We’re on vacation until Saturday, September 3rd. I’m gong to turn off comments until we return because one never knows what might happen.

If you have time, visit Self-Portrait Day. We’ll update it as soon as we get back but there are some wonderful people to meet over there.

We’ll be back with pictures and stories and stories about pictures.

Cross Internet fingers the car does well.

See you in a week!

While I understand the need for phones during an emergency while on the subway, the idea of allowing for cell phone use in the MTA has annoying written all over it. Does this mean those flippin’ highly irritating Nextel phones will work, too? This is just what we need, more totally pointless seemingly one-person conversations while experiencing the countless other pleasantries of the MTA.

Why do people need to be on the phone every waking hour? This bugs me so. Can we vote?

Does it annoy you that this site features the latest posts at the bottom? I am only now realizing that every other site out there features the latest posts at the top. The reason I have it laid out in an opposite manner is because back in the day was meant to represent my day from beginning to end. I began with a “To Begin with..” then there was “Later That Day”, then “Another Thing” and finally, “In Retrospect.” Each day began with a new series.

Now, I realize that since the sections are no longer visible it might not make sense any longer. Not that it ever did.

Anyway, just wondering. Answer, if you’d like.

Yesterday, on my way to meet Toby Joe, I saw this car near CBGBs. It gave me a chuckle. So I took a picture. Hopefully, it will give you a chuckle, too.

I spent the next 10 minutes trying to decide what type of person drove the Lexus. I concluded that they’d probably be someone with an incredibly dry sense of humor and therefore someone I’d like to know.

I love the idea of using maggots and leeches to clean out wounds and heal people.

‘The primary mode of action for maggots is chewing,’ said Mark Melkerson, acting director of the Division of General, Restorative and Neurological Devices. ‘For leeches, it’s the eating of blood. Those are mechanical processes. Thus, the agency decided that maggots and leeches were devices,’ Mr. Melkerson said.

I’ve head of this before. I think I’ve even seen it in movies or something. And I have to say that these techniques make a more sense to me than many others I have heard about. Like the one where doctors move a woman’s ovaries into her arms during chemotherapy so as to not damage them. Maggots makes sense, as do leeches. But I gotta tell ya, I’d have to be pretty unconscious or near death or totally unaware in some other way to agree to having maggots smeared in an open wound.

Given that I’m not laid up in a hospital writhing in pain, it’s easy for me to say.

Regardless of how I feel about being smeared with live maggots, I am happy to hear the FDA is starting to pay the procedure more mind. Not only does it seem relatively safe but it seems relatively cheap as well. After all, how much could a couple thousand maggots cost?

There is a new double disc CD out by Fountains of Wayne. It’s a great CD. Really great. There’s even a cover on it that (in my not so humble opinion) is better than its Brittney Spear’s original.

And I was nice enough to give it to the Internets. (3.0 mgs). You’re gonna love it. Come on, now, hit it baby one more time. Do it, kittens. Do it. And then thank me for sharing the love.

2.5 more days and we’re off. No Tv. No Internet. No work.

Obviously, I won’t be updating this site. And I know that will be heartbreaking. I contemplated letting someone borrow it for a week as one might a summer home or a hooker but no one wants this hooker. Or maybe I’ll loop Iron Butterfly’s Ana Goda Davida each time it loads.

Today, the New York Times released an article about how Google is becoming an even bigger superpower than it already is. The article came out directly following Google’s announcement about plans to release an addition 14 million shares of stock and the release of their new chat client called Talk. Of course, there are going to be critics of any underdog turn huge but I’m wondering if there is any truth in what some of the folks in Silicon Valley are saying?

At first, I was trying to figure out how exactly they were Microsoft-like. And I have decided I don’t know nearly about Microsoft and/or its history. Nor do I know enough about where Google plans to go. That makes this really hard to compare the two.

Today, I’d like to hopefully open up a discussion regarding the NYT article and whether or not Google can be compared to Microsoft and if folks feel that they’re spreading themselves too thin. I have selfish reasons, I won’t deny. I want to expand my knowledge.

I finally got around to taking some pictures of the car Toby Joe and I purchased recently. It’s been great. However, we’re putting it to a true test next week when we drive it up to Rhode Island.

The problem area is shown below. Eventually (soon) we need to get a new door. It’s rusted through all the way into the bottom and I am told that in the winter the water freezes inside and can cause problems with how it opens and closes. We’re hoping to take care of that in the early Fall. And the back seat needs to be replaced, too.

People really do check it out every time we’re out driving and somehow that makes me feel proud. The other day, after having the guys at our local car wash gawk over it, a guy on a bike rode past and yelled “NICE CAR!” To which Toby Joe replied, “Thanks, man!” It really is pretty hot, I have to admit.

But she needs some work. We still don’t have air conditioning and there are two rust spots that need to be addressed. Oh, and the sunroof needs to be fixed as well. But she runs well and has very little mileage. The body, overall, is in great condition.

Cross your fingers she makes it to Rhode Island. Cross your fingers we don’t melt.

Robertson might just be a little bit totally completely insane. How is this not terroristic in nature?

‘It’s clear from the teachings of the Quran and also from the history of Islam that it’s anything but peaceful,” Robertson said in a subsequent interview with CNN. “Of course there are peace-loving Muslims. But at the same time, at the core of this religion … is jihad, and it is to subject the unbelievers either to forced conversion or death. That’s what it teaches.’

And what are you doing with the Bible, sir Robertson? What are you doing with your beloved Christianity?

In July 2003, Robertson asked his audience to pray for three justices to retire from the Supreme Court so they could be replaced with more conservative jurists. “One justice is 83 years old, another has cancer and another has a heart condition,” he said.

Robertson insisted he was only calling for prayers for the justices to retire and was not asking his followers to pray for their demise.

How do the insane end up on the homepage of CNN thereby gaining more exposure? Can’t we just ignore the bastard?

I never wanted kids. It’s true. Kids kind of freak me out. They always have. That amplified the moment I saw the son of a friend of mine with his hand down the back of his pants who for the life of him could not stop smelling it. Kids are a little strange. They do things that don’t make sense, as well as things that make so much sense things become strange. You’re simply not supposed to smell your own ass, are you?

All of that changed when I met Toby. Now, I want nothing more than to give birth to something that will one day smell its own ass. Even if it means destroying my most amazing female figure^, giving up caffeine, wine, fatty foods, and life. I want one. I do.

That’s not to say right now but someday.

As I mentioned yesterday, I am concerned about what I have put my body through over the years. While I am not a recovering heroin addict, nor have I ever done anything particularly damaging, I have gone though and inhaled more cans of spray mount than I care to admit. I have drunk booze regularly since I was 23. I didn’t always eat well. And I’m 31.

The most bizarre things sets me off, too. The other day, while waiting for the movie to begin, I was reading those horrible slide advertisements they project before the movie. One of them was for NYU Medical School. They are willing to pay 8,000 dollars (pennies if you ask me) to any woman, age 21 – 32, in return for her eggs. 32. Why will I lose this option in a year? What’s wrong a 32 year old egg?

I made an appointment with a gynecologist/baby doctor to find out if I should start considering adoption or if I have a chance on one day maybe having a healthy baby who might one day smell its own ass.

Sometimes I wonder why the MTA doesn’t just start posting when the train is actually running instead of when it is not. I can pretty much guarantee that I won’t ever read all of this. But you better believe I’ll bitch and moan when I try and take it into the city and it’s not running.

Here’s the other wall.

This morning started off with a bang. I left the house a little late and halfway up Graham avenue, I began to have blinding cramps, cramps that I haven’t experienced since I was a teenager. And if that pain wasn’t enough. I broke out into a cold sweat and my vision began to tunnel; I was passing out.

When i was a teenager I passed out once a month. I passed out in the high school parking lot (that was the time the principal thought I was a drug addict), I passed out in the bathroom at the Diner while working. I passed out in the driveway and busted my nose. I used to pass out all the time. Those were some of the worst days of my life.

Today was not unlike all those times. Usually, when I feel it coming on I sit down immediately and stick my head between my legs. That is, if I have the time to do so. I found the nearest concrete stoop and crouched down. The smell of human feces that often wafts up Graham Avenue hit my nose making matters worse (or maybe it kept me conscious?) How the hell was I going to get to work today?

I called Toby Joe twice. He must have been showering. Not that I had any idea what it was he could have done for me. I guess I wanted someone to know what was happening.

After about 15 minutes of sitting there sweating, I felt strong enough to continue on to the subway.

It took me an hour to get to work today. I am barely moving. I want nothing more than to crawl into the fetal position and wait for sudden death.

Sometimes, being a woman is the worst gig ever.

Today was one hell of a day. I can’t deny. And it’s also one of those days where I regretted writing on here at all. I have nothing against golf. I am not sure where that came from. I just ranted for no apparent reason and I have always tried NOT to do that. I am sorry if golfers have been offended.

I am also annoyed that Google is annoyed with me because I wrote about female and male ejaculation. I am also annoyed that we can’t be adult enough to realize that if it weren’t for female and male ejaculation none of us would be here to complain about female and male ejaculation.

I’m also annoyed that I’m annoyed.

I made a gynecological appointment today just to make my day brighter, you know, something cold and metallic to look forward to. (Seriously, I am on this total trip lately that my babies are going to come out totally deformed because of what I have done to my body over the 31 years I have been alive. I can’t seem to stop thinking about it. It wakes me up in the middle of the night, it keeps my days, it keeps me period. So hopefully a doctor will set me at ease because the Internet and Google did not. I will probably write about this some more over the next couple of months.)

There, I said it. I have serious issues. But golfing is not one of them.

What’s the deal with golf, schmoozing and corporate America? Doesn’t it ever bug you that this particular stereotype is so prevalent? It makes me unjustifiably dislike golf and I realize that’s just silly. How come it’s golf and not tennis or croquette or darts or billiards? Why golf? Who set the corporate schmooz standard and why?

I tried to golf once. Well, I tried to use a golf club at a driving range once. I did so directly following a date with the batting cages. It’s best not to follow up hitting a still ball with one that’s flying at you. Instead of trying to tap the golf ball, I was trying to kill it as one might a baseball. I didn’t make contact once. But I did wake up more sore than the day after I first tried Bikram yoga.

I think I’m premenstrual today. I’m totally ready to spar.

One week from today I will be on a beach in Rhode Island. This vacation could not come at a better time. I am having one hell of a painful Monday morning.

This weekend Toby and I finally saw the critically acclaimed film 9 Songs. It’s a film about a love affair between a 30+ year old man and a 21 year old woman. It’s sexually explicit and, at times, hard to watch. But not for the reasons one might assume.

The sex is real. There is male ejaculation and female ejaculation. There are scenes so intimate I felt badly for watching them. It’s the most intimate film I have ever seen actually. Which is pretty amazing because at one point the boom was in full view. During that same scene, the clock in the background reads 8:20 and then suddenly three hours earlier and then it’s 8:20 again and then it’s two hours later. Yet somehow I still felt like an intruder.

I loved the movie. I thought it was highly original yet easy to relate to sometimes uncomfortably so. And I loved the quote from Woody Allen’s Manhattan where Lisa says to Matt as she’s sitting on his lap, “You just have to have a little faith in people.” That line, assuming it was intentional, pretty much summed up the entire film or, at the very least, this very intimate, very passionate, short-lived relationship.

If you don’t mind a little sex I recommend this film. If a little sex bothers you, I would stay clear. For some, it’s bordering on pornographic. Though, with intimacy like that it’s impossible for me to call it that.

It’s 8:58. And I feel a little silly saying so, but I think that this final episode of Six Feet Under might just make me cry (again).

And I can’t deny, I will miss these bastards. I really liked getting to know them.

Here’s to yet another great show coming to an end.

Today, I was in the elevator waiting for my stop. I was with a man who was probably about 45 and a woman, age 35. She stood behind me holding a bag in front of her. She was a slender woman, attractive, too.

It’s not every day someone speaks in an elevator. I have heard louder libraries and places of worship. But the man spoke, driving a shard into the usual silence.

It’s a really bad time to be pregnant.

The other day Toby told me that he very nearly asked a woman during a really important off-site client meeting when she was due. Right before the words broke free, screaming into the air, he got a glimpse of the fact that she might not actually be pregnant.

“Dude, best not be talking to me.” I thought to myself. I turned to look at him. He wasn’t pregnant. I looked down to check to see if I was sticking my belly out or standing funny. I wasn’t. I looked behind me. She didn’t look pregnant, either.

Yes. Yes, it is.

I looked at her again. She was in great shape, which is why I didn’t notice at first glance. Her ankles were thin, her legs slender, her arms were covered in teh usual amount of insulation. But, low and behold, there was indeed a HUGE bulge there that had been out of my view because of what she held in front of her. I let out a sigh of relief for the man.

It’s really hot. It’s been tough.

How far along are you?

I’m due in November.

My wife went through a really hot summer pregnancy once. There were moments I thought she was going to kill me or someone.

The woman laughed and then we reached her floor. The guy congratulated her and she was on her way. I smiled, that’s all I knew to do.

Recently, I have thought about all the pregnant women around. I imagine that this year in particular has got to suck. And I have decided that should I ever get knocked up, I would like have it done in March. There is no way I’d want to deal with sweating profusely on a stinky subway while having some fleshy thing kick the shit out of my insides.

I understand that a family would be devastated after watching their daughter get mauled by a tiger. But will someone please explain to me why the tiger then deserves to be killed? IT’S A TIGER. And somehow I still muster surprise…

Please note: If I am ever dumb enough to have my daughter pose with a live tiger for a photo op and said tiger eats her alive, you may pardon the tiger. The tiger can go on living. But, by all means, have me committed.

On my 17th birthday, my boyfriend at the time gave me a book. He was 6 years older than me and really liked that fact. I think. He bought me The Complete Stories by Flannery O’Connor. I remember being really excited as no boy prior this had ever gotten me a book before especially one with actual words and well written sentences.

I wrote you something on the inside.

Mike was a writer. He actually went to college for it. And he was really quite good. I think. He was also a drummer who wrote a lot of songs for the band he was in. Throughout my entire teenage life I wanted nothing more than a boy to write something about me. It didn’t even need to be spectacular. It didn’t have to rhyme or make sense. I just wanted to be that girl whose man once said, “This one goes out to Michele, without her, I never would have gotten that zipper infested biker jacket.”

When I found out someone had finally written something to me - emaciated, frizzy-headed me - I was beside myself with joy. Someone had finally written me The Love Letter I always wanted and inside a great book, too. A boy wrote me something, permanent, and in a book I didn’t feel embarrassed about keeping forever.

Excitedly, I cracked open the book for its very first time. The smell of paper hit my nose. This was the smell of complete, the smell of remembrance. The first page was empty, the second one was as well. On the third page I saw writing—at last.

(For those who are too weak to click a mouse it reads:

Birthday ‘91

I took a chance on this, but I think you’ll really like it. Short stories are easy to read & you can skip around. Some of my favorites start with “A God Man Is Hard to Find.” But all are great.

“That’s it? Are you kidding me?” I thought to myself. “It’s my 17th birthday and you gave me a book that will forever read, ‘Short stories are easy to read and you can skip around?’ That’s my love letter? The teenage love letter I waited for for years? The teenage love letter I am STILL waiting for?”

Looking back, I should have been happy. Because on my 18th birthday he handed me a brown paper bag that held a bottle of Quell, Medicine for Crabs. And on my 19th birthday, I no longer knew him.

Now, the book and what he wrote makes me laugh. I have shown it to friends over the years and we’ve all had a chuckle. Toby Joe once asked me, “Did he think you were a total moron or something?” And I guess that he did. Who knows. And the brown bag of Quell is also something I laugh at as well, though, I didn’t save it. Granted, I don’t think it’d be nearly as funny had I actually had crabs.

It’s reassuring to know that something entirely devastating for a time becomes entirely comical during another. And I will remember this fact for when my daughter suffers from her first broken heart. I will remember this fact the next time something kind of small hurts so bad.

This year, Toby Joe wrote a tech book about PHP 5. In it, he gave thanks. Tucked inside that paragraph, there is a sentence or two about his wife. He even spelled my name right.

I am not pregnant. I repeat, I am not pregnant. It was a joke. No esta la biba en mi torso. Yo no tengo el biba. No escribe bueno en Espanol, tambien.

I have a stupid question. Lately, I have been following the BTK case. I read his testimony yesterday and then read today’s article about what the victims’ families had to say. Obviously, this man is beyond twisted. But what I can’t seem to find, is what stopped him in 1991? Did he find God? Did he get bored? What the hell? Also, how is it they couldn’t catch him since there were eyewitnesses and a survivor?

I am sure I can find this somewhere but I’m lazy.

There was a prettty great brief on NPR’s Morning Edition. It’s about how the Democrats often times don’t have a clear message and are losing more and more voters because of it. The part that really has me thinking, however, was an excerpt from a recent speech Clinton gave. He was talking about a close friend, and evangical preacher who last year voted for Bush. When Clinton asked why he explained:

Because ever since you left nobody in your party talks to us anymore. Bill, you can’t vote for someone who doesn’t talk to you.

It suddenly occurred to me that this is frighteningly true.

Our pal, George Draguns, has his music in a soundtrack for dirty gay male film. I am so proud of him. Nico sent me the email yesterday. The site is probably too risque to post but if you’re interested state your age in an email and I will forward the link to you. (Please note: merely requesting to see the link does not mean you’re gay. Unless, of course, you are gay. In that case, I am happy to help.)

The men who made the movie and the men in the film are the DC area. I did not recognize any of them, however.

This morning, after reading about the history of why the black cat is considered bad luck, I started to wonder about things.

Black Cats: In ancient Egypt, cats were regarded as spiritual creatures, and among the most exalted Goddesses was Bast, a black female cat. But in European culture, the black cat became an animal to avoid. Apparently in the Middle Ages, when ignorant peasants were convinced that witches and evil demons were living among them, cats were singled out as suspicious creatures (perhaps because of their silent, fluid movements, or the way they stare, or even their occasionally unworldly wailing). The fact that some of the woem who cared for the cats were old and grizzled - i.e., witch material - probably added to the legend. Ultimately, people came to believe that a black cat was the nighttime embodiment of a witch.

Witches.

We used to burn women because another person decided that they were indeed a witch. There were never any tests run. Most of the time they didn’t even ask the young woman, “Hey, are you a witch? Do something magical and prove it.” They would just burn them or beat them or chain them up in some damp dungeon. (Actually, I made that last bit up entirely. I have no idea if this was done, but it’s what I pictured.) Sometimes, it took as little as a woman having red hair. (I’d be toast.)

At one time we thought the world was flat. To suggest otherwise, was just pure insanity. And so, a group of men from Spain decided to send some goofy bastard out to decide once and for all. While on his journey, he lands upon the the shores of an eventual America, and decides to take over a section of the world that was totally inhabited by another group of people.

At one time we thought gremlins were the cause of illness and if it wasn’t their fault, demons took the rap.

I have had these thoughts before, and I think I have even written about it before, but what I wonder is what could we be doing right now that the kids of our kids or their kids will find totally and completely bat shit crazy. It occurred to me recently we once believe slavery was A-OK. Slavery, dude. That’s insane. It’s hard to believe that not long ago, Americans deemed it acceptable to put another human being to work much like one might any animal. That blows my mind a little bit. It wasn’t even that long ago.

How will it be in 30, 40, 50 years. How will our children’s children feel about nuclear bombs? Speaking in tongues? Fast food? Strip malls? Gasoline? How will they feel about people who blow themselves up because someone told them that if they carry out an act of Allah, they will experience an eternal paradise. How will they feel about the way we bury our dead? Gay marriage? Polygamy? Abortion? How will they feel about slaughterhouses and the way we treated our animals? How will they feel about public schools, reality television, and Tom Cruise. How will they feel about prayer, two political parties and Cuba.

If you might speculate on what might in the future be deemed as totally preposterous, what might that be?

I’m in a mood. Things that bug me:

• 1). The Atkins Diet.
• 2). Most perfume.
• 3). Empty coffee cups in movies or on TV.
• 4). PCs
• 5). SUVs and tinted windows. Both together really suck.
• 6). Men who drive like total fucking idiots.
• 7). When the news gives the number of dead Americans after a disaster that kills many.
• 8). The term “Log On.”
• 9). When my husband travels.
• 10). The Bud Lite subway ads featuring idiot men who probably drive fast pinning women up against giant bottles of beer.
• 11). Reality TV
• 12). Margaret Cho.
• 13). People who have pools and don’t use them.
• 14). High heels on MTA stairs.
• 15). Fohawks.
• 16). Walmart.
• 17). Bloggers who write about how annoyed they are with everything.
• 18). Myself.
• 19). Deodorant tampons meant to cover up periods and instead I can smell them.
• 20). People who eat chicken wings on the subway.
• 21). Glenda.

Warning: I am feeling particularly bitchtastic today. Feel free to chime in especially if I bug you.

I’ve never been one to make a big deal out of smal things. I can become emotionaly irrational almost immediately, but I don’t get pissy about smal things. Sure, I like to make things up like the time I thought the secret service was breaking into our apartment at night to read our email because one day a chair was moved and neither one of us remember doing it. But I don’t get upset about smal things. I am not upset that our car has no air conditioning or that the NYPD is randomly searching bags. I don’t get upset when hipster girls suggest they escort my husband and me home at night. But by God, am I ever sick of seeing my name speled with two l’s. My name is Michele. M I C H E L E. It’s not MICHELLE. It never will be MICHELLE. I never was MICHELLE. I accepted the fact that finding an airbrushed license plate with my name would never happen. I have realized that no one wil ever find a key chain with my name on it unless it’s printed specialy for me. I will never find a unicorn covered doormat that reads “MICHELE’S ROOM, DO NOT ENTER.” It just won’t happen. And I’m OK with that.

My name is speled with one l. Just one. I took the other one and shoved it straight up the ass of all those who lack the attention.

I’m not sure why this bothers me so much. (Not that it wil tomorrow.)

My Toby Joe is heading to San Francisco for business this evening. I hate it when he leaves. I don’t like to be away from him. I know I have issues and am high maintenance, but I guess it’s better than rejoicing every time he leaves. I also hate it when he flies, drives, moves, or swims. :]

He returns on Thursday just in time for the Song’s Ohia show at Southpaw.

What am I going to do all day and night?

The other night a woman Toby Joe and I barely know asked if she could come home with us. Her exact words were, “I’d go home with you tonight and at least do oral.”

A declaration we dodged with nervous laughter, quickly changing the subject by directing our attention to Gerry. The alarming part was that it came out of nowhere. It’s also kind of strange because this sort of thing has happened before, too. Collectively, Toby Joe and I must give off threesome pheromones.

About a month ago, we were standing on the L platform at Union Square waiting for the train. There was a woman waiting there. A different woman than the one from the other night. I recognized her but wasn’t sure how or why. Much like a steamed mirror, her identity began to clear up. At first, all I knew was that I knew her face. Minutes later, I figured out the setting. She was a bartender or a waitress. I knew that. I asked Toby to help me, but he claimed he’d never seen her before. As we boarded the train, I remembered where I knew her from. She was a waitress at a place we frequent.

No, she’s not.

Wanna make a bet? I know that she is.

No, she’s not.

I had to prove him wrong. Rarely, do I win bets. But this one I had in the bag. I went up to her on the train.

Hey there. You wouldn’t by any chance work at __, would you?

She smiled and turned off her iPod. I had to repeat the question.

Yes, I do as a matter of fact. My name is Jen.

(Named changed, of course.)

I’m Michele.

Jen kept looking towards Toby Joe. We had a few more sentences of small talk when she finally asked for some more information.

What’s your friend’s name?

She nodded in that way, that way that one nods when they like what they see, as if to say, “what’s in the bag?” on the day of their birthday.

I’m not sure WHY I didn’t correct her in saying that he was my husband. I think I figured that if I was misreading her, then I’d come off as an over-protective wife.

My friend’s name is Toby.

She stepped beyond me to shake his hand. Toby shyly introduced himself. She got off at Lorimer and I reenacted the entire scenario, making it more and more sexual each time.

We frequent this establishment. We’re there at least once a week, actually. And each time we go and Jen is working, she is more and more affectionate towards Toby Joe. One time, she stroked his tattoo. Another time, she rubbed over his back. I laugh about it every time. She’s quite affectionate towards me as well, but she doesn’t spend as much time touching me. I think she has bigger eyes for Toby.

Last Friday, we tried to figure out just what was up with her. I came up with three possible scenarios:

• 1). She is in love with Toby Joe.
• 2). She is in love with me and thinks Toby Joe is gay.
• 3). She is a dirty girl and wants to do us both in the pants.

Because I’m pretty sure she’s not just friendly. There are ulterior motives. I’m not sure what they are but they are there. And if she’s after my man without me, I’ll flippin’ kick her ass back to Jersey.

The Volvo ran really well this weekend. We took it to New Jersey on Friday night. The gas mileage is pretty OK. I have two problems with the vehicle. We don’t have air conditioning. Which normally doesn’t matter, but this past weekend the weather was downright brutal. It was so bloody hot. I can’t even begin to tell you how sweaty I was in that car. (Toby took pictures of my sopping wet ass. Once they are scanned, I will share them. Gross) The other problem with the car is there are no working dashboard lights. Which makes it really hard to check for things like overheating (which did not happen, much to my pleasant surprise) and one’s speed. It’s a good thing a 30 year old car doesn’t like to speed. I barely went above 65.

I’m really happy with the purchase. We have pictures of my giving her a bath. I will upload them as well once they are scanned.

Also, her name is Josephine.

I’ll let him explain the process. There is one HOT image of my contorted face. Oh my.

“You make me nervous when you do this.”

“You always catch me at really ugly times.”

“Come on! Quit it!”

TJ’s feet on my father’s boat. (More to come).

Yesterday afternoon, Toby and I heard thunder rolling in over the city. I love thunderstorms. One of the reasons I wasn’t able to embrace the West coast - more specifically, San Francisco - was due to its predictable weather. There is nothing more intriguing that the schizophrenic weather of the Northeast. Growing up with it, you become attached as one might with an eccentric cousin or an unpredictable friend; you just never know what might happen next.

Take yesterday, for example. We drove the car a lot this weekend. And although it lacks a working air conditioner, it does have a barely functioning sun roof. If it’s not closed all the way it leaks. Upon hearing the first distant rumble, I asked Toby if we could make sure it was closed tightly.

It probably won’t rain anyway—but just incase.

Within a half hour from my false prediction, we were witness to a thunderstorm with hurricane envy. And this went on for hours. First, the wind picked up. And the neighbors’ grill blew over and into their back yard. I’m not talking about one of those small, portable ones. I’m talking about the variety one wheels, the SUV of grills.

Our back yard turned into a monsoon. Buildings collapsed in Williamsburg. Trees were brought down smashing cars all throughout Greenpoint and Williamsburg. It was an awesome storm.

Today, I took a few pictures of my walk to the L Train on Graham Avenue. They don’t reveal much. And they certainly don’t illustrate what Williamsburg went through.

I got a phone call from Gerry after the first storm came and went. He called from the car as he and Anna drove home from a movie and aksed me if a tornado hit Greenpoint and Williamsburg. Apparently, in downtown Brooklyn, it didn’t even rain. Downtown Brooklyn is not far from Greenpoint.

It’s being reported that there were no deaths. And with the departure of the storm, it’s about 20 degrees cooler. Given the unbearably hot summer we’ve had, I think that I’m ready for Fall. I’m ready to take drives up north to see the leaves change. We missed our Northeaster Fall last year. I’m ready for the Apple Festival and hiking in the catskills. I am ready to take the car on long drives through Pennsyltuckey. I’m even ready for primetime TV again.

Why would it be that iced coffee cost 88 cents more than regular, hot coffee? I just had a discussion with a cashier regarding my having purchased iced coffee and she charging me more for it.

Iced is more? 88 cents more? That’s entirely arbitrary.

That’s the way we do it here.

So what you’re saying is, next time I come in, if I order hot it will be 88 cents cheaper and I can then return to my office and ice it myself?

Yes, that’s right.

I’m not saying I would do this because, well, I’m a lazy bitch. But come on, now. What’s up with that?

Yesterday, the New York Times reported that the New York State Health Department has urged that restaurants stop serving foods containing trans fats known as chemically modified ingredients that significantly increase the risk of heart disease.

Already, the mere request has trigged opposition. A friend told me that it’s none of the governments business what people eat and how often they eat it. Another says that if that were the case, then why not throw in some hashish every now and again. Toby Joe suggests that it’s not about that, it’s about disclosure to the consumers. Basically, if a smart person has this information, information that they were once in blissful denial about it, said person would avoid the food. It’s about knowledge and making a personal choice. If people want to continue eating it, then so be it, that’s their choice. If you’re like myself, who has avoided it for three months now (South Beach dieter) it’d be an excellent change. I’d love to have healthier lunch options.

I have been comparing it to cigarettes. There was a time that people didn’t KNOW that cigarettes caused cancer. Once that information was released to the public, some folks quit. (Take, Peter Jennings, for example). Up until recently, trans fats weren’t a known cause behind clogged arteries. Now, they are and the health department wants the consumer to know just when they’re ingesting the fats.

The NYT reports:

Public health officials contend that trans fat not only has the same heart-clogging properties as saturated fat, but also reduces the “good” cholesterol that works to clear arteries.

I’d say that’s a good enough reason to do something about it. But I know that these changes aren’t embraced easily. I’m wondering how other people feel about it. Is ignorance really all that blissful?

I pulled this out of the comments from the first post, but it really needs its own thread. For those of us ladies who have either had or been the receiver of a girl crush, I give you this article. It’s good stuff. But it fails to mention the girls who turn it into pure hatred and a raw jealous obsession.

(Every day I move a little closer to wanting to turn this site into a forum featuring a selection of a few individual voices. The comments and the commentators are the best part.)

Late Saturday night, a friend of mine is playing at the Mercury Lounge. They call themselves Channels. You might recognize the one fella, that’s Jay Robbins of Jawbox fame. Darren (the guy on the right) and I go way back. We knew each other back in State College, Pennsylvania.

Toby and I are heading to New Jersey tomorrow evening but will be back in the city by 10 PM Saturday. All those in favor of going, say aye.

I really really really really really need to stop listening to the Mountain Goats song called This Year.

I’m going to make it through this phase if it kills me.

I’m going to make it through this phase if it kills me.

Someone give me another song this good and I might kick it quicker.

I’m going to make it through this phase if it kills me.

The other day, after meeting Ethan to do the ol’ car switcheroo, I took it for a walk. We met in Greenpoint where he changed the plates and I removed the registrations sticker. I added mine. He took his tools, blankets, and paperwork from the inside.

I was getting a car. What’s more, an old Volvo. I love old Volvos. I check them out each and every time I see one, usually I’m covered in green. Some gals save up for Kate Spade bags, fancy shoes or wedding gowns that cost as much as a down payment on a house. Me? I drop thousands of dollars on an old car that has no air conditioning.

So we had everything taken care of and Ethan handed me the keys. It would be the first time I would be driving the car as my own. I was excited. Toby got in the passenger side and I, the driver side. I rolled down the window and started the car.

We took a right on Graham Avenue.

I remember when I had my other Volvo, people looked at it all the time. Volvo drivers love volvos. It’s like a cult. They wave, honk, they’re friendly. This baby will be a head-turner for sure.

Toby nodded. He’s really very good at letting me ramble.

We turned right onto Richardson. I stopped at the red light there. There was a couple walking towards us. They were staring. They were staring at me and my new hot as shit car.

See? See what I mean!

I pointed them out to Toby.

They love it. Man, I haven’t been in this for more than a minute and already we’re turning heads.

The couple began walking closer. The girl said something to her boyfriend. They both nodded. They were staring right at me. The crossed the street.

Holy crap! They’re coming over here. Wow.

We were still waiting for the light to turn. If they were going to make it over to me in time to say how jealous they were of my new hot as shit car, they better hurry. I waited.

I’m not sure when it finally occurred to me that they weren’t looking at me at all. Maybe it was when the walked past me and my hot as shit car. Maybe it was when they said something to someone else on the sidewalk. Maybe it was after I watched the woman bend down to pet a short, stocky Corgy being walked by a 101 year old man.

I looked at Toby and he laughed. There really wasn’t much more to say. But it will happen in time. I know it will. As long as there are no super cute short dogs around, my car and I will have our time being gawked at.

Today, I was on the L Train grooving out. Quite literally, actually. I really was dancing at the time, but only the upper part of my body was getting down as the bottom half had to act as anchor to keep from falling. I was grooving out to Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. (Which, for some reason, I can’t seem to say their name correctly. Each time I want to put an “and” in there. It’s Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. OK then.)

I figured that today was a most excellent day to give our some free music and REALLY piss TJ off by sucking up whatever transfer time we have left on our dedicated server. (Sorry, baby!)

I had a lot of trouble trying to figure out WHICH song to put up. I couldn’t decide between Heavy Metal, The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth, Upon This Tidal Wave Of Young Blood or the one that makes me feel randy called Gimme Some Salt. I can’t explain the randiness. I think it’s his lack of annunciation that does it. He sort of sounds like he’s either suffered from a recent head injury (Toby doesn’t refer to them as Clap Your Hands Fuck Annunciation for nothing) or he’s letting us witness something sloppy and dirty and sexy.

Is this Love was up there, too. But I knew I could only choose but one. And the winner is Heavy Metal. While everyone needs to hear The Skin Of My Yellow Country Teeth it’s 8 mgs. Gimme Some Salt would have been perfect, but I didn’t want to blue ball the Internet.

Enjoy! Heavy Metal 5.6 MGS. (If you’re on a Mac, control click, download to desktop. If you’re on a PC, I think you right click or something.)

You can thank me by buying my Bush T-shirts. What was I thinking? haha

(Edited at 10:15 AM—again.)

(Edited at 4:05 PM—I think I should have stuck with the “slower” song. Greg hates it. Part of the world has ended. Oh, but you can still clap and say mihow. I’d like that.)

Toby and I are going to try and see 9 Songs tonight or tomorrow. I hear it’s quite x rated.

Nico sent me a link this morning. This was the movie I was an extra in. I guess if it’s in the NYT, I can talk about it.

We’ll see if my ugly mug makes the final cut.

I have to be honest. I have remained quiet for too long. It’s time to fess up. The truth of the matter is, I think I despise Craigslist. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in America who feels this way but I just don’t like it.

I don’t find the “Best Of” all that funny. As a matter of fact, I find them downright stupid and made up most of the time. I don’t even find the weird sexcapades humorous. They bore me as a matter of fact. And the design? I think it sucks. And I don’t care if it’s meant to be simple and easy to read, it’s horribly ugly and lame. If Ebay purchased this site, you better believe it’d sing or do your taxes, it’d emit smells or something.

Craigslist also feeds my cynicism. I don’t believe half of what I read on there. (I’m sorry, but am I really supposed to believe that some “model” is looking for a male roommate who she can have sex with whenever she’s bored AND he can live there for free as long as he’s OK with her supermodel friends and the fact that they like to smear nutella on their tits and let one another lick it off? No. Not buying it.)

Most of the time, when I visit Craigslist, I feel like I’ve entered the mind of a 14 year old boy—the mind of a pimply, prepubescent teenage boy.

If Craigslist had a smell, it’d be blue cheese or sour milk. If it were a color, it’d be pea green. If it were meat, it’d be scrapple. If it were a person, it’d be Gilbert Godfried. A religion? Scientology. A sound? Fingernails scraping rusty metal.

But I’m still hoping someone will change my mind.

This is Anna:

Anna is a Gotham Girl. She’s on the Brooklyn Bombshells. (She’s the one on the far left.) Anna comes home with a lot of bruises. Yesterday, Anna let me take a picture of her worst one to date. Ouch.

I’m not sure how she does it. (I’m also not sure how she stood on the rocks posing for this picture wearing her skates and didn’t roll off into the East River).

I have often wondered about something during sex scenes in movies. When movie and TV people have sex and reach climax, they usually just roll over and are done with it. Just like that, finished, like nothing ever took place. There is no visiting the bathroom. There are no washcloths, the sipping of water, the changing of sheets, drippy stuff, sweat. These people don’t even get up to use the bathroom at all. The ladies don’t even pee. (Yeast infections, ladies! Yeast infections!)

Am I missing something? Even during x-rated episodes of Queer as Folk where the gay men finish up their business, they merely roll over and go to sleep or put their pants on and leave the house.

When people die or come close to dying I am told that they usually piss themselves. I remember being extremely impressed with the scene in Grand Canyon when Steve Martin’s character is hit by a bullet. When he falls to the ground his pants are covered in his own urine.

Wouldn’t it be nice to see art imitate the real deal, sloppy or not, let that stuff shine. It’s beautiful. (No pun intended.)

Edited to Add: Judging by the email/AIM messages I have received, I am thinking this post was totally misinterpreted. Damn you, people. Damn you all.

Edited to Add: Wow, I do sound prudish. This just goes to show how ones intentions were SO not met via the words. Clearly, I’m spending too much time listening to talk radio and not enough time communicating. I am not a prude nor do I have jock itch.

Charlie, I will cut you.

Ethan, the guy I bought the Volvo from, runs a production company out of Brooklyn, NY. I thought it’d be nice to link to his company SeeThink. He’s currently wrapping up a movie about a fantasy-driven live action role playing game called Darkon. And yet another documentary which should be out in 2006 is about Alice Neel a wonderful painter. Anyway, he’s a nice guy and he lives in the hood. Check it out.

Along the same lines, remember Kevin Devine? He recently signed on with Capitol Records. I knew he’d become all famous and whatnot. He’s a great musician. If he comes to your town, I highly recommend checking him out.

Lately, I fear I have been slacking in the Internet department. And that can be blamed entirely on one reason: This American Life. It’s all I pay mind to all day (besides work, of course). And I can’t seem to get enough of it. As a matter of fact, when the bell rings at the end of the day, I just can’t seem to interrupt whatever show it is I’m in the middle of. So I stick around working on whatever it is I can in order to finish the show. Otherwise, I’d feel as though I’m interrupting the person’s story.

I’m only half-way through the 2005 archive. Each and every day I get to meet new people and hear their tragic, or wonderfully funny stories. I feel privileged for being there even though they have no idea I am even listening. The one called Mind Games features an hilarious bunch of stories about mind games gone bad. Know Your Enemy features a reunion between Jello from the Dead Kennedys and Michael Guarino, the prosecutor who took him to court on obscenity charges. That had me laughing out loud. Which looks pretty damn silly when you’re at work and wearing headphones. Godless American was probably my favorite thus far. Although, Little Bit of Knowledge proved the funniest. (A woman actually believed until very late in life that Unicorns were actually alive once and merely facing extinction or actually extinct.) Reunited and it Feels So Good is captivating especially the part about cloning a pet bull. Remember Me brought tears to my eyes. Hell, they really are all wonderful. You really can’t go wrong. Thus far, I have loved every broadcast in some way. And each one brings me a little more respect, admiration and awe for my kind. We could all use a little bit of that, couldn’t we?

I think today I will listen to My Experimental Phase and Plan B which features a man referred to as Cuervo Man.

I wish everyone in America had to listen to this at least once a week. Each broadcast is filled with stories told by ordinary and not so ordinary people and each time I hear them I find I care a little more. But it has my wondering, what do other people busy themselves with during the day? If not blogs, what passes the time?

I think I will make reality radio the wave of my future.

No, really, who accidentally leaves their wife at a gas station? This is some Raising Arizona bullshit if I ever heard some.

A researcher in California has put a bunch of cows in a bubble to study how much gas they actually release during any given day. Apparently, cow farts could be a major culprit to California smog.

If I were a cow, I’d want this job. I’d much rather spend every day in a bubble farting rather than waiting to be shot in the head and be fed to a bunch of Americans.

I found more Cool Props this weekend. I think the weirdest was the plug or “wall wart”.

(Click the image to visit the flickr set.)

I just want to state as I haven’t ever done so before and I think it every time I walk around and discover new “Cool Props” that this project makes me love people. I love how weird they are. I love that they do this. I love the thoughts behind each prop used. I love that, at times, it’s apparently very desperate. I just love it. Toby and I laugh every time we go out seeking new ones. Each one holds a story for me. Yay humans!

I just got back from the DMV where I got my New York license plates and registration completed for my 1975 Volvo. At first, the mission seemed impossible. I got there at around 8 AM and the line was already around the corner and half way down 34th Street. Like this:

Only I didn’t realize there was a line at first. I took the N/R up to 34th and got out and casually rounded the corner. I broke through and walked next to a wall of grumpy people. Apparently, I didn’t give it much thought as to WHY these people were standing in a single file line at 8 AM. Instead, I moved south along Broadway in search of the DMV. I reached the door of the building and then realized the the trail of people crumbs was actually the line I was to be in. I walked back, holding my head down in shame.

Before I had realized the error, 20 smarter people had cut in front of me. I was pushed even further back.

By the time the DMV opened at 8:30 AM, the line looked more like this:

And I began to pity the poor fools at the end.

Much to my pleasant surprise, the experience did not take long. It looked much much worse than it actually was. Had I had my paperwork properly filled out, I would have been in and then out in about 45 minutes. (That includes the time I spent waiting outside before the place opened). Since I didn’t have my paperwork filled out properly, it took me an hour. I was at work in time and everything.

Tonight, we’re going for a drive. I can’t hardly wait.

Toby called earlier to tell me that The Morning News picked up my Cool Props series. I will have more to show this weekend. I’m still looking for the Bible and Harry Potter. Apparently, I get a free dinner if I find a Harry Potter Cool Prop.

It isn’t every day you hear Gwyneth Paltrow utter the phrase, “Can you say ‘Fuckstick’ a little louder?” But that happened today.

I got up at 5 AM in order to make it to the set by 6:30 AM. I wore a brown shirt and a skirt and some brown shoes to match. I wore some dime store barrettes and some 10 dollar store earrings. And I wore a favorite necklace I purchased on the street for 3 dollars. I “dressed-up” one might say.

I got there early. I’m always early. And I wandered around the vans and trucks in search of where to go and who to see. I scanned the crowd for familiar faces and saw none. Finally, a guy standing outside the restaurant we’d be filming in told me I looked a little lost.

Yeah, I’m supposed to be here at 6:30. I’m an extra. I guess. Karen called?

You see that trailer? That’s where they’re doing wardrobe.

Wardrobe? I thought to myself? I didn’t sign on for “wardrobe.” Why would I have to go to “wardrobe?”

I walked over to the trailer and that’s when I saw Melanie. AHA! A familiar face. I felt relieved. Melanie had some sort of headpiece on and she looked completely insane. It was as if the headpiece, instead of transferring voice, was sending small volts of electricity into the side of her head. If you looked up “multi-tasking” in the dictionary, there’d be a picture of Melanie and her head-piece. I tried to get her attention but failed. So I stood there. Eventually, a guy came out and asked me if I was a “Feature.” To which I quickly replied, NO. I was an extra. Show me where to stand. I merely take commands.

For me, being an Extra meant an experience to break up the monotony of a day. But for most people there it was potentially the pivotal moment to their big break. Which is why, once I got upstairs, I felt entirely goofy and out of place. I was not dolled up. I did not wear enough makeup. I did not fix my hair just so. I was not pedicured, manicured or facicured. I felt a little stupid.

Can I see what you brought to wear?

An attractive woman wearing a killer dress was talking to me. I quickly tried to figure out what she meant by this. I wasn’t naked. I was wearing something I would have worn on a date. And that’s what I was told to do, wear “date clothes” but don’t go overboard. Had I gone overboard?

Well, I have this, I mean, what I have on. And I brought a dress, too. A black one and shoes to match because I know they don’t go with brown. I mean, black ones don’t go with brown.

It’s a good thing she cut me off because I wasn’t sure where I was going with that one.

What you have on is great. You can wear the dress later.

I sat down and tried to blend into the furniture. Women were everywhere. It was so easy to tell the actors from the crew. The crew looked hard and tired. The actors looked like one-dimensional magazine cutouts. I imagined that the key to looking like an actor was somehow convincing oneself that there is indeed a camera on them at all times.

Stacy arrived next. Stacy works with Toby. I was happy to see a familiar face. Meredith arrived a little later and then later still, Kevin showed up. All of us were, in some way, affiliated with where Toby works and Melanie.

About a half an hour later, it was time to head across the street and into the restaurant. As I walked in, I tried hard to dodge the wires and the camera equipment and at the same time look for Gwyneth Paltrow. And then there she was. Sitting at the bar, was the elegant and natural looking Ms. Paltrow. She looked stunning. She wore no makeup and had her hair pulled back in a long ponytail. She sipped on a Strabucks coffee and chatted with another woman. I continued on into the back of the room.

We were positioned around tables. I was seated with Meredith and an unbelievably sweet woman named, Antonia. Antonia is an actress. She became my beacon for the remainder of the morning. She translated things like “You can hold.” Or commands such as “Background”. And something else I can’t remember but I remember her translation which was “clear the lens, zoom in and get rid of the ‘dirty stuff.’ And then she told me we were the “dirty stuff”. She was excellent. Born and raised in Washington, D.C. I am rooting for her.

Somehow, I ended up in a scene. I learned that it’s really hard to NOT speak and talk at the same time. Which is what we were to do, Antonia, Meredith and I, talk to one another without using our voice. We did about 13 takes total. Every angle was filmed and at times Antonia and I had to sit really close to one another. (Which I am told seems odd in real life but will look totally normal on film.) It’s a good thing I liked Antonia and wore a lot of deodorant. We were warned on two occasions that we were in the shot and to “do our best.”

Not to put any pressure on you two.

(No pressure at all, sir. Can I puke now?)

The lead male actor, who I couldn’t place but recognized immediately, turned out to be none other than Dominic West. And the woman was a beautiful blond who kept referring to Gwyneth as “Gwynie”. The story, though foggy, apparently is that of a date gone wrong. The guy is sort of a wanker who keeps saying extraordinarily rude things. One, of which, is calling the waiter a “fuckstick”.

Overall, the experience was totally worth it and I can’t wait to see how it turns out. There is a pretty good chance someone might actually see my ugly mug sipping on a fake vodka cranberry (which I accidentally drank twice. Something you’re warned to NOT do because it’s gross and has been sitting around for hours and hours). Kevin had to pretend eat a pasta dinner. Antonia had to fake drink a beer (which was actually really old, flat ginger ale.)

I’m so tired, though. And I now have the word “Fuckstick” tourettically running through my head.

I am listening to an interview on NPR with Clinton. It’s really quite good. And I have to say, I really miss the guy. He’s bright. He speaks well. I miss him. Click here to hear it.

We came up with a heavy screening process after 9/11 to thwart the possibility of another terrorist attack. Now, the Bush Administration is talking about giving “Frequent Flyer” passes to travelers who are constantly flying. I guess bitching pays off. So my question is this; won’t it be possible for a terrorist to get a hold of said pass and then, once again, be able to potentially board a plane with a weapon or a bomb? I don’t get it. If you have to fly a lot, deal with it. That should be the way it is. Why would we come up with a loop-hole that could act as an enabler to a dangerous situation within something we came up with in order to avoid danger?

Americans take a day off work to get through the DMV. We’ve grown to accept long lines and potentially long waits. Can’t we just accept a hassle when we fly?

Again, every day I spend alive life becomes more and more like a Dr Suess book.

Does the groom-to-be have sex (oral or whatever) while at their bachelor party? I think I have asked this question before. I can’t remember. I’m curious nonetheless. Is that the idea?

I think brides-to-be just get shitfaced and puke. They might end up naked and covered in grass stains, but other than that, I don’t think there’s a lot of copulating that goes one. I don’t know. I haven’t been to either.

Just wondering.

There is a show called Godless America on This American Life. If you haven’t heard it, check it out. It’s a really great show. (I’m particularly fond of Julia Sweeney’s story.)

Tomorrow morning I’m getting up at 5 AM and heading into the city. Sometime yesterday, Toby wrote me to see if I wanted to be an extra in a movie. His boss’s wife is a producer and he was trying to find young, 30-something people to fill a few spots. Toby told him yes. And then I forgot about it.

Last night, as I was walking to meet Toby Joe for dinner, my cell phone rang. I answered it. Which is unheard of, my answering a call from some number I don’t recognize. It was the producer for Gweneth Paltrow’s new film. She asked me if I wanted to be an extra in her movie. All I have to do is wear something fancy and consume a gourmet breakfast. And I have to be there by 6 AM.

I’m already nervous and all I have to do is stand there. Hopefully, I can take a few pictures.

I always found the Atkin’s Diet to be dangerous. It’s nice to see I am not alone. Who, in their right mind, suggests eating very few (if any) fruits and vegetables?

NPR is airing a show right now about independent journalists/blogs. There is a discussion taking place about validity, fact-checking, etc. And something occurred to me. It’s easy to read some blogs and, at the very least, not totally throw it away as a pack of lies when you’ve become so cynical regarding “real” journalists and the mainstream media. I almost gave up entirely on mainstream media outlets in September of 2001. If anything, some blogs are a refreshing alternative to what I’ve heard all of my life.

Anyway…

We just had a bunch of sign-ups over at SPD. I will be updating the site this evening. Just thought it’d be nice to share the information. If you’re reading this and you’ve been wondering, that’s the deal. Summer slackage, indeed.

Now if only I could sell those bloody t-shirts. Anyone know of any good protests coming up?

TJ and I are looking to buy a portable speaker/sound system for the beast of a car we just purchased. I was told there are a few that hook up to an iPod and sound good as well. Anyone have suggestions?

The car has its original radio only. There are no bells and whistles (side from the purple lighting system installed and the spinning hubcaps.) But I need music.

They make great gifts to give to Republican family members.

Type Reads: Would This Make His Lies Impeachable?

Email me at mihow at this domain dot com and I’ll get you set up.

We sat on the front porch and waited for Ethan. He was bringing the title to me. The air-conditioner units from all thee floors above spit down on us and for a few minutes I mistook it for rain. Jason, our neighbor, showed up first. He lives on the first floor. We usually know when Jason is at home because of the smell. Jason smokes more pot than any one person I have ever met. He smokes first thing in the morning, and then first thing upon arriving home. The guy is always high. Our conversations have ranged from 2 words all the way up to 17. We know very little about him and he knows nothing about us.

“Hey guys.”

He walked up between us and unlocked the front door.

“Hey Jason.”

About five minutes later, the sweet smell began to waft from his air-conditioner which hung about 3 feet from above heads. I continued to be rained on by condensation. I have always enjoyed the smell of marijuana. It’s ten times better than cigarette smoke. But Jason takes excess to an excessive level.

“I wonder if people who live above bread bakers eventually grow tired of the smell of baking bread.”

“Hmmm. Don’t know. Dude didn’t even wait to put his keys down.”

We were buying a car. The idea excited me and made me feel uneasy. I felt sick to my stomach. I imagined a chorus of “I Told You Sos” coming at me from every angle and in every voice. This was such a waste of money.

Just when I was entering Level 7 of “I Hate Myself”, the door opened behind us. I must have been really deep in thought because I hadn’t noticed that Jason had put down the bowl.

“You guys just hangin’? Mind if I leave the door open while I run to the store?”

The store was directly across the street.

“Of course not.”

Toby and I watched him walk away.

“That guy is so fucking baked.”

And he was. He’s the only person I know who sounds completely drunk while high. I assumed it was the potency of the weed, but lately I was beginning to buy into a most concentrated form of stupidity, and should he choose to talk to us more while sober, we’d probably discover that his blissfulness might all be attributed to a thick, stupid fog.

“Dudes, you guys seem so, so, so pensive, so serious. Gettin’ things done. Waiting.”

Jason had returned. He carried something Hostess as well as a Coke.

“Nah, pensive isn’t the word.”

“Actually, pensive works just fine.”

“You OK? It’s like you’re about to make things happen. Organized. With your paperwork. Yeah. Ready.”

He laughed. Actually, he giggled. He giggled at himself. I love it when high people become their own laugh tracks. His self-created amusement trickled down on me like the droplets from air-conditioners.

“We’re fine. Just waiting on a friend.”

“OK. Cool. Good. Have fun.”

Ethan showed up at around my 7th mosquito bite. He was carrying a manila folder. He looked sweaty. I had the two blank checks sitting next to me on the stoop. I had a pen in one hand and the phone in the other. I had no idea who was planning on calling or who might call, even. But I was ready. I was ready to either write something or call someone.

Ethan and I discussed things. Toby chimed in from time to time regarding the NYC sales tax and how I was to finally get all the paperwork taken care of. There is so much to buying a used car. The last time I went through anything like this I lived in central Pennsylvania where buying a car was like buying a six-pack of beer. New York City doesn’t make anything easy. I really can’t think of anything “necessary” that comes easy. Everything you need takes time. And everything you need that takes time is often given with resistance. If there is any one thing I’d change about New York City it’d be the undertow of unnecessary bureaucracy. I’d cut through all the ugly red tape.

I wrote the checks out and handed them to Ethan. He signed over the title and we discussed meeting again to draw up a typed “Bill of Sale”.

“Let’s meet first thing tomorrow morning at Mama Bees. I can print it for you.”

“That sounds good. I’ll call you from…”

The door behind us opened again. Jason was standing there holding something large. It appeared to be a picture of some kind. It was covered with an old towel.

“Hey Jason. You heading out?”

“Nah. Gonna put this in my car. My friend is buying it. Won an auction.”

Ethan looked up at him. Jason was standing at the gate. Like Vana White or some other stoned gameshow host, he stood there ready to present it to us as one might a new work of art.

“Wanna see it? It’s really fucking cool.”

Suddenly, he stood up straight and pulled the towel off of the rectangular object. Before I knew what had come over me, hearty laughter began spewing from my face. It was a real laughter, one hadn’t experience in quite some time. It took me a few seconds to realize what I had just done could be seen as the rudest thing ever. I regained my composure immediately.

He proudly displayed the poster to us. It was an original screen print from an old Phish tour. The frame was wholly intricate. It was surrounded by gold leaf and wood. This poster was massive. And Jason was proud. And it’s a crying shame he fluffed up his feathers for such an ungrateful audience.

“You don’t even know…. You don’t even know…. expensive…. rare. You don’t even know….”

Had it been any darker, I may have mistaken the condensation droplets for tears. He walked towards his car. A mosquito bit my arm. I slapped it. Ethan and I continued our business, the business of buying the type of car that probably sustains more Phish stickers than any other make or model.

I rarely follow what goes on in Hollywood. I don’t read “star” magazines and I don’t watch E! or anything like it. If not for friends, I’d know next to nothing. All that said, this is kind of heartbreaking. And you better believe I’ll be buying that issue of Vanity Fair.

I think I just have a thing for Jennifer Aniston. She seems down-to-earth, for lack of a better word. Anyway, carry on…

I sent out my first batch of Bush tees today. They are available via Pay Pal. If you want one, just use my email (mihow at this domain dot com). I will send them to you right away. They make excellent presents for Republican family members!

This morning, while in Starbucks waiting for my Iced Grande Triple Skim Latte I noticed a most horrible sound coming out of the speaker system. It was so excrutiating, I was having trouble thinking, ordering, paying or smiling. Of course, it didn’t help that there were droplets of sweat falling from the nape of my neck onto the small of my back. The two sensations coupled together drove my mood down south.

“What is that sound?” I asked the woman taking my money. “How is it you deal with that sound?”

“We’re forced to.” She answered without skipping a beat. “Nuts, huh? Sometimes, I take walks to clear my head. I’m not sure why anyone in their right mind would buy such a thing.”

“Do you think she realizes how badly she sounds? I mean, does she ever say, ‘Damn, I am bad at this. I guess that’s why Starbuck’s employees across the country have to listen to it all day—in hopes of selling a copy or two.’ It really is bad.”

“I know. Believe me.” The cashier handed me my change. I walked to the counter and waited.

Meanwhile, Alanis kept screaming something about some guy and love and other words that sounded like the scraping of fingernails on chalkboards and hyenas in heat. I wanted to call her and have a talk.

Who buys this shit? I thought to myself again. While standing there waiting for the barista to make my Iced Grande Triple Skim Latte, it occurred to me that the ordering of my drink and Alanis Morissette’s new CD might both be considered audible terrorism.

Yesterday, after work, I met with the Volvo owner in order to inspect the car. I have little knowledge when it comes to cars. If it looks good, I’ll buy it! Only that’s not really the truth because I have wanted a Volvo since the last one I owned was totaled and I have yet to make the dive.

Just for fun, this morning, while sipping my first cup of coffee, I searched mihow.com to find out just how many times I brought up my fondness for these old gems. I thought I’d share a few of them. (Key word: “few”. There were more mentions I did not link to. I am a loser, apparently.)

The first time I brought it up was on May 22nd, 2002. And then a month later I discovered Ebay. I brought it up again two days later. And then again the the following day I decided not to buy one after discovering how much insurance cost. On the 28th of June I was officially defeated by the insurance companies after being told I’d have to pay more in insurance than for the actual car. On the 20th of November I placed a bid on a car and then I made an appointment to see it on the 21st (which I never went to.) And then I placed a bid on June 23rd, 2003.. On July 1st I brought it up again but only in passing.

I’m 31 and this one has been offered to me should I choose to buy it. I won’t lie, it has its problems but overall it’s in really great condition considering it’s almost as old as me. This morning, after be woken by dawn, I called Geico and got a quote: $360.00 every six months. That’s one roadblock overcome. Now, I just need to figure out if I want to pay for the damn thing. Please, won’t someone tell me what to do, dammit. I hate spending large sums of cash. I hate it.

Dan wrote me today. Dan from England. Dan, the boy who was beaten pretty badly a while ago. I love it when Dan writes, and tonight, when I get home, I will write him a really long response. But in the meantime, I want to share with the Internet something he wrote. You see, Dan just got his cast off and he mentioned something I hadn’t thought of before.

It’s a little crude to admit it, but being able to wipe your ass with your right hand is such a bonus!

I’m so happy for him.

I can’t resist. I must clutter the Internet with yet another TV-related blog post. Man, am I ever bummed about Nate. :[ I really didn’t see it coming. What’s next? David’s not gay? Clare becomes a Republican? Brenda marries her brother? No more surprises like that, HBO.

Tonight, I am finally going to take a look at a blue, 1975 Volvo for sale in our neighborhood. I have had my eye on this car for months now and much to my surprise the owner put it up for sale last week. It looks like this:

only it’s blue.

I always get nervous about spending money on things like this. I always chicken out. But the truth is, I have wanted another Volvo since the last one I owned was totaled (by another driver. I was nowhere near the car at the time). We’ll see. We’ll see.

On Sunday morning, after a week of putting it off because of having to answer too many questions, I began my first auction over at Ebay. I have been an Ebay member since 2002. (I know, not long.) And in that time I have purchased two things; a leg lamp and a bath caddy. And clearly, no one has ever written about how great I was having done so.

I learned a few things yesterday. I learned that you aren’t able to choose the “Buy it Now” option until you have a rating where a bunch of other Ebayers write about how great you are. This phenomenon has always irked me. It’s the Invisible Dangling Credit Phenomenon. It’s when a credit card company won’t give you any credit because you don’t have enough of a credit history. But if the creditor keeps turning down said credited, how is it said credited is ever to get a credit rating worth a damn? And now Ebay is doing this, too. I want the choice of using Buy It Now, dammit.

I also learned that if you’re not a respected, worthy Ebayer, you’re also unable to sell more than one item during any single auction. You can specify in the description that you have several for sale, but your auction can’t show up all over without filling out an entirely new one. For some reason, this, too, irritated me.

While I know this is most likely a user error and the fact that I haven’t the slightest idea what is I’m doing, I’m still whining about it. From where I am standing, I am unable to use the features I set out to use. So, what is it I’m paying for, exactly? Exposure? 15 people have hit my auction since yesterday. 15. I think I counted for at least one of those people. So, 14 people have hit my auction since yesterday. And by “Auction” I mean “Hey, I want to sell some of these t-shirts and I have no idea how to do so.”

Marketing sucks. Are there Ebay classes offered at colleges yet? There should be. I could learn a thing or two. I could also use a few glowing reviews.