--------------------------------------------Features 11: no more stupid slogans!

Feature #110:

It's all almost done. Classes are done, my internship at the newspaper is done, my last issue of WheatBread hit the stands, i don't have any finals, and it's really coming down to a 25-page paper and a summary of my movie for screenwriting class. And then that's it. Then i'm done with college, with schooling, for most likely ever. I started this page in high school, and now i'm close to graduating college. It's baffling.

But more on that later. When i actually do graduate, i'm sure it's the only thing i'll be able to focus on, so i'll spare you it for now.

This week's feature is going to be somewhat limited, because i've been spending a lot of time taking care of some final school stuff -- one of which is a new Choose Your Own Adventure story. Yup. It took nearly two years, but i actually came out with a second cyoa story, and got class credit for it as well! (it was my final project for a class called D.I.Y. Media) So, please check that out, and consider it the real update this week.

Also, even if you've already seen the fanpage that a long-time reader made for me (which i'm extremely flattered by), check it out again. She's redesigned it, and it includes a poll. This week's is whether or not there should be a message board on this site. I'd be interested in your responses.

Alright, here we go. Enjoy.

1. Photograph of victory
2. Only in America...
3. Letters to God

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1. Here it is. It took me way too long to finish the roll, but Spree Day (er, sanctioned mid-week day o' no classes with much a spring activitity on campus) finally did it in.

So now then. The photograph of victory.

The photograph i spent $22,250 of clark's money so i could get.

The photograph i could potentially make myself jealous over, even though that doesn't make any sense whatsoever.

Me.

My girlfriend Lisa.

and Kevin Smith.

All smiles.

(if this is news to you, check a few features ago for the full story)

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2. Some good observations here, most of which lead to some lovely subtle jabs. This was sent by my friend Roberto.

1. Only in America......can a pizza get to your house faster than an ambulance.

2. Only in America......are there handicap parking places in front of a skating rink.

3. Only in America......do drugstores make the sick walk all the way to the back of the store to get their prescriptions while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front.

4. Only in America......do people order double cheese burgers, large fries, and a diet coke.

5. Only in America......do banks leave both doors open and then chain the pens to the counters.

6. Only in America......do we leave cars worth thousands of dollars in the driveway and put our useless junk in the garage.

7. Only in America......do we use answering machines to screen calls and then have call waiting so we won't miss a call from someone we didn't want to talk to in the first place.

8. Only in America......do we buy hot dogs in packages of ten and buns in packages of eight.

9. Only in America......do we use the word 'politics' to describe the process so well: 'Poli' in Latin meaning many' and 'tics' meaning 'bloodsucking creatures'.

10. Only in America......do they have drive-up ATM machines with Braille lettering.

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3. Clever stuff, and a nice prelude to my cyoa story. Sent by my dad.

DOG LETTERS TO GOD

Dear God, How come people love to smell flowers, but seldom smell one another? Where are their priorities?

Dear God, When we get to Heaven, can we sit on your couch? Or is it the same old story?

Dear God, Excuse me, but why are there cars named after the jaguar, the cougar, the mustang, the colt, the stingray, and the rabbit, but not one named for a dog? How often do you see a cougar riding around? We dogs love a nice ride! I know every breed cannot have its own model, but it would be easy to rename the Chrysler Eagle the Chrysler Beagle!

Dear God, If a dog barks his head off in the forest and no human hears him, is he still a bad dog?

Dear God, Is it true that in Heaven, dining room tables have on-ramps?

Dear God, If we come back as humans, is that good or bad?

Dear God, More meatballs, less spaghetti, please.

Dear God, When we get to the Pearly Gates, do we have to shake hands to get in?

Dear God, We dogs can understand human verbal instructions, hand signals, whistles, horns, clickers, beepers, scent IDs, electromagnetic energy fields, and Frisbee flight paths. What do humans understand?

Dear God, Are there dogs on other planets or are we alone? I have been howling at the moon and stars for a long time, but all I ever hear back is the beagle across the street!

Dear God, Are there mailmen in Heaven? If there are, will I have to apologize?

Dear God, Is it true that dogs are not allowed in restaurants because we can't make up our minds what NOT to order? Or is it the carpet(s) thing, again?

Dear God, Can you undo what that doctor did ... ?

CAT LETTER TO GOD

Dear God, Do you exist? I'm just curious. I don't care.

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Feature #111:

I am almost done with college. I finished a 25-page paper, and as of this writing, I just have to complete some stuff for my screenwriting class and then it's curtains for me. Well, really, it's nearly two weeks of doing nothing, then it's family and a rented cap-n-gown, and then it's curtains for me. But the next update will be my last as a college student. Fair warning: expect sappy sentimentality.

In other news, I was talking to this guy i somewhat know, and he mentioned "the sweet nectar that is courvoisier." Puzzled, i said, "Have you ever had courvoisier?"

No, he hadn't. Of course he hadn't. If he had, he'd know that there was no sweet nectar involved -- and that's what i told him. I think i crushed his dreams.

But let's face it, folks: just because someone writes a frat-party rap song doesn't mean that the drink is actually good. I'll tell you something: if courvoisier is sweet nectar, then licking up your own vomit is the fruit of the gods. Don't believe the hype.

My girlfriend's dad bought me a bottle of courvoisier over the summer because i kept making Ladies Man references, and it's still sitting on my desk, almost compltely full. "Almost?" you ask? Yes, almost. Almost, and therefore i can tell you what courvoisier is good for: encouraging your friends to try some, and then watching their faces contort. THAT is sweet nectar, my friends.

Anyway, on to the feature. Don't forget the new comic that i put up this week.

1. Fortunes and intimate advice
2. The Police Gazette's glory

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1. I went to this great vegan chinese restaurant last week, and after the meal, we exchanged fortunes from our weird-but-tasty vegan marble fortune cookies. My friend Rob's said "You have the power to make your life simple and beautiful," which is, i'll admit, a nice thing to say. Of course, coming from a manufactured piece of paper within a strange 3-D cookie, it's not quite that meaningful.

Nor, really, is it a fortune. That always confused me. Most of the "fortunes" from fortune cookies are really just uplifting messages about the reader and his/her grand potential. They tell us how great we are, how much we'll succeed, how complex and beautiful our lives are. That isn't a fortune. A fortune gives a glimpse into the future. For instance, I got a fortune once that said (and i'm not kidding -- i keep it in my wallet to show off) "You are going to have some new clothes." Now THAT is a fortune. It told me something about the future. Sure, it wasn't really true since the majority of my wardrobe is from high school, but at least it discussed me in the future sense.

"In less than an hour, you're going to either poop or your heart will explode from the amount of MSG you just ate" would also be an acceptable fortune, albeit a cheap one. I would even take "You will grow older." It may be a given, but at least it's making an effort. Rob's fortune -- and, for that matter, the rest of the fortunes at the table -- gave no fortune whatsoever. They talked about us in the present tense. That's not a fortune. That's crap.

But, what made Rob's little slip of paper special was the lesson on the back. Fortune cookies have gone through a strange progression: they started with fortunes (or, imposter-fortunes, really), then added "lucky numbers" under the assumption that the normal progression of people's evenings was Chinese Food For Dinner followed by Buy A Lotto Ticket -- perhaps to foot the medical bill when the MSG kicks in.

Now, as their newest addition, fortune cookies are trying to teach us random phrases in Chinese. I can just imagine a tourist walking around China, constantly digging through the pockets-full of fortune cookies that, read aloud in the correct order, will find them a hotel, a bathroom, and "company" for the evening. (and no, that's not a stereotype; my lesson in Chinese was how to say "My pants are on fire." Ok, that's not true at all... it said "You are beautiful," but all the same.)

Rob's was rather unique, though. It said this:

In case you can't read that, it says that the way to say "We are smart" in Chinese is "Women congming." Let's take a moment to reflect on that.

We are smart. Women congming.
We are smart. Women coming.

This must have some kind of pronounciation besides anything resembling "women coming." That's just too rich to be true! What a commentary on life -- or, life in bed, if you're smart...

...or at the very least, if you know what's good for you.

Think that's a stretch? How's this: do you think the people who make fortune cookies don't actually know that people often add the words "in bed" to the end of every fortune?

Yeah, that's right. We are smart. Women coming.

Remember it.

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2. I think I've mentioned this paper before, but if you ever get a chance to take a look at an old newspaper called The Police Gazette, do it. The things they put in this paper were just surreal. There was no journalistic integrity, and just about every story reads like someone either heard it through the grapevine or simply pulled it out of their asses. Perhaps that's why there are no bylines on any of these things.

A particular favorite of mine (and also one that's short enough for me to type into this) is:

Smoked Like a Man
June 1, 1895

It was a Brooklyn young woman who startled and astounded the occupants of the smoking car of the Kings Country road recently by settling herself comfortably in one of the seats and asking the nearest man for a match with which to light the cigarette she held daintily between her thumb and forefinger. She was young, handsome and fashionably attired, and when she had lighted the composition of paper and tobacco, she smoked with gusto.

The guard was so paralyzed with astonishment that he forgot to call out the next station.

THAT is news? This stuff is great! It's so pointless, and the accompanying photographs are so bizarre (this one has a man with a newspaper, a moustache and a funny tophat looking startled while the elaborately-dressed woman next to him is consuming the cigarette with closed eyes of passion and a bodily stance of intensity). Articles can get impressively lengthy, despite their subjects of "Danced the naughty dance", "He squeezed her foot", and "Fred Miller and his dog."

As if that wasn't enough, the publisher of the paper, Richard Fox, was constantly eager to give out awards and medals for the weirdest competitions. Fox also had a huge hand in making boxing what it is today, but back then it was just another weird competition. Consequently, the paper got letters all the time from people issuing challenges, and they were printed and encouraged by Fox. Almost every issue contains something like this one:

Richard K. Fox:
I am prepared to drink water against any man in the world for any amount. I will drink half a gallon of cold water inside of three minutes for $50 or $100, or one gallon inside of fifteen minutes. I will back myself to drink three gallons of water in thirty minutes. Or I will drink from one to five gallons of water in quicker time than anyone living for $500.
Daniel O'Keefe
June 3, 1893

What a challenge! I wonder why that didn't turn into a spectator sport. I wish I was around when Daniel O'Keefe discovered his amazing ability to drink water, and then decided that this skill was worthy of competition. Must have been the life of the party. Just give him a glass of water and watch it go down! H2O is David, he is Goliath.

I am endlessly amused by this stuff. But I'll stop now.

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Feature #112:

I'll be graduating college on May 19, which means that this is the last feature i'll be posting as a college student. Very weird. I've been doing that for the last month, though: the last this, the last that. When you come to the end of something, everything is the last. Last class, last paper, last issue of WheatBread, last show, on and on and on. It's rather taxing. I don't advise it. I think i'm just trying to remember everything, and making it "the last..." makes it more dramatic, and thus more memorable.

But now there are too many dramatic "lasts," so they're all blending. Ah well.

It's strange to think that there are people who have been reading this page since i started it in my junior year of high school, and it's a toss-up as to what's more impressive: that the page has stayed alive all this time, or that people have stuck with it all this time. Or that i have a live connection to myself in high school. But anyway, I've had a few of you old-timers contact me over the years, but i'm guessing there are more out there. So, thanks folks. You amaze me.

I wrote an essay about leaving college and ran it in WheatBread, despite me being embarassed by its extremely sappy (and very uncharacteristic-for-me) tone. So, now that the end is actually near, i'm going to run it on my page... once again, with full embarassment. But, if you can't get sappy over leaving college, then what can you get sappy over?

So, that's what this feature will be. Well, that and some potty humor. Here we go.

1. College goes bye-bye
2. Release the sweets

1. Here it is. Read it and weep. Or cringe.

I have become sentimental about graduating
by Jason Feifer

We stood in a small room devoid of any personality, my bags were scattered around the cold green floor, and I looked at a stained mattress that countless students had lost their virginity on. This wasn't just supposed to be home. It was the culmination of grade school, of life up until then. It was to be my history, the place I'd forever reference as my college days. It was already so loaded with meaning and I didn't even know where the bathroom was.

Every decision, I thought, was one that would burn itself into my memory. The first CD I'd play, the posters I hung on the wall, the t-shirt I wore. It's only been four years, and I don't remember those details at all. My first day of college was a defining moment; a true, concrete turning point. I thought I'd never forget it, and as an event, I doubt I will. But, I guess the small details weren't that important. If they were, I'd like to think I'd still know them, because we're not much more than the sum of our memories anyway. Perhaps we're always bargaining, forgetting this to remember that, always deciding what's important to retain, or what inescapably defines us. I'm afraid to find out what small things I'll have forgotten four years from now. Whatever they are, they're important right now.

I remember unpacking my clothes, trying to construct a physical presence in a room so clearly intended for temporality. My mom was busy dusting everything, and my dad paced around the room, occasionally staring out of the window in search of my roommate. Eventually, he spotted a guy with pink hair and an American flag tie -- a true embodiment of that forced, you'll-grow-out-of-that, media-enhanced, takes-all-kinds college look -- and he was convinced. That was my roommate. That was the guy who would walk in, claim the other stained mattress, and write himself into my "Let me tell you about my freshman roommate..." stories.

That guy never showed up. In fact, my roommate didn't show up either. He got lost on the way from New York, and finally stumbled into our room the next day, carrying only a crumbled wire, a lint remover, and a boom box. I remember staring at these items on the bed, already crafting the stories I'd tell, preserving the moment in its most finite.

As the days went on, my new peers and I slowly, quietly, and conspicuously freaked out. In an environment so completely foreign that we could only compare it to summer camp, we shared personal information with confusing vigor and everyone was suddenly a friend. I think we were trying to replace the people at home -- the people who knew us for years -- with complete strangers, and we did so by catching them up with all the years they missed. We were in a foreign place, and we needed to be known.

Eventually, it worked out. We all escaped a home environment stifling with familiarity and realigned ourselves according to who we were and who we are. But, it didn't work out because we tried. It worked out because we settled down, found our niches, discovered what we love and hate and why we do. We changed our plans to fit those discoveries, and being unafraid to do that is really the education that college provides.

If you can learn to roll with the punches, you've absorbed what this surreal environment has to teach. College is movement. It's being welcomed and being booted out -­ from dorms, from people, and eventually, from school. It's about knowing what's constant and what's in the moment, because separating the two isn't always easy. If it was, I wouldn't be struggling through this essay.

What's left after this psycho-babble, and what's most difficult to leave, are the people. The good friends, the amusing acquaintances, the guy you've said hi to in passing all four years but can't remember why you started in the first place. All these people are what makes this experience meaningful. The relationships we form are our living souvenirs. They're what can continue to grow after four years expire, and they're who, years later, we'll have to remind us of what this was and who we were. The next time we'll be in a community of our peers will be in a retirement home, where pulling an all-nighter means watching the sun set and the closest thing to Spree Day is when the grandkids come over with bagels. I hope I never took this for granted.

While my parents gave me their parting words of advice before I came to Clark, my dad told me that college was going to be the best years of my life. It sounded corny and dramatic, and I probably just laughed. But now that a rented cap and gown are mere weeks away, and I can't even pick apart how the last four years affected who I am, I know he was right. It's just too bad that nobody's stepping forward to tell me that entering a weak economy with a high unemployment rate will be the best years of my life.

But then again, who knows if I'd believe them either.

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2. There is an awful product on the market, and it is called Sweet Release. Just think about this name for a moment. Sweet Release. Sounds either very dirty or innocently pleasant.

No, it's very dirty.

Imagine a time when, at the climax of a "going down" moment, and your partner makes a face and tells you that you taste very much like something that would normally make them vomit. In fact, perhaps they will vomit. Maybe they do.

Well, no more! Now, you take a pill, and girls taste like citrus, guys like "hard apple." Really now, could this be any weirder? More importantly, can the jokes ever stop?

This gives a new meaning to "fruit of the loom." The product tasting must have been fun. If an apple a day keeps the doctor away, what does a hard apple a day keep away?

Imagine taking one of these pills without telling your partner. Their surprised face would be, no doubt, something nobody has ever seen before. I think nothing could be better than looking at him/her, and with a straight face saying, "What, I thought you liked hard apple."

And what kind of citris is this, exactly? Will it be a mixture, or a specific fruit? Should you bring a Corona down with you?

Anyway, you get the point.

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Feature #113:

Graduating is exhausting. Man oh man. I had a group of family and a group of friends, friends both from here and graduated ones from out of town, and so there wasn't really a moment's rest for the weekend. Don't get me wrong, it's never a bad thing to see people in mass quantities, but i really could have used another few hours of sleep. And then there was the ceremony that never ended. It was nice of them to let us have a little walking stretch across the stage, because otherwise my ass would have no doubt been fused to the cheap folding chair.

But, i'm all caught up on sleep now, and i'm also not a college student. That's extremely weird. But, much like college first felt like summer camp, not being in college feels a lot like summer vacation. I guess when next semester starts and i'm (hopefully) employed, my brain will recognize that i have fought my last fight to stay awake in class. Until then, summer vacation all the way.

Oh, we got another winner from the vegan chinese restaurant that provided us with the "Women Coming" translation (from a few features ago). I brought my family there, and my sister's fortune cookie told her to "Be patient and understanding with your delinquent friends." Good advice, indeed.

Anyway, i apologize for the skimpyness of this feature. I thought it was better to at least get something up here now instead of waiting another half a week to make up some content, since i really didn't have time to work on anything during the past week. Ok, here we go!

1. Worst Man Alive - comic
2. Worst Man Alive - Ashcroft
3. Two Bar Jokes - not forgotten

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1. I considered writing this social commentary comic called "Adventures of the worst man alive," which i figured would be both funny and completely abrasive, but always with the clearly defined message that men need more respect for women. But, I just drew the first one (and, to be honest, the only one i had really scripted in my head), and i'm pretty confidant that it's not funny at all and probably doesn't get the point across. But since i went through the effort, i'll post it anyway. I'd be interested in what people have to say about this.

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2. This is kind of old news, but the letter is still worth reading. Our esteemed Attourney General, who seems more concerned with being a religious lunatic than being a protector of the American people, recently covered up The Spriit of Justice's breasts because he was uncomfortable being photographed in front of them. (This was followed up by his completely miserable and soul-destroying song, the name of which I've forgotten, which he belted out after a press conference.)

He's such a rediculious and dangerous figure that Parade Magazine (that crappy addition to your Sunday newspaper) actually ran a cover story last week that asked if he has "gone too far." Of course, since Parade is really just an advertising filler that wouldn't rock the boat and the boat came up and kicked it in the ass, the article was extremely fluffy and ended with a summarizing quote from Ashcroft himself. But, the very fact that such a mindless rag was moved to ask the question in the first place is really a stunning indicator of Ashcroft's instability.

Anyway, that's enough politics from me. Read on.

The following is a letter read by Claire Braz-Valentine, the author, at this year's In Celebration of the Muse, Cabrillo College in California. It is worth knowing that the author is a woman of 60+ years, conservatively dressed and obviously quite talented.

AN OPEN LETTER TO JOHN ASHCROFT, ATTORNEY GENERAL OF THE UNITED STATES

On January 28, 2002, Attorney General John Ashcroft announced that he spent $8,000 of taxpayer's money for drapes to cover up the exposed breast of The Spirit of Justice, an 18 ft aluminum statue of a woman that stands in the Department of Justice's Hall of Justice.

John, John, John, you've got your priorities all wrong. While men fly airplanes into skyscrapers, dive bomb the pentagon, while they stick explosives into their shoes, and then book a seat right next to us, while they hide knives in their luggage, steal kids on school buses , take little girls from their beds at night, drive trucks into our state capital buildings, while our president calls dangerous men all over the world evildoers and devils, while we live in the threat of biological warfare, nuclear destruction, annihilation, you are out buying yardage to save Americans from the appalling alarming, abominable aluminum alloy of evil, that terrible ten foot tin tittie. You might not be able to find Bin Laden, but you sure as hell found the hooter in the hall of justice.

It's not that we aren't grateful. But while we were begging the women of Afghanistan to not cover up their faces, you are begging your staff members to just cover up that nipple, to save the American people from that monstrous metal mammary. How can we ever thank you?

So, in your office every morning, in your secret prayer meeting, while an American woman is sexually assaulted every 6 seconds, while anthr ax floats around the post office and settles in the chest of senior citizens, you've got another chest on your mind. While American sons arrive home in body bags and heat seeking missiles fly around a foreign country looking for any warm body, you think of another body.

And you pray for the biggest bra in the world. John, you see that breast on the Spirit of Justice in the spirit of your own inhibited sexuality.

And when we women see our grandmothers, our mothers, our daughters, our granddaughters, our sisters, ourselves, when we women see that statue, the Spirit of Justice, we see the spirit of strength, the spirit of survival. Every day we view innocent bodies dragged out of rubble, and women and children laid out like thin limp dolls and baptized into death as collateral damage, and we see the hollow-eyed Afghani mother whose milk has dried up underneath her burka in famine, in shame, and her children are dead at her breast.

While you look at that breast, John, that jug on the Spirit of Justice, and deal with your thoughts of lust and sex and nakedness, we see it as a testimony to motherhood. You see it as a tit.

It's not the money it cost. It's the message you send. We've got the right to live in freedom. We've got the right to cheat Americans out of millions of dollars and then just not want to tell Congress about it.

We've got the right to drop bombs, night and day, on a small country that has no army, no navy, no military at all, because we've got the right to bear arms. But we just better not even think about the right to bare breasts.

So now John, you can be photographed while you stand there and talk about guns and bombs and poisons without that breast appearing over your right shoulder, without that bodacious bosom bothering you and we just wanted to tell you in the spirit of justice, in the spirit of truth, John, there is still one very big boob left standing there in that picture.

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3. My friends are a wealth of bar jokes, but i can never remember them. But it's your lucky day, bcause two just popped into my head. Here we go.

1) A screwdriver walks into a bar and sits down on one of the stools. When the bartender sees him, he gets all excited and says, "Wow, you know, we have a drink named after you!"

And the screwdriver says, "Really? You have a drink named Steve?"

- - - - - - - - -

2) A guy walks into a bar. He's wearing a shirt, a hat, and some shoes, but no pants... and to make things weirder, he's got a steering wheel attached to his penis. He sits down, orders a drink, and starts reading the newspaper.

The man next to him, who has been fighting to not stare at the man's crotch, finally decides to say something.

"Sir, do you know that you have a steering wheel in your crotch?" he says.

The guy shakes his head, and says, "Aye, it's driving me nuts!"

(ba-dum-bum)

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Feature #114:

Hold onto your mouse, because this will be next updated about a week late. Lisa and i are going down to Florida for my sister's high school graduation, and then we're road-tripping my graduation present (hooray to my parents and four wheels!) back up to Massachusetts. The plan is to get back around mid-June, but right now things are pretty loose. Having a one-way ticket is an refreshingly ambiguous feeling.

Life after college has so far been consumed by moving to a new apartment, which we're only quasi-settled in. Our room this year actually has a closet, which is a luxury we just went a whole year without, so we're already quite pleased. I covered a high school graduation for the newspaper a few days ago, which was everything a high school graduation is expected to be. It was held in a gym that was hot enough to make sand sweat. They handed out programs, but as far as the audience was concerned, they were handing out cheap handheld fans. People were breaking a sweat by just sitting still. I had beads of it rolling down my sides, and it was hard to take notes because my hand was practically one of those sticky-hands you get in 25-cent machines. If this is a sign of the summer to come, i'm moving into the refrigerator.

Ok, time to move onto the feature. I'll be updating the picture of the day for as long as i can, but once we hit the road, the happy scrappy page will be stagnant for probably four or five days. So, please be patient, and thanks.

1. The infamous conversation
2. Worst Guy, part 2
3. Bushisms
4. Writer joke

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1. 1998. My freshman year in college. A group of my friends went to see this band play on campus, probably because we had nothing better to do. The bandleader is pretty famous; if you don't recognize his name, you'd still know his music. As talented as he is, though, he spent the show hitting on girls nearly one-third his age, and rumor has it that a few followed him back to his hotel room.

At one point during the show, he told the crowd that he keeps an online tour diary, and that we're all encouraged to sign on, read it, and IM him. So, one night a week or so later, we did. A friend of mine (who i'll spare having her name attached to this) pretty much ran the show, and the rest of us sat in her room only slightly interested in the conversation... until it became clear that this guy had some different plans for the evening, and that included a bit of getting digitally intimate, if you know what i mean.

My friend, in her infinite wisdom, kept nudging the guy along, just to see how far he'd actually take it. Luckily for all involved, he didn't launch into the full sloppy text, but damnit, he sure did want it.

A lot of this conversation is long and mundane, but editing it would ruin the unintentional atmosphere. Take a read through, and remember: behind all this is a married rock star on the road and a group of college students with nothing better to do. What a volatile mixture.

This conversation has become slightly infamous among the people involved, and i had always planned on posting it once it was way after the fact. Four years seems long enough. So, here we go.

(the conversation is so long that i made a seperate page for it. click here)

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2. I haven't gotten this out of my system yet, so here's part two of this obnoxious comic:

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3. I don't know a whole lot about either Yogi Berra or George W. Bush on a personal level, but judging from their quotes, i think i'm correct in saying this: Yogi gave great, dumb-sounding quotes on purpose. I think it was something of a game to him, like puns but without the clear intent. To me, Yogi was like Andy Kaufman -- it was all his own private joke. Dubya, on the other hand, just doesn't have a grasp on the English language, and he stumbles because he doesn't know any other way. Here's proof.

"Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?"—Florence, S.C., Jan. 11, 2000

"We must all hear the universal call to like your neighbor just like you like to be liked yourself."—ibid.

"Will the highways on the Internet become more few?"—Concord, N.H., Jan. 29, 2000

I understand small business growth. I was one."—New York Daily News, Feb. 19, 2000

"I was raised in the West. The west of Texas. It's pretty close to California. In more ways than Washington, D.C., is close to California."—In Los Angeles as quoted by the Los Angeles Times, April 8, 2000

"Laura and I really don't realize how bright our children is sometimes until we get an objective analysis."—CNBC, April 15, 2000

"Actually, I—this may sound a little West Texan to you, but I like it. When I'm talking about—when I'm talking about myself, and when he's talking about myself, all of us are talking about me."—Ibid.

"I want to thank the dozens of welfare to work stories, the actual examples of people who made the firm and solemn commitment to work hard to embetter themselves."—Washington, D.C., April 18, 2002

"And so, in my State of the—my State of the Union—or state—my speech to the nation, whatever you want to call it, speech to the nation—I asked Americans to give 4,000 years—4,000 hours over the next—the rest of your life—of service to America. That's what I asked—4,000 hours." —Bridgeport, Conn., April 9, 2002

"There's nothing more deep than recognizing Israel's right to exist. That's the most deep thought of all. ... I can't think of anything more deep than that right."—Washington, D.C., March 13, 2002

''I know what I believe. I will continue to articulate what I believe and what I believe—I believe what I believe is right."—Rome, July 22, 2001

"If a person doesn't have the capacity that we all want that person to have, I suspect hope is in the far distant future, if at all."—Remarks to the Hispanic Scholarship Fund Institute, Washington, D.C., May 22, 2001

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4. I finally got around to reading Brian Michael Bendis's "Fortune and Glory," which is a great comic book about his short-lived experience in the movie industry. Some great insight in there -- but, mind you, great insight that will make you never want to even consider making it in Hollywood. Although, really, that realization sounds like a saving grace.

Anyway, there was a funny joke in there that i'd like to share:

Q: How many writers does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: The lightbulb? But that's the best part!

...oh, how true it is.

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Feature #115:

I'm glad you were able to endure the extremely long time it took me to update this thing. Lisa and i arrived back safe and sound in two pieces (one for each person). We still haven't fully unpacked, we have a guy who is supposed to do some work in the house but usually just comes for a few hours, drops some spackle on the carpet, uses the bathroom, and then leaves. He's a real nice guy, though. I just wish he'd do some work.

Let's launch right into this thing, shall we? It's been a while.

1. The roadtrip: day 1
2. Why women outlive men

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1. Lisa and I got back from our roadtrip from Coral Springs, FL to Worcester, MA a few days ago. We split it up into three driving days, although we spent two nights in D.C. visiting friends. Here's my little summary of day one of the trip.

While I wouldn't advise spending the night in a roadside bathroom, I can say that these vestibules of middle-of-nowhere bladder relief are perhaps just as interesting as any roadtrip destination. Take, for instance, the bathroom in a Stuckey's in northern Florida. My girlfriend and I stopped there, about four hours into our first day of driving, because she, a lifelong resident of New Hampshire, was curious about the Florida paraphernalia that Stuckey's advertised on the side of I-95. Since I spent the first 18 years of my life in Florida, I knew damn well what we'd find: severed alligator heads with marbles for eyes, plenty of name-oriented mini-license plates, and an endless supply of little clay figurines of babies and pirates that can't possibly be made with grandeur in mind.

This is the kind of crap you generally purchase for somebody else. These useless trinkets truly do beg to be bought, but they only make great gifts because buying one inevitably reveals its extreme inappropriateness in any kind of display. Where, for instance, is it charming to place a piggy bank that looks like a rotting coconut? No diners at an urban dinner table, I suppose, are fully prepared to give their drinks an exotic twang by placing them on coasters made of strung-together sea shells. I'll admit to being surprised by the steak-flavored potato chips (which were vegetarian, perhaps to the chagrin of anyone who would actually want steak-flavored potato chips), but everything else was pretty commonplace. So, while Lisa browsed around, I used the bathroom.

The funny thing about Florida is that its cultures are bipolar. Down south is really the North, because everyone who hi-tailed it out of New York ended up around Miami, and dissatisfied Chicago folks have settled near Naples. Therefore, south Florida is very modern, urban and image-conscious. The more north in Florida you go, however, the more South you get. Soon enough, the once-crowded I-95 leads travelers smack into the kind of place where a typical restaurant menu reads like what people in Miami call exterminators for.

Still, though, I expected some dabble of conservative, reserved southern hospitality, although I'm not sure why. This notion of the wholesome, untouched south crumbled when I walked into the bathroom and saw the condom machine for a piece of latex called "The French Tickler." It featured a few shots of the condom's wrapper, and then a photograph of a woman who was probably from down the street, dressed up to look as if she was the true embodiment of a condom that very well may be the largest cultural invasion Stuckey's had ever seen -- that is, except for the moustache and beard, which in the heat of revolutionary artistic vision, a former patron of the bathroom had added. Below her, someone had taken great time with a dying pen to scrawl the words, "I'd like to tickler." Genius.

The bathroom stall was even more impressive. Once upon the throne, the patron of Stuckey's would be greeted with the typical markings from men whose bowels shared the same resting place. The timeless "here I sit lonely hearted, tried to shit but only farted" was prominently featured, as were attempts at modest immortality, like "Brian was here July 2001." But then, smaller, purposely marginalized, were the kind of things I thought only existed in movies.

"New in town. Need a BJ bad. (phone number)," said one.

"I give BJ. Fat chick. (phone number)," said another.

In fact, the more I looked, the more these things were appearing. It was as if the seedy potential that people often condemn the Internet for was still alive and well in an area that focused more on shotguns than hard drives. Perhaps the South really is just like the rest of the world... always on the lookout for a BJ.

We hit Savannah, Georgia, around dinnertime, and made it our first actual stop on the trip. We only saw about ten square blocks of it, but it was enough for Lisa to pick up an apartment guide, only slightly in jest. Despite the abundance of cockroaches, we decided to go on a "Ghost talk, ghost walk" tour, the departure times for which were about as ambiguous as the tour itself. The pamphlet we found told us that the tours departed at dusk from in front of a specific statue, but that tour times could not be posted because dusk is constantly changing. It's not much of a shock that dusk is hardly accommodating, but it is curious that a professional tour company would choose to be so confusing.

After sitting around for an hour, dusk had clearly passed and a few tours started to wander by. We asked a few of the tourists what they were following around, and all of them replied, "some ghost tour." Eventually, we learned that another one was to start at 9:30pm, and so we ran off to grab some quick dinner, and then returned just in time to catch our tour.

Our tour guide was a dead ringer for Christian Slater, and when he was on, he was on. Every story was told with cool reverence, and he wrapped each up with a joke that often involved his desire to retain the ability to drink and/or have sex after death. His sizable audience ate it up. Some people will talk back to movies -- "Oh no he didn't!" or "Don't go in there!" -- but this guy was apparently so captivating that a few members of the tour started doing that to him. If he noticed, he didn't acknowledge it. In fact, he didn't really acknowledge anybody, because after a story was told, he'd put his head down and speedily walk to the next destination. Then he'd lift his head, wait for everybody, and told us a great story about the spirit of a overly-friendly woman who made love to a tourist after his wife forced him to sleep on their hotel couch. That night, we kept the bathroom light on in our hotel room, just in case.

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2. Perhaps this has already been thought of, but I feel like I may have stumbled upon one of the reasons women live longer than men.

It's a well-documented fact that it's unhealthy to stand over a toilet while it's being flushed, because the flushing hurls all kinds of bacteria into the air, and breathing in what your ass just spat out isn't the greatest test of your immune system. Yet, what of men standing and pissing? We really have no choice but to be breathing in this bacteria that's probably in a constant state of eruption from the toilet, and we're doing it all the time. Could we literally be pissing ourselves to death?

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Feature #116:

Nothing really interesting to report. On with the feature!

1. The future is dumb
2. My haircut is dumb
3. Dumb metaphors

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1.

I saw Minority Report last week, and it wasn't nearly as bad as i expected it to be. Steven Spielberg is like the drunk sap of Hollywood -- he needs sentimentality, which can be fine, but he doesn't know when he's drowned something good in nostalgia for itself. That, and a clear distrust of his audience's ability to appreciate or understand even the simplest things in his movies, makes him one of the most over-rated and irritating directors of our time. But in Minority Report, he kept his bullshit to a minimum. It came through every once in a while, and made for a few spotty and slow moments, but the movie was otherwise enjoyable. It was also enjoyable because my friend Sean and i discovered that if you enter the back of the movie theater during the day (which is legitimate -- there's a parking lot back there), the only ticket-taker is at the other entrance, and so we're pretty much free to stroll into movies at will. Therefore, for free, Minority Report was just dandy.

My question, however, is this: why does Hollywood believe that, in the future, everything is made of glass? In Minority Report, the screens, the disks, the walls of buildings -- really, almost everything -- was made of glass. What happens in the future? Do we run out of wood? Do we, as a collective race, lose the ingredients for concrete? As humanity has evolved, we've discovered stronger and more efficient methods of building things. Stick huts became mud, which became clay or concrete or brick or, well, to be honest, i don't know the history of archetecture, but you get my point. Why, then, is the future predicted as a time when we shall revert to one of the most fragile and, if broken, messiest products?

Why? Because Steven Spielberg is stupid. That's why. And if that's not why -- which is possible, since he's not the only one guilty of this false prophesy -- then i'd rather not hear about it. Steven Spielberg is stupid. That's my story, and i'm sticking to it.

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2.

My new haircut makes me look like Spud from Trainspotting. This was my second of what i'd like to consider my "brave haircuts," since it's with somebody completely new. Since perhaps middle school, i got my hair cut at the same barber's in south florida (which, incidentally, achieved small fame when some of their customers hit it big with the band New Found Glory), and this continued up until about two months ago. Before then, i would wait until a homeward-bound vacation to get my hair cut. It's nice to go somewhere where you don't have to explain in vague and uneducated terms what you'd like done to your hair. You just sit down, they snip away, and you go home with a haircut you're familiar with. If that meant waiting for vacation and letting my hair erupt into the kind of afro that would sell Jerrycurl down the river, then so be it.

Then, just before graduation, i got an e-mail from my mom about graduation: something about brunch, something about plans for dinner, something about flight information, and oh, by the way, "did you get your hair cut yet? We want to take a lot of pictures at graduation."

So, after my parents spent on my education the kind of money that could eradicate hunger in large portions of Africa, i thought that the least i could do was suck it up and get a haircut at an unfamiliar place. I went to a mall salon, due to some play-it-safe rationale that i can't really put in words, and my haircut came out splendid. Phew. What a relief.

I went back again yesterday, and used the same guy. This time, though, he didn't even use scissors on my sides. He just busted out some electronic razor and went to town. Since he remembered me from last time, i didn't want to insult him by suggesting that he didn't know what he was doing, so i let him go. I watched myself transform into a 12-year-old with bad style (relatively shaved sides, poofy top) to suburban 15-year-old with a newly-acquired sense of freedom and an attraction to the streets (relatively shaved sides, wet, matted-down top), and finally into Spud from Trainspotting.

I must say, i feel somewhat ridiculous. When you see someone's haircut, you automatically think that they endorse what they've got in their head. Hell, why else would they be walking around with it? But do i endorse looking like Spud? Not really. Spud was, without question, the most decent and human character in that movie, but i'd rather applaud him than be him. No hats or paper bags for me, though. I'll just shake my head with irony when people say, "Whoa, haircut!" and wait for it to grow out.

Maybe i am endorsing it, then. What the hell. Spud was a good guy.

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3. Courtesy of an e-mail forward that my dad sent me, here are awful similies:

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't
-Russell Beland, Springfield

Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
- Unknown

The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.
-Barbara Fetherolf, Alexandria

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
-Sue Lin Chong, Washington

Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
-Sandra Hull, Arlington

The door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview portion of "Jeopardy!"
-Jean Sorensen, Herndon

Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
-Jerry Pannullo, Kensington

The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
-Malcolm Fleschner, Arlington

He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
-John Kammer, Herndon

Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.
-Barbara Collier, Garrett Park

It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever seen before.
-Marian Carlsson, Lexington

The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
-Jennifer Hart, Arlington

The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium.
-Unknown

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
-Susan Reese, Arlington

Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any pH cleanser.
-Chuck Smith, Woodbridge

She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.
-Brian Broadus, Charlottesville

She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
-Jonathan Paul, Garrett Park

Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.
-Sue Lin Chong, Washington

It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.
-Brian Broadus, Charlottesville

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Feature #117:

Wow, i hate the heat. We suffered through a four-day heat wave last week, and our third-floor, air conditioner-less apartment made it infinitely worse. I was having trouble breathing up here. We would break a sweat by standing still. Truly, truly awful. I tried to wear as little as possible, and once spent an entire evening  hanging out with friends in my underwear. The worst was going for a job interview, which meant that i had to put on dress pants and a long-sleeved dress shirt. I probably showed up to the interview looking like i just crawled out of a pool. But, i got called back in for a second interview, so i suppose they don't mind hiring a human sprinkler.

Anyway, i'm not too sure what else there is to report. It's been a busy week, so i'm going to go the cheap route and make this feature rely primarily on the stories from the contest. Hey, if i'm going to give out free stuff, i might as well reap some benefits, right? Right. On with feature.

1. Peace party
2. Contest results and stories

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1. I submitted this short piece to Adbusters, but i can't imagine that my posting it on this page will affect the potential of it being published. So, anyway, this is a little editorialized rendition of a near-fight some friends and i witnessed at a housewarming party. It was really a nice party, too, and they even had chocolate-covered strawberries. Mmmmmm. But, then there were these guys...

I was at a party the other night, listening to a Quebec native describe how he would only answer American tourists in English if they made an attempt to greet him in French, when the well-dressed guy next to me stood up. His discussion with a flannel-wearing 20-year-old had devolved into an argument based on ignorant personal attacks, and it was simultaneously getting less and more political. The two didn't know each other, but that didn't stop them from blaming the world's problems on "people like you."

The Quebec native stopped talking, and all attention shifted to what was about to be settled with fists. The argument, as we could ascertain, was about differences. The well-dressed guy, with his shiny black shoes pointed sternly at his adversary's tattered sneakers, said that violent conflicts would continue until humanity made the effort to homogenize. He was upset because in a time when Americans should be united as Americans, the flannel-wearing guy considered himself Irish-American.

Soon, the well-dressed guy relented and sat back down, and route of attack changed. The two suddenly raced to prove their closeness to the "less fortunate," as if ties to poverty would validate their opinion. The flannel-wearing guy said he lives in a ramshackle apartment building with his mother, and can't anticipate ever having the money to move out and up. The well-dressed guy avoided his own upbringing, but continued to repeat variations of "I love the less fortunate" and "I'm passionate about the less fortunate." All either could agree on was that one would never know what it was like to live the other's life. That truth was about the only thing they had in common.

Then it was back to the argument: do our differences create our problems, or are they the resolution to them? The two were desperate for a vindicating solution, but hope of finding one crumbled when the well-dressed guy stood up again. There would have been a solution in blood had the host of the party not darted in front of them, screaming at the two to calm down. And there was the answer, spawned from the deterioration of a debate. The well-dressed guy valued his affluence too much to share it, but thought that peace would only be achieved if everyone rose to the same level -- presumably, his level. The flannel-wearing guy has accepted that he'll never have a wallet the size of the well-dressed guy's, and so he revels in differences -- not only as a way to avoid violence, but to give his own class struggles some intrinsic value.

But as these representatives of the upper and lower class were about to fight over the potential of championing differences, the only solution we could find that night was to keep the two away from each other. If that was a real resolution, it's a wonder whose side was verified.

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2. I was pretty happy with the turnout from the contest announced last week, which asked for a true story of any topic or tone. The winning story, which was quite bizarre and fetched a Buddy System Indeed CD, came from Melissa Arning. So, congrats, Melissa! I'm also posting the two runner-up stories. Thanks to everyone who entered.

Melissa Arning's story:

Okay, to start, I must clarify that I swear on my cat's head that this is a true story... and quite a gem at that. (The story. The cat's head is less like a gem and more like a... uh, cute cat.) Anyway, I tend to go on tangents, so I'm sorry if this story includes more info than it needs. It's editable.

I live in a really tall apartment building. It's an 18 story complex right on the shores of Lake Erie in Euclid, Ohio, and I live on the 16th floor. I moved here because dorm costs were ridiculous, but I still needed a place to eat and sleep while surrendering all my future funds to the Cleveland Institute of Music via student loans. Since I spend all my time at school, I don't even know who lives next door to me, let alone on the other floors. Anyway, after a lengthy December visit to my hometown in Michigan, I drove back to my apartment with my boyfriend while my dad and his friend followed us. (we didn't have enough room in my car to take home all my Christmas presents and inherited items from my grandmother's estate.)

By the time we arrived there, it was 11 PM. We proceeded to chat a little bit and drink some coffee (my dad still had to drive back to Michigan) when we started to hear some noises coming from the apartment above mine. This was odd for a two reasons. 1) I've never been able to hear anything from any of the other apartments because they're really, really, really soundproof. 2) I didn't think anybody actually lived in the apartment above mine. The noise, however, sounded kind of like someone dropping furniture, so I figured someone was moving in. We continued chatting.

I started to show my dad the benefits of Lipton rice mixes when I heard a thump on my window. My back was towards the window, but I could see the look of pure confusion on my dad's friend's face. I turned around to see a guy roughly my age (20ish?) standing on my balcony, pressed against the window. I was too shocked to say anything. He knocked on the window, saying "Please... dude... you gotta help me." He was obviously drunk. My dad and boyfriend came a little closer to see what the hell was going on. The guy on my balcony then caught a glimpse of my boyfriend, which excited him. A flash of recognition came into his eye and he began pointing at my boyfriend, yelling "Ron! Ron! Help me, please! Ron! Roooonnnnn!" This was also odd, seeing as how my boyfriend's name is not Ron. In fact, I don't even know anybody named Ron, and my boyfriend had never seen this guy before. I told him a few times that there was no one here named Ron, but it didn't seem to take until the 4th or 5th time I said it. He then said "oh man, do I have the wrong apartment?"

I asked which apartment he was looking for. He told me my apartment number. My boyfriend then decided he'd better go and hunt down the building's security while the rest of us held down the fort. The guy on the balcony then told us how he was "really fucked up" and had fallen from his balcony on the 18th floor to the 17th, then from the 17th floor to our balcony. He told us that he'd been drinking 100prof vodka all night and "just wanted to get back home alive tonight." He repeated these statements over and over again as we waited for my boyfriend to come back.

But still, his story didn't make much sense. The balconies are directly over one another, and it's a pretty far drop from one floor to the next. Plus, there's a 3 foot tall iron shield along the edge of every balcony to protect people FROM falling off. Physics and common sense tell us that had he somehow fallen from his balcony, he would have landed on the pavement 18 floors down. Regardless, he was still there, on my balcony. He told us that he just wanted to go through my apartment and into the hallway where he could take the elevator back up to his place, and that he was sorry and he knew that we had no reason to trust him. He then repeated his story again a few more times. We told him he had to just hang on, and that we were getting some help.

He then caught a glimpse of Bowser, my pet rabbit, who had become very curious as to what was going on. Bowser ran up to the sliding door, and the guy on the balcony exclaimed "Awww! Is that a bunny?!" He squatted down to meet the bunny through the glass, talking to her in baby talk. It was around this point that my dad and I decided he seemed harmless enough and that it was too cold for anybody to be standing outside wearing only a teeshirt and baggy jeans, so we figured we should just let him get to the hallway. I grabbed an iron skillet, just in case, and followed my dad to the door. He let the guy in and checked to make sure he wasn't holding a weapon. He didn't have a weapon, but he was pretty banged up. My dad told him he'd better get his arm looked at (it was really swollen) and then escorted him to the door.

When we got to the door, my boyfriend was there, just about to come inside, with 2 security guards. My boyfriend pointed out the balcony guy, and the security guard then asked "How did you fall from the 18th floor to the 16th floor?" The balcony guy was shocked at this and said "No way! YOU guys heard about that? How'd you know?" The guards asked him to come with them, and he went into the hallway. As I closed the door, I heard him say "Oh man! Am I in trouble?"

I think the funniest part of the story is that the door to the balcony had been unlocked the entire time anyway, because after all- how could anybody get to the 16th floor balcony of my apartment? Aside from defying physicis, the only thing we could figure was that the guy had been locked out of his apartment and decided to try to balcony hop until he could find someone who was home that would let him in. The vodka part was probably true.

A few days later, my boyfriend was leaning over the edge of the balcony when he realized that someone from above was trying to get his attention. There was the balcony guy, now with a cast on his arm, on the 18th floor, leaning over. He asked if we had found a red baseball cap. We hadn't.

That's pretty much the whole story. I saw him in the elevators a couple times after that, but if he recognized me, he didn't say anything. Once, I heard him talking to his friend about his new pet bunny. Some time later, a girl in the manager's office told me that the balcony guy had been evicted because of the incident.... oh well. Just goes to show you, kids -- drinking's for losers! Woo! Or something.

--------------------------------------------------------------------Runner-up #1, from Matt Glenn

Hey there I don't know if you believe in the paranormal hell, I didn't until this past weekend. You see me and my friends decided that the local street racing scene was getting to predictable so we decided to instead go looking in old houses and seeing what kind of crazy trouble we could get into. Well, this weekend we decided to go to a place dubbed "Hell House" it's an old Catholic school from the 1800s that apparently a few of the girls decided to worship Satan and they were taken over by evil spirits and went insane.

Well, me and my buddies thought it was bullshit and we went up there except this one girl I never met before refused to go up past the driveway so we went up and the first thing that scared me was a cross built into one of the decaying walls and when near it we could all see our breaths? Next the scared girl called my friends cell phone and said don't touch anything or go into the building. Well, we already had gone into it and touched lots of stuff. So when we got back this girl said she has basically a sixth sense so we laughed at her and made Bruce Willis jokes. But she kept saying something was pushing her away from the house but also pulling her towards it.

She then told us she knew it was 5 girls involved and that one of the nuns got away but that was about it. She said something was at the house before it was even built and that whatever it was it was there when the girls summoned it and went crazy, and it was still there and that we all may be cursed. So at this point all 10 of us are just passing it off as complete bull. Then this girl decides to tell us our aura. She told every one of us what color she saw when she looked t us and our personality and she nailed every one of us on the head! I mean I've never met this girl and neither has any of my other friends minus like 2 of them. Then she read all our palms and told things about me that only I know and maybe 2 other people.

So then we started to think that her little story was true so we decided to go to another haunted place. We went to an old monastery and the girl got really monotone and started talking and saying that this place is not evil its sad. They feel abandoned they aren't mad they are sad. So my one friend named Buckwheat who knows the area said there's a cemetery with all the dates on the graves saying close to the same time like the 5th of June 18?? something like that then the girl was pointing out different locations. One hung himself from that tree, where's the garden there is something in the garden. There were children here, I know because they were beaten and after she said that my friend asked did you know about this place before we came she said no and we asked why and he shone his flashlight on a statue of the virgin Mary crying hugging a young child. He said it used to be a child care place years after the monks went crazy.

Finally he told us how this place had been burnt down by a couple of skate rats who were probably smoking a doobie and decide to burn it down and the girl said that they didn't do it for fun they saw something and they thought they would get rid of it if they burnt it down. Soon after me and this girl saw something moving around in one of the rooms it could've been a tree but it was moving way to much and there wasn't a breeze and that was enough for me. So we went home, AND NOW I'M JUST WAITING FOR MY CURSE. so hopefully you will tell my story before something happens to me.

--------------------------------------------------------------------Runner-up #2, from Adam Kilgas.

One Sunday afternoon my friends and I were trying to figure out something to do, as usual... (Small towns force that situation on you quite regularly...) After awhile, one of my friends suggested going hiking in place she knows of, near the next town over. I can't remember the name of it, as I had never heard of it before this, let alone have I ever actually been there. All she could say is that it was some natural cave that was near a river. (That just sounds bad already, eh?) Well, after little discussion we all agreed on it, and off we set... It took us a while to find it, as she couldn't quite remember where it was... But that's beside the point.

Anywho, so we finally make it there, and hike down to the spot. As it turns out, there used to be a settlement by it, but all that remains is the chimney of the mill. But that too is beside the point. Let me describe the area to you...

Imagine an average-sized river, roughly 90 feet wide, and at this particular time, a bit flooded. On both sides of the river, the banks rise up rather high, ranging from 30 feet high to 60+ feet, sometimes with a shallow slope down to the water, but mostly with limestone ledges and sandstone cliff-like drop-offs. One of the 60-foot banks continues on at about that height for about 100 feet, give or take a few dozen, and heavily wooded overall. Then it drops down again, to an area with a wide shallow pool, fed by two seperate creeks, one coming out of the forest, and the other coming out of the tunnel underneath the hill I just described. This tunnel runs all the way under the hill to the river on the other side, and is around 100 feet long, just slightly longer than the width of the top of the hill. The roof maintains an average heigth of about six and a half feet, and the width of the tunnel stays at about 25 to 30 feet wide all the way through. On the creek side of the tunnel, there's a wide sandstone "porch" about four feet above the pool. The trail that we followed there came along the creek side of the hill, with the hill and tunnel on our left.

So anywho, we looked around a bit on the creek side, then eventually went through the tunnel to the river side. There all you have to stand on to keep yourself out of the water is the ledge of the tunnel, extending about ten feet out, and some fallen slabs of stone, all strewn about. After looking around there for awhile, two of my friends (of the four of us) decide it would be a good idea to climb up the side of this (cliff posing as a) hill. Me being the logical, most intelligent one of the group, I annoyingly repeated over and over what a bad idea that was, but they didn't feel like listening, for some reason. So up they scale, with seemingly no

effort at all. Yes, they go right this 50-foot (cliff posing as a) hill with no problem... (I'm starting to think "Well, it can't be as bad as it looks, then...") And when they get to the top...nothing. The two of us left wait around...and wait...and wait... We shout up at them; still nothing. After waiting down there for a good while, my other friend suggests we go up after them. (What a brilliant idea..!) Again, I religiously argued against it, but to no avail... (Woe is me...) So up she starts scramabling up, and I figure I either follow or stay down there all by my lonesome, waiting for all three of them. I decide to follow, a decision I'd soon come to regret.

We did fine until we got about halfway up... Then we got to a point where we had a cliff on our right, and a 15-foot drop on our left, followed by another 10-foot drop to the river... And a 4-foot long ledge that was about 16 inches wide to cross. After some debate, she decided to go first. I think she was just tired of my whining. Anywho, she starts crawling across...yes, crawling across, and succeeds. Realizing a good idea when I see one, (You think I'm about to stand up on that thing?? That adds another six feet to the drop!) I quickly follow suite. Yes, by this time I was already regretting my decision; but it was either go on or learn to crawl backwards on a 16-inch ledge. I continued on. ...That, and since my friend already made it across, I couldn't back out now... I'd already looked like a wimp with all my whining and such as it is... But finally, I finally made it across... After a bit more climbing, we came to what we thought was the top of the hill...but, as I've no doubt just given away, it wasn't...

The last leg of the climb, the part you can't see from down below, is a 20-foot long slope, steep enough that I wouldn't even think about standing up on, to the top. Evidently this slope is washed out quite regularly, as there's only a thin layer of sand and dirt on it, with a few scraggly weeds and sapplings. Somehow, my two idiotic friends had made it up, and now their two idiotic friends were going to try. Looking down, I'd already decided there was no freakin' way I was going back down. Here we are, close to 50 feet above a flooded and swift-moving river, with this devil's slope above us and a nice, painful-looking fall below. Looking at all those rocks and slabs jutting out from the side of the hill that we had used to climb up, I realized how painful it would be to bounce off of those things... Though I daresay my 6'2" 248 lb butt would most likely roll and slide down, much like a slinky going down a flight of stairs. Perhaps it'd be even as entertaining to watch... ... But anywho, I'd made my decision, and that was to go up. So up I scrambled. (A much more entertaining way to describe the crawling snails-pace that it actually was...) Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, I'm wondering what the freaking 'ell I'm doing... My friend, evidently recognizing the ideal brilliance of my pace, followed.

This is the scene I have going through my head everytime I think of that ill-fated day... You see, no matter how many times you tell yourself not too look down, now matter how many times you tell yourself that you'de just be begging to slip and fall everytime you stopped to look down and behind you, it just doesn't seem to work. I couldn't help myself, I had to look. Perhaps those continuingly frightening glimpses of where I'd end up if I slipped spurred me on and gave me the courage to continue forward, even speeding up for the last few feet, until I stood there triumphant on the very top of that cursed hill.

Or perhaps it's just that the whole slope really wasn't as steep as I'd thought, that I was pretty much a wimp overall... ... Afterall, my first two friends made it up with seemingly no problem, (Thankfully my other friend had about as much trouble as I did... Thankfully, I say... Aren't I a great friend..?) and when we finally found them, they couldn't believe how much trouble we had climbing up. By the way, they claimed that they had went down the other side, then come around through the tunnel again to find us...

Anywho, in closing, I'd have to say that the decision to climb up that (cliff posing as a) hill would rank rather high on my list of Most Stupid Decisions I've Ever Made, right behind my decision to play kickball in a full parking lot with a couple of friends when I was seven. Yeah, guess what happened.

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Feature #118:

I was on a little 2-minute segment on New England Cable News, talking about a story that I was working on for the newspaper. It was an interesting situation, really. I called this secretary-like person and told her the story, and then I got a call from Chet Curtis (spoken with a big, toothy smile, somewhat Jonny Bravo-ish -- CHeT. CURtis... or something like that.) He told me that it was going to be about a 2-minute segment, and if he cuts me off it's only because they're screaming in his ear to do so. I said no problem, and urged him to ask me questions because, knowing me, i'll just get on television and ramble nonsensically until it's time for a commercial. He says no problem.

An editor at the paper hooked me up to the system with about ten minutes to go. Basically, in the middle of a sizable news room is this wooden desk with a television and a camera lens sitting in front of it. I stick this little pink tube in my ear, and i hear a very faint voice saying, "can you hear me? can you hear me?" Yes, i say, can you see me? Yes. He can.

We end up switching pink things because i couldn't hear him very well. Then he tells me to bring the microphone under my shirt so the wire isn't exposed, like it was when i set it up. This suggestion, coupled with me coming into work with an untucked shabby collared shirt when reporters are supposed to wear a dress shirt and a tie on television, and it's clear that i'm not quite made for the fashion industry. Everything is set, the guy in my ear says i've got about 30 seconds to go, and then i hear the television. I was told not to turn the one on in front of me, because it's on a delay and i'd end up looking at myself from 7 seconds ago. That's good advice. I keep the tv off.

And then, i'm on. Chet Curtis is asking me questions through a little pink thing in my ear, and i'm answering to the air of a newsroom. I thought i was pretty composed, since i don't get nervous for too many things, but i could not for the life of me stop myself from going on oragami auto-pilot with the notes i never really used. If i ever do this again, i'm not keeping any pieces of paper in front of me, although luckily the camera was so close in on me that my hands weren't visible at all.

My impressions of the whole thing were pretty skewed when i actually got to watch it two days later (it airs three times -- the first time was live, the second was an hour later, and the third was at 10pm. For the second one, i had raced home, only to learn that we don't get the station in our apartment. Our friends downstairs weren't home, so we went to the first floor of our apartment, introduced ourselves to the people living there, and asked to use their tv/vcr. They said sure, and we sat there watching the news, and discovered that we were watching the wrong channel when it was already too late. So, for the third round, i just dropped off a tape at the newsroom and one of the editors was gracious enough to tape it for me). When i was on tv, i thought i was like a fish out of water, stumbling for words and coming off as so unhelpful that i must have been doing it intentionally... but at least, i thought, i looked composed. When i watched it, though, it was quite the opposite. I talked fine, the information that came out of my mouth was comprehensible, but my eyes -- oh, my eyes! I looked everywhere but the camera. It must have looked like i was reading cue cards. No eye-contact with the camera at all. I was probably the shiftiest person on the news that evening, and i was supposed to be reporting it.

But oh well. Who cares, really? It was fun, and i'm not trying to make a career on television anyway. The thing about television is that there are so many talking heads, so many random images, that people forget about it the minute it goes off the air. And unlike newspapers, there's nothing to hold, nothing to show your friends, nothing to point at and say, "Look at that guy and his shifty eyes!" None of that. I'm a-ok.

My girlfriend's dad knows how to turn the tape into a digital file. When he does that, i'll post it online here so you can all see my absurdity. Yeah, i'm that much of a glutton for punishment.

Anyway, as for this feature, i don't really have a whole lot. You see, a funny thing happens when you can't get what you want: you concentrate on getting it, and not on what to do with it. Better said, i spent my time complaining about not having access to the page, and not on actually preparing anything for the update. I did, however, write something about a little change in my life, so i'll post that, and next time we'll have plenty of happyscrappy goodness.

Thanks for staying around while this thing was down. It's good to be back.

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In case you're concerned about my life, i am now this:

I am also, coincidentally, this:

The top is ambassador Desmond Tutu, and the bottom is just a plain ol' tutu.

What does this mean? It means i am tutu. Two two. 22. I turned 22 on July 28. I am old... or, well, not really. I'm old compared to babies.

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Feature #119:

I am living through the heat wave from hell. That's what it feels like. Hell has opened up and belched out a heat wave, and it lingers like a sin. I'm breaking a sweat by just typing this. No, really, i am.

Just a bit of advice: if you ever move into the third floor of an old apartment, get an air conditioner. Fans just will not cut it. I haven't slept under the sheets in a week. It is completely disgusting up here. I often walk around with no shirt (don't get too excited). Since i don't own and flip-flops and it's just too hot to put socks on, i've taken to wearing my girlfriend's sleek, black flip-flops, complete with sequins. My friends see them and say things like, "You must really be comfortable with your sexuality." And i think, yes, i suppose i am, but it's just too hot for shame these days.

The heat is really all that's on my mind these days, so i won't bore you with any more of it. Here's the feature.

1. A love song, sort of
2. News to someone
3. News to everyone

1. This is something i wish i had thought of for a Valentines Day update, but i just wrote it and would probably forget about it by the time February rolls around. So, here we are with a short love song on a Glockenspiel. I'll also use this song to usher in the Here in Yo' Ear section of the page, which i'll use to keep a compilation of the mp3s i post. Now, without further ado, i present...

A 30-second love song about nothing

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2. The following has never happened to anybody i know, and i can't imagine this has really ever happened in a newspaper. But, a few days ago, i was writing a story and thought of what would happen if someone was really, really taken with something i wrote? How would they respond? I've had people call me and tell me they appreciated or enjoyed the stories i wrote about them, but it's always been very short and pleasant. What would happen if something went, well, askew?

Then i wrote this:

News to someone
By Jason Feifer

Reporter: Hello?

Andrea: Hi, this is Andrea. You wrote that story about me last week.

Reporter: Oh, right. Hi. What's up?

Andrea: I just wanted to thank you for that story.

Reporter: Hey, no problem, it came out pretty well. Thanks for your time.

Andrea: It was really well written. My phone was just ringing off the hook.

Reporter: Great. I'm glad to hear that.

Andrea: I had so much sex with my husband after it ran.

Reporter: You had... you had what?

Andrea: So much sex with my husband. It was great.

Reporter: Oh. Ok.

Andrea: It was just a thrill to be in the newspaper, you know? I felt like a celebrity.

Reporter: Well, it's not that big of a...

Andrea: So, my husband and I had lots of sex. I'd say we went through half a box of condoms with all the sex we had.

Reporter: I'm... glad to hear it?

Andrea: I felt like a movie star. People knew my name. All across the state, people were reading my name. Eating their corn muffins, riding the bus, reading my name. So many pairs of eyes! My god. My husband was lucky to be fucking me that day, since so many other people were speaking my name, you know?

Reporter: I think.

Andrea: That's what I told him, at least. "Fuck me before someone else does!" That's what I said.

Reporter: Well, it's good you have a loving relationship.

Andrea: We have a loving fucking relationship, ha ha! It was just such a thrill. I can't thank you enough.

Reporter: You're welcome.

Andrea: So, when can I be in the paper again?

Reporter: Again?

Andrea: Well, that sex was just so good, I don't know if I can go back to having sex as a regular person again. It's like having Chardonnay after years of Carlo Rossi. There's just no turning back. It was too good.

Reporter: Well, I don't know if we can do that.

Andrea: My husband has been pleasuring himself in the bathroom because I won't have sex with him anymore.

Reporter: I don't know if that's any of my business.

Andrea: I mean, it's not like I need him to be famous. I just need me to be famous. Just put my name in there somewhere, can you?

Reporter: We don't normally do this kind of thing.

Andrea: My husband is probably in the bathroom right now. He's gotten very moody, I've noticed. But I tell you, as a layman, I just don't feel like sex is all that meaningful. This is for him as much as it is for me.

Reporter: Look, I think you might need to see a...

Andrea: That's what I tell him. "This is for you as much as it is for me." He doesn't understand.

Reporter: I'm sorry, I don't think I can help you.

Andrea: It was just such a thrill, you know?

Reporter: I'm sorry.

Andrea: Have you ever had your name in the paper? Not just the byline, I mean. Nobody looks at the byline. But, been a part of a story? Really been read about?

Reporter: No, I don't think I have.

Andrea: It's really a thrill. You'll want to have a lot of sex. I did, at least.

Reporter: Listen, I've got work I need to do here, so with no offense...

Andrea: Just one more article? I can be a sidebar. You can interview me about how hot it is outside. Oh, it's so hot outside! I feel like I'm melting like the witch in the Wizard of Oz, except the sun is my water. How's that? Is that good? You can use that in your next story.

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3. To continue with the wacky newspaper theme, here's a list that my dad forwarded me. Since there are no sources cited here, i suppose there's no real way of knowing if these actually were headlines in newspapers, but i guess it doesn't matter all that much. Don't let the facts get in the way of a good story, i always say. Ok, so i never say that, but in this case, i'll let it slide.

Best newspaper headlines of 1999:

1. Include Your Children When Baking Cookies

2. Something Went Wrong in Jet Crash, Experts Say

3. Police Begin Campaign to Run Down Jaywalkers

4. Drunks Get Nine Months in Violin Case

5. Iraqi Head Seeks Arms

6. Is There a Ring of Debris around Uranus?

7. Panda Mating Fails; Veterinarian Takes Over

8. British Left Waffles on Falkland Islands

9. Teacher Strikes Idle Kids

10. Clinton Wins Budget; More Lies Ahead

11. Plane Too Close to Ground, Crash Probe Told

12. Miners Refuse to Work After Death

13. Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Defendant

14. Stolen Painting Found by Tree

15. Two Sisters Reunited after 18 Years in Checkout Counter

16. War Dims Hope for Peace

17. If Strike Isn't Settled Quickly, It May Last a While

18. Couple Slain; Police Suspect Homicide

19. Man Struck by Lightning Faces Battery Charge

20. New Study of Obesity Looks for Larger Test Group

21. Astronaut Takes Blame for Gas in Space

22. Kids Make Nutritious Snacks

23. Local High School Dropouts Cut in Half

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There are more features to be had. (well, old features, that is.)

Features I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI

Or, we can always go back.