Sweetney

Meet my daughter's (imaginary) boyfriend

Our good friend Justin was featured in this week's Baltimore Citypaper for his new book Secondary Sound. Well that and because he's just generally freakin' awesome, and has excellent taste in both clothing AND preschoolers. For that alone legions of journalists should write about him and sing his praises, don't you think?

Okay, clearly I'm biased. But this excerpt from the Citypaper article about his book objectively shows just what a rad, smartypants fella he is:

Communication--in language and ideas--is the medium and the message of Sirois' recently published book, Secondary Sound. In it, the narrator creates two peculiar lists. One includes "text, pictures, sound, video, liberation"; the other "development, marketing, immersion, adaptation, obsolescence, art." Sirois says these lists are stages in the development of new media and technology, and he admits to being fascinated by the paths they trace.

OW! MAH BRAINZ! Why you gotta be so smart, homeboy?

Anyway, I just wanted to give him a shout-out, and tell him we love him, cuz we do. ESPECIALLY a certain 5-year-old, who shall remain nameless.

PS: Psst! Buy his book on amazon here. okthxbai!

Message in a bottle

First Snow

Like a child, the earth's going to sleep,
or so the story goes.

But I'm not tired, it says.
And the mother says, You may not be tired but I'm tired --

You can see it in her face, everyone can.
So the snow has to fall, sleep has to come.
Because the mother's sick to death of her life
and needs silence.

--Louise Gluck

5 easy things you can do in 15 minutes or less to help save the planet

During my therapy session with The Ninja this week, one thing became crystal clear to both of us: I have a pretty fucking grim outlook on the present state and future of life on planet earth. I've always been something of a pessimist to one degree or other -- a part of my temperament I'm certainly not proud of, but sort of an unfortunate fact of my life nonetheless. But in talking it over with The Ninja, something else became clear as well: this gloom-and-doom attitude not only isn't promoting my mental health and stability, it's also become something of a ridiculous and embarrassing cop-out.

Because of course it's infinitely easier to bitch and moan about the environment and global warming and ring your hands over the general sorry state of the planet and the myopic earthlings that people it than it is to actually step up and do something. And while I've never been much of a treehugger or anything even remotely like an environmental activist, I'm thinking its about time I shut up and put up, if only to quiet the voices of doom and gloom rising in my head. Do you hear those, too?

Blacksburg

My good friend Angela wrote this today. In it she articulates pretty much everything I could ever possibly want to say about what happened in Virginia this week so beautifully that I feel compelled to share it with you all.

You know, there's never any “excuse” for taking people's lives. And really, saying “there's no excuse” is just the tossing around of three words that don't amount to much, and I don't know why we all feel we have to make with the disclaiming all the time. It's the national-tragedy equivalent of “bless you” - just totally empty. We say it because that's what you say. When someone sneezes, you say “bless you,” and after you burp, you say “excuse me,” and before and after you talk in shades of gray about something bad that someone has done, you say, “It's not an excuse.” As if there are large numbers of people running around excusing it and we wouldn't know an actual excuse if we heard one and none of our friends know us well enough to know better.

December 14th, 2006: A Date That Will Live In Infamy

Friends, today I am the luckiest human alive, for I have been selected to be the 49th inductee into the Utter Wonder Hall Of Fame. Are you jelus? Man, if you aren't, you should be. And not just because I've been enshrined in the most awesome blog hall of fame of all-time (at least according to the proprietor C. Monks), but also because the honor comes with a signed letter to Star Jones:

[click for enlarge-o view]

I couldn't be happier or feel more speshal. Thank you, Utter Wonder, for making my dream come true!

EDIT: UW appears to be fixed now, fyi.

This Is Callum Robbins. He Needs Your Help.

Dearest Interweb,

Fellow Baltimoreans and Real Life friends of Team Sweetney J. Robbins and Janet Morgan need your help:

On January 27, 2006, our great friends and Channels members J. Robbins and Janet Morgan welcomed their first child, a son named Callum. He was 8-odd pounds and 20-odd inches of wriggling, squirming, screaming joy, and the apple of his parents' eye.

...Sometime around Cal's 8-month birthday in September, J. and Janet took him to his pediatrician for his regular appointment. They knew from the doctor's grave tone that something was terribly wrong. Any parent — any human — reading this can understand the shock, horror, and pain that J. and Janet felt when they learned through subsequent visits with specialists that Cal was born with a genetic motor neuron disease called Type 1 SMA, or Spinal Muscular Atrophy.

J. & Cal, September 2006

“Self-Indulgence: a Primer”

I just spent the last half-hour reading customer comments on Amazon.com regarding Ethan Hawke's novel The Hottest State (yes, THAT ETHAN HAWKE). And yeah, hello and welcome to the sort of crap I do in my 'downtime.' Anyway, some of these reviews border on the poetic... if poetry were blood-tinged bile, that is. Taken altogether, the intensity of reader's responses presents a wholly separate sort of meta-narrative drama. My favorite scathing break-down of the moment:

The horror, June 15, 2000
Reviewer: “phaidros23” (New York, NY)
At first I was impressed at Hawke's ability to string together words to form sentences, which then made paragraphs, which followed from then on in logical sequence. At least the guy put words on paper, and managed to turn out 200 pages. But his writing becomes worse as it goes along, descending from the starting point of “competence” and ending in “bilge”. You get the feeling that his editor just quit halfway through the book. And who can blame him? Ethan Hawke is one self-absorbed, pitiful dude. His daddy abandoned him. His mother had him when she was quite young, and then had boyfriends after her divorce. Shocking. He likes to punch things and break furniture. And as if life weren't cruel enough, he's from Texas.

America's Anchors

Because you have a need to know: an absolutely AWESOME cover story in Rolling Stone on Stewart/Colbert.

Go. Read. And be filled with its goodness.

Amen, everybody.

PS: I of course forced Jamie to run out to a bookstore near his office in DC and snag me a copy of that issue. What did I marry him for if not for the retrieving of items I desire, much like an obedient Lab?

(Love you, honey!)

Stay Gold

One very pleasant way to spend your Friday afternoon: reading the hilarious Letters To Star Jones series over at Utter Wonder.

I cannot be held responsible for you wetting yourself. Read responsibly.

[Thanks, Amy!]

Help Isabel.

This morning I received a very sad and touching email from a reader, which I'm posting an excerpt from below in the hopes that the power of the internet can lend a hand:

I'm writing to you because of my friend Paulette and her daughter Isabel. I met Paulette on a message board a few months before my son was born. Despite many people saying otherwise, my online friend quickly became a real and true friend supporting me before and after becoming a mama. I am doing my best to help support her now.

What started out as Isabel’s flu-like symptoms last week quickly became every parents worst nightmare.

On September 3, doctors announced a preliM_ry diagnosis of Leukemia. Further tests are being done to determine if in fact Isabel is suffering from Leukemia, or worse, Severe Aplastic Anemia. Both are devastating diseases of the blood and bone marrow. And either way, she's going to need a bone marrow transplant. Her mother, father and brother have not left her side. Her diagnosis requires repeated testing and the search is currently on for a matching bone marrow donor.

Isabel and her parents can use all the help they can get right now. As you can imagine, their world has been turned upside down.

They have created a site for Isabel: http://www.helpisabel.us. And please feel free to pass this on via email to others and/or post this content to your own blog or website. Thanks, my peoples.

In Which I Am Nearly Paralyzed By Paroxysms Of Pure Joy.

Today I have the distinct honor and privilege of hosting the blog book tour heralding the release of Ayun Halliday's Mama Lama Ding Dong: A Mother's Tales From The Trenches, the UK version of her much-beloved The Big Rumpus. Ayun has long been a hero of mine (and if you don't know who Ayun is, DUDE, you're so gonna want to check out this and this for some Ayun backstory, along with her site, like, NOW), so I took this perhaps once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to gently probe her psyche by asking her a bunch of bordering-on-ludicrous personal questions (though I think I showed *some* restraint in not asking her if she, you know, thinks I'm pretty. Or if she would be my best friend if I moved to Brooklyn... because if she would I AM SO TOTALLY MOVING THERE). That Ayun was gracious enough to provide answers at all just serves to underscore how totally freakin' RAD she is.

The Ghost In The House.

One of the great things about doing this here blog thingy is that I get wonderful opportunities offered to me that I wouldn't otherwise. For example, recently I was asked to be a part of the MotherTalk book tour series, and I jumped at it. Because, c'mon people, FREE BOOKS! But above and beyond that, I get the chance through the series to not only write about books that actually interest me, but to connect with the authors behind them. I can ask any questions I might have about their book -- stuff I wondered about while reading it, things that I wanted to know more about or needed clarification on -- and, miraculously, the authors answer. OH THE POWER.

So the first book -- The Ghost in the House: Motherhood, Raising Children, and Struggling with Depression -- is a great one on a subject I happen to know something about personally. If you've been reading sweetney for any length of time you know that I've struggled with depression my entire life, and that its something I continue to struggle with as a mother. Reading this book, I saw almost too much of myself in it, having that eerie, unsettling feeling of self-recognition every few pages as I read about other mother's experiences with depression and trying to parent through depression. I am, apparently, a textbook case, albeit one medicated into serviceable working order. Yet I'm aware of how close I am, always, to tumbling back over into depression, even with medication (which has, for me, always served to temper or mute those states-of-being -- functioning as a sort of road block lodged between myself and the abyss -- but has never completely rid me of them). I have good and bad days still, and its incredibly heartening to know that so many other women are struggling from one day to the next, just like me. If any of this sounds familiar to you and your own experience, you really should read this book. No, really.

After finishing it, I had some questions for the author, award-winning journalist Tracy Thompson (who, lo and behold, HAS A BLOG!), and she was kind enough to humor me with her thoughtful responses:

Lessons for the prospective home seller from a jaded prospective home buyer.

Ed note: I haven't laughed this hard since watching “Office Space” drunk. Thanks, Amanda! [Earlier posts from this series here and here.]

....................

The internet is a powerful tool that can help you reach thousands of potential buyers in your area. Why, even the dumpiest of dumps can appear respectable and desirable with the right words and photos in its online listing. But by the same token, you can put off even the most desperate buyers (ahem) with the wrong mix of price, description, and photo. Because I am all about being helpful, here are some “don'ts” when listing your property online.*

1) Choose to sell on a realty Web site actual homes and land ONLY. You'd think this would be a no-brainer, but you'd be surprised what people will list on real estate sites. For example, this oversized cutesy doghouse belongs on Ebay, not Remax.com.

House shown at actual size

(And it won't sell on Ebay for $119K either.)

Likewise, this carport is probably better suited to Craig's List. I don't think it will fetch $160K there, though. Maybe if you threw some picnic tables under it and called it a campsite...

Why does this carport have a mailbox?

Adventures In Real Estate: Part Deux.

[Of our series, by the lovely Amanda]

....................

Because we'd never be able to give out our address with a straight face...

Streets We Refuse to Consider Based on Name Alone:
(these are their actual names, I swear)

1. Sweetwind (sounds like a cutesy euphemism for “fart”)

2. Lambskin (obvious: it's a profo)

3. Highbeam (seriously, what pervert town planner thought this shit up?)

4. Pound Apple (at once suggests an act that is vaguely sexually deviant in nature, as well as a Gallagher routine)

WELCOME HOME!

5. Brightwind (what happens when you Sweetwind on a lit match)

And these roads? Are all in the same city. Again, I ask you: what town planner was allowed to get away with this?

7 Reasons The 21st Century Is Making You Miserable.

Yeah, umm, though this contradicts some things I've written about online friendship in the past, dude may in fact have a point (or seven) here.

Guess I should go build something, or make some pants, or (grumble) talk to some people... Le sigh.

PS: Be sure to check this out over at Jinkies!

Brief Non-Vacation Interlude.

My husband is a rock star, man. [From this week's Baltimore Citypaper]

And though you can't see it, he's wearing a SoaP t-shirt.

Good News Hughes.

You and me, maybe we’re not made for grocery society. But you can still run — go, save yourself. We dared to soar today, and they can never take that away from us.

Pat, we've missed you, brother.

So Me It Hurts.

This morning, as we were reading the NYT with our coffee (oh Sunday morning, how I [heart] thee), Jamie tossed the Book Review at me and said, pointing to some text on its cover, “THAT'S what you'll be reading at the beach.”

And he was so dead-on right, its spooky.

CANNOT. WAIT.

Continuing The Theme.

Calm down. Now. Please.

The last sentence of that piece should at the very least include Mindfucked Control-Freak Parents along side the Government & Lawyers.

Yeah, Like I Said.

Vigilance is enormously taxing—and it's taken all the fun out of parenting. “Parenting has in some measurable ways become less enjoyable than it used to be,” says Stearns. “I find parents less willing to indulge their children's sense of time. So they either force-feed them or do things for them.”

Parents need to abandon the idea of perfection and give up some of the invasive control they've maintained over their children. The goal of parenting, Portmann reminds, is to raise an independent human being. Sooner or later, he says, most kids will be forced to confront their own mediocrity. Parents may find it easier to give up some control if they recognize they have exaggerated many of the dangers of childhood—although they have steadfastly ignored others, namely the removal of recess from schools and the ubiquity of video games that encourage aggression. [Psychology Today, “A Nation Of Wimps”]

Some very smart points, in full here.

Ouch, My Brain.

Helllooooooo crazy!

EDIT: Helloooooooo CRAZIER!

You Have To Read This.

If you are a mother, or if you care about mothers, or if you think you may some day be a mother (or a father!), you NEED to read this.

But that's just a taste. I'm currently reading Perfect Madness, and I've dogeared so many pages the book may well reconfigure itself into a pentagon-shape. I'm only through the second section of the book, and am having so many “EUREKA!” moments of self-recogniton and epiphanies and such that I only wish I could scan the entire book and post it here for you. Seriously. This is big, big stuff. I HIGHLY recommend getting the whole book. HIGHLY.

Now I know what I'll be talking about at BlogHer.

What Is The Best Work Of American Fiction Of The Last 25 Years?

[From The NYT:] Early this year, the Book Review's editor, Sam Tanenhaus, sent out a short letter to a couple of hundred prominent writers, critics, editors and other literary sages, asking them to please identify “the single best work of American fiction published in the last 25 years.”

The results? Toni Morrison's Beloved. Which I never was terribly fond of, I'm sorry.

My answer? Jonathan Franzen'sThe Corrections (which, if you haven't read, you should get up from your chair and go purchase now. No, seriously. Go.). Though with a little nudging I might concede the worthiness of Don DeLillo's Underworld.

Your pick(s)? Thoughts on theirs?

Meanwhile, Over At That Place Where The Club Meets The Mom (Ouch).

Hither and thither.

Meanwhile, Over At BlogHer & Club Mom.

I gush and I chortle.

And now I'm exhausted.

Belated Happy Mother's Day, Part Deux.

A wonderful essay by Anna Quindlen called On Being A Mom after the jump.

[Thanks to Shannon for sending this along.]

Meanwhile, Over At Blogher.

Stirring the pot, stirring the pot...

PS: For your totally random, unrelated amusement: 50 Animals Driving.

Its Perfect.

Well played, well played.

Literary Notes.

Ooooh! Literary! Fancy!

[Book-related stuff after the jump... lots of pix... ]

Today I Did A New Trick.

I blogged about blogs with bloggers contemplating blogging, specifically blogger's block and not blogging/quitting blogging (over at BlogHer, of course!).

...And so it came to pass that the word 'blog' and all variations thereof were stricken from the English Language by its users in disgust.

I'm really rather pleased with myself at the moment.

My Here And Now.

Talking to the Moon

A defeated politician is in circulation
again, as we say of coins,
and his mouth is full of words.
His words have all been handled smooth.
They'd shrink, like lozenges, except
some sweat from everyone who's had them
is on them. He could be you,
why don't you support him?

But some people hoard words.
“The year the lake froze all the way
across . . . ,” a sentence might begin
and then nod, sleepy in a hot kitchen.
The words are a spell to make the lake
freeze again. The sentence never ends.

Rick used to love to tell how he
and Joanne would creep into her parents'
house after dates, and under
the dining room table he'd eat her
out, he'd say, as if she were an egg
and he a weasel.
His eyes gleamed with grief.
He wanted her back. He told
the story again and again.
The full moon fills the canyon
with pale cream. My huge dog leans
against my knee so hard
he'd fall over if I moved.
Soon he'll go to sleep under the juniper.
The other morning a finch landed on his back
while he slept. He unfurled one eye.
Hmmm, a finch.... I tell him his name.
He goes to the juniper and sleeps.

The moon's so bright
it has no features, button with no holes.
I've nothing to say to the moon.
Still, I want to talk.
I want words to be magic,
some secret I have the way I have
my body, so long as it lasts.
I want words to be food,
enough for us all to eat.
The mild stars shine.
The words I want
are sewing my body to sleep,
the no news that is good news, blood
tying and untying its knots.

--William Matthews

This Just In.

NO FUCKING WAY.

That's it, we're moving to Mass. As Black Francis once noted, ITS EDUCATIONAL!

Indeed, indeed...

Grup. (Excuse Me.)

And so it came to pass that my soul was torn from my body, and the world went black and silent.

Thank god I'm far too cheap to spend anything like $800 on a stroller. And I don't buy into the designer label crap either.

WHEW!

I'm okay then, right? Right?

[Shanks to Marie. I, umm, think.]

Rockheals Update.

Now with extra senseless violence!

Blonde. Blonder. Blondiest.

I found the Periodic Table of Blondness particularly disturbing, but the whole thing is a more than a little, durr, creepy in its replicant/stepford wives-ish homogenization.

Fill In The Blank.

[An excellent idea, swiped from the always brilliant Bitch Ph.D.]

Complete this sentence: Everybody should read __________.

My response(s):

Denis Johnson - The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nation's Millennium General Assembly
Raymond Carver - What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
Gertrude Stein - Tender Buttons
Jonathan Franzen - The Corrections
David K. Shipler - The Working Poor
Amy Gerstler - Bitter Angel
Donald Barthelme - Sixty Stories
Jeffrey Eugenides - The Virgin Suicides
David Simon/Edward Burns - The Corner

Oh don't worry. There will certainly be more.

And you?

My Husband's Version Of Love Poetry.

This was given to me last night, along with the photo expedition card.

Needless to say, we'll be seeking therapy very soon.

In all seriousness though, how did I get so lucky?

Capital 'A' Awesome.

I had literally *zero* idea about this. But it so rocks.

Marritt, WELL DONE, lady.

And next time why doncha tell me about shit like this. You dork.

The “Blog Establishment.”

Have you heard about this, uhh, blogging thing? Sounds, I dunno, interesting...

durrr...

tender is the interweb.

is it just me, or has this past week been one of angst and anguish here on our beloved internets? were i a farmer out in iowa or some other godforsaken state, i might've sniffed the air, straightened my wide-brimmed straw hat, and said in a low, cryptic tone: “smells like a storm's a-brewin'.” between watching others deal with the various scourges of trolls, infighting, jealousy, and bitterness, and absorbing heartrending posts from individuals struggling with personal issues, this whole week felt charged with sadness and negativity to me.

and its interesting how the internet can actually carry affect like that; how it seems to transmit and disperse the accumulated emotional energy expended by its participants. that it really appears to have what can only be described as moods. this, of course, is all about interactions between people, but its amazing how human feeling spreads out over all of this cold machinery like a virus, to all appearances coloring, with broad brushstrokes, discrete interactions as well as the lives of the real people behind them. all of this played out in flat typography that -- for all intents and purposes -- somehow generates actual community and everything that goes with that. good and/or bad, these connections and their influence upon each of us and what we naively separate out as our “real lives” is undeniable.

and though this week seemed heavy with unhappiness and discord in many ways, i found myself practically beaming over how, at its best, internet-as-community has the capacity to truly lift people up, to cheer them, to provide actual substantive help, and make them feel less alone. most of you have probably read alice's post from yesterday; watching the flood of support she's received has again made me ever so glad i'm here, participating in the community of blogs.

its good, after a week like this, to remind ourselves that the internet is populated with real people. and that while at times blogs and web pages may seem like dead artifacts disconnected from the fragility of humanity, they aren't. and that the partition separating you from the actual human being behind the words here and elsewhere isn't a great expanse of geographical space, but rather a series of flimsy ones and zeros.

two small thingies.

1. extended new t-shirt sizes and more shirt styles available at yon zazzle. buy because you love.

2. dearest leahpeah has just posted her interview with moi. and i thought you'd like to know because, well, who can get enough of me? i know i can't! it might be said, in fact, that i have an insatiable appetite for me. mmmm.... delicious me*.

*and to answer the obvious question: yes, yes, i taste just like chicken. happy?

meanwhile, over at BlogHer.

me posty bloggy goodness.

rockheals update.

with another dispatch from the city of angels by one of my favoritest people on the planet, mr. bob massey.

just a teaser, because i'm a tease:

...I am, however, inclined to declare that every song ever written about Los Angeles in general, and Hollywood in particular, is shit. I submit as evidence: “Ventura Highway,” by Crosby, Stills and Nash; that stupid Sheryl Crow song where she sings about Santa Monica Boulevard and which springs to mind unbidden whenever I turn onto the damn thing; “Free Fallin’,” by Tom Petty, which shut up already, I can hear you protesting from here, but, I’m sorry, Tom Petty mostly sucks; some Bob Seger song that I forget – no wait, every Bob Seger song. I’m considering the obligatory exception for Tom Waits.

the blogher, she is live.

bursting with beta-y goodness and awaiting your inspection.

i can be found over yonder.

let me know what ya'll think...

ps: expect some hiccups today on the site (i just went over to check things out and found the old BlogHer blog in place, not the new site beta, for example); but keep checking back, as the kinks will no doubt work themselves out as the day progresses.

UPDATE: yep, the site is wonky. i imagine the traffic is pretty intense. i can't even get to the mommy & family area as of this update...

don't hate me because i'm BlogHerful.

because i am one to never mention anything i'm doing until the last possible minute (i blame the brain damage): hey kids! i'm going to be a contributing editor on the new BlogHer site!* which is launching, umm, in two days! just thought i'd, uhh, letcha know! and, umm, sorry i didn't mention that earlier! [slowly backs out of the room]

but anyway (cough), the really super cool thing about doing this is that i get to openly and wantonly -- with abandon and extreme prejudice of the sort only the likes of nick nolte knows -- shamelessly pimp the crap out of blogs i love by ladies i love. of which there are many. because, you know, i get around.

yes, in that way.

so check back at BlogHer on monday and have a looksee at the new digs. i'll be there, skulking about the “mommy & family” section (because AGAIN, lest ye forget, I'M A FUCKING MOMMYBLOGGER!**).

rockheals update.

the pre-Salt Lake sojourn edition.

we are SO almost outta here.

eat your makeup.

my pal (and resident sounddude for RnR baltimore) mike is looking for “Recipes from the Baltimore Punk/DIY/Indie/Underground” for publication in a forthcoming zine. click here for large/legible version...

shit happens.

= this shirt jamie just received in the mail. ya'll are really getting an in-depth glimpse into the psyche of jamie via his consumptive desires these days, eh? anyway...

in case you weren't aware: snakes on a motherfucking plane, man.

you all do realize that SoaP is a showgirls in the making, right?

EDIT: ain't a got-damn thing you can do about it.

EDIT DEUX:

i called it.

and lo, the superbaby was willed into being. BY ME.

such are my powers.

DMZ.

i think i may have mentioned this in my delicious bookmarks (and of course i'm too lazy to go and actually check), but all hail 43folders conception of the email DMZ, which has allowed me -- for quite literally the first time in years -- to clean out my email inbox completely. to, like, ZERO, dude. I KNOW!

it feels like an occasion for cake and champagne or something.

of course there's the small matter of cleaning out the DMZ... but i've actually made good headway with it (somehow transferring everything over to the DMZ file made things easier to delete -- go figure), and am committed to not letting nasty email build-up happen again (she said with conviction).

no, seriously. i'm not kidding here. i mean that shit.

to all the trolls i've loved before...

Create an e-annoyance, go to jail.

finally, a bit of bush's big brotherism that speaks to me!

contributing editor positions at blogher.

check it, peoples.

because i don't have enough to do in a day [snort] i'm going to be one of the two “mommy and family”* editors, along with jenn satterwhite... but there are still openings in: entertainment & arts (ms. domestic!! loooook!!!); fashion & shopping; health & wellness; hobbies; law; politics & news (righty); race & ethnicity; religion & spirituality; research & academia; travel & recreation, plus some international slots.

it would behoove you to jump on that shit pronto, pardners.

*because, lest ye forget: I'M A MOMMYBLOGGER, MOFOS!!!

Technorati Tags: blogging, blogs, internet, news, web

one-upping myself.

in the annoying department.

just mouthing the word “yupster” -- without even generating actual sound -- just made me throw up in my mouth a little.

don't look back, like dylan in the movies.

the new mcsweeney's comes -- at least to subscribers -- with a sample of wholphin, a “dvd magazine of unseen things.” for the sake of brevity, their self-description:

Wholphin is our new quarterly DVD magazine, featuring short films, documentaries, animation, and instructional videos that have not, for whatever reason, found wide release.

in this issue there's a documentary circa the 2000 election by spike jonze on al gore, and it is freaking heartbreaking. it shows gore, without pretense, in the exact light america needed to seem him in: warm and human, with real passion and depth. you walk away from viewing it thinking: a) this is the guy we could have had. WE SUCK. and: b) if they'd shown this after Friends one thursday back in the day, things might have gone differently in 2000.

[bangs head slowly against wall]

it burns! BURNS!!!

festive jello shooters.

per usual, patrick's xmas kicked the holy living shit out of mine (and yours, i'd wager).

one of these days i'm totally crashing a hughes family gathering. and i want to wear the OMAR hat.

i'm all about the random linkage right now.

can you tell i'm busy these days with, you know, my war on christmas?

seriously though, check it: this site cracks my shit up. in particular, behold the rehashed glory of this and this... oh and this.

perhaps i am too deeply in love with pop culture. huh. is that even possible?

you want a war against christmas? i'll give you a war against christmas!

i was somehow behind this, too.

how i failed feminism*.

and how you and/or those you love may have, too.

discuss.

*or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Patriarchy**.

**i'm sorry. i couldn't help myself.

for those of you keeping score at home...

this would constitute part III of my personal war on christmas.

santarchy. heh.

its all part of my personal war on christmas.

small children confront the terrifying reality that is The Santa Photo-Op.

rockheals update.

like a warm cup of cocoa on this cold winter's day.

includes a fine nugget of poultry from the other sweetney, too.

untoward.

joey from a softer world has a wonderful blog. sometimes, when i read posts like this from him, i find my mouth slowly falling open in gaping awe at his ability to articulate what seems to me inarticulable. because i suck and he rules.

he also has a book. i'm hoping to make him my BFF.

jonathan franzen likes pie.

i've mentioned my love of the corrections here numerous times. now, from bitterwaitress, i learn the following awesome tidbit:

Location: New York
Celebrity: Jonathan Franzen

I was working at a very upscale place in The Meatpacking District. One
night Jonathan Franzen walked in alone and ordered a whole pie and
requested four plates. I found this a little odd as he was alone but
brought him the pie and the plates. Mr. Franzen then proceeded to cut
four tiny slices of pie and put them on each of the plates. He then said
to me, as he pointed to each of the plates: “This one is for Dave
Eggers, this one is for Michael Chabon, this one is for Rick Moody, and
this one is for David Foster Wallace.” He then pointed to the rest of
the pie, which was most of it, and said:“And this is mine, all mine”.

He tipped really well, about 100% of the bill.

...and now i officially love that dude even more.

why i love miss domestic.

aka paige. we're on each other's wayback machines as readers-in-mutual-admiration, and i don't think i've ever even mentioned her here before, which is so so very wrong of me. our politics are, i think its safe to say, vastly different, yet -- and for me this is quite a rare thing -- that fact somehow fails to dampen my enjoyment of her writing. she's just that good. see: today's nugget from her -- “My Mom is the Greatest Internet User of All Time” -- makes me want to hop the next flight over to Germany so that i might kiss her full on the mouth. the lady is gut-bustingly funny, whip smart, snarky, and has excellent taste in music. what more do you people want?!

ps: we are very glad she'll soon be rejoining us stateside.

EDIT: oh yeah, and did i mention she's fucking GORGEOUS? [scowls bitterly]

the day the sea came.

a powerful piece from sunday's NYT mag that has been haunting me, and is therefore deserving of its own post (as opposed to being shuffled in amongst delicious links).

go. read.

ps: also, the rockheals has been updated, with a fabulous bit on war rugs.
pps: in other reading material news: my current bedtime book RULZ.
.

get away from him, you bitch!

christ, when will you people realize that he's MY imaginary boyfriend and back the hell off?!?!

ps: oh my god there's fan fiction!!!

help wanted.

from a friend working at this local publication:

Urbanite, a locally focused, full color magazine in Baltimore seeks an
Executive Editor. Responsibilities include managing editorial
departments, concepting and assigning stories, managing freelance
writers, editing, writing, and generally assisting the Editor in
Chief. Candidate must have experience in editing, preferably for a
magazine.

SO. clearly this is an opportunity for those of you not in my hood to move here, to the Greatest CIty in America, and become my BFF. what more could you possibly ask for?

more job details and info after the jump for those interested...

rockheals update.

imbued with minty freshness.

that's what i get for trying to take a week off.

i should've known my plans would be foiled.... by The Pestilence. M_'s been plague-ridden since wednesday, and despite a valiant internal battle that included attempts at jedi mind tricking myself into wellness, i too succumbed. the past two days have been a blur of crumpled tissues, mucus and vast, fuming vats of vicks vaporub. all productivity has ground to a gear-shredding halt, and i've been reduced to a blanket-swaddled lump protruding from the cushions in our couch.

i've been 100% offline for around 48 hrs -- the first time that's happened in any past -- recent or not-so recent -- that i have mental recall of. i'd planned to put some of my downtime this week toward responding to a sizable backlog of emails, but since that now appears unlikely to happen, let me now broadcast here a general, blanket apology to everyone waiting on any kind of response/correspondence from me: for lo, i am in a pitiable state, and deserving of your kindly pardon. when i am recovered i promise to embark upon a campaign of correspondence that will set everything right and mold me back into a shape that resembles something like a real, interactive human -- one who responds to questions, speaks in turn when spoken to, and is generally not such a tremendous ass with the email and whatnot. sorry, guys.

in the interim, enjoy the following dispatch from our lovely pittsburgh pal kelly, who is joining the ranks of us homeowning-types in less than a week... and is, understandably, a little freaked out about it.

[c]harm city.

this from the brilliant and hilarious angela, who i've pimped mightily round these parts in the past, and will