Our local paper is a real treat. Every week brings us a little bit of joy. But last week, they printed the most amazing letter to the editor ever, entitle Satan lives & envoironmentalists are dumb.

Dear Editor:

There are people who are trying to take us back in time to the beginning of Anno Domini. They seem to forget that stoning was only done to take a life, a means of execution. If that is what they are meaning to do, I protest that it is considered in the USA to be cruel and unusual punishment. Besides, we don't have the plethora of stones that Israel had. And even they have found far less barbaric ways to execute people.

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My new favorite place to hang out in Portland, and another reason why Belmont Street is way better than Hawthorne. Since Mrs. Soul is traveling on school business, I took the opportunity to eat a couple big bangers, eat some onions, and come home stinking of smoke all at once. Ahhhh.

In other news, I believe I recently became the only man in the history of the 00Soul family, either side, to wear a black pinstripe shirt with a charcoal suit. Yup, I was pretty much as pimped out as a Scandanavian without a war hammer can get. I took Mrs. Soul to see some funk at the Good Foot for our anniversary. Turn your speakers on to catch a little taste. We left when the band decided to take another "4 minute and 20 second break".

I guess Stark Street is okay too, but word to the wise...if you go with your man friend Starky's to grab dinner and the guys outside tell you "the food's great, just go on in" when you stop to look at the menu...it's because it's a gay bar. Which I guess you'd know if you looked at the website first instead of whether or not your credit card gives you free airline miles for eating there.

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I was at 667 Madison Ave. yesterday for a pick-up (or p/u in delivery lingo). 667 is a pretty good building for messengers. The service entry is right next to the lobby on 61st and the loading dock security guard is a good sized older black gentleman who sits at a desk right inside the door smoking Marlboro Reds. He either signs for deliveries or sends people to the offices to pick up outgoing packages, so it's one of those places you can get into and out of quickly without needing to bother with locking up your bicycle.

Well, the building employee who was sent upstairs yesterday to get my p/u was a black immigrant who spoke very proper English. I really wasn't paying attention to what he said to the security guard, but the security guard responded with, "don't give me any of that Queen's English. This here is the ghetto." Then he looks at me as he hands over the envelope and takes a drag on his cigarette. I look at him, smile, and say, "well, I wouldn't exactly call 61st street and Madison Avenue 'the ghetto.'" The security guard shot back, "no, this here is the ghetto. There's more rats here than the ghetto."

Well, when I saw the front page of the Daily News today, I thought, "whoa...that security guard was right. That neighborhood is ghetto."

In other 667 Madison news, Sara Gran mentioned the address in her book, "Dope." In her book, Gran describes 667 Madison as "a modern glass building that stretched up farther than I could see without craning my neck." The NYT review of Dope (second item) mentions liking the book inspite of its anachronisms. I felt the same way after she described the feel of 667 Madison today, but I knew the building wasn't that old. Apparently, 667 Madison of the 1950s, the time period that Dope is set in, looked a lot like the Leonori located two blocks up Madison.

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He's a Daily Show correspondent. He writes for the New York Times. He's a PC. And he has also set 700 hobo names to music.

Am I wasting my life? I'm moderately proud of myself for going to the gym this morning.

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Jack Chick had a problem in recruiting black readers. Basically, his tracts are so white, they look like a Klan rally. The solution: Ethnic versions of his most popular works. As the web site says: "Every one needs Jesus regardless of their ethnic background."

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I've seen one of these around town and wondered what was going on...another example of what makes Portland special.

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Make notecards and write the right answer on one side of the notecard and the wrong answer on the other.

So suggests one of my students as to how he will improve his grade.

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OK, this is weird. The answer to this book?

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John McCain may be having his own Sister Souljah moment. From today's LA Times:

WASHINGTON — Conservative activists are heaping criticism on Sen. John McCain for fighting President Bush over proposed rules for the interrogation of terrorism suspects, a dispute that has reopened long-standing divisions between the maverick Republican lawmaker and his party's establishment.

The attack from the right, which coalesced over the weekend, could undercut McCain's effort to woo Bush backers and other party regulars for an anticipated 2008 presidential bid. His position on terrorism prisoners has fueled critics' skepticism about McCain's conservative credentials.

"This very definitely is going to put a chilling effect on the tremendous strides he has made in the conservative evangelical community," said the Rev. Louis P. Sheldon, chairman of the Traditional Values Coalition, one of several conservative activists who support Bush's proposal on interrogation techniques.

The story doesn't -- but maybe should? -- mention that phenomenon known as the Sister Souljah moment. It's one of my favorite political phrases, right up there with mackerel by moonlight -- also the name of a novel by former Massachusetts government William Weld.

What's Sister Souljah up to these days? Touting her books and lectures on a terribly designed Web site. Coming from the guy who does Norlos's coding, that's saying something.

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In the NYT on Tuesday, Sara Gran had an an essay where she said that she thinks the riders of the F train "choose their subway reading material ver carefully." While I'm not a regular subway writer, I did hapen to be on the F line on Tuesday and noted the reading material of the people surrounding me:

• Thirty-ish mousy woman: Motherless Brooklyn

• Thirty-ish hipster guy with dyed spiky hair: As I Lay Dying

• Slouchy guy in black jeans and untucked button down shirt with longish hair: Eros and Civilization

• Nebbische guy, if Scandanavians can be neebbishe: I couldn't see the title, but it had arty graphics to separate chapters.

• Little old lady wearing a hat and dressed all in black: something in Hebrew that looked small and religious.

Sara Gran says the reason for this is that you can't spit in Park Slope without hitting a writer. It's true: Nancy Kalish, who recently had one of her books recently had one of her books mentioned in Slate, shares a helath club with Dr. No, Mr. G and myself.

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Topping an every-growing list of things I like about living in a very small town is my haircut. It cost $6.50; I received it after I cancelled lab due to rain (shockingly, none of my students complained), and the beautician commented that she had seen my walking by and wondered who I was. She also didn't suggest I dye my hair or "do something about it."
Life is not all peachy (in fact, with the disappearance of local peaches and green beans, the produce prospects are looking increasingly poor). The last several weeks have been frustrating and exhausting. I take my job way too seriously and doing it well takes way too long. But I'm adjusting. Slug has been wonderful doing far more than his fair share of cooking. The Glenville Democrat/Pathfinder provides entertainment unmatched by any weekly newspaper I've seen. And now my hair is pleasantly trimmed and cost less than ten bucks.

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The Guggenheim Museum has a page for party pics!

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Manhattan Mini Storage: its ads are ubiquitous in New York and, as advertisements for storage units go, they're pretty good. Past advertising motifs include talking objects in storage, comments on living in apartments in New York, and just plain true statements.

Sometimes the ads just make go "huh?", though. I see ads with tag lines like "Does my butt make this room look small?" or a photo of five neatly dressed men with the caption "Don't make us send five gay men over" and think "WTF is this saying?"

Manhattan Mini Storage's new tagline is "You're not just meant for the suburbs" under a series of photos. There's a witty warning on the dangers of garage doors, a comment on carpooling (even though nobody in suburbs actually does that), the obligatory fat guy in underwear, and hornets! The one that made me go, "huh?" though is this one featuring a bunch heshers on a lawn.

Knowing the suburbs, I knew that those heshers wouldn't fit in in the suburbs so at first I thought that the heshers were Manhattan Mini Storage's target audience. I figured that couldn't be right, so after a bit of contemplation, I came to the conlcusion that those are the people that Manhattanites think live in the suburbs. Oh, if only the suburbs could be so interesting!

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Apparently TMQ's debt to society for saying that Jewish movie moguls, like Christian Hollywood movers and shakers, worship money above all else. Today I noticed a new TMQ on ESPN.com.

While I still have issues with Easterbrook's writing, particularly the lengthy digressions such as a way too long Star Trek fan tribute and a discussion of super novae, TMQ is still one of the most interesting football reads out there. The comeback was low key, though, and he's apparently been back since April. Maybe this means that soon we hope to Rush Limbaugh back on ESPN soon.

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I trudge all the way to my local polling booth to vote for Hillary Clinton, Mark Green and a bunch of corrupt Democratic judges? Yuck, double yuck, triple yuck.

Democracy blows.

Some of you might remember I once swore to stop voting. Well, you can kiss my hypocritical ass.

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Anybody got anything to say? It's an absolute mess around my building right now. After trying to maneuver through it, I'm sorta Sept. 11-ed out.

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I don't pay any attention to football, so a co-worker had to introduce me to Washington Redskins running back Clinton Portis and his many aliases.

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Riding in the rain in Manhattan pretty much sucks as much as you'd imagine. It's made worse by my penchant to get flats in it. I got my second flat of the day around 6:15 PM. Having already used my emergency spare, and not having had a chance to get a replacement, I made my last delivery by foot and was afraid that I'd need to get on a crowded subway car with my wet bicycle.

I avoided the hateful looks and muttered curses, thanks to Gotham Bikes at 112 West Broadway. Even though their store closes at 6:30, and I showed up there at 7, a guy came over to let me in and sold me a couple of inner tubes. Thank you, Gotham Bike Shop dude.

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I distinctly remember learning that most tomato parts that go into ketchup these days never were full-grown tomato plants-- that there are vasts of tomato fruit cells forced to constantly reproduce. Tomato gunk begets more tomato gunk without having to be a plant in between.
I mentioned this to my bioethics class today and was met with horrified disbelief (nobody bats an eye when we discuss stem cells or physician assisted suicide, but tomato plasm, that's horrifying!). However, now that I am searching for evidence of this, I cannot find anything-- neither support nor silly urban myth status. Mrs. Soul, am I using the wrong keywords? Hellx, am I just not searching right? Double brownie points to anyone who can help me out here.

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The publicist for Madewell, a new chain of stores aimed at 30 somethings being opened by J. Crew, is earning his or her money. The past couple of days have featured stories on the new chain in both the LAT and the NYT.

Pretty soon I bet nobody will confuse J. Crew's stores with the manufacturer of speciality corrosion barrier coatings or the online retailer of natural pork products.

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Being somewhat bored this Labor Day, I went back to Rossman Farms, a fine produce stand but horrible employer, to sate my craving for pink lady apples.

Not having any particular agenda, or company because Mr. Guapo was working, after my visit to Rossman I decided to ride my bicycle up to Sunset Park to enjoy the view. Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to stop by Ba Xuyen, Mr. Guapo's place for Vietnamese sandwiches because it's next door to the bicycle shop that he patronizes.

As I was waiting in line for my Bahn Mi behind a couple of Vietnamese ladies getting something along the lines of 50 sandwiches, I started to wonder about the origin of Vietnamese sandwiches: were they imported from Vietnam or were they the result of fusion in the United States.

Interestingly, vietnamese sandwiches did originate in Vietnam, the result of Vietnam's location at a global crossroad. The ingredients in bahn mi are the legacy of colonialism: produce adopted from China and baguettes and pates from France, all of which are combined in a uniquely Vietnamese style.

The bahn mi of Ba Xuyen are sublime and well worth the two mile bicycle ride up pothole ridden 5th avenue.

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Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunnter, was killed while filming a documentary called Ocean's Deadliest. Naturally, Irwin's death has been recorded for posterity.

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To celebrate Labor Day, the LAT has published some anti-labor editorials from its archives.

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Haven't done HTML in a cupla years. This redesign thing is gonna suck.

Meanwhile, what think you all of this new logo?

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In its coverage of the manhunt for escaped fugitive Ralph Phillips, the NYT refers multiple times to "Kasey Crowe, Mr. Phillips's former companion." I found the use of this phrase interesting because in stories referring to homosexual couples, such as this obituary for the NYT's assistant to the Science Editor, the NYT uses the word partner, not companion.

Naturally this raises a question of bias in my mind. Ralph Phillips is a fugitive from a poor rural background while John Wilson, as a founding member of the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association and as someone who has his obituary printed in the NYT, obviously had connections. Why does the NYT use one word to refer to the former heterosexual partner of a fugitive and another to refer to the homosexual partner of one of its employees?

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Mrs. Soul, home? Be sure to check out new updates from Old Europe.

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Today, Slate had a feature called "Chuck Klosterman, the Author Photos" that poked fun at the photos on Klosterman's book jackets. Personally, I don't know what is lamer: Klosterman or making fun of Klosterman.

One of the photos, however, caught my eye. In it, Klosterman is sitting in a public plaza and dimly on the wall behind you can see the word "FUTURE." As soon as I saw it, I was like, I know that place. It's a building on 2nd Ave (or possibly 3rd) just below 23rd street. I think there might be senior housing nearby, because the plaza is always filled with elderly people.

The first time I was there, in May, maybe, there was an impossibly old woman sitting near the sign. Struck by the irony of that woman sitting in front of the sign, I wanted so badly to take a photo of it with my phone, but could not get the composition right.

The second time I was there, in June, I struck up s conversation with an energetic man in his seventies. He told me the story about how he took a job in the 1950s delivering packages on his motorcycle. Today, I radio in my position and my dispatcher texts me pick up and delivery information. Back then, they gave him a handful of dimes and told him to call in. After two weeks of schlepping stuff around all five boroughs, he just got sick of it. The end came when he was given something to take to Staten Island. The guy said, "fuck this bullshit" (OK, I may be paraphrasing here), tossed the package in a trash can and, not surprisingly, never went back.

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The other day I made a delivery to the 500 block of west 34th street. To avoid the invariably bad traffic on 34th street, I cut west on 29th street, south of the James Farley Post Office. This route takes one through a covered garage full of postal trucks.

Being extremely familiar with the overbearing smell of exhaust fumes in enclosed places, I braced myself for the worst and started breathing shallowly through my nose. Instead of being assaulted with the stench of diesel, however, I was greeted by the smell of...french fries. Yup, the USPS is using biodiesel.

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