When I was 18, I discovered that my eyebrows were unruly. Not only were they really hairy, but also they liked to migrate. You might be asking yourselves, “What did Michele do about it? What did she do about her eyebrows?” I did what any normal girl would do with unruly eyebrows. I started to comb them with a toothbrush.

Here’s the deal, back then I flat-out refused to buy a 10 dollar eyebrow brush. I was that cheap. Instead, I decided to employ an old toothbrush.

Yeah, I know, it’s really freaking gross. I did not primp the toothbrush before taking its picture. And I keep this one (I have two) in my gym bag. My eyebrows aren’t made up of long, red hairs. That’s my hair hair. It got mixed up and whatnot.

I have used a toothbrush to maintain my furry eyebrows for over a decade now. I’m so cheap; I have used an old toothbrush to comb my eyebrows instead of buying a 10-dollar eyebrow comb. But here’s the irony. When I’m at the gym and it’s time to pull it out to beat them into shape, I do so on the down low. Sometimes, I hide in the corner or bend down and let my hair cover the event. The damn toothbrush embarrasses me. I imagine being approached by naked ladies armed with sentences like, “Hey, what are you doing with that toothbrush?” So I hide from the naked people.

The question still remains, why not spend 10 bucks on an eyebrow comb and proudly comb my face pets? What’s wrong with me?

Regan Hofman has been HIV positive for almost a decade. Before today, she anonymously wrote a monthly column for POZ. This week she’s on the cover and tells all.

My art teacher in high school died from AIDS. His name was John Bubb. He was really wonderful. I remember a lot of the students came up with the most absurd rumors about him but I think a lot of us who were closer to him suspected the truth. Toward the end of his life, he was absent a lot and students would say things like, “John was in Vietnam and he still has flashbacks that make him unable to cope with every day life.”

John must have felt so lonely before he died. I’m sure some of the other teachers knew, but the fact that his secret was kept so bottled up makes me kind of sad. It wasn’t until the funeral did the secret really come out. I wrote my name on a piece of the AIDs quilt with a note that read:

“John Bubb wore the best socks.”

He really did wear the best socks.

On a similar note, Tobyjoe writes about V3 (a new hope in mitigating the spread of HIV.) Stop by if you know what’s good for you.

Every time someone updates their profile or signs up over at Self-Portrait Day their picture automatically moves to the top of the homepage. Which means that every time Tobyjoe and I have to go check something out, we must sign in and then our profile picture jumps to the top of the page. I have to admit, I’m kind of amazed at how many people I got coming in from that little Web site over the past week. I’m also really quite pleased with some of the people I have met on there after its re-launch. For example, I discovered Gravy Dave recently who lives in Raleigh and likes Indie Rock. Wojtek moved me with some amazing digital shots. (Don’t believe me? Click that link. I dare you.) And to think, I almost gave up on SPD at one point.

I actually get excited when a new name shows up in my RSS feed. And the best part about it is Tobyjoe and I built it. Sometimes, I have to say, that fact makes me feel really freaking proud.

We have other projects in the pipeline as well. One of which includes the redesign (from the guts outward) of mihow.com. (Good things are coming this site’s way, for sure.) We’re going to build it together using Rails.

There’s I Hate Design which is slow moving, but I know I need to give it a little time. We have Spread whose only purpose if for people to discuss all things book related. It’s also slow moving, but I think that in time it’ll do all right. (I hope.) And this summer, a new season of Cool Props begins. I’ve already begun my searches. We purchased an actual URL for that project and I plan on designing that in the next couple of weeks. (Cool Props is dear to my heart.)

Our biggest project is yet to come. That one literally has me peeing my pants daily. I watch Tobyjoe work on it at night and my palms sweat with glee. I can’t wait until the day we can tear off the white sheet and scream VOILA!

Forgive me for this seemingly pompous post, but I think Tobyjoe deserves a big fat pat on the back for all his hard work. The other day, I was visiting Ms. Mia over at Mintjelly. She wrote:

heheh i was just reading Toby’s post about the Rails conference, and i was drooling. it’s all mad marketing too busy junk that i swear must be a better way to do. but i’m new here and not a back-end coder (so i appreciate what he’s saying, but can’t DO what he’s describing on my own. you married a mad genius.)

She’s right. I did.

I bumped this post for two reasons. First, because I’m getting retro comments and they’re quite interesting. The second reason is because since having finished the film (I wrote this post hours after it was over) my thoughts and opinion has changed. I thought about this movie so much, I think I may have even changed my mind about it.

Also, I want to know more about Herzog. That said, if anyone has anything they’d like to add, do so in the comments section below. If not, at least read Haly’s review, it’s worth it.

Original post begins now.

This weekend, I watched Grizzly Man directed by Werner Herzog. The film is disturbing, but not for reasons one might initially assume. It’s not disturbing because Timothy Treadwell and his girlfriend, Amy, were attacked and eaten by a grizzly bear. That part isn’t disturbing because the viewer doesn’t actually see them being attacked and eaten by a grizzly bear. In fact, the only record they have of the attack exists on an audio tape. However, at one point, Herzog is filmed listening to the tape on a pair of headphones. Judging by his reaction, and the fact that I can’t handle violence of any kind, I’m very grateful for being spared this gory detail. That said, the part that one assume will be the most disturbing is gracefully implicit, which is probably the most graceful part of the entire film.

That’s not to say that there isn’t something inherently disturbing about the film. The part I found most disturbing was how mentally unstable Timothy Treadwell was and the fact that he was unable to get the help he needed in order to live a long(er) life. His antics, such as the way he goes off on camera or the way in which interferes with nature (At one point, Timothy actually reroutes a stream so that fish can freely move thereby letting the grizzlies stand a better chance at food.) are truly hard to watch. You might blush (as I did), you might turn away in horror, or you might just laugh at him. It’s haunting to watch a person act that way.

Timothy Treadwell was delusional and I couldn’t help but wonder if a simple dose of medication could have saved him. He talked to God through a camera and believed wholeheartedly that he had the power to direct nature. At one point, Timothy bent down to stroke a massive pile of feces left by one of his beloved bears. He thanked the bear as he believed it was a gift left there specifically for him. His story might very well be heartbreaking, but I am not sure I saw that story watching Herzog’s film.

About three months ago, I finally picked up Into the Wild by Jon Krackauer. I wrote about that book and how it made me feel at the time. Although the intense feelings I had after reading Christopher McCandless’s story have all but faded now, I couldn’t help but think about him while I watched Grizzly Man.

Christopher was someone to whom I could relate. I understand why he did the things he did. I understand his desire to live outside society. I understand his quest to live entirely off the land. I understand his searches and how he came to finally die. And while his story sparked hundreds to write hate mail, I guess you might say I am a sympathizer. Ultimately, I wish he were alive today so I could ask him a few questions. Krakauer’s knack for storytelling made me mistakenly feel that I really knew this person. (It’s too bad Krackauer doesn’t direct films.)

With Grizzly Man, the relationship between Herzog (the director) and his subject (Timothy Treadwell), was a bit different. While I am unfamiliar with Herzog’s vast amount of work, I can’t help but hold him accountable for what I didn’t take away from this film. Timothy Treadwell seemed foreign and weird to me. He seemed like someone the director might like to make fun of, to gawk at, to judge. Treadwell’s journey into the wild and his passion behind saving grizzly bears was shown as a treacherous side road deviating from a clearer direction. Timothy Treadwell needed help. Timothy Treadwell should have been led to help. Herzog’s movie seemed to carelessly exploit his death.

Grizzly Man is worth seeing, but unlike Christopher McCandless’s story, I didn’t walk away from Timothy’s feeling very much compassion or understanding. Christopher’s story and what he was trying to attain, will haunt me for a long, long time. But I blame Mr. Herzog for my lack of compassion toward Timothy Treadwell. I wish the footage had been purchased by someone else.

Grizzly Man: Good movie, wrong director.

In the apartment we lived in on Saturday night, Tobyjoe moved the toilet in our bathroom for a reason I am unsure of. We had a few faceless visitors over at the time. The apartment had wall-to-wall carpeting the kind of carpeting that contains puffy raised sections, like carpeted clouds seen from above. Intermixed with the raised sections were bits of recessions almost like bodies of water. As a matter of fact, if one were to fill the carpet with a half inch of water, and it wasn’t immediately absorbed, it would fill the recessions leaving the puffy parts to rise above like little islands.

While chatting with our visitors in the living room, I noticed that a few small roaches were heading our way, darting across the bumpy carpet like little balls of lint caught on a breeze. I saw them and ignored them for as long as I could which came with ease given the fact the apartment was predominantly brown and very dark. Eventually, they become more plentiful and the new ones were much larger; they were about the size of a large man’s open palm. They were coming out from a hole in the wall from behind the toilet. Tobyjoe kicked open the bathroom window in hopes of them running out through there instead of through the living room. As I watched him do this, I noticed a few dead turtles on the tile floor of the bathroom. They’d given up. I returned to the living room. The bugs continued running toward us. I stood on the sofa trying to get away from them all, our guests stood on the couch behind me. It was then I noticed our fish tank in the corner. I had forgotten about our fish tank.

We lifted books and threw them down onto the massive roaches. Each direct hit would punctuate with a loud crunching sound and then yellow goo would ooze out from below the heavy books like peanut butter between two crackers. And if I didn’t loathe roaches so much, I may have had fun.

Then, the beetles came and one of our guests new its arachnid name. I looked at him or her as if they were crazy. I couldn’t care less what type of massive beetle this was. Before I could scold them for caring about the beetle, the snakes came. I knew they should be kept alive because. They would eventually eat the bugs even though the bugs were much larger than the snakes. Tobyjoe took the snakes and then began throwing them into the fish tank. The snakes began to eat the fish.

I began to cry.

Last night, I lived in an apartment with red walls. The carpeting was brown. A girl came out of the bathroom and said, “There are snakes all over the walls.�

“They’re inchworms,â€? I said. “They’re only inchworms.”

“Oh� She answered. “Well, I don’t want to shower in there.�

I went into the bathroom and opened the bathroom window. I plucked the inchworms from the walls and threw them out the window. I knew their small bodies didn’t weigh enough that the impact might kill them. We lived on the third floor, after all.

“There’s something going on in the kitchen.� The girl said.

I went into the kitchen to find a man in there. He was standing on a white bucket.

“There are snakes everywhere.� He said to me, horrified. “I can’t work like this today.�

I looked at the walls to find slugs intertwined, slugs on top of slugs, slugs were everywhere, and their slime trails glistened along the dark red walls. They grew larger as they moved up toward the corners. There were hundreds of them. I looked to the floor and I saw giant slug. She had hundreds of legs which raised her wet body off the floor. From above, I saw that she was dropping smaller slugs onto the floor below her. She was horrifying. There was no way I could kill her. She was too big.

“Get off the bucket.�

“No.�

“Please get off the bucket.� I said.

“Fine. But I’m suing.�

I took the bucket and covered her with it.

I woke up.

Normally, I don’t talk or write about dreams because it’s really boring to hear about let alone read about. I know that I’ve been bored to tears while having to sit through hearing someone else’s boring dream. They’re not real. They’re totally personal. They lose every ounce of emotion and feeling and sensation through words. It’s a bore. But these are starting to disturb me and, quite honestly, I can’t figure out why it’s happening.

Toby thinks it might be the Internet and our many Web projects and my persistent desperation with all of them. (O.K., I added that last part.)

P.S. I’m boring and bored with my Internet self as of late. Perhaps I need a spring break. Perhaps it’s time to rebuild this bitch in Rails.

Well, I am about 10 pages away from completing Two Girls, Fat and Thin which was book two over at Spread

Hopefully, those reading it might join us in discussing the book. Nora has started a discussion about it. Please stop by if you have some free time.

On a related note, we’re preparing to ship our next book (which won’t be about rape and inscest, I swear) late this week. So, if you haven’t already done so and would like to, sign up. We’ll be picking the next five names in a day or two.

Remember this post? You know the one where some chick named “Glenda” said my name was spelled incorrectly and a small Internet fight broke out? Yeah, that was a good day. Anyway, Tobyjoe and I were watching the Food Network recently and a commercial came on about french cuisine. And low and behold, check this out.

Take that, my American bitches. And then take that extra L and shove it straight up your ass.

This morning, I had my first ever stress test. I wrote about my heart rate before and have wondered if it might be too high for my age. Tobyjoe, who has a running heart rate of 165 (tops), has often suggested that I might just die of a heart attack when I run. When I tell people how high it goes, they often make a face. Apparently, my heart rate is a little higher than normal.

It’s best not to mess with the heart. I learned this the hard way after having a friend of mine die when her 35-year-old heart stopped working. You just never know what’s going on in there and up until today, I never gave mine much thought.

First, I’d like to point out something interesting that I noticed as I waited for the doctor to return to finish the test. I was attached to two machines: one featured a looping video of my beating heart; the other featured my heart rate and spit out a paper reading. When I watched my heart beat on the monitor (all four views of it) I found my heart rate dropped substantially on the other machine. When I watched the machine that reported my actual heart rate, it rose substantially. I am not sure what is says about me, but I found this little bit of information really fascinating.

• Click image to see larger view

The most annoying part about the stress test was the fact that I had to complete it without a shirt on. (It’s a man’s world, people.) While I was given one of those paper robes to cover the top half of my body, I wasn’t allowed to wear a bra as there were about 15 electrodes attached to my chest and waist. Each electrode had wires attached and those wires went into a computer whose job it was to make a print out of my heart rate. I’d like to suggest that the ladies out there try running at a 5.0 pace at an 18 percent incline without a shirt on. It’s not pleasant. I felt like I was in a Russ Meyers film.

The second most unpleasant part of the test was the fact that they smear that gel all over your body to get an EKG. You’re given paper towels to wipe it off, but it’s almost impossible to remove it all, especially trying to get around all those sticky electrodes and wires. I still feel a bit gooey.

Other than that, the event wasn’t too bad. The entire test took about 15 minutes. The first three on the treadmill were really slow. The doctor stood at my side and took my blood pressure every three minutes. After three minutes, the machine sped up and rose. And I did well up until the end of minute nine when my boobs started to hurt and my legs started to burn. At minute 10, I was ready to stop. The doctor said I would have to keep at it for one minute, pushing my heart to its maximum. After that, I was thrown onto a table, and told to lie on my left hand side where they took another EKG.

My heart rate, even at 175, is fairly normal. The doctor said that for a 32-year-old, it’s probably best not to push it too much higher and definitely don’t keep the heart working that hard for too long. It’s not good to have it that high for a lengthy amount of time. That makes sense. Admittedly, in the 6 months I have been running, I have gotten better. My heart rate doesn’t go as high and when it does, it happens near minute 30. I am assuming that means I’m making progress. We’ll see in time.

As the doctor pointed at my heart and explained what it was doing on the screen before me and why it was doing what it was doing, I started to think about Katrina. I briefly told him about her and then pointed at my ventricle as it opened and closed and asked him if that’s what malfunctioned on her. He explained how that worked and how it let blood into the heart and how it needed to be closed while the other was open. I guess hers just got their signals crossed.

If I had my way, I’d make every woman I know have a mammogram and every person I know test their heart. It’s amazing how small and hugely necessary that little guy really is.

I’m excited to say that iHateDesign is changing. (You can read more about how, here.)

P.S. if you’re a designer, programmer, art director, project manager, or an editor please contact me if you’d possibly like to contribute.

My scale decided that it was no longer an American. On Thursday morning of last week it began giving me my weight in stones. For no reason, mind you, it just stopped reading pounds. I figured that maybe it was just going to be British for one day, so I ignored it. Come Sunday, it was still reading my weight back to me in stones. I tried to kick it like I do most British to get them to work, but it still preferred stones. How’s a gal supposed to know if she’s getting skinnier when she has no idea how heavy 10 stones are? Is this because they were using pounds already for money? How big are these stones?

Here are a couple of pictures. (You can click on the images, too.)

I’m listening an interview on the radio right now about conspiracies surrounding 9/11. Today, Maddow interviewed Mark Jacobson of New York Magazine who recently wrote an article on a new generation of conspiracy theorists. I’ve always been a little blown away by the number of people who believe that the administration KNEW about the attacks all along and basically let it happen as a way to further their agenda. Mark Jacobson said that out of the people he interviewed, white people picked option B., which basically suggests that the administration was just slopppy but didn’t actually know it was going to happen. He said the almost every African American person believed that the Administration knew about it and did nothing to stop it. They believed in the most extreme conspiracy, which was option C. That’s pretty interesting information and it makes one wonder. But, I think what I’m more fascinated by is the fact that people are so willing to buy into and believe in a conspiracy theory. Why do you think this is?

Granted, I come up with new ones each and every day. Just ask Tobyjoe. The most recent one was how I decided that Bush is actually a Democrat trying to ruin the chances of a Republican ever being voted back into office. And sometimes, I actually get worried that if I slip one more notch down on the sanity spectrum, I might start to actually believe them. But for those who really do actually believe them now? How and why?

A few weeks ago, I went ahead an purchased two tickets to see Jonathan Lethem read at BAMcafé. While there, I realized that Mary Gaitskill is reading as well. Currently, some of us are reading her over on Spread. We’re reading Two Girls, Fat and Thin. The book has spawned many of weird and disturbing conversations. I can’t wait to see her in person. Assuming I don’t totally freak out, I plan on asking her a few questions.

I know that back in October, I vowed that I was giving up live music shows forever. But this time, I couldn’t resist. Tobyjoe got us two tickets to see Built to Spill at Irving Plaza. They are performing three shows. I can’t remember what day we’re going. There are still tickets, if anyone is interested. They’re playing with Camper Van Beethoven. Am I the only person who thought they were no longer around? I used to freaking love that band back in high school thanks to Nico. That should be pretty OK.

Yes, I totally just quoted a Whodini song.

Yesterday, was a really, really rough day for me. My head was all over the place. I wasn’t very pleasant to be around. I certainly wasn’t very pleasant to know. It sucked. I sucked. I should bury my head in the sand instead of attempting the social thing at all. Plus, as I’m certain some of you may have noticed, I totally freaked out on here yesterday. Ah well. I can’t undo that now as much as I’d like to.

Last night, we attended a going away party for Rion. While I visit her site often, and we email back and forth, up until last night, I hadn’t actually met her. When I received the invitation to see her and her husband off to Paris, I said I’d be there. We went. For the first half an hour, maybe more, I was frozen with fear, unable to introduce myself to anyone. We stood about 15 feet away. When did I turn into such a coward? In the end, after I got over whatever weirdness I made up, everything was fine. It was great to finally meet her.

We are supposed to go to D.C. this weekend. Lately, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel a little friendless. I really want to see Soung, David, Donald, James, Mike, Kyra (this list could go on and on). While I have the most understanding, patient, and loving husband alive, I need (and miss) my friends. And lately, I feel like they’re really far away from me.

The problem is, Amtrak costs a bloody fortune. (The cheapest tickets I could find were 376.00 and that had us arriving there tonight at around 11:30 PM and heading back on Sunday at either 8:00 AM or 7 PM.) I am having a difficult time justifying that much for so little visiting time. It’d be one thing if we had a three-day weekend. But we don’t. Soung suggested the bus. Actually, her email read:

It did take me 6 hours to get to Brooklyn but the trip back was better. It feels long but if you have a book and music or sudoku puzzles then I still think it’s worth it.

To which I replied:

Sodoku puzzles?

(I kind of already knew what they were but only because it seems that all of New York’s commuters are trying to complete these damn puzzles. I just didn’t know their name. I’m cursing Soung, however, because after she mentioned them, I downloaded a bunch and now I’m hooked.)

We contemplated driving as well. But traffic is usually horrid all the way from New York City, through Jersey, and into D.C. Plus, the car would run us almost 300.00 dollars. I’m not about to drive ours all that way. Especially since I still haven’t gotten it inspected. Which is another reason why I suck.

So, we’re not sure what to do. And I feel lonely and I feel like I failed. And I’m annoyed with myself and I feel like throwing this site in the trash sometimes. And I’m angry that I very nearly did yesterday and I’m unsure why it even matters.

I had a mind steeping with the desire to sit around talking tea and sipping life. And I so enjoy doing that with Soung.

I feel a little empty today. I welcome spring.

The other night, the 2008 presidential election came up. We were making assumptions as to who might run and who they might run against. Both Tobyjoe and I feel that Mark Warner, the former Governor of Virginia, stands a pretty good chance at becoming the next Democratic nominee. At some point, Tobyjoe suggested that the Republicans might nominate Condoleeza Rice as their candidate.

Somehow, this turned into a discussion about who would win if Condoleeza Rice AND Hilary Clinton ran against one another. I am absolutely certain that Condoleeza Rice doesn’t stand a chance at winning the presidential election. I’m not saying she’s not perfectly able. And even as I step away from her political platform and beliefs, I have very little faith in the American public to think that the nation is ready to vote for a woman, and even more specifically, a black woman.

When pressed into answering if I thought Hilary would take her, I had to go with an unknown, third party. I know that Americans in general can’t stand Hilary Clinton, so my guess is that while she wouldn’t win this imaginary election either, but I still can’t see people voting for Condoleeza Rice.

Am I being unfair? Is the American Public open-minded enough to elect a black woman as their president? Because I’m not convinced. While some liberals might cast a vote for her on principal alone, (ie., employing the, “I know she’s republican, but she’s African American and she’s a woman. I am going to vote for this black republican woman because it’s the right thing to do.”) I find it hard to believe that the conservative south will vote for a black woman. And everyone knows if you can’t win over the south, you can’t win period. I don’t care how republican and smart and conservative and able she is. The American bigots haven’t grown up enough, yet.

Recently, Bill Lester became the first ever black NASCAR driver. Fans have raised an eyebrow or two over this. Some fans are flat-out unhappy about his success. If American NASCAR lovers aren’t ready to accpet a black racecar driver, do you really think they’re reading to elect a black AND female president?

Then again, (and here is where I talk out of the others side of my mouth) Lester states:

I’m a race-car driver who happens to be black, not a black race-car driver. I’m not here trying to wave the flag for diversity.

Lester has been surrounded by our media, it’s like they’re trying to flaunt the fact that a black man has been accepted into NASCAR. Why is this?

Maybe, Condoleeza stands a chance after all.

This morning, the L Train was a complete nightmare. But today, something really cool happened. I was standing on the platform waiting for the train, knowing full well I would have to wait for at least one to go by before getting on, when someone came up to me.

“Hey, did you once work at Crossborder?”

I looked at him. He looked familiar, but for some reason my first thought was that his hair was much shorter.

“Yes. Yes, I did. Oh my god! I remember you! How are you? It’s been years! You cut your hair, right?”

I realized that his hair might have been cut years and years ago. After all, I hadn’t seen Greg since 2001 when we worked together at a software company. He was a programmer – a damn good one – and I was their lone designer. I worked at their SoHo office. And we both spent September 11th, 2001 together, which was by far the most bizarre and life-changing day I have ever had.

“I did. I cut off all my dreadlocks.”

We talked for a long time. It’s the first time that a tardy L Train became a blessing. We talked about our boss, who neither one of us was very fond of. We talked about everyone we missed, who we still talked to, and everyone we could have done without. We talked mostly about September 11th. It’s funny how one day alone can cover up hundreds more together.

After September 11th, I left for Canada for a few days. I vowed I might never return. When I got there, I realized that being outside of New York was worse as there was no one to really talk to about what I had seen. After three days, I returned to New York. I grudingly returned to work and I continued to work for Crossborder. I spent about 8 months comfortably pickled and numb with booze. One year later, Tobyjoe and I woke up living in Washington, D.C.

On that Tuesday, Greg came to my desk holding his brand new camera. His pupils were enlarged from adrenaline and testosterone. His eyes were black, like two, empty holes. He told me he was going to take some pictures and asked me if I wanted to come along. I told him I had to wait for my brother, who was still missing. He left for several hours. When he returned to the office, he looked as though he’d seen a hundred ghosts. And I guess he had. He told me that day he thought he had captured some great footage. For many of us comprehending what we saw was easier done through a lens. Some people have suggested since then that it made everything seem less real. I don’t have much to say about that.

Up until today, I hadn’t seen anyone I spent that day with since that time. And because we were stuck below 14th street, we were together for a long, long time. The months that followed were some very bizarre months. Greg had always been one of my favorite people from Crossborder. I used get drinks with him and his girlfriend after work. I have a memory from that time; it’s represented in an actual photograph. The three of us are standing in a SoHo pub, red-faced and drunk, posing for a self-portrait. For years after that, I felt undeveloped. I felt confused and scared and unsure about everything.

It probably doesn’t come as much of a surprise to hear that one of the first things I thought about when I saw Greg again were those photographs. I never got to see them. And so I asked about them. (This is the point in the story where I get to the point in the story.)

About The Photographs.

Today, I learned that Greg purchased his camera on September 10th, 2001. Prior that, he hadn’t ever owned a camera. But he really wanted to get into printing. That was a Monday. On September 11th, Greg set out with his new camera and took pictures of our abused city. He came back wired, full of images, full of proof.

It took him forever to develop the pictures. I know that I never saw them; perhaps the wait was a part of our healing. The pictures were eventually developed and Tobyjoe and I were long gone going through a transformation of our own.

Well, the pictures were amazing. Of course they were. Even a modest Greg thought so. He sent them in to a few places. They were eventually published as well as displayed in a New York based gallery. Thousands recognized them.

I congratulated him. I felt pure happiness for his success. Greg is and always will be a great person. I asked him if he continued to take pictures.

“With the death camera? No. It was actually stolen from me about a month later. But I guess it’s kinda a good thing.”

“A good thing? How? Why? Bastard thieves.”

“You know how a camera makes certain and specific noises? You see, for the weeks following that day, every time I tried to take a picture, I was reminded of that day and those people and how fucked up it was. Each time the shutter made a sound or I changed the F-stop, I would twitch. I named it the death camera. It filmed death.”

Tears started to well up in my eyes. This felt like one of the most honest things I had heard in a long time. It was such a small thing to notice. I was reminded of why I liked Greg so much.

“So, you see, some other guy has to deal with the death camera now.”

I had my camera cocked an in my hand. And immediately, I thought about just handing it to him.

“We need to arm you with another camera, Greg. And I really need to see those pictures.”

This morning’s commute actually changed my life or maybe it made me recognize my changed life. I’m not sure. After we parted, after I got on my express train and he the local, I couldn’t help but put more worth or thought into a seemingly pure circumstance.

On September 12th, 2002, I wrote the following:

“Friday turned out to be a entire day of therapy. I can’t say that I feel better about everything, but I can say I understand that I don’t understand and I may not for a long while. I may never. I do know that I love the people I love and that I can’t always plan for things to make sense or walk towards them and know what they will look like once I get there. And I’m not sure what the future holds for me or it or here or there. And I’m not sure I won’t be back.”

“Sometimes I personify this city. And lately, part of my turmoil is thinking that I may actually be turning my back on it, leaving it in a shelter for someone else to try and love. I don’t know. But for now, I have to figure out that I’m not as angry as I have been and that I can relax again.”

Five years after the fact – five years, two cities, and a whole lot of change – I am back in New York City and I am in a much better place. And seeing Greg again made me realize that I may have finally come around.

I (re)launched a version of iHateDesign this weekend. It’s still in beta. I anticipate changes over the next month or so. But, at least it’s working! Stop by, if you have a chance.

I live with a man who can pretty much do anything when it comes to the Internet. It’s sort of like living with a mechanic and having a thing for old cars. He can fix and build almost anything. I’ll say, “Hey, can you build an entire Web site for me this weekend?” And he’ll do it. Or, I’ll say, “Hey, can you find out who this person is? They keep leaving retro-comments on the post about my underwear. I want their I.P. can you find it?” He’ll find their I.P. address and tell me if they’ve ever posted before and how many times. He’ll tell me how many times they hit my site each day. It’s pretty cool. Now, before anyone gets worried that we do this with just anyone, we don’t. We don’t have that much time on our hands nor do we care that much. The only time we do this is if someone becomes stalker-like or rude.

Now that we have the DVR, I tend to tape everything on television in lieu of actually watching anything live. I don’t think I watched one thing live last week, well, except for The Sopranos but that was to avoid being sideswiped by spoilers.

While not watching television, and instead sitting in front of my computer, I got an idea. I was checking out my stats. I have quite a lot of referrers, but usually I only check out the top 20. Looking through all of them makes me a little dizzy. Plus, I tend to get really angry when I find out that people are stealing my bandwidth by linking to old photographs. I used to write each and every one of them directly or I’d write things like “THIS IS NOT YOU, YOU FREAK. THIS IS MY HUSBAND! YOU’RE PROBABLY A FAT 60-YEAR-OLD PERVERT LIVING IN WISCONSIN” directly on top of the photograph being hotlinked. (That actually happen. Some guy used Toby’s picture and claimed it was him.) I’d add a “copyright mihow.com” on it and I’d walk away. I used to do that. Now, I just ignore them. And doing that the right way means not paying attention to my referrers.

But I do sift through my top 20. A lot of my visitors come by way of an RSS feed so they’re impossible to track. In fact, the majority of people who read mihow.com use an RSS feed. Which makes me wonder if a lot of people who come here don’t actually SEE the Web site at all. I’m still learning how this way of browsing works but the little bit that I have learned has even changed the way I surf. Now, I rely entirely on my Firefox RSS feed, or “Really Simple Syndication”. I don’t know how it works for everyone. I have no idea what a PC user sees when using an RSS application. In time, this will probably make more sense but there’s only so much time Tobyjoe has in order to teach me.

The blogs that represent my top 5 referrals are the ones I wanted to investigate a little further. But first I want to explain why.

Last week, I linked to Tobyjoe. While I know how many unique visitors I get a day, I have no way of knowing how many people click any of my outbound links. Now that Tobyjoe has a blog and I often link to it, I figured I’d ask him.

Eight unique visitors visited Tobyjoe’s site when I linked to a post he wrote about a man named Dr. Finger who spoke out against an HPV cancer prevention drug. Dr. Finger thinks that the life-saving drug in question will send a message to young girls telling them it’s OK to have premarital sex. Toby wrote about it. I found his post and its content very alarming. I thought I’d share what he had to say with other people. Only 8 people clicked from my Web site to his Web site that day. That pales in comparison to the number of readers I get from day to day. I was left wondering why.

That bit of information sparked a wonderful conversation about hyperlinks and the Internet, blogging, stat packages, and how things are worded in order to get someone to click a link. We talked about it for hours. It was truly fascinating.

When I had him check the number of REAL visitors I was receiving from my top 5 referrals (not including RSS feeds and Blogger pings) the number of unique visitors from all five of these Web sites came in under 10. Except for one instance, which referred 15 unique visitors to me even though my stats package led me to believe there were a whole hell of a lot more.

Let me break this down a bit. Let’s say I am linked from a site called OldManSounds. Let’s say that site is number 6 on my referral list. The number of visits my stat package reports is 108. That may sound like a lot. Based on what Tobyjoe discovered, it’s not like that at all. Let’s say that out of those 108 hits, 12 unique visitors were actually coming per week. That probably means that each unique user hits my site from that site around 9 times each. We also need to remember that some people have a computer they use at work (featuring one unique IP address) and one they use from home (featuring another unique IP address). Suddenly, your referral stats might mean something entirely different. They might not mean as much at all anymore.

Generally speaking, people probably aren’t using blogs anymore to discover new blogs. I’m not sure how that happens in this day and age. I think, for me, it’s sort of like advertising. I don’t buy a product unless someone I trust recommends it to me. The other way I might be reeled in is if it’s seemingly top of the line, above all other products. I just bought a Dyson, for example. And I didn’t know anyone who previously owned a Dyson, but their advertisements appealed to me. They are tastefully done, and they were not at all invasive or annoying. They seemed classy, which is pretty amazing considering they’re talking about a vacuum cleaner. Plus, they charge nearly 500 bucks for their machines, they must be good, right? (That last sentence was a joke.)

I think that it’s pretty safe to say that most of the time, given we’re creatures of habit and there are only so many hours in the day, we follow the same patterns. Before I began using an RSS feed, I’d visit one site, read a little, and then, using a link from that site, continue on to the next. And I would do this daily and usually I’d follow much the same pattern. I enter the same stall in the bathroom at work, too.

Now, I rely entirely on RSS. Most of the time I click the RSS reload button and find out if any of the sites listed on my feed have been updated. Then, I might visit them. Might. Then, it all depends on the title intrigues me. I no longer follow the usual patterns I once had. Sometimes, I don’t visit a site for a week or more, especially if it’s not on my RSS feed.

Do RSS feeds have us exploring less and therefore reading less? I think so. I think feeds are streamlining our daily visits. I think they’re making it so we are choosier with what we subscribe to as our time is valuable. I know my RSS feed features a lot less sites than the Elsewhere section of this Web site. When you have only so much room and time to devote to people, you tend to become pickier with who you add. Otherwise, it becomes too unwieldy and unmanageable and, like I said, time is valuable. It’s even more valuable now that there are millions of varieties to choose from.

That’s not to say, I don’t still have the days where I explore. Last night, before Tobyjoe got home, I hit the Random button over and over again on SPD and clicked around to find new sites. I discovered a few new faces. It was refreshing. The thing is, I didn’t add one of those Web sites to my RSS feed. I did, however, leave a few comments.

In this day and age, with there being so many to choose from, it’s hard to make a huge dent in the blog world. Even if you write one great post and that’s sent to hundreds of thousands of people via AIM, E-mail or by word of mouth, those people will most likely not stick around for too long. I have been sent countless entries over the years and while several of them have made me laugh out loud or hit home in some other way, I don’t remember them now. And I certainly have no recollection of their URLs. At best, I might rediscover them again using Google and searching whatever it is I can remember from the subject matter. But who really has the time to do that?

I discover new sites all the time. But I’m becoming a lot more particular about what I subscribe to. I find that I no longer have the patience for being annoyed or skimming a bunch of repetitive comments. I no longer have the patience for sifting through fluff and I no longer have the patience for trying to catch up on some existing drama and/or storyline. It’s just the way it is for me. I watch shows like CSI and Law and Order in lieu of shows like Survivor (which you have to follow from its beginning) or The O.C. (because I have no clue what dramatic events are taking place in their lives). Getting caught up mid-way through any television drama is frustrating for most people. I think the same can be said about the blog community.

This site is entering its fourth year on the Internet and I’m amazed it’s still up and running and that I still diligently update it. I’m even more amazed I have seen reader growth over the years and haven’t received an eviction notice. But, I have to say, sometimes, it feels completely thankless and, therefore, becomes frustrating. Sometimes, when you start trying to convince yourself that you’re actually out there doing something, and then moments later, you look at your worth, your stats, whatever, reality kicks in. Keeping a blog rarely has any impact in changing the world. I can only think of one personal Web site off the top of my head that has done this. And that’s The Daily Kos who raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for the DNC. Most of the time, keeping a blog is personal and self-important. As soon as we start believing otherwise, we’re fooling ourselves.

But I don’t want to end this on a negative note. That was not my intention at all, quite the contrary, actually. The goal I have set for myself, should I see this site into year five, is to keep a hold of my voice and avoid writing with any one person in mind. This has and always will be about me and it’s to be enjoyed or ignored by whoever wants to enjoy or ignore it. I will never make money off of this Web site. I will never sell it for millions of dollars or become a spoke on an otherwise larger wheel. It will never be bigger than what it is. Having a blog rarely changes the world. The people changing the world don’t sit around writing journal entries in search of more and more comments and traffic and praise. They’re out there raising money, spreading awareness, trying to find medicines for the people who need it, they’re educating our children, helping the oppressed, and working toward peace. The people who are really changing the world and who will be remembered after someone pulls out the ethernet cord aren’t sitting in front of a computer at all.

And I think it’s best to remember that.

Tobyjoe added a search box to SPD. We need to make it look prettier, but it’s there for now. And it works! I just searched my own name and I found this baby. I have issues.

It’s not even 10 AM and I swear that all of New York’s tourists are already drunk. It’s a complete mess out there. The three blocks I walk from Grand Central Station to Madison and 45th are filled with green faces, stickered pant legs, green top hats, green umbrellas, green everything. It’s insane. The parade runs up 5th Avenue, not a block from my office. It begins at around 11 AM. I am 21 floors above 5th avenue and I can hear them screaming. This evening will surely be a mess. The sidewalks will be speckled with all those passed out, those puke-covered, those bloated faces slurring for taxis, all of them spilling into the streets. And I’ll have to maneuver my way around them creating my own, real-life video game. Come tomorrow, the toilets and their pipes will be stuffed full of dyed green shit and light green piss; it’s just another St. Patrick’s Day here in the Big Apple.

I do so love New York. I love the fact that you can get anywhere you want for 2 bucks. I love the fact that everything – literally everything – can be bought, found, borrowed, watched, and seen here. I love the fact that its mixture of people is just like the juxtaposition of its buildings. You’ll find a 98-year-old woman next to a 2-year-old girl; New York replenishes its life constantly and its builders do the same with its buildings. The people are sometimes the tallest people you’ve ever seen. Sometimes they’re the shortest.

I love that New York has a soundtrack and that its lead singer is not always a saxophone. I love that it’s as deep as it is tall and I find that a little creepy as well. And it’s true what they say, the city never does sleep and the exhaustion shows in much the same way as it does on a human face.

I love that this guy can become a celebrity with such a horrible ad.

I love that this city has seasons and that it gets cranky sometimes and that when it does its people get cranky, too. This city doesn’t stop moving for anyone. And sometimes when I feel like I’m getting a big head about my small world, I am immediately humbled the moment I walk outside; if you leave, if you die, New York won’t remember you. When you agree to live here, you become just another one of New York’s temporary hitchhikers. It’s possible to get lost here in absolutely every way. And it’s also possible to find oneself.

I have to be honest about something. As I was walking up Graham Avenue this morning I had every intention of writing about something frustrating me about this city. And then, with all the green people and their already booze inflated cheeks, I felt even more rigid and annoyed. It was only after I sat down and started to write this post and began to hear the screams coming up from below, did my mood take a turn. I love this city. I love that sometimes I hate it and that sometimes it does something like moves my car from one street to another without letting me know, or that it takes 45 percent of my bonus. I love hating that the subways sometimes don’t run at all. I love that its people ignore you, knock into you, and seemingly detest you but the moment you become sick or need help, countless people lend a hand, a shoulder, their seat or their wallet.

This place has become my life. I have bad days and bad months and bad weeks. Sometimes, I have bad entire years. I take great comfort in the fact that I’m in a city that does too. In all of my life, I haven’t ever met a city like New York.

But, seriously, New York, you really could do something about the BQE.

Coming Soon to a browser near you.

Tobyjoe and I are heading down to Washington next weekend to visit friends. I just started looking into the logistics. What we’re trying to figure out, however, is if we should get a room for one night (the other night we’d stay with Soung and David) at the Mayflower. I haven’t ever been there before. I used to work around the corner from it but never went inside. All I know is that it’s fancypants.

The rooms are from $219.00 a night all the way up to $432.00. Obviously, we don’t have that much money. But I am left wondering if it’s worth 200 bucks assuming we look at it like a miniature vacation.

Judging by our history, we’ll end up spending most of our time in a basement called Bedrock.

This morning while showering a Beth Orton song entered my head and although it remained active and bouncy the entire time it was visiting, I simply could not get it to leave. The song is called “Worms.” The verse that overstayed its welcome went like this:

Chickens don’t fly

But they have got the wings

No matter how hard they try

They bump into things

Then, I began to think about chickens. I thought of another song as well. It’s by the Mountain Goats. The song is called “Dilaudid” and the verse goes like this:

All the chickens come on home to roost

Plump bodies blotting out the sky

You know it breaks my heart in half, in half

When I see them trying to fly

‘Cuz you just can’t do things your body wasn’t meant to

What’s up with songs about chickens? There are a few other chicken songs, too. That little red bastard, the muppet who’s stuck in perpetual state of puberty, sings one about dancing. And I know there was an older song where the guy in the chorus keeps saying. “Ain’t no one here but us chickens. Ain’t no one here at all.” But I think the use of the word “Chicken” in this instance is about being afraid.

I’m sure there are other chicken songs but it’s early and I’ve already thought of four. But I’m not necessarily writing to discuss fowl in songwriting.

You see, in spite of what Ms. Orton and Mr. Darnielle tells us, I happen to know for a fact that some chickens can fly. At least that’s what my cousin told me. And while it was in the form of song, she told me that many times she will go out back to find her chickens and they’re not around. Upon looking a little further, she finds her free-roaming chickens in the trees. She told me about her chickens at least 10 years ago and I still visualize the scenario at least once a year. I picture a backyard with a tire swing. There are a few half-used, waterlogged citronella candles here and there. I picture patches torn throughout the grass introducing dark brown, thick mud. Its dotted with little chicken footprints. I picture two trees: one, is chicken-free, the other dotted with plump, white chickens. I picture them squawking and bitching at her as she takes away their eggs, like a dozen old, cranky toothless men.

So, my question to both Beth and John is this: How did my cousin’s chickens get in that tree?

Edite to add: This post reminded me of this old gem:

The inner mihow really can’t fly.

I got a bonus today. I deposited it immediately. That felt good. And then I got back to work and sent all but $400.00 of it to my credit cards.

I have had the same Macintosh for six years this April. Toby calls it Terri Schiavo (you can all send hate mail to: ihatemihow at this domain dot com). When one picks it up, something actually rattles inside of it. It sounds like a maraca. Yet, it still works. Go figure. I refuse to buy a new one as long as this one is still working. Which is dumb, because if you were to define the word “working” it was gone a long, long time ago. I’d go into specifics, but who wants to hear about a geriatric computer?

Anyway, I vowed that I’d buy a new Mac with my bonus this year. Of course, as soon as I got the check, I started to think about my credit card bills and decided to do the adult thing. It didn’t help that on the same day I got my bonus (that would be today) I heard an interview with the guy who created this film. I took that as a sign.

I’m afraid the adult thing doesn’t include a new computer

Viva La Terri.

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

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

When they told me we were moving back to Pennsylvania, I stopped listening. It simply was not happening. Five years earlier we sat at the same brown table and they told me we were moving from New Cumberland, Pennsylvania to Raleigh, North Carolina. I was 10 at the time. The week before we moved, I spent a lot of time intrigued with the new language I’d have to learn. One of my parent’s friends had given them a going away present. It was a book called “How To Talk Southern”. The left-hand-side of the book featured words like “Hell” and “Shit”. On the right, each word had written pronunciations. “Hell” was to be said “Hail”, “Shit” was “Sheit”. In the end, the author gave us all one final rule: If a word is usually one syllable, stretch it into two. If it’s two, make it one.

At the time, I understood turning one syllable into two, hence the term “southern drawl”. But turning two into one irked me. I wasn’t sure how that might be applied in regular conversation. It was months later, when I learned that down south people turn a perfectly good second-person plural pronoun into a one-syllable contraction. The author was right after all. This was possible.

I didn’t like the idea of moving down south and swapping syllables but I was 10. And when you’re ten you worry about different things. I had friends back then and they were good friends, but we never talked about things like sex and boys or the color of our lipstick. We didn’t know what drugs were. We didn’t care about Reagan or Mondale, dances or curfews, maxi pads or training bras. At age ten, none of my friends knew what the back seat of a Chevy Nova looked like. We certainly didn’t know that innocence was something one could lose.

One day, the movers came and my mother helped them understand what needed to be done. They packed everything up and took away our brown and orange furniture. I wondered about the carpeting, too. They left the carpeting. I was told there would be new carpeting in Raleigh, carpeting without my footprints, carpeting that would no longer meet walls with a graphite timeline proving the fact that while we were moving South, my head was moving North.

South. Even the word seemed strange to me. I pictured sagging moss and deep red Earth, prehistoric, colorful bugs and a lot of pine needles. I pictured the South layered thick. And, after five years of getting to know it, the South became that way.

“We’re moving back to Pennsylvania. Your father tried everything. But we’re moving. It’s either we move back North or your father will lose his job. We can’t afford it if your father loses his job. We simply can’t.”

I hung on this word “It”. Afford “IT”? What did “IT” mean and why couldn’t we live without whatever “IT” was? I didn’t want to move. I was 15. When I moved down South, they had promised we’d never move again, at least not while we - the kids - were still in high school. Several years and many apartments would come and go before I knew what IT was. Years would pass before I’d begin to realize that IT brings with IT heartburn and wrinkles, deadlines, and taxes.

“I am so sorry, Michele. I know we promised that this would not happen. But it’s not something we have any control over.”

I don’t even think I was angry at the time. But I knew I had to pretend to be. I vowed to not speak to either one of my parents indefinitely. And I said this to their faces. It was over. We had broken up. I would continue to live with them. I would do whatever I had to do while living under their roof, but I would not speak to them any longer. It was at that moment, I threw away every bit of respect I ever had for Family.

Weeks, maybe months went by where I didn’t speak to either one of them. And the memory knocks the wind out of me. I barely spoke to my mother, who, I wasn’t very pleasant to anyway. There were times it became hard. There were times where I wanted so badly to laugh at their jokes or at something my brother said to them. I wanted to be included. There were times where my silence wanted to scream. Pride can be so powerful sometimes. I believe that pride alone can bring down an entire country. It’s certainly powerful enough to ruin a single life.

I remember the very moment I began talking to my father again. I was in my bedroom at the time. I used to sit in front of my stereo and play music really loudly. We lived in a ranch house—a southern ranch. I was closest to the living room and the kitchen. Everyone could hear my music.

I was playing a song called “Changes” by Ozzy Osbourne when my father knocked on my door.

(I feel unhappy. I feel so sad. I lost the best friend. That I ever had.)

“Can I come in? I have to talk to you.”

I didn’t say anything.

(She was my woman. I loved her so. But it’s too late now. I’ve let her go)

“You don’t have to say a word. I just need to talk to you.”

I opened the door.

He shut the door behind him and sat down on the floor.

(I’m going through changes. I’m going through changes. We shared the years. We shared each day.)

I turned my music down a little bit letting him know - without speaking - that he could.

(In love together. We found a way. But soon the world. Had its evil way. My heart was blinded. Love went astray)

“I know you’re mad at me. I did everything I could, I promise.”

(I’m going through changes. I’m going through changes.)

I looked down at the carpet. I really missed my parents.

“I tried everything. I don’t want you to be mad at us any longer. I am so sorry.”

(It took so long. To realize. That I can still hear. Her last goodbyes)

My grandmother, Nanny, used to tell my father that the song that most reminded her of him was that Simon and Garfunkle song that went, “I am a rock, I am an island.” I can see that. My father was solid. Never once had I seen him cry. He didn’t even cry at his brother’s funeral. He didn’t cry at his father’s funeral, either. That’s what I was told, anyway.

“What is this you’re listening to? It’s very sad.”

When my father’s face dipped down toward the floor, and his thick glasses slid south down his oily nose, that’s the very moment I remember throwing out my pride.

My father was crying.

(Now all my days. Are filled with tears. Wish I could go back. And change these years.)

There isn’t much I can do to change that part of my life. And in retrospect, I know that Raleigh would have killed me, if not literally, emotionally. I was headed down a very, very destructive road but that’s a story for another day—maybe. For now, my history tells a story and there is a section of that history that lies in silence. And I find it ironic that it’s one of my loudest memories.

If Superman were around today, the Greatest American Hero, Wonder Woman, or someone equally as spectacular and awesome, I might ask them to help me. And I hope that after they had finished chuckling over the fact that Ozzy Osbourne played a major part in what I just told them, they’d agree to rewind time. I’d say, “Sirs and madams, I have to add sound to an otherwise silent part of my life. Surely, you understand, right? Surely, you can do this for me, right? Surely, I can go back and fill the silence with sentences and sighs.”

Isaac Hayes is leaving South Park because he was offended that a recent show made fun of Scientology.

Paris Hilton being stuck up a gay man’s ass, however, was totally fine. A fight between Jesus and Satan? Fine, again. Mess with Scientology, however, and the Chef takes his salty balls and leaves the show.

Issues, dude. Issues.

In other religious news, Ford is being threatened again by the AFA. I have to admit, I’m starting to feel sorry for them. If you care, write them a letter letting them know how you feel.

This makes me think of a great song. Beth Orton: Heart of Soul. 5.13 Mgs. So good.

For those of you sick bastards searching for you know exactly what, I now have your IP address. Get help.

Last night, Tobyjoe and I were discussing Sarah’s profile over at Self-Portrait Day.

“So, Sarah really likes porn, eh?”

“She does? Cool.”

“Yeah. She said so over at SPD.”

He then read some of her answers aloud. We both laughed.

“A year ago, when she wrote that, I actually thought it was a joke. Now, I’m not so sure. Either way, good for her!”

Go over here and get pissed.

(Oh my god, I could totally work for the New York Post. The headline? The hell?)

On Sunday, Tobyjoe and I watched Murderball a documentary film about a certain form of rugby in the Paralympics. The film is mesmerizing. The filmmakers follow the lives of three people very closely and a few others peripherally. The three main characters are pretty outstanding.

I realized something about myself while I was watching the movie. And I’m not proud of what I’m about to admit. The best I can do is say I’m a little proud of the fact that I’m about to admit it at all. During the movie, I kept saying, “Wow, that guy is really good-looking.” Or, “His girlfriend is super cute.” I said and/or thought this a dozen times while watching Murderball.

Stop.

Why?

The fact that I called to realize this at all, is a little unnerving. A lot of the men in Murderball sustained spinal injuries leaving them confined to a wheelchair. Some suffered from a rare blood disease leaving them without limbs. They’re perfectly normal human beings. They still eat, drink, laugh, dream, have sex, masturbate, and cry. They’re totally and completely human. Why, then, do I feel compelled to realize that they’re attractive? Why would it be any other way?

It disturbs me what we consider to be “normal” and “beautiful” during this day and age. Who makes these rules? Who deems one as popular? Who defines what is considered normal and therefore acceptable? Why must I realize that someone without an arm or a leg can be attractive?

Conflicted, I watched the movie trying to overcome this realization which was born completely out of judgment. It occurred to me that I have met hundreds of perfectly “normal looking�? people who are so much more ugly. I have witnessed horribly unappealing people on the subway as they scowl and snort at those who accidentally bump into their “normal” bodies. I have met nasty people while driving. I meet unattractive “normal” people every day - and strangers and friends - people we all might, at first, look at and tag as perfectly normal.

I’m so sick of what we consider normal, popular, safe, and understood. I’m tired of being shallow. I’m sick of assumption. I’m sick of complacency. Most of all, I’m tired of my being afraid to tell the truth.

We’re a little late on this. Tobyjoe rebuilt Self-Portrait Day in celebration of it turning one. The look didn’t change much and the idea is still very much the same, but how it functions is totally different.

For starters, it’s been automatated. Which makes me happy as we no longer have to code everything by hand and crop and optimize all the images. Now, members can log in and upload pictures whenever they want. When they do so, they immediately get bumped up to the top. Here, you will find the name of the person, where they live, a link to their site, how long they’ve been a member and the last time they signed in. Pretty cool, if you ask me.

Another new feature is the fact that a profile has been added for each person. When you click on someone’s portrait, you will enter a new page where you can learn a little bit more about the person. (shown here.)

We also added Random. The random button selects 12 faces and displays them for you.

Last, but not least (as I think this is my favorite new feature) Tobyjoe has added an RSS feed for both the Homepage and Random.

We’ll be changing some more over on SPD for the next couple of weeks. I’m looking forward to receiving feedback (we’ve already received some—thank you!) and suggestions as to how to make it even more usable and fun. As with any new launch, there are bound to be bugs. That happens. Please feel free to let us know if you find any while you’re visiting.

I am really excited about the new feel. Last night, after we launched the site we sent an email to everyone in our database. The response was overwhelming. I found myself addicted to reloading the page and clicking on new faces.

Tobyjoe and I have never used Tivo. On Friday, we picked up the Time Warner equivalent.

The question is this: How did I go so long without this? Tonight, we are recording Desperate Housewives and Grey’s Anatomy in order to watch The Sopranos and The L Word. You see, I realized about a half an hour ago, if we watch the paid channels we can later bypass the commercials on Network T.V. and save up to a half an hour. And with that extra half an hour, I can watch more television!

Ain’t life grand?

We shipped out the new Spread books last week. People have already begun to receive and therefore read their copies. If anyone cares to join us, please feel free. The more the merrier.

For those unfamiliar, Mary Gaistkill wrote the short story the movie Secretary was based on.

Side note: I uploaded some new/old photos on Flickr. The old negatives are never-ending. I had no idea I had taken so many pictures.

I am on this new kick because my commute on the L train sucks so very badly. Today, I waited for 45 minutes before an unpacked train entered the Graham station. My fellow commuters were livid. Three out of five days this week were an absolute nightmare while riding the L Train.

Today, I decided that instead of actually getting on, I’d sit back and film the ordeal. I took video after video of one pregnancy packed train after another. Can’t join ‘em, film ‘em.

Anyway, it was fun. So when I finally arrived to Grand Central Station, about 1 hour later, I filmed my exit. (Warning: Music) I added the song I was listening to at the time as well.

It’s boring, but I had fun opening Flash again. Now, if only I had the time to figure out how to fade in and out.

I simply could not resist. Here is proof, of how bad the L Train is. (Video with sound.) The train you see in this video was number three. I finally got on the fourth. I hate this damn train.

The first time I saw Sunny’s paintings I was impressed. Then, I found out the most remarkable part about her; Sunny paints with her mouth. Sunny was born with a disability called Arthrogryposis. It was caused by U.S military pollution.

Tobyjoe used to date her sister and has known Sunny for a long, long time. Last night, we were discussing the possibility of commissioning Sunny to paint our portrait. But, I’m sure she’s way out of our price range.

I am amazed at what people are able to do when they are passionate about something and the hurdles they’re able to overcome to make something happen. When I hear about people like Sunny, I feel ashamed at how lazy I am and how much I complain about life when I have it so well. What a remarkable young woman. I think the only physical hurdle I have ever had to overcome is hearing loss in one ear and Tinnitus in the other.

I have linked to her work in the past but felt her new work deserved some attention. Please stop by and check out her work. You can listen to interview on NPR from last year as well. Enjoy!

Did you know all of Chipotle’s political contributions go to the Republican Party? Did you know Starbucks gives 55% to the DNC?

I was really excited to find out about The Blue Pages, a conscientious guide to shopping. This could really make a difference. This book could answer pesky questions one might have about Dominos Pizza.

Then, yesterday, someone sent me a link to Buy Blue. They are bringing a lawsuit against PoliPointPress for basically stealing the idea.

BuyBlue participated in a series of meetings and consultations with PoliPoint staff and contractors. We shared our research and organizational methodology with PoliPoint, relying on Polipoint’s representations that they would use it to develop the Buyblue Buyers Guide 2006 in conjunction with BuyBlue.org.

This seems like something more than a he said/she said type of situation. It appears that the folks at PoliPointPress directly stole the concept as well as Buy Blue’s research. I’m left wondering if it’s true. It would be very unfortunate to find out that this book and its mission be tied to something dirty. I loathe people who steal ideas.

I say some brave liberal gets their ass into that White House to steal that freakin’ rug already.

For whatever reason, Bush seems fixated on his rug. Virtually all visitors to the Oval Office find him regaling them about how it was chosen and what it represents.

“Also, my rug was stolen.”

“The rug was in the car?”

“No. It was here.”

“[eager] Oh, separate incidents.”

“[on answering machine] George, this is Maude. I need to see you. I’m the one who took your rug.”

“Well. I guess we can close the books on that one.”

This time last year I went on the South Beach Diet. We had just returned from vacationing down in Florida. When I put on my bathing suit, I looked like a big, mid-baked, fluffy ball of cookie dough. If that cookie dough had been tied up and then stuffed in an oven, that would have been me. I couldn’t very well avoid the pool. Not only was it 90 degrees and humid, but I love to swim. I borrowed my mother’s bathing suit. And even that one was tight not that my mother is overweight or anything. It was a rough week. I realized I was putting on weight faster than ever before and the Half Iron Man contest was taking place on the grounds where we were staying. I ate like a champ that week, stuffing myself full of pancakes, waffle, and anything beige and fluffy. I’ll take Foods That Look Like Michele for 1000.

As soon as we got off the plane at JFK, I went on a diet. And I lost about 15 pounds. I felt great.

Last September, we visited Rhode Island with Nico and George. One night, Nico cooked up some homemade mac and cheese. I blame her entirely for falling off the wagon, actually, I didn’t FALL, she kicked me. No one can turn down macaroni and cheese like that. No one.

From that point forward, I slowly stopped dieting.

For months to come, and into December, I refused to get on the scale fearing what it would read back to me. When I finally did, my fears were validated. Nearly all of the weight I had lost was back. I wasn’t at my heaviest, my heaviest was when we were in San Francisco and all I did was eat burritos, drink lemonade, and not walk, unless it was to get another burrito and some more lemonade. I was 5 pounds less than that. I had put 10 of my 15 pounds back on. I felt horrible.

I started running. That helped my self-esteem. And I’m still working out although that time has been severed, as work lately has been overly demanding. Excercise feels great, but as far as I can tell, it doesn’t shed pounds quite like dieting does. Three weeks ago, I started dieting as well.

The other night, while I was watching the Oscars, I thought about Charlize Theron and her role in Monster. She probably put on 30 pounds for that role. I’m sure if I looked hard enough, I could find out exactly how much. She slimmed up immediately following the production. I admire her for being able to bounce back so beautifully. It’s weird, but I think about that nearly every time I see her. When I was at my heaviest, I feel that my body looked like hers in the movie Monster. What a weird thing to admit about oneself. What a weird thing to fixate on.

While I realize that the job of a moviestar is to keep one’s body maintained and that most of us don’t have the luxury of working out for 2+ hours a day with a personal trainer, there must be a way to remain fit. My goal is to lose 20 pounds. My goal then is to try my hardest to keep it off. I’m five pounds lighter this week than I was three weeks ago. It’s hard. It’s frustrating, but at least it’s working, albeit slowly.

Just like with every post, I do have a few questions. If you feel like answering, please do so. Are you happy with your weight? Do you diet? Do you workout? Have you ever lost and/or gained a large amount of weight? What’s your weakness? Mine is pizza, cake, and french fries. I would love to order a pizza tonight and not regret it in the morning.

Anything goes today, people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And guess what? They did.

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

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

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

Tobyjoe and I really love The L Word. We watch it every Sunday. But Max - the one who’s working toward a sex change - she kind of gives me the willies.

Two weeks ago, Max (aka the lesbian in the picture above) put on a strap-on and had Alan Cumming give her a BJ. Of course, this isn’t x-rated, so it’s not too, too graphic.

Last week, Max used the same device and had sexual intercourse with Mr. Cumming on a bar.

We watched in awe. And then Tobyjoe turned to me and said, “I’m pretty sure Alan Cumming has one of the weirdest resumes in Hollywood.”

Aye. Aye.

Edited to Add: Rest assured, this blog does take money or hints from businesses of any kind. Showtime did not contact me and ask me to plug The L Word. I plug lesbians on my own free will.

Mike Rounds signed a bill today intended to ban most abortions unless it’s necessary to save a woman’s life.

The quote below explains what Rep. Bill Napoli feels warrants a “life-saving” abortion.

“BILL NAPOLI: A real-life description to me would be a rape victim, brutally raped, savaged. The girl was a virgin. She was religious. She planned on saving her virginity until she was married. She was brutalized and raped, sodomized as bad as you can possibly make it, and is impregnated. I mean, that girl could be so messed up, physically and psychologically, that carrying that child could very well threaten her life.”

We’re in good hands, ladies. Basically, if you live in South Dakota and you aren’t impregnanted during a prison-rape or you’re not the Virgin Mary, you’re having that baby.

Not to worry!

Our Supreme Court Upholds Campus Military Recruitment even though a lot of people in the academic community don’t like it. How dare the government woo impressionable young men and women into fighting their wars.

I have the answer: Make the women of South Dakota (Mississippi soon to follow) give birth even if they don’t wish to. Then, immediately take those babies to a military day care and let ‘em grow up a bit. Once they are old enough, we can send all those unwanted babies off to war! This way, we’re prolonging the abortion by at least 16 years. Although, I say we send ‘em in earlier; if they’re old enough to walk, they’re old enough to bear arms.

Edited to Add: This post is obviously a joke. I was put off by what Napoli said. That’s all.

Oh dear, the pro-life/pro-family groups are going to freak out over this one. They can’t very well boycott Walmart, can they? Where on Earth will the get their ammunition to gun down the abortion doctors and homosexuals?

On Friday, Rachel Maddow talked about a nuclear reactor 30 miles from her home. It’s called the Vermont Yankee. The Vermont Yankee is a 30-year-old reactor. When you visit the Entergy Web site, it boasts that the Vermont Yankee has the ability to safely produce a maximum of 535 Megawatts of nuclear power. It produces over 1/3 of Vermont’s electricity.

Recently, it was found out that the Vermont Yankee was actually producing more than 535 megawatts of power and is instead producing 540 megawatts of power. (An aside, I find it rather curious that the Entergy Web site has 535 listed and the Vermont Yankee, 540. Did someone update the Web site based on his or her findings?)

But I digress. Last week, the Federal Government agreed to up that number by 20%, pushing the number from 535 (or 540) to 640 megawatts. Is it wise to push a 30-year-old nuclear reactor this much?

My brother and I have a recurring conversation from time to time regarding airplanes. Usually, right before we’re about to go anywhere, we’ll discuss the plane. Usually, we fly JetBlue. They tend to have newer planes. Ryan always jokes, “Yeah, I’m not sure if I’d rather fly in a new, inexperienced plane with all new parts and one that doesn’t really know itself yet. While one might break down due to wear and tear, who’s to say the newer one isn’t a lemon?”

Does the Vermont Yankee’s 30+ years work for it or against it?

When I was 5, we lived about 30 miles away from Three Mile Island. When it leaked, we were told to evacuate our hoome immediately. My mother was pregnant at the time with my little brother, the same one who would rather fly in an older plane. Over the years, and due to numerous reoccurring nightmares from the event, my actual recollection of it has become more and more contorted. I remember still scenes about it but I’m not sure if they’re real or they’re influenced by hundreds of dreams. Either way, I do remember holding my breath as much as possible before I felt we were safe enough away. I’m still afraid of Three Mile Island and nuclear power plants.

For years after the event, we continued to receive letters from the Pennsylvania state government inquiring about my brother’s health. While he seems fine, we make jokes about his intelligence (which is out of this world). From time to time, we blame his brilliance on the leak. We’ve even compared him to superman.

We don’t joke about his heart problems or the fact that a normal, resting heart rate for him is well above 100. We don’t discuss the fact that he is prone to extremely powerful stomachaches that come on for no reason whatsoever. While I don’t have any way of knowing that this has anything to do with the leak at Three Mile Island, we don’t joke about it either.

I like the idea of nuclear power, but I don’t like that we actually use it. It looks great on paper and in theory but I’m not sure humans are ready for it or ever will be, for that matter. I understand that it is clean other than the incredibly toxic waste it produces. But I find human err way too prevalent. Plus, its hazardous waste is basically immortal.

If you are indeed for nuclear power plants, one begs the question; are you OK with it being in your backyard? At one time, I had one in mine. And even a false alarm can last a lifetime.

It’s Sunday and I feel like sharing.

First, I’d like to direct you to this woman. She’s not only a wonderful photographer she’s also a really kind person.

I just found out that Rion and her husband are moving to Paris. New York City will miss her greatly.

My little brother got a new digital Olympus point and shoot. He’s snap happy. Here are some pictures. I find this one particularly frightening.

And lastly, this guy started the Barbarian Group which makes him Toby’s boss. I hear he’s pretty rad.

I read something today on a very popular personal Web site that hit a nerve and made me feel kind of bad. (I’m menstrual and dieting, what more can I say?) I know that this happens to a lot of people, they’ll read someone’s Web site and something on there makes them feel sad/angry/annoyed—whatever. (I have received emails for making people feel this way. I’m guilty, too. Over the years, I have had my link removed from Web sites for this.) Bloggers can’t please everyone all the time. But they can avoid needlessly cruel comments, especially if they’re fairly well known and therefore looked up to. Not everything is funny to everyone.

I have been meaning to write about this for some time. I have been toying with a massive essay about the blogging community (specifically its women). And the desire to write about it became even more intense recently.

There is a movie coming out soon. It’s called, Sorry, Haters. It’s a film about hatred, obviously. But the term “Hater” means something entirely different from what one might initially think. To have a “Hater” means you are worth more professionally. The more Haters you have, the more well known you are, the more successful you become. Some bloggers become popular for having as many “Haters�? as they do lovers. The Haters, however, are the people who bring them the traffic. People love to hate. It’s true, just look at Howard Stern’s career. Everyone gets off on feeling angry. And some bloggers enjoy having Haters. They’d be lying if they claimed otherwise.

This morning, I almost got confrontational and wrote to them to tell them how badly they made me feel and why what they wrote wasn’t necessarily a wise thing to do. Instead, I took the passive-aggressive route and wrote this instead. (Charming, I know.) But writing them won’t do me any good and it won’t change anything. It will probably just welcome retaliation or public humiliation (which has also happen to me before when I put my nose into business it had no business being in.) I also wanted to avoid being added to their long list of Haters. What do you do when you feel this way?

Then, there is the “three-way calling�? technique, which comes from something most girls used back in middle school (at least when I was growing up). One girl calls you, asks you to be quiet, and then for some brilliant reason thinks it’d be funny to get a third girl on the phone to say mean things about you while you sit there quietly listening. I thought about employing the “three-way calling�? Internet technique, writing a bunch of people with like thoughts and asking them to join me in an albeit small, ridiculous, and thankless crusade. Online, the technique is often used by men AND women. The offended will move away from the original Web site (IRC, forum, whatever) and collaborate with specific individuals in order to gain more manpower. After they have their strategy in place, they return to the Web site and gang up on the offending person. It’s really pathetic. It’s even more interesting because sometimes a person employed to back you up on one battle ends up on the opposing side months later during another. Similarly, you might employ a person you had a previous beef with to fight a person who helped you out before. Do you get where I’m going with this? Does it sound complicated? Does it sound completely stupid? It happens all the time. Grown adults do this. I’ve seen it in action.

The first thing you learn in any self-defense class is if it’s at all possible you should run away from a confrontation. If that doesn’t work, you fight. There was a part of me who still wanted to send a letter letting them know how thoughtless they often are. But this time, I really do think it’s probably best to just walk away.

This time, I’m finally turning it off.

Tobyjoe and I are in dyer need of a vacation. And it needs to happen soon. In the past we’ve confused the word “vacation” with “large move”. Instead of saving our money and flying someplace exotic and relaxing, we just pack everything up and move. While our drive across the U.S. of A. was a lovely one, it wasn’t exactly a vacation. We were on a tight schedule and had three screaming cats in the back seat, cats that really don’t like to poop or pee in a moving vehicle. I can’t say that I do, either.

Now, we went to Rhode Island last September and had a wonderful time. We went to Disney last March with the entire family. We also had a lovely time. Several years ago we took a trip down to Turks and Caicos. It was a 4-day yoga retreat where we snorkeled, ate healthy foods, kayaked along some of the most pristine waters in the world, and rode little motorcycles all over the underdeveloped island. Some of you might remember this:

I think I need some more photos like this one.

Lately, I have been having these “moments”. I call them moments because I’m not sure what other term to use. They’re happening more and more frequently, too. I’ll be someplace – anywhere—and suddenly, without even thinking about it, I’m at the end of my life looking back. The weirdest part is I can SEE myself, like I’m watching myself speak as one might watch a character in a movie. I know that I’m talking to someone, but it doesn’t matter whom, really, because they’re not the point. The point always resides on something in which I regret NOT having done or something I regret having done. The last “moment” took place the other night while on the treadmill. I was running and then I wasn’t. Instead, I was sitting somewhere telling someone about myself. I said, “I loved to travel but always hated flying. Looking back, I wish I had just dealt with it. I never got to see India, Thailand, China or Alaska.”

I hate flying. But I think I finally have a doctor here who can help me out with that. I’m willing to take an extreme form of therapy if need be. And by “extreme” I mean a swift punch in the face and a kick to the back of the head right before take-off.

So, yesterday, I started shopping around on the Bahamas Web site. Aside from the fact that the Web site seems to have several bugs in Firefox, I don’t even know WHERE to begin when it comes to all those damn islands. I love the logo, but I can’t pick one based on color, right? How many freaking islands do they need? What would we like? I have no idea. I could guess, but what if we end up on some fraternity-flooded island where people are sipping drinks out of test tubes? No, thank you.

I guess this re