So you know, the yellow conversation hearts are banana flavored. I’ll be over here, scrubbing my tongue with sand.

2:34 p.m.


Subject: In which I send encouragement to an aspiring artist and am rebuffed.

Me: “An artist cannot fail; it is a success to be one.”
-Charles Horton Cooley

Dave: I would posit that I must first
be accepted, or slightly talented, to actually be an artist. If all
I had to do was call myself something to also be something, then I would
suggest that I am, in fact, a raging porn star…

12:19 p.m.

This Slashdot article highlights a North Carolina service that lets high school kids call in and report students that cause them concern. (Someone has a BB gun in their locker? Call in. Someone seems bummed a lot? Call in. Someone just stole your girlfriend and you’d like to screw them over in any way possible? Call in.) The article also mentions that “81 percent of Americans said they believed the Net was responsible for the Columbine massacre.” Right. If you need me, I’ll be under my bed.

10:19 a.m.

I buy some daffodils on my way to work. As I’m walking, I realize that I’m carrying flowers and a book of poetry as I trot along the Streets of San Francisco. Suddenly, I’m the over-the-top “sensitive girl” and my life is a bad undergraduate play.

1:26 p.m.


Subject: Cynicism kicks in.


“I swear I used to think
everyone kinda had a similar life to mine, but anymore I’m
they have a lot less fun, eat a lot more bran, have
lot more low quality sex, and mail each other
inspirational cards that they actually read.”

12:04 p.m.

This guy fights with his girlfriend. A lot. So much that he has a rather lengthy page devoted to the subject, “Things my girlfriend and I have argued about.” A sampling:

  • I eat two-fingered Kit-Kats like I’d eat any other chocolate bars of that size, i.e., without
    feeling the need to snap them into two individual fingers first. Margret accused me of doing
    this, ‘deliberately to annoy her’.
  • She pours water into the back of my monitor every time she
    waters a plant, which she refuses to have moved to another, less overtly stupid, location.
  • Margret doesn’t like to watch films on the TV. No, hold on – let me make sure you’ve got
    the inflection here: Margret doesn’t like to watch films on the TV. She says she does, but
    years of bitter experience have proven that what she actually wants is to sit by me while I
    narrate the entire bleeding film to her. “Who’s she?”, “Why did he get shot?”, “I thought
    that one was on their side?”, “Is that a bomb” – “JUST WATCH IT! IN THE NAME OF
  • She wants to paint the living room yellow. I have not the words.
  • Margret thinks I’m vain because… I use a mirror when I shave. During this argument in the
    bathroom – our fourth most popular location for arguments, it will delight and charm you to
    learn – Margret proved that shaving with a mirror could only be seen as outrageous
    narcissism by saying “None of the other men I’ve been with” (my, but it’s all I can do to
    stop myself hugging her when she begins sentences like that) “None of the other men I’ve
    been with used a mirror to shave.”
    “Ha! Difficult to check up on that, isn’t it? As all the other men you’ve been with can now
    only communicate by blinking their eyes!” I said. Much later. When Margret had left the

(Thanks, Kevin.)

8:41 a.m.


Subject: Dating woes of a friend in med school.


All the girls I want to sleep with are not returning
my phone calls, and some of the ones I have slept with
now call for free medical advice. Favorite one of
the week: How much can you drink on Lithium?

2:31 p.m.

Sometimes things annoy me more than they should. For example, the small blue signs someone has taped in our bathroom stalls.

Flush early!
Flush often!
Flush freely!
Help prevent traffic backup.

Yeah. Those are coming down.

11:44 a.m.

After you’ve had your aura cleaned, consider having your ass read. You send Jaqueline “a fanny gram,” she tells you what your buttprint says about your soul. Well, at least now you have an excuse when your boss catches you perched on top of the photocopier. (Click on the “rumpology” button in the upper left corner.)

3:14 p.m.

This is creepy Web art. Childlike drawings with hostile-man score. If you’re at work, bust out the headphones before you click.

12:36 a.m.


Subject: College friend reminisces about his youth.


My mother would frequently record tape cassettes and send
them to my grandparents, uncles and aunts, et al. to
mark our progress (this was before the invention of
the motion-picture camera). On one these tapes, my
mother tells me “stop that” seventy-eight times in a
matter of fifteen minutes. One of my favorite lines is
when she yells, “you better NOT pee on the couch.”

9:55 a.m.

I’m reading Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri, a short story collection flavored with lots of details about Indian life. I don’t usually like short stories, but Lahiri is an uncommon writer. My favorite passage so far is a child’s description of what “sexy” means:

“It means loving someone you don’t know.”

4:43 p.m.


Subject: Friend tells me to use his car while he’s gone.


You are perfectly welcome to drive my car around. Just remember to turn the lights off and you should be fine. Oh, and I’d probably prefer it if I could say that I’ve had sex in it more than you have, so try to keep the numbers down.

2:04 p.m.

My dentist supplies headphones for her patients. When you’ve got some quality tunes playing, you hardly notice the smell of burning tooth enamel while she drills. I selected Louis Armstrong.

Two masked dentists leaned over me, backed by a glaring, operating-table light, while I tried not to gag on the spit collecting at the back of my throat. At the peak of my discomfort, Louis sang, “AND I THINK TO MAHSELF, WHUTTA WONDERFUHL WAHHHLD� (cue strings).” I swear, it was like stepping into a Quentin Tarantino movie. I found it so absurd that I had to control the urge to laugh (funeralsbreakupsthethingsIwishI’dknown). But the more depressing things I thought about, the worse the juxtaposition became. When “Life is a Cabaret” came on, I lost it. With my mouth stretched open like a gasping trout, I started to guffaw.

They, mercifully, assumed I was choking. I tried to cover my lunacy with a few well-placed coughs, and hit stop on the CD player while I was sitting up. I shoulda gone with Korn.

10:55 a.m.

I took an Italian art history course in college. The whole class could be described by something the professor said absently one day, “Today we’re going to talk about another… big church.”

My second favorite art-history moment was when my modern art professor spent half an hour talking about a Mondrian painting before realizing that the slide was in upside down.

6:15 p.m.


Subject: A reporter’s post-holiday laments.


I am sick at work and awaiting an excruciating article
assignment, which will probably be a New Year’s
resolution, man-on-the-street story. I will have
to go to gyms and ask people why they decided to get
slim for the New Year or track down smokers who may
be willing to quit for the New Year. This is akin to
the day after Thanksgiving and Christmas shopping
stories I’ve had to do the last two years.
If we still used pencils or pens, I would commit
Hari-Kari with one as we speak…maybe this keyboard is
sharp enough. Nope.

11:29 a.m.

Going through old magazines, I came across the stupidest headline of 1999: Are Your Nails Ready for Y2K?

“Yeah Bob, I’m out on that Y2K nail compliancy call, and we’ve got a few problems over here. Looks like she’s got on a little Revlon Wine With Everything, but she used an incompatible top coat so it’s chipping. Yeah, and her cuticles are all messed up…”

10:25 a.m.

Found a post on, Small Japanese Notebook that struck me as a concise description of being 16:

“i suddenly don’t like my friends. or a good majority of them.”

5:14 p.m.

I was on the Haight awhile back and overheard a conversation between three men. Two of them had been fighting and one asked the third man his opinion:
“I don’t know Jim, you were servin Tommy with some pretty aggressive tones.”

3:34 p.m.


Subject: Friend from college writes, filling me in on the friends he saw over Christmas break.


…And I swear my friend Mike
smoked about fourteen acres of hash down in Brazil.
Like I don’t know if he’s got a complete sentence in
him anymore. But 99 percent of my friends are tops. Including
Mike, who may well be able to read without moving
his lips by April.

10:40 a.m.

Jesus Dress Up is an online paper-doll of Jesus on the cross. Ever so tasteful. (Thank you Mr. Justin.)

1:25 p.m.


Characters: Me and a friend-of-a-friend, who I’d never met outside of email.

Subject: I had just figured out that our common friend was trying to set us up.


Me: Amy is, of course, trying to set us up. I didn’t
realize that until now, but it’s become apparent. To make this more comfortable all
around, let’s mutually agree that it would never work
between us. We’re just different people. Besides, with
my hideous deformity and your overbearing mother, we’d
only be punishing ourselves.

Him: Wow, a pre-meeting rejection! How progressive and efficient of you. You’re
really going to be kicking yourself when you find out I’m the sole heir to
the substantial Huggies fortune. Not that you’re a shallow gold-digger, of
course, I just find that everyone can always use more diapers.

Me: I try to be cutting edge when it comes to rejection.
Can’t get behind the technology, or suddenly your
apartment is filled with belching morons, grabbing at
their crotches and eating all your Klondike Bars.

10:49 a.m.

Nearly all of Jeff Druzba’s posts are interesting. Then again, he hasn’t been at this too long:

“Morning radio DJ’s are the processed cheese of people. Every Monday it’s the same, “Oh ya hate
to get outta bed this mornin’ but ya grab yer cup-a-joe and start the week off right.” Then, every
Wednesday they’re out there with “It’s hump day” and “Here’s hoping the week is almost over.” And,
every Friday, you’ve got your “TGIF baby, let’s part-ay!”

When I was at a younger awkward age, I used to hear them say “hump day” on the radio and I thought
it was some kind of adult joke I didn’t get. I knew that humping was what the big dog up the street did
to your leg if you dared enter his tethered neck radius and it seemed odd to me that they would talk
about something like that on the radio. The usage of “hump” meaning “middle” is not so obvious.”

9:27 a.m.

I’ve become so accustomed to sardonic blog titles that I cheerfully clicked on Not So Manic Now expecting some witty little coed and a few snippets of his favorite Eminem lyrics. After reading a few posts, including one mention of a suicide attempt, I realized it was a “support blog” of sorts for people with bipolar disorders. Right. Not. So. Manic. Now. Have I mentioned I’m a bad person?

3:17 p.m.

The best headlines from this month’s Martha Stewart Living:

  • The Proper Way to Load Your Dishwasher
  • Folding Fitted Sheets and Bath Towels (complete with photo diagrams)
  • Smoothing a Table Cloth
  • Pistachio Valentine
  • Gourd Bird House
  • Drying Decanters

That said, I’m off to carve some “natural sake cups” out of cucumbers.

2:30 p.m.


Character: Friend who’s spending the holidays with family in Virginia.

Subject: What’d you get for Christmas?


My parents bought me a leather jacket last night, and, despite the obvious
conservation of animals issue, I look pretty hot in it. I will probably be
wearing said jacket on my return flight as my mother thinks the airline people
know which bags have the expensive coats in them.

12:54 p.m.



A friend who wants to start crashing more dot-com parties.


Dot-com parties rule! Ok, so I’ve
only been to one, but it ruled! Ok, it was the most
homogenous party I’ve ever been to but it was oddly
comforting! And they played Pump Up the Jam!

1:55 p.m.

You always know something cool has died when your parents get into it. “Oh, Margaret, I bought that rap album by the blond boy named after the candy? M and M? Anyway, I love it. Just love it. ‘I am Slim Shady, yes I am the REAL shady!’ ” Along those lines, yesterday I saw a Burning Man symbol painted on the side of a … Jeep Grand Cherokee.

12:15 p.m.

Let’s play the “worst way to die” game for a second. Acid bath, wheat thresher, slow consumption by hungry caged lions. (Stolen from Peex. )

9:55 a.m.