I haven’t felt super well lately and being out of work has my sleeping schedule totally messed up. Take this morning, for example, I woke up at 4 AM totally ready to go. Tobyjoe was already awake worrying himself over money. You see we have five birthdays in the month of December, including Tobyjoe’s. We have Christmas, our anniversary, and then my birthday. December and January usually a really rough couple of months. By February, we’re usually poor and cold.

I tried to calm him down about money, saying, “It’s just money! We’ll be fine. Don’t worry about money.” After that, I suggested we get up and go to the gym, a feat we’ve attempted six times since the Great Consumption of 2006 took place last week. We haven’t been to the gym once. (That’s not entirely true; we went on a tour last weekend of Maxim, a local gym in Williamsburg. But that doesn’t really burn much in the way of calories. We even drove there.)

I’m tired, which has me going to bed at 10 PM. And this would be perfectly fantastic if it weren’t for our bed. And that brings me to the point of my writing today, dear Internet, our bed.

Our bed, like, the actual wood that holds everything together is a mere 4-years-old. It’s in perfectly fine shape, however, it’s also perfectly small especially when you throw in two decent-sized humans and three, really fat cats. I can’t tell people enough how absurd our sleeping situation is. Most people nod about it, “Yeah, cats, they can take up like a few inches!” No. These cats, the ones who pretty much own the household, they take up half the bed and we don’t fight them on it. Tobyjoe and I usually sleep on top of one another, legs fall asleep, and arms become totally numb, legs cramp up. It’s awful.

Usually, I deal with it right up until about 3 AM. That’s about the time that I throw a temper tantrum. This includes rapid leg kicks and usually a really bitchy, devilish “uhUH!” or two. Occasionally, I’ll get up in a huff and stomp to the bathroom where I find solace and space atop the toilet seat. I always want to blame Tobyjoe, but it’s not his fault. No. The fault lies on creatures entirely fuzzier.

But, honestly, the bed’s size isn’t my main concern right now. My main concern is with the fact that our mattress is about 3 years past its prime. It’s about six-years-old and we bought it used from Toby’s friend, Matt. Granted, Matt had only had the mattress for a few months but still, it’s used. Twice. Plus, it’s been moved five times, twice across the country. It’s old and it has something against my back, not literally, either.

I’m terrified of bed bugs so that pretty much rules out buying anything from one of those places that picks your old mattress up and drops off the new one in its place. I have shared the subway with other New Yorkers, and while some of them are clean others are some of the dirtiest, grossest people I’ve ever seen. That’s not to say that bed bugs only know the filthy. Recently Maya Rudolph sued her landlord over a bed bug infestation in her 13,500-a-month loft. (The greatest tragedy here isn’t the fact that her baby got some bed bug bites; it’s the fact that someone who can actually afford a 13,500-a-month lease RENTS AT ALL.)

Bed bugs don’t discriminate. And neither do those NYC mattress pick-up/drop-off trucks. Plus, according to the 11 o’clock news, sometimes they sell you used mattresses and tell you they are new. I’m done with used mattresses. I’d rather sleep on the floor.

Last night, I finally had enough of it and demanded we buy a new bed. It’s about damn time, after all. Tobyjoe has been talking about a specific bed for a couple of months now. In fact, the last time he went to San Francisco for business he very nearly almost didn’t come home. We’re looking at buying the bed, the bed apparently better than every other bed in the entire world, the bed that the Westin Hotel actually sells on premises. (Incidentally, I wonder how many of their patrons actually buy the bed after staying there.)

Lately, I have found myself excited over the most mundane things. I got excited while shopping for pillows recently, comforters, and soap. Candles practically have me jumping and clapping. The idea of buying a new bed, and having it delivered, has me gleeful, like it’s holiday and I did something really good for a change.

Seriously, y’all, this post just won’t die. I came home last night to a retro comment from a gal named “Ashley” and one from Charlie (which made me laugh out loud). This time, I’m really asking. Why do you think that there are so many gals out there searching for “Expired Milk” or “Drinking Expired Milk” on Google? What is this fascination some have with expired milk and letting people know that they shouldn’t drink it?

I’d take it down, but it’s just too damn funny. Plus, all the girls have similar names, which is what I find most peculiar.

It’s been a crazy couple of weeks. And this Friday will mark week three I’ve been out of work, yet working (full time, for the most part) and a lot has taken place in that time. Forgive me, Internet, if I’m unable to speak about my personal life just yet. In good time, I freaking promise that I will. But for now, I’m going to probably come off as distant, scatterbrained, totally annoying, and most likely my blogging will suffer from the wretched half-assed disease. (Not that it’s ever not suffered from the half-assed disease.)

In actual news… I submitted two photos to JPG Magazine recently. This one is for Embrace the Blur and this one is for Intimate. If you like them, feel free to vote. If you don’t you should sign up because it’s a great site.

Edited to add: This video of Stewie is one of the funniest things I have seen in a long time.

Keith has been talking about Health Month since I met him. Health Month begins on January 5, 2007. You can read all about it here on Keith’s blog (incidentally, this is his first post ever and I won’t be surprised if it’s his last). I’m thinking about taking part in this as well even though it coincides with my birthday and every year on my birthday I try and eat an ice cream cake (with those chocolate crunchies and fudge) directly following the consumption of a massive pasta dinner (preferably one that includes lasagna or stuffed shells). Perhaps that will be my “Amnesty Day”.

The biggest question I have is if someone can actually give up smoking for an entire month (the first week is hard enough) why go back after the month is up? Oh, wait, this question comes from a girl who started again after a year the first time she quit.

Health Month anyone?

Last night’s Heroes was fantastic. I personally felt it was one of the most interesting so far. I’ve been patient thus far with the amount the hour-long tries to bite off and chew with each and every episode. They have a lot to get to. I understand that. But I’d be lying if I said that at times the bouncing around between stories and characters didn’t bug me a little bit in very much the same way rushing through a museum annoys me. But last night’s episode was different. I’m not sure if it’s because the actual story lines were richer in plot or if they were actually longer per segment, either way, at no point during the hour did I feel rushed.

The making of Sylar is fascinating to say the least. And I love that they’re sticking to the good old-fashioned recipe for making an anti-hero. Sylar can absorb powers. There’s one small catch, however, he must kill them first by opening their heads. And you’re made to feel a little sorry for him as if he’s suffering from a mental illness.

“You’re broken. I can fix you.”

Did Sylar know six months ago at the time he opened the first head that he’d be absorbing his powers? Or, much like Isaac’s heroin addiction, did he become an addict?

Was the cheerleader so important specifically because of her powers and if Sylar were to gain them he’d become immortal? Why was she the one who needed to be saved? And if her father removed her from the list six months ago how did Sylar find out about her?

I no longer find Eden annoying, quite the contrary. I’m finding her more and more interesting as the show goes on. And I’m not quite sure if she’s evil or not or if she once was and found her way with a little help from the Claire’s father. And if that’s the case, might he do the same for the lost and very angry Nikki?

Why did the politician fly from his car right before it wrecked? What compelled him to do such a thing? Did he control that? Did something (someone) else?

I have so many questions. I’ve only just begun to think of them let alone ask them. And I have no recollection of what I did on Monday nights before Heroes came along.

Seriously, Jen Hunter’s right, who would you rather snuggle up to?. Marianne Berglund looks like she was recently released from a concentration camp. Here is another article.

“Ms Hunter’s rival Marianne Berglund, 18, is clinically underweight. The judges have told her she has a ‘great’ body.”

I’m not even sure what to say about this one. And I’m hoping that someone tells me this didn’t really happen.

Missy came over for dinner on Friday night. She brought with her two bottles of wine and the New York Post she read on the subway. What more could a gal ask for?

Click here to see them all.

I saw two items on the L Train recently that amused me in one way or another.

This is the first one:

If you can’t read it, click here to view the larger image.

I saw this one while reading over someone’s shoulder.

Tobyjoe and I discovered Fairway this weekend. We took the Volvo to Red Hook and did a little shopping. We’re having some people over this Friday for a late Thanksgiving dinner and it was the only place I could find a free range, organic turkey for less than 70+ dollars. Plus, they have a parking lot.

I admit to being a little blown away by Fairway. And I’m not sure if they all look the same everywhere but I seriously doubt it. This one is in a massive, old warehouse and sits right along the East River. It’s totally different from any other grocery store I have ever been to. I think Toby put it well the other night when we were having a snack at Sweetwater with Missy, “It’s sort of like a movie set; you’re just waiting for the car to come crashing in through the walls and into the massive stack of fruit.” It looks set up, posed.

Fairway reminded me a little bit of New York City. It has everything you need but it also makes you feel a little uneasy. People were running around with one person in mind, themselves. It’s chaotic, loud, and a little frustrating. Plus, it gives the false impression that it’s tough.

There are days where I wonder how this city manages to function, stay together, work at all. It’s admirable that so many people from so many different backgrounds coexist in one place without killing one another. And I get the feeling sometimes that if one piece were to fail – if the trash men stopped coming, the MTA Mobile Wash Unit stopped dispatching their late night trucks, or if Starbucks ran out of coffee – the city would trip.

Each section of Fairway reminded me of the plethora of New York City neighborhoods. The produce section butts up next to the kosher meats; the meats are near the fish and self-serve, the fish near the coffee, and the coffee near the cleaning supplies. Each aisle and area has its own personality but when they come together it’s a little chaotic and you find yourself wondering how you got there and what insane person architected the whole thing.

I was standing among the apples trying to figure out which ones would work best for baking when a neighboring pear decided to step out of line and leap from its heap. It hit the floor with a thud and I immediately stopped breathing. There was a split second that it became abundantly clear there was a good chance all the pears will follow this lone pear’s rebellious tactic. There was a moment of terror that this one pear could be the pear that brought the towering pear display down entirely. I felt worse knowing I was the closest person to the lone pear.

Recently, on a Monday when New Yorkers are generally surlier than usual, there was another unplanned service problem that took place on the L Train. People became more and more agitated as the minutes ticked closer to 9, myself included. Finally, one waiting passenger began to yell. His voice rose. His faced turned red and the veins became plump with anger. He began to spit and yell. Most of us stood there wondering what he was capable of, just how far out of line he might get. Will he get others to react? Will this cause a miniature riot? Will things break down on the L Train? Will this guy cause a ripple on New York’s delicate social contract? Generally speaking, New Yorkers are far too overworked and exhausted to follow in the footsteps of any one rebellious pear. Plus, a single New Yorker doesn’t actually have as much power as this lone pear at the Fairway. We just don’t matter that much alone. We take solace in that fact.

The store and the towering food displays that line its aisles, feels even more fragile because of the constant flow of people and large shopping carts. I watched one cart drive directly into a row of olive oil, forcing one to the ground, which caused a major oil spill. And it was noon on a Saturday. And just like getting to the Upper West Side from Midtown in a cab during rush hour, everything backed up. People were visibly irritable and ready to take out whoever got in their way. It took me 10 minutes to get to the dairy section.

At the cheese counter we ran into a guy who wanted an extremely rare, Italian table cheese. As he tried to describe the cheese to the cheese guy, he kept using his hands and forming a round circle, touching pointer finger to pointer finger, thumb to thumb.

“It’s round. It’s soft. It’s a table cheese. It’s extremely rare.”

“I don’t think we have that, sir. But we do have other rare Italian table cheeses. Would you like to try what we do have?”

“No. Thank you. I want this cheese.”

New Yorkers are picky. They are picky on the streets when ordering their bagels and five-dollar cups of Starbucks coffees. They are picky about where they shop, where they live, and what newspaper their friends read. They are picky at Fairway when ordering cheese. And they don’t care if everyone else knows.

The New Yorker and the Fairway shopper know no shame. Couple them together and one must tap into one’s reserve tank of patience.

Sometimes, I come home after a long day and I realize that somewhere along the line I spent 200-dollars. I don’t have anything to show for the dark, cold hole in my pocket but I’m 200-dollars poorer than I was when I left that morning. Sure, there was that salad and sandwich I got from Wichcraft, and the macchiato from Oren’s, but I never actually bought anything that I didn’t consume. Where did all of my money go?

On Saturday, we left with about 13 bags of groceries. By the time we got to the checkout aisle, we had a cart full of food. It was overflowing, it seemed.

“235” I guessed.

“360.” He taunted.

“265.” She said.

It’s been a couple of days now and we’re trying our best to not spend a fortune by eating out every day, so we’ve been packing lunches, eating dinner at home, etc. And the strangest part about our visit to Fairway, and the part that reminds me the most of New York City, is the fact even though we spent all that money and had all those bags, we don’t actually have any food in the house.

I’ll go back. I’ll deal with the L every day as well and the traffic and the hole in my pocket. Every New Yorker justifies living here somehow. We have to. If we ever do stop buying into it, and give up all together, we might just be the one piece that brings it all crashing down.

Michael Richards, aka Kramer, lost it on Friday during a stand up comedy routine. He began screaming racial slurs after a two members from the audience began to heckle him. The video is really quite disturbing. Eventually, everyone got up and left. You can see the video here (warning, it’s loud and offensive) and read more about it here. It’s pretty safe to say that homeboy needs some help. Ten bucks says he checks himself in for alcoholism.

I already wrote this post and then I hit Command W on the wrong window and lost everything. Sometimes I wish Firefox asked a user, “Are you sure you want to do this?” Ah well.

So, yeah, this post was written once before and we’ll see how well my memory does the second time around. Chances are, this will be the shorter version.

We went to 10 F*@CKING Years last night at Irving Plaza. I remember back in the day when cameras weren’t allowed inside any venue. Thank goodness for the good ol’ cell phone explosion, that’s no longer the case. Tobyjoe and I were able to get in with not one, but two D200s. We snapped some images while we were there.

The Mountain Goats were incredible. They always are (for me). I got to hear This Year and No Children as well as Dance Music. I hadn’t ever heard those particular songs live before. At one point, the whole upper level seemed to explode into song.

“I AM GONNA MAKE IT

THROUGH THIS YEAR.

IF IT KILLS ME.”

I can’t remember if it was Heather or Anna who said, “You know, I think it’s chemically impossible to NOT like that song.” Either way, it’s true. And if you haven’t heard it yet, go get it on iTunes. It’ll be the best 99 cents you ever spent. :]

Clem Snide played as well. I hadn’t ever heard him (them?) before last night. I was really quite into it. I plan on downloading some stuff today.

Jon Stewart did not make a stage appearance, which annoyed not only me but others as well. Someone screamed out, “I WANT MY MONEY BACK, JON!” when the projection screen dropped from the ceiling right before Superchunk came on. The thing is, I’m pretty sure he was there but in disguise. One of his correspondents did a bit in the VIP section and a random crowd member joined in. The “random crowd” member wore a wig, which covered his face entirely. The more he spoke, the more I was sure it was Mr. Stewart. But I am not positive.

Either way, I was a little annoyed that he didn’t take part in a party celebrating 10 years of his show. I’m hoping he had really important business to take care of elsewhere.

But Samantha Bee was there as was John Hodgeman and the cute, super funny British guy. It seemed like everyone funny was in the VIP balcony last night.

Overall, we had a great time. I must admit, I was really only there because of The Mountain Goats. I just can’t get enough of them. A lot of people were there just for Superchunk.

The strangest part of the evening took place on a photograph that Tobyjoe accidentally got while shooting the sound booth’s TV screens. He was metering off of the sound guy’s cell phone, which was the lightest part of the shot. He got this picture.

Here is a zoom:

I almost didn’t put the picture up because it feels too personal and real and sad. I asked Tobyjoe what he thought as it humbled the both of us immediately. We stumbled on something that we weren’t meant to see and now I’m putting it up for others who aren’t meant to see it. And I’m not sure how I feel about that. I, of course, ran with it. I had all sorts of thoughts about what was happening to Andrea. (Had he broken up with her on a cell phone? Did he break up with her before and she was writing to work things out? Did he tell her that her boyfriend or husband was cheating on her? What was their story? Why was I being so nosey?)

I was wrong about the length of this post. The second version is much, much longer than its practice run. I’m sorry about that. Rest assured, there is much more from last night that I didn’t write down. In the end, the event brought out a lot of laughter but a bit of sorrow as well. And at one point I actually cried during the song Game Shows Touch Our Lives. And even though I got to see my beloved Mountain Goats somehow my thoughts today keep coming back to Andrea.

”People say friends don’t destroy one another. What do they know about friends.”

Tobyjoe and I have tickets to see 10 F*@CKING Years tonight at Irving Plaza. I’m looking forward to it for the obvious reasons (Hello, Jon Stewart!) but mainly because I freaking love The Mountain Goats and I had to miss them this fall due to a soccer match. Superchunk will be there as well and I haven’t seen Superchunk since I was in college. I’m hoping to snap some pictures. We’ll see how militant the Irving Plaza staff is.

It’s been a crazy week. I’m busier now than I was with a full time job. I’ll write more in time but for now I’m trying to absorb as much as possible from The Barbarians (who are some of the smartest people I have ever worked with. It’s intimidating!)

We went to a wedding in Cleveland last weekend. We rented a car, drove to State College on Friday night, stayed over, and them left for Ohio the following morning. The wedding began at 6:30 PM. We were in Cleveland by 2:30.

There was quite a bit of driving involved especially considering we were only actually in Cleveland for about 20 hours (9 of which were spent sleeping) but it was absolutely worth it. I told my friend, Matt, aka the groom, “Your wedding was one that actually made me wish Tobyjoe and I hadn’t eloped.” Matt and Margie’s wedding was incredible. I cried three times.

One of the best parts about our trip was I was able to reunite with all my old graphic design school buddies. Aaron was there, Chemi, Ben, and, of course, Matt. I was able to meet their significant others and reminisce about our college years. I probably won’t laugh like that again for a long, long time. I nearly threw up from laughing so hard.

But that’s not the reason I’m writing today. And rest assured, I’ll have pictures to share in due time as well as stories about those brief couple of hours but for now I’m writing to ask the Internet a question.

At one point during the evening the joke came about consummating the marriage as well as the one about no longer having to live in sin. In this day and age most of the people I know who are married had already test driven the car prior having said “I Do.” Jokes were thrown around about the groom being too drunk or the bride too tired and out of this conversation a question arose: Did you have sex on your wedding night?

I did this once before and asked that people change their names. Please, kindly use this technique again (if anyone answers it at all).

Did you have sex on your wedding night? If you’re not married, do you have stories about other weddings? I want wedding night stories.

What is this thing?

About a month ago, Derek asked me to take part in an interview for JPG Magazine. It was about Self-Portrait Day. I had a lot of fun answering questions about the site, its history, and how it runs. I gave away secrets, I told stories, and I was asked to give five names of those who stood out over the years as well as explain why. I’m pleased to report that the interview is featured in this month’s issue. I’m even more excited to see it in print.

If you’re interested in checking out the issue you can subscribe here. It doesn’t cost much (24 bucks for six issues!) and you’ll get to see some really awesome photography. It’s also available at over at Amazon.

A few months ago I started a project called The New York Post Project. The pictures can be seen on Flickr as well as on here. I have had one rule all along: do not under any circumstances say anything cruel about the people in my photographs. You can diss me all you want, but leave them be.

The set has now seen almost 2,000 visitors and I’m not sure where they’re coming from, as I do not advertise the link, nor do I send it to friends. But lately, somehow, people have begun to find it. This makes me happy but sadly people have begun leaving nasty comments, which I deleted as quickly as possible.

I love Flickr. I really do. My only complaint is the fact that a member can’t turn off comments. (At least that I can find.) Apparently there is a way, I just have to figure out how.

It could just be my hormones speaking. I’m not sure. But it really bums me out that there are so many people online who are so willing to be cruel. I just don’t understand. Why take the time to write something so mean about a complete stranger?

All that said if anyone has any suggestions as to what I should do with this project I’m all ears. I really enjoy doing it. Perhaps I’ll find a more permanent home for it, a place where people can’t leave comments or maybe Flickr could give us the option for turning them off?

I woke up full of questions and instead of asking Google or calling a bunch of customer service representatives to get some answers, I figured I’d try using this site first. So, if you hold the answer and/or any valuable information to any of the following items (which have nothing to do with one another) please feel free to email me and/or leave a comment. (Email: douchebag at mihow.com)

Ready?

1). Is there anyway to get Quark Xpress to run on two machines if you’re using them both for work? Sure, I flipped through the FAQs on their site but I’m getting conflicting reports about the whole Activation Code thing.

2). If I lose my mind temporarily and decide to purchase the bloody program (instead of InDesign), should I buy Quark 6 (which I have at the office) or Quark 7 (which is the latest but I’v heard not so great things about)?

3). If a woman is ovulating, how long does baby-making time go for?

4). What is the best driving route out of New York City on a Friday night if heading West (into Pennsyltuckey)? Keep in mind, I loathe traffic.

5). When things are smelly, why do people say “P.U.”? (Or is it PeeEw?)

6). What’s the difference between unsalted butter and regular butter?

7). Do you like my new shoes?

Thank you in advance. (I’d like to mail out a present to everyone for any help received but I haven’t been able to send the one I owe Hemlock yet. One at a time, people. One at a time.)

I tried to get Tobyjoe to write this for me today because I am a total moron when it comes to writing political commentary. He said (and I quote):

tobyjoe: i dont blog, baby
mihow: BLOG!!!!
mihow: BLOG DAMMIT!!!!!!
mihow: BLOG FOR ME!!!!
mihow: you got something against blogging?
tobyjoe: yes, i do
tobyjoe: i can’t do it
tobyjoe: therefore, it’s lame
tobyjoe: just like dancing and playing baseball

So, I’m on my own on this one.

To be honest (and I don’t know why this is) I figured we (the Dems) would get the Senate but not the House. Turns out, Dems got the House and the Senate still hangs. (Woo! Got the Senate!) I’m even more surprised that the final count comes down to Mr. Macaca (George Allen) from Virginia who is demanding a recount against his opponent, Jim Webb.

George Allen was the guy who said this:

“This fellow here, over here with the yellow shirt, macaca, or whatever his name is. He’s with my opponent. He’s following us around everywhere. And it’s just great. Lets give a welcome to Macaca, here. Welcome to America and the real world of Virginia.”

This was said to his Republican audience about a 20-year-old volunteer of Indian descent, the only non-white faced person in the audience. Macaca is a racial slur. Go George Allen!

George Allen is also the guy who hung a Confederate flag and a noose in his office.

Anyway, he trailed his Democratic challenger by fewer than 6,000 votes and has demanded a recount. We’ll see.

I was particularly pleased to see that the people of South Dakota voted against the outlaw of almost all abortions.

Say whatever you want today. Are you happy with the outcome? Disappointed? Are you inspired? Worried? Any good voting day stories?

In other news…

My last day at work is on Friday. But they’ve already given me a freelance gig, which is really great. No rest will be had, however, because we’re heading to Cleveland, Ohio this weekend for a wedding, renting a car. We’ll be stopping in State College along the way. I’m looking forward to the road trip.

My last outdoor soccer match was last night. We lost. We lost every game but one, actually. But I couldn’t have been placed with a nicer bunch of people. We got on really well and had the most excellent time playing together. So much so, we’re continuing an indoor league this winter. I did manage to score one goal this season, which totally rocked.

Oh, also, I created this last night while killing time. It was the first time I used an “Artistic” Photoshop filter in over 13 years. I feel proud.

Spoilers below!

Last night’s Heroes held its own. Niki is seemingly more and more evil while her son is showing superpowers of his own. It would seem that he’s able to modify electronic devices and/or computers by the touch of his hand. And I know I’m getting ahead of myself with this next one, but that’s part of the fun with watching a show such as Heroes. Here’s my hypothesis: He’s going to be the one to dismantle the bomb with a mere touch of his hand.

Micah’s father can pass through walls making it impossible to confine him. Hiro is still able to stop time and one must wonder if his comment about having super strength was foreshadowing. Could that be Niki’s role should she fight with evil? She’s the only one I can think of that we’ve been introduced to who shows the potential for strength.

I love the story they added to the cop who can hear people’s thoughts. His friend’s sleeping with his wife, which is quite a blow. Certainly, there will be a snog or two between he and Clea Duvall. (Who, incidentally, looks a lot like a female version of my husband, Tobyjoe.)

Creepy, don’t you think?

The show builds each and every week. It’s felt that way from the very beginning, like we’re watching the plot rise toward a much bigger event. I still don’t feel like we’re into the meat of the matter just yet. I still feel like we’re waiting for things to come together. At least I hope that’s the case. I don’t want to feel deflated after all of this.

Tobyjoe and I watched the NYC ING Marathon yesterday. Unfortunately, due to busted IT band, I had to postpone my entry until next year. I did, however, wander up Bedford Avenue in order to cheer the runners on. The event brought tears to my eyes. I was really moved.

But someting weird took place. We were standing at the corner where Bedford meets Manhattan Avenue when some hipster chick carrying a massive camera jumped out in front of the runners, literally right in the middle of the road. She was there to take pictures as were hundreds of other people. But she was unbelievably rude about it. And we were amazed.

It’s Monday morning and the Internet has spoken. I first got wind of it on Gothamist. where I discovered that Chad Nicholson posted some of his pictures of her on Flickr. And now she’s been Dugg. It’s only a matter of time before she hears about this.

It’s nights like tonight I remember why I love living in New York City. Where else might one find something like this on their way home from the office?

Dave summed it up, “New York City is really good for this sort of thing, this sort of random thing.”

(There are a few more here.)

This story depresses the hell out of me. This is the type of truth that keeps me up a night. Most of the time, people tend to ignore things like this since most threats are hundreds of years off, and will take place after this generation (and the next) is gone. But this collapse could take place soon. It could take place during our lifetime.

This reminds me of a verse from an oldie but a goodie.

Americans dont care too much for beauty
They’ll shit in a river, dump battery acid in a stream
They’ll watch dead rats wash up on the beach
And complain if they cant swim

It’s days like today where I wish (again) that I had a million readers because I’d love to have a discussion about ways to regulate this mess, ways to make a difference, ways to educate people. I’d love to spread the word as far as possible.

We sat together on a crowded bus. His hair was slicked back, beat into submission by pomade. I imagined his pillowcase at home; sunk deep in a washer, water running off it like ice from a tin roof. He smelled of last night’s booze.

The bus stopped and he swayed forward, his movement graceful, like a dancer. Every time he opened his mouth I got a whiff of whiskey, a whiffskey, I thought. My amusement felt shameful.

Greenpoint was filled with men like him; empty, Polish faces regularly stumbled by me on sidewalks like zombies out of a black and white horror flick. They reminded me of the drunken bum from a video game I played as a kid. Back then I dodged them on a cartoon bike as I tossed newspapers from a black sack. Now, I simply crossed the street on wary feet of my own. I avoided them entirely.

But it was 8:45 in the morning and this man was on his way to work. I could smell a hint of aftershave and toothpaste beneath the sour smell of bile and alcohol. I covered my nose with my scarf and wrestled with a gag. It was too early.

The man’s black boots, button down, and slicked back hair took me back to my youth. And even though his smell was pungent and unfamiliar, I felt warmth. Detroit. 1979. Puffy blue carpeting, porcelain vases, plastic seat covers, covered pots bubbling up with potatoes, Mamé in a moo-moo. Four generations of women under one roof.

He unzipped the bag, which lay at his feet among the high heels and sneakers and pulled a Gatorade bottle out of the bag; it had its label removed. The bottle had been emptied of its original florescent colored contents and was filled with what looked to be iced tea. He turned it upright and let the brown liquid pour between his chapped lips.

I bit back another gag. Last night’s booze, which had been on its way out the door was greeted by its morning relief.

I watched my great grandfather die. He lived in Detroit in a house in Hamtramck. We called him Pappé, his wife, Mamé and I was his favorite. I remember sitting on his lap, belly full of Polish food, head full of milk. Before he became sick, he worked on cars and got his hands dirty. He was just like any other hard working American immigrant, white hair, aged beyond his years, his hands were callused and sore from a long history of working on an assembly line. His sleeveless button downs exposed his liver spots, his skin smelled of starch, mothballs, and onions. He was great even after he began to die.

I waited for him to get better. One of my earliest memories is of him hunched over a doubled-up, brown paper bag as he vomited white chunks. I was 5 at the time, maybe six. Pieces of him would come up with a cough and fall into the bag before him, pieces of my Great Grandfather, like the guts of a pumpkin. I thought this is what booze does.

Detroit wasn’t the same after that and to a certain degree, neither was I. Pappé eventually died and I developed a criminally intense crush on George Burns.

The man capped his Gatorade bottle one more time and placed it back into his bag in a noble attempt at making it last longer. He became more and more toxic as the minutes went by. He was killing himself. Each sip let more and more life out of him.

“When George Burns dies. Please don’t tell me. I don’t think I can deal with it.”

”Ok.” She said. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I said.

Two minutes went by and the man pulled from the bottle again. He took a bigger gulp and let the alcohol fall past his taste buds; it made a beeline for his stomach. The bus lunged forward over the bridge connecting Greenpoint to Long Island City, Eastern Europe to someplace new. The man’s belly let out a small rumble and he soothed it with another swallow. Soon, the shakes would return as well as the worry.

I folded the letter, sealed the envelope and handed it to my mother. She stared at wondering how to say what she needed to say.

“You can’t mail him a letter, Michele. He’s in heaven. But you can pray. He’ll hear you.”

I used to sit in the living room for hours listening to that record, the needle would move gracefully over its grooves letting out soft static beneath the music. When I was little, I thought all music sounded that way. The words would hit me differently each time. When I was little my only friends were my relatives, my relatives and George Burns.

I once watched a man go into convulsions on a busy sidewalk along Bedford Avenue. It was 9:00 AM on a Saturday. He dropped to the ground, body fully taught as it shook violently. His brain begged for more alcohol like an old car running on fumes. Even as the paramedics wheeled him away on a stretcher, I knew he’d be out drinking later that day. This sort of cycle happens all the time in the neighborhood; hope is destroyed by the onslaught of alcohol. These men weren’t homeless but they lacked the notion of home.

I was too young to know if Pappé had given up on living or if the hardness of living finally did him in. I have no idea if he was happy. And I’m not sure my memories can be trusted anyway, they’re half remembered, half imagined through photographs, and half inbred by other memories. But I see him all the time, on dried up, wrinkled faces, beneath dirty fingernails, along the soft spots next to rough calluses, reflected on the windshield of an old Ford, behind the blowing curtain of a tenement building.

Did you hear what our fearless leader said about the “Democrat Approach” in Iraq?

Click to hear it.

Come on, now. Even some of you Republican folks have to admit it’s a preposterous thing to say. I challenge anyone out there to name one democrate who feels that way. Has it really sunk to this? Why would he say such a thing? I’m seriously asking.