The Friday... 2 People

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A JBB To Do

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The Friday... M.C.

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Arcade Fire's Neon Bible

A Quick Look By Miss Fitz


If you’re alive and of a certain age and musical inclination, you’re probably aware that Arcade Fire have recently put out an album. What you may not know is that their Bible just may inspire a generation.

Neon Bible eloquently tackles everything from politics and social reform to civic duty. It not only covers these subjects but it grabs them by the balls. This is not an album for the faint of heart. It’s divisive—you’ll either be a believer or dismiss this Bible as bunk. There is no middle ground here.

The album is slow going and it’s intense, but Arcade Fire are no tease. If you stick with them, the climax will blow you away. Neon Bible is proof that the band’s debut album was no fluke and that their sound is maturing. The music continues to be a glorious hodgepodge of handclaps, harmonious vocals, and eclectic instruments. Appropriately, one of the songs is entitled “Ocean of Noise.”

But this is not an ocean of senseless noise. Listen to it. Let it sink in. It's worth the wait.

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Meet Super Man

Super Man (ˈsü-pər man) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something living and working in Starkville, Mississippi. He is JBB's resident expert on kool-aide, relationships, Victoria's Secret and Max Paine. He likes his beer like he likes women- bitter.

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Am I Dating An Asshole?

Post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-somethings face a variety of unique challenges, and we here at JBB are all about helping you face them fully informed. To that end, we have recruited Super Man, the Revolutionary Relationship Counselor, to help you along your angsty romantic way.

Super Man is going to be talking to the girls for the next few weeks in this inaugural multi-part series, but no worries fellas—your day will come.

Am I Dating An Asshole?

Question: Does he initiate communication, or does he make it seem like it’s a hassle to communicate with you?

Answer: If a dude doesn’t call you, he is trying to establish domination in the relationship. He distancing himself from you so he can keep the relationship about only two things: sex and conquest. If he makes you call him all the time, he’s trying to make it look like you need him more than he needs you. This is the typical male way of making you look like a "crazy bitch." Most likely, you are not a crazy bitch. But this makes a nice segue into the "I think that you are taking this relationship way more seriously than I am!" spiel. He can then act freaked out by your actions and end the relationship with a good conscience—and look like the normal one.


Question: Does he introduce you to his friends?

Answer: There are a few reasons that a guy wouldn’t introduce you to his friends. He may be embarrassed by his friends and doesn't want to look bad in front of you. That is the nice reason. But I’m here to tell you the asshole reasons. Unfortunately, he’s a liar and never really wanted a relationship anyway. Without you there to actualize the relationship, he can tell his friends, "I'm not dating her, I'm just banging her." Another reason is perhaps the most hurtful one. You may not meet his normal standard for women and he doesn't want his friends to rag on him about boning an "uggo." Though mean, this is actually no reflection on you, but is rather a testament to just how much of an asshole this asshole is. The fourth and probably most scary reason is that he may have no friends.


Question. Why doesn’t he want to hang out with your friends?

Answer: He may feel intimidated by a group of your girl friends and is afraid of being subjected to scrutiny. Or he may not like your friends—and no man wants to go toe-to-toe with his girlfriend’s lady friends. He might also be afraid that jealousy will rear its ugly head. If he sees how you interact with your male friends he might become suspicious and jealous. He will then proceed to make snide remarks and will eventually go for the "I don't like the way that he looks at you and acts with you" line. Bad news all around.


Question: Does he spend most of his time with his friends without you?

Answer: This is easy. He might just need his space. It is extremely rare for a guy’s friends to like his girlfriend. Instead, they make fun of him for being whipped. If the friends sense that the girlfriend is extremely needy, they will probably hate her. It's a rare treat for a girl to be able to hang with a man and his boys—and have them actually like her. Sometimes you just have to face the facts: his friends are talking about you and they don't like you. Deal with it. Just because he spends a lot of his times with his friends without you doesn't necessarily mean he is an asshole.


Question: Is his motivation for seeing you only physical?

Answer: This one is definitely tricky. You pretty much have to make your deductions from the rest of this list. Some men only know how to express how they feel for you in a physical way. When you begin a relationship, it is predominantly about the physical. If you ask him about his feelings too early, he will just look at you as if you are crazy and give you some answer so he can get back to doing what he was doing. If he’s really an asshole, he’ll figure you’re playing games and he’ll dump you outright. Again, this one’s tricky and since I can’t be in the bedroom with you, you’re pretty much on your own.

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The Friday... Journey

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Revolutionary Banding

We here at JBB love music (surprise, surprise!). And since we have a wee bit of clout among a certain crowd of post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-somethings, we'd like to toss some musical tidbits our audience's way. Meet SECRET BROADCAST. They rock. And they were kind enough to sit down and answer Toe-Sock Doug's kick-ass So You Want Your Band To Be Reviewed By The Revolution questions.

THE OFFICIAL JACK BLACK’S BODY’S SO YOU WANT YOUR BAND TO BE REVIEWED BY THE REVOLUTION QUESTIONS

A JBB Exclusive Sit-Down with SECRET BROADCAST.


1. If your band was a love-child, who would the parents be?

We wouldn’t necessarily use the term “love-child”. We prefer to describe our culmination as Metric’s Emily Haines giving U2’s The Edge a Cleveland Steamer.

2. You've recently been foisted into power behind a bloody coup d'etat. As the new dictator/general supreme/leader for life, what is your first command/doctrine/policy/five-year plan?

Our first order of business would be to make 1983 Deloreans the standard issue police vehicle.

3. How does your band get down? Please choose the answer you feel is most appropriate.
a) In order to get down you find it necessary to first 'Jump up."
b) you get down until the "break 'a break" of dawn.
c) like Kool & the Gang, you first locate, then "get down on it."
d) first you do a little dance, then you make a little love, further insuring that you will 'get down tonight.'
e) other (please write in your response)

e) Red Bull, Jagermesiter, and purple nurples.

4. Your band is a 10-year-old child, the opposite sex of your lead-singer/front-person. What is this little tyke's name? Note: Middle names garner bonus points.

Tutti Blair

5. Please describe your fighting style.
a) your fighting style is the best.
b) like Gandhi, only dirtier.
c) ever see legend of the drunken master?
d) flawless victory!

e) Teenage girl style. Lots of pinching, biting and pulling hair

6. Your band is reconstructed with found objects from a landfill. Name a few of these objects, and explain why you chose them.

One life-size cardboard cutout of Han Solo, one large bottle of Astroglide and Richard Simmons’ Sweatin to the Oldies Volume 2….because we gangsta like dat.

For more information about SECRET BROADCAST, to listen to their tunes or send them letters professing your undying love, go HERE.

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The Friday... Belle Stars

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Politicks

McCain Announces Candidacy For President

By The Politico

On Wednesday, April 25, 2007, from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, Republican Senator John McCain of Arizona formally announced his candidacy for President of the United States. During his announcement, Senator McCain stated, “I’m not the youngest candidate, but I am the most experienced.”

When I first heard this news, I was very confused. Senator McCain has spent the past few months touring the country and visiting important early primary states, but yet, he had not announced that he was running for President. He even spent two weeks on the “Straight Talk Express” tour. So, I must ask, what was he doing for the past few months? I understand that this formal announcement had not been made, but was it really that big of a surprise to anyone that he had decided to run for President?

Some political analysts hypothesized that this announcement was meant to help organize and restart a campaign that hasn't made much of a showing. It seems very logical that an announcement like this could do such a thing if it had a surprise element to it. If anyone had actually questioned whether McCain would run. But we’re talking about a candidate everyone already assumed was running. Unfortunately, for McCain, this mere formality will probably won’t turn his whole campaign around.

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Kiss My Fat Ass!

The Fashionista
On The Tyra To Do

Who knew that the rallying cry for scores of American women come from none other than supermodel-turned-talk-show-host Tyra Banks?

Anorexia has come to the fore in the fashion and entertainment industries because it’s so exposed—the covers of Vogue, the runway footage on Style TV, and paparazzi photos of mantis-thin actresses sipping Diet Coke. We’ve become so accustomed to equating thin with beautiful that we can’t remember a time when it wasn’t. Occasionally, in a fashion-magazine interview, an actress or model will remark on her weight, “Why, I’ve always been thin, it’s just my body type. Honestly, I eat whatever I want.” Across the American nation, millions of women read the interview, sigh dejectedly, and reach for some Cool Ranch Doritos.

The real problem with anorexia, sadly, is not the fifty actresses or 150 models that always appear to be too thin. It is instead the hundreds of thousands of women and girls who face eating disorders, and whose conditions often go untreated. In a country where the “average” woman is 5'4" and 152 lbs and 40% of women wear a size 14 or larger, we are fixated on an ideal that is half a foot taller and fifty pounds lighter. Granted, obesity has become an even faster-growing epidemic than anorexia, and it seems now that the body image issue has become severely dichotomized—the highly visible thin versus the chubby majority.

But back to Tyra. When supermodels ruled the earth in the mid-to-late nineties, Tyra was queen of the Amazons. She graced magazine covers from Vogue to Sports Illustrated, and as a result of her illustrious career, a decade later she has become the host of America’s Next Top Model and her own successful talk show. Already, Tyra is in a position to be a role model, but her moment of glory came, surprisingly, as a result of some unflattering photographs.

An Australian tabloid published pictures of Tyra on the beach in a swimsuit, and she didn’t quite look like she did in 1997 on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Rather, Tyra looked like any number of women you’d see at the beach—full thighs, a little pudge around the waist, breasts more ponderous than perky.

At first Tyra denied that she had gained weight. She blamed the camera angles. She wore the same swimsuit on her talk show to prove that a less-than-flattering angle was partially at fault for her appearance. On her show, she spoke candidly about the photo: “I’m not saying this is horrible. Like, I look at this picture and I think it’s curvy. I think it’s beautiful. I think it is hot. I think it is sexy. I do. I do. But it’s just not me, not right now, but the way that I’m eating, one day I will be like this, and that is OK. Who cares?”

It took a long time for Tyra to admit that she had gained weight and to accept that the change in her physique was not a bad thing. She made excuses and preposterous accusations of image tampering, but her public struggle toward acceptance is a struggle shared by women around the world. For the rest of us, slightly pudgy, or hook-nosed, or weak-chinned, and entirely out of the spotlight, it’s hard enough to trade self-deprecation for a positive outlook.

Tyra had been virtually eviscerated for the whole world to see. And though it was not immediate, she finally took a good long look at herself—her body and her ego—and embraced what she saw. By appearing en maillot on television, wobbly bits and all, Tyra asserted to all of America that this is how she looks. And to the critics who called her “fat,” she offered only this admirable response:

“I have something to say to all of you that have something nasty to say about me or other women that are built like me, women that sometimes or all the time look like this, women whose names you know, women whose names you don’t, women who have been picked on, women whose husbands put them down, women at work, or girls in school, I have one thing to say to you. Kiss my fat ass!”

Is Tyra the moral arbiter of our time? I think the jury’s still out on that one, but for now she’s won the hearts of millions of women the world over. She’s beautiful. She’s successful. She’s powerful. She weighs 161 lbs and you can kiss her fat ass.

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The Friday... Deee-lite

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Meet The Politico

The Politico (p&-'li-ti-"kO) is a post-collegiate pre-professional twenty-something lawyer living and working in Jackson, Tennessee. A graduate of Rhodes College and the University of Alabama, he is the official attorney of the Revolution. He is also JBB's resident expert on The Law, Congress, Democrats, Republicans and all things politicky in nature.

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Politicks

Vermont Senate Passes Non-Binding Resolution Calling for the Initiation of Impeachment Proceedings Against President Bush and Vice-President Cheney

By The Politico

If it sounds too good to be true… Last Friday, the Vermont State Senate passed a non-binding resolution that called for the United States House of Representatives Judiciary Committee to initiate impeachment proceedings against President George W. Bush and Vice President Dick Cheney.

The resolution was passed 16–9. Three Democrats and all six Republicans voted against the resolution.

The resolution stated that both the president and vice president acted “in ways that raise serious questions of constitutionality, statutory legality, and abuse of the public trust....” The resolution alleges that the president and vice president have cost this country much of the international “good will” that arose after 9/11.

From comments made by the Democratic Speaker of the Vermont House of Representatives, this resolution will not reach the floor of the House because the resolution is partisan and divisive. He claims that it will distract Washington from trying to get our troops out of Iraq.

Interestingly, all this sound and fury means nothing. The resolution passed by the Vermont Senate was “non-binding,” which basically means that it has no legal impact and cannot become law. So the Vermont Senate’s actions on Friday were merely symbolic, and its members were really just telling everyone how they feel about Washington.

Not only is the resolution “non-binding,” it isn’t even a joint resolution. The Republican Speaker of the Vermont House of Representatives refused to take up a similar resolution. And while a joint resolution from both chambers would not have given legal force to the non-binding resolution already adopted by the Senate, a united front from the Vermont Legislature would have made the resolution more symbolic.

So when you get down to it, the Vermont Senate simply went renegade. All the fuss of last Friday has no impact on either the president or vice president of the United States. Looks like those Vermont taxpayer dollars are being put to good use!

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Horrorscopes

What will the upcoming month (give or take some weeks and days) hold? JBB asked 1st Degree Burns to get out her amulets and peek into the future for us. Here are the horrors she saw...

Aries-
These next few months are a great opportunity for you to sit back, relax, take a deep breath, and closely examine your options. Because surely you have some, and if you don't, what ever the hell is wrong with you?

Taurus-
During April in May you'll be wandering around in bewilderment, echoing Nancy Kerrigan's immortal question: Why me? Perhaps a more appropriate question is: Why NOT you?

Gemini- You know what happens when you run up to someone and kick them in the behind? Someone gets very angry with you. You will find this out the hard way.

Cancer-
Fee! Fi! Fo! Fum!
You'll get smashed on coke 'n rum!
An drunken freak you will become,
A paper baggin' booze-hound bum,
A bottom-of-shoe piece o' bubble gum,
Cardboard boxin' in a ghetto slum
Ignored by all, including your mum
Then you'll die, so sorry, chum!

Leo-
Venus goes feckin' nuts as it orbits the sun and completes a triple axel double toe combination followed by a camel spin and a series of NINE Russian Split jumps in a row. Leos will emulate this behavior. While the Leo will be penalized on technical merit, rest assured, they will receive top marks for artistic impression.

Virgo-
You'll go on this feminist kick spouting off repeatedly about how a "woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle." Then I'll throw a brick at your head.

Libra- Wow, Libra. You'll be struttin' around streets paved of gold and forests of money-trees dripping with cash bills of large denominations. Then I'll throw a brick at your head.

Scorpio- Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Likely not, because throughout the coming months you'll resemble a springtime shit-storm.

Sagittarius- Mars is suddenly surrounded by a massive asteroid belt making it difficult for Martian spaceships to penetrate the atmosphere for landings. In a gesture of goodwill, Saturn will open it's skies and landing strips to all stranded Martian aircraft. One of the spin-off effects will be that Saturn's economy will experience a sudden boom due to the influx of Martian capital. Saturnites will begin to cross-breed with the Martians resulting in a new planetary species called Marturns. Growing up as an ethnic minority, the Marturns will endure years of discrimation by the time they reach adulthood. After centuries of lobbying the Saturnic Parliament for the right to vote, the disenfranchised Marturns are rejected. They will then take to arms, and not only attack their own planet, but neighboring planets including middle earth, top earth, bottom earth and earth worms. All living species in the solar system will face near extinction. Be prepared, Sagittarius, to gain 13 pounds.

Capricorn-
After stepping back to look at the bigger picture, you'll realize that religion really is the opium of the people. Crazy! All this time you thought it was the other way around.

Aquarius-
This is NOT the dawning of the "Age of Aquarius." Get a haircut and a real job like the rest of us, you lazy sloth-like barnacles on the belly of society.

Pisces-
In April and May you'll find yourself in a unique situation having to choose between the devil, the deep blue sea, a rock, AND a hard place. Let me know how it goes. May the Force be with you!

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The Friday... Johnny Hates Jazz

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Meet Miss Scarlett

Miss Scarlett (mmm*iss 'skär-l&t) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something living and working in Chicago. A graduate of Ohio's Miami University at Oxford, Miss Scarlett is JBB's resident expert on being fabulous, knitting and fruit-flavored diet pop. Frankly, my dear, she doesn't give a damn.

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Thanksgiving

Miss Scarlett Presents
An Original Piece of "Fiction"
Here are some issues with which I should be concerned: world peace, education, the homeless, women’s rights around the world, AIDS, healthcare….

Here is what actually, in my day to day life, causes me distress: carbohydrate content, auditions, callbacks or lack thereof. I’ve got to find time to do laundry, to make a grocery list and make a trip to the store, and somehow fit that in between rehearsals, performances, my day job, and perhaps a few moments cuddling my cats or spending time alone with my husband. I find it amazing that I can be so busy and so stressed and so crazy and yet at the same time somehow I feel like I’m sleepwalking. I’m running around in a haze, just trying to get by. One moment of minutiae is just preparation for the next one. For example, you know there are those days when you forget your cell phone. You walk down to your car, and realize that you have left it on the coffee table. You think, “Oh, I’ll only be gone for two hours, I don’t need it.”

One such evening, a week before Thanksgiving, I was coming home from a show in my mini-van. (Yes it’s a mini-van. I recently married into mini-van ownership. I’m cool with it. We drive it like a sports car anyway, so you know…) Anyway, I’m driving home from a show in Rogers Park and the van starts…well…um, farting. Loudly, and constantly. It was also shaking. Violently. Financially-disabling-repair-type shaking. I pulled over, my heart racing. “Okay…okay.” I tried to calm myself down. Usually with car stuff, I don’t have to worry too much. You see, I married a little grease monkey. Will has tools for the car just for fun. Like, there’s a jack that comes with the car, but he prefers to use his own. He has big yellow ramps for performing oil changes, wrench sets, an oil filter wrench, an oil filter ever so resourcefully made out of a beer bong, and several authentic BP uniforms from his former life as a gas station attendant.

I got out of the car, looked around for the damage and saw the problem: A big old stinkin’ flat tire. I knew I was going to have to wait in a particularly shady chapter of Rogers Park, but I knew we would save some cash with Will’s ability to fix cars. This was great because I had almost no money on my debit card, and maybe a ten in cash. If we’re talking cab fare, ten bucks doesn’t get you home to Logan Square from Rogers Park. Plus it was the middle of the night so most buses weren’t running. I reached into my coat pocket for my cell phone to call Will and…

Oh crap.

Sans cell phone, the only thing I could do was drive to the nearest service station, brave the cold and use the pay phone. Unfortunately, the nearest gas station was five blocks away and I was forced to fart down the street with my hands clenched at 11:45 and 12:15 shouting “I KNOW!” at any passersby who may have felt inclined to indicate to me that I might be having car trouble. After what seemed like an eternity, I pulled the van into a Shell station on Clark and Devon.

I called Will. Nothing. I called him again. Nothing. I called him ten minutes later. Nothing. I proceeded to call him approximately 57 times. Cell phone. House phone. My cell phone. Nothing.

It was 36 degrees that night and I had on red ballet flats with no socks, and not at all a large amount of change. Thankfully, it occurred to me that I still had the handy dandy little calling card that makes phone charges directly to my parents’ telephone bill. This also leads me to this next part wherein at one a.m., stranded on a street corner, I called my Mom. Crying, of course. Thinking she and my Dad could, you know, drive in from Ohio to save me from this godforsaken street corner in Rogers Park. I’ve always handled misfortune with grace and poise. Mom, too. She said: “GO SOMEWHERE SAFE! Oh my God! You’re going to be raped! Murdered! Shoved somewhere full of bacteria!”

Funny that, although I had driven past the intersection of Clark and Devon many times, mostly without thought, I had never considered it to be a particularly sinister place until that night. But looking at it from my position of varied safety at a hygienically questionable pay phone, it had swiftly taken on the characteristics of some back alley crime scene from Law and Order SVU and I suddenly had the distinct sensation that I had the potential to be a cornerstone of this week’s plot line.

Who knew what dubious characters lurked in the shadows. I was petrified. A girl walked past me yammering away on her cell phone and in my hysteria I considered hissing at her and scratching at the air like a threatened raccoon. I shot a glance at the van and realized then that this was no ordinary flat. My tire must have been slashed and the culprit was probably underneath the van, hanging onto pipes or tubes or whatever the hell is under cars in the hopes that he could slash my ankles.

The most ridiculous part is that Clark and Devon is extremely well-lit, the gas station had many customers, and no one in particular seemed to notice me. But late at night in a neighborhood far from my tree-lined friendly hamlet of Logan Square, my eyes weren’t seeing a typical corner in Chicago. No! They were seeing New York City pre-Guliani. Gotham before Batman. Smoky Mountains National Park after I read that book about bear attacks.

My mom had managed to regain some composure and talked me down from my madness. “Call a cab, leave the van and go get Will! I don’t see what else there is you can do!”

“What about the money?” I moaned.

“See if a cab will take credit cards. Now go find out if you can leave the van there.”

I walked into the gas station to ask if I could park the van for a bit. The man informed me that leaving the van was out of the question.

“Well, is there someone you can call? Do you have a number?”

“This time of night? They will charge you lots of money.”

“Yes, I know. But apparently I can’t leave it here.”

This same sort of exchange occurred when I asked to have it towed.

“Where will you tow it?”

“I don’t know, sir! But you won’t let me leave it here.”

“Ah, that is true,” I had the distinct feeling he knew where he would tow it if I were to leave the vehicle unattended in the parking lot.

I headed back outside with tears rolling down my face in frustration. Ashamed at my helplessness, I walked back to the van, snuffling and mentally kicking myself…and Will. I grabbed the owner’s manual from the glove compartment and started to search for information on how to change the damn tire. I should know this! It seems so simple! I am intelligent. I have skills. I read The Bad Girl’s Guide to the Open Road. I have an education from a great university.

The gas station attendant caught my attention. A man had pulled into the parking lot on a rickety bicycle looking, as my Mom would say, “Rode hard and put away wet.” The attendant told me that this man would fix the tire.

In any other situation, when approached by someone like the man on the bike, I would have at the very least quickly crossed to the other side of the street. At three a.m. in the morning, yes, I am that girl. Am I proud that I become that girl? No, but that’s what I’ve been taught and that’s what my gut tells me to do. That night I was desperate and desperation introduced me to Larry.

I’m pretty sure Larry was homeless. He was unshaven. He wore glasses that had seen better days, glasses that reflected eyes that most likely hadn’t. His faded black ratty puffer coat was from one of the Gaea bins, and his jeans were caked in dust and dirt, a symptom of constantly biking around a big wintry city. He had a pizza box strapped to the back of his bike as a kind of trunk. He dismounted and walked over to me, asking where my car was. I pointed to the van. He walked over to inspect the tire.

“Yep, you got a flat alright. But don’t worry; I used to fix these all the time! You got a spare?”

“Oh, I’m sure we do,” I offered secretly hoping that the spare was not curled up on the couch spooning with my most likely fast-asleep husband.

We walked to the back of the van and I opened the hatch. It was a mess back there. Blankets, gas cans (if only), some hamster shavings, and two old bags of clothing destined for the Gaea bins. They were in the way and I was supremely embarrassed. I shoved them aside and patted the carpeted flooring of the van. “This,” I said triumphantly, “is where I assume the spare is located.”

“I don’t see one.”

I smiled sheepishly. Larry squatted down on one knee and looked at the undercarriage. “Your spare is down here,”

I fought the urge to ask him if the renegade convict I had assumed was lurking under the chassis was also visible.

He stood back up, “You got a jack?”

I responded with a series of sobs and handed him the owner’s manual because it was clear I had run out of answers. Larry took the manual from me and asked if I would mind if he had a cigarette. I told him of course I didn’t and secretly wanted one too. After locating the jack, he squatted down by the tire and began to work.

“Where were you when it happened? Right here?”

I relayed the sordid tale and brought him up to speed, hoping I wouldn’t be chastised for driving on the flat as much as I had. What caught Larry’s ear was where I had been earlier that evening.

“You’re an actor? Like onstage?”

“Roughly.”

He told me how he dabbled in stand-up comedy, how he went to open mic nights at a local club and even shared a few of his jokes. He talked about how scary it is to get up on a stage, "But then you get those first few laughs," he said and shook his head.

"It's like a drug, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is."

Larry told me how his love of performing stand-up had sobered him up from both drugs and alcohol although he seemed ashamed of the cigarettes. I stood over him as he worked, not because I didn’t trust him. I just felt useless. He looked up at me, “You can sit in the car, if you want.”
“Hmmm? Oh no no. I’m sorry, I’ll just…I’ll try to call my husband again. I’m actually starting to worry about him.” I wandered over to the pay phone and put my hand on the receiver. As I was about to dial, I stopped and turned to Larry.

"Can I write you a check?"

"Sweetie, I wouldn't have anywhere to cash it."

It was right about then I received my yearly holiday reality check. On a typical day, I get irritated with the Blue Line for always being late. I mean, make a goddamn announcement, you know? Give me an idea….something! I get mad at Giada on Iron Chef for being such a sore loser to Rachel Ray. I grouch at Will for buying me full-fat yogurt instead of fat-free.

When all was said and done I handed him the ten from my pocket. "You know. If you had told me you didn't have any money, I still would have done it. You know why?" He pointed skyward. "He takes care of me."

It was very humbling. I had met truly a happy man. A man I had been trained to avoid. No one ever told me that someday I might need him. All I could think was how I could have spared a little more cash. I felt ashamed about shouting about my lack of money. I shook his hand and said goodbye and wished him Happy Holidays. I cried all the way home.

When I finally crawled up the stairs into our apartment, I must have looked like hell warmed over.

Will met me at the door. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”

“I know,” I said. “Me too.”

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Gather Ye Paints

By 1st Degree Birns

Whore Paint

The Rhyme Assassin

Typical Resident of Dunfermline, Scotland

High Five

Oldfish

The Accountant & His Giant Pecker

The Evil Turnip

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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And Now... A Break From Our Regular Programming

People, Friends, Lovers, and Foes.
After the grueling excitingments of The Official 1st Annual Superspectacular Jack Black's Body's Birthday celebration, my trusty editors and I are wored out. So we're taking a week off to give ourselves a rest and to give you time to catch up on your JBB reading.

I'll be taking my hot wife and kid to the sunny shores of someplace while Trusty Editors Croftie and Oline feverishly clean up the party residues at JBB World HQ.

We'll be back next week with treasures aplenty, so stay tuned!
XOxOXXXOxoXOxoxXOxxo,
Jables

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The Friday... ABC

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The Way We Were

Click to View

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Meet Smithy

Smithy (Ssss-mith-ee!) is a post-collegiate pre-professional twenty-something writer living and working in Texas. A student at the University of Texas at Arlington, she is JBB’s resident wordsmith. Smithy is one of the masterminds behind StandingAroundNaked.com. She is not spam.

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Standing Around Naked

Smithy Takes
To the Window

I walk to the window and open the curtains. I stand in front of the glass as I take off my shirt. The neighbors stop. They stare. My breath fogs the window in front of my face, blurring the outside world. I jauntily wave to my neighbors while I yank off my pants.

It's not a sexy act. It's matter-of-fact. I am removing every article of clothing while a crowd gathers outside my window to gawk.

This is what it's like to write in public. To write is to be naked.

Writing isn't just the telling of a story. It's an exposure to your very core. When you write, you translate your most complex thoughts into simple, black-and-white words for the world to read and judge. Where was Stephen King's mind when he wrote It? What did his mother think? His neighbors? Were they creeped out whenever he entered the room?

When Orwell wrote 1984, did his friends chuckle that he was a little too paranoid? Did they whisper about him when he walked away?

I say— let them laugh. Let everyone who passes by the exhibitionist at the window point and say, "God, she looks fat."

At least they're looking.

Whether they are good, bad, or mediocre, writers have an incredible gift. They have, at their fingertips, the ability to create entire worlds built upon the thoughts and ideals that they hold most sacred. They can act out their passions, rage against the unjust, ride on horseback against untold numbers of enemies, and return home unscathed.

Some say that fiction doesn't reflect the author— that characters can behave any way they choose and their actions have nothing to do with the person who created them.

But it's impossible to make any character speak words that didn't come from the recesses of your own brain. Whether those words were pulled from a memory or a thought, they are part of you. And you stuck them out there without regard for anyone's feelings.

You stood. Naked.

Your mind was just as exposed as your body ever could be.

With this in mind, some friends and I created StandingAroundNaked.com, a site specifically for writers.

There, you can point, laugh, and jeer at the writers who bravely expose themselves. Or, if you're a writer, you can find a window and stand at it. You can close your eyes if you like, or wear a blindfold that shields you from the neighbors’ stares.

For the next few weeks, the site will be under construction, but we'll be taking submissions. If you submit early, you'll be the first posted and the first to be stared at. It's a terrifying thrill.

One story is already up. It's called "Eleven" and it's my nakedness. I'm tired of closeting myself away and filling journals with work no one will read. I'm ready. I'm at the window.

See you there.

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Eating Jesus

Osutein-Sensei & the Body of Christ
We here at Jack Black's Body are admittedly a bit too enamored with Jables' corporeal visage.

But let's be fair— our little obsession is nothing compared to the worldwide fixation with the body of that other righteous revolutionary. The one whose first name starts with "J" and whose last name starts with a letter between "A" and "D." That’s right, I’m talking about Jesus.

For those of you not in the know, Jesus was a Palestinian Jew who was born, coincidentally enough, exactly 2,007 years ago. Jesus’ mother was a virgin and his father was a carpenter from the sticks. He was born in a barn. When he was about thirty years old, Jesus quit his dad's furniture business and started stickin' it to the Man 24/7. In Jesus’ time, the Pharisees were “the Man.” They were the Pat Robertsons of their day, only with beards and shiny robes.

Jesus nearly incited a revolution when he went around saying stuff like "God loves everyone," "give to charity," and "please don't throw rocks at hookers." This did not sit well with the Man, so the Pharisees turned him over to the Romans (those dudes from Gladiator) who, because they apparently loved ironic deaths, nailed the former carpenter to a couple of two-by-fours.

It’s been a while since the Pharisees ruled the mount. These days, Jesus is pretty popular. The world's two billion Christians worship him as the Son of God, while another billion Muslims venerate him as one of the most important Prophets. Everyone else regards him as a holy man or a visionary moral philosopher.

Really—except for angsty white high school students reading Beyond Good and Evil for the second time—pretty much the only thing everyone around the world can agree on is that yeah, that Jesus guy was pretty rockin'.

Despite Jesus’ obvious power to bring on the rock, he remains controversial. Or rather, his remains remain controversial. One of the biggest splits between Muslims and Christians isn't Jesus’ moral teachings—they all agree on that. It's whether or not he died on the cross. Christians say yes, he died for our sins. Muslims say no, he ascended into heaven and an imposter died on the cross.

The conflict is even more extreme between the factions of Christianity. Major wars have been fought over what percentage of Jesus was divine and what percentage was human. For more than a thousand years, Europe and the Middle East were torn asunder by armies running back and forth, killing each other over theological gimmicks.

The fact that Jesus was pretty firmly against killing people seemed lost on those shedding blood in his name.

No one cared about Jesus’ ideas. It was his Body they cared about—what it was made of, what it did, where to find part of it. Religious folk from cathedrals all over Europe hunted for relics to attract pilgrims and sell postcards. One cathedral in Italy even claimed to have found the foreskin of Jesus. Ew.

Of course, even today the strange obsession with Jesus’ Body continues. Christians are so into it that they’ve made a ritual out of it. They eat bread that symbolizes his body and drink wine that represents his blood.

Catholics and Protestants have spent the better part of five hundred years arguing about whether the bread is just Jesus’ Symbolic Body (Protestants) or Jesus’ Transubstantiated Body (Catholics). Either way, what's not to love about a religion that makes cannibalism and vampirism central to its practice?

That's not the only controversy surrounding Jesus’ Body, of course. The DaVinci Code and the upcoming James Cameron documentary about the alleged discovery of the Christ Family Tomb in Jerusalem have sparked debate over whether or not Jesus got hitched and pumped out a couple of holy ankle biters.

Let's hope not.

While Jesus would doubtless be the perfect father, I imagine being his kid would kinda suck. Everyone would expect you to be perfect and Christmas would just be your dad's birthday, among other traumas ("Pack your bags, kids, we're going to Grandpa's house." "NOOO!! I DON'T WANNA DIE!!!")

Outside of the Judeo-Christian-Islamic World, this controversy seems a little silly. A number of my Japanese friends saw The DaVinci Code. (Reason: the Japanese love two things above all else: mullets and Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks with a mullet? Nirvana.) After the movie, they all said to me, "It was interesting, but I'm confused. Why does it matter if Jesus had a kid or not?"

I tried to explain the historical and theological reasons, the Christian distrust of sex and Jesus’ supposed divine perfection... but ultimately I agree with them.

Why did it matter what Jesus did with his Body? Weren't Jesus’ teachings the big draw? Y'know, love God, love your neighbor, turn the other cheek, don't judge, wash your feet.

I feel like we're missing the point. Remember, Jesus wanted us to stop throwing rocks at hookers, not throwing rocks at each other over whether or not Jesus married a hooker.

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Bodies

Photographs By Joosy!

Dara

Arthur

Brian

Faith

Tribal

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Mailbag

Click image to enlarge.

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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The Official Jack Black's Body 1st Annual Superspectacular Totally Rocking Birthday Extravaganza!

On March 16th, Jack Black's Body is officially over the (very very small and humble) hill. That's right, folks! We've survived one full year of post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something literariness. In celebration, we're going all out with seven days of spectacular excitingments for Body Birthday Week. Stay tuned!

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The Friday... Sparkles

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The Blue Room

A Mini-drama
by
Trusty Editor Croftie

Photograph by
The Germanatrix






CHARACTERS
Mr. Smith a man in his late fifties
Joe a man in his late twenties

Scene 1

MR. SMITH is standing at the urinal. The door opens. JOE ENTERS. The men are preoccupied and do not see each other. JOE looks up, sees MR. SMITH, and turns to leave.

MR. SMITH
(Looks up)
Joe! How long have you been here?

JOE
I was just leaving.

MR. SMITH
I meant here at the company. Six years now?

JOE goes to the furthest urinal away from MR. SMITH. He unzips.

JOE
Five, actually. Only five.

MR. SMITH
I was just thinking—I don’t tell you often enough that I appreciate you.

JOE
Thank you.
(Zips up without using the urinal)

MR. SMITH
(Advances toward JOE)
I’d like to show you my appreciation.

JOE
Could it wait until later?

MR. SMITH
I want to speak to you now. Where it’s private.
(Pause)
I had to let Jim go today.

JOE
I thought he quit.

MR. SMITH
No. I let him go… Did he tell you why?

JOE
No.

MR.SMITH
Good. You’re not supposed to talk to someone who’s been fired, anyway. We sent him straight home and we’ll ship his things to him later. Security reasons.

JOE
I know.

MR.SMITH
Look Joe, I need a good man to fill Jim’s position. And you’re the first man I saw this morning.
(Laughs)
That was a joke.

JOE
(Laughs nervously)

MR. SMITH
Don’t take everything so seriously. Except your job. You should always take your job seriously. I want to make you senior director.

JOE
Oh… thank you. I appreciate the offer. But I should discuss this with Sarah.

MR. SMITH
What’s to discuss? You’ll have an office. Wouldn’t you like an office?

JOE
I’m really not sure.

MR. SMITH
Since when does a man have to discuss his career with his girlfriend?

JOE
She’s my fiancée.

MR. SMITH
So?

JOE
It’s just that… I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be in Chicago. We’re getting married next month and we’re planning to move to the East Coast.

MR. SMITH
I see.

JOE
I’m sorry.

MR. SMITH
I’m disappointed in you, Joe. I should let you go right now.

JOE
Look, I need to start doing what I want to do. I need to start writing…

MR. SMITH
That’s not much of a career.

JOE
I’m almost thirty. When am I ever going to get to do what I want to do?

MR. SMITH
Life isn’t about getting what you want. Marriage is definitely not about getting what you want. I’m sure Sarah would agree.

JOE
She’s supportive.

MR. SMITH
Her father’s a lawyer. When you’re a writer, will he be proud to call you “son”?

JOE
Hey, hold on a minute.

MR. SMITH
(Puts his arm around JOE’S shoulders. A fatherly gesture.)
I don’t think you’ve thought this through. Are you sure you want to be tied down right now?

JOE
I’ve got to get back to my desk.
(Turns to leave)

MR. SMITH
That’s right. Turn your back. Just like you did to Ben.

JOE
He left me!

MR. SMITH
Are you too good for us? Is that it? I’ll tell you something—this company was good enough for Ben.

JOE
I’m not like my father.

MR. SMITH
You’re right. Your father was a good man. He paid for that fancy college you went to. And he sent you with our money. Now you’re too good for us? You owe me.

JOE
I don’t owe you anything. And you don’t know anything about my father.

MR. SMITH
Give me one good reason, Joe—just one reason you’re too good for this company.

JOE
I hate it. There. My father hated this place, and I hate it, too. I hate coming to work every morning. I hate swiping my card at the back door and walking down that gray hallway. I hate staring at the computer. I hate the people who work here. I hate sitting in my cubicle with nothing to do for nine hours until it’s time to go home. And I hate how bad I feel when I finally leave at the end of the day. And I hate going home because I know I’ll just have to come back tomorrow. I hate it. I can’t stay here. My father stuck it out until he died. I don’t even know how I’ve lasted five years.

MR. SMITH
Well.
(Pause)
Congratulations on your wedding. I’ll box up your things and have them sent to you in the morning.

MR. SMITH EXITS. JOE stands quietly for a long pause. Then he smiles and begins to leap about in absolute joy.

FADE OUT

Scene 2

SARAH is sitting at the kitchen table with the phone book. She’s taking notes on a legal pad.

JOE ENTERS, in the process of removing his tie. Dumps his coat over a chair.


JOE
(Kisses SARAH on the cheek)
I’ve got news. Great news. Actually, it might not be great news right now, but it will be.

SARAH
Hang up your coat.

JOE
I will.

SARAH
No you won’t. I always have to hang up your coat for you.

JOE
If I hang up my coat, can I tell you my news?
(Pause)
I’ll hang it up.
(Starts to leave the room)

SARAH
I’ll do it later. I want to show you something.

JOE
Can it wait? I wanted to talk to you.

SARAH
No.

JOE goes to SARAH and sits beside her. SARAH pushes the legal pad toward him.

SARAH
I’ve made a list of realtors.

JOE
I thought we discussed this.

SARAH
Will you ever be ready?

JOE
That’s not fair.

SARAH
Married people buy houses.

JOE
We’re not married yet. Let’s do that first.

SARAH
It took you long enough to ask me. I can’t wait six years for everything.

JOE
What if I get a job in Boston?

SARAH
I like Chicago. And you have a job here.

JOE
It’s not a good job.

SARAH
I found a house on Lincoln. It has two bedrooms.

JOE
We don’t need two bedrooms. What’s wrong with this apartment?

SARAH
It’s too small. We need a second bedroom.

JOE
No one ever visits.

SARAH
They will soon.

JOE
No one will visit newlyweds. They’d be too uncomfortable. Would you want visitors?

SARAH
I think I would. I’d like the room to be a light blue. Maybe I’ll paint clouds on the ceiling so that when you wake up you’ll think you’ve become a bird.

JOE
We can paint here, if you want.

SARAH
Remember the bedroom I showed you in that country homes magazine? The furniture was white and the trim was white and the walls were blue. Everything looked clean and simple.

JOE
What’s this all about?

SARAH
It had a window that overlooked the mountains and the room was so light. I don’t like windows that face brick walls. Like our bedroom window. The house I found on Lincoln is next to a park.

JOE
SARAH, we just can’t afford to buy a house right now. You know that.

SARAH
My father would help us. Maybe as a wedding present.

JOE
I can’t accept that kind of gift. We need to do this on our own.

SARAH
We can’t! We can’t do any of it on our own.

JOE
Not right now, maybe. But we will.

SARAH
When? Not now. Not when we’re still renting this same apartment and working entry-level jobs and eating frozen dinners. You can’t even hang up your clothes.

JOE
Is that really what you think of me?

SARAH
I need you to hang up your clothes.

JOE
I will, if it bothers you that much.

SARAH
It’s not just the clothes.

JOE
What? What is it, then?

SARAH
I need you to look at that house with me.

JOE
I’ll look, if it’s that important to you. But we’ll just look.

SARAH
It is important.
(Pause)
And will you help me paint the room blue?

JOE
Sarah…

SARAH
Guests like blue. It’s calming. And a calming room is good for babies, I’ve heard.

JOE
No one will visit us. And we don’t know anyone who has a baby.

SARAH
Our baby can sleep there.

JOE
We have a while to think about that.

SARAH
No, we don’t.

JOE
(Pause)
Do you mean… Is that what the second room is for?

SARAH
(Pause)
Do you think the baby will like blue?

JOE
Oh God. Why didn’t you tell me?
(Long pause)
I have to go back to the office.

SARAH
Now?

JOE
Immediately. I’ve got to. I’m sorry. I have to fix this.

SARAH
Joe…

JOE
I’ve got to go.
(Kisses SARAH on the forehead)
I’ll be back.

SARAH
It’s a nice house, Joe.

JOE
We’ll look at it this weekend.

FADE OUT

CURTAIN

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Review: Black Sun

Oline Steps into the Circus

Upon its initial publication in 1976, Geoffrey Wolff’s Black Sun: The Brief Transit and Violent Eclipse of Harry Crosby was dismissed by The New York Times as “a three ring circus of scandal and anti-social behavior.” Perhaps the Times was right—but what a show!

The nephew of the bazillionaire J.P. Morgan, the eccentric poet Harry Crosby scandalized Boston society by marrying a divorcee and fleeing to Paris to establish the renegade Black Sun Press. He flirted with Romanticism, Decadence, and Surrealism only to settle for narcotic experimentation and sun worship, most vividly manifested in wretched verse: “The Sun! The Sun! / a fish in the aquarium of sky.”

A “minor” poet, Crosby ran with the “major” literary figures of 1920s Paris. He drank with Hemingway and Cummings, published Joyce and Lawrence, pissed off Wharton, and was eulogized by Eliot and Pound. He was the quintessential dabbler—manically tarting his writing up in every available literary voice and style. According to Wolff, “during five working years Harry duplicated a century of complicated aesthetic traditions.”

And what better way to conclude such an earnest, unimaginative career than with a bang? In December 1929, the thirty-one year old married Crosby was found shot dead—his toenails lacquered red and his feet tattooed—alongside the corpse of his married girlfriend and with a letter from another woman in his front pocket. Contemporaries considered Crosby’s murder/suicide his best poem. Wolff considers it his final literary experiment.

Wolff’s background in fiction and his narrative approach to biography lend Black Sun the feel of a splendidly executed novel, which is appropriate given the performative nature of Crosby’s life. Though Wolff is clearly fascinated by Crosby, he knows his subject is nutters and he’s astute enough to capitalize upon that as Crosby’s greatest charm. It is a wise decision, and Wolff’s snide jokes and witty asides strut memorably alongside Crosby’s maverick conformity and appalling verse.

Though the 2003 edition of Black Sun features no textual changes, Wolff includes an intriguing new afterward. Responding to the question “Why [write about] Crosby,” he explains his interest in this man who was so often reduced to a footnote by the scholars of the 20s. Wolff rejects Crosby’s reputation as a Lost Generation archetype and finds him interesting simply because “What Crosby said he’d do he did, exactly.” He was “not merely some posturing dandy of the boulevards. He acted everything out—everything; there was no lag for him between thought and experiment.” Crosby’s shoddy, suicidal poetry made his intentions quite clear.

Harry Crosby is not an important literary figure. He was, after all, only famous by association and his own poetry never developed beyond the subject matter of adolescent angst. But, as Wolff admits and Black Sun proves, there is “something about [the poem’s] very badness”-- something about Crosby’s very badness– that is haunting: “Like Icarus, of whom [Crosby] wrote, he flew toward the sun till it melted his wings of wax [ . . . ] unlike Icarus, however, he was forewarned.”

Geoffrey Wolff, Black Sun: The Brief Transit and Violent Eclipse of Harry Crosby. New York Review: NY, 2003.

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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The Friday... 40?

Wine? Yes.
U? No.
JB

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Gymnation

January is a time of resolutions and new beginnings and starting overs. In contrast, February is a time of trying to make those resolutions and beginnings and starting overs actually stick. But what of March? In our youth, March was the month of spring break. In our Chicago adulthood, it is a month much like any other winter one—cold, wet, and not even remotely springy.

Tired of long, dark wintery days spent hunched over computers at JBB World HQ and convinced they were becoming old and shrunken before their time, Trusty Editors Croftie and Oline roused themselves to action and did what every impoverished post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something would do— they joined a gym.

And because Trusty Editors who join gyms are supposed to share their sufferings and small personal victories with the world, that is precisely what they’re going to do.

“Ladies, Saddle your Ponies”
In Which Our Trusty Editors Find Their Dancing Queen


Remember when you were a twelve-year-old girl and there was that completely unattainable, unspeakably gorgeous guy who gave you the flutters every time he passed by in the school hallway? The guy you would gaze at in unadulterated pre-teen lust from across the room. The guy who would occasionally deign to speak to you, an action so profound, so sacred, that you would be reduced to an hour of giggles and gasps and sighs of “HE spoke TO ME!” and then frantically record every detail of the encounter in your journal.

Now that they are post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-somethings, Trusty Editors Croftie and Oline were quite sure their twelve-year-old girl days had passed. They were quite sure they could no longer flutter as they once did. So it was with elation that, upon doing something so grown up as joining a gym, they realized they were in the wrong. Flutter they can. Flutter they do.

His name is Brantley. Croftie and Oline are in love.

Brantley teaches step class at the Trusty Editors’ gym every Tuesday afternoon. He is beautiful and he is largely the reason that the Trusty Editors have pursued their gymning with such vigor. They may punk out on other days of the week, but never ever Tuesday.

The Trusty Editors have uncovered certain truths about their beloved:

1) He is a Southern boy.
2) “Dancing Queen” is his theme song.
3) He has a bit of a complex about his obliques.
4) He is performing in some theatrical that involves dancing shirtless.
5) He is beautiful.

Like all obsessive twelve-year-old girls, Croftie and Oline have burned each Brantley encounter into their brains, imbuing them with far more meaning than they should rightfully hold.

There was the time Brantley shook Croftie’s hand (though, in retrospect, Croftie feels that perhaps he was making an effete gesture she overeagerly misinterpreted as the instigation of a handshake). The time Brantley squeezed Oline’s arm and said, Good job today! The time Brantley soulfully caressed Croftie’s rosy cheek. The time Brantley caught Oline singing “Proud Mary” in the midst of freeze-knees and shouted, You go, girl!

Croftie and Oline are quite certain that their dancing queen is unattainable. But that flutter of twelve-year-old girl hope is a wily vixen. It makes the workday bearable. It keeps them going back. To see Brantley. Sigh.

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Gather Ye Paints

What could possibly be more Revolutionary than developing great works of art during one's working hours? In celebration of this productivity-sapping pastime, Jack Black's Body is honoured/delighted/pleased to unveil for the first time ever in the world (at least that we're aware of) the time-killing, Microsoft Paint masterworks of 1st Degree Birns.





Hard Partying Spiny Blowfish


Hippogiraffasheep


Lumps With Mumps


Mr. Cloudhead


Bond's Eye Tree


Crocodog!


Hammerhead Mark


Fire-breathing Serpents Over Calgary

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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The Friday... Roxette?

Dude.
At last! A man who has the balls to style his hair like Liz Taylor.
JB

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Woodpigeon's Songbook

A Quick Look By Miss Fitz
As I sit in the dark surrounded by muffled whispers, the anticipation rises. A group of musical miscreants assembles in the shadows with guitars, accordions, and flutes to form… an orchestra?

You never know what to expect at the concert of a new indie band. Sometimes, you luck out and get a surprise—an unforgettable performance.

With a small but strong following, Woodpigeon has exploded into one of Canada’s biggest indie music hopefuls. Fronted by Mark Hamilton, this sunny sounding group has just signed with Universal and seems poised to become the next nabob of the Canadian indie music scene.

The group’s new album, Songbook, has the sexy undertones of what real up-and-coming Canadian music should be. The songs have titles like, “A Sad Country Ballad for a Tired Super Hero,” “Death by Ninja,” and “Home as a Romanticized Concept Where Everyone Loves You Always and Forever.”

While their lyrics should leave you sarcastically melancholy, it’s hard to resist the temptation to tap your foot along with the tambourine and peppy handclaps. If argyle had a soundtrack, this would be it.

Woodpigeon’s Songbook is an album of edgy lyrics wrapped in the romantic, lighthearted ponapoly of sweet pop rock. Even a virgin listener would be hard-pressed to denounce this album’s subtle cavity-inducing excellence.


Woodpigeon can now be heard on CBC radio 3, and seen in The R3 30 Charts next to big names like The Arcade Fire and Buck 65.

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A JBB To Do

Featuring Jack Black's Bombshell!

Rogue 8- Issue #3

Rogue Theater Company
5123 N. Clark St.
Chicago, Illinois
773-561-5893

Fridays & Saturdays, thru March 10, 2007
11 p.m.
$8

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Dear Chicago

Photographs by The Germanatrix

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Fashion Forward

Tips From The Fashionista
Commandment #4:
Icons of Style

We recently had Fashion Week here in New York, and at this time of year with who knows what walking down the runways, it’s especially salient to refer back to those I consider Icons of Style. As we discussed last time, imitating any particular person always results in a look that’s more costume than outfit, and is highly inadvisable. So I give you these icons not to suggest that we transform ourselves into their likenesses, but to provide examples of truly gifted individuals who really have contributed something extraordinary to the world of Fashion—and to the very definition of Style.

Without further ado, my Icons.

Sienna Miller
You may have noticed already, but I love this girl. I can’t say it enough—she just pulls it all together. And with friends like Stella McCartney and Kate Moss, couldn’t you, too? Sienna’s a beautiful girl who’s not afraid to take risks, whether it’s a short haircut or slouchy boots, and she knows that a sexy man is a girl’s hottest accessory. Her whimsical, cheeky British sensibility on this month’s cover of Nylon magazine is an inspiration to us all.

Marcello Mastroianni
Yes, I’m aware that he’s dead. But gentlemen, if you want a lesson on looking good, watch La Dolce Vita. Black suit, white shirt, black tie, dark sunglasses. Handsome Italian men still rock this look nearly 50 years after the movie came out. And Marcello wasn’t just well-dressed in character—I saw a photo of him from the 1970s, leaving a club in Paris with Catherine Deneuve (at 7:30 a.m., well done!), and he was rocking some sweet flare pants and a blazer. He could pull it off. And that is why we love him.

Ralph Lauren
Say what you will about the Polo Empire—I personally don’t care to match the walls of my kitchen to my t-shirts—but Ralph Lauren has defined American Style. Sure, the spawn of Polo has infiltrated every aspect of our lives, but for good reason. Ralph Lauren started out designing and manufacturing neckties, and selling them himself on Seventh Avenue. And now the ubiquitous horsie prances across everything from bath towels to $7500 silk gowns. But look at Ralph himself—he exudes casual elegance, as comfortable in jeans and a polo as he is in a tuxedo. He has given Americans something to believe in. And he’s given the rest of the world something to aspire to—and to purchase in mass quantities. Go Ralph!

Daniel Craig
He is the best-dressed man on the planet. Jeans that fit. T-shirt that fits even better. Expensive, appropriately aged leather jacket. That’s all you need, people. And then he takes it all off. I have nothing more to say.

Beck
Reinvention is essential, and Beck works it like none other. Yeah, 10 years ago he was wearing his t-shirts over long-sleeve thermals, just like the rest of us, and we were all cool like that. He was also singing about two turntables and a microphone. Today, he’s rocking a sharp suit and hat (props for bringing back the hat) and the songs are about earthquake weather. The man can dance, too. There’s nothing more stylish than skills.

Jane Birkin
They named a handbag after her, that’s how cool she was. And you can’t even buy it—you have to be on a waiting list for years. The Birkin bag is possibly the most coveted accessory in the world and Jane Birkin is the perfect example of how style attracts style and then begets style (she mated with Serge Gainsbourg, and their offspring, Charlotte Gainsbourg, could well merit her own spot on this list). Jane Birkin was young, fresh, and sexy as hell. If you have any doubts, download “Je t’aime…Moi non plus.” Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about. Money cannot buy enough handbags to make you that cool.

Wes Anderson
Here we have a man who wears awkward glasses, high-water pants, jackets that expose too much shirt cuff, and Stan Smiths. Why is he stylish? Because he does it on purpose. You have to believe that what you’re wearing is right for you, and then others will, too. If you’re going to rock your own personalized style, you have to be confident about it. Wes, let’s get married. Please.

Sofia Coppola
Ok, her best friend is Marc Jacobs, I get it. Sofia Coppola has never lacked for anything—she even has a sparkling wine named after her—and she especially has never lacked for style. Going to the Oscars but your feet aren’t feeling so great? Wear flats! Looking for the perfect shade of lip gloss? Have Three Custom Color create it for you! Other kids say your nose is funny looking? Screw them! Oh, would that we could all be Sofia.

Diane von Furstenberg
A funny thing happened in the past half-century or so. Women once wore only dresses. Then we had a sexual revolution and women wore pants. Women wore ugly pants, women wore baggy pants, women wore whatever pants they could find just to prove they could wear pants. Then Diane von Furstenberg came along and designed an amazing little wrap dress in silk knit prints that flattered everyone, and women went back to wearing dresses again, because they looked so damn sexy. I have DVF dresses that belonged to my mother, back in the day, and I have DVF dresses I’ve bought for myself. I even met Diane earlier this year, and she was wearing one of her signature creations in plum-colored suede…divine!

Maggie Gyllenhaal
I don’t particularly like actresses; I find them over-styled and over-hyped, and highly foolish to boot. But I love my Maggie. Tall and statuesque, apple-cheeked and bright-eyed, smart and quirky, she’s that girl you’d hang out with if only she’d let you. She can wear couture as well as she can wear thrift store finds, and she doesn’t value one over the other, either.

Bjork
Swan dress aside, you have to admit that Bjork is pretty fantastic. She’ll never be caught at Whole Foods in a pair of baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt that reads “World’s Greatest Mom,” that’s for sure. Iceland, I can imagine, is one of those places where one has a lot of time to learn to sew, compose music, and try on outfits in front of a three-way mirror, and Bjork definitely capitalized on her opportunities. What if Bjork and Beck mated? Groovy.

Remember, people: This is just one girl’s opinion. I’m sure you have your own Icons of Style. Discuss.

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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The Friday... New Kids?

Oh Kids!
If I were a girl, I wouldn't go. But alas...
XOOxoxOXoxxOxOXOXXOXoXoxoxOxoXXOx,
Jables

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Meet The Bonny Lass

The Bonny Lass (\’boh-knee\’lah-sss\!) is a post-collegiate pre-professional twenty-something writer and production editor living and working in Chicago. A graduate of Western Illinois University, she is JBB’s resident expert on all things writerly. She’s got a razor wit and knows how to use it. She likes novels, photography, Ireland, and The Office. She whips up a mean PS form. The Bonny Lass dislikes being called “Deedra,” because that is not her name.

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When You Went Silent

My Dearest Grace,

It's been so long I can barely remember your face. Isn't that pathetic? This old man's mind can't even remember how the window to his heart looked when it left. Thank God I still have the pictures of you.

I miss you dear, you have no idea how much. Your memory sticks with me like tits on a bull or flies on shit or whatever you prefer. You see? I can't even control my crudeness without you. Can't do much of anything, come to think of it.

Remember when we met? The year doesn't matter, but the music does. I could never understand these people who know what happened in a certain year. The music is how I remember things. Benny Goodman. That's who I remember most when I think of our first dates. It might not even be right, but in my mind it is. Maybe we listened to Sinatra. I guess it don't matter none.

Well, you were just about the prettiest darn thing I ever did see. You had a red ribbon in that dark hair of yours. The dance hall lights just shone and shone like starlight off your glasses. You hated them, I know. But I thought they were beautiful. It was like the brightness of your eyes was shooting out of the pieces of glass at the end of your nose. If you tilted your head a certain way, I could see the light fixtures above the dance hall.

And your hair, oh Lord, long dark brown. You were perfect, and even as you slouched, ringing your hands in front of you, I knew that I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. Well, the rest of your life, I guess.

I don't want to talk about how I tripped and fell right down at your feet. But I will tell you that I saw right up that blue dress of yours, and there's a reason I chose to stay safely on the ground. I don't think I ever told you that. You surely would get a kick out of it.

It's amazing that I had the nerve to even go over to you at that dance in Detroit. I was never one with the ladies. All I knew was that I had to talk to you. So we talked all that night, neither of us really noticing the problems that the other had. You surely thought that your condition was practically stamped on your forehead. And I truly did believe that my limp was preventing me from life. And that all the people who I met immediately assumed something. That I was weak, mostly. Ah, well, the point is we were the only ones who obsessed over that shit- I'm sorry, Gracie, those "problems."

I never noticed that night, really. Well one thing stood out. "Do you want any punch?" I asked.

"I want your blood, I mean - Yes, that would be nice." Your eyes were suddenly huge as a cornered rabbit's, and I saw tears welling up through your thick glasses.

"Ok, I won't spit in it, I promise," I said.

I ignored the weird thing you had just said, but I don't know why. Maybe it was because I finally opened that door to the true Grace, and I didn't want you to retreat to the slumping, shy person again. Or maybe it was because you looked so scared. You were so terrified that I was going to respond poorly. So I ignored it, and when I limped back with the punch, you were better.

"Purple whore. Purple whore." How could I forget that? It was after you called my mother a purple whore at Thanksgiving that you finally told me about the "problem" you had. I have to tell you Gracie, I'm laughing so hard I'm crying right now. My condescending, pretentious mother, barraging you with personal and intruding questions. It wasn't until she asked you if you really could wear a white wedding dress when the time came, that "Purple whore, purple whore" spewed out of your lovely lips. She bought that dress at Derman's downtown, ironed it and ironed it and tried it on every other day. She loved it, probably more than me, but certainly not more than her Caddy, in a similar shade of purple puke. Anyway, I could tell you were distressed at the non-stop questions, but your brow was unfurrowed and your color came back when you called my mother a purple whore.

The room became silent. The peas Bill had been stuffing into his mouth fell to the tablecloth. With a smile, I stood up, grabbed your hand and we ran to my car. That was probably the best night of my life. I rented that seedy motel room, and we talked for two hours. You told me everything. Your quiet voice was barely audible over the people banging in the next room, but you told me. And I remember every word.

"I have a problem. If I try to hold down my need to twitch and speak, it just comes out worse. The feelings well up in me and I have to release them, just like other people but mine come out absurd. Like that night at the dance, you were so sweet and so cute, I kept thinking how I just wanted to eat you up. Like I could just, you know, inhale you. I fell in love with you that fast. No one was ever that nice to me. Anyway, I knew I was going to have a scene, so I tried to hold it down, and I ended up telling you I wanted your blood. I guess it could have been worse. But your mom, Roger, I'm so sorry."

"It's ok. She is a purple whore," and with that, we started laughing again.

We laughed until we couldn't breathe, and the horny people next door told us to shut up, and we did. I looked into your eyes and I saw love. I saw love itself. I don't know how to describe it, but that's what I saw. Wordlessly, I took off your glasses. You gently stroked my face. We kissed and kissed. Our tongues touching, our mouths sucking. Hands leaving, and wandering, unbuttoning, squeezing, making us naked as fast as we could be. My hand wandered in between your legs, and the look on your face was enough to keep it there. Yours ended up on the bulge between my own legs, and just like on that dance floor in Detroit, it was difficult to hide. Soon, I was in you. Our eyes never left each other's as we made love. And we did, many times that night. I woke you up three times, and you woke me up once as well, wanting more. Wanting each other's blood and skin and warmth once more.

We were so young back then, but we had carried crosses all our lives. It wasn't until we found each other that we could put them down. I didn't care if you called the Queen of England a red-coated whore, and you didn't care that I was a little gimpy. Some people, they fall in and out of love. Not us, right, honey? That was 50 years ago. You died on a Sunday, five years ago today. I kind of wish we had some kids, now that I'm alone. But when you were here, all we needed was each other. I'm 68 years old now. Don't do much of anything. I limp to the grocery store about every day, I guess. The people that work there roll their eyes. They don't think I see it, but I do. They mouth to each other "Oh, God," and then shout "Hi! How are you today!?" as if I couldn't hear their bullshit greeting even if I tried. Live on welfare, mostly. I have a little apartment in the Juckson neighborhood. Not great, but it's ok. I keep it clean. But I sure do miss you Grace. Don't know how I'm gonna make it too much longer without you. I'll leave this letter in the box of your things, I guess. I hope I see you soon.

Love always,
Roger

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Macintosh

By Bernanation, The Verisificator

The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead
Reanimated for the resurrection
let the red flow
in tear tracks down your tan and tired cheeks.

The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead
whose nerve endings flair when he is near
and animate the limbs
rising from rest to roam reality.

The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead
her eyes never close on the sunset
and her lids never open for the rise
that he gets out of hurting her.

The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead
tells her he loves her and melts away
leaves her supine and surprised in the melted clay
buried dead in foreign soil.

The man in the macintosh loves a lady who is dead
takes away her bell cord
cause she ain’t a dead ringer
for the easy fools he’s killed before.

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Meet Joygerale

Joygerale (\’joi\’ger-ayle\!) is a post-collegiate pre-professional twenty-something artist/writer living and working in Jackson, Mississippi. A graduate of Mississippi State University, she is JBB’s resident expert on The Mom Voice. She likes birds, tabloids, and cooking things that don't demand chopping. Her cookies are to die for.

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The Mom Voice

A HistoryBy Joygerale
When a girl experiences a life-changing event, an event that so thoroughly alters her being that she can never again go back to being the girl she once was, one would think that she might at least remember said event. One would think that a girl in this situation would write the event down in her diary, especially if the girl was inclined to always writing down the minutiae of her existence.

With that said, I sadly admit that I did not document and cannot remember the first time that I used what would come to be known as The Mom Voice (TMV). I have vague memories of it escaping from my mouth at infrequent intervals in my younger days—mainly when I was babysitting. But somewhere along the line, I started using the voice enough for it to warrant the name The Mom Voice—although I wasn’t a mother at the time.

But now I am. And TMV has really taken hold.

Mind you, I’m not a biological mother; I’m a stepmother, which means that whatever I do, I must wield TMV softly and with great care so as to avoid the terrible and iconic affixing of “wicked” to my stepmother designation.

I must admit that I use the voice a lot. A lot. And I use it in conjunction with lectures. Seriously, the other night I linked childhood bath-taking to buying a house as an adult. I found myself actually saying:

Joy: Taking baths is part of learning responsibility. You have to do things like taking baths when you’re young so that you’ll know how to be responsible when you’re older so that you can hold down a job and buy a house. If you want to buy a house, you have to work every day, blah blah blah, lecture lecture, blahhhh.

Stepdaughter: Yeah, but nobody’s making you work.

TMV then prompted me to tell her that we could live in a ramshackle hut down by the river if her dad and I chose not to work. But I resisted and let the subject drop after I informed her that I wasn’t put on this earth to argue with seven-year-olds. Ah, TMV! Such a master of witty repartée.

I’m not sure that I can fully describe or define TMV. Half of the voice’s power comes from the speaker’s tone. It must be terse, pointed, and either shrill or guttural, depending on the situation. The actual words are not always of great import. For instance, I often hear parents use TMV in the grocery store to yell “No, SIR!” and “No, MA’AM!” to their children, as if giving them such mature titles would suddenly make them shape up. Not that I’m in a position to criticize. My own TMV expressions are often painfully clichéd. I’m all about telling my stepdaughter to “chill out” and “be cool.”

But the other half of TMV is somewhat magical. When I use TMV, I suddenly become privy to a wealth of knowledge concerning bedtimes, meal times, bath times, and all sorts of other times. I somehow know exactly how many cookies children should eat after dinner, which is strange given the fact that I can rarely figure out how many cookies I should eat after dinner.

TMV is my secret weapon. TMV makes me the omniscient oracle of all things orderly. Unfortunately, this omniscience does not spill over into my twenty-something life. Sometimes I wish that I could use TMV to direct my life path or something—to tell me that I shouldn’t sass a coworker or throw money away on tabloids. I’d like TMV to tell me when I’ve had enough to drink. But I don’t want to push my luck. Truthfully, I’m a little afraid of TMV. The voice is more powerful than I am. It rises from my subconscious and, at times, I feel that I’m not using TMV so much as it is using me to achieve its insidious child-rearing plan.

I am at internal war with TMV, especially when I’m telling my stepdaughter to do things that I think I should be telling her to do, even though I don’t know why. I employ quite an abhorrent level of practicality with TMV. I know that I’m fully justified in telling my stepdaughter that yes, she has to take a bath because she hasn’t had one in three days and come on isn’t it about time. And although I couch my practical moments with references to Sonic Youth or The National, I often feel like TMV sabotages the wacky and disorganized person that I know myself to be.

My big problem is, on the one hand, that I want my stepdaughter to have the basic training that she needs in order to be self-sufficient. I want her to have perfect manners and good hygiene. But on the other hand, I want her to let her hair down and have a good time. I want her to disregard TMV (gasp! shock!) when it behooves her to disregard it. When my back is turned, I want her to feed the dog from the dinner table and to make faces at me. Doing that shit is what childhood is all about! Even so, the voice rises again and again from my depths, and lo, it often punishes.

I am left, then, with the Herculean task of taming TMV so that I can use its full force at the appropriate times (as in the previously mentioned bath time situation) without letting it rule my life. I must learn to turn off the voice of my own mother! I must learn to overcome!

And I must remember to use chocolate as an incentive. For even TMV understands that a little chocolate-flavored bribery goes a long, long way.

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The Friday...Cannibals?

Dear Mr. Fine Young,
I'm all for weird and I was all for Croftie's suggestion to start casting my net larger and looking for my one true man love among the men with less abundant hair- but you're kind of very scary. The way you keep looking at me. All intense and shy. It's making me uncomfortable. I just need to not look at you right now.
JB

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Constructive Criticism

I know that I don't say it nearly enough, but my trusty editors are freaking awesome. They have helped me mount the Revolution unfunded, guerrilla style. They do their trusty editing, mind my Body, fetch my dry-cleaning, and make many a romantic feast for me and my hot wife. They do all this while leading alternate non-JBB, post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something lives.

They are a pair of clever minx and I love them so.

So I was 100% behind my trusty editors when they strutted up to me the other day and suggested that we post an ad on Craigslist, because the Body needed a new infusion of life, fresh talent. Craigslist sounded anti-establishment enough to work. Plus, Croftie was looking so hot in her leopard heels and Oline in her yellow stilettos left me weak in the knees. How could I refuse such a simple favor in the presence of such attractions?

And it was only Craigslist. It wasn't as though the delicate emotions of my trusty editors would be in any way endangered.

So off Croftie scampered in her kitten heels, to compose an advertisement of such eloquence, such JBB joie de vieve, that the resumés of the literarily talented masses would soon be flooding the HQ. The air sizzled with excitement.

And then...



We were flagged and removed.

My Body—glorious and incandescent in its circumference and breadth—was unceremoniously lumped and scrapped along with the good-for-nothing ads for foot fetishists and baby-merchants. It was inexplicable. It was tragic.

Croftie made epic lips of disapproval. Oline stomped her yellow heel on the marble floor with an intensity that would've done Michael Flatly proud. But those girls, they're intrepid. They sought a solution. They e-mailed Craiglist. They posted on the forum seeking an answer. Seeking understanding and justification.

Instead, they got a plebeian response.



But don't be alarmed, my Revolteers. Although we’ve been banished from Craigslist, insulted by the anonymous powers-that-be, and consigned to the 98th percentile for incredible lameity, we shall prevail. Though misunderstood and underappreciated, the Revolution lives on. The hope endures. The dream shall never die.

But it shall never advertise on Craigslist again.

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The Room Without A Country

Osutein-Sensei Uses His Imagination (And Guns)

My International Relations textbooks defined nation-states as "imaginary entities," in the sense that they exist only because we all agree that they exist. This makes me sad. I have been left out of these planet-wide meetings for my entire life. I've always wanted to sit around with billions of other people and then, at the prompting of some mysterious voice, agree that "Yes, we would still like to have Canada around. It will be big, and snowy, and a little too obsessed with hockey. And their bacon will be different."

Those meetings sound like a lot of fun.

Of course, imagination has its drawbacks. The British and French were a little too creative with the Middle East in the early twentieth century, inventing countries that they probably shouldn't have, like Iraq. The Iraqis seem to think they were three countries, but the British had the guns, and sadly, guns beat imagination. It's like rock-paper-scissors, but with atrocities. And nothing beats guns.

A country is seen differently by different groups of people. Tsushima, the island I lived on in Japan, is a place where cultures meld and nationalities overlap. Closer to Korea than to Japan, Tsushima is definitely Japanese in culture and persuasion, but there are little traces of the Korean influence here and there. You’ll find a scattering of words in the local dialect and the ruins of a 1,400-year-old Korean castle deep in the woods.

Embassies and consulates also complicate the otherwise tidy imagination, since they are technically little pieces of one nation-state in another nation-state's imaginary territory. I work for the Japanese consulate here in Chicago, which means that every morning I wake up in the United States, then commute to Japan. So, don't talk to me about your commute time. I don't wanna hear it.

Oddly enough, the consulate's sovereign Japanese soil is not restricted to its two floors in the Olympia Center, but extends to the three cars it owns. According to international law, the interiors of those cars are part of Japan. With all the consulate and embassy cars around the world, if you were to look at a political map of the earth you would see thousands of tiny foreign countries moving around inside each other's borders. Since the cars enjoy diplomatic immunity, most of these tiny countries are probably moving at excessive speeds or parked in front of fire hydrants.

Yet, even the most vivid national imagination can't account for the inevitable spaces in-between—hence the endless squabbling over international waters. But not all of these gaps are wide as oceans. Some are about the size of closets—like “the airlock.”

To get to my office I have to swipe my card to unlock two doors. Between the doors is a small space we jokingly call "the airlock." It's completely empty except for the keypad for the second door. The question is: If what lies behind the first door is America and what’s beyond the second door is the consulate (and thus sovereign Japanese territory), then what is the airlock? It lies outside of all national territories and jurisdictions, a 5' x 6' No Man's Land.

It's a limbo inside of which anything is legally possible, because for those brief moments when both doors are closed, a person in the airlock is untouchable. The most heinous of crimes could be committed in the airlock with impunity: murder, drug trafficking, cutting the tags off mattresses.

Until recently, that is. As of last week, the airlock is no longer a space between countries. It is a country. After taping my flag up on one of its walls, the airlock has become the Empire of Osutein, a sovereign territory populated and ruled with an iron fist by yours truly.

Before you protest or declare war, remember that it's only fair. After all those years of not being invited to the official nation-state imagination meetings, I decided that I'll have to do it on my own. You see—anything is possible if you just use your imagination... and guns.

Really, really big guns.

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Horrorscopes

What will the upcoming month (give or take some weeks and days) hold? Because Jack Black's Bombshell was busy taking a star-turn in various freaking awesome plays, JBB asked 1st Degree Burns to get out her amulets and peek into the future for us. Here are the horrors she saw...

Aries-
You will probably grow an extra appendage this month. Let's hope it's a retractable arm because boy, some things are just too far away to reach!

Taurus-
You will be able to fit exactly 17 marshmallows in your mouth. No more, no less. Take my word for it and do not try this at home because did I tell you they were poisonous marshmallows?

Gemini-
You're alright, actually. Hell, I'd do ya.

Cancer-
You'll have an axe to grind when suddenly you find yourself in possession of an axe. And an axe grinder.

Leo-
Your boredom will continue until you go to the Rocky mountains where you will get drunk, wear an offensive t-shirt, and risk personal injury doing something well-beyond your physical capabilites. Idiot.

Virgo-
You're going to lose your sense of humour. Oh wait, you never had one. Nevermind.

Libra-
Libra rhymes with Zebra.....Uh oh. I feel a hard rhyming session coming on... Thanks Libra!

Scorpio-
Scorpio! Scorpio! Wherefore art thou Scorpio? Scratch that- I know where you are. You're at home. Watching porn. With your mother.

Saggitarius-
The planet of Neptune feels left out because he wasn't asked to play 80's Trivia Pursuit with the other planets. So, he invents a new board game for losers with no friends. As a result, you will experience fierce cravings for peanut butter every second Wednesday in the coming weeks.

Capricorn-
I'm not sharing your horrorscope with you until you apologize. You should know what I'm talkin' bout.

Aquarius-
Stop stealing peoples' lawn furniture you assholes. And wipe those smirks off your faces. And....go Edmonton Oilers!

Pisces-
Cheer up, Pisces. Your life isn't as bad as it seems. Of course, I'm excluding those Pisceans enduring circumstances of genocide, slavery, famine, disaster, and poverty. Soooo...really this horrorscope seems only to be applicable to whining well-nourished people in living mostly in wealthy western countries.

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The Friday... Neville?

Aaron,
I'm sorry. Don't hate me. I can't be your heaven.
JB

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Preventing Winter Robot

Illustration by
Master Matt

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The Versificator

My trusty editors and I are thrilled to announce the triumphant return of Jack Black's Body's Official Versificator-In-Residence, Bernanation. You may have seen her scurrying about the corridors of JBB World HQ and heard us whispering in awe, "There goes our Laureate of Rhyme!" Now she's back, with a spate of brand-spanking-new verses that we'll be bringing to you on an entirely irregular basis. Because this Revolution's got rhymes!

Wake

O! Tell me not in mournful numbers.
Life is not your empty dream,
because we all slumber in the sleep of one great dreamer,
always on the verge of wakefulness,
ready for his wake,
face blue and cold and wet with week old tears.

In the wake of the storm I am left,
clutching the air near a phantom limb.
Hold hold hold hold, but soft...

I sat in the window and watched the night break,
and leak moon all over the sidewalk,
walk walk walk,
all I want to do,
to give the holy man five more dollars,
hoping for karma to pay me back.

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Exposé on Fake Outrage? How Dare You!

Chicago's Toe-Sock Gets the Joke
A brisk wind off the northwest shore of Lake Michigan drives sleet into the faces of thousands of fans. They shiver in various combinations of midnight blue, brown, and orange. For many hours, devoid of cover or respite, they have been waiting in the parking lots that surround Soldier Field like so many concrete ice-plains.

They huddle around smoke-pits and drink massive quantities of beer, which seems to warm them up while dilating their blood vessels and making the prospect of hypothermia that much more probable.

They are like the Mongol hordes crouched around their camp-fires, greedily devouring the spoils of recent victories and eagerly anticipating those to come. They have been waiting for several hours and will be waiting several more before they are allowed to file into the stadium to watch the event they are here for, the game they paid a ridiculous amount of money to attend, the NFC championship game between their beloved Bears and the upstart, feel-good story of the year, the New Orleans Saints.

A rare breed of fan stands out like gold dinghies in a sea of brown and blue. Those bold enough to follow their team to an opposing team's stadium. A small number of Saints fans have braved the weather and the drunken Bears fans to watch what, in all probability, could be the last game their team plays all year. They endure verbal abuse, suffer the threat of impending physical violence, and are assaulted with fan-crafted signs like:

"Bears finishing What Katrina Started."

I must say that when I saw this sign displayed prominently alongside Al Jones' recent article in the Sun Herald, I laughed.

Seriously, I'm no monster, but a joke is a joke, and in the fine tradition of South Park, The Onion, and the Colbert Report, this outrageous prophecy struck me as witty.

Did the folks who read this slogan—Bears and Saints fans alike—honestly believe that it was created out of a sincere desire for disaster? Did they read it as a command for rampaging brown bears to descend upon the recovering gulf city and finish off the victims of the greatest natural disaster in US history? Of course not.

Is the taste of the slogan questionable? Perhaps. Will it outrage those with thin skins? Absolutely.

Because if there is one thing professional sports leagues are in the business of perpetuating—other than illegal substance abuse, unplanned pregnancies, domestic violence, and inflated egos—it’s fake outrage.

Fake outrage!? How dare you!

Yes, fake outrage.

Many people, media pundits especially, fail to realize that sports exist for one reason: Entertainment. And to think that the concept of entertainment is limited to the playing field is complete folly.

Fans easily get sucked into all of the extraneous 'stuff' that goes hand-in-hand with professional sports. People revel in the drug scandals, the arrests, and the outrageous behavior of figures that have become this century's equivalent to medieval jesters. And just like jesters of old who could do what no one else in their right mind could do—insult the king, mock unassailable institutions, etc.—professional sports players appear to have cart blanche when it comes to acting like complete jackasses.

Decent, intelligent fans see through this sort of thing and laugh, shrug their shoulders, and wish most folks would ignore such behavior and let it slip quietly away. But many fans become outraged!

Sort of.

Because they aren't really outraged!

They are being entertained by sports, albeit peripherally. And to perpetuate the circle of fake outrage we need the media to deliver to the rubes what they so badly want.

Fake outrage!

As such, Jones' article in the Sun Herald is a complete joke.

So let me get this straight. Some Saints fans traveled to Chicago for the most important game in either team’s recent history and expected to be greeted as equals? Of course they were going to be heckled! Did the fact that their city was recently ravaged by a category 5 hurricane exempt them from the abuse every other team's fans would have expected in their place? Are you kidding me?

Were any visiting fans physically assualted? Jones never tells us, but my guess is no. A drunken fan can compete alongside the Terrell Owenses of the world in the Universe's Biggest Jackass competition, but it takes a special sort of sociopath to commit violence toward another human being. If physical hostility did occur, then perhaps Jones' story would have held a little water. But as it stands, his article is yet another dull contribution to the barrage of "which team's fans are the most uncouth?" stories endlessly recycled every year from here to ESPN.com to eternity.

Well, which fans are the most uncivilized? Oakland fans? Eagles fans? Browns fans? Oh, that's right—I guess we'll never know. And why is that? Because all the real fans could care less what the scurrilous sign-makers are doing.

They’re too busy watching the actual sport everyone supposedly loves so much.

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The Friday... Hutch?

Dear Hutch,
When my trusty editor Oline was but a wee minx, she wanted nothing in the world but to marry you. Then you went and accidentally offed yourself in an erotic adventure gone awry and that kind of killed the dream.

And yet... the dream could live on at JBB. Because nothing will come between me and my One True Man Love- not even death. Thus, you are still a viable contender and undoubtedly have my trusty editor Oline's vote (and Croftie's by extension- since those girls always stick together). I don't know about my hot wife though. She's not too keen on sexy ghosts.
XO!
Jables

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Review: Pan's Labyrinth

Toe-Sock In the Maze of Good & Evil

Villains are never quite as villainous as when we find them at home within the quaint confines of a fairy-tale.

In fairy-tales the moral gray tones that make up the bulk of our 'real world' ethical spectrum are boiled away and all that is left are Good and Evil in their rarified capitalized incarnations. Good becomes sparklingly noble, painfully virtuous, and more often than not, boring.

Evil, a force that is often exaggerated to begin with, gets amplified to the nth degree. The violence that fairy-tale villains employ is utterly base, excessive, over-conceived, and many times, artistically delightful. Sure their smiles may be wicked and cruel but at least they appear to be having a good time as their challengers toil away, never letting us forget how difficult it is to be truly just.

In a fairy-tale, just about everyone owes allegiance to one side or the other. But there are ways that a storyteller can muddy the waters. One way of subverting this black-and-white moral matrix is to introduce a child. Children are neither Good nor Evil. They are innocent. It's small wonder that we find so many of them leading us through enchanted woods and haunted labyrinths.

Enter Ofelia, the 12-year-old protagonist of El Labertino del Fauno (Pan's Labyrinth in America), the latest film by director Guillermo del Toro. Set in post-civil-war Spain, the film attempts to blur the boundaries between fairy-tale and reality. The story commences with the arrival of Ofelia and her very pregnant mother at their new home, an old mill in the mountains that has been fortified as a military outpost.

Ofelia's new stepfather, Capitán Vidal, distributes rations to the surrounding villages and leads his soldiers on expeditions into the woods to hunt for rebels. The Capitán is comically Evil in all the best ways. He is at turns horrifically violent, hasty, and thickheaded. He's unbelievably trusting of subordinates who hang around only to undermine his iron fisted rule for the cause of the Good. He tortures his victims and murders innocent people. All in all, not very nice.

Capitán Vidal is quickly established as Ofelia's chief antagonist. She escapes from his fascist household into the forest and is swift to find a nearby labyrinth because, um, what good is an old mill without its accompanying giant stone maze?

There, Ofelia stumbles upon an ancient prophesy and is initiated into an epic quest. To be reclaimed by her real father as the princess of the underworld, she must complete three tasks. Her forays into the labyrinth, although dangerous and terrifying, provide a welcome relief to her life at the mill where she must relentlessly evade her step-dad's fury. The film oscillates between events taking place in the 'real' world and those occurring in adjacent fantasy realms. These other realms literally exist in the margins, magically concealed behind secret doors that only Ofelia can open.

Even though the fantastic realms have been marginalized, del Toro is careful to blur the separation between the real world and the fantastic in subtle, disconcerting ways. Bullets from the rebels in the forest whiz by just as loudly as the faeries zooming around the labyrinth. The quests Ofelia must accomplish are simple and dire, mirroring the assignments that the rebels need to carry out to survive. These cinematic details, plot lines, and obstacles are designed to echo one another. They remind the viewer that, although these worlds may be separated spatially and behave by different rules, they share violence and the ever-present threat of death.

On an aesthetic level, Del Toro's creatures are wondrously imaginative and horrifying. They steal every scene. The fairies are simultaneously humanoid and deceptively bug-like. A large bloated toad turns one's stomach. The faun is a sight to behold; his character suggests incredible gentleness and compassion while betraying a potential for the most brutal of violent acts. Most horrifying, the Pale Man and his domain are the stuff of nightmares. He is a creature of the old Germanic fairy-tale tradition, the kind of corrupt monster with no redeeming qualities who feasts on infants. He may never be defeated, only eluded time and time again.

It is unfortunate that due to a marvelous trailer and previous experience with de Toro's equally stunning Devil's Backbone, I had built this film up to be some sort of life-changing event.

Pan's Labyrinth was great, but not quite the mind-boggling masterpiece I dreamed it would be. And it will no doubt be a masterpiece to many. At the very least it is a film everyone should see. See it for the faeries if nothing else.

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Meet the Manners Mistress

The Manners Mistress (watch yourself!) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something transplanted from San Antonio to Chicago. A frequent passenger on Chicago's infamous #66 bus, Manners Mistress is JBB's resident expert on politesse. She likes celebrity gossip, skim cappucinos, and browsing in Anthropologie.

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The Manners Mistress

Every week, JBB’s very own Miss Manners will advise us on the etiquette that we post-collegiate, pre-professional, twenty-something sillyheads should already know but often forget. She’ll help us untangle the webs we weave, bandage the scrapes we get into, and shave the hairy situations we’d all like to ignore. With no further ado, here’s Miss Manners’ expert advice for the dining elite.

CHECKS & BALANCESBy The Manners Mistress

A friend came to me this morning with a story I’ve heard too many times. A big group goes out to dinner, people order food and drinks and have a great time until... the bill arrives. Everyone looks at it with pursed lips and an expression that says “I’m trying to add odd numbers.” Money is thrown on the table and some unfortunate soul counts the bills and announces that the pot is too small. What to do?

Probably, the more generous souls add more money until the bill is satisfied.

This system leaves much to be desired. Some people end up paying entirely too much. Those who don’t drink end up subsidizing their friends’ martinis and those with small appetites are forced to contribute to others’ three-course feasts. How can this problem be eradicated?

One solution to this dinner conundrum is to police the table and appoint someone the bill czar—“Was that one drink or two, Dave?” “Did you add chicken to the caesar, Marie?” But that approach will ensure that no one leaves happy. Separate checks drive servers crazy and with good reason—they have other tables to deal with.

How, then, can we solve the problem of dividing the bill? This may seem a bit elementary, but I need to make an important point here: If you’re having dinner with someone, you are probably her (or his) friend, i.e. “a person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.” Please heed the following lessons so that your friends can trust you to pay your portion of the bill.

Food & Drink, Tax & Tip

1) Your food and drink: If you ate it and drank it, you must pay for it. Round up to the nearest dollar and add a few more.

2) Tax: In major cities, we are forced to pay an almost 10% tax on everything we buy. If you’re reading this, I know you can figure out how to calculate 10%. Simply add that amount to the money you’re putting down for food and drink.

3) Tip: Unless the person who brought you food and drink drooled into it, you need to leave 20%. Twenty percent, people! If you can’t calculate that sum, then go back to step two and multiple the tax by 2.

And there you go—three simple steps towards becoming a better dining companion.
If everyone followed these rules, we would live in a world where friends don’t fall out from the stress of dividing the bill and servers don’t fantasize about spitting into the soup.

We may be pre-professional, but dammit, we’re not infantile.

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The Friday... Winwood?

Winnie,
I never before noticed how like a delicate Conan O'Brien you look. And I'm strangely attracted.
XOxooxOxoxoxXOXOXOXXOXoxXOXXOXOxoXXOXOxoxXXXXXXX,
Jables

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A JBB To Do

Featuring Jack Black's Bombshell!

Gorilla Tango Theatre
(773)598.4549
1919 N. Milwaukee Ave.
Chicago, IL 60647

Fridays & Saturdays, 19 Jan.-10 Feb. @ 8 pm
$12

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The Friday... Tesh?

Teshman,
Like most Americans, I know not what to make of you. In some ways you seem the encapsulation of the American dream. But then you strayed. You set out to become the New Yanni. But unlimited access to random foreign locales, bad hair, and a piano do not a Yanni make.
Jables

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Film Noir

Photographs By Miss Fitz

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Fashion Forward

Tips From The Fashionista
Commandment #3:
Matchy-Matchy, Theme Outfits,
& Other Aberrant Things One Should Avoid


My favorite Italian word is sprezzatura. You may have guessed it would be bella, and that’s a close second, but sprezzatura is a perfectly untranslatable word for the condition of looking like you’re not trying.

Anyone cool knows that the epitome of uncool is trying too hard. Sprezzatura implies that to look like you’re not trying involves a certain amount of effort—otherwise you just look like a slob. That artifice is part of sprezzatura’s beauty.

1. Matchy-Matchy.
This is a term we in the fashion world use with absolute derision. “Hmph! She’d be a cute girl if her clothes weren’t always so matchy-matchy.” “Look at his shirt! It’s the same color as the argyle in his sweater…that’s way too matchy-matchy.” Matchy-matchy connotes a certain pedestrian or bourgeois tendency, something associated with the suburban and the concept of trying too hard. Nothing identifies a tourist in New York City quite as easily as matching hat/gloves/scarf/bag/sneakers/umbrella/turtleneck. You see what I mean.

Now, there are some fashion pieces for which matching is necessary: suits, for example, are generally two items (a jacket and a skirt/trouser) made of the same fabric. Although you can wear your suit pieces as separates, they are the main exception to the moratorium on matchy-matchy. The best example of someone who successfully avoids dressing matchy-matchy is Sienna Miller; Kathie Lee Gifford would be the poster girl.

2. Theme Outfits
I must admit, theme outfits are possibly my greatest weakness, and consequently must be addressed publicly. October 31st is an entirely unimportant day to theme-outfit offenders—you know who you are—because you dress in costume EVERY DAY. Now, I’ve been known to have a “Bianca Jagger circa 1970 in Ibiza” outfit, or a “Grace Kelly in the Corniche d’Or scene of To Catch a Thief” outfit, and I realize that these things are wrong.

The most important thing about creating your own personalized style is to be able to glean the best elements of these iconic fashion moments, like Grace Kelly’s scarf or Bianca Jagger’s hat, and incorporate them in your own way. Mimicry ends up looking ridiculous, and heaven knows you could be headed towards the eventuality of waking up in the morning and dressing yourself like Shirley Temple in the film version of The Good Ship Lollipop. If you like to dress in costume, join the circus or throw a party.

3. The Canadian* Tuxedo
Like matchy-matchy, the term Canadian tuxedo is also used derisively to describe a specific outfit consisting of jeans and a denim jacket. The proliferation of denim in all forms and styles has created many more options for jeans and jackets than the standard-issue Levi’s, but variety of style does not compensate for homogeneity of denim.

I can already hear the chorus of “But my jeans are black and my jacket is blue—” But I don’t care. Wool blazers are so chic this season. Wear one with your jeans (bonus points for suede or corduroy elbow patches). Want to wear a denim jacket? Do it over a long sweater and leggings.

Style is and should always be a reflection of your personality, and who am I to judge if your personality dictates that your earmuffs should match your socks? I’ll tell you: it’s a cruel world out there, and you don’t want to be known as the purple earmuff girl when what you should really be known as is the brilliant post-modern one-act dramatist, or the fantastic flaky pastry chef.

There are enough colors, textiles, and designs out there for everyone, and they needn’t all be worn at once.

*Obviously, I cannot take credit for coining this term, as I harbor no disrespect for the fashion sense of our neighbors to the north. In fact, several of them have forgotten more about style than I’ll ever know. And just like us, some of them have simply forgotten about style.

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The Friday...G?

Dude.
This almost makes me want you. Almost. But not quite.
XOxOOXXOxoxoxoxXOXOXOXOXOXOXxoxXOxOXOOXOOxxXXX,
Jables

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Suspiciendo, Despicio: As above, so below

JBB's Bombshell On What the New Year Will Bring


Your Bombshell has gathered the research and consulted the charts, and the verdict is in: the word for 2007? Auspicious. 2008: fruition. 2006: big happenings. All right, that’s two words. But it’s hard to express an entire year in one word.

In the Western tradition, a horoscope is cast by charting the positions of celestial bodies from the astrologer’s physical perspective during a specific moment in time. Traditional thought has held that the planets and their positions relative to the constellations of the horoscope strongly correlate to human affairs on a global and individual level. The scientific community rejects this theory as a whole but allows for a few possibilities.

Isaac Newton’s theory of universal gravitation posited that the gravitational effects of the planets within our solar system are of sufficient strength to effect human behavior. Modern scientific thought holds that the universe acts as a single unit and any happening within it will inevitably be felt throughout its entirety; ie. the ripple effect, or chaos theory.

Your sign is indicative of the sun’s position at the time of your birth. Jyotish astrology, a Hindu tradition and the most ancient form of astrology, casts an individual’s horoscope based on the position of the moon, arguing that the moon is a closer and more sympathetic body.

Western astrology uses the position of the moon too; in the West, it is called your “rising sign.” Your rising sign is different than your Zodiac sign. For example, I’m a Capricorn, but my rising sign is Scorpio. Capricorns are supposed to be serious, sober, and frugal people; Scorpios fiery, flaky, and hedonistic. I’m writing an article on astrology while eating chocolate. Some of that chocolate is in my hair. I tend to pay more attention to the Scorpio horoscope.

Many people, especially women, find that they identify more with their rising sign. You can find your rising sign in any simple astrology book. If you really are a helpless little thing, drop me a line and I’ll find yours for you. I will of course need your date and time of birth and don’t forget the magic word, “leopard print.” All right, that’s two words. But it’s hard to appease the bombshell with just one.

This new year is a very good year for the winter signs: Sagittarius, Capricorn, and Aquarius. Last year, you summer people- Cancer, Leo, and Virgo- had a go as activity in the Cancer constellation was high. But we winter babies will benefit from proximity to Sagittarius, the constellation that will see the most activity this year.

The ruling planet in 2007 will be Jupiter, which is traditionally associated with hard work and good luck. Jupiter is also associated with publishing, financial gain, and commitment. So commit to getting that book published this year and you’ll make a bundle. Or find yourself a rich publisher and commit to him.

Jupiter is the “winner” planet, something we will all benefit from in the coming year. In addition to this good luck, we have very few retrogrades to wrench the gears. Last year saw dozens of retrogrades, periods in which a planet appears to be moving backwards due to the Earth’s passing on its orbit. Retrogrades are believed to bring bad luck, complication, and miscommunication. In 2006, Venus was in retrograde twice. This means a lot of couples fell in and out of love and probably back in love again.

Mercury was in retrograde four times. When Mercury is in retrograde, areas of finance, friendship, and future planning are compromised. Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Pluto, and Neptune all had periods of retrograde in 2006, culminating in the early fall until mid-November, when all five were retrograde at the same time. This was a highly unusual state of affairs. At least the first three quarters of last year were sloppy. Many plans went awry and many projects fell by the wayside.

We have very few retrogrades ahead in 2007. Mercury will retrograde in March, late June through early July, and October, so keep your head down during those times. Pluto will be in retrograde until September. Pluto is the planet of decision and duty, so you might find that you have a difficult time being tied down until then. But when Pluto goes direct again, it will travel through Capricorn, the sign of dedication, steadfastness, and tradition for nineteen full years.

Many astrologers predict a massive change in the world’s political stage during Pluto’s trip through Capricorn. The last time Pluto was in Capricorn, both the French and American revolutions occurred. The period between 2009 and 2011 seem to hold the most potential for such an upheaval. But before you get your combat boots on, remember that 2008 is anticipated to be the happiest year in decades. All signs point to the realization of many a dream then.

Last year was a character-building year in which ideas were challenged and the going was slow. The planets were against us. But take heart—whatever your endeavor may be, 2007 promises to generously reward those who keep their eyes on the prize. Love, your career, that burlesque class— anything you turn your attention towards in the coming year will benefit from your efforts. Ben Franklin once said, “Work hard, get lucky,” and that seems to be the motto of 2007.

Happy travels, babies. The planets will be with us!

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The Friday... A-HA!

Dear readers and fans and loyal people everywhere who love me,

We at JBB World HQ are going to take a quick break for the holidaze, but we wanted to leave you with a special, appropriately glorious treat.

My trusty editors fought fiercely against this week's selection. They said, But Jacky Boss, you can't lust after an entire group as your One True Man Love. We let you get away with Wham because we knew your affections focused on George Michael alone. But enough is enough! We're tired of this. Just find a One True Man Love so we can get on with our lives!

Oline arched her witchy brows in scorn while Croftie did major lips of disapproval.

And I looked at them with my fatherly gaze and said in my gentlest Jacky Boss tones: Silly girls, you've been in the ivory tower too long. You don't remember. You don't remember that you wanted to live in this video. You made all your Barbies re-enact this video. And you were not alone. Everyone you knew wanted to be that Debbie... ahem... Deborah Gibson clone in that diner. So, silly girls, while I may not have found my One True Man Love this week, I have found something better. For this is the video of the post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something experience. A-ha

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For the Love of Sport

Some time ago, my Bombshell came into JBB World HQ lamenting her lack of sportsy knowledge. As she perched on Trusty Editor Oline’s desk reapplying her red lipstick and fluffing her leopard-print skirt, my Bombshell asked in exasperation: “Who the hell can teach me about this sports stuff?” Trusty Editor Croftie leaned over and whispered to Trusty Editor Oline: “Le Jock!”

Thus, for one night and one night only, Jack Black’s Body brought together Jack Black’s Bombshell and Jack Black’s Jock for an epic meeting at a quaint French restaurant, where the pair talked bats and balls until the wee hours of the morning, as my Trusty Editors hid in the corner scribbling as fast as they could.

[Curtain up.]

Bombshell: So, dear Jock.

Jack's Jock: Yes, lovely Bombshell?

Bombshell: (leaning in over her crêpe, her baby blue eyes opened wide) I’ve decided that I need to understand a bit more about sports. Because… well, my boy tells me that he thinks the life of a bombshell is kind of pricey. What with my bombtastic clothes and such. But he’s so into sports, and I just read in the paper some baseball team just spent more than $100 million on a pitcher named Dicey J, or something like that. So, just what is it with the wide world of sports? How can one guy be worth so much money?

Jack's Jock: (cracking his knuckles in excitement) Well, my dear… let us start with this “Dicey J.” Or rather Daisuke Matsuzaka (Dice-uh-kay Mat-soo-Zah-kah). People in Boston, where the Red Sox just picked him up, are buying tee shirts with a pair of dice and the letter K on them for simplicity’s sake. But in one of the more difficult contract negotiations in the world of sports, Daisuke was bought out of his contract from a Japanese baseball team, the Seibu Lions. Fifty-one million dollars of that went to pay the team for releasing him. Daisuke will get the remainder over the next six years. Which is a lot… but is certainly not the most expensive contract in baseball.

Bombshell: But why choose this guy from Japan?

Jack's Jock: He’s a legend there. His win/lose record is extremely impressive. He’s got at least four different pitches to trip up batters. It’s a gamble, but Seattle did the same thing years ago when they picked up Ichiro Suzuki from a Japanese team, and he’s been their star player ever since.

Bombshell: OK, Jock. I think I see what you mean about Dice-K. But I’m still not sure I understand what the big deal is about this baseball thing. What about those “Play-Offs” that had me in a tizzy? Men all over this city were strangely emotional. The Bombshell does not enjoy being ignorant of what’s happening in the sphere of men. What’s worse, I felt completely unequipped to deal with this, because—well, Jock—I don’t know anything about “sports.”

Jack's Jock: Those play-offs had me in whatever the burly, manly version of a tizzy is, too. A man-tizzy? A manizzy? Yes... a manizzy. Not out of confusion, but because it was the World Series, baby! A series so big it only happens every October! Which I know sounds often, since it’s annual—but just come along with me on that one. So yeah... emotions were running high.

Bombshell: (blinks eagerly and bounces in her seat with anticipation) But I still have questions, Jock, a lot of them. That whole week, my boyfriend wouldn’t let me wear red. Why was that, Jock?

Jock: Your beau was likely having you swear off red because he's a Tigers boy... and his team was playing the Cardinals of St. Louis—who are always draped in red—for THE ring. The World Series ring.

Bombshell: And why ever is it called the World Series? It’s really just the American Series, right? Or will the winner go on to play the Tokyo Blowfish or the Vienna Spatzels?

Jock: Well, this World Series doesn’t actually involve the entire world. But there is a real World Series: the World Baseball Classic. Players from all over the world participate, so that one’s a real contest from teams all over the globe. However, Major League American baseball has become very much an international affair. You can start by going back to our good and expensive friend Daisuke. And from there, just look at the rosters of all the MLB teams: Ichiro Suzuki, David "Big Papi" Ortiz, Edgar Renteria, Bobby Abreu, Chien-Ming Wang, Adam Loewen—he's Canadian, but it counts, Carlos Guillen... You get where I'm going. America invented baseball and athletes come from all over the world to play on our turf. And when we have our World Series, the world watches, Bombsy!

Bombshell: Here's another question for you, Jock: If a team is good, why all this shuffling around and trading of players? I mean, if you've got a full house, why give away your best cards?

Jock: (put his fingers to his temples and squints across the table) It’s all a matter of contracts and trades and prospects and such. Players sign different agreements for different amounts of money for different lengths of times. Their contracts can be sold to other teams for “young guns” in the bullpen, or fresh blood in the infield. Only a perfect team with perfect chemistry can carry you all the way to the World Series.

Bombshell: Do managers and coaches change every year, too? Where’s the continuity?

Jock: Contracts for managers and coaches are deliberated in much the same way. It’s all about contracts, contracts, contracts. So much of sports is about the team’s President & CEO, not the team’s coach. Your Epsteins & Steinbrenners. The corporation or private businessman footing the bill.

Bombshell: It's all a little promiscuous if you ask me...

Jock: It’s a dirty business of Benjamins to back the big buck bonds each body in every band of ball players bears.

Bombshell: Dirty, indeed.

Jock: But sometimes buying talent isn’t all there is to it. Look at the Yankees. They have some of the best talent in baseball and bought the incredible Bobby Abreu this season to bolster their post-season chances. But it still wasn’t enough. So much of managing a team and putting the right players together is a gamble.

Bombshell: (pauses in thought) I suppose I can understand the draw of baseball, even from afar... The lazy summer afternoons and sunflower seeds. It’s all rather romantic. But what about this football business, Mr. Jock? What is so interesting about a bunch of enormous men running up and down a field for hours on end? What are they doing out there?

Jock: My Bombshell, students of war can answer this one. But since we don’t have any of those around at the moment, I’ll do my best. Football is essentially a war on a battlefield. But rather than acquiring land and conquering the enemy’s army, you’re moving a ball downfield.

Bombshell: Ok, I can give you the war analogy. But I hear that football’s a "complicated and intricate" game, and I just don’t get it. What’s so complicated about moving a ball down a field? What’s so intricate about men running into each other?

Jock: Yes, the offensive and defensive lines do seem to just run into each other. But there really is so much intricacy to what you see in a football game. It’s a test of strength and skill. Can you protect your quarterback? Can you work the ball through the line or pass it successfully downfield? As the defense, can you force a loss of yards? Can you get the sack? The fumble? Getting the ball downfield isn’t just scoring. They do look to be just running back and forth. But what’s really happening here is a clash of brains and brawn.

Bombshell: But what’s the intrigue of football? Is it the cheerleaders? Take a moment and extol the fabulousness of football for the Bombshell, if you will. Tell me what all the fuss is about. I just don’t get it, Jock!

Jock: It’s totally the cheerleaders. No, actually, it’s the players, not the ladies, who create the intrigue. Every man will tell you that when we were boys, football players seemed almost like superheroes. Because they’re covered in shoulder pads and helmets, they can take massive hits and often get up unhurt and keep playing. And this way, we don’t feel bad when a game’s over because no one’s actually killing anyone. What you’re seeing on the football field each week is men reliving the Romanesque clash of warriors.

Bombshell: But I know plenty of ladies who watch football. What’s in it for them?

Jock: Maybe they just like all the muscles and tight pants.

Bombshell: I know I do! But not even those muscles and delightfully tight pants can keep me interested for an entire game. If I’m going to date a sports fan, I want to appreciate more than just the players’ physiques. I want to know what’s going on. My fella tells me this season isn't over until APRIL! Basketball and hockey are going now, too, and I’ve got so much to learn! Just in case I get stuck down at Seamus McDunlay's Pub watching the football, give me a crash course of useful terminology, would ya? And throw in some wickedly expert terms too. So far all I have is "Run the Buttonhook!" "Pound the Ball!" and "Sack!" That last one's my favorite. How often does a girl get to yell "sack" in public?

Jock: Well first and foremost, let me say I don't think any man can actually resist a woman screaming, "Pound the ball!" Yowzah! But if you want a bit more, be willing to discuss the benefit of a two-point conversion—this is when the team runs the ball back into the end zone instead of kicking the extra point after a touchdown. Go to the website of your boy’s team, and read a little bit about the quarterback. Check his regular season win/lose record.

Bombshell: That sounds like a good idea. I do want to be, you know, like..."supportive" of his love of the game, so I’ll learn all I can. But I don’t actually want to have to give up my life to sports… Jock, how to I wrangle my tiger away from the television without creating resentment?

Jock: Bombsy, my girl... it's really all about balance. If one of the biggest games of the seasons is on, realize the boy will be much happier the next time he sees you if he got to watch his game, whether his team won or lost. But if there's something major going down, like your sister's wedding or your grandmother made a home-cooked meal just for him, and he just keeps saying, "Baby, the game is on!" Well, then just inform him that tonight he can go to bed, not with you, but with Neil Everett and Scott Van Pelt—the boys from ESPN's SportsCenter.

Bombshell: It's funny you should say that, because Scott Van Pelt IS my boyfriend. Small world.

Jock: Oh my God! Can I meet him?

[Curtain down.]

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Meet Miss Fitz

Miss Fitz ('Mis Ph!-'fitts) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something freelance photographer living and working in Calgary, Canada. She enjoys dancing, drawing, bombshellism and shenanigans. She will shoot you.

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The Doll's House

Photographs By Miss Fitz

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The Friday... Swayze?

Maybe yes, but most likely um.... no.

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A Brosef At War

By The Germanatrix


My brother is coming home from Iraq in less than a month. He, and everyone around him, cannot quite believe it, and just writing the words “my brother is coming home” feels like I’m jinxing the whole thing. In case you were wondering what it’s like to have a close family member involved in this bullshit war, it feels like your heart took human form and decided the first thing it would do is play chicken. On a NASCAR racetrack. During a race. Without a car.

It sucks.

I won’t even try to convey what my brother has been through, because I can’t even begin to imagine it. You can watch movies and read books, but how can you possibly understand what it’s like to fear for your life 24/7? What it’s like to see people die right in front of you, ripped from an existence that by all rights they were supposed to enjoy for a very long time.

My brother had to collect and identify the body parts of his friend. He doesn’t want his family to ever go through something like that. For good reason – it’s a completely fucked up thing to have to live through. And yet, how many families, how many friends have had to claim the bodies of their dead? How many soldiers do we have over there? 100,000 and counting? So many of these brave soldiers are killed or live through their friends and comrades being killed, only to return to a society that didn’t want them there in the first place, and has no real concept of the hell they’ve been through.

In many ways, this war is a private one – the only people who really feel the effects of it (in this country, anyway) are those who have someone over there. If you’re lucky enough not to know anyone in the military, this war is about as relevant to you as an episode of Lost. A bit depressing at times, compelling, infuriatingly stupid, perhaps, but you can get on with your life without really thinking about it until it pops up again on TV or in the newspaper.

Even for me, my brother’s ordeal was on the periphery of my life. During most of the year that my brother’s been at war, I was in Germany. Everything was sparkly and new and difficult, and it’s easier to ignore your worries when Prague is only 30 euros away.

That is, until you get emails like this:

4/18/06

I don't know what to say, this has been one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. That day the captain and I attended a local town council meeting. After that meeting we joked around outside for a couple minutes before he left with one of our sections and I left with the civil affairs guys. I arrived back at Taji to see our commo guy running around the squadron TOC area. Barely pausing he yelled to me, "Ghost 6 is hit."

No way, not him, I just saw him... it must have been another vehicle in the section... I'm sure it was like all the other IEDs that have blown on us, some paint chips, cracked glass, flat tires, some bullshit... well, if it was his vehicle, I'm sure he's fine, I mean it's Ghost 6, they can't hurt him, nothing can stop him... what came out was, "What?" He paused just long enough to say, "Ghost 6 is hit, he's unconscious." I don't know if he went into the building we were by or if he stood there or if a spaceship came down and snatched him up, I was running for the TOC before he finished the last word.

I was greeted with worried faces and fear. Before I knew it, I had dragged one of the TOC guys out of the chair by the radio and was sitting in it, holding the hand mic, listening to the guys on the scene react. I've never heard pure anger and rage and hate before, but it sounds like gunshots, diesel engines, and yelling. The captain’s gunner had taken some cuts to the face and a piece of shrapnel the size of your thumb had hit his throat protector, without that piece of kevlar his throat would have been ripped out.

He and the captain's driver had been dazed by the blast, but they came out of it to the sight of the captain slumped over, unconscious, bleeding out of his mouth and nose. In seconds they had gotten his 230 lb frame with 70 lbs of gear out of the vehicle. The medic arrived and provided first aid while the gunner and driver joined the rest of the section in returning fire to some guys in a nearby trash dump that shot at them after the blast. The medevac bird arrived pretty quickly, and they drove the captain to the LZ on a litter on the hood of a humvee.

He was off to the Combat Surgical Hospital with the squadron commander quicker than we had ever practiced. Talking to the medics, it seemed like the captain would be okay. He would be back, or at least be there when we got home. The section arrived back on Taji with his gunner, driver, and vehicle within two hours of the IED strike, they brought all his gear in the TOC while the gunner and driver were treated for their injuries. I spent the next three hours cleaning the blood off of his leader's book, a big binder full of important papers in document protectors, and the two pictures he carried of his 6-month old son in a zip-loc bag.

After that I went to the gym, worked out, and beat the shit out of the punching bag. Right before I was done I got a call saying there was a meeting of all COs in the SCO's office. It was then that he told us the captain had passed away. The impact of whatever had come through the Humvee and hit his kevlar had caused too much damage, even though it didn't penetrate.

I can't put into words what came next. He was my best friend here on Taji. He has a son that he really only got a month with, if that. He's got a young wife back home. He was getting out so that he could be with his son as he grew up. He had just finished a CD for his wife's birthday. He was just joking with me this morning. No way, not him.

I was CO for a couple hours. Long enough to gather all the soldiers in the troop and tell them, platoon by platoon, that their commander was dead. I've never seen men so tough cry so hard. Every heart in the troop broke that night.

We all admired him, loved him, would have done anything for him. He was all you could ever ask for and so much more. They brought in another captain from within the squadron, a good guy for sure.

The troop is pretty messed up. They're angry, sad, pissed, torn up inside, and full of rage. We all carry the cards that the captain’s wife gave us when we deployed. They have a picture of the captain holding his son and it says "something worth fighting for." Well, we're going to fight. Jonathan will never meet his father, will never know what a great person he was, all because we can't fight this war the way we need to. No more.

In the meantime, we will always carry this with us. We will randomly think we see the captain for the rest of our lives. We will suddenly become silent while others laugh and joke because something reminded us of him. We'll never be the same because we lost our friend.

How do you respond to this? I didn’t even know my brother could write this way. I’m not only mourning this man I’ve never met, but the effect his death had on so many people—some of them now dead too. How does that quote go? “The opposite of war isn’t peace, it’s creation?” It sounds good, but war is so varied in its influences and effects that its opposite can best be summarized as life. War is so unnatural and grotesque, so anathema to human existence, that I don’t understand how it could so often be considered the only possible solution to our problems

When it comes down to it, I don’t even care about the political ramifications of this war. I don’t care how our conduct in Iraq and on the world stage in terms of foreign policy will affect our country’s future. I just want my brother back. I want him to come home without these kinds of experiences and the trauma they have permanently inflicted in his life. He says that he doesn’t think he’s changed much, but it simply isn’t possible for him to stay the same. Even if he hadn’t been in the army, my brother would have signed up and gone to Iraq because it would have been the right thing to do. That’s just the kind of guy he is.

I could mention how fucked up it is for Bush and his passel of assholes to manipulate the post-9/11 public sentiment to wage this pointless war, but I’m trying to keep politics out of it.

The reality of the situation is this: We’ve got a whole new generation of men and women out there with a shared trauma that sooner or later is going to be dismissed just like the suffering endured by the Vietnam vets. They will most likely be told to get over it, and themselves, and to move on. Maybe some of them will.

But to this day, a lot of Vietnam veterans can’t hear fireworks without flinching because it sounds too much like gunfire. This is what life is like for a whole new group of veterans now. And it’s sad that no one will know or care but those who suffered with them.

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Meet 1st Degree Birns

Birns ('B&rnz) is a post-post-collegiate, premi-professional post-twenty-something governmental fancy pants living and working in The Vag. She is the lead singer, manager, roadie, and publicist for a minimum of twelve fake bands. Birns is a very busy and important person. Her emails kick ass.

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