(This is a drawing hanging up in the hallway of the house we rent from).

Later today, we’re heading to the Atlas Cafe to see Bob and Cass play their cello’s. Bob and Cass are our neighbors. Both of them are pretty great. And Bob (also a designer-type person) quits jobs like I do. Misery loves company.

They are playing with another guy. I am not sure of the details yet, but I think the other guy who plays the guitar, heard them play, and invited them to come along and take up some of his showtime. We’re pretty excited. Plus, I really like the Atlas Cafe. I took photos there once before (at the bottom). It was while David, Soung, and Matt were visiting.

Last week, I somehow managed to go to a yoga class every damn day. And today, I’m sore as hell. It’s as if they all caught up to me. But it’s a good kind of sore, the kind that makes you feel like you’re actually DOING something. And since I have only one (paying) active job right now, I am searching to fill up free time. I purchased my full-name domain yesterday, so while I said I had had it with Graphic Design, I don’t mean it. I’m going to continue to search for that dream job, or begin working on my own. I enjoy identity work too much to give it up. (For now, the good still outweighs the bad).

What else, my parents are coming in on the 13th. And the day they leave, Danny (the bloke we lived with in New York for a while – the guy from England) is coming to stay with us for a while. I absolutely can not wait to see him again. It will be nice to give him a big hug. I owe him that. After he leaves, Shelly (Toby’s sister) arrives. It’s a good thing we got a place with a guest-room. We explore more when people come visit. That’s a good thing.

Right now, I am sipping coffee. It is Saturday morning – still my favorite day and time of any week. I am taking the day off from yoga and plan on lighting a few smelly candles (one of my favorite pass-times), throwing in an English Muffin and all the while making enough noise to wake up my husband “accidentally” so he’ll get up and play with me – even if it’s foggy and even if it’s nearly August and I have the heat on. Ahhhh sweet summer in San Francisco.

Two years ago today

That is all.

I am considering canceling a happy hour tonight so I can watch this. I will serve wine for those party people who care to join me this Friday night.

Edited to add: For anyone interested but not interested enough to sign up for free at New York Times, here is the official site for the film.

(Please note: This post is an example as to why I don’t write about movies. Also, this post contains movie spoilage. You have been warned).

I went alone, purchased a ticket for one and sat in a small theater at the Embarcadero. There were about 8 people in there with me. One girl was around my age and the rest of the patrons must have been 60 and up. I was finally – weeks after it came out – going to see Before Sunset.

I, like many people out there, was Jesse and Celine’s age when Before Sunrise came out. I was in college (like they were). I had my entire life ahead of me (like they did). I was excited about love, learning, being and getting hurt, romance, possibilities. Hell, we all know the story. I identified with the both of them – almost to a fault. My life back then was so new to me, so new I’m not even sure it was mine. I had only recently begun to explore an independence and had only recently became acquainted by loss and losing.

Anyway, I think 9 years have gone by since the first one (at least that’s what Jesse said in the movie). How very incredibly thoughtful and totally NOT so empathetic of Richard Linklater to share this movie with us 9 years later. For those of us who are Jesse and Celine’s age, and who saw the movie when they too were that age, I say we bum-rush the motherfucker.

In Before Sunset, Jesse is a published writer. The movie awakes within a most quaint bookshop, surrounded by copies of his first and best-selling novel. He is speaking to a group of French people. He’s eloquent, yet still sports that wee little hint of pretension we were introduced to when we met him nearly a decade earlier – before he lost his girl to obstacles simply beyond his or her control. He’s thin. Hell, he looks good – dare I say – better than he did 9 years before? I do. I dare. I did. He does. And then she enters the picture. She stands off the side. She’s beautiful as well. If I weren’t married and I saw her on a train or in a fancy Parisian bookstore, I might beg her to spend a night with me too. Who wouldn’t?

So they do it again. (Not that “IT”, you idiot, the other “IT”. The “IT” that has us lay awake at night rewinding everything we had said trying to put our finger on just what it was that would reel them in forever, or cast them out forgone. Not the “IT” that leaves us wondering if we should throw ourselves down the stairs in a few weeks, visit the gynecologist, or buy crab shampoo from a local five-and-dime).

I don’t want to make an 80 minute long post to walk anyone through an 80 minute long movie. So, I’ll try and wrap this one up, pronto. The movie is in real time. During those 80 minutes, we follow them through the streets and canals of Paris, hoping that the impending flight heading West might never come, wishing we could stop time for them. And the two reacquainted lovers fill those 80 minutes up so quickly, so well, so wonderfully, I find myself wondering

HOW ON EARTH CAN THIS END?! WHAT WILL HE DO? WILL HE LEAVE HER? Again?

You fight with yourself. Yes, do that. No, don’t touch him. Yes, touch her. No, you can’t do that, you’re married. Yes, do that, it’s just a movie. You can get your hump on, Jesse. Give Rick Springfield’s little fit some REAL meaning. Got get her, Jesse, after all, it’s just a movie.

Or is it?

And the story continued. I found myself for the first (and I hope the last) time relating to Cher and wishing I could turn back time. I mean, who doesn’t need a second chance to change things? Why not take another day or two to figure it out? Why NOT give us all a moment to go back again to see what we were like before time (bills, age, sickness, death, pain, loss, life, fear, jobs, rent, babies) took away our most exciting, pinkest, uncontaminated thoughts and desires; before someone actually said “NO.” and we believed them?

This is why I say anyone between the ages of 30 and 32 should rise up and beat the hell out of Richard Linklater; he got too damn close. These two aren’t real, are they? What did Jesse do? What did he go through while he was in Vienna six months to the day after they met. WHY DIDN’T YOU GIVE US THAT AS WELL, MR LINKLATER?

I’m working up a sweat over here. I needed that. Or something.

What I did discover during the 80 minutes between our two lovers after 9 years of not knowing a thing about them, or them about one another, was that somewhere along the (life)line I became slightly fearful and cynical. How on earth did that happen? And when did I start electing thoughts during the viewing of a (::cough:: fictional ::cough::) movie such as:

He better get his skinny ass out to that car and tell that driver he’s gonna need more time. That driver, he ain’t gonna sit there all night waiting for him. He really needs to catch that flight.

This sort of mental growth spurt must have come along sometime after I got my very first credit card and then credit card bill. This must have come along after being dumped a few times, romantically run over once or twice, and stomped on by a few “faithful” friends. This must have come along after having missed my flight to L.A. a few years back. It must have happen after finding that lump, or right after I realized not everything came in shades of pink, purple and light green.

Surely he’s gonna ask her for her cell phone again. I mean, he really has to call that driver. He’s not going to call the driver, is he?

Richard Linklater can kiss my now cellulite-covered ass. He created something not only totally wonderful on its own—present day, but he made me take a step back through the doorway and see myself as I should and could be.

Why do I always need to call the driver? Answer me that, Richard Linklater. When did I start calling the god damn driver?

Is it seen as totally absurd that I love Potato Buds? I can suck down some instant mashed. What’s wrong with me?

Another pleasure: Root Beer.

This probably won’t be a surprise to many people who spend their days with me (whether it be online, offline, married to me, around the house, or just merely having to pass me by on a busy street) that I haven’t been consistently happy in quite some time.

And once a week, or once a month, sometimes (during good spells) once or twice a day even, I have these blinding moments of clarity: Get back in shape. Become healthy. Learn how to do all those things you have always wanted to do. Get yoga certified. Make a difference for someone. Have a baby. Find that something, anything, that has consistently made you feel happy and grab onto just that. I mean, why not? This doesn’t seem hard, right?

Then why is it?

The past week, I have spent a lot of time searching myself (again), wondering just what it is I really want to do with this life. As much as I once loved graphic design and as good of a designer as I genuinely believe that I am, as much as I once totally dug milling over ideas in school or while working (a few) jobs, and as much as I absolutely loved teaching, overall, I am not sure that graphic design, and what it has become, (computer usage is a constant, get the job done as fast as possible, who cares if it means anything, and working for people who are far less qualified than I am) is something I would have signed onto had I known the truth. (How’s that for a sentence? Holy crap).

I haven’t been excited about a job in quite a number of years (besides teaching, I really truly enjoyed that). I have adopted new hobbies to fill this void—and that’s a good thing (things like pottery and yoga come to mind first). But overall, I sit entirely unfulfilled within my field, and totally frustrated I don’t seem to have the strength or clout to change any of it.

I guess that means I’m the one who must change, right? I’m 30. If you were to have asked me not 5 years ago where I wanted to be when I was 30, I would have told you something like “I’m going to have it all figured out by then. Now, I may not, but by 30, it will all make sense”.

I so don’t.

While I love graphic design-figuring out how to create something fatabulicious and solid and totally independent in thought from anything else ever created-the money making side of it, the career part, just isn’t like that, (generally speaking of course). I am sure there are jobs out there which are exactly what I long for. I am willing to bet that most of these jobs are either never vacant (for reasons which are obvious) or are so few and far between one has to know someone, have a name that goes well beyond anything my name has met, or a person has to be willing to take a pay-cut and then hope for the best at that big break, freeing oneself from the ego of an under-qualified Art Director.

I’m just now figuring out that there’s a good chance I may never discover that dream job I always imagined I’d have by 30.

And that’s ok.

Since moving here, I got a job working for a dotcom that didn’t dotbomb a few years back. With the help of about 25,000 really horny gay men, this place is doing wonderfully. And that’s great for them. Really. The thing is, the advertisement I responded to was for a Senior Designer/Art Director. They wanted someone who could conceptualize. They wanted someone with agency experience. They wanted someone with excellent design skills (and Flash). So they hired me. And things were only ok (at best) right off. I was doing an intern’s work. I did anywhere from 15 to 35 banner resizes daily, featuring half-naked men covered in sweat. Sometimes, they would have their hand down their pants, sometimes I would spend hours air-brushing out pubic hairs and party trails, or a stretch-mark some previous laser surgery had missed. There were days I spent hours looking through pictures of naked men in search of that “sexy” photograph guaranteeing us 3 billion new horny subscribers. (If this photograph actually exists, please let me know, because I will use it for gaining meaningful employment. I am not sure how, but I will).

In summary, the job I applied for and got was not the one I was going to every day. As a matter of fact, I felt like I was going in reverse.

So I quit. (Yes, again. mihow the flake, quit her job again).

My new job-these days-is trying to figure out how to make myself happy as well as trying to figure out if I DO actually want to make money creating “graphic design” if said career involves creating banner ads (that no one wants to see or click on anyway) or really pointless landfill stuffing such as two-fold brochures (no one reads or picks up for that matter) I don’t think I have it in me. I don’t want to create Web sites because the marketing department needs to put their 2005 budget someplace. I don’t care about how many clicks a banner ad gets (though, I’m willing to bet most of those clicks were accidental). I don’t care how fast you need an HTML email that will get lost beneath someone’s spamgaurd. I just don’t care about that sort of thing. Do you?

I expected more out of me for my life.

So unless some amazing job I have always dreamed of comes along, unless someone hires me to be a fulltime graphic design professor (which I absolutely loved doing-if you take anything away from this, know this), unless I can somehow make ends meet working from home, and at the same time NOT be forced to give up the hobbies and the things that keep me sane, if none of these things come to be, I think I might just be throwing in my towel-a designer hand-towel, but still.

With all due respect to the career I married over 13 years ago, I think we might need to take some time apart. It’s just not the career I once fell in love with.

Ideas? Inspiration? Punch in the face? Anything anyone might have to say, good or bad, please by all means let’s hear it. Because I think this might be the beginning of the end of me and my career in Graphic Design.

Here’s to chapter 431.

This weekend we saw Bourne Supremacy. I dug both Bourne movies. Of course, it helps that Matt Damon is in both. Me gusta mucho.

I’m super unbelievably excited about seeing Open Water. The actual movie site can be found here. (Warning: there is sound). Ocean dramas are the best (in my opinion). What a terrifying ordeal.

We also watched Boy Interrupted I mean, Manic, as well as S.W.A.T and Seabiscuit. Between our movie watching, we caught the east coast airing of both Six Feet Under and Dead Like Me.

It was a weekend filled with moving pictures.

This is the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long, long time. It’s no wonder we’re all just slightly off. I can only hope that, while visiting NYC someday, Simone doesn’t run into the guy who walks around dressed up like a chicken and decide to beat him sensless for reasons probably unknown to her.

Tho, after spending a week in Georgia last year and hearing Elmo scream this song over and over again for Toby’s nephew, I had a similar reaction to this damn doll.

Today, we lost an important member of the Howley family, a member whose only job was helping keep the other members together, a member who helped us all reach out and touch someone. Today, my father’s cell phone was flushed down a toilet in New Jersey.

Amen. Poor bastard. Never stood a chance.

I’m not sure what’s more disturbing, the fact that this actually happen, or that if it hadn’t been flushed, I have this sinking feeling that my father (knowing him) would probably have fished it out in hopes of saving it.

Talk about having shitty reception.

As promised yesterday.

10). Fruits and Vegetables. So fresh. So plump. Eat them up, yum.

9). The sound. I am not sure if it’s the hills, the fog, or that there are fewer cities therefore less noise pollution. But for some reason (at least here in San Francisco) the sound is different. It doesn’t travel as far. It’s like being in a sound-proofed room. And if it weren’t for my tinitis I think I’d really love it.

8). The fact that if you travel 10 miles outside the city, civilization dies. (Yes, I love it too).

7). Our neighbors, Bob and Cass.

6). The terrain. I can’t even begin to explain how amazing it is. I’ve been all over Europe and America and the California coastline is up there in the best of natural beauty.

5). The wine. Cheap and wonderful. Living this close to Napa is the wine-lovers equivalent of having fresh from the oven Krispy Kreme donuts 24/7.

4). Accessibility. It seems that no matter where you are or what you’re doing, that big opportunity lies right before you. The feeling that you’re about to uncover something huge, is ever so prevalent.

3). The fog.

2). The Ocean. I haven’t ever lived this close to the sea. It’s pretty amazing. And with the gale force winds coming in every night, it’s like a massive salty steam bath as well.

1). Fresh perspective and new adventures. Who could possibly argue or complain about a new experience? I’m grateful for this opportunity even during fits of lonely.

I would like to take this moment to mention that I am totally in love with this show.

And the new season begins tomorrow night. I’m very pleased with this.

But I am a wee bit worried that our leading lady is getting a wee too skinny and might just fall over or break. I should send her some food.

A year ago today I didn’t write. Two years ago today I did.

My cat can still operate an alarm clock.

Toby and I were one of the 14 people in the nation last night to sit down and watch the A&E special presentation, Washington Wives. We watched nearly all of it, with the exception of turning it off for our nightly news broadcast with Jon Stewart (Washington Wives ran two hours, I do believe).

Out of the 14 people who watched the show, I may have been the one person who actually found Teresa Heinz Kerry charming. What can I say, but I sorta like the woman. I’m hoping Kerry wins for sure now just so Rachel Dratch can begin playing her on future Non-Live Saturday Night Live skits. But the biggest question I had after watching Washington Wives, wasn’t what happen to Mrs. Edwards’ face over the years (particularly the spot between the eyes and upper nose where her eyes appear to be drifting apart) but where on earth did Teresa get that lovely green sweater?

And so, I’m on a quest to find out. I have begun by asking the other 12 people who watched the show if she made it herself or if the little people of the nation can get one as well.

Well, we’re supposed to be on vacation now in Rhode Island with Nico and George. Currently, I am choosing to ignore this fact. We are just too far away to get there in the amount of time we have (or had) off from work. And that sucks. For the past two years we’ve gone on vacation with them. I am so sad we’re missing it this year. But this leads me to why I’m writing. Without further ado, I give you: Mihow’s Top Ten Reasons For Disliking Life On the West Coast Especially Being an East Coast Transplant.

Ready?

10). The strange fascination for everything Crepe over the plethora of other perfectly awesome, non-eggy breakfast food such as BAGELS for example. (And I now hate crepes as much as i hate scones).

9). The seasonless weather, aka “The Mono Season.”

8). The fact that if you travel 10 miles outside the city, civilization dies. (There is a shortage of gas stations as well.)

7). Saturday Night Live is so not live.

6). I have yet to be invited to investigate the San Francisco underground

5). The need one has for a car.

4). The way people drive. I have lived in New York and Washington, D.C. (famous for beltway drivers and soccer moms shooting other soccer moms during extreme moments of road-rage) and STILL no city compares to how the folks out here drive. They hop in a Lexus, fill it with a tight-lipped, passive-aggressive, “I’m-not-making-eye-contact-with-you” rudeness, and then turn driving into performance art. If you’re going to be a flaming asshole while driving, at the very least show me your asshole.

3). The fog.

2). The time difference. In the morning we’re the last to open the door and in the evening the last to shut it. (Besides Hawaii, of course. But it’s not often the east coast has a morning business meeting with Hawaii. Am I right?)

1). The lack of lawn. Man, do I miss the smell of a freshly mowed lawn!

Tomorrow on mihow.com: Top Ten Reasons I Love Living on the West Coast.

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

That is all.

Get your popcorn maker ready, turn off that rerun of CSI, because tonight A&E airs something truly entertaining.

The hell?

Next week on A&E: Mrs. Kerry feeds Mrs. Edwards’ non-French child to an Anaconda.

P.S. Lana, you make my days more entertaining.

Missy directed my attention to this post on The Agitator about a week ago. He makes a great point by not really spelling one out for us.

I found I’m pretty upset over the governments plans on extending Medicare for certain anti-obesity treatments. I have discussed it at great lengths with the people that I know. Basically, I have a great deal to say on the matter, and why I feel it’s a bad idea.

I noticed, recently, that The Agitator put up another post surrounding the issue. An excellent point. One I hadn’t thought of while opposing this decision.

An attack on Afghanistan will probably kill a great many innocent civilians, possibly enormous numbers in a country where millions are already on the verge of death from starvation. Wanton killing of innocent civilians is terrorism, not a war against terrorism.

This is a quote from Naom Chomsky’s 9-11, a book featuring a set of interviews with the author during the month following the attacks.

Here is the definition of “terroirism” defined by official U.S. documents:

The calculated use of violence or threat of violence to attain goals that are political, religious, or ideological in nature. This is done through intimidation, coercion, or instilling fear.

Three years later, who are the terrorists now?

A year ago today I did not write. Two years ago today I did write about a fire in Manhattan.

Pretty weird, considering the post from today. See? You’ve come a long way, Michele.

On a much lighter note, I would like to very, very asininely and very arrogantly direct your eyes to my ass in this picture Missy took of me last weekend.

Now, if you know me at all, you will know that I am my worst critic. I am a self-hating (but recovering) one-time bible-abiding Catholic girl. We’re good at hating ourselves. I am usually the first to criticize myself and the first to join you in doing so if you (for some reason) get there first. I am insecure like the rest of you and totally willing to take one for team, especially if it involves complete humiliation.

All that being said, I need to point out when it is that my ass ends up somehow looking o.k. I will not pretend that my ass actually looks like this. Because it does not. However, this how I would like the entire world, should I perish, to remember my ass.

I have said it before, I’ll say it again, Mormons are weird. And before you start sending me email about how evil I am, you’re weird too. Remove your hands from the keyboard and go touch yourself.

It’s been a really great week. Missy came for a visit this past weekend and we drove all over the western seaboard and into Napa Valley. Before Sunday, I hadn’t ever been along the northern side of Route 1, so I had no idea what to expect. What I wasn’t aware of, however, was of the exceptionally high shortage of guardrails they have out here. Motorists can drive along windy highways not inches from a 500 (or so) foot drop into the Pacific Ocean.

Two of the places you will see photographed here are the Muir Beach Overlook and Stinson Beach. I also took a few pictures of the drive between the two. That’s the drive I referred to above. That’s the drive amazing and scary enough to make any slightly tourettic person consider the possibility of one spasmatic jerk to the left or a bee sting on high. What if? Sweet Jesus, what if?

I think Missy held her eyes for a bit. I did not. I was driving.

Our view from the Muir Beach Overlook was quite different from what you will see at the link above. Our view was covered in fog. And I can’t say I’d trade it for the clear version. How totally spooky and completely nightmarish.

Aside from some touring, we saw Modest Mouse at the Warfield on Saturday. They’re so good. They can cheer any gal up. That’s really all I have to say about that.

Muir Beach Overlook. Apparently this was once used as an artillery station. You walk along this rail-lined stairway all the way to the tip and top of the world.

::insert Led Zeppelin music here::

This is the end of the walkway. Occasionally, through the the fog we could see the waves below, crashing up against the shore. The drop here was hundreds of feet. I’m still finding it hard to believe that if one drives 10 miles out of San Francisco, this is what they’ll see.

Toby and Missy.

Just a few miles north of Muir Overlook, there is sunshine. The fog clears and people are swimming along the coast, sunbathing and surfing.

...or burying their brothers in the sand.

That’s fog in the distance. What a strange and wonderful city this is.

We’re way up high now. I used my zoom for this shot, hence the blurriness and harsh light. I am totally digging that gal in the center who has her arms up as if to say “Yay! Today!”

In my “About Section” there are a few links I have begun adding at the bottom of the page. I added “Dragunsound” to the page. The site is work in progress, however, there are MP3s on that site as well. It’s free music. It’s really good. Plus, the creator is an old time rock star and a personal friend of ours. And he’s funny. You should go there now and say hello to George Draguns.

This weekend Toby and I watched The Dream Catcher (not to be confused with that horrible Steven King flick about stuttering aliens dressed like humans). The movie we watched was wonderful. Plus, the younger boy in the movie, is how I imagine our son (if Toby and I should have a son) would look. Freaky.

Saturday was rough. I mentioned as much. Sunday was brighter in my head, but not outside. Today, I feel refreshed and ready to embrace. Partially because Missy is coming to visit me on Friday, partially because I went to yoga three times last week, and partially because being so damn depressed all the time really sucks. And I’m getting wrinkles. That said, I woke up with a positive outlook. Though, apparently it’s still under construction.

I was exiting the Muni this morning, waiting for my phone to pick up a signal so I could return Missy’s call from earlier, when I noticed the crepe place directly to my left. I have always wondered about this crepe place and usually I don’t stop because usually I don’t carry any cash. Next to the four thousand other things about myself I find entirely too irritating, I never seem to carry cash. I visit the Money Access Center several times a week, but still I never seem to have any money. So I never stop to check out the crepe situation. I always fear crepe and credit card rejection.

Today, I have money. So as I stood there, waiting for my turn, staring down at my phone waiting for the ….searching to go away and my imaginary cell phone beam to find a home, the small very stylish, asian hottie standing behind the counter says to me, “What can I get you?” his voice featuring a tinge of irritation. I wanted the first one. It was called “The Monterey”.

I need to back up a minute. I know how to say that word, there are many words I know HOW to say, however, for some reason, and I’ll never be sure why, I get stage fright when reading aloud. I say the word in my head “M-O-N-T-E-R-R-A-Y. Monterey.” And all is well. But when my face goes to expel such a word, it tends to screw it up. And this happens to me all the time. It’s like my brain, my lips and their captive tongue don’t really get along, they fight for what’s correct usually losing to what’s wrong. For example, the other day, while in the video story my head says, “Hey! Toby.” And then my lips, for reasons still unknown to me, say, “Hey! Hey, Tony!”

That’s my husband I’m referring to here, not some half-sandwich, half-omelette sort of thing. I don’t even really know any Tony’s.

“Hello? What can I get you? Do you know what you’d like?” He asks again.

“Yes, I’ll have the Mont-er-eeee. Please.” I knew I messed up. I knew it right away. But it’s Monday, and I’m ready to kick California, take a hair dryer to San Francisco’s fog, and I’m lonely.

He barks back, loudly, his head tilted like one of those prissy poodles with bows, “It’s the M-O-N-T-E-R-A. AY. A. New to California, are we?” He head wobbles a little, eyes rolling around like marbles to the right and to the left. I wait a minute, refusing to make eye contact with the crepe guy, ready to cry. Thinking, “Just send me home, bitch.”

Finally, I say, “Sorry. Yes. Yes, I am.”

What I failed to mention thus far, because I’m not rude (usually), is that he had a piece of egg dangling from his bottom lip. And normally I would have waited for someone else working the crepe stand to tell him about the lamprey. But this time, I seized upon it like Cujo.

Still without making any eye contact, I say “You have a piece of food hanging from your lip.”

He wipes the egg away and turns his head in a huff. I take my change from him and tilt my head back towards the ground where it belongs. I can feel the burning stares from other crepe-buyers moving in around me like fog, making me feel more and more like an outsider buying crepes on a Monday morning. I take three steps to my right and wait for my Monday Monterey, secretly hoping for a swift push from behind and a New York City side of sarcasm.

Lately, I have been missing New York, well, the east coast in general. So much so, I think about it nearly every waking moment of my day. I’m not sure what it is, or why it is, but it just is. It feels like someone yanked the plug and let the water out. My head is emptying right before my eyes. My care and desire is being drained.

I’m probably just blowing my homesickness way out of proportion. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure of it. I tend to do this. I glorify the past, hope for the future, and spit on the now. But this doesn’t help me; identifying the problem and still feeling so damn wrong.

I am not sure where I’m going with this. I’m never really sure. I guess it’s just right to put it down, that way, in the future, I can look back on it and decide if it was ever true at all.

Lately, I have felt like I’m on a long trip, a diversion just to get back there one day. I knew I would return sometime, I said as much back when we were leaving. The thing is, and maybe it’s because I’m so far away from all the people I love (excpet for one, my boy Toby. And he’s just the best. I can’t imagine my life, this life, here, without him. He’s unbelievably special, and as more and more people are realizing this around me, I become more and more amazed that he chose me) but sometimes I want then to come sooner. I want to meet my life now.

I feel like my voice is smaller out here, like I’m barely getting by with a whisper, though screaming. I find it hard to pick up the phone. I think, “No one will hear me anyway”. (And most of the time this is true. We don’t get much cell service out here).

Just now, something lifted me from the sofa and brought me to a book I read years ago. On the inside, before it starts, is a quote. And every time I read it, I get teary. I choke myself up. This quote, along with a line from Magnolia when William H. Macy says “I really do have love to give; I just don’t know where to put it.” are two personal favorites.

Below, is the other one. My goodness, do I love these few words. They’re like a perfect equation. A sound, profound real sadness. One that, dare I say, I envy.

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:_

I was much further out than I thought

And not waving but drowning.

I am sick for home. And it’s almost tangible. It’s almost phyiscal—my longing. My mind needs a vacation from itself.

(Toby, even though you’re sitting right next to me and I could turn my head and tell you this directly, I am so sorry you have to put up with all my stupid mental baggage and mood swings all the time. Believe me, I wish I could change that bit about myself. But things are never that bad. You know this. You also know that I love you dearly and no matter where we are, nothing will change that fact. And already I feel better just writing that down).

A year ago today. and two years ago today.

I talk too much and for too long.

::poof::

I was tidying up my server the other day and found a story I wrote many years ago (I think three). It was in Quark, just sitting there. This was partially responsible for my having started this Web site. Toby said, “You should start a Web site and talk your nonsense and put up pictures every day of your commute. I’ll even build it for you.”

And so I did. Anyway, I went back and forth trying to figure out if I wanted to put this up because, well, it’s sort of embarrassing. But then I thought, “When have you ever been someone to worry about sharing something that might be too embarrassing?” Answer is: never. So here is a story I wrote while living in a 3,000 square foot loft in Brooklyn, NY with a boy I had only met a month earlier, a boy I would eventually marry.

It was called “Birds” (I think)

Our loft faces the Northern view of the city. In the morning the sky is pink and the light is tired and sometimes dizzy little reflections of the southern view form on the east river. If we’re lucky, they trickle by us on Newton Creek. But usually the existence of the southern view is easy to ignore. For us, it’s easy to forget about.

One morning, I ran into the bedroom to wake him up. Some days I am amazed by what I see on the other side of my window. I saw a movie once. It was so good and I was so moved, I left wishing I could erase having seen it and go see it again. These moments don’t always last. Sometimes they call for a witness.

Last June, I quit my job had a few drinks on a Thursday and decided to join the Peace Corps. I met him three days before being accepted. At the time I had never felt so at war with myself. I declined my acceptance. We ended up here-in this loft-overlooking a northern view of a city after suffering through a long September.

Turkeys probably fear November as early as August. And even though cities don’t have minds, they are made up of thousands. And I don’t talk to turkeys. But in this city there are at least a thousand Thanksgivings during the month of November. All take place on a Thursday. Some Thanksgivings are planned as early as September. Those plans are made up of little minds. I think the city fears September as early as June.

There were swans on Newton creek the day that we moved in. They went wading by outside our window as if to welcome. I spoke for the swans that day. I told him, “Swans are monogamous and they mate for life.”

He answered, “That’s what monogamous means, silly.”

“They don’t know that.” I said.

Turkeys aren’t monogamous because of November. There are many birds on our river. I call it our river, but it’s more theirs because I would never touch the water. Ducks mate for life too. I see them swim by in even numbers. When there is an odd number of ducks, I know something must have gone wrong. I lived alone for bit prior the three days before my acceptance letter. At my old apartment, in the garden below, there was a couple who read with their coffees, sipping it near newspapers. I saw them on Saturday and Sunday mornings. They would sit out there, the two of them, and I would look down at them through my window. I mean actually down at them as I was on the third floor at the time. They were happy, happier than I was. And I could have convinced myself to hate them by bloating their mannerisms, but this would have been due to envy. And I knew birds could fly. He is sweet. We now make two. I have a thing with even numbers. They give me the creeps. A bartender once told me if you receive an even number of olives in your drink, it’s bad luck. While I do like olives, and I do tend to gravitate towards odd numbers, the other things he said seemed much more important. I just don’t remember them now.

On Saturdays, I like to listen to music and drink coffee. I can see the city from the sofa, the chair, the kitchen table, and the bed (but only when sitting up). When I lay down on the bed I can see only sky. And occasionally birds fly by and interrupt the blue or black or pink depending on what time of day it is. The floor dips down about half way across the apartment. It dips down towards to windows that overlook the northern view of our city. If you took down the wall, we would roll into the river. This would most likely happen in our sleep.

We slept on an air mattress for about 2 months when we first moved in. I blew it up with a battery-operated pump every night. It became a ritual like brushing ones teeth. It worked. We didn’t have the money for a bed or a sofa. We used the futon to sit on. Primetime television was important then and was always coupled with comfort. Apparently, at the time, the comfort of sleep was held secondary. I had a dream one night that the air mattress ended up on the river. There we were, him and I, floating down Newton creek, eventually we were pushed out onto the East river. Two small people, sandwiched between both the Northern and Southern views with nothing to hold on to. I had the battery operated pump with me. It held two batteries—the big ones. I forget what they’re called but I know it took two. And I remember thinking we would only last so long as they would eventually stop working. We would eventually sink. I woke up before that happened.

They must have been Energizer batteries and we were sort of like that big pink bunny.

The alarm must be set on a three. It does not have to be 03. Any 3 will do. I prefer, however, 13, 33, and 43. If it takes too long to go from one number to the next I can settle on 23. It depends on how tired I am. The time is never right. I wake up every morning before 8. I am at work by nine. I think I’m usually on time, though I stopped caring at some point. I usually do eventually. Where I work, the woman who surround me are married and most of them have kids. I have attended 7 dinner parties. All, in which, have taken place on a Thursday. At all of these parties, they have (in some way) brought up their labor pains, their small dogs, their husbands’ pains of labor, and anything having to do with their nails. I never have anything to offer. I did not attend the 8th party, but I did have a surviving cookie on Friday. The woman who made the cookies said to me, ‘Where were you? Did you not get the Evite? We sent out an Evite. I thought you responded. Did you not respond? Next time, you just have to be there. Stacy had three cosmopolitans!’ I didn’t even flirt with the idea of answering any of these questions. I knew my not showing, the lack of me, wasn’t noticed until Friday when I was caught holding an escapee cookie, and my not answering wouldn’t be remembered as well. I chew my nails. It was either that or a lifetime of smoking. I love to smoke. But I don’t any longer. I have given up smoking. Smoking has left me. It’s easier to give something up after it leaves you. You’re not really given a choice in the matter. My nails don’t chew themselves. I make the effort to chew them and second-hand nail doesn’t tend to hurt other people. I am punishing my fingers for holding a cigarette for so long.

I go to work to pay the rent on my northern view. I don’t have any kids. We’re not married. And I don’t have nails. But I can humor the women I work with. I listen to their stories. And I think they feel sorry for me so I reassure them that their lives are meaningful and worthwhile. And that’s ok with me. We all need to avoid the truth during a spell of self-doubt.

The guy who runs the place is rarely around. When he is here, he’s usually sweaty. I am not sure what he does during the day. He’s slightly overweight but not so bad as to explain all the sweat. Sometimes I imagine they’re all fucking. It’s one big office porno I am not invited to because I don’t have fingernails, a dog, or a husband. He pays for my view, indirectly. So I’ve learned to ignore all the sweat. Before I lived alone, my time left me for someone named Chris. When I spoke to him he would hear something entirely different from the sentence’s actual meaning. And no matter what I said, to him, I was saying something negative. I would sit there dissecting my speech, wondering what it was that made him so very angry. I would come up with nothing but became more and more wary of myself. Eventually, I stopped saying much at all. And he became distanced from the person he fell in love with and person who he was trying so hard to hate. Then, one day, he left me. And all of the sentences I never said were suddenly in my mind as cold metallic, little truths, pricking the inside of my skull, making it difficult to put it against anything. It was then I realized I had actually reduced myself to an odd number.

My northern view makes the most sense to me now. Even when it renders me speechless, it still makes sense. And I don’t think I’ll stay here forever but I like it for now. It’s easy to relax here.

Sometimes I forget how cute my cat is. I have noticed this happens time and time again. That’s why the life span of something new is so short. Like with cars and computers and cell phones and haircuts and boy bands and Victoria’s Secret models, their popularity doesn’t last long. And I find it funny that people are wearing leg warmers again. And I know not to believe them when they say they don’t miss that person. Even something old and ugly can become new again if given enough time.

We moved into this loft a year ago and I haven’t seen the swans on Newton creek since then. The city wasn’t as worried as I thought it would be. September came and went and now we’re looking at November. I look at my northern view every day. I look at him as well, especially on Saturdays and Sundays. Last month, I made a crease in the year, marking an overlap of time. At some point, the folds will become thick enough for me to lay my head down again. I still work at the non-profit organization to pay for my view and my primetime. I still work with the ladies and all of their stories. I’m sure they still feel sorry for me but I giggle secretly at them through nailess fingers.

Last night I threw away my acceptance letter. Today it is Friday.

How incredible is this image?

So awesome.

When I was 6 something was brought into our household that would change my life in many ways. Sure, my brother was born around that time but his birth hardly compared to the VHS Machine my dad brought home from Sears. I remember it well. The beast was black and had more moveable parts than a Transformer. And it was huge. Well, back then it wasn’t considered huge once you took into account its magical abilities. Looking back, it was roughly the size of a microwave oven – and almost as heavy.

Up to that point the Howley household archived TV shows by recording them onto audio cassette tapes. We listened to the soundtracks and created the visuals in our very own heads. I did, at least. I “watched” Xanadu this way roughly 35.3 times. Sure, I had to flip the tape over from time to time and there were invariably minutes of dead silence or my mom yelling something about using up all the batteries again but that didn’t mean there were dark spots in my imagination. Olivia would merely skate a bit harder, or she’d put together a few more ribbon barrettes in the most beautiful color combinations and they would fall alongside her hair. I would soon begin to copy those barrettes on Sunday afternoons in order to look prettier come school on Monday.

My father liked to purchase things in tandem with my Uncle Dick. I remember sitting in the car lot of the “Custom Carpeted Van (With Pin-Stripes if You Want Them)” dealership looking through stacks upon stacks of huge carpet books trying to decide what would look best together in our new Ford van. And by the end of it all, both he and my Uncle Dick drove off the lot with a promised customized van in both their futures.

“We travel a lot!” I remember him telling my mom. “We could really use it to go to Disney and see your family.” And so it came to be that we acquired a new brown van. It was similar with electronics and vacations. One of the two men would bring something up and the next thing you’d know they would be pricing in-ground pools, new skis, and garage door openers.

When my father brought our new VHS Machine into the room, our reactions were not unlike what they would have been had we finally gotten the dog we had always begged for. We stared at it in amazement, waiting for it to do some tricks or play something we’d never seen before.

Prior having a VHS Machine of my own, I had heard about the phenomenon in the cafeteria at school. A few of the Alpha Families had Video Recorders and they would spill their Alpha Children onto the streets every morning sporting badges claiming the bragging rights to being the more superior race. We barely had a working TV when we were growing up, so I knew my chances of becoming one of “those kids” were slim. But Dana had one. Dana also had a dog who, I was told, was allergic to itself and that’s why it would chew it’s own hair and skin off until it bled. I was always sure that it was undergoing the worse possible form of doggy suicide, freeing itself from quite possibly the most deranged family in Pennsylvania – a suicide I would have pondered myself had I been born into that household. Dana also had a pool, a father who had a boob cake constructed for a fortieth birthday party (that I just could not take my eyes off of), a little brother who would dry-hump furniture on call, a self-playing piano that played “Bad, Bad Lee Roy Brown”, and a finished shag-carpeted basement with a pool table. I guess you could say Dana was Alpha. But Dana, like many other early Video Recorder owners, had a BETA Machine.

Here’s where the details in my head get a little foggy. I’m not sure how or why it happened (perhaps I was flipping the tape over during this part of the story) but at some point some pimply little Alpha, BETA-owning brat started the whole “BETA RULES! VHS SUCKS!” argument. Somehow, it was perpetuated and then escalated. Great tales were spun by the Alpha Kids about their superior BETA Machines and how far they would go and how they could outdo any VHS Machine at any time. The VHS kids knew where they stood. We were second in line, knowing the only reason we even had the Machine at all was due to the drop in cost. The Alpha-BETA kids were indeed first. We VHS kids weren’t going to try and dispute that fact. It wasn’t at all unlike West Side Story (not yet out on VHS).

But the war went on and on and on anyway.

“My uncle says BETA has more tapes.”

“BETA is smaller.”

“My dad says BETA is far superior to VHS.”

“My older brother – he’s in high school – he said he doesn’t know why your family wasted their money on a VHS Machine since it won’t last. BETA will.”

“VHS is for retards.”

If people were around the day that the hare challenged the turtle to a race, spectators would have placed their bets on the hare (without having heard the outcome of the fable of course) but having lived through the whole BETA vs. VHS dispute, I can tell you first-hand, I ain’t doubting no god damned turtles from now on. Especially since I’m always chosen for Team Turtle. If I ever get over the shock I still feel surrounding the fact that children in gradeschool actually fought over the superiority of magnetic-tape recorders, I plan to make a DVD for each of the BETA kids I once knew. I’ll do the project on my Mac. The movie will star my own bare ass with the words “Who’s your ALPHA now, Bitch?” written from one smiling cheek to the other.

A year ago today I apparently managed to piss a few people off. So much so, I deleted the entire first post and put other words in its place. I’ll never know what it originally said.

Two years ago today, I did not post. (Probably should have done that a year ago as well, could have avoided a real pain in my ass).

A little over a year ago I had nothing to say so I decided to ask anyone (who might actually be reading this) where it was they were reading it from. I had fun with it. I even created a map. And guess what? Today, I’m at a loss for words again.

Lately, I have had a spike in traffic—a pretty significant one for some reason. And quite honestly, I have no idea where it is people are coming from. My sarcastic, cynical self thinks I was hit with some kind of virus but it doesn’t hurt to ask if there are humans behind all of these numbers.

So if you are reading this and if you could take a moment of your time, please leave a comment as to where you are. I’m curious and I need to know where to send the cookies.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

michele

(Also, mind the longest post ever written).

I sat at the bar waiting for Toby, sipping a beer and reading my book. While I’m not usually drawn to the bar at a restaurant, I found myself sitting there. For me, a very intricate (sometimes unconscious) desired seating arrangement is put into place while out to eat. First, I like a good booth. There’s nothing more comforting than a dark wood-lined booth. I like the dynamics and that most of the structure is nailed down, a wobbly table leg or a shaky chair can ruin a meal. Next, comes a table against a window or a wall. I like to lean. If the table is placed in between two other tables and inside the restaurant that table quickly drops into last place. I’d rather wait for the booth.

Then, there’s the bar. Sitting atop a wobbly metal rod padded in pleather-covered foam has its benefits. I see three reasons for sitting at the bar: One, is the speedy download you get for receiving more booze. Another reason to sit at the bar is if the restaurant is full. And lastly, it’s also the place people sit in hopes of blending in while they’re alone. The bar is the New York City of restaurant seating; busy, but not necessarily social; opportunistic but not necessarily accommodating.

Between the turning of pages I took in a bit of my surroundings. The waitress was blond. She was friendly, on the short side and a little chubby. There was a plate of watermelon set out for us bar-dwellers to snack on. They were speared with toothpicks. There was a sign on the wall asking that we help the president by drinking more beer. There were two women to the right of me. They sat down right after I did. They were in their late 30s or early 40s. One was a redhead with a nose ring, the other a brunette. There were two TV sets relieving us from the burden in figuring out where to rest our eyes.

Toby showed up about 20 minutes later. We kissed and decided to stay at the bar considering the restaurant had no booths. I ordered a cheese pizza. Toby ordered a veggie burger and fries. On top of all that, we decided to split a side of onion rings.

We continued to talk for a bit, sharing our days and the hours that made them. And then the onion rings showed up. They were huge. There were so many of them, just piled on there like a huge mountain of fat. But they smelled perfect. And then the redhead next to me began to talk a bit louder. “Maybe we should get some onion rings too. They look good.” She looked from her friend, directly to the waitress, “Do you have a half portion of those?”

I interrupted, “We have a half portion right here!” I said grabbing the basket. “You can have some of these. You’ll be doing us a favor. Trust me. Please.”

The waitress laughed. I think she must have thought I was kidding. Truthfully, there was no way we could have eaten the amount of food we ordered. I asked her to bring them two plates.

The redhead began to playfully refuse, “NO! I couldn’t. Are you sure? That’s SO NICE. You two are so nice. My god! How can you just want to give us your onion rings! That’s so nice! We can’t. Are you sure!?” I handed her the basket.

“You’ll give us another 15 minutes of life by helping us eat these.” Toby said. And so she obliged.

“Where are you two from?” Asked the redhead.

“Well, we live here now. But we’re from back east.” I answered and backed up a bit to include Toby in on the conversation. “We just moved here from DC.”

“Oh! Wow! I was from back east—but a long time ago. We thought you were european. Didn’t we?” She looks to the brunette. “Didn’t we think they were European? They look European. You look European.” She popped half an onion ring into her mouth.

“No. DC. We’re from DC.” Toby confirmed.

“Well, let me warn you about this place…” She trailed off and looked back at the brunette who was drowning her already oil-saturated onion rings in ketchup. “NO! I won’t make this negative. I will start over.” As if thinking out loud while repeating the words learned at a self-help group or once said by her shrink, she nodded her head to no one in particular. The brunette nodded too as if programmed. The redhead started over.

“Are you two married?” She asked.

I handed her the basket of rings again. “Have some more. Yes, we’re married.”

“How long have you two been married?” She questioned.

“We were married in January.” Toby answered. “We eloped on the 3rd.”

“You’re newLEEweds!” She said, pulling at the ee’s as if she wanted more from them. “I see! Well, be very careful here. San Francisco is a wonderful place. It’s a lovely city. But BE VERY CAREFUL!” She looked back at the brunette who was nodding vigorously.

“Yes. Be careful. There’s an underground scene here that you’ve never seen before. A dark underground. An underground that can suck you in….” The brunette was interrupted by the redhead.

“Yes! Believe me, there’s a REESon they say ‘I left my heart in San Francisco’ there’s a REEson for that saying. Just be careful. People move here, and their marriage falls apart. San Francisco is pretty. There’s a lot to do, but the underground here is the biggest, darkest and seediest of all.”

Suddenly, the baseball game on TV set seemed unbelievably appealing. And the table in the middle of the room, surrounded by loud people, became inviting and warm. We continued to eat while she talked about the dark side of San Francisco and her brunette friend nodded in agreement to everything she said.

Somewhere below San Francisco and its fog there is a dark side of life, an underground that apparently claims, chews up, and spits out married couples in from the east. Could they have been referring to drugs? Sex? Sex and drugs? Swing scenes? C.H.U.D.? Or worse, are there Republicans making up the underground voting for Kerry, marrying gay couples, and giving their money to the poor. Maybe the underground has no carbs. Is this underground a hell? Are there MOLE PEOPLE down there like we had back in New York? What IS this underground scene that they speak of that I haven’t ever imagined or seen before? Do they have any idea what this did to my obsessive compulsive imagination?

After several days of imaging this underground we were warned about by a 40 year old redheaded devil sitting atop a barstool, I have decided what it must be. Below the streets, someplace out of site from both Toby and me, there is a restaurant without walls or windows. In its center there is a massive bar surrounded by the lonliest of bar stools. Its floor is lined with wobbly tables and rickety chairs, kept steady by sugar packets and napkins. Here everyone is a party of one and there are no TV sets to ease the discomfort of strangers. And instead of onion rings and juicy fruits, they serve up the thousands upon thousands of hearts that this city has claimed over the years. One by one they’re speared with toothpicks and brought out on watermelon plates or in baskets for each of our single human consumption.

Ok, so I’m gathering that no one really wants to just GIVE me a dollar so I can save up for a new retainer. And that’s cool. I got over it. It took a few days, but I think I’m fully recovered. Booze helps. But booze costs money. You see my dilemma? Anyway, I was thinking about the time I called all of you Communists and how that wasn’t very nice. I shouldn’t have offended the Communist party like that. If you were actually Communists, you would have donated a communal dollar. But you didn’t. (Again, some of you have. When I begin my nudist camp, you’re all on the A list—[at this time we will not disclose what the “A” stands for]).

Last night, while dodging baby strollers, tossing back my skim caramel macchiato, and trying desperately to make it for my 6 p.m. manicure performed by the smallest asian fingers in Noe Valley, it occurred to me what you all really are. You’re capitalists, greedy capitalists.

I was way off. You don’t speak the language of Indie Rock, you don’t understand the meaningful words making up my orange rhyming dictionary, you speak the language of green. You see a bargain, and you take it. And giving a gal a buck to buy a replacement mouthpiece is not a top priority.

I get it now.

So buy my shoe.

The shoe above was created by yours truly when she was a mere sophomore at Penn State University. It was a hard task to accomplish. First, I sculpted my Doc Martin in clay. And that took hours, because I’m anal retentive and totally weird about proportion and size (even my boobs are different sizes, and every day I contemplate cutting them off). This damn shoe took me hours to sculpt (sadly, the clay version [which is sacrificed during the process] was much better that the end result, but you didn’t hear that from me). After creating the clay structure, I covered it in a mesh, wire-like stuff and then covered that in plaster. Now, please understand that this was a long time ago and I’m forgetting every step in this tedious process, but maybe some of you arty people (who I am sure can absolutely NOT spare a dollar) can help me with your knowledge. I know the mesh was put there to eventually help peel off the plaster, but I have no idea why or how we did this. Either way, it worked. I pealed. It split. I put it back together again using more plaster. Eventually, it took on the form of a white, plaster pod. On the outside, it looked like an igloo or like Luke Skywalker’s family hut (before the evil people burned his family and he fled for a life full of following The Force; the force of non-capitalism). We then took this white thing, and we filled it with concrete. Days later, born unto me was a concrete shoe. (Buyer pays for shipping.) My Dr. Martin – the one that took me to England, and walked me all the way across Europe – would now out live me, my ashes, and the Pope.

So buy this shoe. It holds my blood, sweat, and tears. Plus, both my father AND Toby hate it, so you’d be doing them a favor. In fact, I think Toby might buy it so he can throw it out. (Toby can’t buy my shoe.)

Buy my god damn shoe, capitalist monkeys.

A year ago today. And two years ago today.

The panty line? The hell?

Holy cow, I’m crazy.

Tucker By DonaldEugene

• I wasn’t born yesterday,
• not even last week.
• I might not be a kitten,
• but I’m feelin’ pretty sleek.
• I snuck out thru the back door,
• yeah I’ve been around the block.
• The east coast was my home,
• now the west coast I do rock.
• Yeah my name is Tucker
• and I’m just a little bad.
• I’ve never been a f*cker
• no I’m not your kitty’s dad.
• They say I got a deathwish
• and that I’m into doom.
• Hey If I’m in the oven
• it’s ‘cause I like the fumes.
• yeah

Here is a picture of the little bastard.

(The cat, not Donald).

Who got tickets to see Modest Mouse on July 17th? Who? That’s right. That’s right.

I’m wearing my indie rock today because all you cheap monkeys wouldn’t spare me a dollar (except a few of you-you know who you are. And I love you. The rest of you are heartless bastards). Earlier, I listened to At the Drive-In (because they’re angry). After that, I listened to Shellac (because, well, he sings about killing people who [excuse my language] fuck his wife-not that any of you fucked my wife, but I’d let you for a dollar). After Shellac, I turned on Jets to Brazil. They’re not so angry, they’re more sad about stuff about things about everything. Poor guys—always whining. But I’m in that stage of feeling sorry for myself because you monkeys wouldn’t spare me a dollar or a retainer nor did you fuck my wife for a dollar. Anger came and went. Now, I just feel sad. Hence, Jets To Brazil.

So you can have my wife (if I had one, but I don’t because I’m a wife) and my music for free. And I will be buckless, buck-toothed and mean.

But none of the above is my point here. Now, begins my point: There are two lyrics on “Orange Rhyming Dictionary” that I have often wondered about. One, is this:

And it’s so nice sleeping here all alone-with my ashtray-white, courtesy telephone.

Does he mean he got a white phone for free? Or is he in a hotel room and the white phone is free to call out from. (And here’s some white, courtesy music for all you cheap bastards).

Next up: same album, different song.

In my three feet from bed to wall sleeps(’s?) a genius.

Now, on this one I realize could open the liner notes and find out of there’s an apostrophe, but screw that. iPod lost them long ago. Does he mean “He’s a genius and he sleeps”? or “Sleep IS a genius”. Because I love sleep. And I sort of wish I were doing just that right now so I could dream about taking the dollars from online monkeys. (And I have typed for miles—and you’d think because of that a sista’d get a buck? But noooooo).

Oh yeah, one more thing. Red House Painters. Now, do they paint red houses? Or paint houses red? Which reminds me, speaking of red houses, mihow.com is officially on strike. And you’re all Communists.