I happen to like them apples very much.

So, Anita and I had a perfect girls shopping day on Saturday. The weather was perfect. We had lunch, and coffee, and walked at least four or five miles just browsing for a few things. I needed to get a birthday gift for my brother that would ship easily to London. Anita needed shoes and a dress for Thanksgiving, and I mentioned that I'd like to swing by the apple store at 22nd and Walnut to drool over the macbook I was almost ready to buy.
While we were still a block away from the store having coffee, I made Anita promise not to let me put the macbook on my credit card. I have a problem with instant gratification, and after one more deposit into my new computer fund, I could buy it in cash. She told me she would not allow it, and in we went.
One hour later we were shoe hunting and I had an apple box under my arm. Anita did not fail me however. Turns out they have certified used models for sale (still covered under apple care and everything) and after I told the Jack the sales guy how I intended to use it, he said the cute little white one on the end would be my new BFF (and for less that half the cost of the new one).
This is how my love affair began (unexpectedly, like all the good ones).
I spent my Saturday night getting to know my way around a mac. I love how the little icons magnify when you mouse over them. I love how they bounce when you start a program. I love how everything looks all soft and glowy compared to a pc. I love how the pulsing light on the front looks like breathing when you put it to sleep (awwww). I love how Garage Band is the perfect example of pointless fun. I love the lack of error messages and plug ins and restarts and that 'thunk' sound when something fails and the pretty icons. Even though I still don't know where things go when I save them-- I don't care. Because that's what love is all about.

Immortality, at the young age of 28

See for yourself-- Gail's Ale is on tap. It's described as a classic American Ale, sweet and bold, slightly nutty, with a high percentage of alcohol by volume. Just like its namesake. Awwwww.
I've been working on the Dock Street project for as long as my memory span permits. It was so touch and go, that even now as I sit at the bar, drinking a beer named for me, I still think it all may fall to pieces. Zoning took 8 months too long, the building presented a fair few issues, and lets just say the suspense was killing me. Last Sunday a group of big hearted volunteers installed my idea for echo control: a series of fabric panels on the ceiling and some surface treatments on the walls. It's still basically a 3500 sqft concrete bunker, so making it quiet is a pipe dream, but I think it will bring the reverb level from deafening to slightly annoying. I once built a recording studio in a basement using nothing but ikea curtains, so anything is possible.Dock Street is at 50th and Baltimore in the old Firehouse. See below. Contrary to popular belief the neighborhood is not scary, so feel free to go west young people.

Never get into a prank war with a designer

So, I have a thing for pranks. Few things in life bring me as much pleasure as a good prank war, which is why I find myself in a bit of a pickle. Prank wars are kinda like drugs (I've been told) in that you have to keep increasing the dose to get the same kick out of it. It starts simply enough, shaking up a beer before handing it to a friend, a rubber band around the spray nozzle on the kitchen sink, but before you know it your dropping major cash on popcorn peanuts and breaking plans with your friends to build elaborate illusions out of trash bags.
I've got to get a grip on this now, or I could end up sitting between Johnny Knoxville and Robert Downy Junior --injecting silly string between my toes.
In case you are looking for that next high, but lack the creative wherewithal, allow me to assist you: misery loves company.
I give you The Packing Peanut Prank Prototype (version1) Est 8/22/07 in honor of a coworkers departure after 3 years of pure graphic design excellence. The note next to her door reads:
We are so sorry to see you leave
We will be sad without reprieve
but none can say that we were thoughtless
'cause we pitched in and packed your office.

Now your turn:
A standard size cubicle works best, as you will need to access it from next door. This is why I love that I have an office with real walls. I am a fortress.
Tear some trashbags (either white or clear) along the seams and create a false floor at eye level. Don't use black bags or you will need twice as many peaunts.

Duck tape reinforced with thumb tacks worked perfectly in this case.

Now distribute the peanuts evenly until you have about a 4" layer spread from corner to corner.

On the inside of the cubicle, create a door from cardboard (create a duct tape hinge along one side so you can actually get under the peanut layer (makes for easy cleanup). Then on the outside of the partition , create a cellophane layer to reveal the depth of the peanut madness.
A little spillover into the space between the false door and the cellophane, and voila.

Try to remember that it's only an illusion. Do not dive Scrooge McDuck style into the Styrofoam. You'd be amazed how tempting it is even when you know the truth.

A note on cleanup:
Keep the bags that the peanuts came in and take them back. You don't want the karmic responsibility of unleashing 33 cubic feet of Styrofoam onto the earth. Pretty much an automatic fender bender.
First bag up the small amount of peanuts that fill in the false door layer. Then, enter the peanut palace through the hinged cardboard door I mentioned earlier, and get under the trash bag layer with the empty peanut bags ready to go. Cut a grapefruit sized hole in the plastic floor above your head and gravity will do the rest. Bring a friend under there with you to help hold bags up. It can get pretty hectic in there when the peanuts start a flowin'.

The MS City to Shore Ride '07

Next time you cruise 'down the shore' from the delph, ponder for a moment how it would feel to make that trip sans ipod, seatbelt, windshield, and engine. Now you can begin to relate to my experience. My long bike ride did have one thing in common with my usual mode of transportation to my Dad's: I had cupholders (two of 'em) without which, would have been impossible.
I have been training all summer, but the day before the ride I was so anxious I could barely sit at my desk. I was mostly worried about the distance and being able to keep up with my friends. Also, could I handle sitting in the saddle for 7,8,9 hours in one day? How long was this going to take anyway? Well I'll tell you.
Bridget and I were up at 5 and sliding around WAWA on our cleates by 6am. After snagging Jory and squeezing three bikes into the brave little toaster, we were lost but going in the right direction by 6:30. Bridget made the typically wise decision to ditch 295 one exit early to avoid traffic and use some real bathrooms before heading to the starting line.
We could see the traffic pile-up was dire, so we ditched the toaster in residential Cherry Hill and pedaled the rest of the way to Woodcrest Station. And this is how, folks, we managed to log 82 miles instead of the 75 I had been expecting. The truth is, if you can do 50, you can do 75. If you can do 75, you can do 82, and so on... I expect this logic fails at some point, probably just before that mental barrier of the centennial mark, but for the most part it holds true.
This is why my ants in the pants sensation the week before the ride was totally unnecessary. The furthest I had ever ridden prior to the MS event was 52 miles, and I thought I would hit a wall right around that mark and fall right off the bike. Turns out, you get so much energy from the crowd, you feel wired PRETTY MUCH the whole ride. This fell apart for me during the last 13 miles, especially when we passed the Wawa that is within a 1/4 mile of my Dad's house, where there was a party in full swing, a keg of Dock Street Beer, a pool, and my beloved pooch. Someday when I stand at the pearly gates and am quizzed upon my strength of character, I am going to make an example of the moment I didn't make that left, and instead barreled on towards my fate of 6 more miles and two really tall, windy bridges.

Ah, Cherry Hill. A very nice place to visit at 6am wearing padded spandex.

Early on in the ride, Bridget found a pocket of space that afforded her the ability to take pictures of us instead of looking where she was going. Well done Bridget! Thats Jake in red, Jory in white and me in blue.

In single file, headed for the bridges

About half way up the second bridge, I passed a middle aged guy that was cranking along just on the verge of falling over from lack of momentum. I said as I passed him "How much does this suck?" He didn't answer me, but then at the finish line twenty minutes later, he came over and said "a lot. I didn't have the lungs to answer you on the bridge, but my answer was- a lot"

Done! Here's the team (minus Jake) loading up into the van. Next stop- keg party at Papa John's!

The keg followed us to the beach the next day, where we played some monster games of beach volleyball. I should bring 25 people every time I go to the beach, we had full teams plus rotated in subs, which is important so you have time to drink.

Pizza crust goes into the water, dogs go into the water.