My Own Planet

Holy shit
So I was awoken maybe about an hour ago to the sound of glass breaking somewhere in my building, possibly down the hall or upstairs from me. This sound was followed by a repeated loud thud. Naturally, my paranoid mind (which is justifiably so, mind you, seeing as a guy I know was robbed at gunpoint last weekend not too far from here) assumed that the sound was from someone trying to kick a door down. I tried to tell myself that I was being silly (it was probably just some drunk person goofing around) and to go back to sleep, but the noise continued. About 10 minutes passed, during which I succeeded only in working myself into a Jodie-Foster-in-Panic-Room frenzy that made it impossible to sleep. I then realized I had two options: a) I could either go investigate myself, or b) I could call 911 and have them send the police over to investigate for me. Since option a) only served to increase the frenzy level, I opted for b).

Of course, as soon as I got off the phone with the 911 operator, the noise stopped. Great. Well, at least I hadn't given the cops my apartment number, so they wouldn't know that I was the paranoid nitwit who was wasting their time. After a few minutes spent calming myself down from the Panic Room frenzy, I got ready to go back to sleep. That's when I heard voices in the hallway, followed by the unmistakable sound of a walkie-talkie. I knew the police had arrived, and apparently, since they were actually talking to people, there was something worth investigating after all. So I did what any normal neighbor would do in this situation: I spied.

Peeking through the blinds of my front window (which conveniently overlooks the porch), I saw the officer leave the building and return with two college-aged people (who I assumed were residents of the building, although they didn't look all that familiar). He then went back outside and retrieved another college-aged girl. As they were walking back into the building, I heard the girl say to the officer, "He took..." I couldn't hear the rest of the sentence, but that's when I started to think that maybe this wasn't just a simple case of someone locking themselves out of the apartment with potatoes in the oven, and perhaps a case where my "paranoia" wasn't terribly unfounded.

This suspicion was confirmed soon enough when I heard sirens approaching. An ambulance and a fire truck pulled up behind the police car that was blocking the street, and I watched as two EMTs came into the building, one of them pulling on rubber gloves on the way. Crap. I've seen ER; I know they don't put the gloves on unless it's serious. A few minutes later, the EMTs left and went back to the ambulance to retrieve a gurney. Double crap. I began fervently praying that the next thing I saw wouldn't be someone in a body bag being carried out of the apartment.

Which, thankfully, it wasn't. The guy on the gurney didn't really appear to have anything wrong with him that would necessitate him being on the gurney. There was no blood at least, which was a relief. The officer and the girl I overheard him talking to earlier walked out of the building with the EMTs, and this time I overheard her say in a cheerful voice, "Well, at least nobody died!" Great. I'm still not sure exactly what happened (though I can certainly draw some vivid conclusions from the details provided), but...well, holy shit.

Janice Dickinson's Quote of the Week: Special Halloween Edition

"You look like you should be out in a cornfield somewhere, scaring crows." --Janice, to Cassie

What was particularly amusing about this quote was that she followed it with her own imitation of a scarecrow, which involved half closing her eyes, raising her hands up above her head and emitting a vaguely frightening high-pitched noise. I'm no crow, but it certainly scared me.

I also liked it when she told Nolé that the only reason he liked Toccara was because he's really just a plus-sized girl, too. Ha! Speaking of Nolé, I was happy to see the triumphant return of Empress Minnie this week. For a second there, I was starting to worry that Nolé was turning straight on us...first he lost the dog, and then the lisp mysteriously disappeared. Minnie’s reappearance helps assuage those fears somewhat.

And while we’re on the subject…how exactly does Nolé qualify as a top fashion editor? What top fashion magazine is he editor of, exactly? It’s certainly not one I’ve ever heard of, and, being in the business myself, I’ve heard of a lot of them. Unless maybe he’s actually Anna Wintour in disguise. I have to admit, that would be pretty clever.

Only a few years too late
Once upon a time in college, Kate and Julie made up their own version of those ubiquitous e-mail surveys that we spent so much time filling out freshman year. One of the questions on the survey was, “What song do you wish was written about you?” At the time, I didn’t really have an answer. But now, years later, after everyone else has long forgotten about the survey and no one really cares anymore, I finally know what that song is. (And I’m going to share it with you now whether you like it or not.)

The song of which I speak is Jeff Buckley’s “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over.” And I know I can’t be alone in wishing it had been written about me. I mean, what girl wouldn’t want to be the one to inspire lyrics as delicious as these?

It’s never over/My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
It’s never over/All my riches for her smiles when I slept so soft against her
It’s never over/All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter
It’s never over/She’s the tear that hangs inside my soul forever

Sigh. If only Jeff Buckley were still alive. Because, you know, the fact that he’s dead is obviously the only reason he’s not writing songs like this about me.

I just read an article on MSN in which Tara Reid is described as being "hypermammiferous," which has got to be, like, the best made-up adjective ever.

And yes, it occurs to me that reading crap like this could be the reason why I have dreams about going to the gynecologist with Mischa Barton.

One for the record books
That is, if a record in fact exists for the strangest celebrity dream ever. My friends were making fun of me the other night because I have so many dreams about celebrities. (This was after I recounted to them my dream in which Kate and I ran into John Kerry at Target.) And it’s true; I do seem to dream about celebrities more than the average person (except for Kate, who told me last night when I called her to tell her about the John Kerry dream that she dreams about celebrities almost every night). A lot of times, I am romantically involved with these celebrities, such as George Clooney (mmmm), Prince William (mmmm) and David Bowie (slightly less mmmm). Sometimes, the celebrities and I are simply involved in wacky situations, such as the time Bono was acting like a petulant child or the time I crashed a golf cart into Hillary Clinton. But none of these crazy dreams even come close to the one I had last night.

I dreamt that I had to accompany Mischa Barton to the gynecologist. This dream was completely incongruous with real life for several reasons. First, I would never actually go with another woman to the gynecologist. Second, I would never hang out with Mischa Barton. How I came to be such good friends with Mischa Barton that I consented to accompany her to the gynecologist is a mystery that remained unanswered in the dream. But there I was. After her exam, as she was changing out of the gown and back into her clothes, she tried to get me to switch shoes with her. I refused, as I was wearing these really cute pink suede pointy-toed flats (another inconsistent detail—I would never wear pointy-toed shoes in real life), and she was wearing some ugly pink iridescent early ‘90s JC Penney sandals. Anyway, I was outraged—first she makes me go with her to the gynecologist, and then she tries to make me give her my cute shoes? I hate Mischa Barton even more now.

What's in a name?
So remember the cute boy at the library that I had a crush on? (Probably not, unless you're Kate, whom I took to the library the last time she was here for the express purpose of verifying how cute he was.) Anyway, tonight I found out his name. Not through any sort of meaningful conversation, mind you, but rather by sneaking a peek at his ID badge while he was distracted by simultaneously trying to check my books out and answer a phone call. But still, I found out.

And it's Kenny. As in Loggins. Or the South Park character who dies in every episode. Either way, the connotations aren't exactly positive. And now my whole perception of him has changed. I mean, maybe if he went by Ken, things would be different. Or possibly even Kenneth. (OK, probably not Kenneth, because there was a really mean kid in my elementary school called Kenneth, so that name has negative associations for me, too.) But seriously, Kenny? I'm sorry, call me shallow, but I just cannot love someone named Kenny. Which is probably just as well, since his interest in me has never amounted to anything more than a few dozen friendly smiles.

But oh, what a great smile he has. Perhaps I could convince him to go by Ken.

Very bad start to the day
I went to the courthouse first thing this morning in an attempt to beat the lines and get my new driver’s license with relative ease, only to find out that all of the computers were down and therefore they couldn’t issue any licenses. Great.

Also this morning, I had an obscene message on my cell phone from someone named Trent. Considering that I do not personally know anyone named Trent, and the only people I know of named Trent are Kella’s nephew and Vince Vaughn’s character in Swingers (neither of whom I imagine would be leaving obscene messages on my cell phone), this was rather disturbing. Although maybe he said his name was Brent instead of Trent, in which case it would either be my sister’s boyfriend or my former boss’s husband. Which would just be even more disturbing.

Non-Janice Dickinson’s Quote of the Week
Although Janice was undoubtedly entertaining on last night’s episode of ANTM (hurrah for her extra screen time!), she didn’t say anything particularly quotable. So I’m giving this week’s quote to another one of those kooky, lovable ANTM extras: Simon Doonan.

“She’s kind of dull…slash very dull.” –Simon, on Jennipher

Ha! He’s so right, though. Sadly, the ludicrous spelling of Jennipher’s name proved to be the most interesting thing about her. How sad. But now she’s gone, so we never have to think about her again.

Simon wasn’t the only quotable one last night. For the first time ever, I’m giving one of the contestants the co-quote of the week, just because…well, this was so freaking hilarious.

“I’ve been in denial about my snout.” –Kelle

The thing that made it so funny was that she was dead serious when she said it. Oh, Kelle. Poor Kelle. You are so pathetic. And so, so entertaining.

I am a technological wizard
OK, maybe not. But last night, I did actually install a new modem in my computer. All by myself! And with minimal help from the instruction booklet! (Although that really had less to do with the fact that I didn't need the instructions and more to do with the fact that the instruction book was, at best, minimally helpful.) In fact, the installation of the modem was quite easy, once I got over my qualms about manhandling the seemingly delicate inner components of my computer. But still, I was quite proud of myself. And also really happy that I can now download songs on my computer again because, after two Internet-free years, my collection of 400+ mp3s was beginning to get surprisingly stale.

The bathroom habits of the rich and famous
I can’t really explain why, but whenever a celebrity talks about toilet paper in an interview, this information melds itself to my brain. Perhaps its because my daily interactions with toilet paper are so numerous (thanks in no small part to the copious amounts of water I drink every day) that I naturally am required to ponder it quite often. (Besides, what else is there to think about in the bathroom?) (Don’t answer that.)

For example, a few years ago, I read an interview with Cameron Diaz in Rolling Stone. The interviewer (Erik something or other) had this rather annoying shtick going where he acted like a complete ass to Cameron Diaz just to provoke her and make her say rude things. Anyway, the one thing I remember from this interview, other than how much I hated the interviewer, was that he asked her how much toilet paper she used, and she replied that using more toilet paper than you strictly require is wasteful. This profound thought caused me to seriously re-evaluate my toilet-paper consumption habits, which I doubt was what the interviewer was going for.

Lately, though, my celebrity-related toilet paper thoughts have taken a different turn. A couple of months ago, I saw a re-run of the premiere of Ellen, on which Jennifer Aniston was a guest. Ellen asked Jennifer if Brad Pitt has any annoying habits that she just can’t stand, at which point Jennifer revealed that Brad prefers his toilet paper to roll from underneath, while Jen herself is a over-the-top girl (as am I). In fact, Jennifer said, this habit annoys her so much that if she happens upon a roll that Brad has installed in his preferred fashion, she will actually take it out and flip it over to suit her own preferences, which just seems like a lot of work to me. (Plus, as Ellen wisely pointed out, she should be happy that Brad changes the toilet paper at all.) Consequently, now every time I go into a bathroom and see a roll of toilet paper that is loaded from underneath, I automatically think of Brad Pitt. That can’t be normal.

Love
Keith, the Bell South guy. As predicted, when I delayed my lunch hour on Friday to drive all the way home and meet the person from Bell South at 1:00, said person was nowhere to be found. After spending about 20 minutes on hold, I was informed that the appointment was actually not supposed to take place precisely at 1:00, but rather sometime between the hours of 1 and 5 (although when the appointment was set up, I was told that it would happen precisely at 1:00). When I informed the customer service rep that I have a job and am not able to actually take the afternoon off to sit around and wait for the Bell South guy to show up, she responded by placing me back on hold. I responded by hanging up on her and driving back to my office, where at least if I have to be on hold, I can put the phone on speaker and try to do something productive (or at least do something more interesting than staring at the wall while listening to the “Velveeta Versus Cheddar” song for the fourteenth time). During my next conversation with Bell South, I was told that it was impossible to schedule an appointment for an exact time, but that I could be called when the technician was en route to my house…however, it was too late to arrange that this time, so if I missed him, I would have to re-schedule the appointment, and the next available date was Wednesday. Grr.

Just as I was beginning to consider canceling my Bell South service and just getting cable Internet, I arrived home to find a very nice note from Keith, the Bell South guy, on my door. He left me his phone number and told me to call him to set up another appointment. I called and explained the whole saga of them telling me he would be there at 1:00 and him not being there at 1:00 and me having to go back to work, etc. “The thing you have to understand is…” Keith began, and I prepared myself for the inevitable lecture about how busy he is and how hard he works and how he can’t make appointments for precise times and so on, but he finished with, “…they’re always wrong.” I loved Keith immediately, and I loved him even more when he said he would be working on Saturday (I knew they worked on Saturdays!) and could swing by and install my phone. Which he did, requiring only minimal prodding from me to get there in a timely fashion. Of course, getting the phone line installed was only half of the battle…

Hate
The Bell South Internet support woman. I know, I really shouldn’t blame my Internet connection problems on the poor support woman who had the misfortune of being the person to answer my phone call. But all I know is, when I initially called her, my modem was just having a problem “connecting with the remote computer” (whatever that means), and by the time I hung up with her, the modem wasn’t even working at all. She finally gave up on me and told me that the problem was with my computer, so this evening I get to spend some quality time on the phone with the Gateway support people. Considering that it took me about half an hour to even find the tech support phone number on their Web site, this is sure to be lots of fun.

While we’re under the “Hate” heading, let’s add the Alabama Department of Public Safety to the list. I got a nice little letter from them in the mail on Friday, notifying me that my driver’s license was going to be cancelled on October 29 with no explanation as to why. (Actually, there was a line in the letter that said: “Reason: Clear Alabama Driving Record,” but how am I supposed to know what that means?) The only thing I could think of was that it might have something to do with my wreck last year—after a traffic accident in Alabama, you have to file paperwork with the DPS within a certain time frame, and if you don’t, your license is in danger of being revoked. But I filed my paperwork by the deadline, and besides, that happened nearly a year ago, so I assumed that if I were in trouble over that, I would have heard something before now.

Anyway, I called the number listed in the letter to find out what the hell was going on. It seems that the DPS had notified me back in August (via a letter I never received) that I needed to come in and get a duplicate license because the license I now have (which was issued to me a year ago, mind you) didn’t list the “corrective lenses” restriction. You’d think it wouldn’t be such a big deal since it took them a year to notice that they’d made this mistake, but apparently my failure to respond to this letter I never received resulted in the threatened cancellation of my license. However, the DPS lady assured me that all I had to do was go down to the DMV to get my duplicate license, and the whole cancellation thing would be forgotten. However, if they even try to make me pay the $18 for that duplicate license, it’s so not going to be pretty.

Janice Dickinson’s Quote of the Week
Ah, there are so many to choose from. But for some reason, the one that really stuck in my head was this:

“You came in here like an East German swimmer.” –Janice, to Ann

Again with the seemingly random nationality associations. Why an East German swimmer? What makes East German swimmers different than other swimmers? Is it the communism? More importantly, does Janice realize that there hasn’t actually been an East Germany for more than a decade? My guess is no.

Moving away from Janice's antics, let's now turn our attention to another just-as-entertaining reality show that I like to call the presidential election. From last night’s debate I bring you:

George W. Bush’s Quote of the Week

“I’m not so sure it’s credible to quote leading news organizations…”

Ooooh, burn. Especially since this comment was more or less directed at CBS's Bob Schieffer. However, Bush made the grave mistake of finishing up the sentence with a wussy little “…because, uh…oh, never mind.” See, this is why I don’t like him. If you’re going to deliver the zinger, you need to a) be able to do so eloquently, and b) have the conviction to see it through. Dude needs to read some Jane Austen and get with the program.

After I finished watching this delightful Wednesday-night reality extravaganza, I was struck with the most brilliant idea: Someone should figure out a way to combine ANTM with the presidential election. Think about it—Janice Dickinson and Nolé Marin moderate the presidential debates, while Kerry and Bush dress up like schoolmarms and teach the girls how to work the runway. How awesome would that be? Of course, if you believe the theory that Kristi is actually Jenna Bush, it’s sort of already been done. At least that would explain why she was somewhat inexplicably eliminated last night—she needs to get back to the campaign trail for the last big push before Election Day.

Autumn of the Omelette
So remember the Summer of the Pancake? (Probably not; that’s why I linked.) Well, I’ve decided to renew my love for flippable breakfast foods this fall by declaring it Autumn of the Omelette. It occurred to me last night, as I was overcome with the sudden urge to use some extra eggs to make myself an omelette, that omelettes are actually a wonderful dinner (especially when served with “chips,” as was my favorite meal at the West End Kitchen in London). They’re quick and easy to make, and you can fill them with virtually anything that strikes your fancy. Plus, unlike so many other foods, omelettes show no prejudice against single people—they’re designed to be made for just one person. Also—and it’s not like I’m advocating high-protein diets here because I totally don’t believe in all that crap—eggs are high in protein, which is a good thing, since I probably don’t get enough protein in my diet as it is. I just hope I’m able to restrain myself when it comes to buying fun and yummy fillers for the omelettes…otherwise, this could get really expensive.

And so it begins…
Against my better judgment, I decided last week to sign up for Bell South telephone and Internet service. Now, you must understand that I hate Bell South. I think Bell South is the antichrist. In fact, Bell South is the sole reason that I have done without a landline for the past year and a half. But faced with a choice between the mumbling prostitution-solicitors at the library and dealing with Bell South, I considered them to be the lesser of two evils.

I’m beginning to think I might have been wrong. While my dealings with Bell South so far have not been as harrowing as this or this, they have certainly served to remind me why I originally decided to sever ties with the company.

Initially, I was quite pleased with my renewed relationship with Bell South. When I called to set up my phone line, I explained to the customer service rep that I didn’t want any fancy features because I was just using the phone for the Internet, and he automatically signed me up for the cheapest possible residential line without attempting the upsell. And although I would have to wait several days before my new phone and Internet could be connected, he made it sound like it would be up and running on the date promised, without incident. How I managed to be so stupid as to actually believe this, I will never know.

Yesterday evening, which was the scheduled date of installation, I noticed that I had a message on my cell phone. It was from the Bell South technician, explaining that he would need to get into my apartment in order to hook up the phone. Of course, he gave me no means to get in touch with him to set up such an appointment, so I simply called back the number that was saved in the call log on my phone. Turns out that was the guy’s personal phone, and he wasn’t able to tell me anything about when he might be able to come over and set up my phone service. He also didn’t seem too pleased that I was calling him on his personal line, but that’s too bad.

This morning, I called Bell South, and they informed me that the next possible date that they could come and hook up my phone would be Friday. Friday! And naturally, because their technicians can’t work during hours that are actually convenient for their customers, I have to drive all the way home during my lunch break to meet the technician—assuming that he actually shows up, that is. Given my previous history with Bell South, I’m not holding my breath.

The verdict
Definitely "as friends." Well, probably. I mean, maybe. I think.

I hate boys.

”Let’s go get the shit kicked out of us by love”
The other day, during an internal debate on whether or not I should call a boy I met last week and ask him out for a drink, I realized that the last time I actually asked a guy out was in the seventh grade. There’s good reason for that, as it was one of the most horrible moments of my life.

I had been nursing a major crush on my friend John for the better part of the year, and I’d decided that the time had come to finally do something about it. The last dance of the year, the Spring Fling, was coming up. I was determined to ask John, but I decided to throw in an “as friends” to give the implication that there wasn’t any pressure, although I don’t know why I bothered—everyone knows that, in seventh grade, there’s no such thing as going to a dance “as friends.” I guess I was hoping that John was somehow unaware of this particular rule in the middle-school social code.

I carefully penned the question on yellow notebook paper, making sure to include the requisite “yes” and “no” boxes for him to check, folded it up in one of the intricate origami designs that were so popular with seventh graders in the early ‘90s, and gave it to my friend Erin with explicit instructions to hand it to him as he was headed for the bus. Apparently, she misunderstood me, because she handed it to him as we were all sitting back in homeroom, listening to the afternoon announcements. Everything started to move as if in slow motion as I saw the note being transferred from Erin’s hand to John’s, as he opened the note and digested its contents, and as he looked up at me with a shocked expression on his face. As soon as the bell rang, I bolted out of the classroom.

The next day, in homeroom, John passed my note back to me. A vast departure from its pristine condition the day before, it had obviously been crumpled up (I assumed out of sheer embarrassment upon receipt), then smoothed back out and folded into a crude square. I opened it up slowly, hoping to delay the inevitable, but there it was—a big black check mark in the “no” box. I was devastated.

After such blunt rejection at an impressionable age, you can see why I was so hesitant to repeat the whole process. But eleven years is a long time. Maybe things would turn out differently this time. And if they didn’t, at least all I had invested was one brief meeting, not a year of desperate pining in homeroom. I simply had to do it.

So I did. And this time, I got a check in the “yes” box. However, I also was a little more ambiguous about the whole “as friends” thing this time around, so I’m not sure where that stands. (After all, after seventh grade, it becomes possible to actually go out “as friends” with a member of the opposite sex.) I guess we’ll see. If nothing else, I was able, after a mere eleven years, to get over my fear of rejection.

Janice Dickinson’s Quote of the Week
The Botox has worn off, they’ve reinstated her drug allowance, and Janice Dickinson is back, baby! And not a moment too soon, I might add. For a second there, I was afraid I might have to give the quote of the week to a mustachioed hairstylist who refers to himself in the third person. Anyway.

“That’s the cover of Danish Vogue right there.” –Janice, on Amanda’s photo

Hmm. You know, I was under the impression that Denmark wasn’t actually fashion-forward enough (not to mention large enough) to merit its own edition of Vogue. And furthermore, what about Amanda’s picture just screams “Denmark”? I think perhaps she was going for Swedish Vogue. Then again, it’s Janice, so who the hell knows?

Her impromptu Hitchcock homage with Kelle’s picture was also highly entertaining, although not quite as easy to capture in a single quote. Kelle, incidentally, did not look like she was as amused by that moment as I was.

Why I decided to get Internet access at home, or
This is the kind of thing that usually happens to Anne
Yesterday afternoon, I went to the library to send in one of my freelance assignments. Unfortunately, none of the upstairs computers (which are spaced out every other desk so you don't have to sit right next to a strange person) were available, so I had to resort to using the “adult” computers in the children's library, most of which are uncomfortably close to one another. When I sat down, though, I was pleased to note that the computer next to me was free and hoped it would stay that way until I got my work done.

Of course, I had no such luck. Not only did someone immediately sit down next to me, it was a man who liked to mumble to himself. Naturally, I immediately started shooting him dirty looks. During one of these glances in his direction, I happened to notice a picture in his e-mail that appeared to be a close-up of someone's hands. I wasn't able to tell what was in the rest of the picture, but suffice it to say that it was a lot of skin. I began to get freaked out.

Mumbling Man kept getting up to go to the printer, so on one of these jaunts, I snuck a glance at his e-mail, hoping to reassure myself that what I had seen in the e-mail was in fact a picture of a relative's new baby or something. Again, no such luck. The picture itself wasn't visible (thank God), but I did catch a glimpse of some of the text of the message, in which the sender gave Mumbling Man his phone number, the last four digits of which spelled out “cock.” (This was helpfully spelled out in the e-mail, in case you're wondering if I sat there and transposed it myself.)

Things were not looking good, but I somehow still felt I had to give Mumbling Man the benefit of the doubt. After all, maybe he and his e-mail buddy were British, and they were talking about roosters. My eyes traveled up to the subject of the e-mail, which was “Re: ESCORT SERVICE.” OK, so they obviously weren't British. (Or else they were British and had a thing for bestiality, which is even worse.)

I didn't get to see much more (not that I wanted to), because Mumbling Man was making his way back to the computer. Only he wasn't alone--he had brought one of the librarians with him to look at the message and help him figure out why he couldn't print out the cock guy's phone number. Now, I can't claim to have actually read the library's Internet policy, but I would imagine that soliciting prostitution is in some way a violation of it. Not to mention the fact that we were sitting in the middle of the children's library. Surprisingly, the librarian said nothing about the prurient nature of his e-mail.

I quickly finished my e-mailing and booked it the hell out of there, thinking that maybe it would be a wise decision to invest some of my freelance money into getting a phone line and Internet access for my home. Hopefully that will be the last time I have to sit within spitting distance of a mumbling gay john.

The conspiracy thickens…again, some more
Yesterday I received the much-anticipated Delaware postcard from Anne. Clearly, the intent of this postcard was to provide evidence of Delaware’s existence, but it has failed miserably. In fact, it had the complete opposite effect—now I am more convinced than ever that a conspiracy is afoot.

Anne’s main piece of evidence against the conspiracy was the fact that the postcard’s picture (which, confusingly, was a shot of Wilmington that was billed simply as “Delaware,” like is that all of Delaware?) featured a BankOne building. “You can’t fake commercial real estate!” says Anne. Oh, Anne. Can’t you see that BankOne obviously has some kind of agreement with the conspiracy in which they are paid large sums of money to allow their name to be used on propaganda materials, thereby making it even harder for the average person to uncover this whole Delaware scam. Good one, conspiracy! But I am not an average person. And I’m onto you!

Tellingly, Anne also relates in her note that Delaware is the only state her magazine (which is about commercial real estate) has never covered. And why do you think that is? Because it’s all fake, of course!

Speaking of fake commercial real estate, I was disappointed to see that there were none of the mythical free-standing Sbarros to be found anywhere in the picture on the postcard. The conspiracy really needs to better organize their propaganda efforts. Hmm…maybe I should go work for them.