IS NONSENSE.
READ HERE!
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Friday, November 09, 2007
another open letter
"An Open Letter to My First Five Girlfriends
June 16, 2004
Dear Holly, Kathy, Kelly, Nicole, and the other Kelly,
Look, I'll come straight to the point. I'm sorry I didn't know where the clitoris was, or, more to the point, where your clitorises were. I was a horrible wreck of dry humping, fingering teen lust who pinned you to couches and carpets and danced all around your deserving buttons of love without so much as grazing them, without even inquiring as to the location of your hidden high-school treasure, without even thinking that you might not be liking the way I was swizzling my hand around in your nether regions.
You were patient with me. You let me slip you the tongue in the field behind the shopping center. You allowed me to reach second base in the bathroom at Phil's party—you remember, the one where we drank all that peach schnapps and watched The Wall on Phil's mom's big-screen TV. Heck, you sat still in the back of Scott Parsons' sweet-ass Honda Prelude while I rooted around in your shorts like a frat boy working a couch for spare change.
While I'm at it, I'm also sorry for letting Brandon smell my fingers. That was immature and uncool, and even though you never found out, I feel badly about it. Really, I do.
To be honest, you should be pissed at my dad. We never "had the talk." I had no diagrams to work from, no explanation of the intricate workings of the little man who steers the canoe. Everything I knew about sex was gleaned from Cinemax's presentation of Emmanuelle in Bangkok and this old Betamax porno Bobby stole from his dad. I watched the latter one three times. Other than making me uncomfortable to be around my dentist, it didn't help.
I asked my father why he never clarified the finer points of clitoral massage with me way back then, but he just said that wasn't really part of polite conversation and he'd prefer not to discuss it. So I asked him if he knew where Mom's clitoris was and he hung up on me. I took that as a no.
Anyway, sorry about that. I'd have done you right if I'd had any idea what we were both missing.
Warmly,
Emlyn Lewis
Boston, MA"
Other open letters to people or entities who are unlikely to respond - here.
June 16, 2004
Dear Holly, Kathy, Kelly, Nicole, and the other Kelly,
Look, I'll come straight to the point. I'm sorry I didn't know where the clitoris was, or, more to the point, where your clitorises were. I was a horrible wreck of dry humping, fingering teen lust who pinned you to couches and carpets and danced all around your deserving buttons of love without so much as grazing them, without even inquiring as to the location of your hidden high-school treasure, without even thinking that you might not be liking the way I was swizzling my hand around in your nether regions.
You were patient with me. You let me slip you the tongue in the field behind the shopping center. You allowed me to reach second base in the bathroom at Phil's party—you remember, the one where we drank all that peach schnapps and watched The Wall on Phil's mom's big-screen TV. Heck, you sat still in the back of Scott Parsons' sweet-ass Honda Prelude while I rooted around in your shorts like a frat boy working a couch for spare change.
While I'm at it, I'm also sorry for letting Brandon smell my fingers. That was immature and uncool, and even though you never found out, I feel badly about it. Really, I do.
To be honest, you should be pissed at my dad. We never "had the talk." I had no diagrams to work from, no explanation of the intricate workings of the little man who steers the canoe. Everything I knew about sex was gleaned from Cinemax's presentation of Emmanuelle in Bangkok and this old Betamax porno Bobby stole from his dad. I watched the latter one three times. Other than making me uncomfortable to be around my dentist, it didn't help.
I asked my father why he never clarified the finer points of clitoral massage with me way back then, but he just said that wasn't really part of polite conversation and he'd prefer not to discuss it. So I asked him if he knew where Mom's clitoris was and he hung up on me. I took that as a no.
Anyway, sorry about that. I'd have done you right if I'd had any idea what we were both missing.
Warmly,
Emlyn Lewis
Boston, MA"
Other open letters to people or entities who are unlikely to respond - here.
another Maya Angelou
Phenomenal Woman
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
phenomenal woman
another one by Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
(...)
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
(...)
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
men
by Maya Angelou
When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.
One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.
Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.
Maybe.
(nobody else could describe me so well)
illustration by The Black Apple
why koalas are some little bitches, trying to be like kangaroos and shit
This essay was written by an 8th grader in Pittsburgh in the spring of 2004. The assignment was to pick an endangered species, and explain why it's important to save it. The typos and formatting are preserved from the original.
I shouldn't do shit. I don't care about them they all could die and it won't affect my life. I know a lot about them but I don't need to think about them. They're just a waste of time koalas are stupid they don't help me with shit so why should I help them. If they all die there will be more room for the panthers and all the other hard animals. Koalas are weak a pit will get rid of their whole fucking family. That's why I don't like koalas. Koalas have sharp claws but they are weak. They all small and fat and they be climbing trees. I hope a storm just come while they just chilling up in the tree thinking they is hard and they're will all just fall off. They just break they neck and shit. When they fall they claws are going to fall off and they going to be crying like some little bitches. Koalas aren't hard they some little bitches. They start climbing up the tree soon as they see a deer from like 50feet away. They stupid as hell they should put their brain in their pouch and put the kid in they ten they're be able to think better. They try to be in the fucking kangaroo family. They weak as hell, talking bout they got a pouch a kangaroo so they their cousins and shit.
Click here to read the whole text.
I shouldn't do shit. I don't care about them they all could die and it won't affect my life. I know a lot about them but I don't need to think about them. They're just a waste of time koalas are stupid they don't help me with shit so why should I help them. If they all die there will be more room for the panthers and all the other hard animals. Koalas are weak a pit will get rid of their whole fucking family. That's why I don't like koalas. Koalas have sharp claws but they are weak. They all small and fat and they be climbing trees. I hope a storm just come while they just chilling up in the tree thinking they is hard and they're will all just fall off. They just break they neck and shit. When they fall they claws are going to fall off and they going to be crying like some little bitches. Koalas aren't hard they some little bitches. They start climbing up the tree soon as they see a deer from like 50feet away. They stupid as hell they should put their brain in their pouch and put the kid in they ten they're be able to think better. They try to be in the fucking kangaroo family. They weak as hell, talking bout they got a pouch a kangaroo so they their cousins and shit.
Click here to read the whole text.
open letter
An Open Letter to a Guy I Work With Who Always Comes Into My Office To Tell Me He Sent Me An Email Right After He Sends Me an Email.
by Jason
Monday, November 5, 2007
Dear Louis,
You’re a very nice man and I do enjoy working with you. The fact that you own a donkey and a rooster makes me laugh. I don’t know many people who own a donkey and a rooster who don’t also live on a farm. You’re sincere and there is not a whit of vitriol in your body. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you mad. Often you share your lunch with me when you can’t finish it.
That’s why this is difficult for me.
Every time you come into my office I already know what you’re going to tell me. You’re going to tell me that you sent me an e-mail. And usually, just about the time you’re walking into my office, the boingy sound that I set up to alert me that I have received an e-mail is boinging. Or it boings right while you’re standing there. Then we say the same things: You say, “I just wanted to let you know I sent you an e-mail!” I say, “Yup, just got it.” And then you say, “Great, thanks! Just wanted to let you know!”
I know you’re a bit older and not technically inclined. I know you still use words like “facsimile” and “teleconference.” But here’s the thing with e-mail. When you send me one, I get it. That’s the whole point of it. Really. It’s why they invented it. So you can send me stuff electronically, and I can get it.
I want you to know I dream of killing your donkey.
Sincerely,
Jason"
via Your Daily Awesome
by Jason
Monday, November 5, 2007
Dear Louis,
You’re a very nice man and I do enjoy working with you. The fact that you own a donkey and a rooster makes me laugh. I don’t know many people who own a donkey and a rooster who don’t also live on a farm. You’re sincere and there is not a whit of vitriol in your body. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you mad. Often you share your lunch with me when you can’t finish it.
That’s why this is difficult for me.
Every time you come into my office I already know what you’re going to tell me. You’re going to tell me that you sent me an e-mail. And usually, just about the time you’re walking into my office, the boingy sound that I set up to alert me that I have received an e-mail is boinging. Or it boings right while you’re standing there. Then we say the same things: You say, “I just wanted to let you know I sent you an e-mail!” I say, “Yup, just got it.” And then you say, “Great, thanks! Just wanted to let you know!”
I know you’re a bit older and not technically inclined. I know you still use words like “facsimile” and “teleconference.” But here’s the thing with e-mail. When you send me one, I get it. That’s the whole point of it. Really. It’s why they invented it. So you can send me stuff electronically, and I can get it.
I want you to know I dream of killing your donkey.
Sincerely,
Jason"
via Your Daily Awesome
Thursday, November 08, 2007
![[guts4lc.gif]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeI758aJaG-QQDB0Cn6OT2Qjg-Cy7lu56SFu60pa9KooL-v8gyCMW4RF8iizt4fpANqnzN6g_i8MZ-hWinMDJbfl17P4VlABYZDjzpe8MYufKVtdMcbbftOIfyyX_ulE0QKPzQ/s1600/guts4lc.gif)
my old apartment
When I left to move to Brazil, I still had a month left to complete my lease. So my friend Bert, who is recently separated, decided to stay for the time remaining. He's a New Yorker, from Brooklyn, in Indianapolis. No wonder why we both (outsiders) clicked right away. Here's what the apartment looks like with him there. That's all his art, by the way.
He'll be setting up a shop with etsy soon, so I'll post it here.
He'll be setting up a shop with etsy soon, so I'll post it here.
problem solved
A conversation between my sister (who's getting married in April), my brother (who's 21) and I:
- me: I'm dying to have a kid. But really what I want is for you to have a baby.
- sister: Oh, no! One "mistake" at a time. And besides, we don't even have money to have a baby now. It's gonna take a while.
- brother (serious): Well, I could do it. I did just sell my guitar.
- me: I'm dying to have a kid. But really what I want is for you to have a baby.
- sister: Oh, no! One "mistake" at a time. And besides, we don't even have money to have a baby now. It's gonna take a while.
- brother (serious): Well, I could do it. I did just sell my guitar.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
my graphic representation of "revenge"
Click on the image to see it larger.
This a response to a post of a very famous Brazilian blogger. You all should learn portuguese and visit him.
This a response to a post of a very famous Brazilian blogger. You all should learn portuguese and visit him.
Monday, November 05, 2007
an alternative for the 2012 olympic logo
by Daniel EatockA composite of the 1913 Olympic Rings crated by Pierre de Coubertin (representing the 5 continents) and the RAF Roundel.
"Roundels in British heraldry have different names depending on their tincture (colour)... During the Second World War, the red inner circle of RAF-based roundels on planes based in the Asia-Pacific was painted white or light blue, so they would not be confused for the Hinomaru red circle on Japanese planes, still used by the self-defense forces of Japan to this day. The roundel, especially the RAF's, has been associated with British pop art of the 1960s, appearing in paintings by Jasper Johns. It became part of the pop consciousness after British rock group The Who started to wear RAF roundels (and Union Flags) as part of their stage apparel at the start of their career. Subsequently it came to symbolise Mods and the Mod Revival."
I like it a lot. What do you think?
the confessions of a generic boy
"Confessions of a Generic Boy is brought to you by areyougeneric.org -- the same folks who brought you Magazine Confessions.It's simple to participate. Draw an interpretation of yourself as a generic boy or girl confessing to what makes you like everybody else. Then paste it up somewhere in public, take a photo and submit the image (as a JPEG). If you don't have the means to sticker the graphic in a public space -- then simply submit your sketch as is."
Sunday, November 04, 2007
The Brazilian O.J.
I just got home from a quite uneventful evening with a couple of friends. Uneventful if it were not for SEEING THE CORRESPONDENT OF O.J. SIMPSON IN BRAZIL. In our case, instead of an athlete, he is was an actor. An actor in one of Brazil's record breaking, highest ratings soap operas. If you are familiar with Brazilian soap operas, you may know that they have always been an international commodity. We're know for having good soap operas. Being an soap actor here is pretty much like being a big-time Hollywood star. They are the sex symbols, they are the celebrities, the are the big deal here.
Yeah, that was him. His name is Guilherme de Pádua, and in December 28, 1992, Guilherme and his real-life wife, Paula Thomaz (right), stabbed to death co-star Daniela Perez (left), who was none other than his love interest in the soap opera. His wife at the time wasn't even 21. Daniela was 22.
In this video, you can see the story covered by CNN (I'm telling you - it was a huge deal) and towards the end, a scene where she tries to break up with him, saying that she's no longer in love. That was the last scene they shot together.
Guilherme confessed, then was charged and convicted of the murder of Daniela. That was all people in Brazil talked about for a long, long time. It was an extremely graphic and brutal murder. He appeared on TV with bruises all over his arms, which showed that she tried to put up a fight before being killed. His wife at the time and him, after trying to hurt Daniela with a screw driver, stabbed her with a pair of scissors more than 12 times. I remember vividly how the media kept showing her dead body lying on the grass, still at the place where it all happened. She had such recognizable features, she looked strikingly like herself lying covered in bloodand with wounds on her neck. She was young, and pretty. She was wearing a pair of jeans on and white sneakers.
As if this story couldn't get any weirder, her mother, Gloria Perez, was the director of the soap opera. Before the news leaked to the media, and before becoming a suspect, Guilherme met with Gloria and Raul, Daniela's husband, to offer his condolences. Nine hours later, he was arrested.
He and his wife were sentenced to 19 and a half years in prison. He served six, only to be released in 2001. According to the law in Brazil, he's no longer considered a felon. It's like the crime never occurred. He lives in Belo Horizonte, the city where my parents, and now I, live. He's re-married, and he can walk the streets like nothing ever happened. He's gained weight and he looks older, but I immediately recognized him. It was an odd experience to say the least. He was with a couple of women, one younger (probably his wife) and one older, watching them shop and being like any guy on a Sunday afternoon.
Now - who would marry someone like that? Who would sign up for that kind of life? Who could erase from their memory all the TV shows we watched in the early 90s with his faced stamped on it, followed by the dead body of the women HE STABBED MORE THAN 12 TIMES? Who could forget that, at one point, he actually tried to change his story and blamed his ex-wife for the whole ordeal. How can someone get past that?
It was like having O.J. right there in front of me, 2 inches away, for several minutes. I had time to look at him while remembering all the images we all saw over ten years ago. Except for it's in Brazil. Here, O.J. wouldn't have to say IF he did it. He could have confessed and would still be able to study at the same private university I went to, and still be eligible for a scholarship only months after being released from jail. He would enjoy his weekends as a free man, with a very forgetful woman and a criminal record that is about as clean as mine.
Yeah, that was him. His name is Guilherme de Pádua, and in December 28, 1992, Guilherme and his real-life wife, Paula Thomaz (right), stabbed to death co-star Daniela Perez (left), who was none other than his love interest in the soap opera. His wife at the time wasn't even 21. Daniela was 22.
In this video, you can see the story covered by CNN (I'm telling you - it was a huge deal) and towards the end, a scene where she tries to break up with him, saying that she's no longer in love. That was the last scene they shot together.
Guilherme confessed, then was charged and convicted of the murder of Daniela. That was all people in Brazil talked about for a long, long time. It was an extremely graphic and brutal murder. He appeared on TV with bruises all over his arms, which showed that she tried to put up a fight before being killed. His wife at the time and him, after trying to hurt Daniela with a screw driver, stabbed her with a pair of scissors more than 12 times. I remember vividly how the media kept showing her dead body lying on the grass, still at the place where it all happened. She had such recognizable features, she looked strikingly like herself lying covered in bloodand with wounds on her neck. She was young, and pretty. She was wearing a pair of jeans on and white sneakers.
As if this story couldn't get any weirder, her mother, Gloria Perez, was the director of the soap opera. Before the news leaked to the media, and before becoming a suspect, Guilherme met with Gloria and Raul, Daniela's husband, to offer his condolences. Nine hours later, he was arrested.
He and his wife were sentenced to 19 and a half years in prison. He served six, only to be released in 2001. According to the law in Brazil, he's no longer considered a felon. It's like the crime never occurred. He lives in Belo Horizonte, the city where my parents, and now I, live. He's re-married, and he can walk the streets like nothing ever happened. He's gained weight and he looks older, but I immediately recognized him. It was an odd experience to say the least. He was with a couple of women, one younger (probably his wife) and one older, watching them shop and being like any guy on a Sunday afternoon.
Now - who would marry someone like that? Who would sign up for that kind of life? Who could erase from their memory all the TV shows we watched in the early 90s with his faced stamped on it, followed by the dead body of the women HE STABBED MORE THAN 12 TIMES? Who could forget that, at one point, he actually tried to change his story and blamed his ex-wife for the whole ordeal. How can someone get past that?
It was like having O.J. right there in front of me, 2 inches away, for several minutes. I had time to look at him while remembering all the images we all saw over ten years ago. Except for it's in Brazil. Here, O.J. wouldn't have to say IF he did it. He could have confessed and would still be able to study at the same private university I went to, and still be eligible for a scholarship only months after being released from jail. He would enjoy his weekends as a free man, with a very forgetful woman and a criminal record that is about as clean as mine.
Friday, November 02, 2007
an overdose of things I want
Complete and Utter Bullshit Stamp
Reusable Bag
Helpless Sticky Notes
Shit List (the perfect gift for those who hold grudges)
"Monica Dear" Birthday Card (Reads: "monica, dear, that was precious little story. now, be a sweetheart and fix mommy another martini. happy birthday.")
Hillary Nutcracker
Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner Onesie
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