This morning, while stomping around the house stark naked and in search of a bra, I walked over to the dining room table where I had a stack of folded laundry from the night before. I bent down to pick up a black t-shirt from the top of the stack when I noticed that something was moving. Staring back at me was the fattest, brownest cockroach I have seen in days. (Last week, while throwing pottery a massive one ran by and Toby was asked to put it out of our misery with a sack of unmixed clay.) I totally freaked out and ran into the bedroom all the while holding onto my bare boobs. I tried to speak but nothing was coming out. Finally, I managed to say something.

Kill that fucking thing. Roach on t-shirt. Kill it.

Apparently, I have two real fears; flying and roaches. And I’m pretty sure if you combine the two, I would have an aneurism.

Sometimes, I am suddenly rendered speechless when, as I’m sitting behind my computer contemplating what I might like to eat for dinner, it occurs to me once again that there are men and women living on a space station.

Space, man. Space.

I do this with the ocean, too. For example, right now, there are massive storm fueled waves bashing against nothing and whales the size of small buildings thinking nothing about me and you or them at all.

Somewhere, someone eats an Oreo while another wipes their own ass and someone else just spent their last minute alive.

Last year, we were in San Francisco at the time of the Gettysburg Apple Festival. This year, I’d like to attend. We went to the one two years ago and had a great time in spite of the fact that we had a most horrible meal at a local “5 star” restaurant. But the festival was fun and the Gaslight Inn was lovely. Anyway, I think I will treat us both this year in celebration of the day we met (October 11th).

At the end of August we’re heading to Little Compton, Rhode Island for a week of fun in the sun with our friends, Nico and George. I can’t wait. Trips like these make me realize the fun in being an adult. This is the sort of thing I used to dream about as a child, spending vacations away with the boy I love and excellent friends. While I want it to come up immediately, the waiting is exciting.

And hopefully, we’ll head to Pennsyltuckey for a camping adventure sometime in the fall with Gerry, Greg and whoever else wants to come along. Walter was right again, good things are indeed coming our way.

I have lost 16 pounds in a little over two months. I hit my first goal in weight loss about a week ago and even though I promised myself a smorgasbord of fatty foods and treats once doing so, I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. Maybe upon completing my final goal. Who knows. Technically, I have 9 more pounds I’d like to lose. But I’d be happy with four.

Seriously, the South Beach Diet works. I am living proof of the fact that it isn’t hard, either.

Today, I felt a moment of joy towards all humanity. Now, the question is, is it true this time? Do they mean it? If so, why now?

The Skeptical:

The history of the past decade in Northern Ireland is littered with I.R.A. statements which we were told would be historic,’ said Ian Paisley, a firebrand leader of the Democratic Unionists, the dominant Protestant political force. ‘These same statements were followed by the I.R.A. reverting to type and carrying out more of its horrific murders and squalid criminality.

The Hopeful:

“This may be the day on which, finally, after all these false dawns and dashed hopes, peace replaced war, politics replaces terror on the island of Ireland,” Prime Minister Tony Blair of Britain said in a televised statement in London.

Let’s be hopeful, what do you say?

I wrote some of this post yesterday after work. After pottery class, I finished it. This morning at around 8:30 AM, I put it live. I left the apartment to head to work. At 8:35 I called Toby from the corner and told him to turn it off. I guess I didn’t like the way it sounded in my head, after the fact. I got to the subway at around 8:45 and then I read When Friends Fail You, an article featured in todays’ NYT. I took it as coincidence enough to make it live again.

Just thought I’d share.

I hold grudges. I’m not sure when this began, but I do. I hold grudges. I don’t hold that many. And I’m not even sure I can justify the ones I do hold. But I hold them. I hold just enough to go without dropping them. They’re not heavy. They’re just there.

Years ago, I let relationship go rotten. I didn’t even know the person very well. First, they made me laugh. Over time, I realized that they were self-righteous, vindictive and catty. It’s not so much that they themselves were annoying but I definitely annoyed myself in relation to them. And when they confronted me and expected an explanation in return - something meaningful in return - I had to figure out if I had the time to waste their time pretending. After a few never-ending sighs, I, in so many words, told them I thought it might be best if we just parted ways.

The retaliation was insane. It wasn’t dropped as I’d hoped it’d have been. My asking to let it go turned into them wanting to fight—a fight I would eventually come to lose for any energy I once had for this person had leaked through a microscopic pinhole long before that hole was made visible to them. If our relationship was a balloon, I had watched it deflate, slowly, over time and I didn’t do much to stop it from happening. Looking back, I imagine that for this person my “break-up” seemed to come out of nowhere. I am willing to take the blame for that. I should have warned them prior it finally going limp. And so it was. By the end of the fight, I no longer DIDN’T care anymore. Instead, I was pissed. I grew to shake my head in disgust when their name came up. I grew to detest the memory of them. I grew to love the conflict and once the conflict finally came to an end, I think that I missed it.

So I held a grudge. And they became the symbol of such—the aftertaste left in my mouth.

One time, someone I knew quite well left me. We even lived together for a short while. Literally, over night, she decided that she no longer liked me. While I know she had her reasons, they were never spoken to me. And by the time someone else was ready share with me her reasons, I was no longer able to hear it. Sometimes, once the initial rejection, humiliation, and sadness is gone and you’re left with the black hole where deep feelings once existed, instead of knowledge setting you free it erects a nice little concrete room.

I was left with a grudge.

And then there was the person who told a group of people we both knew about the people she hated. One was a girl from her past. The other, she met in college. And I was that person. Of course, I heard about it. And of course it surprised me. How was it I had that much creativity to make someone hate me? What had I done to deserve this title? It bothered me—not knowing. But no reason was given to me by anyone, not her, not the others. Even I couldn’t even come up with a reason enough for her hate me especially one that warranted a public announcement. Usually, I have them readily available, like the little giveaways marketers hand out every morning at Grand Central.

I held onto that grudge as well. And I cursed myself for being one of the two people she hated. I hated that title she’d given me and thought that surely there would be others she hated more. I hated knowing that she hated me. I hated that I wasn’t at the table to hear it firsthand. I hated myself for whatever it was that made her publicly hate me.

Lately, what has perplexed me is WHY I hold onto these grudges. It’s been years. One might imagine I’d be able to move on and let go of them. I have spent hours trying to figure out why I still harbor these fugitives. Holding on to them can’t be very healthy. Knowing them as one might come to enjoy the feeling of eating chocolate can’t be good for a day. And I’m starting to think that the only person I’ve ever really had the grudge with was with myself.

The funny thing is, I’m pretty sure each of these fall-outs would have gone away instantly had there been a simple conversation or an apology offered. Whether it be from me, or them, one of us could have ended the festering and birth of a grudge had there been a simple hug and a couple of words. But instead, at least for women, we sit as the martyr, believing we deserved more, an explanation, a blow to the face, something. Being put in a corner and made to feel like last year’s toy can leave a lot of resentment. I’ve decided that the feeling of being “left-out” doesn’t go away after grade school or middle school, even. I think women continue to do this until there is no one left to leave out, no third person to humiliate. (Then again, maybe I just have residual waste left over from all the times it’d happened to me.)

For me, grudges speak a language of their own. They do not consist of anger, but can be born from it. They usually don’t hold a lot of sadness, regret, or hostility, either. Though they are often what remains after all have left. They’re bruises not often seen to the human eye. And I’d rather feel angry. I’d rather feel remorseful and sad because at least those feelings end. Instead, I sit here toying with a feeling that has several sharp edges to it. Secretly and shamefully, I must enjoy the feeling because I just can’t seem to put it down.

Recently, Toby had this idea of giving people a given number of times they can visit a site during a given amount of time. Eventually, should they lurk too much and not contribute to any given post but instead silently read and probably silently judge, (I’m paranoid and menstrual), the text would slowly begin to disappear. This idea made me laugh for two reasons: One, it’d be funny to see who might be driven to go away from a site forever and who might actually leave a comment from time to time. (Gerry, I’m talking to you.) Two, I also found this funny because he CAN actually do this. I married not only a total nerd, but a nerd with a vengeance.

After I stopped laughing about it, I declined having him actually do this to my site because I firmly believe that if I “forced” people to leave comments here and there, I’d eventually run out of traffic altogether.

So, to all you lurkers reading this. I SAVED YOUR ASSES, COWARDLY LURKERS! I SAVED YOU REAL HARD!

You owe me, for I stopped the creation of Revenge of the Nerd, Part 5.

P.S. To be completely honest, receiving or not receiving comments doesn’t bother me.

Just purchased two tickets to see Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah at Warsaw in Brooklyn. I had no idea they were playing tomorrow night. I also had no idea it was sold out. Ah well. I can wait.

Just purchased two wonderful tickets to see Songs: Ohia at South Paw in Brooklyn on the 18th of August. I freaking love this man/band. Jason Molina once inspired a mihow post about how much I adore my then boyfriend, now husband. He’s also gotten me through countless bouts with depression and numerous bus rides to and from places I’d much rather be right now.

He appears to be easy on the eyes, too.

Yesterday, Rachel, of New Kids on The Blog sent me this link regarding Dove’s new ad campaign. You might remember this post I wrote about the ads and how they kinda weirded me out a little bit. I think I might send them this and see if they think it’s real.

Just kidding. I have done better Photoshop jobs while drunk and blindfolded.

On Saturday, Gerry took us to the beach. We went to Long Beach. It has been confirmed that it was not the Long Beach de la Snoop. We went to Long Beach on Long Island. We got bagels, too. And we swam and ate food. I got a sunburn. Only, not everywhere like I usually do. Because apparently I am a grade-A moron when it comes to applying sunblock. And rest assured, if you were dumb enough to have me to apply sunblock to your body, you, too, ended up with splotches. (Sorry, Toby! Sorry, Gerry!) Below is an image of my splotchy sunburn as well as our new Bush T-Shirts.

I think my armpits are cursed. I seemed to have gotten the annoying smell taken care of and now this happens. I assure you, it’s not from my own sweat, though I wouldn’t put it past me to create sweat smelly and nasty enough to turn one’s skin red. But I digress.

We went to the beach. We had an amazing time. Toby swam a lot.

And we all laid about in the sun an stared at the waves. And then Gerry pulled out the Sangria and they all had some.

And then Heather fell off a chair only one sip into the sangria which I did not partake in but I hear it was delightful.

As you can see below, at some point Jen took her pants off and Toby covered her butt with a mug as soon as I took out the camera.

For the perverts who actually zoomed in by clicking on the image you would have seen the sliver of her black bathing suit bottom above Toby’s mug. There were no booty sightings for us.

And, as I mentioned earlier, we got our tees. And they look really great. The print job was superb. I would recommend this company as well as use them again. If you’re interested in printing anything at all, please send me an email. (mihow at esta domain name dot com.)

Below, are some more image of the shirt and TJ and my armpits.

This is shot of me right after Toby started making fun of my new suntan.

Here is one Toby Joe. I forced him into posing for me because the large sizes are too big for me and it looked I was wearing a nightgown and we forgot to grab the mediums from work. Doesn’t he look pleased?

We got the shirts. The quality is great. I think the image is small enough to not beat someone with, yet large enough to read. (The scale scenario had me worried, but it ended up just fine.) I have my paypal account being confirmed. That should take one more day. I’m not sure how to do this, really. So I’ll start by saying, that if you are indeed interested in buying a t-shirt from me, send me an email. They are 17 dollars and that includes any shipping costs which I am told will be around 3 dollars. So they’re really like 15. In person, they are 15 bucks.

Drop me a line if you want one. I’ll figure it out from there. (mihow at mihow dot com).

I am working on a new series of photographs. I have named it “Cool Props”. I have noticed that there are an alarmingly large number of people who instead of using wood (as I am told you’re supposed to) to level their air-conditioner units, they’re using books. And I find some of the choices comical.

I began this project on July 21st at 7 PM. I will continue the project for the remainder of the summer. Each time I get more shots, I’ll update here as well as over at Flickr.

(Click on the images to zoom in and, in some cases, read the text).

More to come.

This weekend, Toby Joe and I decided to have a “feel-good” weekend in film. We watched Tarnation and The Machinist, and Hotel Rwanda, three of the most depressing movies I have seen in quite some time.

The Machinist was OK. It pulled out a few film cliches but Christian Bale did an excellent job, probably TOO excellent a job considering he nearly killed himself preparing for the role.

At times I had trouble looking at the TV.

Hotel Rwanda was pretty good, too. As usual, Cheadle ruled. I have a crush on Mr. Cheadle. I have since Boogie Nights. The film is educational and disturbing and I couldn’t help but wonder how we could let a million people die in Rwanda. It’s shocking to me—the whole story, and unbelievably sad.

Lastly, I found Tarnation absolutely amazing. It’s original, disturbing, brutally honest, and, at times, seemingly vengeful. I was completely fixated on this film from its beginning to its end. I even watched every last name roll through the credits. Wow, just wow.

It seems that Jonathan Caouette lived in Greenpoint, right down the street from us, when he made the film. It was a little odd seeing him in the local Key Foods and making snow angels in a park a block away.

I can’t help but wonder if he’s still around.

I am working on a new series of photographs. It’s called the “Air-Conditioner Kickstand” series. Basically, I have noticed that there are an alarmingly large number of people who instead of using wood (as I am told you’re supposed to) to level their air-conditioner units, they’re using books. And I find some of the choices comical.

I started this project last night. I will have more each week. My goal is to find 100 books used as Air-Conditioner Kickstands.

Edited to ADD: MORE HERE

More to come.

It’s not even 11 AM and my armpits are already starting to saute the onions. I even wore Old Spice for Men after someone told me to buy it. And it was working for a while. Now, it’s not. Maybe I didn’t put enough on. But surely by 6 PM, I’ll be offensive. No one will want to search my bags, for sure.

I’m getting Iodine today. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to rip my armpits off.

Today, the MTA begins to randomly search through bags. Last night, while eating at a new restaraunt in Greenpoint called, Queen’s Hideout we briefly discussed our new situation and I think I can speak for everyone at the table and say no one cares. We understand. I’m curious to hear what others think, however. Do you care that you might be stopped on a busy subway and searched? Will it ruin your morning? Will you feel violated? The one thing I don’t understand, however, is how this deters a possible terrorist act? Should someone be crazy enough to blow themselves up, aren’t they going to do it regardless of who the MTA and the NYPD are searching? I guess this isn’t quite making sense to me. The way I look at it is should someone want to target Grand Central station and they’re taking the G to the 7 to get there but are stopped in Long Island City instead, won’t they just blow up the smaller station in Long Island City and just chalk it up as a lesser event? I just don’t get it. Someone make sense of this for me.

It seems to me, that instead of spending the money hiring the extra hand to conduct random searches they might first get rid of those black turnstiles you see in many subway stations. Because should anything actually happen here, they would act as human cheese graters as a mass of panicking commuters run for their lives in search of ground-lever daylight.

I’m off to work now. Part of me wonders if I’ll ever be searched. That part of me wants to put the ball gag in my messenger bag.

We are SERIOUSLY considering buying one of these.

Only a black one. And a five speed. Are we just suckers for all things cute and small? Does it come with Firewire?

How much do I want to get a hold of the previous version now? Someone should buy it for me. (More here.)

What’s the big deal? It’s just two clothed people having sex. The company who makes the game was forced to reevaluate projected sales after WalMart and Target announced they would discontinue selling the game. And I felt badly for them; how prudish can we be? After talking to Toby Joe, who suggested that the makers KNEW better when dealing with the American public, I guess I stopped feeling as bad for them. If I were a parent, I’d be much, much more worked up over the gruesome violence seen in that game. Sex is natural, beating up a hooker or running over a pedestrian with a car is not.

But I still want the tainted game.

Last night, after dinner at the falafel joint on Bedford Avenue, a drink with Gerry (on a patio), a brief affair with Tasti D-Lite, Toby Joe and I headed home to flip through our 1000+ channels. Time Warner has been good to us. We should probably learn how to spend more time with him instead of dropping 50+ dollars a night eating out. I’m not sure what’s up, but lately I can’t seem to return home right after work. I blame the heat. Not that it makes much sense to want to be outside, away from the comforts of your one, window-unit air-condition, instead of huddled next to it like a couple of bums in winter do a flaming trash can. But I just can’t seem to do it.

Right now, it’s not even 8 AM and I’m thinking to myself, “Man, I can’t wait until work is over and I can come home and watch movies and pet my cats. I can’t wait to do that.” But watch! My tune will change. By 1 PM, I will have had a bland, dieter’s lunch. At around 2 PM the food will have worn off. I’ll become aware, again, of my torso. By 4 PM I’ll become consumed by hunger and cravings more powerful than a beer-drinker’s fart. At 5 PM, I’ll begin writing random iChats to Toby, things like “Food is good, I like food.” or “I’m so hungry, I could eat my fist.” He never really knows what to say. But we ALL know how I get when I am hungry. By the time I’m off work, I want to eat immediately. No, I can’t wait until we go home. No, I don’t want something quick because most “quick” things are unhealthy and while a bean burrito from Taco Bell is something I usually want to have oral sex with, I just can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet.

So we go out. And we eat at sit-down places. And New York City and her sister, Brooklyn, aren’t cheap dates. As a matter of fact, they will rip you off most of the time. But they’re good company so you do what you can.

But I need to go home from now on. I need to stop spending so much of our money. We’d have a down-payment on a house or a new car if we could just cut down on all the eating out.

(Damn you, New York. Damn you.)

• mihow: how much do i HATE the idea of going to pottery right after work? what’s wrong with me?
• mihow: lately, I have been feeling so antsy
• tobyjoe: yeah
• tobyjoe: i know
• tobyjoe: i’d prefer wine and a patio
• tobyjoe: but fuck
• tobyjoe: when wouldnt i prefer that
• mihow: a but fuck?
• mihow: you want wine and a patio but fuck?

Example #7,213 proving how immature I am.

When Toby and I got engaged, we had the hardest time shopping for a ring. For starters, we wanted a blood-free diamond, free of Sierra Leone. And considering the majority of America’s diamonds come from there, we were assuming we’d need to find something other than a diamond. So I set my sights on gems like sapphires or garnets. We were ready to spend a pretty penny on it, too. Armed with cash, we set out on weekends in search of that perfect ring.

We were living in D.C. at the time and considering neither one of us had ever looked for expensive jewelry before, we weren’t exactly sure where to go. We headed to Georgetown, first, which is perhaps the most ritzy place in D.C. proper. There, we were greeted by a man who actually suggested we buy a 79 dollar ring. The thing had a seam. I even checked to see if you could push it together to make it smaller and further apart to make it larger.

Just think, for that price, you can still take her to dinner when it’s all over.

Toby Joe was furious.

Doesn’t that cheap motherfucker realize I could BUY HIM?! I make more than that asshole. I make more per year than he’ll see in his lifetime. Cheap asshole.

Needless to say, we left the store empty fingered.

We looked in a few more places in Georgetown and were properly ignored in every last one of them. If people paid attention it took place in the less expensive stores. This was something we were soon going to get used. We headed to Pentagon City that day but by then the excitement of having a new ring to celebrate our new engagement was pretty much extracted from me thanks to the apparent judgment by others.

The following weekend we put on nicer clothing and headed out to Tyson’s Corner in Virginia, home of the biggest shopping complex I have ever been to. It spans a highway, it’s so big. We knew there’d be jewelry stores galore there and if that didn’t work out, there was a Tiffany’s across the street.

We visited at least 7 stores and were spoken to by one person. The rest of them wanted nothing to do with us. The guy we did manage to speak to claimed he would have no way of knowing where a diamond came from. Which, I am told, is a flat-out lie unless, of course, you’re buying your precious stones from the back of a truck in which case it came from a back of a truck—nuff said.

We didn’t have much luck at Tiffany’s either. They didn’t even make eye-contact with us.

In the end, Bailey Banks and Biddle was the place we ended up giving our money to. And that’s pretty much what it was like for the two of us; we had all this money set aside for a big fat, blood-free diamond and nobody wanted it.

Big mistake. HUGE.

But I’m not writing for pity. It’s a good day when your bad day consists of several failed attempts at buying a diamond ring. The reason I am writing is to suggest that someone go into the non-judgmental diamond-selling business because there are a slew of young, unkempt, non-suit wearing folks out there who have money to spend on expensive jewelry. And, you know what? They might appear to be “too young” as well. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have money. That doesn’t mean they can’t drop 8+ grand on a big effin’ rock.

Do you have to be judgmental asshole to work in a jewelry store or what?

Goodbye, I have to go shopping now.

I find it entirely amusing that this past weekend kids were waking up with Harry Potter hangovers because they couldn’t put the book down.

It’s an absolute frenzy and everyone seems to be infected. Well, everyone but Pope and me. I tried to read one once while on vacation. I’m not even sure which book. But later, when I described its cover to an avid fan they told me I picked up the “least favorite”. Either way, I got about 20 pages into the “least favorite” and I just wasn’t feeling it. This, coming from someone who tried to watch Lord of the Rings 3 times and was bored to tears.

What’s the deal with these books? EVERYONE is reading them. The subways have turned from shit rags like The New York Post to green book jackets with wizards. I just don’t get it.

I know this is old news, but why are they buying myspace? What will he do with it that will make it worth 580 million dollars? More here.

I knew that tattoos would catch on. I have to admit, those stickers are really freakin’ annoying.

Over the years, I have gotten into trouble online regarding some of the things I’ve written. And I feel that I need to explain something. Perhaps I will one day figure out a better way - a more detailed way - of writing this out, but for now, this will have to do.

Nine times out of ten, I write these blurbs in less than 15 minutes. Sometimes, depending on the subject or the sensitivity of the subject, I will spend a half an hour on them. But usually it’s less as I write before leaving work or before work begins. In other words, I don’t have much time. That being said, I’m pretty sure it aids in the possibility of pissing someone off. (For that, I am sorry. Sometimes.)

Please remember that there is a person behind this. One who isn’t always exhausting every offensive avenue but who doesn’t make it a practice to piss people off. So chances are if you are offended, I didn’t mean it.

Perhaps someday should I ever be able to just work on JUST this and writing and publishing random thoughts I will become more aware of things and spend more than fifteen minutes or a half and hour on a post making sure to avoid offensive diatribes.

To be completely honest, however, I am starting to think that’s just not possible. If one were to avoid the possibility of offending anyone, one would have to give up speaking altogether. And then there’s always farting. And everybody farts.

I got off the L Train at Bedford Avenue in hopes of sneaking a little Tasti D-lite softserve before meeting up with Toby Joe. There were grumpy people everywhere due to New York’s newfound wave with heat and humidity. And all I could think about was ice cream. Earlier, I had put half of what I owed down for the Bush T-shirts I’m having printed. The funds are going to be low this month, especially since I’m pretty sure I won’t sell nearly enough to cover the cost. But that’s okay, as I’d never done anything like that before. And I had wanted to print the shirts for over 2 years.

As I stepped out onto the sidewalk, I saw a bunch of books for sale and stopped to call Toby Joe as I had planned. I began to slowly move towards Tasti D-lite even if I didn’t actually sneak a sweet before dinner, I could at least take a peak and know what I was turning down. I hit the #2 on my phone.

“I’m at the Bedford stop. You leaving soon?”

“Yeah. Very soon. In about five.”

There was another man at a table. He was next to the book guy. It was the laughter that got my attention first. A passerby was peering over this man’s booth and laughing.

“How much?”

“Seventeen bucks. That’s a great shirt.”

I moved closer to the table. The man was selling anti-Bush shirts. A lot of them.

Meanwhile, I still had Toby Joe on my right ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, I have a question for you. There is a guy here today. He’s selling anti-Bush t-shirts—like, a lot of them. I am wondering, should I ask him questions? Should I show him the shirt I sent to print today? I want to find out how much he makes, sells, whether mine is even OK at all. I don’t know. What should I do?”

“Well, my guess is he’s a bootlegger. I might suggest not saying you have a shirt you’d like him to see but just picking his brain a bit. You never who’s gonna rip you off and who isn’t.”

“OK. I’m going to talk to him. There isn’t any harm in talking to the guy. He seems nice enough. I’ll meet you at Park Cafe. See you soon.”

I walked back over to the table and asked the man for his card. He handed me one and then told me about the plethora of women’s tees he had available.

“Like this one. This is a great shirt.”

He held up an image of Bush with a mouth like one of those puppets that make me think of the 1950s. They have weird mouths that move by pulling on a string somewhere from behind. Ventriloquists in black and white would use these puppets and their funny mouths to speak for them. It was a nicely done shirt.

“Actually, I just sent off my first ever anti-Bush shirt today and was impressed with your supply. I have one to your—what? 430?”

There weren’t that many. But there were a lot. He had dozens and dozens. And they were all very good quality. And the designs were pretty nice as well. The number amazed me. He pulled out a notebook to write something down. Just then, another passerby stopped and put his drink down on the table on one of his shirts. The man moved it away from the merchandise.

“Name’s Wat.”

“Michele. Nice to meet you.”

I asked him about his printers and his cost. I asked him how he does. I’m not sure why I was so intrigued. I guess I always figured there weren’t many shirts out there because I hadn’t really seen any on anyone. And just like that I began to figure out why that was; no one really wants to wear political gear. They might be given to someone as gifts or worn to parties, rallies or on special occasions but you’re not really gonna see people sporting an image of Bush getting his nose sucked by Monica Lewinsky like you’re gonna see a Nike swoosh or ACDC’s bolt of lightning. Maybe I had just wasted a lot of money. Oh well. I work every day for some reason.

Wat answered all of my questions. He was really quite nice. And then he started to ask me a few.

“Do you have the design? May I see it?”

I actually had the drawing printed out on some paper in my bag. But then Toby’s voice came back to mind and I lied and told him no. I told him that I wasn’t showing it to anyone and that I was sort of superstitious. Which is not true, I’m showing it to whoever wants to see it. I always have. I have had that thing on here so many times I’ve lost count. Someone could have easily stolen the idea and printed out these t-shirts by now. Why in the hell was I suddenly being secretive? Who came by to take me over? What in the hell was I doing? I’m not a liar.

I was just getting ready to tell him the truth and pull out the design when he asked me about the actual shirts.

“Do you use American Apparel?”

I thought for a second. I didn’t remember what I had used right away. I pictured the piece of paper I had written everything down on and saw the word G-I-L-D-A-N.

“No, I used Gildan this time.”

“Cheap?”

“Yeah, pretty cheap.”

I lied again. Or at least I think I lied. For me, they weren’t very cheap but they were cheaper than some of the other brands out there.

“Sweatshop. I only ever use American Apparel.”

And for some reason my lack of knowledge annoyed me. I blurted something back without missing a beat.

“You do realize that the owner of American Apparel is being sued by four female employees for sexual harassment some, of whom, are barely 18, right? Nothing’s safe.”

And I meant that. But I also had no idea that Gildan tees were made in sweatshops. Had I known, would I have printed the shirts on them? In less than two seconds I concluded that since I wasn’t printing something about how Globalization is the destroyer of everything, I might be OK.

He avoided my comment about the Dov Charney and tried to make me feel better since I was a novice in the t-shirt business and he, too at one time had no idea what was sweatshop and what wasn’t. He, too, at one time had his tees printed on sweatshop t-shirts.

The people of Williamsburg kept grumpily pouring by us. I put his card into my bag and then began to think about the ice cream again. We said our goodbyes. He was a nice guy. I began to wonder if Tasti D-lite supported sweatshops, too. Maybe their polyester uniforms are made in sweatshops. They are a sweetshop. I snickered. Just then, a van drove by featuring one of those really long “MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT OF A CERTAIN NO-NAME HIGH SCHOOL.”

I amused myself with an idea for a new bumper sticker.

“MY CHILD IS A TERRORIST”

What would people think if they saw a mini-van with that on the back of it? That they had a screaming child on board? Would they be offended by this sticky piece of paper? As I stepped into Tasti D-lite I was surprised at how excited I’d become regarding their peanut-butter chips. The world really could stand to take itself a lot less seriously.

For the first time in my life I forgot how old I was. Just now, I was staring my food, spinning about in the microwave. I don’t own a microwave and never have. But I do use them at work since we don’t have a full kitchen. I guess one might say they scare me quite a bit. Which pretty much means I just stare at my food, waiting for it and the microwave to explode and/or kill me. And since I watch my food, I usually stop it on odd numbers, and usually primes. Sometimes, like today, I thought, “I”ll stop my food on 33 seconds in celebration of my age.” And then I realized that that wasn’t my age at all. And then I couldn’t remember what my age really was. And then I forgot to stop my food from spinning.

Let’s talk about the camp created to take the homosexual out of the homosexual. The place is called The Refuge. The New York Times wrote about it on Sunday. I had no idea this type of camp existed. Similarly, there is another called Love and Action.

I wonder if they have a camp that takes the bigotry out of the fundamentalist Christian.

Eating properly on the weekends has proven to be the most difficult time for me during the tenure of this diet. I am not sure if it’s that work takes my mind off random cravings but when I’m at home in front of the TV I regress back into that nibbling mode. On the weekends, I’ve taken to making popcorn when I’m craving salt and sucking down a teaspoon of peanut butter when I’m craving something sweet. This weekend, my cravings were even worse.

On Saturday, Toby Joe and I decided to exhaust our very last Showtime/HBO original series on OnDemand. We watched all 6 existing episodes of Fat Actress. The show is absolutely, 100%, totally and completely hilarious and wonderful. I haven’t laughed that hard at something on TV in years. I also haven’t wanted to consume so many afternoon sweets, like Ho-Ho’s 6 year old cakes, french-fries, and popsicles.

Kirstie Alley is brilliant. She takes self-deprecation to an entirely new level. Not many other women in Hollywood would write themselves into a part where they wake up beneath silky sheets, depressed and covered in several half-chewed Ding-Dongs. She has a kind heart and wishes to donate money to “Those dirty people without homes who walk around in bathrobes and drink a lot”. And her strange star obsessions are even more bizarre. From Kid Rock to Gwen from No Doubt, she obsesses over walking with one and having sex with the other. She even lands herself in jail with an ex boyfriend whose reason for dating her was because he thought she was a man.

While Kirstie is hilarious, my favorite cast member is Kevyn. Kevyn has her job because Kirstie never checked her references. Had she checked her references, she’d have found that Kevyn was once arrested for stealing a jar of mayonnaise from Patty Duke. A jar which did not end up containing the mayonnaise she wanted for her ham sandwich but instead all Patty Duke’s jewelry.

But I digress. The only reason I wanted to lose weight was because it was clinging to me in ways that were unappealing. And while this is fine in small amounts, it was getting a bit silly that I needed a size 12 waist yet my legs would swim through the amount of fabric that fell below. Let’s just say I was starting to identify with this wonderful SNL skit a little too much. My shirts fit around my arms and neck, but would ride up once introduced to my gut. Putting on clothes for me became like applying a fitted bed-sheet; if it fit on one part, it pulled off the other and vice versa.

On the flip side, and I mentioned as much to Toby, I find Kirstie’s weight gain to be rather sexy. While I understand she’s not necessarily happy about it, I think she looks pretty damn good.

Are there people who we might consider to have sexy fat? I am often reminded of an advertisement someone sent in to Leno years ago. It was a newspaper advertisement for a tanning salon. It read:

Remember, tan fat is better than pale fat.

It’s appalling that someone actually printed that. But is there an ounce of truth in its weirdness? Do we find some fat attractive and other fat not so attractive? And, if so, then why? Or is it just that we can’t stand to see it on ourselves.

Coincidentally, Look Who’s Talking Too was on yesterday afternoon at the same time the last episode of Fat Actress ended. I couldn’t help but compare the two Kirsties. And I might be a minority in saying as much, but I find the new Kirstie Alley to be pretty damn sexy. Dare I say, even sexier?

Dear Michele,

Finally, you have become the person you once silently judged during the countless hours spent waiting in line at Starbucks

A few minutes ago, you showed up at the Starbucks on Madison Avenue and 42nd Street for a 3 PM caffeine fix. There, you ordered one Iced Grande Sugar Free Vanilla Triple Skim Latte.

We’re not sure there are more wordy orders.

Sincerely, The Kettle.

For over a week now, I have been excitedly anticipating photographing the Fulton Fish Market during its final days. After 151 years, the Fulton Fish Market will swim upstream and make its new home in the Bronx. (Read about it here.) Toby Joe and i were to wake up tomorrow morning at 3 a.m. and then head over to watch them set up, photographing everything we can.

Upon entering the office this morning, I thought to check, one last time, to make sure it was still actually at Fulton Street as I got wind of it moving in July. And, well, it’s July. After digging through pages and pages to find the actual final date, I did discover that it’s not even open on Saturdays. Needless to say, I am so bummed by this news. But probably not as bummed had we gotten up at 3 a.m. as planned and headed down there to find nothing.

A friend just sent me an email regarding a logo I created for them because they were in a jam and their client wasn’t diggin’ what they had given them previously. In the email, he referred to me as the “Logo Yoda”. Best. Feedback. Ever.

Last night, after work, I met Toby Joe at one of our favorite wine bars in Brooklyn called D.O.C.. Keith, (Toby’s coworker), and Gerry joined us. D.O.C. has some of the best cheeses I have ever inserted into my face. And their sandwiches look delightful, though, considering the diet and all, I haven’t had one. Instead, I order the goods (cheese) sans the bread. Last night, we ordered a cold-cut/cheese and veggie platter, a cheese and mushroom and pasta fondue of sorts, and a plate of real Parmesan cheese—the kind that makes your face hurt. We sipped on white wine from Italy and conversed.

D.O.C. has a dark, wooden interior. One might even be convinced that they are dining at someone’s personal estate while vats and vats of aging wine lie in a cellar below. And if you’re facing the interior of the restaurant, with your back to the street, you can convince yourself there are vines crawling up the windows acting as natural curtains that unveil the rolling hills of an Italian countryside. There is a candle on every table. And they help ease the atmosphere. Shadows flicker on every wall, casting the outlines to human hands and the reflections of wine glasses.

I could sit there for hours. And I have. It combines four of my favorite things: wine, cheese, candlelight, and conversation. From what I have been told, D.O.C has aided in getting a many a men laid, too; first date or not, the boys are bound to score. Ladies cannot refuse a man after sipping fine wine by candlelight.

Candlelight.

Last night, considering I’m generally a sure thing for Toby Joe, it was all about the conversation and not so much the wooing. Two bottles into the evening, the waiter came over to fill our glasses with the remainder of the second bottle and to ask if we wanted anything else. Gerry brought up the fact that we were still waiting on one more dish, but otherwise, we were OK. The waiter, not catching the last bit of what he said bent down a little closer to hear him. Behind him there was a candle.

Ooooo, that’s a bit hot.

Gerry realized what he was referring to immediately.

Yeah, there’s a candle there. Are you OK?

Yes, I’m fine. I’ll get the other dish.

The waiter turned to leave. And that’s when we saw the flames. Our waiter’s ass was on fire.

Gerry leapt up from his chair. Both Keith and I stopped talking as if the tape making up our words had suddenly run out. I’m not sure what Toby Joe was doing. Gerry began to say something.

I’m not trying to get fresh with you but…

... And that’s when Gerry began slapping the man on the ass repeatedly.

And we all stared in open-mouthed shock.

After the initial shock wore off, I snorted like a wild boar every time the guy walked by. While that’s unbelievably rude - I am aware - it became a reflex. I simply could not control myself. And to think, later that night, he went home and told a girlfriend or a wife, “I lit myself on fire tonight and this table of four laughed at me.”

I’m still laughing at him and his new half-shirt. I will laugh at this for years if not forever. This is as funny as that time Toby Joe was on Pixar’s a Bug’s Life in Walt Disney World and one of the little mechanical termites moved back and forth over his sphincter on the seat below and his entire body went rigid. But that’s a story for another rainy day indeed.

This is really good stuff. (Safe for work, but there is sound.)

Well, the files went to print. I ordered half large, half medium white tees and half medium half large women’s tanks. The printer is superb. She’s been wonderful. I look forward to working with her on my next t-shirt which will feature an ugly, red-headed, buck-toothed blogger who can’t afford a new retainer to replace the one she lost. Anyway, I won’t mention the woman’s name or the printer here (to protect the innoscent) but I want to share with you all what she wrote regarding the illustration. Especially since, you just never know whose toes you might step on and who might then refuse service.

Not a problem, I am just ordering the shirts now. I will order as noted below. I will also provide you with a paper or virtual proof to show you size of the logo on the shirts before the order is run. Once the proof is approved, I will then request a credit card for the deposit.

Thank you for the order. By the way, I love the illustration , because I profoundly dislike our president.

Finally, after 3 long years, I am going to print these bitches. Car wax rags for everyone!

But I have to say, my parents and siblings aren’t too happy with me right now. (Please, forgive me. I’m a capitalistic graphic designer at heart.)

(EDITED TO ADD: THIS IS A JOKE! I promise. My parents are superb and love me no matter what I do. Really.)

About three weeks ago, Jon Stewart did a bit on how everyone brings up the Hitler/Nazi comparison during political discussions about the war and our current political state. After showing clip after clip of people on both sides dealing the Hitler Card, Jon Stewart looked directly into the camera and asked everyone to stop.

Not only does it belittle the argument and you lose instantly, but it belittles Hitler, too. Just stop.

Toby and I laughed. A lot.

Since then, I’ve become quite sensitive to all the Hitler references. People on the left use it when referring to the conservative, right-wing religious fanatics. People on the right are using it to descibe the “hubris” of Demorcrats. Michael Moore fans have used it to describe Bush. And people who hate Michael Moore and his fans use it to describe Michael Moore and his fans.

THE STRATEGIC ARGUER (or SA):

I’d like to discuss the three times I can think of that the Hitler Card is pulled. I see it happen during discussions online and off line when people are standing at the entrance of a place called “Facts” and they can’t get in (SA1). Another time I have seen this card be used is when someone becomes flustered and/or frustrated after being thrown too many facts. It’s sort of like the juggling act of debate, include the clown but remove the colorful pins (SA2). Lastly, it could be that the said arguer never really had a firm grasp on any facts in the first place but had a firm grasp on the way they “feel” about something and right as he or she realizes they are knee deep in “I don’t know what the fuck” they go AHA!! and pull out the Hitler Card (SA3).

THE SENSITIVE SCRAPPER (or SS):

Sometimes people pull out the Hitler Card when they want to get personal or feel that the discussion has become personal. I have seen people pull out the Hitler Card when they feel that someone else has removed a self-proclaimed right from them (SS1). It also seems that people bring out Hitler when someone - anyone - wants to socialize anything at all (SS2). And lastly, the card is pulled out to describe one who they might consider racist (SS3).

Years ago, I had the fortunate experience of witnessing the impeachment attempt on Clinton. We walked among the picketers and their forest of signs created to let everyone know what side they’re on because there are no colors for representation. There are no logos one can wear to say “This is silly, I don’t agree.” So we head to the nearest five-and-dime and purchase a big white poster board and a ruler and we write something on it.

I CAN USE A SHARPIE!

During the impeachment, was saw a lot of people disagree with what someone else wrote on their sign, and sometimes they would say something to them. For example, we witnessed one confrontation between two people outside the Capitol.

You’re a fucking nazi!

I had no idea who was the Nazi by just looking at them. There was no visible “flare”. So I checked the cue cards for clues. The guy who used the term “Nazi” had a sign that read:

THIS IS A WASTE OF OUR TAX DOLLARS!!!

Pro-Clinton.

ORAL SEX IS A SIN!

Anti-Clinton.

Republican man who hates Clinton = Nazi. Democrat who used Hitler Card = (SS1)

It happens all the time. You’re a Nazi. He’s like Hitler. And the best part is the Hitler Card can be used by either side during any argument. Nothing is too small. Nothing is too big. The other night, Toby Joe and I watched the latest episode of Queer as Folk on Show Time. It was an episode where the gents and the ladies are fighting against Proposition 14, which is meant to stop gay couples from marrying and/or having any same sex marriage rights. In the midst of all of this, Michael, is trying to calm down the Lesbian gal (I can’t remember her name) he’s telling her that she’s overreacting that it’s not that bad. Finally, she says, “This is like Nazi Germany. Next thing you know we’ll end up in concentration camps.” On Queer as Folk? Come on, now. (She used the card fighting as an SA1.)

For the record, when fighting as an SA, I am usually a SA 1. Which pretty much means that should you disagree with me at any point during this post and call me out on it, I will become flustered and most likely call you a Nazi. Similarly, while fighting as an SS, I am usually an SS1 because, for me, everything is personal which means I am the world’s worst arguer. There have been times during my arguing tenure where I become an SS2 but only if said socialization has to do with organized religion and why I should believe.

Clearly, this post has eaten itself.

All along, I have been saying that I thought the above image was stronger without the text. However, many folks disagreed in the beginning and said that I needed it (or something like it). I still think less is more and that people should have to think every once and a while, but I am curious, had you seen the image without the text, would you “get it”?

I am just not sure anymore about anything. Ever.

(how is that for dramatic?)

Internet, I need your help. (By the way, thanks for all the deodorant help yesterday I am wearing men’s today and it’s working!). So, yeah. Help. Even if you never plan on buying a Bush Nosejob shirt, I would like you to answer some questions. If you’re fearful of leaving comments, email me at michele at mihow dot com.

I am placing an order today for shirts. I have requested medium white tees and large tees. I have also placed an order for 50 tank tops. What size tank tops should I get? Do you like your shirts large or small? Tanks or baby tees? Inquiring mihows want to know.

Here is the final art. (Sorry to go on an on about this. But if I’m going to drop the dough, I wanna get it right.)

A year ago today. And three years ago today. (Two years ago, I did not write.)

I know I have been saying this forever, but I am finally going to go ahead and do it. Given the whole Rove scandal and the dodging once again, this baby is being printed. I’m making T-shirts.

Buy yours today.

I’d like to take a minute and congratulate Gerald for becoming a licensed architect. For those of you who don’t know, in order for an architect to get a license, one must climb Mount Everest, wrestle with an ape and finish like 453 tests. Gerry found out yesterday that he indeed gets a big fat stamp with his name on it and can now put it on drawerings everywhere. GO GERRY!

When I was 15 I stopped shaving my armpits. I was dating a boy named Mike at the time. Mike had a fascination with Charles Manson. I would like to call it a “healthy fascination” like one might with normal teenage boys and their fondness for baseball players or men who visit the moon, but it’s not really all that healthy admiring a man whose only claim to fame is driving a bunch of hippies to kill for him.

Mike lent me books about Manson. He also owned a VHS tape featuring one of Manson’s parole hearings. I remember watching it and trying DESPERATELY to find a point to all his ranting. I really wanted Manson to turn out to be brilliant. I wanted to know that the boy I was with wasn’t a total psychopath and instead was onto something. But he wasn’t. And neither was Manson.

Mason may have had Mike’s head, but Manson’s girl, Ouisch, had Mike’s heart.

Let me introduce you to Ruth Ann Morehouse.

Ruth Ann Morehouse, AKA “Ouisch”, was my first boyfriend’s first love. Mike had pictures of her in his bedroom. They weren’t taped to his walls or anything, because, well, that would be too weird. But he had them lying about. At the time, I thought he liked her eyebrows. Looking back, I think he was enamored by her devotion. And while I was never driven to kill anyone for him, I did stop shaving my underarms because it was “natural”—like Ouisch. It’s amazing what a 3 X 2, black and white newspaper clipping and a boy can convince a teenage girl to do.

I used a stone back then instead of deodorant. Though, I have to admit, I barely sweated at that age. But I took that stone to my pits daily and never got wind of anything foul. Even with the hair and all—not a whiff.

Years went bye, and Mike did, too. He left me for a plethora of other girls who all had better eyebrows. Eventually, I shaved again. I retired the translucent stone for some antiperspirant. Not because I was particularly smelly. I wasn’t. But because everyone else wore it so I started to as well.

At some point over the course of my 31 year tenure, I discovered that antiperspirant made people go crazy. And so I gave that up, too. I began wearing Tom’s.

And that has worked just fine for me ever since. That is, up until very recently.

I’m not sure if it’s my new diet, my age, the devil, or just a whole bunch of 30-year-old bad luck, but lately my armpits have been unbearably stinky. I smell like 2,000 Grateful Dead fans and Ouisch (only without the killer eyebrows) all at once.

I’m too afraid to wear antiperspirant again because of the ALS. And I apply so much of Tom and Kiss My Face, my armpits are chafed from all the play. I can’t very well be quarantined for the rest of my life but I probably should be. They were so bad the one day, Toby Joe thought someone had a bag of raw onions on the L Train. I had made a face regarding something else entirely.

Yeah, I know. Someone has onions with them.

I looked at him in a matter of fact fashion as if I’d known he was going to say just that and said, “No, that would be me.”

Like two marbles, his eyes bounced out of their sockets. As I collected them for him, the other commuters began to cry from the smell. I gave Toby Joe his sight back but I can’t seem to do anything about the smell.

Seriously, I am going to end up killing someone. I’m that person you silently judge. The person with the most powerful sense of smell has been forced to deal with the foulest odor on Earth. There’s a Greek tragedy in here someone. I am the new Oedipus.

Send patchouli care of mihow. I’ve actually always liked the smell…

Here are a few of the color images from our trip to South Street on Saturday. (Click the image below to go there, silly.)

This was my first ever Flickr set. I’m a little confused. Can one make a set without already having the images uploaded and live? If that doesn’t make sense, ignore me. I’m sure it’s a user error once again.

I put this post up on Friday evening. And judging by the email I got many folks had no idea what I was referring to. While Toby Joe and a commenter by the name of SSS explained it, I wish to elaborate.

On Friday right after work, Toby and I FINALLY saw Me and You and Everyone We know at the IFC in the West Villiage. This movie is absolutely wonderful. As soon as you get the chance to see it, do so. Miranda July, a first-time director, tells a most original and touching story. She’s also the movie’s lead, Christine Jesperson. Both of the boys are unbearably cute, but Brandon Ratcliff steals the show. I don’t know what to say, really. It’s a great film and if you don’t enjoy it, clearly you must lack a soul.

I left with the t-shirt (which is shown here.) It’s huge, but I think after enough washes it might just fit. And if you hadn’t already noticed with the above link, Miranda July keeps a blog. And from time to time, Brandon writes.

Check it out. And soon. Forever.

This Saturday, Missy, Toby Joe and I went to South Steet and explored Pier 17. I shot a few rolls but they won’t be developed until later today. It can take me 2 weeks or more to shoot out one roll of film which is why some of the ones shown here are from weeks ago. Once I finally finish the roll I usually develop it immediately. Toby is the exact opposit. He’ll shoot a roll in less than half an hour and then it takes him over a year to develop it. I’m not sure why, but I find that kind of funny.

Either way, here are five shots from an ubelievably boring roll that I developed in my bathroom last night. (Ever try and use a changing bag in the dead of summer? Holy sweaty hands. I was fearful of ruining the entire roll there was so much moisture in there from my hands.)

A man guards his antiques at Coney Island during the Mermaid Parade.

A dancing man at South Street.

George and Nico at the Farmer’s Market at McCarren Park.

The Wonder Wheel on Coney Island.

I’ll have more later today.

Brilliant.

Go ahead, enlarge this baby.

There are new ads up in Grand Central. In May they were home to Pepsi Oneify advertisements. In July, HSBC moved in. (Incidentally, I like the HSBC ads especially if they feature actual people from the neighborhoods they mention in New York City. They are friendly, eye-catching advertisements and I find I am drawn to them.)

Now, it’s July and Dove has moved in.

I probably don’t need to mention this, but these ladies are wearing nothing but panties. Oh, and they’re standing in Grand Central Station AND Union Square. And I’m willing to make a bet they’re elsewhere.

Maybe it’s their facial expressions. I don’t know. But am I the only person that finds these a little, oh, I don’t know, weird?

Answer: No.

Jon, the guy who spends his days beneath the street working for the MTA finds them weird, too. I know this because he stopped me this morning as I was taking pictures and asked me why I was taking pictures.

I find them weird.

Weird? So you’re taking pictures of them? That’s a little weird.

Yeah, I know. I am going to put the pictures on my Web site and poke fun of them. They’re wearing underwear in Grand Central Station. You don’t find that a little weird?

Yeah, I do. Yesterday, I thought one of them was real.

Do you think they knew they’d be here? I mean, when they were there for the photoshoot? Did someone say ‘you’re going to be in your underpants, larger than life, in Grand Central Station.’?

Jon thought about this for a moment. I could tell by his facial broadcasts he had met his final answer.

Probably. You know, if you pay me enough I’d do it. But then I’d have to look at myself all day.

Now, that I’ve had my coffee and I’m dry from the rain, I still find these ads a little weird.

(Photos taken using my Pentax K 1000. 400 speed NPS. Images can be clicked on to enlarge. Descriptions are below each image.)

Ha Ly at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. Andy and Meredith behind her.

Downtown Brooklyn. Where the trains begin. Shortly after taking this shot, we were asked to leave.

Same shot, vertical.

Another shot of Brooklyn. The tower at BAM.

Bedford Avenue mural. A guy is painting a new mural. I have more of these and I will most likely add them in a few.

A candle outside My Moon in Brooklyn.

A lame “art-shot”. Photography 101. Or something.

Gerry at a cafe listening to Toby Joe.

McCarren park.

My little brother in Epcot.

My sweet Toby Joe.

These dudes were shooting an art film. I asked if I could shoot them. They humored me.

I need your help. Recently, I rediscovered that song by The Outfield called “Your Love”.

Josie’s on a vacation far away Come around and talk it over So many things that I’d like to say You know I like my girls a little bit older …

When I was a kid, I loved this song. And over the past couple of days, it has brought me more joy than you can possibly imagine.

I downloaded it along with a bunch of Supertramp from Apple’s Music Store. I also downloaded “The Way” by Fastball.

I’m looking for more I may have forgotten about. (My brother, Rob, would rule at this. I wonder if he’s out there today.)

This morning, I got up and started on SPD. As the page was loading, I checked my email. I noticed I had another email from Dan. It was sent out at 6 a.m. my time. All he wrote was the following:

just leting you guys know i’m ok – gone crazy here, quite close to the bombs but staying in our building cos can’t move anywhere. Will let you know once it’s all over

What in the hell was going on in London?

We turned on CNN and were immediately engulfed by the news ripple moving across the world. I wrote Dan back. I gathered my belongings. And I left for work.

Once outside, I picked the Times up off my doorstep. There was a picture before me. I immediately began to cry. It was the most brilliant photograph featuring a crowd of Londoners. Their faces, which were being rained upon by a downpour of confetti, were draped in pure joy after just being told that they had been awarded with the 2012 Olympic Games. And it’s hard to believe that in less than 24 hour’s, those faces changed from the pure joy I saw before me to absolute horror.

Horror.

I know I sound selfish in writing what I’m about to write, but on my way to the L train this morning, I was afraid to get on. I contemplated working from home or even walking over the Williamsburg Bridge. The L train runs underwater. And when I let Fear take over and I remember those months following September 11 where I spent every day to and from work praying to whatever God might hear me that we not get bombed while under the East River, I lose a little control. I simply can not fathom the possibility of having water pour in from all sides as people run like sewer rats in any direction possible. I worried about that scenario every day. Which is both very selfish and very sad.

New York City is eerily quiet today. Even Grand Central was slower and more subdued. I imagine many New Yorkers are trying to pack away any residual damage left over from years before. I felt irrational fear come on instantly. I then quickly pushed it down again. I know this fear lives inside of me and probably will forever. I’m just trying to figure out a way to live with it. So I turned up my iPod and was shamefully reassured that I live in a world where I stand for more of a chance of being killed over it than I do by the hand of a terrorist.

(Why this time? The summit? The Olympics? Boredom? The war?)

A year ago today we were in San Francisco minding the heart.

I didn’t write two years ago today or three years ago today. I must have been recovering from all the fireworks.

Steve Jobs called the Brooklyn boy’s father after his son was stabbed to death over his iPod.

Is now available.

FEED ME! Thanks, Toby Joe.

Hot damn. I haven’t ever used RSS feeds. Interesting.

I knew my constant job hopping would eventually bite me in the ass. I just downloaded The Outfield’s “Your Love” because I have been singing it for two days now and I REALLY WANT TO HEAR THE DAMN SONG. I just went to play it and was told I can not listen to it because I already have five computers signed on to my account. That sucks. I have no way of turning that shit off as the computer in question, well, one of them, is in San Francisco.

Man, does this suck. Now, I’ll never hear that song.

Edited to add: Sucess! Holy sweet jesus this song rules. Does anyone out there have The Butchies cover of it? I’ll trade you.

I think it’s time for Cooper to step up and name his source(s) already. A law was broken the moment Valerie’s identity was leaked. Speak up, already.

And why isn’t Novak being held accountable as well? Or is he? What’s up with all the weird secrecy? What are we waiting for? Who is/was it? Why? What’s going on? This story seems entirely fishy to me.

London ended up getting the 2012 Olympics. While the idea of hosting them in New York City sounded kinda cool, I know that come the time, it’d become an absolute nightmare.

So congratulations, London. ;] Maybe we’ll all come to you.

As some of you may have noticed, I changed my site design (again). And I’m looking for a little feedback. Toby Joe and I recreated the site on a whim last Saturday and we don’t have a Windows box at home to test things on. That being said, will any Windows users out there step up and let us know if anything looks funny? Similarly, does the navigation work? Does it make sense?

DeeKay sent me this. Insane, I tell ya. It looks like a Gremlin.

A band consisting of a 13-year-old and an 11-year-old. Check it out. (Warning: sound) That’s pretty bad ass indeed. (Thanks for the link, Mike!) Another video to see here. Nuts.

I am late to the D-Liteful party but, I have found myself a mistress. It’s low cal so I add some sprinkles to it. Not too bad for dieters, I must say. I’m thinking of rerouting my commute home so I can eat there nightly. I think I will hit the one on Bedford Avenue and walk home from there.

To counter the seemingly depressing post above, I am down 13 pounds with just 10 more to go. It’s really slow going, but my pants fit again. Some of them are too big.

I hate to say it, because we all know dieting kinda of sucks, but I really enjoy losing weight. It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something.

When I was a little kid, we lived near a very strange family. They were a large family and their youngest daughter, their second youngest child, was one of my best friends. Even though they were slightly off, I spent a lot of time over there. They even had a pool. And in spite of my plethora of ear problems I really liked to swim.

Dana was her name. And now that I’m removed from them and the naivety of my youth, I know that her parents were probably swingers. And they came nowhere near receiving a Parent of the Year Award. They were sloppy. Hanging out at Dana’s unkempt house with her three siblings, her horribly smelly dog (who, I was told, was allergic to itself and therefore spent the majority of its day chewing itself raw), and her drunken parents was like visiting the inside of a Rick Moody story.

My time spent with The Smith’s was an eye-opening life experience. And I can pretty much trace much of my current neurotic behaviors back to them. The way I feel about animals is directly related to how Dana’s dad would go on and on about meat and how it’s prepared. The first time I saw boobs are anything naked was at Dana’s house. The first time I saw scary movies was at Dana’s house. Each time, I would become terrified and the walk to and from her house at dusk would become some of the most horrific minutes of my childhood. I was afraid of everything back then and it never helped that Dana’s dad would go on and on about how haunted their house was. And how some of those spirits were nasty, ready to turn on them if they acted up in any way.

But I’ll never forget the day he showed us The Tape. It was a tape of a boxing match. More importantly, it was a tape of a man who had died during a boxing match. And to this day, I have no way of knowing if what I watched was indeed real or not. He said it was real footage. And my 7-year-old head saw it as real, more real than anything I’d ever seen before. Much more real than the time that fella took his face apart in Poltergeist or Johnny Depp was sucked into that bed which later erupted into a volcanic explosion of human blood and guts. This was real to me. That’s all that matters. And it was also pornographic, in my opinion.

The fight between these two men went on and on and on. Eventually, one man was beat to death by the other boxer. The skin on his face fell apart from it as if it was cooked like a piece of chicken. You could see his eye sockets, drooping more and more with each blow. I kept thinking, “WHY WON’T THAT MAN STOP! HE’S WON! FINALLY, HE’S WON! SHOW MERCY! Show mercy on that man.”

At age 7 it was a horrible thing to witness. And to this day I attribute my fear of fighting, abusive, ugly, mean, fist-flying, testosterone-filled men with having watched that fight. Now, I can’t handle even a second of physical violence. I simply despise boxing. If I had any power whatsoever, I would outlaw it. I hate seeing fights break out. I can’t tolerate abuse in any way. And nine times out of ten, if I do happen to see it, I will break down and start to cry. I watch potentially violent movies with my eyes closed if I watch them at all. I spent 30 minutes in a bathroom one night trying to sit through a violent film. Knives, guns and action flicks I can handle, beatings, I can not.

Yesterday, I was sitting on the couch waiting for Toby to figure out where we’d consume our 4th of July American-style meal, when I noticed I got an email from my friend, Dan, in England. I’ve known Dan for a long, long time. I met him when I lived there. I was 20 years old when I met Dan. Dan is the sweetest, skinniest, tallest, most adorable British boy there is. Not only is he adorable, but he’s unbelievably kind as well. Dan will stick up for any friend, no matter what. I adore Dan. Everyone adores Dan. It’s impossible not to.

About two weeks ago, Dan was beaten almost to death outside of a bar in London. As one may have guessed, he was sticking up for a girl friend who was being hassled by a group of men. I guess the men didn’t take to kindly to Dan butting in and so they beat him. Repeatedly. And badly.

I was overcome with emotion. I began to cry instantly. I wanted to call him right then and there. But I didn’t have his phone number. I read only the first half of the email, which was strewn with errors because his right arm was broken in two, before I had to stop reading.

I don’t even know what to say or write. To discover that ANY living being on Earth has the ability to hurt a person like Dan was almost impossible to grasp. I thought fo