tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-342331412024-02-18T22:35:05.572-08:00WordUpThe Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-39088764763040532722008-05-20T12:16:00.000-07:002008-06-13T13:36:45.197-07:00Intensive CareSometime in your life, as a total surprise, a family member of yours might be taken to the hospital where they will spend a prolonged amount of time in the intensive care unit. This happened to me just recently.<br /><br />I hope this doesn’t happen to you, but you should be forewarned – it might happen and then you want to be prepared: it is not like the movies. Even I, an ardent admirer of "Steel Magnolias" with its long Julia-Roberts-Coma-Sequence was grossly unprepared.<br /><br />Here are some of the main differences you can expect: <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Movie Fib: There is only one doctor. </span><br />In the movies, to make it easier to understand, they use one doctor to deliver plot points. In real life, there will be about six thousand doctors. They will appear not to know each other. You will tell Dr. Lastname “Dr. Smith said so and so” and then Dr. Lastname will say something like “Dr. Smith…does he have a beard?” and then, even though you are almost thirty, your Mom will embarrass you by saying “Dr. Smith has beautiful eyes.” <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Movie Fib: Important things happen all the time </span><br />Untrue. The important thing has already happened. Now basically what the doctors are doing is just telling you interesting medical facts to pass the time. <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Movie Fib: There is definitely one fatal sounding beep.</span><br />Bullshit. All beeps sound fatal and will give you a heart attack. Then you will get used to them and none of the beeps sound fatal. There should be a sequel to “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” called “Machines F@!#! Say Your Dad is Dying Every Twenty Minutes” <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Movie Fib: Your family will huddle in the waiting room, crying. </span><br />Your family will sit around watching TV and reading and then someone will say “Who wants coffee?” and someone else will say “All I want is Taco Bell.” And they will respond “I’m not bringing Taco Bell into the hospital, it’s trashy.” <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Movie Fib: You Will Read Aloud to the Unconscious</span><br />Okay, this is true. You'll do it. I did. If you are ever the person IN the coma, you ought to have some books set aside ahead of time. Not me, but someone I will call “Mom” is going to read you <span style="font-style: italic;">Eat, Pray, Love.</span> I know, it sucks. I can’t help it. None of us like Tom Clancy. <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Movie Fib: There will be long silent montages demonstrating the agony of your family. </span><br />I don’t know what kind of family you have but we never shut up. <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Movie Fib: </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1213389121_3">The One</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Closest Person In Their Life Will Get Them To Open Their Eyes </span><br />Everyone has seen a ton of movies where the most special person gets the eyes of the sick person to open. This gives the hospital room a contest-like atmosphere where your family competes to see who really is the most important.<br /><br />I for a few days wanted to be that special person, even though I know my sister and I are loved the same. But I wanted to do it, I wanted to see his eyes open and recognize me and I could say something funny like, “You idiot, don’t do that again!” or serious like “Dad, it’s me, I love you” or try to explain everything or tell him about what’s happened, or even, for a second, enjoy that certainty that he will be there with me a little bit longer. Just a moment longer.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Movie Fib: There are endings</span><br />You hope not.The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-90284523547343181522008-05-02T10:32:00.000-07:002008-05-02T10:39:31.422-07:00Judy Blume<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIo46iCt9PsqkO44WD3pScxz6AmmuEuzZCMRsUbSBLJOaHXymGXja_eypXLfAKn6GhJE64uNwpS-v4g_EYKJ5u_Mxw-D7IkzOQow6J-6OuITHkYAKLf0oJhRTdr_KXRE1qg3TB/s1600-h/JudyB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIo46iCt9PsqkO44WD3pScxz6AmmuEuzZCMRsUbSBLJOaHXymGXja_eypXLfAKn6GhJE64uNwpS-v4g_EYKJ5u_Mxw-D7IkzOQow6J-6OuITHkYAKLf0oJhRTdr_KXRE1qg3TB/s400/JudyB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195836529970425234" border="0" /></a><br />Was the greatest, right? I was never freaked out that I was going to be the class weirdo for being either the first or last girl in the grade to get my period, but rites of adolescence were shrouded in mystery just the same and it was comforting to have someone sort of explain things. For strong independent female characters and learning about boners, you can't beat it. So I made this. Congrats, Judy.<br /><br /><a href="http://current.com/items/88929654_things_we_learned_from_judy_blume">Things We Learned From Judy Blume</a>The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-39671422520300704122008-04-28T11:29:00.000-07:002008-04-28T11:32:21.304-07:00Chicago TribuneThe ol' "Suspicious Skies" Op-Ed was published today in the Chicago Tribune. This is around my third proudest achievement of all time, despite the fact that soon there will be no such thing as a newspaper. Whatever. Still happy. Happy like the last guy who sold a radio show pilot.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/opinion/chi-oped0428cellapr28,0,2518089.story">Suspicious Skies</a>The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-67134345118974507062008-04-24T17:22:00.000-07:002008-04-24T17:24:54.632-07:00Celebribabes<pre style="font-family: georgia;">Hello new parents! Congratulations on your<br />accomplishment. We can only assume that you are<br />nervous, excited, and full of questions like “Should I<br />breast feed?” “What if my baby cries all the time?”<br />and “How can I most effectively package and develop my<br />baby’s content for maximum distribution and revenue<br />generation on the Internet?” Lucky for you, our<br />company has the answers. To the third question.<br /><br />Your friends might already have baby blogs, or a<br />flickr pages. Boring. Your baby can do so much more. A<br />baby allows you to increase your internet presence<br />ten-fold, thereby multiplying your opportunities to<br />create a genuine family brand that will drive<br />delighted consumers back to your website again and<br />again to view your particular brand of family<br />infotainment.<br /><br />By creating a solid web presence, you’ll also be<br />helping your baby. By the time your baby enters<br />elementary school, they’ll have a fan base, a thriving<br />interactive web site and a marketable personality that<br />can easily connect with consumers. Remember how you<br />wanted that jersey only the cool kids had? Well, now<br />your kid is the cool kid but this time <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1209082909_0">Nike</span>’s paying<br />you 2% of the revenue based on sales from your site<br />alone!<br /><br />As you look at your little flesh lump you might think<br />“but my baby isn’t doing anything particularly<br />hilarious and doesn’t seem to have a personality yet.”<br />Trust us: personalities are crafted, not born. You<br />just need to package your baby. Ask yourself the<br />following questions:<br /><br />1. Does my Baby do anything weird when music is on?<br />2. Does my Baby do something that seems<br />preternaturally adult?<br />3. Would I be comfortable letting my baby fall great<br />distances?<br />4. Be around a scary animal?<br />5. Bear? Cheetah?<br /><br />If your baby is dull, take heart: this is not about<br />what your baby does, but what the web says your baby<br />is. And you can make your baby do anything. It's a<br />baby. Here are some sample suggestions:<br /><br />Baby who ONLY WEARS PINK<br />Baby who is DRESSED UP AS GODZILLA AND CRUSHES MODELS<br />OF TOKYO.<br />Baby who you’ve taught to say “NO WAY <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1209082909_1">OSAMA BIN LADEN</span>”<br />and shake finger in a sassy way.<br /><br />Or give your baby an adjective and let the site’s<br />content naturally develop from your efforts to apply<br />that adjective across multiple media platforms. For<br />instance, EDGY BABY might have a Mohawk. EGDY BABY<br />posts videos from Lollapalooza or a similar mass<br />culture event with niche market applications. EDGY<br />BABY’s photo gallery is full of hilarious pictures of<br />EDGY BABY asleep next to a well-placed glass of beer.<br />EDGY BABY swears in his/her blog (which you write<br />until EDGY BABY is both literate and a foul mouthed<br />bastard). A collateral benefit of this approach<br />ensures that by the time that EDGY BABY’s obligatory<br />nude photos emerge in their teenage years, EDGY<br />BABY/TEEN is ready to take them to the bank.<br /><br />In terms of unique site visitors, product links,<br />subscribers and onsite ads, your baby’s content is one<br />of the greatest gifts you can give yourself. Get that<br />web presence rolling, and then we’ll talk reality tv,<br />book deals, you name it. Remember - in five years, if<br />you're not a product, you're not a person.</pre>The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-66077872420556485212008-04-24T17:19:00.000-07:002008-04-24T17:20:31.938-07:00Sarah As Cell Phone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcE-y-JcEh5hSvk3BWd6Lv1MUnhbynVdHhV7CfCYG5s2Qv-i3wo1tJ0t0x7S5e708tvMlHNJcA4p0CY_vGJJZgvtCJeR1yKTKdO0o0klsMDL_m7t09w7o_mkkg7QPEwlmiA0Z/s1600-h/Sarah+As+Cell+Phone.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcE-y-JcEh5hSvk3BWd6Lv1MUnhbynVdHhV7CfCYG5s2Qv-i3wo1tJ0t0x7S5e708tvMlHNJcA4p0CY_vGJJZgvtCJeR1yKTKdO0o0klsMDL_m7t09w7o_mkkg7QPEwlmiA0Z/s320/Sarah+As+Cell+Phone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192971189783539074" border="0" /></a><br />If you haven't watched "Texting Your Way To Love," this is my character.The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-27213797091974625262008-04-24T17:10:00.001-07:002008-04-24T17:19:01.022-07:00Ocean Fun<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0VTdslCp0fBecBZQvJQo2dudrKDffF2B6ofrn2hxY_ukIFtQDmxkug_M4xrsTbdHUtz_pW2RtKtxpLuM43OH1xwsmkS7cP0UO1EW7dQU6l4CEITe2b_YLF2eDv16YEvQa-tlY/s1600-h/ChuckSarah1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0VTdslCp0fBecBZQvJQo2dudrKDffF2B6ofrn2hxY_ukIFtQDmxkug_M4xrsTbdHUtz_pW2RtKtxpLuM43OH1xwsmkS7cP0UO1EW7dQU6l4CEITe2b_YLF2eDv16YEvQa-tlY/s400/ChuckSarah1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192970807531449714" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A still shot from a game of, "Can You Beat the Ocean By Running Fast?" Chuck and I played last weekend. The answer is no. The ocean got us wet and the ocean also made our legs burn like fire.The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-76579182860571485402008-04-17T10:53:00.000-07:002008-04-17T10:55:54.635-07:00SuperNewsis Current's animated satire/comedy show. The guys over there were kind enough to invite me to voice the character of "Sarah" in this week's episode. So, check out<br /><br /><a href="http://current.com/items/88906818_texting_your_way_to_love">Texting Your Way to Love</a>The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-64780718123865910402008-04-14T19:25:00.000-07:002008-04-24T17:12:55.145-07:00Suspicious Skies<span style="font-style: italic;">This essay will appear in a different more exciting format! Coming soon!</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-12186712745505018892008-04-07T12:05:00.000-07:002008-04-10T13:34:51.661-07:00Making an ImpressionHi there. Below is my impressions reel.<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='371' height='319' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyBEILZusUsqiASacFmoG7g8qiK6Bm2MtkrC4_AB5RfjISg3imUzjsukjN3NyiTHTrgJbhc_vxTAGM' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-56490004357410948782008-04-04T13:59:00.001-07:002008-04-04T14:01:07.611-07:00Chicago SketchfestI went back in January to make a short "pod" on Sketchfest. Now it is done! Hooray.<br /><a href="http://current.com/items/88877212_chicago_style_sketchfest"><br />Sketchfest Pod</a><br /><br />I "produced" it so I was not on camera. I was just around the camera, having libations.The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-24829289639175303442008-04-04T10:27:00.000-07:002008-04-04T10:29:13.903-07:00Who's That Sweeping?Me. I am an excellent brooms-woman.<br /><a href="http://current.com/items/88884039_the_future_of_infomania"><br />http://current.com/items/88884039_the_future_of_infomania</a><br /><br />Exciting times, indeed.The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-30312392792850720082008-04-02T23:05:00.000-07:002008-04-04T10:29:49.955-07:00NewsblastI work at a show called 'infomania.' For many months now, my friend and co-worker Mark has written a segment called "Newsblast" almost every day. The last Newsblast aired on April 1st. At the end of this final Newsblast, there's a little tribute to him and his behind the scenes work. Mark does not like being on camera/performing (much) so most of this was caught over the months when he was just doing voiceovers and the camera was rolling.<br /><br /><a href="http://current.com/items/88883466_newsblast_04_01_08">http://current.com/items/88883466_newsblast_04_01_08</a><br /><br />Check it out. The homage starts around 2:10. Congrats, Mark.The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-1090718434298329742008-03-31T22:41:00.000-07:002008-03-31T23:04:06.679-07:00Then We Came To The End<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1DSMr1qd5ioaiOAzcbVZ831ov3mKgF-EBGzSusr3VoWo6lOfw02BFjVcOvaVggowN3mKgrxydoZPrQELEPrZhblqFZjwF3hE02zsBWaGMQ9EJoWtALEt3zgO4nO0zm2WiEyNc/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 146px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1DSMr1qd5ioaiOAzcbVZ831ov3mKgF-EBGzSusr3VoWo6lOfw02BFjVcOvaVggowN3mKgrxydoZPrQELEPrZhblqFZjwF3hE02zsBWaGMQ9EJoWtALEt3zgO4nO0zm2WiEyNc/s320/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184152604698576178" border="0" /></a><br />This is a book about work, and the way we work, and how we treat the people we work with. It takes place in an advertising agency in Chicago that is slowly falling apart. I worked in an advertising agency in Chicago that was slowly falling apart and I have a deep desire to hold a posthumous book club with the agency and ask everyone if they know what character they are. Because that, in some ways, is the point of (and best part of)Then We Came To The End. It is written in the first person plural - the "we." And the use of "we" very much gets at the way we understand each other. In offices, people live in collectives, and operate in collectives and create narratives to understand them. Large, hive-mind shifting narratives where you can somehow know that everyone has an opinion about you and still survive the endless scrutiny of simply existing day after day with them because you've got them pegged pretty quickly.<br /><br />I haven't worked in an office since August 2003. Now I am back in an office. A smaller office with fewer of the middle aged people that I found bizarre at age 22. Why were they talking to me? What did they want me to do? Didn't they know I had bigger dreams and a crushing interminable hangover from drinking at the Old Town Ale House until 4am? Every Wednesday?<br /><br />The voice is perfect because I/We Did That. We would go to Starbucks for peppermint mochas because the day felt long and we felt irritated. We would complain about being oppressed. And we'd see the same people every day and then we'd leave and forget them, slowly, gatherings for drinks falling by the wayside.<br /><br />In the interim of this time I was in another work situation, with a touring company of actors. (Here I commence pretending someone reads this who doesn't know me). And for some reason, you'd think it would feel the same but it never did. It never felt the way an office feels. It was more like high school: a lived in drama.<br /><br />In an office there is some facade of propriety you have to follow. There's a sense of professionalism that comes from the industrial carpet and the khakis. In a van with seven other adults bound to each other by the fact that we have a show to do and only one van, well, just much much different. The personal relationships become more important. There is no boss. No sense of adult to please on the road. The stage manager is in charge of us, but also is one of us: at the end of the day, a friend.<br /><br />Hmmm. I'm going to have to think about this. I recommend this book, though, - the first third is phenomenal, followed by a of a drop off in the novelty of the narrative device and, thus, the strength of the writing. It's also very funny at the beginning.The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-77010470227986186932008-02-26T22:29:00.002-08:002008-02-26T22:35:59.549-08:00Live Bloggin!LiveBlogging from the ideal Ohio debate:<br /><br />BRIAN WILLIAMS<br />Hey, welcome to the final Democratic debate before the March 4th primaries, here in Ohio. With us tonight, Senators Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama<br /><br />(The camera pans to show Clinton and Obama)<br /><br />BRIAN WILLIAMS<br />So, we're all pretty much ready to choose right? Great. Let's go home.<br /><br />Everyone applauds and then they all go home.The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-55105300755927198862008-02-13T09:52:00.001-08:002008-02-18T12:46:14.078-08:00Ready For Day OneThere’s a lot of talk in the democratic campaign about being ready on Day One. Hillary’s main argument is that she’ll be the most ready on Day One. Barack Obama wants to prove that he can also be ready on Day One, even though he lacks thirty-five years of experience readying for Day One. To prove this point, they both throw the words “Day One” into their speech at any opportunity possible. To paraphrase: “I’m ready for Day One.” “We need a leader prepared for day one.” “How many donuts can I have in a Day? One.”<div><br />For a long time, I thought that “Day One” was what the survivors of a nuclear apocalypse would call the day they all got together in Nebraska or wherever, but this campaign has broadened my mind. Now I am psyched for Day One. It sounds like a wonderful day.</div><div><br /> I remember when we used to evaluate Presidents based on their first hundred days. How delightfully antiquated of us! I laugh at my pre-Day One self. Laugh at her? I barely know her. Who’s that young fool in that sepia toned photograph on my myspace page? Me, before day one.</div><div><br /> Day One will be like New Year’s Day, except instead of hangovers we’ll all be in a pretty good mood. We’ll still order pizza in, but we’ll go jogging before we eat it. And, unlike New Year’s Day, we won’t pretend to follow our resolutions for three weeks until our best friend visits and we decide that having between two and twelve drinks isn’t a big deal. We will go whole hog with Universal Health Care. In a day. What day? Day One. Make your doctor appointment now.</div><div><br /> On Day One there will be a parade, but a parade that all the kids can go to by themselves and no one will kidnap them. The adults will watch football. There will be football on Day One, because that’s American.</div><div><br /> And on Day One, all of the other countries will forgive us. Like petty co-workers they will point and whisper “Day One” as we saunter into the UN and suddenly, everyone wants to sit with us again. No translators, thank you. On Day One, we speak the universal language of Day One.</div><div><br /> On Day One the Iraqis will wake up, as if from a spell, like the winged monkeys in Oz, and realize that they’re all friends. They’ll ask us not to go, but we’ll pack up the Emerald City anyway.<br /><br /></div><div>The Beatles song “Yesterday” will become irrelevant because no one likes yesterday. Not after Day One.<br /><br /> </div><div>Our landlords will replace our appliances without a commensurate increase in rent because on Day One, we deserve a new dishwasher.<br /><br /> </div><div>Wait? Did I just say landlords? I meant that we’re all homeowners with substantial, small, and legal loans. Day One: you own a house for real this time.<br /><br /> </div><div>On Day One, the 24-hour news anchors will look at each other and say this:<br /> MALE: I am out of things to talk about. Why just keep repeating ourselves?<br />FEMALE: You’re right. That’s enough vaguely disguised editorializing for one day.<br /> MALE: Well, see you tomorrow.<br />FEMALE: Yeah, go have fun and don’t worry about any workplace shootings or random kidnapping of a young female like yourself! That’s not gonna happen.<br />MALE: Not on day one.<br />BUT THEY WON’T LAUGH AT THE SAME TIME AFTER HE SAYS THAT.<br /><br /></div><div>I see you Day One, and I await you with open arms. The Democrats have promised and I believe. Barack, Hillary, make this day come. I know that you are ready for it.</div>The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-38669205601118244802008-02-11T21:34:00.000-08:002008-02-11T21:36:22.371-08:00I'll Cry if I Want ToOkay, I'm trying to write some "Shouts and Murmurs" style pieces. Your feedback is appreciated. The boyfriend in the following piece is fictional. In case you were like "Girl, no you don't." You are correct. I don't. Also, this was written three weeks ago.<br />*<br /><pre><tt><tt><span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; cursor: pointer; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_2">Hillary Clinton</span> nabbed <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_3">New Hampshire</span> yesterday and,<br />according to the blogo-pundo-talko-sphere, it was<br />because a lot of us ladies turned off Grey’s Anatomy<br />just in time to see those “tears”, put that pint of<br />ice cream back in the freezer and rush to the polls.<br /><br />The endless speculation into Hillary’s emotional<br />makeup makes me wonder: do I, as a woman, have what it<br />takes to be President? I have the pedigree. I mean,<br />not yet, but I could get it. I went to <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_4">Harvard</span> and<br />that’s like step numero uno.<br /><br />But what I’m worried about is my innate lady-need for<br />emotions. If you’d asked me about my emotional state<br />before this election, I would have said I was normal.<br />Love cute babies, have road rage normal.<br /><br />Now, I’m not so sure. As a woman, would I cry in front<br />of <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_5">Kim Jong-il</span>? Get PMS-y right when I have to launch<br />a nuclear bomb? Or would I turn my emotions off and<br />become an unfeeling robot? Robots can’t be President<br />and neither can sissies!<br /><br />To test my mettle, I kept an emotions journal for a<br />whole day to find out if I had what it takes.<br /><br />6AM – Awake. Emotional response: robotic.<br /><br />7:30AM – Forgot to bring special face soap into<br />shower. Wash face with regular soap. Emotional<br />response: sensitive. Worried about effects on face.<br />Gotta get over that: can’t think about skin when<br />troops are on the line.<br /><br />8:20AM – Drive to work. Sad story about <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_6">Iraq</span> on <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_7">NPR</span>. I<br />do not cry. I sympathetically, but decisively change<br />lanes, indicating to other drivers my resolve.<br />Emotional response: Balanced.<br /><br />9:30AM – We’re out of instant oatmeal at the office.<br />Emotional response: Hot Pocket.<br /><br />11AM- My boss and I go over some of my work. Emotional<br />response: initially sensitive but more robotic as<br />criticism intensifies. I get you, Hillary!<br /><br />2PM – Read about <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_8">Britney Spears</span> on the internet.<br />Emotional response: I can save her. I want to project<br />my values into her life. I want her to read books and<br />watch <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_9">BBC</span> DVDs. Does this mean I would be an<br />interventionist President? How would I deal with the<br />Middle East? Could <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_10">Syria</span> or Jordan deal with all five<br />hours of <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_11">Pride and Prejudice</span> with <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_12">Colin Firth</span>?<br />Worrisome.<br /><br />6PM – Dry Cleaner. Negotiations. I insist he has lost<br />my sweaters. He insists I lost the ticket. I don’t<br />have the ticket but it doesn’t mean I lost it.<br />Jackass. I’ll launch a missile on your bulls**t right<br />now, buddy. Emotional response: patriotic.<br /><br />6:15PM - Tell Dry Cleaner he is unprofessional. Vow to<br />never return. Emotional Response: Robotic. The kind<br />of thing you’d like to see with <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; cursor: pointer; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1202794292_13">Kim Jong-il</span>. This has<br />nothing to do with the fact that my dry cleaner is<br />Asian.<br /><br />7PM – Home. Find ticket. Emotional response: Guilt.<br />Wild waves of guilt. I am wrong. I am flawed. I am a<br />blight on the human race. I do not deserve to exist.<br /><br />8PM - I e-mail my family, friends, the dry cleaner,<br />people I have wronged, people I have admired. I<br />confess. Apologize. I drive to the dry cleaners. I<br />apologize. He says its okay. I’m glad its okay. I need<br />everyone to like me except that one girl from college<br />who was such a bi-otch when we tutored those<br />low-income kids.<br /><br />10PM – Show journal to boyfriend. Ask if he thinks, as<br />a woman, I can be president. He asks why he isn’t in<br />it. I say, “Why would you be in it?” He wants to know<br />how I feel about him. I say “Why is everything always<br />about you? I’m a busy woman with a country to run<br />(someday).” He looks like he might cry. I think I’ll<br />just tell everyone he did.</tt></tt></pre>The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-27965117103884584202008-01-30T10:48:00.000-08:002008-01-30T10:53:05.698-08:00I didn't really like JunoI didn't mind it, but I didn't fall head over heels in love with that awkwardly self-conscious hamburger phone.<br /><br />I started liking the movie around the last third when the self-aware coy/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">smartassishness</span> let in some genuine emotion and stakes.<br /><br />I generally agree with this take:<br /><br />http://nymag.com/daily/movies/2008/01/oscar_nominations.htmlThe Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-46983304380352580012008-01-25T09:45:00.000-08:002008-01-25T10:25:26.110-08:00Return of the Bloggin'Okay, I'm back. Who cares? Me. I care.<br /><br />I was talking to someone on the phone yesterday who asked if I wrote one of these entries when I was high. These beautiful pieces of literature? No.<br /><br />But it made me want to write in it again. Here's a tale to file under "Is This Adulthood?"<br /><br />The bathroom in our office has an energy saver switch. It turned off yesterday when I was in the stall, so I was left in the pitch dark. Immediately, I thought "Candyman, Candyman, Candyman," and then I freaked out, scuttled out of the stall, pants around my ankles, and turned the switch on, and scuttled back to the stall. Because it's okay to be 28 and frightened of a fictional ghost/serial killer that lives in Cabrini Green and comes to get you through the mirror. That's okay.The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-24205703003608943862007-10-15T09:48:00.001-07:002007-10-15T09:56:26.369-07:00Ed HarrisHere's a funny video produced by a sketch group I direct. It's a called "Ed Harris"<br />Check it out.<br /><br />http://<a href="http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/0c904a9574">www.funnyordie.com/videos/0c904a9574</a><br /><br />And this is one of the things I did last week in LA. By calling Ron Paul a "longshot candidate" it apparently was wildly controversial. I'll try to stay away from statements like "Looks like November is the month after October" or "Soap is a good thing to use to clean yourself."<br /><br />http://<a href="http://current.com/items/84920881_the_bards_of_paul">current.com/items/84920881_the_bards_of_paul</a>The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-86803326231893599092007-10-15T09:14:00.000-07:002007-10-15T09:34:37.095-07:00Rules for Saying Goodbye<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpVT232gE6RO7RVpjfGP5tiyoPkEXCsSDRJyt-gWTaz06JrllGmhKvAdMqWqDJAqHYtJsGKZ1Iv7QQ5976pj8DVoQxonMcXwupFtqnpJVsKfVZ1stYTHzzUUQb8o8XO9nk5Ra/s1600-h/%7B5DD026BC-E89C-42C7-881F-7C49A0F5C9FA%7DImg100.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpVT232gE6RO7RVpjfGP5tiyoPkEXCsSDRJyt-gWTaz06JrllGmhKvAdMqWqDJAqHYtJsGKZ1Iv7QQ5976pj8DVoQxonMcXwupFtqnpJVsKfVZ1stYTHzzUUQb8o8XO9nk5Ra/s320/%7B5DD026BC-E89C-42C7-881F-7C49A0F5C9FA%7DImg100.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121602772270053106" /></a><br /><br /><br />Sometimes, maybe sometimes when you are sort of stuck in the middle of a biography about Napoleon, a great book falls into your lap. Not necessarily the greatest book ever written, but the right book at the right time. That's what <span style="font-style:italic;">Rules for Saying Goodbye</span> was for me.<br /><br />I got it by accident. I had dinner with my friend Nick and he had played tennis with the author and showed me her book and said I could borrow it. I did. I opened it on the plane home and finished it by the time we landed.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Rules for Saying Goodbye</span> is a coming of age story that spans the author's adolescence through her late twenties and follows her dream to be a writer, her disappointments in romance, and the way we grow up these days: slowly.<br /><br />Like <span style="font-style:italic;">Him Again, Her Again, Him Again...</span> etc etc, it's intelligent and funny, about an intelligent woman trying to make a creative life, or simply a life, without really being sure how to hurdle the obstacles to what might be adulthood, or a fuller understanding of yourself. This journey, I agree, always seems to get a little lost in the tension between possibility and daily life.<br /><br />Also, it's got a hilarious mother-daughter relationship. If everyone keeps writing about their hilarious nutty mothers I am going to run out of my own hilarious nutty mother material. Although, I also have a sneaking suspicion it will just keep coming.<br /><br />I bet this book is marketed as chick-lit, which is too bad, because novels about boys growing up aren't just dude-lit, and just because women also have stories about drinking too much and bartending when you're supposed to be writing a novel and friendships that grow and change and people you maybe decide to love for the wrong reasons, doesn't mean that only girls will like it.<br /><br />There is no shoe shopping in this book.<br /><br />There is a great, short chapter about walking in a snowstorm with one of her boyfriends named Henry that recalls something I've talked about a lot with my friend Leah - those moments, those conversations that change everything in an instant or two, and it certainly takes time to catch up on what they meant or what got decided without you realizing you'd decided anything. Sometimes, when we're recounting these to each other, we wish we were wearing a wire, so we can go back and see the story in it that isn't the one we're trying to tell.<br /><br />Boyfriends are not the center of this book. They are a part of it, but the book is so much more about the protagonist than about the boyfriends - they are gently sketched out, and they play a part in her decisions, but she's really only free to be herself after the biggest heartbreak.<br /><br />She recuperates, oddly enough, in Northern Lower Michigan, where I've spent plenty of time sitting staring at a lake trying to figure out what happened.<br /><br />It made me cry a little bit, which was hysterical, because I was sitting next to an NFL referee on the plane and every so often when I was getting all teary eyed I'd pause for a minute and turn to him and say something like, "I've never totally understood pass interference" and he'd look at me like "This poor insane girl reading next to me should just watch Evan Almighty and chill the fuck out."<br /><br />At the end of the book, she moves to LA, and, presumably plays tennis with Nick.The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-1568517965009550692007-10-10T22:32:00.000-07:002007-10-10T22:35:09.006-07:00ShootingI wrote that entry about the news before the Cleveland shooting. It's so sad and frightening how often this is happening. I've also noticed that shootings happen and almost no news station brings up the issue of gun control. Are we that scared to have this debate? It's happening every day!The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-23124068918252997242007-10-10T08:43:00.000-07:002007-10-10T09:07:04.859-07:00I'm A Real Grown-Up Commuter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLCuGWlyYLhY5LZ3uPr_bsUDD3EZu29O4mG_jrI04i1VHy0uhF5P0yY2hxfQd8CfKjQGkOQ5JHDFz_8CERt8AjECKAWmUnelQgVA6MhdozWcHFsDaKHO_ZxuJQ9Auh4oNKUC5F/s1600-h/bp_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLCuGWlyYLhY5LZ3uPr_bsUDD3EZu29O4mG_jrI04i1VHy0uhF5P0yY2hxfQd8CfKjQGkOQ5JHDFz_8CERt8AjECKAWmUnelQgVA6MhdozWcHFsDaKHO_ZxuJQ9Auh4oNKUC5F/s320/bp_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119739843090314978" /></a><br /><br />On the drive to work the past couple days (yes, the drive to work! with my coffee!) I noticed that there apparently was a gas station of the future. It's a BP project and here's a picture or two to show you. I did not take these pictures. Someone else did. I found them by googling "la future bp gas station." Behold: the power of the internet.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-D6W7h3qF5ZdLf-FZRu09UHWCm7WKU0Tw4pEYjQOjhAYOx7Nqr1vyTczxYssIsdbR2ZDslm3FekZFQnUShneAz1fCg9Re5eLC9-desdN2FKqVkwI9aYAEem3NCpeRqMhPWLr/s1600-h/CIMG1618X.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-D6W7h3qF5ZdLf-FZRu09UHWCm7WKU0Tw4pEYjQOjhAYOx7Nqr1vyTczxYssIsdbR2ZDslm3FekZFQnUShneAz1fCg9Re5eLC9-desdN2FKqVkwI9aYAEem3NCpeRqMhPWLr/s320/CIMG1618X.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119739752896001746" /></a><br /><br />Many people are incensed by this, seeing it as another specious bp promise in their marketing campaign that paints them as environmentally conscious when the opposite is true. If you're interested, there's 100,000 angry bloggers out there with lots of information.<br /><br />I have not read anything that isn't news in the last two days. Or watched anything that isn't news. I've primarily been watching the cable news networks. If you never want to watch the news again, just fill in these following categories with items from your imagination:<br /><br />1. SPECULATIVE STORY ABOUT THE PRESIDENTIAL RACE<br />2. SHOOTING OR OFFICE SHOOTING SOMEWHERE IN AMERICA<br />3. BAD NEWS IN IRAQ<br />4. HILARIOUS ANIMAL<br /><br />Hilarious Animal is occasionally augmented with "What were they thinking?" style segments that focus on local-dust ups.<br />Oh, and sometimes the Shooting segment is replaced with WEATHER THAT KILLS. Just make up some interesting things and voila! the news!The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-30297419119635805912007-10-09T12:04:00.000-07:002007-10-09T12:06:44.724-07:00"The Odyssey Years"It's nice that David Brooks calls the period between adolescence and settling down "the odyssey years." My Mom has some other choice terms for it.<br /><br />It's rare that I like his columns, but I did like this phrase:<br /><br />"Moreover, surveys show that people living through these years have highly traditional aspirations (they rate parenthood more highly than their own parents did) even as they lead improvising lives."<br /><br />Improvising lives is right. Har.<br /><br />The article is here:<br />http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/09/opinion/09brooks.html?em&ex=1192075200&en=ff0efadce05fb58d&ei=5087%0AThe Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-36988283719158319152007-10-07T22:31:00.000-07:002007-10-08T20:56:11.011-07:00I'm Here<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJhCboyq7GXjDFeg3GJIKfNcUrAJBRrJW8EuyOS35_WrCmR5a2DDIHNU4K8vMnH2CVcN455ZWuhsvoTM07S-URsAxhrYqjWG4KW2hBraZcdTBKOCg-KdOBqFdK8y7oBkB6_90S/s1600-h/beachcast.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJhCboyq7GXjDFeg3GJIKfNcUrAJBRrJW8EuyOS35_WrCmR5a2DDIHNU4K8vMnH2CVcN455ZWuhsvoTM07S-URsAxhrYqjWG4KW2hBraZcdTBKOCg-KdOBqFdK8y7oBkB6_90S/s320/beachcast.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118834884891113122" /></a><br /><br />There are lots of roads and streets with names that I recognize from rap songs. At the car rental place, the gentleman - a chivalrous type named Doug, was being kind of lazy and didn't want to track down the type of cheap-o car I ordered.<br /><br />"Do you want an upgrade to something with automatic windows?" he inquired.<br />"No," I said. "I'm on a budget." <br /><br />After I had finished shape-shifting into a midwestern Mother out to prove to the world that SHE COULD MAKE IT ON HER OWN, Doug tried once more.<br /><br />"Are you sure? You don't want automatic windows and a CD player?"<br />"I am sure, Doug. Thank you."<br /><br />nb: YOU USE PEOPLE'S NAMES BECAUSE IT IS POLITE!<br /><br />Doug looked dejected and peeked out into the parking lot.<br /><br />"You want a free upgrade?"<br />"Yes, please and thank you, Doug."<br /><br />nb: SEE?<br /><br />And that is how I came to be driving a periwinkle Hybrid-SUV down the broad streets.<br /><br />American Airlines also lost my luggage, so I am now in LA with some decidedly uncool clothes to match my uncool maternal attitude. I dragged a friend who came to take me to dinner to a GAP and bought things so I could at least claim to be quasi-respectable while still wearing slightly smelly jeans. And then we ate at Johnny Rockets. LA! You so crazy!<br /><br />No books in this post: fie on you. I read the entire Sunday Times which is like a book. Based on that reading I have three new opinions:<br /><br />1. I like the hyphen, even though I don't know how to use it properly. <br />Did you know that a slippery-eel salesman is someone who sells you slippery eels? Yet, a slippery eel salesman is the guy who takes your cash and slithers away. Thank you, hyphen. <br /><br />2. I like Manny Ramirez<br /><br />3. The stories in Sunday Styles about middle aged people finding unexpected love in their condo building make me itchy. Especially when they say things like "I knew he was a good kisser." Also when they have weird New York professions like "stock photographer" and "organizational expert."<br /><br />And, really, please read Frank Rich's column. Clarence Thomas is insane like origami.The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34233141.post-64309441914791829312007-10-06T22:13:00.000-07:002007-10-07T07:47:41.110-07:00Go West, Young (Wo)manTomorrow I set off for a trip to Los Angeles for a freelancing gig that is also a job interview. I'm a little scared. I'm good at traveling alone - I've done it quite a bit and I am also pretty good at traveling with eight people. What scares me the most is the symbolic significance of the possibilities this sort of trip contains - moving. Moving west.<br /><br />In high school I had a brilliant English teacher. She stood, terrifying, brilliant at the front of our American literature classroom and dictated to us the significance of our national mythologies. One of her favorite idioms was the following "to the East, moral demise, economic rise. West, economic demise, moral rise." I think this dichotomy was based primarily on two books <span style="font-style:italic;"></span> The Great Gatsby<span style="font-style:italic;"></span> and <span style="font-style:italic;"></span> The Grapes of Wrath<span style="font-style:italic;"></span>. It was a compelling vision: that your place in America and your direction signified something about your life. Something, in our individualistic culture, so profoundly deterministic. You go here, you become this.<br /><br />And it might have been wrong, or be wrong, because that canny epigram doesn't acknowledge the change that Hollywood has wrought on our understanding of east and west. We're not the Joads, most of us, just trying to find a living. We're wanna-be actors, searching for fame, fortune, and maybe a spot in the "Stars Are Just Like Us" section of <span style="font-style:italic;"></span> US Weekly <span style="font-style:italic;"></span><br /><br />It's a midwestern idea, too, at heart, quoted by a midwestern woman who made, as we found out after her death, a profoundly Gatsby-like transition of her own. But the root of the idea is that we are neither east nor west. To her, we start, somewhere in the middle, in the heartland, and our coasts represent different flaws and strengths of our national identity.<br /><br />I love Chicago. I've lived here my entire life, in the city, leaving for only a short while for college (met the east: moral demise? unsure. economic rise? Well, let's say I haven't fulfilled my potential on that front. Transformative, however).<br /><br />Chicago represents the engine of this country. A big messy engine that propels you or compels you. In William Cronon's excellent history of the city, <span style="font-style:italic;">Nature's Metropolis </span> he describes how the flow of commodities into Chicago changed the very nature of urban life. Wheat and pigs and lumber were never so fascinating. His major argument is that the Turner thesis - the idea that as long as the frontier was open, we had a sense of destiny and that the frontier created our national character - is fundamentally untrue. The way that cities processed the goods of the frontier decided how the frontier worked.<br /><br />I'm not sure, though, that a sound national history can quite replace a starry-eyed national myth. The West, whatever it is, is still the west.<br /><br />And moving still represents change. I'm not moving yet, so this is wholly speculative, but even thinking of it makes me, well, think of what that change might be. This is certainly not the conscious change that Jay Gatsby made, or the reluctant change that occurs when forces beyond your control push you forward (or so I think.)<br /><br />In northern Michigan, I sometimes feel most at home, when it is dark and always cold on a summer night and you can stroll up a dirt or gravel road and see the stars or sit on a dock that stretches into black water and reflects the lights of home around the lake. That region sent their lumber down the lake to Chicago, tons and tons of it from the great north woods. There is a small island called South Manitou, with the best natural bay in that part of the lake, and the steamers would stop to refuel or take shelter from the storms. It is sandy and the forests are sparse around the edges because the trees were harvested for wood for the ship ovens. There is an old growth forest there, where it takes at least five ten year olds to wrap their arms around the biggest oak.<br /><br />One of my favorite books is <span style="font-style:italic;">For Kings and Planets</span> by an author named Ethan Canin. It tells the story of a midwesterner going east for college, and his friend, an easterner, running west. I think of it often because sometimes I feel like Orno and Marshall are the possibilities inside me. The struggle for what sort of life makes you happy: or the simple evolution of one that does.<br /><br />The tone of that book is beautiful too, because it talks so much about the way light can tell you something. And in every part of the country I've been in, the way the light hits it at some time of day tells you the most about it. A city shining in the early morning is the promise of a city, not the humdrum dirt of noon. It's the city as you want to see it. A stormy frightening sky in the north woods is thrilling and humbling and exciting and being scared by rain when you're little is as exciting as watching the lightning crack when you're older. The flat gray sky of lower Michigan, the plain easy sunlight. The first day of spring in Chicago when the shadows get sharp.<br /><br />I don't know who I want to turn into. <br /><br />This is a picture someone took of a Chicago sky from my car on the way back from a good trip. It's a prairie sky, a lake storm, the middle of where I've been.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5jRmg6UKnS1ZPpPFDuFK2izY2vIYGW8WaTXDMGiyQwbfMnYvEpYNfzK1TxVZaKtUXnxH0IETb29C7iK2TS2WM_6OEP-gGn_tGNAAzDBqHa5u4Cc0BY0gzBDJlu0cGEb24mzn/s1600-h/HPIM1383_1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5jRmg6UKnS1ZPpPFDuFK2izY2vIYGW8WaTXDMGiyQwbfMnYvEpYNfzK1TxVZaKtUXnxH0IETb29C7iK2TS2WM_6OEP-gGn_tGNAAzDBqHa5u4Cc0BY0gzBDJlu0cGEb24mzn/s320/HPIM1383_1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118466625805219458" /></a>The Gadabouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13719777558078099744noreply@blogger.com0