For the greater good

I submit the following for your own personal enrichment:

TOOTSIE ESSAY CONTEST: WHY I LOVE TOOTSIE ROLLS

Write an essay. Enter to win a year of Tootsie Rolls. Can you think of a sweeter deal?

No, you cannot.

You should try to win this awesome prize of 27lbs of chocolate-like goodness. Try now because once I enter you have zero chance, which is considerably less chance than you have now. Go.

Baronness von Penny

The above is the view from the open-air cockpit biplane that I flew in today over the Hudson Valley. It is as cool as it sounds. And now cooler because I did it.

You can actually fly in one of these four-seater planes with your pilot in back for a mere $50. It was the best $50 I've ever spent. You will be asked to wear the appropriate headgear and goggles and believe me it is worth it.





This was my plane. The Natural. Those are the old folks who flew before us. They had a seven-year-old too but she chickened out at the last minute. See you lata, sucka!

I can't begin to describe the exhilaration of taking off, cruising in the air, and then landing in one of these contraptions. They feel like toy planes. They asked us to keep our arms in at all times. They asked us to not touch the fuel gauge or step on the wing. They asked us to obey our pilot when in distress. They are not the boss of me, but I cut them some slack this time.

In conclusion, I will now respond to Baronness when called. Flying is awesome. Don't be too jealous. Scratch that -- you should be very very jealous.

Word.

As Seen on TV

I was watching some teevee this morning when I happened upon the following infommercial:

HIP HOP ABS WITH SEAN T.

Let's be clear on a few things before I launch into an endorsement of aforementioned infommercial.

-- I love infommercials.

-- Infommercial actors should win awards. Robert DeNiro and Meryl Streep could learn a thing or two from these masters of craft.

-- No one is more ebullient or excited about the simplest things than the "real people" in infommercials.

-- Without infommercials, we may have never experienced the joys of Gintsu Knives, Ron Popeil's Pasta Maker and Rotisserie, OxyClean, TaeBo, The Gold Kit, etc.

-- Infommercials make life worth living.

Now that we're all on the same page. . . back to HIP HOP ABS. I think it's no small coincidence that I just mentioned how I wanted to go Jennifer Beales on someone and then I randomly click on HIP HOP ABS. The universe is always in my favor.

Sean T. the very cut instructor from HIP HOP ABS has a simple mantra:

Tilt. Tuck. Tighten.

Do you feel that? Sean T. will ask you this question repeatedly as he shows you how to dance your way to flat abs with such signature moves as the "Get Busy!" Not only are these moves going to make you sleek and sexy but the unspoken suggestion is that you will QUOTE score UNQUOTE with your new sleek and sexy body. And yes, you will also have a blast while burning off those love handles.

What more could you possibly want out of life?

As my abs are already rock hard, I don't have any need for HIP HOP ABS but I felt it my duty to share with those less favored by nature this totally awesome product. Your neighbors may not appreciate all your thumping around but just lift your shirt and said neighbors will be silenced by your six pack. That's how powerful the core is. How do you think the presidents of this country were elected? It wasn't their platforms but rather their rock hard abs. Try to prove me wrong.

In conclusion HIP HOP ABS will change your life. It changed Chris' life. He was 5'10" and 235 lbs with shoulder-length curly hair. Not anymore! Now Chris is a sleek and sexy 185 with the same shoulder-length curly hair and dark circles under his eyes. I suspect once you get HIP HOP ABS in your system, it's next to impossible to stop dancing. A small price to pay, no?

In conclusion to my conclusion, infommercials are really great. HIP HOP ABS will change your life. The rock-hard stomach is the secret to success and happiness. The TV is a magical box that I will continue to monitor, if only to help you help yourself. And you love me very much.

Rising to the next level

I am so tempted to write about wizards, specifically the song "The Wizard" but I will resist the urge.

Instead, I submit something educational. This is me going out on a limb for you.

COMMON ERRORS IN ENGLISH a list, not composed by me, but strongly endorsed by me: http://wsu.edu/~brians/errors/errors.html#errors

Holy shit, puppies! I applaud whoever cataloged this exhaustive list, alphabetized and everything. This "brian" must be one angry grammarian. I salute you angry brian.

Be forewarned that possession of this knowledge will not help you quote score unquote. If that's what you're into, I cannot help you. Scoring has never been an "issue" or "problem" for me. You should work on your baggage elsewhere and stop bringing everyone down, Debbie.

For non-Debbies, check out this list and learn it. Apply it in everyday life. Do not succumb to the common man's errors.

I submit the following:

COLD SLAW: The popular salad made of shredded cabbage was originally “cole slaw,” from the Dutch for “cabbage salad.” Because it is served cold, Americans have long supposed the correct spelling to be “cold slaw”; but if you want to sound more sophisticated go with the original.


First of all, Shiny Penny rejects cold or cole slaw. I reject slaw in any form. If you have to consume slaw, please do so out of my sight. When you are consuming your contraband slaw, have the decency to refer to it by its proper name.


I submit the following:

KOALA BEAR: A koala is not a bear. People who know their marsupials refer to them simply as “koalas.” Recent research, however, indicates that pandas are related to other bears.


This is very confusing. Koalas don't look like pandas so why is angry brian mixing things up here? I think he's trying to keep us on our toes. Thanks angry brian.


I submit the following:

TONGUE AND CHEEK: When people want to show they are kidding or have just knowingly uttered a falsehood, they stick their tongues in their cheeks, so it's "tongue in cheek," not "tongue and cheek."


I know what you're thinking. angry brian doesn't touch on the gesture illustrated by tongue in cheek. Perhaps he is not only angry but sensitive in this area. Pity.


In conclusion, this site is very helpful -- for you -- and you should refer to it often. Maybe print it out and carry the pages with you for reference. Figures of authority are hot. People like to be corrected whenever possible. These are facts.

Again, you're welcome.

She's got legs.

Remember that ZZTop song?

She's got legs. She knows how to use them.

Seems so innocent. But I'm sure the legless would beg to differ. I'm like Switzerland on this particular issue as I currently have too many opinions out in the ether.

However, I thought of this classic song today on my commute to my other top secret headquarters. There are two people I see every day on the train: short, well-dressed Asian man and blonde woman with short skirts.

The Asian man will have to wait for another day.

Blonde woman. I have only ever seen her from behind. Usually ascending stairs. She often wears short white skirts, black panty hose, and high heels. I have never seen her deviate from this costume. Today it made me wonder.

Doesn't she get hot in those panty hose? How many pairs of panty hose can she possibly own? Does she rinse out the same pair every night? Why doesn't she have any runs? Is she some kind of service worker? What's lurking underneath her panty hose? Are her legs real?

I thought about these questions for an intense five seconds. When I got to work, I happened upon an article in the New York Times called "Sweatology." I think from the -ology that sweating is a science. Rad.

This article explained that most people have 2 million sweat glands; oversweaters have 4 million. If we didn't have sweat glands, we'd be covered in apelike hair.

This is what I have concluded: panty hose lady is hairy. And possibly apelike. She is dangerous. I am sure of it. Stay away from her.

I don't think it's any coincidence that ZZTop were also hairy and I thought of this song when faced with this woman's legs.

I am like a detective. Only better.

You're welcome.

Reflections from the Think Tank

I have returned from my top secret mission to Shiny Penny Research Laboratories, location undisclosed. The Doctors housed and fed me as we conducted our many tests on humanity and the environment. I'm working on the patents now but thought fit to share with you some of what we have learned in preliminary field work.

WHAT I LEARNED ON SUMMER VACATION WITH THE DOCTORS by Shiny Penny

-- Milk is an ill-advised sexual lubricant. Whole milk, in particular.

-- Eating bacon every day, sometimes twice a day, makes you smarter. Bold claim, yet nonetheless true: Bacon is the great equalizer.

-- Although licking can be fun for both licker and lickee, inappropriate licking just gets you wet. (See entry on milk.)

-- The very famous song about "My Meatball" may or may not have anything to do with the Smokey Mountains. [For novices, I give you this taste: On top of old Smokey, all covered with cheese, I lost my poor meatball, when somebody sneezed.]

-- Meatballs are both delicious and nutritious.

-- Neuticals! Holy shit. I will be posting more about this highly controversial topic at a later date. For now, Neuticals! The faint of heart should not watch the video.

-- Emphatics are my favorite kind of people. You always know where you stand with them. Emphatics either love you as if you are the most incredible creature in the world or loathe your offensive presence. It's always clear cut.

There are so many other exciting things to share. I encourage you to take your own vacation and stop living vicariously through mine. You are acting like a parasite. Give me some space.

Thank you! You are the best. . . and sometimes the worst. . . but never both at the same time.

Gimme a break

I sure deserve it. Nell Carter, star of the popular show "Gimme a break," would agree. That's her in the red dress. She had flair. I don't remember all those girls but I do remember the dad. He was a COP.

Back to me. I'm heading to a tropical-like destination sans palm trees and fruity drinks. Or am I?

I'll leave you to chew on that.

Later, skaters.

En garde!

Notice: to The Scrivener who accused me of one thing and then tried to cover it up by fancifying said accusation as "your force field." I have done an exhaustive 5 minutes of research on force fields and have come to the conclusion that I may or may not have a force field, but I most certainly have a personal scent circle.

According to the Scented Products Education and Information Association of Canada (SPEIAC), everyone has a personal "scent circle" about an arm's length away from their body. Furthermore, it is advised to stay within your "scent circle" at all times. These crazy Canadians have actually drafted guidelines for employers to deal with scent violators. This is like a totally hot topic right now. Smellnatural.com will advise you on how to apply fragrances, which they define as "making you more pleasant and charming."

Alack, if only that were true.

I digress.

As far as my force field goes, I embrace the invisible, pretty much any chance I get. You may have spotted me blowing "air" kisses but I assure you there was in fact a very real recipient. I will concede, however, that I am EN GARDE! as it is a thick, dangerous world, outside of my awesome force field, and EN GARDE! is pretty fun to say in a crowded room. Much like D'Artagnan, I'm at the ready for anything -- noble or ignoble.

As Brian Adams would say, "Everything I do. . . I do it for you."

You're welcome.

Breaking the law(s)

AdAge recently announced its Power 150: Top Media and Marketing Blogs. I was not included on this list. Thanks for voting, jerks. Even though I do not purport to be a Media nor a Marketing Blog, I'm still offended. I should be categorically #1 on all lists.

Let's move on.

I perused this list. There were many titles I did not recognize and which I deemed not worth my precious click. Bloggers like to name their blogs after themselves it seems, with exclamation points! Note that I do not title my blog Shiny Penny! Thank you for your consideration.

I did click on one Copyblogger because it had two words I like: copy and blog. Both of which I am masters of. I'm unclear on the owner and author of this blog, however, I took special note of the following list:

THE 5 IMMUTABLE LAWS OF PERSUASIVE BLOGGING

As you may gather, there are several BIG claims in the title of this list alone. Five. Immutable. Persuasive.

Wow, I was so engaged. I continued reading.

Law 1: The Law of Value: Your blog must provide value to the reader by addressing a problem, concern, desire, or need that the reader already has. Fresh, original content is critical.

Yeah, I totally nailed this one. I don't think I really need to go into any detail here. I'm so out there on the field for you every day. You should show some appreciation, damn it. You're really ungrateful sometimes. You should work on that.


Law 2: The Law of Headlines and Hooks: Your post titles must stand out in a crowded, noisy blogosphere, and you must quickly communicate the value of reading further with your opening.

Please. Is this Copyblogger serious? I am all over headlines and hooks. I should rename this blog Captain Motherfucking Hook. I dominate Law 2.


Law 3: The Law of “How To”: People don’t want to know “what” you can do, they want to know “how” it’s done. If you think you’re giving away too much information, you’re on the right track.

I beg to differ, Copyblogger. There are many mysteries in this universe and I happen to be one of them. If I reveal all of my secrets, you, dear reader, may imagine that you are actually of the same mettle. That would be unfortunate for you. I can see awful headlines now. Stick to your station. Everyone's better off. I'll tip in my service journalism when appropriate. Didn't I warn you about waving too violently to the manatee? Yes, I did. Didn't I advise you not to wear denim in extreme heat? Affirmative. Didn't I counsel you on the benefits of making lists and not staring at people with neck tattoos and faithfully showing the Bruce Lee adoration? Right on on all accounts. If this isn't how-to station, I don't know what is. You're not getting this caliber of wisdom for free anywhere else. Quit being so needy.


Law 4: The Law of the List: Love them or hate them, informational posts presented in list format are easily digestible, and allow for an efficient transfer of your value proposition to the reader.

You're welcome.


Law 5: The Law of the Story: Stories are the most persuasive blogging element of all, as they allow you to present a problem, the solution, and the results, all while the connotation of the story allows readers to sell themselves on what you have to offer.

Oops, sorry, I nodded off. I tell you stories. Every day is like a new adventure for you. I'm not into the sales aspect though. I like to close the deal just as much as the next future world dominator but sometimes it's a bit cheesy. I am not in fact for sale at this juncture. Anyway, I think this Law 5 pretty lame as #5s go. So I'm just going to do something ballsy and reject it outright.


In conclusion, I am still not on AdAge's Power 150 and I blame you. I really hope you'll step up to the plate and take responsibility for your inaction. I can't carry you all the time. Try to do your small part for Shiny Penny.

Thanks for loving.

With us, it's personal.

This is the approved tag line of the Rite-Aid Pharmacy. This tag line is meant to make you feel like the pharmacists are human beings and that they view you as a human being as well. Clever. Sometimes when I'm filling up my prescriptions for GREATNESS, I wonder about the pharmacists. Transformers are everywhere. Robots in disguise. Seemingly human, but nay! Evil doers abound. Those with ill will; they say one thing and do another; often they subscribe to a secret, fucked-up agenda.

Anyway, I dropped off my prescription for JUSTICE the other day and the pharmacist ran after me. Literally. He ran down the aisles. I was mesmerized by the arrangement of delicious cereals which is where he found me. (I like to blend into civilian life as much as possible.) The pharmacist informed me of an error in my Rx: JUSTICE. Wow! I thought "that was really personal." Not like "a personal invasion of my privacy" but rather "he really cares about how and when I use my Rx: JUSTICE." I felt a bit of warmness. I almost hugged him because I hear that's what you mortals do. I decided against it though because I also know those in positions of authority, such as myself, do not like to be touched when on the job. You just never know what people are up to. I could go in for the friendly hug and never let go. And can you imagine how my pharmacist would explain an embrace in the middle of the cereal aisle? It would have been unpleasant for him. Not the hug, of course.

You may be wondering why I need a prescription for GREATNESS when in fact I am naturally brilliant and charming. "Ah-ha!" you may be thinking. I hate to dash your hopes that I am just one of you. Let's keep up the illusion for now.

Back to that tag line. It's a competitive advantage the Rite-Aid is touting. As if to say, "Those other guys are impersonal, but not us! Not us." I think I can get on board with this claim. I think I may adopt this tag line in a slightly altered form for myself.

With me, it's personal.

If you really think about it, you're stating the obvious. If, in fact, you are a person, how could any interaction not be personal? Did you just have a giant Duh moment? I know. Sometimes I even amaze myself. I used to hate when people would say "Don't take it personally." Especially after unleashing some ridiculous criticism of something or other. It's really a stupid thing to say. Moreover, a stupid thing to think or act or react to. Everything is personal. Unless of course you are a Transformer or some sort of bot. If this is the case, rock on to you.

I think Chuck Norris would approve of my new tag line. I think Bruce would as well. I'm really pleased with myself this morning. I have to go do something GREAT now. I wish some small measure of GREAT on you because I'm generous like that and shit, with me, it is personal.

A List Only Befitting August 2007

It's time to draft a list because all plans for world domination begin with the almighty list.

THINGS TO DOMINATE IN AUGUST 2007

-- Phobias. Namely your sweaty arm or leg touching my awesome arm or leg when uninvited or uncalled for. I will resist the urge to knock you down. You're welcome.

-- Peking duck. Maybe. I'm still not sure. Let me amend: headless Peking duck. Doable.

-- The world. Totally within my grasp.

-- The dance. Pretty much a lock at this point but I still need to break out the Flashdance before my shoulders spontaneously tear through all of my clothing on their own.

-- People whose names begin with the letter D or contain the letter d somewhere therein.

-- All previous posts up to this point. I know! How do you improve on greatness? Stay tuned to have your mind blown.

-- Nuts. I like nuts, shelled and unshelled. And, they're good for you! And the expression "Nuts!" should be worked into daily vocabulary.

-- Buble time and the memory of his very catchy song "Everything". I may have to sacrifice my dog hearing to dominate this category. It's worth it.


That's all I'm going to give you. I don't subscribe to the Top 10 list. Top 10 list is not the boss of me. I encourage you to make your own list of PEOPLE OR THINGS TO DOMINATE IN AUGUST 2007. It will make you feel closer to me, but not too close (see first item).

Nuts.

Peaches and Herb

Breakups are funny. Not so much in a funny-ha ha way but funny-strange. What's funnier is reunions. They can be so awkward. Not for me so much but I'm trying to imagine what it's like to be in your shoes. What I like to do is sing the popular Peaches and Herb song "Reunited". This always breaks the ice. Follow it up with a high-five with your ex and you can't help but have a good time.

I considered giving you a taste of all the lyrics but I think they're probably too intense for you. Maybe you'll start reminiscing or something; maybe you'll cry a tiny tear. That would be unpleasant for everyone involved. So I've included the chorus below because it was the only part I could remember and thought fit to copy and paste. Peaches and Herb would probably want some royalties and I'm not emotionally mature enough to pay out.

Reunited and it feels so good
Reunited 'cause we understood
There's one perfect fit
And, sugar, this one is it
We both are so excited 'cause we're reunited, hey, hey

Don't you feel better already. Don't get hung up on Peaches and Herb's promise though. This is not a foolproof plan. Sure, many an ex would melt at the sweet sounds of some P&H. Hell, who wouldn't? There's probably someone out there who could resist the lambchops of one Herb and the soothing click of Peaches' braids. In those cases, you just keep on singing and say "Nuts to you. Nuts. To. You."

In conclusion, Peaches and Herb are awesome. "Reunited" is an invigorating, feel-good song. However, "Reunited" cannot and should not be used willy-nilly nor should the lyrics be interpreted as a reflection of one's true feelings but rather just pretty solid lyrics that generally melt hearts. Peaches are also delicious on their own as a food group; as is Herb.

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.

Space Invaders

I don't know what that last post was all about. I don't really care what Time Out puts on the cover.

What I do care about, however, is the growing number of strangers shoving into me on the street. A big fat elbow here, a smack with giant bag, the generous shoulder. I'm going to start a campaign called STOP SHOVING ME.

Did you know everyone has a personal scent circle? It's true. Look it up because I don't have time to explain it to you. Everyone also has a designated personal space. Watch Dirty Dancing if you don't know what I mean.

Remember that game Space Invaders? Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. Get the hell out of my space, you invader.

That is what I will begin to scream when shoved into without apology.

Get the hell out of my space, you invader.

That's pretty powerful. You better pray you don't hear it from me.

The horny issue

Get it? Isn't that clever? Thorny issue, horny issue. The "title" refers to the latest issue of TimeOut New York, which I used to be a fan of and now I'm having, for lack of a better word, an "issue" with.

If you haven't seen it, the latest issue pictures a woman on the cover eating a banana with said "title": the horny issue. Do you mean to tell me no one could think up something more provocative than evoking a blow job? Damn. That's a crying shame.

The last bunch of issues have all featured women when anything relates to sex as objects rather than subjects. Normally I wouldn't give a crap but it's been so often that I'm beginning to think the creatives over at TONY need a holiday . . . or at the very least to get laid. (I shouldn't blame the creatives really. It's probably the EIC.)

I mean, isn't New York the hub of interesting couplings? Didn't Short Bus originate here? I'm sensing TONY only cares about its heterosexual male readers and what they get off on.

How about the rest of us?

I thought about writing a letter to the editor but I just don't care enough. I'll still use their website but I think I'm done with the mag for a while.

Fighting Crime, One Scumbag at a Time

If you haven't picked up on it by now, I am Super. Not so much of a big reveal.

Anyway, today I let my Super out in public. I donned the red sparkled cape, knee-high white boots, glowing ring. It was breathtaking. I stole breaths like a villain, except for the fact that I am pure of heart and light of step.

My fellow Super snapped some excellent photos of me in action poses: mid-flight, hanging out with another Super, just generally being awesome. Obviously I can't share them with you for we both know You cannot be trusted. Pity. You should work on that.

It was a slow day for fighting crime though. I've included the "Scumbag" reference for frivolity only. My Creator Pater used to say I lived in "Scumbag City." Clearly I moved here for that reason.

I highly recommend you invest in a cape and some kick-ass boots.

Super is as Super does. You can dream, can't you?

Open Toe

With the weather being nice and all, all manner of toes have been unleashed to the public. Let's just put it out there: toes are weird looking. Clearly not all toes were created equal and some should be left undercover . . . to protect the children.

Don't we owe that much to humanity?

I saw a big toe on the subway tonight that scared the living daylights out of me. For the five stops I was held hostage by this unsightly toe, I schemed how to take a picture on my cell phone. I thought maybe if I appealed to the body's taste in sandal wear, she might let me photograph her foot. She didn't look all that friendly though. So I just stared and stared and stared.

How to describe it. . . to be blunt, her big toe on the left foot bore an uncanny resemblance to the male organ. I do not use this metaphor lightly. The toe in question was long and slender with this bulbous knob. I shook my head in disbelief but the image wouldn't go away, neither would the offending toe.

I wish I'd have taken a picture. But maybe you'd have nightmares like I surely will.

The Open Toe brings both pleasure and horror. You've been warned.

00...Oh My

I've never been much of a James Bond fan. Tonight my top agent and I rented "Casino Royale". I wanted romantic comedy; top agent likes action. We compromised as long as I got to see 007 without a shirt. Mission accomplished.

Can I get a MEOW?

Let me give it to you straight. This new 007 is cold. He's not the smooth-talking Pierce Brosnan. He's not the womanizer of Roger Moore fame. This Bond is all business. And I'd like to be all up in his business.

There I've said it. I don't know how exactly anyone gets their body to look like that but I'm all in favor. The screenwriter should get an Oscar for the shower scene alone. The casting director should be bronzed.

I may go evil just to get a taste 'cause I don't know anyone good who looks that good.

If that's what the English import looks like these days, I'm moving to London.

Ta ta.

Gone Missing

It's funny sometimes -- in a totally not funny way -- how people come in quickly to your life and then disappear just as fast. Like one day, they're all up in your business because your particular brand of business is the most interesting business in the world. And then in a flash, POOF! Goodbye. No phone call. No "Dear John" letter. No explanation. No nothing.

Let me just say what's on your mind. Is that any way to treat a lady, as Helen Reddy would say?

No. It ain't no way to treat a lady.

I blame the InterWeb. And the Me Generation. And Quentin Tarantino because that guy just gets on my nerves.

Actually I blame you for being such a chickenshit. Grow some cajones, muchacho. Stand up and be a man or a woman or whatever you are.

I could name names but you offenders know who you are. Stop stinking things up for the rest of us because the next time I catch you being all coy with me. . . well you take your chances and see what happens, punk.

Easta bunny

Wholesome pictures of Easter bunnies are surprisingly hard to find. Do your own search on Google Images. You'll be amazed at the proliferation of demented, lascivious, evil looking bunnies or bunnymen in costume. I was really disappointed.

So no bunny for you. Hey, maybe put an Echo and the Bunnymen album on and celebrate Easter that way. Or just eat a lot of chocolate eggs and peeps and jelly beans because that's probably want you want to do anyway.

I'm going back to bed. It is a holiday and I shouldn't be working so hard for you ingrates.

Happy Easter.

The inherent benefits of the flu shot

1) Avoiding flu.

2) Preventing boredom brought on by the flu.

3) Smiling more; frowning less.

4) Not losing entire paycheck to Kleenex, Nyquil, Tylenol, Ricola, Echinacea, and other remedies that only succeed in making you drowsy and stupid.

5) Not subjecting oneself to Oprah, Montel, Greg Berendt, Regis and Kelly, E True Hollywood Story: Hillary Duff, countless crazy episodes of Inside Bobby Brown, reruns of America's Next Top Model, and the like.

6) Showering daily.

7) Eating solid foods.

8) Awake for more than 10% of the day.

9) Using that 10% to do more than #5.

10) Avoiding flu.

Let this be a lesson to you.

Ring Rage

This apparently is a new phenom spreading like wildfire. Rage over other folks' ringtones. Fights have broken out over ringtones.

I need to interject. Do you not have something else to pick a fight about than someone's ringtone? Because that seems like bottom of the barrel in terms of picking fights over stupid shit.

But it's all true. The New York City Center for Reduction of Noise Pollution estimates $1.2 billion was lost in productivity last year due to stupid ringtones annnoying the crap out of people in the workplace.

I need to interject. Who comes up with these figures? How about the billions lost because some jerk was calculating this ridiculous and totally unsubstantiated number?

So the New York City Center for Reduction of Noise Pollution's solution is to restrict the number/type of ringtones to four. They're trying to pass a law on this shit with heavy fines to be imposed by the police.

You can hear about it here: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=9210663

I need to interject. Why? What the hell is wrong with people? Does this New York City Center for Reduction of Noise Pollution have nothing better to do than come up with a law regulating ringtones? Who's going to choose the four ringtones? How could you possibly take any police officer seriously who fined you for your ringtone? Has the world gone mad?

Yes. Yes it has.

April Fool's.

Polaroids

A friend of mine has a Polaroid camera. It's new. It's also monstrously large. Do you remember the Polaroid being that unwieldy? I laugh every time she whips it out.

So anyway, she took several Polaroids over the last few weeks which I'm staring at now. "Polaroids" makes you think of dirty pictures, doesn't it? Yeah, I know. It made me think of dirty pictures too. I have to say though that these are the best f'ing pictures anyone has ever taken that I happen to be in. It's almost as if the Polaroid has captured my soul in its giantess and reproduced it in a 4x4 frame.

I think I'm in love with the Polaroid.

Apparently the film is ridiculously expensive. But shit, if these are the best pictures anyone will ever take of you, isn't it worth it? I remember my mom taking Polaroids of us at the beach when we were kids. (These were not "dirty pictures" either.) And damn, I looked good.

I may have to do some research on how Polaroid came to mean "dirty pictures". If you have any input, it's welcome. Your own Polaroids are also welcome.

Cheese.

Proverbially speaking

I found myself on this proverbs site today. I had no idea how many proverbs there really were or just how ridiculous the majority are. Here's a sampling:

-- "Don't cross the bridge till you come to it."
Can I have a duh moment for a second? How can you cross the bridge if you haven't come to it? Do you mean a mental bridge and not the Brooklyn Bridge? That's deep, man.

-- "A good man is hard to find."
No comment.

-- "You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs."
Is this a proverb or Joy of Cooking?

-- "Don't try to teach your grandma to suck eggs."
Not from the Joy of Cooking. Apparently it means don't give advice to someone with more experience or who seems crotchedy and wields a cane.

-- "Don't keep a dog and bark yourself."
Hold the phone, Buck Jones. Say what? What if you really liked to bark? And you were good at it? And your dog liked it too? I reject this proverb.

-- "Life's not all beer and skittles."
Really? Because that sounds like a pretty righteous combination. I want to taste the rainbow. [See World Domination post for my feelings on delicious beer products.]

-- "Two heads are better than one."
Unless of course you're attached to that head as in siamese twins. I don't think siamese twins think that their two conjoined heads are better than one un-conjoined head on one un-conjoined body. This is my assumption; I have not done fieldwork.

-- "Live for today for tomorrow never comes."
What??? Holy crap, are you kidding? I didn't do Jack today and now I'm going to die? Thanks for the memo. Jerk.

-- "Handsome is as handsome does."
I'd like to amend this to Awesome is as awesome does. I still don't know what it means but it sounds infintiely cooler now.

I'm getting pretty bored with these proverbs now. Feel free to send me your own proverbs to make fun of.

Remember, awesome is as awesome does.

Right. On.

Super Cultured

As if this is at all surprising, I am super cultured. Tonight I attended a reading of several short plays. That means live actors read the parts with little to no staging, no scenery, no costumes, etc. See, only those with super suspension of disbelief -- like myself -- can partake in this high-minded cultural event.

Anyway, as luck would have it, some of the pieces were exceptionally good, while others really sucked. My friend wrote one of the exceptionally good ones because you know I only surround myself with talented people. One piece in particular confounded me to no end. I couldn't follow the dialogue; I couldn't follow the plot. It just sounded all kinds of crazytown to me. Afterwards the writers assembled on stage to take questions. It's funny how no one ever has any questions in situations like these. Anyway, the author of said confounding piece described the vision/inspiration. I was even more befuddled. That writer made no sense.

Sometimes that happens. As a totally awesome writer, I know this to be true. . . of others. I try not to rub it in when it happens to those other writers because I'm a pretty generous and loving person. Unless you cross me. Don't ever cross me.

Anyway anyway, I was reflecting on the subway home about the characters in these myriad pieces. Then it struck me like a thunderbolt. People in fiction can be just as assholic as people in real life. Can you believe that? You don't even have to suspend your disbelief really. It's amazing.

I think that revelation just shook the very grounds of theater. Playwrights everywhere are going to start seriously cranking out the pages now. (You're welcome.)

Anyway anyway anyway, it's all true. People in fiction and nonfiction can be real jerks. I know this to be true from personal investigation and from the reading of many many long books. I'm not advocating for everyone in fiction and otherwise to be nice all the time because that would seriously get boring. I'm just stating the facts.

What this Eureka moment has taught me is that at the end of the day, I am still super cultured. At least something's still right with the world.

Ants in Pants

Self-diagnosis: ants in pants. Feeling nervous or anxious about something or someone.

Prognosis: will live. Prone to spastic outbursts. Harmful to self, less so to others.

Ants in pants is originally an English idiomatic phrase. Those crazy English. So clever. I'm wondering about the real derivation.

Picture this: little Georgie picnicking with his family. Mother passes the creamed corn. Father smiles self-satisfied, pats his own belly. Suddenly, and without invitation, an army of ants invades little Georgie's pants. Little Georgie hops to and fro, trying to shake said ants from said pants. Father scolds. Mother begins to cry.

An idiom is born.

It's poetic really.

I don't think I'd appreciate having actual ants in my actual pants. I imagine that would be fairly freakalicious, heavy on the freak, less so on the licious.

Did you know that Ants in Pants is also a popular Milton Bradley board game? I need to get my hands on that.

I digress. It's the ants. Hard to concentrate when they're in your pants. If you see me around town sans pants, you'll understand. It may be the only way. It just may be.

In summary

This was a crap week. Full of crap that I'd prefer not to recall, even under sworn testimony, even if Congress wanted to interview me without a transcript, even if I was offered a billion dollars, even if all the candy in the world was under my control.

I'm a little disappointed in the world at large at this present moment so this will be brief.

I've often kidded a friend of mine about writing a book about Common Courtesy. It seems to be a quality severely lacking in the general population and I can't quite pinpoint why. It takes zero effort and costs nothing and can only come to good. So why the resistance?

Beats me. And I feel pretty battered after one harrowing week so that's all the reflection you're going to get. I'm puzzled.

If you have any answers -- or a book publisher interested in aforementioned idea -- give me a holler.

Later, pups.

I am excited by technology.

It's true even though in argument I will vehemently deny the above. I am excited by the idea of being connected to other people at any time I want. I am also scared out of my mind by that notion. Although I don't own a Blackberry, I can see its potential for good.

I'm not much interested in technology for good today. Today I'm interested in technology for world domination. My domination of the world which is you.

When are one of these fancy scientists going to come up with mindreading software? Because I'm totally down with that.

Think of all the miscommunication and passive-aggressiveness and crossed signals that we could avoid if I had the power to read your mind with the push of a button?

Yes, sorry, this is totally one way. I will read your mind; you will read the newspaper.

Do you see the potential?

Because at the end of the day, I can't read your mind and whatever you think you're putting down, chances are I'm picking up something entirely different. Because I'm like that.

I am excited by the promise of this technology. Imagine what I could do with it right now. I could read your mind at this very moment and figure out why you are unceremoniously ignoring me.

That would be sweet. You'd still be rude.

P.S. So if anyone knows of any mad scientists looking to develop some mindreading software and bent on my own personal world domination, give me a jingle.

P.P.S. Yes, I do write in riddles. No, you are not the "you" aforementioned. I know who "you" are, even if "you" don't.

One seriously bad fucking day

Warning: I'm in a really bad mood so if you don't want me to bring you down to my dark fortress, stop reading now. (And you can go scratch too by the way.)

All kinds of malevolent forces have been conspiring against me since I awoke this morning. I'm talking serious bad shit. The kind of wickedness that makes you really believe in karma. I have now accepted that in a former life I was Genghis Khan. I really don't see any other way around all these creatures of darkness exacting revenge on me in my current form.

You may have guessed that the above "search engine" seriously contributed to my dark mood. Maybe you'll win a KFed t-shirt for guessing correctly. Lucky you.

Now listen, I don't give a crap and a half about this guy. He can do whatever the hell he damn well pleases. Who cares really? But when this came across my desk as news, the shit hit the big fan. I went to a very dark place inside my mind.

Why do I want to search with Kevin Federline?

Why should I believe Keven Federline has my best interests at heart?

Why do I want to win some paraphernalia emblazoned with his face and name?

Who is responsible for this affront to my consciousness?

Who is the asshole seeding money to fund this venture?

Why? Why? Why?

You probably want the URL of KFed's search engine. I can't even give it to you. It was vomitrocious enough for me to have taken a screen shot. Do you see how I sacrifice myself for you?

I've spoken of the rage before. This has sent me over the edge into the abyss. As you know, I can't swim. Save yourself.

Word of mouth.

Usually I don't have a problem being quiet. Unless the man has told me to zip it. Then I have a big problem. Like today for instance. I paid an exorbitant amount to ride the rails back to my top secret, secret headquarters. I didn't realize I sat down in the SILENT CAR until I unloaded all my crap.

"I can't talk?" I thought. [At this point, I didn't have anyone to talk to.]

I reject the SILENT CAR.

I didn't fork over a small fortune to be shhh'd. The outrage swelled within me. [I still didn't have anyone to talk to but it's the principle here.]

So I sat there in silence, trying to read. I couldn't read. It was too quiet. The redhead next to me had her mouth open as she slept. I could hear her breathe. "Can you keep it down over there, red?" I wanted to elbow her in the ribs.

This reminds me of the time I was hoodwinked into attending a retreat during college. Our professor proposed the following: "Write a 15-page paper. Or go on a two-day retreat." Duh. Obviously I chose the retreat. Our destination was somewhere far, far away in the middle of nowheresville.

On the bus, I recall our professor standing to greet us. My recollection of his words are as follows: "This will be a silent retreat. No talking for two days."

WHA?

Who the hell signed me up for this? No talking for two days? And he meant it. No "pass me the salt," or "is anyone in the bathroom?" Nothing. Mum's the word.

Needless to say, it was torture. And I failed. This girl (who I had never spoken to before and never spoke to afterwards) and I went for a walk and laughed outrageously loud once we were out of earshot.

The moral of this and other stories is this: Shutting up for two hours or two days will not in fact kill your person. Sure, a little part of you may die a very tiny death inside but you will still be 99.5% alive and that's not really as horrific as it may seem. We're probably going to drown in that Hurricane anyway (see previous post).

Death by drowning

It has been confirmed today that I will in fact die by drowning. I thank the New York Times for that. Thanks.

"How can you possibly drown, Shiny Penny?" I'm glad you asked. I can't swim. Can't as in cannot. Yes, I've taken swimming lessons. They didn't stick. My body defies the float. {See Powerful Mind entry for further details.}

But how do I know this to be my fate? Well, as luck would have it, I was perusing the good old New York Times for assistance in locating my new top secret, secret headquarters when i stumbled across this:

THE REAL RIDDLE OF CHANGING WEATHER: HOW SAFE IS YOUR HOME?

It began with the basic Al Gore mumbo jumbo (did you know I saw Al Gore's face in the sky once?). Basically our grandchildren's children are seriously fucked. Water levels will continue to rise. Low lying coastal areas, e.g. all of Downtown Manhattan, are doomed. Bye-bye West Village. Mother Nature is PMSing like a mofo. Hurricanes, people. Hurricanes.

Let's just say by page 2 I was significantly freaked out. When I commit to reading something, I suspend all disbelief. I was committed to panic. Then I discovered the very useful link to this:

NEW YORK CITY HURRICANE EVACUATION ZONES

It's a 17x22 color-coded map of all the danger zones. Basically Queens survives and the rest of us drown in flood water. I printed out three copies.

Okay, you may think I'm overreacting. I could be dead by the time my grandchildren's children get swept away but what if I'm not. What if I'm some sweet little old lady with a walker who at the age of 95 still can't swim. Can't as in cannot. Then what?

That's what I'm talking about.

Shocking discovery

Sometimes I am shocked by the day's news. Like yesterday for example, I was shocked to discover that shooting yourself in the face is not funny, even if you are a comedian. Yeah, totally unfunny.

On a lighter note, I unearthed this shocking discovery thanks to Scientific American:

"...inside every tabby lurks a killer."

That's right. Cats do not like sugar; they're carnivorous little bastards through and through. That's all cats: lions down to my former cat Muffin who loved me despite what anyone in my family says.

What's even more shocking is the discovery that cats don't take to sugar because they're missing the gene. I know. I had to sit down when I read that -- and I was already sitting down.

If you want to read all the gory details for yourself, go here: http://www.sciam.com/article.cfm?articleid=32EA05AC-E7F2-99DF-3B28FBBB0352D1C3&chanId=sa022

Or remain ignorant of the killer purring softly beside you. It's your life.

Too cool for school

I traveled to the den of iniquity this weekend to shop around for some new space for my top secret, secret headquarters. What I discovered is that the inhabitants of said den are all under the impression that they are in fact too cool for school.

Now you know, puppies, that I am the last one to jump to conclusions or fix my mind in stone about anything. But wow, I felt surrounded, cornered, ganged up on by this throng of indifferent wanna-bes. And the sad truth is I couldn't figure out for the life of me who they wanted to be exactly since they all blended into one another like bots. How tedious life must be for them. And predictable. And dreadfully dull.

So there were those folks and then I encountered a whole other breed. The moneyed. Hello, scary. Young. Rich. Frightening. I really felt like I had entered Crazytown instead of an outer borough. I thought the outer borough was all "look how diverse I am". Not so much. It was more like "look how white I am but I am going to try real hard not to look/act white unless I'm rich white because then it's okay."

After encountering one too many douche bags on a single day, I've decided to stick to my already top secret, secret headquarters because you people are freaking me out.

My Powerful Mind

You know that expression, "mind over matter"? Yeah, I don't know what kind of evil genius came up with that one, but I can attest to its veracity. My mind is like a powerful universe. My mind is like space: vast, dark, impenetrable. See where I'm going here?

My Powerful Mind, a short tale

I was working at my top secret headquarters last week. Doing my thing. Pushing paper. Typing the e-mails. Brokering big deals on the telephone. Generally being awesome.

Per usual, I took some time out of my hectic schedule to catch up with a co-worker. I am a people person. We were having a close conversation because we didn't anyone else to hear our top secret plans for world domination and how fat someone's ankles looked in those heels. You know, chit chat. It was a great conversation and both of us were pleased with how witty and charming we are.

The following day I was unofficially informed that this same co-worker was infested with germs of the strep throat variety. Yeah, can you believe that? I was having a close conversation with CONTAGION in its rawest form.

My first reaction: "I hope she'll be okay." "That really sucks." "She'll bounce right back."

My second reaction: "Motherfucker, if I get sick, there is going to be all kinds of rage up in this place."

If you don't believe me, see SICK I, SICK II, and SICK III: THE ANGER in previous posts.

The next two days passed without incident. Yesterday all kinds of shit hit the big fan. I noticed a slight difficulty swallowing. I phoned my super medical team who are at the ready to answer my every call. The conversation went something like this;

ME: "I'VE BEEN EXPOSED. MY HEALTH HAS BEEN COMPROMISED."

SUPER MEDICAL TEAM: "WHEN?"

ME: "TWO DAYS AGO, WEDNESDAY."

SUPER MEDICAL TEAM: "DOES YOUR THROAT HURT?"

ME: "I DON'T KNOW. [PAUSE] I JUST DON'T KNOW, MAN."

Wow, that was hard to relive. As the day pushed on, my ear started to hurt, or so I thought. Then my legs began to give way. I felt faint on the subway. My Powerful Mind had assumed total control. I was sick.

Damn you, Powerful Mind.

I tossed and turned last night. My ear still throbs. I don't know if my throat hurts. I just don't know. I may be dying slowly from the inside.

Maybe the popular TV show HOUSE will do a show on me and my mysterious illness. That might be worth the suffering.

In conclusion, when you are gossipping as you surely will be (90% of all conversation is gossip according to some anthropologist), just remember that you may be exposed to strep throat. Then think to yourself whether you're badmouthing is really worth dying for. Is it?

Don't call it a comeback

Thank you, loyal readers, for your heartwarming letters of concern for my safety and whereabouts. Although I cannot reveal where I have been, know that I have been somewhere probably awesome doing generally awesome things and forgetting entirely to update you. That's just how I roll.

If you must press me for details, I could perhaps tell you I had a falling out with my alter-ego Shiny Penny. See, we write this blog together and she's been a right bitch lately. She's going to be really ticked off that I let that one go. I don't really care. You know what it's like when you have a falling out with your alter-ego. Who wins? The dominant -- and clearly cooler and better -- personality. That would be mine.

So I'm going to indulge you for a few more posts -- and Shiny Penny as well. She's a glutton for attention. We'll see what happens, puppies. It could be a bumpy ride.

xo, me and SP

Something old, something new.

So I'm back from Project H. It's been a while, puppies. I apologize for leaving you hanging.

I'd like to do a year in review. I'd like to but that's so lame. Everybody does a year in review. Boor-ing.

Instead I'll relay the dyanmite day I had this very day. It was explosive. Truly. Fasten your belts.

I kicked it off with my fierce morning karate practice. You didn't know I practiced the art of karate, did you? I do. Let this be a warning to never ever ever fuck with me. (Sidenote: I saw a kid with a t-shirt that read Never Fuck With Me but it was in Italian and therefore not easily understood by the non-paisans.)

Anyway, after my seriously freakalicious practice, I got in touch with my sensitive side and baked a cake. You didn't know I baked, did you? Just goes to show, you don't make the effort to get to know me. For shame. I did bake a delicious cake with fresh ingredients and now it sits like a large loaf, because it is loaf-shaped, on my kitchen table waiting for consumption.

After practicing the high art of karate and baking a cake, I was pretty bored. So I took a long walk. Downtown to Chinatown.

There have been more than one occassion in which I have found myself on these aimless walks deep in the heart of Chinatown. I'm never quite sure what to do once there. I look. I walk fast. I try not to make eye contact.

Quite honestly, I took this long constitution because I was pissed off about something and needed to "walk it off." The rage that is. I am sometimes filled with rage. You didn't know that either, did you?

Luckily the brisk air and a call from a former boyfriend put me back into a non-rage frame of mind. So here I am. The rage is at bay. I am staring at all the presents I've bought and wrapped for my totally awesome family and feeling pretty awesome myself.

So Happy Whatever-You-Celebrate to you and yours. Sorry for the delay in updating you post-vacation. I may have promised a picture but I'm feeling a little stingy after so much giving today.

Until tomorrow, pups.

Preparation-H

"While hemorrhoids are something you might not want to discuss, they are in fact a very common problem for both men and women."

Unfortunately, puppies, I am not in fact preparing for hemorrhoids. If you are in fact preparing for hemorrhoids or rather for their removal, I suggest you head over to the Preparation H site where you can pick up a handy $1 off coupon.

My subject is Preparation, the H referring to my vacation destination. You can let your mind run wild on all the hot H spots around the world. I think it will be more fun that way.

So I'm preparing. I've moved myself past the mental preparation, as in "I am thinking about packing but I am not mentally ready to pack." I have opened a suitcase and thrown in some random items which will probably not make the trip but as the early explorers would say "Progress!"

Anyway, this may be my last post for some time. Please do not cry. I will be back soon enough and promise to extol all of my H location secrets. Thanks for playing.

Happy bird.

The High Art of Procrastination

I never used to practice this now-familiar art. But I've embraced it in recent years with nothing short of gusto. I am happy to report I am now quite facile in this the highest of art forms.

I may start showing in galleries in Chelsea. "Come one, come all -- watch me procrastinate." It would be a live action, interactive exhibit. You could assign me simple tasks and then watch as I do not complete them. Of course the admission price would be exorbitant but could you really pass up such an opportunity to watch me not do this or that? I think not.

You should really stop shaking your head dismissively at this point. You should really stop closing your mind to the act of not getting things done. You've never tasted freedom, have you? Pity.

Well, off I go to plan not to plan to do what I most assuredly should be doing.

Ciao for now.

This is what they call a Block Party.

Writer's Block Party to be exact.

[Pause for writer's station break.]

So anyway, as shocking as it may sound, I have nothing to instruct, exaggerate, rant/rave, praise, demoralize, or otherwise jibber jabber about today. I'm quite tired to be exact. I can tell you that soon, very soon, I will be away. Somewhere tropical and warm, working on my serious tan.

I take tanning very seriously as anyone who knows me can attest. I get like dark chocolate. It's a sight to be seen firsthand, not second- or thirdhand. Maybe I'll share some of my awesome vacation photos with you upon my return. That alone should be enough to hold you over until this raging Block Party ends.

'Night.