Annie is “going hiking” in a part of Canada that I’ve never visited, and likely will never visit. It is a place of cottages and Easterners. I get itchy just thinking of the mosquito bites. Lucky for me, Annie will be collecting the mosquito bites while I enjoy my West coast summer, which is like winter, except with less rain.

Anyhow, I spent all night wondering how I would “keep it in the pants,” yet write about Rain, the Justin Timberlake of Korea, not Vancouver’s main form of weather. I figured I’d get my mandatory Rain post out of the way on my first day in Annietown. Why? I want to win the love and affection of Anne-Mommy, whose adoration of Rain is greater than mine. And I want to stick to Annie’s Rules, because I like the way my neck works and really don’t need Annie to punch me when I next visit her.

So yeah. I’m writing about Rain…but I must “keep it in the pants.” This is hard. Things keep trying to leap out of my pants. I mean, look at him:

How am I supposed to “keep it in the pants”? I really don’t want to be punched in the neck or impeached or have loyal Annietown readers rip the special Annietown sash off me. I’m in a bind. Should I just comment on his dancing skills? Or on his much-improved wardrobe choices over the years?

I get it. This was a test from Annie. It was Annietown-style hazing. I think I passed. I kept it in my pants.

P.S. A big thank you to Nathan for fixing my tech issue! Otherwise, Annietown would have been a ghosttown all week and Annie would have punched me in the neck.

In a horrible turn of events, I have songs from Aladdin stuck in my head. Selections include “Arabian Nights” (”Arabian nights/like Arabian days/something something/hotter than hot/in a lot of good ways”) and the one song where they are like all riding on the magic carpet and making out.

I feel shame. Deep, deep shame.

Do not ask me how this song got in my head. I just know that they are here, in my head, making me sad. I was even listening to something else and STILL SINGING THIS DAMN SONG in my head. It is like a medley, where I start with one and then somehow end up at the other song.

I am booing myself.

I just got back from Governor’s Island.

First of all, a shoutout:

Erin, if you are reading this OMG I LOVE YOU AND I MEAN THAT IN THE GAYEST WAY POSSIBLE. Without Erin and her appendages I would not have been able to lug two tons of shit to Governor’s Island. So Erin, thank you. You have lovely arms and they are especially lovelier when they are toting my shit.

Anyway, I ended up using three typewriters instead of four, because the fourth was stowed away in a car and the owner of said typewriter and car was very, very drunk last night and we were unable to meet up (WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY? OH? TYPEWRITER? OH IS THAT NOW? YOU NEED IT NOW? WAIT, HOLD ON ANNIE JUST A SECOND, YO DUDE, ORDER ME ANOTHER SHOT! WOOOOO YEAAAH CHIICKKSSS). At first I was panicky (which is not a word, but guess what, it is today) because that means I would only have THREE TYPEWRITERS. Originally this project had ten. And then five. And then four. And now three! Three! Three is for losers! Three is for people who cannot do four, five, or ten! But then I realized, hey, it would be OK. I just felt bad that JoMo had to build four tables, when in fact, all we needed was three. Three or four, no one will care unless they are a real asshole who likes even numbers.

So then Erin and I hauled three tables, three typewriters, three 25-foot long pieces of paper, a drill, screws. I should mention here that one of the typewriters is about 20 pounds. My arms are about to fall off as I type this. The table legs were separated, all I had to do was drill them into the tables at the site.

Right. Drill them in. So easy, right?

My drill bit was stripped. It looked like a piece of gum. No good. I have NO IDEA how one would strip a drill bit, but I did it and I am sad for it. I did not bring another drill bit. Because, like, who strips a bit? Annie strips a bit, that is who (whom). So then Erin ran all over the island looking for an organizer to come and save my ass.

Then came the hero with the Greatest Drill in the world and a drill bit that does not suck. I thanked him many times and would’ve you know, tickled his balls and whatnot had he asked. That is how grateful I was. He put the tables together. The guy was a rock star. Seriously. If any of you guys go, he was the one who designed the dollar mini-golf course.

Anyway, the event organizers gave me a sweet, sweet indoor space, and if any of you guys go, check it out. You’ll find the analog, mechanical internet in the Admiral’s House.

I want to live in this house. If I lived there I would make everyone call me Admiral because that is a sweet nickname. Much better than “chief” or “boss” or “asswipe.” The inside of the house is just as sick as the outside. I put the typewriters throughout the house and tried not to interrupt the (real and totally legitimate) art that was on the walls.

Here is a Royal from the 30s given to me by Pony.

I put that in the green room.

Here is a Royal Portable, from the late 30s/early 40s, donated graciously by Cosmo Apale, a gentleman who responded to my Freecycle post. His generosity made this project possible.

I put that in the purple room.

I also had a blue 60s Sears Tutor.

I put that in the yellow room.

Note that the AC unit was part of the original house. Ha ha ha. Admirals need air conditioning too you know. Anyway people already started typing on them as I was leaving, which is cool.

Speaking of houses, Erin and I rented bikes and rolled around the island and then came across a large mechanical dinosaur eating a house.

Very curious. If you want to visit the Island of Governors, I highly recommend watching out for house-eating monsters. The Parks Service is letting them roam free there. Beware.

My loud Australian neighbor who talked on the phone (loudly) on the fire escape and talked about her Man Trouble (loudly) moved out! I just looked out my window and noticed her unit is empty. Success! Also, she was in big, big need of curtains. I don’t know if she didn’t realize or didn’t care that everyone on my side of the building could see her naked, but you know, not in a good way. Also, she is kind of a slob, but no judgment here. She is gone! I hope that my new neighbor does not suck it. I am kind of surrounded by sucking neighbors so one less is an improvement.

I am in a bit of a quandary. JoMo’s co-worker is moving out of his apartment and there is a chance I can take it. It’s pretty much the same size as mine, if maybe, a little bigger and more like a narrow rectangle as opposed to mine which is shaped like the state of Utah. It’s cheaper, which is good, but I wasn’t necessarily looking to move into a CHEAPER place, just a bigger/better place. The apartment is on 1st St and 2nd Ave which isn’t a bad neighborhood but I feel that I’m a little too old to be living in the East Village. There’s a lot of kids screaming like OH MY GOD BEEER YEAAAAH or CHICKS! YEAH! WOO HOO! At least my neighborhood now is quiet and empty at night. I’m not sure what to do. I hate this apartment but it looks like I’d be moving to another apartment that I’d hate too, it’d just be cheaper. Bleah. I mean I like my neighborhood better, I like living next to good friends, and being a few blocks from the Hudson, but you know, it’s a shoebox.