The Friday Hoff

There are some obvious downsides to this video. The crap sound and crackly video quality first and foremost. But it does prove that you don't always have to be able to see The Hoff or hear The Hoff to sense the magic of The Hoff.

We believe* this is historic archival footage of The Hoff single-handedly bringing down the Berlin wall with the power of sound. And it conveniently captures in just over 4 minutes the most extraordinary of the many extraordinary reasons why we love The Hoff.

The Hoff gave a historic performance of His classic "Looking for Freedom." He knew this was history. An astonishing collision of both world history and Hoff history. And for the love of softly sung Rock, what did He wear?

Leather? Check.

Khakis? Check.

Piano key scarf? Check.

Christmas lights? Check.



* And the exclamations of "Happy New Year!" lead us to admit it very well might not be, but it's more rocking to think so, don't you agree?

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The Rocking Consumer Report

Every so often, my trusty editors like to dip into the world of merchandising and show you what’s out there for post-collegiate, pre-professional, twenty-something shoppers in the 21st century. We don’t make any money by introducing these wares; nor, unfortunately, do we get free samples for writing about them. We simply feel obliged to share certain new rock-ass products with our readership.



Name: “Alive” Chimpanzee
Price: $149.95
Materials: fur, glue, rubber, paint
Home: The Sharper Image





Observe the robotic chimpanzee. This life-sized, fully animated, infrared, stereoscopic robotic bust is lovingly crafted to look exactly like a real chimp. His eyes follow your every movement. His mouth opens and closes in expressions of glee. He is a pet, a friend, and a fabulous centerpiece.

Your “Alive” Chimpanzee is programmed with four whole emotions, listed by the sales department as “Curious,” “Happy,” “Fearful,” and—best of all— “Feisty.” Designed to react “naturally” to his surroundings, your chimp will follow your every movement with his expressive, tender gaze. He will giggle when you tickle him under the chin, and nod his head while you talk. You may also deactivate his “natural” reactions, and manipulate his every response using a handy wireless controller.

His uses include: providing companionship to the elderly, dispelling awkward moments, and educating infants about mammals. He is a comforting presence in the nighttime. He is a friendly face on a dreary company outing. Perch him in the front window to scare away potential intruders, seat him beside you on the bus so you don’t get stuck next to a stranger, or take him for a walk to meet other chimp-lovers. He is also a great centerpiece for any dinner party or cocktail gathering. Guests will be awed by his lifelike appearance and his realistic jungle noises. Just think of the conversations that will ensue!

The “Alive” Chimpanzee can be yours for just $149.95. That’s a small price to pay for a lifetime of love.

Get yours today!

For more information and a must-see educational video, go HERE.

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Taking a Mick

JBB would like to wish an enthusiastic, mulletted, thick-lipped, silk-shirted, pleated pants, fancy claps, jazz hands, leg kicks, ass shakes, dancing in the streets happy birthday to that most timeless of sixty-somethings, Sir Mr. Mick Jagger.

If the Rock Revolution were to have a video, this would be it.

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Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s burning question. And boy, is it burning. Have questions you’re just itching to ask? Send your queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!



Hello Mr Black.

My situation. I am an attractive young person with loads of cool friends, a nice job full of co-workers who like me and respect what I do. I am clean but not compulsively so. I have a good opinion of myself, am generally happy with my life, and am satisfied with my body except in one regard. Once and a while when I am in the presence of workplace superiors it would serve me well to impress, that special someone whom I just met but I think really likes me, a gaggle of my friends at a fairly swanky dinner party, the pizza delivery guy, etc., I get an incredibly intense itch in a very unmentionable area. There is no opportunity for me to excuse myself to the lavatory or turn away from those addressing me. I know the conversation I am having will last an undetermined length of time, possibly for quite a while. My question is this. Do I scratch or no?

Thanks for hearing me out, you rock!
Yours truly,
Anonymous Jones
Veaux de Vicomte, Ohio


Anony J Dude!

Ah, to scratch, or not to scratch, that is a man’s most baffling question.

First of all, I don’t know if it’s entirely normal to get “incredibly intense itches” in the nether regions. You might want to get yourself checked out. However! Maybe it’s just some sort of psycho-sematic symptom of your inability to interact confidently with members of the opposite sex, or the same sex, for that matter. (That’s right, Jables has been reading up on the Freud!)

But you didn’t actually ask me to analyze your itch. You just asked if you should scratch it. Well, I say it depends on the situation—so let’s break it down and consider each itch independently of its brethren:

A. Workplace superiors. Hmm. Something tells me that, if faced with itchiness in the workplace, you should restrain yourself. I’ve never had workplace superiors, but I have played common workers on film. Most of my characters were the type of workers who would scratch, which is why I am suggesting that you do not. I’m assuming it’s unprofessional.

B. Special someone you just met. Depends on what sort of lady you’re looking for. If you’re courting classy dames who wear Prada and carry teacup pups in their purses, I advise against the scratch. If you’re looking for a woman who’ll eat greasy pizza while watching the game and burp louder than you do, I’d say it doesn’t really matter if you scratch or not.

C. Gaggle of friends at a swanky place. No. Definitely not. Believe me, because I’ve done it. And it got me some really strange looks on the red carpet. On the other hand, I’m a funny guy. Most of the people who saw me sneak a scratch just thought it was my ape impression and chalked it up to my grubby charm. But it’s not always good to be mistaken for an ape, and there are times when one doesn’t want to seem grubby. Like on the red carpet. Or whatever sort of “swanky place” people visit in Veaux de Vicomte, Ohio.

D. Pizza delivery guy. Whatever, Dude.

Etc. I’m assuming that “etc.” covers a lot of itchy possibilities. Since I can’t possibly address every scratch-worthy situation in this humble reply (that would be one hefty answer, and I’m not sure you’re worthy of that much of my time), I’ll give you a very basic rule to take away with you: When in doubt, wait it out.

That should cover everything. Good luck, Dude.
Little kiss, big hug,
Jables

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JBB and I are thrilled to announce the commencement of my Body's very first original cartoon. Stay tuned to this delightful strip, crafted by Croftie- one of my trusty editors- and see my thrilling adventures as they unfold. It's reality illustration at it's very best!

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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The Friday Hoff

Folks, it doesn't get any better than this, trusty editor Oline's favorite Hoffian work. But it's a toughie. So, lest you have any difficulty comprehending the magnificence of such a dense piece, we're offering this one with a handy dandy viewing guide. To help you better enjoy your Friday Hoff.

The Friday Hoff Handy Dandy Viewing Guide:
1) Listen to the lyrics closely. What exactly is this song about?

2) Watch the orchestra. What drugs are they on?

3) Observe the set. What is the symbolic purpose of the boot?

4) Look at The Hoff. How many leather products is he wearing?

5) Keep looking at The Hoff. What was the load of compromising on the road to his horizon?

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Nuptials (GW!)

An Essay In Which Oline,
A Member of the Bridal Party,
Walks the Fine Line of Being Witty
and Alienating All Her Recently Wed Friends

It is a truth universally acknowledged that it’s hard to be in the wedding party. But it’s surprisingly easy to complain about it. This is a time-honored tradition, particularly among impoverished but rocking post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-somethings. There’s bitching about the cost of bridesmaids dresses, laments about having to purchase overpriced, giftwrapped flatware, musings of Are we really such good friends?, and, of course, recollections of wedding parties past.

There are certain givens that we must establish. You love the friends who are getting married. You love that they are in love and that they are formalizing that love and you love that they love you so much that they want to include you in that love. You also love celebrating their love by loving them enough to stand beside them as they profess that love to a room full of other people who similarly love that they are in love.

That said, you, Mr./Miss./Mrs. Post-Collegiate, Pre-Professional Twenty-Something, have probably participated in a wedding in some way. Maybe you were the bride, a bridesmaid, a groomsman, or that lucky lesser-tier friend who guarded the guest book. Maybe you just put the presents in the car or caught the bouquet, but you got a sense of the madness. You rehearsed and you ate the cake.

Being in a wedding is 97.2% love, which is a very beautiful thing. But that remaining 2.8% is what I can only describe as “Eh.” That nonplussed sound made with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders and a quick tilt of the head. This Eh Factor has nothing to do with the profuse love that you feel for the loving couple. It is simply an inherent aspect of the wedding party condition.

Over the past fifteen years, I’ve been a flower girl, a junior bridesmaid, a bridesmaid, and a maid of honor. I’ve been in five weddings and attended twelve more. I’ve worn tulle, velvet, satin, and polyester. Carried roses, carnations, and cinnamon sticks. My hair has been cornrowed, curled, and braided (so tightly my eyebrows hurt for days). I’ve held the petticoats of peeing brides and worn bras and shoes that would have made Stalin shudder in fear. Considering all of this, I’m only moderately bitter.

It’s hard not to have mixed feelings. On the one hand, you’re thrilled to be there, to support a beloved friend by standing beside him or her as he or she makes this bold public commitment to his or her eternal love. You wouldn’t want to not be there. But in many ways, being there kind of sucks (And in writing that, I’m feeling very like Truman Capote as he scribbled away on Answered Prayers). It sucks for a variety of reasons that have absolutely nothing to with the friends involved.

I attribute this suckiness, in part, to media portrayals of weddings (having no experience as a groomsman or a bride or groom, I must couch this exclusively in the maiden experience). They are unfailingly horrid. The dresses are appalling, the hair gruesome, the wedding drama scary. Someone always makes A Scene (Sixteen Candles). There’s always some disaster (Father of the Bride). If you’re a singleton, there’s a weird pressure to find your soulmate among the guests, or at the very least, someone to take home for meaningless sex (Wedding Crashers). Even at the most beautiful weddings, horrifying things inevitably happen (Charlotte’s gorgeous weddings on Sex & the City weren’t exactly a fun time for anyone involved).

Depending on your viewpoint, the media have either lowered our nuptial expectations by making weddings little more than run-of-the-mill slapstick comedies or heightened them by grossly exaggerating the juxtaposition between fairy tale glamour and human falibility.

From either standpoint, any wedding can be torture. The bridesmaid’s dress may not be that bad in reality, but it’s not what you would have picked, so it’s inevitably all wrong for your skin tone, body type or bosom. The hair might be bearable, but it’s been dictated according to someone else’s whims, and why the hell should it have to be coordinated, anyway? On top of that, the shoes usually don’t fit and the unfilled bustline is billowing in the wind. Aside from clothing drama, more often than not, there’s also some family tension, whether from divorced parents, overbearing mothers, insulting grandmothers, or photograph-happy uncles. Add to that the media-inspired colassal chance that some unforseen, unpreventable disaster will unfold, and it’s a wonder everyone doesn’t elope. I would.

Being a member of the Wedding Party is the adult equivalent of a prom, albeit with considerably more gravitas. There’s usually some “let’s get our nails done” business and dressing up and dancing and limos. But it comes down to the cold, hard fact that, despite all of its trappings, a wedding is not the prom—and therein lies the problem.

In preparing for any other event it would be entirely unfathomable that someone else should have the power to determine your dress and shoes and hair and make-up and nail polish and jewelry. For example, it is downright unjust for a bride to force you into a gown from the unfashionable Chadwick’s catalogue. You wouldn’t wear anything from Chadwick’s to prom. Your mom wouldn’t wear anything from Chadwick’s anywhere after 1993. But this is not your time. You are not the center of attention and if The Center of Attention demands that you wear dyed-to-match shoes and tease your bangs, there are no alternatives.

The recent disparagment of “criers” has only upped the wedding party pressures. It has become a sign of embarrassing weakness for members of the wedding party to display emotion during the ceremony. It used to be that bridesmaids hovered in the chapel entryway and solemnly uttered their final words: “God. I hope I don’t fall.” Now they pray they won’t cry. Kleenex are stuffed into bouquets or wrapped around stems or stuck in shoes. I have mentally done multiplication tables while watching some of my best friends walk down the aisle. It’s the only way to keep from blubbering, and blubbering would be very bad. A former youth minister of mine had a legendary wedding video in which he and his wife sobbed while exchanging their vows and a bead of snot dangled from his nose for a solid minute and a half. And we bridesmaids can’t be having that.

We’re special, the ladies of the lady of the day. The humble plebs, those standard invited guests who got to pick their own clothes, pay a high price. They have to fight for a good seat, elbow their way through the buffet, and wait in line to speak to the bride and groom. A bridesmaid need simply rise from the chair and her effect upon the crowd is like Moses parting the waters. She is allowed to the fore of every line. Glasses of champagne appear out of nowhere. She has unlimited access to the bride. Ah! The magical powers of a $120 formal gown.

And the whole thing is magical. Unfortunately, that’s what we tend to forget amdist the drama and the mix of emotions. No one wants to admit that they resent the bride because of the expense, or their own loneliness, or any other reason that is within human nature to resent a joyous occasion. But to some extent we members of the wedding party all have. The media have only intensified these feelings by exploiting the conflict between selflessness and envy to endow bridesmaids with a certain sense of entitlement. Somewhere along the line, being in the wedding party went from being an honor to an imposition. Which is sad, because if you spend the whole time stewing about the cost of the dress, then you miss the magic of the moment.

Last weekend I wore one such swanky gown and stood behind one of my dearest friends as she took on a hyphen and her new husband’s last name. I slipped the ring, secured by a ponytail holder, off my finger and laid it on the open Bible, my usual bordello red nails glimmering in the sunlight filtering through the stained glass. The dress didn’t quite fit and my hair had some flyaways, but I’ve never felt more honored to be anywhere in my life. And that’s exactly as it should be.

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Ask Jack!

Happy Hump Day, people! Every Wednesday, our very own JB will be spicing up your work week with his new column, “Ask Jack.” He’ll be answering all your questions regarding the dos and don’ts of post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something life. Send your burning queries to JB at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!

Dear Jack,

You are the only man I can talk to about this. I know you’ll understand. I can cook, I clean, and I’m terribly smart. I mean, I’m a philosophy PhD and I read Hegel in the fifth grade. I have no personal hygiene problems that I know of, and I brush my hair. I dress really well—linen suits and all that jazz—and I’m also incredibly handsome, if I don’t say so myself.

You see, Jack, I’m looking for a lady. But despite all of the aforementioned groovy personal qualities, I’m still dismally single. I’ve tried sending girls roses. I recently bought a brand-new corvette in an attempt to lure a lady to love me. I rented a boom box and stood outside my neighbor’s window playing “When a Man Loves a Woman,” but she called the police. I just don’t understand it. As you can see, I’m a great catch! So what’s the problem? Are all girls crazy?

Sincerely yours,
Chippy Smith
Mystic, CT


Chippy! Dude!

Nice attempt to sneak in the word “groovy.” It might work better next time if you loosen up a bit. And that goes for your love life, too.

If you’re really as groovy as you say you are, you should have no problem landing a lady friend. I mean, look at me! I’m a little funny-looking. Dude, I’ve been known to have a few personal hygiene problems, I can’t cook or clean, I didn’t finish college, and I don’t brush my hair too often. But man, I’ve got me a hot wife! Know why? Because I’m not creepy. That’s right. I’ve never sent roses to strangers, or driven a corvette (very Barbie of you, by the way), or stood outside anyone’s window with a boom box (I’ll leave that stalker-inspired wooing technique to my arch-nemesis). Let’s face it—all that’s just creepy.

So, want to know what this cave man does to land a lady? It’s really not all that tough, Chipster. Girls aren’t crazy, man. And they aren’t that complicated, either. They might say they want a sensitive, intelligent, successful, handsome lawyer or doctor. But that’s not true. All they really want is someone who will make ’em laugh. And someone who doesn’t stink of desperation.

So my advice to you Chippy: don’t stink. Sell your car, desist with the roses, put away the bleach, box up your pots and pans, shower a little less often, and stop brushing your hair. But most of all, be confident in your unkempt, manly self. Just loosen up. Forget Hegel and all your philosophy crap, and talk to the ladies about super cool, totally rocking stuff instead. Ask the name of their favorite Mexican wrestler. Quote Joe Versus the Volcano. Try to guess their favorite Aha b-side. And when talk finally fails you, singing never will. Sing, Chippy. Puff out your chest and proudly sing. I suggest “Let’s Get It On.” Because girls like that and then you will. Good luck dude. I’ll be crossing my fingers and toes for you!

Little kiss, big hug,
Jables

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Be There or Be Square

Pitchfork Fest.

July 29th and 30th, 2006

Union Park

Chicago, Illinois

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The Official Jack Black's Body's The Hoff's 54th Birthday Weekend Super-Spectacular Extravaganza: The Birthday Hoff

Get out the party hats and cake and hide the chandeliers!
The Birthday Hoff is here.

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

You guessed it. The Hoff.

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The Official Jack Black's Body's The Hoff's 54th Birthday Weekend Super-Spectacular Extravaganza Wuz Here

But now it's gone- as we told you it would be. So no whining! Stay tuned to JBB for all the latest in thrilling Hoffian content and come back next year for The Official Jack Black's Body's The Hoff's 54th Birthday Weekend Super-Spectacular Extravaganza, Part Deux. Otherwise known as: The Hoff's 55th.

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The Friday Hoff

Here at JBB, there are some things that my trusty editors and I take very seriously. Above all else, the triumvriate of power: the power of Rock, the power of the eyebrow and the power of The Hoff.

But birthdays are a close fourth. So you can imagine The Hoff's Birthday would lend itself to a pretty rocking, eyebrow-raising fun time.

Thus, we kick off the one and only Official Jack Black's Body's The Hoff's 54th Birthday Weekend Super-Spectacular Extravaganza with a suitably festive Friday Hoff.

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On Being a Bombshell*

By JBB’s Very Own Bombshell Leslie

*bomb·shell
1 : BOMB
2 : one that is stunning, amazing, or devastating

The Bombshell gets away with things many women cannot.
You name it—fashion faux pas, not having any money, forgetting people’s names, frequently calling in sick to work, public inappropriateness, and streaks of profanity. The Bombshell is forgiven many foibles. There are several reasons for this.

First, the Bombshell is unapologetic. She knows it is part of her appeal that you just never know what to expect from her. Brigitte Bardot has a llama and two goats living in her house (at last count), and Elizabeth Taylor once accidentally flushed down a hotel toilet the multi-million dollar diamond ring given to her by Richard Burton. Any one who knows a Bombshell is aware of her chronic randomness. So when she does something like sets her cheese sandwich down on the jewelry counter at Tiffany’s, it’s simply par for the polka-dotted course.

Second, a Bombshell forgives many eccentricities in return. A Bombshell will gloss over any awkward situation in an effort to keep the mood at its scintillating best. If you completely wipe out in the middle of a street, a Bombshell will tell you how graceful your recovery was.

Finally, the Bombshell looks seriously cute doing amazingly stupid things. Don’t ask why, it’s just part of her art.

The Bombshell is a female’s female.
While men may adore her, the Bombshell is definitely a girls’ girl. She revels in all things female—romance novels, glittery body powder, Lifetime Television for Women. If it’s fuchsia, feathery, and nauseatingly girly, the Bombshell has three of them. The Bombshell believes that being sent into this world as a female is a miracle and a blessing of the highest degree, and endeavors to make an art of her femininity. Which is why she wears high heels while vacuuming.

The Bombshell is superstitious.
The Bombshell not only believes in the great beyond, she believes. What ever spiritual medium she chooses, she has a profound reverence for the otherworldly. She may run the rosary before boarding a plane or making plans for auditions, dates, and dinner parties according to her astrological guide. She hedges her bets. The Bombshell knows there is something divine at work in this world. There has to be. How else can you explain Chanel No. 5?

The Bombshell is intellectual.
It’s tempting to think that the Bombshell spends her weekends at the beach or under a hair dryer. This is simply not so. A true Bombshell is most likely to be found at a museum or a theatre, or perhaps sitting in the corner of her local bookstore with a pile of books. Her passionate love affair with life manifests itself in her endless self-education. Also, she knows that sexy starts with the mind. Your piled platinum hairdo will only get you so far with the fellas if there’s nothing going on underneath it. Marilyn knew that. That’s why she read Ulysses.

The Bombshell has done her homework.
The Bombshell knows that in order to be the best Bombshell she can be, she must study and learn from those who have gone before her. It is a surprising and consistently true fact that, since intensive self-education often begins at an early age, most Bombshells were complete nerds in their teenage years. During these years, the Bombshell would have read biographies of everyone from queens to courtesans, geishas to actresses and muses. Cleopatra won the heart of the most powerful man of her era at the age of 19. A Bombshell would want to know how. For centuries, the courtesans of Venice were the only women allowed access to the university libraries. A Bombshell would want to know why. The Bombshell studies the great ones, men and women, alive and dead. She always strives to learn from examples of excellence.

The Bombshell has a voracious appetite.
Food, drink, love, literature—when it comes to the best things in life, a Bombshell just can’t get enough. Moderation is not a word you will find in the Bombshell lexicon. Tragically, many Bombshells perish at a relatively young age—Jean, Marilyn, Jane, Evita. Because of this, the Bombshell psyche is imbued with a deep sense of the brevity of life and the inestimable value of each and every day, which should be lived to the fullest. The drawback to this noble sentiment is that it often leads to overindulgence in chocolate and alcohol, and the occasional ill-advised marriage.

The Bombshell cannot cook.
I don’t know why this is.
When Marilyn Monroe hosted her first dinner party, guests were amazed to see her pull out a hair dryer and blast the lasagna noodles. I have heard that European Bombshells, mainly around the Mediterranean, can cook quite well. But your standard-issue American Bombshell makes macaroni and cheese with a fire extinguisher and a prayer.

The Bombshell comes in many packages.
A low-cut dress does not a Bombshell make. The Bombshell comes in many shapes, sizes, shades, and vintages. She is not always immediately identifiable by outward trappings, such as three different articles of animal print. You will know when you are face to face with a Bombshell, however, because the world will suddenly seem that much sexier. The Bombshell has a devestating aura.

And finally, the most important Bombshell quality…Joi de Vivre.
The essential quality of Bombshellism is joi de vivre; the Bombshell is a Bombshell because she full of love and she is always in love. She loves her man, her fellow man, and her menagerie of pets. She loves babies. She loves you. Most of all, she loves life. This effusiveness and eagerness is much like champagne overflowing a glass. The Bombshell overflows in all things, not just her dress.

Darling, Are You A Bombshell?
If you answer “yes” to any of these questions, you most definitely are.
• Your lingerie matches your curtains.
• You refer to your bedroom as “The Boudoir.”
• Your refrigerator contains no actual food, but is well stocked with nail polish, eye masks, cold cream and a forest of perfume bottles.
• Your mother was a Bombshell.
• No one is actually certain what you do for a living, but they think it involves, or is fronted by, a salon.
• You know all the words to Eartha Kitt’s “Let’s Misbehave.”
• You can shout down a construction worker and keep your sundress clean.

Still not a Bombshell? Fake it ’till you make it!
• Download Ethel Merman’s “I Enjoy Being a Girl” and skip around your house.
• Replace your daily water consumption with Pink Champagne. It’s guaranteed to bring out the kitten in you.
• Fall in love.
• Take a Burlesque dance class. I DARE you not to feel sexy after that one.
• Do your research. The Bombshells’ Guide to Style by Lauren Stover is a glorious little volume that covers everything Bombshell from the wardrobe and coiffure to literature and musical selection. There’s even a Bombshell Zodiac and a chapter on how a Bombshell entertains a man. Behave.

Go forth and be fabulous, little Bombshells.
Smooches,
Bombsy

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Save the Date!

Check out The Peaks @ Myspace.

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Meet Brandino the Great

Brandino the Great (Bran-dee-noh thee 'gre(&)t) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something historian, writer, chess master, and humorist studying the past and living in the present on the West Coast. A graduate of Boston Univ. and a PhD candidate at the Univ. of California-Berkeley, Brandino is JBB's resident expert on Vikings, 80s music, dead languages, erratic dancing, Fellini, and general all-around boy-stuff. He is bored by military history.

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Of Vikings and Vestments

Brandino the Great Takes a Look at Some Dead People


I study dead people. Long-dead people. These are beings who live exclusively in the letters inked onto the lightly stubbled surface of parchments, their cares and loves and sufferings painted onto the sheepskin with precision and patience. They come from a time that is reserved, in modern parlance, as a synonym for barbarity and squalor.

To “go medieval on that guy’s ass” generally means that you will beat him up, but it would be just as historically accurate to yoke a donkey up to a plow. Clearly it’s a time that has been sorely misinterpreted and exaggerated by the modern culture.My job is to arrange these traces of a poorly understood past and to make the people whole again, instead of just caricatures. The longer these people have been dead, and the more sparse the evidence of their lives, the harder my job becomes.

One such caricature who has puzzled historians for centuries is Alcuin, an English monk and the head Latinist for Charlemagne. He was living in the Carolingian capital of Aachen, when in 793 he received word that Vikings—who in the eighth through the tenth centuries doled out head wounds as liberally as school-yard bullies today give wedgies—had attacked the monastery of Lindisfarne. Alcuin knew this monastery and the monks well, making it a very personal piece of news. And what dire news: The monastery had been desecrated, the grounds strewn with dead monks, and the holy relics had been ground under impious Scandinavian boots.

I would imagine that Alcuin’s first impulse was to recoil in horror. His second impulse, however, was to write a letter to the survivors of the attack. In this letter he offers condolences, solidarity, encouragement, and fashion advice.

Alcuin begins the letter with the usual pleasantries. He sends his best wishes to Bishop Higebaldus and the remainder of his congregation. Then he muses over the monastery as it was and as it is: “The memory of your charity, while I was at Lindisfarne, has cheered me greatly. But now, the calamity of your sufferings after I left, makes me sadder every day.” He relates what he has heard of the disaster, even though this is clearly old news to the monks. He offers Hallmark-card expressions of sympathy.

With an abrupt about-face, he seems to lose all capacity for empathy and advances the theory that God might be merely chastising those whom he loves most, as he is wont to do, and that this brutal attack might just be a divine nudge in the right direction, so that the monks can manfully pick up the pieces of their shattered lives. Following this train of thought, Alcuin embarks upon a very helpful list of ways for the monks to correct their habits: “Do not rejoice in the vanity of clothing,” and “Do not efface the words of your speech with drunkeness.” And seek heavenly treasures, not worldly ones, because Vikings can’t plunder the former.

Alcuin seems glibly unaware that the poor monks are probably, at this very minute, washing mud, ash, blood, or some combination thereof from their torn habits and drinking away their post-traumatic stress. Indeed, even though the opening sentences tell us that this is a personal letter about disaster, the wishes are formulaic and devoid of the humanity the situation merits. There is no sense of hurry or surprise or shock. He only speaks in pious and sententious truism. He doesn’t even ask any of the questions that you would expect, like, “How’s my friend Aethelstan? Is he okay?” or “Charlemagne says that the Vikings are eight feet tall, and I bet him a buck he’s wrong. But you saw them. Write me back.”

When we dig deeper, it turns out that the earliest text of this letter was written over two hundred years after Alcuin died, in a volume containing letters to bishops and kings. We can date it by the handwriting. That means that if Alcuin actually wrote this letter, it was copied at least once before it fell into the hands of scholars. And in that replication, possibly upwards of two hundred times in two hundred years, things could have happened. Passages could have been elaborated. Statements could have been cut. Pages could have been lost. Even more nightmarish, the entire thing could have been composed after Alcuin’s death, and just attributed to him.

Even though the letter is published in a modern edition of “Two Alcuin Letter-Books,” it actually reflects the concerns of whichever bored monk was transcribing in the years after, rather than Alcuin’s response to the Lindisfarne disaster. And while there might be a kernel of truth at the center of this letter, we will never know where that kernel lies.

At the risk of projecting too much upon the past, I’ll offer a completely unprofessional fantasy. I think that Alcuin probably did send a letter. But it was probably briefer, hopefully more familiar. I like to think that it read something like:

Hey guys, I’m sorry to hear the bad news. I’m just waiting for Charlemagne, and then we’re going to come up north with an army and we’re going to get those jerks, teach ’em a lesson. Just you wait.
Your pal, Alchie.

P.S., I sent you some new robes. They’re not pretty, but they’ll be warm at least.

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A Joosy! Event

JBB is proud to announce that the work of one of our own, Joosy! of the Josh Hailey Studio, will be featured in Katrina Remembered: 6 Mississippi Artists.

The gala opening of the exhibition is this Thursday, July 13th, at the District Fine Arts Gallery in D.C. The event is also a relief fund with a percentage of proceeds going to the Mississippi Arts Commission.

So if you're in D.C. anytime soon, check it out.

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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Out of Office: Automated Reply

I'm proud to be an American because we have lots of holidays. As such, my trusty editors and I will be vacating the week of the 4th. But do not fear! We'll be returning with a vengence for The Hoff's super-spectacular birthday extravaganza. Stay tuned- it'll make your wildest dreams come true.

Until then, go play with me on MySpace...

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Jack Black's Body

Jack Black's Body

Click the picture to view my profile!

(HUGE special thanks to Dave and Babe's Bubble.)

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