Three is the loneliest number

Happy blogiversary to me.


All people know the same truth: our life consists of how we choose to distort it.

I've never been a big Woody Allen fan, though I admire him, if that makes any sense, and so when a colleague of mine in the Film & TV department at USJ, who lectures part time in screenwriting and also teaches seminars at Dreamworks, listened as I outlined the plot of my screenplay over beers at The Loft, and then recommended I watch Deconstructing Harry, I ordered it right away. The tagline of the movie is, "Harry Block wrote a bestseller about his best friends. Now, his best friends are about to become his worst enemies."

I'm watching it right now.

I like it, I like it. A character who's too neurotic to function in life, and can only function in art.

A year ago I reflected on the strangeness of living in California. I wasn't happy to be here, and God knows I wasn't excited — I was so sick of people asking me that, just before I left Canada.

So now you're blaming me, because you're too scared to be loved?

I wrote last year that I don't write when I'm happy, but that's not why I'm not writing very much here, anymore. I haven't changed; I still write when I'm unhappy, and I'm still unhappy (though putting on a good front) so I'm still writing, but what I'm working on now is a screenplay.

You love too easily, and you love too much, and you shouldn't fall in love with me, because I'm the boy in that story, and I can't love anyone; I don't know how to love.

He picked her up at the airport when she moved 3,000 miles to a foreign country, and helped her settle in. He wanted so much for Pinky to purr when he picked him up. He took her to a Labor Day party at his friends' home, and they called him afterwards and told him she was awesome and asked when they could see her again. They spent Thanksgiving together, and Christmas, and New Year's. He showed her his beautiful city by the Bay again and again and again. He took her to the theatre. She met his father. And when she cried for her Dean who died, he was there for her, and at the end of the day that's what you want, that's what really matters. It's maybe all that matters.

She loves you still, despite your obvious condescension for her life.

He was always there for her, right up until he wasn't anymore.

The man is incapable of an act of faith, and for that I pity him.

Faith isn't about believing in someone like God, whose existence you have no proof of. It's just the opposite, in fact. Faith is believing in someone despite one terrible thing they've done because you have years of proof.

I Hate Everything About You

That's the title of a song by Three Days Grace, a Canadian band of the I'm-an-angst-filled-twenty- something- from- a- middle- class- family genre, epitomized by Nickelback, and which I can't abide. What follows in the refrain is "Why do I love you?"

This song perfectly expresses how I feel about Facebook.

(Ha! Gotcha! You thought I was going to say Jack, didn't you?)

I may hate it — heck, I do hate it — but that's not stopping me from being obsessed with it. And I do mean obsessed. Last night I hung out on Nadine's fabulous patio with Nadine and Monica, drinking beer until 2:00 in the morning, and refused, even through my drunken haze, to answer their questions about Jack, except for to say, "Do you remember what Hilary Clinton said, when she was on her book tour a few years ago, when all the talk show hosts would ask her why she stayed with Bill?"

"What?"

"He's far from perfect, and yes, he's hurt me, but for all his faults, he's still the most interesting, intelligent man I know, and I'd rather spend time with him than with any other man I've ever met."

When I got home I logged on and saw that three more people had added themselves to my Facebook friend list. I'd broken the 30 mark on my first day!

Top Ten Things I Hate About Facebook:

1. It forces you to enter your year of birth.
2. It encourages you to enter years for everything else, so that people can do the math.
3. The word "random," used incorrectly, appears as an option for almost every indicator.
4. It wants you to indicate your political and religious views.
5. It doesn't offer "random" as an option for your political and religious views.
6. People whose profile photo is not of them alone.
7. The childish third-party apps, like Boozemail.
8. Student/teacher is not an option for indicating your relationship with a new friend.
9. The Americanness of it: It views "college" as not being an institution one gets a degree from.
10. Poking. It's just idiotic.

Number One Thing I Love About Facebook:

1. It gives as an option, under relationship status, "It's complicated."

My bloggerly friend, Neil Kramer, also lists his relationship status as "it's complicated." If you're not familiar with Neil's blog, he's an L.A. writer who lives with his estranged wife, Sophia, whom he absolutely adores. We're unsure how she feels about him. They're not divorced, they're just separated, but they live together. See? And you thought my relationship with Jack was barmy.

My friend Genie, whom I've known since grade three, is on Facebook. She emailed me a few weeks back to ask, "Do you remember a boy named Clifford Jerel, from Miss Parker's grade three class at Jacob Beam?"

"Um, yeah! I thought you said you read back to the beginning of my stories? Didn't you notice that I mentioned him? Real name and all, figuring, what the heck, it's not like he'll ever... see it... waitasec... NO!!"

"Yes!"

"No way!"

"Way!"

Thank you, Facebook. I can't wait until I hear from Roger Larmon.

In the next story, Sass eats chicken soup and watches All My Children.

Greatest Hits Volume V

Coming to America as a literary leitmotif has been done to death, most recently to spectacular succes with Borat, and it never fails to amuse the natives, so long as the foreigner has a funny accent. But when you look like an American, and sound like an American, and you emigrated from a country that is more technologically and socially advanced than America, rather than having escaped third world oppression, well, the natives simply can't comprehend why you're having any difficulty. Canada is exactly like America, isn't it? After all, it's right next door to us. How different can it be? Come on, it's not like it's Mexico, or Cuba!

Such has been this half-year as Postmodern Sass aclimatizes into life in America.

October found me settling in to professordom at USJ. Oh, sure, my students poked fun at me from time to time for being Canadian. Who can blame them, eh? There were days when I felt like Mary Tyler Moore at her saddest and most pathetic, and others when I wanted to run away, but then I snapped myself out of it and went in search of hockey. My best friend Kay visited, and we toured the Winchester house. (Who knew there were tourist attractions in San Jose?)

Then there was the whole Neil Gaiman thing, which began with this story.

The fact that it took me ten weeks to get my social security number (and so I couldn't get paid) did nothing to change my opinion that America is ten years behind Canada in technology. (Have I mentioned that they still take cheques in stores? Cheques! Yeah, I know. And they still use those little paper slips in banks, too. Cracks me up.) But later, my faith in America was restored when the O.J. Simpson travesty was cancelled.

In November I celebrated one Canadian holiday and one American one, both with Jack, and I learned that Mardi Gras has a whole new meaning in San Jose.

Winter in northern California means rain, so I stayed inside and unpacked my records. It began to feel more like home when I bought my new bedroom furniture and finally got a sofa. And when I saw my first California hockey game, I was positively verklempt.

The Christmas holidays always bring the blues, but this year I was rescued by my Prince Charming and taken to the land of Hanah Lee. Then I made my New Year's resolutions while sunning myself on his roof.

In January, I got dooced by Dooce, but then I made three new friends: crazy Nadine, Kapp the librarian, and The Italian.

I began to feel more like a real Californian when I got my California driver's license, but gosh, how I miss my baby, and my Daddy.

Looking back on the last six months I have to say that the most entertaining experience I had was my whirlwind trip to Portland for Tequilacon. Because bloggers are simply the best.

Something awful this way comes

I'm getting a lot of traffic today from a website called Something Awful, and I don't know whether to be flattered or to curl up under my bed and cry until it stops.

Calendar Girl [part I]

My friend Tod Hoffman once told me, years ago in Montreal, as we were sitting on a patio drinking beer, one of the secrets to understanding men. This was at a time long before he married Sally, and while I was with X, so it was spoken in the spirit of camaraderie, not as a pickup line. What he said was this:

"You should bear in mind that, whenever a man is sitting across a table from a woman he is always thinking to himself, I wonder what it would be like to sleep with her, which is followed immediately by, I wonder if there's any chance?"

"You realize you're sitting across a table from me," I pointed out.

"Yes."

I don't know why I was reminded of Tod's words last weekend in Portland, as I sat across the table from Neil Kramer and his separated wife, Sophia, eating sushi, although it may have had something to do with the fact that Neil's Penis writes blog posts. That, and Neil kinda reminds me of Tod. They're both smart, funny, tall, and Jewish, I haven't slept with either of them, and going out with them is in no way a date. I'm not always that certain of that many facts, especially where men are concerned.

My cell phone had rung as I was sitting in the back seat of Sophia's Prius. I looked at the caller I.D., and said into the phone, "Hey, you."

"Hey. I just wanted to tell you, knock 'em dead in Portland," said Jack. "Are you wearing the shoes?"

"Um, not exactly, but my white go-go boots match the dress perfectly. I brought the shoes, but it's raining tonight, and on the chilly side; I was thinking maybe open-toed shoes were not the best choice."

"Save them for California, then."

"So, um, do you remember me telling you about the blogger in Los Angeles, the one who is married, but separated, and he writes about his separated wife in a way that reminds me of the way I write about you, and how a couple of months ago they moved back in together and he wrote that she had told him that even though they were living together they were still separated?"

"Yes. I believe you said, he wins."

"Right. I had thought that our relationship was bizarre, but he wins."

"We don't have a Relationship."

"Small R."

"OK."

"Anyway, I'm sitting in his car right now, and we're on our way to have sushi before we go to the blogger party." Then, to Neil and Sophia, I say, "It's Jack."

Jack and I said a few more words, then I said goodbye, and Sophia asked, "Who's Jack?" and I was both crushed and relieved that Sophia, who terrifies me, obviously doesn't read my blog, but at that moment the Prius began talking to Neil, directing him to the restaurant, so we held our conversation until the Unagi had been served.

"So, who's Jack?" Sophia asked again.

"It's complicated," I replied.

"It's complicated," said Neil. "She writes about him on her blog."

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"Oh no! I mean, not exactly. Like I said, it's complicated. We've known each other for sixteen years. When I first met him, I was married to someone else." I didn't know where to begin.

"But you're not married anymore?" Sophia asked.

"No. And I can't exactly say that Jack doesn't have anything to do with that."

"So he has been your boyfriend, then?" Sophia persisted.

Sophia was terrifying me less and less. She has a way about her that makes you want to tell her everything; to beg her to be your best friend. It's disarming. I thought about Tod again, and what he would be thinking if he were sitting here. I can only imagine the effect she has on men. Well, imagine, plus I read Neil's blog.

"We've known each other a very long time; we've been everything at one time or another, but he's not my boyfriend. In fact, a couple of weeks ago, I went on a date. That is, at least, I think I did. That is, I'm not sure whether it was a date or not, and I've been meaning to write about it on my blog but I can't quite figure out how to do that."

"I can't write a story until I figure out an angle," said Neil, and I remembered that he was the writer at the table, not Sophia.

"That's it exactly!" I exclaimed. "I haven't figured out an angle." Then I asked Neil what his secret was; how he has managed to accumulate so many adoring fans, almost all of them women, and so many so that when it's his birthday he is deluged by cards and gifts.

So we talked blog shop for a while, and dunked our Hamachi in soy sauce, and then Sophia said to me, "I noticed that you changed the subject and didn't tell me about your date."

To be continued on Thursday.

My love is warmer than the warmest sunshine

My linky love page is updated with links to all the Tequilaconners, at least all the ones I have some memory of meeting, which is not saying much because I have a terrible memory, just ask Jessica, whom I didn't recognize outside the Marriott Sunday morning, even though I'd been drinking moonshine in the broom closet with her for, like, eight hours the night before.

Today I'm busy reading everyone else's Tequilacon Tales, instead of, you know, preparing for my class in half an hour, so all you get right now is my one word post-party impressions of people I'd had pre-party impressions of. And yes, I know I just ended a sentence with a preposition, and yes, I'm fine with that.

Jenny: shyer
Dave: duckier
Sizzle: crazier
Colleen: sharper
Neil: older
Sophia: nicer
Hilly: prettier
Dustin: younger
Dan: urbaner
Kimberly: blonder
Karl: weirder

Stories still to tell: how the driver who took me to the airport on Sunday was nearly killed by a rattlesnake — twice; how Sizzle rescued my little pink purse; my time in Detention; what I learned about Jehovah's Witnesses; and how Jack called me while I was in Sophia and Neil's car.

Live Through This

It's downright unsporting of me to refer to San Jose as a hole, I know, and to call it an armpit, as I'm afraid I did on at least one occasion last night at Tequilacon in Portland, Oregon, is a spite-filled misrepresentation. After all, it's not Elizabeth, New Jersey.

I just wish people would stop asking me how I like living here. If you can't say something nice, you shouldn't say anything at all — I learned that from Thumper's mother in Bambi. And I try, but, well, most of the time I don't do a very good job of it.

Oregon is beautiful, and I loved Portland. I loved the we are SERIOUS about coffee culture. I loved the greenness, and that there were trees that I recognized. I loved the artsieness of it. I absolutely adored McMenamin's Kennedy School, where we spent 15 hours drinking on Saturday night. The website and the pre-Tequila descriptions of it did not do it justice. But most of all, I loved Powell's bookstore:


It was so beautiful there, it verged on depressing, because it reminded me that I live in a giant smog-filled desert suburb with delusions of grandeur and a chip on its shoulder because of the fantastic world-class city just up the road. The best thing about living in San Jose is San Francisco. Sorry, Mrs. Thumper.

I loved what I saw of Portland, even though it rained, even though I spent only 24 hours there. I'd like to visit it again. I've also got a growing itch to visit Alaska, fueled by reading the in-flight magazine on my Alaska Airlines flight to and from Portland.

But I have to remember that vacation syndrome that Dan explained to me when I first moved here. Portland may be beautiful, but it's not home, any more than San Jose is. This is still a foreign country. Communicatrix, a.k.a. Colleen, hit the nail on the head during our very interesting conversation last night. That woman is scarily sharp and I was, as usual, clueless. I didn't realize until I saw them leaving together that the sexy photographer who'd been snapping pictures of us all night was Colleen's BF.

We were leaning against the wall in the hallway, outside Tequilacon HQ, when Colleen asked me, "Is Jack here?" The chance of that would have been only slightly greater than leeches falling from the sky, a phenomenon that occurs with alarming frequency in the novel I read on the plane, Kafka on the Shore.

Next, Postmodern Sass's one-word summaries of Tequilaconners.

Tequila!

I booked my ticket to Portland but after Episode #55 of Lost a couple of weeks ago, I've got to admit I'm a little frightened about travelling there. On the other hand, if I end up trapped on an island with Josh Holloway for three years, well, please don't feel obliged to rescue me.

The Tequilacon (ahem) conference is being held at the Kennedy School, which is not so much a school as a microbrewery.

Dave of Blogography is making us lanyards, because, as Jenny says, it's not a reputable conference if you don't have a lanyard. And as you can tell by the name, Tequilacon '07, this is a serious blogger conference.

I'm staying at the Marriott in downtown Portland. Because, heck, I'm worth it. And because it's only for one night.

Some of the bloggers on the list are known to me, at least virtually, and I am looking forward to meeting them in person so they'd better show up! That means you, Neil, gallivanting across the Pacific Northwest, flashing old ladies. And Jenny, whom I almost met when I was in Chicago a year ago. LSL, Ms. Sizzle, Karl of Secondhand Tryptophan, and Colleen the Communicatrix, who says while in Portland she might just get stinking drunk and buy a crapload of books. There's my kind of broad. So's Hilly, who's been emailing me to arrange Saturday's pre-drinking drinking.

Then there's Colin, who I don't know but who, according to his blog, A Fish on a (Misspelled) Bycicle, is in love with a girl who doesn't exist. I wonder if her name is Jackie.

There's Ashbloem, a Knit Girl like my friend Maria, with blue hair who likes Swedish music. If there's karaoke at Tequilacon, maybe she'll sing some ABBA with me.

Jessica wrote recently that she was thinking of pulling the blog plug. I hope my new shoes have given you a reason to keep living. If you're my size, I'll even let you try them on tomorrow.

THIS JUST IN: Neil Kramer just called me. Yes, on the phone. Yes, that's right, I heard his voice. And nothing, ladies and gentlemen of Tequilacon, can prepare you for his accent. He may live in LaLaLand, but he's got Brooklyn in his soul.

My first Tequilacon story is here.

Iko Iko [part i]

The reason I haven't yet told you about my date, Gentle Reader, is that I have to make some editorial decisions first. You see, the person — ok, man — to whom I refer does not fit easily into the three categories of characters I have defined and, so far, have adhered to. To wit:

Category 1: People I'll never meet again, like Tommy and Orlicia and Phil. I can write about them with impugnity.

Category 2: Real people who blog under their real names, like Maria and Tim and Joey, and real people who sometimes read my blog, like my cousin Markus and my karaoke buddies. I am careful what I write about them, because they recognize what's true and what's fabricated, so there is a line I try not to cross.

Category 3: Real people like Angela and Boz and Zee who know the real Sass but who have no idea who Postmodern Sass is, and are about as likely to find out as I am to live happily ever after with Jack, which is to say that it's theoretically possible, in a splitting-the-atom sort of way, but the thought of it doesn't disturb my sleep.

The person causing my conundrum definitely doesn't fit into Category 1. He meets the criteria of Category 2, but the problem there is, if I treat him, bloggitorily speaking, the same way I treat the others in Category 2, I'd be curtailing my future options. And Category 3 is right out because, well, he's one of my readers.

Therefore, in the true spirit of reflexive, ironic postmodernism, I'm gonna need to reflect on it a while, all the while consciously cognizant of the fact that he's reading these words. And, very likely thinking to himself, "What? Was that a date? I didn't think that was a date!"

So instead I'll tell you about my it-wasn't-a-date-either with Kapp on Mardi Gras.

To be continued in part ii. The actual Story of the Was-It-A-Date won't be told until Sophia drags it out of me at Tequilacon in Portland.

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.

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.

A friend with weed is better

Enough! All this talk about Denny's is making me hungry! And the closest one to me is the one in Niagara Falls, and I'm not driving back there again, no siree, not me. Not for all the corned beef hash in the world!

All these comments about Denny's, and no one...

...points out the irony of going to Denny's with a chef.

...asks about the fireplace door.

...reminds me that I once wrote I was underwhelmed by twenty-something men.

...squeals, Omigod he has a baby!!!!!

Well, all right, then. Onto something else.

In the interests of understanding the headspace of my students, who are twenty-somethings; some of whom are even nineteen-somethings, I have been exploring MySpace. So far, I am finding it even less interesting than "The O.C.," a television program I watch for the same reason.

Nevertheless, in the name of market research, science, etc. etc., here I am, on MySpace. I only have one friend, which, according to my students, is, like, totally pathetic, dude.

But sometimes one friend is all you need.

* * *
A friend in need's a friend indeed...but a girl's best friend is her daddy.