2. Me: “Are you using that?” She: “No, it just won’t stop. I pressed the handle a moment ago and it’s still going. I’m waiting to see if it stops.” [Long pause. It doesn't stop.] Me: “It’s like the statue down the street.” She: [Blank stare.] Me: “The girl with the running water.” She: [Blank stare.] Me: [Uncomfortable, thirsty.] She: “Oh look, it stopped.”

3. A blonde and a blond, both wearing oversized white-framed sunglasses, driving in an oversized white SUV, neither saying a word.

4. Can you even imagine what would happen if Apple went into the microfilm reader business (iCrofilm? iRchival)? In an ideal world the aesthetic of microfilm readers would be super-sleek and modernist or exactly like this:

5. Spirulina is undoubtedly a con but I fall for it every time.

Think a blazingly accurate and devastating thought about someone more successful than you. Do not type it on the internet.

Make a cake. Not easily-shared, single-serving cutesy units like cupcakes. An entire cake.

Listen to music that does not have words in it.

Carry a book with you at all times, or as often as is practical. (It is practical more often than you think.)

Leave a generous tip for a terrible server when it’s clear he’s having a bad day.

Provide details about the schedule by writing it on a sheet of paper and handing it to the person with whom you are making plans.

Don’t iron your shirt. Do iron your sheets.

Deactivate 25-75% of your RSS feeds and/or Google alerts, especially the ones that include your own name.

Stop feigning interest in holidays that are stressful, overrated, or some combination thereof. Celebrate whatever holidays you damn well please. Next March 18th I plan to celebrate Grover Cleveland’s 174th birthday by denigrating James G. Blaine and eating a pickled herring, a Swiss cheese, and a chop. I imagine I will not be able to find much company for this, but no matter. Tiny defiances lend themselves to solitude more readily than grand defiances, which require a crowd both for impact and recordkeeping purposes.

The players: A woman, 40s-ish; her teenage son; an Unrelated Observer. All are in line (also known as “on line”) at the checkout.

Son: Hey, we forgot something. Be right back. [Son dashes away and returns moments later with a box of granulated sugar.]
Mom: Why do we need sugar?
Son: For the Kool-Aid mix.
Mom: I’m pretty sure that has sugar in it. It’s in the mix already.
Son: No, we have to add sugar.
Mom (reading label): It says it has sugar…
Son (turning the package of Kool-Aid over): No, see? It says “reduced sugar.” So we have to add some.
Mom: Oh, okay, you’re right.

* * *

Sometimes when the car thuds over a bad frost heave I think the phrase “frost heave, a roadway,” to the tune of “Frosty the Snowman.” Try it yourself and see!

* * *

After three decades on this planet I have decided I like the taste of coconut. I have no idea why or how this happened. It reminds me of when I was thirteen, the year I grew three inches between April and July — what up, cells that form my being? Who’s in charge here?

* * *

I have read, or am reading, a long list of books right now, some for “work” and some for “pleasure” although there is a sizeable subset that qualifies as both — a most enjoyable turn of events. Highlights include Ed Lin’s This Is a Bust, which evokes New York’s Chinatown so vividly I can see the sidewalks, smell the eels in white plastic tubs; Sam Lipsyte’s The Ask, which I’d been saving for a treat and now cannot put down; Game Change, which is exactly the way you think it is; and fellow New England nonfiction buff Elyssa East’s Dogtown, which is both thrilling and impeccably researched.

FYI, southern Maine, events of note on the horizon: speaking of Ed Lin, he’s visiting Portland on Saturday, April 11. Don’t miss it. Also pay attention to “Heroic Tales from Portland” this Wednesday the 7th and the Maine Festival of the Book (April 9-11) — oh yes, and of course the first-ever Scratchpad Reading Series event on April 20.

Not bad for the little city. Not bad at all.

* * *

The post-procedure painkillers I popped half an hour ago are working their magic. My mouth has stopped hurting, the world’s edges have softened, my thoughts are verging on the grandiose. This is the point at which I should either stop typing or start typing faster.

A reliable source has suggested it’s time for bed. It probably is.

I’ve been feeling type-ish of late, despite having less time than ever to type things that are not on the regular typing schedule. Perhaps I will come back here and type for you soon. Perhaps I will even re-introduce the concept of “paragraphs,” which I’m told are all the rage these days. (LOL.)

1a. I promptly forgot about the city when I got back to Portland and saw the pink sky over Casco Bay.

1b. Yes, I spend a lot of time thinking about being in Maine and being in New York and being in places in general. It’s habit by now. At least I don’t bite my nails.

2. One of the (many) things I miss about zine publishing is the schedule: one or two issues a year, 32 booklet pages. For me that is a perfect level of casual-writing output. Frequent enough to be serial, spaced far enough apart to allow for rethinking, revising and general ruminating. The truth is, if I didn’t get paid to type things on a website every day I probably would not type things on a website every day.

2a. This is one of the (many) reasons I don’t type things here every day, or even every week.

2b. Or here, even.

3. In case anyone’s still reading, here is a picture of some sled dogs I met last month.

3a. Things sled dogs eat include: raw venison, raw smelt, hard-boiled eggs with the shell still on, raw carrots.

Anyway, I’m fine, in varying shades of purple. The lesson here is always wear a helmet when bicycling. I was wearing my helmet and if I hadn’t been I might not be typing this right now, and just think how sad you’d be. Also, eff you U.S. health care system ($1,200 for a CAT scan “just to be sure” on the noggin front? Deductible votes no!) and thank heavens I’m a filthy hippie who knows how to take care of myself (ginger for inflammation; arnica for bruising; loads of B vitamins; hatha yoga to prevent stiffness; small quantities of organic beef for iron; an acupuncture session to hit the reset button). Free advice, there you go, no copay necessary.

* * *

I’ve spent a lot of time lying on the couch, giving myself a crash course in American rom-coms. There is no helmet for that, as far as I know, but there should be. It should’ve been called He’s Just Not That Into You Because You Are a Terrible Movie And He Resents Having His Intelligence Insulted For Two Hours, and 27 Dresses Plus a Free Shotgun For Shooting Your Eyes Out Afterwards.

On the other hand, How To Lose Friends and Alienate People was very good, Kirsten Dunst notwithstanding.

It is nice to have an excuse to lie around and watch movies, even if some of the movies make me angry and my DVD player is held together with Scotch tape.

* * *

Comrade Trying to Schedule Plans: So what’s your deal?
MPS: I’m going to raise commodity prices by establishing a system of “domestic allotments” that will create artificial scarcity conditions
MPS: OH WAIT NO that was FDR’s deal

Gchat: How to lose friends and alienate people.

* * *

Current obsession: traffic islands.

* * *

Fetal joke: Something about the Senate voting down ACORN funding on account of the prostitution video thing and the Senate’s continued funding, via payroll, of David Vitter. (Joke never carried to term. It will not be missed.)

* * *

So what do you think? Brain damage, yes/no?

A few years ago I tried to popularize the term ‘braffed,’ a word to indicate a situation that has been overwhelmed by irritating mediocrity. Example: “Argh! My boss rewrote my presentation and put three typos in it!” “Man, you got braffed.” It never caught on, but once I tested the Ruined Music email list software by sending myself a message that read “Test test, you got braffed,” and in a stroke of misfortune, sent the message to the entire list. I braffed myself!

Zooey Deschanel
I want to think I’m wrong on this. Maybe if I hung out with Zooey Deschanel we’d discover that we have sooooo much in common, and we’d run around the Lower East Side shopping for adorable vintage bracelets, and she’d convince me to cut my hair in thick chunky bangs, and then we’d drink kombucha and giggle and swing our purses as we skipped down the street and then a unicorn would fly overhead and vomit glittery stars and we’d hold hands and promise to be BFs for F. It’s possible.

Then again maybe not.

Conor Oberst
Hey Conor. Yeah, look, a lot of people didn’t like George W. Bush. Most of us were able to deal with this without resorting to tripe like “Does God suggest an oil hike when the president talks to God?,” but then again most of us are not bugeyed professional daydreamers in Prada suits. Aw, I’m sorry, did I hurt your feelings? Quick, someone get Conor an absorbent sweater, I think he’s going to cry.

Sandra Lee
I have seen this lady on television maybe three times in my life, on account of not having cable (move to Canada you goddamn commie), but three times was enough to convince me. Plus surely you’ve seen the mashup clips that are circulating on the internet, this one being the best/worst (pet peeve: ‘expresso’), via Salad & Candy:

***BONUS: A Person I Have Already Punched in a Bar***

Sufjan Stevens. Except it wasn’t in a bar, it was on the sidewalk outside a bar, and it wasn’t an angry punch, more like a friendly one. Also he was very drunk so I don’t think he felt it.

…identify ‘em all and I’ll buy you a hot dog and a box of sparklers.

Q: Why isn’t the train coming? What do I do? What’s going on?
A: Deal with it.

Stand responsibly behind the yellow line. Enjoy the gust of wind that presages your train’s arrival; watch the rats and garbage scatter.

No reason to think Ukrainians aren’t self-reliant, but here’s proof.

Am. Lit. Hist., West Village

You may build as many condominiums as you like, but the Giglio will still be paraded through the streets of Williamsburg every summer.

This is the Brooklyn from the novels. I can’t say for sure if it’s real. I do know that the park on the right was named for my relative.

The caption on this painting in Columbus Park reads: “1980. Life in America, my grandfather found, was indeed unknown and unpredictable. Picture unknown.”

Cathedrals of the Financial District.

Belowground, barely distinguishable: the remains of an old Dutch cistern. Aboveground, reflected: Goldman Sachs.

“To Joe! Merry Christmas! I hope we keep in touch more in the future. I am really going to need family on my journey. I love you very much and will always admire you. Have a great Christmas and a very Happy New Year! heart, Audrey.”

…inscription on the back of a painting, garbage can, Clinton Street.

The task: Turn this spam headline into something entertaining: Police end funereal striptease acts.
The format: Short story, comic, photo essay, pop tune, whatever, as long as it is bloggable
The prize: A box of awesome from tryharderland sent straight to your door!
The deadline: Friday, July 3

Want to enter? Of course you do. Go here.

Item! Tri-named virtuoso John Dermot Woods has a sweet offer for those who pre-order his forthcoming novel by July 15.
Details go a little something like this:

My novel (with drawings), The Complete Collection of people, places & things, is being published by BlazeVOX Books next month. To celebrate we’re offering the book for $12 with free shipping (that’s 25% off) to everyone who pre-orders by July 15. AND, the first 50 people who order will also receive:
- a signed and numbered silkscreen print, to commemorate the book’s release
- a personalized copy with a signed, limited edition book plate

Take advantage of John’s generosity right here.

Item! I once played a newsboy in a production of Irwin Shaw’s Bury the Dead. My only line was “Extry, extry, read all about it!”
Delivered with gusto, and a little tweed cap.