Im tired and cranky and Im sitting and eating my lonely
pathetic
ramen
with egg
a mouse squeeeeeaks
Im alone no longer

This happened. I was confused because right when the mouse squeaked I moved in my chair so I thought it was me. And then I heard it again. So unappetizing!

It wasn’t as bad as the time my brother and I heard the rats in the movie theater. I think we were watching Lost in Translation. Before the movie started we heard them start their rat chatter and, for whatever reason, I am always in disbelief. Like that just cannot be what I think it is. There’s no way! But yes, rats exist and we apparently go to the same places. Well, you hear a rat…that’s one thing. Once the movie started we saw those jerks run back and forth behind the dang screen. They seemed larger than need be—a total visual effect I think.

Before summer started I woke up one night to a horrifying series of shrieks. It was ungodly. And puzzling. I leapt out of bed and ran to the window and tried to see something. My iPhone flashlight isn’t worth a damn. After about an hour of this screech, I went outside and looked up into the pine tree and saw three raccoons mating. Oh very nice. These bright animals mate in the trees. As such, the male raccoon has something of a barbed penis and this barb does not release the female until—I guess until he’s had his own release. We tried to hose the suckers down but they just climbed higher. We turned toward benign projectiles—it was getting desperate after all. They gave up and we did too. Ickiness abounds. I’m sure their sweet little babies are around terrorizing cats and eating garbage. Nature is just so neat.

So, left to my own devices, I do one of two things:  wander around aimlessly or set up in my room and watch Netflix.  The Office is amazingly soothing…even though I’ve seen every episode at least twice.  Maybe…maybe even thrice.  But back to my wanderings.  They were, of course, waylaid by the HURRICANE (wtf…an earthquake and a hurricane in the same week?) but I have managed to get out and see stuff.  I stopped at the Magic Gardens—a public mosaic installation.  That’s how they describe it on the website anyhow.  It is one of those very rare trippy and magical places where you feel all tickled from the inside out.  I am not even being facetious—it makes you feel good.  There is an outdoor sort of labyrinth full of wacko doll heads, mirrors, tiles and mermaids.  There is also gallery space—and an outsider art show.  My favorite artist bio read as follows:

“Renee (pronounced Reenie) Leshner attended Fleisher Art Memorial as a young woman, but stopped when she began to have visions of an ‘evil eye’ following her and threatening her.  She continued to be plagued by visions of other-worldly beings throughout her many years working as a bookkeeper in Philadelphia.  Gradually, her interest in drawing became her refuge, as her artwork evolved into an important method of expression – even a kind of ‘defense mechanism’ – against her supernatural visions.”

Jeez.  I mean, after I got over my knee-jerk reaction—holy cow I love how bizarre this is (of course)—I began to feel a little freaked out.  Because sometimes these scary feelings just come over people and then they have to exorcise their demons.  I get that.  Art as defense.

I flew over from San Francisco sitting right next to the Bay Area sculptor who was responsible for fabricating a HUGE paintbrush (complete with paint glob) created by Claes Oldenburg.  HUGE sculptures of common everyday objects can be kind of fun, but…I don’t know.  Somehow it’s a bit overdone.  Know what’s cool?  Anything big.  Hmmmm, that’s what she said?

I’m attending an MFA program in book arts (paper making, printing, printmaking, binding, etc.). We are indeed kickin’ it old school. I think it’s slightly misunderstood–book arts. What’s more is my description might just describe book arts in the most traditional sense. I just might go crack crazy and make paper sculptures or installations. You just never know.

So…I’m in the City of Brotherly Love. That’s right, this die-hard San Franciscan has headed east. It’s the land of cheesesteaks, and Ben Franklin, and Rocky. I think that might just be what most (not-in-the-know) people associate with Philadelphia. I don’t know what to expect. So far, I’ve moved in to a very nice, big room in a very nice, large turn-of-the-century house in South Philly. My roommates/landlords are a very nice married couple who are my age. A ceramicist lives here as well. They were kind enough to pick me up from the airport (sans bags–a long story) and have done so much to make me feel comfy and welcome. I feel way too lucky!

The first thing that strikes me…it’s really freakin’ warm and humid. Like stewing in your juices kind of humidity. Then there are thunderstorms and I am at a loss as to what to wear. So, I wore flip flops to the store last night. Was a weird choice. But feet do dry.

It honestly feels like a smaller and less crazy-buzzy New York. Lotta brick. A guy actually said “fuhgettaboutit” to me at the sandwich shop. People are nice here. They might run you over dead in the street, but they are pretty nice. And the food might kill me. I’m already heavier than usual due to a few weeks of stress eating. Will need to walk it off. Next week is my last week to relax before the hard work begins! Oh vey…stay tuned as I document this trip.

At any rate.  Some things do not change.  Weird things still happen to me.  Uncomfortable situations still do find me everywhere.

I was in a stinky bar in New York not so long ago and I had (just HAD) to visit the even stinkier bathroom in the dark and unsafe basement.  I tried to imagine what I’d do if I got mugged.  I went to open a stall but walked in on a drunk blond girl sort of hanging off the seat in some inebriated contortion.  I didn’t see her face because I was confused by what she was doing, but I apologized and shut the door (which, she should have locked anyhow) and she said over and over again “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”  I do not know why she was apologizing to me.  I found my way to the other stall and hovered and held the door shut since the lock was broken.  Drunkie finished her wee and exited her stall only to come over to mine to try to pull the door open, managing to super-smash my fingers in the process.  “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”  I think the worst part of that story was that it made me scream the word “O-U-C-H!!”  I felt dumb about that.  Passive aggressive drunks are awful jerks.

Aggressive people in general are jerks I guess.  Hey yeah–I got cyber-bullied earlier this summer (well, sorta).  I was away at a two-week letterpress intensive workshop in the Smokey Mountains of North Carolina (rocking my ass on the porch drinking beer and watching fireflies) and I got a strange email from some lame lying cyber-bully.  It read:

This morning I was walking Nacho in the park and came across this gal with her annoyingly yappy dog.  I’ve seen her before.  She doesn’t want to violate the “dogs must be on leashes” law so she lets her dog run around hooked up to his leash, only the clip part bashes into people’s legs and today the stupid leash rolled over Nacho’s poo.  After some B.S. dog-related chit-chat, she paused and then burst out with, “hey, I have a business opportunity.”  This is never a good way to begin a sentence.  It reeks of desperation.  She then went on to explain that she works with this company that is “similar to Amazon” and allows you to buy things you buy anyway (“like toilet paper”) at wholesale and then you get a check.  Wait, wait.  That is too good to be true.  Anyhow, she then told me it was called Amway and that she was having a product party Monday if I wanted to come over.

This disturbed me.  I thought we were having a nice time.  She reminds me of someone I would have been friends with when I was a sweet lil kid.  And she tried to RECRUIT me.  I felt so used.

Halloween has sadly come and gone.  I hate that about holidays.  There is so much build up and then they happen and then it’s over.  And you have to wait through the drought of spring and summer for the good ones to come up again.  Labor Day?  Bah.  I had a bigger night than I had expected.  This is always a good thing.  The next day, not so much, but you sure do enjoy it when it’s happening.  I was a very unsuccessful cupcake.  The only recognizable thing was a big sparkly cherry I pinned to my wig.  It was sort of embarrassing but way less so than wearing some lame “Sexy Fill-in-the-Blank” costume.  At the first party I attended all the girls were sexy.  Sexy gangster, sexy Red Riding Hood, sexy Greek goddess, sexy Egyptian, sexy border patrol agent.  The border patrol agent was actually with me, so she might not count. And all the guys had weapons: guns, swords, toilet plungers.  I was an unsexy and pacifistic cupcake.

My boyfriend’s friend played beer pong at some bar and was trying to talk to some group of girls when he found that he was puking in his Optimus Prime mask.  The mask had a little breathing hole and some puke started oozing out.  I think I might have run away.

My friend Esteban went to a pumpkin carving costume party and someone there had a complete psychotic episode while scooping the slimy guts out of a pumpkin.  I’m really only guessing it was that that set him off.  I hate those guts myself and I almost want to pitch a serious fit when I have to deal with that muck.  They had to call an ambulance and hide the carving knives and Esteban had to have a very serious conversation with an EMT while dressed as some freaky weirdo with a skull strapped to his head and blood seeping out of his eyes.

I was listening to Fresh Air the other day and good old Terry was interviewing a woman who worked at Bellevue Hospital in New York.  Her job as the emergency room doctor was to determine whether patients were at risk to themselves or others.  She wrote about how sometimes the smells she encountered were awful.  She had taught herself to self-hypnotize and would convince herself “the smell of urine is not offensive to me.”  She did say, however, that it’s really the smell of fungus that is the worst.  For some reason the hypnosis didn’t work on the fungus.   Ahhh, the fungus among us.

I’m glad to see his many talents are being fully utilized.  It’s kind of incredible to me that one spends years of one’s life studying and writing papers and conducting research only to end up making such signs.  At least he got to be creative picking that font.

So, alas and alack I have been very neglectful of my poor blog.  I blame Facebook and the stupid feature that is the status update.  It is just too easy.  It’s a trap, I tell you.  You fall into this pit of self-indulgent and self-important blather.  People I know have invented half-truths to make themselves seem cool.  Or, what’s worse…they fish for comments with statuses that read “I’m sad” or “I’ve had it” or “Why are people so mean?” or “Phew, that was a close call.”  Just SAY what it is you want to say already.  I cannot say that I haven’t been slightly guilty of the aforementioned annoyances.  I’ll let you know what I’ve been doing for the past (god knows how many) months I’ve neglected my blog.

Kitty Pulido is:

- just bought my glue-on nails for the Jersey Party…next up, sun-tanned colored pantyhose and Aqua Net.
- woke up this morning thinking it was Friday…weak!
- is trying to channel her inner Julia Child…and am failing terribly. Maybe should have hit the sherry a little harder.
- tried the Tonga Room but turned right around when we saw the 13-year-old beauty pageant queens dancing to I’m Still Standing. Now wading through a sea of big girls in booty shorts in North Beach. I heart SF.
- the ladies next door are going gaga for the new photos of Vladamir Putin…I think I even heard the phrase “Russian Fabio.” Yikes.
- might have to shake someone today. Hide people!
- it’s a little disturbing how many hits a search for “baby gangsta clothes” yields
- just passed a guy in a motorized wheelchair with a “bumper sticker” that read “Muff Diver.” Sheesh–I need a camera.
- “I didn’t recognize you…you look good today.” Compliment? Unsure.
- I may have to make a special trip to Memphis–the attorney just told me about a store that advertises “Clothes and Peanuts.” Yes, peanuts in a barrel (salted and not) and mauve stripper clothes…
- at the pig races!
- stealthily averted a skunking last night by the docks. That’ll teach me to walk and text at the same time.
- ok so…who steals a door stop from a bar? Sasha. That’s who.
- Overheard at dinner: “when I was a kid I thought wolves were the same as cats.”
- if being excited about a longstitch bookbinding is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
- is wondering why “Cankles and What to Do About Them” is listed as an MSN A-List Topic…sheesh.
- At the vet…animals always look so sad when getting their temperatures taken!
- listening to a lecture on dopamine depletion…fabulous!
- Reading a pretty bad script right now. My favorite line so far: “You’d kiss a deviant with cigarette breath?” I hope today flies by.
- Just heard a woman tell her little daughter to quit calling her “mommy” because she hates that word. Geez man, that’s cold!
- is an unintentional eavesdropper. I just overheard a gal in uncomfy heels say she wished she could take her shoes off, but she’s afraid they’d smell.
- I may have reached a new low. Romeo & Juliet: Sealed with a Kiss. It’s an animated movie starring….seals. I wonder how it’s going to end.
- Seriously…the last thing I need is some hawk swooping down and stealing/mauling/basically killing poor little Nacho. And I saw one stalking us this morning. Why you eyeing me son?!
- Kristin just told me she is going to be wearing a pearl necklace of burger juice this evening and I just don’t know how to feel about that. I miss that gal.
- I got water on the brain.

I think I might need to get more of a life.  Plus status updates are lazy.  For a person used to writing full-length blogs, anyhow.

I got kicked out of therapy for being too normal.  I had sought it out after my mom passed away.  I’ve been told by two separate counselors (counselors and not full-fledged therapists because I am not crazy enough) that I just need to be more communicative.  I need to come out and talk about my feelings because I am too…reserved?  I guess that’s why for the longest time people were weirded out by my response to my mom.  I didn’t write about it much in my blog because I feel that some things are too private.  I’d much rather read entertaining stuff than sad stuff and I imagine I’m not the only one.  But then I guess I wonder if my blog writing was sort of becoming the way I conducted myself in life–only revealing glimpses, never discussing anything of real depth or importance.  Is entertainment for entertainment’s sake so bad?  I kind of don’t think so.  Not only that…but I think that I am secretly revolting against the expose-all trend promoted by Facebook and Twitter.  I really hate that crap.

Oh wait–I got off-topic.  Do you know how weird it is to get kicked out of therapy?  Talk about feeling like a failure–I can’t even do crazy right.  The last counselor looked me straight in the eye and said, “Katherine, you’re fine.  You’re cool–you’ve got a lot going for you and I think you’ve made a lot of progress.  Make room for the real crazies.”  And then he ushered me into the dimly lit waiting room and called the next patient.  This is all before I had a chance to realize what was happening.  At first I felt pleased–like cool, I hate this place anyhow.  But then, I began to feel a little cheated.  We hadn’t really had a chance to tidy up the many loose ends we had.  And I had heard that Kaiser likes to do this to people–offer them 3 sessions then move on to the certifiably crazy.  Which is all well and good–I get it–but what if I’m not done yet.

Oh whatever.  All this talk of feelings just makes me hungry anyhow.

I met with my financial planner yesterday.  I actually have one, yes.  After we got the business portion of the meeting out of the way, it turned to a lengthy discussion about cats.  I guess his wife and her dad are ga-ga over cats.  Her dad paid to have Buffy the cat undergo laser surgery to clear up her sinus problems.  When all was said and done, the poor cat had perfectly round nostrils and a perpetual case of the sniffles.

The father-in-law had another cat called Mr. Timmons.  Mr. Timmons was large and didn’t give a fig.  He’d sit in traffic.  He used to stand up on his hind legs, grab a hold, and pee on car tires.  This was the only way he liked to pee.  When picking Mr. Timmons out of the litter (Note:  Timmons’ father was some fancy and enormous stud – the breeder would have to rescue the females before he killed them while mating) my financial advisor watched as the breeder laid out a plate of raw meat for the kittens.  Suddenly one gigantic kitten climbed over—literally WALKED OVER—the others to get to the meat and then ate it “prison style” with his elbows up.  That won him a home instantly.  Gluttony does have its benefits, I suppose.

Recently, my grandfather’s brother had to have some kind of emergency surgery.  My grandfather is one of four brothers.  He’s the oldest, and the healthiest.  The other three are always almost dying.  I’m glad I got some kind of tough genes because these tough, grumpy old kooks have been holding on for years.  My dad asked my grandfather why his uncle was in the hospital this time.  “His iris fell out.”  This boggles the mind.  “What do you mean his iris…that’s impossible.  You mean his cornea got detached?”  “No, like I said, his iris fell out.”  On top of having tough genes, evidently, I also come from a long line of freakshows.

In case you’ve missed the tragic love triangle that’s been playing out at the San Francisco Zoo…I shall regale you with a tale of deception and intrigue.  So, of course, San Francisco has a pair of gay penguins called Harry and Pepper.  Some years back, they just hunkered down and decided to give it a go and make a life for themselves.  They nested together.  Sulky Pepper finally had a companion.  The two were given an egg to care for and apparently were very good and vigilant egg-sitters.  When their chicky was born, the zookeepers said the two were the best dads ever.  Well, fast-forward SIX years.  Their neighbor, a male named Fig, died and left behind a poor floozy widow named Linda.  Linda, suddenly alone and in need of male attention, turned to Harry.  You can imagine how this ends.  Not well for our friend Pepper.  This sudden split caused a lot of drama and heartache and Pepper had to be sent away for a little while.  I realize that humanizing these animals is just plain babyish, weird and maybe just a little lame, but it is pretty amazing too.

Also amazing:

Imagine yourself walking in the serene and unspoiled

beauty of the Woods and listening to the sounds of the

Wolves after a stressful day.  Listen to the symphony of

nature while you relax and escape into a world of natural

beauty.  Sounds of the Wolves in enhanced with Strings,

Bells, Horn Choir, Harp, Woodwind Choir, Piano, Oboe,

Accordion, Brass Choir, and Flute.

There is also a note that this is “not subliminal.”  Do we really think that someone might embed some scary subliminal messages in the Wolf songs…something like: “Shoot them all—go on a murderous rampage” or “Shopping at Walmart makes you sexy”?  I just don’t know.  I’m not really sure how brainwashing works, but shoot, if it’s not painful, I might try it to test my mental and emotional fortitude.

Yesterday I was asked to help feed a baby raccoon and I happily agreed.  “Pick ‘em up by the scruff of his neck – that’s what their mothers do” is what my co-worker told me.  So I did.  And the raccoon let out this ungodly HOWL that froze my dang blood.  Then he went into a seizure which resulted in foaming at the mouth.  In my head I believe I was screaming “RABIES!!!”  My co-worker assured me I had done nothing wrong but we both watched with serious concern as the raccoon gasped for air.  I hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet so this was especially traumatizing.  His breathing eventually evened out and she shoved him back onto my lap and I bottle-fed him.  I fought back tears and then burped the sucker.  This animal charming business ain’t as easy as it looks.

I recently bought my first-ever item on eBay.  I know right—like welcome to 2003.  But seriously, things like auctions and bidding always kind of wig me out.  I lost my first two book presses (my newest endeavor) to sneaky jerk-ass last-minute bidders, but as they are not necessarily the most in-demand items on the market, I was able to find a handcrafted press fairly easily.  I even set up my own PayPal account.  I told my boyfriend I linked it to my credit card and he told me I’d better just be careful.  A friend of his got really drunk one night and woke up face-down on his computer’s keyboard.  A couple weeks later a large package arrived unexpectedly.  It was full to the brim with every single doll from the movie the Puppet Master.  He’d apparently bought them directly from the creator for a cool $3k.  I like people who make me feel normal.

I had a phone call yesterday with a union rep who wanted to talk to my boss about maybe representing people in California unions.  He was a chatty-type and since I rarely get to talk to strangers on the phone, and since it was a slow day, we ended up having a very long conversation.  I suspected it might go down an unusual path when he said, “you know, it’s not often that I get to speak to nice young girls…I can’t even get them to look at me.”  Uh-oh.  “Not after my body got crushed.”  Uh-oh.  I laughed sort of uncomfortably and tried to deflect by saying, “Oh, I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”  I know, I know—LAME.  “But, you know what?  I’m glad I did it—I did it for the right reason.”  He was working as a semi truck driver out in Ohio.  It was a rainy day and a woman two cars ahead got spooked and slammed on her brakes.  The busload of school children behind her crashed into her little car and decapitated her.  He swerved to avoid hitting the kids and smashed into a ditch.  The trailer came through his cab and crushed his body to smithereens.  “Hold out your left hand,” he said.  I did.  “Now, hold up just your index finger.”  I did that too.  “That is the one bone in my body that wasn’t broken.”  He lost his wife and his family during the two years it took for him to heal in the hospital.  Still, he had an amazingly upbeat attitude and told me he didn’t want to feel sorry for himself.  I truly admire that, and wish I got to talk to more strangers.

Late the other night some poor reckless guy was doing about 90 mph on a pretty dangerous stretch of freeway just south of San Francisco.  He unfortunately rear ended the guy ahead of him and flew up over the car.  His helmet came off, and his head was run over at least twice.  “Is that what killed him?” I asked.  “Hard to tell…his left leg was almost severed clear off.”  Looking at Michelle, you wouldn’t think she’d be doing this kind of work.  She’s very big eyed and innocent looking.  She loves karaoke and cute stuff and Bath & Body Works lotions and so to hear her talk about this so matter-of-factly is just plain weird.  “And the weird thing was his kidney popped out on to the road.”  Wow.  “That is crazy.”  “But that’s not the crazy part.  I haven’t gotten to it yet.”  Apparently in gnarly-ass accidents like this one, the body’s muscles will suddenly and very powerfully contract.  “Okay, so the Dr. looks at me and says, ‘Michelle, do you see a penis?’”  Nu-uh.  Okay, the guy’s penis was missing.  MISSING!  It wasn’t severed; it had been pulled clean into his body.  She finally located what she said looked like a second belly button.  “I tried to pull it out but it wasn’t budging.”  Wow.  Sick.  I am still so disturbed by this charming after-dinner conversation.

The other day Steven and I were comparing early childhood traumas suffered at the hands of religious organizations.  I was telling him about how the nuns told me my mom probably wouldn’t be going to the same heaven as me since she was a Buddhist.  He told me about being forced to watch films on the diseases of Africa in Lutheran sleep away camp.  This is apparently where he first laid eyes on a man with elephantiasis.  That just ain’t right.  I think I bested him though with my tales of watching raw Nazi death camp footage in the 3^rd grade.

We then got onto the topic of different kinds of sins.  I am not very handy with my sin trivia, so I looked up “mortal sins.”  I think these are basically sins that you have to confess and be absolved of, or you go straight to HELL.  They are called “mortal” sins because they essentially kill your soul.  I had to look up these definitions so I could seem somewhat smart.  So, check it.  Following is a list (courtesy of churchdoors.com) of what is considered to be a mortal sin:

• Abortion
• Anger
• Adulterers
• Amending the words of the Holy Bible
• Blasphemy against the Holy Spirit, (Eternal sin)
• Carousing
• Cowards
• Defrauders
• Dissensions
• Disrespect towards parents
• Drunkenness
• Enmities
• Envy
• Factions
• Faithless
• False witness (liars)
• Fornicators
• Greed
• Holy communion while received in a state of mortal sin
• Idolatry
• Impurity
• Jealousy
• Licentiousness
• Love and practice falsehoods
• Male prostitution
• Murderers
• Polluted
• Quarrelling
• Sodomites
• Sorcery
• Strife
• Thieves (steal/robbers)

That is actually a verbatim list.  I don’t fully get this list.  And it is not only because of the strange way some of the things listed are nouns while others are verbs.  I know what thieves are, so to clarify by writing “steal/robbers” next to thieves seems silly.  “Love and practice falsehoods” also seems strange.  Does that mean you have to love lying?  Because a lot of people just lie without loving it.  And “male prostitution”?  Not prostitution in general?  “Polluted”?  “Strife?”  A lot of things on this list seem to need greater definition.

Looking at this handy-dandy list (and I have inserted bullet-points so you can easily print this out and check-off the sins you’ve committed) I can say that I’ve committed like 19 of these.  On Friday night.  And I’m not even bragging.  I do not believe I have atoned for maybe half of those infractions.  So, I think I might be boned.  But wait.  Did you know – and this is a very handy thing about being a Catholic – that you can atone even at the very last minute?  As in:  when you die, and you’re being dangled over Hell with a view to the Pearly Gates you can say you are sorry and you will most likely be spared eternal damnation.  That’s freakin’ sweet if you ask me.

Two back-to-back super sweet things happened to my brother and me on a short trip to Jack-in-the-Box. First, we stumbled upon something the devil hisself concocted – TACO NACHOS. For $1.99. Basically, take two or three regular Jack-in-the-Box tacos, cut ‘em in half and top with yummy goopy nacho cheese, jalapenos and salsa. WTF, you guys. It felt really disgusting eating those things and I feel filthy for saying they were delish. And while we were waiting in the drive-thru, we saw a van pull up and a guy with Down’s Syndrome got out drinking a Dos Equis. His two ho-ey sisters followed and then he stuck the beer under his sweatshirt to sneak it in. Sometimes I go for weeks without a single cool thing happening to me. And to have these things happen to me in the span of about 5 minutes was, well, freakin delightful.

I received a doodle from my co-worker, Steven the other day. He likes to leave me whacked out doodles of cute half naked girls flying airplanes or playing guitars. They usually accompany a note requesting that I do crummy things like deliver a letter or scan a document. This sketch was of an actual witness in a case we’re on as she testified on the witness stand. A word to the wise: if you are ever asked to testify in a federal court for say, a murder trial, you might want to steer clear of a t-shirt that reads “YOU AIN’T GANGSTA, YOU JUST FRONTIN.” Other shirts such as “SNITCHES GET STITCHES” or “SNITCHES IS BITCHES” are also not recommended. Just some friendly advice.

So this month off of FaceBook taught me a whole lot. Mainly, that FaceBook is an unnecessary waste of time. It taught me that your real friends will still find a way to talk to you via telephone, email, or snail mail. I also learned that I hate the new layout. Because, yes I’m back. I guess it was more of a personal challenge and, since I rarely challenge myself, I take great pride in the fact that I was able to boycott for an entire month. My friend Grover did it too and silently (unlike me) so I guess I’m not so special. I received a super-nice email from the Netherlands (can you believe I actually have someone that far away who tunes in to my random blog of nonsense?!) requesting that I plug a book. It does relate to a post I had about a year ago about the YONIVERSE see stakin-out-the-pervs-bacon-and-the-edge-of-the-yoniverse for more details. This plug I’m doing is for a book by a female artist named Christina Camphausen. Here is the website for the book:  www.yoniversum.nl . It is very different than the yoniverse collages Steven’s mermaidy friend was making with acid trippy religious imagery of monks and dolphins, but it is worth a look. Tres Georgia O’Keefe. There is even a Blue Period. No pun intended. In her husband’s email to me, he says his wife regularly does paintings of women daring enough to have such an intimate portrait of themselves. I can truly not think of anything more intimate, nor daring than this.