My degree in Detective

I'm totally studying up on how to be a detective, as in Private Eye. I saw a commercial on the teevee and I sent away for a kit. In less than six weeks, I will have my detective license. That's a license to spy. I like to call it a license in need-to-know information. I need to know and you do not.

Did you know the vast majority of detectives are hired for surveillance of a spouse suspected of committing adultery? How boring. I will reject these cases. If you don't know how to set up a Web cam and track your significant wandering other, that's your problem. I can't bail you out of everything. You're totally cramping my style in that way.

If you are considering hiring me, be forewarned that I am expensive. It's all the high-tech equipment and sexy undercover gear. Don't blame me! Sometimes what you think you want to know is worth the price. And sometimes you'd be better off buying a cup of coffee.

Word.

Dance, Dance

Sometimes when I close my eyes, I see myself in a leotard. You may not know this but I really like to dance. Usually not in public. . . yes, I am a private dancer. But not for money and no, I will not do what you want me to do. And you know why? Because you probably can't dance. It's shocking and a little embarrassing but you should really own up to your defects in character.

Dancing builds character. Did you know that?

I used to watch the very popular show Dance Party USA after school when I was just a sidekick and not my fully-grown Super self. I was very fond of a girl called Lisa in a blue unitard with curly black hair. She knew how to move. I very much liked her partner Michael. In fact, I called in to this show once and spoke to Michael. He sounded very much like a robot. I think I told him he had "great moves."

Back to me. There's a time to dance. And a place. The bus is probably not one of them. And yet I felt the incredible urge to dance up and down the aisles today. I felt as if the dance would explode inside me. I think the passenger sitting next to me could feel my dance intensity too.

Also when I was young, I would frequent this goth club in the city to dance. There wasn't much dancing involved then. We mostly stood around and looked depressed but in a really cool way. Dancing was purely background.

But at some point, dancing became foreground and before I knew it I was a dancing machine. Usually it takes a couple fun beverages for me to shake it like a Polaroid picture. I don't like to rub it in other people's faces how well I can dance. I'm just that kind of person. I know I have the gift.

Lately I've felt the fever though. I want to go Jennifer Beales on someone. Like a maniac. I can totally picture how awesome that would be, obviously more so for the recipient of my incredible dance. So just be on the lookout because if you see me on the street or on the subway or in a restaurant and I'm dancing, dancing. . . consider yourself blessed, at least for that short moment in time.

Horns

It's a little-known fact that I love horns. The bigger and brassier, the better. And loud. I love me some loud horn. What may surprise you is I play horn. I am my own human instrument. I can when prompted properly imitate the awesome sound of the horn, completely unaided. You'd have to be real special to witness this event but no doubt you'd be changed.

So I happened upon some horns tonight in what they call a jazz ensemble, a quintet to be exact. Not one horn, but two. One big, one small. I was immediately excited at the prospect and imagined I might join in as special guest. You really can't go wrong with horns. Except when you can and you do. Bad horn. Very bad horn.

Not that I lay all the blame on the horns and their masters. Nay. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with the bass player, under whose name -- nay spell -- my horn(ed) brothers played. I wanted to rescue them and one was definitely small enough for me to conceal in my pocket if I happened to have a pocket which I most certainly did not. It was tragedy all around.

There is no turning back from bad horn. I could have jumped in and attempted some sort of musical miracle but in all failure there is some amount of success. Either that was really deep or complete nonsense. I vote deep. Tonight I dream of horns. You should be so lucky.

Sexy time

It's taken me much self-introspection to come to terms with what I like to call Sexy time. Let me explain.

Sexy time is how I like to refer to the precious moments spent reading through my many concerned messages from folks like Frederik L. Gentry, Ronny Le, Sexual Male, and the always-popular Sex Can.

These folks and others like them (who I have yet to meet. call me!) write me personal emails almost every day, usually on some sex-related topic. They offer me all kinds of tips relating to sensation, enlargement, endurance, and XXX subjects. I can only think someone out there is really concerned about my health and welfare so I'd like to say THANKS! Honest. I'm really flattered.

I thought I'd share some of the messages I receive on a daily basis but then I reconsidered. They're pretty private. One thing they do share is the utmost concern for the time-pressed professional such as myself who, at the end of the day, has zero attention span and even less tolerance for nonsense. Get to the point and do it fast with words that will get my attention. Do you think you could resist a message from Sex Can?

I wish I worked for one of these places whose sole mission is to care for other people. I would be a great ambassador. Consider this a formal application if anyone's reading. I have my suspicions that Chuck Norris is behind the bulk of these communications as he's a very convincing person and seems quite virile, in appearance at least. And he has a beard!

Wow, I'm really pumped now. Sexy time always delivers. Despite my many friends" entreaties, I haven't bought a single thing but already I feel better about myself. Thanks Chuck Norris. And thank you Sexy time.

What's a girl to do, Part II

Forget my new favorite song. Bat for Lashes is my new favorite band. And I'm not ashamed to admit to my first official girl crush on lead singer Natasha Khan.

This is an older photo -- if she was wearing that giant feather headpiece, I would not be writing to you now because my head would have exploded all over The Knitting Factory.

She's powerful. I am not alone in this belief.

Despite the fact that only giants were standing in front of me, I caught some priceless views of her on stage. You really cannot resist the power of the trifecta: the gold headband, an abundance of face glitter, and the turquoise bra. You cannot and you will not and you won't want to.

You missed quite a performance. Lucky for you, I don't sleep on the job and was witness to Bat for Lashes this very evening. I have my fingers on the pulse, in case you didn't realize. I take that back. I am the pulse.

I may never sleep again. If I do, I will surely dream of wizards and harpsichords and Indian accordians and forests and Natasha Khan. In fact, I may never wake from that dream.

You should buy a plane ticket to England right now so you can purchase "Fur and Gold." Then quickly return and give that album to me because you can't be trusted. This is what you are to do, girl or no girl. Thanks for loving.

"I reject that."

Let's set some ground rules because I think you're taking some liberties. When I say, "I reject [this] or [that]." I am making a statement of fact. Please don't feel the need to interject or rebut with "I reject [insert your ridiculous ridiculosity]."

Perhaps I did not make myself clear. "I reject that" has been trademarked by The Office of Me. Using our trademark in any way incurs penalties that you are not prepared to have exacted from you by The Office of Me.

Let me rephrase. When I say, "I reject [this] or [that]." you should take a moment to reflect that I have considered your babblings and therefore passed my swift justice. It's really a closed conversation after this point. I don't understand why you insist on arguing. Petulance is not rewarded in heaven.

Allow me to indulge you. Please keep the following list close at hand so as not to further annoy me. Keep in mind that lists will save your soul. People who make lists and then routinely cross items off lists rule the world.

THINGS I REJECT -- A LIST. BY SHINY PENNY

-- Any retort to my trademarked statement "I reject [this] or [that]."

-- Organ meat.

-- Boots and shorts, in combination.

-- Short people masquerading as tall people. You know who you are. This excludes those on stilts.

-- Padma Lakshmi. I'd like to see your kitchen credentials please.

-- Peking duck.

-- Taking someone literally downtown to Chinatown. Figuratively, it's right on.

-- Babies in sunglasses.

-- Marshmallows in any form.


This is the shortlist. Things I do not reject include: the question, "Donde esta la biblioteca?", mangoes, beards, neck tattoos that I can stare at freely, etc. These are a few of my favorite things.

Are we seeing eye to eye now? One more time. You cannot -- in fact you may not -- reject that which I have already rejected. Rejection is good, especially when it's coming from me because at the end of the day you can rest easy in the consolation that you love me very much and I do not reject that.

The Japanese are really great.

I always suspected the Japanese to be really great. They invented sushi!

Recently I caught wind of two other really great inventions pioneered by those tireless Japanese. The first is depicted above.

The wait is over, puppies.

Meet the Jet Towel.

This white monster dries your hands -- assuming of course that you've washed them -- in five seconds flat. I know. It's hard to get your head around that. Al Gore would be so proud; no more paper towels, baby. All right! This is an invention I can totally get behind. In fact, I think I just did. You can watch an exciting flash segment about the Jet Towel here: http://www.mitsubishijettowel.com

In all honesty, I wasn't such a die-hard fan of all things Japanese. Hello Kitty and I had a falling out a while back. You have no idea what a taskmaster she is. And of course there's that whole comfort women blotch on Japanese history.

But I do love sushi. And the bowing. I'll admit it. I totally dig all the bowing. There are a whole gaggle of Japanese businessmen in my other top secret headquarters and sometimes I don't think the elevator gives them enough time to bow sufficiently when someone enters or exits. I should really talk to building security.

I would so incorporate bowing into my daily routine if I thought you could handle it. You should work on that.

I digress. Back to how great the Japanese are. Today a colleague revealed the motherload of secrets. You know how your cursor sometimes looks like an arrow? And that arrow just follows your command, bending this way and that? Well, you can thank the Japanese for that!

I know. My mind can hardly take this much in one sitting. It's a good thing I never sit. I'm morally opposed to sitting, by the way. I bet the Japanese are too. Do yourself a favor and watch how the Japanese have revolutionized computing. Go here now: http://www.1-click.jp/

You'll have to wait a second for the magic to download, then just move your cursor over the light grey circle. You may need to smoke a cigarette afterwards.

In conclusion, the Japanese have proven once again that when push comes to shove, they totally rock us all. I salute you, Japan.

Ruiner

It's shocking how much joy some folks get out of ruining things for other folks. Little kids I can understand. There's a primal excitement about making someone eat dirt or stomping on their sandcastle or in my case pushing Tommy Cartieri's fingers back until he cried. (For the record, he told me to.)

Adults are another story. A friend recently related a story whereby another friend showed her the ending of a much-anticipated book. The ruiner danced it in front of her face quickly -- or so he thought -- but she had enough time to read and process the last three lines. That ain't right. It's wrong is what it is.

In the grand scheme of things, this ranks relatively low. I remember hearing a forensic veterinarian on NPR relate a particularly gruesome torture of a puppy by two teenage boys. What's interesting here:

-- There are such things as forensic vets.

-- I said puppy which is a top favorite word of mine and you can guarantee I'm going to get mad real fast.

-- Teenagers are involved so shit's not going to make any sense.

-- Gruesome torture should alert you to look away if you're faint of heart.

Okay. These boys hog-tied the puppy. They then doused it in lighter fluid and set the puppy on fire. But the puppy wouldn't die. So they baked the puppy in the oven. This, the forensic vet ascertained, was how the puppy died.

Obviously, this case is beyond ruiners. It's just plain fucked up. The forensic vet was on the verge of tears as she retold this story.

I've forgotten my original point. But let me offer this instead. If you see someone on the verge of ruining something for someone else, do like the MTA says and kick them in the nuts. Hard. And then kick them again because that's what Bruce Lee would do. You know what? Throw down one more swift kick for that puppy.

Thanks.

Look it here.

You know how sometimes you see things -- unusual things -- and you think for a moment that you've taken the crazy pills again? But then you shake your head and look again and that same unusual thing is still there? It's at this pivotal moment that you remember you have not taken the crazy pills today. Look out!

I witnessed a fully grown adult sucking the life out of her own thumb today. She sucked it like it was made of mint chocolate chip ice cream, which is delicious by anyone's standards. Hell, if my extremities tasted like mint chocolate chip ice cream, I'd be all over that. They do not.

Anyway, this particular thumbsucker was quite the case. She appeared also to have a serious burn on the side of her head. She was wearing a strange white outfit and had gray braids. It was all very confusing to me. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to hug her but I was afraid she'd stab me. She could very well have stabbed me with her thumb. I imagine that would have been unpleasant to experience and also unpleasant to have reported on the news as my cause of death. Stabbed by crazy thumb on subway.

I've also made several mental notes of various folks with the neck tattoo. Don't get me twisted: I am an admirer of the tattoo. But there seems to be a preponderance of people with art on their necks. I can't imagine this is a fun experience. Back of the neck maybe; front of the neck NO WAY. What gives? I was staring at a woman just the other day with all manner of stars on her neck and she caught me looking and I'm pretty sure gave me the look of "I will rip your face off." I can't be 100% on that look but maybe 98.9%.

Look here. If you're going to go to the trouble to get a neck tattoo, then I suggest you lighten the fuck up because I for one am going to look. Invest in a turtleneck if you don't like it. And if you still don't like it, be forewarned that I will go Bruce Lee all over this subway car and then what?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

I (heart) art

Witness my new poster. This is no ordinary kick-ass Bruce Lee portrait. You have to watch the video to believe its creation. The artist is Phil Hansen. He created the above via karate chops on a white canvas.

The above information and aforementioned video blew my mind. This is no small task.

Phil has other crazy works on his site (http://www.philinthecircle.com/art.html) like the one created from his own blood. And be sure to catch "One Moment." I still can't figure out how the hell he works. After watching the video for "One Moment" you too may feel a little bit dizzy and confused. It's wicked fun.

I can't wait for Bruce Lee to grace my walls. I'm all about the mighty fist. It's no small coincidence that I fell upon this Bruce Lee poster as I was just watching the film of Bruce Lee's life starring his son Jason Lee and Lauren Holly.

I may enter upon a Bruce-only phase. I may start calling you Bruce. I may start calling myself Bruce.

Everything sounds better as Bruce.

I may walk around all day today in the action pose depicted in my new totally awesome poster. If you see me, you will fear me but if you call me Bruce then I will show mercy. Seriously, I'm going to practice the mighty fist right now. I feel powerful already.

Chemistry

I was thinking today how bitchin' it would be to take a Chemistry class. With high school students. I'd pretend to be a regular student but I'd wear a white lab coat with a small name tag DR. S. PENNY and have a pair of those rad goggles hanging around my neck. Because I can rock the chem geek look and because people in positions of authority are hot, especially when that person is me.

Mostly I'd like to take a Chemistry class for the mixing. . . and the beakers. Who doesn't love a good beaker? How fun is mixing? It's beyond fun. I wish I was mixing something right now. Like a cocker spaniel and a peach!

I just blew my own mind right there.

I will tell you a story. I was on a mission far, far away in a land down under. I was in a lab. I was wearing a white lab coat. There were many liquids in front of me. My task was to add said liquids together to form a delicious beverage. There was a formula involved. And percentages. I did as I was told. Unfortunately in my zeal I didn't realize that the total percentage should equal 100. And why should I? I am a rule breaker. And a jaw breaker, much like Chuck Norris (please see link at right).

As you may imagine, my lab partner had quite the laugh at my expense. I shrugged it off because 100% is not the boss of me.

Anyway, back to Chemistry. I still think mixing is fun, both in theory and practice. Mingling, not so much. But mixing, I am totally on board with. Think of the possibilities. I can't right now -- you should take some initiative in this department.

In sum, Chemistry is fun when I'm involved and in proper attire. Keep this in mind the next time you attempt to shake things up unsupervised.

The Father of Cool

You might think I'm going to wax on about Miles Davis. Au contraire, mon frer. Sure, Miles was super cool and "Kind of Blue" does something very unnatural to me. Today, however, I'd like to do an homage to the real Father of Cool. I owe him everything.

WILLIS HAVILAND CARRIER

Can you dig it? Is that the baddest motherfucking name ever? Word. It is.

Now you might be all set to Google this mofo but that's why I'm here. To educate, to lift you out of the dark recesses, to give you something bright and shiny to look forward to.

Let's go back in time. After a hard day at my other top secret headquarters, I entered my super top secret headquarters only to discover it's like a h-oven in here! Who the hell closed all the windows? Heavens to mergutroid, it was I!

After recovering from the shock of being duped once again by the weatherman, I quickly retreated to my upper lair for the cool, cool wave of air conditioning.

Air Conditioning. Sounds Pavlovian.

Admittedly I fought the temptress Air Conditioning for some time. I thought I was strong. I am weak. I know that now.

Anyway, as I worshipped my GoldStar, I thought who invented this superb machine? I am like a detective as I've said on many occasions so this was an easy task. Yes, that's right. Willis patented this beauty. And you know what? Willis ain't a bad looking cat. He is The Father of Cool after all. We have a lot in common.

In conclusion, the next time you're busy sweating something out or just sweating in general, ask yourself what Willis Haviland Carrier would do? No idea? Then ask yourself what Shiny Penny would do. She'd turn on the f'ing Air Conditioning and stop whining. But that's just me. You should probably sweat it out.

Accidents happen.

When I was a little kid, there were two things I wanted more than anything in the whole world: a retainer and crutches. My secret crush wore a retainer and I thought that slim steel wire across his upper molars was the coolest thing ever. When I did get my retainer later in life, sadly, most of the magic was gone. Retainers smell. It's a fact. They smell super bad.

Anyway, as to the crutches, I had a system in place whereby I was going to attain them. I routinely threw myself down the stairs in the hopes of breaking a leg. Don't act like this is weird. Unfortunately it never worked. And it's funny because I did everything I could think of to make it happen. I've only ever broken a toe after all that throwing and that really was an accident. I'm really a go-getter like that.

What is it about accidents? How come we want some to happen so badly (i.e. accidents of fate) while others kick you in the guts when you least expect it?

"Oops, I didn't meant to spill my chocolate milk down the front of your white trousers?"

"Oh sorry, did I elbow you in the face with a little bit of happiness?"

"Gosh, I didn't mean to walk in on you in the shower."

Accidents are so unpredictable. Seems like the common denominator is something or someone always gets broken. And that's really the shitty part, huh? You're driving along, minding your own business, following the traffic, honking pleasantly, and someone sideswipes you except you're not in a car which makes that kind of accident a thousand times worse and unwelcome. And they leave you mangled and bloody on the side of the road and now there's rubbernecking. It's a nightmare. Shit happens, right? Yeah, stupid shit. Stupid accidents.

I'm feeling pretty banged up today. I'm stunned by the series of events that led up to this unfortunate accident. I think throwing myself down the stairs would have been infinitely more pleasant.

What's a girl to do

This is my new favorite song by my new favorite band Bat for Lashes. The singer wears headbands. How could this band not be awesome? It's pretty much in the cards.

You can watch the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1wnOUH2jk8

She's riding a bike down a deserted and dark road. And then all kinds of spooky stuff happens but she keeps riding her bike like it's not a big deal. I totally support that attitude.

In other news, I keep seeing all these pictures of people on stilts around the city. Since I am a big fan of tallness, I'm a little perturbed that I haven't run into any of these stilt folks. Oh, there was that one time in Union Square. Jet Blue was doing a promotion for "more leg room" and these dudes got out of a van on stilts. It was magical. I think I'm in love with stilts. Also the word stilts is really great. Say it. Say it again. How can you not smile? If I had a lisp, it would sound even better.

Oh my, and the tallest man in the world just got married to a woman half his size and age. I wish I had a life-size poster of him. It would be so tall! I will find one. That's what this Shiny Penny will do.

Wish you were here. . .

I love when people I know go away and then send me pictures of the idyllic places they are visiting. They want me to experience their vacation firsthand. My friends are really top shelf. Sometimes the dark Shiny Penny thinks, "These people are jerks! Thanks for rubbing in the fact that you are away somewhere awesome and I am not. You are now dead to me." Usually I can suppress those feelings.

Today I feel like sending myself a postcard from somewhere awesome. Why not? I should do something crazy like that. Then I can check my mailbox and say, "Oh my gosh, I didn't even realize I was in awesome Jamaica instead of here with this wicked hangover."

Wouldn't that be a trip? A mind trip. A mind trip away from the pain which is NOT-IN-JAMAICA-BUT-HERE-WITH-THIS-WICKED-HANGOVER.

Mmm, Jamaica. But minus the delicious, cold and fruity drinks because if someone says drink I may spontaneously combust. But I do imagine that the delicious, cold and fruity beverages aforementioned and imagined are in fact delicious and cold and fruity. I'm generous like that.

Well, now that I'm on my mind trip to Jamaica (minus the postcard), it seems a shame to sit in front of the computer when I should be basking in the idyllic place I am currently visiting.

Irie.