When I was a kid and I told a lie or withheld something from my parents, even for a little while, my head would grow bigger and bigger and heavier and heavier until finally my lips would explode and a river of guilty words would spill out before me. I was bulimic with lies. These rivers of words made me feel lighter.

I blamed my inability to tell a lie on Jesus and more specifically his father, God. God was the person who knew I was lying. God was the person who would take away that evening’s Little Debbie Snack Cake or tomorrow’s Carvel. The thought of any God using a Little Debbie as ammunition seemed a little cruel but it wasn’t my job to judge God. It had been made perfectly clear to me that it was God’s job to do all the judging. God was in control of my actions and me; God knew where I was and when I was there. God knew about the time I pulled my brother’s Swiss Army knife on the neighbor for not getting off my swing set. God also knew about the time I wet my pants a little bit and then let it dry and then went to school with pee stained pants. God knew about the time I squished the firefly even though it was cruel and totally uncalled for. God watched Stacy and I compare one another’s private parts as Ms. Reigel asked someone to spell the word “Been. As in ‘I’ve been to the store.’” I watched Karl raise his hand as my elastic waistband snapped back against my stomach.

“B – I – N.” Karl had said proudly. “Been.”

Had I not been giggling over Stacy’s bald vagina I would have raised my hand to correct Karl’s mistake. God knew I knew the answer.

At age 6, God watched me make out with Tracy with our clothes on. Two days later, I told my mother about it. It was a good thing I did, too, since I was pregnant. As one might assume, out of forgiveness, God miraculously made me unpregnant and I didn’t even have to say any prayers.

Since God’s job was evening out the score, I always crumbled. Plus, I couldn’t stand saying so many Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s. And I am convinced that this ritual was the bad influence that introduced me to the present day world of mental chatter. Now, instead of visiting by way of self-inflicted guilt prayer, it comes to me in song and credit card debt.

Today, I no longer blame God for my inability to lie or hold things in. That’s not because I have actually lied and gotten away with it, it’s because I’m just not sure how I feel about God anymore. No matter how many lies I have told and how many times I have remained silent, I have still had countless cones of ice cream and while my expanding waistband no longer allows for Little Debbie Snack cakes, I have had cake.

Two Sundays ago, I washed my cell phone. It was a tragic event. I was cleaning up a vegetable oil spill that took place on my pants when I threw my jeans directly into the washer. It was only after it filled up and began to swoosh back and forth did I realize that my phone had gone down with them. I took the phone apart. I let it dry. I placed it in a plastic Ziploc bag with two silica tablets. I let it rest for a week. After regaining consciousness for 12 nighttime hours, it suffered from a massive stroke and never woke up again.

No matter how hard I try, I still can’t keep the stupid things I do quiet. I can’t seem to fight the weight they add to my mind. This past Sunday, Tobyjoe and I went to the park to run on the track. I brought my Nano with me, which held a set list called “Chick Stuff”. I stuffed it into my gym shorts, pressed play, and hit the road. When we got back the both of us stripped down naked, briefly gawked at the other’s nudity, and jumped directly into the shower. I left my clothing in a heap at the base of the tub.

“Where should I put my clothes?” He asked me when we were done showering.

“Go ahead and throw them directly into the washer. I’ll try and keep up with them. I’ll do a mini load now.” He did so. I turned it on and then hurried around to grab the rest.

An hour went by and I returned to the washer to empty the load. I saw money.

“I washed my money.” I said.

He looked up from his paper. “You really need to stay away from the washer. This is getting ridiculous. Come to think of it, you’re no longer washing my clothing.”

“No, with you, I am terrified especially after that time I washed that roll of film from vacation. I still feel bad about that. I go through your clothing. Mine, on the other hand…”

I placed the money on the edge of the table to dry and returned to the washer. I began pulling the rest of the clothing out. That’s when I saw my black headphones. My headphones are never without their mate. I knew immediately what I had done. I had two choices. I could either pretend it didn’t happen and pull them out quietly, and later feign an act of technological malfunction due to wear and tear, or I could just tell the truth, the blatantly unfunny, pathetic, personal truth.

I’m now a grown woman who has avoided the whole truth before and gotten away with it. I am now a grown woman who knows that two girls kissing do not make babies, words aren’t always spelled the way they sound, and vaginas eventually grow hair. I am now a grown woman who should be able to refrain from truth bulimia.

“Toby, I washed my Nano.” I held its lifeless body in my hands. The wires from my headphones sagged and dropped around my fingertips like thin, pale, dead arms. Gravity can be so ugly.

His eyes looked up but his chin did not. His mouth was open but he said nothing. His head shook from side to side, spewing shame onto me like water droplets from a wet dog.

“Toby, I washed my Nano. I can’t believe I washed my Nano. Now, I have no phone and no iPod and I have no money to replace either of them because of this stupid camera.”

I put it on the windowsill and returned to the kitchen.

“Toby, please don’t tell anyone about this. Even this embarrasses me and I rarely get embarrassed. This is just stupid. I feel so stupid.”

“I won’t.”

(I didn’t know it then but he would.)

We grow up and we fib whether or not we believe in God at all. We may show off our genitals in a crowded second grade classroom during a spelling bee under the eyes of God and anyone who may have turned around. We may pee our pants and try and lie about the stain and stench. We may say we’re well and then throw up all over the parachute in gym class. We may pull 1-inch knives on neighborhood bullies and make out with the girl next door. We may wash expensive, black electronics we deem a daily necessity and ask our spouses not to tell anyone. And then they may head to work and tell the entire office, “Hey, guess what my wife did!” We may then decide that the only way we’ll feel better about doing something so unbelievably stupid is to own up to it entirely.

My head feels a little lighter now both mentally and physically.

(Please note: There are no links in the post below. We are still working on the link situation for PC readers. Should be fixed.)

I was messing around with the Nikon D200. Tobyjoe is talking about buying a new digital SLR. (Nuts!) We’ve been discussing the pros and cons behind the Nikon D200 vs. the Canon 5D. He’s leaning toward the Canon because of the way it handles low light and noise. I know what he means. This is precisely why I have been kind of standoffish toward going entirely digital. However, I am really still very smitten with this camera. There’s so much to learn and understand!

Last night I decided to mess around under low light. Here are a few of my experiments.

Oh, and this is just Pookum acting silly.

OK, so there are issues with my (new-ish) Web site. Issues I never knew about before today. Apparently, some people aren’t seeing hyperlinks. For that, I am sorry. We’re working on the problem. But I must say this helps me to understand why no one seems to ever click the links here. Could it be they can’t see them? Or maybe that’s because no one wants to. I know I have a hard time a lot of the time. Or maybe it’s because no one comes here anymore and since I don’t have stats any longer, I would have no way of knowing. I will pretend I’m writing to a sold out Internet audience like playing a sold out performance in a pitch black, empty concert hall.

Michael Krasny conducted an absolutely wonderful (audio) interview on KQED with Dan Gilbert, author of Stumbling on Happiness.

(From Amazon. Written by Malcolm Gladwell)

Stumbling on Happiness is a book about a very simple but powerful idea. What distinguishes us as human beings from other animals is our ability to predict the future – or rather, our interest in predicting the future. We spend a great deal of our waking life imagining what it would be like to be this way or that way, or to do this or that, or taste or buy or experience some state or feeling or thing. We do that for good reasons: it is what allows us to shape our life. And it is by trying to exert some control over our futures that we attempt to be happy. But by any objective measure, we are really bad at that predictive function. We’re terrible at knowing how we will feel a day or a month or year from now, and even worse at knowing what will and will not bring us that cherished happiness. Gilbert sets out to figure what that’s so: why we are so terrible at something that would seem to be so extraordinarily important?

I highly recommend giving it a listen if you are able. It’s free and only an hour long. You can find the file here. I listened to it last week while at work after a coworker (and friend) told me about it. I listened to it again on Sunday while running. There were times while I was listening where the actual broadcast and some of Mr. Gilbert’s answers actually made me happy. I plan on picking up his book today.

Again, grab it here. You won’t regret it.

On Saturday we went boating with Bob in New Jersey. We fished as well. We caught seaweed. It was awesome.

Tobyjoe looked cool.

I did not.

But I did get to play with our bait.

There are more here.

I want to be just like Tobyjoe so I went ahead and purchased one of these to sit on at work. Recently, I have had more and more morning back pain. It wakes me up every morning. Usually, the pain goes away after I get up and walk around. It makes sleeping in impossible. I’m hoping that the ball helps with this. Thing is, I am not used to sitting up straight, because now my back hurts in different ways. Hopefully, that subsides when I become stronger in the tummy.

In other news, my cell phone worked last night when I went to bed after spending a week in a baggie with silica. This morning, however, it no longer works. Looks like I’m going pink today.

On my lunch break a fine young silken haired hipster boy stopped me on Madison and 42nd street.

“Yes. Hello. We’re doing some research. I was wondering, how much do you spend on your haircut?”

I was wearing a pair of gray pants and a blue t-shirt. I had my hair pulled back in a ponytail. It was the type of ponytail that allowed for puffy parts, like they were covering cartoon-like welts. Little frizzy explosions sprouted from my hairline like weeds. My roots were showing. I wore mascara but that’s about all I had going for my face.

It wasn’t up until we made locked-in eye contact did it occur to me that he was actually speaking to me, and more importantly, to me about my hair.

“Oh my God, nothing. I am so low maintenance. I once threw away a 300-dollar gift certificate for highlights at one of the snottiest salons in the city. I am definitely NOT your audience.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Sadly, I am not kidding.”

“Ok, well thank you for your time.”

Yesterday, I found myself wondering if my growing fingernails would bring me some of whatever girl juice I am apparently missing. (Not that kind of girl juice perverts.) I think it’s safe to say that this may never happen. And other than having some boobage, I think I’d fail the Girl Test.

There is a fantastic article in the latest New Yorker called Central Casting. It talks about what some feel the Democrats need to do in order to win in 2008. I found the article to be extremely informative, almost uncomfortably so. It made me realize that I am guilty of thinking they way many people are guilty of thinking: that if someone doesn’t want to embrace a certain way of life, they just need to be educated to do so.

Now, this isn’t solely what the article is about. I’m merely simplifying its message and, ironically, making it personal. I know of many like-minded liberals and progressives who believe that instead of trying to meet halfway with someone on the opposite side, they feel that the answer lies in educating them.

Conservatives do the same thing. Someone pro-gun will explain why he or she is and why you should be. We’ve all had someone else preach to us about religion even if we don’t believe in his or her God at all, or any God for that matter (God forbid. Heh). I have found that the religious zealot doesn’t bring much logic or science when it comes to a discussion. While I don’t bring much faith. But all the prayer in the world isn’t going to convince someone that abortion is bad. All the logic won’t tell them choice is good as long as they still see it as murder.

The article explores HOW the Democratic Party should talk to the moderates and swing voters during the next campaign; there were some superb points.

(From the article)

” ‘Every time a pro-state income-tax candidate runs in New Hampshire, they get their butt kicked,’ Kathleen Sullivan told me. ‘And then what you have is Democrats who say, “Well, we just have to educate people more.” Well, no, that’s not what we have to do. We have to not nominate someone who is for a state income tax. The voters don’t need to be educated on this. They know what they believe.’ Sean Wilentz, the Princeton historian, said, ‘The impulse behind the people who run the party is humanitarian, the humanitarians have a problem in American history – they’re always trying to perfect you, make you better.’ Wilentz added, ‘Acceptance of human imperfection would do a lot to help the Democratic Party.’ “

This moved me greatly. I am very passionate about animal rights and how we (carelessly) treat our environment. I have felt this way since I was a child. The thought of someone abusing an animal shakes me to my core. I simply can’t understand how it is I live in a world where someone can abuse a dog or a cat. (My compassion toward animals doesn’t stop with just cats and dogs, but for the sake of receiving some understanding, this time, I will.) My mother doesn’t understand how a woman can abort a baby. Period. Some people don’t understand how we can put our prisoners to death. Others can’t believe we let them live through a trial.

What stuck with me having read the article in the New Yorker was how guilty I am of being totally unable to understand another point of view some of the time. For example, I am unable to comprehend why someone simply MUST drive an SUV, own a gun, or disagree with distributing a 100% cure for cancer caused by HPV. I believe that I don’t even speak their language. I decide they simply must be educated to see the light. (Whose light? My own?) I am even more closed off toward those who live their lives blinded by religion. (See? I used the word “blind” obviously, I have a problem understanding the Religious Right.)

Numerous times, I have run into people who simply aren’t willing to rationally discuss with me how poorly I feel we treat our animals and our environment. I am shut down with a, “I like to eat cow. It’s cheaper at McDonalds. Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t eat.” At no point do they wish to talk about options born from sustainable agriculture, something I feel I know at least a little about. If the person isn’t a member of my family and the discussion doesn’t end up in an explosive fight, we simply stop talking. I write them off as “the other side” they do the same to me. We end up more naive because of it.

Perhaps I need to accept a bit more human imperfection, as Wilentz put it. (Although, I’m not sure I’d call it an imperfection as that assumes that the side I’m pardoning is in fact imperfect, allowing me to come at an angle of perfection, which is never a good solution for a decent discussion.) Either way, I think I agree with this assessment of the Democratic Party. If most of us are, in fact, moderates, certainly there is a language out there that can be used to help us unify and accomplish greatness.

(P.S. I am and always will be right about lessening America’s desire for driving SUVs and eating crap. heh)

Nine days ago, I had my blood pressure checked, my cholesterol, and my glucous. I got back some pretty seemingly wildly inaccurate numbers.

Today, I visited my GP to find out once and for all whether the rent-a-nurse was indeed smoking crack or if she was giving me correct numbers. I am A-OK. In fact, my HDL is out of this world. (HDL, I am told, is good cholesterol. Howley Does Like.) Now, pass the cheese.

I am trying to figure out, however, if I should tell my employer how horribly off my numbers were. Even the blood pressure reading was way off. I realize these things take time to learn, but before a nurse goes around giving people numbers that can actually raise their blood pressure, don’t you think it’s best to keep them away from the hypochondriacs? Certainly others had a similar experience. The thing that freaks me out a little bit now is that there is a really false reading floating around and is now possibly in the hands of my employer.

The moral of this story: Never, ever agree to a freebee from your employer (in more ways that just one). Ever. I know I wear a tinfoil hat sometimes, but this doesn’t sit well with me.

The U.S. Postal Service is now allowing companies to design and print their own first-class stamps

“We want to make mail more interesting to consumers.” (Joanne Veto. USPS Spokeswoman.)

Joanne, I just don’t think this will do it. There are very few companies who, I believe, adhere to a decent looking brand and even fewer who have one I actually choose to hang on to whether mentally or physically. I know it varies per person, but do you really think that the HP or Verizon logo will make your mail more interesting?

Does anyone think that this is good idea? A bad one?

About a month and a half ago, I started to load up on vitamins. Tobyjoe helped me to decide what to take, how often, why I should take them, and how many. I’ve been doing so diligently every day. (While we’re discussing schedules and sticking to them, I have flossed everyday since visiting the dentist as well. I may have reportedly high cholesterol and high blood pressure but my teeth are simply divine.)

I take one vitamin C (with rose hips) every day. I take three prenatal. I take one milk thistle and one NAC. I don’t really know what each of them actually do for me but I trust Tobyjoe. Plus, I am holding them accountable for my stable moods and energy level as of late.

Anyway, the weirdest part about the new vitamin regiment is this:

Never, ever, ever in my life have I had fingernails, Sure, every once in a while one will grow like a wild hair but it immediately peels apart or breaks off. I have certainly never had them long enough to paint them not once but twice in a row. (That’s right. They were red for a weekend, silver/blue a week before that.)

Plus, they apparently make excellent scratching tools.

I have experienced a few changes in my intestines, but I’m led to believe that’s entirely separate from all the vitamins. I would go into that on here, but Tobyjoe would most certainly file for a divorce even though I didn’t for his having purchased these:

Tomorrow, I have an appointment with my GP to find out once and for all about this whole high cholesterol situation. I’m also going to ask him about the intestinal situation. And before everyone gets all “STINKY MIHOW” on me, this is not about gas. I can assure you. It’s about small palpitations. I think I have IBS. It’s either that or a drummer has moved into my body.

In July, I have an appointment with an OBGYN to discuss stuff about things. We’ll see. Here’s to good health.

As someone pointed out on Gothamist, the flyer I wrote about below was NOT created by Wal-Mart and instead created by a group called Wal-Mart Watch. Had I read the entire flyer and visited the Web site prior having written both Jake at Gothamist and the post below, I’d have realized that they seem to be more Pro-Union (at least when it comes to massive corporations such as Wal-Mart) and not pro Wal-Mart at all.

I feel the need to write as much because I did not do the fact checking prior writing on here as well as writing to Jake. And that’s irresponsible. This type of error is precisely why individual bloggers are deemed as untrustworthy and dishonest, opinionated and therefore not to be taken seriously. I am sorry to have added fodder to this belief.

I will say, however, that the last time I fell for something at Grand Central Station, it was related to a Viagra stunt. That was entirely sneaky. This, apparently, was not.

While the guy standing outside was indeed obviously against having a Wal-Mart come to New York City, the page I was given did not state this. Hence, my initial confusion. Hence, my immediate belief that I had been duped once again.

I apologized to Jake, personally, and I would like to apologize to anyone who read this and believed, even for a second, anything other than the truth.

(Edited to add: I have written a public apology for the post below.)

I exited the 4/5/6 today. The usual groups of people were standing outside Grand Central handing out menus, free rags, and the latest giveaways, whatever they cold pile on a passerby. They’re like attack fish, these people. I usually ignore them.

Today, however, one person, and more specifically a word he used, caught my attention. He was young, I would guess around 25. He looked clean cut, kind of frat boyish. He was a cross between the young Republican kid from next door and the really drunk guy at the local TGIF. The words “Wal-Mart.” spilled from his lips.

And so I took the freebee. At first glance, it looked pro-Wal-Mart. Usually, with any anti-Wal-Mart piece of paraphernalia the message is made very clear immediately. Their message is usually: “Wal-Mart Sucks and Here’s Why”, but this one was different. It looked different.

I walked further down the street and ran into another guy handing them out. I passed him by. The third guy is where this story becomes a little more interesting.

“KEEP WAL-MART OUT OF NEW YORK CITY! KEEP WAL-MART AWAY FROM NEW YORK!”

Oh! I thought to myself. These men handing out poorly designed flyers featuring a union bug ARE anti-Wal-Mart. So I stopped to chat.

“Where are they said to be looking?” I asked the guy holding the stack of papers, the same one who had just screamed “KEEP WAL-MART OUT OF NEW YORK CITY!”

“They are talking about coming to Queens. But they have promised to not stop there. Once they are in Queens, they hope to come to Manhattan and then maybe Brooklyn.”

“I see. That sucks. Thanks for the flyer. I got one from your friend down the block.”

I continued on my way.

After I got a closer look at what they had been handing out, I realized that they weren’t, in fact, protesting Wal-Mart at all. The flyers they were handing out were, in fact, Pro-Wal-Mart. Sure, they reeled some people in by yelling out anti-Wal-Mart sentiments but they’re designed and printed by the Wal-Mart Corporation Wal-Mart Watch.

I’m not sure if I should be annoyed by this venture, or totally impressed by the last guys ability to reel in an otherwise deaf audience. (For the record, I would have taken the piece from someone who outwardly spewed pro-sentiments. I originally thought I had. It’s best to know what your enemies are up to. heh)

(The below blurbs are lifted word-for-word from the flyer I received.)

“Ensure Quality and Affordable Health Care Coverage You can’t create a team spirit when the situation is so one-sided when management gets so much and the workers get so little of the pie.“

“Our Nation’s Largest Employer and most financially successful company. Wal-Mart is a singular American institution. It occupies a unique position in our world by virtue of its size, read and responsibility for the livelihoods of millions of workers and the needs of billions of consumers. And with such overwhelming influence comes certain moral responsibilities. It is the acceptance or rejection of those responsibilities that determines greatness.”

“By paying a family-sustaining wage, Wal-Mart will ensure that federal, state, and local taxpayers are not forced to spend billions of dollars on public assistance for Wal-Mart employees. Wal-Mart itself will not seek taxpayer-funded subsidies that locally-owned businesses do not receive. And Wal-Mart will not pit local communities against each other when selecting sites for Wal-Mart stores or other facilities.”

Not too much about keeping Wal-Mart out of New York City after all, eh?

After reading what Charlie wrote in the comments section below, I did a little more research and discovered that the whole “put your wet cell phone into a bag of cat litter” has quite a bit of history behind it. I read that several people have used the little moisture deterrents they usually store in vitamin containers. I read that this technique has worked for some. I also read that the red dot Tobyjoe discovered this morning after removing the back from the phone was indeed what he thought it was, a water damage fraud detector.

So, for those keeping score at home: The whole red dye reacting with pee in the pool? Not true. The red water damage dot inside and on the back of the Razr? True.

Herein lies the question: Do I wait a week or two and submerge my phone into cat litter (or the other gunk)? Do I take it apart and try and dry it myself like this guy did. Or, do I just go buy the pink one and call it a loss?

I have gone into technological remission. For weeks now, I have lost my desire to surf the Internet, email people I should ultimately be calling, watch TV, read blogs, check RSS feeds, and send text messages. I’m not sure why this has happened or when, really. Suddenly, I had just realized that the loop I claimed to be out of all along was no wider than the eye of a needle.

It seems that the only things Web-wise I make time for anymore are updating this Web site, uploading pictures to Flickr, and checking my contacts on Flickr. I check Spread in RSS, SPD in RSS, and IHD in RSS. Oh, and I make time for Gothamist because sometimes they have cool and relevant articles and the comments are so very Web 1.0 and therefore make me laugh. Please understand that I’m not trying to sound snotty. It’s just that, at some point I realized that I was spending a lot less time in front of the computer and at the same time my mood had changed drastically.

This could be a phase. Or perhaps it’s that I am coming out of a phase. Maybe I just want to spend more time with my camera. I have no idea. And I’m not sure if part of the happiness I accidently discovered recently (and wrote about) is because of this remission. And even if these events have nothing to do with one another, I am happier now. And it’s probably best not to rock that boat.

But yesterday the situation became a little more interesting. While we were running in the park, I had left most all of my belongings at home. I had stuffed my ATM card into my right sock. I grabbed a Dean and Deluca bag and stuffed a book into it, figuring no one would steal a book. And I grabbed my Nano for running. About half way to the park, I realized how good it felt that I didn’t have my phone with me. I realized that all calls could wait, that I didn’t always have to be available by phone. The most thrilling part about this sensation, and quite possibly the scariest, was I could not remember living my life without a cell phone. And most of my life was actually spent without one.

Later that day within an entirely separate incident, Tobyjoe brought up how good it felt to not have his cell phone with him when he visited the dentist last week. He had said he felt “grounded”. We talked about this for a while. He had left his at home when we left again for the city. I had stuffed mine into my right jean pocket something I very rarely do. I remained there all afternoon and into the evening when I dumped an entire half cup of oil onto my pants.

“Grab the salt!” He said from the living room.

He dumped salt onto the floor. I took my pants off.

“Can you turn off the light? Everyone can see my ass.”

“If I turn it off and on really fast, perhaps it’ll call attention.” He did so. I threw something at him. I dropped the shade.

He took my pants and put a little salt on the oil spill. I put them into the washer and started the cycle. Warm. One rinse. Detergent. Fabric softener. We returned to The Sopranos.

It was only after Tony received a call did I realize that I had washed my black Razr.

Today, I’m toying with the idea of not renewing although, I’m sure I’ll crumble. It’s hard to live in New York City without a cell phone. If it weren’t for the fact that my family members live in several different states and we have no landline, I might just decide to live unplugged for a while.

Tobyjoe and I checked out the New York City Tattoo Convention today. It was pretty outstanding. A New York City favorite, Adorned had a booth who is the most likely candidate to complete my tattoo. Fly Rite and Mike Rubendall were there as well. There were tattoo artists from all over the world, actually. I just didn’t manage to get all their names. (But you can find them all here)

Here are a couple of pictures. You may also see them all by clicking here (Takes you to Flickr.)

I watched this Asian gent work on this woman for a while. And then Tobyjoe and I decided to walk around for a bit.

Hours later, I managed to come around right as he was finishing her up.

There were several Japanese artists there who were practicing the Tebori technique (or Irezumi). Wikipedia has a pretty in depth description

Here is a picture I took while watching a woman have one done on her ankle.

I have to admit, I was pretty schmitten with this technique. But, man, did it seem a little painful.

Later, they had a tattoo contest. This particular lovely lady was one of the contestants for the full body tattoo.

Again, there are a lot more here (Takes you to Flickr.)

You might not know it just by looking at him, but Tobyjoe says, (and I quote) “I aspire to be the bear on the Sleepytime tea box.”

He means it.

I simply could not resist taking a walk up to 57th and Fifth to check out the Apple Store Maddness . I heard word that there was a line. Behold, there was.

If you’d like to see some more shots, you my do so by clicking here.

For over four years, I used blog software built by my husband. As many of you know about two weeks ago we moved mihow.com over to Typo. It’s a great package for the most part. It’s easy to use and the templates are well designed. I haven’t run into too much weirdness or frustration using Typo.

I do, however, have a few issues with it. From what I can tell, there isn’t any way to have the system email the writer when a comment is left. This really doesn’t bother me because I have an RSS feed for comments. The problem is that finally, for the first time in the history of this Web site, I am getting comment spam. And I’m not pleased with that at all. (Quite honestly, I have no idea how others have dealt and continue to deal with it.)

Previously, Tobyjoe had my site rigged so that anyone without Javascript enabled was unable to leave a comment. I can’t remember why this worked because I am not a super nerd like my husband, but it worked and so I never complained. Now, that’s no longer the situation and I’m paying the price.

One option I have is to turn off comments altogether and I really would rather not do that. One of the reasons I continue with this Web site is because I often really enjoy the discussions that are born because of it. I’d rather not destroy that. If that ends, surely the site will eventually die as well, surely my drive to run it will diminish. For now, that’s not an option. (Although, give me a few more days deleting comment spam and I might change my tune.)

I woke up today, I deleted several comment spam, and then I told Tobyjoe that mornings like this one are why I prefer using his magic to make my Web site run. I took pride using his work and the fact that it was one-of-a-kind. That’s not to say I don’t like engines such as Typo, but what do they care if Michele bitches and moans about comment spam first thing in the morning? They don’t. Tobyjoe does, however. ;]

On a site related note, I can’t say I’m super keen on using Textile. Sure, some of it makes sense, but take a post the other day, for example. I was trying to add an asterisk to this post so I in order to add a footnote, instead, it bolded everything because with Textile and asterisk is what one uses to add emphasis, therefore bolding the word. Normally, it’s fine and dandy, but I wanted to use an asterisk as a footnote not for emphasis at all. While I understand that Textile uses tricks that have been implemented throughout email for years and years, it throws off basic writing techniques. And that sucks.

Granted, I am certain, I just don’t know it well enough. Yet. That is very often the case. But the way it uses links throws me off as well. I find I’m asking “Why?” a lot.

I can’t tell you how many times a day I become frustrated with the fact that certain tools or programs we use have become the norm only because no one has any idea (or drive) about ways in which to change. We live in a world filled with mediocrity. Look at our advertisements, our radio personalities, our TV shows, our fashion, our people, our vacations. Hell, look at our blogs. We’re all perfectly willing to just deal with whatever’s normal as long as it doesn’t cause us physical pain, make our jobs too much more annoying than they already are, or interfere with our American Idol. I’m so sick of the usual. I’m tired of streamline. I’m sick of this McDonald’s approach we apply to the Internet and to our everyday lives. Our never-ending quest for familiarity has a way of getting in the way if all that can (and should be) unique and colorful in this world. Familiarity helps fodder complacency.

(P.S. Sorry for all the bitchin’.)

Tonight, Tobyjoe and I were given the chance to see Mary Gaitskill read from her latest novel Veronica at BAM. Several weeks ago we saw Jonathan Letham read there as well. On both occasions, we had an excellent time. Recently, we read Mary’s first book over on Spread. I was really looking forward to seeing her speak. I plan on writing more about this after I have had a chance to let it sit. But for now, I’d like to post a couple of pictures from our evening.

Mary answers questions from the audience.

TobyJoe waits for dinner.

What a wonderful way to spend a Thursday evening.

Replace “henpecked bookworm” with “henpecked computer geek”. Swap Burgess Meredith with Tobyjoe Boudreaux and you have yourself one heck of a modern day remake.

not my shot

It’s underground, people.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but the only arrests I know of, of someone trying to cross the border with weapons has happened along the Canadian border. Bush has suggested that one of the major reasons behind his desire to place the National Guard onto our Southern borders is for homeland security. That’s fine. I think our borders could use the help, to be honest. The great state of Oregon and its border comes to mind as well*, but who’s paying attention? Especially when all those damned Mexicans keep coming over.

I guess my only question is this: why aren’t we putting the National Guard along our Canadian borders as well? Doesn’t Alaska border Russia? What about the Russians? Why are we paying so much attention to Mexico?

Please see comments section where I explain the Oregon bit.

I’m still getting to know how the new version of this Web site works. For example, up until yesterday I didn’t have stats. Also, I am no longer emailed when I receive a comment. However, there is an RSS feed for recent comments and I find that I’m using that quite frequently. Anyway, if anyone wishes to follow along by using “recent comments”, please do so by subscribing to the following URL:

http://www.mihow.com/xml/commentrss/feed.xml

To be honest, I like it when people start discussions on here and I find that the comment feed is helping that along. So, feel free to bookmark that and we’ll see if we can’t build an even better, more active community. (Dare I dream?)

Also, if you have run into any strange things here or have any suggestions on how to make it more useable, please let me know. (Email works. You can email me at michele at this domain dot com.) I plan on working on it over the next couple of weeks and would love feedback about what may have been overlooked.

Tobyjoe was featured contributor for the biggest Web magazine in the UK. It was about Ruby on Rails. He’s been looking for the magazine for about a week. We finally found some at the Barnes and Noble on Union Square.

At the time he was writing the article, the editor wanted a picture and so he sent them this one shown below as well as several others.

His editor picked the one above. She said, “I like this one, the one with the pint.”

Standing in line at Barnes and Noble, buying the only copy left of the magazine, we stumbled up on Tobyjoe’s picture in the magazine. Everything you heard up until now about the British and their beer was not indeed true. They done went and cropped out the beer. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that it merely didn’t fit in the picture and more to do with the fact that British folks have been lying all these years about their beer.

Today, I stupidly decided to go visit the “on site” visiting work nurse to get a reading for my cholesterol, my blood pressure, and my glucose. And it’s a good thing I did that because I found out that I’m dying.

On March 28th, 2006 (yes, that’s not even two months ago) I went in for a massive stress test. I was worried about my work out heart rate and decided to go ahead and get some tests done to make sure it wasn’t going to explode. (That date, incidentally, also marks the last time I visited the gym. I am a Grade-A moron.)

Anyway, I was hooked up to those machines, they were spitting back numbers I had my blood pressure read and then some. I was shirtless at the time AND running on a treadmill with two men watching me. I felt like an ass but figured it was important. And wouldn’t you know? Things were fine. My blood pressure? Fine. My heart rate? Fine. I was FINE! FINE!

A few months before that, I had had blood drawn to make sure all was well on the Michele front. That came back FINE!

Today, I had some nurse take my blood pressure and prick my middle finger. Each appointment took 10 minutes. Mine was at 3:15 PM.

“You need an arm, right?”

“Yes.”

I pulled up my sleeve. After her eyes adjusted to the blinding light reflecting off my skin, she applied the tight Velcro thing to my arm. She put the headphones in her ear, and began to pump that black rubber thing.

She listened.

“You’re 130/90. That’s high.”

“What? You’re kidding me. I am always normal to low. I gave up coffee. I should start up again. Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

Silence. Shock. Disbelief.

All your life you get used to hearing something and then BAM! not anymore.

“Are you stressed out?”

Of course I’m stressed out, I thought. I am a graphic designer who works under unattainable deadlines.

“A little. I guess.”

“That’s probably it.”

She then pricked my middle finger. She then pushed the blood (by applying pressure to my fingertip) into a thin tube. She then took that thin tube and squirted the blood onto a black piece of plastic, which was attached to what looked to be a remote control.

“This will only take two minutes.” She said to me calmly.

I remarked about the view. “You should really reposition your chair so you can see the view.”

We laughed. Together.

“Your cholesterol is high as well.”

“What?”

“It’s 239.”

“What?”

“That’s high. But did you eat? You’re not supposed to.”

“I ate. Yes. It’s 3:15. I was hungry.”

“That could be it. Do you visit the doctor?”

“All the time.”

“And they never noticed anything before.”

“No. I was just there, too. Had an EKG and everything. My blood pressure has always been fine. Always. I’m shocked.”

“I’m sure you’re fine.”

The only good news is, is that my glucose is at 70. My glucose has been high before. Is it opposite day? Did I miss the memo? What in the hell is going on?

So, I’m 32 and I’m dying. One small prick to the “f*ck you” finger, and I find out I’m dying.

Laura Bush was asked to talk about her husband having the third lowest approval rating of any president in 50 years. When she was asked why she believes that the American people are losing confidence in President Bush, she said, “Well, I don’t think they are. And I don’t really believe those polls.”

OK, then.

Also, Bush is confronting the nation tonight at 8 PM. He’s going to talk about immigration and his proposition to put the National Guard along the Mexican border. Does this seem absurd to anyone? Granted, I know very little about it, but it seems really very strange and unnecessary. Also, won’t it cost us greatly and don’t we need that money?

I woke up at 3:30 AM to the distant sound of cats fighting. We have three cats. And although one might immediately assume that the sound was coming from inside the apartment, I can assure you, the sound was not.

Earlier that day, we had ordered a bottle of wine while sitting outdoors at a cafe. I was trying to get acquainted with a new idea. He was there to read. We ordered a Chardonnay. The wine made the inside walls of my mouth meet up. “They call this a pucker,” I had thought. “What a strange word.”

Pucker

“Did you know that some people believe that feeling sorrowful is a sickness and can be cured?” I asked him without looking up from my pages.

“Yes, I do remember hearing that.” He answered without looking up from his.

The day was a little drowsy. Still the sun worked hard to be seen. For the most part, we sat in silence. There was one point where our thoughts were splintered by the sound of two feral cats. The sound came from the empty lot next to the café. I wondered if cats made their fights sound worse than they really were. A bird fled the scene by air.

The idea of sorrow being considered an illness made me feel sad. Why would anyone want to fix such a thing? Aren’t we supposed to feel sad every once and a while? These thoughts lay answerless. A lot of thoughts enter and leave my head without the partnership of an answer.

“I wonder if those same people believe happiness is an illness as well.”

I could see myself in the reflection of his dark, mirrored sunglasses. I didn’t like the way I looked. I could see the wrinkles taking root around my eyes and my lips were growing thinner by the day. Even my freckles seemed to want a break.

“You know, the Apple Store had its grand opening last Friday in mid-town. Apple is calling it its ‘Flag Ship’ store. I seem to remember the ‘Flag Ship’ store being in San Francisco when we lived there. We win. New York City always wins. Screw San Francisco.”

My ability to lean toward cattiness surprised me. I had pulled rank over another city because of a computer store as if I had given birth to New York City and San Francisco was someone’s less fortunate, less attractive child. I continued my thought in hopes of sounding less absurd.

“San Francisco would have been a wonderful city to vacation. But there was something about it that made me feel like I was standing at the edge of the planet. Had they not proven that the world was indeed round, I might imagine that it would have dropped off at San Francisco. I’m not sure why it was that I felt that way. But I did. And it didn’t seem to subside in the six months we were there. Perhaps it would have in time. I’m not sure. But there was something very end-of-the-world about it.”

“No, I know what you mean. There was something very Shel Silverstein about it. I’m pretty sure that San Francisco is where the sidewalk ends.”

I laughed. Leave it to him to lighten a conversation.

“Still, someday I hope that I will be able to put my finger on it.”

The cats howled again. One of them seemed to be losing or maybe it just had the more horrific cry.

“I wish I felt better about my career. I wish I could ask the cynical about sorrow doctors if they believe there’s a cure for stagnation. I wonder if there’s one for frustration.”

I thought about our day and the wine and how we left it there. I thought about how the sun had finally given up as we had made dinner and settled in for the night.

It was nearing 4 AM and I had been prematurely pushed awake. I hadn’t heard from the cats again, which led me to believe that they existed only in a dream. I got out of bed and poured myself a glass of water. Perhaps fluid might remind me of sleep.

I watched the cars move along the Brooklyn Queens Expressway and wondered if their inhabitants had just woken up or if their headlights were leading them to chilly bed sheets. I wondered if the cabbies were beginning their shifts, or parting with their final fares, getting ready to call it a night. Or morning.

Mourning.

The sadness I had been unknowingly sleeping off before I had awoken remained on my skin like the steam from a hot shower. I reminded myself of the fact that every time I wake up prematurely in the middle of the night without a punctuated reason I was usually greeted by an oppressive sadness. I knew that it would eventually go away. It always did. Nevertheless, as I stood by the window watching the people move to and from someplace unknown to me, I made a list of things I could do to be a better person come morning when I faced another shift.

(Remember birthdays and holidays even if they make people sad. Listen to him when he speaks. Stop wasting your life and stop blaming everyone else. Take better care of yourself for your body needs a break. Take better care of him. Remember that they won’t be here forever take their calls and visit them more. Stop making excuses. Please stop making excuses.)

The moon hung low in the sky just over Southern Manhattan. It was distorted by atmosphere and therefore seemed very close, close enough to touch. It had fought its way out from beneath the clouds like its light source had earlier that day. I wrapped my arms and legs around it like one might a beach ball on an ocean. I dipped my head back and watched New York City upside down, the city who houses the “Flag Ship” Apple store, the city much smarter than all the other cities, the one with imaginary, fighting cats. I hung upside down for a while, letting the blood rush to my head. I let the moon hold me in place and I bobbed up and down, floating along the heavy thoughts of all those who awoke prematurely to an incurable and necessary sorrow.

Many years ago, when I first moved to DC, a very popular morning DJ was fired from his job for saying something inappropriate on the air. He was discussing Lauren Hill’s booming success album. She had just been nominated for 10 Grammys and I guess he couldn’t understand why.

Around that same time, a Texas man by the name of James Byrd was killed after being drug behind a truck. He was skinned alive and later died. The men behind his murder were charged with a hate crime.

The popular DC DJ played a sample of one of the most popular Lauren Hill songs. He went on to complain about how awful it was. Right after he finished his rant, he punctuated it with, “It’s no wonder they drag them behind trucks.”

Much of DC went into frenzy over the comment. It didn’t take long for him to lose his job. He was done for. He would never work in DC again.

I remember when he arranged for a public apology at a local church right around the corner from where I worked. I walked over there to check things out. People did show up, but I am certain he wasn’t forgiven. We never heard from that DJ again.

I’m not about to say that what the DC DJ said was even remotely OK. I, too, was mortified by his lack of compassion especially given he was on the air at the time. But given the intensity of DJ Star’s latest on air comments against a rival DJs Asian wife and her daughter, I’d like to see him silenced as well.

“Star: Oh yes, I’ll, I’ll come for your kids. I will come for your kids. I finally got the information on his slant eyed, whore wife. The information on his slant eyed, whore wife.”

“Star: Let me see now, uh, DJ Benji attention! In case you didn’t hear me, I said, I want to put some mayonnaise in between your baby girl’s ass crack and take a bite”

We don’t need voices like that feeding impressionable people everywhere. What’s with all that f*cking hate?

Besides the fact that it’s supposed to rain for three days straight here in the Big Apple, my weekend plans look promising. Tobyjoe and I were given tickets to see Elvis Costello perform at BAM tonight. Apparently the seats are outstanding. I’m trying to not seem too excited about it because we adopted the tickets under somber circumstances. Plus, Keith, the gent who gave them to us, is a huge Elvis Costello fan and the tickets were a gift given to him by his wife. So, you might understand why I feel a little bad about feeling good.

Tomorrow, there is talk about hitting Chinatown, only not the Manhattan version of Chinatown, home of the spit, land of the cheap crap. Instead, we might visit the Bronx version of Chinatown. I hear it’s “newer”. I’m not sure what that means. I hear they have cooler toys. Given the forecast, however, I might have to reschedule.

Sunday, I’m meeting Sarah B. and Heather for a beverage on the Upper East Side. Traveling all the way to 82nd Street is going to feel like a vacation for me. On Sunday afternoon, three ladies will have three (or more) margaritas in honor of our mums.

As an aside, I fear I have met a certain amount of joy in my life recently and the strangest part is I have nothing specifically to attribute that to. My life is going well. It’s even. Sure, there are sections that need a lot of work but, for the most part, I can’t complain. My head seems to have evened out a bit. And I simply must say this because for a very long time, and for a few years in a row, I was so unbelievably joyless and terrified. It’s as if I had sprung a leak.

There have been a few times over the past several weeks where I have looked back on previous posts, or have been reminded of how I felt back then, and I am amazed at how differently I feel now. I have made so much progress and I’m not even sure what or who to thank for it.

I fear this feeling because I don’t want to see it go. The fear is almost powerful enough to screw it up on purpose. I wear my dread like a crown.

Now, bring on the rain. Let’s see if she’ll hold.

I just tried to visit someone’s Web site from Self-Portrait Day and this is what I met:

Recently, Bush was interviewed by a German newspaper. He was asked what his best moment was in the five years of his presidency. Bush answered: “I would say the best moment of all was when I caught a 7.5-pound perch in my lake,” The worst, he said, was September 11th.

It’s a little weird for him to give this particular answer. But I can’t say I’m surprised. Somewhere along the line, The Decider actually stopped surprising me. His answer was weird. But the even weirder part is that this would mean he claims to have broken the world record for catching the largest perch. So, did he lie about it? Or did he mean to say a 7.5 pound bass? Did King George, in fact, set the world record?

I can’t decide if it’s that this time I’m paying closer attention to the political environment here in America, or if what I’m about to say is indeed true, but it seems to me that this particular administration has been surrounded by corruption, arrogance, and a whole bunch of vital mistakes. It seems there has been a heightened number of resignations and a heightened number of vacant seats being filled. Most recently, Bush nominated Michael V. Hayden to be the next CIA director. Many people, Democratic, Republican, and Conservative, are irked by this decision. I stand among the irked.

I’m sure that I’m merely at an age where it’s best to pay attention. In a sense, the political arena has become my sporting event; I am excited about current affairs, the state of our nation, and I enjoy keeping up with the news. I consider myself a Democrat. And while the Democratic Party is by no means a flawless group, I’m happy to be on that team, more so now than ever before.

This parallel falls apart, however, when one faces actual reality. Because at the end of the day, it’s not a matter of someone losing by a few baskets or scoring a couple of runs, it’s not about collecting the cards; it’s about citizens losing their rights. It’s about disregarding the Constitution of the United States. And some of the players are turning out to be the greediest and the deadliest.

But, for some, it’s still about catching a fish.

My first love was George Burns. I was no more than 6. There was a bit of an age difference and so I decided that it was time to find a new crush. And while my brother and I used to sit on padded bar stools in our living room and crank up the hit song, The Gambler and pretend we were riding horses, I wouldn’t call Kenny a crush. I just loved The Gambler and I liked feeling like a cowgirl because I really, really loved horses.

I discovered Blondie and then Michael and then sometime during all of that, I discovered Olivia. Like most young girls who were born in 1974, I fell in love with Olivia Newton John. And I’m not talking the one poster, and a few cutouts for the mirror kind of love. I’m talking the light a candle, pull out the tarot cards, and cast a spell kind of love.

Back then we had HBO. I’m not sure how, exactly, because most of my friends didn’t seem to have HBO. But I know we had it because I used to watch Fraggle Rock and Not Necessarily the News. I also watched Xanadu each and every time it came on and I was awake.

This was before the Great War of Beta vs. VHS. We didn’t own a VCR because they ran about 10,000 dollars. If we had owned a VCR, Beta OR VHS, I would have recorded Xanadu and I would have watched it over and over again. Instead, I owned a Sony tape recorder and I used it to record Xanadu.

There were bits and pieces of the movie that didn’t exist. Those silences took place when I was forced to turn the tape over or chang it. This option, while odd, worked. During those quiet lulls, I would merely imagine the movie. This technique had its benefits; the film was never the same. Even the endings could change. Sometimes, she was still magic. Sometimes, she became human and ran off with that guy with the featured hair. Sometimes she’d fall in love with me instead and we’d make ribbon barrettes, friendship bracelets and go shopping for rollerskates.

There hasn’t ever been a moment in my life where I haven’t been obsessed with music. Before MP3s, I collected CDS. Before CDS, I owned 7 inches and cassette tapes. Before 7 inches and cassette tapes, I owned records. Before records, I owned 8 Tracks. And before that, I sang. The best part about Olivia Newton was that she not only acted in several amazing major motion pictures, but she sang wonderful songs as well. (Sometimes, she’d combine the two and my little head would soar.) And so, it probably comes as little surprise to find out that I owned all of her records as well. I still own them.

A few days ago, I uncovered the most violent cat-to-item crime scene. The Orangemani terrorist we have living with us sent us a pretty clear message about my first love and my childhood memory. Tucker hates Olivia Newton John.

We’re in the process of moving (and changing) mihow.com. You may have noticed. During the transition, the last two days are no longer with us (awwww). Sometimes, that happens. (They still exist, so if you would like to see them for whatever reason, let me know.)

Anyway, if there is anything buggy or weird about the site (especially for you PC users) please let us know; you may email me at mihow at mihow.com. If you hate the new site, be constructive with your hate. Perhaps, in time, it will grow on you. If you like it, that works as well.

Finally, the banner may change a bit in time. We’ll see.

As of this afternoon, our beloved sky-bridges have been destroyed.

For those who aren’t from Brooklyn, or who haven’t ever even been here before, the waterfront has been featured in numerous films throughout the years. Its architecture looks like something out of a train set. Its buildings have served as inspiration for many, many artists through the years. It has served as a backdrop time and time again.

Several years ago, when Tobyjoe and I had first met, we used to stomp around over there. I’d snap pictures as we walked. Like countless others, I fell in love with that section of Greenpoint. What some may deem ugly and run down, used to relax me greatly. It also reminds me of my history with Tobyjoe. I’m actually feeling kind of blue about its demise. I know that sounds silly but I grew used to it.

Bye-bye beautiful bridges. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of it’s destroyed as well making room for ugly, million dollar condos that all look the same. Sometimes, capitalism really, really sucks.

• Little boxes on the hillside,
• Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
• Little boxes, little boxes,
• Little boxes, all the same.
• There’s a green one and a pink one
• And a blue one and a yellow one
• And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky
• And they all look just the same.

• And the people in the houses
• All go to the university,
• And they all get put in boxes,
• Little boxes, all the same.
• And there’s doctors and there’s lawyers
• And business executives,
• And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky
• And they all look just the same.

Meanwhile, Guttman’s tenants at 50 Bridge Street prepare to sue the pants off him.

Yesterday, James Gandolfini was hit by a taxi while out riding his Vespa. He’s OK but the Vespa needs a little work.

Over the weekend, John Ventimiglia was arrested for driving drunk and cocaine possession. Here I am thinking, “Oh! So that’s why he’s been acting like an ass lately!” (It’s a TV show, Michele.)

The actor who plays Artie Bucco marks the forth actor from that show in one year to get arrested. Cursed? I think so!

Who’s next? Speaking of The Sopranos, I wonder who’s going to be the one to take out the gay gangster.

I’m smitten with my camera. That’s probably pretty obvious. Yesterday, I spent a few minutes actually contemplating purchasing a police scanner. And then it occurred to me that I prefer taking pictures of people and happy times more so than death and destruction. Unfortunately, it’s death and destruction that viewers and publishers generally gawk at. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to comprehend or accept that. Occasionally, this grim reality sucks.

Anyway, I’m smitten. I carry it everywhere. And slowly, I’m getting to know it. I read the manual on the subway and anytime I find I’m waiting. There’s a lot to understand and I made a promise to myself that I would get to know this camera like I’ve never known one before.

I snapped this recently on the subway. I had it over a Flickr but I really wanted the ability to show it larger. If you click the 500×335 thumbnail, it will enlarge to about 1010×676. Big is better. Sometimes.

For some reason, I really like this shot. Perhaps it’s because I wasn’t supposed to be taking it. Perhaps it’s because no one caught me (except for maybe the guy on the far right, front) until after it was too late. Either way, I like it and I want to share it.

Yesterday, I walked down to the waterfront to take some pictures and check things out. When I got there, I found I was more intrigued with the people than I was with what actually took place earlier in the day.

(Captions are above each picture. Click the thumbnail to enlarge each image.)

A guy from the Mayor’s office.

The fire department. I was told it was a 9 alarm fire, which means nine different firehouses supplied ALL of their men. By the time I got there, the Disaster team from The American Red Cross was handing out food. I am always amazed by the kindness of others during times like this. While I realize it’s their job and everything, they did so with a smile on their face and they did so armed with kind words. I can barely say that of me and my corporate life.

A little boy watches me watch him not watch the actual fire.

What’s left of the building. I was told that it fell around noon.

The guy from above being cheered up by a dog. Dogs know stuff about things. :]

Some photo bloggers. There were many people down there with their cameras, me being one of them. I was stopped by a few people because they wanted to talk about my camera. I guess the D200 is still very hard to find. Who knew?

Another shot of the building.

New York City’s Finest. (Again with the smiles…)

I tried to capture the diversity one discovers in Williamsburg and Greenpoint.

There is a really large Hasidic poplution starting at Broadway and continuing on down along the waterfront and along the South numbered streets.

Greenpoint’s Polish children.

This is George. I met George while I was snapping pictures. George is a painter.

The next three are of our view of the sunset once we got home.

As usual, if you would like to see more, you may do so by clicking here. (Takes you to Flickr.)

How do you feel about the speech Stephen Colbert gave Bush the other night? Did you find it funny? Offensive?

I’m curious to hear people’s reactions. If you haven’t seen it, you may do so here. It’s entirely worth it. (The last 10 minutes were kind of lame, in my opinion.)

There’s a fire on West Street. I called Anna to ask her where, exactly, it was. She lives over that way. It might be the skate spot known as The Bowl. It’s called the Greenpoint Market Terminal and there are two buildings on fire. It’s also my most favorite section of Brooklyn. This is the way the area used to look. Very sad. Yikes! These were taken from our roof at 8:45 AM.

(Click each image to enlarge.)

On Saturday, Tobyjoe and I saw black smoking billowing up from what appeared to be midtown Manhattan. (Later we were told it was actually in Jersey.) We had just left the peace march and so we were concerned. Plus, you’re dealing with two people who are quick to become irrational when smoke pours out of Manhattan.

Then, on Sunday, I was walking over to buy a bottle of wine when I suddenly witnessed another plume of black smoke coming from downtown Brooklyn. That turned out to be from explosions that took place atop a police station.

Enough with the smoke and fire already.

I took this several years ago. This is all gone now. Bummer.

My dearest, most lovely, most amazing, and talented friend, Soung, eloped on January 10th. It was a Tuesday, otherwise, I would have been there. Damn you people for eloping on a Tuesday!

(When it’s central, so essential)

I met Soung when I was 18. We lived together in college. Katrina introduced us. Soung was the person who got me into Graphic Design (I should be thanking her for that, right?) I spent many late nights drinking wine, playing cards, and smoking cigarettes with Soung. I spent many late nights getting to know her. She’s wonderful. And I feel very lucky. And every time she calls I still get butterflies. She’s inspiring. She’s beautiful. And she’s smart. Plus, she has a great laugh.

(It has a nice ring when you laugh.)

This is the woman, who, while I was living in England, sent me E.E. Cumming poems written on the back of whatever paper product she had in her hand at the time. And every time I got one, my mood would change from homesick-ridden sadness to joy. (It’s the little things, people.) She gave me hugs when I got dumped. She got me drunk during times of celebration. She laughed at me when I fell from a roof. She drove me to studio after a quick shower and two all-nighters. She sat up with me and talked about boys, and music, and ideas, and movies, and boycotts, and sex, and drugs, and sadness. She taught me how to use my first Mac. She gave me a place to live when I moved to D.C. She got me my first job there. She let me sleep next to her after Katrina died.

(So drunk in the August sun and you’re the kind of girl I like.)

Truthfully, the world is a much better place with her in it and it’s an even better place because I know that she’s here.

(Because you’re empty. And I’m Empty. And you can never quarantine the past.)

Oh, and her husband? He ain’t so bad either. ;]

My goodness, I wish I could have been there to see it happen. I was there when they met 13 whatever years ago, so that’s good enough for me. Plus, there’s a party to celebrate their marriage in July! Woo!

Anyway, she finally got around to uploading some pictures of the wedding. You may see them here.

And the contenders are….

I find the first one to be very lame and by lame I mean typical and expected. Plus, well, they didn’t pick mine, those bastards.

Did you notice that the finalists are from Berkeley, Princeton, and Cambridge? I get the picture. I see where this is going.

SNOTTY LIBERAL COMMUNISTS!!