A year ago today I was offered a job. Oh how I wish I could say the same about today.

Here are some of the images I developed last night. This roll wasn’t very exciting. Ah well.

SANDWICHES!

A pullout couch on the side of the road. Meeker Avenue, Brooklyn.

Our view of lower Manhattan from the fire escape.

Upper Manhattan.

My sweet mother. :]

My taller than me little brother.

Yesterday, I attended an all-staff meeting at the bar. My boss (we’ll call her Lucy) arranged it so that we could get any problems and/or concerns out as well as tell her what she needs to purchase to make our jobs easier. I gave my two cents and so did everyone else. Lucy mentioned that two of the gals wouldn’t be attending the meeting because they were at a funeral in New Jersey. Apparently, a regular, and an ex of one of the girls, nodded off in his apartment while high on heroin and burned himself to death.

The mention of nodders drove the meeting in an entirely different direction. One of the veteran bartenders voiced his concern about the rise of heroin use in the area. Apparently, there are several people who like to come in and nod off in the bathroom or at the bar while sipping coffee. But no one sounded more intriguing and scary than a person known as “The Ghost”.

The Ghost is a kid who was actually IN the movie Kids. He is around 25 now and is a full-time junkie. He’s harmless - more or less - and he’s known for sneaking into bars in the area and stealing whatever isn’t nailed down. Most recently, he stole the plunger from the bathroom. The hell?

The Ghost has been told over and over again he isn’t welcome. Ever. But apparently he still sneaks in and will attempt to steal whatever he can get his hands on. The turntable needles are no longer with us. I imagine they were sold for a few bucks on the nearest corner. I’m assuming the movie Kids didn’t do much for his acting career. (Oh how I hated that film. But that’s a story for another day.)

There are others, too. But I won’t bore you with the details surrounding the Brooklyn heroin population. I just never knew it was so prevalent! Today I thought about the women I work with and how awful they must feel. I thought about all the folks who live in the area and those who frequent the bars. Most everyone I work with lives within walking distance. Most of our patrons are locals as well.

About a week and a half ago, during that hellish ice storm, sirens streamed past my kitchen window up the boulevard behind our apartment. I noticed fire trucks and police cars, ambulances and more fire trucks. I remember thinking, “Someone is in trouble.” And then I continued cleaning.

The next day, my brother called to say that a house that lay between our two apartments had caught on fire. The sirens I heard were on their way to douse that same fire. The top floor apartment burned up completely but the firemen were able to put it out before it hit the other floors. The house was damaged so badly, that all the other residents were forced to find new places to live. And more recently that house was brought to the ground entirely.

I can’t help but wonder if I saw was the same fire that claimed that kid’s life. It’s as if I need to know that my imagination isn’t correct in thinking that the world is indeed that small and predictable.

Lastly, I’d like to think that if someone I knew was in trouble and giving their life up to addiction, I’d have the power to stop them. But I realize how naive that is. I’d like to think that I’d tie them up and lock them in a room until they are free. I know that isn’t possible. I know it isn’t that easy. Still, that kid had a mother. He was once a little boy. And somehow, just knowing that affects me greatly.

Go here and look around. They’re nice guys who take pretty pictures. Plus, Ian got Toby into photography. That’s a good thing.

I finally broke down and did what every other Internet person is doing; I added Google ads to mihow.com. I feel like such a hooch. Let me know if anything looks weird.

I worked at the bar last night and slung booze to Williamsburg hipsters, my husband and his friends. And I’m tired today because of it. After I finished up at work, we headed to a place on Grand Street called Bar Bar. I’m not sure how it stays in business. There is no sign. There is merely an unmarked door. The bar is really nice! But how on earth do folks find it? It’s not an establishment one stumbles on, that’s for sure. I guess that’s their point.

Go halfway down the block. It’s before Food Swings and after the dumpster. There, you will see a door. Enter that door. Walk down a long hallway. You will feel like you’re breaking and entering. You are not. Continue on and you will see another door. Enter that door. We’ll be in there.

It’s not a place I’d have entered alone for the first time. I can’t even find a link to it, that’s how “unmarked” the bar is. Nevertheless, if you’re in the Brooklyn area, check out Bar Bar. It’s a really nice place and they have an outdoor deck for smokers built right into it.

EDITED TO ADD: Apparently, one of the guys we were with last night had his bag (which included a laptop) stolen by the bartender who worked at Bar Bar. He is certain an employee (or one of the employees two friends) stole it as we were the only people in the bar besides them. Must BANZOR the Bar Bar. (AKA Larry Lawrence.)

Speaking of Food Swings, I had their fries last night. For those of you interested in vegan fast food, I highly recommend checking out Food Swings. While you’re eating, be sure to keep an eye out for any stray nose or eyebrow rings. No, seriously, their vegan chili cheese fries make me salivate just thinking about them.

O.K. I’m sleepy today.

It feels very much like spring outside.

Oh, and most importantly, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM! (The tape I made of this week’s Desperate Housewives will arrive tomorrow.)

I hope they’re charging enough for this sandwich to pay for the future settlements.

On Saturday night, Toby and I met up with some folks we’ve known for years. A friend of ours, Jessica, was visiting from Seattle. Which basically just means an excellent reason to go out and spend cash. And it was well worth it, too. But I have to say, I was so disappointed that neither Toby nor myself brought along a camera, but Jon did. Jon took all of the images featured today. Enjoy the show!

First, we met at an over-priced bar called The Darkroom. The crowd there kind of sucked (in my opinion). And the drinks cost a bloody fortune. Everything other than PBR was outrageously priced. Maybe I’m used to Brooklyn booze prices. Who knows? Either way, crossing the river drives the prices up a couple of dollars. Damn you, Manhattan.

We decided to leave The Darkroom. I’m not sure whose idea it was, but somehow we ended up at The Slipper Room where we watched a giant gay bunny with a microphone make fun of the crowd, a woman eat carrots on stage while naked, Elvis, and another woman dance for dollars. It was the show of the century. It was a great night in that Twin Peaks sort of way. We had such a blast. And I hadn’t laughed that hard in quite some time.

(Captions, if any, are below each image.)

Toby and I standing outside The Darkroom.

This woman started off the evening at the Slipper Room. Eventually, she took that little Bo-Peep dress off.

See?

Here is the giant gay bunny. He was hilarious. But I hear he had really bad gas. Well, someone there did.

Here is his tail.

And here he is smoking.

This is Jessica and I posing for Jon.

And this is Jessica and I acting something out. I totally don’t remember the story behind this but she looks absolutely terrified of me.

Toby, Ryan and me.

Adam and the lovely dancer. (Toby and I might pay Jon to make an actual print out of this. The image is simply wonderful.)

Elvis and some fan.

Later, we went to a place called The Hole. It was pretty much exactly what you’d expect with a name like “The Hole” (only minus the sexual connotation). Toby, Ryan and I didn’t stay there longer than about 3 minutes. We were tired and decided to call it a night. Which was probably a good thing, because I hear they were out till 8 a.m. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. heh.)

But before I left, I had to make a bigger ass out of myself. This is why I stay BEHIND the camera.

Jessica and Jason after we left. Cute!

Seriously, hanging out with those guys reminded me of why we need to make it out every once and a while. What a most excellent evening. Like I said, I hadn’t laughed that hard in ages.

I am going to try and do something with Pickle this year but today, I have to work at the bar. We’ll see what we can arrange while we’re visiting Coney Island tomorrow.

It’s lovely out today! And I have to work! Yay, me!

Is it possible to overdose on coffee? I feel sick to my stomach. How did I drink too much coffee? This is absurd. I’m shaking.

Thinking out write. Someone please help me.

Fire hydrants are all over the city, like little red pimples. And I noticed recently how I rarely notice them at all. I noticed them because one of them was wearing a hat and I thought, “That fire hydrant is wearing a hat!” and so I started to notice the other fire hydrants and how most of them weren’t wearing hats and I thought they might get a little lonely from time to time.

If a fire hydrant were to have a favorite season, my guess would be that it’d be summer. In the winter, they are surrounded by the solid state of what they hold. And I imagine that’s might be slightly torturous. In the summer, the kids come by and pry open their mouths, popping them like pimples. Suddenly, whatever tight stream of water they’ve been holding in for so long comes gushing forth like a gasp. While people frolic and jump and get all wet while they sit there feeling useful. I bet that’s fun for little kids. But what do I know? I grew up near country streams and these city streams seem different.

I imagine that they are red because that makes them stand out against nature and concrete. Plus, they need to match the fire trucks and the fire hats and look good against the spotted dogs. Fire hydrants serve a purpose. I guess that’s why they need to be everywhere. But not all of them get to wear a hat.

Just now, I began to wonder how many of them there are and what they’re made out of and how they’re made to stand tough through bad weather, hot weather, too. I bet one day future peoples and would-have-been firepeople who are surrounded by things that no longer burn will discover remnants of them and think, “What are these weird things they had back then?” And they’ll wonder why they were red and tough. And they’ll wonder why they had nozzles and what may have been inserted into them, you know, at one point in time. They’ll wonder about all these things, these practical things, but they won’t know that at one time kids used them to keep cool. And they won’t know that, at one point in time, one of them wore a hat and that I was its witness.

It’s good we keep notes. Documenting life is important. But I’m starting to wonder if we should keep different notes, not better ones, for who am I to judge what’s better. But if you take the pieces apart, even the ones you yourself dropped, and have people one day discover them, would you be pleased with their deductions?

I want my fire hydrants to have hats. And I want my summer peoples to wear wet smiles and I want to to build something bigger, sturdier and more vibrant out of now.

Leggs Luthor of the Brooklyn Bombshells wrote me today letting me know the NYC’s only All-Girl Roller Derby Season Opener is on April 1st. For those of you in or around the NYC area, we should totally go and watch her kick some ass. Yes.

Here is the information:

• April 1st – doors open 8pm, Game 9pm
• WHERE: Skate Key, 220 E. 138th Street in the Bronx.
• Take the 4/5 one stop out of Manhattan to 138th Street/Grand Concourse.
• $12 advance/$15 at the door. VIP and season ticket rates also available! Click here for tickets.

This is going to be totally awesome.

The roll of film posted below was shot as a test roll. I needed to make sure my camera still worked as the last roll of color film I had developed had some weird gradient coming in off the side of each print. (As seen in the image below.)

Toby insisted that I shoot a test roll just to make sure that my camera was still in working order. And it appears that the gradient was some sort of accident on the developing side. That makes me happy because I still can’t seem to part with my Pentax. This is the same camera I have used since I was 15. It got me through numerous photography classes and the PSU Design Program which was sort of like a three-year bootcamp. Photographics kicked my ass. Pretty much everything that is now done in Photoshop in under two minutes (laying out type, dodging, burning, etc) we did in the darkroom using Kodilith, a stat camera and film. That course was a butt-kicker indeed. I have grown very attached to my camera.

Anyway, here are some of the images from the test roll. (I hope they show up!)

(Captions, if any, are below each picture. All images may be enlarged by clicking on them.)

A couple at the Corner Market on Graham Avenue in Brooklyn.

Cement boy and his cement frog.

“Will be back Frankfurter Man. Jim.”

Toby Joe’s nose. Kate’s Joint.

Kate’s Joint, sans meter.

No Hope in Dope.

First Avenue Subway platform.

Schmitty and Tucker sleeping.

Bench Bondage on Graham Avenue. Why anyone might want to steal this bench is beyond me.

Cement boys fishing for wind-blown trash bags or BQE dirt.

Washi Hawt.

Kate’s Joint. Yum.

We launched yet another week of SPD. We have one more week of Email sign-ups and then we move entirely over the the automatic submission system Toby Joe so brilliantly wrote. I’m looking forward to that, too. :] Please, go visit them. Click on some of the faces you find interesting and say hello. (I have a few favorites each week but I’ll never tell.)

Last night, I developed a roll of black and white film. It was the first roll I personally developed in about seven years. I had a few frames to do away with before processing, so I thought a nice picture of myself wearing a green face mask might be nice.

It’s a good thing I don’t have this image in color. SK-AIR-EE. Go ahead, click the image above and see just how strange I look without eyebrows. (I’ll put up the rest later.)

I think I might submit this nasty baby to The Mirror Project as well and give Heather a real scare.

This morning, I woke up with a story to tell. But before I started to write, I checked my email. Charlie had written to say happy birthday to mihow.com. I had totally forgotten it was this site’s third birthday.

Happy Birthday, mihow.com. May you one day figure out why it is you haven’t yet been killed. Truthfully, I should have planned better for this. I should have made Internet cupcakes or something.

Either way, the first post I ever made can be found here. That page is literally falling apart. But the words are still there. I am pretty sure that the form is long dead and forgotten. And most of those links are gone, too.

I really have no idea what I’ve written that’s worth mentioning. All I know is I’ve done my fair share of rambling over the years. I would have liked to have chosen one favorite post or one I hated the most, but there is just too much gibberish to sort through. Truthfully, I am not sure what people enjoyed reading while visiting, or what they want to read for that matter. I don’t know what was fun, happy, sad, made people mad (well, that might be easy to figure out based on the email I have received and the comments that were left but who wants to be negative?) All that said, I have decided to put up some random posters that were created over the years. You know, sort of like those ridiculous montages they do at award ceremonies only not nearly as interesting and it’s not an award.

Without further ado, I give you, the internet, some old crap. (Comments, if any, are written ABOVE each image.)

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This was made for a girl who was having trouble with inter-office coffee politics and the fact that people were drinking hers all the time.

I have no idea where this image came from or why.

And apparently I had the idea of starting a line of mihow-drunk-smiley-face clothing.

Yeah, I’m going to hell for this one. This one was created after Nico said a friend of hers liked asian chicks because “their pubic hair is soft like rabbit fur.” or something.

No clue. Poor Andrea. Can you find it in my heart to forgive me?

An instructional someone drew for my dearest friend, Soung while we were slaving away on the Democrats’ campaign. You can read about that here.

I made this poster for a reason long forgotten. Yeah. Lesbians and soccer. No idea. But man did I receive a few nasty emails. I’m like, dude, I was gay in college! CHILL OUT.

This image was created because I can’t stand scones and I called everyone who likes them communists.

And that everyone should eat muffins instead of scones.

Man, apparently I really didn’t like scones.

Created for Nico. I have no recollection of the story behind this one. But ain’t she cute?

Made for Essl because I think he said something about peeing on someone’s head. And he likes Mr. T. Like, a lot.

This is me with Anne Heche. (See? I told you I was gay in that Anne Heche way, of course.)

This was made for Missy who said her water tasted bad one day.

Holy crap, I have wasted a lot of your time over the years.

Lately, I have noticed that there is something fishy going on over at NBC. First, there was Medium. And in the beginning, the show intrigued me. However, a few episodes in they started to lay down the pro-life/pro-death penalty, we all go to heaven, conservative stance. That’s when I got a little wary. It seemed sneaky and I turn off immediately when I feel that someone is trying to fool me into seeing it their way. I find it a little cowardly.

Now, they have a show coming out called Revelations. I haven’t seen it yet, so I can’t really say much about it, but the broadcasting direction they’ve been moving in leaves me wondering. This one seems a bit more “hit you over the head” Christian but I kinda want to know who might be behind it all of this and why I hadn’t noticed before.

Someone recently mentioned they felt the show 24 was also very conservative. I haven’t ever seen it, so I can’t be the judge of that. I am curious, however, if this is indeed true.

That’s not to say I am anti-Christian or that I feel they have done something wrong. What bothers me is I am left wondering if they are somewhat disguising their beliefs, and instead inserting ideas into shows here and there subtly. Or, have they jumped on a bandwagon having decided that following our latest election, America has enough conservative Christians and they’re going to try and capitalize on this niche? Either way, I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into.

Maybe I am just hypersensitive to this. And I’m not for a second saying there is anything wrong with this line of broadcasting. I do realize that it’s impossible to hides one voice entirely behind something they themselves create, but if someone at NBC is consciously moving their programming into a more conservative direction, I guess it’d be nice for them to say so.

Last night, while dreaming and still half awake, I woke Toby Joe up from an obvious slumber.

Take the money from the lens you almost bought me and buy yourself that camera bag.

Ohhhh hush.

O.K.

I rolled over and drifted off to sleep again.

There are 14 hours in the night for watching movies and sleeping.

What?

No answer.

What did you say?

I heard only the old familiar ringing from my left ear. What the hell did he just say? I couldn’t figure out what that had to do with a camera bag. What’s he building in there?

Are you asleep?

Silence. And so I began to count back from 8 a.m.

Here are some images I took this weekend while I was walking home from work on Saturday. It was just before nightfall and the light was nice. I like dusk sometimes.

(Click thumbnails to enlarge.)

Conflicted.

Meeker and Lorimer under the BQE.

Again.

Spattish men and twigs.

An old abandoned gas station hut.

A couple waiting for who knows what.

I love Brooklyn and all her piles of trash.

The images above were taken using the manual setting (RAW format) on my Canon. On Sunday, Toby Joe was sweet enough to replace my much needed Pentax K100 lens which lost a battle to a grain of sand in Turks and Caicos last year. The lens I replaced was a 35 mm. However, we ended up with a used 50 mm from B&H. I’m excited to start develoing film again. He’s been shooting black and white and are developing the negatives in our bathroom. I plan on joining him. It’s almost instant gratification and with a lot less frustration as I haven’t quite figured out how to use RAW images yet.

I worked brunch yesterday and when I finally returned home, my feet were killing me. I remarked to Toby how my feet never used to bother me when I waited tables before. Granted, I was 17 at the time, so maybe I’m just getting older and therefore less agile and sturdy. Either way, Toby Joe and I decided to stay in and make a good ol’ fashioned springtime meal consisting of potato salad, fake weenies, and some green beans.

While Toby slaved away preparing dinner, I flipped through our 400+ channels and decided to watch Fargo featuring Francis McDormand.

After Fargo ended, while Toby Joe was still slaving away in the kitchen and intermediately surfing the Internet, I decided to flip through our On Demand options. Somehow, I ended up watching Something’s Gotta Give featuring Diane Keaton and, the one and only, Francis McDormand.

This wasn’t consciously decided. I mean, I consciously decided to watch the movie, but I didn’t say, “Hey it seems like a Francis McDormand kind of day.” I didn’t even know she was in the movie. And I never really thought about watching Something’s Gotta Give. That pretty much means we’ve seen everything worth seeing on On Demand. (We’re all caught up, Time Warner, next, please.)

Somewhere in the middle of Something’s Gotta Give, someone gave me dinner and then someone ate. When the movie ended and we were finished eating, I began to flip through On Demand again thinking our selections changed in the past two hours. That’s when Toby Joe started to complain about how we pay for Netflix, yet we never really use it. This conversation began at 10 p.m. and so I put in Out-Foxed. Before the movie even began, we both decided Out-Foxed might be too heavy and we needed something more fictional. We took out Out-Foxed and put in Woody Allen’s, Manhattan (which I had seen about 15 years ago before my feet started to hurt) featuring none other than Diane Keaton.

Yesterday’s movie watching was unplanned and yet it came together rather nicely. It was sort of like watching someone’s life go in reverse on fast-forward (and vice-versa). It was probably the closest one can come to blurring 20/20 hindsight (or something). Truthfully, I haven’t figured out why it was perfect or even if it was perfect at all. In the end, I feel oddly comfortably uncomfortable. I feel a little weird. I feel like contradicting myself.

(I was so much older then. I’m younger than that now.)

And now I’m not sure what to watch.

When I was growing up, and someone would come into school maimed or a cousin would show up at a family gathering with a black eye or a facial bruise, I knew exactly what had gone wrong. Should my cousin have a minor concussion, I knew instantly what went wrong. I was an expert at these matters—the matters of rolling out of bed. In my world, rolling out of bed was the biggest fear for children. Adults had their lay-offs, hangovers and firings; we had our uninvited pool boners, our training bras and our rolling out of bed.

My cousins rolled out the bed constantly. And the boys had bunk beds so you can probably imagine the type of injuries they sustained rolling off a 5+ foot tall bunk bed in the middle of the night. Ronnie would hit the ground and wake up on impact, but not before, never before. Bed rolling was something to dread. It was something to fear. And I knew that, contrary to popular belief, the boogieman didn’t live under the bed or in your closet waiting to eat us, the boogieman slept next to us and rolled us out of bed at night all the while he was laughing.

Due to all the injuries my cousins sustained, I was terrified of rolling out of bed. I would have nightmares about it. I suffered from such a tragedy at least once a month. Some folks dream about falling from airplanes and cliffs, I dreamed I had rolled out of bed.

The other night, I was sitting around remembering the fear of rolling out of bed, and it occurred to me that I never once had. Not once, did I wake up with a carpet burn. Not once, did I break a tooth or fall from my nightly slumbering. I may grit my teeth and snore, but I don’t move very much. I’m just not a tosser. Perhaps the boogieman thought me stinky.

I no longer worry about rolling out of bed. The fear of such hasn’t crossed my mind in years up until last night. I no longer worry about getting some rug burn, or, in our case, getting clawed to death by a cat who happened to cushion the fall. Now, I worry about things like being able to pay my taxes, finding a good job, my friends and family, and being able to afford a house someday.

I put a call in to the boogieman and asked him to pay us a visit. It’s Spring, after all, and I’m tired of all this real worry. I told him that his visit is long overdue and he simply must give me something easy to dread, something humorous and youthful, something I can shake off in the morning when I brush my teeth.

I feel blah today. I feel blah because I was up late working on SPD and I kept Toby up, too. I feel even more awful because I totally didn’t add someone who was supposed to be added and instead pulled someone from the database thinking he didn’t respond in time.

While I have apologized to him, personally, I wanted to tell him publicly that I am sorry as well. Saadiq, I’m sorry. Next week, you’ll be first. Run along, now. Go visit Saadiq.

Yesterday, while stomping around the city with Missy, I purchased these shoes.

I love Earth shoes They feel wonderful. Run along now and get your hippie on.

Do you have any questions?

How is it that, up until this year (February, to be exact), I hadn’t ever heard of “The Bloggies” before? What cave have I lived in? These are rhetorical questions, by the way. I think I already know the answers.

Not that any of you thought I was joking about the chin and all.

Hey, you try cramming four people into a photobooth. :]

A couple of months ago, Missy came into town. We were out one night at Union Pool and the three of us decided to climb aboard the Photobooth and have our pictures taken. We piled inside. Toby was first. I was second. And Missy came in third. Armed with cash dollars, I began to straighten them in preparation for their journey into the machine.

Are you guys ready? I have no idea how long this will give us. Are you ready?

Giggles hit the back of my head. Laughter snorted from the left. I began to laugh.

No, really. I’m going to insert the money. Are you ready?

More laughter from the left.

Hold on. My foot is stuck.

And Toby didn’t say anything.

I began to casually fix my hair. I began to think of my chin. Sometimes, I have a double chin. I put my chin down a bit to make sure the double chin wasn’t in full glory. I hate my stupid chin. For not really having much of a chin, I sure pull out the chub on film.

Are you ready? I’m going to put the money in now.

I think I’m ready.

And Toby didn’t say anything.

I inserted the dollars into the machine. The machine sputtered to life after absorbing the money as if it were food. I could hear it preparing itself for work. “Soon, there is going to be a big bright light!” I thought. “BUT I DON’T KNOW WHEN, REALLY. Oh, this makes me have to pee. It’s like all those times playing Hide and Go Seek where you hid and instantly had to pee. OH THE ANTICIPATION IS KILLING ME.” Missy lost it. The laughter enveloped me like a cloud. I couldn’t help myself any longer.

CHOOUNK! SHUNK! A bright light hit our faces. This can’t be good. And Toby didn’t say anything.

Everything seemed to be open on my face. I was laughing too hard while desperately trying to look serious for this stupid Photobooth. It was like all those times back in school where the teacher asked me to stop laughing and I simply COULD NOT do it. I began to laugh harder.

I think my mouth was open.

I think mine was as well.

And Toby didn’t say anything. Was that someone’s knee at my ass?

I began to laugh harder. “Why can’t I compose myself right now?” I thought. “Why does the mere act of entering a photobooth make me snort with laughter.” Every image I have ever taken in a photobooth comes out strange because of the amount of laughter it induces.

I’m going to try and be serious. I’m going to stop laughing now.

Yes. Me, too.

And Toby didn’t say anything.

CHOOUNK! SHUNK! A bright light hit our faces.

That was better. I think.

I think my eyes were closed.

I decided to think of something else for the third one. “Think of the doctor’s office!” I thought to myself. “No! Think of the time you gave speech on The Evils of WalMart in college and your pants shook and the professor made you remove your change from your pockets before you could go any furt”

CHOOUNK! SHUNK! A bright light hit our faces.

Missy and I were still laughing. And Toby didn’t say anything.

A year ago today I didn’t post. Two years ago today I did.

Soon, I get to say three years ago today. :]

For days now, I haven’t been able to leave comments on any site hosted by blogger. Is it because I said I hated the word? Have I been shunned? Not that everyone is missing out on my life-changing commentary, but still. It’s frustrating.

I work at a bar in Brooklyn. Its decor is made up of a lot of pictures of naked ladies. I wouldn’t say it’s necessarily pornographic in nature (though, I guess that depends on our definition of pornographic). Its Russ Meyer meets Pulp Fiction meets Betty Boop meets a hundred girls with herstorys. (Put this bit of information in your pocket. You might need to reference it later.)

Many, many years ago, when I was 16, I dated a boy who was probably too old for me. I lied to my parents about his age and I feel the need to mention that so people don’t blame them for my poor choices and mistakes. I was raised quite well and, generally speaking, I was a good kid (I think.) But this guy was a real jerk. Out of the people I have dated, I have only dated two jerks. One, when I was 16 and another in my mid-twenties. That’s not too bad, considering my fondness for the troubled.

Let’s call old man, Mike. Mike was a jerk in every way. He loathed homosexuals. He hated authority. Banks were out to steal his money. He believed that if you agreed to become an organ donor, the police, should they find you after an accident, would let you die. He disrespected women completely, starting with his mother. He had very few friends. (I now understand why.) And while his musical inclination was downright amazing, that’s about all the good I can say about him.

We were together for just under 2 years. During that time, he did hundreds of impolite things. Innocence can make a girl overlook nearly anything. And somehow, I forgave him each and every time, including the one where he AND his best friend got sideways with said best friend’s girlfriend. I’ll call her Susan.

Susan grew up in our hometown. At the age of 18, however, she moved to the big city and hit the big time posing nude for the Penthouse Forum. (Her story stops here. I’d like to receive a PG rating for this post.) Susan, for lack of a better word, was a loose girl. Along with the number of boys she was sleeping with in the Centre County region, she had a number of New York Dolls, too. I met her only once. At that time she showed me her magazine spread. Sometime later, after I returned home to meet my curfew, a different spread was shown.

Susan, Mike and Mike’s best friend (aka Susan’s Centre County boyfriend—a boyfriend on certain weekend’s and holidays) did things. As one might imagine, getting it on with a Penthouse Forum model ensued a badge of bragging rights. And so the two bragged about it to other people. Eventually, word got back to me. We broke up for a month and then dated again for another 3 months. I then wised up and stopped speaking to him but only after punching him in the face in front of about 15 people.

Those were horrible times. I hope to one day forget about them entirely. But, for now, they make for humorous stories, stories that get better and better as I become older and older, stories that make me appreciate the boy I married more than words can possibly say.

On Saturday, I work brunch. Our brunches are very busy. By around 3 p.m., the restaurant dies down an I finally get to use the bathroom, eat something or just breath.

The bathroom at the bar is covered from floor to ceiling in old Pulp Fiction book jackets, images of big-breasted women torn from magazines, paintings of naked girls, illustrations of angry ladies, every inch of all four walls is covered in women. I sat down to pee. And that’s when I saw her. About 6 inches from the floor, to the left of a wastebasket filled with used tampons, tissue paper, and hand-towels, was Susan. And I laughed and laughed. I am still laughing.

I wonder where she is today and if she ever thinks of the time she unknowingly took a teenage girl’s innocence. I wonder if she remembers it at all. I wonder if she even knew. I wonder only a little bit and then I stop myself and think, “Oh thank goodness, Michele, you aren’t still so stupid.”

(Please note: The above title was supposed to be “When did you come out of the blog closet” but I am so irritated with the word “blog” and how it sounds, I have decided to stop using it.)

I get a lot of email from folks who take part in SPD asking me to change their name, or not say their name and where they live at the same time. Some folks have actually asked that I remove their information from our database altogether because, after some thought kicks in, they begin to fear the return of a long lost lurker, someone contacting them they no longer wish to speak with, or their employer finding out and firing them, Dooce-style. And each and every time I happily make the change without hesitation.

A few years ago, while Toby Joe and I were still living in D.C. a guy showed up down at the pool hall we used kick around in. I probably wrote about the place as much as we hung out there. For those of you who have been reading for that long, you will remember the place. And for those of you who have been reading for that long, my condolences to you and whatever sickness you have that keeps you coming back.

The first time the guy showed up at Bedrock, he said nothing. Instead, he stood there, at the bar, next to where we were all shooting pool and lurked. Come to think of it, I guess that was his thing, lurking. The next time he showed up at the pool hall he brought a friend for confidence. I was approached.

You’re mihow. You like Songs: Ohia. You work downtown. I know you.

I humored him with uncomfortable laughter and a few nods.

Yes, and how might you know all of this?

I asked him as if I didn’t already know the answer. I was probably drunk at the time. Who knows. What creeped me out the most about what he was saying, and the information he had was that it was coming from different places. He was mentioning things from here and Friendster. And that worried me because that put other friends at risk. (It’s like that HIV pyramid, only not nearly as life-threatening and serious.)

As he attempted to “get to know me” better, Toby Joe (who was standing right there each and every time) became more and more ruffled. This fella introduced me to his friend using another make-believe name. I greeted him, kindly enough, but not too kindly. Toby Joe, freaked out and annoyed by the whole thing, and rightly so, began to step forward. After a pool cue wielding sword fight, the guy finally got it and stopped showing his face.

A few weeks ago, a “real” friend of mine asked me some very strange questions.

Does having a blog ever creep you out? Do folks pretend to know you when they don’t? Do you get followed?

I was happy to answer “No” to all of her questions. There have only been a handful of times over the past three years where I could have felt “creeped out”. Off the top of my head, every time an Internet person has made contact, the relationship has ended with success. (It’s a really good thing I am not hot or at all popular.)

To be honest, I am more creeped out when I realize a tangible friend finds this site. There have been folks I know who have said things like, “I have been reading your Web site for months now.” or they hint about something I haven’t ever told them but they know because they lurk. That creeps me out a little bit, actually.

This morning I received an email from someone asking that I change his or her name slightly. I didn’t hesitate for a second. But it had me thinking about how things have changed around here over the course of three years. At first, I would use only mihow. I freaked out if someone mentioned my name at all. I remember getting upset with Toby a few times for using “Howley” in a sentence in the comments. He would have to delete it and correct it and all was safe again. And back then, boy did I ever bitch about work. I can’t believe the things I wrote about back then believing that no one could or ever would find me. Boy was I wrong. But that’s a story for another not so sunny New York day.

About six months ago, I started to come out of the closet. I began to use my full name and talk about my family members, friends and husband. While I’m still not sure this was a wise decision, it does keep me from stomping my angry ass up to the keyboard each and every day and writing about all the things in which I hate. Instead, I bitch about all the things I hate to Toby Joe every night. When your name is on something, you tend to think about it a bit more. Though, I’m not sure that’s a good thing or a bad thing. The jury is still out on that one.

My name is Michele. I live in Brooklyn. Toby is my husband. I started this Web site at 27 but I didn’t come out of the closet when I was 30. On March 23rd, this site will be three years old.

A friend of mine from college just returned from Sudan. Here are his photographs.

I saw J. this weekend. It’s been a couple of years. J. is wonderful.

As many of you already know, Self-Portrait Day was discovered by CSS Beauty yesterday. We didn’t even have to submit the site, it just appeared. When Michael wrote me to tell me that SPD was up there, I have to admit, I smiled. I was pretty pleased with this news.

Over the past 3 weeks, every time SPD has been linked from a message board, the main criticism I have received (or played lurker to) has been that the header is HUGE. (HUGE is usually written in all caps). And you know something? It IS huge especially given what users and creators are used to seeing on the Internet.

The site was designed and built in less than one week. That said, we weren’t able to go back and forth on its design and at the same time make sure everything still worked and Toby Joe had time to build it. All I was worried about at that time was making sure it was pushed live. After all, there were 21 people waiting on week one, should I go back on my words, 21 people could be pretty pissed off. Should I miss THEIR deadline, 21 people would turn into 42 people, 42 into 84, soon the ENTIRE internet would hate me and I couldn’t have that. Usually, when I say I’m going to do something, I do it, graphic design project deadlines included.

But now that it’s live and seems to be working (besides the fact that some folks don’t seem to be answering the questions or following ALL the instructions and that sort of saddens me. I guess, sometimes, I am actually a control freak.) we have noticed that there are design elements that may need to change.

Last night, after reading through the comments we have received via email, as well as the comments we have received after being linked to message boards, design forums, and photoblogs, I decided that I do need to do something about the HUGE header. I think Toby Joe summed up why, well. He said, “This site isn’t about SPD and the brand. It’s about the people who are featured every week. That said you really should try and push some of these portraits to fall above the fold.”

So we tried in the little time we had last night. It’s about 56 pixels smaller. That’s not much, but it makes a difference.

Some of the other criticism isn’t something I can fix. In other words, it’s criticism stemmed from one’s personal taste.

I have been a designer for so long. I have heard everything negative from professors to clients, from peers to online self-acclaimed wizards, to bosses, to people on the street, to unknowing guys name Steve or Jeff hiding behind HTML. But for some reason last night, I started to really think about what people were saying, criticism and all. I’m tossing and turning between “It doesn’t matter what they say. I can’t please everyone.” and “I want to make everyone happy because EVERYONE is who the site is for.”

I’m writing today to ask people for more feedback. I want to know if the site has done anything for you (if you’ve been featured). I want to know if you find the design bulky and ugly and WHY you find it to be that way or ways I might change it should my first question come back with a big fat YES. I want to know what your thoughts are on the way people are loaded as currently, since we’re still going by email submissions from the very first day, I am loading them in in the order I receive them. After that, I’m not entirely sure what we will do. I might have to play the roll of Almighty Creator and feature each row in a way that looks good.

I’m looking for constructive criticism. Let me have it!

(If you don’t like leaving comments, please feel free to email me at michele at this domain dot com.)

Self-Portrait Day was recognized by CSS Beauty.

That makes me very happy.

A friend of Toby’s was featured on All Things Considered recently. Sunny was born with a muscular disability and paints using her mouth. Her paintings need to be shared with as many people as possible. They are amazing.

When I was 19 years old, my girlfriends and I decided to drive Soung’s car down to New Orleans for Spring Break. It was to be Soung, Melissa, Katrina and me. We came up with the idea on a whim but that didn’t stop Katrina. Katrina took care of the planning. She figured out where we’d stay and what we’d do there. She mapped out our route and our schedule. She was like that, Katrina. She got things done, bless her sweet heart.

The trip was a success. Somehow, within four small days we managed to gain the experience we yearned for and returned home with stories to tell. We saw The Preservation Jazz Hall Band, we wandered Bourbon Street and had a few florescent-colored drinks. We saw hookers, above-ground graves, lilly pads, mardis gras beads, and almost all of the French Quarter. We sat along the muddy waters of the Mississippi River and watched the boats move to and from someplace different. We saw a homeless men masturbating and all of us shrieked in horror. Katrina organized a group dinner and half the youth hostel came together to eat. She had a way with people.

Last September, while I was in D.C. for work, Soung, Katrina and I got together and made a HUGE pasta dinner. It was just like old times again. The three of us sat there and served as witnesses to the one another’s history. We found ourselves reminiscing about the past. Of course, New Orleans came up and before you knew it, we were laughing like idiots, remembering all the goofy things that went on down there, such as our never-ending quest for decent food and Katrina’s ability to make friends with EVERY SINGLE person we came in contact with. We laughed about the “Bama” song we wrote while desperately trying to stay awake in order to abide by Katrina’s pre-planned driving schedule. We talked about the German tourist we met, the dancing bum, the farmer’s market and the coffee shop. It felt so good to be there. With them. Just so.

I will never forget that vacation. I will never forget the three people I shared it with. Those four days mattered more to me than months together have since. Those days were concentrate.

On Tuesday night, I got a phone call from Soung. I didn’t answer the phone because I was sleeping at the time. I didn’t hear her message until Wednesday morning. Soung sounded distraught. And as I write this, I can feel the regret more than I can the keys I use to type this. (I really wish I had answered the phone. I am so sorry, Soung.)

Katrina died. She is no longer with us. She died in her sleep.

Some people believe in God because of a dire need to give life reason. Others, believe that God just is. Their faith is that strong. The moment Soung said the words to me, I wanted God to exist. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to have someone to blame. I went from feeling pure hatred, to an unbearable sadness within a micro-second. I’m not even sure there is a word for the amount of time it took for my knees give way and my eyes to flood. How can a 35 year old woman just die like that? How long was she dead? Did she feel pain? Who was the last person to see her? Why did this happen? How did this happen? What happened?

I waited for something. Through my stupid cell phone, I heard Soung make a sound because neither one of us could really speak. It was then it occurred to me that after the words, “Katrina died.” she was going to follow them with “But she’s O.K.” I waited for her to say that to me. I’m still waiting for her to say that to me.

Katrina was a beautiful woman. She had a way of lighting up a room with her laugh and her smile. I know that’s what folks say about people when they die, but do I ever mean it.

Katrina was sometimes crippled by depression. Ever since I’d known her, she had some troubles, real troubles, the kind of troubles you really wish you had the power to remove from a person. Her troubles in college were different than they were more recently. It was later, once she moved to D.C., that the depression seem to take root and begin to grow into something she could no longer control or ignore. I imagine that when things were bad, she didn’t know that things weren’t always going to be that bad. (I feel badly even suggesting I know or understand any of this. But I feel better somehow writing it all down.)

In the winter of 2003, Katrina discovered mihow.com through my Friendster profile. We had been out one night and she told me she was on Friendster. Both of us had very few buddies. We laughed about it then. After she read my profile, she clicked on mihow.com. She sent me several unbelievable emails letting me know that she really enjoyed my site and found herself reading through the archives, sometimes laughing, sometimes feeling sort of sad. I wrote her back to thank her. When we saw each other a few weeks later down at the pool hall, she reiterated what she had said in the email. What she said made me feel so elated. I hope that I told her that. Instead, I probably shook it off because compliments make me feel uneasy. One night while we were all out playing pool, Katrina talked about her depression and how she felt sometimes. I remember selfishly thinking, “God, this woman is beautiful. I wish she could just KNOW that and be happy.” (How could I even begin to pretend I understood how painful her depression was? I selfishly figured that since I’d tasted my own before, I could somehow relate. All I knew that when it’s boastful, god damn is it ever crippling.)

I don’t really want to remember her like that. I want to remember her as the smiling Katrina. I want to remember the girl who could uproot your day and stomp on it with a steel-toed smile. I want to remember the girl who I drove to New Orleans with who, while driving along the dark roads of Alabama, was struck by the spontaneity of song. I am pretty sure that because of that night, our voices can still be heard by everyone. Because along with feeling sad sometimes, she was all things wonderful.

She was such a sweet girl. My God, will I miss her. My God, do I hope that Soung is O.K. because if I feel this bad, I can only imagine the pain she must be feeling right now. I wish I could bring her back. My God, I wish you would come over so I could scream at you. I hope that Soung is O.K. My God, I’m so tired of crying.

Goodbye, sweet girl. You will be forever missed and loved.

I know everyone has probably already seen this, but I am usually about 2 years behind the times.

This shit’s funny. Soung sent it to me. It made me laugh and laugh and laugh.

Good times.

Yesterday, the most peculiar thing happened. I was sitting here finishing up the calendar of events for the month of March for the bar I work for when I decided to apply to some full-time and freelance Graphic Design positions. Now, if that wasn’t peculiar enough, the act of searching for a new job, I applied to THREE, making my day even more peculiar. Here’s the deal.

Toby, bless his sweet heart, keeps telling me to keep up with the client work, continue to work from home and come up with more side-projects. While, I can think of nothing more appealing than continuing to live this way, I also get this fear from time to time that I need to carry my own weight. Hence, my recent stint with waitressing. Hence, the working for free for people all over the eastern seaboard. Hence, desires to come up with Web sites like SPD in less than a week. Hence, my writing here incessantly in search of a purpose. Hence, my applying to design jobs yesterday morning when I should be finishing up the (albeit free) work I do have. Hence, freaking out today.

Within the hour of my applying to said design jobs, I received a phone call from a man who needs work done IMMEDIATELY and who will pay my highest hourly rate to have said work done IMMEDIATELY. Basically, a designer he had hired created some of the ugliest design comps I have ever seen and he was forced to let her go instantly. My timing was great! He told me over the phone. But now he’s on an even tighter deadline. Who isn’t going to agree to that kind of scenario? I mean, I’m screaming for punishment. I dump stress into my coffee each morning.

Just when you thought you couldn’t get any busier and have little money to show for it, you get even busier. I just hope that this very kind and desperate man actually pays me. The last time I found myself in a similar position, that being the position where I was asked to “make things better” the client didn’t pay me. This was after he huffed and puffed over my (lowered) hourly rate. (I should have known.) To make a long story short, there’s a bowling alley in Manhattan who is on my list of places to peanut butter and jelly when I have the money to afford the sloppy prank.

What are you in for?

I covered the walls of a Mid-town bowling alley with Wonder Bread and peanut-butter and jelly.

I’m not sure how it came to be like this. While I realize graphic designers aren’t responsible for murdering folks with ugly design, I become so enraged when others lower the bar for those of us who actually enjoy solving visual problems and do it fairly well. What ends up happening is this:

Someone like this man hires a designer. He offers to pay the designer __ dollar amount for his or her skills. The designer shows the client a portfolio of work he or she probably didn’t create on his or her own. The client is happy! The client hires the designer for the requested amount. The designer takes a week to do something a seasoned designer could have created in one day and sends the client the first round of design comps. The client HATES the work. It looks nothing like what the client asked for and, more importantly, not even close to the caliber of work the designer showed during the initial meeting. The client is annoyed and stressed out and is now on an even tighter deadline. Once the client finds you, they are hesitant to hire you for ALL the work until you prove you’re capable of recreating what it is you’ve shown them. The client is wary of ANY designer’s skills from here on out. Hence, the standards are lowered. So the next time you say to someone, “My rate is 75+ dollars an hour. I am fast and good and, in the end, you will be pleased. I can assure you.” The jaded client then says, “That’s a little too much money for us.”

Please, if you’re NOT a graphic designer, don’t play one for the day. There is skill behind this. I assure you. From now on, I am ONLY applying to jobs where they’re INSISTENT the applicant has a BA in Graphic Design.

The cleaner must get to work now.