aka, shit i laughed, ooh-ed, or ahh-ed at:


katie is drunk and on video

voluminous vinyl

one day, god said


bands: how to stay underground

until proven guilty

free porn!

french's mustard press release

all good

fuck yes

fussy so funny

are you a peaceblog?

and you are next

"ben" from willard

discuss links

hard job
Wednesday, April 9, 2003
03:08 p.m.
Working to procure a job you want, while working a job you hate (a lot, to save money to move) is a really fucking hard job.


stinky meat and cheese is for sure for me
Tuesday, April 8, 2003
12:19 p.m.
I just had my first ever muffuletta, and OH MAN. Why didn't you fools tell me about this sandwich before? I think I'll wrap up the other half--savor the flavor for later. How in 25 years was I never privy to the delectable ham, succulent salami, mounds of melted cheese and sounds-gross-but-is-oh-so-good olive spread on a toasted kaiser roll?
(Answer: I wasn't clear how to pronounce it, so I never ordered it.)

Muffuletta, I know you are just a silly sandwich, but will you marry me?


her log does not judge
Tuesday, April 8, 2003
01:25 a.m.

Log Lady introduction to "Twin Peaks," episode 4:

"Even the ones who laugh are sometimes caught without an answer: these creatures who introduce themselves but we swear we have met them somewhere before.

"Yes, look in the mirror. What do you see? Is it a dream, or a nightmare? Are we being introduced against our will? Are they mirrors?

"I can see the smoke. I can smell the fire. The battle is drawing nigh."

Read other Log Lady introductions here. Found at the extensive TP Online.


movies and shit
Monday, April 7, 2003
02:30 p.m.
My sister and I watched One Hour Photo on pay-per-view at her apartment yesterday, and what a stinker. Music video director Mark Romanek's first feature is one of those pictures that fails almost due to it's enormous potential. The picture is one about pictures, which is curiously undercovered material for a genre called film. (My thoughts turn immediately to High Art, a sad, understated piece about photography that lingers in your undersenses long after it's finished.) One Hour Photo was dark, yes, but it was trying too, too hard. The score was definitely creepy, but it did not parallel the action or sentiment on-screen; it served as the only truly spooky aspect of the movie. Robin Williams just didn't explore the character as much as he could have. His acting, his face, it had little depth, as if his merely playing The Bad Guy is effort enough. I am very interested in characters like Sy who are lonely--truly lonely--and by that lonliness become twisted and unique. But this was all so flat. Other than their being incredibly attractive, I didn't share Sy's interest in the Yorkin family at all. And I didn't believe that there existed a grocery chain called SavMart where one could have their pictures developed in under sixty minutes. The shelves of the store were impeccable, the floors spot and paper free. This didn't look like any grocery store I'd been to before. And the Yorkin's home was this sterile, open, cold place--respresentative, in fact, of the whole film. If a movie's only compelling element is it's black, emotional-ick factor, there has to pre-exist some feeling. Obvious observations about the medium of photography are not sufficient substitute for a meaningful or mind-tickling script, nor does Robin Williams with short blonde hair make for a scary antagonist. And did I mention the dream sequences? The overt, self-gratifying montages that featured rupturing, bleeding heads and storylines that were actually intriguing until Sy snapped awake, back to the abysmal movie already in place?

It is short though, just over an hour and a half long, which I must give credit for. Not enough good movies are an hour and a half. At least this shitty one didn't overstay it's welcome.

I really enjoyed seeing Monsters, Inc. for a second time, though. What a delightful film this is! It is a great, "classic" kids movie, that doesn't rely at all (well, barely) on pop culture references and ironic humor. I'm a sucker for both those things, but I think maybe really good children's films are being compromised in order to entertain the parents with sarcastic, self-referential humor, which is mostly lost on young kids. Instead, Monster's Inc. serves up heaping helpings of (gasp!) imagination, for which, of course, there is no substitute. And talk about heart. Been a long time since an animated movie made me cry. (Okay, not so long, probably. More on that soon.) Boo, the little girl at the center of the picture, is so goddamned adorable I just want to squeal. She calls the big, ol' John Goodman character, Sully, "Kitty." Which fucking cracks me up. And Goodman is so badass. He cultivates so much tenderness and kindness out of a blue and pink furry monster thing--when he has to say goodbye to Boo I just die.

Anyway, watch the Pixar flick, not that other craptacular carcass of a movie I mentioned.

Because I said so.

(And I'll be picking up screeners of a few indie films from the Nashville Scene office tomorrow. They want 200 word write-ups for three features--including the devestating [I've heard] "The Day I'll Never Forget"--and some local shorts, all of which will be featured at this year's NIFF. Yay me!)


so close
Saturday, April 5, 2003
02:09 p.m.
The batteries like to die just before I get there.

And another thing, every low-fat bleu cheese dressing I've ever tried tastes precisely like vomit. Surely, we can do better than that.


Saturday, April 5, 2003
12:34 a.m.
Thanks to the kind, considerate Ben, Misc., etc. now has infinitely more resources for picture pages, music and maybe even some movies. I'll be spending some time tonight reorganzing the photo gallery, transferring files and the like.

One of the perks of this new web space is a new e-mail address, which I've need for quite a long time. My hotmail account has become overrun with spam since I was so careless with it initially. The hotmail email address is still active, and will remain so, but please direct all future mail to me to miscetc (at) brittney (dot) f2o (dot) org. Actually, it can be anythingatall (at) brittney (dot) f2o (dot) org--the more creative the better. Make me laugh. Call me names.
And don't go handing it out anywhere on-line. I'm going to try my hardest to keep the webcrawlers' crawly, little paws off of it.

Also, I finally put some photos back up. I created a sort of Best Of gallery (here), so if there is any photo in particular you would like for any reason, and it isn't featured here, just let me know and I might can get it for you.


spunky brewster loves purple hearts
Friday, April 4, 2003
04:22 p.m.
I wonder if rescued POW Pfc. Jessica Lynch had been male, if Sen. Pat Roberts would have described the war hero as "spunky."

Jessica Lynch has enormous bravery, perserverence, knife and gunshot wounds, and broken limbs, not fucking pigtails and sassy rainbow shoelaces.



It's fun, fun friday!
Friday, April 4, 2003
01:17 p.m.
First and foremost, maaaaaaaaaan, I sure do love me some sleeping. Sometimes, I wish I could wake up, just so I could go back to sleep again.

Also, Wetkitty's March Tour included a stop in Nashville.

Dong resin found this philosophy compatibility test on MetaFilter and while I haven't taken it yet, I'm sure I can do better than 100% Ayn Rand (like our dear donger).

Hooray for strawberries in season! I'm having ripe, sweet berries the size of a child's fist as I blog.

My friend Sammy had to go to the emergency room last weekend because a moth flew in his ear. Like, way down in it. His drunk friends tried to convince him that he didn't need to go to the hospital, that that would be the most expensive moth in Tennessee, but Sam told them he had a insect in his head, flitting around, and he wasn't thinking straight--look at him, he had tweezers jammed into his ear hole. I'd have clawed my eyed out by then. He sat in the ER waiting room, no apparent signs of illness, occassionally twitching and digging at his ear. The doctor tried to smother it with some sort of gel. Which failed. So they flushed his ear with warm, streaming water, which he says, is very pleasant and should be offered at spas or at the Y. The nurse told him that there was still a bug leg in his ear, she just couldn't get it out. Poor Sammy, that bug will be with him, in him, always. Or until it decays. Ewwwwwwwww.

This was the cover of Time Magazine the day I came butt-first into this world. Scroll on down to find yours. [via miguel]

And finally, a place where people with lockjaw can meet. [thunked up by the yeti]


from Survivor
Thursday, April 3, 2003
02:02 p.m.
I think about dying
About disease, starvation,
violence, terrorism, war,
the end of the world.
It helps
keep my mind off things.

-Roger McGough


farewell, fools!
Wednesday, April 2, 2003
06:31 p.m.
My exit interview is finally up at the PuppetMaster II headquarters.

If you care.


have you forgotten?
Wednesday, April 2, 2003
05:25 p.m.
Somehow, I'd managed to go all this time without hearing Daryl Worley's "Have you Forgotten?," the pro-war country song that is a big favorite with total retards. Have you heard this song?!

It's this awful, super-slick, country, patriot ballad. And oh my God, it's so bad I can't entirely verbalize it. First of all, the sheer stupidity of the shit is beyond comprehension. Even like, my mom knows that Iraq isn't directly responsible for the events that occured on September 11. Yet this is the entire premise of this ri-fucking-diculous song. The motherfucker rhymes Bin Laden with forgotten! You can't fucking do that.

He goes on to talk about how if it were up to him, Freedom-Loving Daryl Worely, he'd show footage of the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center every day. He wants to see it every day.

I sound pissed because I am. This song was created to make money--an exploitation of the victims of 9/11 if there ever was one, but no one cares since it's all cleverly packaged in the pretty lies they are all so accustumed to being handed. This song sickens me, and I'll bet you my Dad fucking loves it. (No offense, Dad. That is, if you ever made your way off the AOL front page. I respect your right to listen to completely infactual and manipulative music if you want. And if you don't like this song, I'm so buying you a beer.)


i disgust me
Wednesday, April 2, 2003
12:46 p.m.
I graduated college by default. I'd been there so long, given them so much of my money, that they were all, "Get out. Take your worthless degree and go. We are sick of looking at you."

This is because, seriously (seriously), I am the world's biggest procrastinator. I was supposed to begin a writing project this morning. I set my alarm for 9 a.m. I rolled out of bed sometime after 10:30. I've since made coffee, peed like 8 times, dusted the bookshelf, reloaded my web haunts dozens of times and painted my toenails.

Word count at 12:50 p.m.: 0


go banana!
Tuesday, April 1, 2003
10:26 p.m.
I am particularly proud of my desktop at the moment.

Hard to stay angry very long when you've got 19" of Ralph with his finger jammed up his nose staring back at you. He has no sympathy for my trivial problems and aggrevations. He's utterly oblivious--not a bad lesson at times.


while walking
Tuesday, April 1, 2003
06:57 p.m.
-A little girl pedals by me on a bike, steering with one hand, the other encased in a pink cast up to the middle of her upper arm. Reminding me immediately of the time I rode a bike too small for me down this steep hill in back of the apartments where I lived. The hill curved right at the bottom, and out of view of those at the top of the slope. Twice, I rode the bike down quickly, but safely. Then I tossed the bike in the ditch, twice, pretending to be hurt--sending my friends scurrying down to see about me. At which time I'd jump up, laughing at the funny prank. The third time I sailed down, a knobby knee striking the handlebars, sending me right over them and onto the pavement. I tried to get up by propping up on my left arm, only to realize I couldn't since it was numb with pain. It was broken, I could tell. I'd broken that same arm just a few years before. I screamed for my friends, the tiny bike lying on top of me. They, of course, went inside. I layed in the middle of the street, crumpled and broken under my neighbor's too-small bike, until a man drove along and called an ambulance.

I am, apparently, a living fable. (The broken arm was taped into a make-shift splint once at the emergency room made from a rolled up magazine. Such were the superb medical facilites in Small Town, Tennessee.

-Airplanes, their white tails creating smoky fireworks in the sky.

-A robin, busily building a nest of twigs and shiny, pastel-colored string confetti. I imagine the nest filled with Cadburry Creme Eggs.*

-While jogging, a black Corvette, new, peels into the gravel, stopping short. I continue forward and smile and nod to two young construction workers on the sidewalk. After I pass I hear, "Hey, girl! He wants to holler at you." I yell back, "That's okay!," and run further than I'd planned in efforts to lose the man in the car.

-Three children, playing a game of intricacies and importance. They are trying to hash out the rules. A ball is being thrown high into the air as voices raise. Seems as though, "I'm telling Mama" still trumps all.

-Jog past a man in a chair in a suit and tie, playing an electric guitar with no strings. He tells me that running is bad for my knees.

-A family of five and two dogs walk, without speaking. The husband and wife are exactly the same height.

-A house three streets over looks as though the Easter bunny has taken a large shit on it. The tree branches hold hundreds of empty, plastic eggs. I wonder if there will be a hunt, and if so I want to go, since maybe this year I could win one. As a child our Easter egg hunts were rigged, my aunts always helping their children cheat. The golden egg was a wadded up piece of aluminum foil, the prize twenty dollars or a kiss from my father. Winner's choice.

*Foulest excuse for candy ever.


nah-nah, nah boo-boo
Tuesday, April 1, 2003
03:37 p.m.
I just slept in until 3:30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday.
And you didn't.


picture pages
Tuesday, April 1, 2003
03:38 a.m.
I got some more eye treats for you bitches.


losing: par for the course
Monday, March 31, 2003
04:00 a.m.
There's something you should know. I haven't quite been myself lately. I've been distant, preoccupied. I've been hanging out with new people. I've been updating less often and generally neglecting this here weblog. I've been mentally noting the nuances in sentence structures and calling people really mean names. And told some secrets. I've been watching my back and suspecting others of lying and deceit, and keeping tabs on who says what, and when, and how and for what reason. But not well wnough. Because, folks, I've been kicked off a eliminated from a* "reality web game."

I'd been digging on Ernie's site for some time and noticed the call for Puppetmaster II applications and figured why the hell not. I filled it out, kissed a little ass and lo and behold, I got picked. I hadn't viewed the original game, and so went into it blindly.

What transpired from there was some faux-cattiness, many a drunkin' post and a pretty good amount of fun. I got into trying to discover the puppet (Seriously, hats off to the Puppetmaster. You are doing a hell of a job writing a puppet. That, or I'm just dim.), but sadly, had not near the amount of time I needed to particpate to the best of my abilities. In fact, I kind of should apologize to Ernie for a lack of participation compared to the others--the man runs a good game (And hard! That last exemption game was a bitch.); I shoulda done better.

Anyhow, you now have my full attention. My new buddies were cool and all. But, while you all have your serious defecits, you all, at least, are real.

*Kicked off sounds cooler. Like maybe I bitch slapped somebody and couldn't cry my way out of getting sent home.

[Also, I should thank mikrophon, the Diane to my Agent Cooper, my partner in sleuth over the past couple of weeks. I went with Jenny, buddy. I should have gone with your Ariel hunch.]


if you see the cuss, then okay
Sunday, March 30, 2003
04:17 a.m.
Why the fuck does Wal-Mart refuse to carry CDs with explicit lyrics when they have American Pie 2 for sale in the next aisle?

Had to ask out loud. It's keeping me from sleep.


from whence I came
Saturday, March 29, 2003
12:11 p.m.
My grandfather, my mom's dad, I never met him. He died after I was born, I think. I don't know for sure. In fact, right this second, I can't remember the man's name. I know he married my mom's mother, had three children, and that he died a wino on the streets of Nashville. My mother's mother died when my mom was four. Mom told me she learned of his death in the newspaper, a story outlining the tale of a homeless man found dead on the traintracks--weeks after he took his last breath.

My mother tells me that for a time she wouldn't go to lunch with her co-workers for fear of running into him while out and about downtown. A move she now deeply regrets.

I hardly ever think about my grandfather, as you might imagine. He's such a sketch in my head. Just the hollow-faced man I've seen in that one picture. Today, though, I read this piece by Sarah Hepola. And now I'm sort of sad. I hope my grandfather was even a tiny little bit like William--I hope had I been around he might have shared a corner with me.


i hate this girl
Friday, March 28, 2003
01:18 a.m.
My submission for Operation Teenage Angst Fest:

Diary entry, 3/29/94:

C--hi. I have to talk to you. I don't know what about. I just hurt. Are you sad? Too? Did you cry today, like me? Of course you didn't--you're too old for that. I always think it's not going to work. I'll die--I swear.

You hurt me (no, I hurt me) so much today. You took my arms and told me to "shut up" and "get out" and "I don't like you" and oh god... Your lessons are so painful. And I can't call and why did you have to wait for the morning of my test? You weren't tired last night--you were loathing me--me and my baby talk.

I never, ever, ever, ever, never know how to please you like I wish I could.
I love you (too often)
(too much)
(not now)

Everything is so far away, our age, our bodies, our souls right now. And I'm writing shit on a page you'll never see.

* * *

Ha! And this dude was such a total tool.

[via my newest, biggest girl-crush cowboy sally]


that so does not belong to me
Thursday, March 27, 2003
01:37 p.m.
I just found some ripped, nasty, yellow-stained men's undershirt in my dirty laundry. What the fuck? Where is the ripped, nasty, yellow-stained man that belongs to it?


Thursday, March 27, 2003
11:19 a.m.

[this is good-ass blogging]


more than munchies
Thursday, March 27, 2003
09:27 a.m.
I don't know why I'm telling you this, other than that I've got three bites of ambrosia salad and a handful of soynuts left for groceries, but I'm fucking ravenous. I don't know how this happens. I wake up, make (okay, reheat) coffee, manage clothes on and sit down to work (which is, right now, writing research papers for overworked [fine, lazy] college students) and out of the thin blue: STARVING. And this is not just in the morning time.

I always go from perfectly satiated to MUST EAT OR I'LL IMPLODE! There is no gradual, mounting hunger. All of the sudden I'm doubled over with hunger and it actually hurts until I stick some food in me. And it isn't as though I don't have plenty of reserves. Why can't my body gnaw on my excess thigh-age for a little bit? Always needing sustenance. Hey body: Eat my ass!


an outrage, an obscenity
Thursday, March 27, 2003
08:40 a.m.


[via metafilter]


go usa
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
09:22 p.m.

(laugh, weep)

[discovered by drew]


ridiculous shit I've seen on tv so far today
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
12:54 p.m.
The weatherman on the local news told me that he doesn't think the upcoming showers will be a "toad-strangling, gulley-flooding affair."

On Jenny Jones, these teenaged girls were listing the things they played older men for. Some of these things were weaves, "thugged-out baby clothes," Baby Ruths and Snickers and "meals at IHOP, Denny's, Waffle Hose and Ponderosa."

Some blonde lady stroking Elmo's head in a distinctly sexy manner.

Starr Jones said, on The View, "I am so totally high right now." (She had just hours before had a tooth pulled.)

A segment on local news entitled War Decorations. A spot on how homes around Middle Tennessee are decorating for the war. One man had a statue of a pit-bull with red, glaring eyes, wearing an American flag sash around its neck. The anchor said, "Think this would scare Saddam Hussein?"

Some asshole set up cameras around his home, taping his wife naked without her knowledge, then sold them on the internet. Then he took her on Montel to reveal this, and apologize.

Jeff Foxworthy

How did I go without television for so long?


oh for fuck's fucking sake
Monday, March 24, 2003
07:55 p.m.
I think I am going to make another shirt. It will read: Why am I not surprised?


JC or KR?
Monday, March 24, 2003
12:56 p.m.
One of my bar guests yesterday asked me a question, out of the blue.

guest: If you could spend 24 hours with any person, dead or alive, who would it be?

me: -after careful consideration- Probably the Buddha. What about you?

guest: Christ. I'd ask him a few questions, all bullshitting aside. Him. Or Kid Rock.


Dear Oscar attendees,
Monday, March 24, 2003
11:53 a.m.
Catherine Zeta Jones, WOW, you're pregnant. Now, give Meryl Streep her fucking Oscar. Thank you.

Nick Cage, why do you always look constipated? Why the fuck did you leave your gorgeous wife of many years to marry a woman who has also been married to Michael Jackson? Why did we realize you actually really suck at your trade only after you won your industry's highest honor?

Adrien Brody, be my boyfriend. Please?

Jack Palance, way to be still alive!

Salma Hayek, I covet thy body and thy extra-cute boyfriend.

Renee Zellweger, why did you melt away? Your pruny face looks much better with a little softness to it. Trust me. Have a slice of cheesecake, lest you grow a thick layer of down on your body to replace the warmth typically provided by a normal amount of body fat. Not everybody likes a Fatty, but honey, far less enjoy a Hairy.

Queen Latifa, explain to me what the hell you were doing there again.

Pedro Almodóvar, you rock my face.

Roman Polanski (even though you weren't allowed to attend due to previous Bad Act), YAY FOR YOU!!


lists I can do
Sunday, March 23, 2003
03:46 a.m.
Brief list of artists/bands I don't like that everyone else seems to:

-Foo Fighters (except that one song, something about "I'm on your back.")
-Alice in Chains
-Fucking Tom Petty (Rot, Tom.)
-Black Crowes
-Led Zepplin
-The Rolling Stones
-Norah Jones
-The Grateful Dead (Makes me want to hit.)
-Fucking Tom Petty


on pause
Friday, March 21, 2003
05:25 p.m.
War has left me introspective and less verbose. Forgive the slow trickle of posts.


Thursday, March 20, 2003
01:30 p.m.
[I like to make stuff up in order to escape. All these words below? Made them up. Pack of darned lies.]

They were in her den, four of them, tipsy on white whine and whisky. The brunette wore a sharp, new skirt and everyone noticed. All were comfortable, laughing, but Paul. The guy Lara invited over. They'd only been dating a couple of weeks, and while there wasn't a chemically-based attraction between them she kept seeing him because he smelled very, very clean and he really became hilarious after a few drinks. Paul liked her pretty okay, too. She had amazing breasts and this rubber face that he found endearing. And she wasn't needy like other girls, which was refreshing.

He liked to watch her with her friends, slipping into old routines, quoting television shows they all adored. She wished he would speak up, and maybe sneak a hand through her hair. He eyed her shoulders as they rose and fell, safely from the bean bag across the room.

Her brother flipped through albums, deciding on an appropriate selection. From the bean bag he watched the blurred faces of Michael Jackson and Carole King and Fleetwood Mac, as her brother sped through the records. Then an album bearing a name they all knew surfaced, and there was a snag in time, and Paul watched Lara's brother watch her as she swallowed, bit her cheek and grabbed her cigarettes. She made for the door, and Paul couldn't place just where he'd heard that name before.

And he suddenly, without reason, Paul grew to like Lara a whole lot more.


time to fight
Thursday, March 20, 2003
01:44 p.m.
I just duked it out with a bubble bee the size of a lime. It's buzzing, defeated, outside my window.

And another thing, so excited about trying my new Dr. Scholl's inserts at work tonight.


things that matter
Thursday, March 20, 2003
11:29 a.m.
The true prize in a box of Cracker Jack is not that piece of shit "decoder" paper found inside, but the one, if you're lucky two, sweet, caramel covered peanuts. The peanut to popcorn ratio in your average box of Cracker Jack is greatly skewed.


springtime is bomb time
Thursday, March 20, 2003
03:23 a.m.
I'm currently rebuilding the photos section, so it may be down for a bit. Likely not too long. Expect it to be much better though upon its return.

I took a few photographs on what was a most strange and paradoxical day. The air was crisp, moving fast, pushing in the springtime. It felt like, for the first time in a long time, a day of renewal.

Night fell, and missiles, and now all I can think of is suffering. And let's face it, suffering is the same ol' shit.


this is for tim
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
07:43 p.m.
A reader by the name of Tim posted a lengthy comment asking me about the origin of garmonbozia. He is a big Twin Peaks fan who's yet to see the prequel Fire Walk with Me, where garmonbozia becomes a more prominent element.

So, Tim I suggest you go ahead and watch the film. Seeing FWWM is going to heavily enrich your TP experience. The Black and White Lodges are covered heavily, though as obtusely as you might imagine. However, if you really want to know, it will not ruin anything for you plot-wise, so here is what I know about garmonbozia. Those of you who haven't seen the entire series should stop reading. Seriously. Stop it.

Simply put, garmonbozia is pain and suffering. We get this literal definition from one of the final Red Room scenes in Fire Walk With Me. Creamed corn seems to be the physical manifestation of garmonbozia. There is speculation that the word is derived from "ambrosia," the food of the gods. Others speculate that the word, when played backwards, has various meanings. The most widely held backward meaning of the word is "I am/was/saw Windham Earle."

It seems as though garmonbozia is nourishment for the dwellers of the Black Lodge, which makes sense since BOB feeds on fear.

And that, my friend, is all I can tell you about garmonbozia. Once you see the film you will gain a wider understanding of its role in the series as a whole. Watch it alone amped up on lots and lots of coffee.


helpless, hopeless
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
12:40 a.m.
I am deeply ashamed and saddened by the actions of my government. I fear now that the human race is on the brink of massive and overwhelming tragedy. Rage mounts when I hear the contradictions, the propaganda, the absolute lies and watch as a nation nods in agreement like fucking sheep. I wonder at how power and greed can become so engulfing that one no longer minds the slaying of thousands in the name of their personal interests. I am appalled at the ordering of journalists out of the area, lest they be targeted down. It infuriates me to know most Americans will never know what happens.

I weep for the world in these our darkest of days.



suggest reading
recommend a movie

will work for ______

resume (hire me!)

webcam status: on; see?

somewhat daily reading

metafilter | myfi
dong resin's joint
sweat flavored gummi
deep blue day
anil dash
chapel perilous
toohey world
mighty girl
elf radio
rabbit blog
little. yellow. different.
cockeyed absurdist
mimi smartypants
bottom dwelling
here i type
que sera sera
exploding dog
defective yeti
sarah hepola
april winchell
total viscosity breakdown
the subastral lilipad
cowboy sally
evil twin theory.
the morning news
small spiral notebook
ben henick
abbie the cat

et alterum
twin peaks gazette
apt. 121 | aireline
rotten tomatoes
mr. cranky
mass transit
who would buy that?
my fotolog

get around much: