Current mood:	Scrubbed behind the ears.
Current music:	Rubber duckie, you're the one . . .

On obsessions, snogging, friending and things worth noticing: Angela's blog & thirty gallons of lube
So, I was reading Vivienne's blog, because it's so darn good, and she had a post about my post about her, which apparently made her pass out. (She blames the flu, but we know, gentle reader, that she really swooned from my raw shinyblogs machismo.) And there's a comment by one of her readers toward the bottom of the page that's like "I liked the person's review of your LJ despite his obsession over jillian ann."

And I'm thinking to myself, "Obsession? Obsession?!"

Pshaw, as if a musician-model of Jillian Ann's calibre could possibly be the subject of a Calvin Klein fragrance. So 80's, so preppy, so yuppie love. Obsession. No, my silly, silly man, it would be entirely inappropriate to have an Obsession for Jillian Ann. I mean really, look at what she's wearing in some of those pictures on her site. I have a Jillian Ann fetish. And that's entirely appropriate.

Except that my bum looks silly in latex. And it's always asking me for change.

Seriously, style's not my thing. I couldn't dress myself if I had a live-in Yaya Han. Then again, if I had a live-in Yaya Han, I'd probably be pretty depressed if I had to wear clothes. I mean, her clothes are beautiful and all, but have you seen Yaya Han? She's ultra-babelicious. And ultra-babelicious isn't even a real word. That's how hot she is. Pity she doesn't keep a blog, because her costume design is so creative and what little bloggish writing she has on her site seems grammatically correct and thoughtful at the same time, which is getting rarer and rarer these days.

There are a whole bunch of folks out there who I wish had blogs. Like, I wish Heather Juergensen had a blog. She was just so awesome in Kissing Jessica Stein, which she co-wrote. So funny and strong and even poignant in some scenes. And, yeah, I'll admit it, hot. Really hot. Like, I-can't-believe-she's-a-Stuyvesant-grad hot. And McGill, too. Hot and brainy, which makes her even hotter. Like magna cum laude-have-mercy hot.

Maybe she got hot in Canada. Like, she was awkward and gawky and oops-I-dropped-my-pocket-protector-in-the-frog-during-AP-bio in high school, but then she went up to McGill and it was really cold out during the winter and she had to adapt by getting hot to survive because otherwise she'd freeze during the winter and burst like a pipe or something. And, you know, plumbers won't come over to fix people, just pipes. Unless you're living in a porn movie instead of real life, like "Ass Crack 5. Deep Plumbing" or something. (I wonder if that's a real title. God I hope not.)

But, anyway, I think Kissing Jessica Stein is just a great bit of writing, and I wish Heather kept a blog because I'd like to see more of her writing. And more of her, for that matter, but I'll settle for the writing. She co-wrote KJS with her co-star, Jennifer Westfeldt, who was also great, and who I'd also like to see keep a blog, naked, but, as far as I can tell, Jennifer doesn't even have a website yet, so, you know, a blog'd probably be too much to ask for.

And Tony Shalhoub should have a blog. Because he's just so brilliant in Monk and Big Night and Men In Black that I want to know what he's got ticking in that brain of his. (The last two Monk episodes, by the way, have been great. The last episode had Sarah Silverman, and the one before that had John Turturro, who was magnificent.)

Or Ron Jeremy, because he's really a likeable guy on The Surreal Life. And you know what they say about the size of a guy's blog, right?

I don't, actually. I hope it's something good, because my posts tend to be enormous.

But I've digressed. Where were we? Oh, yes, dressing myself. So I'm out with M on Friday night, and she's got the style thing going on. Being a guy, I can't remember what she was wearing, but it was stylish. From her shoes to her makeup to the top of her head. And I had on a pair of sneakers, jeans, and a gray cashmere sweater. And the sweater would have been really cool if I hadn't been wearing it inside out. God only knows how we wound up snogging. Thanks for that, big guy. Um, big Guy. My guess is that she figured she could make me more stylish if she covered me in lipstick. Which actually made me feel more like a big pudgy Marilyn Manson, but without the latex. (Because it makes my bum look silly. Especially after I've ignored his request for change, my eyes carefully faux-focused on other things.)

Anyway, the next morning M's getting out of bed way too early and putting her it's-lacy-just-in-case-he's-going-to-see-it-tonight lingerie back on, and she's like "Are you on Friendster? Because I really want to have lots of friends" and I'm thinking to myself, "I think that lingerie's pretty much going to guarantee that. I mean, that's some nice lingerie. Why does Victoria keep that stuff secret? I'll bet her bum's much better behaved than mine." But I figured it'd cut down on my future snogging ability if I said that out loud, so I didn't. Nor did I say "As a guy, I'm not that concerned about wearing cool lingerie myself. I figure, once you see my skivvies, they're coming off as quickly as the immutable laws of physics will permit. I'm not saying I wander around in my Rick Santorum Superoos or anything, I'm just saying I don't want to wear anything that looks so good you might not let me take it off."

But I'm not on Friendster. It sort of creeps me out. The notion of having a bunch of people you know basically say "I know this person, and he's ok" to validate your online persona. I don't want a validated online persona that meshes with my real life. I want a cool rental persona. I want to flip the keys to the valet and go, "Yeah, park this next to Britney's ex's porsche. And key it for my friend Christina here." And I'd feel less comfortable instructing the valet to key Britney's ex's car in real life. Because in real life I generally travel by subway. And the valet would be, like, "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid your trolley isn't appropriate for our garage." And then he'd sort of smirk so Christina could see his haute-valet contempt for me. And I just don't think you can score with Christina Aguilera after the valet disses your public transportation wheels, you know? The girl's gotta have some standards, right? And, seriously, if you can't score with Christina Aguilera, who can you score with?

But part of me can't help but wonder. What if M was snogging with me just to improve her Friendster rating? Is that something a girl would do? A lot of girls? Is there a list? Can I have it?

No, seriously, what is it about Friendster, and, for that matter, about friending on LJ, that gives so many people a sense of acceptance? I'm not immune to the phenomenon myself. As you'll recall, I was pretty full of studly joy when Jillian and "damia90e" (who I still believe is secretly mmMilla Jovovich) added me to their friends lists. And I'm pleased that Vivienne has done the same, even if I am a little troubled by this incriminating photo of her:

Really, friends don't let friends snort tabby. I mean, it's not like, after a long night of indulging in cat, you can just nurse your hangover with a little tail of the dog. It's just not done. Remember kids: be cool, stay in school, and just say no if a stranger offers you kitty. It's addictive. So don't be catty.

But I digress. Back to being friended. And not being friended, for that matter. Like, there was somebody who had added me as an LJ friend after my review of Viv, but then deleted me after my review of Margaret Cho. And I can't remember who it was, but, deep down, I wish I knew whether he or she unfriended me because I didn't friend him/her back, or because he/she found my review of Margaret Cho offensive (or my views on gay marriage or lesbian porn or Howard Dean therein), or whatnot. And so I'm like, hmph. Kinda makes you want to go do a hit of tabby. Sniff. Yeah, I'll be right back.

Ok, I'm back. This neighborhood needs more cats.

So, where were we? Right. Friending. I guess what confuses me about things like Friendster is that they seem a bit insular. Like, generally people are writing about people they already know, just to let them know they like them. Now, that's nice and all, but my thinking is, if I already know you personally, and I've decided I like you enough to merit an expression of affection, Friendster's not really the manner of expression I'd choose. I'd rather just share a nice bath with some ginger foam and feed you grapes or strawberries, occasionally pausing to indulge in ice cream and rum and flavored tobacco, so we can blow bubbles with the smoke and watch them drift, lazy and heavy like a Sunday afternoon, to the sounds of Frou Frou or Peter Gabriel, and then giggle together as the bubbles stop and pop on your belly in tender wisps. Which is probably why most of my closer friends are women petite enough to fit in my bath tub with me. (Oh my God. I really do have a Jillian Ann fetish!) Even with a male friend, though, I'd rather split a pitcher of beer than write him a Friendster blurb.

But, as I'm sure you've noticed by now, I do like the idea of friending complete strangers. I like the idea of taking a moment to notice people in a positive way. It's sort of an Amelie thing. I've had that movie on my mind lately. There's a scene where Amelie sort of whisks a blind woman about, narrating all the sights to her as they go. And so the morning before my snogging with M, I had a moment like that as I stepped out from a local Walgreen's. I tend to buy stuff at Walgreen's these days, because the CVS across the street always asks me if I have a CVS card. And I'm like "Well, no, I don't, because I usually hate the idea of giving corporate America a way to track my purchases of Q-tips and toilet paper. But right now, as I stand at this counter with my array of flavored condoms and lubricant, I'm thinking, what the heck, let's let your CEO know about my sex life. You're actually using the info, right? Like, do I get a congratulatory Barry White album after I buy these 30 gallons of lube?" But that seemed to make the girl behind the counter uncomfortable, so I don't shop there anymore. I mean, if you're not into Barry White, you just don't deserve my lubricant patronage.

So I'm stepping out of the Walgreen's with my just-in-case-I-get-some supply of condoms, bubbles, ice cream and lube (They make "warming liquid" now. Who knew?), and there's this guy in a wheelchair, with a big thing of paint supplies in his lap. And he can't hold his supplies and roll his chair at the same time, because they were really awkward and bulky. So he's asking passersby to give him a push, if only for a block or two, so he can make his way home. And everybody's doing their very best to ignore him. I walked past him and just froze, watching as a couple talked to him for a moment and then declined to give him a hand. I stared at their backs as they headed off in the very direction he was trying to go, and I was just disgusted. Not so much at the fact that the couple had just abandoned this guy to a terribly humiliating situation, but at the realization that I had been about to do the same thing. So I turned around, took the handles, and wheeled Travis the five or six blocks to his apartment building, wincing at every crack in the sidewalk as I felt, vicariously, the bumps of Travis' daily experience. And he told me about his attempts at abstract art, and about the way strangers treated him because they mistook him for a bum (even though he looks nothing like my bum), and I told him about the time, years ago, when a photographer wandering by my college dorm snapped a photo of me for an expose she was doing on the homeless. (I wasn't homeless at the time, but it was laundry day.) So we shared a laugh, and agreed to share a beer next time we're both at the local pub. And as I left Travis's building, the sun came out, and a little old lady said "Isn't it a lovely day?" and I thought "Shit. I wonder if my ice cream's going to melt."

But then I realized that, if my ice cream did in fact melt, I could tell M why it had melted, and she'd decide that I was really sweet, and I'd get some serious snogging points. And I thought, "Wow. That's kind of a twisted way to think about it. I mean, what a stupid reason to help someone. I could have just melted the ice cream in the microwave." But later on, back in my house, as I gently heated my Godiva White Chocolate Raspberry ice cream in my shiny new double boiler, I found myself looking forward to meeting Travis for a beer and finding out what he had painted. "I'm going to make it as abstract as I can," he had told me, "so that somebody'll decide they see their mother in it, and then they'll just have to buy it." I hope he sells it to one of the people who pretended to ignore him.

Anyway, I never actually got to share the melted ice cream with M, or even tell her about Travis, because we snogged too quickly and she left too early. I never even got to share that bath with her. That's ok, though. I'm man enough to take the occasional bubble bath all by lonesome, and still find it relaxing. I have no idea what to do with the thirty gallons of lube, though.

But the moral of this story is . . . pretty much a mystery to me.

Anyway, go notice a stranger today. Go see something nice in someone you don't know, and take a moment to tell them about it.

Along those lines, I'm going to start expanding my LJ friends group a bit, to include folks even if I'm not writing shiny blog entries about them. Since I'm adding strangers, I'm thinking of the Friends page as sort of like a mix tape. I won't necessarily add folks just because they add me. And won't delete folks just because they don't. I just want a page full of writing or images that I think blend nicely together and are worth reading. If you find yourself on it, and don't want to be, let me know, and I'll sulk. And then remove you.

Also along those lines, here's a shout out to Heather Juergensen even though she doesn't have a blog. Heather, your portrayal of Helen in Kissing Jessica Stein was just wonderful. Just a great indie muse of a woman in the tradition of Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny or Kate Hudson in Almost Famous. And the fact that you didn't just act her, but also wrote her, fills me with admiration. And, um, lust. So, to quote Val Kilmer, "if there's anything I can do for you, or, more to the point, to you, you just let me know." No, seriously, even platonically speaking, that was just a wonderful bit of work. Thanks for it. Now go write a damn blog.

Which I should do myself, really, because I haven't done a shiny blog review since Margaret Cho. A surplus of snogging has crimped my blogging. I don't know how Vivienne manages to update her blog so often. No wonder she's snorting tabby.

Anyway, I've chosen my next victim, so here's a teaser. Somewhere in Minnesota, there's a girl folding sweaters in a Kmart and dreaming of Dave Attell. And she's got this website that's--

Oh, screw it, I'll just tell you about her now. I mean, you know what they say about the size of a guy's blog, right? (You'd better know by now. I mean, I asked you like 97 paragraphs ago.)

I don't really know anything about Duluth, Minnesota. My guess is, it's cold, and there's not much to do at night. But the Kmart's probably worth a visit, because that's where Angela works. And she's worth a look. Now, if you're not in Duluth at the moment, or if you're not into Kmart, then you can check Angela out at her website, Silencia.net, which I deem check-it-out-worthy, like Foxworthy, but without the redneck comedian and with more check-it-out in front.

I stumbled across Angela, gracefully, by way of her livejournal, which is also visible on her website. Two things struck me in her journal. The first was this odd post commenting on someone else's journal, which is something I usually do. But she doesn't say who's journal she's commenting on. And so I wandered all over her blog trying to figure it out, but couldn't. Hmph. I think it was a response to a friends-only post by someone else. Hmph.

The second thing that struck me in her journal was a post where she had a survey asking people what they thought about various aspects of her. Like, was she cute, did she drink too much, etc. And I can't find that post anymore. But when I saw it, I was like, hmph. But in a more upbeat way than the previous hmphs. And I figured that as long as I was going to be trollishly hmphing at her journal, I might as well give her some feedback. But I'm not a survey-taking kinda guy. Like, just the other night, some random automated survey thing that's been leaving messages on my machine for the last few weeks ("This was a public interest survey. We may call back.") finally got me, and it asked if I thought children were better off living with two birth parents, and I said "It depends." and the automated survey thingy, clearly a Republican machine, demanded that I "say either yes or no." So I told it where it could shove its linguistic totalitarianism. And I guess it was a bit taken aback by my characterization of its motherboard, because it hung up on me. Aww, does the wittle reactionary sissyborg want its motherboard? Oops, sorry, got catty for a moment. I told you it was addictive.

So, anyway, I figured I'd respond to Angela's call for comments here. But now I can't find the post with the comments she wanted, so I'm pretty much on my own. And I'm actually not sure if I saw the post on her LJ blog or her site, so I've been bopping back and forth between the two--bopping in my pudgy machismo way, that is--and just can't find it. So I'm like, hmph. And I've been hmphing quite a bit in this particular blog entry, which might make a lesser man sore. But real men come prepared for such contingencies. (99 gallons of lube on the wall, 99 gallons of lube . . . )

So, anyway, in bopping about the various Angela postings, there's an overall theme developing: this girl is really funny. Wicked funny. Funny in ways that might make other people uncomfortable but, let's face it, if you've read this far in this entry, you're probably going to hell anyway, so here're some Angela-ic nuggets:

I still wonder how actors in herpes commercials get dates. "Hey! You look familiar, I think I've seen you somewhere. Yeah, in a commercial, I think, wasn't it for ... Oh gosh look at the time, I gotta go."

Nubbins are officially frozen off. I'm in my warm jammies.

And a bathrobe means naked time is all the time! Score. I haven't had a robe before. Well, I had a fleece one that zippered, but who the hell wants to reach down to their ankles to zipper something that long? Plus it was ugly. This robe I got is a lovely grey color, and it wraps around and ties and feels like terry cloth. Soft, soft. An entire post about a bathrobe. Yes I really am that boring. Actually, this has been one of my more interesting posts, if I do say so myself.

Ah now I feel hot enough to lose my pajamas and touch myself. I love you guys.

I can't believe no one else in all of livejournal land doesn't have "slutty pop princesses" in their user interests. I mean really. -scoff.

I hate my department manager. Glenda. The good witch, she is not.

Ang i just sent Dave those red lingerie pics
dmso i feel for the thrashing his penis is going to get.
Ang damn. right.

This is not your average Kmart sweater-folding girl. There's just something blunt and honest and insidiously clever about her, and I usually don't expect that at Kmart. Or even Sears. Not even at the softer side of Sears where they sell warm jammies for frozen nubbins. I'm more of a surly side of Sears kinda guy myself. Except that I look dorky around power tools. Or light bulbs. Or light sources of any kind, really. Let's move on.

The penis-thrashing Dave of that last Angela quote is comedian Dave Attell, upon whom Angela has, shall we say, a crush. Or perhaps a squeeze, because she's met him in person and, shall we say, squeezed up against him. Apparently Mr. Attell smells nice. I can relate. I just finished soaking in a bubble bath with this mix of ylang ylang, ginger, and patchouli, so I smell pretty much like a cross between a gingerbread cookie and the incense our parents must have used to cover the smell of marijuana when they were teens living in our grandparents' houses. By the way, just a word of advice to all you youngsters out there: incense is a silly way to try to hide your pot. If you're burning incense, your parents will already assume that you smoke pot. Pot you've been growing yourself. Hmm. If they're right, can I come over? Then again, if you're smoking pot and I smell like a ginger bread cookie, that might not be the safest place for me to be . . . As you'll recall, I have a healthy fear of cannibalism.

Anyway, I respect admiring a stand-up comic from afar. I mean, hey, Margaret Cho was my last shiny blog review, right? Granted, I don't want to squeeze Margaret so much as split a round of beers and listen to her say funny things into the wee hours, but, still, I have a soft spot in my heart for people with soft spots in their hearts for stand-up comedians.

But what really struck me about Angela--and, gentle reader, I generally prefer not to be struck, as I bruise easily, so cut it out or I'll tell Mom about your pot--is that she's sort of a younger version of Vivienne. For one thing, she has cats. But, more importantly, she's a creative aggregator, a sharer of nice things, an enabler of connections and conversations, and she's sort of just beginning to become whatever it is that she's going to be. She has "cusp" written all over her. Well, except her boob, which Dave Attell signed. And which I can't find any pictures of online. Hmph.

Ahem. Not that I lubed, er, looked. Actually, Angela's a tad young for me. She's only 21, blackjack, not even snake-eyes with glasses (by which I mean 22), although she does wear glasses. There were screenshots of her somewhere, but I can't remember where. Hmph. For you younger men, she's cute enough. Although, well, I shouldn't say it. Well, ok, I'll say it, but only to younger men. Women, and especially Angela, please go to the next paragraph. There was this one pic -- I said go to the next paragraph, dammit -- where the camera takes in a bit of cleavage -- as in the paragraph below this one, don't make me tell your mom about your pot -- and the cleavage looks amiable enough, but she's wearing glasses, and for some reason in this particular photo the glasses reminded me of -- and please don't tell her I said this -- Harry Potter. And I'm like, dammit, now I'm imagining Harry Potter with big boobs. Like, Hooter Potter. Oh, dammit, he does have an owl. Ok, I need to move on from this horrible place. I'm just going to say that, if you're Ron Weasley, and you're reading this, then that picture's going to put you in therapy for a long time. And they'll probably put you in a room next to that obnoxious Gilderoy putz whose memory you destroyed. Which, frankly, is what you get for ogling mammaries online. Watch the Super Bowl, it's safer.

Anyway, though cute, that's not what makes Angela like Vivienne. It's deeper than that. Basically, like Viv or Jillian, Angela's basically self-made. You can tell from her writings that she's not really a product of Duluth, that she just sort of wound up there, tugged along in the orbit of her parents I suppose. She must have moved around in high school or something, or slipped through the cracks somehow, because it feels like she should have wound up at Brown or NYU or Chicago or maybe Berkeley, someplace artistic and funky and full of bustling brightlings. But instead she's in Duluth, developing herself on her own.

And developing websites, too.

Lots of websites. There's silencia.net and silenciadesign.com and The Glitter Directory and Expo and then, and I just love this, there are the Fanlistings. There's a fanpage for Dave Attell, a fanlisting for the 80s (That's right, an 80s page from a girl who missed the first chunk of the decade.), and, I kid you not, a fanlisting for masturbation. That last one immediately made me think about that tragic mishap where Jillian wrote about masturbation but did a video about celibacy. Then it made me think, "Oh! That's what I could do with 30 gallons of lubricant."

Anyway, it's the directories and the fanlistings, and not just the masturbation one, that made me think Angela deserved a shinyblogging today. It just fits with the theme of noticing people from afar and finding something nice in them. Angela's giving people conduits to do that. She's helping people connect by sharing their appreciation for, well, ok, for masturbation. Oh, or Dave Attell. Or the 80s. Ah, the 80s. When video had only just begun to beat the snot out of the radio star. When even Californians were surprised to see piercings anywhere but the earlobe. When Janet was "Miss Jackson if you're nasty." And when masturbation was -- well, actually, masturbation's still pretty fun.

And I like that. Not masturbation you pervert (Well, ok, that too. Got lube?). I mean I like that Angela's building things about liking things and liking people. Even though she's trapped in a Kmart in Minnesota.

But it looks like that last bit's about to change. Angela's thinking about going to an interior design program in Minnesota. Which makes some sense, if you ask me. Which I note you have not. Put the pot down. Except for you, Viv. You just need to drop the tabby. Anyway, Angela's obviously design-oriented. She likes futzing with her websites and fiddling with backgrounds and brushes and other assorted phpery on the periphery of my own webby geekishness. And that's pretty cool. Cool enough that other folks have started stealing her designs, which is less cool. But she's winning awards and such, and that's not bad for a self-made girl trapped in a Kmart in Minnesota.

So it makes sense that she'd want to move in another dimension. And interior design would let her do that. Because interiors are usually designed in 3 dimensions, instead of 2, and that's just more than the average website. I just wonder about the Minnesota thing. I think she's really a New Yorker. Or maybe a Seattlite. But probably a New Yorker. Like a Park Slope New Yorker. Or maybe an Upper East Sider. Someplace with lofts and brownstones and decent parks and serious chinese food around the corner. And men so gorgeous I hate them on sight. Oops, got catty again. Dammit Viv, keep your tabby to your self. (I am just a little bit heterophobic, though. I mean, don't get me wrong. I adore heterosexual women. I just don't like good-looking straight guys. I have no problem at all with straight guys who look like Ron Jeremy.)

But not every journey has to be a sprint. Sometimes smaller steps go further in the end. So, maybe doing the program in Minnesota instead of a humongoutropolis like New York or Chicago or LA makes sense for now. Eventually, she'll still probably wind up designing the interiors of brownstones across Manhattan, clustered around a Metropolitan Museum of Quirk curated by Vivienne.

But, over all, in response to the questions I vaguely remember being on a blog somewhere on one of those many sites, here're my thoughts, Angela.

Should you do an Interior Design program? Yes.

Do you drink too much? I don't know, but if you're asking the question, you probably already think you know the answer. At the end of the day, if you drink enough to worry about if you drink too much, you should probably drink less regardless of the biochemiphysiological whatnot. Unless you're in a bathtub with me, in which case, you should probably take another sip before it wears off. No, don't dilute that rum with coke. And, for God's sake, Viv, don't bring the tabby to the tub. (Hmm, if S reads this, is he going to freak out? Oh my God, Viv has an S and I just snogged an M. So today's blog is tinged with S & M. No wonder I have a fetish today.)

Are you physically attractive? Probably, but you should put more bosom pix in your blog just to make sure. Judging from what little I've seen of your face and your bosom, you appear to be appropriately curved, but still slender, which bodes well for your squeeze on Dave Attell. Because, you know, Dave has to stick to slender women. Because, as a stand-up comedian, there's no way he wouldn't accidentally blurt out "Oh my God, if you marry me, you'll be, like, Attell-a-tubbie!" which would pretty much cause him to suffer an immediate, painful death. And that's really a Catch-22, because, as you'll recall from my earlier post, beautiful slender women are really dangerous.

Should you visit NYC? Of course. (Actually, gentle readers, if any of y'all're living in NY right now and wouldn't, like, attempt to have your way with Angela at first sight, feel free to offer her a beer or a Yonah Schimmel knish or a place to crash or something for me. I don't live in New York anymore myself. Which means I can't offer Angela much of anything really. And that I miss pizza. I really miss pizza. Like, I'd give my left -- well, no -- but I'd gladly give a gorgeous straight guy's left nut for a slice of pizza from Patsy's. The real Patsy's. The one they call "Grimaldi's" now.)

And then there are the questions that aren't asked out loud. Are you worthy (of acceptance/affection/adulation/Attell-ation or just plain amiable notice)? Sure. Will you be cooler/hipper/happier/successfuller tomorrow than you are today? I expect so, although successfuller might not be a word unless Dubya gets "re"-elected.

So, go design something, build something, be something quirky and clever and real.

Oh, but stay off cat.

And, in the meantime, gentle readers, blog on. And eat your vitamins. And go see Kissing Jessica Stein and Amelie.