 9 P.M. on a weeknight? To Dad’s house. Shared custody, my dear Watson. BOOM.) I don’t think I’ve talked to a teenage girl since I was a teenager, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. She gave me an address in the Palisades and looked down at her iPhone for the next twenty minutes. I tried to think of a conversation starter, but really, anything a 35-year-old man says to a girl with a backpack sounds pervy. “How was school today?” “Is it cold back there?” “Is anyone waiting at home?” So rather than make potentially litigious small talk, I just turned up the radio. (Uber bill: $26.)
But something happened around the third night: At the risk of sounding hippie-dippy, I started to give myself over to the experience. My Uber phone was equipped with a “heat map,” which shows drivers where the company’s most active customers are currently located. Staring at the heat map is like being connected to the Matrix; you can see where shit is going down. Late on a Tuesday night? Culver City and south. On weekends, Venice. I dropped a guy off in an alleyway one night (speakeasy? gambling ring? organ trafficking?) and thought, There are mysteries in this city. The job becomes akin to binge-watching a TV series late at night on Netflix: Okay, just one more. This can backfire. One night around 1 A.M., I picked up a passenger in Beverly Hills thinking it’d be a quick fare. I wound up taking him forty-five minutes away to Malibu. ($77.)
But the thrill—and it is thrilling—is the semi-sanctioned voyeurism. The conversations you’re pulled into. The worlds you’re privy to. The unknown pockets of the city you’re suddenly navigating. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t something sexual about the whole thing, too. Early one morning, I picked up a guy in West Hollywood and drove him to his hotel. We made eye contact in the rearview more times than could be called accidental, and when I pulled up to the lobby, I thought for a moment that he was going to ask me in. “It’s been a long week,” he said. It sounded like an invitation. ($14.)
Sometimes I started conversations. Sometimes they did. There’s something about the anonymity that makes you want to talk to a stranger. We’re in the digital age, but people seem to crave old-fashioned human interaction wherever they can get it. And when you drive a taxicab, man, people tell you some weird shit. Did you know that you can beat a Breathalyzer by putting pennies in your mouth? (Don’t try it. It’s not true.) Or that drug dealers sometimes cut cocaine with Tide? Or that some doctors think Augmentin is the best antibiotic for women who’ve just had a C-section? (Don’t get the idea that Uber is just for illicit thrills. One night I picked up two very sober, very intelligent doctors.)
If there’s one thing these fares all had in common, it was the need to escape: a bad party, Mom’s house, a too crowded post-concert clusterfuck. Uber isn’t worth $3.7 billion dollars just because they built a better taxi service. They built a magic carpet. If you’re at a party and you hear there’s a better one across town? Uber it. Super-rich folks have enjoyed private drivers for years. UberX just brings that luxury to the masses. At the start of 2013, Kalanick told me, 90 percent of Uber’s business was town cars—the fancier line known as UberBLACK. He expects uberX to eclipse it soon. I’m sure he’s right. It’s too easy. No one feels like a baller getting out of a yellow cab. But disappearing into the night? You’re not lame—you’re Rick Ross.
My week as a cabdriver was nearly over, and I realized I was going to miss it. I wasn’t going to miss the money—after Uber’s cut, I took home $312 on twenty-four rides. (I could have made much more if I’d stayed out later, but I’m basically narcoleptic.) I was going to miss the voyeurism, but not in the way you’d think. As a driver, you’re supposed to be invisible, but you’re let in on these poignant little moments. One night I picked up a recent college grad from a bar in Silver Lake; he was dressed in fashion-forward camouflage pants and a bandanna, with an oversize gold watch on his wrist. He sat next to me in the front seat (still weird), gave me an address way across town, then fell asleep for the next twenty-five minutes. He looked like a 10-year-old kid in his mother’s station wagon, taking a nap after soccer practice. I drove a little more carefully than usual. ($25.)
The ride I’ll remember most wasn’t the loudest or the rudest or even the most illicit. It was the hipster couple I picked up outside an indie-rock show. He had a badass blond beard. She was a cool Asian chick. As we sat in post-concert traffic, I listened to their small talk. They’d been dating only a short while—long enough that she could worry a bit about his ailing shoulder (“Does it still hurt when you work out?”) but not so long that he assumed she’d spend the night. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he whispered sweetly, his unasked question hanging in the air, unanswered. She looked down, said nothing.
Nervous, he continued to talk—about gardening, about how he’d already put too much money into a rental to maintain the grounds. She looked out the window. “I’m so over downtown,” she said. “I just want a backyard and fruit trees.”
They kissed. Kissed again. Then she laughed.
“When are you going to trim your beard?” she said with a teasing smile. “It feels like I’m kissing pubic hair.”
Something in her voice had changed, a decision reached, and I knew what was going to happen next. In that moment, her boyfriend wasn’t a passenger. He was Everyman. He was the hero of this ride, maybe of this entire article. And I was rooting for him. Sure enough, when we pulled up to his house, she got out of the car and went inside with him. ($32.)