What the hell is postermodernism anyway? I want real-life examples. Even if you don’t really know, like I don’t really know, take this opportunity to tell us what you think it is.

There is a discussion going on over at Spread about Postmodernism that made me realize something about myself. I’ll use words, they’ll come up in my head and I’ll say them, and then they don’t mean what I think they mean but I use them anyway.

I do this a lot with the word “Ironic” and the word “Oxymoron”. Actually, I think I do that with “catch-22” as well. One time, when I was a youngin’ I said, “He was EMANCIPATED!” I totally pulled out the word, stretching it like a long piece of gum, like I really meant it. The guy I was talking to at the time (who happened to be my video store boss who also happened to have a cocaine addiction) said, “You mean he was freed?” (I was talking about this guy actually.)

I looked at him like he was nuts especially since we were clearly discussing how skinny this person was.

I mean, duh. Everyone knew he was so emancipated he would probably die of hunger.

Today, I discovered a box filled with old negatives. At times today, I have felt like I’ve remembered lost memories. The negatives span at least 15 years. There are literally hundreds of negatives that I developed over the years. Some of them haven’t ever been printed. Anyway, I scanned a few of them today. I started with friends. I’m starting a series over at Flickr. Please join me.

Some of the negatives are really beat up. I rather like them that way. I hope you do as well.

It could take me months all of these. But I think it’ll be quite fun.

I waited for my cappuccino. The barista at this particular coffee shop was always very charming. He used words like “darling” and “sweetheart”, “sugar” and “honey”. He served terms of endearment with nearly every cup of coffee—uppers, all around.

Come to think of it, everyone who works at that coffee shop is usually pleasant. The two lesbian girls, the tall dreadlocked man, the frat boy look alike, they seemed content to be there which is a lot more than one can say for most coffee shops.

Recently, a Dunkin Donuts opened up the street from me. Their ads have told me that they have great coffee, though I haven’t ever tried it. There was that one ad where a woman walked through backyards during a traffic jam to get coffee for her carpool. I liked to ad but I fear Dunkin Donuts. I worry the moment I walk through the door, I’ll leave with a box of Munchkins with a side of coffee. The last time I had a munchkin’ my metabolism was much more reliable. Over the years, I have learned to stay away from these nuggets of nostalgia.

Hey, Dude! What are you doing down here? Aren’t you supposed to be running the shop over in your part of the hood?

The barista smiled at the tall man in line. They knew each other. I guessed that the customer must work for the independently run computer. Mikey, the guy who started the computer shop, had just opened up his third location. One was near the coffee shop in which we stood, another was near the Dunkin Donuts closer to where I live. and another in Greenpoint proper.

Yeah. I’m opening down here today.

Didn’t they open a Dunkin Donuts up your way? You getting your coffee from there now? Dunkin’ Donuts, man.

The barista winked.

No fucking way, I’m frequenting Dunkin Donuts, man. I can’t eat that shit. Plus, they lie about their coffee. It isn’t that great.

My cappuccino was finished.

Hear you go, sweetie. One cappuccino.

Thanks.

I dropped a dollar in the tip jar and walked over to the milk, sugar, coffee insulator counter.

Man, didn’t they add a walk-up window to that Dunkin Donuts? A walk-up window? The hell is that?

The customer laughed and shook his head.

Yep. They did indeed add a walk-up window.

A walk-up window, man. It makes sense though. TOO FAT TO FIT THROUGH THE DOOR? NO WORRIES! WE GOT A WALK-UP WINDOW!

A chorus of laughter filled the coffee shop giving immediate proof that I wasn’t the only one eavesdropping. He did whatever he could to make us feel more awake even if it was at the expense of others. Our laughs idled. I collected my coffee and walked by the daily coffee campers clicking away at their laptops. I walked by the 9 AM hangovers, the 12-hour dates, and the morning runners.

Outside, the sidewalks steamed settling in against the brisk morning air. There were very few cars. A neighborhood that was normally bustling with sound was eerily yet wonderfully quiet. I sipped my coffee and inhaled deeply. It was Saturday morning. The hours ahead laid before me like empty canvas waiting for stories.

On Wednesday, The Barbarian Group took us out for dinner. I love it that I’m usually invited to these gatherings as they’re all so damn fun to be around.

Look at these beautiful bastards.

(Click each image to enlarge.)

This is Stacey. Stacey’s purty. Half of Meredith is there, too. She’s a looker as well.

In today’s NYT, there is an article on the front page saying that the Dubai Company plans to delay its new role in taking over 30 terminals in 18 countries.

Since Wednesday’s discussion here, I’ve been thinking. The conversation even continued Wednesday night while out for dinner with The Barbarian Group.

The New York Times Reports:

The reaction in the United States has occurred in no other country in the world

If this is true, and I have no reason to believe otherwise, why is it true? If there are 18 other countries that are a part of this deal, why are we the only country speaking out against it? What are we afraid of that the others are not? Are Americans racists as many people have said?

Before 9/11 I never paid much attention to transactions such as this one. Before Bush went to war with Iraq, I didn’t pay much attention to how we looked to the rest of the world, more specifically, the Arab world. Now, it’s different. Now, I’m much more political and much more aware. And, well, I do care about this transaction. It does make me feel a little edgy.

Are we, in fact, becoming more aware of whom we trust? And if you believe that, is that necessarily a bad thing?

Are we afraid of the Arab world or just more aware of our own?

Yesterday, Toby Joe and I received this week’s issue of the New Yorker. It didn’t compare to discovering Scarlett Johanson’s bare ass in our foyer on Valentine’s Day. But it gave us both a laugh.

I’m still trying to figure out who’d be the top and who’d be the bottom. While Jack Twist was the bottom in the original, he definitely instigated the whole thing. I’d say he was, what no one has ever called but I’m going to, an “Agressive Bottom”. I think Ennis Del Mar was a “Passive Top”.

I think Dick is more a top-top and Bush a bottom. But that’s not my final answer.

Directly following a good workout, I become temporarily stupid. I’m not sure why this is, but my head gets all fuzzy, my heart races, and I just do a bunch of stupid. I’m unable to think. I’m barely able to move. It’s as if my body has gone through so much, it shuts my mind off entirely. Maybe it’s workout shock.

Last night, I was at the gym. I ran for 32 minutes and the headed down to accept my reward shower in the ladies locker room. I love showering there. I think my fondness for it dates back to my YMCA camp days. I genuinely enjoy it. I like my bag of toiletries; the smell of their shampoo, the way the water feels when it washes away my sweat. I love it and I realize how weird that is but I don’t care. There are many days I will not shower in the morning and instead save it for the gym. That way, I’m almost forced to go. I either have to visit the gym or remain stinky and stinky sucks.

Last night, my heart rate reached 180. And I reached level stupid. I was beet red by the time headed back to the showers. I was dizzy. My head was in a blissful fog. Ignorance really is bliss.

I took my clothes off as soon as I got to my locker. I stuffed everything into the locker and placed my running shoes below the bench. I grabbed two towels. The NYSC towels are forces never to be reckoned with. I’m not even sure one could get away with calling them towels, actually. They’re more like large washrags. I’m pretty sure to have one NYSC towel wrap around any body you’d have to weigh in at around 75 pounds and have the physique of a prepubescent boy. My tits do not like hiding behind a NYSC towel. They flat out refuse to be covered. But I did what I could. Then, I decided to use the toilet.

Now, at no point during the decision process did this seem weird. I took the towel off, hung it on the metal hook and prepared to pee. Nothing seemed odd about this not up until the moment I sat down, naked, and began to pee. It was at that moment I began to have this silent conversation with myself.

Have you ever done this before? Have you ever peed while naked?

I think I’ve done it at home. Surely, I have done this at home.

Did it feel weird then?

I don’t recall it ever feeling weird, no.

Why do you feel weird now? Your bare feet are touching the floor. Is that it?

Yeah, that’s a little gross. I have to admit.

Why did you decide to go to the bathroom naked and barefoot in a locker room full of people? You’re disgusting. You should have bought flip-flops.

Conscious of the fact that my naked feet were showing beneath the stall, I lifted them up to avoid judgment. I’m naked, on the toilet with my feet in the air. There should be a yoga move named after this because my abs were killing me. Then, I really couldn’t pee. This was backfiring horribly.

I heard someone at the door. Since my feet weren’t available as stall markers, no one knew I was in there.

I’m in here.

Awkward.

Oh! Sorry. I didn’t see you.

More awkward.

I put my feet back down again. Once I finally finished peeing, I got up and wrestled, yet again, with the towel. I waited until the coast was clear and, even though you’re not supposed to run through the ladies locker room, I took off towards the shower section. I took off to the area where one is supposed to be stark naked.

Who ever said the winter olympics was boring?

Last night Toby said, “Man, I just want to pinch it!”

I’m assuming someone out there can explain this to me. I know that out of all the people who visit this Web site, someone MUST find the whole U.S. port operations story and the fact that they’re pushing to allow a company run by the United Arab Emirates to possibly manage them totally understandable. And to further what I consider insanity, Bush has threatened to Veto all those who try and block the deal. Was he promised a house on Palm Island or a country on The World?

Someone, anyone, if you’re a supporter or if you understand this very odd, seemingly alarming deal, please explain it to me. I want to understand how this is OK. You can even talk to me like I’m seven.

Many, many moons ago, while living and working in D.C., I created a graphic featuring a close-up of my face on a pair of pink undergarments. I wish I could remember why I created this particular graphic, but I don’t. (If anyone else does, please do tell.) I created posters pretty regularly back then. One might say I had a lot of time on my hands. I worked at a place and was rarely busy. So I came up with posters. Usually they were directly related to something commentors and myself were discussing that day. I created them with one purpose: To make people laugh. I had so much fun creating these on a whim, so much fun.

Some folks may have seen these before while others may not have. Either way, I’m going to share them (again).

There was the time a bunch of regulars admitted to liking scones more than muffins. I am a muffin lover. This poser was created. As well as this one. I’m still not a fan of scones.

There was the time Nico said something about how a friend of her and George’s said that Asian girls have softer pubic hair. I created this poster. Speaking of Nico, I found this one but I have no idea why it was created.

There was the time Andrea said she had some margaritas over lunch. And she was acting kind of loopy which was out of character and it made me smile. I created this poster for her.

One time, a friend of ours named Mike Essl said something about peeing on someone. He really likes Mr. T. I know nothing more about this one’s history. Similarly, I have no idea what the hell this was made in response to. I created this one for Amanda B. Again, I don’t remember why. But I love the fact that I ripped off my own joke. (haha)

There was the time someone wrote about making coffee at work only to find that by the time she returned for a cup all of her coworkers had drank it. I told her to replace the creamer with a laxative. And I created this poster for her. It’s probably my second most favorite. Speaking of office fluids, one time Missy was complaining about the taste of the water at work and I created this one for her.

I don’t remember why I created this one but it’s my favorite. (I love that one.)

And there were little things, too, like this and this and this. I have no idea why I combined Rita Perlman with Ron Jeremy, but here is that monster.

So, yesterday, for shits and giggles, I went over to Flickr and uploaded the old graphic featuring my face on a pair of pink underpants. Here is the graphic:

They came with a bra, too:

and a shirt:

Well, much to my pleasant surprise, shi10 has taken my face panties and animated them for me.

I miss those days, actually, in terms of my online history. And I love it when things come back around. Thanks, shi10. Thanks, Flickr.

I started wearing underpants. That’s right. Tobyjoe and I visited Vickie’s Secret this weekend and I spent 150 bucks on underpants. I’ll see if I can stick with it.

While there, I also picked up some of these. They’re great and all, but since I’m dieting (again) every time I wear the brown one, the one called “Latte”, I want to eat my own lips off. Kinda like that dog did to that French lady.

I’d take a picture of my own wet-lipped face, but the gratuitous self-portrait thing is starting to make me squirmy. (Unless, of course, it’s on a pair of underpants.)

Based on the title, you totally expected this post to be about something else, didn’t you? To quote the teenage mihow, “PHSYCH! FACE!”

I have been wanting to bring this up for so long and then I just never get around to it. Today, I’m going to finally do it. Why can’t I get my egg salad to taste like it does when I get it from the delis around town? What am I doing wrong? Is there a magic ingredient am I unaware of? Am I not cooking my eggs long enough? Do I add too much mayo? Not enough? My egg salad never quite tastes right. It’s bothersome. I want to learn how to do this right.

Does anyone out there know how to make egg salad? If you don’t answer me, I’ll be forced to take macro shots of my homemade egg salad today. It ain’t pretty.

This morning, I left the house early in hopes of having the car inspected at Lorenzutti Motors in downtown Brooklyn. I figured I have a better chance with them, as they’re the folks who have taken care of the car for years now. The more and more Tobyjoe and I thought about our meeting with Two Guys on McGuinness Boulevard, the more and more we felt we didn’t receive an honest assessment. I want a second opinion, to put it simply. I refuse to believe that this car is unacceptable especially considering the number of total rust machines driving along the streets of New York City.

Lorenzutti must be closed for Presidents Day. I drove over there for nothing.

I was thinking about myself on the drive back. I was thinking about the number of times I have had this idea or desire to change my life and do something entirely new for a change. I do it all the time; so much so, I’m starting to even doubt myself. But the other day after listening to this guy try and wheel and deal us, I suddenly had a mind to sign up to learn how to fix cars.

Today, before I could tell myself this is just another fleeting idea whose passion will soon be deflated by time and yet another passionate idea, I signed up at The Apex Technical School. Now, I know I don’t have the money to pay for evening classes to learn how to become an auto mechanic. I also understand that becoming a mechanic isn’t typically a career for a woman. But I did it anyway. I keep telling myself that learning how to fix a car could be beneficial. This is one profession where ageism doesn’t play a major part in getting a job. After all, we all know that an older female graphic designer will have a harder time finding a job than one in her late 20s, early 30s. And anyone who tells me otherwise is fooling themselves and me. I could become the ugliest, fat chick car mechanic. People would probably grow to trust me even more. heh

That’s what I did today. I signed up to find out a little more about becoming an auto mechanic. A girl can have daily dreams, right?

We’re doing stuff around the house. It’s Sunday. I don’t have to work tomorrow. I am very, very happy. Click any of the images below to see some pictures.

I received a ticket for an expired inspection on my 30-year-old car. Only, no one actually wrote out a ticket. Instead, I was paying another ticket online and discovered it. Great.

I paid it. Today, I’m taking it in to get inspected. Hopefully, they don’t try and rob my ass blind. Hopefully, I don’t have to sell the car. Hopefully, this is painless.

Tobyjoe has asked a lot of great questions over on Spread and I want to get some feedback. If you have any, please, kindly leave them there. (Or send us an email.)

I stood in the closet next to Soung. We looked around at her clothing. They hung from hangers, sighing. The great contrast between aged skin and aged clothing became painfully clear: One becomes wrinkled over time, and the other becomes smoother. There were shoes tucked away and a few hair ties draped around the door handle. She once walked through there, figuring out what to wear before heading out for the night. The carpeting below our feet held indentations of previous footprints. I wondered if any of them were still hers. I thought about cutting out a square of it and taking it with me as one might a fossil.

(After she died, I tried to convince myself that I had less of a right to miss her.)

Soung lifted one of the shirts from the hanger. She held it up to her nose and inhaled deeply.

I reached toward the back of the closet. While my decision seemed logical, I was most likely in search of the clothing she rarely wore and therefore would harbor no smell. And it didn’t.

Soung pulled out a sweater and then a t-shirt. We picked up faint scents, and like sleepy memories, I wasn’t sure if they were real or my memory wanted them to be. She pulled out a pair of pants, a dress shirt, a suit jacket, and a sock. Each time, we inhaled deeply, absorbing whatever we could.

………………………………

The night I found out she had died, I took the train to D.C. to be closer to Soung. We had dinner and talked. We played pool. We took a cab home at 2 AM.

“I wish I saved a voice mail. Had I known, I would have saved them all. I really want to hear her voice once more.”

“Why don’t we call her phone?” I asked.

“But what if her mom answers? It’s really late.”

“We’ll call from my phone. It’s a San Francisco number. I’ll just say I have wrong number.”

I dialed her number and it rang several times.

“Hello?” A voice on the other end sputtered to life. I hadn’t expected anyone to answer. I figured I’d receive a “Mailbox is Full” message. Before anyone heard the news, they called and called and called. Up until that moment, I had never thought about all the overflowing mailboxes, maxed out answering machines, or voicemail boxes.

I immediately panicked and hung up the phone.

It turns out; I had flipped the two last numbers. I had called a complete stranger at about 2:30 in the morning from the darkness of a D.C. cab. What do you say to that someone, that voice on the other end? I woke up a complete stranger in the middle of the night just to hear the recorded voice of my friend. That stranger will never know they answered a phone call meant for a dead person.

The living is heartbreaking sometimes.

That night, when we finally laid down to sleep, Soung told me that my side of the bed might still smell like her.

“I haven’t washed the sheets since she spent the night during the snowstorm last week.”

I took great comfort in that pillow, but we never tried to call her again.

………………………………

Soung pulled a scarf she had knitted down from its hanger. She used to knit. She wore scarves all the time. Soung inhaled deeply. I could tell immediately this one held a lot. I watched Katrina’s smell fill Soung’s face. I saw it move up into her nose and then through her cheeks, which flushed with the introduction. Her eyes began to water; she had discovered her all over again.

I wanted some. She handed me the scarf and I inhaled but not as deeply. I wanted more and more and I wanted it to last forever. It seemed like the right thing to do was to save it for others.

We moved through the closet in search of more and more of her. We picked up each piece of clothing and put it back in its place when we were finished. Oh, how I missed her.

Could this be the only thing we have left?

………………………………

I woke up sweating.

I hate forgetting. I hope that I never forget.

Last night over dinner, Toby Joe asked me what character I thought he was most like from The Feast of Love. I thought about this for a second. My first answer didn’t seem right but it was the first one that came to mind. Diana’s character is rather cold. She feels love but doesn’t often admit it to herself. She’s a lawyer and on the few occasions she feels anything at all, she tries to figure out whom she’s going to sue. Diana is strong, too. But it’s almost like she finds feeling itself weak. Diana gave me the impression that should she admit to harboring such emotion, she’d unravel.

At first, her character is whom I picked for Toby. And I told him that. And he cringed. In the end, I actually settled on Diana’s lover, who, literally wakes up next to life one day.

But I’m not writing to talk about which fictional characters we either identified with or which characters we felt the other was most like. (Although, for those of you who’ve read it, the exercise is rather fun, I must admit.) I’m writing to talk about us, real people.

People come here and they get an idea of who we are, Toby Joe and myself. Through the comments we leave and the stories I tell, people have a general idea about who we are. For the most part, I know that people keep it in mind that although they’re given a window into our life, there is so much more I will never talk about. There is so much more I don’t talk about.

Some people have taken what they read here to an entirely different and dangerous level. It’s as if they firmly believe that they have us ABSOLUTELY figured out. I usually find them uncomfortable, like a bitter pill or sand in wet shoes. They are hard to ignore. How can anyone claim to have someone, whom they’ve never met, figured out? I barely know Tobyjoe and we’re intimate, we see each other every day.

Anyway, here we are, Toby Joe and me. I write a Web site and I keep it almost every day. I write about whatever comes to mind, sometimes employing filler (a lot of the time employing filler), as I don’t have something to say every day. Sometimes, I update because I’m tired of the old post staring me back in the face. I get tired of myself often. Which makes me grumpy. I tend to be pretty grumpy, actually. I’m also insecure, totally imperfect, and I doubt myself 75% of the time, the other 25% is spent trying to figure out how I can make what I feel I have done well even better. I don’t articulate my emotions well to those I know, as I barely understand them myself. I often mingle with sadness. I find comfort in it. But that’s just me. And while I may come off judgmental (at times, harshly so) of others, I’m equally as judgment of myself. Not that that makes it OK, but I’m trying to be honest.

Behind this Web site, there is me.

Toby Joe can come off as cold, just like Diana. Believe me, I have seen this side of him, this façade, before. He may speak harshly when speaking politics. He may offend you with his off-color comments about being over-weight, drinking too much, smoking anything at all, littering, whatever. And I realize that’s the risk we take when we put our words out there like this. And I realize that you can’t please everyone ALL of the time. Those who haven’t met Tobyjoe, haven’t experienced his compassion for others, his loyalty to those he loves and his ability to put everything he knows on hold, personally, to make sure those outside of himself are O.K. Behind that tough guy, lives the sweetest person I have ever known. Just ask him for help someday, you wouldn’t believe what he’ll give you.

Never in my life have I met someone so willing to help others with a problem. He’ll help with anything from PHP to Ruby on Rails, to teaching someone how to love themselves again. He’s always there to help. I’ve watched him come to the aide of literally dozens of geek-minded people with their Actionscript/PHP/Java needs, desperate to figure out why something isn’t working within a tight and stressful deadline. He just does it. He doesn’t ask for anything in return. He doesn’t even gloat. He’s just kind. That part? That part I can’t ever articulate or prove to anyone. Completely kind acts don’t reap fields of flowers. But, rest assured; had those acts been actual seeds, we’d all have a lot more flowers to look at.

Behind this Web site, there is him.

We’re good people, for the most part. And neither one of us are fictional characters. I know I have had my bad days. And I am told via email that I’ve offended people before. I know Tobyjoe has had his as well. Even we work on getting along better each and every day because life is way too short to be combative.

When I asked, “What character am I?�? Toby Joe said I was a cross between three characters: Bradley’s lesbian ex-wife (the first one), Bradley’s other ex, Diana, and Chloe.

“You’re grumpy and sweet, like the lesbian, and at the drop of a hat, too just like her. And you’re sporty and you’ll probably run off with a woman someday. You’re cold like Diana, and you’re flakey like Chloe.�”

“Wow. Not a very pretty picture of me, eh? If I were to die tomorrow, that’s how you’d remember me?”

“If you were to die tomorrow, I’d remember only the good things. And the good things are really, really good.�”

Sometimes, when we sum up the people around us using only words, they come off sounding like the most unlikely people to love.

There’s so much more behind each and every one of us, so much more.

If people take anything away from this Web site, anything at all, I’m hoping that they at least take that.

This is totally safe for work.. Check it out. 200 pieces of metal? That sounds like a pretty big deal to me.

We received the latest copy of Vanity Fair last night. I thought the whole point of having a subscription was receiving it ahead of time. Oh how wrong I was.

Ahhhhh Valentine’s Day. You’re out. You fine dine with your loved one. You smooch. You sip wine. You walk home hand-in-hand to discover Scarlett Johanson’s bare ass in your foyer.

Thank you, Vanity Fair!

I met Jocko by way of George Draguns who happens to be engaged to Nico who happens to be one of the greatest gals I know. Jocko wrote the book The Answer is Never: A Skateboarder’s History of the World. I haven’t read it, yet. But many people have told me it’s an excellent book.

On Sunday morning, when I couldn’t sleep, Jocko sent out an email announcing Elk Zine’s latest publications. That’s when I had a brainstorm.

I’m happy to announce, that Jocko has agreed to sign a few copies of his book. And we’re going to give them away over at Spread. We’re still working on the details of the contest, but I’m super psyched to have him involved.

So if you, or someone you know digs skateboarding, tell them to sign up over at Spread!

The other night while at the gym, the most disgusting thing happened. It was worse than the time I had a foreign pubic hair stuck to my face during a Bikram class. It was worse than the time I accidentally ate a living baby snail. It was worse than the time I stood behind and smelled a guy’s gangrene as it sat pretty upon on open head wound.

Yeah, worse than that.

I was on the upright bike. I find I get a better workout on this particular bike. Next to my bike, stood two of those giant moving stairs. (I’m not sure how else to explain those. They are literally moving stairs. A person walks up them, constantly, and moves nowhere as fast I do on the bike.) The stairs stand about 7 feet tall. When someone is using them, their body is much higher than everyone else’s. Which is why I never use them. Well, that and the fact that they kick my ass.

So last night, I’m riding the bike when suddenly I feel something wet hit my arms. My first thought was it was in my imagination. Sometimes, nerves can play tricks on you. Immediately following this conclusion, however, I felt another drop and then another. Drops were hitting my arms and my hands. Was it raining in the NYSC?

No.

What was actually happening was the most hairy and determined man to my right, the one stomping up the stairs as if being chased, was actually sweating on me profusely. And I wasn’t even having sex with this man. His sweat should NOT be raining down on me. So, what do I do? I look up.

Duh.

As I look up in hopes of giving him the universal look for “Hey, dude, you’re like sweating on me and it’s really gross. Could you do something about that?” a few droplets landed on my face. One even hit my lip.

Ask me if I stuck to the upright bike. And ask me why I’m sick.

I woke up with a wicked sore throat. So I can’t write too loudly. And I really should be showering, getting ready for another blustery commute into work. But somehow I got sucked into mindless Internet clicking while sipping my tea in hopes of a throat sooth.

What’s going on out there? Lately, I have had some time to play catch up and there seems to be a lot of animosity out there. There’s also this undertow of hysteria. Which is a really strange thing to witness in its written form. I’ve seen this mostly take all over my least favorite term: the blogosphere. And I’ve been left asking some questions.

Why do you read Web sites? Not this one, specifically. I don’t need my ego stroked or, alternatively, whacked. Why do you read online journals at all? When do you read them? What mood would you say you’re in when you decide to sit down and focus on someone else’s life for a while? For the reader, is this a form of escapism? For the writer, is this a brush with fame? Recognition? Is this the easiest way to thwart boredom?

Why do you think this medium “works”?

This morning while brushing my teeth, I started mentally working on a new cartoon. There’s a 30-year-old adult sitting on a couch in an office. He or she is sitting across from a therapist. The doctor is nodding behind understanding eyes. The patient lies back with their head in their hands. The cartoon reads:

“My father was rarely around. And my mother always had a computer in her lap.”

Will there ever be a group called Blogger’s Anonymous? Are there more productive hobbies to be had? Are relationships being threatened? Solidified?

“Hello, my name is mihow. I am an addict.”

“Hi, mihow. But from now on, when you’re here, your name is ‘MICHELE’.”

Was the world always this needy, angry, hateful, and weird and has the Internet helped expose that fact? Or does the Internet help to build it. I’m left wondering: where are we all heading with this one?

It appears alternate side parking has been suspended. Which means, my 30-year-old car can sit there, covered in snow until Friday at which point it hopefully melts. In celebration of this fact, I will have a hot toddy at Daddy’s and wait for my man to come home.

Ever since I can remember, Tobyjoe has shaved his head. Usually, he waits until his hair grows really long and then he goes home in a fit and shaves it. Over the years, I have offered to pay and have paid for professional haircuts. Visiting the salon is often very entertaining.

“I want every hair cut in half. Pick up each hair and cut it in half. I want my hair to look like this, only 50% shorter. Get it?”

Usually, the hair stylist stares at him, waiting for the punch line. And I pity her. I really do. I can’t imagine how stressful that is, to hear a grown man ask that every hair on his head be cut in half.

One time, he instructed the woman to cut it all in half and then furthered his instruction.

“I want every hair cut in half. NO HIPSTER SHIT. Ok? Just cut each hair down the middle.”

“No hipster shit. I like that. OK. No hipster shit, it is.”

He left with a hipster haircut And then he shaved his head.

Then there was the time I spent 70 dollars and he left with the exact same hairstyle as the one he entered with. It was as if the Asian woman lifted each hair and pretended to cut, like they do to teeth during toothpaste commercials.

When we got home he shaved his head.

There was the time I tried to cut his hair in two, an impossible feat. That particular haircut took about 3.5 hours. We watched two movies. When I was “finished�? he looked in the mirror and thanked me. The following day, his coworkers lifted their eyebrows in horror.

“Dude, what the hell happen to your hair?”

“Michele cut it for me.”

“It shows. Are we not paying you enough?”

That night, he went home and shaved his head.

It’s nearing that time again. His hair is starting to brush his eyelashes and the back is approaching the collar of each shirt. It’s only a matter of days before he starts to threaten his own head and me with the clippers.

“Make me an appointment, then!”

Today, I was chatting with my coworkers about how much I love the Dyson and how funny it is that most of my family flat out refuses to buy me one because, well, buying someone a vacuum as a present is tacky. That’s probably true. Tobyjoe has said numerous times, “no way.” And most people I have mentioned that to agree with him. (I think I do, too.)

While I was expressing my undying lover for the Dyson vacuum cleaner, one of my coworkers publicly admitted to the fact that he found Mr. Dyson only one-step above that other guy who creates (and sells!) things that chop up onions and stuff. And although, I found his claim blasphemous, I tried to contain from retorting too harshly.

“Next thing you know, you’ll be comparing the almighty Dyson to the Flowbee! Mr. Dyson is an INVENTOR! AN IN-VENT-OR. He doesn’t waste time with petty 30-dollar choppers.”

“What’s a Flowbee?”

I defined the Flowbee and then I turned to Google. And then I learned that they are still being made and people are actually still buying them AND using them on their children’s’ heads in a pinch.

Tobyjoe and I have often joked about his need for a Flowbee. And while I realize buying your loved one a Flowbee doesn’t exactly scream, “You are the sunshine of my life.�? I think it’s time. And I’d say I’d get him naked, smear chocolate all over his body and then Flowbee him silly, but I’m a not sure haircut, nudity and chocolate go together all that well. I mean, imagine the mess.

But, if I had a Dyson…

This just blew my mind a little bit.

This isn’t about politics. I feel really badly for Cheney right now. I can’t imagine what he’s going through. If this doesn’t say guns are dangerous, well, I don’t know what does.

The Vice President accidentally shot a friend in the face with a shot gun. It doesn’t matter how much money you have. It doesn’t matter where you come from. It can happen to anyone.

Alright, you monkeys, I think I fixed the Spread logo.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

Thoughts? clickety-click.

Tobyjoe and I launched a new site tonight. It’s called Spread. The goal is to mail out five free books a month. We’re hoping that people read them and then pass them on to others. We capped our quantity at five, but that may change depending on our funds, the demand—you know, stuff like that.

The Web site still needs A LOT of work but we wanted to get something up as I mailed out the first batch of books on Monday. If there are bugs, kindly report them.

We’re really excited about it. We hope that it acts as an open discussion for people who not only enjoy reading but are really into talking about it, too. Oh, and you get free stuff. Nothing beats free.

Come join us! The books are on us (but you’re welcome to buy your own if you’d like to join or start a discussion).

Ken and Barbie are getting back together after 18 months apart. They broke up after 43 blissful years together citing irreconcilable differences. Good news all around.

Sit down bitch If you move again I’ll beat the shit out of you.

Ken spent some time in the Middle East. He tried Buddhism for a while and just tried to find himself, really. Meanwhile, as Ken searched for the meaning of life, Barbie got it on with another guy.

Ken has had a makeover, too. Mattell will unveil his new look today, I believe. I hear he was given a much manlier look. (All the better for playing Brokeback Mountain between he and Barbie’s ex, Blaine.)

Why don’t you like me? You think I’m ugly don’t you. (It’s not that!) No you think I’m ugly.

I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. (But the lyrics are Eminem’s.)

I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I SWEAR TO GOD I HATE YOU!! OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU!!

All the model couples are getting back together.

I’ve been battling something in my head. The right side of my face, neck, and cranium hurts. I’m not sure what’s going on. And nearly every time I work out, it throbs with pain. On Saturday, Tobyjoe had to take care of me at the gym. The pain was bad enough to make me nauseous.

Anyway, today I’m taking her easy and staying home to see if I can flush this out. I also have to get my life in better order - pay the bills, find out where I need to get my 30-year-old car inspected, pick up around the house, place and order through Fresh Direct - you know, all those things one shouldn’t do while taking her easy. But, if anyone out there knows of how to get a car inspected in Brooklyn, do share. (Are these places open on weekends?)

Lastly, I’m very sad to report that the cop I wrote about died after an 11 day ordeal. What a terrible story.

If an Islamic newspaper published a comic featuring something as equally as offensive to a fundamentalist Christian, (unfortunately, I am not enough of a religious scholar come up with such a comic) said fundamentalist Christian might retaliate using violence against the first “Muslim” person they see? (That word is in quotes because, well, American’s have a way of ignorantly deciding who is who and where they come from or which religion they adhere to.)

Are fundamentalists all inclined towards violence, whether Muslim of Christian? Or is there something in Islamic fundamentalism that lends itself more to violence than Christianity? Is it slanted reporting, popular prejudice, or accuracy that contributes to the growing idea that Islam is more violent than other faiths?

The cartoons on the Arab European League’s website are certainly not for the faint-hearted. One shows Adolf Hitler lying in bed with Anne Frank, the Dutch diarist who hid from the Nazis before being killed in a concentration camp. ‘Write this one in your diary, Anne,’ says a half-naked Hitler, reclining against the bed-head.

This whole mess, makes me think about a personal favorite of mine: The Butter Battle Book. (Which, incidentally also features comic-like drawings). Only this is real and Dr. Seuss created that.

This isn’t real, is it? Is James Frey in on all of this?

In retaliation to the whole Danish cartoon fiasco, an Iranian newspaper has announced plans for a cartoon contest. The contest is asking for the best cartoon about the Holocaust.

Well, at least they’re not offering a reward for anyone’s head, right?

I got a feeling this isn’t going to end well.

All jokes aside, the French woman who received a new face has come out of hiding and has begun to face the media. It’s a good thing, too. Because now we can read about how she ended up with a new face and that once the thing took, she was able to start smoking again.

While I marvel at the fact that doctors have figured out a way to actually do this, this particular woman’s story (which I got wind of on Rachel Maddow’s show about a month ago) has made me mumble the phrase, “What the hell?” all too many times.

She took some sleeping pills after having a “rough week.” While nearly unconcious, she tripped and fell. She went down and then her dog chewed her face off. Now, the part that gets me every damn time is she didn’t realize she HAD NO FACE until she tried to light a cigarette. (Read here.)

ohmygod.

Anyway, she got a new face from a donor who actually succeeded in killing herself. (Sorry, that was uncalled for, the face transplant recipient woman hasn’t actually answered the question as to whether she was trying to kill herself.) The dog was put to sleep. She can now smoke again. I see her on Oprah within the year.

I don’t presume to know what this woman went through and continues to go through. But if I saw some chick smoking with a family member’s donated face, I think the phrase, “Bitch, gimme that face back!” might be in order.

Do you think someone previously convicted of a sex crime can be helped or cured? Or do you believe that they are a lost cause, and should be watched but shunned from society.

An alcoholic can get help. He or she will always be considered an alcoholic, but they can choose to avoid it for the rest of their lives. Can the same be said for a sex offender? Or is that offense unforgivable?

About two months ago, Tobyjoe and I were at Enid’s with some friends. While there, a song came on. I couldn’t help but sing along. I made a note to myself: Remember this song. Download it later. It’s from your youth.

Of course, the next day I forgot how it went.

A few weeks after that, I finally broke down and asked Tobyjoe about it.

Honey, do you remember when we were at Enid’s and that song came on? I sang it. It was something about love and forever… You remember how it goes?

No clue.

Bummer.

Well, last night, we watched High Fidelity. And wouldn’t you know, but the song is featured during the credits at the very end. That song is by Stevie Wonder. It’s called I Believe. I ran to the computer and downloaded it immediately.

I believe… GOD DAMNIT!

I sang along and danced around Tobyjoe. He laughed at me and then locked himself in the bathroom. It was frightening, I won’t deny.

I believe when I fall in love with you… GOD DAMNIT!

The biggest problem, however, is I am unable to stop singing it now. I sang it last night, in my sleep, I woke up singing it and today, I keep singing and singing and

I believe when you fall in love with me…. GOD DAMNIT!

singing and singing (you get the point.) It’s making me feel crazy. Suddenly, I want to actually kick the song. Yes, I love it. But give me some peace, Stevie. Please, I beg you, show a lady some mercy.

I believe when I fall in love with you it’ll be forever. GOD DAMNIT!

Someone help me?

When I was ten, a girl named Nancy Horn lived up the street from us. Our neighborhood was shaped like a lower case n. At least that’s how I picture it now. She lived at the top of the n. We lived at the bottom of the right-hand-side of its leg.

Her parents were friends with my parents which made her my friend when our parents were being friendly. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known much about Nancy or her brother, Ricky.

My brother got on better with Ricky than I did with Nancy. They were closer in age and their bedrooms looked similar. Rob would play with Ricky sometimes when our parents weren’t visiting with theirs. I had other friends, friends closer to my age, friends who had similar bedrooms, kitchen sets, and plastic food.

Nancy was a plump girl. During backyard BBQs she’d put away several hotdogs or hamburgers. I remember watching her on a few occasions, in awe of how many bunned meat products she could eat. Since my brothers and I were never big eaters, her ability—no, her desire to eat amazed me. We were often threatened with revoked beverage privileges during dinner in order to get us to eat more. And there were times we we were made to drink “fat shakes” because our mother wanted us to gain a little weight. (Oh how I wish I had that problem now.)

One time, there was a neighborhood party at Drew’s house. Drew’s family had a pool. Nancy ate a lot and completely disregarded the half-hour wait time one must adhere to before returning to swim. I watched in envy and horror. I was sure she’d sink and die. That’s what happens to kids who eat and then immediately return to the pool. Everyone knew that, everyone, except for Nancy.

Nancy didn’t have thumb knuckles, either. I know that sounds odd. It looked weirder than it sounds. I assure you. Her thumbs were opposable—she could bend them at the palm. But the knuckle that links one’s thump-tip to one’s bottom knuckle simply was not there. It was just one flesh-covered thumb bone. The strange part was that there weren’t any wrinkles, either, just smooth skin, smooth, unbent skin.

“Nancy is like a monkey!”

That’s what a lot of the neighborhood kids said. But I don’t remember why. But I do know that since then I have linked the monkey saying to her knuckle-less thumbs.

One year, the Horns decided to have a birthday party for Nancy. She wasn’t the most popular girl in the neighborhood, and I’m assuming she wasn’t the most popular girl in school, either. Which could be the only reason why Nancy’s parents decided to invite the entire neighborhood to the event.

I’ve never understood the phenomenon behind inviting an excessive number of people to a child’s birthday party. The cynical side of me, (the side who will probably do the exact same thing if I should ever become a parent), believes that a party like this is thrown for the parent as much as it is for the kid. Perhaps it’s an unconscious attempt at smoothing over the number of times someone in their life flat forgot about theirs. Perhaps the party they throw for their child will prove to be the most amazing party their kid will ever have. All future birthdays consisting of silent telephones, blurry toilet bowls, solo couples’ skate, half-empty restaurant booths sung to the tune of “nothing newer than another wrinkle” won’t matter. Perhaps a party like this is the “Get Out of Jail Free Card” for all future birthdays.

Even at age 10, I felt that this was a little desperate. But I loved ice cream cake from Carvel. And that’s all anyone ever got on their birthday where we grew up. If a party exceeded a certain number, there was always a store-bought cake. After all, there are only so many cupcakes a mother can make. Cake pans only seemed to come in certain sizes.

The party was on a Saturday. It was summertime. I remember this because my birthday in in January. I have always envied those who had summertime birthdays. I used to imagine things like, “If we lived in California or Florida, my birthday would be warm right now.” My birthdays have always taken place indoors.

Everyone showed up. The kids ran around and played. The parents drank beers and ate all things beige. They talked about things like secretaries, shrubbery, ski trips, new airline carriers, nuclear energy, customized vans, and indoor swimming pools.

I was really excited about the cake. I held back on the meat and bun consumption as well as the potato salad because I really, really wanted to have the cake. The chocolate chip crunchies that separate the chocolate from the vanilla were my favorite part. I simply could not wait to sink my face into that cake.

When the cake came and they put trick candles atop, she laughed with glee. Everyone stared and clapped as the candles miraculously turned themselves back on! Genius, was the person who came up with the trick candles. Genius, was the person who came up with a way to make a kid’s birthday even longer. But when this genius thought up the trick candle, he or she wasn’t thinking about Nancy. Nancy was excitable So when the candles relit, she became more, more winded. Spit began to fly from her cheeks. Like one of those cloud graphics seen hanging in a grammar school classroom, her chubby cheeks distributed wind and precipitation onto whatever lay below. In this case, it was a virgin Carvel ice cream cake. This cake was had already been digested by Nancy and she hadn’t even begun to eat it.

No one really touched that giant cake. Nancy dove in as did her parents and her brother, Rich. A few of the other kids came over and had a few pieces. Many of the adult stood back and sipped their beers. Birds could have flown by and pooped on it, no one would have cared. I come from a family who is predominantly grossed out by saliva. My mother used to gag at the sound of percolating juice machines in Hills; the Howleys left cakeless.

Later, I remember something my father said to my mother.

“Did you notice the only person eating that cake was Nancy? After what she put that thing through, no way I was going anywhere near it.”

All I could think about was all those uneaten chocolate crunchies, whose job it was to separate vanilla from chocolate, and how they rode sticky cream down to the green grass below them.

I know most of the world isn’t online during the weekend, but I’m really itching to start a discussion surrounding this particular issue. I’m not sure how I feel about it as I was not raised with Islam. I was raised Catholic and while I have seen some pretty horrid things done to Christ over the years, Christians don’t exactly operate using the same belief system.

I will say one thing: If I were that particular cartoonist, I’d change my name and burn every trace of said comic. I get the whole freedom of speech fight and all, but I really, really need my head.

Edited to add: more violence erupts.

Can you believe this one? Boom, what you do to me.

Am I the only person who finds Overheard In New York kinda off-color at times? This was taken directly from their “Totally Awesome Quotes” section:

Title: Go Back to Israel!

Jewess: That’s the third time you mentioned Jews. What’s wrong with Jews?

Goy: They are demanding, confrontational, and have a hard time telling the truth. What religion are you, anyway?

Jewess: Uh…Baptist.

—Times Square

And if that’s too far-fetched am I the only person who finds that a lot of what ends up on the site is either made up or an actual joke? I realize that I sound cynical. I also realize that a lot of it is actually funny. But some of it presses the same button Craigslist has pushed hundreds of times before.

Last night, I visited the Barnes and Noble on 46th street to pick up a few things for the project we’re currently working on. I also wanted to pick up a new book for myself. I ended up getting The Good Life by Jay Mcinerney. Judging by its cover, you might figure out what it’s about. There will be tears. I read Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close a few years ago. That book had me laughing and sobbing from one paragraph to the next. So if you’re looking for a book to cry over, I highly recommend it. (Side note: I have often wondered whether or not that book would have been as sad for those who didn’t live in New York City on September 11th, 2001. It hit home for me, at times, too closely.)

While we were at Barnes and Noble, I felt I had to ask the employees a few questions.

“Do you find you’re selling a lot of A Million Little Pieces these days?”

“Yeah. We are.”

“That is a crying shame.”

“But they’re being returned just as fast.”

The woman in line behind us laughed out loud as did TobyJoe and I. The employee smirked with approval.

“Are you selling his other book? That newer one?”

“Not yet. Nope. It might be too soon, yet.”

I looked around and realized that I was in a store filled with possibilities. Without ever leaving, I am given the opportunity to visit a thousand new places, experience a billion new ideas, and get to know a hundred new friends. Oh if only one had the time!

Both of Frey’s books lined the shelves like dishonorably discharged soldiers. Both books had massive discount stickers all over them. Both books looked a little desperate for attention, like unwanted adolescent orphans with a long rap sheet.

On Tuesday night, those of us watching the State of the Union heard breaking news about Cindy Sheehan being arrested for (and I quote) “unveiling a banner” while seated in chambers. Everyone heard that. That’s what was reported.

Two other people were arrested as well. But I didn’t hear about that until a day later.

Many Americans will probably NEVER know that she was actually arrested for wearing a t-shirt, as was a Republican Congressman’s wife who wore a t-shirt that read: “Support The Troops.” (Bill Young’s wife was NOT arrested.) Bill young went on the record and made a scathing speech to congress and Rumsfeld. (I have it, if anyone wishes to hear). Apologies were made immediately. Chargers against Cindy Sheehan were dropped. That hasn’t stopped people from comparing Cindy Sheehan as a Ku Klux Klan leader and an idiot. Apologies have been made after Young complained. But that’s not my point.

Now, think what you will about Cindy Sheehan. I realize that a lot of people don’t like her. But isn’t this a little f’ed up? Most of America will remember that Cindy Sheehan was arrested for “unveiling a banner”. It’s false. It’s a lie that NO ONE will report as loudly as the one they started.

(Oh, and freedom of speech, support the troops, buy the god damn magnet? My ass.)

An off-duty, rookie cop walks into a White Castle. He is intoxicated. It’s 4 in the morning. He’s carrying a gun and isn’t supposed to. That’s rule number one. He broke it.

He orders his meal. While in line something happens. Words are exchanged. Since it’s 4 in the morning, the witnesses have varying accounts of what the prelude was. Either way, a fight breaks out. A group of 5 or 6 men begin to beat him. He is knocked to the ground and repeatedly kicked.

The men run from the store. The off-duty cop staggers out as well. With his gun drawn, he points it at one of the kids in the parking lot. It’s dark.

A 20+ veteran cop shows up on the scene. He instructs the man to drop his weapon. The man does not. The veteran cop shoots the off-duty cop. The veteran officer has no idea he just shot a cop as it’s been reported that the rookie did not follow protocol by a). Dropping his weapon, or b). Announcing to the cop that he, too, was an off-duty officer.

The rookie is rushed to the hospital. His wounds are serious.

That’s the backstory. That’s how it happen, from all I have read.

On Tuesday, his leg was amputated as it is said the cop who shot him severed a major artery. It’s still not known as to whether or not he will live through this.

One officer writes on an NYPD forum Web site:

“Let this be a lesson to all rookies and veterans who choose to try to enforce the law after a night of sousing, DON’T DO IT. It is in your best interest to be the best witness that you can be. If you know you are drunk and armed perhaps you might just swallow your pride and walk away from an altercation. The job will never, ever back you if you have a couple in you. This is a privilege only reserved for the upper brass.”

Another responds:

“Gotta love the hypocrisy here … Kid defended himself against SIX savages, who cares what his condition was … he did what he had to do … to the hypocrites here, let me ask you something … I guess you never, and I stress NEVER, had a drink(s) and had your piece?”

Click here to read more. Apparently, there are very heated discussions taking place in the police community about who is at fault and whether or not the rookie cop should be hung out to dry because he broke several important rules.

“If they’re going to give you enough responsibility to carry the gun, you have to be responsible about when to carry it.”

I can’t say I’d want to be near a drunken cop carrying a piece while out partying. At the same time, these men and women are human. Of course they’re going to get drunk from time to time. Hell, look at the number of hunters we have roaming the woods every season. You damn well know they’re not sober. But, personally, I hate guns. I despise them. I see absolutely no good in them whatsoever. If we could rid the world of them tomorrow, I’d say let’s do it. But I’m an idealist who would rather see a dispute ceasefire with a discussion.

Tobyjoe and I got to talking last night. We have an idea I think is absolutely fabulous and absolutely easy. Should it work it will prove satisfying for everyone involved. Here’s the deal: The first 5 people to send me their addresses via email (people I DON’T regularly see, please. There’s a reason. It’s not that I don’t love you all.) I’ll include in the first round.

I will not publish the address. I will not use it for any other reason than to send you each a present and I mean that. You get something free in the mail. There’s no catch. I will just send you a gift.

I know, this sounds a little strange. But trust me. It could be really fun. That said, email me at share at mihow dot com. (I’ll even send you my own.)

EDITED TO ADD: Thank you, everyone! I received more than enough names. Address submissions are closed now. If you got an email back, you were among the first five. If not, wait till next time!

It’s been one of those weeks where I am second-guessing everything I say or do, talk about, eat, wear, think, or forget.

Plus, I’m tired.

I’m currently reading Charles Baxter, The Feast of Love.

Last night, I lay in bed reading. Toby was at the computer. I was at the part where Chloé’s life changes forever in a car in a traffic jam on a Saturday. My eyes became plump with tears. But, I kept my composure like it had been awarded to me. Toby turned around and began to speak. “Hey, you know what I wond…” I had to explain why they were there. People don’t usually lay in bed and cry.

“This book is so sad. It’s so sad.”

My composure had been sold. Gone, just like that.

Twice, I have been asked, “What’s it about?” Twice, I have begun to explain. Twice, I have gotten halfway through. Twice, I have wanted to stop myself. Twice, I have gone on in spite of my hesitation. Twice, I have felt desperate. Twice, the synopsis, mine, has come out sounding like a daytime soap opera. Twice, I have failed at selling its words.

With books like Charles Baxter’s, it’s even harder to care about James Frey and his fiction or non-fiction, or absolution at all.

(discussion still going)