Tequila!

Damn the torpedos, I'm going to TequilaCon. Jenny, why didn't you tell me Portland is the home of Powell's bookstore? I am so there.

Neil, come on, man. Commit. It'll be better than a therapist.

Next, Postmodern Sass introduces her new neighbour, Nadine.

The Impossible Dream

The Bloggie nominations are up and my dream of making the short list for BEST-KEPT SECRET blog have shattered into a gazillion smithereens on my kitchen floor, which is making quite the mess, let me tell you, not to mention causing me some concern that there might be shards in my chip bowl.

Oh well, when life hands you shattered dreams, make Jello, I always say. OK, so I don't always say it, and I didn't really make that broken glass Jello in the photo, or any kind of Jello, even, but go with the metaphor.

I suppose, looking at it another way, not being considered a "best-kept secret" could be taken to mean that my blog isn't really such a secret after all; that you, my Gentle Readers, and Gentle Lurker Readers, number greater than I had imagined.

Or not.

But I've never been one to be bitter. Oh, sure, I might whine a little, and I might be cracking the bottle of sketch a little earlier than usual this weekend, but I'm not about to give up writing. Besides, there's always next year.

This year, there are five nominees for BEST-KEPT SECRET blog, and here they are:

1. The Gilded Moose is, apparently not so much a secret. Technorati says there are 994 links to it, and a review in the Chicago Tribune called it "By far the best gossip site. Imagine if US Weekly was written by the Onion." This moose is a secret in much the same way as, say, my cat is a moose. Which is to say, not one bit. I like the Moose; it's trying to be a raunchier Go Fug Yourself. Wish I knew what the title meant — no explanation is given on the site — but onto my blogroll it goes, anyway.


2. Confessions of a Pioneer Woman has 338 links and again I question the definition of "secret." If I'd known the medium-sized blogs were gunning for this nomination, I would have pushed Neil Kramer harder to campaign for it. But I digress. Pioneer Woman's style is charming — she actually refers to a man as getting "fresh" with her, but this is more of a photoblog (not that there's anything the matter with that), and, well, I'm allergic to hay.


3. To Whom It May Concern has a unique concept, writing letters to people like Christina Aguilera, who are unlikely to respond, but I'm sorry, I can't read past its subtitle: "Disappointing stationary since 2005."


4. I'm not quite sure what to make of Fat Cyclist, there being no introductory words on this blog to set the context for the seven thousand ads for cycling products it seems to be supporting, but I'll go out on a limb and guess that this is a person who is (a) a cyclist and (2) fat.


5. Woof Woofington is a British black lab with a great name, and that's enough of a reason for me to blogroll him.

In other Bloggie news, Crazy Aunt Purl is nominated for BEST CRAFT BLOG, and she has my vote because there's nothing sexier than a divorced woman with four cats. I know, because I only have one. And in the category BEST CANADIAN BLOG I'm thrilled that my friend Rannie's Photojunkie site was nominated again, and that Kill The Goat, or Martini Jay, as I like to think of her, was also given the nod. She's one of my Gentle Readers.

Only 11 months to plan my next campaign. I'd better get started.

One year ago today, Postmodern Sass told the story of how she beat up Mario Silva during art class in grade eight.

Update: all five nominees for Best-Kept Secret Blog, plus Crazy Aunt Purl, Rannie, and Martini Jay, are on my brand spanking new links page.

Next: Postmodern Sass decides to go to Tequilacon.

Strangers in the Night

Continued from yesterday's Doobee Doobee Dooce.

This is what happened:

Daisy Mae had been working feverishly — and I mean that literally; she was barfing up chicken soup all over her sofa, where she lay in misery for days with the flu — on my new blog design. In between liberal doses of Tylenol for Cold and Flu (the best drugs, lemme tell you) and dashes to the toilet, she managed to create that awesome Sass as Santa header for me. I would link you to her blog, but she's between blogs right now, so instead I'll mention Tracy, because she's the one who recommended Daisy Mae to me. She's the goddess of web design. Daisy Mae, that is. Tracy is the goddess of snark. I have a shrine to both of them under my kitchen sink. But I digress.

I was so thrilled with my new pink Santa Sass blog, and so unbelievably giddy to see the end of the boring goth Blogger blog (Yes, Gentle Reader, I could hear your whoops of joy all the way to San Jose.) that I decided it was time to do some blog promotion. OK, shilling. Call it what you will. I knew the Bloggies were looming on the horizon, and I dreamed of making the nominations for BEST-KEPT SECRET BLOG, there being no category for BEST GOTH BLOG.

The next day I was reading Dooce and in between laughing at her stories and cursing her for being so popular without even trying (I mean, what did she ever do to deserve to be so famous? Get fired? Big deal; I've been fired lots of times and Soledad O'Brien doesn't call me up to chat about it.) I noticed a link in her right column, under the one that said "Advertise on this site." I'd already examined that as part of a lesson on Internet advertising I gave to my class last semester. I know it costs $4 million to be on Dooce's home page, and do I look like I'm Nike?

What I noticed this time was the link way down below that one, the one in three point type, that says Put your text ad on Dooce.com. I clicked on it, was redirected to a third party site called AdBrite, and saw what I was certain was a typo. It says it costs only $15 to place a text ad on Dooce for one day.

I was pretty sure they were missing at least a couple of zeros on that, but who am I to judge, so I decided to go ahead and cash in the cat's college fund and buy a one day text ad on Dooce. Reasoning like a spammer, I calculated that if only 1% of her forty billion readers accidentally clicked on my ad, well, I might just become famous too. And I wouldn't even have to be fired again.

I submitted my order, and specified the date of my ad for the next day, Tuesday, because scientific anecdotal evidence gathered from drinking binges with my blogger friends and from not drinking (yet) with Neil Kramer has suggested Tuesday to be the day of the highest blog readership in the blogosphere.

Grinning with self-satisfaction, I waited for Tuesday. Then I checked my Postmodern Sass email.

There was a message from AdBrite, telling me that it could take up to three days to process my order, and that I should call OR FAX if I have any questions.

Fax? What time warp did I just plunge into? I assumed this was an e-commerce system that could take my credit card and automatically process my ad. I mean, it's not like I have to FedEx them any creative; we're talking seven words here.

So I replied to the email, saying I wanted a particular date, not just any date, and if that was not possible to please let me know and I would cancel my order and place it again next week with a three month lead time, for fuck's sake.

I received an autoreply which repeated exactly what the first email had said, and then added that if I wanted to sell advertising on my site to click here.

I replied that I do not want to sell advertising on my site (I mean, what's the point of generating $1.37 of incremental monthly income? Who do you people think I am, Dooce?), but that I would like to BUY ADVERTISING FROM ADBRITE. This was apparently too much for them to grasp.

Then began the Who's-On-First-worthy barrage of parallel emails. Mine, written by me; theirs, written first by a robot, then followed up by a human. The various missives were clearly crossing paths, leading to confusion, though apparently only on my part. AdBrite, it seemed, found nothing odd about this encounter.

The next automatic email from AdBrite congratulated me that my order had been approved.

I wrote them asking if they would please verify that the order had been approved to run tomorrow, Tuesday, the date I had requested.

The next email from them said my money had been refunded and my order cancelled.

I wrote back immediately, asking what had happened (and demanding to know what would become of my $15 investment).

By this time it was almost Tuesday, so I went to bed.

The next day, Tuesday, I checked my email and had yet another message from AdBrite, this one saying that my ad had been "declined by the publisher, no reason given," but that if I had any questions I should PHONE OR FAX AdBrite and ask them.

I really wanted to phone and ask to speak to the robot, but instead I sent another email, foolishly believing this was an INTERNET ADVERTISING COMPANY and that they might be able to manage email communications.

Instead of replying to my message their next automatically generated email said that there had been a problem verifying my credit card information and, I swear I'm not making this up,that I should FAX THEM A COPY OF MY CREDIT CARD.

I replied, you must be kidding.

They replied, "If you're not comfortable faxing us your information, you can CALL US ON THE PHONE."

My last missive to them read as follows:

Dear AdBrite,

The difficulty you are having verifying my credit card information stems from the fact that I am communicating with you under my pseudonym, Postmodern Sass, however, as I explained when I submitted my order, all the credit card information, my address and phone number, and MY REAL NAME is correct. Obviously, your e-commerce system, which I can only imagine is circa 1994, can't ingest this information. When your company enters the 21st century, please let me know. Until then, there are plenty of other ad networks.

Of course, there's only one Dooce.

Does anyone have a fax machine they could sell me?

Next, the Bloggie nominations are announced.

Doobee Doobee Dooce

When I hear doobee doobee doo in my head it's doobee'd to the tune of "Strangers In The Night," because about ten years ago during playoff season there was a series of commercials for Bud Ice in which a penguin tried to steal the Stanley Cup and "reporters" would say, the only clue to the theft is that witnesses reported hearing an eerie tune, "Doobee, doobee, doo."

Now, when I hear it, it makes me think of Dooce.

Heather Armstrong and I are strangers in the night and in the day, or at least I am a stranger to her. She, of course, is famous for her blog, her dog, and her chin — so she's not exactly a stranger to me. Some day there will be a song about her, and I like to think that I was ahead of the curve.

Of course, I also like to think I'm 29.

But I digress. I wanted to tell you about how, just before Christmas, I was dooced by the Great One herself, the Dooceroni, the Doocemeister, her Dooceliciousness, that one and only Dooceologist, Dooce.

Now, before I tell you this story I want to make one thing perfectly clear: I think Dooce is the greatest blogger in the blogosphere. I read her blog regularly, except when she's going on and on and on and on and on about how astonishingly adorable her daughter is &mdash I mean, her daughter is awfully cute, it's just that I feel about children rather the same way as I feel about fluffy bunnies in cages, which is to say they're fine so long as they stay there, but there's nothing you could possibly write about them that would make me interested enough to read it, and yes, they're precious, and yes, I understand that parents are quite attached to their own and would not share my opinion on the matter, so save yourself the trouble of writing the hate comments now, I won't publish them anyway.

Heather's dog, Chuck, on the other hand — well, don't get me started. Seriously, I love that dog. I mean, who wouldn't love a dog that lets you put spaghetti on its head?

I also envy her chin, having none myself. And I love it when she says FUCK and rants about the Mormons.

I just changed my mind: I want to make two things perfectly clear. The story that I'm about to tell you is in no way meant to disparage the fact that Dooce sells ad space on her blog. Advertising on blogs is no different from advertising on any other form of media (in my humble opinion as a professor of advertising who was recently quoted in the San Jose Mercury News). The fact that content producers sell advertising space is what makes that content freely available for us to consume, whether that content is a television or radio program, or a newspaper, or a magazine, or a website.

Do you imagine, Gentle Reader, that magazines would cost $5 were they not ad-supported?

Heather Armstrong makes a living from her writing, because of the advertising revenue model, and that's to be admired, not scorned.

It's just that... well, she wouldn't let me buy advertising on her site. And that's the story I'll tell you tomorrow.

Home, where my thought's escaping

Jack says when I say the word home, meaning Toronto, he can hear the capital H in my voice, so when I called the other day to say I was coming home to California, I said "home, small H."

Truth is, I'm a woman without a home. A woman without a country, really — homes, I have two: a condo in Toronto, which I own, and which has nothing in it that I care about, and an apartment in San Jose, which I do not own, and which has everything in it that I care about. Especially Pinky.

It's the country thing that upsets me some. See, in this country, the United States of America, I am considered a "non-resident alien." That's my official status, bald silver head and glowing green eyes. I learned this only recently, when it was brought to my attention that I had checked the wrong box on an official form. Given the choice of "resident alien" and "non-resident alien," I selected the former, reasoning that I live here and what with the silver skin and all.

But it seems I am actually a non-resident alien. Don't ask me to explain the logic; it's not my country.

My country, since you asked, Gentle Reader, now considers me a "non resident."

All of which means I live in two places, or in no place at all, depending on your perspective.

So what's a woman who's just come home, small H, from home, capital H, and who resides in no country to do? Open the box that was delivered while she was away, and that contains her new purple stipey and flowered flannel sheets, and her new purple microsuede comforter cover, and climb into bed. There's something about soft, warm, new sheets that makes the world a better place.

Especially when your cat is the icing on that world.



Next, Postmodern Sass gets dooced by Dooce.

It Sucks

Welcome to HomeClick.com Please wait for an operator to respond.

You are now chatting with 'Daniella'

Your Issue ID for this chat is LTK69010057308X

Daniella: Hello. My name is Daniella. How can I help you?

Sass: Can you tell me if you have the Miele S183 vacuum cleaner in stock? Every other website says it is unavailable.

Daniella: One moment please, while I check on that item for you.

Daniella: The lead time for the item you are inquiring about is approximately 2-3 business days.

Sass: Are you sure? As I said, every other website says there are production delays at the manufacturer, and that the product won't be available for months. I want to verify that you have it in stock. I don't want to order it and then be told there will be delays.

Daniella: As per our website the lead time is 2-3 business days.

Sass: I know it says on your website that it normally ships in 2-3 days. I can read. I am asking you to check on the stock availability.

Daniella: You can call into our Sales Department and they can verify if we have this item in stock and the actual lead time it will take to ship to you.

Sass: I prefer to communicate online, that's why I'm talking to you. You are supposed to be the customer service person. Why can't you answer my question?

Daniella: One moment please sir.

Daniella: If the order is placed today it usually takes 24 hours for the order to process and once the order is processed it will ship within 2-3 business days. Therefore turnaround time before the item is shipped out to you is 3-5 business days.

Sass: You're still not answering my question. You are giving me the general information that's on the website. What you've said is only accurate if the item is actually in stock. I am asking you to verify that, for this product, today, right now, the information you just gave me is accurate.

Sass: If the item is in stock I will order it right now, and expect to receive it in approximately 3-5 days. I do not want to order it and then be told that it will not be available until March. As I've told you, every other website that sells vacuum cleaners online is saying they are out of stock, that there are production delays with the manufacturer, and that this product will not be available until March.

Daniella: Unfortunately ma'am if you would like to confirm that we do have this item in stock you can call into our Sales Department as they are better equipped to answer your question.

Sass: Aren't you the customer service department? I'm asking a simple customer service question. If you can't answer it, I will simply move on to the next vendor, and buy my vacuum cleaner elsewhere.

Daniella: As per our website it is stating that this item ships out within 2-3 business days. This is an answer that is unacceptable to you and our Sales Department has access to checking if items are in fact available that is why I am directing you to call them. They will be better able to assist you and provide you with a more accurate lead time.

Sass: Thank you. I will buy my vacuum cleaner elsewhere.

Her house may be dusty but Sass comes home to new bedding and a nice warm kitty cat. Later, one of Sass's heroes finds this story, and links to it. Thank you, Seth Godin!

He shouts, she bites, they wrangle through the night

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's me."

"Hi. Hey, that was fun last night."

"It sure was. Maybe a little too much fun."

"You mean the vodka?"

"That, and, well... this is embarassing. I feel like I'm seventeen again."

"What do you mean?"

"I have a giant hickey!"

"Oooh.... sorry about that. On your neck, you mean?"

"No, that's the small one. The giant one is; well, elsewhere."

Next, Sass tries without success to buy a machine that sucks.

Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name

Where everybody knows the name Postmodern Sass, and some even know the name on her birth certificate, is here, at The Rivoli, on Queen Street in Toronto. That's Joey "Accordion Guy" deVilla front and centre, smiling at the camera. The blonde to the left, also smiling for the camera, is Maria, the Naked KnitGirl. Sitting at the near end of the sofa bench are Wendy The Redhead and Logan's Dave holding Shoshanna the Cow. Behind them are Rannie and Jay. At the back, in blue, is my PhD buddy, Denise. The skinny dude in the shorts is Donny. The barely visible head behind him is Liz the Postie. The elbow and black t-shirt in front of Donny belong to Sparky. The pink t-shirt is Darla, and just behind her, in black, is The Viking. Did I tell you they are dating now? Or, at least, they were when this picture was taken, last August at my farewell party.

And I miss them all more than I can express, Gentle Reader. Sometimes, you just wanna go home, where everybody knows your name, and where the boys will sing to you,


and sing with you,




even serendade you.


Where the Canadian flag waves,


And where your karaoke buddies are.


So this is where you'll be able to find Postmodern Sass on Sunday night, January 7, 2007: Upstairs at The Rivoli, for Carson T. Foster's Kickass Karaoke.


My Gentle Toronto Lurker-Readers, I hope to see you there!

Her visit home is everything Sass expected... and a little bit more.

Purple Rain

I'm pretty sure the rain (in Spain) can explain (mainly in Maine) the new look of my blog, but I have no explanation (even on the plain) for this outfit that simultaneously appeared in my closet.

I most humbly request your kind votes in the category BEST PURPLE BLOG.

Next, Postmodern Sass goes home.

All is quiet on New Year's Day

This picture of me was taken just a few hours ago, on a spectacularly warm and sunny January 1, 2007 in San Francisco. It's a little hazy in the City by the Bay today, but that's the Golden Gate Bridge behind me.

Go ahead and click on the photo to make it bigger. See it now?

And where was that picture taken? the astute Gentle Reader asks. Why, on the rooftop of Jack's apartment building, replies your humble narrator. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

I've learned many things during the past twenty-four hours; the streets of San Francisco are becoming familiar to me, at least the ones in North Beach and Chinatown are. There's a jukebox — a real jukebox, with records, at Tosca. You can smoke at Bow Bow in Chinatown. And there's a bartender named Mike at Vesuvio who, if he places a fresh pint in front of the handsome gentleman you are with, even though it is long past last call, and neglects to place one in front of you, erroneously believing that you will be unable to consume it in the fifteen minutes that remain before all alcohol must be cleared from the bar, and if this error is politely but firmly brought to his attention, the beer that he will then quickly place before you will be free.

San Francisco is the best thing about living in San Jose.

I'm back home, now, and Pinky is sitting in my lap as I write. I'm wondering if I should make a New Year's resolution. I hesitate to do so, and rarely have done, because I've always had a problem with promises, both the giving and receiving of them, and a resolution is just a promise by another name. Though two years ago I did resolve to go about less carelessly.

Perhaps I'll just set some New Year's goals instead. I can think of one, after seeing that photo of me.

Here they are, Postmodern Sass's New Year's resolutions goals for 2007:

1. Lose ten pounds
2. Finish unpacking
3. Publish a paper in an academic journal
4. Go on a date with Gavin Newsom
5. Be nominated for a Bloggie

You'll notice I've run the gamut from sacred to profane. That old chestnut, lose weight. Yes, I know, if I put my mind to it I can certainly do that. Perhaps I'll try the Duck Diet. Number two also requires nothing more than determination and fortitude, and the ability to brave discoveries of once-favoured clothing that no longer fits, half-finished knitting projects, and Valentine's cards from X.

Number three is just plain boring, so I won't discuss it. Besides, I know you're wondering about number four.

Maybe it's completely crazy, I'll grant you that, but I've seen crazier things happen. Like me moving to California, for example. Never would have called that one this time last year. Never would have imagined it. And yet, here I am. Besides, one of the first things I learned when I came here last April to check things out is, the mayor of San Francisco is hot. I won't lie: it's one of the reasons why I decided to take the job at USJ and move to the Bay Area. OK, so that's a lie. But it could be true!

Number five, I leave to you, Gentle Reader. The nominations for the 2007 Bloggie awards are now open. You do not need to be a blogger to vote — I tell you this, because I know many of you are not bloggers yourselves.

Me, I especially like the sound of "Best-kept secret weblog." I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Click here to cast your votes for your favourite blogs.

A new year calls for a new look. Postmodern Sass turns purple.