Tonight, Toby Joe and I are off to see The Mountain Goats at The Knitting Factory. Toby Joe suggested that for Halloween and go to the show dressed as John Darniell’s stepfather. You know, carry empty bottles of booze around, wear a wife-beater underneath a terry cloth robe, threaten to beat the hell out of everyone who comes near me at the show. I know Toby’s sense of humor comes off as rather raw, if you will. But, holy crap, is do I ever find him funny. We are a match made in hell.

And if anyone finds his suggestion regarding my halloween costume offensive, let me tell you about the time he renamed my 6.5 year old laptop Terry Schiavo because I just will not let it go.

Every now and again, I am overcome by fits of inspiration. And if I don’t have somewhere to put them, they almost immediately turn into packets of anxiety. It’s what I imagine blue balls might feel like if there was such a thing and it wasn’t a term actually made up to make girls feel guilty enough to complete the deed. I don’t believe in blue balls, but I do understand the definition. That’s the way I feel a lot of the time when seduced by a new idea. And to further this really annoying analogy, I rarely ever get to climax.

I started a project about a month ago. It is a project I promised myself I’d complete. I’m still very much into it. I’ve even taken out ads on Craigslist in spite of my distaste for the site. I have also begun to hit up the other people in my life and they have been unbelievably helpful as well. I am grateful for all the feedback/help/suggestions I have been given. That particular project is ongoing, albeit, slow-moving. But it keeps a section of my mind occupied and for that I am grateful.

Even more recently, I took my Mountain Goat obsession to level Nicole Kidman and began contemplating dusting off the ol’ guitar again. I used to play. I learned some songs. I even taught myself how to sing AND play chords at the same time. (Believe me, this was a feat not nearly as easy as it sounds for me.) It’s probably a good thing for everyone that the idea of making music was side-swiped by the one where I thought it’d be great to record the voices of the people in my life. And then it’s even better for everyone when that idea was brought down when I realized that hearing my recorded voice was almost enough to look into the exit ramp of a loaded gun.

The other night, as I watched people use sticks to hit multi-colored balls into dark pockets surrounded by green felt, I started to think about all these ideas. My mind began to wander. I thought about the people close to me and wondered what they thought every time I bring up a new idea. I wondered if they sometimes thought, “This, too, will pass.” Sometimes, I even think that way at this point. (Do I start something and then just give up? Will I see anything through? Do I, in fact, tease my blue balls?)

A few days ago, Gerry and Toby Joe started giving me hell for not agreeing to give the Neutral Milk Hotel another chance. I refused. I told them about the time about 6 years ago when Ryan, an ex of mine, tried really hard to get me into them. I just was not having it. I never even gave it a listen. (Unknown to me then was that my ex was trying to get me to like the music created by a singer who my future husband’s then girlfriend would one day end up dating. But that’s a story for another day.)

On Wednesday, TJ sent me a song and said I had to listen to it. I didn’t even check what it was. I trust him, after all.

He sent me this song (3.5 mgs). I wholeheartedly love this song writer’s music. I’m kicking myself for not giving in 5 or 6 years ago. (Listen to it, and then, if you have a minute share with me what inspires you.) Maybe there was a reason I wouldn’t give it a chance back then. Maybe I needed to find it after I found Toby Joe. Maybe I needed the inspiration at this point in my life and not 5 years ago. I have no idea.

So, the inspiration I had last week from the Mountain Goats is back as of yesterday because of Neutral Milk Hotel. Truth of the matter is, every time I hear their music, especially the song above, I feel completely out of this world. I feel a little insane, like I found religion. I feel like consuming Toby Joe. I feel like eating the notes that make up the songs. I feel like taking to the streets, stark naked, and instructing everyone to just walk out. I feel like having babies. I want Toby’s head to rest on my bare stomach. I want to close my eyes. I want to tell an old stranger that they’ll be OK. I want to paint pictures of things that don’t make sense. I want to sing really loudly. I want to put certain weeks on repeat and other days on shuffle. I want to finish every project I never started and start every project I haven’t thought of yet. I want to tap God on the shoulder and totally surprise him. I want God to actually exist. I want to burn all the money, tear down all the scaffolding, and feed all the birds. I want to matter. I want to be able to turn off requested floors on elevators if I press the button again. I want to write the songs to make the young girls sing and the whole world cry (ha!). I want to learn how to do everything. I want the time to do so. And I really, really want to consume Toby Joe.

It’s unbelievable how tight expansion feels. And it’s oppressive how heavy air can be.

I’m tired of being unoriginal.

I’m tired of feeling mentally constipated.

And I’m tired of having blue balls.

Click here to see more of Vu’s shots.

(An unexpected emotional derailment for the day.)

A year ago today. Two and three years ago today I didn’t write. (I’ve been a slacker on the retrospective posts lately.)

I don’t know anything about milk. Actually, I know it’s white and it’s filled with mucous. I know that people love it. And I know that it upsets my stomach. I know that the cow offspring that naturally drink it have five stomachs. I know that sort of makes some sense as to why mine usually hurts when I drink it. I also know that part of why I don’t like milk is because when my older brother and I were kids, my father thought it’d be really funny to have us sample milk straight out of the cow while visiting a farm owned by a friend of the family. (You have never, ever seen two kids’ faces contort so quickly and horribly.) Milk was never the same again after that. I imagine the milk industry would take quite a hit had the great people of this nation sampled milk straight out of a cow teat. But I digress.

Last weekend, I needed milk because I wanted to make lemon poppy seed muffins. It was late and the place across the street doesn’t carry soy milk so I purchased regular milk. I’ve had it in the house ever since. When Soung came to visit, she used a little bit in her coffee. I used it in the muffins and also in the peanut butter cream pie I made. Otherwise, it hasn’t gotten much play. I feel like a bad person for wasting all that milk.

Last night, Dan arrived from England. The same Dan who was beaten pretty badly this past July. I haven’t seen Dan in several years. And even though he was unbelievably tired, we dragged him out to Enid’s for dinner. We made the best of an otherwise dreary evening.

When we got home, we did what any decent human might do for a British house-guest. We made tea. And everyone knows that ALL British people use milk in their tea. So I pulled out the milk container.

“How long does milk last? What’s today’s date?”

“Probably about a week? I dunno. Why, what’s the expiration date read?”

It expired yesterday. Dan, do you know if it’s OK?”

Worried it might actually explode or contaminate my fingers and body, I held the container at arm’s length.

That’s when Dan suggested I smell it.

I removed the lid and lifted the jug to my face. I inhaled deeply. It didn’t smell bad but I couldn’t have my British friend possibly drink spoiled milk. I needed to go in first. If this was going to kill him, it would have to take me down first.

Toby and Dan sat on the couch and watched. Their heads followed my movements much like cats do when they are taunted by moving objects. Suddenly, right as I was getting ready to sip the milk, everything funny came rushing back to me - their reaction, my past milk experience, the fact that I was sampling the milk straight from the container, cows, mooing, - everything. Everything.

I’m not sure why I couldn’t hold it back, but suddenly, milk was flying in every direction using my face as its launching pad. It was as if my head exploded while blood was on vacation and milk was there to babysit. Milk flew everywhere.

My head must have been the most excellent feline pinata, because our cats arrived immediately to reap the benefits. They began to furiously lap up the hundreds of droplets of milk. Toby and Dan watched in horror. My face dripped with milk. It suddenly occurred to me that I wasn’t indeed sleeping. It occurred to me that this wasn’t a nightmare. It became horribly clear that there was actually expired milk all over my face and arms.

Many, many years ago, I stopped going to Domino’s Pizza. I can’t remember when it actually was. I want to say it was when I was still in high school but that was so long ago I barely remember that as well. Basically, it was brought to light that Domino’s was indeed run by a right-winged, crazed evangelical Christian. I don’t remember exactly what the CEO was accused of, all I know is folks where I came from referred to them as Evil. So I stopped going.

It’s 2005 and I still don’t go to Domino’s not because I’m an activist against their pizza-making empire, but because I’d basically written them off and later forgotten about them. And the funny thing is, I know a fairly large number of folks around my same age who have fallen into the same practice.

What do you know about Domino’s?

They’re evil. Stay away. I heard it’s run by militant right-wingers.

Recently, a friend of mine was offered work and that work is somehow affiliated with the Domino’s Corporation. My first reaction was, “Don’t go there. I hear the CEO gave money to pro-life. They’re evil.”

It’s becoming more and more obvious that I can’t back this statement up nor do I have any idea what it is I’m talking about. Not only can I not back it up, but there are members of my family who are pro-life and I’m not about to boycott them. I love them. Toby Joe said the same thing to this person, “All I know is they are evil. But I don’t know why or how they are evil.”

That’s my question, dear Internet; Are they in fact this evil empire we’ve made them out to be? Or is this sort of like the college version of the adolescent-Pop-Rocks-and-Coke-will-blow-up-your-face phenomenon. That myth was easy to break. All you had to do was Double Dog Dare some poor bastard in the cafeteria and watch his face sit calmly on the top of his neck to prove that was indeed false. But this? This one is a tough one. And while I know I could “talk to Google” I also know I once lied about moving to LA. I once told the Internet I had a tail. I once saw someone get REALLY intimate with several Barbie dolls sans lubricant. Sometimes I don’t trust Google.

Is Domino’s Pizza indeed an evil empire out to feed more religious fanatics and crazy right-winged fundamentalist gun-wielding dirtbags, or are they just making pizza?

Did I ever mention I worked for Gay.com? I did. I worked there when we lived in San Francisco.

While I worked there, the below scenario took place. I put the image up then and said it was funny but wasn’t able to mention why it was funny. Today, I am.

Anyway… just thought I’d share.

On Thursday, I came up with an idea. At the time, I thought it was a good one. I decided that it’d be fun to record the folks in my life and hand out snippets of each person’s voice. So, for example, whenever mentioning Gerry I’d put up a sound file of him speaking. In my head, this seemed like a fun idea especially considering folks often assign voices to people no matter what he/she actually sounds like.

Today, I have been listening to what I’ve recorded so far. I must tell you, I am inches away from actually hating myself. What a humbling experience, hearing oneself converse with folks.

In summation, one of two things might happen should you try this at home: You might suddenly discover that you’re kind of an idiot and you might work to change that about yourself; or you might become a statistic for the nation’s overall suicide rating.

About a month ago, I was sitting with Missy outside Spring Street Natural waiting for Toby Joe to get off work. An hour later, he showed up.

OK you two, you have to fight over this. I only have one.

He pulled something out of his messenger bag. I wondered why I’d fight over this blue, gold green and 100 percent magenta box.

What the hell are you doing with that?

It suddenly occurred to me that Missy knew what this box was.

What is it?

Apparently, the firm where Toby Joe works recently completed the Britney Spears Fantasy perfume Web site and Stacy, a coworker, received a complimentary box full of these beauties.

Missy wanted to open it to see what the bottle looked like but I saw Ebay. I saw a desperate teenage girl in my future.

After conducting a little research I realized that the version they received was not a special release or anything of that nature. It even sports a UPC label. (I so wanted it to be signed or something.) I can’t decide what to do with it now. I know I will never wear it. Judging its package, I have a pretty good idea what it smells like. Maybe I’ll give it the person who finally buys my concrete shoe.

The image below cracked me up earlier. I just had to share. Hoa is indeed a wonderful photographer. Most of the images I take with my Holga look nothing like this at all. They look like images of smeared brown paint.

(click the image to see more.)

Click the image to see a few more.

I have two slightly different color eyes. It’s hard to capture on camera, but the larger image of this does so. Kinda weird.

Admittedly, I have NO Idea what I’m doing. But here is a song from the show last night. I am trying desperately to edit it to make it sound better. I think it might be a lost cause but I’m still working on it. Sound Studio 3 is amazing. Even if it doesn’t work out, this is damn fun.

If the way this sounds doesn’t make you want to kill yourself, let me know. I have many more.

Thanks to Keith for the knowledge.

First of all, saying the words “Death Cab For Cutie” to any one who hasn’t ever heard of them before is kind of weird.

What the hell does that mean? Where did they come up with that? Who’s Cutie?

I’m not entirely sure. But, wait, have you ever heard of The Postal Service?

You mean the folks who bring me my mail?

Granted, I like the reactions I receive from saying “Death Cab for Cutie” better than the reactions I get after saying the words “My Morning Jacket.” And considering I saw both bands two days apart and have mentioned their names to coworkers and friends, both reactions are fresh in memory.

My morning who? What’s a Morning Jacket?

But I digress. Last night, Toby Joe and I went and saw Death Cab for Cutie at Hammerstien Ballroom now known as the Manhattan Center Studios. I should know this, how? I know this because the woman from 411 corrected me two times last night when I called them for their number. Apparently, “Information� has been newly mixed with education and a little bit of humiliation.

But it’s not Hammerstein anymore. It’s Manhattan Center Studios.

Are you just trying to teach me something. Is there a reason you think that I need to know this?

I’m just letting you know. It’s the Manhattan Center Studios. Not Hammerstein Ballroom. Anymore

Oh yeah? Well, I’m going to see Death Cab for Cutie at Manhattan Center Studios. How does that make you feel?

What’s a Death Cab?

(That’s what I thought, 411. You think you know everything.)

The doors opened at 6:30. I didn’t even leave work until 7. During the years I have been going to shows, not ONCE have I ever heard of an evening show starting at 6:30. Low once played an afternoon show. I think that started at 4 or something. But that’s because there was a night show later. But this one started at 6:30 and even though I absolutely REFUSED to believe this, everyone continued to tell me otherwise.

Gerry, can you do that thing you do where you look something up for me and tell me when it actually starts? The ticket reads 6:30. But that’s fucking crazy. It can’t start then, can it?

Gerry flipped through Web site after Web site and logged onto magazine after magazine each and every one said the show started at 6:30. In protest, we didn’t get there until 9 PM, 15 minutes before Death Cab (aka the third band) came on.

The crowd wasn’t nearly as annoying as the My Morning Jacket crowd. As a matter of fact, Toby kept accusing them all of being neutered. The weirdest part was turning around and checking out the upper tier. No one up there moved. It was downright spooky.

Somehow, I managed to get into the show carrying a voice recorder. The same one I’ve been using to record phone interviews. After that kind of success, who wouldn’t put it to use? So, yeah, I basically recorded the entire show and am currently trying to decide which song to put up. (If anyone out there knows of any type of sound converter/mixing device, I’d be really happy. Email me: mihow at mihow dot com. I’ll send you a Death Cab Bootleg.) It’s a hard decision, too. Because sporadically throughout the recording, Toby Joe and I make fun of the hypersexual, discuss battering the drunk guy in front of us for picking on a geeky teenage boy. At one point, TJ tried to talk three girls behind us into beating up two very drunk girls to our left. That part is pretty funny. Especially since the girls behind us really didn’t like the drunk girls to our left. And then the tables turned and they wanted me to beat up the drunk girls. But then that song about dying came on and everyone became all serious and shit.

The part where someone near us farted was good, too. Toby compared the stench to meat products. But the part I didn’t get was the part where Death Cab for Cutie asked the audience a peculiar question.

How many of you folks are from New Jersey?

The audience went wild.

Why the hell does he want to know that? Is that why this show started at 6:30? Does Jersey need to get home? What’s he asking that for?

No clue. Maybe he’s from New Jersey?

No. Seattle. Last time I checked.

The best part, however, was when I chatted with a teenage boy on the way out.

If you liked these guys, I have some other bands you should check out.

“Holy crap!” I thought. “A 18-year-old boy wants to teach me about music.” And what happens? My geriatric ass gets defensive because apparently I left my Indie Rock Badge at home right underneath the AARP newsletter. So what does a girl like me do in response? She reassures the 18-year-old boy that she is indeed cooler than she looks because apparently looking cool to 18-year-old boys is indeed the cool thing to do. (Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me?)

I’d heard them before tonight.

Why couldn’t I just let that one go? I decide that I can prove I’m cool again when he tells me about all these bands that I’ll surely know about. Then, I’ll be able to say, “Oh, that band? I saw them before CD XXX came out.”

Nope. I’d never heard of one band that came out of his mouth. Not one. Safe to say, it’s time for me to grow up already. I should stick to Cat Circuses.

The show was only OK. The thing is, I’d seen them before in a much smaller venue further away from New Jersey (take that 18-year-old boy!) One might say I’d been spoiled. But last night, it didn’t really seem like they were all that into being there. As a matter of fact, they seem slightly resentful of their newly acquired success. I guess that sometimes having a major label pick you up ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. And I think some of their fans are starting to get wind of that.

Or maybe I’m just an old bitter bitch. (To be honest, I had a really great time.)

Now, about that sound mixer/converter… help me help you.

OK EMAIL PEOPLE. Comments are on.

Mark Kozelek never, ever ceases to amaze me. His latest CD features Modest Mouse covers.

To hear a song from it, click here and scroll down to Sun Kil Moon, Tiny Cities.

(Thanks to Soung for the linkage.)

My name is Michele. I’ve been a patron of yours since I was a thirteen year old. (Actually, if you count that time I saw John Denver, I’ve been a patron since I was 5.) I’m 31 now and for some reason I still continue to visit you.

Last night, however, something inside of me broke. I fear, that after all these years, I might not have it in me anymore. And it’s not you at all. It’s me. All my life I have heard about this happening, I guess I just never thought it would actually happen to me.

For starters, I could do without your “Biggest Fan” patrons. You know, the ones that jump around while their upper arm fat slaps the side of my head. Those folks are way too excitable. I might suggest handing out those glow sticks they sell kids at the county fair. Make an announcement at the beginning of the show stating that everyone wearing said greenness really wants everyone else to know “I LOVE THESE GUYS SO MUCH MORE THAN EVERYONE AROUND ME. I LOVE THEM MORE THAN THEY DO.”

I know. I sound bitter. But last night, the tall woman standing in front of me took her fandom to level idiot. And why do I always end up behind the tallest person in the world anyway?

Then there are folks who absolutely must smoke marijuana. Is that really necessary? I mean, what’s the deal? Last time I checked, pot wasn’t like crack. The buzz stays with its smoker for at least a half an hour. (I’m being conservative with that timeframe.) Why do they have to keep smoking? At least bring enough for everyone, you know? Last night, the stoners (who insisted on standing directly in front of me after using excuses like, “Please let me by I promised I’d bring this 7 month pregnant woman a Cosmo.”) began scoffing at Your Number One Fan. With each sound of disgust, a whiff of pot infested ass breath hit the other side of my head, the side untouched by the wrath of the swinging underarm flab.

Now, let’s talk about how much you cost. I think Gerry paid 30 dollars for each of our tickets. I can’t remember. But I think there was even a service charge of some kind as well. And that’s fine even though most of the money goes to the label and the venue and not so much to the actual band, which is the only reason I’d pay 30 bucks in the first place. Why are you so much money? Does half of it go to the bloated meatheads at the door who feel us up? Or is it so Number One Fan and Pothead McPherson catch wind of a future showcase on the next episode of the O.C.? I don’t understand why you’re so pricey. Who in their right mind wants to pay 8 dollars for a Budweiser? We’re not made of money, stupidity, maybe, but not money.

The talkers bug me, too. I can’t imagine why anyone would spend 30 dollars to scream at one another, but there are a number of things I will never understand. Take your Damien Jurado show a few months back. I couldn’t hear him over the crowd. Gerry actually yelled out asking people to stop talking. And, still, they persisted. Frustrating. I bet they talk during movies, too.

But the lowest form of your patrons, the people who have a spot reserved in hell, are the ones who text message and call folks on their cell phones. Last night, while you were doing your thing, (and well, mind you) I was fantasizing about kicking a few people repeatedly in the side of the head. Granted, I’m currently taking commands from a Queen by the name of Estrogen, but text messaging? Phone calls? The hell?

But it’s folks like me who should be banned from visiting you ever again. Here I am bitching and moaning after I willingly took part in all of this. I’m the one who should just walk away. I know this. Yet, for the life of me I can’t seem to do so. I keep thinking you’re going to change. I keep thinking maybe you’ll create the geriatric version of yourself, a version with padded chairs and cocktail waitresses, lower volumes, and a mute viewing audience, and for 30+ dollars, maybe even a happy ending. A version where I can ask your showcase to repeat a song or play something different, special, unique, just for us.

That isn’t going to happen. Which is exactly why I am putting in my two weeks notice. After you bring me Death Cab on Thursday and The Mountain Goats later this month, I simply must retire. And in memory of you, I’ll continue to buy your 30 dollar tickets. That way there will be one less body within your crowded borders. Maybe one person will see a little clearer. And on that night I’ll sit at home with my Nano and let its white cords bring me my own personal, sold-out show.

Sincerely yours,

Michele

link directly to this post

CNN’s latest article is oh so spot on and couldn’t have been published at a more perfect time.

I’m having one of those weeks where all I really want to do is run off to the country and start over.

A point that Bowker touches upon in the article, and something that would make this wireless lifestyle all the more acceptable, is if life could balance out a bit more giving people the option of occasionally working from home, traveling while working, etc.

Bowker states:

This is always the case with new technology. Often the effects are paradoxical, The overall upside is that we can maintain a rich social and cultural life while dashing from pillar to post. The overall downside is that our spiritual development - which requires empty time, contemplation - is suffering enormously.

I have trouble separating myself from my computer. Every night when I get home I check my email, the same email I check at work. I can’t imagine life without it most of the time I’m with it. But something that became glaringly clear to me while in Rhode Island - away from all that is screen-projected - was I didn’t even really miss it all. And adjusting to not having it around was easier than I imagined. I remember thinking, “Hold on to this desire you have for a computer-less/cell phone-less existence.”

It took me less than a week to forget about once I got back.

Several people over the last couple of months have sent me this link wondering why I haven’t gotten all kung-fu on their asses. To be honest, my kung-fu skills are really bad these days. And the Internet scares me.

I dunno. How can I put ownership on an idea? Does the existence of self-portrait tuesday bother me? A little. But SPD doesn’t get much traffic anymore. So maybe there’s room for another.

Originality is a quality I hold sacred. But let’s be honest, the idea ain’t that original anyway.

link to this post

• 10). My sidekick has a leg lamp tattoo. And hair.
• 9). It won’t include items that make you nervously wonder, “Am i supposed to be laughing at this? or is it bordering on racist?”
• 8). You can take all the time you want reading each one.
• 7). Because when I said, “That wasn’t at all funny.” Toby Joe said, “Why don’t YOU try and do better.” And I said, “OK. FINE. I WILL.”
• 6). Two Words: BROOKLYN REPREZENT.
• 5). I’m on the first day of my period. So if folks know what’s good for them, they’ll agree. Mine IS better.
• 4). It’s 8:19 AM and I have 10 minutes to write this list before I have to leave and make a lot less money than a team of writers working for The Late Show with David Letterman
• 3). I can CBS when it’s obvious.
• 2). Ass. Boobs. Ashton Kutcher. Britney Spears’ vagina wedding. Bush. Evil. Poop. Penis. Teenage girls. Viagara free tampon insert.

• 1). This one goes to 11.

link to this post.

This article has to be one of the funniest things I’ve read in quite some time. Make sure to click the links, or you might miss this one, for example.

Yesterday, Soung, Kim and I met at Enid’s for brunch. The three of us are Penn State Graphic Design alumni. It had been nearly 4 years since I last saw Kim. Even though I don’t see her very often, she’s the type of person I feel privileged to know.

Kim works for a massive cellular phone company. Currently, she is heading up a new office in Sao Paolo, Brazil, flying back and forth between Brooklyn and there. She works within the user interface department, striving to make these electronics put to our ear every day easier to use.

Half way through our meal, she began to explain how much trouble she has separating work from life. She’s finding the task downright impossible to manage.

Thousands of people do this every day and I can’t no matter how hard I try.

After we finished eating we took a walk through Mccarren Park. We talked about the difference between our modern day problems and the problems we knew in college. I’m not sure if it’s the way she said it, or what she said. Perhaps it was all due to context, either way Kim said something that stuck with me.

I keep the New York Times on my desk and when a vendor insists on having their logo on our cell phone and I start to get worked up something small because they’re getting worked up over something small, I’ll look over at the paper and read that 40,000 people died in Pakistan.

It was at that moment, the mid-day sun shown brightly through the leaves and pressed hard against my skin. The air moved in around us to get closer to the thought. It held on steadily to the words, and carried them without the aide of wires, satellites, or records. And I stood there, interfering. I stood there without much purpose or meaning, an obstacle whose only real purpose was to get in the way.

Tomorrow, Toby Joe, Gerry and I are going to see My Morning Jacket at Webster Hall. I’m going to try and talk them into carving pumpkins as well. Though, that might have to wait until this weekend. The new My Morning Jacket CD called Z is really amazing. Everyone should run out and buy it today. On Thursday, we are going to see Death Cab for Cutie at the Hammerstein Ballroom. That CD is also pretty amazing, although, there is one song I could do without. The one called “Someday You Will Be Loved” makes me feel very uncomfortable. “Uncomfortable” as in an someone unwelcome touched a no-no spot. I forward it every time it comes on.

Later this month and on Halloween, The Mountain Goats are playing. I can’t seem to get enough of this guy even thought he made me cry this morning on the L Train. And that wasn’t the first time, nor will it be the last. For those unfamiliar with his music, he tends to sing about his stepfather who was not only a drunk but extremely abusive. The CD is, at times, is downright impossible to listen to. But I love it, all the same.

I’m curious. What is it you’re listening to? What was the last song you heard?

Soung just left. Sometimes silence is so loud.

Katrina’s name came up over the weekend. And seeing Soung again brought back the cold reality that I won’t ever see Katrina again. I hadn’t realized how much I link the two of them together. I met Soung because of Katrina. Had that not happened, my life would have been so much different in so many ways. For starters, I never would have been a graphic designer. Everything would be different. Everything.

It’s hard seeing Soung without remember those days. And those days are so connected to Katrina. Knowing that I live in a world that no longer includes her, makes me feel so heavy. And I feel so empty as I realize this over and over again.

In spite of all this bloody rain, I have had the best day. Nico, George, Jocko and I went to an art exhibit featuring the work by Jocko and Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth fame. The exhibit is up for another couple of weeks. If you’re in the area, check it out. I’m seriously considering buying this piece by Jocko. We’ll see.

After that, we continued on to the Met to see The Perfect Medium: Photography and the Occult. It’s spectacular. I think it runs through December. Again, a must see.

I’m home now, picking up our tickets to see the Moscow Cat Theater in Tribeca, which I conveniently left on the refrigerator behind the state of Utah back at the house. I’m soggier than ever, but ready for round two. Soung arrives in a few hours. Not sure what to expect from tonight.

In other news, my lovely husband felt badly for me on Thursday and made a trip to the Apple Store in Soho.

Meet Nano Negra.

It’s been here for a day and already it’s wearing cat hair.

Tonight, both Nico and George are coming into the city to see Antony and The Johnsons at Carnegie Hall. I’m going to try and see it with them, if there are tickets still available AND I can leave work in time to get there. I have two phone interviews scheduled for tonight so we’ll see. I might have to skip this adventure. Either way, I get to hang out with them and stomp around the wet city tomorrow as I took the day off. We’re going to have lunch here and who knows what else will happen.

Tomorrow night, Toby Joe and I are going to see the Moscow Cats Theater at the TRIBECA Performing Arts Center. I read a review of it yesterday that had me laughing. Here’s my favorite part:

But some of their routines go nowhere, and the Act I finale, in which two clowns dressed as giant elephants murder the main clown (for reasons I cannot fathom) is not just bizarre, it’s deeply disturbing.

I hate clowns. They frighten me. But I love cats. Which is why I purchased these tickets.

Right after we’re finished watching a bunch of Russian cats do weird shit, my Dearest, Soung, arrives. And I think there’s some billiard time scheduled. I’m sure Toby Joe could use it after the week he’s had.

In a few weeks from now, Mike and Dee arrive all the way from San Francisco. This will be their first time in the city. I can hardly wait. (If either of them read this, hopefully, they will send me a link to their latest and greatest Web site.)

Last weekend, I finally got to see Miss Mia. This weekend, Soung, Nico AND George. I love friends.

On Monday night, I was chatting with my brother on AIM about Jesus. We were both inspecting the Alternate Side Parking Calendar as currently we both have cars and I have received two tickets for forgetting to move mine. Plus, Ryan often drives around for a half an hour looking for a spot. He’s getting tired of it. Since Monday was a holiday and we were both quite pleased about not having to move our cars, Ryan wanted to check to see if there were any other holidays coming up. Together, we discovered that Yom Kippur is this Thursday. That’s 4 days we won’t have to move our cars. Rejoice, for not having to look for a new parking spot is something I do consider a holiday.

“Immaculate Conception” caught my eye right away. It would appear that Jesus was a three-week-old fetus when he was born. And that’s a little crazy. It’s no wonder many Catholics are against abortion. When you have the Son of God conceived immaculately and then born three weeks later, I’d say that’s one Extreme Fetus. I will never ever doubt the potential second coming of Christ ever again.

“Solemnity of Ascension” stole my eye right after I got over Jesus’ gestation period.

Holy crap. It took Jesus 40 days to get to heaven. It took Jesus longer to die than it did for him to be born. No wonder he was sometimes cranky.

What did he do for 40 days?

Maybe he looked for parking.

Without missing a beat, which is why I love my little brother, he answered.

It can’t be that crowded up there yet.

But Jesus isn’t why I’m writing today. I’m writing about an entirely different man—a mere mortal. A man who, for some, is Jesus-like. At the very least, he’s worshiped.

Right after we moved on to Purim (which I am still unsure about) Ryan starting writing in obscenities. Not only were they obscenities, but also they were of THE ALL CAP VARIETY. At first, I thought maybe he was suddenly overcome with Jesus and began writing in the heavenly voice referred to as “Tongues”. Who knew Tongues would sound so sinful?

Do you think you’ll get anytime at work tomorrow? I just realized something is taking place that I can’t go to.

I wish. I’m not so sure. It’s been unbelievable busy lately. I can barely eat. Why? What do you need?

That’s when he told me about Robert Jordan who, up until Monday night, I hadn’t ever heard of before.

[Chapter 2]

I tromped through the rainy streets of Midtown in search of a Barnes and Nobel that apparently just opened on 46th and Fifth. With me, I had a printout holding Robert Jordan’s name and the title of his latest novel. “Book Eleven?” I thought to myself. “How is it someone writes 11 books and I hadn’t ever heard of them before?” I wondered what he’d look like. I wondered if he’d be wearing a trench coat. I wondered if he’d be wearing pewter.

I walked into the bookstore and was immediately greeted by a small Asian man holding a stack of white flyers.

Are you here to meet Robert?

Yes. Yes, Robert Jordan.

Head to check-out. They have the books behind the counter. After you’re done, head upstairs to the second floor. Mr. Jordan is up there.

I purchased to book and headed upstairs where I was corralled through a maze of fiction novels. I called Toby from on line to see what sort of pranks we could play on Ryan when I pretended I didn’t come through.

You should buy the wrong and worst fantasy book and forge his signature. Give him that one first.

What? Like a Danielle Steele novel?

That’s not fantasy.

That depends on who you ask.

I hung up with Toby Joe because I felt bad for breaking the silence. Everyone around me was oozing with nervousness. My words were stirring it up like stomach bile, digesting whatever tranquility was left.

The guy in front of me was short. He wore a plaid shirt and was really into the new book. He inspected it above his thick glasses. I could feel the excitement rising off of him. The guy in front of him was nervously shifting from one foot to another. He was next. I could see him about to implode. For a minute, I thought he might faint.

As I rounded the last bookcase, I finally got a glimpse of Robert Jordan. He didn’t look anything like I imagined. He was tall, skinny, and probably in his 60s. He had a beard and mustache and wore a pair of glasses. He looked like a professor. He looked kind.

A man who had just received his signed book asked to have his picture taken. He was grinning from ear to ear. Robert obliged. The Asian man two people in front of me, the same one who was shifting from one foot to another, wanted to know why Robert chose to kill a certain heroine and if she was really dead at all. I had no idea who or what he was referring to, hell, there were 11 books to choose from. But I did know he’d leave without his answer. Sophia won’t ever tell us what Bob whispers to Charlotte so I knew that Robert Jordan wouldn’t answer this man no matter how many ways he asked the question. There are certain mysteries that shouldn’t be translated.

I’m not sure if airborne nervousness is contagious, but suddenly it hit me. What was I going to say to this man? Would he quiz me? Would he know I was there ONLY For my brother? What if he refused a signature calling me a poser? What if he hates me? Oh dear God, what if he hates me.

It was my turn to meet Robert Jordan.

A woman took the book and prepared it for him. She took the cover flap and folded it over the publishing information. She gave the book to Mr. Jordan. I stood there, frozen. Mr. Jordan signed and then closed the book and handed it back to me.

Thank you very much, sir.

The pleasure is all mine.

For reasons I am still unsure of, I actually bowed. And the only proof I have lies within a bunch of curved lines that make up symbols which make up words laid down in permanent ink.

Toby Joe and I met four years ago today. I just got a HUGE bouquet of roses delivered to me at work. Most of the women here are shocked.

Wait, a man sent you flowers on the anniversary of the day you met? How on earth does a man remember that?

I’d like to think he remembers the day we met because I’m the best thing that ever happened to him. But I know I have that in reverse. You see, I am really, really hard to deal with. I am even harder to live with. And for the life of me, I can’t seem to change that. It’s in the genes of all Wojick women. We drive our men just crazy enough to not remember to leave.

I know there are times I take The Beaner for granted, but the truth is, I can’t imagine my life without him. And I do hope that he outlives me, because the day I stop waking up with his legs strewn all over my body because he’s part spider is a day that terrifies me.

(I love you, Beaner. I really, really do.)

Last night, while riding the MTA home, I was pondering some of the most brilliant questions I have ever had.

Who do you think would win in a fight?

VerizonMan?

Or SprintMan?

My money is on SprintMan. The trenchcoat is a much tougher jacket choice than the mechanic’s jacket. And monkeys are cool and all with the poo-flinging, but weiner dogs? Weiner dogs are awesome. I have a feeling SprintMan could sway Mrs. Zeta Jones into joining him in that trenchcoat. Sidekick, indeed. However, if Vader shows up, we’re all screwed.

If SprintMan could use Cingular man as a weapon, his chances are even better. He’s kinda shaped like a throwing star drawn with pasta noodle.

I’m betting on SprintMan. Final answer.

Some of you might remember the “Cool Props” series I started this summer. I cracked up this morning when I discovered that two of the windows I took pictures of a few months back are without AC but the props remain.

BEFORE:

AFTER

BEFORE:

AFTER:

They’re duct taped. Funny.

See the rest by clicking here.

I love how Microsoft is coming out with their new platform, Microsoft Vista, and they’re all excited about the universal search function that allows you to search words within documents as well as documents no matter where you are and what you’re working in.

It’s kinda funny they are making a big deal out of this considering Apple users have had this option for at least a year. Spotlight has enabled us to do this since Tiger came out.

Last weekend, Toby Joe and I spent hours trying to figure out a way to record cell phone conversations for a project I am currently working on. We knew we needed a recording device, a cell phone that isn’t dependent entirely on Bluetooth (which is what I have), and a splitter to run one cord from the phone to the recording device and one to an ear piece so I could hear and speak at the same time.

Now, one might think that recording a cell phone conversation would be easy given modern day technology. I mean, we’re attempting human face transplants, men are living in space, and Michael Jackson is walking free. But it’s not that easy. And it’s downright impossible if you have a Bluetooth enabled device such as the Razr like I have. Impossible.

We researched everything. We tried pairing up my Razr, its wireless ear piece and the xhead recording software. That didn’t work. The computer could recognize them both at one time, but they couldn’t talk to one another if that was the case. So, basically, you could record your own voice via your ear piece but NOT while on the phone. Why anyone would want to do this, or need to do this is unknown to me at this time. But I’m sure there’s a need for everything.

We also tried pairing an Griffin iTalk – iPod Voice Recorder with Toby’s cell phone, my iPod, an earpiece and a splitter. This proved most interesting.

This not did this technique NOT work, but it completely destroyed my iPod. As I tried to record a conversation from my cell phone to Toby’s, I noticed that my iPod battery went from completely filled up to nearly dead in a matter of 15 seconds. “Huh. That’s odd.” I thought to myself. “Recording something on an iPod must take an awful lot of processing power.”

Wrong. It was literally frying the poor bastards brain. And I think, though I can’t be sure, it was doing so because it was trying to send and record and receive in one continuos loop. But I can’t be sure of that because I’m a moron when it comes to this sort of thing.

This is the second iPod in 1.5 years I have destroyed in some totally random manner. The first one met its demise on a treadmill, this one, via the hand of a voice recording device. My luck with these bitches is really awful.

Or maybe this is iGod’s way of handing me a Nano. Either way, I am now using Toby Joe’s shuffle. It works. I can’t complain. I haven’t destroyed it yet, that’s something.

In the end, I purchased this wireless phone recording controller and a Olympus Digital Voice Recorder. I hook Toby Joe’s phone up to the controller, the headpiece to that and the recorder as well. This way, I am able to hear, talk and record at the same time. The only annoying this is, it’s not in stereo. But I am told this is something I can change once we begin editing.

Sometimes, modern day technology is much more difficult than its acclaimed simplicity.

As an aside, I’m happy to say that the interviews are moving along quite nicely. I received more names over the weekend, thank you all. I’m still looking for more names on the list. If you know of anyone please drop me a line.

It’s been an amazing week and I can’t wait to write more about it. I’m learning about myself, some of the people who read my site (I gotta tell you, it’s amazing putting voices behind the folks who contacted me, truly amazing), and the answers to many of the questions I set out in search of. To the folks who have helped me and continue to do so; I am forever grateful.

A little over a month ago, I watched a bit on The Daily Show where Jon Stewart compared Lake George (the devastation seen in New Orleans) to Bill’s Monica Lewinsky. Not two seconds into the bit, my phone was ringing. I wrote about it. The following day, I tried to get an Anti-Bush T-Shirt through the doors of Comedy Central’s The Daily Show. I stuffed three shirts into a box and had a local NYC messenger PROMISE me he’d, at the very least, get the shirt to the front door. He did so. He even called me from outside. I didn’t expect anything to happen. And nothing has. But that’s OK. It was fun and the event broke up the monotony of my day.

On Friday evening, I got home and I had an email from Gina. Here is her email:

You need to send Kurt Vonnegut a Bush impeachment t-shirt immediately. He is on Public Television’s program NOW discussing his opposition to the war in Iraq and the general irresponsibility of the Bush administration and its politics and just finished making the statement that President George Bush should be impeached and the only thing left he has to do is have oral sex in the Oval office in order to be impeached or some such thing. This calls for a t-shirt!

I laughed.

It’s now Sunday. I just received another email from Gina. This one included his publisher’s address and a message filled with encouragement.

Tomorrow, I am sending Kurt Vonnegut’s publisher three Bush T-Shirts featuring Monica Lewinsky sucking the tip of Bush’s Pinocchio nose.

P.S. I have been keeping a running tally of how much these shirts have cost me. I think I am going to add a counter to the sidebar.

I just had a really good phone interview with a woman whose name is on my list. Dare I say I am becoming more comfortable with this in time? Maybe.

Thus far, I have conducted 7 interviews. And they’re getting easier. Now, I only get sick to my stomach as I’m dialing the phone and no longer a few hours before the call.

It’s no wonder I am forced to visit the Ass Doctor. I can’t even use a phone without beating my insides into a gelatinous substance.

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.

Have you ever wondered if you’re the Courtney Love in your group of friends?

Today, I have an appointment with my gastroenterologist. I didn’t really think much of it at first. I figured I’d go in, tell him a few things about my eating habits, my heartburn, and the side affects I have had from drugs like Prevacid and Nexium. But then Toby Joe told me that the doctor might like to stick a finger or two up my ass.

Woah. Woah. Wait. I didn’t sign up for that.

Well, he’s a gastroenterologist. That’s what he does. He’ll feel around and find out if things are OK.

But I thought that happened during the butt searching camera event. And I thought you were asleep. Why does he need to stick a finger up there today?

It’s not like it’s painful. He lubes. He’ll tell you to lie on your side and breath…

Stop. I don’t want the doctor to stick his finger up my ass. I didn’t agree to that when I made the appointment.

Well, I’m not sure what you thought you signed up for, but that’s what happens.

Apparently, at 1:45 PM, I set some time aside for someone (other than my husband) to stick a finger or two up my ass.

Back up… (ha!) I deal with a lot of crap (ha! ha!) at work. Some people think dealing with 350 meg files in Photoshop is quick and easy and can be pushed out (ha!) in less than 10 minutes. Some folks think that laying out a 32 page book in Quark can be done in a day’s time. Others think coming up with 10 to 13 logo designs will run them about 300 dollars. I deal with it. I’m loose (ha!) I roll with the punches. But I can’t imagine, even with all the medical school preparation money can buy, spending my day inserting my latex-covered index finger into a countless number of human rectums.

I haven’t even been there yet and already he’s my hero.

::bends over for the career master::

(ha!)

Edited to add: In honor of today’s post and all the butt talk, here is a free song. Bonnie Prince Billy, Rich Wife Full of Happiness. (My goodness, he’s wonderful, dirty and amazing.) A great song. Download it today!

So, the new (I think?) Sony Earbuds are not my favorite things in the world. As a matter of fact, I might go as far as to use the word “hate” near them in a sentence.

Holy crap. They suck. Just thought I’d share.

Last night, one of the people I interviewed was introduced to me by a woman named Nessa. She gave me some really great leads and I will probably spend hours/days/weeks thanking her for it. Anyway, as we were wrapping up the interview, Nessa’s contact said, “My goodness, you sound so much like Nessa.” And I went on to say how wonderful I find Nessa to be.

Today, Nessa put up a sample of her singing and speaking. And, I know we can’t really be the final judge on our own voices (especially recorded) but I get the strange feeling that Nesss’s contact is right. We really do sound strangely similar. For those who know me, hear it for yourself. It’s especially prevalent when she speaks at the end. Then again, it could just be me. (Warning: Sound.)

Last night, I began interviewing people over the phone for a project I am currently working on. I have conducted a few interviews (via email) and those worked out just fine. I plan on redoing them over the phone in order to record them as well. There are a few things I noticed about myself in the first go at it.

First of all, Last night I laid in bed until 1 a.m. playing back everything I said and how I spoke. I spent most of that time ridiculing myself, telling myself how awful I was and what I needed to do to make it better. I spent some more time thinking, “My God, you’re stupid. What were you thinking?”

Last night, I wasn’t far off from the skit on SNL featuring Chris Farley (may he rest in peace) who slaps himself in the head repeatedly letting himself know how stupid he is.

IDIOT!! That was so stupid! What a dumb question!!

That was me.

Lately, I have been trying to figure out why I am so insecure and why I constantly second-guess myself about everything I feel passionate about. I put down what I believe is a good idea or what I, at the very least, feel is worth exploring. It’s really annoying. I’m really annoying.

Toby Joe is becoming more and more frustrated by this habit of mine as he’s the one who is constantly having to reassure me that what I’m doing isn’t, in fact, stupid. He can say it over and over again and most of the time I’m just waiting for him to finally say, “Yeah, that’s pretty dumb. Stop doing that.”

GOD! That sounds stupid! God, I’m an idiot! I never know how to start these things!

I am totally enamored by people who are able to really believe in themselves. I’m completely envious of those with a visible ego. And I’m not sure when I destroyed my own, but I’d love to have it back again.

And then I think is doubting oneself the most egotistical thing one can do? Am I, in fact, so egotistical I need to tell myself how downright stupid I am? Where was I before I got to here? Who is this egotistical person I am so mean to and why?

I know what I am currently working on is perfectly wonderful because it has to do with people and people are fabulous. I love their oddities, the things they talk about, the things they hold sacred, the words they use to describe what they love. I have to keep sight of that, otherwise, I’m in for one heck of a bumpy road where I spend most of the time trying to kick myself out of a moving car.

GOD DANGIT! That sounded stupid! I knew I’d screw up!

(No. No it’s not stupid. Shut up.)

I am beginning phone interviews today. So, if you received an email from me sometime last week, expect a phone call from me as early as this evening. I will continue through the next couple of weeks, weekends included.

This morning there was a dildo riding a SEGWAY on the elevator. I’m sorry, did I just say “dildo”? I meant perfectly able rich man.

He’s now second in line in receiving the award for the biggest ass. The contender is still somewhere in San Francisco. This gent rode his SEGWAY around the grocery store and once he reached the check-out line, proceeded to put it into reverse over and over again all the while running into the walls making up the isle. Eventually, he got off, turned it manually, and pushed it through the isle.

I silently judged him. To be honest, I am not sure why SEGWAYS bug me so much.

On Friday, Toby Joe and I went to Enid’s for the one and only Brooklyn Loves NOLA benefit. Originally, we were just gonna pay our entrance/donation fee, have a drink, and then leave as we’re not much into big crowds and the place was packed. Instead, we had the most excellent evening, sharing drinks, and smiles, and laughs with some of the kindest people of Williamsburg.

I feel like I’m in Athens. This feels just like Athens.

I know! Isn’t it great? The bar reminds me very much like New Orleans as well. And everyone here is so pleasant and happy!

My friend, Matt, (who I met through ginar) helped put it all together. He’s also how I heard about it. They had a New Orleans style jazz band whose name I am unsure of. But what an ensemble! There were about 8 of them. There were horns, and trumpets, tambourines, tubas, things I can’t describe, and trombones! It was incredible. Plus, there was this most adorable girl whose job it was to SLAM two cymbols together, on the floor, in the air—she stole the show.

Toby Joe and I paid for the 2 Drink/All-You-Can-Eat special which came with two raffle tickets as well. I stuck a purple feather behind each of our right ears and we sipped our drinks, smiling from one ear to feather. I talked to Matt for a while and met his new(ish) boyfriend. I also gave out several free Bush T-Shirts which were a hit and all I had to do was lay them out on the table and people came to me. The whole evening was amazing.

And then the raffle came. And, well, I won. Here’s an early morning question for the Internet. Out of the five items below, which prize did I win?

• 1). Sexy Underpants
• 2). A bottle of wine
• 3). Hair Highlights at an uppity salon
• 4). An Eno Indie Rock ‘Goody Bag’.
• 5). 30 dollar Gift Certificate to Play Video Games at Barcade.

Indeed.

Events like the one we attended on Friday night restore any faith I lose in humanity while riding the MTA to and from work every day.

If you contacted me regarding the first name request and you haven’t heard back from me, please let me know. If you happen to have missed that bit, and you share a name with one of the names from the list below (or know someone who does) please email me at michele at mihow dot com. If you’re one of the people I have already spoken to, thank you so much.

Audrey, Agnes, Anita, Allen, Alicia, Andrew, Allison, Betsy, Beulah, Bob, Connie, Carla, Cleo, Carol, Camille, Celia, Carmen, Cesar, Charley, Diane, Donna, Dora, David, Diana, Edna, Eloise, Elena, Flora, Fifi, Frederic, Fran, Floyd, Fabian, Frances, Gracie, Gloria, Gilbert, Georges, Hazel, Hattie, Hilda, Hugo, Hortense, Ione, Inez, Iris, Isidore, Isabel, Ivan, Janet, Joan, Juan, Jeanne, Klaus, Keith, Luis, Lenny, Lili, Marilyn, Mitch, Michelle, Opal, Roxanne

I realize this is getting annoying and won’t ask again.

They are called Soft Paws and the first time I saw them I almost went apeshit on the person whose cat it was because I thought she painted her cat’s toenails. Ummm, no. They are glued on, Lee Press-on style. (The glue smells the same and everything. Not that I would have any way of knowing as much…) They supposedly stay on for three months. (That was never true for the human ones. We’ll see.) Schmitty has already pulled off two. Tucker doesn’t seem to care one bit.

Tucker’s are blue.

Schmitty’s are pink.

I’m still not sure about them. I put up some resistance at first. But the Toby Joe really wants to save our new rugs and couches and whatnot. I agreed to give it a shot.

We didn't DARE mess with Pookum. She'd kill us in our sleep. But she usually only scratches in the designated scratching areas. We'll see how it goes.