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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