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.

Not the same

It's a sad Sunday. No accident either that it's windy as all get out. A true original left yesterday. So we're observing here at Shiny Penny headquarters. Our heads are hung low and our hearts are full. We're trying not to cry.

I will be investing my fortunes in JetBlue starting tomorrow.

Much love to you, Chicago. Now home to Sam and Silas, Lupe Fiasco, and a super super girl.

Curses!

Why must it be so difficult to shop at places called Circuit City and Best Buy?

Yes, I'm female but I probably know more about technology than you ever will so shut it.

I just can't grasp why these vast spaces that appear to hold so much stuff actually are filled with nothing that I want nor will ever need. I looked on your little website, Circuit City, and yet your store has a whole lot of nothing. I asked your staff, Best Buy, but they were dumbfounded by my recitation of serial numbers. And people wonder why people like me shop online?

I resolve to avoid the human experience from this point forward in regards to any and all matters relating to the purchase of technology. Because no one knows shit. And when I asked for a recommendation, I got bupkiss. (I didn't need your recommendation anyway; I was just being polite.)

Hey, I don't fault the folks who work at Circuit City and Best Buy. I'm sure there are some good eggs in there but they should really reconsider who they put in the direct line of fire. Your frontlines are weak.

You may have guessed I came home empty-handed, which is most unfortunate and highly annoying. I will be shopping online to complete my technology purchase but not from Circuit City nor Best Buy.

This concludes this test of human interaction. Please leave me alone now.

You know what's interesting?

Watching five-hour marathons of "Laguna Beach". Now that's interesting. Awful, but interesting.

Watching someone saw into a meatball the size of a giant baby's head. Now that's interesting.

Ordering coffee in the old-school way and sticking to the lingo:
ME: "I'd like a medium."
NOT ME: "A grande?"
ME: "No, a medium."
NOT ME: "Right, a grande?"
ME: "No, a medium."

Applying hand sanitizer after you've shook a stranger's hand. The look of horror is interesting enough to fill pages.

Arguing about the use of commas, especially when you know you're wrong but you just refuse to give in. Insulting your adversary becomes very necessary in these situations.

Seeing someone else's point of view. Case in point:
NOT ME: "I think your open lip sore is sexy."
ME: "You have drunk too much of the Kool-Aid."
NOT ME: "No really. I think bloody, crusted lesions are attractive."
ME: "I fear for you sometimes."

Picking scabs can be very interesting. Highly unrecommended, but nonetheless interesting. The texture alone is worth the pick.

These are just some of the many many interesting things I can think of off the top of my head. I'm sure your list is as provocative.

SICK III: The Anger

I can't seem to shake this sickness. It has taken over not only my body but my personality and replaced my normally sunny disposition with unbridled anger.

In addition to my ill temperment, I've become accident prone. I'm currently nursing Night of the Living Dead finger and some unexplained bruises on the left leg. If something doesn't give soon, I'm going to seriously lose it. I came real close today to screaming. A real scream, coupled with throwing of objects, ripping of cushions, and just generally tearing things up in a wholly uncivilized manner. I envisioned this scenario and it made me smile. I refrained from unleashing the wrath out of some small manner of decency I seem to be holding onto for dear life.

I don't have anything positive or uplifting or engaging to say. I don't care what you have to say either. I'm still sick after two weeks and I'm really fucking pissed off about it.

SICK II

Yes, I know. You don't want to hear it, but it's true. My insides continue to wage war on my outsides. The insides are winning. I don't appreciate this battling; I'm a pacifist. Just when I started to dive deep down into that dark, dark space where self-pity is as delightful as the Skittles rainbow, I learned this.

Do you know whose apartment that Yankees' pitcher crashed his plane into? The woman who was in a coma for some 20 days after being injured during the Macy's day parade. She was hit by a lightpole or a float or something. Can you imagine that kind of bad luck? Damn, woman. Time to get out of New York.

SICK II isn't so bad in comparison.

SICK

I think I've mentioned this documentary before called SICK. It's about a performance artist who also happens to have cystic fibrosis. He's also coincidentally into S&M. This guy is for all intents and purposes SICK. His body is ravaged by disease and self-inflicted pain. It's an amazing thing to watch, grotesque and yet entrancing. It's like he's doing this dance with his warped life and forcing the disease to feel the way he wants it to feel, which just happens to be hanging from his nipple rings naked in a gallery in New York.

Kind of puts things into perspective when you're whining about your sinus/chest infection. Boo hoo. I thought about that guy today as I moved into day two of invalidism. I don't have it so bad really. Sure I woke up at 2 a.m. with a splitting pain in my head and had to literally steam my sinuses clear for two hours. But during that time I heard the strangest things outside. One man was talking very loudly and animatedly about something but I couldn't understand him. I thought "there could be a shooting right here right now and I'd be called as a witness and the defense lawyer would get my testimony thrown out on account of my having a towel over my head and breathing in steam from a pot of boiling water." These are the kinds of things you think about at 2 a.m. when your sinuses have lain seige to half your face.

It's a sick, sick world.

All in the follow-through.

Project management has its pluses. It's all about the details and the pestering and for fuck's sake the follow-through. Yes, it's entirely thankless. No one likes to be bothered, harrassed, or otherwise annoyed. But the lack of follow-through is very telling.

Your mothers probably told you if you don't have something nice to say, shut it. Fine. Great upstanding-citizen advice. However, I doubt there's a caveat in there for 'if you don't know the answer to question posed or you're too much of a sissy to respond honestly, silence is golden.' I'd like to dispel that untruth right here.

Follow-through, people. It's a common courtesy. A basic right as Americans. Do I even have to point to history for the innumerable cases where a lack of follow-through would have avoided disaster, nay peril?

Do it. Say what you mean. Do what you say. Stop willy-nillying around and hoping you can hide in some dark cave until your pursuer loses the scent. Unless of course you are in a cheese cave, then by all means frolic to your heart's content.

This is what I have to tell you. Heed what I say. You'll be better for it in the end 'cause when the end comes. . . well, better left unsaid.

These boots were made for sex walking.

It's true. I do possess secret stores of knowledge where sex workers are concerned. I know, for instance, that there is a Whores Congress held annually in Amsterdam. I know that sex workers in Amsterdam have to pay taxes but are not entitled to benefits of any kind. (This was the case 8 years ago; things may have since changed.) I did in fact read the book "Sex Workers". I recommend it.

Why, you wonder, do I know all of these fascinating bits about sex workers? That's highly confidential and you can't be trusted.

So I stumbled across this site about sex workers the other day: http://theaphroditeproject.tv/

These Aphrodite folks have designed some zany shoes for sex workers. These platforms have video, GPS, music players, an alarm, one-button access to 911, hidden compartments, and data on the sex worker.

This is like super sex worker gear.

Unfortunately these shoes are not yet for sale because I would have a pair already even though I'm not a sex worker.