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	This week's ReEntry editor writes his own manly journal as part of his community service agreement with the State of Tennessee. His work has appeared in numerous bathrooms across the Southeast. He's available for children's parties, but won't be any fun. Meet... Mike Reed Man about Murfreesboro

In the early days of my journal writing, I came across a web ring for men called "In His Own Words." The ring inspired me to get off my tuckus and write (I have a journalism degree after all) but more than that, it inspired me to read.

For my turn at ReEntry, I've decided to showcase journals out there written by men. Online journaling is one of the few areas in cyberspace where we don't have the advantage of numbers. So I started looking, not just for journals written by men, but masculine journals.

The Daily Bleat

James Lileks is a manly writer. He has the sort of job I'd like to take from him after having him bumped off. He writes a lifestyles column for the Minneapolis Star Tribune, a political column for Neuhouse News Service, and weekly radio segments on bad food for BBC Radio. He has a weekly television commentary in Minnesotta and hosts a radio talk show on Saturdays. He's published two novels and two collections of columns. Between these projects he writes reviews for books and video games. Oh yeah, and he manages to write The Daily Bleat, a journal he updates five times a week.

Sometimes I'll just be so chest-burstingly proud of something, and it brings only shrugs, and what I consider rote work gets happy nods of approval. Go figure. Probably at this very moment at the BBC the producers are thinking: God, I thought he'd never shut up.

The subject was the history of American butter substitutes. I came up with that subject around 1:15 AM last night after making popcorn, and I fed it into the answering machine so they'd know I was on board for tonight's show. This morning I heard the machine go off downstairs, and I opened my eyes and thought: what the hell was I thinking? What the hell am I going to say about the history of butter subsitutes? I gave it no more thought for the rest of the day.

Later tonight I laid down for a brief nap, and just as I was getting close to drifting off, the phone rang: I heard the machine kick in, and then some lovely-voiced lass named Fiona (I think) asked me for more information about the history of butter substitutes; could I call them back? I laid in bed wondering what I would tell them, and that ruined the nap.

Lileks has a rare humor, one not based in sarcasm, but in genuine wit. His web site contains archives of his favorite Bleats, as well as more than 300 pages of architecture, family history, an unpublished novel, and other ramblings. A brief visit here could turn into a long weekend.

Lifestyle Tips for the Dead

Across the pond in Leeds, England we have Nigel E. Richardson's "Lifestyle Tips for the Dead." Nigel's journal shows an emotional depth even when the events of the day aren't exactly exciting. He has a wonderful way of phrasing his boredom. Take for example this entry from November 18 titled "the most perverted kink ever."

Thursday night, late night shopping. The crowds are out because there's nothing better to do around here than mill around the Queensgate shopping centre. Against my better judgement I go into HMV and can't help but splutter with indignation when I see the price of new CDs. £16.99? That's about $28 at current exchange rates, American readers. Of course, if people are happy to spend that much on Phil Collins... Hits (surely a typo there) then they deserve to go home both taste- and penny-less.

On the subject of horribly popular but unforgivably crap corporate singers beloved by twerps who don't like music but get CD token for Xmas.... You'd better get me to the doctor's because Mariah Carey is starting to look sexy to me. This is sick, I know, like fancying Hitler or Margaret Thatcher, but her new slutty look has, uh, got my attention a couple of times. I'm sure she's as horrified by this development as I am and you are. I suppose the only way to cure myself of this perverse kink is to actually listen to one of her horrid records, but that may be way too drastic a measure.

Now reread it with a British accent.

The beauty of this journal lies not just in the writing, but in the design as well. It's a graphically interesting page in which each month has its own texture and look. This is a highly enjoyable read.

Cult Picnic

Peter is a security consultant and displaced American living in Heidelberg, Germany. Cult Picnic is a rather raw look into his life. It's funny in a elbow-in-the-ribs sort of way. His outlook is part ironic and part cynical. But he manages to do it in such a way as to keep you reading. Here's an exerpt titled "Chocolate Gyp Cookies":

I'm sittin here in my office past 6:30 pm and eating these cheap-ass chocolate chip cookies with so few chips in them you can practically call them chocochip surprise. Surprise, a chip! Honest injun, Huck! Anyways, excuse my diphtherial nonsense, I'm feeling caustic and spastic, both at the same time, frightening, eh? Actually, there's something appealing about these cookies. I feel rewarded when I get a chip now. They're like Pavlov's Chocochip cookies! I'll work harder, no, smarter, and faster and better and then I'll blow up! Yeeeehaaaaa! 150 kilos here I come (and that'll be just my love handles alone!).

I'm feeling a tad, umm, unjustifiable. I went to the gym last night to work out my aggressions. Jenny was working. She's cute. I'd lick her. Although she had on these hideous, suede, brown leather pants which she excused herself for saying that she only wears them to work. She asked me if I'd be around for a while or if I'm leaving for another trip again anytime soon. I told her I'm going to Orlando for 10 days this Thursday. She said, 'Rough life'. I told her she could come. She asked why, do I have room in my luggage? I told her I was only taking one piece and since I'm allowed two, she could hide in the other one. She asked if I'd at least make air holes. I told her it was a new suitcase and I didn't feel right putting holes in it.

Again, we're talking about masculine journals here. Cult Picnic is one to check out.

There Have Been Bad Moments

Dan Luft's journal which is also called Hex Notes is that rare combination of sensitive artist and manly rant machine. His entries run the gamut between disertations on what's wrong with the public education system in America to office fantasies about going medieval on his co-workers' collective ass.

You know, I really wanted to write today. I really wanted to spill out and rant. But I'm finding it really slow going, because I am a total puss. Andy has been playing in some pick up football games on the weekends, and he invited me to go out and join him last Saturday.

Oh, did I mention that the game was tackle football - no pads?

I was pumped for it because, you know - it's my game and all. So we do the whole bit, kickoffs and huddles and plays drawn up on the palms of the quarterback's hand, and every play go deep. We played both ways - offense and defense.

So early in the game, we're on defense. They pitch the ball back to this guy, whose name I think was Gary - and he starts to do his best impersonation of a freight train. Being a student of the game, I play the angles and end up right in his path - where I proceeded to do my best impersonation of a squirrel trying to play chicken with a mack truck. He slams right into me, and I him - and there was some sort of tackling motion going on, I promise - the positive result was that he fumbled the ball. I have been told that my team recovered the ball, but what I consciously remember is Gary rolling away, and a really sharp tingling in my nose. I felt my face to make sure that my schnoz was still attached (which it was) and attempted to sit up and wipe the sweat from my brow. And that's when I heard Andy say, "Whoa, we'd better stop for a minute - Dan's bleeding from his head."

I was in actuality bleeding from my nose - quite profusely. But in my post hit state, I had managed to wipe blood on my forehead. Nothing was broken from what I could tell, but I was hemorrhaging like a Wes Craven special effects shot. So I sat out a while and tried to dry up.

I feel his pain.