My Broken Heart

I went to a concert last night... it was Darlene Zschech, a Christian singer from Australia. It was interesting on a number of fronts:

1. As a time of reflection, inspiration, and worship, it was fantastic.
2. As a concert, it was pretty crappy... other than a spot on her, the lights almost seemed random, the sound was not the worst I've heard, but it was a long ways from good, and she played some real dogs - especially the last three tunes.
3. The opening band was a children's choir from Nyon, just up the road. The came onstage on scooters. I've seen a lot of shows, and some that you would expect to be a little strange... KISS, Ozzy, Alice Cooper... and I think this was the strangest thing I've ever seen on stage. Okay, maybe second to Ted Nugent shooting a flaming arrow into a stuffed buffalo, but it was still pretty strange.
   

I am especially intrigued by how numbers 1 and 2 go together... how it could be rather less than stunning musically but so compelling spiritually. But then, I guess that's part of the mystery of what makes faith and the spirit so much more than what we can see and touch, and even know. If I had known what the music would be like (and it wasn't bad, it just wasn't U2), I wouldn't have expected to have been moved.

But I was moved.

And here's the other thing about it: it was sponsored by Compassion International. They're an organization who manage sponsorship of children at risk throughout the world. I know that's a good thing... that there are children who need food and don't have it, who are facing bad, bad odds. But I don't think about it much.

Then they showed me this:

• Approximately 143 million children in the developing world (one in 13) are orphans.
• More than 10 million children under age 5 die each year. Two-thirds of these deaths (more than 6 million deaths every year) are preventable.
• Each day, 1,500 children worldwide become infected with HIV, the vast majority of them newborns.
• Every 14 seconds a child is orphaned by AIDS.
• An estimated 300 million children worldwide are subjected to violence, exploitation and abuse including the worst forms of child labor in communities, schools and institutions.
• An estimated 1.2 million children are trafficked worldwide every year.
  

And then consider this:
1 John 3:17-18 - If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth.

So I decided I needed to do something. I'm perhaps not going to change the world, but I found a little girl in Indonesia who needs help... she's just a little older than the little chick, and so we're going to help her. It costs $32 a month.

I was devastated as these statistics came up... I've never been able to just sit and hear about children being damaged, but since becoming a father... well, let's just say my tolerance level is almost non-existent. These children need someone to love them... they need to have their basic needs taken care of, and they need to know that they are important, that there is someone who cares about them and who doesn't want to hurt them or use them, someone who just wants what's best for them. Every child should have that, and while I can be that someone for my little girl, these children are in a position that it wrong. It's evil, and it's horrible, and it should never happen. I can't be a father to all of the children who need one, and that breaks my heart.

But here's what I think: even though some of it may be out of our hands, there is some that we can change.

So let's change it.

Good Genes

From a colleague at dinner this week, shaking her head:

"I don't get it. How do you eat like that (pointing at a rapidly-disappearing steak) and look like that (pointing at me)?"

Sure, I haven't been approached by GQ (recently) and won't be invited to open tryouts for... well, any Olympic team, but in the great genetic lottery, I'll take what I can get...

Have a good weekend, everyone!

What Moves Me, Part I - Love

As I mentioned a while ago, I have been thinking about the primary motivations in my life. You know, usual, "hey, just woke up and I'm in the shower, may as well figure out what my life's about" kind of stuff. It's pretty easy for me to think about what I do - but the why can be harder to nail down. How much is self-serving? How much is altruistic?

I may say that I do something for love, when the reason I actually do it is so that someone will love me, will treat me like I want to be treated. I'm not doing that for love - I'm doing that to get attention, affection, or comfort for myself, which isn't wrong, but is certainly different, most notably in the focus of my gain rather than the gain of the one I'm loving. And I think it's worth recognizing. I guess I'm especially interested in what (or if) anything that truly motivates me is for something other than my own personal good.

I may as well kick off with the big one, and the one that probably anyone would list.

Love.

It has a lot of levels. The one that I think is the most beautiful in my life is my love for my daughter... it may be the purest thing about me. I am a firm - fervent - believer in the fact that I don't have her to make my life richer, though that is an unquestionable effect of her life. In most ways, I don't think of me having her at all.

She has me.

She has me to love her, to protect her, to teach her, to support her, to encourage her, to train her, to guide her, to empower her. And the equation of our love is very different than in a romantic relationship, or a friendship. What I want in a romantic love is a partnership, a shared balance of giving and taking. But with my daughter, what I want is for her to be free to take what she needs, without ever thinking of that balance. I don't want "she owes me" to be part of our emotional language together. Do I want her to love me? Unquestionably. But I want it to be because she chooses to love me, not because it's a condition of my love for her.

Still, I wonder - how much of what my love for her is, is pure love, just an intent to give and build into her with no view to my own ends? And how much is because I want her to reflect well on me, or to think or act or believe like me? And where is the line between my desire to "grow" her - as honorable as it may be - and a love that is an end to itself?

I think that this is a truly deep and beautiful thing, but not a pure one, not one that I can say is completely for her. It's for me, too.

More to come, but I wanted to get the ball rolling...

Tonight Is The Night

Canada is playing the Cherry Blossoms as we speak. It's a defensive (read: boring) match: an hour in, and tied at 5 each. I know that we don't usually do so well in things that don't involve wearing skates, but come on, boys! Let's make Trudeau proud!

5,000

We've had 5,000 visitors now on the yellow couch. Thanks. And I mean that, even for those of you viewing on macs.

;-)

Roasting Chestnuts By The Fire

I love the smell of roasting chestnuts... after 7 years in Geneva, where there are vendors roasting and selling them every few blocks, that's the smell that means fall is here. So when the little chick and I were out for a walk earlier this week and I saw some chestnut trees that had been shedding the nuts, I picked up a bunch and decided to give it a go. It would be fun, something interesting for the little chick to do, and, fill my house with that wonderful smell.

I thought about looking online for some recipes, but then I realized: they're nuts. You just roast them. How hard could it be?

Well, it turns out it's a little more complicated than I had guessed. I will be happy to share the recipe to success when I get it, but, in the meantime, I can tell you this:

1. 160° C seems to be a little high. Maybe really, really, high.
2. If you just put them in the oven like you find them, they'll explode.

Thankfully the little chick and I were out of the room when they started to pop, and she never connected the sounds coming from the kitchen with the chestnuts we had put into the oven. She was a bit disappointed when she found out that we wouldn't be able to eat them after all, and, with the kind of tact only a two year-old can muster, remarked as I was pulling the ones that remained on the baking tray out of the oven that there was a bit of a mess.

Yes, ma'am.

The MNB was over tonight, as usual, to practice, and I mentioned this to them. They seemed to kind it pretty amusing, but really - have you ever seen any other roasted nuts that all have the shells split? I just assumed it happened as part of the roasting process, and that, like mussels, that was probably how you could tell they were done.

Not exactly, as it turns out.

So we'll have another go at it. Next time I'm reading up, there will be no explosions in the kitchen, and everything will turn out beautifully.

If I had a quarter for every time I said that...

Oh, Happy Day

I found my sunglasses. I had bought some new jeans, and tossed them into the bag on the way out of the store. It's happy, happy news. Not only do I have my favorite sunglasses back, I can maintain that I don't lose stuff like that. Pride and cool shades: what else could I possibly ask for?

Jesus Camp

I watched a bit of this show last night, and it was interesting. I think I want to get all the way through before commenting in detail, but I did find it fascinating. As more or less an insider to the sub-culture they're showing, it was really intriguing for me to see what bits they kept and what they left out, what people said that, I know, means one thing when, in the context it's shown sounds, very much like it means something else. And it's remarkable how things that would seem innocuous at worst become so much more ominous when there's a soundtrack of brooding, eerie, minor music flowing underneath it.

Anyone else seen it? What were your impressions?

The Cherry Blossoms

They're playing Wales. And they're only down by 4.

[EDIT] OOOH! They're winning! They had a full-field run to score a try. Go, cherry blossoms! Blossom with all your cherry might!

[EDIT] Okay, it didn't last long. But they might come back.

I Should Have Used Butter While Getting My Hair Cut

Turns out that olive oil and Brussels sprouts is a bad combination. Unbelievably bad, really. I thought it would be a bit healthier than butter and give the flavor a little boost, but it was just wrong.



Time for some audience participation, and maybe the chance for me to avoid another hideous kitchen incident like this. Have you ever tried something that really seemed like it should work, but really didn't?



In other news, I officially love getting my hair cut. Okay, every once in a while it doesn't quite work out, but I'm usually happy with how it looks after. And I think I could spend a good portion of my day just getting it washed. It puts me in such a good mood, I even talked to the girl cutting it today.

That may not sound strange, but my conversational French is... well, enough to stop most conversations. And I haven't found many of the girls at the place I go who speak English. So, I usually just kind of keep quiet, say "oui, c'est bon" when they look hopeful and ask me something, and "non, je ne pense pas" when they look doubtful and ask me something. It usually pans out okay.

So while I was getting my hair washed today, the girl asked me something I didn't understand. Plus, I was facing away from her, so I couldn't tell which response to use. Time to 'fess up.

"Desolé," I said, "j'ai pas compris; je ne parle pas tres bien français". And that's a pretty hefty understatement, even for me.

She seemed okay with that, and things continued without me either getting scalded, dyed crazy-German-lady red (a very special color not found anywhere in nature, but which, it seems, goes very well with cropped hair, glasses with a string hanging from them, and dangly earrings), or shaved bald. Hooray! That's my entire hair-cutting check-list. Mission accomplished. Almost.

"Qu'est ce que votre langue maternelle?" she asked.

"Anglais" I said. I figured that about explained it. She shrugged, and continued.

Turns out she didn't figure her French was very good either. She was Spanish, and also spoke Portuguese (she had lived for a while in Brazil, and maybe Portugal... I mean maybe I'm-not-sure, not maybe she-didn't-know).

Why is it that no one takes me seriously when I say my French is bad? My colleagues are under the amusing (and somewhat dangerous) impression that I understand everything they say, no matter what I tell them. And when things go horribly wrong - as they are bound to do when you combine banks, software, lunch and a language I don't speak - they seem to believe I'm just playing a joke on them.

"Don't worry," they tell new people who are just meeting me. "He understands everything."

"No," I say, "I actually don't. I didn't even understand your name."

And then they all laugh. It's really fun.

Anyways, she went on (in French) to tell me about, I think, much of the last 10 years or so of her life, what it was like to live in Brazil, what the pronunciation differences are between Spanish and Portuguese (hello! I'm the one who's still stuck on French, remember? I need two more languages in the mix like I need a bigger forehead), and how English people never learn French. Even the ones who live here. Not much I can come back with on that front, is there? I just agreed.

Except when she looked concerned.

In any case, it was a pretty good cut, and she was kind enough to rinse it after, which keeps me from feeling itchy (or looking really, really bad in my black shirt - and not the kind of bad that means "cool", either, just the way your grandparents mean it).

I think I'll go back. I just need to learn to say "what kinds of snacks do they have in Brazil, and do you have any with you?" first.

Thanks For Helping

We were emptying the garbages today, and I asked the little chick to put her garbage can back in her room. She trotted off, and I turned on the hall light to make it easier for her to see what she was doing, and she turned around and said, "thanks for helpin' on the light" and then went to put her garbage can away. Then we walked around town a bit with her on my shoulders, singing at full volume the whole time, mostly with words I didn't recognize, with the occasional "daddy", "popcorn", "Bible" and "belly" thrown in to make the rhyming work.

It's going to be hard to go back to work.

I Miss You

My mind went tonight, as it sometimes does, to the Simpsons. I love this one:

Selma Bouvier(DMV Employee testing Otto for his licence):

Selma Bouvier: "When you do good, I use the green pen, when you do bad, I use the red pen. Any questions?"
Otto Mann: "Uh, yeah. You used to be a man right? You can tell me, I'm open minded."
Selma Bouvier: "I won't be needing this!" (drops the green pen in the trash)


I may need to get on ebay one of these days and fix this.

You're Under Arrest

It's always kind of a sad point when I've seen the last big show of the year. Sometimes I get surprised and someone else comes along, but it looks like The Police was the last big one this year.

It was good. Not bad, not great... but good. It was cool to hear them play some tunes that I have never heard live before, and some others that I had heard Sting do with his band. Since I'm still a little sleepy, I'm just going to list some observations:

Sting had a lot of room for his bass, relative to when he's with his band, and it was pretty cool to see a different side to his playing... a lot of chording in addition to playing the bass line.

Vocally... well, I thought he was great for the first half. There were some iffy bits in the second part, and one tune where he was really, really flat for quite a bit of it. And, according to a couple guitar-playing friends in the audience, they had transposed quite a few songs down...

Stewart Copeland can still play, but his style is really, really different from mine in almost every way. First off, he plays way more notes (but it wouldn't sound like The Police without that). He feels time ahead of the beat, and I feel it behind, so it always feels to me like he's trying to rush the tunes, but Sting usually plays even further in front. And he's kind of a showman, I guess. Throwing his sticks, making big gestures, getting happy with his gong. Yeah, I know, he's in The Police. But it just seems a little over the top. And the white sweats? I mean, yes, it's a "recapture the 80's" thing, but aren't there some things that we should just leave as memories?

Andy Summer seems to be the one who has really taken advantage of the last 20 years to not touch his instrument. His time was bad, his soloing was atrocious, and his tone... well, it was great on some tunes, but that thin, clean strat just sounds weak and hollow now on a lot of the songs.

The light show was fantastic. I was as close as I could get in the general admission area on the floor, and there was no pushing and shoving, which was a treat. I wasn't close enough to see there faces well, but I could certainly watch them play without the delay of waiting for the image on the screen, and could take in the full light show at the same time. Very cool - somebody has spent a lot of time getting that ready.

The security person in front of me was named Vinda. I know, because the guy next to me started flirting with her as soon as he arrived, and I got to watch as the night went on. At first she was really enjoying it... he was playful and really, really, really attentive. He got her number. Or, at least, a number. But as the evening progressed, I have a crazy little feeling she regretted her decision. He was right in the front - where it is probably at least 5 degrees cooler than it would be 2 metres back, and a lot easier to stand since he had the security rail to hold on to. Vinda had some water there to pass out to people who were dehydrating, but buddy would get her attention every five minutes, look injured and give her some serious puppy-dog eyes, and make drinking motions. She kept getting more for him, but I bet by the end of the night she was dreading getting that phone call. I mean, I was even getting tired of it, and there's no round 2 in sight for me. Sorry, Vinda.

What's the deal with Roxanne? I mean, it's an okay song, but not really one of their best. I seem to be the only one who thinks that, though. It was the same when Sting has played solo... everyone just LOVES to sing along with that one. I really don't get it.

Why are all the best designs on black t-shirts? If I never bought another black t-shirt for the rest of my life I'd have enough to do me. They're killing me with that. Still... what are you going to do?

I learned today that Sting's son was fronting the opening band. Caro remarked (via sms... she was in the golden circle, and area roughly the size of Delaware in front of me, which is why I was in prime shape to see the light show but not-so-good for the faces) that they sounded a bit like the love child of the police and U2, which was about right. I couldn't figure out why they would have a band so similar in sound opening for them, but it kind of makes sense now. That's pretty cool.

Anyways, I have some days off with my little chick this week, and I can't wait. I'm going to teach her "Roxanne" and see what she thinks of it.

Sing To Me

My little chick was happy tonight. She sang to me on the train on the way home. She rode on my shoulders from the train station home, alternately holding on to/steering me by/"fixing" my hair and singing almost the whole time. We made a tent, and sang in that, and even bath time had some pretty serious singing action.

I think it may be the most beautiful thing in the world.

*sigh*

Taste Test

Well, I popped up a bit of white and yellow corn and did a side-by-side comparison. The results were surprising:

• Taste - the white is quite a bit sweeter and more pleasant than the yellow.
• Texture - the yellow popped up much fluffier than the white, and was less chewy. The white had by far fewer husks, but that is not enough to compensate for the compactness of the popped corn. I do plan to test again, though, since the volume of the corn once it was popped was far less than I was used to (and I know my popcorn pot pretty well). It may be an anomaly, but at this point, the yellow wins.
• Appearance - this is a draw: the size and shape of the yellow corn was much nicer, but the color of the white is better.
• Ease of Preparation - no appreciable difference.
  

Overall winner: close, but I'm choosing white by a small margin. I'll sure eat yellow if it's in front of me, though...

My Eyes!

Sorry about the lack of updates lately - I've been busy with a friend staying at my place, and I also seem to have acquired an eye infection from somewhere. It feels kind of stupid - 5 year-olds are supposed to get these things, not adults. But yesterday, it was certainly there - red and swollen to the point that I couldn't really focus with my right eye.

Just so you're not alarmed, I went to the doctor, got some medicine, and am well on my way to being recovered.

But I wasn't able to work... looking at the computer (which is mostly what I do while I'm working) was really messing me up. I couldn't focus with both eyes, but it turns out that using my PC while sitting with one eye closed is not that practical, either. I left midway through the afternoon, soon realized that my eyes tend to play a pretty central role in my away-from work activities.

Maybe I'll write on my blog. Maybe I'll edit some pictures. Maybe catch up on facebook. Maybe work on mixing some music. Maybe try to find out what Scott Baio has been up to lately. You know, just the usual stuff. But those all use the computer and all (except maybe the last one) work best with two eyes. I couldn't read. I couldn't watch TV. So I limited myself to checking my work email at most every 15 minutes, strapped on my bass and spent the rest of the afternoon singing.

And something I've been thinking about lately... what really moves me? What are the compelling forces in my life? More to come on that...

Glad To Have Found Me

Well, I had a wonderful weekend. But now, to celebrate the weekly return to real life, I think I'd like to highlight some of the searches that have led various unsuspecting people to The Yellow Couch.

Google.com: is the sun always yellow? He got to me via the yellow from yellow couch and the title, "The Sun Always Shines In Lugano". I think this one may have been a disappointment, no matter how you slice it. I mean, fair enough, that's a second-grade-science kind of question, but this is a first-grade-science kind of site. Apparently, though, if you ask Google where to find the answer to this question, they figure my blog is your best bet. Sorry!

Google Images: Robert Palmer or Robert Palmer Girls (I've had both). I find this a bit strange... I didn't even re-save the image somewhere... I'm just displaying it on one of my posts, but I've had a few hits from it. Why not... I guess it will show up there as well as anywhere.

Google Blog Search: photojournalism compact cameras. This led to my May Day pictures, which, I'm sad to say, is actually a post about pictures without any pictures in it, since I was still figuring out how to best link to my hosting site. How's that for a let-down?

Google.com: light yellow leather couches low back yellow. Well, sorry. The yellow and couch turn out to be completely unrelated to the "low" and "back" in this post, in which I am discussing the pros and cons of various jean pockets. Once again, though, Google figures I'm the guy to talk to if you want help choosing your furniture. And while you could do worse, you could also do a whole lot better. But then, if you're the kind of person who puts the same word into a search twice, maybe you couldn't do a whole lot better.

Google.com: designing a room around yellow couch. See above.

AOL search: couch bags. Yeah, I'm not going to help you there.



I don't know... I'm hoping that maybe one or two of the Robert Palmer people will come back, but I don't think I've generated a whole lot of return traffic with these hits...

Have a good week, everybody.

Rugby

The Japanese team have, to date, have 0 wins in 16 World Cup appearances.

The name of their team is The Cherry Blossoms.

So, All Blacks vs. Cherry Blossoms. Really, who are you going to have your money on? It may be time to rethink that whole "flowers of the rugby world" thing.

Sunglasses

I can't find my sunglasses. I had them on Tuesday; now I don't. I never lose stuff like this.

So here's the thing: they aren't expensive ones. I kind of feel like sunglasses are just too easy to sit on, get scratched, have a two year-old wonder what they would look like in the oven or whatever to pay a lot for them. So I buy cheap ones, but these ones were still eally nice. They fit right, they felt good, and they looked good. And now they're gone. Or maybe in the oven - I better check that when I get home.

Anyways, it looks like back to Rome to try and find the street vendor I bought them from to see if he has any more.

Anyone up for a trip?

White Popcorn And The Demise Of The Interweb

We were talking about white popcorn tonight. I had a friend who just arrived back from a trip to Canada... she had very kindly asked if there was anything I wanted from there. Thanks, I said, it would be great if you could bring back some white popcorn... it's impossible to get here. She said she'd take a look for me.

Well, it turns out that they don't have it in Ontario. She went to a bunch of stores - seven, actually - including what may have been an actual underground hippie colony fronting as a health-food shop (who would they be hiding from, you ask? most likely the fashion police, but that's a whole other post). No one had it.

"Is it bleached?" the hippies asked her. "'Cause if it's white 'cause it's been bleached, we sure won't have it."

It seems like kind of a pointless thing to say, to me, since they already didn't have it and they didn't even know if it was bleached. But, I wasn't there. In any case, she was kind enough to bring me back a jar of Orville's original gourmet which, while not white, is going to be tasty. But she did ask me... what's the difference?

"Well," I said, "it's.... uh, better. You know."

"Better... how?"

"Well, it's lighter. It's not as chewy. The flavor is cleaner."

"So, is it bleached?"

And I realized that I have no idea. Why is it white? Why is it better, and why don't more people sell it if it's better? I decided I would just look it up when I got home.

So that's what I've done. But the internet has been pretty unhelpful on this one.

I tried what makes white popcorn white, with no quotes, and just got a lot of sites trying to sell me either white popcorn or, usually, something white and related to popcorn. I tried with quotes and got nothing. Same with why is popcorn white.

Now, usually, I can find what I need online in not much time. But this is different. I've been looking for a while, and I have only found one site that kind of explains it, here. And it just tells me that there are three common varieties of popcorn. But are they processed differently? Why do they taste different? I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the Alternative Field Crops Manual from Purdue University is more of a technical document than something done by David Rosengarten would be, but it's a shame. I've seen a few people suggesting that the husks are thinner on the white popcorn, which would certainly explain why the texture is better once it's popped, but I haven't really found anything substantive.

So, does somebody have a book or something?

Oh, and Anonymous, let me just head you off right now and say that this has nothing to do with being fussy. Really, popcorn is just on a whole other level...

Stockholm: Design

I'm slowly getting caught up.

There wasn't as much "nordic design" as I had anticipated in Sweden. Perhaps it's just because Ikea is ubiquitous that I don't even recognize it any more when I see it, or maybe they're just past that whole thing, but I kind of wish there had been some more. It's like going to Disneyland only to find out that Mickey doesn't live there any more. Kind of a bummer.

In any case, I have some design shots online now. You can see them here, but these ones are my favorites.

[EDIT] Added the link... sorry!

Marilyn Manson, Part III

To continue in the pictures of the beautiful people of Stockholm. And yeah... it's the eye of the beholder. The new ones start on page 4: you can find them here.

Some of my favorites from this batch...

They asked me to take a couple shots of them, and I'm really happy with how they turned out. The girl on the left was remarkable: I fired off half a dozen shots to try to get them both with the right expression, and her smile is the same in every one.




Love his hair. I wish you could have seen it in real life - it was spectacular. I mean, stop and can't rip my eyes away spectacular. I wish I could have had him back-lit...




Now THAT'S Swedish hair. And no crap about his eyebrows, this time, okay? ;-)

New Jeans

Well, I can now officially get my nearly-new (I just got them at Christmas) favorite jeans on or off without having to undo them. And while this does sound eminently practical and perhaps even somewhat entertaining, it does make me think that, perhaps, the time has come to get new favorite jeans.

I like shopping. I don't usually have a hard time finding clothes that fit, but jeans seem to be the exception to the rule. And that's bad news, because I wear them a lot. I've lost a few inches around my middle and this is my second transition in the last two years. It's good, but it's also a bit of a pain, having to replace clothes that are fine except for the fact that there's a bit too much of them. And jeans are a special case.

Jeans are really more like friends than clothes. You make an investment in getting to know each other. You start off a little unsure... things are not really comfortable but you hope they'll get better. Sure, after a little while you may realize that it's just not going to work between you. The tears may be of regret or sadness or anger, but tears are tears when you're crying them. You may take some time off and decide to try again after you've both cooled down. But you know, deep down, that it's not going to work. There is no return from the "to try later" pile, no matter what you say as you part.

It's over.

But when you find those jeans that are destined to become your favorites, you can sense that something special is happening. And I've had it happen with different brands, with button-fly and zips, indigo, aged, or classic blue. You never know when it's going to strike, but when it does, it's like all of the stars in the what-not-to-wear sky (the original, British snarky one, not the cheery American one) are aligned. You put them on, and they're just right. They work with any shoes. You can toss on a jacket or a tee shirt and they pull it off with aplomb. It's like being able to communicate without having to learn the language first: it's more basic than speech.

They just fit.

And I don't want to do that again. I like my favorite jeans. They're not getting worn out, and their color is good, and we still get along so well. I'm unsure as to whether I should invest heavily in ice cream and try to save the relationship or bite the bullet and go shopping.

I'm telling you, I have a difficult life. I think I need to sleep on this.

Stockholm: The Celebrities

Okay, maybe they're not really famous. But they look like famous people. Kind of.


I think this is one of those things that will just be better with more pictures and less words....

Young Brad Pitt





Cameron Diaz




Jessica Simpson




Very young Sting. You may have to squint a bit for this one.




Russell Crowe




Paris Hilton




Anna Kournikova




Daryl Hannah

Stockholm: The Animals

Sure, I've probably threatened to eat your cat if I could just find some bbq sauce. But deep down, I don't just love animals with garlic and a nice pinot noir. And this should prove it. There aren't a lot, but you can see more here.

Thank You For Talking

If we're ever at a movie together, it will go a lot better if you don't talk to me - or, I guess, to anyone - much while it's on. Unless I am really, really into you. That's not a value judgment, really... it's just something that bugs me. I say that to say this:

I couldn't be happier that a few of you are feeling comfortable enough here to be commenting. I don't care if you do it because I'm just so frightfully engaging, if you're hoping to - somehow - try to raise the overall standard by balancing my crap with something that actually makes sense, if, like me, you just can't stay away from a yellow couch (any yellow couch), or if you're my mom and you just feel like you probably should.

Just know you're welcome. I'm happy to see you whenever you choose to drop by, and I like to hear what you have to say. You know, as long as we're not in a theater.