It caught on in a flash. As many of you know, I LOVE Halloween. Historically, that is. This year, I did nothing to celebrate. Nothing! This is my first year without a pumpkin, no candy for the trick-or-treaters...I am the Scrooge of Halloween. Why? Because Halloween has lost all it's awesomeness. Case in point: I saw people driving their children trick-or-treating. That's right. People actually drove their children from house to house. Did these people miss the whole child obesity epidemic in this country? I mean, they're actually so fucking lazy that they're driving their children three feet at a time so that they can gorge themselves on concentrated doses of high-fructose corn syrup. This kind of behavior makes me insane.

So fuck you, lazy parents of my town with your fat, Type II Diabetes-children. Your children are doomed to have boring Halloween stories to go along with their boring, over-protected existences. Ha!

To prove my point, here are my two favorite Halloween memories from my childhood, a time when my mother made me costumes and I walked from house to house (Excerpted from T.W.N. Oct. 30, 2002):

My grandmother was born on Halloween, so, to celebrate her birthday, she used to accompany my mother and me when we went trick-or-treating. One year, when I was dressed as a princess in my grandmother's wedding dress and my own rubber galoshes (glass slippers were out of style that year), a woman approached us. She alerted my mother and grandmother that Jesus had instructed her to give me $20. She then handed my mother the bill and departed, leaving my mother and grandmother stunned and me confused (I didn't know who Jesus was at that time).

Flash forward to eigth grade, when I was past the acceptable age for trick-or-treating but still found it fun. My friend and I wandered the neighborhood, stopping at houses to pick up chocolate goodies along the way. We made a special detour to the house of my friend's crush, only to walk in on him and his friends watching porn.

Yes, that all actually happened. Beats your shiny, happy minivan, doesn't it, losers?

They did the mash. I find it very strange when churches host haunted houses on Halloween. Did they miss the whole paganism-is-the-antithesis-of-monotheism memo, or were they too busy hating gays?

Until they realize. I had training this morning for my super-cool volunteer position with Planned Parenthood (yay), and it just so happens that today was abortion day at the center. That's right, they actually have Abortion Day. Sadly, there were no balloons.

Before I go even farther into the Land of Extremely Poor Taste, I'll explain. There is one day a week dedicated to surgical abortions at the Centers which offer the service. At the Center where I was trained, this day is usually Saturday, but the doctor couldn't make it, so they switched it to Friday.

If you ever want to see intense, go to P.P. on abortion day. Holy shit! You have to wait at least three hours because there's so much paper work and sonograms and, well, stuff, that they have to do before you can undergo a procedure which takes--I am not kidding--three minutes. Seriously! A surgical abortion takes three minutes! There were tons of women, and some supportive boyfriends, sitting there, some trying hard not to cry, all looking uncomfortable and upset. There was this 14 year-old sobbing because she wasn't sure what to do, and it wasn't clear whether or not she'd been raped, and she was afraid she'd never be able to have children if she had an abortion, and HORRIBLE!

I think that the best form of Sex. Ed. you could have would be to make everyone sit around and watch people waiting to get an abortion. It'll make you the most vigilant condom user/pill taker/celibate ever.

Also, public health...wow.

You know you're gonna lie to you in your own way. Quick observation:

Did anyone else notice that, when asked about Harriet Meir's qualifications, Trent Lott said that there were several other more qualified "men, women, and minorities" that should have been picked? How did nobody else pick up on that?! Did he just say that minorities (*cough* black people *cough*) are not the same as men and women? I realize that some of you might call me out for nit-picking, but I'm sorry. The language people use says a ton about their thought process, and from my perspective, Trent Lott's got a huge neon sign blinking "racist" over his head.

It plays tricks with the eye. The painters are starting on my room soon, so I had to take everything off my walls. That's right, boys and girls. My walls full of post cards and door full of magazine cutouts has finally come down. I'm sure that, to most of you, this doesn't mean anything, but to those of you who've seen the damn thing, you know what I'm talking about. As I was ripping tape off my walls, I started to reflect (Of course I started to reflect. When has there ever been a time in my life when I don't reflect?!). So here are my musings as the almost-22 year-old me takes down what the 12-14 year-old me created:

• I used many advertisements from teen magazines and Entertainment Weekly to create my collage. These slogans which I plastered up--"Design Your Dream," "Guts, Nerves of Steel: That's What Little Girls Are Made Of," "Man-eater"--came from lipstick and shampoo ads. I tried to define myself through visual culture. I can't say that I actually believed I had nerves of steel or that my 14 year-old self could ever have been considered a man-eater, but I was trying to define who I wanted to be. I wanted to be someone strong and impenetrable, someone who hurt others before they could hurt her. I don't think my adolescent self was atypical, but it's certainly not a happy thing to think about.



• I love post cards! Love love LOVE post cards! I have strict rules for post cards, though, so don't go buying me any. You'll probably get in wrong. That said, my favorite place to purchase post cards, along with other paper goods, is the Centre Pompidou. Ironically, I can't stand the Centre Pompidou as a museum, but their gift shop is fab-u-lous.



• I have an inordinate amount of post cards from the Musée Rodin. I have a rule that, every time I visit the museum, I have to buy a post card of Eternal Idol. Consequently, I now have four Eternal Idols, two La Danaïde, five Le Baiser in various sizes and formats, two Iris, and more views of Le Penseur than is healthy. But give me credit; I do not have any Balzac. Bleh.



• Yves Klein is really interesting. Why haven't I been able to make it back to the Musée d'Art Moderne et d'Art Contemporain in Nice?

Watch him as he goes. I'd never really thought much of Startship Troopers, that stupid movie about humans vs. space bugs starring Casper Van Dien (who's married to a Scandanavian princess. Not too shabby) and Denise Richards (sister had a nose job, what), until I read this in the Onion AV Club's "A Decade of Underrated Movies":

Among the most subversive and widely misunderstood studio films ever produced, Paul Verhoeven's anti-fascist satire was falsely interpreted as an endorsement of a fascist utopia that sends pea-brained young recruits on a dire, meaningless offensive against giant space bugs. Working again with Robocop screenwriter Ed Neumeier, Verhoeven casts utterly blank pretty boys and girls (including Casper Van Dien and Denise Richards) as brainwashed heroes rushing merrily to their doom. The state-of-the-art special effects make for some rousing action sequences, but Verhoeven is more interested in how propaganda works to convince citizens of the rightness of an insane cause. Witness this twisted piece of logic from teacher/recruiter Michael Ironside: "Violence has resolved more conflicts that anything else. The contrary opinion that violence doesn't solve anything is merely wishful thinking at its worst."

Coincidently, Starship Troopers was on UPN Sunday night, and I was inspired to watch it. Holy crap is that movie creepy! If you look at the film as an exploration of a fascist society which brainwashes its citizens and not some bs movie about pretty people blowing things up, it's the scariest thing. Case in point, the scene where school children are "doing their part" in the war effort by stomping on bugs is particularly creepy. The ending where Doogie Houser (haha) captures the "Brain Bug" and proceeds to experiment on it with a wide variety of power tools reminds me of Mengele's experiements. Thank you so much, AV Club, for making my skin crawl. Ew.

Mmmm skyscraper, I love you. Ike thinks he's sexist, but I think he's hilarious:

"Women would have a much easier time of things if they didn't destroy men's capacity to reason with their feminine lures and wiles." Or, in other words, women hate that they make men stupid.

Points for paraphrasing my poster, for calling me sexy, and for calling men idiots. You get a gold star, blue buddy. Well done.

A little more obvious. Snap! That's some tight-ass shit.

Interesting that I take such pleasure in ye olde fuck-and-dump considering I don't have the cajones for it. I really shouldn't revel in bitchiness as much as I do. Hmmm...

How much is that doggie in the window. A request was made about a month ago by an old friend of mine to dedicate a post to my dog, Chauncey. We made a deal: I'd post dog-alicious photos, and he'd post comments on my blog (I am an attention whore, and I'm proud). So, I am finally on my old, broke-ass computer with enough time to upload these darn things. And, assuming the process doesn't cause my computer to burst into a ball of flame, we should be good to go.

The question here is, can you guess which one is my dog? If you're thinking to yourself, "Well, T.L. is a pretty friendly, gregarious person. I could totally see her with a big, cuddly pooch like that black lab," you'd be...WRONG. Chauncey is an SBD--a small, black dog. He's about the size of a bread box, but his personality is larger than the Sears Tower. He's a chihuahua mix, but my dad and I are convinced he's a rat.

There are, obviously, other pictures, but they require docturing in the form of decapitating family members. I have, however, upheld my end of the bargain. Donc, voilà le chien. Tu en as besoin plus, mon petit morceau de sel, ou est-ce que ça suffit? Et j'ai toujours une jolie queue.

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me. On December 31, I will be without health insurance. As I am no longer a full-time student, I am no longer elligable for coverage. Consequently, I have to find a COBRA program, which I doubt I can afford.

America sucks.

Doncha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me. Someone posted this on my friend's facebook wall, and I thought it was pretty funny. And naughty. And all those good things:

Stilettos $80
Nails done $30
Cute Dress $90

Finding out he eats PUSSY…………………………Priceless

Shit it Pays to DISCOVER!!!!!!!!

A time to laugh and shiver and cry. I have all this stuff floating around in my wee little mind I've wanted to write about all weekend, so I'm getting it out now. Lucky you, cyberspace. You get to listen to me ramble. Woot (I refuse to w00t properly. I'm all non-conformist like that).

Two observations:

First, if you missed it, and I'm sure you did because I'm the only person aside from my dad who watches PBS on Friday nights (Whatever, Gwen Ifill is the shit), you missed Kurt Vonnegut on NOW with Dave "Fake-Tan" Brancaccio. If you were too busy drinking/fucking/having-a-life-in-general to see Vonnegut rip the U.S.A. a new one, boy did you miss out. In one half-hour interview, Vonnegut calls for impeaching Bush and talks about checking out "hot babes." I am not kidding; he actually said "hot babes." It was awesome.

Second, there's this new, overly-hyped show on ABC called "Hot Properties" which stars a bunch of overly plastic-surgeried unpretty women, "Sex and the City" vet Evan Handler (awesome), and my gal Nicole Sullivan. The show itself is mediocre, but I love Nicole Sullivan, so I'm probably gonna watch it. I do, however, have a complaint. Why does Nicole Sullivan always have to play the ugly, neurotic, ignored girl? She's not ugly, or overweight, or plastic surgerified. She's hella funny (you might remember her as one of the original MAD TV cast members...on second thought, you probably don't). I mean, she's Joan of Arc! How much cooler can you be?! I don't understand why Joan of Arc has to spend her life pining away for that loser Abe Lincoln when she's totally smart, funny, interesting and sexy. Just because she's not generically sexy/slutty like Cleopatra, she gets the shaft. It's not fair! And if you don't know what I'm talking about, you need to get your hands on "Clone High" rightthehellnow.

The girl with khaleidescope eyes. I admit, one of the only reasons I read amNewYork is for the celebrity gossip. It's way better than the New York Metro (Incidently, I met the one and only staff reporter for the Metro at one of Chuck Schumer's infamous Sunday press conferences last summer. He's a nice guy; I think he hit on me. Whatever). Case in point, this is a frigging hysterical piece of trivial news that kept me laughing for a good long while:

Wintour Gets Pied, Again, By Activists

Vogue editor-in-chief Anna Wintour was hit with a pie this weekend by anti-fur demonstrators as she attended Paris fashion week. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals' vice president Dan Mathews said the pie--a vegetarian tofu tart--was retaliation for the magazine's decision to run fur ads while refusing to use PETA's anti-fur messages, though the animal rights group offered to pay the same fee. Wintour was hit with the tart while she waited to see the Chloe fashion show Saturday in Paris. It was the second time in a year that PETA has hit her with a pie.

I understand why Vogue would refuse the PETA ads; a political stance such as this would alienate their advertisers and the subjects of their articles. You can't militantly hate fur and interview Dior about his rabbit fur-trimmed sweaters or whatever. It doesn't work. Second, what the fuck is PETA's problem? Throwing vegetarian tofu pies at people? Twice? What in the hell? I mean, I'm something of an idealist and can be passionate about my causes, but even I think throwing a fucking pie at someone is ridiculous! This sort of behavior doesn't help their cause; it only makes them look like a bunch of crazy nutjobs. PETA's reputation was pretty tarnished after that "no one likes fur trim" anti-pubic hair ad campaign a while back; I don't see how throwing pies at media giants is going to make them look any better or attract people to their cause. If anything, it kind of makes me want to wear fur just to piss them off.

I've got my freaks to the West. I've said it before, I'll say it again. I have the best fucking friends in the entire fucking universe. Check out what Veggie made me and actually sent to me, like with a stamp and everything.



Yes, love is post-mail. Definitely.

In other news, I have this free download at iTunes that's going to expire October 15, and I can't use it because my step-mom is territorial and uninstalled all my iPod software from her computer. So, if anyone out there would like it, let me know. I'm sure we can work out some sort of exchange.

No sleep tonight. I overhear or am told the most ridiculous shit at this job. I know that one of my co-workers swings both ways, that another's ex-boyfriend was electrocuted, and that another has severe gas resulting from her pregnancy. Currently, several of my co-workers are discussing whether a certain actress appeared in Playboy or Maxxim, which has lead to a discussion of painted-on clothing and some other things I will not transcribe here because this is a family blog, damnit.

This shit is bananas. I just completed a 15-page copy editing and proofreading test for Simon & Schuster. I spent a good part of my evening in the public library with a copy of the 15th edition of the Chicago Style Manual. I did all this because, even though other candidates had a week to do their test, I had less than 24 hours because she wants to make a decision quickly.

Why do I do this? The odds are firmly against them hiring me.

Here's the truth. I am not special. There are a million, flabby girls wearing trendy shoes who've just graduated from college and who want to go into publishing. They can either copy edit well or their parents help them with the test. Donning pearls and enthusiasm does not make me special. I am not a rare, skilled worker. I am not a sought-after commodity. I am not even an easily-replaceable cog in a wheel because the motherfucking wheel doesn't want me.

I am so tired of interviewing. I am tired of getting revved up and walking around in these attractive yet painful shoes to impress a bunch of people who really couldn't care less. I am tired of jumping when they say jump, of worrying and waiting and wanting only to hit another dead end. I am tired of sending out resumes which get lost in e-mail overflow. I am so fucking tired.

I am not saying all this because I legitimately think that I'm shit. I'm just tired of feeling so pointless and unimportant. Why am I fighting so fucking hard to break into a world which clearly doesn't want me?

I will not be afraid of women. I'm not usually one to criticize PBS, but two things happened last night that really startled me. First, "Nova" chronicled the discovery of a sunken Japanese battleship from World War II. Every time a Japanese historian or eye witness spoke, they dubbed the translation using the most horrendously stereotypical Japanese-speaking-English voice possible. At one point, my dad started quoting Godzilla it was so bad. I don't understand why it was necessary to have stereotypically ethnic voices represent that ethnic background. I certainly wouldn't have been offended if someone with a British accent dubbed a Japanese translation. In the wake of Katrina, I find myself saying "That's so racist!" much more than I used to. I'll leave it to you to decide if that's a good thing.

After "Nova," "Frontline" explored the 10 year anniversary of the O.J. Simpson verdict and its affects on the judicial system. The documentary itself was fascinating, but at a few points during it, the director showed a discussion at Georgetown Law School, where the case is still debated. Every person who spoke was a white man. This could mean one of two things: 1) The director only used what the men said or 2) Women don't participate at Georgetown Law School. Think about the gender bias implicit in either of those options. All I have to say is up with women's education, down with patriarchy, and fuck you for silencing my sex.

I want somebody who sees me. I think today was the first time in years I actually got anything out of synagogue.

The Rosh Hashanah Haftarah portion discusses Hannah's silent yet fervent prayer for children. She is constantly taunted by her rival, her husband's other wife Peninnah, because Peninnah has two sons while Hannah has none. In the machsor's commentary, the rabbis and scholars focus on Hannah's prayer and the interpretation of her actions. But what no one seems to notice is that Hannah needs to bear a son to obtain socio-political standing within the community. She is part of a polygamous society where the birth of a male son equals security. Why don't any scholars talk about that?

What I do like, however, is that there is the possibility for discussion. All of our texts are allegories, and we are supposed to interpret and contemplate them. The rabbi talked about Adam's reaction after Cain's trial for killing his brother. Because Cain owned up to his sin by repenting, he was awarded clemency. Adam didn't do this. Adam could not say "Hineni"--Here I am. This is what Abraham says when he is called upon to sacrifice Isaac, and it is what Cain does when he repents. It is our obligation to follow Teshuvah, to say Hineni. And what does Hineni mean? What does it mean to say, "Here I am?"

I don't want to spend too much more time philosophizing on this. I don't want to take myself so seriously as to actually think I have an answer for any of these questions. But these thoughts make me go to a quiet place where it's just me, and I am humbled by the universe.

Joy to the fishies in the deep blue sea. In my office, there's an area known as The Fishbowl. It's a large, square area surrounded by cubicle walls with windows in the walls, so that, when walking to the coffee machine, you can stare at the six people who work in it. Hence the name The Fishbowl. Well, there is not a day that goes by when The Fishbowl does not have some sort of food for everyone. At least once a week, there are bagels, and more often than not, there are munchkins, cookies, fruit, and various grease-stained pastry boxes bearing who knows what. I wonder if you did a health survey of the office, would The Fishbowl occupants have a high rate of diabetes or obesity than other sections of the office? And would there be a radius of diabetes and obesity incidents radiating out from The Fishbowl?

These are the things I think about when I'm at work. Hence the reason I desperately need to find a different job.