Tobyjoe and I attended the peace march that took place in New York City this Saturday. It was pretty amazing, to be honest. For some reason, I always get choked up around large groups of people who come together for a similar reason. I am not sure why. Anyway, I have some images I’d like to share. There are many, many more on Flickr as I needed to send them to a few groups. If you’re inclined you may see them all here.

(Click each thumbnail to enlarge.)

Of course I brought some T-shirts! They were a hit too. People were totally into them. Some folks even put them on.

Again, you may see them all here.

Many people have probably already heard or read about the daredevil named Ray Corliss, host of “Stunt Junkies” on the Discovery Channel, who tried to parachute off the Empire State Building yesterday.

Police say Corliss is a master of disguise. He allegedly came to the Empire State Building dressed as an overweight tourist, stripped down in the men’s room and took a flying leap over the observation deck

Apparently, the American obesity epidemic helped in letting this man slip by security concealing a camera, a parachute, a helmet and the rest of his gear. Luckily, however, someone had tipped off police earlier so he was stopped from actually finishing the jump. I find it a little strange that he was able to take the fat suit off and prepare himself. He was also able to climb OVER the railing before they stopped him. Couldn’t it have been stopped sooner? I keep picturing that scene from Austin Powers where the cop is about an hour from being crushed by a steamroller but continues to scream anyway.

But here’s my bigger question: How are we doing on the whole home security front? If a guy can purchase fat suit and sneak by security guards wearing a parachute and a camera and be gain access into one of the most famous buildings in the world, even after said stunt had been tipped off to police, clearly we’re not doing our job to protect America.

But at least he gave a bunch of overweight tourists something to talk about.

The other day I was flipping through our weekly New Yorker when I discovered that they had a weekly caption contest. I mentally recorded the comic, and within a few seconds, I had decided on a caption. This is the comic:

My caption:

You don’t emit squiggly lines, do you?

After running it by Tobyjoe, and having him compare the caption to the stand up comedy of the wonderfully now deceased, Mitch Hedberg, I stupidly entered the caption using my maiden name. I am well aware of the fact that my caption is not nearly as funny as Mitch Hedberg’s comedy, but give a bitch a bone every now and again, OK?

Originally, it was to read: “You’ll do just fine here, as long as you don’t emit squiggly lines.” But when I said that out loud to Tobyjoe it was really tough to say without stuttering and saying it in my head over and over again (which I tend to do) didn’t work either. So I shortened it. But even after having entered the contest and using my ONE chance at doing so, I could not let it go. I thought of about 25 other captions, none, of which were good enough to create another name over, but still. At around 11:39 PM, knowing the clock was ticking and had only about 20 minutes left, I thought of another caption that I simply had to enter.

Here, it’s probably best that you think inside the box.

There were about 72 variations of that one as well. And in my head it was a lot funnier. I kept saying it and saying it, changing emphasis from one word to the next. I almost switched “box” for “cube” and “think” for “remain”. But Tobyjoe talked me out of it. I entered that caption using my married name.

Even after the clock struck midnight and the contest doors had closed, captions were coming in by the barrel load. I used to act this way in college with every new project. I would think things through conceptually until mental exhaustion. (One time, I tried to title a movie I created about a woman who identified with feeling more like a man than a woman “AnneRogAndMe”. I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember my very angry design professor screaming, “What in the hell does that even mean, Howley?!” It later became “FeelMale” and was set to a Sonic Youth song.) I over think everything. And I have noticed that that 9 times out of 10 what I find to be super funny isn’t really funny at all. I’ll be chuckling or snorting about something and everyone is looking at me like I have a build up of black eye-snot.

Even though they said something about calling or emailing a potential finalist and I haven’t heard squat, I am not giving up hope. I’ll find out once and for all on Monday. But currently I’m working overtime on coming up with captions for comic number 48. Join me!

It’s the little things in life, people, the little things.

Yay Chicago!

Foie gras is produced by force-feeding grain to ducks and geese several times a day through a pipe inserted into their throats, causing their livers to expand.

Someone I work with said, “Yeah, but is that really painful?”

Hopefully, New York will follow. I’d love to see veal outlawed as well.

Read more about how foie gras is made.

OK, so there are a few things I’d like to talk about today. First, I’m going to talk about Flickr. Then, I’ll bring up my pictures. Finally, I’ll talk about Scarlett Johansson and how she’s in my foyer again.

I like Flickr. I really do. At first, I wasn’t super keen on it. I remember writing as much a year or so ago. I didn’t quite “understand” how it worked and I didn’t particularly like the design/layout of it. Now, I think I get it, although, I do still get confused. For example, I am still uncertain about how “Groups” work. Also, I don’t really fully understand how tagging works. I understand what tagging is, but I’m not sure how it works on there. Also, I’m not crazy about how the organization system works. Yesterday, for example, I was rearranging some of my sets and I hit the back button for some stupid reason and everything I had done was gone. I didn’t try again. I just gave up, frustrated.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure that the only reason Flickr is so super huge is because everyone uses it because there really is nothing else out there. That’s not to say it’s not superb, believe me, I get carried away when I’m over there and by carried away I mean, I find I move from one person to another until I’m lost in photographs. It’s like traveling without leaving one’s computer. But Flickr frustrates me as well. And just because it’s popular doesn’t mean it’s perfect.

My free year Pro account recently lapsed. I was told, “Pay up!” I did so without even a second thought. It’s only 24 bucks a year, after all. The thing is I want my images to appear LARGER than they do there, at least sometimes. I know they host my images, and there is only so much space one can use, but if I’m paying them, why not allow us to show ‘em bigger? Perhaps I need a photoblog now that I have been reunited with photography for the 1100th time.

I guess I want more somehow. Plus, a lot of people from here don’t actually go there. I’m not sure why, but people really don’t like to click. I can’t say I do either. I very rarely click links from someone else’s Web site. I’ve admitted to as much before. The thing is, with photographs, I really do want to show them to people sometimes. It became very clear to me yesterday that this site’s foundation was built entirely on photographs. I began it to document my commute. Why run away from that now?

All that said, for now - for a little while - I think I’m going to showcase photographs like I used to. (Hopefully, scrolling doesn’t annoy anyone out there.) In the past, I would post a 325×218 thumbnail, which was clickable. If one were to click that image, a 700×469 JPG would show up overtop one’s browser. Sometimes, I’d make them larger, sometimes smaller. Anyway, I think I may try that again. Any feedback or criticism would be superb. I will continue to upload (sometimes different) images to Flickr as well.

So, here are some images. If you click on them, they will enlarge and you won’t be leaving here at all.

Here is Gerry:

This is a glass of wine:

We were informed today via the company Intranet that they’re to begin filming The Nanny Diaries in the subway terminal below our building and throughout Grand Central Station. This isn’t the first time they went and closed down that particular Subway terminal in order to shoot. I think P Diddy had it closed down for a video last year. This time, however, it’s going to feature none other than Scarlett Johansson. A coworker and I are planning on crashing the party. That woman will not leave me alone!

Let it rip.

(Click the image if you’d like to see more.)

Lots going on Over here.

First there were the Mole People and now this. New York City was named the cloggiest city in all of America. Seattle was named the least cloggy.

Top 10 Clogged Cities:

• 1. New York
• 2. Miami/Fort Lauderdale
• 3. Los Angeles
• 4. Philadelphia
• 5. Houston
• 6. Atlanta
• 7. Chicago
• 8. Portland, OR
• 9. Indianapolis
• 10. San Francisco Bay Area

Clogs occur frequently during heavy flushing periods (obviously). Those periods take place on days like Black Friday, the day after a Thanksgiving feast, and during the halftime of a big game like the Super Bowl. Beat the wife. Take a crap. Beat the wife. Take a crap. Beat the wife. Have a beer. Take a crap.

In addition, many stopped-up toilets occur when nontraditional items are flushed, including disposable diapers, facial tissue, paper towels or napkins, cat litter, feminine-protection products and even a cell phone or iPod.

I have known TWO people now who have flushed a cell phone. (Hello, Bob.) An iPod? What the heck? Granted, I have gone to the bathroom at work while plugged into my Nano and listening to the Rachel Maddow show, but I make sure it’s secure before dropping my pants. Are people in that much of a hurry? And how are the iPods actually flushed? Why not fish them out first? Lastly, don’t people realize they swallowed the iPod in the first place?

The article goes on to say that SCOTT Brand toilet tissue helps to avoid clogged toilets. Which happens to be the toilet tissue we most use. We use it because it lasts forever and it’s cheap. But in a city where everyday life is far from comfortable, New Yorkers probably would have a hard time giving up their cushy toilet tissues. Anyway, I thought I’d share. (Thanks to Gothamist for the link.)

Let me begin by saying that I’m against the death penalty. I don’t believe that the state has the right to take someone’s life. It’s also not a foolproof method. Time and time again, we have executed innocent people. If you don’t believe me, try picking up a copy of Deadline some time. It’s frightening how many people have sat on death row and are completely innocent.

Last Sunday morning at around 4:30 AM 23-year-old man driving at 100 mph hit a woman crossing the street so hard she was dismembered. As her friend stood there in hysterics the driver then spun around, hit another car, and then left the scene of the accident by foot. The car was left running and a bottle of liquor laid on the floor. Yesterday, when I first heard about the accident, they were still in search of the other people in the car. They come forward as witnesses.

Immediately, I wanted to hate this guy. I hate him because I have seen hundreds of idiotic men drive their cars as if they’re on a racetrack with little to no care of anyone else around. I hate him because he should never have gotten into the car drunk. I hate him for leaving. I hate him for being a coward. I hate him for being a 23-year-old pussy. I hate him for being a liar. I hate him for killing the woman and not having the decency to stop.

Many, many years ago, I had read about a man who had been drinking and then hopped on his motorcycle. (Forgive me; the details are foggy as it’s been a long time since I read about it. But I still know exactly how it ended.) He hit a little boy. The man got off the bike, took the dead boy in his arms and began to sob. A moment later, the gun was out and a self-inflicted bullet was being pumped into the man’s head. The headline read:

JUDGE, JURY AND EXECUTIONER.

That story has haunted me for years. To think that someone is capable of making such a definitive decision in such a small amount of time, knowing that he or she could not live with the guilt that lies ahead of him or her, is astounding. I was never quite sure how to feel about it. The boy he had hit was dead and the man had made a horrible mistake. But whatever his reasoning may have been, in that little bit of time, he had decided that life compared to death for him seemed worse.

I found I identified with the man. I remember thinking that - had I been in his shoes and had I had the strength to do so - I probably would have made the same choice. No one would ever really forgive you for something like this, right? Even you can’t forgive yourself for something like that, right?

Even during acts of cowardice, we are able to decide something definitive and real. And while I don’t believe that suicide is the answer, he took any future role from criminal justice system, its lawyers and those who would have wished to see him dead. And I found it disconcerting that had the motorcycle man not killed himself, I probably would have judged him immediately for what he had done. (Just like the hit and run driver from this weekend) Instead, because he took his own life based on his mistake, I ended up feeling a bit of compassion for him. I’m assuming I’m not alone.

Marlen Mustasaev left. He didn’t even have the balls to stop and face up to what he had done. Instead, he went to the police and told them his car had been stolen. It’s really, really hard to feel even remotely sorry for this individual. I don’t care how drunk he may have been or how much he regrets it. He did solve one problem for himself; since so much time lapsed they are unable to charge him for manslaughter, as his blood alcohol level was unable to be tested.

While I do not think that the state should have a role in putting him to death (not that they could anyway in this case) I do feel he should be charged with a whole lot more than leaving the scene of an accident. And I do hope that he feels an equal amount of guilt and pain as the man from years before had right before he pulled the trigger. And should the victim’s uncles, brothers, grandfathers, friends, or sisters get a hold of him, and then so be it. Let nature take its course.

The whole ordeal, coupled with the lingering story of the man on the motorcycle, leaves me wondering: Do we deserve second chances? Beyond that of a judcial system but in the eyes of the public, is it possible to forgive someone for something like this? Had Marlen Mustasaev stopped, would people think differently of him now?

P.S. Also, please forgive me for linking to both trash rags in this post. What has become of me?

Years ago, I watched a man named Chad convince his best friend, Matt, to make a deaf woman fall in love with him. The plan was to have her fall head-over-heels and then leave her broken hearted. She did fall in love with Matt. And even though he fell in love with her as well, being the beta male and going along with whatever Chad said, he eventually ripped her heart out. I knew that Chad was the mastermind behind the whole ordeal. And the fact that he’s a businessman - an overgrown boy who never moved out of the fraternity house - didn’t help. I hated him. I hated Matt too. But Chad was someone to despise.

We saw Thank You For Smoking last night. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Making spur-of-the-moment decisions to see movies before one has eaten dinner is a big mistake. Tobyjoe and I both ended up cramming whatever edible substance we could find at Whole Foods into our open mouths. I ate alone on the second floor cafe level where he would eat later as I made a beeline to the theater in order to get decent seats.

Once he arrived, thoroughly unsatisfied from our most peculiar dinner contraption, we decided to compound upon our belly aches by purchasing (and later finishing) a medium popcorn and a bag of peanut M&Ms. Needless to say, smoking or not smoking wasn’t what grazed our minds for the duration of the film. Instead, our bellies sat there percolating. Oh to have some Pepto to wash it all down.

I don’t like to drone on and on about films because, well, it’s probably pretty boring to read. I would like to say a few things, however. Nick Naylor works as a tobacco lobbyist, which pretty much means he offers money to people to ensure that more and more people continue to smoke. And while his boss (Robert Duvall) is chauffeured around in a Rolls Royce, he’s making sure that America’s youth continues to light up by trying to figure out ways to help them do just that.

I know, it doesn’t sound very funny at all. But it is! I promise you; at times it’s laugh out loud funny. And the cast is phenomenal. I could have done without seeing Dennis Miller (because I don’t like him) but his role is small and pretty meaningless.

Thank You For Smoking was so good, and Aaron Eckhart did such a fine job at playing Nick Naylor, I actually forgave him for playing Chad in In The Company Of Men so many years ago. In Thank You For Smoking, I found that I was actually rooting for him.

Side not: One thing I found very interesting about the film was that at no time did I see anyone actually smoke a cigarette at least not to my recollection. Even the tobacco dealers didn’t smoke. I’m not sure why, but I found that little detail (or lack thereof) really great.

Go see it. Katie Holmes almost gets naked.

I haven’t ever had much luck with digital cameras. I either had trouble with the color, the quality of the images (sharpness, etc), or the speed at which the camera was able to capture them. No camera I used seemed to capture the look of film and I grew up using only film. I tried RAW files with my Pro1 and that was a disaster. The images were always unbelievably noisy. It was as if the camera tried too hard. (Click the image to see more of a wet Manhattan.)

This camera comes closest to a using film. It’s an SLR, so that helps. Plus, it actually takes the picture when I press the button. Go figure. Over lunch, I stepped out to get some Bryant Park shots and was quite pleased with how they turned out. This also marks my first attempt at using the RAW 3.3 plug-in for Photoshop CS2. It’s outstanding. I can’t wait to get some time tonight to play around some more. But I really need to do something about how timid I am with a camera.

I am trying to give up swearing. I have decided that it sounds awful. (No offense to anyone who swears, I do too.) It really sounds awful especially to those who overhear it. This morning there was a teenage boy on the L Train letting them rip like audible face farts. It was early. He was trying to impress a lady friend. He sounded like a moron. All I wanted to do was grab his fat lips and ring them out.

It’s really hard to stop swearing. I’m hopeful, however. The question is, if I can finally stop swearing out loud, will the words eventually appearing in my head as well. Does anyone know if that’s possible?

Today, I purchased the Nikon D200. It’s freaking amazing. I have been using a Pentax K1000 for about 17 years. I used a digital Elph for about three and then took a baby step and purchased the Canon Pro1. Finally, I own a real camera. I’m really happy but I’m having a little bit of buyer’s remorse. (Click here or the image below to see more pictures.)

I just took a gander at the Earth Day booths outside Grand Central. I took some pictures.

P.S. If one more person emails me and/or calls me “Missile Fart” in person, I will make sure and live up to said name should I ever be in your company. DO YOU HEAR ME!

Recently, a few gents who work with Tobyjoe launched a site called Paperless Petition. Basically, it’s a way of opting out of receiving the phonebook and therefore saving the environment one less wasteful product at a time. They launched it just in time for Earth Day.

There’s the catch, however. Won’t they run them anyway? Recently, the newspaper equivalent of the Nielsens Ratings took place. Basically, the numbers attained through that rating, which is called the Audit Bureau of Circulations, is what each newspaper uses when selling advertising space. Well, one of the free New York newspapers was found dumping thousands and thousands of newspapers into recycling centers. (Read more about that here.) At least they were dumping them into recycling centers, right? Thing is, I feel like that no matter how many people sign this awesome paperless petition, the Yellow Pages will continue to print excessive quantities just for to dangle the numbers in front of their advertisers. But I have high hopes for this; I think it’s a great idea.

Hopefully, this becomes so big that the advertisers get wind of it so they have no choice but to cut down. Plesae sign it, if you’d like. Help me get it out there, if you can.

My sister-in-law sent me three pictures yesterday. The photos were the considered “rejects” that had recently come back in the proofs sent over by a professional photography studio. I wasn’t so sure they should actually be considered rejects, however.

Internet, check this out.

(In all honesty, this is the type of thing that has Tobyjoe and I laughing to tears at night. I’m not sure my life would be as colorful and comical had I not learned Photoshop.)

In other news…. Jo Ann Emerson, a Republican Congresswoman from Missouri, sent out a response letter with a little surprise at the end of it. Click here to see a scan of the letter. Make sure to check out the very last line.

I was going to leave a mirror post on mihow as well IHD as I found it pretty humorous but it’s easier for me to just link to it. I’m so lazy. Viagral Marketing Outside Grand Central Station. I know a guy who works with Pfizer, the massive pharmaceutical company who creates Viagra, and he brought them several of these to hand out at a meeting yesterday. He said the people he met with got a kick out of it.

Tobyjoe and I have added two names to our list of girl names. And I figured I’d keep the Internet up-to-date. If we decide that Winter Boudreaux doesn’t work. We both like Hannah and Enid. But I worry Enid might not go over too well if we’re still living in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

Last night Tobyjoe and I headed to BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music) to see an interview with Jonathan Lethem. The night was fantastic. We ran into Mia and Charles which was a pleasant surprise as Mia had said she wasn’t planning on going. We sat with them and sipped wine (maybe a little too much wine) and ate a fine meal cooked up by BAM and included in our ticket prices. The evening was absolutely worth the 41 bucks. And I think these events might become my new Rock Show. No one spoked when he read. NO ONE. And everyone knows how speaking during any performance makes me feel.

Mr. Lethem began the evening by reading from a novel that’s supposed to be released in March. While he read, I began to wonder about good writing. There were a few times during his reading where certain word clusters seemed stressed out. It’s as if they didn’t really belong together. Had I been reading this to myself, silently, I may not have noticed. But hearing him read it out loud, hell, hearing anyone read them out loud, didn’t quite sound right but overall, it had us laughing out loud. And that’s a very good thing. And I totally want to know how one kidnaps a kangeroo.

I do, however, believe that if a piece of fiction doesn’t read well out loud, it’s probably not very good. I stand by that criticism. I also realized I had a really hard time focusing on the actual content when I looked at him. It helped to focus on a spot on the floor. Weird. I also noticed that I read way too fast as Mr. Lethem’s cadence was much slower than what I generally use in my head. I’m going to try and slow down a little bit from now on. We’ll see how that works.

After he finished the reading, he was interviewed by Jessica Hagedorn. He spoke about being Jewish and growing up in New York City. He talked about his bohemian parents and how he attended Quaker meetings. At that point, Tobyjoe looked back at me and smiled because I have been contemplating and threatening him with joining the Quaker Church. (Oh, to sit in silence for a long while.) Mr. Lethem talked about the inspiration behind Motherless Brooklyn as well as Fortress of Solitude. There were moments where what he was saying was unbelievably funny.

At the end, they gave the audience a chance to ask questions. Perhaps it was the wine, maybe it was the mushrooms I had eaten, but before I knew it, my hand was in the air.

Yes. What is you favorite part of Brooklyn? What is your favorite section?

His favorite section is Dean Street and State. His favorite section is where he grew up. (Looking back, I should have added a clarifier and asked him what his favorite section of Brooklyn was OUTSIDE of where he grew up. But, oh well. I’m most impressed with my suddenly ability to actually speak up in front of hundreds of people. Where did THAT come from?)

After the question and answer part of the evening, we were able to get our books signed. I, of course, forgot mine at home. So I purchased two new ones. I picked up another copy of Motherless Brooklyn, which plan to give away on and I picked up a copy of The Disappointment Artist for myself.

Since I was drinking wine I got chatty and asked him too many questions when he signed my book. I asked him when he wrote – what time of day. He said first thing in the morning. I asked him before or after he brushed his teeth and he said after. I asked him if he drank coffee when he wrote. He said he gave up coffee. I suck. Truly. The good news is, he meets so many people at every reading that I don’t think he’ll remember my stupid ass.

The Motherless Brooklyn book sports an “EAT ME BAILEY!” written by none other than Lethem himself. And as soon as I figure out HOW to give it away on Spread, I’ll let everyone know.

I have been at the same weight now for weeks. And while I know I don’t have a weight problem – my doctor isn’t worried, I haven’t been told I need to lose weight, I don’t have high cholesterol – I want to lose weight.

Last week, Sarah wrote a post that had me thinking. It was inspired by the fact that a few fellow bloggers kept disparaging themselves. (It’s more about her wonderful daughter; check it out if you have time.) Instead of thinking, “Everyone should learn how to love themselves just the way they are!” I was thinking something entirely different. If we are indeed unhappy with the way we look - our double chins, our extra fat rolls - why not change it? Instead of pointing out how unhappy we are about it, or tormenting ourselves for it, why not simply change it?

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

I want to change it. I don’t want to make any more excuses about my arms, my belly, or my chin. I simply want to change it. I want to disarm myself (pun intended), and take away all personal ammunition. And I am certain it’s going to be difficult. And I’m certain it’s going to be frustrating, but I also know that losing weight and feeling good about it is one of the best highs there is.

So, that’s my goal. But here’s the catch. I have hit a plateau. I read about the famous plateau. The last time I dieted (before being kicked off the wagon by one famous chef named Nico) I didn’t hit the plateau. At least, I didn’t notice it. This time, I fear that I have. And I know that the experts say it’s completely normal and temporary, but it is discouraging.

I have been following (at times an albeit a sloppy) version of the South Beach Diet for months now. After the initial extreme dieting phase, which I stayed on for nearly a month and lost 8 pounds, I hit a plateau. I have cheated here and there. I still don’t munch on white bread. I eat whole grains. I skip the rice. I skip the beer. And I skip the crackers, chips and honey roasted peanuts. I never, ever visit the vending machine at work. The good news is I don’t get heartburn anymore. That’s one awesome side-affect. But my weight isn’t moving south much anymore.

I have cheated. There were the mozzarella sticks (deep fried) I had while visiting the American Museum of Natural History. Oh, and there was that mini muffin I had at brunch. (Holy crap was that miniature muffin good. How they make something so small taste so large is beyond me. I am ( )close to becoming a mini muffin serial killer.)

I cheated last week and ordered a pizza and then on Monday, we ordered bean burritos from Bean! (Which I was kind of annoyed with because they forgot the large request for guacamole. And who in their right mind can eat ANYTHING Mexican without guacamole?) Oh, and I scarfed down about a cup of garlic mashed from Dumont as well. (You would have too. Don’t frown. Those things tastes like creamy mashed sex on a plate.)

OK, so maybe I have been cheating a little bit more than I would have liked. (It helps to write it down. Wow.) But I don’t eat candy. I no longer have sandwiches for lunch. I’ve been good! Or at least I think that I’ve been good. Everyone knows that booze holds a lot of calories. But besides a few glasses of wine over the weekend, I haven’t even been drinking much either.

I want higher rewards, you know? I want higher rewards like you’ve seen in the Citibank commercials. I feel as though I’ve been investing a lot of time and energy and I’m not getting much in return.

Arthur Agatston wrote that once you hit phase 3 (phase 2 if you’re not obese) the weight loss slows down substantially. What if I don’t want it to? Can I protest this plateau?

I’m writing today to find out any tricks of the trade. I’m also about to finally pull the trigger on the five-dollar weekly membership fee over on the South Beach Web site. Maybe I just need a support group. Maybe I need someone to kick my ass every time I want to eat a slice of pizza. Maybe I need to get by with a little help from my friends. Oh, I’ll get high with a little help from my friends. Who’s with me?

When I first heard about the Duke Lacrosse scandal I was sure that the victim was telling the truth. I wasn’t sure why I was so sure exactly, but I pictured a large group of drunken men, and decided that of course she was raped. If you want a better understanding of what groups of people are capable of doing, read the book Among the Thugs. The dynamics and power of the group is downright terrifying.

And then last week, as more and more evidence was released, I started to have some doubts. It’s my understanding (and I do hope that if I have ANY of these facts wrong, someone will correct me) that there were cell phone pictures taken when she arrived showing visible bruises on her body. It was also said that she was very, very drunk when she arrived. It’s also my understanding that another cell phone picture was taken not 30 minutes later when she was carried out of the party by one of the guys. Was that time lapse long enough for her to be gang raped by three men? I’m not sure. I suppose it’s possible, but likely? I don’t know.

The code of silence between the members of the team is a bit strange. If they are indeed innocent, why is there any need for such secrecy? Plus, there was an email sent out after the party by Mr. McFadyen who said he wanted to invite strippers to his room the next night, kill them and skin them. (If Mr. McFadyen is indeed innocent of rape, authorities might want to look into this man’s mental state. Even at my most insane moments, and during my most hatefully charged hours, I have never once said or written or even thought about something like that.)

The university hospital reports that she had “signs, symptoms, and injuries consistent with being raped and sexually assaulted vaginally and anally.�? That’s pretty harsh. So if three lacrosse team members didn’t rape her, she was obviously raped by someone.

Or was she?

A coworker of mine believes that maybe things got out of hand, that maybe this was actually consensual but that things just got a little too rough. An interesting idea, one that I’m not sure any woman would be willing to be a test case for, would be to have a woman who happens to enjoy rough sex from time to time undergo a standard rape test. I am honestly curious to see what the physical visible difference is between an act of consensual rough sex and an act of rape conducted by multiple people. Because I’m pretty sure that if my coworker believes that it could have been an act of rough sex, he’s not alone.

Today, I read this article and now I’m completely unsure about who’s telling the truth. Does she remember what happened to her? Does the other dancer know anything? Did these three men really rape her or did something happen to her before she arrived to the party?

Women put themselves into vulnerable situations all the time. And I imagine that strippers have it even worse. The politically correct thing for me to say right now is that no vulnerable situation – no situation at all – warrants that a woman gets raped. And I do believe this. (If you remember anything from this, remember that.) But it pains me to know that some women willingly put themselves into situations where they are surrounded by drunk, rowdy, impressionable men and not understand that the chances of something awful happening are pretty high. People, especially in large groups, can’t be trusted. And whoever arranged this event should have, at the very least, sent along a bodyguard.

Lastly, if she is indeed “lying�? as my coworker believes, or even rewriting the truth about that night, it plants another doubtful seed in all future and very real rapes. While it infuriates me to know there are men out there willing to hurt a woman in this way, it makes me feel even more angry knowing that some women lie about it.

And maybe I don’t want to have a daughter after all.

I put some photos up over at Flickr. This one is my favorite. (Click to enlarge.)

But I love that this and this happen. Also, we took Tucker out on a leash. That was fun. And Tobyjoe’s vespa started right up! We’re gonna be scootin’ in no time!

I have to be honest about something, while I love living in this city, there are days that it’s an absolute drag. A New Yorker can witness some of the most inhumane acts from one day to the next; sometimes it’s hard to keep a positive and kind outlook toward my fellow neighbors. I’ve seen mothers and fathers smack their kids around as well as use profanity when speaking to their children. I’ve seen people steal, kick, punch, and shove fellow commuters who get in his or her way. I’ve seen fights break out on the subway. I’ve seen people ignored and abused when he or she lies passed out on a crowded subway train. Many people treat the homeless like actual garbage, they are merely annoying obstacles who are in their way. It’s hard living here. It’s wonderful most of the time, but it’s really hard too. But just when you think it couldn’t possibly get any worse and you’re ready to throw in the towel and walk off set, collectively, New Yorkers do something amazing and restore your faith in humanity.

Molly became international news last week as word got out that the 11-month-old cat had been trapped in a wall for many days. By the end of the ordeal, she would spend 14 days trapped between two walls before being freed. I was captivated by this story. I can’t deny it. Everyday, I’d check New York 1 to see if she’d been rescued. Every major news channel began to follow her ordeal. I saw the developing story on CNN as well as smaller papers such as The Centre Daily Times out of State College, Pennsylvania.

About a week and a half ago, when I first got word of the ordeal over at Gothamist, I told Tobyjoe about my (albeit simple) prediction. I knew that there would be backlash. People would step up and slander the city that has been criticized for turning its back on a little girl named Nixzmary Brown, but stepping up and taking such great care in the welfare of an animal. What troubles me the most is the fact that the relatives of Nixzmary Brown are now suing the city for their neglect. When was it the city’s job to take care of YOUR children? Where was grandma when she was being beaten? And most importantly, how did grandma raise such a careless monster? But I digress.

A lot of people are having a conniption over this story and how much coverage it actually got. And while the cynical voices haven’t diminished those that came together, the cynicism still troubles me.

Living in a city the size of New York can be frustrating. Our local news is constantly filled with some of the most horrendous acts. One woman might drop two babies conceived out of incest out her 3-story window and into the trash below. Another woman was kidnapped, raped, and then left for dead off to the side of the road. One boy was left to rot rot in a clothes hamper while his mother served a prison sentence on drug charges. Body parts turned up recently. They had been stuffed into a bag and then left on a subway track. One woman left her children soaking in a filthy tub while she listened to cds in the other room. The youngest drowned because of her neglect.

Because of the number of people who live here, New York has its abundance of demons. So forgive me for enjoying the human-interest story about a cat stuck in a wall and the fact that hundreds of people came together hoping to see her freed. Seriously, what could possibly be wrong with enjoying a story like that? When you’re faced with so much horror, what’s wrong with a happy ending even if a cat owns that happy ending? When did we become so jaded that we assume the news needs to be filled with horror?

The day we no longer find a story like Molly’s worthy of news is the day we lose our ability for greatness. It’s the small things, after all, that bring us together. This particular human-interest story, for me, was a breath of fresh air. And I hope that the little things never stop mattering.

Exxon Mobil disclosed the pay of its chief executive officer yesterday. His name is Lee Raymond.

He made 69.7 Million dollars last year.

If Lee worked every single day last year, 24 hours a day, that means he earned $191,000.00 a day.

He made $15,900 an hour.

He made $265.25 a minute.

He made $4.40 a second.

Let’s think about that for a (five dollar) second. He could pay for a gallon and a half of YOUR gas in less than one minute on the job. How does that make you feel, America?

(First heard on Rachel Maddow’s radio show.)

I’m a bit like Monica. You know, that make believe person on the hit T.V. show, Friends. I’m not squeaky clean or anything but I have been known to vacuum my Dyson. I also have a very strict protocol for all my towels and bedding. I’m a little neurotic about where things are left and how they’re placed. And there’s the “don’t steal my baby’s name” thing, too, which is precisely why I’m writing. But before I begin, you have to promise you’re not going to steal it from me.

My brother had a baby boy yesterday. That makes me an Aunt to the Second Power. Simone now has a baby brother. By the time you read this, he’ll be two days old. Anyway, his name is Shep, which is short for Shepard. I like it. It might not be considered a normal name, and I think that’s WHY I like it. Well, that and I already know he’s going to be a writer. I already know what he’s going to look like, too. With a name like Shepard, you’re guaranteed a few things as parents.

I am willing to approve almost every eccentric name for a few reasons. One: I like when people are different. I like when different people name their different babies unorthodox names. That’s a good thing. Otherwise, we’d have a lot babies named Michelle, Matthew, Jennifer, and Chris. (Nothing against anyone who might be reading this who happens to share one of those names. I am a Michele. We’re common.) Unique names are wonderful (Unless his or her name is Moses. That’s just weird.) But, generally speaking, unique names are the best. You must agree with me on this. You simply must, for I am about to admit something that I don’t really want to admit about the name of my daughter.

Tobyjoe and I are going to start with the baby thing. We’re taking it slowly, might as well get some practice in, right? And I know that once that time comes, we’re going to conceive a baby girl. I know this because I have her name picked out and have for 5 years now, maybe even longer. We’re going to name our baby girl Winter. Winter Jane Boudreaux. (O.K. so, I haven’t actually got approval on the whole Jane thing, yet. And I have barely gotten final approval on the whole Winter thing yet. I think Tobyjoe is secretly wishing we’d have a boy so that there will be no need for that final discussion.) In all of my life, I haven’t ever seen, met, contacted, read about, or heard about a girl named Winter. I’ve met a lot of Summer’s and they’re not always carrying a sunny disposition around with them. Quite the contrary, actually. When they’re not stealing the second most popular girl’s boyfriend (who happens also to be their best friend), they’ve got a rolled dollar bill up their nose or one folded up in her g-string.

I’ve met several Summer’s but I haven’t ever met a girl named Winter. I’ve never even heard about a girl named Winter.

The other night, I recorded 20/20 because I could. The show was about a group of people who are asexual. They get married. They cuddle. They plan vacations. They even kiss. But they do not have sex. They don’t have any desire to have sex. They haven’t ever even had sex to know if they don’t enjoy it.

The shocking part, for me, wasn’t that there is actually a group of people who don’t have sex. The shocking part for me wasn’t the no-sex clause at all. The shocking part for me was that one of the gals they interviewed just happen to be named Winter.

Do I take this as a sign? The first time I ever hear about a girl named Winter and she happens to be a member of this rare group of people who are totally and completely uninterested in sex. This Winter person was a self-declared asexual.

I pictured her growing up and being teased. Girls probably made fun her perky nipples after gym. At one point, she had to go through that awkward first sexual experience with a lanky, zitty, teenage boy who wanted to pop and drain his boner as if it were a whitehead. And when she thought better of it, and said, “No.” Winter was declared frigid. Ugly boys can be so mean. Ugly horny teenage boys should be arrested until they are 18. (You’re totally having second thoughts about stealing the name from me, aren’t you?)

To an outsider, did this Winter live up to her name? Does what we’re named have any impact on how we end up? Because I want to name my little girl Winter Jane Boudreaux and I want her to be warm like most Summer’s should be and I want her to have Toby’s nose, cheeks and freckles.

Last night, Tobyjoe and I met Sarah, her daughter, Sarah’s aunt, and her uncle at a small Italian restaurant in Park Slope. For the remainder of this post, I will not release the name of the restaurant because, well, my mother always told me “If you don’t have anything good to say about someone, don’t use their name when talking shit.”

Tobyjoe read a review of the place before we left but not because we’re snotty. I might be snotty about my electronic equipment and my deodorant but I’m not about restaurants. We were trying to figure out how to get there and the reviews merely slapped us in the nipples. They were impossible to miss.

One reviewer writes:

Blank is very approximate in matching the menu description to what they serve. A salad was listed as including smoked salmon, but arrived without it. When I asked the waitress, she told me they couldn’t afford the salmon, and had changed the dish (though not on the menu). Pizza margarita comes without the promised basil. There’s an ad hoc quality: You won’t get what you ordered, but it’s okay. The service is really weird and hostile. One example: They literally took bread from my baby, after we ordered a brick oven pizza, not “food” (the waiter’s words). I asked if there was a minimum, which there wasn’t; he’d give us the bread only if we’d paid for it—this, after my baby had eaten of it. We’re talking small piece of Italian bread, nothing fancy. It was ridiculous. We didn’t ask for a water refill, lest he charge us.

I love it when grown adults take bread from babies.

The food wasn’t so bad, once we actually got some. The peculiar part of the evening was when the owner of the restaurant came out to inform us AFTER we waited for a half an hour for our food that the sprinkler system in the kitchen came on and soaked the entire kitchen. There was no food to be had at the Inn. But we could order pizza! He had the ability to make pizza. And the pizza was good.

Sarah’s daughter smelled something fishy and did a little investigating of her own. She looked into the kitchen and discovered that nothing was wet, even the pizza boxes were drier than an alcoholic’s mouth at dawn. Me? I could simply NOT keep from laughing. I realize that laughing at some poor gents misfortune is rather rude, the whole ordeal was oddly comical. Figuring the joke was on me, I looked around for Ashton Kutcher. But then realized that I wasn’t at all famous.

When the check came, it seemed cheap. We were all very pleased. And then when we went to pay, the price of the check went up by about 15 dollars. (Which was a warning from another review written about the restaurant.) It was, by far, one of the weirdest dining experiences I have ever had. Although, I’m not sure it would have been had it not been for our having read the reviews.

But none of that really mattered, however, because I got to hang out with the lovely Sarah. I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this before, but Sarah is a really sweet person. She has always been unbelievably kind to me (and others) in the blog world. She doesn’t succumb to petty arguments or cheap insults. Instead, she’s quick to cheer someone up when they’re down and quick to make someone laugh when they’re grumpy. She’s always been quick to email a kind word. I’d take a quirky night out at a seemingly foodless restaurant any day to hang out with Sarah.

Tobyjoe and my T-Mobile contract expired last week. Normally, I’d just keep going with it until someone either slaps me with a 500 dollar bill (hello, ATT) or charges me for services I don’t have and never asked for (hello, Verizon). This time, Tobyjoe wants to consider switching because we’re paying for roughly a gazillion minutes but are only using about 300 a month. (When they tell you to up your minutes in the family plan and you really only ever talk to family [which is free] just say no.) Basically, if we lower our plan, we have to renew our contract, so we may as well evaluate other carriers.

I don’t know anything about cell phone companies and the things that actually SHOULD matter. I choose them by disqualifying the ones who were previously mean to me and then deciding based on things like, what are their ads like? Do they make an annoying chirping sound when you talk to someone? That said, the last time I went with T-Mobile because Catherine Zeta Jones is a freaking knockout and my mother and I want to make out with her (but not at the same time). I would have gone with Sprint, because the guy they were using as a spokesperson was also quite charming. Plus, he was able to herd small weiner dogs whereas Catherine Zeta Jones herds only weiners.

Our contract is up and we’re shopping around again. I imagine we might just stick with T-Mobile, who knows. But if anyone has any suggestions, I would love to read them. What do you use? How often do you use it? How much do you pay? Does your phone drop calls? Do you have a lot of cool phones to choose from? Because I like cool phones. I need to always own the coolest most recent phone. Seriously.

Any suggestions and/or horror stories are greatly appreciated.

One thing to consider is Internet access. Toby is hooked on his broken Treo 600 and would like another ‘smart’ device, so the question of high-speed comes up. GSM vs CDMA and similar terms are gibberish to me, though.

Cingular is the only unionized cell company (and they attribute a great deal of their success to that fact) so we lean towards them in some ways. Sprint and Verizon have better high-speed and newer Palm devices, so that’s a factor.

Maybe we should just switch to carrier pigeons.

I love it when this sort of thing happens on Flickr. Who knew messing with someone’s picture could be so entertaining?

(Side note: Brandon is one of the nicest people Tobyjoe and I haven’t ever met.)

Now that we have a car that we can (almost) actually use, Tobyjoe and I have started noticing and discussing gas prices. We’ve decided that using up an entire tank of gas just to move the car from one side of the street to another is a sure sign you’ve become a New Yorker. Although, the first and real sign is to not have a car at all and an even bigger one is to not even own a driver’s license, but I digress. We now have a car. And since it has reached heart attack age and is well into retirement we feed it the most expensive gas. It takes about 38 dollars to fill up our tank. And I wish I knew how long that tank lasted, city miles and road miles, but I haven’t paid much attention to that.

I have a question, though: given that the talking heads would like us to live in a constant state of fear regarding the rising gas prices, how much have you actually spent this year in filling up your car and how does it compare to, say, 2000? Do you drive less? Do you think twice about driving to the 7-11? Or do you just throw your gas fumes to the wind and go for a drive whenever you’d like? Has the rising gas prices really affected you all that much?

Another way of asking: are people paying out enough every year to merit the constant complaining? Is it a matter of $500, $1000, $2000 per year? More? Ours is probably $160 or so per year. That’s 2 or 3 dinners out. Getting upset about that would be silly. We’re New Yorkers, though, so we rarely drive (1 tank per month).

Is this all just way over-hyped? Prices today are $0.25 higher than last year. One thousand gallons is only $250 over last year. Ten thousand gallons is $2500. And that’s a LOT of gas.

I feel that it’s very important to inform the Internet that the whole theory that “you can’t smell stinky pee unless you’ve actually eaten the asparagus yourself” is, in fact, WRONG. That’s right. IT’S WRONG!

Last night, Tobyjoe ate asparagus and I did not. Two hours later, his piss smelled so stinky, it made my eyes water.

It’s my job to prove all theories surrounding schtanky urine wrong.

Pictures from our Sunday. (click the image below.)

This one is my favorite. It’s going to be the cover of our first Freckles release. (Although, some asshat in Europe started a band AFTER the fact called “The Freckles.” I shall Judy Blume their asses.)

This month, Tobyjoe and I have decided to mail out two books. We announced the names this morning. If you’re interested in joining us, you don’t have to receive a book in order to do so.

This month, we chose one non-fictional book and one fictional book.

We’re trying to jumpstart the site a little bit. Spread has readers but there isn’t much in the way of discussion. And we’re not sure why and how to change that. We talked about it (and my idealistic concepts) this weekend. There’s a pretty big chance that I have one too much personal projects going on and not enough love and time to devote to all of them. I have a tendency to do that. I have done this for my entire life. (It’s not just an Internet thing. Try spending any extended amount of time with me, you’ll eventually ask me to shut up and/or leave.)

The biggest problem I have is that my ideas, once brought to life, don’t always live up to the fantasies I had while coming up with them. And then I become discouraged. (Let’s just say wihtout going into glorious detail, that I have some issues with trying to relax. This weekend, it became pretty clear that if I don’t work these issues out soon, there’s a chance I might go completely mad. We talked about that as well. If there were one person who could benefit from visiting a shrink, it’d be me. But I can’t seem to sit still long enough to get that done either.)

Sometimes, I spend some time trying to picture me from the point of view of another person. On those days, I rarely paint a very attractive picture of myself. On the days where I don’t feel totally manic, fueled with inspiration and determination and therefore am able to ignore it, I see myself as flakey. I see myself as someone unable to see anything through to its end. I see myself as unreliable, confusing, sporadic, and delusional. I don’t like that me very much and I can’t seem to change her. And when I have the energy to do so, instead of doing so, I come up with new ideas and projects.

It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to see where this is going. It’s never-ending. Worst of all, and I’m only now just starting to realize this, living this way guarantees endless frustration and little to no rest.

I fear that I will never get to know rest. And I need to either come to terms with that fact, embrace the American way and start taking head meds (which I, personally, do not want to do), or self medicate with a bottle (which is worse than taking head meds).

I have no idea what it feels like to relax. I don’t think I’ve ever known what it feels like to relax.

Somehow, I have veered off track. I started this as an announcement about Spread and ended up talking about myself. (Woe is me, blah blah blah blah blog vomit, blog vomit, blog vomit. blah blah blah. typical me me blog vomit. blahg vomit.)

Please click the “Play” button below.

The inspection on my 30-year-old car expired on January 30th. I took it to a place on McGuinness a few months ago and they failed it. The guy at Two Guys said (and I quote), “No one in their right mind will pass this car.” And then he told us it would cost us 1500 dollars to have it pass inspection. He tried to convince us to leave it there so he could “fix” it. We left. Later, we realized that he didn’t FAIL the car either. He didn’t even charge us for the hour and a half of “inspecting” he put in to it. When we began to think about the situation a little more we began to wonder if he was indeed trying to scam us. There’s not a doubt in my mind that he was.

We took it to another place this weekend and it passed. It runs perfectly fine. And that guy at Two Guys on McGuinness Boulevard can suck it.

I keep thinking about that scene in Short Cuts when Ann Finnigan (Andie MacDowell) orders a really complicated and special cake for her son’s birthday. Before she’s able to pick it up, and before his actual birthday, her son is hit by a car and killed. Andy Bitkower (Lyle Lovett) bakes the cake and takes great care in its creation. Once he realizes that the cake isn’t going to be claimed and paid for, he begins to call the woman who ordered it. He leaves message after message. Eventually, his messages become more and more angry. She is upset. He is upset. She’s grieving and angry. From her point of view, his actions are completely out of line while his thoughts are fueled by cynicism. He just wants someone to compensate and appreciate him for his hard work. I found I understood both points of view, which is why it was so hard to watch.

I joined Friendster about 5 years ago because Katrina told me about it. Two weeks ago, someone I work with brought up the online community. His voice was filled with cynicism. He brought up MySpace, LiveJournal, Blogger and Friendster and while I have a blog, I am also very much in the dark on how the blog communities are run and the tools one uses to make it all happen. My husband built this Web site. While the subject matter may seem typically blog-like, the software behind it is 100 percent unique. In that respect, there is no other Web site like it.

My coworker wanted to know what these online communities were like and why they were so popular. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to really answer his question. I don’t even know how to use Moveable Type, let alone all the tools that come with it. I don’t have any idea how LiveJournal works. All I know is that once you’re linked on one LiveJournal Web site, you seem to get a bunch of referrers with the words “Friend” and “LiveJournal” somewhere in the url.

I have been told that MySpace is really great for musicians. And I told my coworker that. I also mentioned that MySpace seems to take a lot of abuse from shows like 20/20 and Dateline especially when they profile pedophiles, rapists, and 65-year-old fat guys who like to find young college girls to talk to. I know that can’t be said for all MySpace users out there, but as an outsider, it really does seem like that the most heinous sex crimes are committed by or against those with MySpace accounts.

A lot of online communities and how they work are completely foreign to me. But I am still technically on Friendster. The day after I found out that Katrina died; I started to get pictures together for her memorial service. For reasons I’m still unsure of, I decided to visit Friendster. I found her profile again and decided to print it out. It featured all her favorite books, bands, TV shows, and movies. I did learn more about her that day, things I may have otherwise overlooked had she not recently passed away. For example, I had no idea that her favorite show was Alias. Sure, this information was interesting, but it pretty much just made me cry again.

That was the day I realized that Friendster – a mere Web site – would probably never learn that Katrina had passed away without human intervention. And all her peripheral online friends wouldn’t know either. She might receive messages and they would go unanswered. She would probably get email and it would go unanswered, too. That was the day also the day I stopped going to Friendster.

I briefly told my coworker why I stopped. I can’t go there anymore because I know she’ll be looking at me – her profile, her face – and I don’t like to see her profile as it once was, as if she’s still living person. Plus, what if she has a new testimonial? What if someone left a message about her death? A Web site can’t possibly comprehend what that actually means.

Today, I woke up early. I powered up my computer and then went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and pee. Once I finished, I walked back into the living room and sat down to check email. We were away all day yesterday, running errands and taking care of some family business. Therefore, I had to catch up on quite a bit. That’s when I saw it. I had received a new message from Friendster.

When Ann finally tells Andy Bitkower that her son is dead and that she’ll probably never, ever come to claim the cake, he is devastated. Suddenly, every phone call, and every message comes back to haunt him. You feel sorry for him all over again. Your sorrow never ran out for her.

Katrina died last year and shortly after the funeral, I received an email reminding me to send her a birthday message on the 17th of April. Rightly so, the email made me cry. And then I began to laugh because an email-sending bot made me cry.

Today, I woke up to that very same email.

(Happy [almost] Birthday, Katrina. You might be gone, but you’re not forgotten. Even the Friendster Bots are thinking about you.)

The Barbarian Group took us all out last night. We started at Loreley, a German beer garden, where I didn’t have any beer. Nor did I sample the Wiener Schnitzel in a German bun. But others did! And I had the word SCHNITZEL on the brain for the rest of the evening.

Schnitzel.

I did have the asparagas soup. It was delightful. And Rachel was trying to convince me that pee doesn’t actually stink from asparagas and instead your nose is the culprit. And if you didn’t have aspargas and someone else did, you wouldn’t be able to smell their stinky pee. I’m not buying it. But sometime this weekend, I’m going to have Tobyjoe dine on asparagas. I’m testing this little theory, gonna decide once and for all.

I met Rick finally. He’s a partner. He’s fabulous. This is Rick:

P.S. Before I get more email asking “What happened to the images?” I took them down. The woman I spoke about earlier left a comment, I contacted her, and we’ve have been emailing back and forth ever since. I felt the right thing to do was to take the images and the comments down. I hope you understand.

All is good and she’s quite nice. Funny how things sometimes turn out.

(If you have no idea what I’m talking about, that’s fine, too.)

So, Jake Dobkin of Gothamist fame linked to Cool Props. (The Morning News linked to it last year before it had a real home. Pretty cool. Can’t wait until summer.)

I told Tobyjoe the moment it went up, I would stay clear of the comments section as Gothamist (while totally awesome), tends to have some of the meanest commenters around.

The good news is, I didn’t have to check back to see what people had to say about Cool-Props, Tobyjoe sent them to me. One of them was particularly awesome. I feel proud.

This is the worst news piece in the history of MANKIND!!!!!!!!! Gothamist is done for.

Apparently, Cool-Props has introduced Gothamist to its demise. Who knew weird AC props could bring out such rage? Who knew?

I have always felt a certain amount of bewildered awe regarding the plethora of hanging window meat in my neighborhood. And I think this image captures both the neighborhood and its meat.

Edited to Add: (Email received this morning from my father regarding the picture.)

This would have been my comment had the comments been enabled – “Keep tobyjoe away from your windows

Jean Schmidt, who said no to a Cincinnati-area Republican club candidate’s debate, might have a stand-in. Rachel Dratch of SNL has been asked to stand in for Ms. Schmidt. For those of you who might not be aware of who Jean Schmidt is, back in November she was the one who was booed during a House session after trying to “send congressman Murtha a message” that “cowards cut and run, marines never do.â€? She’s a real witch. Anyway, Jean has turned them down. And Rachel Dratch has been asked to come, stand in her place, and read from a questionnaire that Jean Schmidt filled out a while back.

You know what that is? That’s good stuff, my friends.

I’ve been trying not to do this, but I can’t help myself. It’s about iHateDesign. Dee posted something yesterday that actually made me laugh out loud. Alone. I have to share it. Some of you may not get it. And that’s totally understandable. If you’re not a graphic designer or if you’ve never hung out with one you’re not supposed to get it. Graphic designers notice the gaps between letterforms and are often just APPALLED by it. (If you don’t get it, please feel free to leave a comment to discuss. I once spelled the word Kern, “Curn�? on a test in college. I was a freshman. I hadn’t ever heard the word before. Point is, it’s OK to not know.)

Things like public nudity upset some people, or public drunkenness, maybe even talking during a movie. Graphic designers get upset over ne g a tive spac e. They get upset over non-things in between actual things.

Last night, we watched 60 Minutes. The very last part called “Working” talked about how Americans are working longer hours and how more and more people basically live by their computers.

The digital revolution now enables people to work their jobs nearly every waking hour. Lesley Stahl reports on Americans who are working longer and harder.

The statistics and stories were a little disturbing, to be honest. Given the summary above, there was one part that really perked up my ears. It was ALSO reported that Americans work more hours and take less (if any) vacation time than the Europeans. However, Europeans are generally more productive during their workday. Basically, they get more done AND they have more time off. Why do you suppose that is? It really has me thinking.

Sometimes people do things that are inexplicably awesome. Last week, I received an email from my dear friend, Lana.

Subject: Too Cute

The e-mail featured a lovely picture of a fuzzy little feline. I was instantly smitten. It’s not entirely weird for people to send me cute pictures of cats. I love cats and this one is so cute, she really does deserve a great home. I did question Lana’s motives, however. We trump her one cat by two. Like most Canadians, Lana is very sneaky.

Last night, I received another email. This one was from Ms. Parasol who is also up in Ottawa.

Subject: I thought Mihow was a cute name for a cat… and this stray cat was deserving of a cute name.

She sent me a picture and a description of the same shelter cat! The part that I didn’t notice in Lana’s previous email was the actual NAME of the cat. Ms. Parasol (who works for an animal shelter) actually named this little cutie. I’m also left questioning her motives. And I’m trying to talk Tobyjoe into four. How does one import a Canadian cat? Do they need green cards? We were going to make a go at a baby, but a family of cats is cool, too.

Next to spending yesterday with my mother in New Jersey, this may have been the highlight of my weekend. (Thank you, Ms. Parasol.)