This morning after incessantly singing the theme song to the Muppet Show, I took it with me to yoga class where a 5 foot super cute yoga instructor named Katie beat my own ass with my own ass. There is nothing more excruciating than being beat with one’s own ass by a smaller more attractive girl while humming the theme song to the Muppet show. There is nothing more humiliating. (Well, being naked at the time would have been more humiliating but whatever.)

After leaving yoga, I decide that I’d take my nasty and calloused, warty monkey paws towards the pedicure department on Castro street. (I finally broke down and gave it a go.) The very small, very persistent asian woman tries very hard to convince me to get a manicure as well but I turn her down insistently. I just couldn’t have two on me at once. That’s just too dirty.

There is a woman to the far right, she has two of them on her. Her eyes are shut as if someone is performing a most intense sexual act upon her. Her arms are stretched out in a Jesus Christ pose. She is smiling. It’s sort of freakish. The woman to my immediate right has her 6 year old daughter on her lap and her daughter is saying something about growing up and owning 2 beach houses (I shit you not) with horses and fish. There is another woman on my left eating a turkey sandwich (on wheat) and sipping a diet coke (through a straw). I am there, too. Me. (Let’s describe me rather viciously as well.) I haven’t showered yet today. I just left yoga and I’m sweaty. My hair is frizzy. (Still is.) It’s sitting up on top of my very small head, pulled back in some pathetic, half-assed pony tail, the baby fuzz surrounding my face and ears sit erect like a thousand little head springs. I haven’t shaved in over two weeks because I am afraid of whatever skin thing is happening to my calves. My feet… MY FEET… they are small, yes. But they are HORRIBLE ugly creatures. While I love to have them touched and fondled and cared for, I don’t usually allow for this to happen because I feel badly for anyone who has to get that close to them. My feet could get any prisoner of war talking. They’re that torturous. I am wearing black sweats and an tshirt.

I don’t look pretty.

So I’m sitting in the pedicure foot chair thingy and I’m humming the theme to the Muppet Show, creating my own little personal Soundgarden, when the small asian girl at my ankles begins humming as well. She’s humming “Wooly Booly” which was just being spat through the speakers above our heads. And in my head, I begin to imagine all the Noe Valley wives and all the asian ladies suddenly breaking into song together; feet are suddenly tossed up in the air (as if to say ‘I don’t care’), nail files hit the roof, masks are tossed off like bras at an N Sync concert, nail polish brushes streak the ceiling. Together, in song, may we find an understanding, bridging the gap between making 25 thousand dollars a year and 250,000 dollars a year.

Ahhhh The Muppet Show.

Another Ben find. (I should just hand over my blog to him it seems). Use Condoms. Indeed.

Create your own. Mine come back sounding asian.

I woke up this morning with the Muppet Show theme song on constant mental chatter in my head.

I stood in the foyer of the tall office building waiting for the elevator to take me down 10 floors. I was secretly hoping he wouldn’t find something out about this dangling carrot he was trying to arrange for my possible consumption at a 4 o’clock meeting. While being out of work is sort of scary, I never thought of myself as one to use a placement agency.

Are you available today for an interview? You have a great book. I might have something perfect for you. It’s a job laying out a press kit. You’ve done a lot of these, I see. Are you available?

I wasn’t sure what excuse to use. Ideas came rushing to my head all at once and I could tell by how they hit the inside of each eye that I’d have a hard time lying.

Today? At four? Yes, I think I can do that. I think. I will have to skip yoga, but that’s cool. Can’t pay for it if I don’t find work, right?

Yoga? Why did I just say that? He is silently judging me now. I should say “Namaste” and walk away. Maybe do a few Oms as I exit backwards, bending forward offering signs of gratitude for having me there at 9 a.m. on a Monday.

Well, yes. Yoga and all. But this job could be totally cool. Don’t you think? I mean, it’s an excellent opportunity. Could you come in and take a couple of tests later as well? We need to see that you know the software. How does Wednesday sound? Good? I’ll pencil you in for then.

I nod. I might agree to anything at this point. I’m left wondering how it is that placement agency people are pushier than telemarketers. What gives them their nerve? I wish I had some of whatever it is allowing him to make so many assumptions about how open my schedule is. Then again, I put myself here and in this way. A person walks into a placement agency already wearing the scent of desperation. The moment they pick up the phone the scent kicks on, excreting from a previously dormant gland. I seemed desperate. I might actually feel a little desperate. I knew this. It’s up to this guy to acknowledge my desperation and run with it. We’re taking part in a relay, he and I. We’re playing this game where we hand off and assume, hand off and assume. I know he drinks fruity drinks during Friday happy hours. I know he’s the last one to leave a party. I know he has a girlfriend who bosses him around. He knows I’m married. I saw him look at my finger. He knows I live in Noe Valley. He knows I go to yoga class. He might assume my getting a job is a mere hobby. He might assume that my husband has asked me to do so. He might assume that I will settle for 30 bucks and hour.

We assume things about each other. It’s that kind of placement agency, where to place judgment. But you really gotta wonder about a person who works a day job from a cubicle placing other people into the cubicles making up other day jobs. Then again, I never understood eating tongue either. There are just some things, no matter how normal or acceptable they may seem, that just don’t make much sense to me.

The elevator bell dings letting me know it has arrived. I wait for it to open. I enter alone and turn around and wait for his face to disappear through the closing metal doors. At that point, I safely assume that he no longer exists and that my assumed smell of desperation might just stay in that elevator and remain long after I leave like cheap perfume or a human fart.

On the street below, people are running to and from coffee shops and pastry places and then back to work. Their feet push the ground out from behind them leaving it for the next person to do the same. They are all on their way somewhere, to another wood-grain desk and a padded chair, both items live inside temporary housing called cubicle. They hurry by me without a care for whatever it is they’re missing. I see a bum on the corner smoking a butt he plucked up from the street below. He stares deliberately at nothing sitting four feet in front of him. His hair is gray and brittle, the lines making up his face are dark and brown like the burnt California mountains I pass on my way to the airport. Standing there, feeling empty and sort of useless, I imagine that at any moment his nose might take off from where the point where a receding hairline meets his dirty forehead, cutting through the hills that make up his distinguished face. Above his head, atop a trail of smoke, his nose turns right in mid-air and heads straight for me. And with one deep inhalation it takes my scent of desperation and carries it up and away.

Missy made the following statement tonight:

Nothing gets my goat like passive aggression, especially by those who claim to hate it as much as me.

Passive aggressive people suck. For real. They’re up there with some of the most annoying human creature beings. They’re the second runner up to the people who are so bored by their own lives they create fantasy at the expense of others in order to make their life a bit more interesting and/or tolerable. And if it’s not to enhance their excitement level because they have only themselves to blame in the reduction of their excitement level, they create fantasy (at the expense of others) in order to avoid a deeper, personal problem.

(This post is passive aggressive, actually. Damn.)

I’m being passive aggressive for posting about HOW MUCH I TOTALLY WANT TO SHAKE PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE PEOPLE instead of telling the people I am referring to that they must chill with all the drama.

It’s only fair that if I make such a claim about other people, I should put up things about myself that I know suck.

Things I Am Guilty Of:

• Paranoia
• Envy
• Blowing things out of proportion
• A fondness for Saddness
• Coming up with conspiracy theories
• Never saying ‘No’
• Making fun of the Mormon religion
• Leaving passive-aggressive posts on my Web site.

P.S. Forgive me for sinking this low. I feel dirty.

Someone over at this site looks alarmingly like Toby.

hmmmmmmmm

Lately, Toby and I have had spike in mosquito bites. It seems every morning there are more and more bumps. And they itch. They itch like nothing I have ever experienced before. Every day we wake up with new ones. Last week, Toby had three on his eyelid. This week I have several on my chin. My arms take the worst beating. But I even have one on my palm, now that’s one desperate bastard.

It’s not uncommon for Toby to wake me up slapping himself in the face. I imagine this is because he can hear and I can’t or else I’m sure I’d be slapping myself in the face as well. The beasts swarm around him, and he can HEAR them circling. He knows there coming to drink his blood and so his arms start to flail.

SLAP SLAP SLAP!

SHIT! DAMN! SHIT!

SLAP SLAP SLAP!

And I’m awake. And it’s 3 in the morning. And my husband is slapping himself again. It doesn’t help our already inexplicable inability to sleep between the hours of 3 and 5 a.m.

Last night, at around 3 a.m., the natives became restless again. I woke up scratching my arms. I had been scratching for a long while, because 3 of my 15 new bites were already reaching new volcanic heights. Toby was awake as well, slapping himself silly. We lay there bitching. We lay there helpless.

bzzzzz bzZZZZZ Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Jesus H. Christ! I HATE THIS!

I know, honey. I know. I’m so sorry.

bzzzzz bzZZZZZ Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz bzZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz

I can’t live like this.

SLAP SLAP SLAP!

bzZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZZZZZZZBzzzzzzz

That’s it!!!! I can’t take it anymore. Turn on the light.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I hadn’t made a plan just yet. I figured I could find and destroy the little bitch even if it was 3 a.m. and he had the upper hand being a miniature vampire and all, living at night and all. Toby flipped on our light as he staggered out of our room and into the bathroom to pee. I looked around at our white walls. And that’s when I saw them.

We didn’t have one mosquito. We didn’t even have 5 or 7. There were AT LEAST 25 mosquitos in FULL VIEW staring back at us, waiting to eat our hands, our heads, our faces. They were EVERYWHERE. I can’t make that any clearer. I have seen less bugs dead on a blue deathlight.

I freaked. I have heard this expression used before, I have even it said it before, but up until last night I didn’t know what “I FREAKED” meant. Last night, I met Freaked. I Freaked out with Freaked. You might say I lost my shit.

Toby came back into the room and I began to point. I was horrified. I wanted to point to Everywhere – because they were Everywhere. But I’m not sure you CAN point to everywhere all at once. So I just pointed.

Toby, look at them all! Look at them! I can’t beleive my eyes!

I’m not sure when it happen, but I was crying. He walked towards me to give me a hug. And then we began to kill them. We spent about 15 or 20 minutes, him with a broom, me with a shoe, killing mosquitos like it was our late night job. Killing mosquitos with watery eyes isn’t easy. As a matter of fact it’s downright impossible. So I guess it’s a good thing there were so many of them, because basically everywhere my shoe landed, a blood splatter formed on the wall below.

We killed and then killed some more. Finally, we were both exhausted and I didn’t see any in sight. Toby laid back down realizing in only a few short hours he’d have to leave for work. I was spent and totally itchy.

I wanted to go home.

Today, I’m feeling a little bit better. Even though we have screens, we closed the window in our bedroom to avoid any future uprisings. What I don’t understand is they’re only in OUR room and they’re ONLY eating us. Our guests don’t seem to get bitten, so I imagine they don’t venture beyond our four walls very often. And that’s pretty terrifying. Come to think of it, I can’t tell you how terrifying this experience was or has been. I know I might sound silly, I might sound like I’m over-reacting, but seeing dozens of mosquitos dotting the walls surrounding your once sleeping head is like something out of a Stephen King short story.

Didn’t a little girl die this way?

I’d like to end this post by mentioning just how far I’ve come along the road towards accepting life here in San Francisco. Say this had happen during the dark days I would have packed my bags and booked a flight for home. I was so fragile back then – my mental state – surely these little beasts would have driven me out of my home.

Maybe back then I was just looking for an excuse all along.

When we first moved here, people told me that there are no bugs in San Francisco. Some said that’s why there are no screens. (We do have screens). A few others said that it DOES rain from time to time and that the weather “isn’t always like this”. Other people told us to be very careful about the mosquitos. Some say it will be nice this September, some say it will rain. Still others say it will stay very much the same. I know that people are being nice and offer up help and suggestions in order to make our stay here a better one, so I am not for a second complaining about the knowledge we have been given. But I do get conflicting San Francisco reports regularly. And for a while I was putting them all together and trying to sort them out using my very own logic and history. But I give the hell up. I surrender. I have found that in San Francisco there isn’t much I’d consider to be predictable except for the fog and my inability to find a decent job.

I guess you could say I believe in the fog.

Some guy who speaks a language I don’t understand keeps calling me from LA. He’s been calling for three days now. I get about 4 or 5 a day. He has taken to leaving messages now, at night, that sound like he REALLY has something to tell me, but I have no idea what he’s saying let alone what language he’s speaking in.

He sounds like the sea lions. I understood them better. I think he’s asian. I know, I know that narrows it down. I think it might be Japanese he’s speaking. And if I had a way of getting my phone message on here, I’d ask someone to translate it for me, assuming there is at least one reader who speaks Japanese.

It’s really beginning to freak me out.

He just called and said “Meesherl? (something I didn’t get) yes. (more of stuff I didn’t get)”

I said, “WRONG NUMBER. YOU HAVE WRONG NUMBER. WRONG NUMBER!”

Make him stop.

Not White Lion Video. Don’t get excited.

This is huge. And probably not worth it. You have been warned.

:) (7mgs)

For years now I have heard people talk about the Sea Lions of San Francisco. I have heard this talk so often, I still think that the Giants are misnamed especially since some football team in New York already has it. I would have thought the San Francisco Sea Lions would have been a much better name for the baseball team.

That was up until I moved here and found no sea lions. When Missy was visiting we even spent time looking and found nothing. When my parents were here my dad SWORE they were “In this exact spot last time! I swear! Where have they all gone? Maybe it’s off season.”

There were spots Toby swore.

They’ll be here. I remember it from playing Tony Hawk.

And they weren’t.

No, here! They’re here. I skated this board.

And they weren’t there.

Even Tony Hawk featured the Sea Lions of San Francisco. Where were these creatures?

The night we left for Alcatraz, we were wandered around Pier 39 looking for the dock they said our boat would leave from. Toby said he’d meet us there and that we should just go ahead and get the tickets first. So we wandered around, wandered around and suddenly I heard a sound. It was the sound of old drunk men laughing. Hard. We rounded a corner, and this is what I saw:

Just flopped all over one another like slugs in beer. Yelling. No, barking.

And I called Toby and held the phone up so he could hear my findings. He knew exactly what it was. The San Francisco Sea Lions were alive and barking.

Later, when he showed up to take the night cruise with us, I walked him over to see the San Francisco Sea Lions. And just like that, Tony Hawk Pro 4 suddenly came right back to him.

Yes, I should have known. This was the course. I remember it well now. I rode over that dock, that one facing Alcatraz.

Yesterday, I took Shelly to Fisherman’s Warf, and more importantly, Pier 39 where we watched these silly fatties bitch and moan to everyone and anyone in sight. Below are some pictures. I also took video. But it’s 7 mgs and it’s just a barking sea lion.

They like to sleep.

This dude was just huge. I wonder how much he weighs.

The big guy again.

You know who this is?

This is Toby at age 14. Isn’t he adorable? Yes. Yes, he is adorable. He’s still adorable. Only now he’s friggin brilliant, too.

His sister is visiting us this week. And she was sweet enough to bring some pictures with her. This is one of MANY. I can’t wait till there’s a reason to put them all up and totally make fun of his socks. My goodness, you should see the socks this kid used to wear.

There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t want to just write a bunch of stuff about how amazing he is. Really, this blog (or whatever it has become) is a way for me to share him with everyone. You (those who don’t know him) have no idea how wonderful and amazing and lovely and beautiful he is.

(No wonder you were in a Moby video, you foxy bastard.)

I’d put up pictures of myself at 14 but you’d all go blind.

1). Exorcist: The Beginning: We saw this on Saturday. It was a lot like the first one only not at all like the first one. Plus, this one had a monkey and was set in Africa. I held my right ear through most of it because it was really very loud.

I was scared during parts of it. I may have jumped a few times. The Devil has a potty mouth, too. There was even talk about anal sex.

2). Rabbit Proof Fence:. What’s the recent fascination with stranded pairs? If you haven’t already figured it out, don’t go for a stroll in the desert, avoid deep sea diving as well. And for the love of god, if you do go hiking in the ocean or deep desert diving, don’t Gerry the rendezvous. This movie was quite sad and wonderful, honestly. I may have teared up a bit, but not as much as I would have if the ending had been in English. As it stood, since I couldn’t see the bottom of our TV set, Toby read the subtitles to me. So it wasn’t as sad. Great film, however. Beautiful and heartbreaking.

3). Pay it Forward: Somehow the dead caught me watching this. Or I was caught undead watching this. Either way, that boy would know. This movie, I tell ya. What asshat decided to end that movie like that? I mean, come on. Necessary? I don’t think so. I get “it” and everything, full cycle, things are good, things are bad, people live, people die. I righta cycle. I lefta cycle. But my word, Hollywood, back the heck up already. I think the director has stock in Kleenex.

4). Dead Like Me: I still LOVE, ADORE, CHERISH this show. Love it. Gets better every week.

5). Six Feet Under: I am going to wait one more week before writing about Six Feet Under.

6). Nip/Tuck: And if any unfortunate person still watches Nip/Tuck, you have my deepest, most sincere apologies.

When I was a kid we moved around a lot. I think we moved around more than most people, but I’m not sure how or why I think that. So perhaps I made it all up.

When people ask,

Hey, Michele, where you from?

I usually answer them using the same statement.

That’s a hard question to answer, I moved all over the eastern seaboard.

This isn’t entirely true. I mean, we didn’t live EVERYWHERE on the eastern seaboard. And usually I think it’s too much information for a question born out of small talk anyway, but at some point I programmed myself into saying it. And now I can’t stop.

Usually, those who take small talk a bit further into you’re-somewhat-interesting-and-I-have-time-to-kill talk say,

Oh! You an army bratt?

And I say,

No, my dad climbed the corporate ladder only to be let go once reaching its top.

This is only sort of true as well. I think he was let go because the people holding on at the top switched with other people while the other men were mid-climb. Basically, the French purchased the company – or parts of it – and they must have just got a sick thrill out of watching older American men continue to climb.

I sound hateful of the French, and coupled with the image tied to this post, you probably think I’m directing Toby’s ever so beautiful finger gesture towards the French. I am not. I have nothing against the French.

Now back to the real story.

We moved often. When I was 10 I lived in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Well, to be precise (not that many have ever heard of the town) we lived in New Cumberland, Pennsylvania. Which lay just outside Harrisburg. I loved living there. I played soccer at least twice a week. I played softball. I collected lightening bugs. I played Kick the Can and Manhunt. I played in the Gracie’s pool and fought in the Battle of Beta Vs. VHS. I went to school. I joined the Brownies. I went to church, even. Back then I still went to church.

Our elementary school was small. So when Jon came down with lice and had to leave school until they were all removed and killed from his body we all knew about it. When Kathy was removed for having something go “medically wrong with her arm” (which I later realized was the 7 year olds’ translation for “She was beaten by her step daddy”) we all knew about it. When the new kid showed up, the kid with the black greasy hair, the kid who wore dark cloths and jeans and stuff, and taught a few kids about “The Bird”, we all heard about it.

Kids all over Fairview Elementary adopted The Bird. Couldn’t get to your assigned seat on the bus? Flick ‘em The Bird! Mr. Bell didn’t let you say “Ain’t”? Flick him The Bird! (Behind his back of course. Cuz, The Bird ain’t a word, and you ain’t gonna do it in front of Mr. Bell. Only my brother will understand this.)

The Bird helped us to rebel without causing too much harm unto others. Plus, I could repent for it on Sunday and be forgiven entirely.

So when we moved from New Cumberland to North Carolina, you can probably imagine the number of The Birds I flicked in everyone’s general direction. North Carolina? What the hell is that? And Raleigh? How is that pronounced? Who said? Why?

Flick.

Why South? I have heard about The South. The South doesn’t like us. I read about it in Social Studies.

Flick. Flick.

They even drew a line in Maryland. It’s called Mason’s Dixon something or another.

Flick.

I hate The South! I haven’t been there, but I hate it!

Flick. Flick. Flick.

At age 10, the house was packed, the deal was done, our move was set in motion. We were moving to The South.

Now, my parents purchased a book. It was a joke/stereotype sort of book, but even with joke/stereotype books, there is truth. For a 10 year old who is scared to death of evil southern people and how they talk funny, this book was to be memorized. So I read it in my spare time.

HELL

• The North: Hell. Pronounced “Hel”
• The South: Hell. Pronounced “Hail”

LISTEN

• The North: Listen. Pronounced “li-s n”
• The South: Listen. Pronounced “leehsan”

WELL

• The North: Well. Pronounced “Wel”
• The South: Well. Pronounced “We’ll”

Basically, it was the northerners guide to making fun of as well as understanding the southerner. And as silly as it may have been, as goofy and ridiculous the drawings were, the book was somewhat factual and, dare I admit to it, educational as well.

What it FAILED to go into, however, what it FAILED to tell us 10 year olds about was that The Bird too was done differently. Why would someone want to do that? What heartless bastard gave individuality to The Bird? (With all due respect to the non-hearing world and all those who like to flick people off in traffic, why change up a hand gesture? Why? It’s just a hand gesture. I find it absurd that the deaf from England can’t understand the deaf from America. Need I point out the failed opportunity here? Need I illustrate the fact that WE COULD HAVE CREATED A UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE?) I bet they were French.

Anyway, I digress. The Bird. It was different. And I didn’t find out until a most inopportune time. I was just fitting in with the older, cooler, hipper boys from my new neighborhood. Wishing to impress Jason, I gave Miles The Bird. I did it like this:

(Only without the colander.)

The laughs began. The teases. I can still here them today.

That’s not how you give The Bird! That’s the NORTHERN BIRD! We do the Southern Bird.

More laughter. Everyone was laughing. I totally f’ed up The Bird. And I was ridiculed because of it.

So they taught me.

Learning how to do the Southern Bird is a lot harder than learning how to do the Northern Bird. When attempting the Northern Bird, I have always imagined that the ring and pointer finger both need to pee and my thumb is helping to not have that happen. Pinch. And Squeeze. The middle finger has no other option than to perk up quite nicely.

The Southern Bird on the other hand (or the same hand, it’s up to you) is quite difficult. It’s like learning how to finger dance. There is a very right way to put those other fingers. They’re like back-up singers. And if they don’t just FLIP UP into place, and you have to adjust them using your other hand (like I had) The Bird suddenly loses its punch. The Bird no longer lands correctly. The Bird falls flat with a thud, and everyone points and laughs and bites back the fact that they’re not only indeed still talking about finger gestures, but they’re judging them as well.

Octopi. A year ago today.

I was on vacation two years ago and didn’t post.

Even though it sounds quite possibly disasterous, I still wish I lived there so I could take Pookum.

Purrfect, indeed.

They set a trap using as bait some doughnuts, honey and two cans of Rainier Beer. It worked, and the bear was captured for relocation.

My goodness

That’s a lot of beer.

.

My imagination tends to get the better parts of me. When I was a kid I fell for the most absurd stories. I believed almost everything I heard. I used to imagine that I was someone else a lot of the time. I imagined I had horses, and friends. I imagined Michael Jackson wanted to be my friend but was way too busy. I really believed that Santa somehow stuffed his fat ass down a billion chimneys once a year. I believed it when my mother told me I couldn’t mail the letter I had written to my great grandfather. What I didn’t understand was how God could say “No” to the heavenly construction of mailboxes. I just couldn’t comprehend not having a post-office. Dead or not, people should be able to receive mail.

When things didn’t go my way or something wasn’t exactly how I wanted it to be, I created fantasy. I wrote stories in my head. Having never been a very good sleeper, many of these tales of height would swoon me to sleep like some adult-sized pill or glass of swift kid-whiskey made to stop the head from spinning. I imagined meeting Mr. Jackson (while wearing the glove, I needed to talk him into giving me the glove) and telling him THRILLER could have been even longer. Fantasy helped me to smile. Fantasy enabled me to overcome crippling fear as well.

Fantasy came with a voice, too. This voice (obviously my own) would construct make believe conversations with other people – conversations that never happen and probably never would. So when Jason wouldn’t pay attention to me at 13, I’d slap on a soundtrack and lay my drifting head to sleep imagining the exact opposite. We would have conversations in the hall in front of the popular people and I would laugh at everything he said. Much later, in college, this fantasy world would enter my conscious hours, too. My headphones and the music they played (I remember Greenday) set a stage for whatever imaginary land I might pass through while on my way to something much more ordinary and boring like class. I’d create an entirely different world for myself. A world I lived in when no one else was looking. A world where I could dress in red and say the true things out loud to whoever I pleased whenever I pleased. I ran to this place when I was sad, let down, tortured, dumped, desperate, excited, bored, lonely, scared, stressed-out, and empty. It made me less restless. It made me feel less mad and unstable. And believe me, no one knows just how mad I can be.

Today, my ability to escape The Happening comes out in different ways. After all this time spent making stuff up, I may have blurred the boundary between what’s real and what isn’t. If you were to sit down with Toby he’d share with you an instance out of the obscenely high number of instances where I took an almost non-existent idea, not there to most all other human minds, and turned it into a totally HUGE AND COMPLETELY INSANE BASED ON ZERO FACTUAL INFORMATION WHAT-SO-EVER idea. His favorite attestation of such is the time where we were driving and I said something about someone I know having had a baby. And how the guy didn’t know about it. I said something about how gals can’t have any babies that they are unaware of and I guess that that’s cool. And how weird it must be for men who have sex and then don’t see the girl again and could quite possibly have had a baby who they don’t know about. Through all of this one-to-me conversation, I finally thought that I should probably try and include him in my REALLY FASCINATING conversation. I looked at him and said:

You don’t have any illegitimate children, do you?

Stop. May I have an aside, please?

I have to back up a few years. Questions beginning with “You don’t” and ending in ”, Do you?” Are questions that should NEVER be asked. NEVER. Please, if you take anything from this post, if you remember anything you’ve EVER read on mihow.com, remember that.

Rule number 1: Thou shall NOT utter a question using the following structure: “You don’t [insert query here], do you?” Don’t try and mix it up. Don’t even think of it, really. If it comes to mind quickly remove it from your head and burn it before he or she standing before you has the chance to say “What the fuck was that?”

I have asked questions like this many times. And pretty much every time I have used this question, I get the response I SO DON’T WANT TO HEAR. I once asked a guy I was dating in England if he’d ever snogged anyone. We were folding our laundry in an on campus pub and I giggled at the word “Snog” which means “to kiss” or “to make out.” I thought it was funny. I turned to my boyfriend at the time in front of a handful of other blokes and said:

You didn’t snog anyone, did you?

Answer: So not what I wanted to hear. (This question was asked years before as well, only replace “snog anyone” with “get those crabs from her?” I should have learned not to ask this question sooner.)

Many years later, I was sitting around eating pie with another boyfriend. He was an ex-military man. He was pretty hot, but SO not someone I was ever attracted to or will ever be attracted to again. He was a sweet person, but he had a background of weirdness. For example, he claimed to have had sex with asian identical twins. (That was weird. I went to my fantasy place when that came up.) So one day we’re sitting there talking about murder, (at that time I still had this BRILLIANT idea that I wanted to become an FBI agent. I blame it all on Jodi Foster. I am not the first person to do this, I know.) and I started going on and on about how I can’t imagine killing someone and how could someone actually DO IT and when they did it, did it stink? Were there smells? And what did it feel like to kill someone? And realizing, yet again that I wasn’t alone, I turned to him and said:

You never killed anyone, did you?

Answer: Almost. He came SO close to killing someone with a guitar that he was arrested and taken to jail.

Now, I know you’re all wondering, what kind of people does this girl date? What I failed to mention was that the sweet army boy (who never fought a battle in his life) beat the man for instigating and perpetuating the gang-rape of a female soldier. She was beat so badly, she never fully recovered and was hospitalized for the remainder of her life.

Whew. So don’t ask the question. Don’t give ANYONE an opportunity to admit to something they’ve probably wanted to admit to their entire life if you’re at all afraid of the answer. Plus, it really has nothing to do with you. In all actuality, their past has absolutely NOTHING to do with you. So don’t ask.

9 times out of 10 my imagination, this fantasy land I have created, is much more entertaining than the one eventually voilaed! before me. I am rarely surprised. I have learned that if you play by the rules, much like what Alex has his visitors do while contesting in Jeopardy, and DON’T ask your question using the structure mentioned above, you’ll get the answer you assumed. Once you logically place it into the above rhetoric, I can no longer assure you of such.

This is what history has taught me.

When I started writing this blog, I had a particular voice. I used this voice every morning and throughout the day. Much like the fantasy world I created during my youth, the realization that with THIS type of creation – a blog – the person I wanted to speak to, the person I imagined I spoke to, MIGHT actually be there to read it. This time, it wasn’t necessarily ALL just fantasy. He might very well read it!

Yesterday, I stopped by a few blogs. I was catching up, you might say. I’ve been busy lately. I started thinking about each person’s voice. The really popular personal blogs write to and for themselves. They act entirely as if it were a diary which others are invited to read – if they choose to. Still others are written with ONE particular person in mind. There are times where you can tell that the writer believes the person in mind will and is reading as well. Still others construct hateful posts directed towards one person or an entire group of people. (These people are bitter and resentful, I usually close the window when I hit on one of them.) Blogs have become a way of recreating yourself, molding yourself into someone you’re not, or someone you wish you could be, maybe keeping a blog helps to expose that someone you are, but never got the chance to expose. Blogs are a way of making that fantasy become slightly more real: He IS reading this. She WILL find me. I AM happy. I HAVE moved on. I’m NOT angry. I Do Fear.

I started writing on mihow.com while living in New York City. I had just met Toby. And for a while I wrote out the best parts and worst parts of myself for him. I guess you could say that Toby was my audience. My chosen voice was talking to him. Others could read along with us, but mainly I wrote for him and for myself. And after we became closer and I was able to open up more in person, I started writing for myself and for those I’d always wanted to say “FUCK YOU! LOOK AT ME, I AM HAPPY NOW!” to. (Yes, I realize the irony here). As our relationship began to settle, and I realized he wasn’t going anywhere, I began to drop some of the bags I’d been carrying around for so long and resting a bit more. So my voice changed again.

Defining one’s audience is the most important part of creating something worthwhile and interesting. Even if the audience is not noticing one at all and writing for oneself alone, discovering that is important. And I feel I have lost sight of that a bit.

Looking back, or reading back, rather, I’m still the same person I was two years ago. Only my fears and anxieties have changed. I fear things like real estate terrorism and no longer falling planes or bus bombs. I fear never being able to afford a house. I fear not having a 401K or retiring without a garden. I fear not ever finding a job again. While I feel settled and very happy in my marriage, I still run with ideas and come up with the most ridiculous hypotheses. And contrary to my assumption about Toby’s many illegitamate children, he has not a one but we laugh about it constantly, my ability to take the mundane and turn it into something wildly incorrect.

So what’s my point? Exactly. This post and my site has begged the question for quite some time

You don’t know where my voice is, do you?

Because I think I may have thought about it too much and reduced it to nothing.

I have a thing for socks with objects on them. I have many pairs. One has frogs, another has kitty cats. Still another pair has bumblebees.

This weekend I became the proud new owner of these beauties.

They’re sort of PacManish (if there were such an adjective). You can get pretty much anything wine in Napa Valley.

but they’ll make you glad you’re not in prison. They might make you wish you were driving south along Route 1 instead of sitting in front of a computer.

This weekend we visited Alcatraz…

and Monterey…

and a few places between the two.

I took some pictures, actually I took over a 100 pictures. Today, I am showing only 46 of them. If you want to see each one BIGGER, click on the thumbnails. The thumbs have been made smaller than usual in order to save on download time. If you’re on dial-up, I am so very sorry for your having somehow ended up here. Hell, if you’re on DSL I’m sorry. How totally not right of me to do such a thing.

Anyway, here we begin. Try and enjoy them. If I spelled something wrong, email me obscenities. I probably deserve them.

(Captions, if any, are below each picture)

This is a picture of the fog that sits around trees somewhere just south of Stinson Beach. It’s very possible to get all wound up back there and end up feeling sorta pukey. Speed limit signs read 45 but you’d have to be slightly estupidio to do such a thing. It’s like a pretzel back there.

Route 1 heading south now. These little houses are part of some Environmental Camping thing. I am not sure what it’s all about but feel compelled to do some research. If anyone has any ideas as to what these are and who you have to be to stay in one, please let me know.

This is my mother wondering what those huts are as well.

Along Route 1, you go from beach and sand to SUPER tall trees smothered in fog as thick as gravy, to rock formed cliffs jetting straight up from the sea, which are covered in more fog. And it’s chilly. Then, in less than 30 minutes, you find you’re with the sun and the surf warmed by temperatures in the upper 90s. It’s really quite interesting. If you’ve never been here, I highly recommend planning a vacation and driving up and down Route 1 sometime.

This is part of the 49 Mile Drive in San Francisco. We’re on the docks staring at boats and Alcatraz.

Toby and my father. Same spot.

These men were fishing. And they were happy.

This is a sailboat taken from the same spot. (For those of you who care, we’re in between Alcatraz and The Golden Gate Bridge).

Here we are at the base of the San Francisco side of the Golden Gate Bridge. There were more men fishing.

Not sure why this man wore a suit fishing. But oh well.

Like I said earlier, the climate changes abruptly here. This is heading south along Route 1. We’re just south of Half Moon Bay heading toward Monterey.

Again.

Toby, my mother and my father. Same spot.

Toby

And I believe this is called Wind-surfing. Which we’ve decided to try and learn while we live here. I am not sure how or how much it will cost, but I really want to try. It’s probably the one thing I can do without having an ear explosion if I fall – and we all know I’ll fall. This was taken about 10 miles north of Santa Cruz. (I have a 14 mg video of this dude in action if anyone’s interested).

We stopped at a little Taqueria right outside Santa Cruz. They serve fish tacos, beer and nachos to really tan people. I like this place.

Again.

This was taken at the Monterey Aquarium. Monterey was warm and sunny. And I took some pictures.

I may have gotten carried away by the Jellyfish. Only not really carried away because that would be terrifying. I got carried away in that “I took too many pictures” carried away.

This guy was called something like a Egg Yolk Jellyfish. I think for obvious reasons.

Here are some Sardines. At one point, during some crazy “I want to get rich American boom”, everyone moved to Monterey to sell and can Sardines. After some time of doing this, they nearly vanished. I guess our way of remembering this mistake is to put some in glass tanks and let them swim around and be watched.

By little blurry children and me.

Here are Toby and I again. He is wearing a mask. That’s not really his face. (And if you make jokes about that not being my real face, I will kick your ass).

The bubble girl again. I actually sorta dig this shot.

So much so, I put a second one up out of three.

Sharks.

Ok, so this was yesterday. We’re on our way to Alcatraz. These people got all our butts on the boat.

Toby and some little aryan child who liked to look at me take my pictures.

This is a boat. Through the boat and its many masts, you might see the Golden Gate Bridge.

Alcatraz and us.

Here we are on the Rock. The pictures from here on out are taken within the prison.

There were many parts we couldn’t go into “for our safety” so this was one of the many little houses that left me wondering why lay behind its windows. Here is one that featured some plastic toy. I took a picture of the plastic toy. I am left wondering things like “Whose hands last touched this plastic toy?” or “How did this plastic toy get there?” But I will never know. And that bugs me.

The main section of the prison seen through the trees and buildings.

Here is another dark window. What’s behind the window? How many hippies had sex behind that window?

And again. I like dark windows for some reason. Weird.

This is TobyJoe. He’s cute. I love him. I am glad he’s not in jail.

This is a cell in Alcatraz. Cozy, donchya think?

And there’s a toilet.

Here are some of the cells. I think this is the second and third floor.

A reflection of tourism.

A picture taken through the window facing the Golden Gate Bridge. I tried to capture the bridge. I could see it, but my camera couldn’t quite do it. Bummer. I’ll pretend it’s poetic.

An image taken into the kitchen. This place was “closed for our safety” too.

And this is the end of our trip. We were there until 9:30. Here is a picture of San Francisco at night. My camera doesn’t sport the best equipment, so it’s not a great photograph. But here it is anyway. I figured it was a nice way to end my post.

Now, I must go face the fact that my mom and dad have left and it’s quiet here again. And I miss them already and if I keep writing about missing them and the quietness then I will probably start to cry.

And I’m not at all sad.

Here are four of the 2 billion pictures I have taken this weekend.

There are many more to come when I have more time.

(Click on thumbnail to enlarge).

Monterey Aquarium. Me looking at them looking at those.

A jellyfish.

Toby and me.

The Pacific Ocean. Route uno.

A year ago today And then two years ago today.

Edited to add: Holy shit! I totally forgot about this

Scary.

Yeah, so here are these guys and here is that guy. (The second link is not the safest site for work).

Work:

For the past couple of days I have been helping out over at EVB with some production work they needed help with. And I ain’t gonna lie, going in to an office like that again, being around creative people again, has been really kick ass. Going there for even this short while brought to surface and solidified my desires surrounding my career. I know that I want to work for a creative shop. No more of these HUGE corporate environments where I’m the only person on a Mac and the only person who knows what “4-color process” means.

Another item on my list of things to finish over the next few days (or hours, hopefully) is finalizing the outline to an article I’m writing for Macromedia on the Flash drawing tools. This is my first paid writing gig. I hope that I don’t suck. Please God, don’t let me suck.

I might be heading to DC for a few weeks in a few weeks to help out at a design shop there who is swamped due to the upcoming election. It could be a great time to see everyone again all the while getting paid to do so. Plus, I’d get to kick about with my pal, Soung. She’s the Art Director of the busy firm. My only reason for not jumping up and down for joy over this prospect is I really hate being away from The Beaner for longer than like, 2 hours. It makes my tummy upset. But I suppose if the money’s right, I’d be dumb to pass it up. I just love the little guy, and thoroughly enjoy falling asleep next to him every night. To think I spent 27 years having not done so.

Play:

Last night we rented Kill Bill Vol. 2 finally. We rented it on VHS – which should prove how badly we wanted to see it. The eyeball scene was gross but hysterical. Both Kill Bill movies were entirely entertaining. I should probably try and own them.

Today, I’m cleaning up around the homestead, preparing our place for this evening’s much anticipated arrival of my parents. We have a weekend planned filled with driving around and looking at ancient trees, eating fatty foods served from piers, visiting rocky shorelines, and attending a 2.5 hour evening tour of Alcatraz – which I haven’t ever been to. Actually, I don’t think any of us have.

And you?

On Friday I headed to SFSU for what seemed to be an interview for a teaching gig this fall. I might instead call it a meeting of two confused minds, but that’s not why I’m writing today.

After leaving the very lengthy interview with a man who knew less about what was going on at the university than I did (he had just returned from nearly a year long sabbatical) I hopped on the MUNI, bus 26. I took bus 26 into the Mission where I planned on meeting Toby for dinner at a favorite tapas place called Ramblas.

We’ve been to Ramblas numerous times. So why did I get lost? I guess because I came at it from a totally different direction. Either way, somehow thinking the restaurant was on Mission and 16th, I overshot my destination and wandered through The Mission, dressed better than usual, and carrying the world’s fattest, most unstable graphic design portfolio.

I tried to call Toby in order to ask him where it was exactly I was to be at 7. But he didn’t answer. I figured he must be on route to me.

I was starting to sweat beneath my black jacket. My shoes were starting to hurt, and my right arm had developed the world’s most uncomfortable charlie horse from carrying the portfolio for so long. I wasn’t feeling too well and I was having my monthly visitor as well. All I wanted to do was sit down and pant. As I was nearing the McDonald’s on Mission in between 16th and 17th, my memory began to come back to me. I suddenly knew where Ramblas was! So it was then, during a brief moment of elation, the begging 20+ indie rock I-smeared-this-Prada-dirt-on-my-face-and-it-cost-me-70-dollars Kid began to talk to me.

Hey, girl! Spare me some change so I can get a hamburger. Please!

I looked at him. I felt like shit. The last thing I wanted to do was stop, put my portfolio down, rummage through my (I am now going to admit to something that will not make me look very good during my seemingly upper-handed situation) Kate Spade bag, and pull out whatever little bits of change I might have so this 25 year old Nike wearing street-living hipster could get a hamburger. A crack-head? For sure, though I’m pretty sure that a crack-head wants nothing to do with any hamburger meat. Either way, I just looked at him. I began to shake my head, politely.

Awwww, COME ON! Just some change for a hamburger? Come on. Please? Everyone else is ingoring me! You didn’t! Please?

I really started to regret my curious eye movement. I really should have ignored this guy like the others had.

I am sorry. I don’t have any change.

I probably lied. But I didn’t know that I had had change, so maybe it wasn’t a total lie. I continued to walk by him and he started to get more worked up. He spat at me these words:

Oh great. Fine. Enjoy the karma, girl.

I am not sure what came over me. Perhaps I was annoyed that someone who claimed to have no money wanted to take my money (which these days is really not mine for the giving but instead, Toby’s) in order to buy quite possibly the shittiest grade of meat America has to offer. Perhaps I didn’t want this little pecker to buy dead cow with my change. Whatever it was something had me reaching for my hare krishna membership card and I had an Ignatius P. Riley moment.

I’m not the one eating meat.

He got agitated, asked me things like “What did you just say?” and “Say that again!” But I continued to walk away, him meatless and annoyed, me sweaty and slightly fearful I might be hit in the back of the head with a 311 cd.

Creating a personal portfolio site that includes bits of written information about yourself is really very hard. Today, I have been working on my new (and hopefully) improved portfolio site. This time, I’m trying to include more written information about myself as the existing one features not one paragraph (I used to like to try and be a woman of few words, but we all know that’s total crap).

This is hard. I can do the design stuff, but writing about myself is not very easy.

I should hire someone.

Ms. Fog shown through the lens of my inabilities.

On Saturday, while wandering through Noe Valley with Toby, I tried to take a picture of how weird it really is especially given the angle as to how we often see it, spewing in overtop our town, coming in as if it’s telling us to Go. To. Bed. Now. I’d like to take this moment, before I babble on and on about the number of movies we watched this weekend (again), to somewhat miserably try and capture just how weird this fog really is. I mean, it’s REALLY weird. I could live here a million years and still probably never get used to its weirdness. And for those few folks who are actually FROM here and who may have never seen life through unfogged eyes, I’m here to tell you that Weather? She ain’t normally like this. She ain’t totally mystifying (in more ways than what’s obvious) she ain’t this predictable yet at the same time so unbelievably mind-boggling and spooky.

And now for the movies.

1). Gerry: This was definitely not the feel-good movie of 2002. If you can “gerry the rendezvous” long enough to get through it, the film will haunt you for days to come. I still can’t get the sounds out of my head. It’s like the scene in the Utah salt flats has been literally BURNED on my brain. This movie is to brain what garlic is to mouth.

2). The Cooler: Why is it that William H. Macy plays the roll of the “down-on-one’s-luck” guy all the time? Throw the brother a bone! Give him a place to put that love! And then there she was. Billy Baldwin hires the sexy blond from NBC’s ER into giving him some Vegas Vagina in order to keep his best cooler from leaving the now-failing Shangri La. Knees were broken, as well as hearts and wallets, deals and debts, arms and mirrors. The movie was just below o.k. Especially because of the last 2 minutes.

3). Open Water: First, I must veer off track. I recently noticed that this movie has a great number of movie posters tied to it. There’s this one and this one. There is this one and this one as well.

Now for the movie. The conflict is oddly similar to the one in GERRY. Replace sand with saltwater, video games with career, and a marriage with friendship and you have the same plot-line. Both parties willingly put themselves into said position. Both parties find themselves stuck in the middle of nowhere with no idea which direction as to is out.

OPEN WATER combined my fear of of the ocean (which I have nightmares about constantly) and my fear of waking up alone. And I don’t think I really began to appreciate it until later that evening at 4 in the morning when I found that I couldn’t sleep within the comforts of my bed, beneath the sound of wind and fog beating outside my window. In then end, regardless of the many negative words written by the nation’s most respected critics, I genuinely liked this film. I really did.

4). Porn Star: After feeling totally helpless and sort of sad, I figured Ron Jeremy and his 9 and 3/4 inch schlong would cheer me up. So we rented PORN STAR. It was entertaining. I feel sort of bad for the guy, I have to admit. And I don’t care how many girls he had to have sex with in less than 4 hours, nothing could be more terrifying and impossible and daunting than being surrounded by a hundred drunk frat boys. That scene was truly x-rated.

5). The Magdalene Sisters: Girls who are considered to be “whores” in a correctional convent. Give me jail any day. Money-hungry nuns driven by the rules of Catholicism can scare the Jesus out of or into anyone. This movie is about being trapped as well. It was only o.k. It’s hard when you’ve seen so many movies new ones start to seem formulaic. Even the ones that are based on true events. Excellent acting, however.

6). Veronica Guerin: Like peanut butter and jelly, two things that go well together, Joel Schumacher and Jerry Bruckheimer pair up and become the cinematic wonder-twins. But leaving all CSI and Prime Time jokes aside, VERONICA GUERIN was a great film. Truly. The acting was superb.

And here’s a picture of a dude taken from a bus on our way to see OPEN WATER.

Two years ago today.

Fighting with Verizon, watching M. Night Mickshitafan’s SIGNS, and scaring the crap out of Karl’s mom.

Tomorrow I have a meeting with the San Francisco State University about a Graphic Design Instructor gig. Someone just sent me the proposed syllabus. That’s a good sign, right? I am so totally pleased by this. Drinks tomorrow night will surely be on me.

Yesterday, after receiving excellent news from Toby, I decided that it might be a good time to have him treat me to a course at San Francisco State University. So I made a few phone calls and I await to hear if I’m to be accepted into this course.

I have wanted to take glass blowing for 10 years. Right before we moved out of Brooklyn, I even signed up at a place in Williamsburg. How excited am I about this possibility? “Tobacco Pipes” for everyone, that’s all I have to say. I’m so going to open up shop on the Haight after this.

Other classes I want to take:

Conserving Biodiversity in the San Francisco Bay Estuary.

Or this one:

Butterflies of the Sierra Nevada

Or this one:

Intro to Creative Writing. Perhaps they can help with my commas.

NO! This one:

Geology of California

That would be cool.

Toby and I have had JACKASS: THE MOVIE out since January. In that time, JACKASS: THE MOVIE was packed up, stored, moved over 3,000 miles, stored again, and then unpacked. JACKASS: THE MOVIE then sat on our kitchen counter for three months. JACKASS: THE MOVIE cost us $140.00.

JACKASS: THE MOVIE was sent back to Netflix Yesterday.

Neither one of us have ever seen JACKASS: THE MOVIE

I have been visited by Happy a few times while being photographed. Remember this beauty?

I also really know how to dress.

What unbelievably heartless creature decided to have the female species go into heat once a month? The physical parts are fine, I can tolerate them, but why mess with our heads as well? For the love of God, why?

Happy thoughts.

The photo below was taken by TobyJoe at a Mexican restaurant in Salina, Kansas. The guy working the register saw me looking longingly at the sombrero hanging on the wall and asked me if I wanted to wear the beautiful beast. I, of course, said yes. Below is the photographic evidence of me standing next to Happy after consuming many nachos and beans.

And if you’re able to divert your eyes from my most fabulous outfit, you will notice the strange arm thing that happens to me when someone takes my picture. It’s weird, I know. Check out the image below and compare.

But they’re different arms, proving that usually they are normal.

Ah well, that is all. I will now sip tea, get out the heating pad, and begin my work for the day.

The other day Toby and I watched Love Actually. And quite honestly, I actually I loved it. If you’ve seen it, you already know it falls in around a song called “Love Is All Around” only it’s all about Christmas and not love.

So if you really love Christ—mas. Come on and let is snow.

And the remake (in the movie) is bad, and we’re told as much by the british fella remaking the song. But that’s neither here nor there, I could absolutely NOT stop singing the REAL version (and the movie version, the be honest). But the “real” version (for me) is the remake with REM an Billy Bragg at the Borderline in England. (I think my brother owns the actual c.d.) So right after having seen the movie, Rachel wrote something reminding me again of this song. I wrote, she responded and in the end she was kind enough to send it. I will now extend the favor. While this is not the version I had (way back when when I was actually somewhat cool and respected and ran a live radio show) this is equally as amazing and fabulous. (3.8 mgs) (Thank you, Rachel and Mike.)

I spent the evening listening to Old Music. When I say “Old Music” I mean music I used to listen to when I was younger-ironic, I know. And my goodness, I wish I could bottle up the feeling I have right now. I wish I slap on a pair of headphones to each and every one of you (like they do on Jet Blue, Delta, and American airlines) and take you into the memory of my youth. We could trade, you and me, because I know you get it too-this feeling. So here’s the idea, we’d each have a booth like they have at Virgin Megastore. We could wander around and if you find me interesting - or I do you - we can then stop for a minute, listen to one another’s soundtrack, and understand a little bit more.

It’s 10:30 here in San Francisco and I can’t help but think that I’m the last to fall to sleep tonight on the tail end of this August 02, 2004. And I can’t help to think that I’m the last of the people who know me to have that

one

last

drink.

Should it be seen as disturbing when one’s search strings (for one day) become a strange summary for one’s more recent life? Not all of them, mind you, for example, “boil pimple ass” does not relate (I assure you). And Missy isn’t strange.

• hot legs
• holy shit and well hung
• blenheim ginger ale
• boil pimple ass
• driving across the country interstate 70 80
• hot amy
• loreal plaza adams morgan
• missy strange
• niagara falls elope
• pink bed
• pitiful state of denial
• potato buds recipes
• remy red
• rib cage hurts
• self suck
• sexy glasses
• who makes the frog bra

Personal favorites: “Pitiful State of Denial” and “Holy Shit and Well Hung”.

How excited am I about the release of this game finally? You have no idea how excited and I’m not even a video game person. Oh how I wish it were out now. I could really use the diversion. Especially considering I’m sort of poor right now and can’t afford things like enrolling in this course.

I think this might be all that we do anymore. I mean, besides eat. Ah well, here they are (out of order):

1). Manchurian Candidate. Yeah, I don’t know. It was only o.k. (Sorry, movie critics everywhere, but I did actually exhale during the last 30 minutes of the movie).

2). Dirty Pretty Things Pretty creepy and disturbing but good. Through kidney removals and the flushing of a human heart, somehow you still just want to hug the hell out of Audrey Tautou for being so unbelievably cute.

3). Gothika I can’t believe that this did not suck. I may have even enjoyed it a little bit.

4). The Dreamers Now this movie? It was just bad. I don’t care if your actors are french AND hot, that doesn’t give you the license for creating pretentious crap. Outside of a few “Did he actually fuck her” sex scenes, this movie just ain’t worth it.

5). Holes This one we watched in order to justify our paying 125.00 a month for cable. I spent most of the time trying to figure out which weird state it was filmed in. My guess is either Nevada or Utah.

6). Deadline The documentary I mentioned on Friday. Held a crazy number of scary statistics. Entirely disturbing. If you’re on the fence about the death penalty and you happen to actually watch this and you’re still not convinced our system if failed, we’re all worse off than I have imagined. I really enjoyed this documentary. Canceling a happy hour to watch it was not regretted.

7). Truly Madly Deeply I saw this one many years ago while working at the video store while I was in college (I watched everything back then). And you know what? This movie never gets any happier. But somehow it always sucks me in. (Another movie we watched helping to justify our cable bill).

And then there was T.V.

1). Dead Like Me: I think this might be my new favorite show. I absolutely adore it. Really.

2). Six Feet Under: I love this show. Best quote of the night:

Having to admit fucked up shit about yourself fucking sucks.

You might say this weekend’s line-up had a theme I hadn’t realized up until now. How weird.