Mihow » dc

The Update About Living.

mihow — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 00:13:00 +0000

This post has been a long time coming. It’s been so long, and so much has happened, I am not even sure what the Internet knows, thinks or wants to know (if anything) anymore. But for the sake of history, I feel that this needs to be written.

Granted, trying to catch my blog up on everything that’s taken place over the last three months is like trying to update someone on Lost (which is precisely how I felt back then). But I have to try. The good news is, this story doesn’t include polar bears. (I have never seen an episode of Lost but I do recall someone mentioning polar bears on a tropical island. I think that’s the moment I decided that I’d probably go my whole life without ever watching that show. Sorry, lovers of Lost.)

But I digress.

We almost moved to Washington, D.C. in November. We came so close, we even looked at houses in College Park, Maryland. We even loved a few of them. But they were costly! And we realized that by moving back there, we’d be in the exactly the same position we’re in here (unable to afford anything and barely able to pay the mortgage.) You see, DC has become a lot more expensive since we left in 2003—at least in the places we wish to live.

We almost moved to Boston, too, and probably would have had our landlords not informed us we had to be out on the 31st. Originally they told us we had until March, which would have given us enough time to figure out how to move there, and where to move to. Naturally, we were a little blindsided by their having changed their minds. But perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. Toby Joe and I have always had a hell of a time making decisions. We can’t even decide what to eat at night let alone where to live.

Boston seemed like a perfect option because the firm Toby works for is based there. That particular transition would have only included one major life change instead of two, which is what the DC option would have held. We read that the public schools are good, it’s relatively safe, and we know people there.

But we didn’t really have the time to do it right.

Out of frustration and worry and uncertainty, we even talked about moving somewhere small like State College or Media, PA. Both of us have this dream of living somewhere sweet and quaint, but neither of us can find jobs in these idyllic places. We’re tied to a city of some sort. And I do like the city—particularly New York, Boston and DC. But I also wish my kid could play outside and we could afford a house (within an hour commute). I also kind of like the idea of country and/or suburban life (ease of parking, shopping, getting the most basic things done), as bizarre as that may seem.

We realized right away that places like State College and Media are going to remain idyllic because they are unattainable to us—at least for now.

But that’s OK.

All of our indecision was taking place alongside one of the worst financial eras our country has ever seen. It seemed that every day we got word of yet another failing business or crumbling financial institution. Naturally, I began to freak out. I used to be terrified of nuclear disasters. (I lived about 10 miles from Three Mile Island when it leaked. I was six at the time. I had reoccurring nightmares well into my teens.) Now my fears surround money (or lack thereof), our society, and the fact that I am now accountable for another human being.

The news and our uncertainty made me do things I am not very proud of. Instead of internalizing it, writing stuff down, working it out on my own, I began dragging other people into it—people I have known for a long, long time. I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. No joke. I am embarrassed by my behavior. The damage I have done to some relationships is astronomical. And I will probably spend years trying to repair it, if I have a chance at doing so at all.

I have had now what feels like a 2-month long hangover. It was like one of those hangovers where you wake up the next day and you think, “Oh my goodness, I have to call everyone and apologize for the way I acted!”

It’s like that. Only I was drunk on fear.

The last week of November was spent scrambling, and so we decided—three weeks before our lease was up—where we’d be living.

Toby Joe loves his job. I have said from the get-go that he probably works for one of the best companies I have ever known. I think I’ve even said as much here before, so we decided staying put was our best option. Had we decided this months beforehand, however, I’d have a lot fewer mistakes under my belt and we’d probably been able to find a more affordable apartment. (As it is, we’re cutting a lot of extras out of our lives but that’s OK. We should have done that a long time ago.)

In the end, we moved 10 blocks away from our old apartment into a new building with an elevator, a washer and dryer. Plus, the walls are level to the floor. It’s nice. For now. But it’s not ours.

The irony of all this is we were trying to save in order to one day buy a place. And every single option we faced (after finding out we could not renew at our previous place) required spending at least 10 grand in savings. (Security deposits, plus moving costs add up.) And to make it even further absurd, we are now paying so much in rent, saving isn’t going to be possible, not until Em’s first (and only) semester is up.

This post, I can assure you, is not me complaining. I am far too embarrassed and tired to whine about any of this. Our problems are relatively small compared to what much of America is going through right now. I know that we have it really great.

We’re lucky. I know this.

But I figured that maybe if I put this out there someone might learn from my mistakes. Because I made a lot of them and they didn’t only affect me.

Maybe if I put this one out there I’ll figure out how to become a better person and find a way to apologize to all those I included in our 3-month long drama.

I don’t know.

But I do know this, if I were one for making New Year’s resolutions, I’d make this one my own: Be a better person to your friends and family. You are lucky to have such great people in your life and you simply do not treat them like you know it.

So, where does this leave us? Well, we’re broke again, but used to it. And I think there are a lot of people in our position. Not that that makes it any better for anyone but misery does love a little company. We like where we’re living now and we’re happy to stay here until we really can’t afford it any longer.

I’m happy. I think. But I’m not able to brag about it because the chemistry in my brain is boasting otherwise. Once those levels get worked out, I will say definitively that I am happy.

The forecast looks really good. That’s all I can say at this time.

Get Your Paci? Go Night-Night?

mihow — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 21:01:00 +0000

Toby and I went to DC a few weeks ago. We knew we’d be doing a lot of driving and decided that it would be best if we left Em with my parents for a few days. On Thursday night we drove to South Jersey. We spent the night there and left early the following morning. We left Em behind.

Naturally, being away from him was hard, but it wasn’t nearly as hard as I had anticipated. He spent two nights with my parents, just two.

Why does the number of days matter? It matters because we’re pretty sure they replaced our child with an exact replica. Even my mother joked during a text message conversation we had last week. (The flow of the conversation is shown in reverse. Incidentally, does the iPhone do this as well?)

Emory hasn’t ever been a sleeper. He doesn’t like going to sleep. It takes a while for him to do so. And he doesn’t stay asleep for very long. We’ve grown used to it. We’ve gotten used to spending anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour trying to put him to sleep each night. (Naps have been easier for a while.)

Well, the first Friday he spent with my parents, he was down in five minutes. This is particularly funny to me because I warned my mother over and over again before we left that she’d have a lot of trouble putting him to bed. I apologized profusely in advance.

Saturday night rolled around and the same thing happened. He went to sleep without a peep. All they had to do to get him down was say, “Get your paci? Go night-night?” And he’d run off toward the stairs—actually run off toward bed!

I haven’t wanted to mention this to anyone for fear that I’ll jinx the sheer awesomeness of the situation. But the truth is, ever since he spent the night with my parents, all we’ve had to do to get him to go to sleep is say, “Get your paci? Go night-night?” And every time since his stay he’s run off to his bedroom. Sometimes he even grabs his crib and waits for one of us to lift him up. He’s done this twice per day (he’s down to one 2 to 3 hour nap) since we picked him up.

What happened at my parents house? It remains a mystery. But we’re not looking a gift horse in the mouth. If this particular baby is here to stay, we’re grateful for it.

But I’m not bragging. Because he still wakes up two or three times per night. Since he was born, we have yet to sleep through the night. I’m thinking another getaway is in order. Let’s see what grandma and grandpa can do for us in that department as well.

Elmo, Please Save Us

mihow — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 22:10:00 +0000

We’re literally climbing walls over here. Em is sick. Usually I take him outside and let him run around, but the only thing running lately has been his nose. He’s losing his mind with boredom and his voice by coughing.

I never knew babies to get bored. But they do. They get really bored. And they express their boredom by climbing chairs, moving furniture, throwing pots and pans, spinning, digging through the trash or cat litter, following their parents around with books, sighing a lot, screaming, climbing bedcovers, playing with cellular phones, TV remotes, hairbrushes. They follow you around right on your heels like they’re waiting for something awesome to happen and whenever something awesome doesn’t happen, they throw little tantrums on the floor at your feet, after wiping their snotty nose on your pant leg or crotch.

I have no idea how to amuse this poor child. All he wants to do is go outside and dig in the dirt and he has too much of a cold to do that. (I think?)

Something has become very clear to me, however. This is precisely why some parents simply can’t live up to the “No TV Until They Are Two” rule.

There are only so many baths we can have and books we can read. There are only so many blocks we can stack, puzzles we can build, pictures we can point to.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 63)

mihow — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 20:14:00 +0000

When we lived in Washington, DC. I took pottery classes at a studio in Adam’s Morgan. I studied with Jill Hinckley and threw pottery like this, this and this. I wasn’t great at it, but I loved doing it and while there I met some of the greatest people.

One of the people I met was an organic farmer named Mike. He was a sweetheart. I adored this man. He and I became close friends. He had a great big heart. I loved spending time with him.

Right before we moved to San Francisco, Mike gave us the most spectacular going away gift. It was a small vase he threw at Hinckely. It was fired out back during one of our Raku sessions. If I remember correctly, he used horse hair (taken from a local farmer) to create the most intriguing affect on its smooth sides. The piece was amazing—all of his pieces were amazing—but this one was particularly special, I think.

It was probably one of the nicest items we owned. I was so proud of that vase, whenever we moved cross-country, I wrapped it up and took it with us in the car instead of packing it away with everything else. I showed it off at home. It was always on display, albeit, at higher heights for all reasons feline.

(Trying to guess where this story ends is probably a no brainer.)

On Sunday, Murray simply had to get to the very top of the bookshelf like Tucker had. In doing so, his fat ass knocked the vase to the floor, shattering it into a million pieces. I was in the shower and heard the smash occur.

“WHAT WAS THAT!?” I yelled.

Tobyjoe came in to tell me what had happened. We were a little heartbroken.

I don’t like to get attached to non-living things because of this very reason. With cats around, you’re kind of a fool to. And now that we have a toddler, that notion became twofold. It’s better to just assume everything intangible will eventually die. It’s just a matter of when and how that end should occur.

But saying goodbye to this item stung. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.

I did not raise a hand at Murray (I don’t do that to any of my cats), nor did I yell at him (I do yell at them sometimes). He knows nothing of his mistake. And I think the noise it made was punishment enough for a creature with such intense hearing.

But I’m sharing this with you today (on Murray’s day of all days) because as I watched Tobyjoe sweep the remaining pieces into the trash can, something became very clear to me: I must really love this cat because I was unbelievably attached to that vase.

I didn’t even yell at him.

^{(And Mike, should you ever read this, I am so very sorry. Both Toby and I have actually mourned the loss of your gift. I thought about glueing it back together, I even thought about trying to make a mosaic out of it, but to no avail. We miss it, Mike. And would love to buy a replacement.)}

Moving Pictures.

mihow — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 01:20:00 +0000

The year was 1998. I was living in Washington, D.C. in a small, one bedroom apartment on 16th Street. I had just broken up with my boyfriend of 2 years. In less than 24 hours, our apartment was nearly emptied. I was living alone for the first time in my life.

Missy and I decided to go away for the weekend and visit our alma matter in order to spend some valuable time reminiscing with people around a keg. It was during that trip, I decided that to buy a massive, 2-ton television set.

I met Toshiba at Sears.

The TV weighed a lot. So the strong men working for Sears helped us get it into the back of the car. I never once thought about how Missy and I would get it into my apartment back in D.C. The building had an elevator, but how would we get it to the elevator? And then how would we get it to my door? And then how would we get it onto the TV stand? These were not questions I thought about until much later when we pulled up to my apartment building.

“How are the two of us going to get this out of the car and into your building?” Missy asked.

“Great question.” I said. “Maybe we can do it?”

Missy looked skeptical.

But we managed. Somehow we got it out of the car. I have no idea how. After that we rolled the box from door-to-door hoping the styrofoam casing would protect it. We rolled it onto the elevator, down the hallway on the 4th floor, and then rolled it right through the front door. And with every last bit of our strength, we hoisted it onto the pedestal.

All I had to do was never, ever leave.

In 1999 I began dating a guy whom I had been friends with for well over a year. And while our friendship may have lasted indefinitely; our romantic relationship ignited, sparked, exploded, smoldered and then fell to the ground in a heap of black ash in less than 5 months. Our main goal at that time was entrusting ourselves with the task of not trusting one another. That was imperative, and a relationship destined for failure.

But he did have the same TV and used to joke that the only reason I got mine was to one-up him because mine was like an inch larger. TV Envy, is what he called it.

We broke up. And it was tumultuous. It was harrowing. And I decided one night for no reason whatsoever that I was going to move to New York City.

Just like that.

A day before I was scheduled to move, I asked a friend of mine—a very strong friend of mine—if he’d help. I told him I’d buy him dinner, drinks, and give him a place to stay. I’d even pay for his train ticket to get back to D.C. He agreed.

Getting the TV into the truck at the DC end wasn’t difficult for him at all. He simply had to lift it up once, move it to the cart we had borrowed from U-Haul, and then lift it onto the truck. I helped. But barely.

I hadn’t thought to tell him about having to get it up the three flights of stair once we got to Brooklyn.

When we pulled onto my new street, it was already after 8 PM. And it was raining. We hustled and moved everything we could upstairs as fast as we could. The rain steadied as we began to wobble. I had hit that point during a move where giving up seems probable. I began leaving boxes and items on the street for passersby.

“How are we going to get the TV up three flights of stairs?” Todd asked me scratching his head.

“Us?” I answered stupidly.

“Are you kidding me?” He looked shocked. And he should have been. I couldn’t even hold the TV set let alone bring it up three flights of stairs.

“Missy and I rolled it into my DC apartment. Maybe we could do that?”

“UP the stairs? Roll it? Are you fucking crazy?”

I stood in the rain and kicked at nothing with my feet. I felt stupid in my new city. What was I thinking? Breaking up with him was a great move, but uprooting everything and moving to a new city was not the best way to be alone.

Todd went to the truck and got the TV out onto the sidewalk. The rain fell down onto its plastic casing. I didn’t care.

He lifted the TV up the three steps that led to the front door and stopped. “I can’t do this alone. There’s just no way.” He was out of breath.

We waited on the stoop in front of two propped open doors, which tossed 40 watt foyer light at us as the rain continued to fall. We were to meet friends for dinner in less than an hour. I was starving, cold and damp. I was tired from moving and driving all day. And it was suddenly becoming very clear to me that I had just uprooted my entire life—TV and all—and moved to New York City.

And that’s when I made up my mind. We had to breakup. This was going to be my third break up in 1 year.

“Let’s just leave it here. The fucking thing is too heavy. I hate how heavy it is. I don’t need a TV. I definitely don’t need that TV. I’m going to be too busy here and I can’t afford cable. Just leave it. Let it be somebody else’s problem. I’m sick of it.”

Just as I was getting to the meat of my sermon about how the TV and I weren’t meant to be together and that the TV and I never got along anyway, a 7-foot tall, muscular monster of a man walked up to the stoop.

“Can I help you?” The man said. He was German. “Looks like you could use help some.”

“You sure you want to do that? She’s on the third floor!” Todd answered.

“Not is problem.” He assured us. “It’s rain. Let’s go.”

And just like that, the gentle German giant and a friend named Todd brought the TV and I back together again.

That night we joked about whether or not our German was real.

(It’s been 8 years and I’m still not sure.)

On a day in September of 2001 I witnessed the worst day of my life so far. A month later (to the day) I met the man of my dreams. He and I were inseparable. We watched movies from my love seat. The first movie we ever watched together was “You Can Count On Me”.

We knew each other for three weeks before deciding to move into a loft together. The loft was roughly 4 blocks from that apartment, but it was zoned commercial and was on the fourth floor. There was a freight elevator but the hallways were long (almost a block from door to door).

I hired movers.

Moving day arrived. Three men showed up in a big white truck. One of the men was knee high to a grasshopper, Jamaican and dark as night. He was by no means someone I’d call muscular. The other two were much bigger in size. I worried about the smaller man. I worried about him right up until I watched him carry that TV set on his shoulders by himself down three flights of stair.

“He’s a fucking beast!” Said a taller man.

When we got to the loft, he carried it up into the freight elevator and then down the long hallway and into our loft.

I suggested twice that he be careful, that his back would surely break beneath that TV. He said, “Oh, you seely gurl, muh grandmummy could carry this TeeVee.” And he had a mighty chuckle. As did I.

I have for years wondered what would one day separate the two of us, take that TV down once and for all. After 2001 it moved back to DC and then again to another apartment in DC. In 2004 it was boxed up by movers and loaded into a wooden Door-to-Door Mover’s storage bin. It made it to San Francisco three weeks later unharmed.

Six months later it was loaded into a big wooden container once again and then shipped back to a slightly larger railroad apartment in Brooklyn where it has lived ever since.

My 10-year-old Toshiba died sometime late Sunday night. The last thing it saw was a member of the Colts fumble a football. I was in bed at the time. I heard Tobyjoe mutter a few OHMYGODS! at the TV. He then shut it down for the night. The next morning it projected nothing more than a thin white line.

Tobyjoe beat it a couple of times and it was able spit out one final image before taking its last breath. It projected a weather map of the United States.

Vacation.

mihow — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 03:40:00 +0000

I deleted a post because it annoyed me. I’m sorry about that. I need more time with it. I do apologize for my immaturity.

We are leaving tomorrow for a much needed (and deserved) vacation. We’re heading to DC tomorrow to spend the day with Soung. I also scheduled a private yoga class with my favorite yoga instructor. I hope she beats me up! On Friday, we’re heading to Lorton, Virginia to catch a train (car and all!) to Orlando for the fourth annual Howley vacation. We’ll be back next week armed with ridiculous photographs which I will share with everyone.

Posting may be sporadic, but I have every intention on writing about how much I miss Murray on Tuesday. (I’ll miss all three of my cats. I always do.)

In the meantime, here is a short video of Emory and the Swiffer.

He makes cleaning so much more fun! And impossible!

NowBlowPoMe: The Forgotten City?

mihow — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 01:48:00 +0000

I understand why people move to New York. I moved here at age 27 because I always loved it. I decided to move to New York when I was a kid and my father took us to our first ever Yankee game. He drove us right through Harlem so he could teach us a lesson and show us just how good we had it. “Not everyone lives as comfortably as you do, kids.” In reality I think he was lost. I remember riding the subway convinced that I looked more like a New Yorker if I didn’t hold onto the bars. Only tourists need to hold onto the subway bars. I actually believed that. I believed that after living in New York for a while, you figured out how to ride the subways without having to hold on.

New York was where I wanted to live. Always.

I lived in Washington, DC before. Twice, even. I moved from State College to Washington, DC. Then, I moved back to State College, back to DC, to New York City, back to DC, to San Francisco and the back to New York. Writing that down sounds perfectly insane. But I can assure you that each move made sense. For example, the first time I moved to DC was for a job that wasn’t what I signed up for. I worked there for a little over a month before calling a quits. My apartment building was depressing and bug-ridden, and so I headed back to State College with my tail between my legs. (Back then, my life kind of looked like that Ben Fold’s Five song “Steven’s Last Night in Town.”)

But We thought he was gone
And now he's come back again
last week it was funny
now the jokes wearing thin
cuz everyone knows now
that every night now
will be Steven's last night in town

DC stuck the second time because my boyfriend at the time and I did it correctly; we lived in an apartment building in the city and one that wasn’t a housing project for those on house arrest.

Toby and I left New York because we were pretty messed up over what we saw on September 11th. I know that DC isn’t exactly off the radar where terrorist attacks are concerned, but it was a change of scenery for us and were therefore able to heal quicker.

Anyway, we’ve been here for three years and we’re at the point (again) where we want to leave (again). This time we’re going about it the right way, i.e.. slowly. And we’re talking about moving to Boston or New Jersey. We’ve even discussed moving to Providence with TobyJoe commuting to Boston every day. (Is that an insane idea?)

Truth be told, we’re looking for that perfect place to live. A place where we can raise Emory without running into too much trouble, whether it be something simple like subjecting him to incessant horrific language, or something a lot more serious like high pollution, or a murder rate every New Yorker tries to ignore. We want somewhere fairly safe. But we also want him to have the ability to grow up around art and culture. (I come from an art background. I really do put a lot of stock in the arts.) We want a backyard filled with fireflies not drunk and dying polish men. We want a garden fed with uncontaminated ground water as well as public transportation.

We’re readying ourself to move again. And we’re looking for the “Forgotten City”. The city on the East coast that isn’t riddled with murder or pollution. The city on the East coast with excellent public schools and affordable housing. We want to settle down and raise our son safely. Why does that seem so hard to do right now?

^{Part of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month), where one writes every day for the month of November, which is easier said than done.}

NowBlowPoMe: Saying No To Billy Corgan.

mihow — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 23:20:00 +0000

In college, I got an FCC license and became a radio DJ. My show aired from 2-4 AM and had 2-4 listeners, most of whom were either Architecture or Graphic Design majors. The exception was a convicted killer named Jon.

Penn State is about 5 miles away from a maximum security prison. Our broadcast area covered the towns of State College, Bellefonte, Lemont, and Boalsburg. It also covered Rockview State Penitentiary.

Jon used to send me intricate drawings of Cramps’ skulls and dismembered heads. The drawings took him hours to complete. He’d sign each one and include a note telling me what songs he liked from the week before. He’d end his correspondence by requesting a song or two.

I always obliged. I guess I figured that if that particular lifer ever got out, he’d spare me based on the number of Exploited songs I played for him. Plus, I had trouble saying no. But Jon isn’t why I’m writing today.

Today, I’m writing about a guy named Billy.

It wasn’t long before I became the New Music Director, which basically meant working longer hours for no money. My job was to organize the CD and record collections, tidy up the workspace, and report for all staff meetings. I also got an earlier time slot.

The most important job I had was to phone in the top 25 bands for the week into CMJ Music Report. The CMJ Music Report was extremely important to managers, publicists and bands all over the nation. To get your name onto the top 25 list of a few dozen radio stations’ was considered awesome with a capital Q. (As a graphic designer, I imagine it was like having something published in Communication Arts.)

Of course, this led to all sorts of bribery, bribery I took part in from time to time. Publiciscts would offer me free stuff, sending CD after CD, “GIVE THEM TO YOUR FRIENDS!” and then they would call back and ask me why said band never made it onto the top 25. “I sent you free stuff. Can’t you do me this one favor?”

If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I find it very hard to say NO to someone. I am just a giant pushover. And the problem with the whole Top 25 CMJ thing was that there were only 25 spots to fill and about 200 phone calls each week. Which pretty much meant I was the worst New Music Director ever. I couldn’t say no to anyone.

So, If I DID answer the call, I’d say something promising and then hang up only to be torn apart the following week for putting Buffalo Tom above Daisy Chainsaw. “YOU PROMISED ME THAT DAISY CHAINSAW WOULD BE IN THE TOP FIVE!”

These people would offer anything from free music to fake vomit. (Yes, that came to me once). I received free t-shirts and free concert tickets. Some of them even offered interviews. I interviewed Rusted Root (who smelled of body odor and last night’s sex). I interviewed Big Chief, Black Train Jack (Who? Exactly.), and my most favorite band at the time, Quicksand. I met Lita Ford (who had nothing to do with our genre, but I couldn’t say no) who was visiting and signing autographs at a local guitar shop. I stood in line and got her to record our call letters.

“You’re listening to 91.1, WPSU, State College, Pennsylvania.”

Only I wrote it like this:

“You’re listening to 91.1 WPSU, ST. College, PA.”

And she read this:

“You’re listening to 91.1 WPSU, SAINT College, PA.”

And we kept it and played it almost every week for a month.

The seediest and therefore most successful publicist was a person who not only worked with the crappy, no-name bands but who also worked with someone huge. They would use the popular band as currency for the less popular bands.

“If you move [insert crappy band here] into the top 25 on CMJ, I’ll give you two free tickets to see Nirvana this Saturday.”

One day I was fulfilling my hours when a publicist called. He wanted me to push a really awful band into the top 25 that week.

“If you do this for me, I have two tickets to see the Smashing Pumpkins this week for a sold out show at the 9:30 Club. I would like you to interview Billy Corgan as well.”

I agreed to the deal. I put that no-name, horrible band at 24 and took the free tickets. And later that week my boyfriend and I hopped in his car and drove to Washington, DC. I brought the station’s high end microphone and tape recorder with me even though I had no intention of interviewing Billy Corgan.

What the publicist didn’t know was that previously, Billy Corgan threw a shoe at someone during a Rec Hall show at Penn State and the New Music Director watched in horror. The publicist didn’t know that Billy Corgan called us all a “bunch of fucking idiot frat boys!” He had no idea that Billy Corgan asked a hall full of people “Aren’t you missing a football game?” The publicist had no idea that Billy Corgan did all of that or that if Billy Corgan was capable of launching an attack on a couple thousand people, there’s no telling what he’d do to a lanky 19-year-old girl with a borrowed microphone.

I watched the show from the VIP section in the top tier of the 9:30 Club and it was a great show. Afterwards I didn’t step foot backstage to interview Billy Corgan. There was no way this teenage girl was going to be reduced to tears while the lead singer of Smashing Pumpkins did something similar to her ego.

^{Part of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month), where one writes every day for the month of November, which is easier said than done.}

The Inn At Little Washington

mihow — Tue, 01 May 2007 00:38:00 +0000

Two weeks ago Tobyjoe and I visited the Inn at Little Washington in Washington, Virginia. Our vacation was to last through the week (we were going to stay in Washington, DC for the rest of the week and visit friends) but we had to cut it short and take care of our very sick cat.

Here are some pictures from our trip (with blurbs above each shot).

We drove up, they opened our car doors, carried in our luggage, and held an umbrella above my head. The umbrella thing was a little weird because I am so not a gal used to that sort of thing. I kept telling them, “You really don’t have to hold it above my head. I could use a little rain.” But they persisted. Who am I to stop a man from doing his job?

This is the front porch.

Below is a picture of our room. We stopped in and prepared for a walk, which pretty much meant grabbing our cameras.

The window seat.

Tobyjoe goofs off. I goof off with him.

Main Street. Super quaint. The rain was perfect. The lighting was perfect. Washington, Virginia reminded me of a tiny, Irish town. So plush and green and eerily quiet for this city gal.

I thought this house only existed in my dreams. And so close to DC! If only. Seriously, someday I want to live in a place like this with my several kids (don’t tell Toby) and my uncountable number of rescued cats.

A barn. The storm came over this mountain. Keep in mind, we were there the night the Nor’easter came through.

A resident had about 8 Volvos (that I could see. I am certain there were more down the hill). It was like a Volvo graveyard. I, of course, had to take a picture of this baby. Maybe my house filled with kids and rescued cats will also include rescued Volvos.

A picture of the Inn from across the street. The window closest the tree was our window. That tree swooned us to sleep when the wind set in and then something not so great happened, which I talk about later on in this post.

Tobyjoe, the dapper fella, waits to be escorted to our table. (I love this man.)

The menu featured both our names. We kept it. A nice touch, I might add.

The pre-appetizer. (Not ordered by us.) The only one we didn’t consume was the foie gras (second in from the right.) I just can’t eat something knowing it was force fed. I avoid that stuff. Our leaving it on the plate was a silent protest of sorts. ;]

The first glass of wine. I did not partake, but I watched Tobyjoe get pampered. He told the sommelier, “Just pick whatever you think pairs well with my food.” He made a great decision in doing so; the sommelier’s choices were spot on. The one thing that I like the best about the Inn at Little Washington is that the service is impeccable. They have truly wonderful people working for them. At no point does a person feel out of place or (for lack of a better word) stupid. They are not at all snobby, just a big group of down-to-earth people. The sommelier we had was specifically kind and helpful.

My first appetizer. Mussels with bread crumbs. I loved it. But I’m easy being pregnant and all. :] Tobyjoe said there were a little too many crumbs for his liking. But I’ll leave his review to him.

Second pairing of wine. I know nothing about wines, so I shot the bottles. (You will noticed that I stopped shooting wines eventually because I found out that our sommelier was writing them down for us and was planning to leave the list with our menus at the front desk. Awesome.)

Below is a shot of my second course and my most favorite. This one was outstanding. I had the squab. You were to take the filling and place it in the leaves on the left. Oh dear, was it ever awesome. It came in a dark sauce with peanuts and other awesome stuff. It was awesome. Did I mention that? Awesome. I am so going to get a job at Food and Wine after this post.

This was Toby’s second course. He had the Inn’s signature dish, the morel crusted scallop. It sat on a bed of pureed cauliflower. So good.

My main course: Maine lobster. Yeah, this was killer, too. I could have eaten several of these.

Toby’s main course. He had the beef. (First time in 15 years he ate beef.) I’ll let him write about this if/when he gets time. I tried the piece on the far left (the middle bit was too raw for my pregnant self) and the scalloped potatoes. Both were incredible. In fact, his dish was better than mine and mine was amazing.

The dessert course. Tobyjoe had the cheese. I, of course, ordered the most caloric and largest dish they offered. This is Faira the cow. She is the Inn’s cheese tray.

And this is my dish of dessert. I figured it this way: no booze for me? Then I’d stuff myself silly on dessert. And that I did.

The both of us ready to dig in.

The carnage.

A picture of the dining room.

Tobyjoe took this of me. This was before the incredibly painful bout of heartburn set in. Hey, I asked for it.

The two of us.

Faira again in the parlor. We are waiting to take a tour of the kitchen.

The amazing kitchen. Who knows, maybe next time we visit them we’ll ask for the kitchen table. I have always wanted to do that. (There are two tables in the kitchen.)

The Viking stove, custom made for the Inn. A wonderful piece of art. We’re planning on buying one when we own a house. Yep. With our extra 100 thousand some odd dollars.

When we got back to our room the owner’s dog left us a treat and a note. (Like we could eat another bite.) It was a bottle of port and two edible dog biscuits.

Our turned down bed.

My big fat belly. Tobyjoe took this without my knowing. I’m putting it out there, dammit.

My breakfast the next morning. Lobster omelet (yes, again!), homemade sausage, bacon, and some potatoes. Holy moly, so good.

The garden.

A penny for your thoughts? Comment card.

Which we filled out.

Here’s the deal, on Sundays, they apparently shut off the water from 2 AM until 4 AM to add softener. During that time, the pipes began clanking something awful. We don’t believe anyone else could hear it; that it was just taking place in our room, but we were unable to sleep because of it. I was up for over two hours as was Tobyjoe. I called downstairs twice and the woman was super apologetic. But still…. for 500 bucks a night, we expected to sleep in silence.

The noise settled down after 4 and we were able to sleep soundly until 9 AM. The next day we talked to the front desk and he gave us a pretty hefty discount, which was nice of him.

I don’t want to come off as angry or disgruntled, but I think they would have wanted us to say something given their desire to please their clientèle. Overall, we had an incredible time and I would go again in a heartbeat (after saving up for it, of course). I would recommend the place to friends and family in a second. Even though we didn’t get the sleep we wanted, it was an amazing evening. Plus, I’m sure the knocking was an isolated incident. I don’t want to deter anyone from visiting. If you take one thing away from this post, take that. (Oh, and the bit about how awesome my squab was.)

If you have a thousand bucks or a credit card, you simply must go. You will have a wonderful night. I highly suggest going with a loved one; it’s entirely romantic. And make sure you are hungry. Also, if you’re pregnant or prone to heartburn, bring the Mylanta. Oh, sweet Jesus, I was on fire.

Perhaps we’ll go back for our 50th wedding anniversary. And I have to go again soon because I don’t want our last visit there to be tainted by the death of Schmitty.

Tobyjoe at the Inn At Little Washington.

mihow — Wed, 25 Apr 2007 20:01:00 +0000

We visited the Inn at Little Washington on April 15th, 2007. This is Tobyjoe waiting to be seated for dinner. More pictures to come as well as a writeup.

Cal Robbins

mihow — Fri, 09 Feb 2007 18:55:00 +0000

A woman by the name of Cyn left a comment recently. It was on the post where I let my hormones take over and began bitching about lurkers. (Sorry about that, guys.) Anyway, Cyn left a comment as well as a link to her Web site, which I clicked. It turns out Cyn and I have mutual friends. But that’s a story for another day.

A little over a year ago, J. Robbins (of Jawbox and Burning Airlines fame) and his wife, Janet Morgan, gave birth to a baby boy named Callum Robbins. Tobyjoe and I hadn’t seen Janet since she first found out she was pregnant. She was glowing with the news. We were both so happy for them. They had a baby boy on January 27th, 2006. Of course he’s the cutest little fella.

About 8 months into little Cal’s life, J. and Janet discovered something about their baby that no parent should ever have to. Their son had SMA Type 1, or Spinal Muscular Atrophy. It’s a terrible disease. Most babies with Type 1 die before their 2nd birthday. But Cal is actually a very healthy baby boy. He breaths well, he’s active, and he babbles frequently. He’s a strong little boy with two, very strong parents.

Tobyjoe used to work with Janet at Threespot Media in Washington, DC. And J. Robbins has been a part of the music scene since I was a mere lad. They are two wonderful people and it breaks my heart to hear this about their son. I’ve spent the last two days trying to figure out what I can do to help with a miracle. (Seriously, y’all, every time I see his little face I tear up. I know I’m hormonal, but my goodness, what an absolutely wonderful little person.)

J. and Janet have health insurance but most of the conventional means of treating SMA don’t yield the greatest prognosis. And the alternative stuff, which might bring them a better outcome, isn’t usually covered by insurance. That’s why I am writing today. They need our help. So, if you’re feeling a little generous today, maybe you once loved Jawbox or Burning Airlines and have “borrowed” an album (or two) off your friend’s computer, maybe you just like babies, please stop by and visit their Web site. Read their story and (if you’re able to) donate a few bucks and help make their lives a little easier during this very difficult time.

I know that many of you may not know these two personally, and I know that money is tight for a lot of people, but if you can help them out in any way possible, I am sure they would be eternally grateful. And if you don’t have any extra cash lying around, maybe you could see about getting the word out there. If you have a blog, link to it. If you know people who know people, tell them about it. You know how it works.

The links:

Read more about Cal (includes donation information)

Cal’s blog

Cyn’s site

J.’s site

Just Give% (Donations for SMA families)

I am going to turn off comments for this post. But if you have any questions, feel free to email me at mihow [@] mihow.com.

Total Recall

mihow — Fri, 15 Sep 2006 17:31:00 +0000

If you’ve been reading this here Web site for a few years, you’re probably very aware of how I feel about the Segway. You’re probably so aware of how I feel about the Segway, you’re probably sick of hearing me say it. Seriously, I have had several not so pleasant run-ins with Segway owners (see the link above). I also ran into a guy riding one through downtown Washington, DC.

Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. “But the Segways are really great for the environment! If everyone drove one of them to work, we’d all be a lot better off!” Sure, they’re great for Mother Earth but they’re still ugly. It’s like adorning Mother Earth in the type of bling you purchase from one of those shops with gold in the front and porn in the back. Also, haven’t you ever heard of aesthetic pollution? Plus, everyone knows that when a collective whole does something all at once, things fall apart. Remember that bumper sticker that posed one of the greatest unanswered questions of the 1990s? What if everyone farted at once?

If everyone drove a Segway to work, we’d never get anywhere. I’ve seen the collective whole try and walk around using umbrellas.

Anyway, I’ve veered way off track (not entirely unlike the new problem hitting the Segway). Let me try and segue this post back to my original point. The douchebag population of the world (Not the douchebags who block the subway doors, or the ones who buy a 5,000 dollar car and add 10,000 dollars worth of rims, the other douchebags.) has to bring their douchebag machines back to the douchebag dealership because they’re being recalled. Owners must bring them in and install free software because several of them have malfunctioned and a few of their drivers fell down and broke their face.

Now, wouldn’t you agree that it’s a good thing everyone isn’t driving the Segway to work?

The New York Post Project.

mihow — Thu, 24 Aug 2006 16:29:00 +0000

In order to live up to my flakiness, I have come up with another pet project. I know that some of you are thinking, “Oh, here we go again! Another pet project! What a flake!” That’s me. I’m Pillsbury in a can. I’m a hot biscuit on a Sunday morning. I’m a boardwalk elephant ear. I’m dried skin. I’m old paint. Pick at me, peel me up, but there will be more. There will always be more.

First, there was Self-Portrait Day. Then, there was Cool-Props. Next up we had Spread. There was IhateDesign. Oh, and let’s not forget about the Hurricane Project, which I’m still trying to edit together. There were the Bush T-shirts I had printed and then didn’t sell because I’m too much of a wimp. And these projects, my Internet friends, these are just a few of the Internet projects. I also have personal projects of the real-world, tangible variety. I have signed up for classes that have nothing to do with my career. (And often.) I join social groups such as soccer leagues, marathon runners, potters, yogis, bakers, and pet-friendly organizations. You name it—I’m interested. You’re talking to someone who decided to move to England over an evening cup of coffee and had everything worked out by 9 AM the following day. You’re talking to the someone who moved in with a guy after three weeks of knowing him. (I would have married him before that had he asked me to.) You’re talking to someone who got an apartment in NYC while on a business trip for a company in DC.

If you’ve been reading this for a few years, or if you’ve known me for longer, you’re probably aware of my whims. And given how much I annoy myself, I’m certain I’ve annoyed you.

And I wish I could change that part of myself. I do. I can’t. Instead, Tobyjoe has agreed to warn me when I start becoming too manic because usually I can’t see it.

This particular pet project was approved by Tobyjoe because it doesn’t hurt anyone, not even myself. I’m not going to take out a 30-thousand dollar loan or get burned by hot, molten glass. I’m not going to go into debt buying books for people and mailing them halfway across the nation. I’m not going to run until I destroy my knee or break a toe. I’m not going to end up with about 300 rags sporting an illustration of President Bush. And I’m certainly not going to end up full of debt and depressed when I come down from it (and you know that I will). Let me reassure you, that if I have irked you in the past, I’ve been even more annoyed with myself.

But I got the go-ahead for this one. Tobyjoe agreed to let me work on this one. He’s even lending me his lens. This one is called the New York Post Project. I only have four pictures thus far because I didn’t really put together the idea until four days ago. You may be asking, “Why? Why is mihow doing this?” Well, I’ll tell you why. I think the New York Post has some freaking hilarious headlines. They have made me laugh out loud as well as groan. I figured this would be a fun way to share with the rest of the world what New Yorkers probably take for granted.

We’ll see how it goes. I started a set over on Flickr as well where people can leave comments if they wish. Come visit if you have a moment. Let me know what you think.

Bye Bye World Cup.

mihow — Mon, 10 Jul 2006 19:00:00 +0000

Well, the World Cup has come to an end. I actually started crying into my New York Times Sports Section this morning. As many already know, I have grown absolutely obsessed with football over the past month. I can’t even put words behind how fantastic it’s been. I take a great long sigh seeing this World Cup come to an end.

Seriously, though, what in God’s name happened to Zidane? I gotta tell ya if he was actually called a dirty terrorist that might warrant a head butt or two but he should have waited until after the game.

Spain and Brazil won the Fair Play award.

“The FIFA Fair Play Award is given to the team with the best record of Fair Play, sportsmanship and good conduct both on and off the pitch, according to a points system and criteria established by the FIFA Committee for Ethics and Fair Play.”

My most favorite moment was probably when England beat Ecuador and we watched Nevada Smith’s explode with joy. My least favorite moment was when England lost against Portugal and we watched grown men and women cry. (America losing to Ghana comes in close second.)

My most favorite player to giggle at was Peter Crouch. (Oh, and if you haven’t seen it, I highly suggest watching this video of Peter Crouch dancing.) 6 foot 7, dude. 6 foot 7. His shinguards are as long as my legs.

The player I most enjoyed looking at was probably Mc Bride although, Beckham is really very easy on the eyes.

Gerrard stole my heart but that’s because he reminds me of my friend, Dan.

I have a new found admiration for Hislop who, I am told, is joining an American team next year.

Tobyjoe and I have discussed going to South Africa for the next World Cup but there’s a good possibility I’ll be with small child by then.

It’s really sad to see it come to an end.

Here’s to four more years…

Converted! Maybe.

mihow — Thu, 06 Jul 2006 15:11:00 +0000

Remember this?

Do you remember this or this?

The image you see above as well as the ones you’ll see if you click on the links were created in 2003 when we were living in Washington, DC. I went on a weird rampage against scones. I publicly declared my hatred for them. I just never understood them. They kind of want to be a biscuit. They kind of want to be muffins. And sometimes they kind of want to be cookies. MAKE UP YOUR MIND, SCONES!

Well, I feel that I must fess up to something, Internet. I just ordered a scone from Oren’s in Grand Central. They order them from Balthazar. I ordered an oat scone. I am hesitant to say so, and I feel like a traitor, but I freaking loved that thing.

I ate (and enjoyed) a scone. What’s happening to me?

Edited to Add: raphaelle has given me a challenge. Tonight, I will attempt to bake cranberry oat scones from scratch to test once an for all if I really am a scone converter. I will document the event live from my kitchen. If, for some stupid reason, you (like me) have nothing better to do and are home and bored, please swing by and heckle me. I will start at 7 PM. If Tobyjoe (aka Vagina Man) can swing it, I’ll even throw in some video. (Although, I’m not sure we have what it takes to do that. We have an iSight, but who knows.) Either way, there will be pictures. Stop by!

Gateway Grizzlies.

mihow — Wed, 07 Jun 2006 15:00:00 +0000

A St. Louis minor-league baseball club came up with the most horrific hamburger ever. A little over a year ago, Burger King released a breakfast sandwich that packed in 750 calories and 47 grams of fat. The Gateway Grizzlies rank in at 1,000 calories. The donut alone has 10 grams of sugar. (For those of you who don’t have to count calories or pay a lick of attention to how much you eat that’s half of the daily recommendation. And if you’re dieting, that’s more than half.) Here’s the surprising part, however, the Gateway Grizzly doesn’t win for being the most caloric. A Hardee’s out of St. Louis released a 1,420 calorie hamburger in 2004. That burger has 107 grams of fat. Methinks St. Louis might be looking at some heart disease.

The Gateway Grizzly features a burger with cheese and bacon tucked between a Krispy Kreme donut. And I thought the sandwich my brother had from ‘Wichcraft was bad.

Bowers told one Gateway Grizzly diner, “You’re ruining it! You’re not supposed to put ketchup on it!” At 1000 calories for just its foundation, I would insist on as much as well.

In other news, my father is moving to St. Louis.

Stumbling On Happiness

mihow — Tue, 30 May 2006 16:07:00 +0000

Michael Krasny conducted an absolutely wonderful (audio) interview on KQED with Dan Gilbert, author of Stumbling on Happiness.

(From Amazon. Written by Malcolm Gladwell)

Stumbling on Happiness is a book about a very simple but powerful idea. What distinguishes us as human beings from other animals is our ability to predict the future – or rather, our interest in predicting the future. We spend a great deal of our waking life imagining what it would be like to be this way or that way, or to do this or that, or taste or buy or experience some state or feeling or thing. We do that for good reasons: it is what allows us to shape our life. And it is by trying to exert some control over our futures that we attempt to be happy. But by any objective measure, we are really bad at that predictive function. We’re terrible at knowing how we will feel a day or a month or year from now, and even worse at knowing what will and will not bring us that cherished happiness. Gilbert sets out to figure what that’s so: why we are so terrible at something that would seem to be so extraordinarily important?

I highly recommend giving it a listen if you are able. It’s free and only an hour long. You can find the file here. I listened to it last week while at work after a coworker (and friend) told me about it. I listened to it again on Sunday while running. There were times while I was listening where the actual broadcast and some of Mr. Gilbert’s answers actually made me happy. I plan on picking up his book today.

Again, grab it here. You won’t regret it.

Racist DJ Gets the Axe

mihow — Fri, 12 May 2006 22:14:00 +0000

Many years ago, when I first moved to DC, a very popular morning DJ was fired from his job for saying something inappropriate on the air. He was discussing Lauren Hill’s booming success album. She had just been nominated for 10 Grammys and I guess he couldn’t understand why.

Around that same time, a Texas man by the name of James Byrd was killed after being drug behind a truck. He was skinned alive and later died. The men behind his murder were charged with a hate crime.

The popular DC DJ played a sample of one of the most popular Lauren Hill songs. He went on to complain about how awful it was. Right after he finished his rant, he punctuated it with, “It’s no wonder they drag them behind trucks.”

Much of DC went into frenzy over the comment. It didn’t take long for him to lose his job. He was done for. He would never work in DC again.

I remember when he arranged for a public apology at a local church right around the corner from where I worked. I walked over there to check things out. People did show up, but I am certain he wasn’t forgiven. We never heard from that DJ again.

I’m not about to say that what the DC DJ said was even remotely OK. I, too, was mortified by his lack of compassion especially given he was on the air at the time. But given the intensity of DJ Star’s latest on air comments against a rival DJs Asian wife and her daughter, I’d like to see him silenced as well.

“Star: Oh yes, I’ll, I’ll come for your kids. I will come for your kids. I finally got the information on his slant eyed, whore wife. The information on his slant eyed, whore wife.”

“Star: Let me see now, uh, DJ Benji attention! In case you didn’t hear me, I said, I want to put some mayonnaise in between your baby girl’s ass crack and take a bite”

We don’t need voices like that feeding impressionable people everywhere. What’s with all that f*cking hate?

The Judge, the Jury, and the Executioner.

mihow — Tue, 25 Apr 2006 18:55:00 +0000

Let me begin by saying that I’m against the death penalty. I don’t believe that the state has the right to take someone’s life. It’s also not a foolproof method. Time and time again, we have executed innocent people. If you don’t believe me, try picking up a copy of Deadline some time. It’s frightening how many people have sat on death row and are completely innocent.

Last Sunday morning at around 4:30 AM 23-year-old man driving at 100 mph hit a woman crossing the street so hard she was dismembered. As her friend stood there in hysterics the driver then spun around, hit another car, and then left the scene of the accident by foot. The car was left running and a bottle of liquor laid on the floor. Yesterday, when I first heard about the accident, they were still in search of the other people in the car. They come forward as witnesses.

Immediately, I wanted to hate this guy. I hate him because I have seen hundreds of idiotic men drive their cars as if they’re on a racetrack with little to no care of anyone else around. I hate him because he should never have gotten into the car drunk. I hate him for leaving. I hate him for being a coward. I hate him for being a 23-year-old pussy. I hate him for being a liar. I hate him for killing the woman and not having the decency to stop.

Many, many years ago, I had read about a man who had been drinking and then hopped on his motorcycle. (Forgive me; the details are foggy as it’s been a long time since I read about it. But I still know exactly how it ended.) He hit a little boy. The man got off the bike, took the dead boy in his arms and began to sob. A moment later, the gun was out and a self-inflicted bullet was being pumped into the man’s head. The headline read:

JUDGE, JURY AND EXECUTIONER.

That story has haunted me for years. To think that someone is capable of making such a definitive decision in such a small amount of time, knowing that he or she could not live with the guilt that lies ahead of him or her, is astounding. I was never quite sure how to feel about it. The boy he had hit was dead and the man had made a horrible mistake. But whatever his reasoning may have been, in that little bit of time, he had decided that life compared to death for him seemed worse.

I found I identified with the man. I remember thinking that ~~- had I been in his shoes and had I had the strength to do so -~~ I probably would have made the same choice. No one would ever really forgive you for something like this, right? Even you can’t forgive yourself for something like that, right?

Even during acts of cowardice, we are able to decide something definitive and real. And while I don’t believe that suicide is the answer, he took any future role from criminal justice system, its lawyers and those who would have wished to see him dead. And I found it disconcerting that had the motorcycle man not killed himself, I probably would have judged him immediately for what he had done. (Just like the hit and run driver from this weekend) Instead, because he took his own life based on his mistake, I ended up feeling a bit of compassion for him. I’m assuming I’m not alone.

Marlen Mustasaev left. He didn’t even have the balls to stop and face up to what he had done. Instead, he went to the police and told them his car had been stolen. It’s really, really hard to feel even remotely sorry for this individual. I don’t care how drunk he may have been or how much he regrets it. He did solve one problem for himself; since so much time lapsed they are unable to charge him for manslaughter, as his blood alcohol level was unable to be tested.

While I do not think that the state should have a role in putting him to death (not that they could anyway in this case) I do feel he should be charged with a whole lot more than leaving the scene of an accident. And I do hope that he feels an equal amount of guilt and pain as the man from years before had right before he pulled the trigger. And should the victim’s uncles, brothers, grandfathers, friends, or sisters get a hold of him, and then so be it. Let nature take its course.

The whole ordeal, coupled with the lingering story of the man on the motorcycle, leaves me wondering: Do we deserve second chances? Beyond that of a judcial system but in the eyes of the public, is it possible to forgive someone for something like this? Had Marlen Mustasaev stopped, would people think differently of him now?

P.S. Also, please forgive me for linking to both trash rags in this post. What has become of me?

Rape?

mihow — Tue, 18 Apr 2006 16:15:00 +0000

When I first heard about the Duke Lacrosse scandal I was sure that the victim was telling the truth. I wasn’t sure why I was so sure exactly, but I pictured a large group of drunken men, and decided that of course she was raped. If you want a better understanding of what groups of people are capable of doing, read the book Among the Thugs. The dynamics and power of the group is downright terrifying.

And then last week, as more and more evidence was released, I started to have some doubts. It’s my understanding (and I do hope that if I have ANY of these facts wrong, someone will correct me) that there were cell phone pictures taken when she arrived showing visible bruises on her body. It was also said that she was very, very drunk when she arrived. It’s also my understanding that another cell phone picture was taken not 30 minutes later when she was carried out of the party by one of the guys. Was that time lapse long enough for her to be gang raped by three men? I’m not sure. I suppose it’s possible, but likely? I don’t know.

The code of silence between the members of the team is a bit strange. If they are indeed innocent, why is there any need for such secrecy? Plus, there was an email sent out after the party by Mr. McFadyen who said he wanted to invite strippers to his room the next night, kill them and skin them. (If Mr. McFadyen is indeed innocent of rape, authorities might want to look into this man’s mental state. Even at my most insane moments, and during my most hatefully charged hours, I have never once said or written or even thought about something like that.)

The university hospital reports that she had “signs, symptoms, and injuries consistent with being raped and sexually assaulted vaginally and anally.�? That’s pretty harsh. So if three lacrosse team members didn’t rape her, she was obviously raped by someone.

Or was she?

A coworker of mine believes that maybe things got out of hand, that maybe this was actually consensual but that things just got a little too rough. An interesting idea, one that I’m not sure any woman would be willing to be a test case for, would be to have a woman who happens to enjoy rough sex from time to time undergo a standard rape test. I am honestly curious to see what the physical visible difference is between an act of consensual rough sex and an act of rape conducted by multiple people. Because I’m pretty sure that if my coworker believes that it could have been an act of rough sex, he’s not alone.

Today, I read this article and now I’m completely unsure about who’s telling the truth. Does she remember what happened to her? Does the other dancer know anything? Did these three men really rape her or did something happen to her before she arrived to the party?

Women put themselves into vulnerable situations all the time. And I imagine that strippers have it even worse. The politically correct thing for me to say right now is that no vulnerable situation – no situation at all – warrants that a woman gets raped. And I do believe this. (If you remember anything from this, remember that.) But it pains me to know that some women willingly put themselves into situations where they are surrounded by drunk, rowdy, impressionable men and not understand that the chances of something awful happening are pretty high. People, especially in large groups, can’t be trusted. And whoever arranged this event should have, at the very least, sent along a bodyguard.

Lastly, if she is indeed “lying�? as my coworker believes, or even rewriting the truth about that night, it plants another doubtful seed in all future and very real rapes. While it infuriates me to know there are men out there willing to hurt a woman in this way, it makes me feel even more angry knowing that some women lie about it.

And maybe I don’t want to have a daughter after all.

Elsewhere

mihow — Wed, 15 Mar 2006 16:05:00 +0000

Our friend, George, is featured on Philly’s City Paper podcast. Such awesome news. George is a rockstar. (My commentary will be put in the comments section. I’m sure everyone cares about what I have to say.)

Also, this is one of the funniest things I have ever read on the Internet. I think I actually mean that, too.

Politcally Correct and Safely Racist

mihow — Tue, 07 Mar 2006 17:37:00 +0000

Yesterday, I was listening to the radio and the hosts were discussing Jon Stewart and how they felt about how he hosted the Oscars the other night.

Right after Three 6 Mafia won the Oscar for best song, Jon Stewart made a remark about how happy they were, how excited they acted compared to everyone else who had won. I think his exact words were, “See, now that’s how you should accept an Academy Award.”

And they were really excited. I haven’t seen that kind of giddy excitement since Ben and Matt won for Good Will Hunting.

Later, Jon Stewart said, “For those of you keeping score at home, Three 6 Mafia: 1, Martin Scorsese: 0.”

The radio show host and her guest felt that what he said was bordering on racist if not entirely racist. Both of them are white.

Last night, Tobyjoe and I discussed this as we listened to the same radio broadcast. I said that I found it ludicrous. After all, Jon Stewart also makes fun of Jewish people, rich people, republicans, democrats, gay people, straight people, women and men. Sometimes, he even makes fun of Canadians—oh my God. I think it’s pretty safe to say he’s an equal opportunity make-funofer.

But that’s not why I’m writing, really. I’m writing because I want to talk about political correctness. I think It’s a little racist. To be politically correct is to be racist, sexist. And I welcome anyone who can show it to me any other way.

Are white people becoming so un-racist we bring it up every possible moment? Personally, I was more offended when the faceless cameraperson zoomed in on Jamie Fox when Clooney was discussing how blacks once sat in the back of the bus, in the back of everything. How much you want to bet that producer calling that shot was white? How much you want to make a bet they were Intentionally showing a black person to say, “SEE! W’E’RE NOT RACIST! LOOK AT THE BLACK GUY IN THE FRONT OF THE THEATER! LOOK HOW FAR WE’VE COME!�?

I wanted to puke. But then again, I loathe predictability and unoriginality.

The thing is, I cringed when Jon Stewart, a predominantly lefty celebrity, said what he said about Three 6 Mafia. I thought, “Oh shit, the politically correct are gonna have a field day with this one.�?

And guess what? They did.

Chris Rock says controversial things all the time. No one really attacks him, well, no one except Sean Penn.

When did we become so serious we can’t even laugh anymore? I’m so sick of the politically correct. How about we just go with correct? Let it just be. Let’s try living in a world where Brokeback Mountain becomes a love story, Three 6 Mafia is seen as an excited, brand new Oscar winning performer, and Scorsese bats zero and everyone is totally fine with that.

I think the honkeys need to spend a little less time trying so hard not to be racist.

America, Land of the Scared?

mihow — Fri, 24 Feb 2006 15:30:49 +0000

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?

I Have Another Question. (Plus, More Carlooneytoons.)

mihow — Wed, 08 Feb 2006 19:54:59 +0000

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?

Apparently, a cartoon featuring Anne Frank with Hitler has been created in retaliation. read about it here.

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?

Meet Someone New.

mihow — Fri, 27 Jan 2006 14:19:00 +0000

We’ve been slacking pretty hardcore on this site. Actually, for a while it seemed it was considering taking its own life. There’s been a resurgence, recently. I’m proud to say that we’ve had several people join. Tell a friend.

I’m happy to report that Toby Joe and I have another project in the works. The new project is a much bigger one, so it’s taking a bit more time than SPD (which was done in less than two days.) Once it’s up, I think it’s going to be a great addition to the Internet. And everyone here will be the first to know about it. In the meantime, take a peak over here. Look through the archives. Tell someone, “Hello.”

Lettuce Stop Littering.

mihow — Wed, 25 Jan 2006 16:13:21 +0000

(With headlines like the one above, I could totally work for the New York Post.)

Yesterday, while listening to The Rachel Maddow PodCast, I was made privy to the story that took place in Easton, Pennsylvania on the 23rd. Basically, for you anti-clickers out there, a woman ordered from McDonald’s. She then drove to Wal Mart and decided to eat her meal in her car in the parking lot. When she was finished eating her burger or whatever, she decided she didn’t want the lettuce any longer. She rolled down the window and threw the remains out the car window. She was cited for littering. She owes $173.50.

Lettuce comes from the ground, therefore it can go back into the ground, It‘s biodegradable. I didn‘t think I was doing anything wrong.

She failed to appear in court, deciding the fine was stupid. I suppose.

This small story has spawned one heck of a debate between myself and Toby Joe (we happen to be on the same side but we’re still discussing it.) and several people on the Internet. Some people feel that since it came from the land, it can be thrown back to the land. Others believe that this could potentially harm animals as many try and eat the discarded food.

Inspired by her thoughtless actions, I left a comment on a community site (something I normal shy away from). I was going to copy and paste that comment here but I think everyone out there knows how I feel about it. Plus, for me and my prejudices, it doesn’t help that she ordered from McDonald’s and then ate it at Wal Mart.

I can’t stand it when people throw apple cores out their car window. Cigarette butts can be seen everywhere you go. Some feel that the beach is actually a giant ashtray. Most of New York city is paved with used, old gum. I find it disgusting. And everyone knows how If eel about discarded chicken bones. I say, fine the hell out of her. Maybe next time she’ll think twice.

Mihow’s Really Fast Film Review

mihow — Mon, 23 Jan 2006 18:09:00 +0000

I have seen several movies lately. While I don’t have a massive amount of time to go into each and every one, I’ll share with you their names and how I felt about them (briefly).

Toby Joe and I saw Ocean’s 12. It was REALLY long. What’s up with directors who are unable to stop themselves from making their movies 2 + hours long? I don’t get it. I love Soderbergh, but, by God, the guy could have said it all and made it 40 minutes shorter. Catherine Zeta-Jones is still way hot, however.

We had the most unfortunate experience of sitting through Tom Bat Shit Crazy Cruise in The Island yesterday. Halfway through this extremely long, over-the-top action-packed movie, I thought to myself, “Wow, this movie was so created for the Maxim reader.” And then Maxim was later mentioned when Ewan McGregor meets Ewan MeGregor and Ewan McGregor hits on Scarlett Johansson even though she’s already dating Ewan McGregor. I kinda want those two and a half hours back, actually.

Did you guys know that The Fockers happen to share a similar sound to another English word? Yeah. That’s about all I have to say about Meet the Fockers. 400 One-liners said four hundred times. (In all honesty, this movie was perfect for a boring day spent baking.)

And then there was the quiet film called Winter Solstice. I loved this movie. I grew to love the characters. How is it a movie like War of the Worlds makes millions and something like Winter Solstice goes almost unnoticed? I will never understand us.

That is all.

My Latest Stunt (Insert Drumroll)

mihow — Thu, 01 Dec 2005 15:10:00 +0000

On Tuesday, I sent a batch of Bush T-Shirts over to the Air America staff, namely Rachel Maddow. I considered walking them over, as I am literally a few blocks from their offices, but I didn’t want to come off as creepy. So I mailed a box to them and a little letter, too.

The letter lies below in its entirety.

_Hi Rachel (or a dedicated intern or assistant).

My husband and I are big fans of The Rachel Maddow Show. The podcast gets us through our commute each day and gives us more than a few laughs. Thanks for that!

I’ve enclosed a bunch of t-shirts I made as an unsolicited gift to anyone at the station. These aren’t for any promotion or anything—I’m just a gal who enjoys making things.

My name is Michele. I designed the shirts about two years ago and printed them in May.

The initial idea was to try and sell them to folks who visit my site (mihow.com) but I’m not a very good salesperson.

The run was pretty small (200 shirts) so I decided to just give them away.

When Katrina hit the gulf, I sent about 50 to a Salvation Army in Baton Rouge, along with three other boxes filled with bedding, clothing, shoes, and other items I felt the victims could use. I decided to give the rest away at local benefits. After all was said and done, I found that I had quite a few left over.

I saw the documentary “Left of the Dial” over the Thanksgiving weekend, and thought I should send a bunch of the remaining shirts to the folks at Air America.

The shirts are kind of silly, but I think the point has only gotten stronger since I drew the first cartoon two years back. Besides, if any group of people can appreciate an off-color critique of our dearest leader, it’s the Air America crew.

I hope they will make at least one person there smile—and perhaps I’ll see someone wearing one on the train one day!

Sincerely yours,
Michele_

This will make my sixth whatever you’d like to call it at getting these into the hands of random people everywhere. First, there was the time I messengered over a bunch to Jon Stewart. I followed that chorus of crickets by sending a bunch down to a Baton Rouge Salvation Army around the same time I donated money to the Red Cross for each story I received on mihow.com. (Some the people in Baton Rouge have visited my site because of it.) And then there was the time Toby Joe and I put on up downtown on September 11th, 2005. We had a really great time that day. On October 7th, I brought a bunch of t-shirts to a NOLA benefit at Enid’s in Greenpoint where I gave a bunch away. They were very well received. I ran out of shirts before I ran out of empty hands. And then most recently, after receiving a head’s up email from my gal, Gina, I sent another batch over to Kurt Vonnegut’s publisher.

I never expect to hear anything from anyone. But I’m having a blast casting out a line or two every once and a while. It breaks up the monotony of my day. Plus, I’m getting so used to rejection that being ignored ain’t nothing.

A Plea for Clemency

mihow — Mon, 28 Nov 2005 14:49:57 +0000

I’m against the death penalty. It’s no secret. I think the concept is downright bizarre, actually. But this isn’t about my viewpoints or what I believe, necessarily. This morning, I was listening to a Podcast of The Rachel Maddow Show on Air America. I do this every morning, actually. I load up my Nano and head into work. The hour goes by better if I’m listening to something other than the grunts and farts of my fellow commuters.

On Wednesday night, Robin Lovitt, a convicted murderer, is scheduled to die by lethal injection in the state of Virginia. Since his arrest, he has claimed he is innocent. And Gov. Mark R Warner, is the only person who can save his life.

Now, I know what you might be thinking, you might be thinking why would he want to do that? After all, Lovitt is a convicted murderer. Here, in lies the problem.

It would seem that an Arlington Circuit Court clerk threw away DNA evidence that could have otherwise proved Lovitt’s innocence. Well, that sucks.

Gov. Mark R. Warner is said to be a pretty solid candidate for the upcoming 2008 Democratic presidential election. Considering Virginia has executed more inmates than any state but Texas and Warner hasn’t granted clemency to one person since he’s taken office, I think it would send one heck of a message if he grants Lovitt’s plea. Especially considering the system planning on executing him lost the only evidence that could free him.

Edited to Add: I love it how one newspaper reports “mistakenly threw away DNA evidence that could have proved his claim.” and another reads “deliberately destroyed evidence that Lovitt’s lawyers claim might save his life.” If I hadn’t read it firsthand, I’d have guessed that second bit of reporting came from The New York Post.

Pavlov Cries Wolf.

mihow — Fri, 07 Oct 2005 15:25:11 +0000

I played a lot of soccer as a kid. I was actually pretty damn good at it, too. Sure, I couldn’t jump rope, dance, cheerlead (although I tried), do backbends, splits, or dress up very well. But I could play a mean game of soccer, softball, and basketball. Even though I usually played right wing in soccer, I was well aware we were nothing without a good defense.

Last night, after they announced New York City as the target of a possible terrorist attack, I couldn’t help but think that it seems every time Bush gives a speech about the war and terrorism the media and the government then attempts to scare the living piss out of the American public. What better way to take one’s mind off of something than to send a wave of paranoia over them thereby diverting their attention? I learned this tactic back in grade school.

I’m trying really hard to take the recent threat alert in New York City seriously. I really am. But I’m starting to wonder if this is a new experiment introduced by modern day Pavlov.

If this threat is indeed to be taken seriously this time. I am more than sorry for writing at all. But when Channel Four news and the New York Times and CNN all admit to having the knowledge of a possible attack on the New York Subway system two days PRIOR the actual announcement and it happens to fall on the same day Bush gives a speech on protecting American from Islamic Fundamentalists, I can’t help but put on my skepticals.

Say it’s nothing. Isn’t this dangerous? What if a credible lead does eventually come to light and they make an announcement. Won’t it be hard to take it seriously each and every time?

Bush announced yesterday that since 9/11 the administration has thwarted numerous terrorists plots. When? Where? Why haven’t I seen this? I saw a pretty severe, terrorist offense back in 2001. And I have seen Bush talk and talk about what he’s doing, using a lot of words to describe what the administration is doing to protect America, but I haven’t seen it firsthand. In fact, the news about our stopping terrorist plots (one, of which, was apparently to take down the Brooklyn Bridge) was something I hadn’t heard much about before yesterday. Now, I know I’m not reading every rag and newspaper published, but I would like to think I’d have at least got wind of said defense. Does having a good defense mean hiding said defense when dealing in politics?

I feel a little duped. I feel a little like I’m being fooled into buying into something I have no choice but to purchase. I feel insulted. I feel enraged. I don’t feel very protected. Most of all, I feel like I’m part of an experiment.

Show me your defense, President Bush. Because if you want me to buy into your offense over and over again, I need to believe you’ve got a good defense. Because I’m tired of being frightened by you.

Mihow » dc

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