Tuesday, May 18, 2010
JetBlue special Long Beach Pride flight
Check out photos from the first-ever "JetPride" event, as shot by yours truly: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jetblue/sets/72157623956194747/
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Website, Redux
My website is officially relaunched, folks! come see it and tell me what you think if you please....
http://www.kelsychauvin.com (designed by Aaron Howard, Seattle)
http://www.kelsychauvin.com (designed by Aaron Howard, Seattle)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Screenshot I Thought I'd Never See - Who Dat?!
On January 25th I was so excited the Saints were going to the Super Bowl I never even considered they might win. But then....what the?? Who IS Dat?? That's right kids -- on Sunday, February 7th, the voodoo curse that my mom once thought was suppressing the victorious Saints was lifted! And here's the screenshot from that night....Gumbo and hurricanes (the beverage) for everyone!
And if you missed Drew Brees on Ellen, it's worth a look if only to see his undies.
Monday, January 25, 2010
The New Orleans Saints and Divine Intervention
The New Orleans Saints, invented in 1967, a team whose only consistency was in last-minute losses, won the NFC Conference title and IS GOING TO THE SUPER BOWL.
Again: the SUPER BOWL. The SAINTS.
Holy fried oyster poboys ya'll!
Where the Saints are, otherworldly forces are always at work.
From what I hear, Bourbon Street ran out of liquor last night, fireworks and assorted hooting kept my parents awake, the whole of southern Louisiana called in sick to work, and Walmart sold out of Saints swag faster than Budweiser tallboy halfracks before a hurricane.
So suddenly this fleur-de-lis tattoo I've had on my forearm since 2005 is team spirit....
GO SAINTS!
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
The U.S. Postal Service as a reflection of U.S. Government
I am freshly back from the post office down the street. The line was long as usual for window service, so I went to the automated postage machine, only to find on the final screen that the printer was broken. I added myself to the window line with all the other suckers who occasionally are forced to use U.S. mail.
There were about a dozen of us in the switchback line while one clerk staffed a window, casually chatting with someone about Express Mail and money orders and I think the weather and possibly what's upcoming on the next Big Brother season.
Then the Woman in Pink came out. She's a fairly frightening woman - older, grey dreadlocks, always in the same pink cardigan when she comes out for her patrols. She circled us cattle stuck in the line, peering at our parcels before shouting "I can help people with pickups only - anybody got a pickup?" Silence, then someone shouted "How about stamps?" Her reply was "I answered that with the first thing I said."
It struck me how much the Postal Service is a reflection of our American government:
-Lines are always so long and service so cold, we just get used to it.
-The word "apathy" comes to mind every 10 seconds or so while in those lines.
-Customers continually commisserate, gossip, look and re-look at their parcels, sigh with pain.
-There are 25 signs posted per square foot in the post office, but nary a one answers my question. Hence, "Get in the line."
-Upon reaching the window, it's a crap shoot. They may be out of stamps, out of change, out of receipt printer toner, computer's down, or generally unsure what would be the best way to have my parcel reach its destination - so may as well send it priority.
-The word "hopeless" replaces "apathy."
And in the end, it took me two lines and 12 minutes to mail a "package" (NOT an envelope because it's 6x9" and rigid thankyou) for 78 cents. Next time I'm using the pony express.
There were about a dozen of us in the switchback line while one clerk staffed a window, casually chatting with someone about Express Mail and money orders and I think the weather and possibly what's upcoming on the next Big Brother season.
Then the Woman in Pink came out. She's a fairly frightening woman - older, grey dreadlocks, always in the same pink cardigan when she comes out for her patrols. She circled us cattle stuck in the line, peering at our parcels before shouting "I can help people with pickups only - anybody got a pickup?" Silence, then someone shouted "How about stamps?" Her reply was "I answered that with the first thing I said."
It struck me how much the Postal Service is a reflection of our American government:
-Lines are always so long and service so cold, we just get used to it.
-The word "apathy" comes to mind every 10 seconds or so while in those lines.
-Customers continually commisserate, gossip, look and re-look at their parcels, sigh with pain.
-There are 25 signs posted per square foot in the post office, but nary a one answers my question. Hence, "Get in the line."
-Upon reaching the window, it's a crap shoot. They may be out of stamps, out of change, out of receipt printer toner, computer's down, or generally unsure what would be the best way to have my parcel reach its destination - so may as well send it priority.
-The word "hopeless" replaces "apathy."
And in the end, it took me two lines and 12 minutes to mail a "package" (NOT an envelope because it's 6x9" and rigid thankyou) for 78 cents. Next time I'm using the pony express.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Film production company official: We have a logo!
It's a big day for Over/Under Productions!
New Logo by illustrator Jason Basse -- feedback welcome...
Monday, November 23, 2009
Random quotation marks
Monday, November 02, 2009
Goverthing: Is it real, or is it Memorex?
Goverthing's jukebox, still functioning, filled with the same song by the local "Nightingale"
I experienced the 'archaeological dig' on Governors Island a few weeks back, and was completely entranced by the bizarreness of this town's reality. Now, after a few conversations and a little research about it's authenticity, I might feel duped. I'm not sure yet. But this quote from a NY Times article about Goverthing -- from Geert Hautekiet, the Exhibition Specialist in charge out there -- is not helping Goverthing real-dealiness: “And also, maybe, that you should never trust Belgians,” he added, smiling. “But that’s off the record.” (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/19/arts/19archaeology.html)
Your input on this matter is welcome. I'll even keep a log of votes: Real or Memorex?
Monday, October 26, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Thursday, July 01, 2004
Friday, June 25, 2004
Compress This, Pal
He said they don’t make ’em like they used to. Only, he didn’t say it in a stereotypical–Maytag repairman way. This guy--Tomas--was a very, ahem, well-built fellow, I believe from Puerto Rico or at least Spanish-speaking Bronx.
What he really said was, “Jew know this used to be a big-dog company, Frigidaire. But they like all the rest of them. They don’t make them very good no more because…jew know, ’frigerators used to last 20, 30 years, but the big companies don’t make no money. So now you get this, and people have to go spend six, seven hundred dollars every couple of years.”
The short of it is, after 1.5 days of making some funky rattling sound off-and-on that I chose to ignore--much like I do a wanky subway conversation—the fridge died. Did I notice that every sip I took of Brita water was increasingly lukewarm? Did I bother to check on whether or not I still had the fridge’s warranty? Did I even mildly let it concern me?
It took the puddle slowly washing over the kitchen floor to provoke me, finally. I busted out Frigidaire.com and next thing you know, Tomas was on his way--a happy turn of events for 4 p.m. on the Friday of Pride weekend.
Thirty-five bucks “just for him to walk in the door” I believe was how the saucy wench on the phone put it. This is how it played out once he got here: He pulled the fridge out (appx. 5 seconds), he took off the base board on the back (appx. 7 seconds), then he tapped on the round black metal boxy thing and said, “Jew see that? That’s the compressor.”
Me: “Yeah?”
Him: “That’s not working.”
Me: “OK.”
Then a little this-and-that, followed by Him: “$250.” (Whole exchange: appx. 90 seconds)
At the very least, and bless his well-cardio’d heart, Tomas said he can replace “the compressor” tomorrow. (As for the quotes there, for all I know of the inner workings of major appliances he might as well have called it a rotator plug or johnson rod or WMD.)
So I guess it’s warm beer tonight.
What he really said was, “Jew know this used to be a big-dog company, Frigidaire. But they like all the rest of them. They don’t make them very good no more because…jew know, ’frigerators used to last 20, 30 years, but the big companies don’t make no money. So now you get this, and people have to go spend six, seven hundred dollars every couple of years.”
The short of it is, after 1.5 days of making some funky rattling sound off-and-on that I chose to ignore--much like I do a wanky subway conversation—the fridge died. Did I notice that every sip I took of Brita water was increasingly lukewarm? Did I bother to check on whether or not I still had the fridge’s warranty? Did I even mildly let it concern me?
It took the puddle slowly washing over the kitchen floor to provoke me, finally. I busted out Frigidaire.com and next thing you know, Tomas was on his way--a happy turn of events for 4 p.m. on the Friday of Pride weekend.
Thirty-five bucks “just for him to walk in the door” I believe was how the saucy wench on the phone put it. This is how it played out once he got here: He pulled the fridge out (appx. 5 seconds), he took off the base board on the back (appx. 7 seconds), then he tapped on the round black metal boxy thing and said, “Jew see that? That’s the compressor.”
Me: “Yeah?”
Him: “That’s not working.”
Me: “OK.”
Then a little this-and-that, followed by Him: “$250.” (Whole exchange: appx. 90 seconds)
At the very least, and bless his well-cardio’d heart, Tomas said he can replace “the compressor” tomorrow. (As for the quotes there, for all I know of the inner workings of major appliances he might as well have called it a rotator plug or johnson rod or WMD.)
So I guess it’s warm beer tonight.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Subway Seniority
The Q train was barely crowded--nobody really needed to stand.
The Q line uses the trains that have sideway seats at each window, flanked by a three-person, orange-and-yellow bench seats. Normally on this train I prefer the window seats so I can check out NY Harbor on my way over the Manhattan Bridge, but I was lucky enough to find a three-person bench with only one person on it. Curiously, he was in the middle seat. Normally, once someone occupies a seat on either side of you in those benches, the original person will slide over so there’s some elbow room.
Not so with this guy. He held his ground, wouldn’t budge, and wouldn’t spare an inch for the sake of a total stranger’s comfort. I tried to distract myself with reading but it wouldn’t take. So I spent the ride silently cursing his selfish bastardness.
Three weeks later I get onto a similarly crowded Q train, and I luck out again and nab a three-person bench for myself. Naturally, I take the end where I’m able to lean on the steel armrest--a choice that completely follows the unspoken rule of train-seating seniority. Only, it was one of the first hot days of summer, and the woman who’d just disembarked left the seat awkwardly hot. So I scooted over the hump into the middle seat and the train moves out.
Moments later a tall man comes out of nowhere and squeezes into the hot seat between me and the armrest.
Now, at this point I was in a quandary: Do I scoot over to the other end seat and make the tall, scary man sitting in the sideway seat move his pointy knees over? Do I straddle the seat-divider hump to give both me and the new guy more room, and suffer the uncomfortable divider?
I looked around to see if there were really no other seats this new guy could’ve taken--and aha! There were plenty of seats just screaming to be taken first. “He sat here just because he thought I’d scoot over. The nerve!” Then spite sank in, and from that point on I was determined not to move a muscle.
There I sat, waiting for the broad-shouldered bastard to leave so I could spread out again. I was vindicated finally when he got off the train one stop before me.
The Q line uses the trains that have sideway seats at each window, flanked by a three-person, orange-and-yellow bench seats. Normally on this train I prefer the window seats so I can check out NY Harbor on my way over the Manhattan Bridge, but I was lucky enough to find a three-person bench with only one person on it. Curiously, he was in the middle seat. Normally, once someone occupies a seat on either side of you in those benches, the original person will slide over so there’s some elbow room.
Not so with this guy. He held his ground, wouldn’t budge, and wouldn’t spare an inch for the sake of a total stranger’s comfort. I tried to distract myself with reading but it wouldn’t take. So I spent the ride silently cursing his selfish bastardness.
Three weeks later I get onto a similarly crowded Q train, and I luck out again and nab a three-person bench for myself. Naturally, I take the end where I’m able to lean on the steel armrest--a choice that completely follows the unspoken rule of train-seating seniority. Only, it was one of the first hot days of summer, and the woman who’d just disembarked left the seat awkwardly hot. So I scooted over the hump into the middle seat and the train moves out.
Moments later a tall man comes out of nowhere and squeezes into the hot seat between me and the armrest.
Now, at this point I was in a quandary: Do I scoot over to the other end seat and make the tall, scary man sitting in the sideway seat move his pointy knees over? Do I straddle the seat-divider hump to give both me and the new guy more room, and suffer the uncomfortable divider?
I looked around to see if there were really no other seats this new guy could’ve taken--and aha! There were plenty of seats just screaming to be taken first. “He sat here just because he thought I’d scoot over. The nerve!” Then spite sank in, and from that point on I was determined not to move a muscle.
There I sat, waiting for the broad-shouldered bastard to leave so I could spread out again. I was vindicated finally when he got off the train one stop before me.
Monday, June 14, 2004
The Racket in the Hallway
When I had a day job I always wondered what went on in my building from 8am to 6pm. Now I know: Maintenance guys having fun, sometimes doing work-like stuff, and generally making a racket because they think no one's home.
I think I'll go out and give 'em a shock...
I think I'll go out and give 'em a shock...
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