Another dense paragraph from Noam Chomsky that you will no doubt skip over and I don't blame you.

Today I sent off another graduate school application, and to mark the occasion I thought I'd share some of Noam Chomsky's thoughts on academia. (Why not my own thoughts on academia? Because I am lazy.)
This particular chunk is taken from the middle of a conversation in which a woman is asking Mr. Chomsky to comment on the "anti-intellectual" nature of our culture.

The fact is that if you're at a university, you're very privileged. For one thing, contrary to what a lot of people say, you don't have to work all that hard. And you control your own work-- I mean, maybe you decide to work eighty hours a week, but you decide which eighty hours. That makes a tremendous difference: it's one of the few domains where you control your own work. And furthermore, you have a lot of resources-- you've got training, you know how to use a library, you see ads for the books so you know which books are probably worth reading, you know there are declassified documents because you learned that in school somewhere, and you know how to find them because you know how to use a reference library. And that collection of skills and privileges gives you access to a lot of information.
But it has nothing to do with being "intellectual": there are plenty of people in the universities who have all of this stuff, and use all of these things, and they do clerical work... That's in fact most of the scholarship in these fields-- take a look at the monographs sometime, there's not a thought in people's heads. I think there's less real intellectual work going on in a lot of university departments than there is in trying to figure out what's the matter with my car, which requires some creativity.

Roadtrip / Irrational Anger

On Christmas Day my family drove down to Chesapeake to visit our frail old viper of a grandmother. About an hour into the drive my dad yelled "GODDAMNIT!" I had zoned out listening to music, and quickly looked for the car that had cut him off. No car was there, and that scared me.
"What's wrong Dad? Are you okay? Is there something wrong with the car?"
"No, it was just that fucking Hardee's back there."
Puzzled, I look at Sarah, who was ignoring us.
"You mean you hate Hardee's so bad that the sight of one on the side of the road makes you yell?"
"Well I do like their breakfasts, but I wouldn't be caught dead eating their hamburgers. Jesus."

About a year ago on McSweeney's I read a girl's list of things that made her father mad. I liked this, and of course imitated it.

Things My Father Doesn't Like and Will Discuss at Length.
-Hardee's (hamburgers not breakfast sandwichs)
-San Francisco Giants star outfielder Barry Bonds
-Philip Glass
-Oprah.
-Anything healthy.
-The new priest at his old church, who he calls "the Rectum".
- E.T.
-Cramped aisles at the grocery store
-The inferiority of our local Burger King to Burger King franchises in other parts of town
-The Richmond Times-Dispatch
-Texas

On the way home from Chesapeake my dad was speeding, and a cop pulled us over. I won't detail the dialogue, but the officer addressed my father like he was talking to a retarded eight-year-old. As he was writing the ticket he was called away to do something more important.
"I have somewhere more important to be now so I can't write you a ticket," he told us, handing back the license and registration. "Try fifty-five for a change. Merry Christmas."
My dad was relieved, but I was angry, too angry for someone who hadn't received a ticket, who, for that matter, hadn't even been driving.
"Man, FUCK that guy," I yelled once the windows were up and were driving again.
"Andy," said dad, "it's nice of you to take up for me, but calm down a little, okay? I'm just glad he didn't write a ticket."
"Yeah he didn't, but he WANTED TO, the condescending power-crazy motherfucker."

Things I Don't Like and Will Discuss at Length.
-Cops

Jacob Pepper-- totally sweet dude

Imagine if you will a very tall, very skinny young man wearing dark rimmed glasses, an Army coat, and some fingerless gloves with skeleton hands printed on them. Imagine that he has a mohawk and is laughing really hard and going "OH MAN! THAT'S SO TOTALLY SWEET!"
The person you are imagining is named Jacob Pepper and he is in charge of magazines at my store. He is one of the most endearing people I have ever met. My friend Jon described it best I think when he said that, "Jacob always acts like a puppy who just discovered that he's got a tail. He's like, 'Oh sweet man, look at my awesome tail!'"

Two brief stories to give you a better idea of what he's like:

On election day, Jacob came into the receiving room excited and wanted to know if anyone had seen a picture of John Kerry when he was in his twenties. Everyone had.
"Oh man," said Jacob, "he looked like a TOTALLY SWEET DUDE!"

Today at work Tim Kaine, the Lieutenant Governor of Virginia, came in to do some Christmas shopping. Jacob was at the cash registers to ring him up, and had absolutely no idea who he was. As Jacob put his books into a shopping bag a passerby wished Mr. Kaine luck, which confused Jacob a little.
"Luck with what?"
"Oh," said Mr. Kaine, "I'm the Democratic candidate for Governor this year."
"DUDE!" said Jacob, "THAT'S TOTALLY AWESOME!"

"But what if he has to pee?"

When I was little I had this best friend Danny who lived across the street from me. We did lots of stuff together: turned over cinder blocks to look at the bugs underneath, played hide and seek with Bob the navy Seal who lived down the street (Bob would climb twenty feet up into the trees and stay there perfectly still for thirty minutes), tried to ride his Weinmariner Gunther, and Danny watched his sister Bevin knock my front teeth out during a game of Uno. I told him about Santa Claus, and he told me about sex.
Danny telling me about sex is a good story, one that I will relate here for those who haven't heard it already.

One morning I went across the street to visit Danny.
"Hello Mrs. Richardson," I said to Danny's mother when she answered the door. "Can Danny play?"
"Sure Andy, come on in. Him and Mary are up in his room."
So I went upstairs and knocked on Danny's bedroom door, which was locked.
"Danny?"
"Go away."
"Why?"
"Me and Mary are having sex."
"Oh. Okay."
So I went back downstairs.
"Bye Mrs. Richardson!" I called.
"Seeya Andy!" she called back.

I went back home and sat down in front of the television, where my mother found me soon after.
"Andy, what are you doing back? Weren't you going over to Danny's?"
"I did, but he's busy."
"Busy?"
"Yeah, him and Mary are having sex."
"I doubt that very much."
Six year olds get indignant easily. "No, he is! Really, he told me."
"Do you know what sex is Andy?"
So actually my mother told me about sex, but Danny was the first person I heard say the word.

The next day I told Danny all about sex, and of course he was shocked. It turns out that one night Mrs. Richardson, who had divorced Mr. Richardson not long before, brought a man home to spend the night. The morning after, when Danny banged on the door demanding to know when she would get up, she told him,
"Go away! We're having sex!"
"What's that?" asked Danny.
"It's what boys and girls do when they're alone together."
So naturally, when Mary came to visit Danny told her about it, and they had sex on the floor of his closet. That is to say, they sat there quietly and felt grown-up.
"It was kind of boring," Danny told me later of his first time. "Mary kept asking when we could do something else, but I kept saying we hadn't been doing it long enough. Then she got mad and we watched You Can't Do That On Television."

Sandwiches as a Means of Personal Expression

Yesterday while I was putting off working on my graduate school applications I watched the two hour extravaganza of baseless prediction and mindless enthusiasm that is ESPN's Sunday NFL Countdown. One featured story this Sunday was Chris Berman's trip to Pittsburgh, where he visited a restaurant named Peppi's. Peppi's serves a sandwich named for Pittsburgh's breakout rookie quarterback Ben Roethlisberger, a sandwich designed specifically to embody the qualities of the athlete for which it was named.
A cook at Peppi's explained the "Roethlisberger" in detail--
"Basically we wanted something big and beefy. So we've got your steak. And then we added scrambled eggs, because Roethlisberger is a good scrambler. And then we top it off with American cheese, because he's an All-American."

This reminded me of my friend Brendan, who used to make sandwiches for a restaurant called Belle Kuisine. One day when the management was otherwise occupied they asked Brendan to come up with a "sandwich of the day." Brendan, not wanting to worry about making a new sandwich, invented the "Brendan."
To make a "Brendan," first toast a croissant. Then spread crunchy peanut butter on each half. Then spread honey on one side and mustard on the other. Finally, put exactly 5 pepperoncinis on the bottom half, put the two halves together and serve.
Two people ordered this, and Brendan made it for them. There were no complaints.
I like to imagine Brendan preparing his sandwich and explaining to Chris Berman why each ingredient is added.
"Then we toast the croissant, cause you know, I'm sophisticated, and also sort of crusty and hard to get to know. Then we put on the peanut butter, cause its so simple and hearty, the way I am. The honey's too obvious to comment on. The mustard and the pepperoncinis are the important part, they're what make it a Brendan. They give it my characteristic 'bite.' When you sink your teeth into my sandwich and make this face like, 'Ew damn, what the hell is that?!', that's when you know you've got a 'Brendan!'"

Jovial Tibetan Retard

Back in August my journal hit a dry patch. I couldn't think of anything good to write, I became more dissatisfied with what I was posting, and for the months of September and October I hardly posted anything.
On election night, in a brief lull between fits of sobbing, I decided to make a brief post about my unhappiness. I made several more posts of a political nature that week, and was thrilled to see people begin commenting regularly on my posts. Some people wrote to say they agreed with me. A douchebag named JTR wrote to tell me he didn't want me to argue until I looked up the facts (I still haven't looked them up JTR! Not cause I'm lazy, there's just a lot of them.). A co-worker of mine made reference to this awesome impression he does of Marlon Brando at work all the time (Luck be a lady tonight! Sing with me Larry! No, you're off tempo.).
So I really like comments. I have thought that maybe the key to getting comments was posting entries of a political nature, but I don't want to further offend my Republican friends, several of whom are still pissed at me after I claimed that I wouldn't be friends with them anymore. Also, I've let the more political part of me get a little numb since the election, something I remember happening in 2000 as well.
So, because I don't feel up to being angry about the assfucking the working class is receiving from the Republican party (the working class doesn't appear to be angry, why should I?), I will merely say that I like comments, and would probably enjoy it if you wrote one. To leave a comment, click on the little link that says "comment." Remember, it's more fun if you leave your name! Don't be a chickenshit and write initials like JTR for me to guess at (Jive Turkey Rapist? Jiggly Tiger Rectum?).

Happy Life Day

Did You Know?
In December 1978, a George Lucas approved "Star Wars Holiday Special" aired on CBS. I read about it today in an article posted on the Internet Movie Database.

Here's the article:
Moviemaker George Lucas wants his first Star Wars sequel banned, as he is so disappointed with its quality. The one-off, two-hour-long The Star Wars Holiday Special was originally screened on the CBS network in 1978 and tells the story of Chewbacca's journey home with Hans Solo to celebrate Life Day with his family. During the course of the much-maligned movie, Carrie Fisher's beautiful Leia is seen reducing Hans Solo and Luke Skywalker to tears with a song [a song apparently based on the movie's opening theme]. A contributor on the Star Wars website comments, "The Holiday Special has always been the red-headed step child of the Star Wars family." While a source at LucasFilm adds, "The Holiday Special was the biggest fuck-up ever. The Force was definitely not with Mr. Lucas the day that doozy was born."

Also, it featured Bea Arthur. From the Golden Girls. Bea Arthur.

He shall speak peace unto the Vegan

For Thanksgiving dinner my sister and father and I drove two hours to visit my Grandmother in Chesapeake.
"Pick a nice restaurant," we told her, "the sky's the limit!"
So Grandma picked a place called the Founder's Inn.
It turns out that the Founder's Inn is owned and operated by Pat Robertson.
I was unhappy that my father's $150 was going to such a person, as I'm sure he was, but the restaurant was actually very nice. The waitress didn't try to share the good news with us, and the food was no less delicious for the proprietor's craziness. There was a large buffet, with normal Thanksgiving food like stuffing, and also less common things like oysters, which I tried and liked. There was a bit of a line, but Grandma and I both enjoyed the buffet thoroughly. Dad enjoyed it a little less, because it was overpriced and he was paying. Sarah enjoyed it not at all, because she is a vegan.

We knew this ahead of time, of course. Dad got a copy of the menu in advance to make sure it was vegan-friendly.
"Look, succotash. Mashed potatoes, stuffing, salad. This should be fine right?"
Not being vegans, or even vegetarians, neither of us thought about things like chicken stock in the succotash, or cheese in the salad.
These things leapt out at Sarah though, who sat down after her first trip through the line with a plate of fruit and two rolls. My Grandmother, who was not paying, began whining and complaining about how if we were being charged such a large sum Sarah ought to have something more substantial to eat.
"No, don't worry about it," said Sarah. "I'm used to places like this never having anything for me. If we told them I was vegan they wouldn't even know what that meant. I'll eat something later."
But Grandma wouldn't shut up, and I tried to calm her down.
"Grandma, Sarah's used to this, don't worry. It's alright."
"Sure, it's alright for you," she said, and got up to get herself a plate of free roast beef and mashed potatoes. Partly for Sarah, partly for Grandma, I went and asked a server if they could make something vegan for my sister.
"She's a vegan, so no animal products. No meat, no milk, no butter, no cheese."
"What about eggs?"
"Nope."
"Chef Gerald, this is Dave, do you copy?" the man said into his walkie-talkie. "We've got a situation here with a guest who can't eat any meat or dairy. Yeah. I know. Could we do something for her?"
Ten minutes later the nice man brought my sister a plate of over-seasoned asparagus and charred peppers. Grandma, Dad and I all beamed at Sarah.
"Look at that!"
"That looks great!"
"How wonderful!"
The man smiled and wished us a Happy Thanksgiving, glad, in the spirit of the season, to have humored a hippie freak. My Grandmother finally stopped complaining about how Sarah had nothing to eat and began complaining that our cousin had married a Mexican. Sarah pretended to like her food. "It's awfully salty," she frowned, but, noticing that we were frowning back, added, "but I really like it!"

Who Needs Personal Experiences?

Just now I was looking at old blog posts, as I do from time to time, and I saw an old post where I made brief mention of a hilarious story about my friend's roommate's ex-boyfriend.
"Shit," I thought, "I shouldn't throw away such a good story like that!
Unfortunately, I'm not part of the story. I only have a loose connection to the people involved; the ex-boyfriend in question I have never met, I don't even know his name. So, if you like you may call what follows fiction. Or, if you like the whole "I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT REALLY HAPPENED!" aspect of things, you can think of it as creative non-fiction. I hope I don't distort things too badly.

My friend's roommate, we'll call her Amy for the sake of her privacy, enrolled in a local community college. She already had a teaching job with a provisional license, and needed to take classes to get a permanent one. At one of these classes she met a young man, whom we'll call Doug because we don't know his name.
Doug is apparently a looker. We may assume this to be true because he paid for college with money he earned modeling. Doug is also, at the age of 28 (or something like that), a self-made millionaire. I don't know exactly what the idea was, but he came up with something good when he was about 23, and he made literally a million dollars off of it. Having earned enough money to last him the rest of his life, Doug decided to give back to the community by becoming a public school teacher. Yes, really. He's attractive, rich, and has a social conscience. Furthermore, and I have to go on Amy's word for this one, he's a nice guy. Considerate, good at conversation, a good listener. The word charming was used.
Amy was naturally smitten, and apparently he liked her too. They went on a series of dates, and after a while began having sex. Healthy, normal, consensual sex. Then one of Amy's ex-boyfriends came back to town, and she decided she still had feelings for him. She told Doug she couldn't see him any more, and he was sad, but not in a way that was creepy. He didn't stalk her, or send her anything disturbing in the mail, or even give her dirty looks in class.
Time went by. The class ended, and Amy and Doug went their seperate ways. After a few months he called her up.
"Hey, I haven't seen you in a while. Let's have dinner, not a date, just to catch up."
So Amy said sure. Why not? Catching up sounded nice.
She met him at the restaurant, and they got a table. The waitress came with their drinks and took their order. Amy told Doug about her teaching, Doug told Amy about whatever it is Doug was up to. Then the conversation took a strange turn toward the confessional.
"Do you know what I always wanted you to do with you, but never had the courage to ask for?"
"Uhm, no, what's that?"
"I wish you had shit on me."
"WHAT?"
"Oh not like I'd eat it or anything gross. Just you know, have you smear it around on my chest."
That was not all he had to confess. This was but the springboard into a whole list of bizarre sexual fetishes covered over dinner, ranging from misogynistic Japanese porn and butt plugs to the difficulties of getting semen out of his dog's fur.
Amy went straight home from dinner and told her roommate, who in turn told me several weeks later over the phone.
"What?" I said, "What a great story! I'm going to casually refer to that in my blog and never go into any detail, until six months later when, motivated by a lack of material, I decide to throw caution to the wind and play someone else's embarassing story for laughs!"

An Analysis of Sarah's Mathematical Relationship to Condoleeza Rice

About six months back I wrote an entry on my sister's blog, which she stopped updating soon after. I just found it again, and liked it enough that I wanted to reprint it. It's a total waste of your time, but only about thirty seconds of it.

Sarah likes drugs and animals. She believes things that she reads when they support what she already believes. She is better than Condoleeza Rice. The previous statements can be rephrased as the equation:
Sarah + animals/marijuana > Condoleeza Rice
(it's harder to express the part about believing what she reads mathematically. you probably need calculus or some shit for that.)

Condoleeza Rice looks like vomit and I hope she dies. Either that or Ariel Sharon gets her pregnant and she is forced to resign in shame, and their little Jewish mulato baby grows up to one day end world hunger and create a race of super-cats who talk and cook elaborate French food.

Bounty Hunter of the Marvelous

One Friday afternoon in college I came home to find the following on my dry-erase board:
"Andrew- Dr. Blakemore called. He wants your presentation on solidarity maps ready for Monday."
I entered the room, passed my roommate Clay working at his computer, and went over to my bed to put down the books I was carrying. I started doing standard mid-afternoon things- took shoes off, opened a coke, began playing Diablo II.
"Did you see that Dr. Blakemore called?" asked Clay after a few minutes.
"Yeah. Did he say anything else?"
"No, just that your presentation on solidarity maps was due Monday."
"Clay, what's a solidarity map?"
"I dunno man, you're the one taking-- what is it?"
"European Diplomatic History from 1870 to present."
"Yeah, you're taking it, so you should know. Anyway, you better know by Monday."
"Uh huh."
At this point I got to a hard part in Diablo II, and I stopped talking. Of course, that Monday I didn't make any such presentation. That's because Dr. Blakemore never called. For that matter, solidarity maps don't exist; Clay made them up. I knew this when I read it on the board, and decided to play along.

A couple of weeks later I was sitting at my computer when Clay came in, carrying a laundry basket he had taken home.
"Hi," he said. "I e-mailed Dr. Blakemore for you."
"What?"
"Yeah, to see if solidarity maps would be on the exam."
"No you didn't."
"Of course I did, I wanted you to be prepared. Not like with your presentation."
"Oh bullshit. This isn't funny."
"Okay, whatever."
A few minutes went by, and I started to feel a little nervous.
"You didn't really e-mail him, did you?"
"Yes, I really did."
"Can I have some kind of proof?"
"I could forward you his reply."
"HE REPLIED??"

The e-mail read:
Dr. Blakemore-
Will solidarity maps be covered on the final exam?
Sincerely,
Andrew

Below was the reply:
Andrew-
I have no idea what you are talking about.
Sincerely,
P. Blakemore

I screamed at Clay at the time, but in retrospect it is one of my fondest memories. Thank you, Clay. Please do not take my gratitude as invitation to do anything like this again, now or at any point in the future.

Excerpt from What's the Matter with Kansas?

This week I started reading a book called What's the Matter with Kansas?, by Thomas Frank, a book that has been in great demand following the election. It's an examination of what Mr. Frank refers to as "the Great Backlash," a political phenomenon of the last thirty years wherein social issues are used to mobilize middle class people to vote for pro-business economic policies. I'm not that far into it, but so far I like it very much (you probably wouldn't like it JTR, whoever you are). I wanted to share a paragraph.

From the air-conditioned heights of a suburban office complex this may look like a new age of reason, with Web sites singing each to each, with a mall down the way that every week has miraculously anticipated our subtly shifting tastes, with a global economy whose rich rewards just keep flowing, and with a long parade of rust-free Infinitis purring down the streets of beautifully manicured planned communities. But on closer inspection the country seems more like a panorama of madness and delusion worthy of Hieronymous Bosch (he was a painter, JTR): of sturdy blue-collar patriots reciting the Pledge while they strangle their own life chances; of small farmers proudly voting themselves off the land; of devoted family men carefully seeing to it that their children will never be able to afford college or proper health care; of working-class guys in midwestern cities cheering as they deliver up a landslide for a candidate whose policies will end their way of life, will transform their region into a "rust belt," will strike people like them blows from which they will never recover.

Two Post-Election Resolutions

On election night I heard Carlos Watson say that watching the returns come in had been "every bit as exciting as we'd hoped." I heard other CNN anchors say similar things about the "excitement" of the election and of what the next four years hold in store. So I have decided to never watch CNN again. I will stick to NPR, C-SPAN, the Newshour with Jim Lehrer, and other forms of news that aren't watered-down trivial bullshit.

More importantly, the election has made me hate America. More specifically, the people who live here. This is not something that I take any pleasure in; I'd much rather go on thinking that America is primarily a force for good, or, barring that, go on thinking what I used to think:
"Man, it sure is a good thing the evangelical right-wing fruitcakes don't run things. What kind of crazy shit would they do? Yikes, good thing it will never happen."
CNN might call this a "November 1st Mentality."
The people I feel most isolated from are the Republicans I am friends with. There are a number of them, people who generally don't know much about politics, and just go along with what their parents think. In the past I have been able to look past our differences and have fun hanging out with them.
"Hey," I told myself, "It's too bad [insert name] has his head stuck so far up his ass, but he obviously doesn't feel THAT strongly about his beliefs. Maybe I can be friends with him, and we just won't bring it up. Or maybe I'll become more well-rounded and learn to understand a different point of view."
Again, "November 1st Mentality." Since the election, it has been extremely difficult for me to stop being angry at these people, and I have decided to take a break from them.
As of now, I am temporarily no longer friends with any Republicans. I will not take their phone calls (unless it's an emergency) and I will not hang out with them. This should last until the week of December 15th, when, in the spirit of the season, I will make a magnanimous offer of forgiveness and try to go back to how things were before.
But until December 15th let me say, Fuck you Republicans. Why don't you stop being so fucking dumb and self-centered and try to gain some kind of understanding of the world around you? Why don't you pray to whatever made-up, bullshit God your ignorant, backwards ass believes in that your stupidity hasn't doomed us all. I hope you get some really bad diarrhea.

Serving Four Years in the Prison of Public Ignorance

When George Bush was elected in 2000 it could be argued that the American people didn't know what they were voting for. That argument is no longer possible. We as a nation are now officially guilty, and when Osama bin Laden attacks us next I will be forced to take up the unpopular position that we deserve what we get. I regret that there isn't some way for such an attack to kill only Republicans.

Temporarily Rescued from Oblivion

When I think about the numerous memorial film montages I will surely see this week, there is only one song that I can imagine them being set to, and it makes me think that Christopher Reeve has done Our Lady Peace a big favor.

I Reject Humor and Originality in Favor of Reprinting the Serious Political Thought of Others

I like to read Noam Chomsky, but it's interesting to me how my reaction to him varies, based entirely on my mood. If I am happy and I read an interview with him, I become depressed and completely disgusted with the people around me.
"Why doesn't anyone care about the Nicaraguans?" I scream, scaring my father, or the cat, or the Barnes and Noble employees trying to eat their soup.
But when I am depressed and I read Noam Chomsky, then for some reason he becomes comforting. I don't know exactly why. It's not the favorable comparison of my problems to those of others; if that sort of comparison was comforting to me then I would be a dick. And it isn't that I get off on a feeling that I'm smarter than everyone else, in spite of what some people might think (ahem, Erin Ryan).
But (actually somewhat along that line of thought) it is possible that Noam Chomsky comforts me because, along with news of the slaughter and starvation of brown people around the world, he gives the assurance that the people around me are still good. Maybe they do give tacit approval to inhuman suffering, but that's the media's fault. To put it another way, it's not that my friend and neighbors like U.S. foreign policy, it's that they're too brainwashed to understand it.
So, keeping that in mind, here's an excerpt from a Noam Chomsky interview that recently cheered me up. If you don't like it that's okay. It doesn't mean you're a bad person; it means that, through no fault of your own, you have been rendered incapable of understanding the world around you.

How far do you believe will the U.S. sacrifice its basic civil liberties for a greater sense of security?
It is doubtful that the current attack on civil liberties has much to do with security. In general, one can expect the state to use any pretext to extend its power and impose obedience on the population. Rights are won, not granted, and power will seek any opportunity to reduce them.
The current incumbents in Washington are at an extreme of reactionary jingoism and contempt for democracy. The question we should ask, I think, is how far citizens will allow them to pursue their agendas. So far, they have been careful to target vulnerable populations, like immigrants, though the laws they have passed have much broader implications...the measures proposed and sometimes implemented generally have only limited relation to "protecting safety." Many of them probably harm safety.
Take the bombing of Afghanistan, for example. Whatever one thinks about it, did it increase security? U.S. Intelligence doesn't think so. They recently reported that by scattering al-Qaeda and spawning new terrorist networks, the bombing may have increased the threat of terror.
Does that matter? Not really, as far as state planners are concerned. When Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia came to the U.S. recently to urge the administration to pay more attention to the effect of his policies in the Arab world, he was told by high officials that "if he thought we were strong in Desert Storm, we're 10 times as strong today." This was to give him some idea of what Afghanistan demonstrated about our capabilities. In brief: Follow orders, or you'll be pulverized. That's what the bombing of Afghanistan was about.

What Football Means to Me

Embarrassed though I may be to admit it, I now follow professional football. This is usually an interesting way to pass time, but there are drawbacks, chief amongst them the political views held by most football commentators.

"How can one know the political views of sports commentators?" you are perhaps wondering.
"Politics have naught to do with professional football, and I cannot believe that professional sports journalists would inject their broadcasts with irrelevant political opinions. I must conclude that either you have gone out of your way to do a fair amount of research (in which case, why are you complaining?), or that you are making some rather large assumptions."
I assure you, gentle reader, that I have done no research. Any assumptions that I make are small and based on many subtle clues that these commentators give throughout their broadcasts. For instance, when Sportscenter broadcasts live from Iraq, and Chris Berman takes the opportunity to play a clip of a young Russian tennis player vocalising her support for the war on terror.
Said Chris (the folks at ESPN call him 'Boomer'), "You have to admire that girl for having the presence of mind to say something like that. I can only hope that one day when this war has succeeded in establishing a free Iraq, terrorism will be wiped from the globe and none of us will ever need to worry about living in a world where something like September 11th could happen." (I paraphrase 'Boomer', but accurately.)

Or when former Steelers great Terry Bradshaw (the folks at Fox call him 'TB') looks into the camera, points his finger sternly, and promises Osama bin Laden that we are coming for him (Within a cave on the other side of the world, Mr. bin Laden shakes his fist at the screen and vows to no longer root for the Steelers.)

Or, when John Madden innocently commented that the lead in the New England/ Indianapolis game was constantly "flip-flopping."
"Well, this is the state for that, John." replied his partner, Al Michaels (the folks at ABC call him 'Fuckface').
'Fuckface' was referring to Massachusetts. You know, where John Kerry is from. If you have seen President Bush speak or watched Fox News coverage of anything in the last few months then you know that John Kerry is a notorious flip-flopper, an unkind way of saying that he is capable of complex thoughts and possibly even self-doubt.

In this election season, when I turn away from CNN and C-SPAN and the News Hour with Jim Lehrer and try to watch something stupid and relaxing, i.e. football, I don't expect or want to be reminded of the election, particularly not of the millions of patriotic shitheads who have absolutely no idea what is going on in the world around them, of which professional sports journalists represent a small sample. Fuck all of these people and their mindless predictions and empty analyses of a nearly meaningless game. Fuck them eternally.

Alas, For I am Whitey

Cashiering is one of the lesser jobs at Barnes and Noble, one that many people complain about being assigned. Recently it has been assigned to a wider range of people, many of whom are not used to standing in one place for four hours at a time making change and asking over and over whether or not someone has a Barnes and Noble member card. When they say no you get to ask, "Are you familiar with it?"
And then before they answer,
"It saves you and your family 10% on anything you buy here, not just books but also coffee, CDs, newspapers, anything. It lasts for a year, so if you think you'll spend at least $250 dollars here in the next twelve months it would save you money."
When a customer is buying something you are interested in it saves you from this. You are free to imagine that the person is interesting, someone who, perhaps under different circumstances, you might hang out with. You stop being a whore and remember that you have interests.
"I like Malcolm X."
I said this to a black man who came through my line the other day. I said this, at least in part, because he was buying the autobiography of Malcolm X.
"Oh. Okay." he said.
That response should have tipped me off that he didn't care if I liked Malcolm X or not, but it didn't. I was blinded by a need to atone for my race. "Look at me," I was telling him, "I may be white, but I watch Spike Lee movies. I'm in favor of affirmative action. Would you like my job? You probably don't need or want it, but I owe it to you because my great grandfather might have lynched your great grandfather. My grandmother complains about Negroes crowding the salad bar at the local Sizzler. Please, help me feel better; tell me it's okay because I am better than they."
But even I, full of self-hatred though I may be, knew better than to say that. Instead I said, "I wanted to get a recording of Malcolm X speeches, but they're all out of print."
Fucking whitey won't let me hear Malcolm's words cause I might get too riled up.
"You could probably get a recording at the library," he suggested.
"That's a good idea. Thanks! Have a good day," and I smiled sincerely. As he walked away I realized too late that I'd been bothering him.
At the register next to me I saw Karen Tiller, a crazy thirty-year-old child in garish make-up and a floor-length pink dress, wish someone "a happy day," and took a little comfort in it. I wasn't really creepy, just ridiculous and white.

Happy September 11th

Last year I told my sister and her boyfriend about my idea for a September 11th party. Sarah was into it, but Rob looked kind of disgusted.
"Yeah, we'd have a cake, which we'd probably need to decorate ourselves, cause you know Ukrop's wouldn't write 'Happy September 11th' on it for us. And we could play 'Have You Forgotten' and all that other really awesome country music, and maybe we could even get two guys to dress up like Bush and Osama bin Laden and they could play fight."
And then Rob said, "I think that's really fucked up." He was right of course, but that doesn't make it a bad idea. Lots of things are fucked up but still worth doing, voting for example.

Here's a loosely related story (related in the sense that in both instances I was an insensitive prick):

One Sunday I was driving to lunch with my friend Cara, when a group of people, an elderly couple and five or six children, walked out directly in front of me. I don't entirely believe her, but Cara claims they were on their way to church. Incensed that I had to brake, I flicked them all off. They saw me clearly, and Cara claims that one of the children started crying. She remembers this well, and likes to tell our mutual friends about it over meals and at parties, possibly to get back at me for telling everyone at our store that she has backhair. And she does-- thick wooly backhair. Like a sweater.

Patience, Friends, Patience

Perhaps you have noticed that I have not written much recently. Perhaps you are one of the people who has yelled at me for it.
I have had difficulty writing posts recently. Rather than write some lame bullshit that will bore you and depress me I have decided to give myself some time to think of something better.
This is just a friendly note to let you know I haven't abandoned my journal. I'll try to have something up by the middle of the month.

Little Israeli Teapot

Today as I watched a young Israeli athelete receive a gold medal and heard Israel's national anthem for the first time, I realized that it was actually a minor key version of "I'm a Little Teapot." As we watched the athlete with tears in his eyes mouthing the Hebrew words we couldn't understand, my father and I sang along anyway, belting what we knew by sheer intuition the translation to be- "WHEN I GET ALL STEAMED UP HEAR ME SHOUT, TIP ME OVER AND POUR ME OUT!"

Stick the Landing

Tonight I watched the olympic men's team gymnastics final on NBC, and listened as two gymnastics experts tried in vain to convince a third commentator that there was more to gymnastics than sticking landings.
"At this point, steps like that are dream-killers," said Number 3.
"Actually Alan, I think that should be more than enough to ensure a medal," said Tim, sounding very nasal, very excited, and very gay.
"It seems that the Americans have eeked out a silver. Who knows what might have been had it not been for those steps on the landing," said Alan. (That might not have been his name. He sounded like an Alan though.)
I wish America would wake up and stop living in this dream world where all anyone has to do to achieve olympic glory is land on two feet and not take a step. This douchebag Alan isn't helping matters.

Go Eagles!

My college (formerly Mary Washington College, now the University of Mary Washington) was never high on school spirit. Many people wrote whiny letters to the school newspaper about it, usually attributing it to the absence of a football team and the fairly lopsided 70:30 female to male ratio.
I think the problem was our team name. Our sports teams were called "the Eagles," but nobody ever referred to them that way, they were just "the MWC Crew Team," or "the MWC Girls Basketball team," or whatever. We had no mascot to speak of, and nobody seemed to notice or care. People went to games to cheer their friends, but if we won a big game nobody ever cared enough to talk about it on campus. "MWC beat Hampden Sydney this weekend" was just about as exciting a piece of news as "Associate Professor of History Bruce O'Brien tripped on the steps of Monroe Hall and skinned his knee."

Sports teams often pick animals to represent them; names like Bears, Tigers, Lions, and Raptors associate a team with the sort of strength, speed, and grace that can only be found in nature. Mary Washington picked the Eagle, a bird often thought of as majestic or noble, with great speed, strong talons, and predatorial instincts. Unfortunately, I don't think this name has worked for us. "The Eagles" is just too commonplace, used too frequently by too many organizations. It's the sort of bland name that gets picked by someone who isn't even trying, someone whose focus lies elsewhere.
So, in the wake of one change at Mary Washington I would like to suggest another; namely, that instead of using an eagle as our mascot in a literal sense we distinguish our sports teams by making Philadelphia Eagles great Donovan McNabb our mascot. Here is a man who personifies speed, strength and grace just as much as any bird or beast, and he brings the added benefit of being completely unique; no college has ever before adopted a professional athlete as their school mascot. By adopting Mr. McNabb, we could remain the Mary Washington Eagles, just a different sort of Eagle-- an Eagle who has left the wild to pursue an extravagant life-style made possible by a long term multi-million dollar NFL contract.
A special styrofoam suit could be made, with an oversized head and a #5 jersey, and a larger than life Donovan McNabb could dance around the stands or field, throwing long passes to the fans. This could also provide our gymnasium, our basketball team's "house" as it were, with a cool new nickname-- "The City of Brotherly Love." We might even change the school letterhead, replacing the eagle and its outstretched wings with Mr. McNabb's face, complete with green helmet and approving smile. I'm sure he'd approve if we paid him enough.
To sum up, I think that a symbol of athleticism like Mr. McNabb would do a lot for the sports program at the University of Mary Washington, and provide a much needed boost to our school spirit. I hope that my idea will be received seriously by President Anderson and the Board of Visitors, and given the consideration it obviously deserves.

Unrelated stories about Brian Elmore and Captain Beefheart

1. When I was in college I was friends with a girl who dated this spectacularly racist loser named Brian Elmore. Brian was born and raised in Petersburg, and, rather than blame his parents for settling in a shithole like Petersburg, Brian decided to look back farther in time and blame the Union Army that he says ruined that beloved city. Yes, if the Yankees hadn't invaded his homeland and forced his fore-fathers to give up their negros, Brian would be much better off. Wouldn't we all?
Brian went to William and Mary, and dreamt of one day writing stories and dialogue for comic books. Why not draw them you ask? Because, dear reader, Brian can't draw. But he is determined. Determined to create a comic book called "Strikezone." My friend summarized her boyfriend's idea for me like this--
A scientist goes back in time and changes the outcome of the Civil War by giving General Lee AK-47s. This has all kinds of historical repercussions, and the comic book series would be devoted to exploring these.
"Wow," I said. "Strange that he's so racist and crazy that he fantasizes about a parrallel universe where black people are still enslaved, but I have to admit that he's pretty imaginative."
I said this because I did not yet know that he had stolen the entire idea- lock, stock, and barrel- from a series of science fiction novels by a man named Harry Turtledove. I found that out today as I shelved in the science fiction section at Barnes and Noble, and since there were no customers in the store it was okay when I shouted "Son of a bitch!" at him.
My co-worker Natalie heard me and came to see what was the problem.
"You can't trust anyone, not even racists." I said, and lit a cigarette.

2. Today I heard a good story about a man named Captain Beefheart. I had never heard of Captain Beefheart, but he has a cool name and he was a musician in the sixties. Maybe he still is a musician, I don't know.
Like other musicians of the sixties, Captain Beefheart enjoyed using drugs, acid being his particular favorite, and when he was under the influence of these drugs he would claim to possess magical powers. For example, he would say he had the ability to see in the dark, much as a cat does.
One night Captain Beefheart dropped some acid and then decided he wanted a snack. He was at his friend's house, but his friend was busy (who knows with what, Dick van Dyke?) so Captain Beefheart had to go down to the kitchen alone.
Perhaps if you or I were on drugs and alone in a strange kitchen we would turn on the lights so we could see what we were doing, but not Captain Beefheart. That's why he was a rockstar and we are not. Captain Beefheart held the firm conviction that he could see in the dark, and headed to the pantry in pitch black.
Unbeknownst to Captain Beefheart, the friend he was staying with had several hundred pounds of yams in his pantry. These yams were getting old and sprouting stalks, as all tubers do when they are left to sit for too long. When Captain Beefheart opened the pantry door several hundred pounds of old yams fell on him, and he had to be taken to the emergency room. Not because he was crushed under the weight of the yams mind you, but because he was certain he had been attacked by an alien and it caused him to have a heart attack.

Are You Going to Put This in Your Blog?

A few weeks ago I worked a closing shift at work, and at midnight when I came out to my car it was covered in girls' underwear. All of my friends denied doing it, and a couple of weeks passed before I found out who was lying. They told me the that underwear at wal-mart is only 99 cents a pair, and that they waited for an hour to catch my reaction, from a safe distance across the parking lot.
"Are you going to put this in your blog?" they said. "The whole reason we did it was to get a mention in your blog."

Similarly, a few weeks ago I got a phone call at home from an AT&T operator.
"Hello sir, this is Travis at AT&T, have you had a relay call before?"
I told him that I had (Relay calls are a free service, designed for the hearing impaired. The caller goes to an internet site and places the call. They then type what they want to say so that an operator reads it to the person on the line. He then types any responses back to the caller).
"Hi, long time no see. Go ahead." Travis said.
"Who is this?" I asked.
After a pause- "Oh, you know. Remember last time? Go ahead."
"Uh, no, who is this?"
Another pause- "Man, I remember last time. You gave me such a huge boner. Go ahead." said Travis, completely deadpan.
"Uhm, I'm hanging up now. Bye Travis."
I found out soon afterwards that the call was placed by my sister.
"Man, that was so funny. I felt so bad for the operator, did he sound mad? Man, are you gonna write about this in your blog?"

The answer both times was no, but I have become hard up for things to write about.

Another Big Idea

Today I was discussing my golden retriever Betsy with Jocelyn, who owns a pair of dachshunds. I said Betsy, who is nine, was old. Jocelyn, whose dogs are both thirty-eight, disagreed that nine was old for a dog, leading me to point out that larger breeds of dogs have shorter life spans.
The discussion gave me an idea for a t-shirt with a caption reading:
BIG DOGS DON'T LIVE AS LONG.
I think that if my Wu Tang/Indigo Girls CD falls through this t-shirt will get me to retirement safely.

Transcript of an Argument with Brief Explanatory Asides

Setting- Afternoon, behind the cash registers at Barnes and Noble #2995
Characters- Courtney Marlowe- a dear though often cranky friend, Jon Biscoe- who taught me to play better Madden Football (he really improved my defense), and myself.

Andrew: Hey Courtney.
Courtney: Hey Andrew.
Andrew: I have a favor to ask.
Courtney: Uh huh.
Andrew: Well, a couple weeks ago me and Allison were saying that before she moved away we should get really drunk one night and pee on the Country Club of Virginia. [This is a big racist country club on the way home from work where the foul rich people go to eat free shrimp and grease there fat bodies with cocoa butter and have young Negroes tote their golf clubs. I should also note that I don't know how serious Allison was about doing this, but I felt that if I could get Courtney in on it Allison would be more likely to follow through.]
Courtney: No, I'm not going to do that.
Andrew: But I didn't want you to.
Courtney: Oh.
Andrew: Yeah. It's just that you know, it's not really legal, and we're gonna be drunk and probably want to make a fast get-away.
Courtney: So you want me to drive.
Andrew: Right.
Courtney: No, I'm not doing that.
Andrew: I thought you would be up for it.
Courtney: Remember the pool? No way. [Last summer Courtney and some of my other friends were caught breaking into a pool in Henrico County. They didn't get into any real trouble, but they were yelled at for several hours by an angry policeman and the owner of the pool, and ever since then everyone involved has been timid about defying the man.]
Andrew: Jon would do it.
Jon: What would I do?
Andrew: Drive the getaway car so me and Allison could pee on the Country Club of Virginia.
Jon: Yeah, I would do that, but I am working tonight.
Courtney: God Andrew, you always do this. I say I don't want to do something, and then you nag me about it and try to make me feel bad. [She is right, I always do this.]
Andrew: I don't want you to feel bad, I want you to do it.
Courtney: NO.
Andrew: Why not?
Courtney: Cause I don't want to get arrested.
Andrew: Fine be like that, old lady.
Courtney: Fuck you, asshole.
Andrew: Your mom. [The part where we called each other names is imaginary.]

More Fun With Staff Recommendations

Recently it seems that most of my journal entries are either about Barnes and Noble or college. I have tried to avoid this, but with very few things of interest to report (though today at work there was this crazy twitching muttering guy with blue goop running down his scalp), and my interest in national events waning (the Democratic National convention is too depressing to watch) I have caved in and decided to relate the following painfully absurd, Barnes and Noble related humor--

Julius- The touching story of an elephant who befriends a lonely hippo. Together they take on the Columbiandrug cartels,andlearn valuable lessonsabout friendship. Finnegan's Wake is a great book for children of every age.

Franny- A searing vision of America at the end of the 20th century, Frog and Toad are Friends burns in the mind for months after reading and leads the reader to question, "What would I do with a sack of gravy?"

Pedro- On the Down Low is the true story of Jesus's mud-wrestling match with Gandhi- a true clash of titans. A must read.

Scooter- What happens when two wacky divorees team up to get back at their ex's? Find out in Democracy in America by Alexis de Tocqueville!

Jen- The basis for the movie Dirty Dancing, Kant's Critique of Pure Reason is a steamy romance that's sure to pleez.

Jake- Can you really fit twelve Jesuit priests in a bathtub?! William Styron's Confessions of Nat Turner is a mad-cap farce extraordinaire!!

Barnes and Noble CEO Steve Riggio Remains a Soulless Sack of Shit

Today at work I read another letter from Steve Riggio to the company at large. In it, Steve discussed a survey taken by the National Endowment for the Arts that found less than half the adult population of the United States reads literature, and that not only is the reading of literature on the decline, the rate of that decline is accelerating.
Having broken this news, Steve went on to pose an obvious question--

The obvious question is, "What does this mean to the future of our business?"
From a social perspective, there is much to be alarmed about. From a business perspective, however, we must recognize that there is a huge difference between the "industry of books" and the "culture of literacy."

Steve eased our minds; it turns out the decline of literature will not effect us much, since sales of the classics account for a mere 30% of our business. Furthermore, we no longer depend on books as our sole source of revenue. We also sell coffee, CDs and DVDs, and our growth in these areas should more than offset any drop in book sales. Steve told us that, rather than be sad about the death of Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy, dead now not merely physically but totally, we should feel good that we promote literacy merely by exisiting as a company, a company that will continue to sell Friends box sets when Huckleberry Finn is a faint memory.
Though the end of Shakespeare may be sad, economically it's not a big deal. So chin up, and keep promoting that Frappacino festival. Never forget that a venti size is the best value.

The Frugal Gourmet Cooks with Little Kids

When I was younger I went through a phase where I liked to cook. I baked brownies and cookies, and one pineapple upside-down cake of which I was very proud. I read the Southern Living Cookbook, and my parents gave me a Julia Child cookbook for Christmas, which I still use to cook porkchops.
I also watched cooking shows, the Frugal Gourmet in particular. I never cooked anything I saw prepared on the Frugal Gourmet, but I liked watching it; it was comforting. I liked the theme music, I liked the Frugal Gourmet's voice, I liked how he made bad jokes and ended every show by saying "God bless." He was always doing things like visiting Mount Vernon to see what George Washington used to eat, or going to meat markets in Little Italy and then calling the woman who owned the shop a "grand old gal." He was like my grandpa, only he was friendly and he cooked and he wasn't trying to make me go to VMI.

One day, when I was a senior in high school I was eating lunch in the upperclassmen courtyard with my friends, and for some reason I brought up the Frugal Gourmet. Maybe I was complaining that the show never came on anymore. Maybe I was reading The Frugal Gourmet Cooks with Wine and had it in my bookbag. I don't honestly remember why I brought it up, what I remember is how my friend Nick responded.

"Man, you know the Frugal Gourmet rapes little boys, right?"
"Fuck you, he does not."
"No Andrew, it's true," said my friend Kate. "I saw it on the news awhile ago. They never proved anything, but he settled out of court."
"That means he didn't do it! They never proved anything! He just wanted to get it over with, to avoid the negative publicity."
"He did a good job-- nobody talks about him at all now that his show was canceled." said Nick.
"I hate you all! No one understands me!" I shouted, and ran from the courtyard, sobbing.

This remained a sore subject for literally years, and well into college whenever it came up I would come to the Frugal Gourmet's aid.
"They never proved that."
"I think it's terrible that they took his show away."
"I'm still trying to find a copy of The Frugal Gourmet Cooks Italian."
No library seemed to have The Frugal Gourmet Cooks Italian, possibly because of the pederasty scandal, but my favorite episodes of the show had corresponded to that particular book. One day, in a used book store in Fredericksburg, I found a copy, and bought it quickly,as though some policeman might try to stop me.
"I'm sorry son, but that book's by a known kiddy-raper; you better hand it over."
When I got home I took my first real look at the cover. Looking out from it was a bald, pale-faced, chubby man with beady eyes, his mouth open in a ghastly sort of smile (a lot like the one Conan's announcer Joel Goddard always has). It was the face of someone who rapes little boys, and he was holding a glass of wine and shrugging, as if to say "Could you blame me?" I tried to forget the picture and move on to the introduction, but all I could think of was the Frugal Gourmet making an orgasm face while Handel played in the background. I put the book on the floor of my closet and covered it with dirty cloths.

I Send Another Letter to Another President

A few weeks ago Steve Riggio, Barnes and Noble President and CEO, issued a proclamation requesting that all Barnes and Noble employees e-mail him a list of the five words they think of when they think of Barnes and Noble. Everyone at work had a good laugh over it (my friend Jon said one of his words would be paycheck), and then, our fun had, we put it from our minds.
Last week Steve Riggio posted results. He said that the number one response had been "books", and that he was disappointed with our responses, or lack there of. He asked us to try again.
So last night I gave it a shot. Of course, I couldn't just send five words, I had to send more. And of course, I couldn't be courteous and respectful, I had to try to be funny. So I sent him the e-mail pasted below, and immediately afterwards began to fear for my job. What if Steve Riggio has no sense of humor? What if he makes my managers fire me? It would make a good story, but in the mean time I would be unemployed.
Maybe if they do fire me I'll finally get over my childhood fascination with Hawkeye Pierce. Maybe then at long last I'll be able to put aside my rebellious, wildman tendencies, stop spitting in the face of the man, and fly right.


Dear Steve,
Sorry I didn't respond the first time, I thought you were just being funny. When you followed up with a second request, I knew you were for real. Before I get to my words though, I have some questions for you:
1. How much do you make? I make $8.25 an hour. I know you're thinking, "Gee, that's below the poverty line!" You're right, it is, but I love being a bookseller too much to quit.
2. Can I have a job at home office? I'm really really smart, and I went to college.
3. Do you want to hang out with me? I like Madden Football. We could play together, only you have to promise to let me be the Colts--that's my team.
4. Do you know Rage Kindelsperger? That's an awesome name.
5. Isn't Barnes and Noble awesome? It's so cool to work there, I love it more than ice cream sandwiches.

And now, at long last, my words:

1. Pinochle (cause it's so much fun to work there, like playing a game of pinochle)
2. Quixotic (that means "idealistic to an irrational degree")
3. Profitable (for you monetarily, for me spiritually)
4. Flatulent (the coffee in the cafe makes me a little gassy)
5. Brown (self-explanatory)

I really like that you asked us to do this. You're the rockingest President ever.
Your buddy,
Andrew

Imaginary Football with John Madden and the Indianapolis Colts

The other day I was looking through other online journals, trying to find a design I liked and could steal, and I ran across a blog called Food Journal. A post for Food Journal looks something like this-

7/01
Today for breakfast I had a bagel with cream cheese and a glass of apple juice. At lunch I had a turkey sandwich on rye bread with mayo and swiss cheese, chips, and a coke. In the afternoon I drank two Saranac pale ales. For dinner I had macaroni and cheese, and two more Saranac pale ales. Man, look at all those carbs!

Aside from having an alcohol problem, this person is really boring. "Man," I thought on first reading it, "Thank God I'm not like that! Haha."
But then I thought, "What if I am boring? What if I think I'm really clever and entertaining, but I'm really as boring as this joker, and the main difference between us is that I don't know it? I mean at least this guy doesn't aspire to entertain and fail, right? Jesus, I need to aim lower!"
So I have decided to change my blog- from now on I will be boring on purpose. This blog will hereafter be a journal about Madden Football, and my efforts to take the Indianapolis Colts to the top. Here's a peek at what a post in Madden Journal will look like:

7/01
Today, when I used the "Ask Madden for a play call" feature, John Madden incited me to "Show the defense what a finely tuned machine [I am]." This seemed vaguely homoerotic to me, but I refused to let mild homophobia get the upper hand, and I won a great victory over the Minnesota Vikings, 31-6.

Speaking of John Madden-
Here's something I saved from McSweeney's last year about John Madden. I hope that you like it; I like to think if I really made my blog exclusively about football it might be half this funny:

Madden has officially lost it. Someone once patted him on the back about that six-legged turkey thing, and in the process created a monster. Like we're dying to hear a guy in his sixties pine over a lineman's belly for 24 minutes. Then out comes the electric crayon. Do
you think we'll hear these words come out of Madden's mouth by the end of the season?

That was a nice play. Ever make love to a cactus? Yeah, a cactus. You know, you're in the desert. It's lonesome. It's dark. You haven't had a decent piece of ass in weeks. You happen upon one, and heck, it's standing straight up, kinda like a person. Even has those things hangin' off, I'll call 'em arms. . . and you've been out there for so long, and you've got a firm erection, so you shower the cactus with compliments, then you set about the business of making love to it. I guess if there was a record player, there might be a little Paul Anka playing, and you dab on a little cologne. You just size up the cactus, and heck there may already be a hole somewhere on the thing, and you just gotta brush the prickles aside and get your hips up next to it and start rocking into it. I mean really kissing it, and pretty soon your schwantz is hangin' out and maybe former Steelers great Rocky Bleier drives by in an old rag-top Caddy, and he kinda slows down 'cause of the flare you fired off three hours ago when you got a flat, and at this point you don't even wanna be saved because you're really pluggin' away on the cactus. My only question is where do you deliver your load? You know? The climax? 'Cause you can't get the thing pregnant, there's no danger of that, although I'd really like to see a family of half people, half cacti running around, celebrating the holidays, but anyway, do you just let it run down the side of the thing and hope it either dries or provides some protein for a couple of buzzards or do you shoot it right into the cactus? My vote is for inside the damn thing. Heck, no fuss no muss.

Stacy, the Community Relations Manager

Most Barnes and Noble Bookstore's have a Community Relations Manager; at my store her name is Stacy. When authors come to our store for signings, she organizes the event, publicizes the event, and gives the author an introduction:
"Hello everyone! Today we are happy to welcome the author of 'Loose Your Booty,' let's hear it for Dr. Ro!"
Every week she hosts story time, and spends an hour reading books to little children, always in an impossibly loud and condescending manner:
"HELLO BOYS AND GIRLS! HOW ARE YOU? I DON'T HEAR YOU!!!!! OKAY! TODAY WE"RE GOING TO READ SPOT GOES TO THE ZOO!!! HOORAY!"
I don't know Stacy very well, but she seems like a nice person; smiles a lot, always acts like she's in a good mood. She is polite, and listens to Josh Groban, and dyes her hair blonde. Many people describe her as being attractive, and while I personally don't think so, I can understand where they are coming from.

(One time I was at Ukrop's, and I ran into a clerk there named Thom. Thom is a really nice guy, a little slow, but a good person, always genuinely interested in what I am doing with myself.
"So what are you up to these days, Andrew?" asked Thom in his deep bass voice.
"Oh nothing much, I just transferred to a new store, the one on Broad Street."
"That's good, that's good. Say, do you know a woman there named Stacy?"
"Uh, yeah, she's the Community Relations Manager."
"Yeah. One time I was at that store with my nephew for story time. She's a really cool girl."
"Yeah, she seems nice."
"Easy on the eyes too, haha.")

So that's Stacy, bland but nice.
Today, I passed Stacy on my way into work and asked how she was.
"Hey Stacy, how's it going?"
"Oh, hey Bubba," she said.
And I punched her in the throat.

On Beards- Their Pros and Cons

I first grew a beard right after I graduated college in May of 2002, breaking a vow I had sworn not to grow facial hair before the age of thirty. I had observed that most young men who grow beards or mustaches didn't really pull it off. I often heard them described as having pubic hair on their face. I myself briefly owned a mustache when I was 13 or 14, a pre-shaving, in-denial-that-I-ought-to-be-shaving mustache, which may still be seen clearly in my yearbook photos of both 8th and 9th grade. It was when I finally shaved the ratty peachfuzz from my lip that I promised myself I would go clean-shaven until I was older, and facial hair would better suit me. I projected older to be roughly 30.
So why did I break this solemn vow to myself, and why was I so impatient that I did so in the month of May, hardly prime beard season? I would say that the primary motive for growing facial hair, in my case and in most others, is a desire to look older. In my case specifically, having just graduated college and feeling like I was expected to be an adult, I felt a need to look the part. So I grew a beard, and went from looking 17 to looking 19 and a half. I liked the change, and have kept a beard, off and on, ever since.
Recently I have been considering whether to shave my beard off for the summer (something that I consider every now and then, but which only happens accidentally, if I make a mistake trimming), and I have decided to make a list of beard pros and cons, not to help myself decide but to advise others who may be thinking about taking one on for themselves.

Beard Pro #1-
A beard makes you look older (see above).

Beard Con #1-
If a beard is not thick enough it will not make you look older, it will make you look stupid. Someone will say you have pubic hair on your face (it's actually a commonly used expression).

Beard Pro #2-
Some members of the opposite sex will compliment your beard. "Don't shave your beard," they will say giving you a much needed boost of self-esteem, "your beard is hot." Some members of your own sex might do so also (Mike Roth said mine made me look like a "stud." His ridiculous word, not mine).

Beard Con #2-
For every person who likes your beard, another will not. Some may even be scared of you. "Ew, shave that off," they will say. "You look like a child molester."

Beard Pro #3-
A mustache serves to protect your upper lip. This can be particularly helpful when you have a cold, and repeated contact with tissues can make your lip red and sore. A mustache acts as a lip shield.

Beard Con #3-
Things get caught in a mustache, food and drink particularly. If you do get a cold you must be careful to avoid getting boogers in it.

Beard Pro #4(kind of obvious)-
A beard keeps your face warm in winter.

Beard Con #4(equally obvious)-
A beard makes your face hot in summer.

So, to sum up-
Beard Advice from the Experienced Beard Owner
1. Don't grow one if you can't do it right; you'll look like a jackass.
2. Take a running tally of how many people like your beard and how many don't, and then keep it or shave it off accordingly.
3. If you have a mustache drink with a straw and only blow your nose in front of a mirror.
4. Change with the seasons.
I feel certain that if you follow these four easy rules you too can have many years of beard success.

Coldstone Creamery

The other day I called my friend Jocelyn up to invite her to get some ice cream.
"Okay, but we're not going to Coldstone (a new ice cream place that opened near my house)."
"Oh. But I kinda wanted to go there."
"You want to get Germanchocklatecake again, don't you?"
(On the Coldstone menu Germanchocklatecake has an oomlout over the O, but I don't know how to put one in on blogger, or even how to spell oomlout for that matter. I have always liked German Chocolate cake, and at Coldstone Creamery they mix brownie bits, pecans, coconut and caramel sauce into chocolate ice cream and serve it under the name Germanchocklatecake. It's very good, and Jocelyn knew that it was the reason I wanted to go back.)
"Alright, we can go there. But you have to say 'Like it.'"
(At Coldstone Creamery they don't have small, medium and large. They have "Like it!, "Love it!" and "Gotta have it!" On our first trip I had refused to ask for a "Like It" size. "What was that?" asked the girl behind the counter with a grin. Uncharmed, I answered, "I said I wanted a SMALL. You know, the little one.")

At Coldstone Creamery the staff greets you as soon as you walk in the door. On this occaison there were between 6 and 8 high school students behind the counter, and when we opend the door we were given a chorus, not quite in unison, of "Hello, welcome to Coldstone!"
As we waited in line, we listened to the staff sing. At Coldstone Creamery whenever someone puts money in the tip jar everyone behind the counter is expected to sing their gratitude:
"IF YOU LIKE TO GO TO COLDSTONE CLAP YOUR HANDS! [clap clap]
IF YOU LIKE TO GO TO COLDSTONE CLAP YOUR HANDS! [clap clap]
OUR ICE CREAM IS THE BEST, IT IS BETTER THAN THE REST
IF YOU LIKE TO GO TO COLDSTONE CLAP YOUR HANDS! [clap clap, and one "toot toot!" from an excited and freckled young lady behind the register]"
While Jocelyn and I waited this happened repeatedly, and everytime it was a different song:
"TAKE ME OUT TO COLDSTONE, BUY ME LOTS OF ICE CREAM!"
"YUMMY YUMMY YUMMY I'VE GOT ICE CREAM IN MY TUMMY!"

When I got to the counter I asked for a small.
"What was that?" grinned the girl behind the counter.
"He wants a Like it! size." said Jocelyn.
"Haha! I thought maybe you hadn't been here before!" said the girl.
"Oh no, I've been before."
"Have you had our Strawberry Blonde?!" she asked. "it's my favorite! There's strawberry ice cream, mixed with caramel sauce and... GRAHAM CRACKER PIE CRUST! It's soo awesome!"
"Yeah, that sounds pretty good. Maybe I'll get that next time."
At the register I presented my credit card, unsigned.
"Excuse me sir, but I think you probably wanna sign this!"
"No, I didn't sign it on purpose. Here's my ID."
"Sir, please sign it, it's for your own protection!"
"No thanks, I would prefer to just show you my ID."
"Well thats highly unusual, but okay! Have a great day!"
"Thanks, you too!"
In all the excitement she had failed to notice that I added a two dollar tip to my card. Victorious, Jocelyn and I ran outside to eat our ice cream in peace and quiet.

Alyssa Teaches Me Feminism

My friend Alyssa is a feminist; not in the sense that you and I and all other decent people are feminists (that is to say, we support equal rights for everyone), but in the sense that she will be a graduate student in women's studies at Rutgers this fall and doesn't shave her armpits.
When you know someone like this, whose views lie outside of the mainstream, the temptation is to make their differences the topic of conversation, if only because it's the first topic that comes to mind during an awkward pause. So whenever I see Alyssa, I eventually start asking her questions about women's rights, and that's where the conversation stays.

Allow me, for the sake of explaining further, to set up this hypothetical comparison-
Say you had a friend who was schizophrenic. You would almost certainly find yourself full of questions about how he regards the world. "What," you might ask yourself, "does Mervin feel about nuclear armament? about cabbage? about professional basketball?" Were you to ask him you would not be surprised to find his perspective different from your own: nuclear weapons remain a menace, but for him a pressing one, lurking in the garages and bridgework of everyone around him; cabbage for him is not an unappetizing vegetable but a good friend, loyal and pleasant to talk to; basketball might have no meaning at all. These may not be your own feelings, but it does you good to hear about them- your horizons are broadened.

It's precisely that way with Alyssa. I am always asking her ridiculous questions about what is important to her, because I am genuinely curious about how she sees things, and she is patient and willing to discuss whatever nonsense it is that I am bothering her with-
"I like calling people 'douchebags,' Alyssa. Is that okay? As a feminist are you offended by that?"
"Actually Andrew, I am offended by the very act of douching. Is there something wrong with a woman's body that she needs to cleanse it that way?"
"Wow, I'd never thought of it like that. But I guess that makes 'douchebag,' okay then?"
"Well, not really."
Alyssa seems to approach this kind of question and answer session as working to raise awareness of feminist issues, and if that is her goal she has achieved it. Among other things, I have learned from her that it is fun to call pro-life people "anti-choice." "Because," as Alyssa put it, "Why should we let them define the terms of debate? I'm not going to let them imply that I am anti-life."
She also invited me to a women's rights rally in D.C. where it is doubtless I would have learned countless other things about feminism, but I begged off because I am lazy. After the rally, she told me that Karen Hughes, a close advisor to the President, had created controversy when she likened the protestors to terrorists. I got a good laugh out of that. "Ha!" I said to myself, "what a jackass!" But for Alyssa, this was an attack, one which she will fend off with rusty chains and broken bottles. I admire her for it.

Clay and Andrew Land at War

About a week after Clay and I posted our declaration of independence on the door, our friend Scarlet wrote something like "Clay and Andrew Land sucks!" on our dry-erase board. We responded with the following:

At some point in the last week or so war was declared against Clay and Andrew Land, by parties which are as of yet unidentified. This brazen act of cowardice has taken our small nation unawares and destroyed the simple naivete that had heretofore been such a defining characteristic of our daily life. Clay is particularly upset, and has been on the phone with his parents constantly.
Though we confess we don’t recall the exact date of this vicious attack on our way of life, we feel safe in stating that the second week of October is a week that will live in infamy.
Before the month is out, Clay and Andrew Land will most likely take steps to revenge itself on its enemy, who we believe to be Scarlet, and whom we believe is being harbored by Mercer Hall. Only when this nefarious and cowardly villain is brought to justice will the residents of Clay and Andrew Land be able to once more sleep soundly in their beds, secure in the knowledge that they are invincible and better than everybody else. Notice of a Conscription Act shall be forthcoming.
Terrorists may write mean things on our door, but they will never write mean things on our hearts; and though they prevent us from being as happy-go-lucky as we once were, they will never prevent us from getting our chill on.

I also wrote a stanza for our national anthem, so here's that too-

God bless Clay and Andrew,
With them doth freedom dwell.
God bless Clay and Andrew Land,
Where everything is swell.

Finally, in the interest of getting all the Clay and Andrew Land stuff out there so I won't use it as a crutch the next time I can't think of anything to write, we had our draft, which we began by posting our Conscription Act on the door.
Hear Ye, Hear ye-
In order to combat the evil which strikes at the very heart of Clay and Andrew Land, We have decided to have mandatory Conscription for all males between the ages of 20 and 25, which in this case is everyone. The words “Soldier” and “Civilian” will be written on little bits of paper and drawn out of a hat or something. Whoever draws the scrap of paper that says, “Soldier” will become the army. He will then protect the civilian, except for one day of the month when he will go on leave and the “Civilian” will be left to fend for himself. This vital information will be kept secret so that the dread-pirate Scarface doesn't’t try to catch us with our pants down, which would be just like her.

Results will be announced by week’s end.

I don't really remember who was the soldier, but I think it was Clay. The following week we made an anonymous phone call to Scarlet's room at 2am, and though I don't really remember what we said it might have been, "Don't fuck with Clay and Andrew Land, biotch!"
Having won our war on terror with this single brilliant maneuver, we soon thereafter became concerned with schoolwork and put our country on the back-burner. Founding a nation is hard when you have to write papers; be grateful that Washington and Jefferson had finished college and could focus on being patriotic.

Clay and Andrew Land Revisited

The other day my sister told me that there might be a draft next year, and it reminded me of how much I hate America (click here to see what she was talking about). That line of thought brought me back to college, around October 2001 when everybody had the flag magnets on their cars and the United States was getting ready to bomb the shit out of Afghanistan, and my roommate Clay and I posted the following manifesto on our door-

Clay and Andrew hereby declare their independence from the United States of America, due to irreconcilable differences with U.S. Foreign policy and George Bush who is a stupid cunt. Their room, Custis 106 has seceded from the union, and will henceforth be known as

“Clay and Andrew Land”

Clay and Andrew Land is a utopian society where all people are equal, and no one goes hungry. We have a strict policy of not bombing people, or trying to rid the world of evil in any other way. A national anthem is currently being composed, and will hopefully be ready for a gala ceremony celebrating the establishment of our brave new world next month. Clay and Andrew Land will not be granting anyone asylum, as we are cramped for space already. We would also like to give a shout out to J.S. Bach.
Power to the people. We get our chill on.

President Ronald Reagan Enters Into Heaven

Originally I wanted to commemorate the death of Ronald Reagan with a poem. My first idea was to modify an existing poem, similar to the way I used black_mn4u's "The Hot Maid." An early candidate for adaptation was a poem by Vachel Lindsay called "General William Booth Enters Into Heaven." Here's one stanza to give you an idea:

Ronald led boldly with his big bass drum
(Are you washed in the blood of the poor?) Hallelujah
Hitler smiled gravely, and said "He's come."
(Are you washed in the blood of the poor?)

The more I thought about that idea, the less I liked it. First, it's not particularly funny (Hitler smiled gravely? Washed in the blood of the poor? And who ever heard of Vachel Lindsay?). Second, it's not particularly creative, is it? Any jackass can take somebody else's work and change a few key words for a joke; citing the author might make it honest, but it doesn't make it any less lazy. On the other hand, an original poem takes a lot of time and effort. Even if I was good at writing poetry (which I am decidedly not) I could never write an original poem quickly enough to make it a part of this week's posthumous media blowjob. I decided to try something else.

Another idea was a series of quotes and facts about President Reagan and his impact on our country, but I decided that was dull. Nobody wants to read how many millions of people were unemployed in 1984, or that George Kennan thought Cold War policy delayed rather than hastened the fall of the Soviet Union (I do have this one really great quote where Governor Reagan wondered how many redwood trees a person needed because they all look the same).

So I slapped together the following 100% fictional scene, a meditation on how conservatives, soulless assholes by nature with no pity for anyone in their stone hearts, deal with the death of one of their own. Enjoy!

Anne Coulter comes home from a long hard day of yelling at her ghost writer to discover her seven year old child, Taylor, in front of the TV weeping.
"Oh what's wrong, honey?" says Anne, in that husky man-voice of hers.
"Mommy, what happens when you die?"
"Honey, is this about President Reagan?"
"Yes," sniffs the buck-toothed little mouth breather.
"Well baby, President Reagan has gone to a much better place."
"Heaven?"
"Yes, that's right. Remember when we talked about heaven?"
"No," sniffs Taylor.
"Well we did. And I told you that in heaven there aren't any poor people."
"Where do the poor people go mommy?"
"To hell, dearest little boy. And where do the Jews and the homosexuals go?"
"They go to hell too?"
"Yes, that's right, along with most of the Negroes. And there are no Communists or Muslims in heaven, so it's very peaceful. And everyone has a lot to eat and pretty jewelry to wear, and nobody tries to make them feel guilty about it or share."
"Sharing is bad, isn't it mommy?"
"Yes sweetie, sharing is for liberals."
"Will we go to heaven?"
"Surely, sweetpea. So I don't want you to worry about President Reagan. He is with God, and he is finally able to understand what happened while he was President."

My Big Break

I have had what I think is a million dollar idea, and now feel certain that I will leave the world a success.
I will produce an album, a double CD set (two for the price of one, so about $17.99 at Barnes and Noble, $12.99 at Target). Disc one would feature the Indigo Girls covering Enter the Wu Tang. Disc two would feature the Wu Tang Clan covering the Indigo Girls.
I think that such a CD would not only go double platinum and sweep the Grammies, but it could build a lot of bridges between the Indigo Girls' target audience, that being primarily lesbians, and the Wu Tang's target audience, that being primarily young black men. Imagine a concert with an audience populated by young African American men and homosexual women, with the proceeds given to me so that I can retire at 25.
This is my dream. All that remains is to befriend the Wu Tang Clan, the Indigo Girls, and probably a lot of other people in the music industry, and get them all to agree to this. Which should be easy, cause come on, who could fail to be impressed?

I Get Feedback

Here are some of the things I have been told since I posted the e-mail address and requested feedback:

Scarlet Rose of Bealton, Virginia calls my request for feedback an "I want praise" post. She goes on to say that, as someone who keeps an online journal, she is not egocentric and she never posts poetry online.

As if to prove Ms. Rose's point, I received a couple of compliments, both of which made me feel very good about myself. One from Kathy Blanchard said that what I wrote was smart and funny, but that she didn't care for the sex scene. I got a lot of remarks on the sex scene, most of them from people who were disgusted by it. I have no plans to post another sex scene, but I won't make any promises.

Concerning the question of why Sprite is only marketed to young black men, my sister Sarah wrote to tell me that she had heard from several people that black people like fruity drinks. I called her a racist.

With regards to the recent post about my pretentious book club, Nick Bognar of Los Angeles, California wanted to remind me of how when he and I were in college we played a game where we tried to think of titles for porno films based on the works of William Faulkner. Yes, Nick, I do remember that. I remember that your favorite was "The Mound and the Furry," while I preferred, "As I Lay Diane." Other names, such as "Go Down On Me, Moses," and "'Ho's for Ms. Emily," were less successful.

If you want to send me e-mail you may send it to quiltenthusiast@hotmail.com. I'm not certain that I will post future e-mails here though, as it makes me feel like a fucking loser with too much time on his hands.

The Most Pretentious Story Ever Told

After I post an entry in my journal, I typically re-read it a few times and make changes. Nobody probably notices, but in the week after it is first posted typos are fixed, jokes added, sentences rephrased. Just now I was re-reading an entry from several days ago, and added a joke about The Sound and the Fury. That's a pretentious joke to make, and it reminded me of the following story.

(This story does not show me in a flattering light. It will likely disgust and repel many of you, and I am fully aware that many who read this may never look on me sympathetically again. So let me try to balance the story with this statement- I haven't finished a novel in the last six months. Every time I pick a book up, I read three chapters and then get distracted by something else. Like Playstation 2 or the Daily Show.)

The summer after my freshman year of college I got together with two friends, Jocelyn and Brendan are their names, and decided to form a book club. This was not a book club in the usual sense, where a group of people all read the same book and get together to discuss it afterwards. Rather, this was a club that turned the reading of literature into a kind of sport. We would gather every so often at someone's house, frequently Jocelyn's, and then brag to each other about what each of us had finished since the last meeting, in an attempt to make the other members feel stupid. The person who most often came out on top was Brendan.

That year between early June and mid-August, my friend Brendan read thirty books of literary merit, if you include the Harry Potter books, which he did and we didn't. Brendan reads amazingly fast, and every time our club met he had finished not just one new book, but several. If I had finished One Hundred Years of Solitude, he had read The Crying of Lot 49 and The Tin Drum. If I came prepared to talk about Slaughterhouse 5, he had The Maltese Falcon, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and As I Lay Dying (which he apparently read in one night).

Sometime around July 4th, Jocelyn and I began to grow bitter, and by the middle of that month we had devised a plot against him. We decided to both read Anna Karenina, without him. We would then discuss it at one of our meetings, thereby humbling him.
Reading the book took a long time, and once it was read we were anxious to unveil our plot to the now nearly unbearable Brendan, who in the month that it took us to read Anna Karenina had finished In Cold Blood, Henderson the Rain King, A Widow for One Year, and The Dubliners, to name a few I can remember. When we did finally slam our books down on the table and laugh triumphantly in his face, it was only to have our victory spoiled by our own guilt. Watching a solitary tear roll down Brendan's cheek, I knew that I had betrayed a friend, and in the most ridiculous way possible.

I Can't Get Hitler Out of My Mind

Today at work I was preoccupied with picking a new staff recommendation. My last one was Chocolate Flava, the anthology of black erotica where I found that sex scene that I pirated several weeks back. When you recommend a book you write out a comment to be displayed on the shelf with the book. My comment for Chocolate Flava was, "Makes a great gift!"
I had a hard time choosing a new recommendation. Whenever I recommend one that I actually like, nobody ever buys it and my feelings are hurt. So I usually try to think of something funny to recommend, but today the ideas weren't coming.
Part of the problem is that I thought of a joke I liked but couldn't use. Every other book I thought of paled in comparison.
That book was Mein Kampf. Hypothetically, my comment would have been-
"Hitler was one of the great suspense writers of the 1920's, and this classic thriller will have you riveted from the first sentence. You won't be able to put it down!"
This of course would be wildly inappropriate. So I went with Flannery O'Connor and had done with it. In three weeks when I walk by the display and see the eight copies of A Good Man is Hard to Find still sitting on the shelf collecting dust, I'll be sorry.

Vanity Overcomes Me

When I first started my weblog I posted a disclaimer, saying briefly that it wouldn't be any good and that I didn't care if anyone read it. I wrote that I was writing for myself alone and that you could read it if you wanted but that you were unimportant to me.
That was all a bunch of horseshit. The fact that it is horseshit has become clear in a number of ways, and I will discuss them here now.
First, there are my two friends who refused to read it. Let's call them "Cara," and "Courtney." Both of them said that
1. Online journals are boring and
2. written by really egocentric people who think everyone cares about what they have to say even though they
3. don't write very well.
Each stated that they never read online journals as a rule, and that mine would be no exception. This made me crazy, and I kept talking about my online journal until "Courtney" gave in and read it ("Cara" is still holding firm).

Second, "Courtney," and some other people, have had some nice things to say about my weblog. What this has done to my self-esteem is extreme to the point of being weird.

Third, I have begun taking steps to allow feedback. First I tried to set up comments. This failed, and in the end I was glad that it did. Comments are all very well and good until you get some joker who starts writing about the most recent episode of CSI or George Carlin or something and I have no way to delete it.
So I went with a free site meter (You can see the logo for it displayed to the right), which allows me see how many people read what I write (currently about 10 people a day).
And most recently I have decided to put up an e-mail address so that anyone who wants to can e-mail me and tell me what they think. This way I can post the ones I like, and throw away the ones I don't.
So if you have something to say to me you can type it out and mail it to quiltenthusiast@hotmail.com. In fact I encourage you to. All e-mails will be responded to promptly, if not courteously.

More from That's Bullroar

As I promised here is the second story that I published on That's Bullroar.
For those who are interested, the site is still active, and you can check out all of the stories and essays there, many of which are hilarious.

The Parable of the Old Woman and the Carpenter

Jesus was in his carpentry shop one day, making a table, when an old woman from the village stormed into his shop. She huffed and puffed, her brow furrowed and her teeth bared. In her arms was a broken stool. She complained to him that his poor workmanship had been responsible for her husband's injury.
"You shellacked the thing too much, and when my Zechariah stood on it to hang a picture he slipped right off and broke his ass!"
But Jesus denied that the fault was his, saying, "Lady you're nuts. The problem is with your husband. You can't blame me for his clumsiness."
This enraged the old woman, who shrieked epithets and wondered aloud if the carpenter's work might improve if he focused on carpentry and stopped daydreaming about bizarre cults and religious rituals.
"Oh no you didn't, bitch!" said an equally enraged and decidedly sassy Jesus, snapping his fingers. "Get out of my store right now, before I do you like I did those money-changers."
And the woman stormed out saying, "I won't be coming back to this shithole, you can believe me."
And Jesus said unto her, "Good! You're going to burn in hell, you fucking douchebag!"


Jesus left his shop late that night. He had closed early, staying to meditate and pray. He prayed that God would give him strength to accomplish what he was set on Earth to do, that he would love his fellow man as fully as he was able, and not give into petty and vulgar displays as he had earlier with the old woman. He knew that he had behaved badly, that however rude the woman might have been he had no right to call her a fucking douchebag. He repented his sin, and experienced doubt about his own divine perfection.
He also spent some time thinking about a hot girl who he kept seeing at the local well.
Returning home, he ate a simple meal of lentil soup and bread, leftovers from his parents' dinner. He played gin with his Dad for a while before turning in. His sleep was uneasy, for he knew he had displeased his heavenly father. As he tossed and turned, Jesus vowed to make things right.

In the morning when Jesus got to his shop he was met by an angry mob, one of whom threw a rotten egg at him, missing by a wide margin and hitting the window of a restaurant across the street.
And Jesus spoke to the mob, saying "My brothers and sisters, what is the problem?"
The old woman surged to the front of the crowd. "You are a cheat! Your faulty stool injured my husband. You denied your responsibility and called me obscene names, and now you wonder what the problem is?"
Angry murmurs and cheers of approval came from the crowd.
But Jesus spoke to her calmly and soothingly: "I was wrong to say those things to you sister, but I do believe my stool was not at fault. Let us come to some arrangement.'
"Shove your arrangement, and a curse on your pigs, may they grow antlers and develop dyberticulitis," said the woman.
And the mob rose up around her, yelling and holding signs that read "Jesus = Worst Carpenter Ever" and, "Make better stools, not love!" They moved towards Jesus, pushing him away from his shop and preparing to stone him. But at that moment the clouds parted and a voice came from heaven:

"This is my son. He is an excellent carpenter and his prices are very reasonable."

And the crowd was ashamed, and they put down their signs and knelt before Jesus. And he said, "No brothers and sisters, do not kneel. Rather, come in side and look at my merchandise. Like God says, it is well-crafted and reasonably priced."
And so they did, and with all the money he made that day, Jesus was able to shut down his father's carpentry shop and wander through Judea looking for followers and preaching the word. And so it was that through the intervention of an influential parent Jesus was not only able to avoid being stoned, but find fulfillment doing a job he liked. And he and his disciples lived happily ever after.

A Few Words About Race

This weblog is not only concerned with frivolous things like quilts and graphic sex scenes with important members of the government, it is also concerned with the important issues of our day. Today's post will be a frank and earnest discussion of race relations in America, and I will focus this discussion around two important questions.

1.) As far as the whole "portraying black people in a positive light" thing goes, didn't the Cosby Show sometimes get a little silly?
I'm not saying they shouldn't have portrayed black people positively, but I think they could have sometimes done a better job making their positive portrayals of black people fit in with the story. For example, the other day I watched an entire episode about how Denise wouldn't lend Vanessa a sweater, and then for some reason in the last two minutes of the show the whole family gathered around the television to watch the "I have a dream" speech. What did that have to do with the sweater? Or Vanessa's problem with studying? Or Cliff's winning a tub of popcorn from Claire in a bet, only to have her eat it when he fell asleep in the movie theater? I'd have liked it if they could have integrated the last two minutes more with the other twenty-three. Perhaps Denise and Vanessa could have argued over the value of non-violent protest instead of a sweater? Or perhaps Cliff could have fallen asleep watching the "I have a dream" speech, and Claire could have eaten his popcorn then. It's called craftsmanship, and I don't think it's too much to ask. (Thinking about it, I realize that The Cosby Show did that a lot, tacking on two minute scenes at the end that had little or nothing to do with the rest of the episode. Those scenes were normally about Cliff and Claire getting it on, or dancing to jazz music, or engaging in some other married behavior, so I guess superfluous Martin Luther King is better than superfluous old people sex.)

2.) Why is Sprite marketed to young black men almost exclusively?
Consider Sprite's current ad campaign, featuring a puppet with an afro (This is not the first such commercial. I distinctly remember another commercial, this one for sneakers, that was targeted at young black men and involved a puppet. Do young black men like puppetry? How do they feel about the Muppets?). This puppet is shown interacting primarily with young black men, who are usually asking the puppet questions about why it likes Sprite so much. The puppet explains why, and usually throws in some joke about also enjoying girls with large bottoms. This kind of ad seems to be clearly targeted at young black men. Why? Is lemon-lime soda popular with young black men? I have known a few in my day, and I don't remember them drinking it much. Why isn't Coke marketed to young black men? Or for that matter Toyota Corollas?
I wish more products were marketed exclusively to black people. Hopefully someday we will live to see commercials where little black puppets with afros will be used to sell cars and prescription drugs, as well as lemon-lime soft drinks and sneakers.