[vampire issue 24-- fall ‘99]

Vampire Online is a modified version of Vampire Magazine: a publication for a open-minded, which is an independant, biannual zine distributed primarily in South Florida. Vampire Online sucks quite a bit more than Vampire-on-paper,because we don’t feel like scanning our art, and our online layout sucks. You get what you pay for.

Direct inquiries and submissions to Laura Podolnick at inn0sint@aol.com and/or to Lisa Filipek at wannabeawannabe@aol.com. All submissions become property of Vampire Magazine and we reserve the right to reprint your work whenever we damn well please.

Biographies of People

Laura’s Page Of Random Observations

I used to consider my page of random observations a little like a soapbox in a park, Vampire being the park: it was a place for me to stand up and tell everyone directly how much I needed to complain about one issue or another. Inspired by nostalgia, I found myself flipping through some old Vampires a few days ago and I marveled at the different stages my random observations went through. In the very early issues, I whined about things like the prevalence of No Fear shirts at my middle school, people who wore socks with sandals, juvenile concepts of dating in seventh grade, and other things of merit to a thirteen year old egoist who was drunken with the giddiness of having her own magazine. When I entered Pine Crest the random observations took a sinister turn, and I began to randomly observe how much I hated rich, snobby girls who liked to throw paper at my head during assemblies. Since this is probably the last Vampire that will be published while its editors-in-chief are still firmly rooted in the dirt and rubble we call high school, I’m going to randomly observe some high school phenomena for you, and you are going to like it. Yes.

1. Smart/attractive boys date the smart/attractive girls and the dumb/attractive girls. Dumb/attractive boys date the dumb/attractive girls. Smart/ugly boys date the dumb/attractive girls or the smart/attractive girls. Dumb/ugly boys date the dumb/ugly girls. NO ONE dates the smart/ugly girls. Call it a double standard...

2. High school looks a lot more fun on television and in movies than it actually is.

3. Being a senior is a lot like being a freshman, except that instead of being crushed in hallways by hordes of anonymous people that are older than you are, you get crushed in hallways by hordes of anonymous people that are younger than you are. And if you are like me, they are all bigger than you anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

4. How expensive your shirt is matters a lot more than it theoretically should matter. It’s best to ignore people who care about things that you don’t care about. Arguing is fruitless on some issues.

5. As bad as it is to have people talking about you behind your back, it is much worse to have them not talking about you at all.

This is making me depressed...I was all good-mooded a minute ago, and now I just reminded myself how pathetic life really is. Before I retreat, I’d like to tell you one more thing I’ve noticed recently. The story of Oedipus makes no sense. I’ll tell you why. Oedipus was cursed because he killed his father and had incest with his mother. Oedipus should not have been cursed for these actions, because he was Greek, and look at the Greek gods and the Greek creation myth. Zeus killed his father, Kronos, and had incest with his sister, Hera. Why should Oedipus be punished by the gods for something they do themselves? Unless he was being punished for his hubris in thinking he could discover who killed Laios...but I don’t think so.

Do you see what school is doing to me? AHH! Do you see? I was calmly writing for Vampire when English attacked me from the inside out. I’ll leave you before math occurs.

Lisa's Page of Random Observations

Welcome to another funfilled addition of your favorite magazine and mine. I trust you have all been well since last we chatted and if not, I'm sorry and hope things soon turn around. I've been thinking a lot lately about what I wanted to write about in this lovely little article of mine. I suppose in a way this article is useless, because everything I write in here could just be used in some other article with its own little subject. But since Laura had one, I needed one too and now here I am stuck with yet another blank page to fill.

I was going to dedicate this article to my new found love of digital cameras {which I shall do} but I think I am first going to piss and moan about the evils that are AOL, my stupid second phone line, and Harold's* poor sickly internal modem. Lately, AOL has had a field day with kicking me off. Every five minutes or so it decides to conviently lose its connection with my modem, or whatever it does. ARGH!!!!!!! It makes me very angry and I would just like AOL to know that I do so very much hate it, and yes that is why I am on it all the time.

Subject change, because that was getting dull. And now onto my love, the digital camera. I must say that digital cameras are just about the niftiest little toys ever invented. They are great, because you don't have to buy film and you can delete all the pictures that are bad. Plus they have a cute little monitor so you know exactly what you are taking a picture of. When you are done you just stick the pics into your handy dandy little computer {make any little changes that need to be made} and ship them off to people. I , however, do not own one of these swell little gadgets, but Michelle does. And she lets me play with it all the time. They are great I tell ya.

Speaking of gadgets, I am totally enthralled with the McDonald's Inspector Gadget toys. They are wondrous. I suppose its because I have always been obsessed with Inspector Gadget. I'm not a big fan of his cartoon, but I love all his nifty {don't ask about the use of this word; it just sort of jumped into my head so deal with it} little things that stretch. Hm. . and I also love the little Inspector Gadget bag that they sell at the Disney Store, that due to my lack of money and over abundance of bags I was not permitted to buy. But if any of you want to buy it for me, feel free. I love presents.

Now to totally change the subject, I would like to profess to all of you loyal and dedicated readers my complete and utter hatred of EMO. The word itself has always bothered me, but now it seems to be the new thing to love. It's such whinny music it makes me sick. Definitly made for pansies {hehe}. Oh and for those of you who are wondering what emo is. .its a type of music. But it stands for "Evening Meal Optional". I know this for a fact because one of the three books I am suppose to finish in five days or so.

And now to finish this completely jumpy and nonflowing article I am simply going to say. . .see you anon and hope you enjoy the rest of the issue.

Love me.

Lisa


*For those of you who don't know. . Harold is my strawberry iMac.

Advice: Dear Laurisa Ana

My toes have suddenly turned an alarming shade of hot pink. I don't know what to do. Everyone who sees me makes fun of my toes. You can see them through shoes and socks. They glow. All my friends hate me now because of my toes. Please help me.

-Spiffy Sue

Dear Spiffy Sue,

I do believe the best thing to do in a situation such as this would be to remove your toes with a knife. Once done, grind them in a blender and secretly add some of your toe choppings to meals eaten by the offenders. Then they will have glowing stomachs and it will be your turn to gloat.

Dear Laurisa Ana,

Last night, my boyfriend told me that unless I stop thinking about naked sheep, he is going to stop giving me foot massages. I really like foot massages, but I can't seem to stop thinking about naked sheep. I'm afraid it might be a sort of obsession. Also, I have no idea how my boyfriend is reading my mind. Can you tell me how to fix this situation?

-naked sheep, ahh.

Dear naked sheep, ahh,

And the truth shall set you free. Are you that dense? Do you not realize that your boyfriend is really a naked goat in disguise!? Of course he is angered by your need to fantasize about naked sheep; you are betraying his kind. Goats can sense when people are thinking about their archrivals. I do believe it is time for you to figure out to whom your allegiances really belong and then dispose of the other one.

Dear Laurisa Ana,

I've noticed that you always give really horrible advice. I think you should apologize to all of the innocent people you have harmed throughout your years as an idiotic advice columnist. Also, I hate you.

-B. B. Hallerthwap

Dear B. B. Hallerthwap,

What I am sensing here is an inferiority complex. My best advice for you would be to stop wearing wool socks in the summer and start sleeping naked on your roof. The rays from the moon and stars will help tan your body without burning it and causing it damage. Maybe then you will lose your hallucinations and realize that you have just written a letter to a robot.

OATS!

Dear Laurisa Ana,

My shirt is too small. I think I washed it the wrong way. It makes me feel so confined. My pants are fine, but my shirt is way too small. I am so upset. Help!

-Claridge Oval

Dear Claridge Oval,

My dear, it is all in the perception of things. Did you ever consider that perhaps your body is just to big and there is nothing wrong with the shirt? Maybe you wash your body like you washed the shirt and then when you are dry it will fit. This way life will be good. Oh and get new pants. Those make your arms look HUGE!

arDe isaLaur aAn,

times of some i itch of sw etters of l round of a in ords of w. i an't of c elp of h his of t. ix of f e of me.

-nado of tor

Dear nado of tor,

I believe in the sun and the moon and the feelings you have when you are in love. I believe in greater power and in spirits and angels and carpet. I believe in Macintosh and printers, and I believe in a world where computers don't hate you. And my dear, you suck.

Dear Laurisa Ana,

I am pretty sure I suck.

-a vacuum

Dear a vacuum,

I certainly hope so! It is your duty! Suck one for the good old U.S. of A. Be proud. . but just be sure you don't swallow.

Dear Laurisa Ana,

I am almost positive I blow.

-a hairdryer

Dear a hairdryer,

Just because its called that doesn't mean you actually blow.

“NOW what do we do with that darn chihuahua??”
-why companies should avoid advertising with animals

by laura

The Taco Bell chihuahua gives me a headache. And it isn’t because I don’t like Taco Bell, or because chihuahua is hard to spell, or even because I don’t like dogs, although all of these statements are true. It’s because I have a conscience and every time that I see that big-eyed little-bodied dog on television, I know that somewhere out there in tv-land there is a little girl or a little boy who is watching the tube with the family and who suddenly will cry out, “I want a doggie just like that one!”

Mommy and Daddy, too, will recognize the cuteness of the Taco Bell chihuahua and they will smile at each other, knowing that little Betty or Bradley has a birthday coming up. And of course, it’s much healthier and much more wholesome to buy the child the cliched present of a living, breathing dog than to purchase the next plastic toy advertised on television. Mommy and Daddy know that they need a dog, too, because you can’t have your perfect suburban dream without having a pooper scooper. And you can’t have a pooper scooper without, you guessed it, a dog. And why get a free ordinary mutt from the local pound when you can get an expensive, inadvertantly advertised chihuahua?

It’s all very fine and good, until you think about the welfare of the poor chihuahua. Ladies and gentlemen, there is a reason more people don’t have chihuahuas. It’s not because they are small. It’s not because their name is spelled strangely. It’s because they are not the best breed of dog to have as a pet, especially in a home with small children. I’m serious. I did my research. Chihuahuas can be yippy and mean. They get sick a lot. They are a high strung breed. Which is why I have fear.

I have fear that what happened years ago with dalmations will happen with the poor chihuahuas. When the Disney movie “101 Dalmations” came out, everyone and their uncles wanted a dalmation. How cute! How animated! Dalmations became the cool new gift to buy people. Dalmations were the rage.

Until they weren’t.

People who wouldn’t have bought a dog in the first place bought dalmations, and then realized what they got themselves into. Then the dalmations went to the pound, sad and unloved by the idiots who bought them to be trendy.

And now it is the chihuahua’s turn.

The pound is not a happy little place where animals frolic. The pound doesn’t have the resources to feed and house an unlimited number of animals. So some of them get killed.

And after the chihuahua rage is over, people will realize that they have a high strung, sickly dog on their hands, and you know where
they will bring their chihuahua? The pound. Instead of being good citizens in the first place and taking home a dog from the pound, thus saving a life, they contribute to the problem. How cute.

So I implore companies. Please. Do not use animals in your advertising. Yes, it may sell your product. Yes, your ads will be cute. But it just isn’t worth the lives of the breed of animal that you are using in your ad. I know that trendy animals aren’t all advertising’s fault...I don’t recall
any ferrets in ads and those were popular a few years back...but advertising does have an effect on this. When you use an animal to advertise a fast food chain, you are not only selling food, you are selling the animal.

And no chihuahua ever asked to be marketed to the American public. Be safe. Use a fake animal, like the energizer bunny.

religious ponderings

by adan

As defined in Webster's dictionary: Atheist: one who denies the existence of God..Agnostic: one who is not committed to believing in either the existence or the nonexistence of God or a god..Unitarian: a member of a denomination that stresses individual freedom of belief.

There are also people who choose not to denominate themselves as any certain group. I choose not to label myself as anything because I don't know if my ideas fit within a certain group. I am, however, nonreligious. I have for a couple of years been nonreligious and every time I start thinking about it, I find more reasons to be a nonbeliever. I, like many other people, have to see to believe in something, and I have yet to see something that proves the existence of a god in my life. There are many contradictions that discourage me to have a religion or be a believer.

Foremost, I can't understand how we can go around saying that the gods in the Greek, Roman, Egyptian and such mythologies weren't real and then blindly believe in one ourselves. I mean, it's common knowledge that the gods they had were all mythical (or at least it's what I've heard so far), it's discussed that their lives were ruled in every aspect by their gods (the many that they had and such) and many people don't understand why. Yet, the majority of us still believes in one god or another. What makes this or that God more real than the ones that were thought to exist at those times? Just because now most of the religions believe in only one God that has all the power that the others had, it makes it more believable? From my point of view, there isn't a way in which we can criticize what the people in the past believed in without taking a second look at contemporaneous beliefs and reconsidering how seriously we should take that in account.

I think that religion was first created to keep the people in their place, I don't know but it just seems that its purpose was to make people abide by something, after all religion did come before the first set of laws. Religion deals with having faith and hope, but it also deals with fear of punishment and such, things that already exist in our society, but that weren't so broadly used before. I've heard of many people not doing something because of fear that their god will punish them or that they will go to hell, so I think that it was used first as a means of restraining people from doing one thing or another.
Another thing I don't understand is how religions can preach peace and other good actions, when religion has been the cause of so many conflicts, wars, and bloody events throughout our history. So many lives have probably been lost because of all those conflicts and such. I mean all the years that the Catholics and moors were battling just to gain control over one territory. The conflicts that have been happening around the Baltic areas for hundreds of years and are still happening (i.e.: what just happened in Kosovo, has been going on for an extended period of time). All the persecutions that happened while the reformation was happening. And up until now, we still have some random terrorist acts caused by religious differences. How can religion preach peace when so much destruction/death has been caused by their own causes? And most of it happens because the believers/devouts want to prove that one god is more correct or real than the other god. What is the deciding factor here, if they are all a person's opinions?

I choose not to label myself as anything, but I choose not to believe in organized religion and have my doubts on everything else because of the so many contradictions that religion offers and what seems to not be in agreement with my ideas. I don't know, it's up to each person's values.

Real Men Take It Up The Ass!
-the conception and birth of a catch phrase

by laura

It began innocently enough.

I had been sitting alone on the steps of the auditorium attempting to concentrate on some homework. Attempting is the key word here, because not more than a few feet away from me had congregated some steriodal macho-type wrestling team mates and football team goons, behaving in their usual way--idiotically and loudly. As I stared into the pages of my book, I couldn’t help but notice the spectacle taking place in the general area. The boys talked loudly about the testosterone-ridden alcohol and date rape cocktails that had taken place that weekend, they compared arm muscles (forgive me if I don’t know the difference between a bicep and a tricep; also forgive me if I have trouble caring), they talked about how much they could lift, and they disparaged an openly gay boy in their grade. And they laughed like asinine fools, hysterically tearing and gasping for air.

It was really getting on my nerves.

After about ten minutes of this, I knew I had to say something, because that is the kind of person I am, and I do enjoy temporarily harming the egos of these horrible boys that have permanently harmed the egos of so many other people with their witless banter and hyena laughs.

Conveniently, just at this moment, the boys were jostling each other with punches to the chest area and congratulating themselves on being “real men.” I stared into the distance for a moment, and pursed my lips. The time had come.

“Real men take it up the ass!” I said randomly and forcefully, the supreme oddness of this statement shocking even myself.

The boys looked over, confused looks on their faces. “What?” said one of them, fear and sadness in his cloudy, vacant blue eyes.

“Real men take it up the ass.” I repeated, smiling.

They exchanged glances and proceeded to mock me. I could sense the discomfort they were trying to hide.

I had exposed a painful area of weakness in macho boys. I had combined their perverse homophobia with their perverse desire to be “real men,” and had warped them in ways beyond imagination. No macho man wants to be considered gay. But no macho man wants to not be considered a real man, either. So stems the inner conflict. And also, the phrase is so direct, so certain in its ultimate truthfulness, that it leaves little room for argument. What it lacks in reason it makes up for in catchiness and consonance of sound, trilling with vowels and a gorgeous array of strategically placed consonants. The phrase masquerades as a natural law. It is perfection.

And so it swam around in my mind for a few days, remaining unused until a couple days later, when my friends and I were sitting around, mocking some arrogant macho boys that we know by imitating things we thought they would say.

“I love football! Football is my world! Bring me a beer, bitch!” growled one of my friends.

“Suck my dick!!” growled another.

“Yeah! I’m a real man!” growled a third.

“And real men take it up the ass!” I growled triumphantly.

Instantly, my friends realized the beauty of the phrase, and began to repeat it. The fame went from there, and now it is used regularly in every circle of friends that I have--the school clan, the Wellington crowd, the Pembroke Pines group, and even my online people.

And now I would like you to say it. Go on, say it. It’s not that difficult. I grant you, my readers, permission to use this wonderful catch phrase often and with gusto whenever you desire--when alone, when faced with a terrifying group of macho steroid boys, or to amuse your friends. I give you this gift. You are welcome.

Sometimes I need to be alone. . .

by lisa

Whatever the reason, I found myself this summer sitting on a hollow wooden log, staring down the hill at the glistening blue lake that lay at the bottom and realizing just how much I appreciated my solitude. And while I was sitting on my little mountain top watching the breeze blow through the trees and just taking in the serenity of the place, I heard a noise behind me. It was my cousin. He had come outside to eat on the picnic table that we had set up on the patio for just such occasions. He didn't say anything or make any noise. He simply walked out, put his stuff down, and sat down to eat. But even in silence I could sense his presence and I felt invaded. I was tempted to ask him to leave and he wasn't even doing anything. So while I sat on my log sulking and thinking evil thoughts about the person who had the audacity to interfere with my moment of solitude, my friend Michelle came out.

Unlike my cousin, Michelle didn't just sit down quietly and ignore me, but instead walked up and sat down next to me, even looked over my shoulder to see what I was writing. But for some reason, this didn't make me angry. Had my cousin been the one looking over my shoulder I probably would have decked him and through him down into the hill into the lake, but it was ok because it was Michelle. It made me realize how funny a thing solitude really is. I suppose everyone values time alone. A quote I found somewhere said, “Children often relish being alone, because alone is where they know themselves and where they can dream.” And this is true. Its just strange how things affect a person when she is alone. Sometimes I get angry when people or events disturb my peace, but other times I see them as a comfort. Some people can walk into your space and invade all that you have and its ok. In fact, it makes you feel complete and helps you realize why you don't want to live in a perpetual state of aloneness. And then there are the other people, the ones who make you wish you had a hole that you could curl up into for eternity and never come out of until all mankind has been depleted from the face of the earth and you are free to exist by yourself without the threat of another such invasion.

Solitude is a beauteous thing indeed, but it has often been abused. People chose solitude as a way to get attention. When they are feeling ignored or unloved they chose to hide from the world in the hopes that the world will acknowledge their absence and then try to discover the cause. For those of you who do this, I pass onto you the advice of Edgar Allan Poe, "be silent in that solitude." Don't abuse the peace of quiet existence, because you may the ability to achieve it. And for now, I leave you alone. Don't be afraid. It's not as bad as it seems.

Shakespeare wanted to kill me:
a tale of survival

by laura

My first exposure to Shakespeare was an ominous one, filled with the dread and loathing I usually saved for subjects such as math or gym, and had never before bestowed upon my beloved English. I was thirteen and in the eighth grade when I heard the announcement, and to this day it replays itself in my head in moments of severe anxiety: “Students, please bring your literature books tomorrow, because we are going to begin reading Romeo and Juliet.” I broke out in a cold sweat and I could almost feel the hives forming on my skin. I knew it. My time was up. Shakespeare was going to kill me.

I never knew exactly why Shakespeare had it in for me. I took it as the type of insane personal vendetta that is only excusable when accompanied by genius. I had always known it was coming. With every “A” I earned in English came the notion that it was not to last. Shakespeare was lurking around the corner, his mean pointy beard and circus freak collar accentuating the cruel gleam that would glisten from his eyes as he saw me falter under his grasp. I was his whale. He wanted me in his power. And in the eighth grade, finally, I was his for the taking.

I battled him furiously. I disrespected him, referring to him as “Will” or “Billy.” I sat down every night and read, reread, and highlighted the odious Romeo and Juliet, waiting, just waiting to fail. Shakespeare was a name as big as calculus, a name you hear in television shows about high school, a name that makes adults wince and clutch their grocery-store romances in sheer desperation. Shakespeare was a rite of passage. Reading Romeo and Juliet was something everyone had to do eventually, akin to getting one’s wisdom teeth pulled or the requisite failing of one’s first driving test. Shakespeare was going to make me grow up whether I wanted to or not. He was going to take the one ounce of childhood left inside of me and squeeze it out, leaving me withered with experience and cynical with maturity. He wanted me dead.

I will admit that in eighth grade, I didn’t like Romeo and Juliet one bit. I hated the puzzling words and the blank verse form as much as I hated the irrational love between Romeo and Juliet. And the next year in ninth grade, I didn’t care for Julius Caesar very much either. Tenth grade was my sabbatical from Shakespeare, and by the time eleventh grade rolled around, I had undergone a change. Somehow I realized that in order to be an English major, one has to respect the talent of Shakespeare. By fighting off Shakespeare, I was inhibiting my own growth. So in my junior year, I approached Macbeth with an open mind, casting away all the fear and baggage its author’s name carried. And I adored Macbeth. Perhaps I just appreciated its story more than that of Romeo and Juliet or Julius Caesar. But I like to think my acceptance and affection for Macbeth means I have battled Shakespeare and won. I’ve undergone his rites of passage. I may be more mature. But I am not dead.

One final note: This past summer, I was leafing through some of my old textbooks when I came across Romeo and Juliet. I smiled bitterly at the memories contained within the severely highlighted and underlined pages, but something made me sit down and begin reading the play again. Perhaps it was my recent success with Macbeth; perhaps it was simply to see how well I remembered the play four years later. But I sat down and read the entire thing. And you know what? This time, I thoroughly enjoyed it.

The Prep and I: a real-life fable
(or: the pointlessness of self-imposed social boundaries and how i learned my lesson)

by joanna

Being the perfectionist that I am, I was already handling two (count them with me, TWO) cash registers by my own self, when in walks "prep". Who is "prep" you ask? Well, from what I could gather, he was the typical teen; bleached blonde hair, strategically placed (as to appear trendy, but not too trendy) piercing, and I'm almost certain I spotted an Abercrombie label on his khaki ass. As much as it seems that I noticed him, I really didn't notice him; I was too busy keeping the peace between customers and registers. And I was doing a pretty good job, that is until the "click click, beep, cha-ching, thank you, have a nice day" came to be a multiple person job. I looked over at the group of other employees; some were occupied with their own tasks, but "prep"…I think we may add "social butterfly" to his list of credentials. As I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, the phone rang and a little alarm went off in my head. (remove straw one) I looked over at him and said (with as much attitude as I could, which isn't very much for a quiet, naïve person like me) "Would you like to get that? Or should I do that too?"

In my own little mental notebook, I was already placing him under my "dumb people" category. These people include, but are certainly not limited to, basically anyone who isn't like me, either by intelligence, personality, and I'm ashamed to say, style of dress. I don't think my snide remark had even scratched the thick layer of superficiality that covered him. I even made a mocking gesture at him, just to be sure. My hypothesis was proven correct. No reaction.

He never introduced himself to me and even had the audacity to patronize me the second time I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. This time, I had brought my new red lunchbox to work. What can I say? I like lunchboxes, but I know that this aspect of my personality might lead certain ignorant persons to label me a "freak" or even something of a less pleasant nature. In this case, I was coworker to the King of the Ignorant. As I opened my box, he asked if it belonged to me. Honest question. He then proceeded to mock me in the most obnoxiously silly voice (couldn't he at least have been grown up about this?) "Aww, isn't that cute? She bwings her wunchbox to work." (remove straw two) Had I not felt threatened by this ignoramus of a person, I probably would not have been phased. I'm weak when it comes to boys, I admit it. But at that point, if there were quick judgments to be made, he was being covered in them.

That same night, business slowed and I suppose he took this as a cue that I actually wanted a Sno Cap thrown at my head. (remove last straw) In retaliation, I flicked some rubber bands at his Abercrombie ass, but because I throw, flick, cry and do everything else like a girl, my bitter actions went unnoticed and thus, unsuccessful. I walked over to where I had set my lunchbox to get a sip of water, when he asked, "So what school do you go to?" I thought to myself, "Duh! How stupid can you be? I have only passed you in the halls like a gazillion times!" but I had given up on all forms of sarcasm and replied, "Same as you."

"Really? I've never seen you there." I had never taken him as the observant type, so I opted not to hold this against him.

"How do you dress at school?" He was pulling out all the deeply meaningful questions on me. How ever would I answer?

"What do you mean?" I asked, hoping to avoid accidentally becoming bitter once again. Perhaps he really was interested in the psyche of my social behaviors.

"You know how our school has all those different cliques. How do you dress?"

I thought it over and decided that I was above trying to impress "prep," so I gave him my most honest answer. "Well, this year, I am going for the farmer housewife look and to sum up my clique for you, I am a nerd."

"No, seriously?"

Did he not understand that I had just made myself vulnerable to all kinds of witty, popular people jokes? "Seriously," I said, "I used to do the whole 'try to be someone' thing; I went through my colorful tee shirt, huge pants phase, but now, I'm just sort of…well…me." I couldn't believe I was being so honest. For me, this normally was like beating my head against a rock and hoping it would show some understanding, but in the conversation that followed, I learned that all that time, I had possessed the char-acteristics of that rock. I was ignorant. The “prep” shared with me about how he had had his "wears all black, has long hair, hangs out with the wrong crowd" period in middle school, but then had sought to be popular. I held onto my lunchbox as I listened to him share with me, how he considered popularity as something not all it was cracked up to be. He talked about how he felt he didn't know himself anymore and had become a lost product of trying to be someone. Then, he asked me, from those times that I had seen him at school, how would I label him? The words came all too easily to my mouth, "full blown prep."

The moment I said it, I wished I could have taken it back. I felt like the biggest hypocrite and wondered why I hadn't been discovered as one sooner. Right then, I knew my judgmental attitude had to go. For as long as I could remember, I had felt judged by his kind of people, but I was the one who had dwelled in the wrong. At the end of the night, he offered to take over my register and I thought about what I had learned from him. And now, all I am saying is "give preps and geeks and nerds and jocks and cheerleaders and hippies and weirdoes and recluses and freaks a chance."

[Insert Name Here]

by Lisa

Dork, prep, freak, skater, hippie, trendy. Ah the oh so familiar labels of teenage existence. Most of us spend our entire high school career trying to avoid certain labels and to perhaps gain others. We take offense to people trying to categorize us, when we are all so obviously unique. I find it ironic then, that so many of who refuse these labels, are so quick to put new ones on ourselves.

I'm talking about the identities that we try to hide behind. You know, the clothing brand you wouldn't be caught wearing {or not wearing}, the music you so proudly display on your cars and backpacks, the journal you want everyone to know you write in, the makeup you hope people will take notice of. What's even more ironic is not only do we place such labels on ourselves, but we become defensive of them. We get angry when people try to take things that are "ours." We feel threatened when people who aren't our friends start dressing like us, or talking like us. Obviously we were the first to listen to that band or wear that clothing, and God forbid someone else should try to imitate us.

And I will admit that I am no different. I have certain songs that belong to me, and all the people who think they can wear MY silver Doc Martens had better watch out. But I realized the other day just how ridiculous this is. I don't own a song. How can I claim something that isn't mine? The only person who can own a song is the person who wrote it. Yes, this is a difficult concept to grasp, and I'm still not sure I like it, but its something that is very true. We spend so much energy trying to be different that we forget that we cannot be. We all steal some of our identity from someone else, and for us to get angry when someone steals something from us is not right.

Ok, so this article was pointless and dumb, but I was very inspired to write it the other day and I didn't. So I am writing it now so as to appease the part of me that still has a conviction for this topic, although it may lay dormant at the moment.

School days, school days. . .
one last cynical commentary on high school

by Lisa

The Beginning Of The End

Senior year is finally upon me. I have waited my entire high school existence for this year. I have been waiting patiently to experience the "best year of my life;" unfortunately, I don't see that happening anytime soon. My school has gone out of its way to make sure that my last year in this lovely institution will be more than enough ensure that I will never be back.

The Conflict

No year at Wellington High School would be complete without the lovely conflict in my schedule. That's right, my oh-so intelligent heads of school, decided to once again put my requested AP {Advanced Placement} classes during the same hour. Since these classes are only offered during one hour, I was basically screwed. I had a choice between AP Calculus and AP Psych. Although the choice seems obvious, I went with the Calculus. Although I am going to take the Psych as a Duel Enrollment class, I would just like to state, for the record, that this is the THIRD year in a row that I have been forced to not take a class I wanted.

Preacher Man {aka the principal}

I am now going to share with you the man who has gone out of his way to make sure my year will be smashing. First of all, the man who said over the announcements, and I quote, "Academic excellence is and has always been our main goal." After saying this blatant lie, he then proceeds to diminish the amount of AP classes available. You see, the students who actually care about school don't get classes because our principle is more concerned about overcrowding in the lower level classes. His concern is not that we get the best education we can, but that he can be the best friend of all his students. On top of this, he has taken it upon himself to do away with the time honored tradition of allowing National Honor Society and Student Government members to walk first at graduation. GRR! And I know you all care, too.

Parking Passes

Another irking thing done by Rodney {the principle}. You see, NHS officers have always had reserved parking spots in the teacher parking lot. This year, the school decided to change that. Being an NHS officer, I was slightly peeved, cause I am presently parked in spot 135, because I assumed I would have a spot waiting for me. Then after I got the crappy spot, I found out that NHS officers were supposed to get one of the first ten spots, but the school had sold them to other people. Don't you just love people!?

Physics

My greatest enemy, AP Physics. Being the stupid overachiever that I am, I decided to take AP Physics without having taken any other Physics classes. The teacher told me that there should be no problem, but she seems to have forgotten this. She sort of ignored the fact that half of her students have never even seen Physics before and so I am going to fail. Isn't this exciting!?

So all in all, my school year is starting out wonderfully. My classes are hard and boring and I over committed myself to extracurricular activities. I am going to have to surrender my life and that is quite sad. But as long as I get into Harvard (yeah right) I won't be complaining. I hope you guys are having more fun at school than I am.

The Count: a math page

by Lisa

me neither. . .












[ed. note. for those of you who haven’t been with us very long, i will tell you that way back in 7th grade, when we started vampire, we had a math page. we really did. i have evidence if you need it. it was called “the count” (get it...vampire magazine..the count ...hee hee?) and we used to put math problems on it. i promise i’m not kidding. anyway, the count died after awhile because we realized that no one read it. how sad we were. this is an impermanent count revival in memory of the once wonderful and exciting page of math that used to appear in every issue of vampire magazine. we miss you, count! -laura.]

“oooh, you’re sooo baaaad”
-how I wound up getting voted most rebellious
and what this means in the grand scheme of the universe.

by laura

Senior superlatives don’t mean anything. Most likely to succeed probably isn’t the most likely to succeed, she is just who seems to be headed for success; a safe vote; an obvious vote; a vote that is voted because everyone else is voting that way.

I remember when I was a wee little freshman looking at those big, scary seniors in their impressive, wonderful superlatives in my yearbook. I looked at the most attractive people, and I couldn’t believe they won that category, since I found much more attractive people in their grade. Best backside’s butt wasn’t as nice as my little freshman butt, and most original looked like she had bought her outfit on the sale rack at “trendy clothes r us” which is not actually a store but since I am a rebel, I can say it is anyway.

That’s right, kiddies, you heard it. I, me, the bleached-blond black-wearing sullen derelict eighth grader, the terrifying pseudo-Courtney Love pms-hallway-banshee freshman, the manipulatively-insulting destructive and acid- tongued sophomore, the loner-in-the-corner sarcastic-editorial-writing ‘i-hate-my-friends’ junior, and now the comparatively agreeable yet slightly nonconformist senior, have finally gotten my dues. I was voted {a few votes shy of unanimously}most rebellious. I’m sure you are all very proud.

As glad as I am that I finally got something for all my hard work in aggravating the kind folk of the class of 2000, I am slightly concerned about the state of a class where I am the most rebellious girl they can find. If I’m the most rebellious girl in my grade, it doesn’t say a lot for the rest of the girls...I think I was just the least cookie-cutter- average girl they could find. I’m not quiet. I have opinions and I like to shove them in the faces of people I don’t like. If I were a guy I’d be touted as political and bound for success. As a girl, I’m just a rebel.

But you see, the problem with this is I’m not really that rebellious. When you think rebellious, I’m sure you think of a trouble-maker: some greasy girl who never goes to class, who smokes in the bathroom, who gets drunk every weekend, who lives in a trailer with her 28 year old boyfriend who sells marijuana he grows in his grandparents’ basement. I am none of this. While most of the girls in my grade do smoke and get drunk on a regular basis, I don’t. Ever. I go to all my classes and I do better than most people do. Right now it is 11:15 on a Saturday night, and you know what I am doing? I am sitting at home, in front of my computer, writing. Earlier today, I had people over to work on my psychology presentation. Clothes? Do you want to know what kind of clothes I wear? Don’t look so scared. I shop at a conglomeration of stores to obtain my not-that-incredibly-unique look: Express, the Gap, Wet Seal, Urban Outfitters, Burdines, Guess, etc. Ooh, me bad.

I do acknowledge that I used to fit the profile of a “rebel” more than I do now. In ninth grade I did dress rather oddly and I tended to scream at people a lot and tell them I hated them. But I know that is not why I got voted most rebellious. Oh, no. I know exactly what I did.

In November of ninth grade, a week before Thanksgiving, I did the unthinkable: I dyed my hair BLACK. Not only was it black, but there was a little stripe of accidental brown left in the back. And I didn’t care. And I walked around with horrible hair for about a month. And since it was black, of course I must have been satanic. Wow, I really was bad.... haired. Never mind that I, like now, stayed home on Saturday nights writing. Never mind that I didn’t party, drink, smoke, or anything else then, either. Because with my black hair and dark eyeliner, I looked like the type of person who would do those things. And in high school, appearances are the only things that matter. Duh.

NOVeLPnis/Dave-id in all his glory: a eulogy of sorts.

by laura

The background of this tale is a must if you are to understand what happened. The background is as thus: Adan, Joanna and I frequent an area of America Online called “The Young Writers’ Showcase.” This is a board where people post their own original work and respond to others’ work in categories such as “Poetry Showcase 4,” “Short Story Showcase,” “Haiku,” and “Open Forum for Teens.” Joanna and I post our writing in these places, and Adan just stops by on occasion to read some poetry. However: there are some people on these boards who are called novels. They are adults (or teens who won a certain number of AOL writing contests) who sort of “run” the boards and critique everyone’s work. Most of them are not bad people, although a few are a bit irritating. Novels have “NOVeL” or “NOVL” in the first part of their screen names: I could be “NOVeLLaura.” Get it? Good.

Now, one balmy summer day, Adan and I went up to visit Joanna in Wellington, since she was lonely because Lisa was frolicking in Michigan. We were lounging around Joanna’s house, bored, when we decided to go on AOL. This was a mistake. We were talking about the poetry board, and we somehow got on the topic of how one becomes a novel. We wondered what would happen if some random person just happened to have a screen name with “novel” in it...would he be a novel? The question was too tempting to leave unanswered. We were going to find out.

We went on Joanna’s main account and made a screen name. We wanted to be NOVLbounce at first (in honor of the wonderful word “bounce”), but AOL said no. So, giggling, we typed in NOVeLPnis. And AOL said okay! We became NOVeLPnis, and the world would never be the same.

Once we got online under NOVeLPnis, we knew we couldn’t just go on the young writer’s showcase and post serious poems...that would be no fun. We had to give NOVeLPnis a name and a personality. To accomplish this, we made an AOL profile, and tried to make NOVeLPnis sound like the type of person who would pick that type of screen name: ie, we made him really obnoxious and a wonderfully silly joke in our world. Here is his profile:

Member Name:

Dave-id...LoL!!!
Location: Here...There...Everywhere!
Birthdate: 5-21-73
Sex: Male
Marital Status: Single...and luvin' it!!!!
Hobbies: Sports!! Like...Hockey! Baseball! Basketball! and of course...SECKS! ..also, writing, esp. Sports Writing...Windsurfing, Jogging, Dating, Eating, Breathing...no guyz pleaz, I'm str8! ...I am 26/m, brown/blue 188 lbs 6"1!!
Computers: uhhhh....LoL
Occupation: ...Sports Writer!!!!!! Proffessionall Humper!!! LoL!!!! R U a girl!!?? Oh Baby! I want u!!! Y? Just Bcuz!!
Personal Quote: Shout-outs to my boyz and girlz!!! Tristan!! Kelly!! Roger!! Michael! Hafeez!!! Brette!!! Simon!!! Becky!! ...and mah brutha Steven!!!! Peace out Sgi Steve- pimp yo phrum da man in da ghetto!!!!!!

As you can imagine, Adan, Joanna and I could not stop laughing at our genius. [inside jokes: the names of the shout-out people are those of actual people. sgi steve is a real steven who we know.] Now that we had an identity, we decided we were going to invade the poetry board and see how much havoc we could reak. We created a signature that would be beneath any message we posted. It said, in orange and maroon letters: “Life can be good, life can be bad, but whatever you do, please don’t make it sad!!!!!!!” Deepness. Beauty.

Before we actually wrote any poems by Dave-id, we decided to do some replying to others’ poetry. Now, you see, the people on the boards are very polite and kind to one another. Poem critiques are usually very flattering, or if there is criticism, it is very constructive and gentle. Dave-id was going to change all that. We found a poem written by the most respected poet on the board, and we replied something to the effect of “this poem sucked! it was the worst poem i’ve ever read! if this poem were a girl, i wouldn’t even let her give me head!” We giggled triumphantly. We ruined the ego of a girl whose poem-arrogance could have filled a warehouse. We were funny.

Now came the time to write some poems and stories. A few were lost, but we saved most.
Here they are. Bear in mind that we posted them in a huge, italic maroon font.

mah haiku
by dave-id
her boobs were that big
they were like watermelons
so ripe yet so firm


mah otha haiku
by dave
I like to have sex
sex makes me feel so happy
like some animal


mah poem
by dave-id
mah pimp ride
is dark tan
it makes me feel
like a real man
the seats are cool
the wheel is cool
the brake is cool
the window is cool
mah car is so great
all of itz so cool
it makes me wanna
...you know...masturbate.


mah otha poem (sexy)
by dave
my nipples are pink
they are nice nipples
girls like them
they makes girls want me

i am hot
girls want to hump me
when i look at my body
i want me


mah motorcycle
by dave
I love my motorcycle
It is all shiny and black
I love it so much
Riding is so wack.
I like to ride my motorcycle
I want to ride it all day
It makes me feel happy
It makes me feel gay
My motorcycle is so great
I bought it at a store
I bought it about a month ago
and now I'm real poor.


mah story
by dave

ok like once upon a time there was a girl whos name was heather and she was mad ugly but she wanted guys so she got them cuz u know girls can do that.

and one day she and her boyfriend whos name was bill were walking on a sidewalk and they saw a canrival that was in town. so heathers all bill lets go on the ferris wheel and bill didnt have much cash since he bought a car last week so hes all nah cant we just go fool around in your room, also he was really horny becuz his last gf suzanne never gave him any. but heather got all whiny and said come on we never do anything no more and bill got all smart and all and thought well if i don't give her her way i won't get laid much so he dug deep all down in his wallet and found enuff money to get them in the carnival.

like and once they were in heather ran bill to the feris wheel and here bill is all like yeah we can fool around on the little cart thing but u know GOD HAD OTHA PLANS LoL!!

so heather and bill are in the cart, planning next to go on sum otha ride like the tiltawirl, when the feris wheel machine breaks down! man! bill is all "wut da f." and heather starts her crying and clinging to bill and he gets all horny cos she touches him. but the wheel like falls off its holder thingie and it rolls away and kills everything in its path and heather and bill died!!


```the end````

hay like i could use advise on this.....i want it to be like all dramatick and stuff like a statement.and r my detales ok?



We had more writing posted, but sadly enough, AOL promptly deleted anything posted by NOVeLPnis, and we lost some of our endeavors. We had a great one called “Mah otha poem (deep)” about Dave-id’s relationships. It ended “Kiss my nad/ talk to da hand” and had the timeless phrase in it, “I wanna rub poo on your chin.” We had journal entries about obtaining herpes from ugly girls and other fascinating topics...It was grand. Until one day, AOL got mad. Apparently, Mah otha poem (sexy) was obscene, and caused AOL to write a letter to Joanna’s father, who was very upset. We are no longer allowed to revive NOVeLPnis and talk of Dave-id is forbidden in Joanna’s household. However, Adan has Dave-id’s profile hanging on his wall, and we all know that inside of us, Dave-id’s writing will prosper. He lives on forever in our hearts. Amen.

Weep Not For The Memories: The Foursome

by lisa

It's funny how important people can be in your life, how much a few small events can impact you. I don't think I ever really understood the importance of my years as a Foursome member. This is not to say that I don't often think back to those years with a smile or that I don't miss the people who made those years possible. It's just that I lost the essence of what that time really meant to me. Tonight I had the opportunity to relive in a single night four important and spectacular years of my life. It was just a dinner and then a brief night on the town with the four. . .or so I thought. I expected it to be emotional. I expected the happy reminiscing chatter that would compliment the meal perfectly. What I did not expect was the sadness I would feel when the night ended.

I suppose I never knew I could miss something so much. I had been given the opportunity to exist in a fantasy world, a world that held for me the secrets of my youth. {Yes, I realize that I am stilling living my youth. But I am referring to what I consider to be my youth now, elementary school} I found a tiny glimpse into the innocence and beauty that marked the beginning of my growth into the person I know am. The people that I sat and ate with were the people who shaped my being. The first people to ever let me see who I really am. And not only did they teach me to see myself, but they taught me to appreciate myself. In their company I found myself amidst a fantasy world that was so perfect and serene that I was almost willing to give up all I have to exist in it forever. The sadness is found in the realization that I could not and that in the long run, I really didn't want to.

I have grown up a lot since those years and I don't think it would be possible for me to revert back to them permanently. I have found a new self, a self less dependent on the aid of others. And I have found new people to give me the aid that this newly independent being I have become often needs. But I cannot help but remember the people who got me where I am now. The people who held me along the way, that carried me into this present and who will guide me into the future. I know that I will always hold them in a special place in my heart.

Oh, Henry!

by lisa

I have some very marvelous news to share with all of you out there in Vampire land. I got a car! Yes, that's right, my very own brand new red BMW. Are you jealous? Ok, so maybe it's not a beamer, but it is just as cute. Henry (that's my car's name) is 1995 preowned (as if MY car would be used?) Mitsubishi Mirage, light blue to match my nail polish of course. He is presently adorned with his very own floor mats and pink leopard print fuzzy dice, courtesy of one Ms. Michelle Fiore.

Oh, he also has a few other nifty items. For one, he has a Care Bears air freshener and a blue bra strap head band that wraps around one of the visors. He has three cute little tattoos {in real life terms those would be stickers}. One is a cute little pissed off faerie that hangs out in the back right side window. The other two are on the back window. They are a cute little silver star and another sticker that says "I am a little black rain cloud." I was going to put bands on my car, but I have decided not to ruin Henry. He is just too cute for that. Oh he also has the most adorable little horn. It's name is Murray, after Laura's car. Henry has a slight crush on Murray . They met each other when I took Henry to Laura's house. And since Henry is blue, there may be some little car babies in the future.

On a side note, yesterday was a very exciting day in the life of my beautiful little baby; he had his first bath. It so momentous. The whole family participated, including grandma and grandpa. It was a nice little sponge bath {nothing but the best for my baby} and we even vacuumed the insides. Oh so nice!

But I realize that my discussion of Henry is probably rather boring. Not all share my enthusiasm for such a lovely addition to my reality. So I shall leave you with one brief and lovely reminder, we do accept gifts.

Oh, Murray!

by laura

I have a car. His name is Murray. He used to belong to my mother, but he didn’t have a name then. Murray was named about a year ago, when it was determined that I needed a car to drive to school, because juniors who take the bus are severely socially ostracized at my loving and benevolent school, and I think the parents are sick of the the prank phone calls and the dead lemurs in the mailbox. (Kidding.) So a car I got. Or more accurately, a car into my possession fell. My mother bought a new car. It doesn’t have a name. She is cruel like that.

Murray is a 1993 white Honda Civic with tan leather seats and a cuddly tan stripe on his exterior. When I got Murray, he was beautiful and perfect. He is still beautiful and I love him tenderly, but three of his four speakers are dead and if you open his glove compartment, it will fall off into your hands. Murray doesn’t mind, though, because I am very kind to him and I have never been in an accident.

Murray has recently obtained two bumper
stickers, and they make him feel quite nifty indeed. Krystyna gave me both of them for my 18th birthday. One of them is a blue one with a wheelchair sign on it. It says “rock star parking.” The other one is black with white letters and it says “sanity is the playground for the unimaginative.”

Murray’s horn is cute, and it is named Henry, after Lisa’s car. Murray is aware that Henry has a crush on him, and the feeling is mutual. Aw!

In closing, I will extend Murray’s greetings to his friends, who are, coincidentally, my friends’ cars. We send love to Henry, of course, as well as Rico Suave (Farie’s car), Veronica (Gus’s car), Renate (Adan’s car), Rudolph (Fernando’s car), and Ricky Martin (Gigi’s car). If your car is nameless and you want to change that, contact me and we’ll fix it.

They Came, They Saw, They Had A Little Fun

by Lisa

Cloudy Eleven

Our first stop is way back in 5th grade when Laura and I were partners in science. We had to do a project on the different types of clouds. Since Laura was mildly insane back then (me? I was perfectly normal of course) she often made up songs. One was Channel Eleven and was supposed to be the theme song for hers and our friend Ariel's talent show comedy act. However, it soon became Cloudy Eleven and became the opening to our weather report on clouds. We made the loveliest little poster. It was dark blue and had cotton balls representing the different types of clouds: nimbus, cumulus, cumulonimbus. We had them all.

Ricky Treadwell's Highlighter

Fifth grade was definitely the year for mishaps, and this one is no exception. Laura and I used to stay after school to participate in English academic games (yes, we know we were dorks). One particular afternoon, Laura decided it would be fun to play with the things in Ricky's desk. One such thing was an infamous yellow highlighter. Needless to say, the highlighter somehow disappeared. Being Laura's friend, I was considered an accomplice and we were ordered to supply Ricky with a new one. Since I happened to have a yellow highlighter, the actual culprit offered mine as sacrifice to the Ricky and got off without much blame. As for myself, I was without a highlighter. Sadness.

Seth Rosen, where are you?!

We now are going to jump ahead a few years to Laura's return in seventh grade. This was the year that Laura got herself a nice little boyfriend named Seth. One day we decided that we needed to call Seth {I don't remember why}, but Laura didn't have his phone number. Our solution? To call every Rosen in the phone book, of course. Luckily there were only twenty or so in Wellington. The sad thing is, after calling every number, I don't think we ever did find it.

My Very First Drive To Plantation

Welcome to the near past, about four days ago to be almost exact. After having a drivers’ license for almost a year, I was finally deemed worthy to drive the forty five or so minutes to Laura's house. The drive went well, no major accidents or tickets {no minor ones either}. After going through our usual tour of the room, we decided to take Henry on an outing to the mall. Realizing that neither one of us had money, we browsed a bit. Our final stop was in a music store. The guy at the counter was cute {although Laura found him to be a bit too pierced for her liking} and was talking to us about South Park {an annoying quality, even if he was cute}. Laura, being Laura, related to the guy her ardent passion for the flick. Not because she enjoys the comical statements of the four little children, but merely because they say the word "penis." The poor guy looked so confused. I think he was pondering whether or not Laura was being serious, and if she was in fact serious, whether or not she would be interested in seeing his. Needless to say, we hurried out of that store in a fit of laughter. Ah the humor that is life.

We then decided, after leaving the mall and popping in my lovely New Kids on the Block tape, to cruise around a bit. It was near the end of our trip that we realized how close we were to our good buddy Adan's house. Since he had not yet met Henry, we decided to make the short trip to his house. Just my luck, the skies decided to open up and send their blessing down on me, in the form of a heavy afternoon shower. I was slightly peeved at the time it took to make the short journey, but I figured it would be ok once we got to Adan's. I was wrong. First, we realized that we needed his phone number to get in the gate. Neither of us were all that certain about what it was, but we formed one to the best of our abilities and hoped we were right. When we got to the gate we gave the guard the supposed phone number, which, much to our credit, was in fact right. Unfortunately, Adan decided not to be home. His poor little mother who doesn't speak a massive amount of English must have been so confused by the scary guard. The guy told me Adan wasn't home so I had to make the disappointing u-turn and depart. Although, I think Laura and I had more fun with the realization that we had gone out of our way for nothing than we would have been had we actually seen Adan.

I think I have caught you up on all of our latest adventures. We have realized that we have gotten sort of dull in our old age, but it is hard to live up to a past such as ours. Perhaps in the future something more exciting will happen, and maybe we will still have a magazine to write about it in. Perhaps. .Well see you anon my little ones.

Quiz: Are You Anti-Social?

by laura.

the masochistic pleasure of reading Bil Keane’s The Family Circus
and why it is a supremely sucking menace to modern society

by laura

I can’t bring myself to not read it. I don’t know why. I must be a masochist. If I didn’t read it, I wouldn’t know exactly how menacing it was to society on that particular morning, and therefore I would be curious all day. I am sick like this. When I used to go to the orthodontist, I would always end up placed in the chair that had The Family Circus comic books tucked in its pocket for patients to read, instead of the wonderful chair that housed such lovely comics as Calvin and Hobbes and The Far Side. I could stand the pain of the orthodonture. I couldn’t take the sickeningly wholesome comic.

“How can you hate The Family Circus?” you wonder, eyes wide with amazement. “It is so cute! Those little kids! That dog! That cat! The sweet grandpa ghost! How moral! What a wonderful message! Family! Suburbia!”

“Gag,” I respond. There is nothing cute about The Family Circus. The comic is pure evil. it subtly preaches irrelevant and old-fashioned values to a generation that is happily past them. Ever wonder why the father works and the mother stays at home? I sure have. Ever wonder why Billy and Jeffy get to play with a large variety of toys, but poor Dolly only tends to have a doll in tow? Ever wonder why there are four kids in that family, but only the father works, yet they still live in a pretty large house? Hm. I guess the story is that the father is a famous cartoonist. I accept that. What I don’t accept is that every time the father takes off a few days, something dreadful happens. Billy, the oldest son, “steps in” (this is only in the comic world, I’m sure Bil Keane still draws it) and saves the day by drawing one himself. Nepotism anyone? Sexist nepotism at that. Why the oldest son, and not the oldest daughter? Is she too busy playing house with her dolls, all ready to go on the mommy track? And little “Billy’s” (if that is his real name) drawings are so horrednously un-funny. They make me want to die.

Another thing I can not stand about The Family Circus is the religion thing. Frankly, it is just so damn annoying. I have no problem with excessive religion, as long as people of excessive religion have no problem with me. Amen. But the religion thing just doesn’t work in the comics. People read the comics for a little amusement, not for a little preaching session that says “go to church very frequently and give birth to four kids who never grow up.” Maybe I’d tolerate the saccharine wholesomeness of The Family Circus if there was an antidote also printed in the paper--a supremely anti-social dark comic, like Squee or Johnny the Homicidal Maniac. But no. Because we have these things called American family values to uphold. I think I’d value American family values a little bit more if I had more of a say in what they are. But Billy, Dolly, Jeffy, PJ and their parents personify everything that is wrong with the movement: rigid family structure, sexist practices, and no humor. And no, I do not think they are in the least bit cute.

the disintegration of a cynic:
a testimonial

by krystyna

Well, guess what kiddies? It is now officially time to peak into Krys’s sick little world. That’s right, I don’t open up very often; I often just paint over the surface with sarcastic jokes. It’s my defense mechanism (ooh, how very Psych AP of me! Thank god I didn’t take that class). However, I have just had three cokes, and I am ready to speak.

I’ve always been a bit of a cynical person. I’ve watched my parent’s failed marriages go by, and I’ve never really experienced love, so I’ve never really expected it to exist. Well, I had somewhat of an odd experience over the summer. It was mid-august, and I had just had my wisdom teeth taken out. The doctor gave me some wonderful little pills, and life was just peachy keen, but then strange things started happening. I stumbled around the house in a drugged stupor, and every time I saw my mother, I mumbled pathetically, “Mommy, I love you. Hug me.” I know, I know. Even in the back of my head, I knew there was something very wrong with this picture, but I couldn’t help it. It was like I was possessed, and I was just on the outside looking in. Then came the sitcoms.

As I sat in bed with my massive inflated cheeks filled with guaze, I had the opportunity to catch up on quite a bit of television. I found myself screaming at the tv, “No Ross! You can’t marry Emily! You love Rachel you moron!” That’s not all. I found myself sighing at commercials with married couples buying blenders, thinking to myself how damn sweet it must be to buy appliances with a loved one. I know the warning label on my bottle of pills did not say, “Warning: may cause random bouts of sentimental stupidity.”So, I am left to assume that my strange behavior is actually the cause of repressed mushy feelings. Yes that’s right; I am actually a ball of fluff on the inside. I don’t like this theory. It frightens me immensely, but the evidence seems to support it.

Of course, we cannot forget Hedwig. For those of you who don’t know, Hedwig and the Angry Inch is an off-broadway musical about a young german lad who has a sex change operation to escape the poor conditions of East Germany. Well, there was a bit of a mishap, and he was left with an “angry inch.” Ew. He comes to America where he meets his soulmate or his “other half.” His true love eventually leaves him in a bittersweet ending, but he apologizes and gives Hedwig the love and credit that she truly deserves. This pretty much sums up my feeling of love at this point. Yes it does exist. That’s right you heard it from the cynic. It may not last forever, but it does indeed exist, and it is a truly magnificent thing. That’s my testimony from my heart. Damn, I’m pathetic.

I Never Got A Chance To Thank You

by lisa

For as long as I can remember, my Florida neighborhood consisted of many old people, most of which I often found to be too nosy for their own good. These people never had any real value in my life; they simply existed to sit on lawn chairs in their front lawn and discuss whatever topic seemed relevant to their retired lives. But among these elderly lawn ornaments, there was always one woman who stood out from the rest. She lived across the street from me, alone and never came outside to play with her peers. She chose the solitude of her front room where she would sit in the window and gaze out into the world around her.

Because her husband was deceased and she had no children, she had nothing to keep her company but the quietude of her own thoughts. A life time of memories and no one to share them with created quite a problem for any neighbors kind enough to visit. Those neighbors usually ended up being either my mother or myself. I remember the dread that swept through me when I heard the words come from the lips of my treacherous mother: "Lisa, could you go and bring Alice her mail?" I knew that this would be no ordinary, short little visit, but an excursion into the life and youth of Ms. Alice K. Nicholson.

As I would sit and listen to her describe the things she accomplished in life, I often wished that I could find some way to escape her house and return to my own. I certainly didn't want to tell my children that my youth was spent hearing the tales of another's life. But I knew that my escape that I so desperately sought would not appear for another hour or so and would come only when the poor, lonely woman before me thought of something else to do.

But as time passed on and I grew older, I noticed a miraculous change happen. As much as I still didn't want to be there, I no longer dreaded going to Alice's for I began to see something that had once been invisible. I stopped viewing Alice as a woman desperate for some conversation, but rather as a woman with a fascinating story to tell and the need to spread her message. My new found, slowly forming maturity saw behind the tales a woman of amazing strength and power. She accomplished more in her lifetime than most people could even imagine doing, and she did this all during a time when women were expected to simply live at home. Her life was inspiring and for the first time I began to learn something from the stories.

One day I looked over at her house and saw an ambulance in front of it. From that day on things would never be the same. Alice had a stroke and she could no longer walk. She was bedridden and could barely move. She lost her pride and was forced to welcome into her home a live-in nurse. I was heart broken by the news, but could not bring myself to visit her. I knew that there was so much I wanted to tell her, but I feared the disillusionment that would come with seeing such a powerful woman in such a compromising state. So instead of speaking to her, I turned to God and prayed. Prayed that her suffering would end and that she would find happiness and prayed that she would know just how much she meant to me.

I knew that prayers were not the whole answer, but I didn't quite know what was. I found the answer from a man at a church retreat. I had told him my story of Alice and he was so moved that he made me swear to tell Alice somehow just how much she meant to me. I took the promise with me, but life soon picked up and I put off until tomorrow what I needed to have done then. As weeks past, the letter slipped into the back of my mind. Until one day I saw a card in Target and I knew I could put it off no longer. I bought it and began my message. I didn't know what to write exactly. What do you say to a woman who has offered you the greatest gift one has to offer? What do
you say to a woman who has so deeply touched your life and is now within inches of losing her own? I struggled with the words but found some that fairly accurately portrayed my emotions.

I enclosed the letter with the card in a small, light blue envelope adorned with white clouds. I neatly printed the address and the return as well. Placing a stamp in the upper right hand corner I was prepared to mail it. As the card fell into the mail box, a sense of peace ran through me as I knew this was the thing to do. But that peace would not last long. You see, at the time I wrote the letter I had been on vacation in Michigan. When I returned I heard some news that would change my life forever.

While I was gone, Alice had passed away. That news filled me with a mix of raw emotion. I was happy because I knew she had found her peace, but sad because I had lost some of mine. I don't think I was truly affected until I realized that she probably did not get my letter. When I found out the date of her death, I was certain that she had not. Its hard to explain how that realization felt. I felt such a feeling of emptiness and sadness. This woman who gave me so much would never know how much she meant to me. She would never know how much her life had touched mine and changed it for the better. She gave me a hope and a sense of happiness like no one else could. And I had given her nothing, but her mail.

I don't know why I wrote this all down. Partially it was to quiet the pain inside of me, to calm the guilt that raged deeply. But partially, and perhaps more importantly to try and help others avoid my tragic mistake. I believe with all my heart that each person is on this earth for a reason and that each person in our lives is there to guide us in someway. Alice was a lesson for me to learn. She taught me to be more open with my emotions. I know it can be hard to tell someone how you feel. Emotions are so real that they make us vulnerable. But if you don't say how you feel now, you may never get to. And that is a pain unlike any you will ever want to feel. I'm not exactly sure how to end this, so I'm just going to say goodbye. . .
in Loving Memory of Alice Nicholson .July 7, 1999.

Personal Gratitude

by krystyna

poetry by laura

18 reasons to buy a Big Box (tm) of crayons

by laura and lisa

The “Other” Box

by Johanna

My mother was born in Shanghai, China, to a Japanese and Portuguese mother, and an Italian father. At the age of three she fled China with her parents to escape Communism. They ended up in Venezuela, where she would live for twenty seven years. It was there that she met my father, an international banker, who is of German origin. He was born in Alsfeld, Germany, and had traveled around the world before coming to
Venezuela. Because of the nature of his work, my parents lived in many places. It was during their stay in Brussels, Belgium, that I was born. Besides living in Belgium, I have lived in New Jersey and Puerto Rico, where I spent eight years of my life. It was in Puerto Rico where I integrated with the Latin people: their culture, their customs, their music, their friendliness. I felt like I was one of them. When I was ten, we moved to
Florida, where I now live.

I would never be sure as to how to answer people when asked where I was from. Where was I born? Where had I last lived? I always felt obligated to explain everything to them. It made me uncomfortable. The more I began to think about it, though, the move privileged I felt to be able to say that I had so many nationalities within me. I travel extensively with my parents, and I always seem to feel comfortable wherever I go
because of my background. I could go to Italy and feel part Italian; I could go to Mexico and speak Spanish. I feel like a citizen of the world. I like the “other” box now.

Cults

by Adan

WellyWorld: Another Fun-Filled Article Written to Remind Me Why I Would Rather Go to Cow College in Iowa Than Live in Florida Any Longer .

by Lisa

At first there was no real problem. People were slightly upset about not being allowed in through the main entrance, but they were respectful and went through the other entrance. Everything was running smoothly, until the cheerleaders came. You see, our cheerleaders are just so important that the rules don't apply to them. I tried to tell them that we were instructed NOT to let people through those doors {the doors were even locked}. But far be it for the cheerleaders to adhere to such rules. They were too good to follow the rules.

Now, I have my own personal prejudices against the cheerleaders that starts with their non- dress-code-appropriate school-regulated uniforms and just goes from there. So at this point I was mildly angry. I can deal with a little bit of blatant disregard. But I CANNOT tolerate “Bob Smith” (name changed for legal purposes). You see, “Bob” is one of our male cheerleaders and because he has a lot of money he seems to think that the world should bend over and kiss his ass.

"Bob" came alone and tried to enter the doors. Joanna kindly told him that the doors were locked and he was to use the other entrance. Do you think that "Bob" then, being the respectful child he is, turned around and used the other entrance? NO! He looked at us and said "Not for me" and attempted to open the doors. Well, the doors actually were locked, but someone opened them for him {another cheerleader}. I was fuming. His pompous, arrogant asshole remark made me want to bitch slap the kid. But "Bob" was not done. Then when he walked out he looked at me and smirked, "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" I was ready to take his head off.

But I remembered that I was serving as an example, so I let it go. However, I was too angry to stand post, so Joanna and I went and sat. Being the obnoxious person that I am, I sat and loudly commented on how people were not supposed to go in those doors, unless of course they were cheerleaders for whom the world is willing to make exceptions. Taking note of my angry words, "Bob" took it upon himself to come over and talk to me. He felt the need to explain how the cheerleaders were being quiet and not disturbing anyone and how a teacher even let him in. I tried to defend myself to which he said, "Stop being such a girl and listen to me." It is a good thing that he left because I was about ready to take my high heeled shoe off and stab him in the eye with it.

People like him make me sooo angry. They think that because they have money and are cheerleaders that they have the right to be cocky jackasses. He actually thought he was being charming. And for those of you who don't know. . .he gets his money from his father. Oh yes, his father is a well respected doctor. Most of the women in the village {hehe I live in a village} know him quite well as he has stuck his hand up their vaginas. That's right, his father is a gynecologist. And I would be sooo proud if I were he. GRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!! So, if in the course of your life you ever encounter a pompous, arrogant jerk, do me a favor. Take off your spiked heel and shove it through his ears. :)

Note:I didn't really mean that. Please don't do that, because it is mean and harmful. Thank you.

Ricky Martin: ooh baby!

by laura

Ricky Martin is a terrifying stud muffin who wears pants that make me fear for his circulation. I thoroughly enjoy the song “Livin’ La Vida Loca,” and that Spanish-y soccer one he sang at the Grammy’s wasn’t too bad either. I am not a fan of his current single, because it is too slow and it whines and it just basically sucks, but I forgive Ricky Martin for this because I like the way he wiggles his butt. Call me superficial. You know you like it too.

The one issue I have with Ricky Martin is his name. Come on. Ricky? Ricky?? What kind of a name is that?! It makes me think of Ricky Treadwell, and that somehow saddens me deeply.
Ah, such is life. Sigh.

"They trespassed upon my thoughts.”

by Lisa

Britney Spears, 5ive, N’Sync, etc...
-the world’s affair with saccharine, underage pop tycoons
and how to survive by loving it all

by laura

This past summer, I have gone through a metamophisis of sorts. No, I have not changed all that significantly, and no, you stupid smirking person in the corner, I am not really a man. What has happened to me, then?

I have changed radio stations.

Sigh. Who would have thought it would come to this? It had to happen eventually, though, and I will explain why. For my non-South Florida readers, I will tell you there is one rock station here. This is not counting the shamelessly outdated “classic rock” station, nor the groovilicious and yummy 80’s music station, nor the wonderful-traffic-reports having oldies station, nor 103.1 The Buzz, which is located too far north (West Palm Beach) for me to be able to get here in Ft. Lauderdale. The one rock station is 94.9 Zeta. I have listened to Zeta since I moved here as a wee thirteen year old girl. I have listened loyally, often, and consistantly. I have participated in contests--I even won a much-reviled Ozzy Osbourne cd once while trying to win a Smashing Pumpkins cd--I have gone to radio-sponsored concerts, I have listened to the local show, I have laughed with the DJ’s, I have visited the website...I was just the most desirable listener they could imagine. And then it happened.

I realized that Zeta sucked.

The realization came gradually, as such realizations often do. It budded when I noticed that Zeta plays a lot--and I do mean a lot--of really outdated, offensive music like Van Halen, Black Sabbath, and Aerosmith. You know, the kind of testosterone-riddled junk that makes me die. (Don’t call me girly, because I am not...I can not stand Sarah McLachlan and her Liltih Fair frolicking...I like my music genderless, thanks). For a long time, I tolerated all the bad 70’s leftovers, because Zeta played me my Pearl Jam, and I was happy.

But then, this summer, they insulted me in a way I just can’t tolerate.

Offense number one: Kid Rock. I can not deal with Kid Rock. If you look up “asinine” in the Laura dictionary of frequently used terms, you will see a huge picture of Kid Rock, his stupid midde finger extended for your pleasure. I hate how in all his songs, he feels he has to announce “my name is kiiiiiiid rock!!” And I hate his midget fetish. I basically just can’t stand his music. When Zeta put him on heavy rotation, I was on my way out. Then:

Offense number two: Limp Bizkit. Even more than I can not deal with Kid Rock, I can not deal with Limp Bizkit. If you look up “horrid beyond belief” in the Laura dictionary of frequently used terms, you will see a photo of Limp Bizkit, with cross-references to “horrible band names” and “lyrics that kill me.” I hate how Limp Bizkit has suddenly decided that “nookie” is a word and that cookies are things to be shoved in anal cavities. I’d prefer they kept their puke-beer testosterone music to themselves and stopped instigating gang rapes. Yes.

Kid Rock and Limp Bizkit became Zeta’s new darlings. I just couldn’t stand to listen anymore. There is nothing more disheartening than waking up in the morning to hear “take this cookie and stick it up your ass” screamed at the top of some low-IQ-man’s tobacco-ridden lungs. I died a thousand times. And I played with the radio dial until I found my new home(s).

New home number 1: Y-100. Your basic
[continued] top 40 station for the over-20 under-45 set. They used to play this station in my orthodontist’s office, and I used to hate it. But now that I’m all cute and peppy I can handle it. They play Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys and as much as I used to hate this type of music, it is seriously growing on me. It’s not deep and it means nothing, but sometimes that is the type of music I need. Yes.

New home number 2: Power 96. Now this one is ironic. Less than a year ago, you could find me roaming my world, professing the evilness of rap music. Now I rather like it. At times. Power 96 plays a blend of rap, r & b, pop, dance, etc. My hypocrisy blinds me.

New home number 3: Mega 103.5. This one is fun. I’m not exactly sure how they describe the music they play, but it is what I call “bad 80’s music” and “even worse 70’s music.” Sometimes it gets a bit grating, but most of the time it is simply delightful.

The thing is, sometimes I still catch myself listening to Zeta. Maybe it’s the rock purist inside of me knocking on my skull, demanding to know why I am feeding her all of the N’Sync shite. Maybe I feel guilty for abandoning the station that loved me for so long. Maybe I just miss Pearl Jam--not that I don’t own ten Pearl Jam cd’s, but there is something so euphoric about hearing a song you love on the radio: you know that a zillion other people are being forced to listen to your song. It’s a nice feeling. I get that from Zeta at times.

And if you are a rock purist, I’m sure my decay into a trendy “Genie in a Bottle” singing idiot saddens you deeply and makes you wonder if your time will come, too. Don’t worry. It may not. I was driven to it, remember? As long as you avoid the musical atrocities of Kid Rock and Limp Bizkit, or their counterparts in your little world, you will not end up like me. You can avoid pop music. Just hide.

And if you are a trendy “Genie in a Bottle” singing idiot, then you are probably offended by this term. But don’t be! I am a trendy “Genie in a Bottle” singing idiot, too, and I acknowledge the greatness of that song and others like it. My Britney Spears single is almost played to death, and I have taken its poor, innocent pop-music lyrics and analyzed them to death, finally discovering so much abnormal psychology and obscure metaphors and allusions within its dance track echo that I almost find myself quoting it (don’t kill me. I said almost). I have an entire car-dance choreographed to “Livin’ La Vida Loca.” I love la vida loca. I want to live it, too, even if loca in my world just means opening the window and singing Ricky Martin to passersby while driving. Whee! And yes, kiddies, I like TLC. I love No Scrubs, and I completely adore that song that says “I ain’t never been no silly ho...” Beauty! And Jay-z. I have no idea what a “what what” is, but I’m sure I want one, even though I can’t understand any other words in that song.

I embrace cheesy pop music. I really do. I’m just slightly ashamed. Not ashamed because of my oh-so-cute musical diversity, but ashamed because of my previous closed-mindedness. Music is music is music, no matter who likes it or how important the singer’s outfit is. A fun song is a fun song. Sure, you can avoid pop music if you hide and stick to your rebellious and super cool rawk radio. But are you sure you want to avoid it? It’s just so much fun. Come, let’s join hands and frolic in a poppy, cute little circle. Let us be genies in a bottle. Hit me, baby, one more time.

music reviews:
***** perfect health
**** paper cut
*** small headache
** bladder infection
* the flu

Chris Cornell
“Euphoria Morning”
*****

by johanna

Anyways, track #1 is "Can't Change Me." It is a really well written song musically; quite complicated...kind of like something Queen would write, with lots of different parts to it. Even my mom likes this song. She asks me to play it for her in the car. The song seems to be about a girl who is very powerful to him, and has the ability to do everything and have anything she wants. Chris makes it known that despite all of this, she does not have the power to change him or his ways. I love it.

The second song is called "Flutter Girl." The music is very mellow; actually the entire CD is mellow, unlike when he was in Soundgarden. Anyways, Chris Cornell seems to warn a girl that he really cares about that if she associates with him, he will end up pulling her down to the low point where he is. The chorus is really pretty, and doesn't really match with the sad lyrics. He says, "So flutter home, 'cause you're better off alone than with me." Sniff.

"Preaching the End of the World." When I first heard the chorus of this song, I started crying a little, even though I wasn't paying attention to the lyrics. It just sounded so sad. I'm not exactly positive about the lyrics, but it sounds like Chris is trying to reach out to an old friend while he still has the chance and before it is too late. The lyrics have a kind of sad and alone feeling to them. For example, "If your intentions are pure, I'm seeking a friend for the end of the world." [sigh]

I have no idea what track #4 means. I just read the lyrics, and I'm clueless. It's called "Follow my Way." At first it was my favorite song on the CD, aside from "Can't Change Me." There is one specific part in the chorus that I wasn't really pleased with; the last two notes of it did not really sound right to me - I even knew what would make it sound so much better. But now I can't stop listening to it. It's like those last two notes of the chorus are what make the song great now. I got used to them; I like them. I just read the lyrics again, and I think that Chris Cornell is talking about how he hides behind this image that he constructs for himself sometimes. He says at one point, "Little one don't be a fool, I'm a wreck when I look mighty; I'm all polish and reward, when I'm confident I'm hopeless."

"When I'm down" (track #5) reminds me of a song that you hear in a bar that a lounge singer sings. Don't ask me why. I think it's that improv-style piano background music and the random-sounding pieces that Chris sings. It's really nice. But the lyrics sound a bit hopeless. He is talking to a girl, and telling her about how she has this perfect vision of him and believes in him. Then he tells her that he only loves her when he's down (depressed), but that she should not [continued from page ]
worry, because he is "down all the time." Ahh...too depressing for me. But a nice song.

Track #6 is "Mission." It sounds like Chris Cornell is in love with a certain girl, and he wishes to be with her always, and he always thinks of her; yet he cannot have her. Then he seems to get enraged with some sort of obsession and wishes to ruin her. One particularly disturbing lyric is "And I have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want."

"Wave Goodbye" is about a girl who hurt Chris in the past with strong words and actions. He sings about her being remorseful and missing him, but doesn't have the courage to apologize and formally say goodbye to him. The song uses a lot of different effects on the guitar music...I think they're caused by special kinds of pedals or something. It gives the song a kind of funk 70's underlying feeling; although the song in itself (as a whole) is just kind of a mellow dancing thing. The tune is very catchy.

The lyrics of "Moonchild" are very odd and abstract. It was kind of hard for me to decipher. I cannot pinpoint exactly what is going on, but I know that the overall theme is this reluctant girl who hides in a shell and is afraid to express herself and be with a man that she really has feelings for. Another mellow song. It's cute.

"Sweet Euphoria." Another abstract song. The lyrics remind me a lot of TS Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." With lyrics like "Death for Jesus and plastic armies; fire on an open palm," it's not that easy to figure out what he's trying to say. I think the idea is kind of the same as "Wave Goodbye," but he's talking more about his own reaction than her guilt and remorse. The song is so slow; almost like a lullaby. Very pretty.

"Disappearing One" is my absolute favorite song on the entire album. Oh how I love it. The music is so absolutely beautiful. It is about a girl who is sad because a man that she loves dearly frequently detaches himself from her and disappears for short periods of time. Chris sings about how she wallows in her grief and self-pity. Then he reassures her that whenever he leaves, he is never gone for long and he will always return to her. At one particular point in the song the matching of a word with a background violin note makes that millisecond so sad; he actually sounds like he's suffering through that one word. I cannot stop playing it. Ahhh.

Track #11, "Pillow of your Bones," sounds like the only happy love song on the entire record so far. It sings about a man's undying love for a woman and the lengths he will go to keep her happy. He will suffer for her just to protect her. In the song the chorus creeps up on you through a series of quick echoes and finally explodes. It is a faster song than the other ones on the album, one in which there is an actual big use of the drums. However, it still does not come close to the music Chris used to write when he was in Soundgarden.

And here we are with the last song of the CD. "Steel Rain." It is mildly disturbing, in a way I can't quite explain. Again, a girl is in it. She seems to brighten up the singer's mood, although most of the time he feels there is something wrong with the world in general. The chorus is really beautifully written; a great end to a perfect CD. You must go out and buy it now. I know, it sounds depressing, but the songs are so pretty and addictive; I love it. If you don't feel like spending the money, then I will buy it for you. That's how much I want others to experience "Euphoria Morning."

Bouncing Souls
“Hopeless Romantic”
**********************

by lisa

Because revieiwing things is not my strong point. It is hard for me to truly express the way songs make me feel. They are too much emotion mixed into this one great glob of something. Instead I am going to let the Bouncing Souls impress you themselves, by leaving you with some of their lyrics. And one last note, for those of you who don't know/like the Bouncing Souls, I would still suggest that you buy this cd. It is far too priceless to live without.

"I'm a hopeless romantic. . You're just hopeless."

"Do you remember the days gone past and how we always wanted the good times to last? The time we spent hanging out is how we learned what life is about."

"Pay attention now or it'll slip by. It's your heart, don't let it die. Leave it all behind."

"You look great, but all your songs are lame."
"I looked down and tied my shoes. I thought about you all too much. I looked
up and then I knew I guess these things were meant to be and there's no
use fighting what's in me. Night on earth, Passed some time walking around
looking for something to be. When I stopped to look around all the music
was different to me. All these places we used to go when I loved you I
didn't see. I'll miss you but now I'll know better next time because I
found me."

"He's got penis-envy-denial."

"The one minute I saw you, I remember your red shoes. I keep this little memory of you. I see you in my mind when I need to. Thank you for your red shoes. Some say the world isn't fair; at least for one minute I didn't care. It's all how I see it and what I choose. Nothing seems black when I see your red shoes. Thank you for your red shoes. That minute I saw you I remember you and your red shoes. Now I have this memory of you, I see it in my mind when I need to."

"Love is supposed to make us happy; supposed to make us grow. But I just wanna punch you in the face."

"It's hot, it's sexy, and it's wet and the show ain't even over yet."

concert review
Jewel | Coral Sky Ampitheatre | August 1999

by lisa

We got there a bit late, so parking was a minor problem. We didn't have to park too far away, but just far away enough that fate would lead me to the car of my dreams. No, it wasn't some big fancy sports car, but one filled with lovely little Pearl Jam stickers. I was in love. Granted I knew nothing of its owner, but the mere sight of the sheer Eddie-ness was enough to make me swoon.

Since my fellow concerteers were not as big Pearl Jam fans, the car was quickly passed over and we continued into the concert. We got in without any problem and went to sit on the lawn. Lindsey had brought a sleeping bag, but since it just rained, the ground was soaked. Fortunately, Joanna had found some friends who mentioned that they got free chairs. Since we knew the person who was donating chairs we quickly dashed off to find him/her . "It" gave us four chairs and we found a nice little seat area in the middle of the grass. We has lovely seating.

The first band was Rusted Root. They are a reggae/hippie type band . Although not my music taste, they were really cute. All the people that came to see this band were prancing around in the grass. I was very jealous of their beautiful, if not somewhat drug induced, peacefulness. Joanna and I contemplated joining in, but we feared that it would seem as though we were mocking them. The band was very festive and happy. It made me think of people dancing around a May Pole.

Then they stopped playing and this guy came on. I don't know what his name is, but I think he is the guy who is in Jewel's "Meant For Me" video. He is in Rugburn {whether or not he was playing with them or was just by himself I never quite figured out}. Anyway, he was very charming. His songs were very silly, but cute all in one. He opened his set with a song dedicated to chairs. He wrote of how sad it is to be a chair. It was really really cute. The rest of his songs went along the same charmingly silly thoughtlines. I can't remember the words, but they were nice. I enjoyed him a lot. . .whomever he was.

Then Jewel came on. She was very peaceful. It was starting to get dark outside and there was a soft breeze blowing through the grass. It was the perfect night for a concert such as this. She played a couple songs that I didn't know and a couple I did know. One was this cute song about sneezing. It was yodel-esque and quite charming. When she sang "Meant For Me," the guy who was in the video sang it with her and it was sooo lovely. I cried over the sheer beauty of the moment-I'm a sap, get over it. I heard that she yodeled at the end of the concert, but we left sort of early so as to avoid traffic so I didn't hear it.

On a side note, there were guys there selling flowers that light up and glow necklaces. The roses were really pretty and I wanted one, so I asked Jo to find out how much they were. If they weren't a lot I was going to give her money so she could buy one for me. I was rather lazy at the time, in case you missed that. They ended up being five dollars, which is quite expensive when you have limited cash flow. I was quite saddened cause I wanted a rose, but I didn't want to shell out all the money. I didn't have to. A few moments later Joanna came back and she handed me a flower. She bought me a beautiful light up rose. Isn't she phenomenal? Oh yes. I just needed to add that in. But the story is not done yet. As we were leaving, we were unable to find our car. Remembering the infamous Pearl Jam car we decided to find that and use it as a guide. When I found it, I decided that I wanted to meet the owner of the car. Since we had no intentions of actually waiting for someone, probably a thirty year old lady, to come and claim the car, I left a note instead. I professed my love and asked the person to email me at a hotmail account. They never did, but it was nice all the same. All in all the evening that I was slightly skeptical about, turned out to be quite a success.

Kevin Spacey is Dead Sexy

by krystyna

Kevin Spacey is hot. This is one of the simple facts of life that just cannot be disputed. Sure he’s old enough to be my father, but that does not negate the fact that he is a hottie. Why you may ask? Quite simply: confidence. I never truly realized how sexy confidence can be. Even when I was eight years old watching Labyrinth, I knew that David Bowie was walking sex in those tights. I just didn’t realize why. Confidence is the key. Wow, I feel like a writer for Cosmopolitan magazine. Yes lads, I am telling you the secret to getting into a girl’s pants. However, confidence is a powerful thing, and it must not be misused. There is a fine line between being confident and being an asshole. The key is to muster up just the
right amount of confidence. For example, Kevin Spacey is quite the confident guy. He has the kind of charisma and confidence that makes a girl
swoon. However, at the end of the day, he’s willing to laugh at himself. He knows that he is not god’s gift, and that vulnerability is what keeps him from becoming an asshole. Why am I defining this you may ask. Two words: D*** S***.

I have been rather disturbed recently to learn that the good majority of my friends want to bed our student council president. Why? Oh yeah, confidence! However, he really does believe that he is god’s gift. Hmmm… arrogance + confidence = asshole! Now, I’m not saying that he is an asshole, but he is just not sexy.

Anyhoo, back to my main topic: Kevin Spacey is hot. I haven’t seen American Beauty yet, but I am extremely excited to do so. I think another thing that makes the older actor attractive is his talent. Sigh. Okay, before I go completely to mush, I must reiterate my point. Confidence =
sexy. Kevin Spacey = damn sexy. Arrogance = repellent. Thank you for your time.

Cliques

by Adan

Today I was reading a board and one of the posts said that the social cliques are iminent everywhere you go. I agree with that, but the post also inquired why are the cliques formed, the person was asking what kind of fear that compels the people to be part of a clique. I don't think that cliques are formed by fear of something. I think they are formed because of affinities. I mean, if a person has much in common with another group of persons, of course they will prefer to be with those people and talk to them than to be with others that the person has nothing in common with. They would spend most of their time quiet, because they wouldn't have much to say. It is a matter of being comfortable or not. I know I wouldn't waste my time with people that don't entice my imagination. Does that mean I fear them? No, that just means that I don't enjoy being with them. It just seems that everything lately is thought to be started by fear of something, what happened to free will?

I've Been Sold Out: A Guide to Why I Never Go To the Movies

by Lisa

As middle school faded and high school emerged, the need to attend the latest movie dwindled. Not to say I didn't attend movies, just saying it wasn't a weekly event that required every single person to be there. When I did go to the movies, it was usually a small, well planned out event. One of my friends would actually WANT to see a movie and I would go along, or vice versa. At first this little plan worked well. I met my friend and life went on as usual. This worked definitely, until that one day.

My friend Danielle has a little brother who is obsessed with Star Wars, so when the movies were re-released into the theaters he had to be there. Not seeing the third one I told Danielle that I would go with her to take her brother. We made plans to meet at the theater. Since I was little and non-mobile, my mother drove me there. I didn't see anyone when I got there but I told her not to worry, so she left. So I sat and waited. ..and waited. .and waited. Finally, after a half hour- I didn't have a watch either; I had to ask people the time- I gave up and walked home. Later I found out that her brother complained about the heat so the two of them decided to wait for me inside the theater. No matter what the reason, this one instance was not to be an isolated event.

The next occurrence was a bit later. "Can hardly Wait" had just hit the theaters and all my friends were wanting to see it. In honor of past traditions we decided to get a big group together and all go. I needed a ride from someone so I told them to call me before we were planning on leaving. Having decided on a time for the movie, I then went out with my sister for a while. I made absolutely certain that we would be back in plenty of time to get to the movie. Or so I thought. Turns out, without bothering to tell me, my friends decided to go to an earlier movie. When I got home, I called some people and found out, from their parents, that they had already left. I was very angry, because I really wanted to see the movie. A few minutes later I got a phone call. They called me from a payphone to tell me that one of the guys I liked was there . No apologies or explanations. They expected me to happy that they were considerate enough to call and rub in my face the fact that not only was I not included, but the guy I wanted to see was there.

The third and final noteworthy incident happened just a few weeks ago. Laura and I decided at the beginning of the summer that since all her friends had already seen it, we would go see "American Pie" together. Since she lives far away it was difficult to plan the big event. Then one day she and Adan decided to come and visit Joanna and myself. Without telling me, they decided that Laura and I would go and see the movie that night. However, I had already made plans for the evening and so I had to decline. Having missed this first opportunity we decided to see it later. The night of our foursome reunion, however, we realized it would be difficult to see it in the theater, so we made a pact that we would see it first together even if we had to wait for it to come out on video. I kept my side of the bargain, but then the other day while online I was informed that Laura was going to see it with Adan. Alack! Once again I had been sold out.

And so now when people ask me if I intend to go see the movies that are coming out I automatically say no. My days dabbling with the fine art of movie going are officially over. I will take no more rejection and instead I will follow the wisdom of the great Admen and "Make it a Blockbuster Night."

it didn’t happen to me: “my tv got pregnant!”

by anonymous laura

You may wonder why I refer to my television set using the feminine pronoun.

As I was saying, I did notice something strange about my television as soon as I brought her home and set her up in my living room. What I noticed, to put it bluntly, was that she was sexy.

Yes, sexy.

No, I was not attracted to her. You are silly for even thinking that. Pervert.

What tipped me off to her sexiness was that my other appliances were attracted to her. As soon as I brought her into the room and placed her on the table, I felt something happen. I looked around, and I saw all the rest of the appliances in the room--the VCR, the humidifier, even the innocent little radio--immediately turned to face the new television. It was very subtle, of course, but I do notice these things.

And do you know what my new television did under this surveillance? She gyrated! She did! Again, it was hardly noticeable, but she wiggled her bad self very slightly by somehow jostling the rotating lazy susan she was placed on. I couldn’t believe my eyes!

My humidifier, the dirty thing, let out a large puff of smoke at this action, and it was then I knew that I was playing with trouble. I didn’t know exactly what to do--more than anything, I was amused. So I had purchased a sexy television. So what? There were worse things that could happen. I decided to ignore it.

As it turned out, this was a big mistake.

My sexy television worked for three days before the picture got blurry. Somehow, I knew it was the VCR’s fault. My VCR has always been a very naughty appliance. It has eaten numerous tapes in its lifetime, and I have always hated the nasty little gleam in its power button. And as creepy as my humidifier can be, it has always been the VCR that makes the most trouble for me.

I had no idea it was this serious.

I took in the television for repair, and two days later I received a telephone call.

“Hey, Mr. Varnadoodle? I figured out what’s wrong with your TV.”

“Oh, good.” I replied, figuring it was something about the cable between the VCR and the television.

“It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen, man,” said the repairman, stifling a giggle.

“Oh?”

“Mr. Varnadoodle...it seems as though your
television has another television living...no, growing, yes, growing... inside of it.”

“Inside of her,” I mused, stroking my chin.

“It’s...it’s real tiny, too. Right in all the wires. It looks like it has a built in VCR. Real nice...but real strange, man. I ain’t never seen nothing like this.”

“What do I do?” I asked.

“I guess...just wait, man. And buy a new television. This one is beyond repair.”

I picked up the television the next day, and I waited. It turned out I didn’t have to wait long, for it appears the average gestation period for televisions is between one to two weeks. The labor was short and strange: my sexy television’s screen popped off and out fell the TV-VCR combo-infant. I quickly popped the television’s screen back on and shook my head at the bizarreness of the situation.

Then I got an idea.

If my television was so sexy, my other appliances would want to impregnate her as well. I could get quite a few free appliances.

And I could sell them.

So I quit my job as an insurance salesman, and now I farm appliances. I have quite a few customers who enjoy my television-humidifier and television-toaster combos. There is also a large market out there for television-can opener combos--you should see the orders I get. I do lead a very luxurious life.

fictionby gus

Michael stepped back, observing his finished project. He brought his hand up to his face and, forgetting the dark charcoal coating on his sweaty palm, brushed a trail of grey across the light stubble that was setting in. His crisp blue eyes played insatisfaction. His lips turned down slightly at the sides...a sneer of disgust. Quickly, he turned his back on his creation, his bare feet padding silently against the creaking wood panels. He promenaded towards the kitchen where he would brood over a cup of slushed mocha frapuccino from his refrigerator. He wiped his hands carelessly on his tattered white t-shirt. Michael had shoved through the swinging door that lead to his kitchen and not gotten halfway to the fridge when his moody stroll was
interrupted by a noise at the door.

He turned his head, grunted and walked back out of the kitchen. The doorknob was shaking, someone was, no doubt, attempting to open his securely locked door. This upset him greatly...his dark eyebrows lowered, casting a cold shadow over his squinted eyes. He walked up to the door and twisted the knob...teeth gritted secretly...ready to devour his so-called victim. The door swung open (one might say a proverbial door was almost instantly unlocked and thrown open as well) and there she was...in all her confusion she was amazing. In her right hand there was a small key...the object of intrusion. Her hazel eyes slowly crept up to meet his. Michael tilted his head slightly, he'd forgotten his anger and was now studying her very carefully. Even in her nervous awkwardness she was an angel...nothing could have dimmed the halo of charm that floated gingerly above her head. She opened her mouth to speak, her lips, the color of pink coral, glistened...reflecting the shocking bright lights permeating from inside his apartment.

"I...I...I'm....ummm....really sorry." She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply...having difficulty expressing her incredibly shame. "You see...I'm so very very new here...new to New York...new to the city...and most evidently new to this building and I've not had the easiest of days. And well...what I'm trying to say is that...you know...having been under all that stress...and just arriving here at such an obscene hour at night...it's maybe understandable and forgivable that I mistook your apartment door as my own????" She bit her lower lip and forced a nervous smile.

Michael's eyes softened...but before his face could ease into a smile he remembered how he'd have to go back to brooding later that night and decided that he should remain focused. He lowered his gaze and spoke very quietly, "I understand..."

She smiled and tilted her head to the side. "Wow. First New Yorker who hasn't bitten my head off all day." She looked him over. He was wearing a very thin white t-shirt. Obviously worn more than just a couple of times. There were dark streaks of soot or something along the lines of it smothered over his face, shirt, and jeans. Her gaze traveled down his arms to his hands...black. Dirty black. But even covered in charcoal they were amazing. Well shaped, large...long fingers. The most beautiful hands she'd ever seen. She regained her train of thought and looked up at his eyes...so icy and cold. They waited for hers. He nodded and began to wipe his hands off on his jeans.

"Well...I gotta...get back..." He gestured inside and was about to turn to walk back inside when she gestured to the side of his face with the back of her hand.

"You have a little....soot or something."

"Charcoal."

She nodded. "Well...ummm...again, I'm very sorry for the inconvenience. I think I remember where my apartment is, so...I'll be going."

He nodded...wanting to say something but not sure why or what. He had to say something, she was about to leave. "You know...for art." He was crushed. The words echoed in his head. "You know...for art. What an intelligent comment Michael. I see you have what they call a firm grasp of the obvious." Why did he speak? Why must he blurt things out? What about her made her worthy of his words?

"Really? I was wondering about that." She smiled...her eyes crinkling at the corners...like two honey colored stars. "I'm also involved in the arts. Unfortunately I can't draw to save my life...but i can capture the essence...or so some call it."

"You're a photographer?" He was still off in his mental self-reprimand. Scolding his abuse of the English language. And because of this he failed to notice her surprise at the accuracy of his guess.

"Yeah...a photographer...just recently shipped to New York in order to refine her talents. I signed up for some courses." Her articulation was impeccable. She would weave into the simplest of phrases a crisp clear enunciation that neither boomed nor drifted away weakly. "I'm not very good."

"I'm sure that's not true."

She smiled at him and accepted what she interpreted as a compliment. "Well...thank you. I appreciate your support." She grinned playfully. "If I ever make it big I'll be sure to invite you to the celebration and I'd even know where to send this imaginary invitation, cause of this and all...but I wouldn't know who to address it to."

He couldn't help but grin this time. She was quite the amusing conglomeration. A little awkward...a little graceful...cute...beautiful even...but not snobbishly sexual. She stood no taller than five foot three. Her dirty blonde hair pulled up into a messy pony tail. And when she talked she would gesture wildly...whether it was with her vivacious eyes, glistening lips, or her
slender arms. "Michael."

"It's nice to meet you Michael. I'm Seraph." She held out her porcelain hand. It lingered there for just a moment. He struggled to wipe his hand clean. Finally, assured he would not dirty her, he took her hand in his and shook it carefully. He held her hand for a moment longer and finally let go...to not seem awkward. She broke the silence and said, "I'll be going now...I'm
kinda tired and I'm sure the cat's going suicidal locked up inside my place."

He nodded. "It was really nice bumping into you."

She smiled. "Yes...it really was. You'll have to show me your artwork sometime. I'm very curious now." With this she turned around and walked down the hallway ...two or three doors down. He stayed in his doorway... looking down at the floor. The light from inside showered out around him...casting his shadow against the floor. After a few moments he went inside and shut the door behind him. He leaned against the wall and rolled his head back.The thoughts, like gurgling water, rushed through his mind, surging, breaking, unlocking his every emotion.

"Amazing! What serendipity. An angel tried to break into my apartment. What is it about this angel? She's not my type...too bright and happy. Too blonde. Too cute. Too perfect! Ohhh gawd! She's amazing." He couldn't believe himself. This girl had brought out so much in him. Seldom had he talked about a random girl in this manner. And only a few minutes in the presence of this one and he'd gone mad.
***

Sunlight broke through the part in the thick curtains that covered the tall windows of his room. The scrawny ray etched his way into a mirror and was reflected and magnified unto Michael's face. He growled and rolled over. The crisp white sheets wrapping around his body. He rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his chestnut colored hair. For a moment he rested in the
twilight of his bedroom and then glanced over at the big green numbers of his alarm clock. He yawned and began to roll out of bed. He brought his bare feet down on the cool wood. The whole apartment was alive with the sunny light of the early morning. His ample flat was further amplified by the large windows that framed his walls. Soon he came out of his cave and padded groggily towards the kitchen. Michael readied the coffee maker and walked out to get the paper. He unlatched the door and opened it up to find the New York Times delicately placed
on his welcome mat. For a moment he seemed to stare at it as blankly as anyone could have. Then he reached down, very slowly and grasped at the newspaper with his fingertips. It was taking him an eternity to close his paw on the damn thing. So tired. And there she was again... just come out of the elevator carrying a brown paper bag. She noticed him bent down over the newspapers and stopped to watch. Seraph bit her lower lip to refrain from laughing at his incomparable lethargy. She walked over and crouched next to him...her eyes close to his.

"Need help?" She smiled.

"I think I might be able to do it on my own...thanx," he said, adding a sarcastic smile.He chuckled. How odd... he wasn't accustomed to being pleasant. Especially not at this hour. He was sure that had she been anyone else he would have smacked them upside the head with the miserably unattainable newspaper.

"Have you had breakfast yet? I bought some croissants downstairs. I've got extras..." She made sure to leave her statement open-ended. The ball was in his court now.

"Well...considering the fact that you've witnessed me at an obscene hour at night, you've seen me in my pajamas, and you criticize my methods....why not? I figure you owe it to me anyway." Wow...a joke. How long had it been since he made one of those? He smiled at her and held the door open for her to walk in. Seraph was, of course, fully dressed and ready to go in her well fitted jeans, black leather boots, and her black tank top. While he, on the other hand, was embellished in a stylish pair of loose plaid pajama pants and a grey t-shirt. Seraph eyed him carefully. She liked him. How he was casual... almost homey and comfortable. They sat down in his kitchen and dined on the pastries she'd brought. He watched her talk. So alive so simple. She had nothing to hide and she did not put on a show like so many would. As she talked, he could not help but let his gaze trail over her. Her golden hair...so silky and shiny. He followed the gentle curve down around her chin. Her poised lips, curvy and elegant. And then were her eyes. Eyes so warm and glowing that they looked like crystalline amber of the purest kind. Not one imperfection. Her arched eyebrows...well formed and expressive. His eyes roamed down her bare shoulders ...such perfect skin. And yet, in all her loveliness what was most enchanting and enrapturing to him was her innocence. Her honesty and her innate goodness were novel to him. Seraph's company was refreshing and liberating. The few times he'd been with her were the few times he'd felt comforted and safe...even happy.

Michael and Seraph grew to become friends. She'd welcomed him into her happy life. He wasn't sure why, but he didn't care to spoil it...so he never asked. He was so careful around her, handled each situation with the utmost care. It was as if he'd never been so energetic and so proscribed at the same time. He was a little boy walking on a bridge of eggs with a pot of candy at the other side. In her he found a friend...a best friend, someone he could get used to. He never felt tired of having her around. They would sit and talk for hours on the frameless mattress in his room. She'd prop herself up against a pillow or two and toss her head back. Her hair cascading over the plush cushions. He'd lean against the cool glass of his windows and look out as he talked to her. And when the psychoanalysis was done, they'd cackle and plot their partnerships in taking over the world. All was as it should be. And it kept getting better. In all her lack of experience and knowledge of the city, she brought life to it. She was the one who would take Michael on tour...parading around, her arm hooked unto his. While on these escapades Michael would side-comment with his usual sense of humor...crabby and pessimistic. But all Seraph could do was laugh. She couldn't help it. "Never a dull moment!" she would say. It was true, that's what she loved about Michael. In all his harshness and contempt for the world he too was innocent. His pre-conceived notions were easily barricaded...and he welcomed her in. He welcomed all that was simple and pure. The more he was with her the more he realized how much potential life had and how easy it was to play the game. His reasoning, excuses, etc....all vanished. He was polished "like a new penny."

Seraph loved dragging Michael to go see movies. She thrived on movies. They were her guides, her salvations. No ice-cream for her depressions. All she needed was a good movie to lighten her mood and quicken her pace. Michael didn't care for them. He seemed to put up a protest every time she mentioned a new movie she'd "just been dying to see." But he'd go with her, and he’d chuckle at her optimism and her idealistic views. He'd lean back into the shifting chairs at the cinema and grin as he watched her get teary, or laugh, or scream. How simple it all was for her and how much he loved her in all her simplicity. Sometimes he wondered, as he lay in his bed at night, his head resting against the feather down pillows. His feet propped up on some cushions, blocking the blue light of the tv. He wondered where his dark beauties had gone and why he'd chased them away. He'd enjoyed many a steaming passion with his gloomy enchantresses in all their gypsy ways. And he'd try to sleep, but the thoughts pervaded. He would roll over, attempting to find comfort as the sheets wrapped around him and suffocated him. This process would continue until he'd seethe with anger and kick the sheets off himself in a tantrum of rage. And he'd lay there... pouting, glaring at the ceiling, wondering which inanimate object was to suffer his next exhibition of wrath.
***

Michael worked on a new piece. He squinted his eyes, as if a gesture of frustration would encourage the reluctant subject to emerge from their dormant placement in the canvas. Splashes of paint raced through out the unpaved roads of whiteness, the silky bristles swirling and dancing...leaving behind amazing traces of pure life. Only the most brilliant of colors were used for this piece. He selected the most heart stopping reds, the iciest of blues, the liveliest of yellows, etc. Eventually the thick lines and curves came together to form a discrete figure ...a woman. One could almost pick out movement in the piece. The colors etched into the position framed a dance almost...an interplay of thoughts and emotions...all his. When he finished, he backed up...taking large, energetic steps. How was this his? This was not his style. Never had he created art that cast dance and light into one's soul. His traditional artwork could grow scales on a rose petal. And even in this great transformation he was more than content...he had expressed the bursts of happiness he'd experienced, and they were his to cherish forever. It was the best he'd done, he couldn't contain himself. A broad smile played his mouth. He hooted and laughed to himself...pacing with exhilaration. Michael ran to his couch and began to search the crevices of it for the telephone. He launched the cushions halfway through the room in a desperate search for communication. His paint stained digits searched throughout the bundles of
fabric and finally, skimmed the plastic cover of the phone. He dialed the number and brought it to his ear.

"Hello?" A voice faint and muffled even confused received his blast of excitement.

"Seraph! Hey there, it's me...Michael. Come over?" He kept glancing over at his piece...observing it from close up, far away, to the right, from the left.

"Michael..It's 3:00 in the morning. Unless you're dying I'm sure it could have waited till tomorrow..."

"No..it couldn't. Sera...you've got to see this. I've put myself on paper. I've danced with the angels. I've reached in to the once cold insides of my mind and pulled out a sparkling ore of gold. You have to get a look at this! It's my best. No, it's beyond me! It wasn't me! It was God!!!!" He chuckled and sat to observe the colors once again. Seraph grunted and whined and Michael pestered her forward.

"Okay okay...i see. I understand! The master has spoken. Yes...all is well in the dungeon..I shall be there in a sec. Kay?" He lit up and confirmed, tossing the phone on the couch again. Michael closed his eyes and leaned his head back, bringing his hands up to his face...rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He waited for his muse, his inspiration. While he waited he acknowledged her heavy influence on him and his art. He stopped for a moment and observed the canvas carefully. His blue eyes darted from focus point to focus point. His vivid smile faded into amazement. As he roamed his mind for answers, he realized why this piece was so great. It wasn't only him. It was the way he felt, the way he loved, the way it feels to wake up on a school day only to realize that it's a national holiday, the last day of school, the fuzzy feeling at the end of a book you never thought you'd like, the nostalgia of looking back on your childhood, the excitement of reliving it. It was the love of a mother, the smile of a thousand babies, the blue of the skies, the rush of jumping into a pool on the first day of summer, the ride on a roller-coaster, the hug from a friend, the happiness that brings tears. It was Seraph. The painting held everything he felt when she touched him, or laughed, or held him, or called him up. There was nothing he wouldn't do for her. And he sat, in sheer awe and disbelief. The door-knob turned and in she came. She stood groggily, eyes barely open, hair in a riot. She
was a disaster. The most incredibly disaster ever. She took a few steps, squinting from the bright lights and looked over at the large canvas. There was silence. Seraph's mouth dropped. Her eyes rounded out and opened...the familiar honey glow revived. She stumbled, her breath frozen for a moment and then it was released. A rush of air, she inhaled as she slowly walked to the
middle of the room...where she would get a perfect view of Michael's painting. And there she stopped, in complete obliviousness to all that was around her. Her hands, at her side, slowly came up towards her face. Her back was to Michael, who watched her silently... awaiting her judgment. He watched, she started to shake slightly...she was laughing. No! How could this
be!? Wait...no, she was...crying. His painting made her cry...and he felt overcome by something. An indeterminable pulsation throughout his body.

"Michael..." Her voice was meek and shaky. "This ....this.." She swallowed...holding back the tears. "This is so beautiful." She lowered her gaze and cried softly. Slowly she turned to him, her eyes glassy with a teary sparkle. He went to her and held her, so carefully, so gently, but securely. He wouldn't let go unless he had to.

"You like it?" He couldn't understand why she cried so hard. It was good, no doubt. But was it that good???

"I adore it. Michael, you've outdone yourself." She smiled and tears rolled down her cheeks at the same time. She buried her face in his chest and inhaled his cologne. Then she pushed him away...looking into his eyes. "Michael...when I first saw you're art, I fell. You're pain, your anger, all of your emotions bleed through every stroke on every canvas. And I dropped. You brought me down. Every unshed tear, every cry of help...it was in you're art. But with this painting ...you've given me wings. You've given me happiness because you are happy. You've found the man that I fell for and I love you." Michael was taken back. No friend had ever expressed their love to him like that. Seraph spoke, "Michael, can I please have something to
drink?"

"Sure. Of course. What would you like?" He looked at her, concerned.

"A dr. pepper." She liked those. He remembered having laughed at how much she loved her dr. peppers.

"Sure. No problem...wait right here, okay?" He walked through the swinging door of his kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The light from inside splashed over his face, immediately followed by the cold air diffusing into the kitchen. His eyes scanned the insides ...eyebrows raised in surprise. He must have had the last one. Michael called out from the kitchen. "I'm all out of dr. pepper. Can I get you anything else?" No response. "Sera...you want anything else? I don't have dr. pepper." He waited...his face contorted as he was free of an answer. He stood up straight and shut the refrigerator. Michael walked out of his kitchen. He looked around. "Seraph?!" She was not there. Nothing there. Except his painting. He was shocked, scared, angered. Where was she!? How could she have just run out?! He ran out of his apartment and paced over to her own. He stood barefoot in the middle of the hallway...knocking loudly on the door. "Seraph!?" And yet he got no response. He twisted the knob and pushed through the unlocked door. His hand fumbled around the plaster wall for a light switch. He flipped the lights on and stopped dead. The apartment was empty. No carpeting, no furniture, no posters, nothing. He ran out and rushed downstairs. For an hour or so he roamed the streets in search for her. He shivered violently, having gone out without a coat or even shoes. And yet there was nothing. After the time had passed he went reluctantly upstairs, dragging his heavy body up each step. His eyes stinging with tears of confusion and deterioration. There was nothing. He was lost. He had nothing left. He felt void and moribund. Michael sobbed as he reached his door and pushed through it. He could not hold it in any longer. Never once had he cried over life's cruelty or people's harsh words. He glared at the painting. Sitting goofy and large, laughing at him. It propped up proudly and giggled with the absurdity of a clown and he hated it. He stomped towards it... determined to throw it out the window when he looked down, almost tripping on something. He scampered to the side and was about to kick the object when he saw what it was. It was a cherry red can of dr. pepper. Opened up, the tab flipped back. He knelt and picked up the can, his eyes round. His finger trailed over the remnants of lipstick. The glossy coral that Seraph wore. And as he looked down at the floor he noticed something staring at him...laid delicately on the glossy wooden floor was a pure white feather the size of a large leaf...

fiction by laura

(excerpts from “the tip and other stories”)

Pete was the sort of person who could never see the point of wearing emerald green contacts if your eyes were brown. He also didn’t believe in dying one’s hair or altering one’s face surgically, unless, of course, there was a medical reason involved in one’s endeavors. His attitudes, however, didn’t prevent him from wearing designer jeans, and he wore them with pride and a swagger that clearly stated that he wanted everyone to think he didn’t care what they thought. His walk was obscenely understated and he wore sunglasses to cover his abnormally dull brown eyes.

His real name was Mortimer, if you could possibly believe that anyone could or would name their little baby such a name. Mortimer Peter Morris. He went by Pete because the kids in elementary school teased him relentlessly when he went by “Morty.” Pete sounded cool, anyway. Crispy and carefree, the perfect name for that kind of amusing, cute, jokingly seductive type of slacker guy in a Hawaiian shirt and baggy shorts, complete with the floppy hair and the easy smile, who could have any girl he wanted, and did by the dozen every weekend or so, in between surfing with his buds and babysitting his little sister. Pete.

But Mortimer Peter Morris was a counterfeit Pete, and therefore felt fraudulent and idiotic every time he kissed a girl or was kind to his little sister. He didn’t even have a little sister. And the only girl he ever kissed was his friend Valerie, and that was in sixth grade. She had had celery and peanut butter caught in her braces and she had smelled of rancid pre-pubscent body odor. The experience was traumatic enough to make Pete think he was gay for a whole year and a half. But kissing boys wasn’t much better--Pete had kissed his friend Josh a few months later, and Josh was so upset that he had tried to flush Pete’s head down the toilet. And Pete was so embarrassed that he had had to pretend to have a drug problem that caused him to commit the kiss. The pretend drug problem was too hard to pretend after a few weeks, so then it had had to became a real drug problem, which Pete continued this day. He was carrying a plastic baggy of cocaine inside his shirt as he walked down the street. He could feel the sticky plastic against his skin. He wished he could stop taking cocaine--he wasn’t really addicted, but he wasn’t sure how long and how serious his drug problem had to be in order to excuse his kissing Josh. It had been six years at this point. Not quite long enough, Pete thought. He ran his hand through his longish black hair, and glanced at his expensive watch. He was ten minutes late.

Pete was on his way to meet his friends Valerie and Josh--yes, the only two people he had ever kissed. Ironically, they were a stuck together couple now. Valerie had grown to be, if possible, an even more revolting creature than she had been as a child. Now that she was 18, she had bloated into a stuffed cabbage of a girl, blimpy and huge. She didn’t have braces anymore, but her teeth were an odd brownish color that suggested a fatal coffee addiction. Her eyes were small and beady, a shiny, untrustable black, and her skin was covered with blotches of severe acne. She tended to wear ostentatiously flowered mumus that fit her body like teepees. The girl was a walking tent. It was amazing that Josh could even stand to touch her. But he did, and often, and with lust in his glassy blue eyes. Josh wasn’t the most beautiful creature, either--he, too, had matured into somewhat of a monster. He had become waiflike, completely emaciated, with long, stringy blond hair. He shared his girlfriend’s acne, and also grew a fresh crop of cold sores around his nearly lipless mouth. He wore Death Metal t-shirts and baggy jeans that emphasized his diseased appearance. Pete hated to think what the progeny of his two friends would look like.

Pete hoped that Josh had never told Valerie about the kiss. Even though she was one of Pete’s closest friends, he wanted to keep the embarrassment between him and Josh. Pete doubted Valerie would think twice about it if she knew, though. She’d probably enjoy the thought, if anything, and she’d raise her scraggly eyebrows and smile suggestively at the thought of her boyfriend kissing another guy. Valerie was disgusting in that way. “Everything is more interesting if it’s a little bit sick,” she was often heard to say. She’d probably try to talk Pete into having a threesome with her and Josh. This was something Pete wanted to avoid, although sometimes he still secretly nursed a slight attraction for Josh deep in his groin. He shoved the thought out of his mind as he approached the cafe where he was supposed to meet his friends.

Josh and Valerie were already seated at a booth--or, Valerie was seated in the booth and Josh teetered on her lap, running his fingers through her greasy brown hair. A large milkshake sat untouched in front of the couple. Pete knew Valerie would imbibe it all in one mighty gulp within the minute. “Hey,” said Pete, seating himself across from his friends.

“Pete! My man!” said Josh, smiling, “You’re late, reject.”

“Yeah, sorry. There was, like, traffic or something. Yeah.”

“You don’t drive,” Valerie mumbled, reaching for the chocolate shake.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry. Whatever.”

“It’s ok,” Josh said, nuzzling his face in Valerie’s hair. Pete looked out the window in boredom. This is what happened every day. Pete motioned to the waitress, who waltzed over to the booth.

“How can I help you?” she asked Pete.

“Can I have some chocolate milk?”

The waitress, whose name tag read “Kiki”, nodded and bounced away, a pencil tucked behind her ear. “Nice ass on that,” muttered Pete, drumming his fingers on the table.

Valerie giggled.

“It’s funny that you say that, Pete.”

“Oh, why is that?” Pete demanded, suddenly confrontational.

“Josh just got finished telling me the most interesting story about you two...”

Pete glared at Josh. “Oh really? Did he?”

Valerie turned pink in laughter. It was very unbecoming. “Yes, yes he did.”

Pete nervously scratched at his face. “Hm.”

“And I’ll have you know,” said Valerie in between shrieks of laughter, “I don’t find it offensive at all. I find it rather erotic. Hee hee.”

“Damn it, Josh!” said Pete, who was the color of a tomato. He turned to Valerie. “I’ll have you know it was all his idea. Like we were in his room and he goes, ‘have you ever thought about doing it with another guy?’ and i’m like ‘dude, that’s sick’ and before i can get away he’s like all over me, his tongue is like choking me and I can feel him against me and I’m like getting so grossed out that I just throw him off of me and shove his head in the toilet! That’s it! Josh, man why did you tell your girlfriend that dumb thing? It makes you look ...” Pete trailed off, his eyes roaming the room.

Kiki held the chocolate milk in her hand. “Your... chocolate milk.” she said, setting it on the table in front of Pete. She made a quick getaway, her ass perky and efficient.

Josh and Valerie stared at Pete.

“I never heard that story,” Valerie said, eyebrows raised. “Josh just told me about the time you guys went to Kinkos and got kicked out for photocopying your asses.” A giggle escaped her massive belly. “But,” she said, “this story was interesting too.”

Josh scowled at Pete. “It was the other way around,” he said quietly. Josh reached his hand across the table and grasped Pete’s. “And you know it.” he said forcefully. “I’m sorry about the swirly, but you like freaked me out man.” He pulled his hand away.

Pete looked down. He was aroused at Josh’s touch. He cradled his forehead in his hands. “Yeah,” he whispered. Pete reached his hand inside his shirt and retrieved the baggie of cocaine. He placed it on the table. “This is the tip for the waitress,” he said. Pete stood up and walked out of the restaurant, both Valerie and Josh staring at his ass, nicely shaped within the designer jeans.

Ellen.

Ellen was the type of girl who often wondered if Mother Theresa got diseases from so much contact with so many disadvantaged people. Ellen had very white, very straight teeth, braces-perfect in an obvious sort of way. Her hair was very blond, very straight, also: in fact, if Ellen were a geometrical shape she would be a very tall, very thin white rectangle. Ellen knew she was perfect, but she also knew never to let this information out lest it make other people hate her. She knew her facade of generosity was important. She smiled and donated quarters to the march of dimes.

Ellen had a boyfriend named Todd, and he had another girlfriend named Kiki, and Kiki worked as a waitress in a seedy diner from which she often stole money. Ellen was in love with a boy named Pete, because he wore very expensive clothes and it was rumored that he had access to cocaine. Ellen was very practical. She was prepared to marry Pete. She had spoken to him twice when she made this decision. Ellen knew decisiveness was a desirable quality to have. Ellen, actually, was going to control the world one day. She knew it deep inside her I-do-aerobics heart.

Hearts were a concept Ellen laughed about while watching Todd struggle to explain his infidelity. If only Todd knew Ellen cared less about him than she cared about the homeless, he would save a lot of time and money. Ellen kept Todd around for presents. She wasn’t a believer in love, and every time a boy told her she had broken his heart she wondered what made her spend her precious time with such a sap in the first place. Ellen had broken so many hearts that her own was starting to swell with the cold pride of a war hero. Ellen smiled frigidly at this thought. The license plate on the back of her pale blue BMW read “Ice Prnss.” It had been a present from Todd.

Ellen liked to read romance novels for a laugh. She also liked to look in the mirror, polish her fingernails, count her jewelry, and eat rice cakes by the dozen. Ellen really only had one altruistic love in her life, and that love was for her dog, a tiny, white, yippy specimen named Jojoba, after Ellen’s favorite ingredient in her herbal shampoo. Ellen loved Jojoba obsessively and thoroughly, with the adoring tenderness a new mother gives her baby. Jojoba was a rather unappealing dog, with insane, beady eyes and a bark that pierced the air with its sharpness. He bit and he wriggled and he peed on the floor, but Ellen concentrated all the love in her deformed dry-ice heart onto this dog.

Jojoba had a history of biting Ellen’s boyfriends. When he bit Todd for the fifth time, Todd threatened to make his exit, and Ellen threw a book at his head for good measure. Ellen’s passionate show of emotion excited Todd into a silly grin, making him realize that perhaps his girlfriend did have a soul somewhere inside her terrifyingly slender body. So he stayed, and Jojoba yapped, and Ellen sat on her white lace bedspread with a frown on her face, angry that Todd’s head had knocked the bookmark out of her novel.

Valerie.

Sometimes Valerie wished she were a black hole so no one could see her. She learned in 7th grade that a black hole was an imploded star so dense that not even light could escape from it. A black hole was invisible. Valerie wished she could be invisible. But not ordinary invisible, where she could still walk around and perhaps hear people saying “do you remember that fat girl, Valerie? what ever happened to her?” Valerie wanted to be invisible and away.

Not all the time, though. Sometimes Valerie was very content with her life, and knew she was lucky. She was lucky, as far as fat girls go. She had friends, and she had a boyfriend named Josh whom she adored helplessly. She had a crazy older sister who was afraid of water, and she had parents who were loaded enough to buy a house with ten bathrooms and eight bedrooms, and who were absent enough to let Valerie enjoy the house alone. A girl her size deserved a house that size. Or so she joked to herself.

Valerie didn’t especially enjoy eating. She hated the concept, and refused so say the words “eat food.” Instead she referred to eating as “doing it,” the way third graders gigglingly refer to sex. She mostly “did it” when she needed something to listen to her. Food listened. It really did. And no one else would.

Josh listened sometimes, but Valerie didn’t always like him to listen to her. Josh had eyes, and a nasty habit of looking at the person to whom he was listening. Valerie hated nothing so much as being looked at. So she mostly indulged in the silent pleasure that has no eyes--food. Valerie didn’t really talk to her food, but somehow with each bite she took, her troubles lifted themselves off her shoulders and fell down to her stomach, to be digested and thus disposed of eventually. Valerie knew that the food often was her trouble, but she accepted her fatness the way terminal cancer patients accept death--resignedly but thoroughly. Valerie was the girl who broke chairs. Valerie was the girl who couldn’t shop in normal department stores. Valerie was the butt of many jokes among her peers, and Valerie knew it.

And so Valerie ate, tears falling down her acne-scarred face.

Josh was the one person in Valerie’s life who made her happy. It wasn’t so much that he understood her. It wasn’t that they had excellent conversations, though sometimes they did, and it wasn’t that he looked at her with pure acceptance and worship in his wet bloodshot eyes. It was mostly that he f*cked her, well and often.

Valerie used to think it was a horrible injustice that a girl as revolting as herself could be as amorous as she was. This was before she met Josh, who was another tormented, lost, lusty soul trapped in a body that was less than desirable. They met through their mutual friend Pete, a secretively quiet, dark-haired, rather effeminate boy who had a cocaine habit and a strangely guilty conscience. The first time they saw each other, their eyes locked and somehow they knew what would happen. They both had eyes that didn’t understand the remainder of their bodies. Valerie’s eyes would have been at home in the face of any popular, skinny cheerleader; Josh’s eyes would have happily resided in the face of a wise, tired old man with more than a few stories of youth to tell. Pete’s eyes had darted uneasily between the eyes of his friends, and he knew a match had been made.

The first time Josh and Valerie f*cked had been on a quiet wednesday afternoon in Valerie’s kitchen. Of course, the logistics of the intercourse were difficult and comical to imagine--Josh being so thin that his rib cage quivered with every word and breath, and Valerie being so fat that Josh could not get his gangly long arms around her. Sex was possible though, and with this discovery, Valerie and Josh smiled in ecstacy and instantly knew they’d be partaking in this activity quite often and with much enthusiasm.

Valerie knew she had a life better than was to be expected. She especially knew this when she thought about Josh. She was satisfied with the way her life was going, she was indeed, and with a boyfriend like Josh, and a house like hers, who needed to be able to see their toes? Not her. Valerie smiled and spooned some rocky road ice cream into her mouth.

Ophelia.

When it rained, her tongue felt like sandpaper. She was terrified of wetness. It wasn’t just rain. It was dampness in any form: the basement in the milky depths of winter, a dribbling hotel shower, a rancidly sweaty sock, anything moist to the touch. She lived with her phobia admirably well; very few people even knew about it, mostly because wetness generally just made her quiet. It quenched her into a smoldering heap of silence. It turned her tongue into a rough textured blimp of sorts. When she was thirty-five, many of her coworkers would try and fail to make water-cooler conversation with her. But it was when she was seventeen that she almost drowned.

The ironic part, or course, is that the drowning isn’t what caused her fear of wetness. It didn’t even contribute to it. It affected the phobia in no way. She had been afraid of wetness since she was a baby. It was probably genetic. Her mother was insane. Her father was a poet. They named her Ophelia, a sick prophesy of the accident that occured when she was seventeen.

It wasn’t a boating accident, or a swimming accident, or even a fishing accident. It was a bathing accident. Ophelia was one of a very small number of people over the age of six that had almost drowned, without suffering any head injury, while taking a bath. She was somewhat proud of this fact. It made her feel special the way nothing else did. It was true, aside from her wetness phobia, Ophelia was an astoudingly unremarkable specimen of human girl. She wasn’t pretty, but she wasn’t ugly either. She wasn’t smart, but she certainly wasn’t stupid. Socially, she was no homecoming queen, but she wasn’t the rejected satanic freak either. It seemed to Ophelia that her entire persona was composed of a vast array of “not”s. She could list what she was not, but never what she was, until she embraced her aquaphobia. She was the mean, median, and mode of all high school life except for this one quirk. It tickled her.

It had been prom night when the near-drowning occured. Ophelia had been planning on spending the night and engaging in preprom preparations at her friend Rachel’s house. Everything was going fine, until Rachel said to Ophelia, “You can take a bath in my sister’s bathroom; she’s away at college.”

Ophelia, being so afraid of wetness, had never taken a bath before. She had gingerly participated in showering all her life, and only light showering, under a faint trickle of water. A bath had seemed preposterous. But Ophelia had been seventeen at the time, and had thought she might as well face her fear of wetness at that time rather than later, so she had weakly smiled at Rachel and said, “Okay.”

Rachel had smiled back, and she lead Ophelia to the bathroom, which had pale lavender colored walls with white and black tiles on the floor. Rachel put the stopper in the bathtub drain and turned the water on full blast, allowing a thin mist of spray to bathe Ophelia’s face. Rachel left the room. Ophelia undressed, her eyes wide circles, staring in terrified awe at the bath that waited for her. She slowly turned the nobs to the off position before she stepped in the bath. She sat down.

Ophelia felt the warm, insiduous nature of the water. It was too soft. It was too conniving. She felt as though the water were trying to get inside of her, trying to rape her and take her over from the inside out. She felt it pull her under. She knew there was no use fighting, or trying to stand up. She slipped under the water, not knowing how to hold her breath. Luckily, Rachel came to check on her a few minutes later, and saw her friend nearly drowning in a harmless bath.

Neither girl ended up going to prom. Ophelia never ventured into a bath again. Rachel spread rumors at school that Ophelia was a retard. Ophelia was glad to have the attention. She enjoyed that sort of thing. She missed it, and she missed high school, and she almost missed the sensation of drowning, especially when it rained the way it was raining now. The sky was carelessly dropping little bullets of water everywhere at once. Ophelia couldn’t stop staring out the window. Wetness fascinated her the way snakes and sharks fascinate most people--it was an attractive repulsion. The water cascaded down the window in sheets. Visibility was very low. Ophelia’s tongue felt like a sock.

She smiled, and streched her arms out in front of her. She was leading a very nice life, and she knew it. Who cared about the wetness thing--that’s what she called it--when she was a twenty year old girl who could live with her parents indefinitely and never had to work? After the drowning accident, Ophelia’s parents became very protective of her and informed her that, if she was planning on going to college, she would have to attend one nearby, for she was not moving out of the house “in her condition.” What if it rained? Ophelia understood the message more as this: “We already have one messed up daughter, you were supposed to be the normal one, we aren’t letting you degenerate into a water-fearing freak, you stay at home where it is nice and dry.”

The one messed up daughter was Ophelia’s little sister, Valerie. There was nothing really wrong with Valerie, except for how she looked. She was a massive being, with stringy hair, hanging flesh, rotten teeth, and flowered mumus. She was only seventeen years old. She was also highly intelligent, but her parents didn’t notice or care about that. Looks were all that mattered, so Ophelia--the slender, fragile, brunette beauty--was the normal daughter, even though she couldn’t take a bath without panicking. It was all very amusing, or at least it was in Ophelia’s eyes, which were an insane, pale blue. She smiled. She scooped some dry instant coffee out of her mug with her fingers, and put it in her mouth. Ophelia needed the coffee to stay awake. Her parents were away on vacation, and she was supposed to stay up every night until Valerie came home from her boyfriend’s house--yes, she had a boyfriend--to record Valerie’s curfew obeying skills. Ophelia smiled and streched again, basking in her easy lot in life. She scooped some more coffee, and grimaced, because it tasted rotten. But Ophelia had no choice. She couldn’t stand real coffee. It was too wet.