I did not post last year or the year before. So I’ll just say that today I am 30.5 years old.

When I was a little girl I had a serious overbite. I know the word “serious” doesn’t describe much, so allow me to elaborate using examples.

My Immodest Front Teeth My top teeth were so arrogant, they did not like the relationship between my bottom lip and my top lip. All those times I waited patiently on the mushroom shaped sofa-circles lining the roller rink, my front teeth would sit on top of my bottom lip totally exposed like a big white awning. Because of this relationship, my bottom lip helped to move my front teeth further and further outward and my lower teeth further and further inward. You know those fake teeth they sell during Halloween? The ones that stick out and are all rotten and whatnot? Those were sort of like my teeth, only mine were white and not rotten. Needless to say, no one ever asked me to skate especially after the unfortunate incident which included a limbo bar and my two front teeth.

Mind The Gap Alas, the buckness was not my only concern. Not only did I have a huge overbite, but there was a space between my two front teeth. And while this was an awesome bonus feature for inserting quarters, man-handling straws, squirting pool water through, and inserting my tongue between, it was not particularly attractive. However, all were excellent ways to pass the time while dosing off during social studies.

The Depth Of Ugly My bite was so deep, I could stick my thumb and forefinger, thumbprints touching, and insert them towards the roof of my mouth and still have room to move.

Their Job (aka “Chewing”) Chewing was not easy. Pizza would fall right out of the front of my face. I would attempt to eat pizza like any normal person, and it would just fall forward, out of my mouth. I imagine it was like feeding pizza to a toothless baby. Only not cute.

A Retrospective Look Much like how I critique the kerning of signage all over the world, I am pretty sure that my teeth were like a badly kerned T H. From 1980 until 1986, I’m willing to bet money on the fact that any Orthodontist who was unfortunate enough to meet my acquaintance, was thinking “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD FILL IN THE BLANKS! FILL IN THE BLANKS!”

I do not exaggerate.

I’s a good thing I was born with parents who were both vain enough to understand and who had had enough money to help correct me. I went through years of pain and tightening. I wore a retainer every day for over two years at a very early age. It was called a bionator. It was used to move my developing jaw forward, to a more reasonable position. After that was fixed, I was dressed in braces. I wore them for another 4 years.

Let’s just say I went through a lot.

So you can imagine, after this wordy definition of a horribly unattractive overbite, how upset I was when I realized that one of the retainers I wear to keep everything at bay went missing during our move. Below, is a picture of what it looked like. (Please click on the image to enlarge).

The American Health Care system does NOT cover orthodontics. And I have excellent health care. It’s a crying shame they won’t cover this. Today, my mommy called my old orthodontist, (I’m 30, how pathetic is that?) the one who made me the retainers over 10 years ago, and they told her they threw out my molds, therefore, unable to make me a new one.

So I need to get resized. Which means having to bite down on those terribly cold metal molds filled with pink shit that smells like cherries and ass.

This is a cry for help. I am asking for a donation of one dollar in order to replace my missing retainer. If you can’t spare a dollar, please send me unwanted, unused retainers to me and I will see if they fit. After all, the top one is really very lonely. Please, help me finally get that couple-skate I always wanted.

(I’m growing more and more neurotic by the minute).

A year ago today I did not post. Two years ago today I did.

That is all.

As my husband said, “Props to Kerry”.

This weekend Toby and I accomplished quite a bit. On Saturday we discovered the bus system. We headed to Alamo Square for Coffee In The Park (CIP). Mitch Cope (our dear friend from Detroit) told us about it months ago and Mark (the coffee maker) started it up again after a hiatus. Toby and I decided to check it out and have a cup of coffee.

After we left the park, we hopped on the N Juda and headed to the beach to check out the waves. The wind was so incredible, we were both sandblasted back inland. I could nearly lean myself against the wind, all the while standing up without falling forward. Needless to say, we didn’t last long.

On sunday, we woke up early and headed to the San Francisco Pride Parade with Cathy and Mike. What an amazing morning. My only souvenir is a pretty thick layer of San Francisco sunshine, I’m wearing it on my cheeks, my chest and my arms. Skin cancer, come get me.

Below are 19 more images taken over the course of the weekend. I had 173 images to choose from, but there are only 20 featured here.

(Click on images to enlarge)

Alan Cummings was there. (It’s grainy. I zoomed because he knows Jennifer Jason Leigh and I sorta had a thing for her after seeing her in Proof. I ain’t gonna lie, she’s cute.

Gwen’s family was there. I was touched by this. I may have gotten a wee bit weepy too.

And there was the gay porn distributor. I think they’re called Falcon.

The San Francisco Mayor, Gavin Newson, was there.

He used to work for Target, but it seems someone may have left him out in the rain for too long.

(I could not help but think of the movie Heather’s after reading this sign. Sorry).

It seems that Little Bo Peep has lost his sheep.

I think this guy may have tapped into the a little somethin-somethin Oakland may have been offering.

(Three Whys: Why were the kids from the Real World there? Why did I take this picture of the kids from the Real World? Why did I post a picture of the kids from the Real World? I have never watched one episode. I know nothing about these people).

The Good Vibrations float. This chicks totally ruled.

Coffee in the Park with Mark.

A year ago today and two years ago today.

(I have no idea how I’m still doing this).

“Wah, I just got caught on foot in a tropical style downpour. Spent about 15 minutes under that kiosk on 18th and Columbia w/3 latino guys rating wet chicks. Ahhh good times…”

This came in from my wonderful, lovely and amazing (gay) friend.

(Sidenote: man, I’m talky today).

I wish they would come up with something like a microwave only instead of heating stuff up in a matter of seconds, it would cool stuff down.

In our present-day household what we consider to be “drugs” is translated into another 1 syllable word called “food”. Food is lovely. And much like drugs, food can also drive can certain people in this household to kill if we don’t have it. Food is important.

Yesterday evening, Toby called me from the Muni FREAKING THE HELL OUT over how hungry he was. I was already home, resting so comfortably my hand was down the front of your pants. Toby and I? We did the usual dance that we do,

“You hungry?”

“Yeah, I’m hungry.”

“Where ya wanna go?”

“I don’t know. Where do you wanna go?”

“Sushi?”

“No that was pricey. Thai?”

“Nah. Why don’t we eat in?”

“Yeah… but we have nothing to eat there… I’ll buy something on my way home.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be here. Waiting.”

After a fitful conversation between two dieting, obviously hungry mates, it was decided that home was our best bet. And so the Bean went shopping.

Normally, when Toby arrives home from work he kisses me. It’s just his thing. (I was once bitched at on the L Train in Brooklyn for NOT kissing him immediately upon our meeting). So we kiss. And I love it. But last night Toby didn’t kiss me. Which was the best thing considering he would have probably eaten my face.

The boy was out of control eating everything in sight. I took pictures, just like Ashkhn Sahihi. Granted, I ain’t no fashion photographer, nor did I care much for light and focusing but here is TobyJoe eating five different foods while making our meal.

Clearly, we need evening activities.

A year ago today. and two years ago today.

(Sometimes even I offend myself).

But the pictures bring back memories.

Toby and I have been renting a number of movies lately. We watched The Station Agent which was just fabulous. It had the same pulse a favorite of mine called You Can Count On Me. Plus, Bobby Cannavale of “Third watch” was surprisingly wonderful. This is also the first time I found myself attracted to a dwarf. What a cutie. But the poor fella suffers from the last name of “Dinklage”. Something seems not right about that last name.

We also saw Irreversible. I sort of wish I could discuss it with someone, someone who didn’t hide in the bathroom during the rape scene and the first scene and the scene with the hookers.

We also watched Kill Bill, Volumn 1. (Go, Uma! Work that sword, work it girl), In America (Embrace the angry black man. He is not what he seems), Capturing the Friedmans (thou shall fear computer classes offered for children in brownish basements) and The Weather Underground (Inspiring. [Read into that what you will]).

Actually, jokes aside, all of these films were quite good, if not great.

Above is a picture I got back from a roll of film which had gone missing not once, but twice. I thought it was gone forever. Alas, here it is. This was a shot taken while we were in Turks and Caicos last February. I’m not entirely sure how that gradient from light to dark came about. It’s been a while since I dug out the Pentax so maybe my camera is touched. And while the light was like that, I’m not sure it was quite that drastic. Anyway, I kinda like this shot. Now I just have to figure out how I can find her to send it to her.

Speaking of pictures, Toby and I were perusing photographs taken by Ashkan Sahihi and we both found the drug series pretty amusing and wonderful. The cum series, however, is sort of bothersome. Not bothersome as in that I’m offended sort of way, but bothersome because I have this outstanding urge to run them into the nearest bathroom and wet-wipe each and every one of their faces while screaming “KEEP YOUR EYES SHUT! MAKE SURE YOU SHUT YOUR EYES!” (all the while wearing gloves, of course).

Today, Mike sent me this link to UMass Front Percussion Ensemble covering “Paranoid Android” by Radiohead (you can download it and listen by clicking “Link”). It’s pretty crazy, totally. It’s pretty good, actually.

(p.s. Thank you for all the email regarding my mental whereabouts, however, I sometimes speak in superlatives and without editing. I’m really not that sad. My life is not “falling apart” a phrase TobyJoe used when explaining how it may seem to others after reading this post. I sing every morning. Just ask him. All is o.k. I promise).

They say a person changes their career SEVEN times during a lifetime. Seven? Wow.

That said, I have a few questions. They are direct ones. So if you’re reading this, have you changed your career since graduating from college (or its equivalent)? If you have, what to? And if you have been doing exactly the same thing since that day (more or less) are you happy with what you do? If you could, what might you switch to knowing what it is you know now?

Loaded, yes. But I’m honestly curious. And by no means does anyone have to answer all of these. Even a yes or no will do.

(This is an equal-opportunity question).

(I am putting this back up because someone gave me hell for editing myself yet again).

When I was a kid I was so happy. True, I was afraid of things such as monsters, the death of animals, and darkness—I hated darkness. I was also terrified of being left alone. There were times when I would wake up, knowing that while sleeping and having fallen asleep that I was with someone, and upon waking up I was alone. I hated that feeling. I still do. For me, there is no emptier a feeling.

And Toby knows this. He knows that instead of letting me sleep, he should wake me up to tell me if he’s leaving. There have been numerous times where I have been woken up to find him in the other room programming. And as much I have grown to realize this as a possibility, I still wake up disoriented and confused.

It’s these moments during every day reentries into living where we’re almost brand new again, hostless and cold. It’s like being reborn all over again but THIS TIME knowing it’s happening and at first without any immediate history called to mind.

While I hate this feeling. I also love it. I love the moment I’m proven wrong. For example, I love reaching over in the middle of the night and grabbing my boy after realizing I’m conscious and he is there. Man, there is nothing more wonderful than that living warmth! The day that is taken away from me, I’ll feel like nothing. The unfortunate part is that for some reason, I already force myself to imagine this. And as terrible and silly as this may sound there have been moments where I hold my touch for a little longer just to make sure that he is still breathing. Sometimes I fear losing this happiness so much, I forget to enjoy it while it’s there.

When I ride into work in the morning, I get off the Muni at Montgomery station in downtown San Francisco. I walk through Montgomery Station, and head left through a small hallway. I ride the escalator up to the street and walk and pass a small newsstand in front of a tall Citicorp building. I keep walking forward. Usually I’m listening to music on my iPod. Lately, it’s been Modest Mouse’s “Good News for People Who Like Bad News.” This, like most of this post, has no relavant meaning. I just walk to a soundtrack and take in whatever seems different. (Every day, given the number of people there are in this world-this city-I’m shocked at how many reruns I witness while commuting. Nuts).

Yesterday, I walked passed the usual office buildings, and I passed the usual parking garage about a block away from my office. While there, I turned my head to the right. The parking man stood next to a blue Honda. There was a woman sitting in the car. She was younger, probably around 35 or 40. The guy had given her a ticket—a ticket to say she could temporarily park there. I looked a bit further and noticed her license plate. It read:

You’ve Got a Friend In PENNSYLVANIA

After I got over my usual annoyance with the horrible grammar on the Pennsylvania License plate, my reaction was to walk over and introduce myself. I figured, she’s from home. I’m from home. She should know this. I should tell her about Pennsylvania. And I wanted her to know my name. I should ask her about fireflies and left turns. I should tell her that in San Francisco she can buy beer on Sundays. And she can buy it in the grocery store. I should also tell her about the wind and the fog and that it’s not really a storm. Someone really needs to tell her this and possibly, even deliver it with a hug.

I miss home. I can’t lie. Lately, I have felt like I’m living here just to watch the days go by. And that’s not good. (Who would do that to beautiful San Francisco?) I have been known to blow the past so far out of proportion—to glorify it beyond godly belief. Even this sad, nostalgic gal knows she will one day look back on this day and say “MAN! I want to go back again! I want to relive THAT time.” And you might think that if I knew that now, I might do something about enjoying now as well.

I make life really hard for me sometimes. And there is no one sicker than hearing these sort of words come to mind than I am. But they’re there every day during those moments I least expect them-when a stranger is parking her Pennsylvania car in a dark parking garage at 9 a.m.-they’re there.

Why do I find a sadness in everything? I would sell this part of myself today for maybe a banana or even just one strawberry.

Remember when I said I wasn’t going to talk about my diet? I lied. Truth is, I can’t help it. It’s become such a huge part of my every day, that I can’t help but talk about it. So huge in fact, my unconscious self (we’ll call her Lynn) has been sneaking Krispy Kreme donuts while dreaming.

For three days now I have been abiding by the South Beach Diet. Which means I haven’t had any bread, pasta, donuts, or wonderful and lovely, perfect potatoes of any kind. Admittedly, I have had some red wine. For the first two weeks booze is not allowed. A gal’s gotta have a little sugar, right? The strangest part about this-other than allowing myself to some red wine from time to time-is that I’m pretty into it.

This morning Toby and I visited the supermarket and purchased a hundred bucks worth of (South Beach) diet-friendly goods. For the next two weeks my goal is to lower my insulin level. According to this diet, most of the cravings we have are based on how irrational our insulin levels are throughout the day. In other words, eating certain foods make us hungry. For two weeks I’m to eat items with a low glycemic index. For example, things like low-fat cheese, fish, veggies, and nuts are fine (meat, if you’re not a fishetarian). But items such as bread, fruit, baked goods, and cereals are out of the question. Fruit, I can introduce after the two weeks are up. Cereal and bread as well, but I have to make sure they are made with whole grains and not extremely processed flour.

I will be the first to admit that I am not a large girl. As a matter of fact, I’m of an average weight. But what really bothers me is that I USED to be a lot thinner. I used to be able to wear small dresses without feeling like I was overflowing, I used to be able to wear bathing suits without feeling uncomfortable. I used to feel fine with my body. And now I see it changing. While it’s not by much, I know that in time it could get out of my control. And becoming obese is not something I ever want to experience. Fearing my own reflection would be a horrible experience. And I am already starting to make faces at that reflection while exiting the shower or getting dressed for work. This sort of change is not what I was looking for. This sort of change must be undone.

What I’m saying is it’s all relative. If I feel too big, I should do something about it. And so I am. Regardless of how “average” I might really be to everyone else, I can’t watch myself go down the pooper at such a young age. (I can’t believe I’m sitting here making sure I don’t offend anyone by saying I’m on a diet. I get this feeling people scoff at those who aren’t overweight, but are instead not happy with themselves for reasons which may be personal, and not based on what the norm may be. While I may not have high cholesterol, nor am I worrying about having a heart-attack any time soon, I’m not happy with the changes my body has made).

But I digress. My goal is to lose 20 pounds, putting me at around 120. In college I was lucky to break one hundred, so 120 isn’t so bad. Plus, I could really spare some boobage.

All that said, from this day forward I will be taking pictures of one naked mihow (but not for public viewing, obviously) to compare the changes that happen to my body over the course of the next couple of months. And I’ll keep an online, written diary as well. After all, that’s what this is for, right? A diary that anyone can follow.

On a totally unrelated note, I wish to show that in our household even the cats know that Apple is the shit.

A year ago today. And Two years ago today.

(And still I feel very much the same way. What a gem I found).

Oh, and this was awesome. Those were the days. hehe

Gina’s husband, Mitch, has a drawing series up at an online magazine. Check them out.

San Francisco is so much gayer than Philadelphia.

Here are a few pictures taken over the past several days. Much to my dismay, my camera seems to be auto-stuck on some weird grainy-taking mode (I’m sure this is a user error, but whatever). I think this is why I’m still sort of partial to the variety of cameras that aren’t smarter than I am. For example, just yesterday Toby and I finally received our Holgas in the mail. They speak my language—the language of duct-tape and hope. Sorry for my lack. I had excellent intentions here. (Know this much).

(Descriptions, if any, are below each picture.)

Myself.

The beach we visited on Sunday with Cathy and Mike. (It’s a shame I had my ISO up too high. They’re so grainy. Ah well).

Again. This is the rock I laid on while the waves pounded below. What a day. What a wonderful day.

Admittedly, it’s all about the ass.

More sidewalk signage.

Saturday. Heather Champ and Rachel Lea Fisher

Saturday. Aaron Kimball

Rachel and Toby

An image taken while I was trying to figure out what my camera was doing.

Toby and I finally got our AWOL roll of film back from Ritz camera. I wrote about it a few days ago. Anyway, we got them back. And much to my pleasant surprise they were a long lost roll I had taken while in Turks and Caicos. I am so happy. And some of the images are really quite nice.

Last night, Toby and I had dinner in the Castro at a place called Tangerine. We found it by accident after hopping on the F-Line, a local above-ground train of sorts. We’ve been meaning to check out the F-Line for weeks, in hopes that in the morning as an occasional change of pace we might take it instead of Muni. But it’s kinda slow. And while this might not get my ass to work early enough in the morning, it’s a nice ride in the evening. And so we rode until we saw 14th street and Church and then hopped off to explore the neighborhood a bit. And find food.

Food. Food has been a tough necessity for me as of late. I have decided to give this South Beach diet a try. I’m not planning on going all South Beach strict on my ass, but cutting down on the mass consumption of white bread, pasta, and random potato products might not be such a bad idea. I could spare a few pounds. Lately, I feel as though I’m growing an inner tube. And so it has begun. Talking about dieting is such a bore. I ordered the red snapper and a salad. He had tofu curry and vegetables. Both dishes were lovely.

After we ate, we headed back to Noe Valley where we picked up a bottle of wine and purchased some new books. Toby picked up Bob Woodward’s book, Plan of Attack and I got The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time and Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim. With cable away for the summer, we need something to do. I also picked up this book. You know, for good measure.

We arrived back at home and promptly put the books down once we were greeted by our television. We watched Downloading Sex. I was wondering if I might see Toby enter the “Exhibition Room” and get his groove on since he worked there and all, but this did not happen. He recognized a few people in the “Exhibition Room”, but did not join in. Thankfully. The show was interesting. They did these things called “Masturbation Studies” and when they were on I could not take my eyes away from the screen. So odd. Basically, a woman is asked to enter a small, private room and sit in front of a camera while she gives herself an orgasm. Fascinating, watching someone’s face while they masturbate. With the sound turned off, I imagine they could just be singing karaoke.

Hell, ain’t got much to say today. I will post my pictures from this past weekend tonight. Finally, some eye candy.

I can already tell by my intentions going into this post that I’m going to receive some phone calls. I also have the feeling that my ears will ring or my nose will itch, or whatever weird body thing happens when people talk about you while you’re not around.

Lately something has come over me. It came over me much like one of these west coast waves you always hear about. You know, the ones that you hear about washing up and then sucking you back down with its wicked undertow. It seems I was hit by one of these waves. And when I finally stood up again, I was totally upside down.

I have become babified. Every baby I see, I start to imagine how it will look once my and Toby’s genes are both present. Is it wrong that I’ve become excited about this? It’s not a dinner we’d be making, it’s not a mixture of paint. It’s a god damn baby. But still, I’m all putting together this imaginary baby in my head using parts of Toby and parts of myself as if it were a sculpture. It’s like I’m picking out a new car or something. Which, incidentally, we have begun to discuss as well. I am only now realizing how maybe this is yet another baby diversion. And since we can’t get a dog (another Noe Valley, pre-baby staple) because we are overrun by fat cats, I think maybe we’re thinking about cars. Can’t have a baby or a dog? Buy a new car!

I know we live in Noe Valley which is also known as Baby Valley, but it’s not just that. I have no aspirations in becoming a raging, post dot-com, capri-pant wearing, black (or green) SUV driving yuppie like many ornaments dotting our valley. I have no pressure coming in from anywhere. My biological clock was only just recently pulled out of the box.

I know that it won’t come as a surprise to anyone when I say that I truly adore my husband. I’m sure that for those who know the both of us, you are all very well aware of this fact, probably pretty sick of hearing it too. And for anyone else who reads this site (which by the way, thank you for giving me the time of day, I’m not sure how you do) you may also realize as much. But it doesn’t hurt to say it again especially because I still find it so amazing. I love him. I really do. I love that he’s smart and unbelievably witty. I love his big head and his crazy hair (when he lets it get that way). I love that he’s wearing the shoes that I bought him. I love his freckles, and the way he speaks and that people still think he’s a girl over the phone. Most of all, I love that he’s nice. Oh my goodness, is he nice! And he’s kind. He’s one of the kindest people I have ever met. I’m lucky. There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t know this.

Lately, we’ve been kicking around with Cathy and Mike. And they have a little girl. She’s amazing. I’ll leave it at that. And if the internet didn’t scare the hell out of me sometimes with its search strings, I’d post a picture of her and talk about her endlessly. But I won’t. I could easily blame this all on them. I should. I should just blame Cathy and Mike and their unbelievably smart little girl. That’d be easy. But there’s more to it than that. Truth is this: I know that the nose should live on. I really just want a TobyJoe nose of my own. And I want it to be placed on something I made. It’s all about that damn nose. I blame it on his nose. (And those little baby socks, but those are a given).

Is it a wrong reason to want a baby through the dismemberment of the person you love?

In spite of a surprise visit by my faithful friend, Sadness, this weekend ended up being quite nice. I started off Friday with a bang by watching Reagan’s funeral on TV. (I don’t recommend this technique for those who are the color blue). Through the tears and a puffy face, I managed to order Thai food and start a fire with my better half. We both fell into bed early.

Saturday, Toby and I went out with a few of the Bay Area Photo Bloggers in Cole Valley. It was great meeting everyone. After finished up a few afternoon drinks we headed to Magnolia for dinner.

On Sunday, Cathy and Mike picked us up and we all headed to a beach about 70 miles south of San Francisco. The pacific ocean is beautiful. This empty beach had one of those weird random rock pimples, jetting out from the middle of sea. And as silly as it sounds, I have imagined and dreamed about such a scene for years. And waves came in around it on both sides, converging in on one another with a slap. I laid, facedown and dead center and watched them slide in and envelope and tickle the seaweed desperately clinging to the rock below.

The ocean, in any state, never ceases to astound me. It’s been this way all of my life.

The ride there and back was even momentous. We drove through the mountains on 35. We at dinner at the famous biker stop, Alice’s Restaurant. The temperature up there is about 10 degrees cooler than it is near the water or inland. And I swear every house along 35 is for sale. At one point on our way home we drove alongside the fog coming in off the ocean. And then, just like that, we popped out above it for a while as if flying. All the while, being guided by redwood skyscrapers, towering up above the car each top out of mysite.

And the smells! I can’t even begin to describe them. Or maybe I’m just too tired to try.

Of course I took pictures documenting the entire weekend. And, in getting to know my new camera, many of them are too grainy and over-exposed. Learning digital, raw is proving to have its difficulties. I’ll try and upload some photos later. It’s a good thing it’s all in my head. Thankfully, software can’t download or corrupt that.

I’ve been inside of myself lately. So if I’m a gal of few words for a while please forgive.

San Francisco.

I had this brilliant idea the other night that I’d write a satirical essay comparing certain, present-day online communication (email lists, forums, and the like) and career titles with the role-playing, strategy game I know nothing about called Dungeons and Dragons. Unlike many other ideas which come and go I actually chewed on this one. I got to know it. And my conclusion was that it might be a good idea, even a fun one.

Now you may be asking yourself, “Why? Why would she think about, let alone write about such a ridiculous topic?” I’m afraid I don’t much of an answer for you. (But if you figure one out for yourself, please let me know because it might save me a whole hell of a lot of time).

I know about the game. I know it revolved around the art of role-playing. I know there were dwarves, elves, and priests. I know there were bad guys. And I know there were numerous levels. I know that all of them liked to fight.

“How hard can this be?” I thought.

I played Dungeons and Dragons once. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was around 14 and the boys across the street (much like the rest of the world) were suddenly consumed by it. But Dungeons and Dragons started cutting into our break-dancing time. I couldn’t have that. If I was going to lose out on a few headspins, I certainly had to be involved in the conflicting activity.

These boys (like most boys) liked to talk about what girls couldn’t do. And I knew from an early age that girls could do pretty much anything boys could do. There were times girls might not be dumb enough to try, but we could do pretty much anything if we wanted. For example, the day Vince told me I couldn’t pee into a jar while standing up, I took it upon all female-kind (the most feminist act I ever took part in) to at the very least try. I peed all over my hands. Some hit the driveway, some of it hit the jar. I called it a success. When I was a girl-kid, I could pretty much do anything. Especially when someone said that I couldn’t.

And so I taunted. I wanted to play this game. I wanted to figure out why kids were going crazy from it—even killing themselves. I wanted to figure out why kids were losing sleep, growing zits, losing weight, and missing school. And I wanted, most of all, to touch the dice. Those dice were so pretty. They were like little jewels in my girly, I mean, manly hands.

I was finally invited to play. I was so excited! I played for about a half an hour before I gave up to a cloud of confusion. I had no friggin clue what was going on.

Understanding Dungeons and Dragons is like coming in halfway through a primetime drama series after everyone else has been talking about for 20 years. There’s just so much to it! There are classes and characters in classes. There different levels of characters within characters of classes.

Needless to say, my past experience with Dungeons and Dragons was next to nothing (shame on me for assuming otherwise). But now that I know a little bit of a whole lot, I wish I had given it a better chance because I think my imagination (back then) could have used an external vacation from an every day fantasy.

All that said, the past couple of days I have been gathering Dungeons and Dragons information. I have been reading about it in my spare time. I have been perusing the artwork, the weird graphics, and getting better acquainted with pewter. And I haven’t gotten very far. (Not much of a magickal elf now, am I?) But something has occurred to me. I finally understand why it is people kill themselves while taking part in this game. It’s really quite simple. This game is the more complex and confusing than Fermat’s last theorem. It’s harder than finding a left turn in San Francisco.

It’s no wonder why kids went mad.

Ah yes, I remember this from one year ago today. And then this from two years ago today.

That fight was absurd. It’s good to know that the one girl became a raging lunatic spouting off how much she hates liberals, etc. Some people should require a license to discuss politics publicly. (And for the record, I am one of these people.)

Last night, I purchased 25 dollars worth of Guided By Voices cds in search of one song I haven’t heard in about 6 or 7 years. I really want it. I can’t even hum it to the clerk (something done quite frequently to me while working in the music shop back in college) because I don’t even remember the tune. I just remember loving it so. I got Alien Lanes and Mag Earwhig!

Neither, of which, have the song I am looking for.

25 bucks ain’t so bad, really. The thing is, most of their songs as many of you may know are like 30 seconds to a minute long. I should have gotten another cd because the total number of minutes don’t add up to what I would have gotten if I had purchased, say, a Sonic Youth c.d. or a live recording of Phish.

Damn, I want that song.

Let’s see, after yesterday’s post about the balls of my head, I think I’ll settle for something a little less insane and talk about stuff.

It’s cold here. No, Really. It’s cold. I wear scarves every day. I’m only mentioning this because while living back east I often wondered what the weather was like out west while we were all swimming through salty air.

Answer: It’s cold. But not so cold that things like this can’t grow outside along our street in Noe Valley.

(The above reminds me of fiber optics. Plants like this, they don’t grow on the sidewalk back east. Weird reptile-like vegetation, they is.)

(He says, “Feed me, mihow!” Every time I walk by.)

Let’s see, last night, Toby finally picked up 15 (processed) of the 30 (total) rolls of film he’s shot since our last week in DC. One of the rolls we got back was someone else’s. The old Parenthood switcheroo. And this didn’t bother me at first. Until Toby reminded me about that time I decided to vacuum the apartment in my underpants. And what did he do? He took pictures. The bastard. What if some woman and her parents are currently holding pictures of me vacuuming in my underwear? (No, there was nothing kinky.)

Anyway, some of the shots are spectacular. And I know I might be a biased critic, but some of them are really superb. Amazing, that kid. He takes up a hobby and nearly masters it in no time at all. He’s done this since I’ve known him. I told him last night, I want him to take up knitting next. BECAUSE IT’S SO DAMN COLD HERE!

Speaking of photography, this weekend we’re going to meet up with some other Bay Area photo bloggers at the Reverie Cafe. That should be pretty cool. It will be excellent finally meeting Heather Champ and her husband to be, Derek Powazek. Toby and I are both looking forward to it. (Remember this?) Ahhhh those were the days, the days where I made very little to no sense.

At some point this weekend, we have to finally clean up and arrange our apartment. It’s cluttered and there are still boxes strewn about the place. But here’s a shot of the box-free section.

(Yes, that’s a leg lamp. And mpap! See! That’s our pottery on the table. The important stuff is always unpacked right away.)

Elsewhere: Missy took pictures of Ronald Reagan’s funeral procession in D.C. I remember being there with her when Clinton was impeached. We kicked about downtown for hours watching people argue and protest, yell and call one another names. I imagine that this time it was a much different scene. And I wish I could have been there with her to take witness.

(Did I mention that it’s cold here?)

A year ago today. And Two years ago today.

Please note: On the first link, unfortunately, I had to remove the song I linked to because I was hit by some third-party MP3 site. Oh well.

Now come on, people. Just go buy it. I posted about them last week. It just gets better and better.

Here’s another song.

It’s so good. You should go buy it.

There is so much going on in my life right now. There are so many new things: new possibilities, new people, new sites, new sounds, new ways of making money, new ways of keeping quiet, new friends, new adventures, new toys. There are new bits of everything. And these bits of everything are beating the inside of my head one at a time like hundreds of little paddle balls tied to pieces of brain matter.

There are the obvious bigger balls, like the fact that we moved to California, or that I started a new job. And for the most part, once these balls hit the inside of my head, I just let them squish on thru to the other side, straight into the oncoming path of any unfortunate person within earshot. I can talk with these balls, they are my seeds to conversation. Whether they take, well, that’s up to the other person.

It’s all those other paddleballs, the smaller, more refined ones. These are the little bastards driving me totally bonkers. I can’t say WHO is coming and when and WHY he or she is coming. I can’t take pictures of them and put them all over the Internet. I CAN’T DO THESE THINGS. So these balls, they keep bouncing from one end of the inside of my head to the other—back and forth, back and forth.

When it comes to myself, I have never been one to hold much in. The time I was in 2nd grade gym class and had to puke, I told everyone I was going to do it first. I told everyone about the time I fell drunk from the roof, and that I bounced along a tree and hit every branch along the way. No one saw, I could have said I got the scars in �Nam. I have come out of my heavy metal, hippy closet many times and mentioned having actually liked both Iron Maiden and Cinderella at the same time. And I told people about the time this pale redhead covered herself in CRISCO (did you just see that word, I said �CRISCO�) desperately in search of a summer tan so she could be as brown and sugary as her 13-year-old girlfriends. And she may have burned herself so badly, her feet and ankles swelled up to the size of her thighs. Let’s see, I peed my pants long past the pee your pants passable timeframe. I made out with Caryn’s boyfriend while she was away for the weekend. (She was my best friend at the time. She had a better tan). I once cried in front of the entire choir class after being told to sing solo. I have smoked banana leaves. I once believed these two popular girls at school who told me that if I were to lie on ground and wave my arms around like some kind of moron, angels would come talk to me.

When it comes to me, it�s no balls barred. I just can’t keep anything in. Nothing. In fact, I can safely say that there is not one thing I have EVER done, stupid or not, that someone out there doesn’t know about.

I am secretless.

So it’s safe to say that the past few weeks have been killing me. Why? Because I can’t write about what I really want to write about, which is writing about everything that I SEE every day while working here and living there and not saying anything about nothing here or there. So, I am growing these terrible little balls called secrets. And I feel very much as though I woke up wearing someone else’s life. And instead of feeling weird about it, I sit anxiously waiting to be switched back so I can start talking about her.

Today, (without saying much at all) I airbrushed and cloned stuff in Photoshop I never would have dreamed about airbrushing let alone BEING PAID TO DO IT. And while I was doing as much, all I wanted to do was scream:

DO YOU SEE WHAT I’M DOING AT MY DESK ON THIS COMPUTER? RIGHT NOW? DO YOU SEE THIS?!!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PEOPLE, LAUGH! THIS SHIT IS FUNNY!

But I don’t speak and no one laughs. And the paddleballs stay inside, gaining more and more momentum, inbreeding.

And obviously judging by the birth of this post, I�m growing another head.

My phone is in Boston. Keith ran off with it, and so now it’s in Boston. I rarely get phone calls anymore anyway, but I know that while it’s away, visiting Boston, everyone I haven’t heard from will call to say how much they miss me and how they have all these fabulous jobs and presents.

I haven’t even been to Boston.

Almost four years ago, born unto me was a Canon Digital Elph capable of 2 megapixels. I loved it. I used it every day while commuting to and from work in New York City. The Elph was perfect for what I wanted to accomplish which was a daily view of my commute. In order to avoid being beat up by any fellow commuters (as many know that New Yorkers can be quite surly when their early morning feathers are rustled) I never used the viewfinder but instead kept the camera below my belt (usually). As a matter of fact, a few years went by before someone borrowing the camera to take a picture pointed out that there was a scratch on the glass. I never noticed. I just shot on the fly, in hopes of never being seen and therefore never being beaten up. It worked. I took thousands of images bruise-free.

That camera took somewhere in the area of 3 to 4 thousand images. And while I still own it, it’s no longer capturing the entire image. Instead, it creates a very harsh vignette, leaving most of the image in total blackness. I liken its demise to the human cataract.

I had received another Digital Elph (4.0 megapixels) from Toby for Christmas a fear years back, just incase something were to happen to the first one. And wouldn’t you know? They both stopped working the same week.

This past April, I finally decided to take a step away from the Digital Elph, and buy something with a bit more punch. I bought the Elph’s older brother, the Canon PowerShot Pro1.

I have had my new camera now for nearly two months. And I only now decided to start learning how to use it. While I haven’t experimented much yet with actually taking the picture, I finally figured out how to download and manipulate a RAW image. Needless to say, it totally rules.

I am amazed at the quality these digital cameras have mastered. My only real annoyance, still, are that once my images are exported via Photoshop, optimized for web, they are coming out rather “dull”. In other words what I see on screen, in print, and during import does not match what I finally export. I know this is the nature of digital imagery, at times, but something is getting lost. And I am sure it’s a user error. My goal is to figure out why. Any insightful information, would be grand.

Here, begins my fun with photography. (Again).

(Images can be clicked on to enlarge).

My not so colorful (once optimized) flowers.

TobyJoe waiting on the J Church.

A year ago today, I didn’t post. two years ago today, I did.

Another item from Apple everyone needs.

Larry David to the Rescue!

I’m so tired today. I can’t wait until today is over and I can return to my bed. Days that begin like this are sure to be long. Oh well.

Keith and Marjorie leave today for Boston and D.C. (they are going home separately). Once again our house will fall quiet. It’s nice having visitors. I wonder who will be next.

We visited with Cathy and Mike on Saturday for a sequel BBQ. This time, it was fajitas. And we had another fabulous evening. By the end of the night we were all sitting around watching the 50 of the Most Awesomely Worst Songs Ever via their Tivo. That was my first time with a Tivo, so I do believe I will be purchasing one after we’re more settled. What an amazing invention! I’m completely behind the times for not having one as well as not really knowing how cool they are and how they can change ones life. And the show was pretty funny as well. Here’s the entire list. There are a few I feel don’t belong there. Take Breakfast at Tiffany’s, for example. As I recall I think I kinda liked it. And I would have liked to have seen Bette Midler move a bit closer to number one.

Anyway, I’m off to work. Sluggishly, but still.

A year ago today. and two years ago today.

Toby and I watched Capturing the Friedmans last night. Overall, an excellent documentary. I watched the entire thing. And over and over again, I changed my mind as to whether they were guilty (and when I say guilty, I mean solely on the counts brought against them). So, the movie was really well done. You find yourself all over the place, not knowing who is telling the truth and who isn’t. And in the end, I have to say, I am just not sure they’re guilty.

Clearly, Mr. Friedman has some problems and if he had visited a proper doctor (which given where he lived, I’m shocked someone didn’t help him) maybe things would have been different. Surely that family was a bit “Crumblike” in nature; they were weird and off from what one is used to having dinner with. But did he play leap frog with a bunch of kids during his computer class all the while having anal sex? I am not so sure. If I had been on that jury (which, there never was) I’m not sure I would have found him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.

Overall, a worthwhile film. I like when I’m forced to think.

(Thanks, Missy for the suggestion).

<Insert amazing, never-read, somewhat original blog entry here.>

A year ago today. And two years ago today. Weird, doing this.

I had just moved to New York City all by my big self. I got an apartment in Brooklyn. I worked for a crazy lesbian woman at a design studio in Mid-town, a block from Penn Station. I didn’t fit in. But that had nothing to do with my sexual orientation.

I didn’t like going to work but every day I would walk through Penn Station after getting off the subway. The smell would hit me as soon as the doors opened. It consisted of 2 parts Annie’s Pretzels, 1 part human urine, and 1 part coffee. And I’m shocked right now that I can still smell it. The smell and Penn Station will forever remind me of this time and that song. I’ll need a hell of a lot of overlaps to conquer this memory.

So let’s take a look at my life during the days I spent walking through Penn Station on my way to a job I couldn’t stand, working with people who were on cocaine and brainwashed by a strange, New York phenomenon called The Forum. I was single, 26, and living in New York City by myself in an apartment that might finally break me. I had just gone through a tumultuous breakup. It was the kind of breakup that was best for everyone involved, yet one of the everyone would have like to have had just one more day just to kick the living shit out the person and then walk away. You know, just once. Let’s see, I owed 5,000 dollars to my credit card company (which later, after two years in New York City on a skinny salary, would almost double). I was lonely, but not alone. I was surrounded by people every day, people fighting to get someplace REALLY fast with little regard to many other people trying to get someplace as well. I had friends, new ones and older, wonderful ones. My move to New York was a last ditch attempt to reach my head, I was confused and floundering. And I needed to flounder with other flounders. That’s what New York is sometimes, a place to flounder comfortably by fitting in lonely.

And I would flounder my way through Penn Station, at times, gasping for air. Fresh air. Until finally, after several minutes of walking through hallways, up stair cases, through tunnels, around other people, through the luggage road-block set up by tourists with no place to go to fast, around the Krispy Kreme counter with a line longer than the distance I may have just walked, dodging the guys waiting for the Citibank ATM, and finally funneled into a single-file line just to get to the outside and upstairs by way of an excalator. Like human fish, we were plopped on, sorted out, and moved up and outside for our daily gutting.

Those were the days. I actually miss them. (And I didn’t know it then but I would soon rediscover my head).

Here is a snapshot.

(Old 97s: Salome)

A year ago today. And two years ago today. I have to admit, I’m looking back fondly on that day from two years ago.

Here’s a pretty kick ass Volvo site. Imagine being able to work on something like this? Dare I dream?

I think I’m still in a bit of shock about my living here. See, I have it in my head that when most people move a distance of nearly 3,000 miles there’s time to let it register, toss it around on one’s tongue for a bit, see how it sounds spoken.

(San Francisco).

We didn’t have that time. I am only now realizing that we found out we were moving and had three weeks from that day to get everything taken care of. Looking back, that’s insane.

Lately, I have really been missing my east coast home. I think I was running so fast trying to get settled that I forgot where it was I was settling and who with. And I may have avoided thinking about who and where I was leaving behind—a sort of unintentional mindshock in order to make things easier.

(San Francisco).

The other day, Toby and I headed over the Cathy and Mike’s place for a Memorial Day cookout. We cooked sausages, veggie burgers, not dogs, corn on the cob, veggies of all shapes and sizes, homemade and amazing guacamole (thanks, Mike). We had a feast. The eats were incredible. The conversation was even better. We talked about computers and wine. We discussed babies and having them. We talked about doctors and yoga classes, books, the places we come from and how we all met. Both of these people are wonderful, new additions to my life. And both of them moved here from DC not one year ago. But we didn’t know them when we were there.

After Mike opened a bottle of wine and I had had a few glasses, I started with my questions. I asked them both what they missed the most about DC and what the liked best about living out here.

“Fireflies.” Cathy answered.

When I was a kid, I spent many evenings collecting lightning bugs in the back yard. There were hundreds of them, at least in my memory. They were so thick, I didn’t even crave a night-light. They were everywhere. You could cup your hands, wave them before your head, and come back around with a plethora. It was nights like those, blinky hot summer nights spent collecting bug lights in Pennsyltuckey, where one contemplates God. After all, why would science create a bug who blinks?

Two years ago Toby and I were in a rental car headed west from New York City. We were headed to Pennsylvania to visit the folks for the 4th of July. You see Bob, he likes his 4th of July tailgating extravaganza. He plans on it days in advance. He gets geared up, probably sharpens his grill paraphernalia, maybe polishes them as well. It’s a big deal. And I love it. So, Toby and I were driving there to join them. It was a humid, July evening. It was dark. We were on route 322.

On 322 that night there were so many lightning bugs, I started to wonder if they were bringing us an early dawn. It was an amazing site to see. Up until that point, I started to believe that I had enhanced my memories of fireflies. (I am prone to do that when it comes to a history. Elaborate).

As we drove along this twisty-turny, Pennsylvania road, weaving in and out of 18-wheelers in search of more darkness to see more of this little world, I was introduced to one of life’s smiles. There’s something sad and wonderful about growing older, remembering your youth, and driving back to visit the people who gave you the opportunity to see a firefly.

(She’d be perfectly dressed if she had some fireflies).

A year ago today. and two years ago today.

I got a new iPod. And I think I like it. But I have no idea why it’s doing the things it’s doing. Just now, I tried plugging it into my computer here at work. It opens iTunes and says something like “This iPod is linked to a different library. Do you wish to switch to this one?” I say no. So it doesn’t mount. The machine and iTunes has no record of my iPod anywhere. I restart. This time, I tell it to go ahead and link to this computer. What does that do? IT ERASES EVERY SONG FROM MY IPOD. EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM.

I’m ready to go to the Apple store and kick someone’s assle. What the hell is going on? This isn’t my first one, but they have apparently made changes.

I’m really very angry right now. Someone tell me what I did wrong.

I had a late start today. We saw The Shins play last night at The Warfield. I love The Shins. They’re so poppy and fun. What a great show. It was a sold out show. The tickets we had turned out to be on the floor. So we could see them. And I could dance.

And I hate to admit to this but I’m going to, I am really loving this smoke free thing California has. And there are several reasons for this. The first one is obvious, it’s really an awesome feeling coming home from a bar or a show and not smelling like an ashtray. I am really very fond of this. Though, out of habit, I still sniff my pants and t-shirt every time I remove them, wondering if I need to quarantine them from all the other clothing until they are properly hosed down. But since moving here, there isn’t even a hint of smoke on my clothing. And there’s something really great about that.

The second reason I am enjoying California’s smoke free environment is that I don’t crave cigarettes when they’re not around. It has been very hard for me, quitting smoking. The first few months, years ago, weren’t so bad. But then a year hit and we moved to DC and I began to fail miserably. And Toby and I would fight. Toby and I don’t fight, but introduce cigarettes into our relationship, and we’re screaming at one another. You might ask, as I have, why would I continue to do something that not only causes us to fight but will actually kill me as well? I have no idea. That’s the power of “addiction” for you. Anyway, when it’s not around, I don’t think about it. So its absence helps me to not crave it. This is a good thing for me.

Anyway, ain’t got much to say today. I need to clean our apartment tonight before Keith and Marjorie arrive tomorrow. I hope Marjorie has some new stories to tell.

Two years ago today. One year ago was a Sunday. I apparently didn’t write.

Tonight, Toby and I are going here to see the Shins (again). We have assigned seats because we’re old.

I saw Pink Floyd once. I saw them play at a HUGE stadium in North Carolina. I think I was only 13 or 14 at the time. I went with the neighborhood boys, and their older sister. We had nose-bleed seats. Not only were they way up high, but they were near the rear of the stadium as well.

The stadium that night had more hair than the state of New Jersey. All types of hair. Hair covering up bald spots, hair making up for the lack of a redneck chin, hair covered in Aqua-Net, hair in braids, hair sticking out of sleeveless, hand-torn Boston T-shirts, hair blending in with dangling white strings from cut-offs. There was so much hair-so much hair and booze and drugs and music and food. I had a lot of deep fried food, a few soft pretzels and maybe a sip or two of some concocted booze formation (“puke in plastic”). Back then I didn’t really care for booze.

We got there early. Shana (the boys’ older sister) drove. We brought blankets to put below our bums as Raleigh nights tended to get chilly that time of year. Since the stage was so small, and I could pinch the bands’ tiny heads off, I’m not sure if that pig DID actually pee on the crowd. I’m not sure if there was a human on the moving bed. But I’m pretty sure I was the only person who wasn’t on drugs that night. But really, who needs drugs when there’s a light show?

Back then there was something about things that blink and shoot and zip along with music. Does anyone remember the light show phenomenon which became was so important during the 80s? If you managed to escape bands like Duran Duran (not that there’s anything wrong with them, believe me) you may have found yourself at the state fair, standing in line to buy cheap pewter, and dangly skull earrings, killing time before the next electric light show to begin set to the Led Zeppelin II album-and I mean album-so don’t bounce too hard, don’t move to fast.

But I took my interest in rock and roll music to new and most embarrassing levels. I invested entirely. Much like those who purchased web-shop stock in the 90s, I bought into it all. I included bands like Whitesnake, Iron Maiden, Great White, Cinderella, Guns and Roses, Poison into my collection. Pretty much any hair metal band who amplified six strings and wore spandex, and I was into them, whole-heartedly. (While sneaking in a little “Lisa, Lisa and the Cult Jam” late at night, of course).

So at the Pink Floyd show that night, at a concert I thought I’d never get to see, I guess you might say I was moved. As they stood outside under a roofless stadium, they put on a light show. And as each beam was absorbed into thick layer of cloud, we lit our lighters and swayed, a human river of hair. And those were the days. For me, those were the days.

And every so often, I get a much needed glimpse again.

The other day, I get a phone call from my friend, Gerry. Gerry is and has been the only person in my life who can say “Go buy __. You’ll love them. I promise. Just go do it.” and he’s almost always right. In fact, I can’t think of a time where he wasn’t. So the other day, knowing about my history in hair metal and my fondness for the 70’s, he calls armed with something new. After admitting to he having spent all day driving around Williamsburg, Brooklyn with another 30+ year old, blaring this same c.d. out an open car window, he tells me to pick up the new Secret Machines c.d.

And I did.

For all of you who need a little taste of your rock ‘n roll past and haven’t MP3ed all your vinyl yet, here’s something new. And I’m still working on the light show in Flash.

Secret Machines, Sad and Lonely (5.3 mgs) (Thanks, Gerry!)