Black Tie Comfortable

A recent study conducted by Michigan State University researchers has concluded that the number of people who describe themselves as "Just as comfortable at a backyard barbecue as at a Black-tie event" has reached an all time high. But Before you go out and invest in a tuxedo rental business, I think you should hear what one MSU researcher has to say.
Carmela Cianfrocco of MSU stated: "While the number of people comfortable in a wide variety of social settings has risen, it seems that, as I concluded from our data, that the number of actual black-tie events has not risen." This of course begs the question: are the black tie events simply inviting more people than they were in the past? Cianfrocco says no, though she did go on to say that the number of backyard barbecue was actually decreasing. "We attrribute less backyard barbecues to the economy. With rising fuel costs trickling down to the consumer in the from of higher meat costs, and food in general really. Our research has concluded that because so many people have backyards, they feel comfortable barbecuing in them."
But what is to explain this mysterious rise in people just as comfortable at Black-tie events, as backyard barbecues? Also on the rise, people who are "Just as comfortable in a pair of flip flops, as they are in Jimmy Choos; those that are just as comfortable at dive-bars as they are in jazz clubs. Cianfrocco added: "This could be a good thing for the world. It could mean that people are more flexible, and have broader horizons, but on the flip side of that, and this is where the University has been trying to censor me--it could also be that a higher number of people are completely full of shit. That's really what I think it is. (she moved into a mocking tone, presumably, mocking those who she now describe, her voice took on a far-off, almost sedate quality which is often used when a person is making fun of someone they feel is delusionally stupid) These same people that claim to be so damn flexible and open to all the possibilies that exist on the horizon, well let me tell you something-- and we lost at least 15 study participants because of this one--look I just quit smoking when we did the damn study. When these fucking enlightened beings that have never been to a black-tie event in their lives are claiming to be have in them the ability to be some fuckin' bell-of-ball cinderall-- I ask them why I wouldn't find them in certain places. They'd first give me a politically correct answer about it being far away, or something else completely superficial. And they aren't used to questioning themselves even--so you ask them another question and you see those rusty wheels of thought that are so rarely used in their little heads, and they lead themselved deeper into this pit. And at the bottom of this pit is their own stupidity and complete delusional hypocrisy.... I really had fun with this survey"

Dr. Carmela Cianfrocco, a woman truly after my own heart.

I am The Champion...

Of the World. In Caffeine Consumption. Bow before me; look upwards fromst thou genuflection; layeth thine gaze upon thy rapid rise and fall of my left pectoral; a sure sign that on this day, my heart truly gave everything it had. It would like to thank espresso shots number one and two for their excellent work in taking the edge off of a Monster energy drink consumed only one hour before. Shots number 3-6 also deserve mention, as does Monster number 2. The combined effort of all was practically a clinic for those seeking real-life examples of diverse entities coming together and combining their varied strengths for the ultimate in invisible-body-chemisty symbiosis. And -- it was done with style.

Sexual Perversions in Advertising Should Not Be So Obvious

Those who review movies or consumer products of any kind--Critics-- aim, in their reviews to be both informative and entertaining. Some review for amusement(See the Internet Movie Database, Amazon.com, or any internet message board for the works of these Unknown-Reviewer-Poets) and some make a living at it. Invariably, the messages a Critic formulates are influenced by his likes, beliefs, prejudices, and unconscious issues. The scathing hatred, stupidity, intelligence, or ignorance of a Critic is usually demonstrated in his reviews--consciously--but at times, things creep out from their words that may alert us to a sickness of fetish lurking somewhere within them that maybe even they are not aware of. Take the review of the Macbook Air below, which was found on Apple's start page:

*My comments in italics*


The sexiest computer ever²

Lately, the word sexy is often used adjectivally in describing products or jobs that are considered attractive, not always due to looks. For example a job at an investment bank could be consided "sexy" even though the person who holds that job may be overweight and unnatractive. It's just got that certain I don't know what. I'll accept his use of the phrase here, but I am already weary of this reviewer and worried that he may be a sexual deviant.

³It¹s like nothing you¹ve ever laid your hands on,² says National
Geographic¹s Steve Casimiro (ngadventure.com) of the MacBook Air.

Okay, this sentence is only moderately weird, considering the phrase "laid your hands on" could be figurative which could mean: to be around something or to acquire something among many others, or literal. This is the part has me slightly worried. It is a thin rectangular metal object, why is that impressive? The perversion is elaborated further below:


³And yes,
you have to lay your hands on it to get the full effect.²

So he meant it literally. The feel of a cold, flat, metal object is a pleasing tactile experience? Why?


It has, he notes,
³ the heft of a leather portfolio, the dimensions of a design magazine, and
the cool-to-the-touch exterior of some exotic metal.²

"The heft of a lether portfolio?" I am picturing a woman in the nineteen fiftees with her hands on her hips and head cocked to one side saying seductively "That's quite the heft in your portfolio there... my... is that leather?"

"The dimensions of a design magazine" I am not impressed by this. Is it what is contained within the design magazine that makes it's dimensions as opposed to the similar dimensions of a non-design magazine important?

"Cool-to-the-touch exterior of some exotic metal." I am seeing a very sick person running his hands over the Macbook Air and having a spontaneous orgasm. It would be wise to keep the author of this review far away from publicly displayed art in major cities which is often fashioned from metal.


MacBook Air, Casimiro
concludes, ³is the future now.²

So, the future is a thin computer? I understand what you mean, but seriously--that's really fucking shitty... I am depressed now.

Loyal Readers! Read!

Mr. Goatlegs has been slow to add new entries lately, but fret not--as many new and exciting posts are coming soon!

Look for (at your leisure):

Economics of the Drum Circle
A Prehistoric Love Story
How Colloquialisms Killed (And will again, given the chance)
Time Traveling Woman of Ill-Repute.
Problems facing one of Socal's leading retailers of fashionable clothing for young women.


and many more...

so chill the fuck out!

An Open Letter to the California Legislature from Chuck Killian RE: New Cell Phone Law

Chuck Killian
4521 Horton Street
Monrovia, CA 91016

7/1/08

CC: Johnny Goatlegs

Dear California Legislature:

Today a law goes into effect which prohibits the use of cellular telephones while driving a vehicle on any California roadway, the exception being hands-free devices and speaker phones.

Well, I'm mad as hell about this. And so are alot of other people I know that are missing an arm.

This attempt at cutting "risk" associated with "statistical evidence" suggesting that phone usage while driving causes dangerous inattention by taking both a driver's hand, and thoughts from the road is just another batch of hogwash mixed up by some number-crunching-pervert that gets his rocks off by using the six-sigma system. It stinks! And, it's a tyrannical encroachment on the rights of all natural persons -- in addition to but none the less important -- a collossal insult to all people with only one arm. In reality, it's just an attempt by the Car Insurance Lobby to justify the group that backs it's existence.

In 1972 I was involved in an accident involving a wood-chipper and the remnants of an American Elm tree infected with Dutch Elm Disease. The accident took my right arm, and drastically changed my life. After the accident, I had to relearn how to write and some other things that my wife would surely tell you about after she's had a few margaritas, but, alas, what that was is not important today, though she might say otherwise. The point is, I never stopped driving a car... and I did it with one arm. Yes, that's right -- I drive, much like someone who is speaking on a phone, with one arm. Do you see where I'm going with this?

This new law is terribly offensive to me, and the thousands of others who were either born without an arm, or who suffered an accident which took one. So, I ask you California legislature... should I give up driving? Am I a liability on the road? Should I wear a muzzle while I am on the road so I won't speak and therefore have my attention diverted from the oh-so difficult task of driving? What if I, let's just be imaginative for a moment here, decide to pretend I still have an arm and with my brain imagine that the arm taken from me in that accident many years ago was still there. And what if I also pretend that I am holding a phone with that non-existent arm? Am I a risk to those around me? Maybe we can set something up while I'm driving and imagining I have two arms? I could wear a Electroencephalogram! Do you see the blatant hatred that this law is disseminating among people who share my condition?

I've grown used to my condition, in fact I've thrived. My wife will tell you that I've learned all my old tricks with my remaining arm and hand... and I digress. I've adjusted so well that ten years ago I decided to become a counselor to those who have suffered similar accidents. Recently in a support group I run for arm amputees, we discussed this new law you, the California Legislature have passed in the name of the Car Insurance Lobby! One of the group members is having trouble with his health insurance company over payment for a prosthetic arm. They are denying to pay for this fine family man's prosthetic arm! Now, this really tugs at my heart-strings -- and I'm not a sensitive man. He says his daughter is afraid of him now. As we discussed this new law in group just a few days ago, we'll call him John, he was brought to tears at the mention of a "hands-free" device. Keep in mind this topic was discussed just after he told us he couldn't afford a new arm, which obviously had a -- yes -- hand attached to it. The irony was worthy of Henrik Ibsen at his finest.

So, California Legislature, I ask you, in the name of Rights for all men, those with all of their natural appendages and those not so blessed, to reconsider this tyrannical new "Law," or, at least to define exactly what it is that makes it so dangerous to drive with only one hand. I'd like to see a study based in scientific fact -- something neurological -- which tells me, and all those I represent not just in California, but in the entire world, just what it is that makes us so dangerous!

I, for one, know that I am as good as any other man or woman on the road, and I refuse to take this attack on my personage without a fight. In today's world most systematic prejudices e.g., racism, women's rights, and gay rights have been terminated -- at least on paper with regards to law, I find it morally reprehensible that the type discrimination which has mired the aformentioned groups through time is allowed to be carried out on people like me in the name of law.

Though our cellular phone technology has advanced to a level that thirty years ago would have seemed like science-fiction, we are still living in the dark ages in terms of our respect for fellow man. Systematic "lawful" hatred must end! NOW!

I anxiously await your response.


Sincerely,

Chuck Killian.

Where High Gas Prices and Mid Life Crises Intersect.

Thomas Sheridan has lead a relatively successful life; he has multiple degrees from the University of California, Santa Barbara; he owns a manufacturing company out of Woodland Hills, California -- and he has a wife and two healthy children that he loves.

But like many men his age, he can't escape his nature.

"...there's this nagging feeling inside. It's like a little devil on my shoulder telling me what to do. I can't shake it."

"It's definitely a mid-life crisis. I keep telling myself it isn't anything I've done," his wife says.

Although his children were bewildered by the sight of their father in clothing he'd purchased at Abercrombie & Fitch and Hollister, it seemed that his mid-life issues would never rise above the level of mild nuisance.

"I think he looks like a freak with an Abercrombie shirt on," his fourteen year old daughter Janine said. "But, other than being really embarrassing to me and my brother, it's harmless."

As was his new hairstyle, and his new large, wrap-around sunglasses.

But new clothes and sunglasses wouldn't cut it for Thomas. An image ingrained deep down in his psyche, dormant since adolescence emerged. The lure of the hugging the open road on a finely tuned motorcycle wouldn't stay hidden.

"The first thing I thought was 'I don't want my kids to grow up without a father.' He's never ridden a motorcycle before... I don't know what gave him the idea that he was a biker." His wife said.

The desire to rebel against personal, and social conventions are common symptoms of the mid-life crisis. Though Thomas has never broken a law in his life, other than rolling through a few stop signs now and then, as he explains, he too heard the call of the sirens of rebellion.

"I loved it. After I bought the bike, I didn't care about any new clothes or anything small like that. Being out on the road with all that power underneath me... man that was what I needed. I always saw bikers as kind of rebellious outlaws. That was what attracted me to it."

It seemed that the bike was a cure for some of Thomas' less dangerous mid-life crisis symptoms. He would ride three nights a week after work.

"Even though I was deathly afraid of him riding down PCH on that thing... I was happy to see that it took away his desire to wear all those ridiculous clothes. And the sex was better for awhile. It was like he was possessed by some sort of spirit." his wife said.

Like the new clothing purchases of earlier mid-life crisis stages, Thomas' purchase of a Harley Davidson didn't seem like it would break up the family. Life in the Sheridan household went on as it normally would for the first three months after Thomas started riding. And then gas prices sky-rocketed to over $4.50 per gallon...

"I felt rebellious, and cool. I was doing something dangerous. Then gas prices went through the roof and suddenly I'm not Thomas the badass biker. No, now I'm Thomas the sensible consumer."

When elderly neighbors started congratulating Thomas on his intelligent purchase that would surely save him a great deal of gas money, it was as if a knife had been driven directly through his heart and dreams.

"Yeah, I was really pissed. It's not even cool to ride a motorcycle now. Now it's just another one of my "sensible" decisions. Yeah, that's me, sensible Thomas."

His last vestige of release shattered, life at the Sheridan household deteriorated rapidly.

"He got moody and violent. He'd yell at me over the smallest things. One night he came home a little late and dinner wasn't ready. I was waiting for him to get home. I was hoping we could go out... but that set him off. He said he wished he never married me, and accused me of having an affair with the pool man. We don't have a pool though. It was out neighbors pool man. 'When would I have time to talk to him, I said.' That set him off. Then he tore up our sons room. He was sure that Tommy was smoking pot. I really think he was looking for some for himself."

"You know, you work hard your whole life, and then one day nothing seems right. I was always concentrating on getting a degree or building my business or taking care of the family that I never thought about myself. And the bike thing... I mean come on! That old bastard telling me that riding a motorcycle was smart and sensible... that fucking asshole."

"I've been staying with my sister in Reseda, I've got the kids with me. I mentioned counseling and he hung up on me. I don't really know what to do now," his wife lamented.

Thomas seems to be enjoying his time alone for now.

"I'm working some things out. I've been thinking alot. I'm really not sure if I want her to come back. I might move to Fiji and become a surfer," Thomas said.

It seems the current state of world economics has affected more than just the stock market.

Hot in the City

Hey there all of you young, wild, and beautiful kids. Summer is almost here, and Billy has something to say to you. Take heed of his philosophy, listen to this song daily; do this, and I promise your summer will be 86% better. This will work even if you are not in New York.



Remember his words when you are:

Throwing up in the morning or night
When a long legged (this one is especially important) lovely walks by
When contemplating a high risk(perceived) action or decision

I don't want to embarrass you my friend... but...

I can no longer stand idly by, silent, hand resting on whiskered chin in a contemplative gesture, as you stand there -- also in a position that suggests contemplation.

You need to know what you're up against.

Do you really think you're ready for three dimensions? The interplay of light? People are talking. Of course you haven't heard it. It's in hushed and whispered tones, spoken only when you aren't looking, or after you've turned a corner. There really isn't any easy way for me to say this without offending you... I know you're very sensitive, so I'm just gonna throw it out there: You don't know how to appreciate a sculpture.




I think our friendship is stronger now than it was before.

Bad Names for Trannys

Melina Chaquidic
Terry Sacamano
Norma Sack

Real stories from the streets

Today I was stopped at a redlight, as I sometimes do, and behind me was a Ford Expedition containing two female passengers. In my side-view mirror I noticed the driver's side door opening. An older woman -- probably in her late forties -- vacated the vehicle; this was at a very busy intersection. She dissapeared from sight toward the back of the car, and another woman appeared at the driver's side door. She was much younger than the first; the resemblance between the two lead me to believe they were mother and daughter. Each had the black hair and full cheekbones characteristic of those of Chinese descent. As the daughter climbed into the driver's seat our eyes met through my mirror. With a slight tilt of her head and a raise of her eyebrows, the daughter told me that she too, understood the irony of what had just occured.

The Last Goths

A bubbly white candle, thick, and nearly expired flickers, it barely illuminates the long white beard and cracked yellow teeth of what appears to be an old wizard. He speaks cryptically, in a hoarse voice, “You must not give in to your natural impulses. All the future depends on this”


On a quaint street in Arlington, Virginia, in a candlelit room, a dark and mysterious club by the name of Quoth the Raven was about to come to order. Jeremy Huttle’s bedroom was ground zero for this high school Goth cabal, which, including Jeremy, consisted of four members: Tabitha Melton, who held a special place in Jeremy’s black heart; Sam Greer, fifteen, he sported a maroon Flock of Seagulls do; and Selena Carter – black Clairol dye and humor to match. Right now -- as he would before every meeting – Jeremy is checking to make sure everything is just right.

Blow out candles: check.
Black lights: working.
KMFDM poster: glowing nicely.

The modus operandi of Quoth the Raven is not only to bask in the overwhelming darkness that is in everything; it also tries to contact the great originator of said darkness -- by means of Ouija board. Jeremy started the club three months ago, just after realizing that he would never have what it took to make it on the baseball team, or in ballet class, or anywhere, really. After three-weeks of what his school counselor called "One of the worst cases of depression I've ever seen," Jeremy bounced back hard -- and with the aid of several anti-depressant and social anxiety medicines found the courage to assemble Quoth the Raven. Now this group of odd-balls could -- just like members of one of the various athletic teams, or academic clubs -- feel a sense of belonging and camaraderie. This is never easy when a group of rogues such as those of Quoth the Raven are thrown together, as each one lives in it’s own private adolescent hell, which is not always easy to articulate and share. But together, these kids have managed spend their pain as if it were currency, and find solace in industrial music, and the hope that someday... just someday... their dark lord will ascend from his throne in the netherworld and place them next to him, as fellow dark masters. As of yet, they have not been successful in this endeavor.

On this evening though, something was to occur that was beyond even the twisted imaginations of these bright, and tormented youths.

But right now Jeremy is setting out four jewel-encrusted -- well, actually bedazzled -- goblets, which he fills with a fine boxed-wine because “It’s not easy to find good Mead in Arlington,” so they take what they can get. Let it be known: Quoth the Raven does not believe in drinking-age laws. Jeremy pays his older brother a three-hundred percent premium for the procurement of the sacred drink.

Jeremy stands back and takes in what he’s prepared; all is well on the dark side.

And there’s a knock at the door. Jeremy pushes his black bangs from his face, takes a deep breath and, as per Quoth the Raven protocol –- with an 18th century English twinge to his voice asks:
“Who is rap, rap, rapping at my door?” To which three voices respond:
“Tis three, but one.”
Jeremy responds “And shun what, not three, but one?”
“All that is light. Whether tis’ nature or blight” He nods solemnly to the solicitation, these are friends, not foe. And in walk Tabitha – the forbidden apple of his eye – and Sam, and Selena.

As if driven magnetically, Tabitha moves directly to Jeremy’s dresser, where she notices three black candles.
“Are these new?” she asks.
“Yeah. I got them from my grandma. They’re old Halloween decorations." said Jeremy, as he again pushes his bangs from his face.
"If I was able to feel love, these candles might elicit it in me," said Tabitha, the cryptic organ music crying out in the background adding a sinister bent to her proclamation. Jeremy’s lingering glance in her direction lasts a second longer than it should, that is, if he hopes to keep his affection for her a secret.

"I wish everyday was Halloween… and that the lord of darkness would descend on the hell that is Arlington, and wash its streets with the blood of innocents," said Selena.

To which Sam responded, "You're so deep."

"It's my sorrow. It cuts to the bone... my soulless and tired bones."

"Such is life... such is life." Tabitha sermonized. They stand, arms folded, breathing in this truth that they all understand too well.

"Are you sure it's cool to drink on your pills," Sam asked.
"It'll only be a glass. It should be okay," Jeremy answered.
"I don't want you to go all nutso on us. You were really fucked up," Selena quipped.
Jeremy offers her an artificial smile, "It's cool," he said.
"We're all crazy, Jeremy," Tabitha added. He smiled, it was an awkward smile, much to big of a response to her simple reassurance. And Sam asked:


"Shall we commence the summoning of our dark master?"
"We shall" they agreed, all heading toward the official Quoth the Raven Ouija board which was set up next to Jeremy’s bunk bed. They sat on the floor –- Indian Style -- QTR believed this position optimized the flow of darkness within, so it was imperative that sit this way while summoning. Jeremy took a seat next to Tabitha. They all closed their eyes.

Except for Jeremy, his open eyes were soaking in Tabitha’s essence; he could have sworn that she was the angel of death herself when he looked at her under the black light, her pentagram necklace glimmering with a blue tint. He looked down at the Quija board. His hand rested next to hers. He wondered if he should try to hold it. Could he be so brazen? He wondered.

“Not now. It’s not the right time. Concentrate on the darkness. Try not to get a boner,” he thought. “Project your voice,” he said to himself.

“I feel something in the air. I think this is the night,” Sam said with a macabre optimism.
“It’s probably that mile you ran in P.E today. Endorphins, or something,” Selena responded. Jeremy shot in her direction an evil look and said derisively, “It’s funny you should say that Sam… I feel something too,” and she shook her head in mimicry.
Jeremy cleared his throat, and turned up the chilling organ music with the round dial on his Ipod. Then he began:

"Ahuma...ahuuuma...ahuuuumaa...ahuuuuummmaaa"

As the group continued their summons, Jeremy preached:

"Spirits of the nether world, we summon you. Quoth the Raven; children of the dark, who shun the light. We ask your omnipotence for guidance. Lead us beyond the gates of what is knowable to your place of eternal flame where the pain of our hearts is played out in the flesh..."

Jeremy opened his eyes. He saw his compatriots in suffering, heads bowed, eyes closed, and still chanting softly. The room was covered in posters of Marilyn Manson, KMFDM, The Cure, and Nine Inch Nails.

"Quoth the Raven… lift your heads.” Jeremy ordered. And they did.
“We shall drink the ceremonial wine.” Tabitha was visibly upset that the dark lord hadn’t shown…again. Sam noticed her dismay -- and an odd rumbling noise -- and trying to bring some light -- or was it dark – back to the situation said, "Do you feel that? I can feel the dark lord’s presence! I hear a rumbling from below."
"Shut up Sam. He's not here. He's not coming... not now, not ever," cried Selena. “Even the dark lord thinks we’re lame! I’m out of here!” she said, rising up. And Jeremy stood...
"Blasphemer! How dare thee!" he shouted. "You doubt my relationship with the dark force?" Selena moved toward the door, but Sam blocked her path.
“Yeah. I do.”
And Sam pleaded, "Guys... stop! We're all in this living hell together. When he comes... and I know he will -- we must be in union… don't you see? So that we can rule with him on his throne… as… as dark feudal lords."
“Whatever… and that rumbling you hear is probably Jeremy’s brother’s Camaro.”
Tabitha’s eyes lit up upon hearing this.
"Crap. He punched me last time I was here. I better go," said Sam.
"He grabbed my ass after out last meeting," said Tabitha, and not looking unhappy about it. Jeremy’s brow furrowed at this, as he pulled open his Venetian blinds.
"You let him, slut" screeched Selena.
"Shut up! You know I'm only a slut for the dark lord."
"That's not what Brian Keegan said."
"You’re the one that gave him a hand-job!"
"Girls...girls!" Sam pleaded.
"There's no car. It's not my brother." Tabitha’s face fell and she uncrossed her fingers, disappointed. But the sound… the rumbling… it remained. Faint but, noticeable.
“Let’s go Sam. My dad just bought me the Charmed boxed set, we can watch it in my room.”
“Okay.” Jeremy's soul knew a great deal of suffering, but seeing what he percieved as Tabitha’s disappointment over the dark lord's no-show plunged him even deeper into the emotional abyss. He knew he had to keep QTR together.
“Guys! No… no… No one is leaving here! This meeting is not over! We haven't even read the poem yet,” Jeremy exclaimed, as he pushed himself in between Sam, Selena and the door.
“Seriously Jeremy… get the fuck out of my way… or I’ll kick your ass just like Tommy Bell did.”

And the sound grew… It was as if Aries himself was erupting from the bowels of the earth causing tectonic plates to strike and slip beneath them. But with Jeremy’s screaming, Quoth the Raven didn’t notice.
“You know what! Fuck you Selena! Your poetry sucks ass. You aren’t even that dark!”
“The only thing you know that is dark is Sam’s asshole!”
"Selena! Uncool! We're friends." Sam said. And before Jeremy could tell her to
“Just get the f—"

An Explosion rocked the room! Plaster fell from the ceiling, the ground shook. A Marilyn Manson poster is violently ripped from the wall as a gusty wind, and a thick cloud of dark smoke envelops the room. Styled hair flying in every direction. The kids are thrown to opposite corners of the hazy room. Through the smoke they hear heavy foot steps, and the clang of metal. They are dazed, and weak, but trying to see through the cloud before them, trying to make out a shape.

“It’s him… he’s coming… our hatred for each other...” Sam trailed off.
"This is it guys," Jeremy warned....

Then erupting from the smoke -- the most guttural, evil moan:

"Aaarrrrrghhhhh!"

A seven-foot-tall bearded Barbarian emerges from the smoke! The children cry out, running for the door. The Barbarian follows, his dirty animal skin jacket making him look like some sort of satanic elk. At the door, Sam tries in vain to turn the doorknob.
"Come on!" he said.
"Hurry up you pussy!" Selena yelled, just as a five foot sword impales the door, missing Selena's head by inches. Panic.
"We're on you're side!" Sam said. The gusty wind blowing away the smoke hiding the Barbarian's face. They look up; a scar runs down the Barbarian's cheek into his beard,where hair has stopped growing. It was, at one time, a painful wound.

"I am Theodoric the Great of the Goths, Conqueror of Italy," he said, raining rank breath and spit all over the kids, "…and you... you consider yourselves of our ranks?" They try to move closer to the door, cowering. Sam is in tears.
“I asked you a question! You call yourselves Goths?!” Selena and Tabitha push Jeremy forward to answer for them.
"Yyyyeeyyyeess sir," he squeaks.
"Hah! You are children! And weak ones at that! And you little boy, you are their leader? Jeremy looks back at his comrades, they nod to Theodoric.
"I g--g--gue-ss so, sir."
"Ha! You are not goths! Goths are big and strong! We value power! We pillage and rape and burn villages! What say you to this?
"Y-y-yess, sir. W-w-wwe are goths."
”By whose admission?"
"Uhm... ours?" Jeremy said.
"You are bold to say such a thing."
"The dark lord said we were. That's you isn't it?" Jeremy asked.
”Who is this dark lord? Tell me his name! I will cut off his head and rape his wife while his children cry out in pain, then drink goats blood!"
Confusion is mixing in with the kids fear.
“So you’re not the dark lord?” Selena asks.
“Tell me this dark lord’s name! I shall plunder his lands!”
Jeremy looks back at his friends, "What is the dark lord's name?" They at look at one another, confused.
"I don't know," said Sam.
"Beats me," said Tabitha. Selena whispers to Jeremy "All we ever called him was the dark lord." Jeremy looks up to Theodoric:
"We just call him the dark lord, sir."
"Shut up! So let me get this straight... you are what's become of the Goths?"
Jeremy answers for them:
"Yes sir."
“What year is this?”
“It's two-thousand-eight, sir,” Jeremy answered.
"My god! Ever since we sacked Byzantium back in 262! I noticed us losing our edge, but this is pathetic. Two girls, and two puny boys. I should roast you all over my hearth fire! You are not even worthy of enslavement!"
And Tabitha steps up,” Sir if you’re going to rape anyone, take me."
"God, you are such a slut," Selena whispered.
"I'm trying to save our lives here, bitch!"
“That was really insensitive, Selena.” Sam said.
“And this,” Theodoric said, pointing to the fallen Maralyn Manson poster, “Is this your coat of arms?”
“That’s Maralyn Manson, sir,” Sam said.
“So this is what Goths do in two-thousand and eight? You sit around a table made of white wood, with your hair painted black like a bunch of silly children?”
“We were trying to contact the dark lord.”
“What for? Battle tidings? Is there a problem with your crop harvest?”
“No, we just wanted to speak with the dark lord,” Selena answered.
“Shut up, woman! No Goth man lets his woman speak in public!,” He walks around the room, “ Where are your swords… your battle axes. I see no instruments of war?”
“We don’t fight wars, sir” Jeremy said.
“Goths who don’t fight! Than you are truly not Goths!” And Sam spoke up;
“Actually sir, that’s not true. We’re at war with society… a society that fails to see and respect our limitless pain.”
“You should bash their heads in! Give them limitless pain!”
“I don’t condone violence,” said Tabitha.
“Shut up girl. Do not speak unless spoken to, and even then, mind your tongue!”

Theodoric stalks about the room, sword and shield ready. He notices Jeremy's computer screen glowing in the dark room. He taps the screen with his sword, then punches the keyboard. A video opens up. It's a big-breasted blond toying with a large black dildo. Theodoric is confused.
"Huh. You've enslaved a woman inside this box! That's kind of Gothish," he said. Jeremy is embarrased. He had often told Tabitha that he didn't need porn, on account of all the chicks he had in other towns.
"I don't know what that is. Absolutely no idea how it got there," he said.
"Maybe you're not gay afterall," Selena said. Jeremy gave her a 'whatever' face. Theodoric was transfixed by the woman and her toy. On screen, the woman worked herself into a frenzy.
"She's so loud," Theodoric said.
"Wait like ten seconds. Then she gets way louder," Tabitha said. And upon saying that, she wishes she didn't. They all look over at her.
"I heard about it at school," she said. As the womans screams grow louder, a familiar rumble sounds, the same one that Theodoric emerged from.
"Oh wow... I like this," Theodoric proclaimed. And the rumbling rose to a roar! A whirl of wind kicks up Theodoric’s beard, and rips the KMFDM and Cure posters from the wall. Smoke rises up from the floor and Theodoric snaps out of his porn-induced-trance. He raises his sword, ready for battle. And from the smoke, a voice:

"Merci! ... Bounjour?

A figure emerges -- this one much smaller in stature than Theodoric. It’s wearing what looks to be an 18th century French military officers uniform.
"Napoleon? What are you doing here?" asks Jeremy.
"Yes, tis’ I, Napoleon Bonaparte of France." Theodoric scratches his head.
"Who are you tiny man, and why have you come?"
”I just told you who I am. And I’m here because I really hate these Goth kids! Seriously… they make me sick with their whining and bitching and crying about how everything is so bad. You know nothing of hardship and nothing of pain! You are weak!"
"Let's just see what happens in Russia," said Selena.
"Russia! What do you know of my plans for Russia! There is a traitor among my ranks!” He rushes toward her, unsheathing his sword "I demand you tell me where you came upon this information or I shall cut off your head at once." Tabitha steps in front of Napoleon’s charge.
"Sir take me. Do whatever you want with my body."
"Wow, you really are a slut Tabitha. You wouldn't even have to rape her Napoleon. This one is just trying to give it up everywhere," said Theodoric.
"Hey… don't talk about her that way!" exclaimed Jeremy.
"You dare address Theodoric the Great in that tone? I will crush your head like a grape beneath my horsehide sandal!" He whips his sword in Jeremy's direction, its point only centimeters from his nose. "Understand?" Theodoric asks. Jeremy nods profusely. This causes Napoleon to scratch his chin.
"Hmmm... the weakling shows some courage."
"That was really brave of you, Jeremy" Tabitha said. Jeremy shrugs, and smiles.
"Wait, wait, wait. I thought you’re all supposed to be lords or darkness. What is this lovey crap! You know nothing of the Goth way. You disgrace the good name of the Goth." Theodoric said.
"You are patheti-que." Napoleon added.

The children begin to cry. Their last refuge on earth, Quoth the Raven, crumbling before them.
“My god. You wouldn’t last a day in my time,” said Theodoric.
“Nor in mine,” Napoleon added. Sam bawls into his hands. His eyes bloodshot, his Flock of Seagulls do’ reduced to flatness. He looks up; resolve building, then finding courage through his tears, he says:
"Then why don't you teach us? All of our lives we've been looking for something... anything... We tried sports, acting, gardening, musical instruments. We've done nothing but fail miserably. Our parents don’t understand us. Kids at school make fun of us and beat us up… all we have is each other and this club." The kids huddle together and sob quietly. Theodoric and Napoleon look at one another, even these hardened warriors can't help but be a bit touched by Sam’s words.
"Well Napoleon... what do you say we help these kids?"
"You are thinking what I’m thinking Theodoric? Theodoric nods.
“Boys, Napoleon…let’s go!”
“What about us?!” The girls ask.
“What about you?! Clean this place up.” said Theodoric, and he jumps through Jeremy’s closed window, shattering it. He lands on the grass two stories below with a thud. Selena and Tabitha, though constantly chastised, in shock over the display of uber-male-chauvanism.
“Uh… we can take the stairs,” Jeremy says
“Get to it,” Napoleon says, pointing his sword at Selena’s throat. “Now!”

It’s a cold night on the streets of Arlington. Moonlight reflects off the damp shingles of stately colonial homes and smoke billows from chimneys like the spirits of ones passed. All is quiet here… except for the furious beat of pounding footfalls.

Appearing at the end of the street: Theodoric in full battle regalia, running beside Napoleon, sword at ready. Jeremy and Sam struggle to keep pace. Their urgent breaths materialize in the chilly air.

“You! Boy! You see that old man over there?!” Theodoric asks, referring to the elderly gentleman crossing the street twenty feet away.
“Yes,” Sam answered.
“Kill him!”
“What?”
Theodoric growls at Sam, pointing his five foot sword at his throat. Sam winces,
“I said kill him! ... Now!”
Sam reluctantly makes his way toward the old man. Jeremy looks on in horror. Napoleon smiles, and offers his support, “Geet that old bastarhd!”
“Give him no quarter!” Theodoric exclaims.

Theodoric, Napoleon, and Jeremy are standing on a wet sidewalk, illuminated by a dull street lamp overhead. Theodoric points to the Maroon 1984 Toyota parked next to them.
“You… other boy. What is the name of this metal chariot?”
“It’s called a car, Theodoric.”
“Destroy it!”
“What? I’ll get in trouble!”
“Trouble! How is this for trouble, boy?! I will kill your father if you don’t do it! And rape your woman friend!” Napoleon laughs and says:
“Probably wouldn’t have to rape her, Theo.”
“That’s true,”

Back in Jeremy's room, smoke still sits low in the air. Tabitha and Selena are huddled together on the floor. They have black tear lines running down their faces. Their white makeup now wearing off.

"I'm sorry I called you a slut," Selena said.
"It's okay. I kind of am one." Tabitha said.
"Yeah... you are," and they both laughed.
"I wonder if they're okay?"


“That’s it Sam-my! You’ve almost got him!” Napoleon said.
From across the street we hear the scream of the elderly man.
“Finish him! You’re almost a real Goth,” Theodoric yelled. “And you, boy. Kill the chariot!”
“Use you’re hands!” Napoleon said, making a fist. Jeremy is near tears…
“Do it now! Show me that you are Goth material!” Theodoric said.
Jeremy looks up to Theodoric, then down to the ground. He clenches both fists, looking around as if examining his own will, his own strength. Then he rears back! He throws a right-cross which lands in the center of the Toyota’s front passenger side window.
“Ahhh! I think I broke my hand!” Jeremy cried.
“Pain! Next to death in battle, the best thing for a Goth! Destroy the chariot boy!” Jeremy hits the window again, and again. He cries of pain growing louder with each blow.

Sam shouts in the background:
“I just killed a senior citizen! Oh my god! Forgive me Jesus!”
“Did you say Jesus?” asked Theodoric. “I thought you were one of the dark lord’s minions?”

A crash as Jeremy finally breaks the Toyota’s window with his fist. Blood flows down his wrists onto his clothing and the street.
"Yes!" Napoleon exclaimed, "You did it, boy!"
“I think I cut an artery! I’m getting light headed!”
“Shedding blood in battle! We just might make a Goth out of you yet! Said Theodoric, “Now drink it!” Jeremy moves limps to a nearby lawn, nearly losing his balance.
“You… want me to drink my own blood?” he asked.
“Do it now!” said Theodoric.
“It looks like you’re soldiers are fading, Theodoric,” Napoleon noted, pointing to Sam who was now on his knees, hands raised to the sky, crying out to a Christian God.
“I don’t wanna be Goth anymore,” Sam cried, choking up, wiping tears from his eyes.

A bright light flashes in the sky! A familiar voice calls out:
“Theodoric! What did I say! I clearly stated: you must not give in to your natural impulses”
“Egin? Is that you?” Theodoric asks, looking up toward the light in the sky.
“Who else would it be, you idiot!
“Shit!” Theodoric exclaimed.
"You may have set in motion events that will alter history forever! You must get out of there at once!” Theodoric walks over to Jeremy, who is now passed out with his wrist to his mouth. Sam is next to him, calling to the heavens. Theodoric raises his sword and bellows:
“Ha…Haahhaa! You are both weak! Neither of you have what it takes to be real Goths! We are strong! Goths will rule forever!”
“Actually, Monsieur, that is not the case. Goths will not rule forever.”
“You doubt my supremacy little man?!”
“Enough, Theodoric! Get out of there!” Napoleon interupts:
“It is simple historical fact. You Ostrogoths will last only until 588. Then you will be assimilated by other cultures and forgotten. The Visgoths will last until 711, though. It is simple Theodoric. Look around you!”
“You spout lies, little man!” Theodoric turns his sword on Sam, his hand shaking with rage. Sam pisses himself.
“Open your eyes, boy!” and Sam does.
"Theodoric!" Egin yells, "Now!"
"I'm just going to decapitate him and then I'll be on my way, okay Egin?"
"No! Now Theodoric! I will put a spell on you if I must!" Theodoric heed Egin's warning, and lowers his sword.
“Monsieur, I've studied war for many years... battles that predate even you. So, you must understand, what I say is the truth.” Theodoric kneels at Jeremy's lifeless form. Blood covers his face, his clothing, and the grass around him. Theodoric places a large scarred hand on the boys shoulder. Tears well in his eyes.

“Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooodddddddss!” Theodoric screams! Lightning erupts in the sky, thunder roars -- and just like that... he disappears. A wisp of smoke where he once stood.
“I am afraid I must be going, also," Napoleon says, removing his hat, and bowing deeply to the unmoving figures of Jeremy and Sam. Then, he too, disappears in a flash of light.


It’s morning. Crickets are chirping, and a bright fog shrouds the rising morning sun. Sam and Jeremy lay still, their bodies twisted at odd angles on the sidewalk and grass.

“Excuse me, son.” An old hand shakes Sam.
“Son, wake up. Looks like you’ve been doing some drinking, there hey boys?”

It’s the old man that Sam killed last night, and he is especially alive this morning. He shakes Sam again.
“Son!”
Sam’s eyes slit open, then wide! In fear, he scrambles away from the man on his hands and knees.
“Hey… I… you’re alive?” said Sam.
“Last time I checked,” the old man responded. Sam grabs his head. A horrible headache disrupts his thoughts. Jeremy lays a few feet away, passed out, dried blood caked on his face. Sam shakes him vigorously.

“Jeremy! Jeremy... wake up! We’re alive! The old man is alive!” Already moving away from them, the old man shakes his head, and continues on his morning walk at a gingerly pace.
“Goddamn Goth kids!” he says.

Jeremy opens his eyes, squinting at the sun. He looks toward the old man disappearing down the street.
“Sir!” he calls out. The old man turns back to them and pauses.
“What is it, kid?”
“We’re not Goths sir... we were... not anymore.”
“Bunch of damn freaks is what you are!” the old man responds, heading off toward the sunrise.
Sam helps Jeremy to his feet. He pats him on the back, and offers a knowing nod --no we’re not pal, not anymore.

“Let’s go check on the girls” said Sam.
“I think I’ll tell Tabitha how I feel about her.”
“You should do that. You really should”


Sunlight creeps into Jeremy’s room. It looks like… well, it looks like a third century Goth went on the warpath in here. Tabitha and Selena are huddled together on the floor among posters, candles, and empty bedazzled goblets. Wine stains the carpet. Jeremy and Sam walk in, beaten and battered, hairstyles long since destroyed.

“Should we wake them?” Sam asked.
“No. They need to sleep it off. The mushrooms I put in the wine will give them a horrible hang over.

The End

More word origins and their cultural influences, bitch.

This is why he called himself Ziggy, and we weren't sure if he was a boy or a girl.



"In psychology, Carl Jung used the term "syzygy" to denote an archetypal pairing of contrasexual opposites, which symbolized the communication of the conscious and unconscious minds: the conjunction of two organisms without the loss of identity."

I learned this by reading a book.

Interview with Dr. Stephen Bristol OB/GYN

What follows was to appear in the Orange County Register's 'People' section. It was never published.

JG: Hello, Stephen. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule for this interview.

SB: It's nothing really. I'm actually on a bit of a sabbatical right now.

JG: Really? I recall an article I read in Contemporary OB/GYN Magazine, in which you stated that you hated being away from work for more than a weekend...

SB: Yeah. That was the March 2007 issue, right?

JG: Yes it was.

SB: I'm taking some time off to reflect on where I'll be taking my practice in the future. This is difficult to do when I'm working so much.

JG: Of course. Are you thinking of expanding your practice?

SB: Well... no. This is more of a spiritual sabbatical. I'm taking some time to re-assess myself, and examine if I really want to continue working in the field.

JG: You'll understand my surprise hearing this from man who is so preeminent in his field?

SB: Again, it's just a period of reflection.

JG: That's funny, you usually reflect on periods... but now you're taking a period to reflect, heh?

SB: The issues I'm dealing with are very serious... so I hope you'll understand that I don't find that funny.

JG: Duly noted. You were educated at the University of California at Irvine School of Medicine, correct?

SB: That is correct. It is a wonderful school, and program. The faculty at the time was brilliant. There is no end to the good things I have to say about my education there.

JG: So my next question is... Why OB/GYN? Did you know at an early age that this was an area you hoped to enter?

SB: Well, I knew from an early age that I wanted to be involved in medicine in some capacity. I think I made the decision to go into OB/GYN just after my first semester in college.

JG: According to reports from some of your old school chums you were a bit of a jokester in those days. A "true rascal" as one of them said.

SB: Sure, I guess. We had fun back then. We spent alot of time in Newport Beach, and there was alot of partying going on all the time. It was good fun.

JG: What was it that year that influenced your decision to go into Gynecology?

SB: Well, Johnny, herein lies the rub. You see I was a bit of a jokester back then, as were my friends. We were always trying to one up each other. It got pretty out of hand at times.

JG: You cad! So you're thinking of leaving the practice for a life of partying? Yuck it up like the old college days? Bally-hooo, heh!

SB: No. That is not the reason. Not at all.

There was an awkward silence, in which Dr. Bristol stared at me with what I can descibe only as pure hatred.

JG: Where were we? Ah, yes. So what was it that lead you to your decision to go into Gynecology?

SB: Like we discussed, I was a jokester and all that... fun loving guy. Well... as far as I can remember... I guess I was immature at the time... I just thought it was really funny to say that I was going to become a Gynecologist.

JG: I'm sorry, did I hear you say that Gynecology is funny?

SB: No, no, no. I was in college, Johnny! You know how college kids are. One night a cute asian girl asked me what my major was... I was seriously wasted... and I was just like 'I'm going to be a P*@&y doctor.'

JG: Oh my--

SB: I know, I know. It snowballed from there. One of my friends overheard my saying it, and for the rest of the night he wouldn't stop telling people 'That's Steve, he's going to be a p*&$y doctor.' And I'll admit, at the time I thought it was fricken hilarious. It just stuck. It made me interesting -- and funny. That's a killer combo, you know? Girls actually liked me for it. They thought I was sensitive. I made up a whole back story about how my mother had an irregularly shaped uterus and that her OB/GYN was the reason that I was alive.

JG: So you did it all for the chicks? So that your friends would think you are funny? That is insane!

SB: Yeah, when I think about it now it, is.

JG: Well, I understand your taking of sabbatical now. Do you feel that your practice will suffer when this knowledge is made public? How will your patients react?

SB: I'm pretty sure this is going to destroy my practice. Do you think you could maybe just forget this whole thing? I'd like to leave my options open.

JG: You are quite a piece of work, Dr. Bristol.

SB: What! I said that I feel bad about all this! Do you now how gross my job is? I've got intimacy issues now! And I've got my employees to think about and there's the mortgage and the car-payments and so many bills. This is really a horrible time for me.

JG: I'm sure it is.

SB: Everything just got out of control.

JG: Why did this not occur to you in the eight years that you were studying?

SB: Jesus! Haven't you been listening? I thought it was funny! My friends thought it was funny! We were assholes okay! Fuck!

And with that, Dr. Bristol abruptly stood up and walked off, ending the interview. He has since, left his practice. He is now living in Bucharest, Romania on a work Visa where he is employed as a bartender at Club Maxx.

What is a Reading Rainbow?

As a youth I took more than one look, and never, to my dismay, found a 'Reading Rainbow' in a book. Those lying scum! They said it was there! One can only wonder how many innocent little children were brought to insanity by their search for the elusive 'Reading Rainbow' like a bunch of miniature treasure hunters in a life consuming pursuit of the Holy Grail. Can you picture a possesed five year old ripping his entire prized Berenstein Bears series to shreds, manically searching the mangled spine for any sign of the multi-colored phenomena? "Mommy! They said it was in a book! It's not here! Where is it?! Ahhhhwaaaaahhhhhhh!"

I would be lying if I said I didn't feel a cosmic sense of well being while listening to the final echoes of the synth-sound heavy RR theme song as it's joined by a soulfoul repetition of the words "...a Reading Rainbow...Reading Rainbow..."

If I had a Myspace page...

In the "who I'd like to meet" section, I would have Carl Gustaf Jung listed.

Why?

Because I would like to punch him right in his goddamn jaw, and say "What does that represent, Carl? Huh, huh? Does that 'spring forth' from something?"
"Of course not" he would say, as "Once the archetypes become conscious they fail to have meaning."

Fucking Carl.

As I continued to beat him, in between "Ow" and "Ahhh" he would probably mutter something about how the physical personification of the animus was quite painful, and that the aggression built into it was what made the beating possible. Marvelous, Carl! Marvelous!

And can you picture the trial? If it would even go that far...

The firey and eloquent prosecutor would point a finger, trembling with passion, in my direction and scream "...and this is the man before you today!" The crowd, enraptured by his sermonous tone, would be affected to the point that they would, themselves, feel guilty.

"If you would please, Carl, explain to the court what transpired that day."

"Yes" he would say, pointing in my direction, "This is the man who punched me in the face."

He would pause, and gulp nervously -- a clear sign that something profound was working its way out of the old CGJ...

And with the crowd captive, he would continue: ".... But as I sit here listening to this... this assassination of character that we civilized persons call a 'trial' I cannot merely proclaim: guilty! Not with all I know, not with all that I've seen." Carl would look down, head in hand and say quietly to himself "Oh, mother, you were right! Damn you, collective unconscious! How you haunt me."

Then, summoning the courage of one-thousand warriors he would somberly say: "You see, my fellow citizens, an indictment of this man is not just an indictment of a single brutal act, committed by a single man. No, this would be an indictment of all of US!

And there would be UPROAR in the crowd as people lept from their seats, with cries of "outrage... blashpeme" clearly audible over the cacophony of vocal rumbling, and shuffling bodies.

"And I, Carl Gustaf Jung, could not and will not, be so brazen and ignorant as to place judgement on all of us! For we are but... but... Humans! Thinking, feeling creatures... Don't you see? We all punched me! Oh... my... MY! Demeter! Gaea!" And in a final plea, not to man, but to something greater and undefined, Carl would stand and shout to the sky: "Why gods? Why have you cursed me? Why?

A voice from the technologically advanced afterlife

Roger Gilman is not a superstitious man. He doesn't believe in ghosts, the luck of a rabbits-foot, crossed-fingers, or the proverbial step-on-a-crack-break-your-momma's back. No, Roger considers himself to be firmly rooted in the physical realm of reality -- a place from which until recently -- he did not often stray. Right now his eyes are red and show lines of worry. He looks tired, and lost. Troubles in the matters of the heart.

"Love'll do things to a man" as he puts it.

Yes, it will Rog'.

Roger began dating Margie Ferris three years ago, a woman he describes as a "Cute little-hippy-type." Since she moved in with Roger twenty-nine months ago, Roger says he'd noticed a softening of some of his rougher edges. "All in all though, I'm still the same dude."

Margie's presence in the home brought two drastically different world views into close proximity, as evidenced by the large three-by-three-foot watercolor painting of a grazing Caribou displayed incongruously on the living room wall.

"She says it's her spirit animal. I'd think a little thing like her would have a bunny or something... oh well... I'll tell you what I'd do... I'd shoot that sonafabitch" said Roger, firmly pointing at the majestic creature. "Right between the goddamn eyes. Good eatin'"

His shrine to NASCAR great Dale Earnhardt remains in its place, towering over the painting in sheer size. Roger made it clear that no matter how much he cares for Margie -- that Number Eight will never move. However, his slightly smaller Al Unser shrine was relegated to the garage to make room for Margie's painting. "Love's about compromise, I guess" he says.

Roger has had some other things on his mind as of late as well. Five months ago, Roger's cousin, Billy Campbell, was shot to death by police after after a botched robbery attempt. "Billy had a lot of problems. Drugs mostly. I'd say they were the root of most of it... boy just couldn't get his act together. He had spirit though, ingenuity. No marketable skills to speak of... no education. For a guy that sat on his ass most of the time he managed to live pretty comfortably... cept that time I kicked the crap out of it for him trying steal my VCR for drug money."

Weekly, Margie would have a group of friends over, where, among other activities of a spiritual nature, Seances would be performed.

"I'd just hang out in the garage. Her and those ladies would be in there doing some weird shit. Burning incense and holding hands and chanting and such. I stayed outside and gave her her space."

Margie recalls the night in question:

"Me and the girls were sitting around the table. We had Pure Moods playing in the background and we were burning some Nag champa. Luanne was downloading a Natal chart on the computer... and I suddenly felt this sense of well being. We were talking about contacting Billy and I said I wasn't sure if it would be right. I know that Roger wouldn't like me doing something like that, and I hardly knew Billy and then it happened...."

Margie said the Natal chart download abrupbtly stopped. "I was in mid-sentence when it happened -- and then the internet cut out all together. The monitor started flickering too. Luanne was really freaked out. We all were. I felt like he was watching over us. I knew he wanted to speak with us. That's when Roger walked in."

"I tried marijuana a time or two, but I was never no junkie." He said, explaining his clear-headed, unadulterated thought process.

"I remember walking into the room for another six-pack and the girls were silent. They looked all freaked out or something."

Luanne Harwood recalls: "We were all starin' at Rog' as he walked in and he was just like 'What the hell's wrong with you girls.' I know that he wasn't into this stuff, so I didn't say anything.

The women were correct in their assumption that Roger would not take well to their activities.

"I seen all that hippy-love-your-brother crap way back. I lived through the sixties, man. I Never took no el-ess-dee. I remember my ol' pal Stu... man this time out there down by highway out there... he was talking bout' ghosts and whatnot. I was like: 'Stu... you gotta pull your head out of your rear my man!'"

"Roger accepted my practices, but I never tried to push them on him. This was different. This had to involve him." Margie recalled, as she took a long drag off of a Virginia Slim.

"I don't know what the hell those women were thinking. In life, that boy didn't know the first damn thing about a computer. I am one-hundred percent sure he didn't know how to turn one of those things on or off. So you tell me: How the hell could a man who didn't know his goddamn urethra from a yew-ess-bee suddenly be a damn computer engineer in death? Stoppin' a down-er-up or whatever-the-fuck load? I don't think so!

The future of Roger and Margie's relationship, is, as of right now, unclear. Margie has been staying with Luanne for the last month, and although still on speaking terms, the couple has yet to really address the issues raised after Margie's investigation into the facts behind what she claimed were "Words directly from Billy himself."

"You know, I honestly think she's fucking crazy. I don't believe a lick of that garbage she spouts out about what she heard from Billy's spirit or ghost of whatever. People can just get so caught up in denial that they start believing their own bullshit. I can't stop loving her though. But I just can't be with her right now, much as it pains me not to have her little incense smellin' head round' here."

More details on just what exactly Margie claims to have uncovered to follow. I can say this one is going to get real interesting, kids.

Ever find yourself contemplating the origins of commonly used terms and phrases?

Probably not. This doesn't make you a bad person.

That being said... I've stumbled upon a bible passage -- yes -- a bible passage (indirectly, on Wikipedia) which may unlock the mysterious origins of one of our most commonly used phrases.

This is not the type of phrase I would expect to find in the bible -- of course, I'm not a biblical scholar. My knowledge of the text is minimal at best. I base my conjecture purely on the context in which the phrase is used (and spelled) today, which in spirit seems to be the polar opposite of the sanctitity attributed to the bible.

Can you imagine a nice family taking turns reading passages to each other after dinner when this one comes up? How would it be explained to the kids?

"My Spirit shall not strive with man forever, because he also is flesh; nevertheless his days shall be one hundred and twenty years." The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of men, and they bore children to them. Those were the mighty men who were of old, men of renown

After reading the passage, the phrase seems ... somehow... more acceptable. I would guess the kids would have some questions. That little deviant, punk Bobby would probably already know about it. But he's 11 years old, and hangs out with those terrible Anderson twins.

Hipsters on Vespas and other small motor-bikes

I almost ran one of these over the other day on Santa Monica boulevard. The rider was a her, I presume, though it can be hard to tell with hipster types, as androgyny is common among them. Making the gender distinction even more difficult was the rider's blantant, un-hip and slavish law abiding manifested in helmet wearing. The helmet did not have a fire breathing dragon on it. She must not have been that hip. Probably a low, to mid-tier level hipster.

One possible reason for the somewhat detached disposition of the hipster is the never ending pursuit of "hipness" i.e, being out there on the edge of cool. This isn't easy. It may also be one of the leading causes of hipster burnout. Not a pretty sight, I might add. I have come up with a simple solution to the stress of being a motor-bike riding hipster. This is a special case though, and not feasible for the normal, non-motor-bike-riding-hipsters. They've got their own problems.

So... I ask you, low to mid-tier motor-bike-riding-hipster: Are you stressed out due to the constant pursuit of edge city? That elusive place of cool whose limits are constantly changing yet at the same time, ironically, stodgy?

Can you imagine how your standing in your subset of hipster would shoot skyward had I ran you over? When discussing your ironically hip means of transportation over an American Spirit, it is likely that the subject of near hits and misses comes up often. Surviving a life threatening accident always makes one more interesting. I know this, hipsters know this.

Imagine the time saved. No more searching for obscure Norwiegan bands circa eighty-six. It just wouldn't be important after you've survived a life threatening crash, you'd be solidly cool -- and you'd have a story! Of course you would still be tooling around on that Hog! A little blood wouldn't detract the tragically hip from traveling the open road in a style that is on that strange border or hip and weird. And now with the scars! Think of the new trend! Instead of five-foot tall girl or token black guy as essential group members, it could become armless hipster! Or helmet wearing hipster (due to head trauma induced vertigo!).

In your mind you would now know that you are not only cool enough, but also tough enough to run with The Stooges when they were The Stooges.

Peace of mind is not easy to find... but now it's just a crash away.

Extraordinary 16 year old graduates High School 2 years early

Joshua Green is not your typical 16 year old. While most kids his age are deeply involved with their myspace pages, the latest gossip, and football games -- Joshua finds himself out in the real world. And while he may not yet be a real "adult," Joshua was recently bestowed with an honor that most grown-ups likely dream about, especially as middle age creeps up and they refelct back on opportunities not taken, and dreams long since dead.

The faculty and staff of Middle Odessa High School recently decided mid semester, that they could no longer give Joshua anything of value, and he was awarded a high school diploma two and a half years shy of his natural date of graduation. This was not due to any outstanding academic achievement, Joshua actually rarely attended classes -- he only completed an average of about 10% of his classwork, and he can barealy read -- but none the less he was allowed to graduate early, because, he is, as the principal ofMiddle Odessa High Gary Shuler says "Too cool for school."

Principal Shuler recalls a fourteen year old Joshua as a freshman as " Cocky, a bit arrogant" But also stated that he really admired him.

"Joshua stood up for what he believed in. It didn't matter that what he believed in was pounding beers on the football field during first period, or smoking in the boys room. Those really aren't important things in the long run. But he did it with such style. A real eff the man attitude, you know?"

When I asked Principal Shuler how he could appreciate Joshua's "eff the man" attitude, when he himself, is in fact "the man" he responded "This goes beyond the normal faculty student thing. I mean, I consider myself a "cool principal" anyway. Josh just transended all that. He reminds me of myself at that age. Sure, I didn't have the chisseled good looks, or devil may care attitude and I hadn't banged the whole Junior Varsity cheer squad, but it was in there, that attitude. I think he's just an inspiration."

Apparently the Drama club felt this way also. Terri Contreras, the faculty advisor for the Drama Club recalls how she first met Josh.

"I was walking to my car to pick something up for third period, and Josh was leaning on my car, smoking a cigarette he had rolled himself. The teacher in me knew that I had to discipline him, but he was just so... so James Dean. He looked at me as I approached with a real dismissive look -- and it made me nervous! I can't beleive I'm telling you this! Here I am a thirty nine year old woman getting nervous over a fifteen year old." Terri's face was turning a bit red. A slight smile crept up her face as she continued,

"I asked him very sternly to get off my car" she said, shaking her head with a smile, remebering the moment with the nostalgia usually reserved for when one discusses the wild times of their youth.

"Then he said with that voice of his 'Shut up bitch' Then he dropped the cigarette and sauntered away. Joshua doesn't walk. He saunters." she said, in an almost sexual way.

Terri continued on saying this exchange inspired her to bring the idea of staging "Rebel Without a Cause" at the school with Josh in the role that James Dean played.

"The drama students were very excited about this. Unfortunately, when we asked Josh about it he said that it was really gay, and that he would never do it. Then he spit at me."

Not one to take no for an answer, and fully aware of the fact that Josh was quite simply a classic character -- one that needed to be immortalized in some form of art -- she decided to have a few of her students -- that were aspiring writers -- try to get closer to Josh so that they could gather enough information to write a play about him.

This proved very difficult.

"I had three students, they weren't following him exactly, but they had classes with him, so I knew it would be easy for them to capture his essence. "

One of them was fifteen year old Sherry Madison. Sherry had remedial math with Joshua, and sat right behind him in class. She was a shy girl, cute, though she did little to showcase her looks. Terri recalls "Sherry was really nervous about it, but she knew that his story had to be told, so she soldiered on. She was really brave. I wish she was still around but, you know things happen to kids."

Apparently Joshua took a liking to Sherry also. Not in public at least -- where he could often be seen berating her, or ripping up her homework in class -- but he did allow her to come to visit him in his basement room at his father's house. This is where their interviews took place.

Terry said it was about three months later that Sherry started showing signs of pregnancy. She came from a very strict Catholic family, so as you would imagine, her parents were not at all pleased. The last anyone has heard of her, she was at a boarding school in New Hampshire. Most likely she had an abortion. Terry says she felt sorry for the girl, but can understand what happend to her because "There is just something really appealing about Josh." Terri not knowing for sure whether or not Sherry had an abortion claimed to be curious as to what Joshua's child would look like. "Probably really hansome" she said.

The second writer Terri put on the Job was seriously beaten by Josh. One student who witnessed the brutal fracus remembers Josh shouting "Stop following me you fag" as he pummeled poor Timothy Grayson. No charges were filed in the beating.

It seems that Joshua's sway doesn't end at the school parking lot. Detective Harold Mancini who was assigned to the case stated that "Joshua felt that he was being stalked by this boy. If we had known about this earlier, we possibly could have prevented it, but boys will be boys you know. If we can take anything from this really, its that you shouldn't mess with Joshua Green. He's a real stand up kid."

In trying to get to the bottom of what it was the made Josh "too cool for school" I attempted to interview his father, Bill Green. Bill is an ex-Navy fighter pilot turned succesful real estate agent. He denied my request for an interview. A neighbor who requested anonymity out of fear that Joshua would beat up her daughter if her name was printed in this article, spoke of Josh's mother as one possible reason that he is so badass.

"She was real pretty, a stunner. She was a flight attendant. Bill met her when he was flying down to Cabo for one of those wild weekends of his. Josh was concieved at 35,000 feet over the Sea of Cortez. They got married the next day in a little village outside of Cabo. But those two, they had the gypsy gene. They were ramblers. It would have never worked out. I don't think Josh sees her much.

This infomation made sense, as Josh sometimes looked to older women to satisfy his needs. Two female teachers have been "suspended indeffinitely" over supposed trysts with Josh. Many faculty and students declined to speak on the subject out of fear of Josh. When I asked Principal Shuler how he felt about the fear that Josh struck in the students he said "Law an order among the kids is a tough thing to achieve. Josh is like the constition around here. I really wish I could know his secret. If I could bottle it I'd be a rich man."

Joshua wouldn't speak to me, except for a few choice expletives, so it is unclear exactly what he will do now that he is out of school. The ever romantic drama advisor thinks he is going to hit the road.

"Those eyes of his. They say still water run deep. I think he's going to see the world. He could probably be a model or something. I wouldn't be surprised if I open a magazine soon and see him modeling for Versace. Hopfully he'll remember us"

Not likely it seems. Joshua was a bit of a graffiti artist. He would often scrawl on the wall or lockers of his alma mater things like 'This school and everyone in it are total fags" or "Fuck this place in the ass" or even "Green was here"

Jealousy was a common emotion elicited by Joshua in the other boys at the school. Especially the Juniors and Seniors. Joshua has in his High School career stolen the girlfriends of the following: captain of the football team (JV and Varsity), homecoming king, ASB president, captain of Varsity Women's Softball, and most famously the Varsity baseball coach.

The contraversy surrounding this was possibly Joshua's most famous exploit, not only for the fact that he stold an adult man's companion, but of what it unearthed. The coach's girlfriend was a minor. She was seventeen at the time of their relationship. The coach, who cannot be named here for legal reasons, was quite upset at having been upstaged by the student. Letting his passion got the best of him, he confronted Joshua during a baseball game. Joshua, was of course, not at the game as a spectator, but just hanging out and smoking his hand rolled cigarettes -- in spite of the obviously places sign stating that tobacco use was prohibited within one mile of the school.

The public confrontation was witnessed by nearly 100 spectators. Though it is surely a horrendous offense, consorting with a minor, one would think that the coach would have excercised some degree of self preservation and at least waited for a more private moment when confronting Josh. One student who wishes to remain anonymous remembers Joshua yelling out

" I didn't even like that bitch. She was all up on my shit man. She came to me"

Principal Shuler, who broke up the school yard scuffle says "It was an unfortunate event for all involved. If only Josh could contain his animal like attraction abilities, quite a few lives could have been salvaged. Lives have been ruined. The whole thing reminded of Paris and Menelaus from the Odyssey, kind of."

Despite of this Josh was recently awarded a place in the Middle Odessa High School hall of fame where he will sit immortally with other alumni of note such as the inventor of Clear Pepsi and Jimmy Mills, who runs a local car dealer ship. A source close to Joshua says that he calls the honor "So fucking lame" and "Total bullshit."

Some may disagree with his methods, and his Iron Fist mentality, but can anyone really deny that he is at his core, a man in full, one that knows what he wants at any one moment. For all of the good and bad that Joshua has done at the school; all the lives he has affected both postitively and negatively, the hearts and noses he has broken -- there is something above all of that, small and universal at the same time -- that we can all take away from young Joshua. It is not easy to gain the respect of and entire staff of Educators, and it is not easy to navigate the shark filled waters of a High School campus. Joshua Green did this with an ease of grace. He is the dream, he is the personification of what we all hope to be. Free, dangerous, beautiful. Time may fade his influence on Middle Odessa High School -- but for now, at least, it is impossible to walk down the hallway and not see students of all grade levels attempting to affect the Joshua Green swagger, and his devil may care attitude. You can practically hold the sorrow in the hearts of all of the women, young and old, of Middle Odessa High left in his abscence. And that's what we all want deep down isn't it? T be respected, to be cool, to be at the forefront of a fleeting time and place... I salute you Joshua Green, you are truly "Too Cool for School."

What are they holding on to?

The clothes you wear, that you know puts you at the forefront of style and forever -- you are there. baby, you are riding that wave. You just don't know it yet. Would you still exist if the club's multi colored flashing lights that bounce in time with thumping music didn't reflect off your glittery make up and shiny shirt?

There is something inside all of us, don't fight it, babe. The Iraqi refugee trudging through the mountains with nothing to drink but his own piss, and nothing to eat but grass knows it. But at least you got style. We're all gonna die sometime. Even you. And your immortal cool, purchased, of course, will not save you. It's nature you simple being. Simple, simple, simple. This battle has been fought before, and on a much greater scale, with a higher purpose. Don't worry if you can't comprehend it.

You're up on the latest causes. That peace sign that you drop... are you against the war, or did it just come to you one night in a vision of yourself afire? There are just a few style makers, friend. The rest, are just stlye takers. It's all very simple under the lights isn't it?

Cover that hole. It's just too dark and deep to look at now. The washed out looks and wrinkled skin will come someday, and a dark cloud will be with it. It may not be apparent on the surface. Maybe you will beat your child. Maybe you will sleep around and nothing will be good enough, because that hole goes on forever.

Once the book is closed it cannot be opened again. But at least, for a moment, you were able to buy some style.

The day we almost lost a saint

It was July 15 1989. Seattle, Washington. In the rainy Northwest town things were brewing that would change the face of technology and music worldwide. But on this day the city's most detrimental force was not economic or musical. This was something devious, which threatend the face of peace and goodwill of our times. It was not widely publicized, and is hardly spoken of today. This was the day that the earth nearly lost one of its most caring and beloved -- "The Saint of the Gutters," Mother Teresa.

Though she had faced innumerable atrocites with great power of will -- famine, genocide -- and managed to remain faithful in her cause of helping the downtrodden of the world, it was this day that a chink in the saintly armour was found. It was not an evil warlord who exposed this, it was not innocent bloodshed. The events of this day though, rocked the very core of her beliefs.

Mother Teresa was in Washington speaking to a group that had donated a substantial sum of money to her cause. After her speaking engagement she was invited by the CEO of one the organizations to visit his company's Seattle location.

And so it was, Mother Teresa visited a Costco wholesale store at the height of rush hour on a Saturday, and saw a part of human nature that nearly caused her to stop helping others out of sheer disgust for the human race.

At first, she was taken by the sheer size of the Costco store. She had never seen such a place. Endless isles filled with oversized portions of sundried tomatoes and forty five pound bags of chips. "I hope all people will someday be able to get sustenance with such ease" she said.

As she continued through the store, she passed an elderly Latina woman behind a porable kiosk who asked her, "Sample?" Teresa graciously excepted a bite sized piece of microwaveable Southwest Burrito from the woman. She bit into it and smiled, enjoying the spicy interplay of meat, cheese, and salsa.

It was at this time that thirty five year old Seattle resident William Curry shouted out from down the isle "Stacy! They got those burritos!" Stacy was William's wife, also thirty five. She was a stout woman, with a short mop of blond hair and thick coke bottle glasses that sat innocently on her plump, cherubic face.

Excited by the opportunity of trying one of "those burritos" Stacy rushed over, with her three children: Daniel, Carly, and Gary. Gary was a rambunctios little tot, and at five he had not yet lost his baby fat. He looked like a miniature version of George Wendt -- "Norm" from the long running television show "Cheers"

Arriving at the sample desk where Teresa was still enjoying her sample, he excitedly pushed her out of the way in order to get a taste. Stacy, not yet noticing the exotic head covering worn by Teresa said "Watch out for..." then noticing what she viewed as "stange clothing" retracted her statement with a look of dismissal for this "foreigner". Gary hustled and josteld his was past Teresa, knocking her sample from her hand. She just smiled, expecting an apology from the child, but none came. Finished with her sample she and her tour group moved on through the store, but not before she smiled at William and Stacy. "Children" she said to them with a smile. They stared back coldly, and pushed their cart away.

Checking out the selection of produce in the temperature controlled room nearly brought tears to the Saint's eyes. She stood in front of a pallete of eggplant in quiet refelction. One would guess, that at this moment, her thoughts drifted to the less fortunate of the world, and how she wished they had all that was before her.

Her moment of quiet reflection was interrupted by a sudden smash in the leg by an over sized shopping cart driven by a permed twenty something who rudely blurted out "Excuse me" and was off with a hiss. Teresa smiled in her saintly way, understanding that people get upset for one reason or another at times. Not at all upset.

THe Meat Isle! The glorious meat selection! She had never seen such oppulence! She casually fingered racks of lamb and ground beef, calculating how many children she could feed with all that lay before her back in Tel Aviv... then BUMP. She is nailed again by a cart. "Goddam people" shouted Tim Beal. Teresa looked at him curiously. She could not understand his outburst. He looked nice enough, and his cart was full of food and household items. What could cause his this anger?

"Why is he so unhappy" She wondered.

She took a step back from the refrigerated meat display into the vast space around her, now viewing the store in its enormous entirety. She walked on a bit, towards a display of power washers. She didn't know what the strange contraption was. She found her path a rough one, as people didn't seem to see her. She was bumped, and pushed. Looking around for signs of humanity or apology from the offending parties, she recieved nothing. She gazed upwards, the thoughts of others leaving her as she took it all in.

It's a massive space, large enough to fit several commerical jets, packed to its gills with weekend shoppers of all sorts, hungry and out for a deal. Carts ramming each other, aloof faces, women admiring khakis for their husbands, cheese platters, and fresh sea bass. It reminded her of a weekend bazaar in Calcutta, minus the smell and laughter.

She began to look closer at the shoppers faces, she saw a hunger, a certain trait that she had seen before. Not one of starvation, though. She had seen it in warzones throughout the the world. The look she recognized was, what she saw as evil. Not outwardly evil in the sense of a warlord who would casually mow down a village with automatic weapons without blinking -- but the face with the absence of understanding and....

BAM! She is rudley woken from her musing by another Cadillac sized cart captained by a young girl slamming into her thigh. The child's mother yelling. Suddenly Teresa begins to feel weary, hot, sick. She is lost in a flood of people fighting for bargains. Bumping, fighting, not paying attention to anything but the prices. Oh, the prices! And she is completely lost in the swirl == a lone ship in an ocean of autonomous machines. And she faints.

When she finally comes to, everying is silent. Most of the store stopped -- staring in the direction of Teresa. She was screaming as she was passed out. As I lent a hand fanning her I couldn't help but wonder: Was it her screaming? Or was it the greater force inside of her that belongs to an even greater one?

Teresa spent the next two weeks in isolation. Her closest confidants knew nothing of the experience at Costco. For me though, being there, then later hearing about her isolation and crisis of faith, I am certain that it was the flipside of everything that she stands for, ugly and frothing, that she saw that day that caused her to go into isolation and nearly discontinue helping the people of the world.

She has since passed on, and achieved well deserved Sainthood. She will forever be remembered for her service to humanity. This was by no means an ordinary woman. But on this day, all of that was nearly lost, erased. Though we will likely never know exactly what is was that she was thinking in the weeks after her experience, we can all live what brought her to that point first hand. All it takes is a free Saturday afternoon and a small monthly fee. God Bless Mother T.

Memories of a Feminazi

Her beady little eyes lit up with contempt that said "damn this male dominated society." To her, I was the personification of what she perceived to be the greatest, most pervasive ill of the world at large.

She let out a whiny little huff as she handed me back the signed paper. I'm sure she wanted to say something like "Take your underhanded, treachererous ways of subverting my authority using methods which develop naturally in the horribly misguided minds of youths raised in male dominated society... just the whole phallic thing and shove..." She caught herself and stopped.

She grew even more angry at the fact that I had created such emotions in her that she would almost let somthing like that slip from her mouth. But it was obvious this feminazi wouldn't be telling me to shove my way of doing things anywhere -- you know why? Cuz that is so male centric. And she is a feminazi. She was very pissed off at herself for thinking within those confines. But it was reflected back at me.

"You know, you're getting away with this now... but don't expect to do very well out there with this kind of dealing."

"I told you. I felt unfomfortable in your classroom. I felt like I was being attacked."

Rage. Fire. Beadier eyes. The beadiest eyes. I did feel uncomfortable in Women's Studies 102. It was a fucking horrible idea to take that as a humanities elective. I did not expect it to be a difficult class; I did expect to gain some sort of new perspective about something... but it was just a bunch of wildabeasts over the age 47 (*editors note* We apologize to all of our female readers over the age of 47 who are college freshmen; no offense really) who were still college freshmen bitching about things. I wanted to tell them to grow a pair. I'm sure that would have went off famously.

I really shouldn't have been exposed to that kind of shit at age 21. But I had to take care of biz. It was fucking serious, man. And when things are serious... you must act. Sometimes.

Looking back, I'd say it was my love of the drink and the good old belly laugh that brought me to this woman's office that day. The actual reason was to get that fucking class dropped off my transcripts before the evil dean could wise up to my shananigans....