Sorry for not blogging so much as of late, I know that this inactivity has posed a lot of problems for, well, no one. Anyway, after a long run at Jane Magazine I've decided to step down.

(please go the their site---we've been making some fun movies with these kids. and the staff is blogging, as well as very talented guest stars like: Lindsay and Julianne)

I've had a blast. Everyone who has ever been a part of the mag has always been more than awesome to me. My decision to leave is based only on the fact that I've been there since the Great Smelting Wars of 1914 when a ride on the street car cost 1 cent, and rainbow-swirled lollipops were often as big as manhole covers, and everyone had facial hair, regardless of gender, and also wore burlap trousers and lived with all of their cousins above the butcher shop.

It's difficult to give up a job where they ask you to exercise with Richard Simmons, or learn about baldness from David Cross, or drive around the Carolinas eating pork for a week, but it is time to try some new stuff.

Sorry for diary interlude.

I'll now resume blogging about what I usually blog about--my difficulties with the universe. Like last Saturday. Duane Reade. Grand Central Station. A family of four from the U.K. Mom, Dad, Daughter, Son. They all had highlights. Kind of calico-y. How in the hell are you gonna be a teenage boy and get the same haircut as your mom? "Give us all a spot of blonde, then. Even Glen. Let the nice man baste your hair with the bleaching paste, son. We're going to America and we all must look like the singer of the Goo Goo Dolls." It was actually pretty cool now that I think about it. Good for them. It's genius. I want the kid to look back at family pictures when he is like 72, and fucking love it.

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