Why, thank you. And, I'm so cool.

Your Deadly Sins

Lust: 80%

Pride: 80%

Envy: 80%

Greed: 60%

Gluttony: 20%

Wrath: 20%

Sloth: 0%

Chance You'll Go to Hell: 49%

You will die at the hands of a jealous lover. How ironic.

How Sinful Are You?

Thanks you guys for sending me these delicious time-wasters. But I think I'm done with these. I'm NOT doing the "Which superhero are you?" because I already know. I'm NOT doing the "What Carly Simon song are you?" because I don't care.

And beyond that, I mean, do I really want to know what color red I am? Or, which Simpsons character I personify? Wait. Hold the phone. Really? Which RED I am? Would anyone really care to know which RED I am?

It's interesting to see how people have recreated themselves online. One way of course is a blog like this, where one can keep a superficial journal and enjoy the satisfaction of it being read by someone. Even anonymously. It's enormously satisfying.

Another way is Myspace, which some claim to be really creepy and so forth. Refer to any recent TV "news" broadcast, where some expert tells a story about how damn easy it is for strangers to have sex with your kids via Myspace. Some of this worry is unwarranted. If you have kids, you should be aware of their friends, what they are doing with them, be firm, but allow them a little room to develop themselves. This applies to both real life and internet life. Sure there are a lot of weird people on Myspace. I get electronically molested at least once a day. But because it's electronic, it's a quick DELETE and it's done. No big deal.

In addition, with Myspace and Blogger and Friendster and so forth, you can create a public identity with only as much information as you desire. I cringe when I see gals with their half-naked photos and hometowns and schools and ages and companies they work at. Because, I hate to say it, anything they get, they truly are asking for. If you put a naked picture of yourself online, why wouldn't you expect to get some creeps emailing you (oh, and you've included your email address as well. Sheesh.) It makes no sense. What, you just want everyone to see you naked? For no reason? Hell, I'm no psychologist, but it seems pretty obvious to me that these people need constant attention, and things like Myspace allow them to get it at 768 kilobytes per second.

What worries me about the so-called Myspace creepy factor is how it will eventually be used to challenge our constitutional right to free speech, the idea of freedom of expression, and give the X-ian right a greater foothold in its ongoing revolution (yes, revolution) against our intelligently-progressive societal mores. I will address this issue in a future entry. It demands addressing. Reminder to self: home-schooling, "courtship," extremism.

A palliative aspect of Myspace is the fact that you can either (a) say you are younger than 14 years old, or (b) set your profile to private. And guess what? You are "private." I say it in the old double-fingers because it is not truly private. You still have an avatar. A name. A hometown. An age. But again, you can be as private as you want. You don't have to use a photo of yourself as your avatar. You don't have to reveal where you live. Etc, etc. It's interesting to hear "experts" talk about how dangerous Myspace is and not even mention, not once, that you can essentially turn your (or your child's) profile off. It's scary, how people's agendas are so transparent. Already, we are hearing about how schools are banning kids from using Myspace and its ilk (at home). Umm, hello? Where is the resistance?

Things like Myspace are really no more creepy than a blog, in which one tends to reveal more intimate thoughts. I once gave my blog address to a fellow I wasn't "supposed" to like, and he was not "supposed" to like me back. Since we tend to like the ones we're not supposed to, we liked each other a lot. Giving him my blog address was me giving him the only part of myself that I could at the time, and it felt incredibly sexy, knowing that he was reading my words. Ahh it's fun to be a nerd. Only I would think that someone reading words I wrote was an unbelievable turn-on. Hot.

By contrast, Myspace is giant cheese-fest. You can see it for yourself. Which one tells you more about who I am? See what I mean? I would rather read a blog any day.

So getting back to those quizzes; after one has created their own fenced-in eYard with bytegrass and bitpools, how else can one expose themselves to people? And how to appear super-cool? Without looking like, a total geek, like you know, whatever? These quizzes allow people another outlet for electronic ID stamping. Here I am! I'm Wonder Woman! Look at me! I'm Vermillion! Oh my gosh! My relationship style is: Rubber and Chains! It gives people a chance to indirectly reveal more things about themselves without being too heady about it. And some people find it fun.

Certainly, when I completed "Which pinup are you?" and found myself looking at Bettie Page, I giggled.

Why, thank you.

Just not that into you.

It's interesting how this book is so popular. Like, how many women can't figure out that when a guy doesn't call, says he doesn't want a girlfriend, doesn't ask you out, sleeps with your friends, etc etc etc, he's pretty much not into you? Oh sure, he'll talk a huge game, that is, until you wake up one morning in a strange bed with his dog licking your tender, hungover face, and you trying to figure out where in hell your thong underwear is. Did Fido take it? Damn dog. Where'd you put it Fido?

Once that moment happens, it's all over. Suddenly he stops calling. Suddenly he doesn't want a girlfriend. Suddenly all the nice things he's said repeatedly to you are lost in wind. And he's not going to repeat them. Ever. Again. Well, maybe if he's drunk. All the time he put in up until that moment has paid off, and you, my fair female friend, can feel free to exit stage left at any time. Don't call us. We'll call you.. for sure! And no, you didn't get the part.

One of my girlfriends was pursued for months by a fellow we all liked. He had excellent manners. He called her all the time. He would come over just to tell her how beautiful she was. And without makeup. He told her repeatedly that he would love to be her boyfriend. She resisted. He said he'd wait. And the pursuit continued.

She went away one weekend (sans boy) to a place renowned for its fabulousness, and all the while she felt a deepening hole growing in her chest. By golly, she was missing him. By the time the weekend was up, she couldn't wait to get back and give him the good news: that she wanted to be his girlfriend. She wanted mutual exclusivity. She wanted to see him. She couldn't wait. She knew he'd be happy.

And he was! For two days.

On the third day, he informed her that he didn't want to be in a relationship. That he didn't want a girlfriend. Keep in mind that this was after months of solid pursuit. It was rather shocking, even for me, with all the dog stories I get from my doggy guy friends. Just like that. He was done. No real explanation. And there was really nothing she could do.

It seems that if a man likes a woman enough to be with her, he will. End of story. He will do anything in his power to make sure she doesn't go away. Sadly, if this ain't happening, then neither is she and it's time to GO. My girlfriend is a pretty cool cat, so when this all went down, she was fine with it. Well, after shooting off a few "here's what I think about that" emails. And some self-medicating with yours truly. No problem. He's already a foggy memory. And she's moved on.

Do we all really need a book to understand this? She doesn't. I don't. But it surprises me how many women make excuses (oh, he's just in a weird place right now.. oh, but he's soo busy!.. oh, but we're such great friends and have great sex!) and genuinely need to get a sprightly slap in the face with some truth. We are better than that, come on. Somewhere out there, there's a guy who thinks your shit is hot and wants you all to himself. Go find him!

Man, I need to start writing a book. Something obvious. It'll sell millions. MILLIONS! Mwuah ha haaaa.

Eight new cats in Hoboken.

Things that are NOT entertaining: David Blaine. American Idol. FM Radio. Fox News. (Wait, scratch that. Fox News actually IS entertaining.) Chevy Chase. Maury Povich (I'm wondering for how long he's going to milk the He My Baby Daddy! Shocking Paternity Results! show.) Bad hair days. Shoes that break. Paris Hilton. Divorce. Any movie that stars Robin Williams. This show: Imagine the worst possible natural disaster you can think of. IT COULD HAPPEN TOMORROW!! WHERE YOU LIVE!! AHHHHH!

I'm getting a kitty soon. THAT should be entertaining. I hope I don't get guilt-tripped into taking brothers. Or a mom and her baby. There's always that one intimidating large woman with close-cropped hair who works at these shelters and isn't shy about the hairy eyeball.

Me: I'd like to adopt (insert "official" cat name here).

Large Short-Haired Woman: Weellll.. Fluffy reeeally needs to be with his three brothers. I don't know if we can adopt him out by himself.

Me: Really? Well, he seems ok right now.

LSHW: That's because he knows he's right around the corner from Darkie, Blackie and The Amazing Turtleface.

Me: Um... so I can't adopt Fluffy?

LSHW: Of COURSE you can. But don't be surprised if he's depressed for two years. He's going to miss his family.

Me: Wow, I didn't know cats could hold a grudge like that.

LSHW: (hairy eyeball) Of course they can. They are living, breathing creatures of Earth! They miss their families just like you and me! But if you want to adopt ONLY Fluffy, then of course you should. (To one of the cats) Oh, what's that, The Amazing Turtleface? Where's Fluffy going? Oh, he's going to a nice home. I know, I know. I wish you could go too. But SHE only wants one of you.

Ugh. I'm getting ONE kitty. ONE. Meditate, repeat. One. One. One. Anyway, I'm going with my friend Karl, who will hopefully get my back if a situation like this plays out. That is, if he's not suckered into it too.

Magic and sparkles. Names of cats? No. States of mind.

Snap, crackle, pop.

I read an article yesterday detailing the growing concern of the supposed sudden virulence of alligator attacks. A whole bunch of people were apparently attacked this weekend (viciously--but is there any other way, really?), and a couple of them actually died. I'm talking like they had to ID these people in phases. Yes, that's Beatrice's arm. Ok yes, that's her face. Oh and yep. Those would be her glasses.

First of all, I just want to point out the obvious to anyone else who has been watching Invasion. (I don't get it, Love Monkey gets cancelled and this piece of crap gets a marathon weekend.) Obviously, the alligators have formed some kind of precalculated retaliatory (is that a real word? Or a Jade word?) alliance against the growing threat of human-extraterrestrial hybrids. I'm just sayin'.

Secondly: if you are dumb enough to try to pet an alligator, you should die. Seriously. Please excuse yourself from the gene pool as soon as you possibly can.

And lastly, whose bright idea was it to put alligators on the endangered species list anyhow? I know they're fine now, but I can't honestly look at them and then us and decide that we all belong on this planet together. I mean look at them for cryin' out loud. They're dinosaurs. Maybe? Ahhh. I just want some nice shoes and a purse. Can someone make this happen??

PEOPLE: STAY AWAY FROM ALLIGATORS. Ok?? The less contact you have with these future cute little Jimmy Choos, the less I have to read about it. And the less I have to read about it, the more I can read about things that actually matter: like the fact that W. wants my phone bill. I suppose Bin Laden is working at the Chinese/Japanese fusion take-out place now? The one I call a few times per week? This is seriously creeping me out. I remember Jello Biafra whining about having our civil liberties slowly stripped away, and we wouldn't even notice, until one day, we'd wake up with a gat in our face and cuffs on our wrists. Because we said something as a joke, on the phone, in private, to one of our friends. Funny.

Speaking of that Asian fusion place, I just got a check in. I was so excited that I paid all my bills, baked a cake and put a bunch of shit I don't need (like this gem to the left) on my wishlist. Oh and I rented a movie. Nothing says "celebration" like a night in, alone, watching a sucky romantic comedy. Family Stone + Luke Wilson here I come!

$2.53

Someone please pay me.

There is nothing good about being poor. It sucks. Poor is annoying. But I suppose, when one is redefining one's life, there must be a little poorness at first. My empire will be built. Just not in a day. Or something. In the meantime, I need to focus and work my little tush off. Because $2.53 is unacceptable.

For fun, I will now start the unending list of things I'd like to do (money being no object of course) before I check out. Some are obvious, some not..

1. Drive around out west, sleep in my car and look at stars. Oh and Bryce Canyon. Gotta see that.
2. See aurora borealis or australis
3. Ride a mechanical bull
4. Sell a screenplay (bonus: they actually MAKE it)
6. Buy a sailboat and sail somewhere that takes a month or two to get to
7. Drive up the Alaskan Highway
8. Hang out on an iceberg before they all melt
9. Buy real estate
10. Travel to as many places as possible where I am totally baffled by their customs
11. Learn French
12. Learn Italian
13. Brush up on German
14. Go parachuting
15. Have lots of parties
16. Take a trip into space
17. Learn how to fly a plane
18. Go heli-boarding

....

more another time. You know, life is freaking awesome. Think about it. All of these things I'd like to do.. the fact that they are even possible is so cool.

Completely unrelated: Madeleine Albright is awesome. And I love thunderstorms.

Isn't that fun?

So I rented this movie I hadn't seen since I was like, oh I don't know, 14? National Lampoon's Class Reunion. My siblings and I would watch this and laugh our asses off. We memorized the dialogue. We poked each other when something funny was about to happen. We stared, trancelike, at the fabulous tits. (Interesting how my parents wouldn't let me see Close Encounters, but this was fine. Twisted.) We watched it three times a day. Kids'll do that when they like a film. And some adults.

My renewed interest in the film was twofold: I wanted to revisit something that I thought was incredibly hilarious back then, and I was interested in seeing what was so great about John Hughes' writing. (For my own research, of course.)

Without going into a whole review of the movie, I'll just say that, even though the innuendo and tits are clearly marked "adult," the cartoon, comic book quality of the characters and plot devices are so juvenile and ridiculous that only children can fully appreciate the brilliance of this film. Well, except for me. Because I'm totally immature. I still love it. I think. Maybe I need to watch it once more...

===== breaking news =====

Baxter is gray, has a little white belly and pink nose. He was last seen running into my bedroom at about 1:30AM this morning.

I tore that shit up and still can't find him. Live traps have been set. No bites yet. I wish I could just be a little psychotic. Just a little. So it wouldn't bother me at all to stomp his little mammal ass.

Awww. I can't even write that without feeling bad for the little guy. My sister thinks I should catch him and then throw him in a Habitrail. Interesting, but no. He's going to the park. Where he'll be totally helpless and eaten by killer pigeons by day's end.

Hopefully my new kitty will be a bit of a mouser and then I can wash my hands of this whole killing thing. I don't like it one bit.

New Friends.

Ok first of all, here's the story about the Tom Cruise thing, aside from being a complete loon bag (What the heck is a loon bag?!): the speedboat was part of a day-long action-packed publicity tour of Manhattan. This tour involved the following: travel by helicopter into lower Manhattan. Taking a speedboat trip up to Harlem. Commandeering a subway (yes, a private subway) into midtown. Who's his travel agent? I want in.

Anyway. Before I'm accused of obsessing over a no-talent freakshow for no apparent reason other than to make myself feel better while I stew in my own self-imposed mediocrity, I would like to point out one minor issue I have with this plan of his. This was a publicity tour, right? He did the dramatic helicopter arrival thing. Lots of people saw it. He did the secret-agent very public speedboat thing. Lots of people saw it. He zoomed across town in a very hot sports car. Lots of people saw it. And then, what? He dives underground and takes a private 2/3 train? What the hell kind of publicity is this supposed to be? "I'm so hot I can take a private subway ride?" This pisses me off so much that I'm not going to see his movie. (Ok, so I probably wasn't going anyway.. whatevs.)

So I made a new friend. His name is Baxter. He lives in my walls, between my closet and my bedroom. He's really cute, I think. He scratches at the latticework in the wee hours (like, NOW). But as long as he keeps the hell away from the shoes, I don't mind having him around at all. Sweet, cute little Baxter. Hopefully he won't die in there and stink up the joint.

Watching the wakes.

No, not at Failla's Funeral Home. I'm talking about those of the marine variety.

Out today for the late-afternoon stroll along the waterfront, and I feel like the river is breathing. It's heaving and ebbing and gulls are having trouble diving for fish. The waves are so huge they are surfable. Not kidding. Wish I could surf. This will happen this summer. No excuses this time.

I'm wondering why there is so much action out there. Boats, big and small, speeding up and down through the channel, big wakes, lots of spray. I let my mind wander. Thinking of a magic night that already seems far away. And then I'm wondering if I can get a job on a boat for 50K a year. Probably not. But it would be pretty cool. Love boats.

I'm watching these boats, commuter ferries, small private craft, larger yachts. It's odd. It's a Wednesday, nothing special.

Then I get home. The news. Tom Cruise. In town. On his "Cruise" ship. Channel 4 news has a graphic of a little boat, blinking its way up the Hudson River on a dotted line. The Weather guy, who was doubling as the Cruise Patrol, was pointing out TC's trajectory and alerting all craft to be aware of the incredulous amount of security boats surrounding the Cruise Ship. "Keep Your Distance."

WTF?!?!?! I'm reminded of other less ridiculous public appearances, and I say less ridiculous only because such measures of security were actually warranted. Think "Popemobile."

So, when that British reporter shot Tom Cruise in the face with a fake microphone/squirt gun... did TC actually think this was an attempt on his life? So now he can't be pedestrian enough travel the streets of NYC like every other freaking celebrity (not to mention all the world leaders)?

This guy. He is going down. Guess that down-low life he's leading is finally cracking him.