Curb your enthusiasm.

Now this is a very funny show. No argument there. But it's also an affliction. I know this.

I am a member and president of too much enthusiasm.

There is no known cure. Only constant reminders to "Curb your enthusiasm," "Calm down," "You are a spaz," "There's no dancing in here." Although I appreciate the constructive criticism, I'd like to point out that enthusiasm is appreciated in other cultures, in faraway places, distant lands, populated by easily excitable folk. I should move there.

In the meantime, I reject this curbature on my enthusiasm. I can't help it. I'm a victim. It's genetics.

Please send your donations to: Shiny Penny, Curb Your Enthusiasm Fight For a Cure.

Thank you.

Kick. Push.

So I'm not blind. In case you were fraught with worry. The UFO is still within sight however. Prognosis not so good for the hypochondriac. But I'm still kicking and pushing on through.

Speaking of which, I'm listening to Lupe Fiasco and I'd like to take a short moment to appreciate.

Did you hear that? It was a pregnant pause.

Awesome. Thanks for listening in and for all your letters of concern, concerning my sight. I was really touched.

Big love,
Shiny Penny

I believe, UFO.

This may in fact be my last post. I know. It's upsetting. Think how I feel for a second.

So, I'm seeing things. In the right eye. A "floater". I wasn't initially concerned three weeks ago when said foreign object invaded my vision. True, I did reach for the elusive fuzzy but was unable to capture it within my tiny palm, which is just about the time I started to freak out.

This particular UFO looks like a tiny tiny hairball and it moves like a tiger. Fast. I had sort of resigned myself to this special thing floating around my eye. And then I read up about it on WebMD.

I'd like to warn you about WebMD. If you have even a touch of hypochondria or general paranoia, stay away from the WebMD. This site is like a hungry parasite feeding on all your insecurities. Look up "flu" and you may discover you contracted ebola. I innocently researched my floater and was shocked and dismayed to learn I may have "retinal detachment" which requires SURGERY.

Calm down for a minute. I made an appointment with Dr. Magoo but I can't say the receptionist was all too concerned. I thought about whipping out my secret knowledge of "retinal detachment" but vetoed that decision.

As if all this trauma weren't enough, then I learn a good friend of mine has several floaters. Has had them for years.

Hold the phone, Buck Jones.

You can probably tell that I'm fairly worked up about losing my sight, especially after that other eye doctor compared my eyes to mangoes. So I'm going to stop staring at this screen and researching my fate. Keep your eyes crossed for me, puppies.

MOVE! Marlboro Man

As some of you may know, I love my laundromat. Many a story has been woven around the happenings at said wash & dry. Yesterday was no exception.

Upon entering, I noticed a funk but couldn't determine the exact funk source. There was a curious man in a high trucker-style cap and flannel shirt but I sniffed around him and gave him the negativo. So I'm washing. I'm washing. I'm washing. And I can't help but watch this man. He's taken his shirt off and put on another flannel shirt.

(Pause for station break. It was 77 degrees yesterday. Not necessarily flannel-wearing weather.)

I watch this man walk outside where he has a large shopping cart parked with all manner of neatly organized bags. I did notice he had nice toenails. No lie. Really. So there he is outside with his carton of whole milk. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that. He had a quart of whole milk with him. That could have been what first attracted my attention. He takes long gulps from his carton. It was a hot day -- I guess milk can be refreshing. He then lights up a cigar. I couldn't even make this up, it's so good. He's smoking his cigar and drinking whole milk.

Let me just repeat that for good measure.

He's smoking his cigar and drinking whole milk. From the carton.

As this whole scene was being played out, I couldn't help but think of the Ludacris song "Move". You know the one. Or the video maybe. Luda has these crazytown big arms and walks down the street, knocking shit over with his posse of beefy ladies.

This man reminded me of that video for whatever reason. And then I thought, this guy could totally take the Marlboro Man in a tussle. He wasn't especially big or tall or sculpted nor was he riding a horse. He was just mas machismo. I'm not advocating an actual throw-down 'cause I think the Marlboro Man is dead and that kind of seems like the odds would naturally be against him. I'm just saying.

It's nice to have heroes.

There are no dumb questions.

Oh really?

I don’t know who perpetrated this untruth. But I feel it my profound duty to set you straight.

There are in fact dumb questions and dumb answers, and yes, even dumb people. Don't be alarmed.

I am witness to the abundance of dumbnosity. I am not judging, mind you, just laying out the facts as I see them. And I have seen the face of dumb; I’ve heard the voice of dumb. It is all around us.

I thought about making a list of ALL-TIME DUMBEST QUESTIONS EVER. I just couldn't whittle it down to a Top 10. So I'm just putting it out there so you can be armed the next time you encounter a truly dumb question. I challenge you to respond with an equal amount of dumbnosity, just to keep it interesting.

If you'd like to submit your dumb questions, I'll compile them with mine in the aforementioned list. Thank you.

I'll miss you Crocodile Hunter

My heart was broken by the news of Steve Irwin's passing. Broken into tiny little pieces. Damn that sting ray! I did love that Crocodile Hunter. He was so fucking ebullient and enthusiastic about everything. We need more people like that in the universe. Just a little touched by the crazy but so happy, so happy it almost hurts to look at them.

That's it. All I really wanted to say. The softer side of the Shiny Penny. Don't get used to it, puppies.

The Television

It is a rare evening when I am master and commander of the television. Not much interests me on the television, other than the WB11 Morning News and the occasional video hits classic. And now that Steve Irwin is passed, I don't hold out much hope for the future of the television.

There was a glimmer in that otherwise bleak future this evening. I happened upon two back-to-back episodes of the Scrubs. When I tell you, I laughed out loud several times...well, I've just told you. And there you have it. That shit is funny. All of it. How is it stuck on Wednesday nights? Is Brandon Tartikoff still the head of NBC? Do I need to write a letter to someone? Because I most assuredly will.

Like I said, I don't forsee a bright path ahead for the television unless the Scrubs stays on the air. If it gets cancelled I may cry and that would be unpleasant. For everyone.

Damn hands

Hands are useful. Except when they're not.

I put my hands to work today in hopes of tricking them out of wanting to do what they surely do want to do very much. My hands have a mind of their own. They are wicked hands. Disobedient. Willful. Reckless hands.

So I kept them busy with various mundane tasks. Washing dishes, throwing shit out, turning pages of magazines and books, clicking endlessly through satellite TV, feeding me, etc. Nothing these hands wanted to do, that I can assure you. And now I've run out of things to occupy these bad hands.

Crap.

Segue. My second-biggest fan remarked the other day that I do not leave the door open for comment on this blog. My immediate reaction was shut up but being open-minded, I decided to give a listen. Perhaps second-biggest fan has something there. Whatever it is, it's a very small nugget, hardly worth this paragraph of mention but my damn hands are enjoying this. So fine. You want to comment. Go ahead. I've left this blog sufficiently vague that I invite your clever conversation. If I strike back viciously, blame my hands.

You're on notice!

I had some fun with the InterWeb today as pictured. If you go here http://www.shipbrook.com/onnotice/ you can create your very own list of You're On Notice. The above reflect my elections. There should be no explanation necessary but just in case you're feeling a little fuzzy today:

YOU'RE ON NOTICE. BY SHINY PENNY.

1. Mandals. Really, men. Man-dal? No. Wrong. I reject your slender leather straps. There's only one man I know who can pull it off and he's related to me so the rest of you can just quit it right now.

2. Space Invaders. You know who you are. You stand too close. You've obviously never seen "Dirty Dancing" in which Patrick Swayze very carefully explains, "This is my space. This is your space." You are not as cute as Jennifer Grey so get the hell out of my space.

3. The Manatee Loose in NYC. See earlier blog "Have you seen me?"

4. Warren Buffet's Bride. The "man" got hitched today to his longtime companion. Warren love you long time. Now you married. Don't get comfortable, sweetheart; Warren gave all his dough to Bill Gates.

5. Stephen Colbert. He owns the list. He was robbed an Emmy by his friend Jon Stewart of the pretty hair. Keep the eyes open, Colby.

6. Martini Drinkers. Sorry, I know there are many of you who enjoy a stiff one. But, they just bug me.

7. Dell. For making me panic about my face exploding. There's no excuse for you.

8. Cock-a-doodle-doo. This should really be Chock-a-doodle-doo. For more than a week now, I've suffered from extreme bouts of tiredness with no ready explanation. I drink my obligatory cup of java at 5:30 a.m. Followed by another around 9:00 a.m. For some reason that 5:30 cup wasn't pulling its weight. And then the truth was revealed! It was mentioned to me that clever packaging had tricked me into thinking my Columbian Chock Full'O Nuts was caffeinated. It was not. It was decaffeinated. I will now lodge a formal complaint with the Nuts regarding their negligence and fraud. Since when did the color green signify "decaffeinated"? Damn Nuts!

That's it. What the hell are you looking down here for, greedy bastards. Leave me.

R.I.F.

Reading is fundamental.

It is. Really. I'm a big supporter. A regular contributor. I've got bookcases to prove it. And books on the floor. You could say I consider myself an excellent reader. When I'm into the action, I tear through it like an animal. Like a tiger. You'd think that talent would translate.

And sadly, no. I am an excellent reader of books and yet a for-shit reader of people. This, this is my Achilles heel. Maybe those book burners had something there when they protested that literature would fill the minds of the impressionable with fanciful thoughts and dangerous deeds.

Okay, fine, I saw "Footloose" this weekend on TBS. I was totally drawn into the action. Surprisingly, I'd never noticed how incredibly gay Kevin Bacon's dance in the warehouse is. And by gay, I mean "happy". Needless to say, those particular teens are the worst dancers in human history but I'd go so far as to say that they are that way because their parents burn books.

I am an excellent dancer.

Back to scholarship. As an avid reader, I'm quite disappointed to realize this failing in myself. I seem to create very elaborate fantasies around people that don't quite come to fruition or anywhere close.

I am an excellent fantasizer.

Don't judge me. All this being said, I'm a touch depressed at present for my lack. Oh, the lack. Sweet, sweet lack. Reading is fundamental, and yet I lack. I lack. I lack. I lack. My rose-colored contacts seem to fill in spaces and create grand illusions in an already-super creative mind. Ah well. My cross to bear.

Speaking of bears, my deepest apologies for the hibernation. Entirely self-imposed. A Shiny Penny needs her repose and reflection. I'm quite done. At least publicly.

Thank you very much.

The Darkness

A friend snapped this photo for me on her cellphone. I laughed and laughed. Maybe you don't see the humor in lay-a-way. Too bad for you. You should get that checked out.

Ode to an assbrush

This one's for you, assybrushy.

Oh assbrush. How you fill the days with revelry and merriment. Who else would indulge the singing of showtunes? Who else would allow for the re-enactment of "Wild Boys"? Who else would regale me with terms of endearment to make a young girl swoon -- sweet sweet words like "dumbest of the dumb"?

When I think back on the days sans assbrush, I shriek, albeit silently. I shiver. I quake. Yes, even quake. The tremors. The tremors.

Yes, it's all true, assbrush. My confession. An ode to an assbrush. A po-em of sorts. You are an ass and a brush, and an assbrush all at the same time. Stupendous. Magnificent. Sweaty. And of course, dumb.

I bid you goodnight, assbrush, wherever you may be. And with that a word of advice: get a blog, dummy. The world needs more assbrushes of your kind.

Until we sing/dance/imbibe again...

You're an original

I was stunned to learn that M&Ms may change its time-tested, classic and delicious recipe. In my book, this is as catastrophic as the recent Dell notebook recall...if I owned a Dell of course.

What up, Mars?

Did the Colonel change the recipe when times got tough? Did the elixir of the Gods, a.k.a. Coca-Cola, mix it up with fruit flavors? No. And no. Well, okay, yes and yes. But candy is something sacred. You don't go all hybrid on the peanut butter cups with, say, marshmallow or grape jelly. That would be disgusting. So why change the M&M?

WHY?

Change is evil. I know what I said before about Sam Cooke and slapping change on the back, but I must have taken too many crazy pills that day. It happens. Don't judge me.

I'm getting really worked up about this. I may start a separate site in defense of the original M&M. I'll keep you posted on that and any other political activity I take on regarding the defilement of the M&M or similar delicious treats.

Have you seen me?

From the manatee's mouth to your ears:

"I am very cute as you can plainly see from the above photo. I am THE MANATEE on the loose in New York City. If you see me, please do not approach too quickly or point at me or scream and point or laugh. I am very sensitive. True, my baked potato shape makes me appear lovable and friendly. Don't be fooled. I am an animal.

Thank you. I love you very much."

A Meditation on Clutter

Oh zip it, already. You don't even know what I'm going to say. Yes, true enough, I've expounded on the subject of clutter before. This time it will be different. Have I ever steered you wrong?

Good job. You've made it to paragraph two.

So my meditation on clutter goes something like this. Let's say I was homeless. Or rather, forced into homelessness. I was thinking about this for all of five minutes while procrastinating, so you can already tell I've put a lot of mental magic into this subject. Okay then. Assuming that I'm homeless or forced into homelessness, what in fact would I choose to carry on my person on a daily basis? (See how I totally mixed things up there and got you thinking about what I was thinking. I am a pro.)

In the spirit of making lists, here is my list of:

STUFF I'D CARRY ON MY PERSON DAY-IN, DAY-OUT IF I WAS HOMELESS OR FORCED INTO HOMELESSNESS

--Sunscreen: never underestimate the power of some SolBar PF 50. This is also a lightweight item so I'm totally scoring points right now.

--Listerine: okay, not so good on the lightweight, but it's an antiseptic and I heartily embrace anything that admits to its anti-this, anti-that status.

--Pencils and college-ruled, 5-subject notebook, preferably with a green cover: in case I get laryngitis or something, or I just feel like writing down my totally excellent thoughts. Also the pencils can double as a wicked weapon. Nobody wants lead in their eye.

--Twizzlers: no explanation necessary.

--State Driver's License and one of those wicked headsets air controllers wear: I really like those headsets. The license, in case I forget my height because you never know when someone's going to ask you out of the blue how tall you are and maybe you can't remember because numbers aren't your thing. Makes a lot of sense now, doesn't it?

--Tube socks: for warmth and entertainment!

That about does it. I am a master of eradicating clutter. You may think my list a little weak but I am fairly confident I could survive with the above on my person day-in, day-out if I was homeless or forced into homelessness for all of three days. Maybe a couple hours of one day. Maybe an hour. Okay, maybe not at all.

As I conclude my meditation on clutter, I hope you've realized the error of your ways and feel grateful for all the crap you've accumulated and surround yourself with day-in, day-out. Awesome.

Like Sam Cooke said.

"Change is gonna come, nephew, and you better believe it."

Snoop Dogg said that. Well, he said that Sam Cooke said it, and I believe him. I believe S.D. has secret knowledge, and as you know, I'm all over the secret stores of secret knowledge.

But change is my preferred subject, and change it will be. I've been doing a lot of reading about change, change management, change readiness, capacity for change -- mostly in corporations. It's actually more interesting than that last sentence let on. What I'm learning is people are inherently afraid of change. I think some would go so far as to say they loathe it. People are funny like that.

And then I think about the folks who make the biggest change, who seek it out really. Transsexuals. (You didn't see that coming, did you?) Talk about shaking things up! I would venture to say that transsexuals must be the most courageous bunch in the whole world. I did a lot of reading about transsexuals too -- back in my school days. It was required reading for an English Literature class -- please don't ask me to explain that connection because my memory doesn't go back that far.

I'm not sure if Snoop was referencing transsexuals in that quote up there of a quote of Sam Cooke, or if Sam Cooke was referencing transsexuals in his original quote. I just don't know so stop looking all perplexed like I just dropped a big question. It doesn't matter. At the end of the day, change happens whether you want it or not. So why not stop being such a bastard about it and give the change a good slap on the back. You might be better for it. Or not. Change is funny that way.

Wow, you just stood me up.

A North Wind blew in this weekend, in case you hadn't noticed the marked change in temperature. This North Wind, of which I speak, brought much relief. You could see it on folks' faces yesterday. They were happy, smiling even, frolicking here and there, skipping, laughing, holding hands. A general sense of merriment.

And yet, this particular pleasing North Wind is quite the Janus. While ushering in cool breezes, it can also result in what is commonly called in dating circles "cold shoulder," "blown off," "stood up" and other such fun phrases. And so I was. Unceremoniously blown off by this cruel and yet pleasing North Wind, just in human form. I know -- it's almost impossible to believe that Shiny Penny could be ignored. (See A Tribute to World Domination.) Shit happens.

Let's just say I was a bit peeved yesterday but today is a new day and I got a kick-ass letter from my trusty friend Sam and my laundry is in the dryer and I think I was spared by Mercury and the North Wind.

Thanks! I really mean that. It's heartfelt. From me to you, a big kiss.

Still not writing about the heat wave...

Or Mel Gibson's apology. Or Fidel's intestinal problems. Or anything else inflammatory.

I did, however, count 12 people in jeans on my three-block walk home from the subway. I'm still at a loss with you.

In other news, I think I've stumbled upon the perfect pair of spectacles for my unseeing eyes. I'm not going to tell you where I discovered these incredible goggles because knowing you, you'll go out and steal them right from under me. I understand -- everyone wants a piece of me. Well, I'm not telling you so don't even bother to send me all those sweet, imploring emails.

As you may know, I hate glasses. Not like Mel Gibson hates Jewish people, mind you, but I do hate glasses. And no, not the drinking kind. There's just something about that weight on my face that drives me beyond bonkers. Plus, the periperal vision gets all screwed up and there's the constant pushing up of the glasses and there always dirty and I just don't like them one bit. I like glasses on other people -- don't go reporting me to the anti-spectacles league.

This may not be exciting news to you. But hear me now, a seeing Shiny Penny is a boon to the world. A Shiny Penny in the dark or fog or murky shadows is no friend indeed. Keep all appendages crossed that I score my sweet specs sooner rather than later. We'll all be better for it.

Denim has its place

Contrary to reports, I am not going to blog about the weather because frankly when it comes down to it, the weather is a pretty tired subject. Even though that segment on "60 Minutes" last night with the NASA scientist who reported that if we don't do something pronto about global warming at the melting ice caps in Greenland, we're going to be in deep shit. Yeah, even though there's that to worry about and the impending triple digit heat index in the coming days...I'm not going to write about the heat wave, per se.

Instead, I'd like to tackle a much more pressing topic. That topic is those people who insist on wearing jeans during a heat wave. While I was out and about this weekend, sweating out of every available pore, I couldn't help but notice a plethora of denim-clad men and women. It gave me pause. Actually, it startled me and made my head throb. All those poor legs and midsections and groins and ankles. Good grief.

What are you people thinking? What is wrong with you? I'd like to know because the very notion of sliding a leg inside of my Levi's right now makes me throw up just a little bit. I understand some people like to buck convention and others don't like their legs or knees or ankles but really, this devotion to denim is beyond duty. It's insanity. Free yourself. Cut those jeans at the knee. Get a pair of shorts or some short pants or a kilt or something, anything.

The whole world is going to pot. There's war in more parts of the world than I can fathom; there's Mel Gibson's DUI; there's the fact the "Miami Vice" was the number-one movie this weekend. There's trouble in paradise, puppies. Please do your part by saying NO to the denim. It can make a difference.

Extraordinary Machine

Today was totally above board. Not only did I do my good deed for 2006, but I was rewarded handsomely for it. Keep in mind that this good deed required me to commandeer a machine, and I commandeered like a total fucking pro, save for almost hitting that biker but I didn't see him so it doesn't count, nor does the pigeon who I narrowly missed.

So I performed my good deed totally unselfishly and as a result gained entrance into a before-now elusive gastropub. I know that's an anachronism. This particular pub of sorts has always been so goddamned packed that it's tried my patience in one too many ways. People are crawling all over this city like roaches and I hate roaches.

Anyway, it was off-peak so we infiltrated like two badasses, that being me and my right-hand wing who shall remain nameless because that's the way the wing flows. It was an awesome experience, complete with cheese and beer -- my two favorite combinations in the known universe. We took a long constitution afterwards because it was so beautiful out, and we were just feeling so awesome that we had to spread it around. Not to make you jealous or anything, but I capped off the evening outdoors with dinner with some friends.

Yeah, I guess I'd be jealous if I was you. It's hard work being both extraordinary and a machine. Hard work for you maybe. It's chocolate cake for this shiny penny.