Someone tell me about Kinja.

Last weekend, we went to Coney Island with Nico and George to “see” the Mermaid Parade and eat really fattening food and ride the Wonder Wheel. I took some pictures. Most of the pictures I took using my film camera and wouldn’t you know, but I haven’t been developed yet. Soon. Soon. Featured here are some of the digital images. Enjoy! (Click on each thumbnail to enlarge image.)

Some dude on the boardwalk.

When did nipples become the ultimate taboo? I don’t get this. We were watching some makeover show recently and they showed a woman’s breasts but blurred ONLY the nipple. So weird.

This ride was SO FUN to watch and these kids were SO FREAKING cute. They were gleefully smiling the entire time. It was awesome.

Here we are on the Wonder Wheel. I have to say, I had a blast. I must go again when it’s not unbarably crowded. That’s me, in the bikini. (Kidding!)

Our view from the top. Look at all those people peeing and pooping all over the Eastern seaboard and swimming in trash infested waters. Awwwww

Yum. Cheese Fries from Nathan’s. Toby and I shared regular fries. I haven’t had anything potato or deep friend in over a month and a half. And boy was it good going down. And boy did I feel like total shit when it was over.

Here is Nico mid chew.

The infamous Cyclone. Here, it was so crowded it took us about 10 minutes to walk 5 feet. And a fight broke out, too. Some peurto rican girl threatened to cut a woman as she dug her finger into the women’s face. Twas not pleasant. They were right behind Nico and I and at first, before we turned around, we thought she was screaming “I WILL CUT YOU!! I WILL CUT YOU!!” at George or Toby Joe. Rest assured, it was directed toward an old lady instead. Those damn old ladies are always acting up. Good times.

My hair cut. Though, it just looks like a big rat’s nest (as my mother might say.) Oh well. I did ask for messy after all.

Apparently, I like to take pictures of myself in a bathroom. Say it with me: Rat’s Nest. Also, I think Sherri should give me a free eyebrow pluck. She’s good at it. She has proof.

I’m getting my haircut tonight. I will take pictures so you can all make fun of me. I am going to The Little Hair Shoppe on Missy’s recommendation. If I don’t look hot, it’s her fault.

It’s almost been a year since I have found myself under the scissors.

What is “Japanese Straightening?” Maybe I’ll get some of that.

In an attempt to get folks more outgoing traffic FROM SPD, we went ahead and made it daily this past week. What we’re finding that’s happening is that people are visiting US but not clicking out. So it’s really not living up to its mission statement. I guess we probably should have thought more about it but when you create, design, and build something in less than one week, there is little time to iron out all the wrinkles. :]

We’ll see what happens. If it self-destructs, however, we’ll leave it up so folks can look back on it anytime they’re looking for new faces.

Many years ago, after my grandfather passed away, Toby Joe and I inherited his couch. The couch is (forgive me, mother) sort of ugly. While it’s comfortable, it’s also a little homely. It’s green and blue and there are tiny gold diamonds all over it. Of course, it doesn’t help that the cats, specifically a small orange one, have adopted it as a scratching post. It’s the biggest, greenest scratching post ever.

In the time we have had Tucker, he has managed to pull off a part its right arm and pull out most of its gold hair, too. It’s losing. And slowly.

I like to nap on this couch. I have grown to sort of love it in that redheaded, one-armed step-child sort of way. I’ve woken up numerous times with its texture all over my cheeks (and my face as well).

Now that I have we’re a dual income household, we’re doing OK and have found that we can drop a buck or two on nicer things, like a car for example, and maybe even some furniture. Toby Joe has spent the last several weekends looking at new couches and armchairs. He wants a man-chair, pronto. Who am I to get in the way of a man-chair? Each and every time we have the dreaded furniture conversation, I suggest first getting rid of the ugly futon we bought when we arrived in San Francisco and had nothing to sleep on for several weeks. After that, we can talk about getting rid of my grandparents – I mean – the couch.

This couch comes up quite a bit. I think my mother likes everything that comes to mind when she sees it. The couch holds memories for all of us. The most prevalent memory that comes to my mind when I think about the couch is one featuring my grandmother who died several years before my grandfather. My grandmother used to sit on the left hand side of that couch, the opposite side that Tucker has a beef with now, thank goodness. When my family stayed at our grandparent’s house in New Jersey, we’d sleep upstairs in their finished attic – a room my uncle had to duck to stand in. From the stairs, just outside its door, I could look down and nine times out of ten she’d be sitting right there on that couch. It was really all I could see from up there, aside from a bit of the lamp and the coffee table. She would peer up at me, looking out from above her reading glasses, a lanyard framing her cheeks. She’d smile or say something cute. That’s what I picture when I think of the couch. That’s a most excellent memory. And for every one of mine, I’m sure my mother has 200.

The relatives on my mothers side of the family are slightly insane. But in a good way. I could go on for pages telling their stories. I have seven aunts and uncles on that side of the family. Which pretty much amounts to a whole lot of material. I firmly believe my grandmother deserved to rest on the left side of that couch for all eternity in reward for all that hard work. One of the most constant memories from the Wojcik family is this idea known as the “Wojcik Curse”. You see, for years anything that would go wrong for someone, albeit slightly, would summed up entirely using the simple sentence, “It’s simple. You suffer from the Wojcik Curse.” For example, should one forget to cut the little plastic tees off a new shirt or any piece of clothing and continue to wear it around like that for years to come, they suffer greatly from the Wojcik Curse. And to this day I still have a piece of plastic on a bra I have had for over two years. I suffer greatly from the Wojcik Curse.

During our wedding party in D.C., the couch came up again. It came up because Toby Joe and I had just found out we were moving to San Francisco. I wanted to break it to my mother easy. I did so in front of extended family while preparing for our party and everyone was standing around pretending to like our boxed up apartment.

Mom, I think we might need to get rid of that couch. I’m not sure it will fit in the bins with us.

My mother’s face changed. (Oh god, what have I done.) Not only did her face change, but one of her sister’s face changed as well.

Can you find someone to take it? It’s a nice couch. It would be so sad to just leave it on the side of a road someplace.

The other sister, this one:

shook her head and made a ppphfft sound with her lips.

Michele, you can get rid of that couch if you want to. It’s not like it’s actually grandpa, for crissakes!

This hadn’t ever consciously occurred to me. Which is a good thing, too because sitting on my grandparents is not something I ever would have wanted and leaving them on the side of the road isn’t something I wanted, either.

My mother laughed at this. Might I actually be leaving my grandparents on the side of the road someplace? What if some deranged local from DC decided to urinate on it? What if someone dismembered it, someone other than a 7 pound cat? This was an unacceptable idea.

So we moved the couch across the United States of America. And then six months later, after a similar conversation to the one above over the telephone this time, we moved it back across the United States of America. Today, that same green couch sits in our Brooklyn apartment losing a one-armed battle with an Orangemanistani terrorist named Tucker. And it’s second up on being “let go” – second only to a brown futon that no one would have loved if it had not been for the two of us.

If my grandmother were still alive today she’d have a hearty laugh over this Wojick curse – the new Wojick curse – the Curse of the Green Couch. I imagine she’d laugh long and hard and my grandfather would just shake his head and smile. And then she’d go into the kitchen in her nightgown, pull out the buttermilk and the flour and make me some galletes.

Here’s an update to the Nike/Minor Threat fiasco.

Sarah B. wrote about the fact that she’s rereading a book she read when she was in her teens. At the time, it changed her life. While she hasn’t mentioned which book, it has me thinking about the books that affect me (before the age of 18).

BOOKS THAT CHANGED ME:

• The Stranger by Albert Camus
• Several of Flannery O’Connor’s short stories.
• Then Again, Maybe I Won’t (heh) By Judy Blume
• Horton Hears a Who! by Dr. Seuss.
• The Butter Battle Book by Dr. Seuss
• A Reckoning by May Sarton

BOOKS THAT DID NOT BUT I WAS TOLD WOULD:

• On the Road by Jack Kerouac
• Demien by Herman Hesse

That’s off the top of my head. I am sure there are more. (Should I be worried that two Dr. Seuss books came to mind immediately?)

Is ANYONE out there willing to take on some freelance work over the weekend? It’s an InDesign project. They pay well and I had to break up with them because of the fulltime job and all. Plus, Nico is coming to town.

Please email me if you’re interested. (I suppose it could be done in Quark if you wanted.)

Anyone?

Nike Sucks.

You don’t need a degree in graphic design to notice the similarities here. They’re the fucking same. Oh, wait—one is blue, not red. And Major, not Minor. And there are some Nike logos tossed in there. This brings to mind an interview with Vanilla Ice, defending the differences between “Ice Ice Baby” and “Under Pressure” (“dun dun dun duh-duh-duh dun” vs. “DUN dun dun dun duh-duh-duh dun”).

And then some more. and more

Seriously. Who thought this was OK?

Since I wrote so much yesterday, today will be a day of images. (You may click on these bitches to enlarge them.)

Yesterday, when I finally left the office, I took pictures of the drummers in Grand Central. (I also took a video, which can be seen at the bottom of this post.)

Next time you’re in Grand Central, check out the Music Under New York. It’s really pretty cool.

(One day, I was walking to through GC and I guess I was tired. Some guy was playing the the theme song from Titanic and I started to cry. I have a gay man living inside me.)

Here they are again. I am not sure how these men do it. It’s so hot down there.

Remember this post? about Planet Japan Thailand? This gaggle of giggly girls were standing outside of there last night looking pretty. As we passed them on our way to dinner, I snapped a picture. At which point, Toby Joe said, “Man, I got a yeast infection just looking over there.”

This next one is for 20-Incher. (Inside joke, folks. Don’t attack me.)

(My gift for you, Gerry.)

Gerry was amazed at the tightness of her pants. Yeah, OK. right, her “pants”. (And by the way, I didn’t get that close to her butt. It’s a crop of the above picture. I’m not a perv.)

Toby Joe and I were a little more intrigued by this. I think I can safely say that I will exit planet Earth without ever having worn a tiara. That’s about all I can definitively say about myself, however. Oh and I won’t ever have a penis.

This morning, I ran into this weird display sitting on the street and I thought to myself, “I wonder if the litterbugs behind this were with those ladies from last night.”

Lastly, I give you a video of the GC Drummers. (3.2 mgs with sound, too).

Today, we received a not so nice email regarding SPD. Oh well. It seems he/she decided that having any site featured other than blogs was just wrong. So, for example. artist sites are out of the question. And a site written by a dog or a baby is out of the question, too. Toby and I never wanted to limit people as to what they wish to have shown. And we intend on keeping it that way as long as that site remains on the Interenet.

In other news, we have changed the layout from being every week, to every day (Monday through Friday.) There will be six portraits featured every day now. There are other ideas in the works as well. Hopefully, we’ll see some changes in the not too far future.

(Sorry, but this is really boring and long.)

When I was a baby (not that I remember it) I had serious ear problems. This was a memory handed down to me by my mother. I’d like to think I remember the pain and that’s why I have issues today, but I don’t. I’m sure I lost the ability the first time my heart broke. I was told my ear problems were pretty severe. I was given temporary tubes (for those of you who don’t know what “tubes” are, they are inserted into the eardrum to relieve the fluid built-up behind them.) My inner ear wasn’t ever exactly normal. It seems that not only is the tubing narrower than usual, but it doesn’t angle down as much as it should, either. That being said, when I get what one might consider “normal” sinus build up, it affects me ten times as badly as a “normal” person because it doesn’t drain properly.

Take a minute. Say it with me.

GROSS.

So, yeah, tubes. Temporary ones.

I didn’t have the fluid build-up any longer. But that was the last time I ever swam without earplugs. When you’re mutant like myself, you can’t allow for a DROP of water to hit your ears. NOT A DROP. Later, I will explain what happens should one get past the guard. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been underwater without earplugs in. If I have, I was a baby and my mother took me to one of those Drown Your Toddler YWCA events. Obviously, if I can’t remember the pain, I have no recollection of swimming without earplugs either.

Eventually, the temporary tubes fell out (which I still have) and I started getting infections again. I was probably around 4 or 5 at the time. My mother took me to my regular ear doctor. He inserted PERMANENT ear tubes. (KEY WORD: PERMANENT)

I was in the hospital, then out again. I left that day, my head carrying more plastic.

At age 10, we moved to North Carolina. We packed up everything we owned and moved south from Pennsyltuckey. My family, myself and my permanent tubes moved to Raleigh. There, I met with a new doctor who decided to remove the permanent tubes from my eardrums. He talked us into it. I think he told my family it was outdated—which it was. And there were new ways to treat such a problem. He said after he removed the tubes, my eardrum would heal and I might become a normal fish able to hear underwater bubbles or the sound a penny make when you drop it to the bottom of a pool. (I was such an easy target when playing Marco/Polo.)

We removed them. (My mother, to this day, holds herself ENTIRELY responsible for my having so many problems. I think she’s crazy. It happens. I’m normal, more or less.)

Months went by. The holes did not heal. As a matter of fact, there was no sign of healing in sight as my eardrum turned towards scar tissue instead of pink new skin. The holes were there to stay.

More earplugs.

Years went by this way. From time to time I would get colds—wicked ones and snot would literally pour out of my ears. Snot and blood, I kid you not.

Take a minute. Say it with me.

GROSS.

My pillow would be covered in it. I’d find it in my hair. This wasn’t normal.

Doctors all over the Eastern seaboard told me to take decongestants the MOMENT I felt a cold coming on. Hell, they told me to take them the moment I felt a change in head pressure. I did. Sometimes, it may have helped. I don’t know.

When I was 15, we moved back to Pennsyltuckey where I met a new ENT. At age 17, this guy had an idea. I was to enter the hospital as an outpatient. They would give me local anesthesia and while under, he’d scratch the edges of ONE of my scarred eardrums hoping to trigger new cell growth, thereby covering my holes.

This seemed logical to me, actually. And it was for the most part.

The operations were a few days apart. We did one ear at time just incase something went wrong.

It didn’t work. In fact, it made the holes bigger. He was upset as were we.

Later, he told us about something new. This operation was bigger. I would be put under again at which point a surgeon would take a thin piece of skin from somewhere else on my body, (I seem to remember it being the mucousy part of the skin just underneath the skin skin. If that medical explanation helps at all.) He would then lightly scratch the eardrum to trigger new growth and then lay the thin piece of skin on top. This time, he sent me to Danville Medical Center, about 1.5 hours east of State College.

We tried this on one ear. It didn’t work. (But there is a most hilarious memory I have of a man in a truck staring down at me as I sat in my mother’s car on the way home, a bandage wrapped tightly around my ENTIRE head. I looked like the elephant man wrapped in white bandages. When I got home, my hilarious father took pictures. I looked that pathetic and weird.)

I was 18 at the time.

I seem to remember one more ear operation at the age of 20. Maybe he tried again on the healthier ear. I don’t remember. All I know is I was in and out of the hospital between the ages of 15 and 20 four times for my ears. Each time was a failure.

At 20, I threw in the towel. If I was going to go deaf, so be it. I was not willing to go through one more head operation and get negative results.

Or so I thought.

At the age of 27, after suffering through another ear explosion due to a cold or a droplet of water, I went to see my general practitioner. I had an HMO so even though I KNEW I had to see a specialist, I had to get the referral first. Over the years, I learned how to predict the reactions I’d get from any general practitioner. It’s like a constant rehearsal without an opening night in sight.

Hi. Yeah. I have ear problems. I need to visit an ear specialist. That’s why I’m here. I’ve had them all my life.

Well, let me have a look. You have an earache? I might be able to do something for you.

He/she says this as they grab their ear scope (or whatever it’s called.)

Believe me, you’re in for a real treat. I’ve had several operations all unsuccessful. I have holes in my eardrum and it looks, from what I’m told, pretty hazardous in there.

mm hmmm I see. I see.

He goes in with his light and magnifier.

Wow, it looks inflamed. You do have some problems.

He backs away from the chair, writes a referral and I’m off.

(One guy actually GASPED and told me it looked like a dripping cavern.)

This particular doctor had me see an EAR ONLY specialist. When I met him, I discovered new hope I thought I had lost at age 20. And so we scheduled another ear surgery.

Which didn’t work.

This one wasn’t a lost cause entirely, however. While I was under for the 40-minute surgery, he found a benign tumor growing throughout my left ear canal. It took 2.5 hours to remove it from the inside of my skull as it had made itself really comfortable in there.

Take a minute. Say it with me.

GROSS.

He was certain this would have caused me a great deal of damage and pain (like I already didn’t know damage) in the future. He even saved it for educational purposes. It was that big.

In summation, I am deafer than I was at 20, 15, and 10 and I have constant ringing in my left ear due to hundreds of ear infections and 5 failed operations. I can’t swim without earplugs and showering hasn’t ever been easy since I’m too stubborn to put the plugs in while bathing. I can’t use eardrops or cleaners so I walk around with canals filled with wax most of the time. (Unless I cheat and use the forbidden Q-tips. So dangerous.) I can’t hear people in the dark and I can’t hear you if you mumble. Plus, I’ve had my right ear removed from my head and therefore have a scar running along the back of my skull. Hot.

Today, I found out my inner ear and my ear problems are exactly the reason I am getting sick all the time. My pipes don’t drain. And while sometimes the gook comes out my ears (you know, if it’s REALLY bad) it just sits there and sits there getting worse until I am sick. Whereas most people don’t get ill from such a tiny bit of infectious mucous, my head doesn’t expel it like it should, therefore, I get sick almost each and every time.

But you know what? I can ride on airplanes and my ears don’t pop. Plus, I’m a good listener because I have to read your lips when we speak. So should you ever meet me, and I’m not looking at you at least 85% of the time, that means I’m not listening. At which point, you have my permission to call me on it. Be sure not to mumble.

I’m sick again. It’s the fourth time this year. I always thought I had a strong immune system. I am finding that’s a load of crap.

Tonight, Toby Joe and I were to begin taking pottery classes at the Mudpit I, however, feel like I spent two days at the rear of an old diesel truck, sucking on its exhaust pipe. Naked. In the snow. Uphill. That said, after a year off, I will have to postpone my first day back as a potter. I’ll stop by and let them know I’m not flakey. I’ll meet everyone and find out what wheel I’m on. But I just can’t stay conscious for too much longer.

Tomorrow, I’m off to the doctor to find out what on earth is wrong with me. We still don’t have insurance. I am paying out-of-pocket. That pretty much sums up how badly I feel.

Finally, I’m annoyed with myself lately. (Again.) All I want to do is be cynical and spit like a pack mule, or are camels the spitters? Either way.

I don’t care.

Right now, it’s 5:30 and I’m killing time until I have to meet the husband at the ass end of the L Train.

Right now, the ass end of everything is where I belong.

These bastards REALLY love to steal my images.

I’m about to declare an all out war with these girls. How dare they steal a picture of my retainer after everything I went through when I lost the damn thing.

I hesitate to link to the site in question because the background pattern might trigger a seizure. And they’re mean.

Saturday night, Toby Joe and I had dinner at Planet Thailand in Williamsburg. Planet Thailand is an O.K. place to eat. It’s not the best Thai/Japanese food I’ve ever had but it’s certainly not the worst either. We go there on occasion especially when I am craving sushi. You see, all the other Thai places in Williamsburg specialize specifically in Thai. The sushi places specialize in sushi. Planet Thailand specializes in both. So their name is a bit deceiving. It’s not only Thai food they serve at Planet Thailand. It should be called “Planet Japan and Thailand” or simply just “Planet”. On Saturday evening, we decided on Planet Japan and Thailand because I wanted both sushi AND vegetarian duck.

Mistake Number One: Visiting Williamsburg at 9:30 PM on a Saturday night.

I know this next part is going to sound entirely 9th grade of me, but where do all The Khakis come from? My friend, Gerry, uses this term “Khakis”. It makes me laugh. While I know exactly the type of people he’s referring to, I think this breed needs a more detailed description.

The men are usually big up top because they spend a lot of time in the gym trying to impress other non-gay men at the gym with their muscles. They’re usually not very fit—a little pudgy around the beer holding (or rum and coke-holding) mid-section. They tend to have the same hair cut. The hair is cut short, like buzzed short, especially on the sides. On top it might be wee bit longer, but not much. I think they visit their non-gay hairstylist and ask for “The Nead” a cut that marries the head and neck thereby blurring the boundary between what holds up the head and the head itself. And the muscles they gain don’t help their cause, or do help their cause, I guess it depends on who you’re asking. I really like necks, jaw lines and chins. I like knowing where the head begins and the neck ends. Sometimes, boundaries are good. But I imagine that some ladies like a full Nead.

They often wear light colors. I see horizontal stripes up top and usually it’s a button down. Usually the button downs are fitted so they can show of their non-gay man muscles and their lady-luring loins. Their pants are usually khaki or pale. And sometimes, the more attractive individuals wear jeans because they fit into a non-stretchy variety of pants.

What I have mentioned so far would be easily overlooked and ignored should it not be for their voices. Generally speaking, I hate their voices. Given we live near New Jersey and Long Island, The Local Khakis’ voices are even worse. (My New Jersey relatives, I hope you can find it in your hearts and forgive me for saying such a thing.) We are forced to listen to their throaty, loud words touched with that Long Island or New Jersey draw. For example, “Water” is not water. It’s “Wooter.” And “Long” becomes “Lawng”. It’s really just something one must hear firstear. The women don’t sound so bad. In fact, sometimes it can be a little cute. I don’t want anyone thinking that I hate every one who speaks with a Long Island/New Jersey accent, I just don’t like testosterone bags with said accent.

Mistake Number Two: Actually sticking around.

We waited 45 minutes for a table. The place was swarming with Khakis. And not only was it slammed at Planet Thailand, either. EVERY INCH OF WILLIAMSBURG - home of the hipsters, home of irony and greasy hair, Guns and Roses, bad tattoos - was swarming with Khakis. Which begs the question, where are all of these people coming from? And once that question is asked, one must wonder WHY are they coming?

They’re Here. They’re Queer. Get Used to It.

During our 45-minute wait, the fella behind me who was on a date quickly irked me. It was Saturday night. His date was a charming blond. She dressed to the nines. She left her apartment excited. This could be the night she’d meet the man of her dreams.

The man of her dreams wore his phone earpiece the ENTIRE time. In mid conversation, he’d answer the phone.

Yeah! - Hold on, baby. I gotta take this. - Yeah, what’s up? Uhuh. Yeah. After dinner. Yeah, man. Cool! Aiight. Later.

Along the right side of the bar, a little further from Toby and I was a group of four. The girls sipped pink cosmos, the boys their rum and Cokes. The men became louder and louder in a desperate attempt to outdo one another with their vast knowledge in the eclectic world of Thai cuisine. The girls giggled between their freshly French manicured fingernails. All four of them together reminded me of the days I spent working in SoHo and walking past the open doors of Sephora. No one should be forced to endure the smell of that many man made, alcohol based perfumes at one time. It should be illegal. And I’d write my Williamsburg congressman but a lot of good he did with the whole waterfront business. Bastard.

Finally, we got a table. We sat down and looked over the specials. I already knew what I wanted. So I sat back and watched the DJ. A woman bounced her shoulders to his beats as she shoveled white rice into her mouth. I imagined her gearing up for an evening I knew nothing about. I couldn’t even wager a guess.

“Where all of these people going after this?” I thought to myself. “Surely they aren’t just here for Planet Thailand. It’s not that good. Galapagos, maybe? A party? ” I suddenly had the overwhelming desire to interview them all. “Excuse me, sir, but where is it you’re going this evening? And where is it you left?”

It was at that moment the hostess walked up and sat the four people from the bar at the table directly next to us. I could have touched them without stretching they were so close. And just like that our meal, which we hadn’t even ordered yet, became a little less appetizing.

I rolled my eyes for Toby. “I know.” He said. “This is the new Williamsburg.”

Mistake Number Three: Eavesdropping.

The girls sat on the padded bench right next to me. They had the hostess bring their drinks over to them from the bar. The guys carried theirs.

I am really hungry. I think you should let me choose a lot of what we get because I have eaten sushi a lot before.

The girls nodded.

The other guy piped up.

I want sashimi. Man, I love fish.

The girl made a squishy face.

Isn’t that raw?

Dude, it’s all raw. That’s sushi.

They all laughed. The Alpha Male continued.

Dude, I like sashimi but I think it’s going to be THAT kind of night. I think rolls are the way to go. I think it’s a rice kind of night.

It took me a few seconds to realize what it was he was trying to warn them about. And even then I wasn’t sure I was right. Could he really be worried about vomiting up sashimi due to potentially consuming too much alcohol? People don’t talk like this, do they? I mean, I worry about eating too many calories, I guess that’s my thing. But never once have I ordered food based on what I might have to eventually see coming back out. Is this a sick version of bulimia? Boozlimia? (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

Beta Male was not giving in that easily.

Suit yourself. I want sashimi.

Fine, man, But don’t come crying to me when you’re puking up raw fish later.

Somewhere, someone in Japan was falling on their chopsticks like one might a sword. And just like that, my pending meal became even less appetizing.

A little over a week ago, Toby Joe brought home a Littermaid. A Littermaid is like the Roomba for cats and their poop. It does it all for you. Your kitty enters, poops, and then 10 minutes later (if there is no movement) it kicks on and combs away the poop and pee clumps.

Brilliant.

However, this is apparently too freaky and weird for our eldest cat who has taken to pissing on the floor in the living room instead.

Not so brilliant.

I love Schmitty. I do. More than many humans, to be honest. But when he does this sort of thing, I want to ring his neck. We had a talk with him on Sunday and explained to him that the Littermaid is there to help not hurt. Damn cat.

I took some pictures over the weekend. (Actually, I took a roll of film along with some digital shots, but they’re currently being developed.) Some of the digital images are shown below. I’ll post some of the others later.

Missy at Counter.

Jon and Missy at Counter.

Toby Joe.

Josh Newman. (I am not sure if he has a site because I am quite possibly the most ignorant and uncool Web site owner there is. No, seriously. I’m the unhip.)

Toby Joe drinking wine at Sarah’s party. We couldn’t find any cups so we did it this way. That’s how we roll in our Hobo gear.

I get the small feeling this one might be worth something if there were such a thing as Blogger Paparazzi. But there isn’t and just like before I know nothing about anything ever. I only ever get a mere breeze of information and with that I don’t ask enough questions. Anyway, this is a woman whose name escapes me talking to Heather of This Fish fame.

More to come…

P.S. I have a wicked sore throat. Someone please help me.

Sometime during the past 5 years, I have become more and more introverted and weird about meeting new people. It started with the telephone. First, I couldn’t answer the damn thing. Then, I stopped returning calls. I have written about this before. It’s a tired subject - my fear of the telephone - so I’m not going to bore anyone with the details of my seemingly neurotic behavior.

Later, my fear of talking to people planted itself in my tangible life, too. I might be invited out. And in spite of the fact that I might know someone quite well, if there were a few whom I wasn’t familiar with, my palms began to sweat, the dizziness set in, and anxiety took control. If I was to meet people at a specific place, I had trouble entering alone. I have had people meet me outside, a block away, or, worse, come get me.

I’m a coward.

The truth is, I have no idea when that started or why for that matter. It’s frustrating. And over the years, I imagine I have missed out on quite a few wonderful gatherings.

Lately, I have been trying to stop this from happening. I have made efforts to reach out to those I haven’t seen or spoken to in quite some time. I have even arranged gatherings of people who normally wouldn’t have met. I guess one might say I’m trying.

About a week ago, I received an invitation from Sarah B., letting me know about a birthday celebration she was having. It was going to be held on a rooftop in Williamsburg. I looked forward to it. After months of failed attempts at meeting, I was finally going to be able to put a face behind the name. And then Saturday rolled around and the usual anxiety set it. I began to make excuses.

Maybe I shouldn’t go. What if someone asks me who I know there and I say no one, really and they ask me to leave? That would humiliating. I should stay home even if it is in my neighborhood. I don’t want to intrude.

Missy called from Chicago. I told her I was freaking out again. She told me to get over it and just go. She said I’d have a great time, that it’s a party. No one cares who knows who.

At 10 p.m. Toby and I headed over. At first, we had trouble finding the building. We walked up and down the street looking for the right place. We listened for roof noise and looked people. And then Toby stepped in dog shit. As one might imagine that didn’t go over too well. We both stood there with thoughts of giving up entirely. Both of us silently said the same thing; we should go home now. Then, people started to trickle up. A few words were exchanged about the apartment number and the next thing you know, we were walking up the stairs toward the roof.

In the end, the venture was totally worth it. I was not asked to leave and other internet-related friends showed up as well. I carried on conversations with new people and laughed about the rats of NYC, internet people who send hatemail, Wiener Dog showing up for her own rape, and Will Farrell. I also learned that vodka, lemonade and cheap beer all mixed together is actually quite tasty. Not only did we have the most excellent view of the city, but we found ourselves among kind people, too. And Sarah B. is everything I imagined.

Now, if only I could figure out a way to overcome my anxiety all of the time. I think I might enjoy life a bit more.

Tonight, I am meeting my gal pal, Missy at Counter for some veggie food and wine. Tomorrow, she embarks on a 24 hour trip to Chicago. I’ll send her off good and hungover.

All NYC people are welcome.

Just kidding.

Today, Sarah B. wrote about The Dark Crystal, a favorite of mine. And it reminded me of a Photoshop job I created years ago using Toby Joe and Jen the Gelfling (Because they look sort of similar). I was just going through my dailylinks folder trying to find it and could not. But I did find this. (Warning: sound.)

Awwwwww.

This Sunday will mark the one month anniversary of our diet. My End goal was to lose 20/25 pounds. While I am not sure when that End will come, I am slowly moving towards it. It’s been hard, I won’t deny, but it’s been entirely worth it, too.

I took so many things for granted before I started eating right. Potato chips could be consumed as a daily snack. Ice cream was something I ate once a week. French fries were something to be eaten first, then, one was to finish the burger or sub or whatever lamprey might find itself next to God. Whole wheat bread could be eaten in excess because it’s good for you. (Most of the wheat bread one might find in the grocery store is filled with sugar.) Eating, and then not eating, certain foods became an obsession of mine.

Now, I look at the back of every box. I compare options. Some foods might have more fat and less sugar. Some foods might have more sodium. Some foods might hold more carbs, but have more fiber, too. Toby and I choose wisely these days. It’s frustrating, and we’re not fun to grocery shop with (or near, for that matter) but that’s life.

I also make it a habit of writing things down. I will try and keep track of everything I eat during any given day. Sometimes, I put it into my little orange notebook. Other times, I take mental notes, figuring out what I can eat more of that day, and what I need to stay away from.

My reason for beginning this post, however, was to make a list of the top ten things I wish were engineered to be equally as fucking tasty but were, somehow, by the grace of God made calorie free.

Without further ado, I give you my list.

• French Fries. (All kinds except sweet potato. I don’t like those.)
• Breyers Mint Chocolate Chip Iced Cream
• Deep Fried Cheese (if they’re poppers, that works, too)
• Cheesecake
• Carvel Ice Cream Cakes
• Grilled Cheese with Facon on Buttery as shit Wonder Bread
• Pizza
• Macaroni and Cheese (preferably from Dumont)
• An Everything Bagel toasted with Cream Cheese

And the top thing I wish I could eat every day and never gain a pound:

• McDonald’s Egg and Cheese Biscuits (Holy shitballs their biscuits are good. I have no idea how they do it.)

Now, granted, I get mine without the meat, but still, not the healthiest item ever made.

But it sure beats the McDonald’s Steak and Egg Cheese Bagel.

As a reward to myself once I am down to my initial targeted weight, I plan on eating all of the above in one sitting. Also, I think I will eat some pancakes, too.

Yesterday, aboard the L train heading towards Union Square a fight broke out between two hipsters. This was something different. Normally, people may seem agitated and shuffle their feet, maybe they’ll poke the person with an elbow or a knee. Rarely are words exchanged. Just nasty looks and a whole lot of passive-aggressive fueled huffing and puffing.

As I was standing on the platform waiting for the L at Graham avenue a young girl walked up and stood DIRECTLY in front of me. There wasn’t too much room to stand in front of me without falling into the dumpster juice below, but she managed to swing it.There aren’t many things that annoy me more than cutting me off if I have been waiting for whatever means of public transport long before you sauntered in. I was infuriated. But I embraced it and let it go. Instead of confronting her or pushing her into the path of the oncoming subway, I decided to silently judge her.

HipstHer was wearing a shiny blue shirt that was tied up in the front. She wore those long dangly earrings, some glittery facial makeup and two non-matching pink barrettes which screamed for help against her jet black hair. For a skirt, she wore a torn white thing, Flashdance style, and for shoes, a pair of cowboy boots. One might say I had a lot to work with.

I just stared at the back of her bobbing head. Her iPod was just loud of enough for a normal person to hear. But considering my deafness and all, to my dismay, I was unable to hear what she was listening to. But I’m going to guess it was Guns and Roses or Chicago.

Once the train arrived and we got on board, we both found positions wherever we could find empty bars to hold onto. The L train is ALWAYS pickle packed with people. There isn’t a day that goes by where one isn’t irked by their commute on the L train. But it’s best to let it go. Otherwise, you’re in a for a world of endless frustration. She stood in the center, near the middle bar. I leaned against the door that separates the trains. (You’re not supposed to do that. But I do. You’re also not supposed to jump in line. But people do. I have submitted a proposal to my editor about a book I’m writing called “Public Transportation: Practicing Proper Etiquette On Board, or Simply Striving To Not Be a Douchebag.” Though, the word Douchebag might have to change.)

We rode like this for two stops. Then, at Bedford Avenue, another pack of humans got on. (Sometimes it amazes me that folks won’t wait for the next train. There really WILL be one behind that one. I promise.) They had a harder time trying to find safe places to stand. Usually the taller people push their hands up onto the ceiling, dangling there like human stalactites, they sway like massive green sea plants that way with every new wave. The shorter people hope for the best. That’s all they can do. But to be honest, it’s usually so crowded one can’t move or fall anyway. The rest of the crowd will hold them up. (For those of you who live in the burbs, our packed subway is your traffic jam. It’s that frustrating and that uncomfortable.)

He got on at Bedford with a friend. Had the scene taken place at a bar, HipstHer and HipstHim may have had a chance at a night of drunk sex. But we were subway dwellers and, for most, banging the person next to you is not the first thing on your mind. (Though, I have heard about sickos who like to rub up against girls while commuting on a busy train. For them, I sort of wish guns were legal. And I hate guns. But for a minute sometimes, I might like to shoot them.)

HipstHer didn’t like that HipstHim was crowding her space. So she began to shove him with her elbow over again. How do I know this? Because eventually words were spoken and the two had it out, right there on the busy subway.

“The fucking train is packed. Where do you want me to GO?! WHERE?!!”

“Just move.”

“I can’t fucking move. Look at this place. LOOK AT IT!! IT’S PACKED! You shut up.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up!”

“Stop slipping me your elbow. You’re acting like a moron.”

This went on for the duration of the flight. A flight we were all on together leading us to places none of us really wanted to go. In the heat, beneath our stinky city, I found myself surrounded by people who, if the stale subway air blew just right, gave off the faint odor of sour morning breath coupled with the stronger smell of Crest, Aim or Aquafresh. They barked and barked like fat seals in hipster clothing and came to no real conclusion. Meanwhile, the rest of us turned up our music or buried our faces deeper and deeper into our newspapers and NYT best sellers. It was going to be yet another glorious day.

After three long years of practically vomiting over my search strings, June is looking cleaner. (I wouldn’t go as far as to say “clean” entirely, but cleaner nonetheless.) I won’t talk about what I used to get for fear of attracting them all over again. And some of these disturb me still. Ah well.

• mihow
• retainer
• retards
• naked waitress
• self suck
• allergic to alcohol
• ashton kucher
• danceadelphia
• excema
• loreal plaza
• love girls
• super nipples
• buck teeth
• girl with buck teeth
• i want to tell everybody about this cheater.
• kansas rest area
• lil red terror
• loadxml
• mihow missy
• naked people

Just for fun, I searched some of these using mihow.com as well. Weirdness, I tell you. Weirdness. You’re all crazy.

While I was at the gym I did some thinking. I used to do all of my thinking in the bathroom. Now, it’s at the gym. Anyway, I feel badly for insinuating that the parents’ were at fault. When we were kids, we were allowed to go on any rides we wanted if we met the height/weight requirement. Had this happened to one of us while my father gleefully spun the teacups until we could no longer lift our heads from the cup’s rim, it wouldn’t have been my father’s fault. But I’m certain he would have felt a world of guilt in retrospect. After all, that is what Mission: Space does. It spins.

It’s just a horrible, horrible story. And I wish I could rewind the day for them, Superman style.

I wrote about Disney’s Mission: Space ride a few days after Toby Joe and I got back from Florida. I may have even rambled on about it in person to a few unlucky listeners. It really is an amazing ride - scary and nauseating - but amazing nonetheless.

On Monday, a four year old boy passed out on board and later died. I can think of nothing more tragic for a family than to have a child die while visiting Walt Disney World.

What I can’t understand is how any parent would let a 4-year old onto that ride. Those signs are daunting enough to thwart a grown adult. Those signs alone are enough to make a person barf. But there were many kids on it while we were there. And each time we were a little surprised. Believe me when I say, the ride is pretty scary. I can’t imagine being 4 and putting up with it.

I’m not blaming the parents for their son’s death, but I really don’t believe I would let my four-year-old son or daughter on that ride. Shit, I wouldn’t even let Toby Joe ride it and he’s a grown man.

Either way, it’s truly a tragedy and I’m willing to make a bet that ride doesn’t last. I’m also assuming Disney will lose a pretty penny.

This story gave me the chills. This is so sad. (Thanks, Charlie for passing it on.)

Last night, I met Toby for a deceivingly healthy looking meal at Zen Palate on Union Square. I haven’t had bread in nearly three weeks. Nor have I had anything fried or battered in any way. I’ve been, quite possibly, the most annoying creature to eat out with. I check everything. I ask questions from “what’s in the sauce” to “is it made here? On a grill or in the oven?” I turn things down. I ask to have things removed, added, turned, circled, and poked. I’m my own worst nightmare. I’m one of those people I HATED while working as a waitress. I’m having trouble living with myself.

But last night, I ordered something that was actually on the menu and my only request was, “Go light on the sweet and sour.” The waitress was totally cool with that. In fact, she finished the sentence for me. So that was a good sign. When my meal arrived, it was predominately orange. It sat on top of a bed of broccoli. The green and orange reminded me of pumpkins and the pie they make, (another item not meant to be eaten during phase 1 and 2 of the South Beach Diet.) I ate it slowly. The batter was foreign but I ate it. And afterwards I was giddy with a faint sugar buzz.

After dinner, we headed to Barnes and Noble to do some much needed book shopping. Now that cable television has mostly turned to reruns, we’re forced to use our minds at night again. We spent 143.00. We picked up all of the following books:

The new book by Anne Beattie called Follies. (I love Anne Beattie.)

A light toilet-time read called SELinux: NSA’s IOpen Source Security Enhanced Linux. by some Huge Nerd.

A book that likes to make me cry and laugh on every page called Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer a fellow Brooklyner.

Another light read called Editor Pocket Reference by Arnold Robbins and Gigi Geektastic.

A book that would put me to sleep called Cryptography: A Very Short Introduction by Fred C. Piper and Sean Murphy.

And a book by the hottest, sexiest geek in the world, PHP5: Your Visual Blueprint for Creating Open Source, Server-Side Content. by none other than TOBY JOE BOUDREAUX!!!!!

YAY TOBY!!! And if you’re bored, read this review by some fella over at Amazon.

How cool is it Toby’s name is on Barnes and Noble AND Amazon? Man, I love my beaner. What a smart beaner he is even if he does use examples in the book that read:

There are monkeys in the toaster.

Cute.

After we spent a small fortune at B&N, we headed over to the theater to watch Thom Pain, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I laughed. A lot. And I have questions I simply MUST ask my favorite gal pal, Missy. (I need to know stuff about planted people, etc. We must compare notes.) James Urbaniak did a wonderful job, in my opinion. He did, however, make me super nervous (that’s the point) as we were in the front row and there was a lot of one-on-one audience/cast member confrontation. It was a bit disconcerting. It’s meant to be. If you’re in the NYC area, I highly recommend checking it out.

In late July, we’re going on a field trip to New Jersey. It’s an all day event. They are taking all of us on a bus. There will be ice cream, burgers, and I think soda pop. We’re also going to play games. I hear we’re able to sign up for softball, horseshoes, and volleyball. I will opt for softball.

I remember field trips were like the greatest thing ever when I was a kid. I remember being mostly excited by two things: 1). What I would have in my brown bag of yumminess and 2). Who I might get to sit next to on the bus. I liked boys back then. I still like boys. But back then when some girls were screaming COOTIES! I was like, “Hello boy, let’s trade heart shaped valentine’s day cards oh, and you should buy me necklaces and Michael Jackson paraphernalia.” Boys were fun. Boys on busses during field trips were ever more fun. Boys on busses during field trips sporting brown bags of yumminess were the greatest of fun.

I remember this one time when the boy I sat next to on the bus threw up. The spontaneous vomiting had nothing to do with me or my brown bagged lunch, but he threw up nonetheless. And instead of stopping and unloading 25+ school children onto the side of the road, we had to drive with the vomit all the way to our destination. I remember watching it move with every ebb and trough and turn hoping it wouldn’t eventually come near me. I remember being really mad at the teacher, who was far from the moving vomit. She should have moved me to a new seat. I mean, really.

The funny part is now that I’m writing this, I can’t seem to remember WHERE we went most of the time. Instead, I remember things like vomiting, boys, and these:

and these:

I also remember bologna handmade and packed by a man named Oscar Meyer.

I think maybe they took us to a farm or two. I mean, we were in Pennsyltuckey after all, so a farm would make sense. I have no idea. I wonder what kids from California do on field trips. I bet they go look for sea critters. And Idaho? Where do Idahinian children go on yellow buses? What makes up a brown bagged lunch in Idaho? I know they had parachute day in Idaho, Doug Martsch told me. In Pennsyltuckey, I think we saw a lot of grass and cows and Amish people. And my brown bag held food products made by people with silly names.

Today has been busy. No time to think.

There was, however, a spontaneous ice cream party thrown at around 3:30 that I very barely made it through. I imagined burying my face in the chocolate cookie tub. But I held back.

I’m starting to think that tonight I might have some cake.

I’m actually in a good mood today. Though, I’m sure that’s not very apparent given the above post. Sometimes, it just feels good to let sad be sad. :] Perhaps that will end up becoming my memorial.

(Warning: This post might be sad.)

Last night, I had one of the worst dreams I’ve had in a long, long time. I won’t bore anyone with the details of the dream. I know they never really go over well in the retelling. I’m sure the dream was born due to the time I spent trying to finally fall asleep. Beneath the earth-shattering hum of our new air-conditioner, I couldn’t help but think of Katrina and how she died and the fact that I’ll never see her again.

As you might imagine, this sent my head into a downward spiral. So I tried to stop thinking. I thought about working out and buying a car instead.

What kind of car do we want? What if someone… Do we want a used car or a new car? Do we want something spiffy… had been there…. or something practical? She really had a great… I think I’ll run three… laugh… miles and lift tomorrow. I should… I think I’ll skip the bike…. have called her more often… I’m going to be tired. What if…. I really am never…. the insurance is too expensive? going to see her again.

And so I had some of the worst dreams to date. Even with the cool air, my skin found a way to sweat beneath the sheet. And I woke up wearing its wrinkles, which reminded me of how long, and unsettling my night had been.

Her death pops into my head from time to time, some weeks more so than others. Sometimes, I think about her several times a day, sometimes, not at all.

When I was in high school, a friend of mine named Shawna died. She fell down a flight of stairs and hit her head at the bottom. She died in the hospital later that day. Before the memorial services, I, being the punk-rock angry teenager that I was, told my mother I didn’t plan on going to the wake. I think I said something like this:

Wakes are stupid and morbid and gay and I’m not going. Why do that to someone? Why? It’s stupid.

My mother sat (a very confused) me down and calmly told me about seeing ghosts. She said a friend of hers died years and years ago and she never attended the wake. Because of her not attending the ceremony she believes that’s why she still sees her face and had to remind herself time and time again that her friend had indeed died. Lastly, she told me I had to go. That one day, I would be thankful that I attended. She told me going would be important for closure. And so I went. And I cried. Oh boy did I cry.

I still think of Shawna but I don’t see her in crowds. I’m not expecting her to call or write or one-day google me. I guess I got used to her being gone. I accepted it.

With Katrina, we weren’t allowed to go to the wake. There were only four people allowed to see her, as her mother didn’t have the money for a proper memorial service. And while I can respect her mother’s wishes, I felt the tad bit hurt and, though I hate to admit it because it’s selfish, robbed. Both Soung and Melissa assured her mother that her friends wouldn’t care about how it looked and that her friends would really just want to be there. In the end, we stayed home. Everyone, but Soung, Melissa, and David graciously sat aside and attended the funeral instead.

I rarely visit my Friendster account because I’m half expecting to see a funny message from Katrina or a new picture of her. Maybe she added another book or c.d. to her profile, maybe not. Mostly I stay away from Friendster because that was the one place (online) that reminded me of her. If not for her, I probably never would have gone there. And sometimes I wonder if there are folks on her buddy list who don’t know about her death, who might be sending her emails or messages and wondering why she hasn’t written back and that really bothers me. I think about her being alive often enough that it upsets me because every time I have to remind myself that she is indeed gone. It’s as if she dies a thousand little deaths over and over again. And I would give up a day, a week, a year to hear her laugh and say, “Hey guys. What’s up?” The consistency of how she spoke and laughed, became her logo. And I know it everywhere I am.

I guess the hardest part is that I do still see her. I see her out on the streets, in movies, on busy trains, all over. And I’m able to picture her face so vividly in my head it’s as if she’s still around and I only just saw her minutes before. I can picture her even more clearly than I do my own face or even Toby’s.

I guess I’ll never be sure if closure would have helped me after all. Maybe I’m just feeling the hangover of a dream. Either way, it feels good to write it all down especially since I have been trying so hard to keep days like this off of here as some things are probably better left unwritten. I guess someday I’m hoping to look back on this and see how far I’ve come.

I have decided that all those signs that read:

LOSE 20 POUNDS IN 20 DAYS!

must be total crap because losing weight is actually really hard. For “first-timers” like myself it’s typical to think “This is gong to be easy!” But it’s a very slow process. During a day and age where we expect a lot of instant gratification, it takes a quite a lot of patience to lose 20 pounds. It also takes a busload of willpower.

That’s not to say that’s it’s not still happening. I can tell by the way clothes fit that I must be changing. But the scale spits back very little change from one day to the next. I’m wondering if the muscle I am gaining from working out is throwing it off. Either way, it’s frustrating, but not frustrating enough for me to give up.

I keep going back and reading success stories every time I feel hopeless. They help. And I pretend they are all true. :]

P.S. I eat very well. I’ve been dieting for 2.5 weeks. I have lost 8 pounds. I feel like I should have lost more. (haha!) I work out five days a week. You can’t help but want a bigger reward and a quick one. :] Man, I am spoiled.

I really don’t have much to write about today. Actually, I feel like I don’t have a much to write about at all anymore. It’s funny what happens to someone like me when they’re happy; there tends to be less drama and therefore they become a little more boring. I bore myself online now, too.

Lately, in order to remind myself of how miserable I can be, I have been reading through my archives. Some of what I wrote about over the past 3 years is kind of bewildering. The time that stands out the most is how unbelievably unhappy I was while Toby Joe and I were living out West. (If you’re new here and care to get a glimpse of The Great Depression after the fact, you can get an idea of how unhappy I was here, here, here, and here.) I would like to take this time to publicly apologize to anyone who may have been reading this while we lived there. Holy sad girl alert. Apparently, I wore black on the outside because it how I felt on the inside.

I’d like to finish this fantastically random post by making the following statement: No matter how depressed I REALLY was at the time of The Great Depression, it’s amazing to me that, in retrospect, I’m able to think to myself, “I had a good time back then. A lot of wonderful things happened then.” And the strangest thing is, I actually BELIEVE it now. Does the mind retro-shock? Because, when I look back on our move to San Francisco, I see blue skies, great walks, excellent dinners, amazing scenery, and wonderful smells. I see something more like this and this. I don’t see the Michele who wrote about how unbelievably sad she was. At least, not until I remind myself.

On Thursday, Toby Joe and I are going to see Thom Pain. He sort of surprised me with tickets last night after having mentioned wanting to see it months ago. I hope it’s good.

Missy, is it worth the 120 bucks?

On Saturday, Toby and I discovered Channel 1000. Recently, we cancelled our Netlflix subscription due to our not using it to its fullest and their getting into bed with Wal-Mart, a corporation I simply despise. So Channel 1000 was discovered just in the nick of time.

On Saturday, we watched one of the worst movies I have seen in quite some time, I heart Huckabees (I’m sorry but it’s true. I did not heart Huckabees. And I really wanted to heart it, too.) The movie only ran us $3.95 and we didn’t need to leave the house, so in the end I can’t really complain.

When Sunday rolled around and we realized that summer had finally arrived, we decided to call our afternoon jaunt short and opted for grocery shopping and movie watching instead. 110 dollars later, we were back at home sweating profusely in our air-conditionless apartment. I flipped through Channel 1000 while Toby slaved over the hot stove and made us an early dinner. For some reason, I settled on this movie.

About a half hour in, I paused the movie and Toby prepared two plates of food. While in kitchen I decided to hard-boil 4 eggs for the upcoming workweek. We’re dieting, you see, and hard-boiled eggs are a godsend during the mid-morning hunger pangs. Even though they make me gag a lot of the time, I still manage to cram them down my face, Cool Hand Luke style. I filled the pan with water and added four eggs. Then, I returned to the couch to watch people kill other people and finish my dinner.

Forty-five minutes later, I am seduced by an aroma of cupcakes or something wafting up from our neighbor’s apartment. They are often cooking yummy smelling food and now that we’re dieting the smells are impossible to ignore.

Do you smell that? Someone is making cupcakes or cake or something.

Ahhhhh yes, that smells good.

About twenty minutes after the cupcake comment, right as Lawrence started to saw off his right foot, there was a HUGE EXPLOSION in our kitchen. I was sure someone fired a gun into our kitchen window from the BQE especially since I caught sight of something foreign spray all over the walls of our kitchen.

What in the fuck was that?

I don’t know. Did someone just shoot at us?

That’s what it sounded like!

We both crept into the kitchen to see what went on.

OH MY GOD, THE EGGS!

They had exploded EVERYWHERE. The four brown eggs had spread their insides all over the ceiling, the floor, our oven light, the trash can, the cat food bowls, our laundry machine, the window sill, our sink, the vegetable basket. Egg guts were EVERYwhere. Brown shells dotted the floor. Scrambled egg yolks were clinging to the walls as if our bodies themselves had actually moved into a massive egg. Our apartment no longer smelled like cupcakes and yummy stuff. Instead, it smelled like hot eggs—gross, totally mistreated, ignored hot organic eggs.

Please note: The amount of time it takes four organic eggs to explode is just about the length of one feature film.

Today, at the gym I was changing after a shower. I had a top locker. A woman came in and needed to get to the locker right below mine. I moved my stuff and my body over and let her in. She was bending down and when she was getting back up, her head hit my locker. Hard. I felt REALLY bad. She was visibly annoyed. I imagine it really hurt.

Here’s my question:

• A). Was it my fault. Should I have thought to shut the locker? Am I a dildo?
• B). Was it her fault? Should she have known?
• C). Was no one at fault? Was it just a horrible mistake?
• D). Will something later today bite me where my balls would be in a karmatic retribution?

I feel like such a dildo. (It’s O.K. to agree with my being a dildo. I must learn.)

Not much to see here. Chrysler Building. :]

A view from my chair looking down on Bryant Park.

The other day, on my way to work, I was crossing under the BQE heading up to the Graham Avenue L stop to catch the subway. I had just passed under the highway and was crossing the street directly next to the off-ramp when a vanload of men pulled up to the stoplight. I thought nothing of them at first.

In the time it took me to walk five more steps, I heard the van door open and what sounded like something plastic being kicked out onto the street. I turned around to see what the sound was and that’s when I saw the driver dumping his (and every other passenger’s) trash onto the street below, onto MY neighborhood’s street below.

Before I could even think, my head filled with raw amazement, sadness, and then anger. I stood there, staring at them in horror. I can’t be sure of how I looked, but I’m pretty sure my mouth was open. The driver made eye contact with me as he pushed a few more plastic containers onto the street. Then, I got pissed.

You’re a jackass. You’re a total shithead.

I said to them directly. I picked up my phone to make a call. Quickly, I memorized their license plate. I wasn’t sure WHO to call or WHAT to say for that matter, but I had to call someone. So I called Toby.

About 7 years ago, my mother was driving me (and all of my stuff) back down to Washington, D.C. where I would begin a new career. We were on 322 at the time heading towards Harrisburg where we’d hit 15 South and drive into Maryland. Along that part of 322, one drives along some of the most beautiful mountain roads that making up Pennsylvania. Sometimes, there are streams out both sides of the car. It’s absolutely beautiful up there. That road alone can make trips to and from State College much more enjoyable than most road trips. There were nights and days I would pull over along the Susquehanna River and just stand there in awe of her. And the stretch of land between Harrisburg and Lewistown was given the name “Firefly Snowglobe” as Toby Joe and I rediscovered lightning bugs after our city dwelling for so many years.

My mother and I were talking non-stop, probably laughing about something one of us did when we were kids. Suddenly, the passenger in the van in front of us rolled down his or her window and dropped a slew of white paper onto the street below. It hit the air like dirty snow. It broke my heart a little bit.

Well, he or she couldn’t get away with this. So we wrote down the license plate number and stopped to make a few phone calls. Surely, there was someone to cal. Surely, there was something we could do. And there was. We phoned a local Litterbug Control number and turned them in. We gave the make and color of the car as well as the license plate number. The Litter Control agency would take are of the rest. I felt a little better. Hopefully, it wouldn’t piss them off making them litter more. Hopefully, they would understand how sad it was. I will never forget that day. Ever.

Toby, can you write down a number for me?

Toby was still at home getting ready for work. He arrives an hour later than I do most days.

Sure, let me grab a pen.

It’s 11603-JA. Email it to me.

As I’m saying the numbers to him, I notice the van out of the corner of my eye. They were following me, slowly.

HEY! HEY!! HEY YOU! C’mere you!

It was at that moment I realized how dumb I had been. What if they had a gun? People were shot for less an offense. After all, I called them all shitheads. I began to walk faster. I had hung up with Toby and crossed the street towards the bus stop. And that’s when they turned onto a side street. Perhaps, it was too early to fight with a girl.

Last night, Toby lightly scolded me on acting this way. And I meant it when I told him that I didn’t even THINK about my reaction, it really did just happen. Normally, I don’t act this way, I can assure you. But something hit a nerve and the SANE, SAFE, SOUND I apparently couldn’t stop the not so sane ME from verbally attacking THEM for their sloppiness. And even after I somewhat lost myself, all I could think was shame on them. I lay shame on them for acting that way. Shame on them. And shame on me for my behavior. I lay shame on me for my outburst. Shame on me for not knowing what to do with their license plate number.

The next time you’re working on your mohawk, use Jell-o instead of toothpaste.

It’s been 12 days since Toby Joe and I started South Beach Diet. I have lost 6.5 pounds. On top of dieting, I have been working out nearly every day. I feel freakin’ fantabulous (mentally). I had no idea that would happen—that chemically things might change. I have been in a great mood for days now and I can fit into my summer pants again! Although we’re supposed to move to phase two come Sunday (which, for those of you who don’t know anything about the diet, basically means after a two week hiatus, we’re to reintroduce healthy carbs back into our system. That means things like oatmeal, whole grain bread, berries, etc.) I think I will probably stay on phase one for another week. My goal was 20, but I’d be pleased with 15.

I just thought I’d share. I really do feel better. It’s nice seeing changes. :]

Well, here it is, Megan told me it was SPD de la Transportation. Today, all I have is an oldie (but a goodie?). Feel free to enlarge the image to see and get the full effect. (The amount of joy emanating from my face is downright frightening. And look at my socks! Yeesh.)

In other news:

we launched another SPD last night. It still seems to be getting some hits. We’ve decided to keep it around until it self-destructs or we figure out what to change with it. (There was talk about adding a message board and a few other ideas, too. We’ll see.)

Before I begin, I need to say that I have liked many of my jobs. I have enjoyed the people I have worked with and sometimes even liked a boss or two, in that “I respect you” sort of way. But that never stopped me from thinking, “Man, why are we always being told to copy someone else’s concept?” Why is it, when we get a new project, our concepts are often times thrown out because __ Graphic Design Firm did something that won an award and therefore we should try and do something more like that?

I thought it was just something that took place while working for firms who weren’t working with high-profile clients, known across the U.S. or the world for a new concept or campaign. For example, I was designing logos for non-profits, government groups and small local restaurants not huge fortune 500 corporations who had commercial space on every major network, not multi-billion dollar fast food chains, not Quaker Oats. I just always figured that this didn’t happen up at the top. I knew that Pentagram didn’t copy concepts. And Landor didn’t rip off entire campaigns. This had to stop somewhere right above the level of exposure I was used to dealing with.

But that’s just not the case.

When Burger King came up with their the Wake up with the King ad campaign, it was instantly a hit. It was an uncomfortable hit, but a hit nonetheless. People were talking about how weird it was. Everyone recognized the King. When the ads came on, Toby Joe and I stopped whatever it is we were doing to revel in its weirdness, and our own discomfort. Among all the “I’m Lovin’ It” ads they did something great, they had their low-grade, craptastic meat noticed again.

We were both a little disturbed when Quaker Oatmeal followed suit. Basically, whatever marketing firm worked with Quaker Oatmeal in coming up with their new ads featuring this plastic looking fella standing in a field holding food for a family of five (give or take) ripped BK’s team off entirely. It was annoying. But I let it go.

That is up until today.

The other night, I was watching TV when a White Castle ad aired. And wouldn’t you know, but the VERY same idea was laid out before me. And my head exploded a little bit.

Are we such unoriginal creatures that we need to blatantly rip people off? Are we really that lame? One of my biggest pet peeves in life is just how unoriginal and predictable people can be. Just once, I want to spend one entire month pleasantly surprised. What makes this happen? Fear?

Why are advertisers/account executives/CEOs/business franchises afraid to make people think? When did we start working towards the lowest common denominator?

Next week, I’ll talk about just how bad I think the Oneify print graphics are. (Tho, admittedly, they look better on screen than as 6 foot tall subway posters. Yikes.)