New World
Anthony woke up with the urge to wash his hands. He felt small creatures traversing the folds of his filthy skin, which was dry and cracked, and bled on occasion. He thought, “I'll douse my hands in soap, lather them up, and get ready to start the day.”
The plastic cover for the mattress crumpled as he rose and placed his right foot on the white carpet. Shaking his head, he lay back down, carefully put his feet back in their original position, pulled sheets to chin and closed his eyes, imitating quiet, peaceful sleep.
Again he rose. With care, he placed his feet on the ground, this time his left one first. A slow sensation of triumph crept from his spine to his head, bathing Anthony’s thoughts in the warmth of seeming perfection.
He walked into the bathroom—always the last to get cleaned, usually the first to get used. Through a quirk of his condition, the filth that lurked there never invaded his conscious awareness. He urinated and left without even flushing.
Through the door, left foot first, in the hallway, counting steps, into the kitchen, left foot leading, to the sink: pristine, shining stainless steel. To the left of the long, slender faucet was the antibacterial soap, and he picked it up carefully with two fingers, touching it as little as possible. Anthony looked around until he saw his cleaning towel, light blue terry cloth, folded neatly where he placed it the night before. After picking up the soft fabric, he began to wipe down the bottle.
Once satisfied with his work, Anthony squirted a half dollar of soap into his palm. He began to rub his hands together, a silky white billow lathering up, and Anthony smiled.
Then he realized that he hadn’t turned the water on; his rare vision of happiness was shattered. Now he would have to touch the faucet, which would ruin everything. He reached out a sea-foam hand, and almost made another mistake by using his right one. Quickly, Anthony pulled it back and extended his left arm, turning the knob slowly until the clear water splashed musically on the metal below.
It was easy to wash the soap off his hands—just don’t let them touch anything but the water—but he had other decisions to make. He hadn’t washed the knobs yet this morning, and what if a bug had landed there during the night? He couldn’t risk dirtying his hands. Plastic salvation dangled from the shiny glove dispenser to his right, and he reached up, careful to touch absolutely nothing, grabbed a pair and put it on. The solution to the faucet problem lay on the counter four steps away. Extending his left foot first, then sliding in the bottle’s direction, Anthony crossed the linoleum floor and retrieved his rubbing alcohol. After retracing his steps, he opened the cabinet above the sink, barely touching the knobs with his fingertips, and reached slowly inside the plastic bag for his cotton balls.
Anthony carefully unscrewed the top of the bottle, placed a cotton ball on top of it, and turned it upside down. The cotton ball contracted, soaked, and a cold sensation overcame the tips of his fingers, the unmistakable smell of isopropyl alcohol filling his nostrils. He had the urge to sneeze. Keeping in mind what a mess that would make, he pushed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth—a trick he learned as a small boy—to stave off the itching in his nose. Placing the bottle to his left, he began to swab the faucet heads, sure to cover every inch of their surface with alcohol. Once the visible surface was spotless, he turned his attention to the small space between the bottom of the knobs and the cold metal of the sink, which was only vulnerable to Q-tips and the edges of paper towels.
Four cotton balls, two paper towels, and fifteen minutes later, Anthony was somewhat satisfied and closed the cabinet, touching only the parts of the knobs he touched earlier. He then gathered up the balls and walked, left foot first, over to the closet in a corner of his kitchen. Anthony detested the closet; it was the dirtiest part of his small, one bedroom apartment.
Anthony opened the closet door slowly, as if something was waiting in the dark to jump out and grab him. Inside, his trash basket sat silently glaring at him. It was absolutely spotless—a beacon of cleanliness in a world so full of dirt and grime—but a rancid odor filled his nostrils whenever he saw it. He gagged; his face turned up into a grimace of disgust and hatred. But Anthony realized that if he did vomit, he would spend all day cleaning it up. He held in his insides.
Anthony decided to try his best at throwing the cotton balls in from where he was standing, nearly a foot away. His toss was accurate, but for one moment of horror, a ball teetered on the edge of the can until gravity pulled it inside.
Anthony slammed the closet door closed with such a force that he had to open it again to check and make sure it wasn’t broken. Once he was satisfied that it was in good condition, he walked back over to the sink; he needed a glass of water. First he carefully opened the cupboard beneath the sink and picked up a brand new sponge still wrapped in plastic. He decided to leave the wrapper on the counter until he was forced to take another trip to the trash can. After retrieving a glass from the cabinet, he picked up the soap and began scrubbing. In several minutes he was convinced that there was not an inch of glass left untouched and walked to the refrigerator to get his filtered water.
Thirst quenched, Anthony decided to start making lunch. It was nearly ten-thirty; he could prepare a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup by noon.
There was a knock at the door.
Anthony tried to ignore it; he really needed to get started on his lunch, and visitors spread germs he wished to avoid thinking about. But it continued and he heard a woman from out in the corridor.
“Hello?” queried the tiny voice. Anthony walked across the linoleum to the living room, but had to stop, retrace his steps exactly, and go back through the doorway, this time crossing the threshold with his left foot first. He walked in metered steps across the green carpet to the peephole, his outlet to the filthy outside world.
With terror he realized he hadn’t cleaned the peephole yet that morning. The voice came again from outside. “Sir or madam, I can hear you in there. I am here to help, that’s all.” She sounded reassuring, but opening the door meant inviting in all sorts of nasty things. After a moment’s thought, Anthony reached out with his bare hand and turned the doorknob, nearly retching at how unclean it was.
There stood a thin, pale woman of small stature, probably right around Anthony’s age. A long skirt with flowers dotting a white background draped what little figure she had, and the cuffs of a long sleeved white blouse bunched around her bony wrists. A long chain cascaded down her steep form; a golden crucifix hung in the crease of her breasts. In her hands, which were folded across her chest, were several pieces of paper and a Bible. The woman smiled hospitably, but Anthony was having a hard time keeping his wits about him; he rarely opened the door unless the delivery boy stood tapping his foot on the other side.
“Hello sir!” She reached out her hand to shake Anthony’s, but pulled it back quickly when she saw the horror on his face. “Do you mind if I come in?”
Before Anthony could say anything to dissuade her entering his apartment, she was in his living room. The woman sighed and turned around as Anthony was closing the door, still trying to hold in the water. He started to put his gloves back on.
“Have you found God?” she asked Anthony quizzically. A feeble ‘No’ was all he could manage, and after a couple of seconds, and stepping past her, left foot first, into the kitchen, he said, “I haven’t really been looking for Him.”
Her lips curled up into a pitiful smile, and she expressed her sympathy. “But God’s been looking for you! And I'm here to show you a new world, with Christ!” The woman walked over to Anthony, who was doing his best to keep her out of the kitchen, and cracked open her Bible to the middle somewhere. Without looking at the page, she handed the book to Anthony, her long index finger pointing to the beginning of a passage. He followed along as she recited.
“‘God gives the desolate a home to live in,’ ” she said with dignity, eyes closed in ecstatic reverence for her lord. “‘He leads out the prisoners to prosperity, but the rebellious live in a parched land.’ ” As Anthony closed the book, she smiled a large, pleasant grin. “Now, isn’t that lovely? And wouldn’t you like to be seated at His feet, so that you may see His glory?” Anthony considered this, and before he could stop her, she was in the kitchen, asking for a bit of water. She turned the knob on the sink and filled a glass from the tap. Anthony watched her drink the filth. She finished drinking, put down her glass on the counter, and grinned deplorably. Anthony saw the light glint off her bottom lip, and before he could do anything, a tiny drop of water fell on to the counter.
Anthony scuttled to try and catch the droplet, but it was too late. He nearly bowled the woman over when he slammed into the sink, grabbed the soap bottle, and squeezed until it squirted noisily.
“Sir,” she said quietly, “are you okay?”
Anthony, now scrubbing the countertop, could control his rage no longer. “No!” he screamed to the woman, now standing over his shoulder, her hot, putrid breath on his neck. “No, I am not okay! Now look at what you’ve done—I have to clean everything dammit! It’ll take me the whole day, did you ever think about that! It’s all so dirty now, it’s all so…”
He noticed that her breath wasn’t on his neck anymore, and turned to see her small frame silhouetted in the doorway to his living room. She was backing out of his apartment, leaflets and Bible in hand. By the time Anthony turned off the sink, she was at the door.
The Good Christian turned around. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. I will pray for your soul sir. You need to be prayed for.” She walked out into the hallway and slammed the door.
Anthony slumped down into the chair next to his computer. “Don’t pray for me,” he muttered. “I don’t need a prayer. I need help. Help me.”
Anthony began to sob, the tears a vain attempt at cleansing his face, much less his soul.
by E. Branden Hart
And so you have just a tiny bit of the crazy ass stuff going on in this week’s book, Plainclothes Naked by Jerry Stahl. Jerry Stahl is a former television writer, writing for shows such as CSI, Alf, Moonlighting, Northern Exposure and many more. He’s also written other novels, one being Permanent Midnight which was made into a movie starring Ben Stiller. 
The Mayor of Pittsburgh, Marge, happens to be Manny’s ex-wife. The picture happened to have been nabbed by Tina, an employee of Seventh Heaven nursing home. 
Wood for your guitar. This is a highly complex and emotionally charged topic for guitar players and builders. Some people try to use physics to explain the uses of wood, others use mojo. Some build for economy, others build for looks. I simply cannot go into all the ins and outs of this topic, there isn’t the space and I don’t have the time. Here, I’m only going to talk about the basics and only cover electric guitars. 
The majority of the guitar body will be made with a different wood like mahogany and the quilted maple will just be a cap. If the cap is thick enough, it will effect the sound of the guitar. However, there are lots of guitar companies that only use a thin maple veneer top. This looks pretty, but doesn't do anything to the sound. Thick maple caps can really brighten up the tone of a guitar. 
As with other figured maples, spalted maple is primarily used as a cap on a guitar body. However, spalted maple cannot really be used for anything else. It has a brittle structure and is not strong enough to be used for anything that could put strain on it. It looks gorgeous though, and you can get all kinds of figuring. This guitar is one of 
So, most of the time, you see PH used as accent stripes though the neck or body. Sometimes folks make guitar knobs out of it. You can see on this 
My favorite Swedish hip-hop group is Supersci (formerly known as Superscientifiku), who have been around for nearly a decade, but only recently put out a full-length album. If they didn't insert references to their home-country, you could easily mistake them for a West-coast clique. Their English is flawless, the music is funky and laid back, and the beats are spot-on. The song "On The Grind" is one of those tracks that you can listen to over and over again without tiring of it. It puts forth a message of positivity and the hardships of trying to juggle the life of a musician with the life of an average person with a family. 
My favorite French artist is DJ Cam, who blends hip-hop with acid jazz to create extremely chilled albums. This is the type of stuff that you crank up while sitting in the back yard, drinking red wine and watching the sun set. Wicked turntablism, tons of abstract samples and punchy beats make any of his albums worth buying, but "Mad Blunted Jazz" is by far his best work to date. 
They have been running a DJ Mix show called Solid Steel for a number of years which can be heard on free-form radio stations across the US, and can be streamed from websites like Australia's Triple-J radio and "The Move" on XM Radio.
“welcome to…Portland? what the…Portland!”
“listen, Officer, sir…i don’t know that guy at all.”
By now you know that they discovered a new planet, one which may be habitable. Pretty cool, eh? Maybe we'll all have somewhere to go when Al Gore's vision of an earth destroyed by Sebastian Bach's overuse of Aqua Net hairspray comes true. Quick, everyone to the shuttle! We must move to the new planet! Except you, Bach! You can stay here on earth and think about what you've done! We've got a completely new planet to destroy!
The car slips and comes way out sideways, I (over)correct and it slides the other direction, and then I'm off in the wet grass, sliding sideways at speed on racing slicks, just along for the ride. WHUMP! I paste the car high up on the the tire wall at the edge of the course and a big wall of muddy water breaks over the windshield like a big brown surf wave. Ugh.
But the race isn't over yet...Stephanie Colburtle now looks certain for second place far southeast of the winner’s course. George Shillinger, a sea turtle expert who tagged the girls at Playa Grande, explained how the competitors find their way to the finish zone.
Just because I’m using their real name does not mean I’m giving them any respect. Even if they (sorta) deserve it. The hot headed Ducks have been surprisingly disciplined (except may), it’s a change for the better, but they are going to have to keep a cool head (like they did in game 1) against the harder hitting Canucks. I’d hate to see the medication stop working and have them break a wing or something, they do have spindling little legs.
The Sabres better have been toying with the Isles, because if they play the way they did in the first series against the Rangers they are doomed. If Wednesday’s opening shot was any indication, they still have some work to do. Sure they out skated them, but every time I flipped back from the American Idol crap the Rangers were all up in the Sabre’s end, and not in a good way.
Told y'all about the Brewers. Two-and-a-half up in the NL Central as I write this and the Cards are 1-6 at home so far this year. Now, that won't last (neither will Albert Pujols' .229 batting average) but none of the teams in that division can afford for any other team to get too big of a lead. Talent levels of the NL Central teams have started to reach a sort of equilibrium, what with no Rocket or Pettite in Houston and the Cards just suckin' into '07. I don't know if I like the Brewers in the NL Central but, then again, I don't know if I like ANYONE in the NL Central.
Mansun - "Six"
Anyway, everyone is all riled up about the upset, probably much more than they should be. While I'm now feeling a little uncertain about my five game call for this series, I still think the Mavericks are going to win this. As I mentioned at the start of this article, Avery Johnson is almost certainly now very pissed off, and I have a feeling the game on Wednesday (which will be a day-old outcome by the time you read this but is yet to happen as I write this) is going to have a very different outcome than Sunday's game. Seriously, if you've watched Johnson coach, you know he's not a guy you want pissed off at you. He's smart--damn smart--and talented, and this is his team, and he is no doubt going to change the plan, rip apart his players, and come ready to destroy Golden State in game two. And while they may not go down that easy, I'm predicting a win. And not a squeaker, either. The Warriors won a game, and I imagine they'll win another one, but the Mavericks still control this series. Unless, of course, they've lost game two by the time you read this. In that case, all bets are off.
So what does all this mean? Mainly, it means that the Suns own the Lakers. More importantly, it means that we are now perfectly set up for my game three prediction to come true: Kobe freaks out at the 0-2 hole and goes crazy in an effort to salvage the series, scoring 62 points. This leads to Jack Nicholson either coming all over himself or having a heart attack. Either way, it should be a brilliant mix of hilarious and disgusting. I'm also going to go ahead and say that this is the game the Lakers win. Of course, they'll lose the next two and the Suns will have the series won. Mark my words: this will happen. And then you'll all owe me $20. Every last one of you.
In the former, I am close to the end of the game and this sort of thing should be expected, but in the latter, I am only on the second mission and I can’t even break into the stupid casino where the main action is supposed to take place. Aside from the fact that this shows just how unfit I am for the military or law enforcement (at least as a tactician,) it is also beginning to cramp my enjoyment of the games. This is especially true of Rainbow Six, in which even the first mission turned into a lousy, aggravating slog that I was more relieved to finally finish than anything else. After being killed by crouching unseen shotgun guy for the one-hundredth time I was about ready to throw the controller through the television, and even after figuring out how to kill crouching unseen shotgun guy there was a whole room full of crouching unseen machine gun guys just waiting to make my life as a virtual counter-terrorist operative miserable. After a while I begin to wonder if it would just be better to play as a rookie and enjoy the game. 
(English majors in the house, please back me up on how bloody dull this book is.) Anyway, my experience in this class is like being the newbie in some sort of hardcore tournament. While I am simply trying to get the plot of the thing down, the rest of the class is breaking down every sentence in order to duke it out over specific personal agendas. We have the guy who wants to prove that everything in the book somehow relates to the American colonies and syphilis (true story,) the woman who wants to find rape and sexual violence in everything, the woman who is obsessed with revenge since she is writing a dissertation on Hamlet, the guy who tries to use as many big words to say as little as possible, and the woman who simply disagrees with anything that anyone says. This final one sits next to me and whispers about how stupid everyone is in my ear, which is distracting in more than one way. Meanwhile, I sit in uncomfortable silence and watch my participation grade die because I can’t figure out what the hell everyone is going on about. 
Jack started and half-ducked while raising his arm defensively and looking up, just a bit of blue flashed from the oak in his hand but didn’t reach the owner of the voice…luckily, since the voice seemed to be coming from…sigh…a four inch tall winged fairy. Just when he knew the morning wasn’t going to get any weirder, tah dah. The fairy glowed a bit silver herself when she saw the witchfire, “Whoa! Easy big guy, I’m on your side.” Jack half heard, half felt a yelp come from the five, but his attention was fully on the fairy flitting about the lower limb of the oak above his head. He made sure his energy was under control but didn’t quite drop his arm all the way to his side. Jack got control of himself and looked closer and what he saw made him glad he was a boy. Long BLACK curly locks down past her shoulders but not covering a set of full tits capped with large and currently very pointy nipples. A heart shaped face surrounded full rose bud lips and emerald, almond shaped but at-the-same-time huge eyes and a little perfect nose. Full hips surrounding, I shit you not, a heart shaped redder than HIS hair bush over bald and full lips. Her ivory white skin was covered in the most intricate dark green Celtic knotwork he’d ever seen. He wondered if it was ink, tattoos or…just the way her skin was?
The fairy sighed deeply and opened her eyes, fully busting Jack checking her out, which made her smile again.
So I had to wear makeup and shit, funny hat, red nose, all that stuff. I had a goatee or something on my face, but they didn’t make me shave it. Have you ever seen a clown with any kind of facial hair at all? I know some kids that have and I’m not so sure they liked it. In fact I know they didn’t. Neither did their parents. They didn’t like my brother showing up at their house smelling like yesterday's rum either, but that's another stupid story.
Yesterday, I wanted to drive right past the driveway, down the block, out of town and clear out of the state. I wanted to never come back, never look back, and never be a mom again. I wanted to drive until the car ran out of gas. I wanted to cry. I didn't want to give another bath, wipe another butt, make another peanut butter sandwich or hear another whiney voice call me mommy. It was just one of those days. I really don't have them too often but when I do it kind of freaks me out. I was wondering all day what I would be doing if I didn't have to get home to the kids. Would my husband and I still be married? Would I be gettin' my groove on with the hottie from work? Would I be out with the girls, trying to get my groove on with some other hottie? Am I still a hottie? Would I not worry so much about finances? I hate when I feel this way, but yet I think (and hope!) that it is normal to have these kind of days....as long as I don't act on them!
i remember hesitating for a moment before i pulled the car to the side of the street and got out. cars slid by my ride’s window and when things cleared, i got out and walked over to her on the sidewalk in the rain. still looking out at the damage in the street, i told her i was sorry.
It is obviously one or both of the men in the car are drunk. "What are you girls up to?" He takes a puff of his cigar. I almost laugh at his New York accent, which is so thick and distinct that it sounds fake.
Yes.
Revision is a difficult thing to explain, which makes me send that many more kudos towards Amos for doing it so well. Basically, take this scenario: you have a friend who is awful at telling jokes. He stammers towards the punchline, omits important information, then giggles so hard that he can't finish and you're left wondering what exactly happened after the two Jewish guys walk into the bar (they BUY it!).
It presents a bit of a logistical challenge, but I’m up to it, cause I have the Wheel(TM). 
Do bring: 
GBH - City Baby Attacked by Rats by Michele
GBH - City Baby's Revenge by Turtle
There’s a neighbor woman, Eileen Shears, with a dog, Wellington, down the street and this comes to the crux of the adventure. Christopher discovers the dog dead in Eileen’s front yard, stabbed by a pitchfork. Eileen discovers Christopher over the dog on the lawn and concludes it was Christopher that killed the dog. He didn’t though. But he liked the dog so decides he’s going to solve the murder of Wellington. 
But Tim, you might inquire, isn’t Jesus loving and compassionate and caring and kind? You obviously didn’t grow up in my house. You’re thinking of “Loving Jesus.” Angry Jesus beat the shit out of him and put his thorn-covered, hippie head through my bedroom window by the time I was 8. 
I looked toward the end of my bed…and there he was. 
My parents didn't raise me to be ashamed of the things I liked to do. My dad probably would have liked me to play more sports, but he never pushed me. He always gave me the opportunity to do what I wanted, as long as I was serious about it. When I was 3 or 4, my folks signed me up for soccer at the local Y. If I remember right, I played for two years. Whether it was practice or an early Saturday morning game, one, if not both of them, were out there cheering me on. Every time I was picking flowers by the sidelines as the ball rolled past me and my coach was screaming at me, they were cheering me on. Every time I kicked the ball at the goal and somehow ended up kneeing myself in the crotch, they cheered me on. My dad used to treat me like I had won the entire game by myself, even though I usually got most excited about eating orange slices and drinking Hi-C during halftime. I think he knew from the beginning that sports weren't for me. So every day after those games, he would make me feel like a champion by taking me to Dallas. And that's where I found most of my true loves—the hobbies that really spoke to me. 
Before I went to Fantasy Fair for the first time when I was thirteen, I had never seen a man on a leash being held by a leather-clad woman with tits up to her chin. I had never seen anyone carrying around a three-liter bottle of Mountain Dew like it was a water canteen. At Fantasy Fair, my eyes were opened to the world of geeks. And I realized that, in their own way, they were pretty fucking cool. 
Ya Mama was one of the first songs to bring The Dozens 
You Never Know 
Fuck yeah. During The Chronic years, 40's of Olde E were my drink of choice, and even the whitest kid at school knew how to crip walk.
Phoenix (2) vs. Los Angeles (7)
I said yes, fine, no problem. She asked “what are you doing”? 
Some were funny, and some were serious but most of the writers got their pearls of wisdom in before the deadline so without any further ado..... 
Man, weeks like this are the reason I still listen to albums like The Doobie Brothers "Minute By Minute" . I mean, here I was, primed and ready to celebrate Jackie Robinson's amazing life AND set y'all straight on some diamond wisdom PLUS break off a little music knowledge (MASTODON!) . . . and that horrible thing occurred in Blacksburg. "Minute by minute by minute by minute/I keep holdin' on . . . " How true is that . . .
Mastodon is strong as train smoke, progressive metal with no apologies for those left behind. Everyone has hip-hop/R&B/soul/etc. in mind when you mention Atlanta but this bunch is here to represent. AND they filmed the video for "Colony of the Birchmen" inside Ruby Falls, a weird little tourist attraction right here in my back yard. Kick ass . . .
anyway where was i oh yeah, so i haven't dated any motorcycle riders since i've been back from LA so the damn thing just sits there. why? you ask, well i'll tell you. 98% of all motorcycle riders are guys. so the thought of me going out riding for a whole saturday with 10 other guys doesn't really please a boy. call it jealousy. of the bike or the boys one never knows...
Okay, anybody remember Radar O'Reilly and his teddy bear? How fierce he was in defending his attachment to it? How Hawkeye and the others actually seemed to sort of respect the fact that this little quiet dude was willing to take all that abuse to keep his comfort creature with him? I think in some ways they wished they'd had his guts. Would have made for fewer hangovers.
When I was pregnant Horace made it back to my bed. I didn't find out I was knocked up until after Nayland and I had broken up, so there I was, seriously depressed and pregnant, with a very empty double bed. I slept with Horace. He was big enough to cuddle up to, and having him there made me feel I wasn't quite so alone.
When I first started reading FTTW, I noticed an interesting fixation with zombies among both the editors and contributors, and seeing as how I like zombies as much as the next well adjusted and healthy guy, the whole walking undead thing was one of the many grand oddities that kept me coming back to the site. Now I can finally give back to this wonderful community by adding my own zombie contribution. 
I am less than a third of the way through the game and I have already had to fight a gang of escaped convicts in a jeep with a heavy machine gun attached to the rear end, a psychotic clown wielding two chainsaws, an overzealous grocer armed with a shotgun and a fully tricked-out shopping cart, and a religious cult. Add to that the swarthy man and his equally swarthy sister (who chased me down in the mall on a motorcycle,) the characters that reveal that the mall was built on top of a…oh, why bother, you already know. 
"It's warm in here," she whispered, still staring at her hand.
They would wonder what to do next.
When this series started I was listening to the talking heads (or windbags) on TSN (The Sports Network in Canada). There are four guys, three of them were shouting down the only voice of reason; the voice that said not to count the Isles out of it. He didn’t say that they are going to win, let’s not go crazy now. The Sabres do need to step up their game and I think (hope) that it’s finally sinking in. It was nice to see DiPietro in net last game =)
THIS is the series to watch. Man, are these teams quick (on the ice). I can’t remember when three periods of hockey have flown by so quickly!
“And like, we work a lot in uh, like Mormon Lake? But, enough about me. What do you ladies do?”
I made early-adopter profiles on Orkut, LiveJournal, Comsummating, Friendster, and the less well-known sites like Spokeo and Gaah, as well as several dozen hot new things that don't exist anymore. When Spokeo and Gaah get out of beta, you heard it here first.
Free food. Now, I quickly learned that when the city was paying for your food in response to your volunteer work, it was most likely going to be 
By the time I got forced into another costume I’d become rather disillusioned with being told what to do (I’d also seen the other costumes that the Ladie’s Auxiliary club had put together and they all sucked, except for this one paper mache cow head that I eventually stole and used all the time, but only while on acid). This time though, Mary Brown’s was specifically mentioned as a reward so I was cool with it, and was maybe even a touch enthusiastic. And the costume was cool alright…… The 
Yes. Yes it is true. Sometimes we care. Sometimes we don't know what we care about until it is forwarded to us by a FTTW writer (Thanks, Ernie!) but sometimes it happens. We actually give a shit about something other than ourselves and our last cigarettes for more than one day a year.
This week's long distance dedication comes to us from Atlanta, Georgia, where a single mother who goes by the name DR is looking for quick meals for her and her two kids. She writes:
Various Artists
You know the sort. You get the girl, the prince chooses you at the ball, the raise, the promotion, the dream job, a fulfilling career, loving spouse, 1.5 perfect children and today a security guard and a stone wall replace the white picket fence. The one that got away, or the man of your dreams who married a starlet; unrequited love, forever to mourn. Getting fired, lost, divorced, beaten, battered, or watching your best friend down a bottle of sleeping pills and saying his, or her goodbyes. Battling cancer and making the commercial that says, “Hey cancer, remember me? Fuck you, I win-you lose” and not having to neglect mentioning you lost a testicle, or a breast, or a portion of your mind. All these events that make up the sordid tale of who we think we are. 
To the question dangling, precariously as I ramble-
Especially considering that I'm still waiting on hearing on that first article, it's definitely a gamble. But I guess we all have to make that decision at some point: play it safe, or go for the gusto? If I actually manage to write (and then publish) enough articles to feed myself for three months, I will have a resume that I could beat a bear to death with. And if I don't, well. That's why parents always seem to have so much money just lying around, right? Yeah, I know. I'm a leech.
Millions upon millions of listeners religiously turned on their radios and turned up the volume to witness the daily tirades of the aging DJ whose sarcastic wit and quick temper launched his show into radio infamy. The four hour long broadcast seemingly ridiculed everyone from public figures to celebrities alike. Mock interviews and random tangents highlighted issues of both political and popular nature, contributing to his expansive listening audience. In addition to the sardonic undertone of his broadcast, Imus played host to musical talents and journalists, senators and political hopefuls, reknowned celebrities and literary giants; bringing faces and names from the spotlight to mainstream America at 6:00am, Monday through Friday.
As one contributor to the millions who listened to his show, I loved it. In the land of Imus, political correctness took a backseat to humor. Funny was found in subjects that plagued the nation, inadvertently bringing awareness to issues we chose to look away from and not read about. One of my favorites was a mock interview with Mayor Ray Negan, infamous himself after a public demand for accountablility in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. While engulfed in water and tragedy, New Orleans was submerged in controversy, Mayor Negan at the helm. In the land of Imus, Mayor Negan continously spoke of the levies and his assurance that they would be fixed. This three years and one election after the 2004 catastrophe.
Everyone has at least one album in their collection of an artist who is so absolutely outstanding (and not just in a specific musical niche either) that you just can't believe that they're not getting more attention and respect. For me, that band is 
Finally, the man behind the production, Maker. He's been producing for a variety of different labels, including 
I spent the majority of their set just standing to the side of the stage, watching Adeem run back and forth while switching between album songs and freestyle sessions. And people were going NUTS. I had attended a 
Because, when it comes down to it, fanfic is about one thing—the love for characters created out of the void. 
When things got intimate however, he became a kind of animal. I am not talking about a man who just wanted sex. He had needs that I’m not sure I could fill. I suppose the upsetting thing about this, is that I would be called frequently, and at odd times with requests for sexual acts. All of which would make my blush in such a fashion that my guests at the hotel I worked at would comment, or at least take note of. 
“word?” 
The Garage was behind the driveway at another friend’s house, this guy Jason. His parents didn’t give a shit what went on out there. The Garage could comfortably hold about 15 or 20 people but usually managed to accommodate about 30 or 40. The first night I was there, I asked my friend how many people could fit in this tiny little room with the woodstove. He called out to Jason, “Hey man, how many people fit in here last New Year’s Eve?”
When I was working at the record store, the better part of ten years ago, this kid about 17 or so comes in to buy Punk O Rama 2 or 3… the one with that stupid Epitaph headed monster pissing on the wall anyway, whatever. 5.99 or something.
I hate Peeps. I think they are disgusting little mobs of goo. Name one person that has never gotten sick on them at least once in their life. Everyone hates Peeps.
So, imagine a 21 year old Baby Huey. If you need help, imagine me with more hair on top of my head, less hair on the sides of my head, tack on about 50 lbs, and make me way drunker. Got it? There, I knew you could.
The Business - Maradona
I'll tell you.
What do I got? Pork Roll Egg And Cheese by Ween.
The peanut butter sandwich, no socks, left side of couch thing goes all the way back to 1983.
Ever notice how the one who screams "road trip" the loudest is the first to pass out? That was Otis. Otis always came along on these trips.
If you ever ate a shitload of acid and chased it with cocaine and Lucky Lager, you can kind of get where I was at. We called it "Frunk". That feeling of being on acid and liquor. Where you felt you had a shield around you where no one could touch you. Quite an awesome feeling. invincible. They could have written an after school special on me. "The Bad Kid Who Sold Acid On A Crowded Beach While Your Baby Was Cooking In The Microwave." It would have been great.
Another rule of thumb, when a drunken hallucination thinks that what you are doing is bad and leaves, it might be a good time to follow him.
States meet Grapes, Grapes; try not to embarrass us too badly okay? 
Toronto: Finished 9th (East – out of the playoffs) 
It came with an AM/FM radio in it, no cassette, no CD player. I pulled that out and put in a Clarion tape deck and some of those really big speakers that hide behind the seat. Throw in my CDB’s ‘Decade of Hits’ or Hank Jr’s ‘The Pressure is On’ and I was good to go, yo. Oh yeah, I was a full on redneck dude. Actually, I still am, kinda. I just don’t have my truck anymore. 
Hey, wait a fucking minute, this is a baseball/rockandroll kinda freakout, innit? By the freakin' way, listening to more Actress tracks on MySpace (The Evil One! Devil horns thrust in air) and it rocks harder every time. Total tangent alert - if you can ever get to see the video of the Ronnie James Dio interview where he explains how he started using the gesture at rock shows, DO. It really is an interesting view into a highly-underrated performer . . . oh yeah, BASEBALL!
Carpenter's DL'ed in St. Loo; Schmidt is headed the same way (probably) in LA; and Mark Prior's in the minors. Damn dude, if I was a big-name major league pitcher, I'd go in witness protection or some shit. Big props for Braden Looper and Adam Wainwright and Kip Wells for doing more than most thought they would/could this early in the season. Treading water isn't glamorous (KILL FERGIE NOW!) but, in the NL Central, it'll do until they formulate another plan, i.e. Albert Pujols actually hitting (.136 as of 4/9).
I've never heard of the practice of taking your kids "pretend" shopping for their birthday presents, parading them down aisle after aisle of toys, leading them to believe that the toy department is their own personal shopping mall and if they wish real hard, mommy and daddy will make their Barbie dreams come true! Mr., that's what commercials are for. 
You keep a harsh edge to your voice. And just wait for it. As if on cue, they howl, they cry, they pout and throw themselves on the floor and kick you in the shins and scream that they never, ever, ever get to have ANYTHING good or fun or new.
started to closely resemble living with Sybil. Mom now has multiple personalities. We've started to give them names.
shows up. Don't get me wrong, when it's Mom or "Ruth" crying, because she's sad or feeling helpless because she's just remembered the Alzheimer's and her blindness, we hold her and comfort her and help her past it. "Sarah", on the other hand, gets told to knock it off and get a grip - and she always does. The tears stop, and the whining stops, because nobody's being a good audience.
Mom also shows up fairly consistantly for my daughter, Jo. Mom helped raise her (we've been together for 21 years), and Jo is "our girl" to Mom. When Jo takes her shift in the afternoon, she always assumes that it's Grandma she's dealing with, calls her that, and most of the time that's who she gets. They chat about what's been going on in Jo's life, they sit and bead together (my mother strings plastic pony beads for kids' necklaces that I sell at the Farmers Market), and they usually have a pretty good three hours together.
My gaming life, much like my love life (when one exists) is usually intense short-term serial monogamy with the vague and unlikely possibility of a romantic flare-up after we have gone our separate ways. With this in mind, allow me to introduce my new sweetheart, 
gets to use a weapon called the Hammer of Dawn, which fires a huge laser beam from the sky and fries large enemies. There is also the Torque Bow, which fires arrows with explosive heads. Eat your heart out, Ted Nugent. Finally, the gun that is used most often is the Lancer, a really big machine gun with a fucking chainsaw attached to the end…Sorry, I had to stop typing for a moment. This attachment is very handy at times when an enemy gets too close, as Marcus can lay into a mutant with this little bayonet and spray gore all over the camera. When he or one of his AI buddies uses the chainsaw, one of them will often grunt something along the lines of, “That saved some ammo.” Yep, these guys are that cool. 
Miri is a bustling, noisy and somewhat crowded city of about 300,000 people. The air is steamy and oppressive, especially when you’ve just left home and temperatures below zero, in December. After a few hours of sweating like a professional wrestler in a cage match (I really don’t believe pigs sweat), you finally come to tolerate the heat and constant 100% humidity. The puking also subsided after a few hours and only then could I venture out to explore the city and all it had to offer. Big mistake.
wrong. I slowly lowered my head to drink, but kept my eyes on the jukebox and saw it begin to slowly raise a gun. My mind raced. I quickly scanned the room looking for an escape, but the jukebox had a clear field of shooting across the entire bar. He was well placed. I was being hunted by orangutans and had walked right into their bait pile! Slowly I began to walk at right angles to the orangutan in jukebox camo, nonchalantly allowing my gaze to slide across him, halting the slow rise of his rifle. I had a feeling that once that gun drew a bead on me, it was over. I sipped my beer and surreptitiously eyed the door, angling toward it as much as I dared without raising suspicion. I knew my nose quivered and my ears were pricked. I knew he knew that I knew I was being hunted and we both moved as if we didn’t. My heart was ready to burst and adrenaline coursed through my veins. I involuntarily crapped my drawers and kept moving. Ten feet from the door, I hear the click of the hammer as he pulled it back. Pure instinct and sheer terror sent my legs into overdrive as I dropped my beer and bolted straight through the door. The muted boom of his rifle reached me one step onto the sidewalk and I instinctively ducked, while feinting to the right, then tearing down the street to the left in a move that would have made Barry Sanders shake his head in awe. I didn’t stop for 6 blocks and it wasn’t until then I realized I had been shot. It was only a flesh wound, a small furrow across my left shoulder that would soon stop bleeding and eventually heal. I looked behind me and seeing a blood trail, immediately loped off down a side street with my shirt bunched up against the wound to stop the blood and end the trail that would lead the orangutan straight to me for the finishing shot. An hour later, winded and shaking, I entered my hotel, fairly certain he had lost my trail. I phoned my travel agent, demanded a ticket home and flew back out that evening. I now avoid that part of the world, whenever possible and pay better attention to every jukebox I come across. 
Seriously, he's a good match, let's use him for comparison. They both put out two or three well-selling records, a few videos in heavy rotation on the old school MTV, a few photographers assaulted, etc. They had very similar career arcs, it's just that his ended rather abruptly and she sort of faded away, almost. Yet somehow, I don't have any idea how Idol raises his children, or even if he has any, geez I don't even know his position on gay marriage! I never hear from Hammer or the respective members of Bananarama, now that I think about it. Curious.
The point is, she was never known as an intellectual heavyweight by any means, so it isn't her reputation as a great thinker of thoughts that is getting her so much press. That leaves only her fame to legitimize her claim on relevance. Well, her last good record came out in 1989, and Dick Tracy was 1990. Even though her tepid, sophomoric, (and over-priced) 'Let's antagonize the blue noses' tome "SEX" came out in 1992; that didn't make her opinion worthwhile. She has been irrelevant for at least 15 years, let's stop talking about her at all. Just because she continues to sell a few records shouldn't be reason to still consider her famous. AND, if being famous for being famous meant your opinion mattered we would be hearing a lot more from Ms. Hilton and her ilk. If that were the case, I would then in turn be forced to 
Diabetes Sucks but if you walk around for two decades being a pompous fat-ass, you deserve it. put down the ice cream and go for a walk, you weeble.
from 310 to 290 to 270 to 250 to 240 to 230 to 220, every time i would lose 20 lbs, i'd take a break until it started to creep up again. now, how on earth was i able to quit exercising and eat like a hog again the last decade without gaining or loosing within a ten lb range just by moderating my intake? ANSWER: I CHANGED MY METABOLISM THROUGH EXERCISE! by doing that little amount of piddling effort daily when i was losing weight, i was able to be a slacker and eat crap again without blooming to stretchmark-ville. amazing, huh? stay tuned and watch the sun rise in the east and it get dark about sunset!!
I asked a guy at work how his weekend was.
The co-worker continued to talk about aquariums and rocks and coral and all things oceanic and I have always enjoyed a good aquarium as long as it was in someone else's house and as long as I was not expected to have anything whatsoever to do with the well-being of it's inhabitants, so I listened politely, moderately interested in sea life suddenly. He talked about buying special fish whose whole purpose in life is to eat these worms who are killing his coral, but instead he found the fish hanging out with the worms, staying up late at night, playing poker and smoking seaweed.
He was about to go for his harp case when barefoot footsteps ran up to his door and knocks came frantic with a frightened young female voice, "Father Brennan, Father! Dammit Joseph, let me in. We have unwelcome guests in the parish." Joe Brennan threw on his plaid bathrobe over his cotton pajamas for the sake of modesty and then opened the door.
Father Joe grunt-chuckled, "He's just playing so far? Jesus help us if he gets serious. How strong is he? What all did she teach him?"
And in the ten years of my absence, some more subtle things have changed. I remember when DC first launched the Vertigo line. With that move came the advent of adult comic books. Not that there hadn’t been comics around for adults before, but this move really brought it to the forefront. Then, being a grown man in a comic store was kind of weird and a little creepy. Now, it’s perfectly normal.
(a note to all my friends north of the Mason-Dixon line. Just chill. I know you know everything there is to know about wintry weather. Just like you know I don’t know diddley-squat about it).
Big heavy wet snow. That fell on big unmanaged tree limbs around power lines.
A man, twice the size of myself, is zigging around on a bicycle in front of the Shell station I’m at. And I’m nervous. It’s one AM and I had the feeling I was going to get raped tonight. I also desperately needed gas, so I took the chance. He is dressed like a homeless man trying not to look homeless. Or like a college student trying to be artsy. He slowly rides over to the pump I’m at and eyes my car up and down like he’s giving a beautiful woman the once over. That’s it. I’m toast. I silently pray to any god or demigod who will listen; Don’t let me die tonight. Not like this. My legs aren’t even shaven. I am careful to avoid eye contact as his eyes move from my car to me. I wonder if he notices that my shirt matches the color of my car? I wonder if he knows I planned that?
I shake my head and answer him simply, “Niet, no.”
I am Barrister Richard Wilson, I am the personal attorney to Mr. Patrick a National of your country who works with a petroleum Company in Europe and he is known and referred to as my Client, he died along with his entire family of a wife and two childrens in a car accident. Since we heard of his death, I have made several enquires to his embassy to locate any of my clients extended relatives but all my efforts proved unsuccessful and to no avail. After these several unsuccessful attempts, I decided to track his last name over the Internet, to locate any member of his family hence I contacted you.
Dick,
About four years ago (Long ago, in pre-Stick history), I was at Eric's, lying on the couch and studying. With characteristic focus on my homework, I looked over Eric's shoulder and saw Morrowind.
And I really like games with stuff. Sure, I like leveling too, but I'd much rather have a sexy new set of armor and a better sword. (New cleavage-baring robes for the magic-users don't hurt, either) Morrowind gives you different styles of clothes, armor, weapons… and modders have built a complete wardrobe, plus weapons and all kinds of trendy Pottery Barn accessories for your house. Celtic and Persian-inspired clothes, NPCs with Roman-style names and an incredible variety of architecture keep Morrowind from becoming pseudo-medieval generic fantasy.
Machine Head 
[...]
You can see how things like this happen. Really, it's all my (Baby Huey's) fault. I take full responsibility, so I'll get things started. If you need some help, check out these links:
The first commercially successful tremolo/vibrato unit was the Bigsby vibrato tailpiece. It incorporates a spring loaded tremolo arm, or whammy bar that controls the tension of a bar that crosses all six strings. The bar raises or lowers to release or increase tension on the strings causing the pitch to lower or rise.
However, Due to these problems, Leo Fender created the synchronized tremolo which popularized the term tremolo (Leo was an engineer, not a musician).
Just about any guitarist you can think of has, at one time or another played a guitar with this style tremolo bridge.
Enter the Floyd Rose double-locking tremolo. This is probably the last truly significant change in tremolo/vibrato technology. While there have been improvements and tweeks, the double locking system revamped, again, the way people approached guitar playing.
Recently, guitar manufacturer Ibanez introduced the Edge Pro style tremolo. It's very similar to the Floyd Rose style trem, but you don't have to cut the end of the string off and it eliminates many of the sharp edges that the Floyd Rose has.
the juvenile delinquents were up the hill a little ways, but they weren’t trying to hide or anything. they were all laughing, baring their hideous yellow teeth sharp as razor claws. i opened up the car door and managed to stand with one leg outside of the vehicle before the snowballs began to fly again, and i had to hurriedly duck back inside. this time, they were gunning for my head. snow spattered against the driver’s-side window and ricocheted off the door. one or two managed to explode and scatter snow all over my seat. it wasn’t long after i sat down again that my marbles were soaked and cold from melted snow.
Major Rueben Malich, formerly in combat in the Middle East is sent stateside to attend university where he is enrolled in the courses of one Professor Averell Torrent. Unsure of what he was doing there but attentive nonetheless and taking notes in Farsi, he listens to Torrent and on occasion participates in verbal sparring. One great mind pitted against another. Arguing about Rome versus the United States. Absolute power. Revolution. World domination. Democracy. Race. The usual.
This is tale of what might happen if someone like George Soros used all of his resources to “fix” the country after the debacle of the illegal elections of 2000 and 2004. To put it all right, the way it should have been if the true winner had taken office.
missing and there was a note from the Easter Bunny, telling my brothers and I that this year he had hid the bunnies somewhere in the house and we had to find them! I found two out of three bunnies that year. One I found hidden underneath a cushion on the couch, the other was slyly on the bookshelf masquerading as a novel. I can’t for the life of me remember where the third Bunny was or who found it. I wonder if one of my two brothers knows where it had been… I also have a vivid memory of going through my Easter basket while my mother was fixing dinner in the kitchen, it was dark out and we were preparing to go to the “Sunrise service” for our local church, she was running a bit late I think, and our cat, “Ebony” was also in the kitchen looking to be fed. This particular cat, (I remember her fondly.) had the habit of weaving in and out of your feet whenever she wanted attention. On this particular day she managed to trip my poor mother up a couple of times so she got frustrated and did what she called “Kicking the Cat” this wasn’t as awful as it sounds, but she would get her foot under the cat and then: WHOOSH!, Slide her foot in such a way that the cat would slide across the linoleum floor and into the waxed floor of the den. Still on all fours, the cat would retreat to a position in the den until she felt she could return to harassing my mother and her savvy feet. It was always a sight to see the poor creature slide a good ten to twelve feet across the house. And even now it gives me a chuckle recalling that particular morning.
were sad, shocking, and altered the way we as a country perceive the rest of the world. Many lives were lost in both events. It is, for me, just heart wrenching to know that these stories aren’t made up by some story-teller. That the horrific events actually happened, to people like me, my neighbors, and family.
With its small, unassuming front, one wouldn't necessarily expect four-star cuisine from this strip-mall occupant. But if you've been picking out restaurants as long as I have, you know to never judge a book by its cover. Pam's has a nice outdoor patio for days when it's pleasant outside, and when the candles are lit and the sun is setting behind the restaurant, it makes for a gorgeous place to spend time with friends and family. On the inside, Pam's is a nice, modern looking little joint, painted with bright colors and funky paintings from local artists. In one corner, they have a projector that displays old black and white films. As I discovered last night, "old black and white films" includes Mel Brooks' classic Young Frankenstein. Just another feather in the cap for this establishment. If I ever go and they have Monty Python's Holy Grail playing, I won't eat anywhere else—ever.
Sport in Philly works the exact same way. More often than not I have seen a team fumble in the pre-season, only to come out strong and sure of them selves as they start to gel and coalesce into something that the media will always describe as “Unstoppable” or “A Legacy in the Making”. And they’ll play great ball until their sudden, and quite inevitable, loss. And that’s what always gets me. In this town, it’s never a series of small missteps that lead up to the sudden crushing defeat. It always comes down to one game or one stupid thing that sends the entire season into a tailspin. 
Ozzie Guillen will be gone for the exact reason listed in the DBT song: he's never gonna change. He speaks without thinking sometimes, which can be handled with good media handlers, but his main problem is that he rides his starters like rented mules and it's starting to show. Mark Buehrle's been over 200 innings for six years running with a K/9 rate starting to sink fast; Jon Garland's been over 190+ innings for five; and Jose Contrera's usage is just about the same and he's slightly older than dirt. This season (2007) is going to be Ozzie's fourth at the helm of the South Siders and he has shown no indication that he has any inkling of what new stats, or "metrics" as those fellows over at SABR (Society For American Baseball Research) like to call them, are out there showing how wrong his approach is. Ya know, names like that make me wanna form something like the Society For Omani Baseball Research and call it SOBR and have meetings in bars but I'm a natural-born smartass and I digress . . . there's a thing called Pitcher Abuse Points that was posted over at Baseball Prospectus 
By the way, Daisuke's throwing a screwball from what I've been able to see. It's not an unheard of pitch to throw (see Fernando Valenzuela) but no one throws it much because the strain on the arm is tremendous. However, Matsuzaka's never been an injury problem in Japan, so who knows? Maybe we're in for a treat - a fine pitcher slinging a pitch that an entire generation of baseball fans have never seen.
Technically, it's still hockey season. My team is still in it! They just have to win their last two games against two teams they really have no business beating and Toronto has to beat Montreal and then the Islanders are in the playoffs!!! Which just means that we've prolonged the misery by a week or two because they just don't have what it takes (a starting goalie without a concussion) to get out of the first round.
My school district didn't give us private school kids our own yellow buses. We had passes that allowed us to take the public buses for free. So for the four miles home, I had a bus full of commuters gathered around my seat, crossing their fingers and praying.
No one was in there cause they cared. They were all put there by family or friends. Maybe it was their last way out and they took it.
A week long binge and I would be back here to get with the rest of the program. 
Key quote to demonstrate the twisted romanticism: "We like to talk big. Vampires do. 'I'm going to destroy the world.' That's just tough guy talk. Strutting around with your friends over a pint of blood. The truth is, I like this world. You've got... dog racing, Manchester United. And you've got people. Billions of people walking around like Happy Meals with legs."
The downside? The only reason the China Bowl has been postponed is so that the NFL can focus on the regular season game that is to be played in London this year instead.
Can we expect that the people who will be attending this game in London will honestly have a clue about what is going on down on the field in front of them? Yes, I'm sure there will be people in the stands that are football fans, and there may even be some legit Giants or Dolphins fans in attendance, but let's be honest, the majority of the people that will be watching this game are going to be there to see a novelty event. They won't care about the game's outcome and, unless they are fans of NFL Europe and have watched the game of 'American Football', probably won't even know what's going on down on the field. Are they going to know when to cheer 'D-FENSE' and when to be quiet? I doubt it. Maybe in the days leading up to the game the NFL will hand out flyers around London that explain how the game of American Football is played... Yah. Sure.
You know you’re humming and air guitaring the opening, aren’t you? 
Best case scenario for me? The Leafs win, the Canadiens (who are playing the Rangers Thursday night) lose and the game in Toronto on Saturday Night (Leafs v. Habs) is the deciding game for 8th. Man would that be a great game to watch. If the Hockey Gods (who are handsome and omnipotent – yeah, I said it) could see clear to give me that game, I’d really appreciate it. Like free porn appreciate it. 
cinch FIRST PLACE. GM Lou Lamoriello is coaching the remaining games. Something major must have happened, this is the second time he’s been fired before the end of the season (Montréal 2006-2006), but with three games left and gearing up for the playoffs – it’s a bit of a slap in the face. 
While I enjoyed all the photographs, laughed at a few, and was left thinking by others, one of them just blew me away. It's pictured at left—a couple in Spain dancing in their tiny kitchen. I'm not sure what it is about this picture. Certainly, the framing of it is intriguing, with Erwitt taking the picture through the kitchen's entryway. The photograph's effect on me, though, really has nothing to do with the framing. It's what the picture shows of this couple. It's the quiet intimacy in their touch, in their kiss. It's how small and worn, yet inviting, the kitchen appears. It's the writing on the wall: "papas R.I.P."
life that is normal and every day for them, but that can speak volumes to strangers, if looked at in the right way. And while these small objects may slip into the background for this couple as they go about living their lives, the objects are imbued with details of how they live, memories of what they have done, traditions and habits and beliefs. All of that is in the frame.
I know who the Hekawi are (and the joke their name comes from), which twin from "Family Affair" died, I know why Tim Conway was a 'guest' for most of the time he was on "The Carol Burnett Show". I know how many girls were trimmed from "The Facts of Life" before the second season, I know that "E/R" and "ER" are two different shows starring an actor that also showed up on Facts of Life for a while. I know the names of Donna Pinciotti's sisters, I know how many Chuck Cunninghams there were, and I know what happened to Judy Winslow. I even know what state Springfield is in.
being woken up with ridiculous questions, so when she got the sense of what he was asking her, she kinda yelled at him to just get rid of it! So Dad grabbed a towel, fished it out of the toilet, dried it off and tossed it out the front door. My sisters giggled on and off all night.
We had a gift shop about 500 yards south of the house, with a large gravel parking lot. I used to ride my bike down and back every day, 'cause there was a great hill to coast down to get there. One day I was riding back through the gravel lot and almost hit this five foot long snake. It's size was freaky enough, but then it rattled at me!! I set off for the house, peddling for all I was worth, screaming for Dad 'cause a rattlesnake tried to get me! Dad grabbed the rifle and the garden rake and followed me back down. He managed to get the snake tangled in the rake and shot it. Up until then we hadn't known that there were rattlesnakes in Vermont. Shit!
On the inside of the window was this tiny little bat, hanging upside down, wings curled in, asleep. By the time I turned around, she was gone. I went back to the other room and found all the girls plastered against the wall. Silly me, I asked if anyone wanted to help me catch and release the bat. All I got for an answer was squeals. So I went back, took a small blanket and scooped it off the window. Bats squeak like mice, I found out. I carried it downstairs and outside and flapped the blanket. It took off into the dusk. Pretty thing, too.
Then last year, I wound up with the best 'what I did on my vacation' story. On the second day of my vacation, a Sunday, I was meeting a friend out at his farm in Whiting, except I got there before he got home from church. I decided to go out to the barn to see the baby chicks they'd just gotten that week. When I opened the barn door, I heard the adult chickens in their pen going nuts - for good reason, because there was a skunk in their pen chasing them!
The appointed time came and I met the ex at a Mexican restaurant nearby. We ate our burritos and chatted about music, movies and other such things that people talk about when they don’t really want to talk. We were surrounded by groups of people doing the Sunday afternoon at the beach thing, chatting loudly, drinking wine and fawning over small dogs out with their owners. After we finished our burritos the waitress shuffled us out of the restaurant quickly, and we decided to go for a walk on the beach because there was really nothing else to do at that point. 
The young ladies in my class, all five hundred of them, were getting ready to fight for the kill. Anything with cleavage that actually shaved their legs that day was seen as a threat. The skirts felt vulnerable as they eyed each other through their lined and mascara caked eyes, looking much like a wide-eyed doe prancing through a forest of flowers wondering where their mother is and why they smelt gunpowder. I could see their thought bubbles, all in text message short hand, mentally challenging their opponents over the lone hot guy who “accidentally” signed up for a girly class and undoubtedly will “turn” gay by the end of the semester. “Go ahead,” their perfectly glossed lips sneered before returning to their practiced pouts, “Try me.” And then the real reason they were actually in class on time with full face make-up and styled hair before noon walked in. Our professor. Played by George Clooney, or as close as you can get in a university at 7:30 in the morning.
“Well, psh, yeah. Obviously,” she tosses back as if we’re talking about how cute Jesse Metcalf was in last night’s episode of Desperate Housewives. It’s almost as if MTV’s The Real World: College has invaded her once demure little brain and the producers were telling her she’d get more camera time if she put out in a hot tub. Some people will do anything to be in a thirty-second promo.
so, ya. five times a week without a relationship. i'd think i could manage that with three or four guys. but is three or four guys too many? trust me, two is not enough... because somebody in that situation is going to catch feelings (never know it could be me) and it would be down to one quicker than shit and then BAM! before i know it i'm in another relationship.
I inspected the parking lot between the buildings. I pondered going out on the porch and smoking a cigarette. The glass was staying fogged up for too long; it must be damn cold out, so forget the cigarette. All was right in the lot. Cars were where they were supposed to be, and the puddles were only a little full of water. A cat ran from the bushes near the driveway over to the Dumpster. My eyes landed on the silver and purple monstrosity known in the house as "The Leeeeeesure Van", and they narrowed. An evil thought or two flitted across the screen of my mind. 
Suddenly, I heard Donna's whiskey voice, slurred and incoherent from sleep, from behind me. 
This had been one of those legendary Jules' runners. A little of this, a little of that, add some wine and some grass to take the sharp edges off the "that" and all in all, it was a mad way to spend a couple of days. He thought they'd hit every outdoor fest and party for Saint Paddy's da fair city of Chicago had to offer. Planxty had been jammin' and Jack couldn't get some of those reels out of his head. 
Jack took a couple of soothing breaths like Sensei Chuck taught at the dojo and tried to tap into his chi. He wasn't surprised to find he could reach it with no problems. He found his center, tapped in, raised it up and out then looked at his hands. They were glowing blue. Of course they were. Tonight wasn’t weird enough yet. 
leave her vulnerable to all kinds of new and exciting illnesses, viruses, creeping bacteria. She exhaled crystals. This is what it would be to die of cold, standing on a porch in wool socks, breathing oxygen tainted by the angry intricacies of existence.
The thought that she could continue on, pushing forward through the shattered intimacies, perhaps even coming to believe again—she hated it. Such a resiliency could only lead to greater pain, continued hurt, a neverending cycle of destruction and debasement. She wanted all of it to stop and fade. She wanted to snuff out these blows, the heavy hits. No longer could she flinch, hurt, and come back again and again in the hopes that the next time would be a caress instead. They never were. No one would touch her—they only knew how to hit.
The story is set in a pseudo-medieval fantasy kingdom. You play as the victor in a epic battle against the dark lord, now retired from combat and the adoptive father of a baby girl. The goddess Venus appears in a cloud of light, ok, in a King's Quest-era speech box, and gives you the baby and tells you to raise the girl to be healthy, attractive, good-natured and smart. You send her to school, art and dance lessons, etiquette class, assign her chores, take her on vacations, etc. Although you are trying to increase her stats, the random events in the game like competitions or potential suitors, keep Princess Maker from being a repetitive leveling game.
embedded in Princess Maker about the fine balance between attractive and slutty. It's not a good theme for preteen girls, but it's a message they'll get from hundreds of sources more important that a videogame. And your princess can also be happy and successful by excelling at academics or fencing or dancing or another skill.
He came in, shook the last drops of water off his hands toward her as proof he was sanitary and they shared a grin. taking a glass from the shelf and rinsing it out in the sink, he yelled into the living room "so did you want a beer, water or a glass of wine, babe?" and she replied "i'm too tired to make that decision, sweetheart, please surprise me." "please", he thought to himself, "she said please. i'll surprise her alright!". walking out of the kitchen, he put down a glass of chilled wine on the table for her, bent to kiss her gently and exhaled from the electric feeling again. "why was it" he thought " that kisses from her take my breath away like that?" he really didn't want to understand it because he already knew on a deeper level that some things just are. whatever grace and spark of the divine that was manifest in their relationship had just grown more and more intense as the seasons passed. "had it really been so long ago?", he thought. it just seems like it was recently they had met...but that was an o.k. feeling, he thought, because at the beginning, it felt like they had always been together and that was a great gift during the courtship.
Now, how does one go about eating a chocolate Jesus? With the chocolate bunnies, you generally eat the ears first. So that's what I did. I ate Jesus's ears. The next logical step would be the tail. But of course, Jesus doesn't have a tail. So I started chomping on his lower half. And the lapsed Catholic in me heard the words in my head:
Instinctively, we all open our windows and clean out the past seasons, readying ourselves for the new. The smell of the air is crisp and sweet. It’s easy to tilt your head back, close your eyes, and let go. I covet the Spring, holding it’s spirit and majesty in my heart and soul.
IV. BROKEN SHARDS (Of nose chili) 
ME: How did you first get your start? I hear there was some drinking involved.
What is your goal for the future? Is freelancing for TIME magazine as good as it gets, or do you ultimately have other plans?
I was severely writers-blocked about what to share with you this week, till I realized that Easter is this Sunday. Instant topic. These aren't family recipes, just things I've developed or adapted over the years.
Lordi
I arrived in Salt Lake City, home of the Great Salt Lake, which incidentally was the original name of the city, it later being abbreviated to just Salt Lake City. This is the manner of abbreviation for the Latter Day Saints. If you have a four word name, cut it by 25% and there you have it. Great Salt Lake City is now tidily abbreviated to Salt Lake City. Done and done. 
I traveled south to Orem, home of the great University founded by Mr. Young. It was a Monday, Presidents Day, and as I wandered and explored I noticed the strong influence of the LDS almost everywhere. Even at the liquor store. Yes, Utah has liquor stores. These are operated by an arm of the state government, and are referred to as “State of Utah Liquor Stores”, which is consistent with their practice of using exactly the number of words you need to understand what this thing is. The first thing I noticed was they open at eleven in the morning and close at seven in the evening. 
Dear Harried Homebuyer,
I once spent an entire summer just going out-of doors daily and walking in the woods with my dog and my friend JaWa, I have to say that those outdoor excursions brought me closer to “God” than I have ever been the sounds of nature and the smells of the forest always bring me to a place in my soul that is calm and serene. I hope that I can soon encounter those feelings again this summer. It has been entirely too long for both me and my dog.
I also spend time with my friends, and when we get together, I try to keep the television off, and get them to all come together to play a game. Why just last night I had great fun playing “Sorry” and then a rousing game of “Twister” I am sad to report that I lost both games miserably, but I had more fun losing a game, then I would have if we had all just sat about like couch potatoes watching television. Which seems to happen more and more when I am visiting my friends, which kind of makes me wonder if we should call it “Watching” instead of “Visiting”? I have seen potentially great gatherings turn into dull and boorish TV watching experiences. I could do the same thing at home without having to drive. The point of my going to see these people is to talk to them and see how they are doing, not stare at the television.
rush hour on the parkway is for suckers. that’s why my ride to work is all side streets and forgotten boulevards. it takes me by this one spot where a graffiti vandal stained the stone under an overpass with the last name of our president. and while the Doktor and i rarely see eye to eye, he agreed that the graffiti would be much classier if it had the word ‘fuck’ above it. 
“you don’t have to because you’re not over there. and i hope you and yours don’t ever have to go…” 
Anybody remember Killdozer? Man, what a great band. I loved that band. I grew up in a small town and it was hard to get their albums, but I managed to get my hands on a couple. I don’t have either of them now, both are long lost to parties or theft. I managed to download their first album a while ago….. most of their work is out of print, and some of their original albums go for hundreds of dollars on ebay and shit. I’m not into that at all. I’ll wait for them to be re-released at a decent price and I’ll keep trolling for them online in the meantime. 
I almost feel silly, taking up this time and space to blather about it. It’s too easy to talk about how you hate a band, and it’s too cool, and Bon Jovi – again – is too easy a target. I mean holy fuck, those lyrics. Moon and June, rain and pain type lyrics. I want to be just as close as the holy ghost is. We're living on love they call it living in sin, oh whoa. Bon Jovi is the musical equivalent of a semi attractive blonde girl in her early twenties, fresh out of school and into her entry level office job, driving a brand new shitty Cavalier convertible that's painted bright yellow, and she thinks she's the shit because she's a grown up and driving a sporty new car that she's paying for herself. And people keep falling for this girl called Bon Jovi. But you have to understand how far back this goes for me.