breaking news: ray cried again this year

#6
Behold the face of
the new lucky cat
Editor’s
Hello
Corner
Alright dang so the wind is comin’ again and
makin’ blustery days which is all right for
walkin’ around and wonderin’. I think Fall is
the best weather for stone cold wondering.
You got your head down, feet all crunchin’
on crispy leaves, and bloosh a bluster blows a
few more past you. Hell of nice. If you want
to get emo you can wear a scarf, but I rock it
old-school with just a real crap hoody that
has a crackling MEINEKE TIRES logo
across the chest. I don’t know where I got
it...I’m not even sure I got it. But it is usually
around, and I put it on from time to time
when it gets this way, or if there is a latenight car trip. I find a long car trip is made
pretty nice by a thick hoody. Like that towel
in HHGG. You got to have an accommodating textile if you gonna move on to parts
unknown, in vehicles unknown. Your tired
head got to go on something. I’m just saying,
I mean this doesn’t matter or anything.
—EEH
IN THIS ISSUE!
If Ed E. Haskell had to start
over with women
Hans Greckensmer interview
(local old German dude)
Erotic Fiction #3—A Terrible
Escape
Téodor’s restaurant review
Nice Pete’s jealous rebuttal
restaurant review
It Pays To Have Word Ability
BREAKING NEWS:
RAY CRIED AGAIN
THIS YEAR
ACHEWOOD HEIGHTS, CA (MWY) — It
no longer changes the behavior of the stock
market, affects the moods of distant dogs, or
fills the many inches of this nation’s opinion
columns. That’s right— Ray Smuckles cried
again, and for the first time in history, it
seems to have fallen on deaf ears. Except
mine.
At approximately
nine thirty-two PM on
Sunday the twentyfifth, I went up the
stairs to Mr. Smuckles’
private bedroom to
announce the availability of a number of uneaten pizza rolls. As the
floor throughout much
of his expansive home’s
The crying man, in
private quarters is
happier times
carpeted, he did not
detect my oncoming footsteps. Before my
hand could knock on his closed door, I heard
the unalloyed fits and starts of a man fighting
back weeps. I paused.
The television was on, and almost instantly
I recognized the sounds of the final scene in
Braveheart, in which William Wallace is
eviscerated, famously crying out,
“FREEEEDOM!” The scene was rewound
and played at least twice before I retreated.
Knowing Mr. Smuckles as I do, I was
proud to hear that he was working to overcome his idiosyncratic inability to watch this
final, harrowing scene. However, I was simultaneously not proud of him for crying so
much about a movie. —EEH
The Top Six
Lines Which Do
Not Appear in
Good Literature
EEH
1. “You can’t be aware of this hat —
please stop, Mr. Grimnel,” said the
weathermaid. “Oh, do please stop.”
2. The kangaroo’s unblinking anus leered
over the fence at the children’s pool party.
3. Fred Inglesby crammed the head of
iceberg lettuce into his wallet and left the
room. He wouldn’t give the bitch the
satisfaction.
4. Six crullers was all it took — the objet
d’art was surrounded by a series of points
which defined a hexagon of crullers.
5. The Great Brain, 39, put a pitted black
olive on each fingertip, crossed himself,
and then slowly, deliberately, walked forward into the blur that was Spirit of St.
Louis’s hammered steel propeller.
6. Osama bin Laden made his announcement, and just like that, everybody in
America stood up, quit being American,
and sold their dogs. George Bush walked
straight to the nearest prison and arrested
everyone who did not let him be a prisoner. The Statue of Liberty jumped from
the St. Louis Arch, the walls of the Grand
Canyon shut back together like elevator
doors, and the spire of the Space Needle
spewed forth a great plume of informative
Taliban brochures.
2
Man why you even got to do a thing.
THE PART of THE CHICKEN WHICH
YOU PREFER SAYS a LOT ABOUT
YOU
Ray Smuckles
Huh? Oh, boneless skinless breast, all the way.
The filet mignon of a chicken. Reliable. Enormous. Eatin’ that cut is kingy. Got that little
tender behind it, look for that. That’s sort of the
expert’s treat. Don’t waste time on the rest of a
bird - that’s slum food, you ain’t never see it on
the menu at a class joint.
Cornelius Bear
The outer two joints of the wing, grilled until
nearly black over real charcoal. A Japanese
Izakaya chef will know how to prepare this for
you. The skin turns to a rich, salty cotton candylike texture as the fat fries it from the inside, and
the bones of the final joint become caramelized
powder at the first bite. It’s marvelous. So much
flavor from a throwaway cut. It makes white
T: What?!
meat taste as dull as the sadly over-hyped filet
ED: You behaved as a cumhead.
mignon.
T: That’s not...that’s not even an insult.
ED: Not yet, but I got some hand-outs I been
passin around down by Starbucks. Lobbyin’,
Philippe
you know.
Drumsticks! They are easy to hold onto and you
T: I’m not being a dick about chicken. I’m just
can be a cave man! The best shoes to wear as a
saying what I know. Trying to give you content.
cave man are shoes that you put ketchup on then
ED: That kind of content is hell of hinge, dogg.
stick lint from the dryer to the ketcup. It looks
It’s like...it’s like you are a teacher filling up an
like you made shoes out of ancient wild mice!
hour until you can go out to your truck and
smoke and eat a discount sandwich without any
Téodor Orezscu
mayonnaise and just a circle of turkey meat on
The dark meat, particularly the thigh. First of
dry white bread. Because that’s what teachers
all, it’s versatile, taking well to braising, grilleat.
ing, broiling, poaching, and frying. This is the
T: Fine, I guess I’m too good for your ‘zine.
mystery cut used by Japanese chefs for teriyaki, ED: How’s it feel up there in the tower, jerk.
and julienned into broth to fill out many ChiT: It feels good, because of how hard my shits
nese soups. It develops its relatively strong
hit when they drop onto your face.
flavor and texture after even a few moments in
ED: What if you knew that this telephone call
hot poaching liquiOH GOD TEODOR SHUT
was over.
THE FUCK UP JESUS CHRIST CAN YOU BE T: I would go eat chicken teriyaki.
A PEDANTIC FOOD ASSHOLE
ED: Ikoru’s?
TÉODOR: What?
T: The best.
ED: Man you are just rambling on at length like ED: See you there in...fifteen?
anyone cared.
T: That would be ideal.
T: You asked the question, dickhead.
ED: Fine...prick. [click]
ED: Yeah but you answered it like a cumhead.
—EEH
Don’t do that thing.
3
It Pays To Have Word
Ability
BEEFEATER No. 1: Get out of the tub!
BEEFEATER No. 2: YOU get out of YOUR tub
first!
BEEFEATER No. 1: I hate this old bathroom.
Gascacklery
(n) gas-CACK’-uhl-ree
If someone is laughing immaturely about
the passing of gas, they are indulging in
gascacklery. “Oh my god Ray that raw
low chica you are hitting on was totally
doing gascacklery earlier when one of her
girlfriends did a toot while they were out
smoking. Way bad of a decision to bring
her into your life.”
Grodles
(n) ‘GROW-duls
Most civilized cities have ordinances
which require dog owners to clean up
after their animals. In towns where it is
the exception to see that an animal owner
has not picked up after their canine, the
offending canine extrusions are referred
to as “grodles.” Usage: “Sorry, Shane. I
was coming to your birthday party, but
the retarded lady who lives in that apartment with all the wind chimes and birds
let her dog leave all kinds of grodles on
the sidewalk in front of the preschool and
now I have to wash my scooter wheels
and my shoes all afternoon.”
Miplet
(n) ‘MIP-let
A Miplet is the base waste unit per child
per day per household. Units of Miplet
are calculated via a complex matrix
4
which takes into account: pieces of toast
which are asked for but refused, bowls of
tortellini which are asked for but refused,
energy used to cook uneaten tortellini,
organic five-dollar flax pasta which ends
up tasting strangely like fish (refused),
half-eaten popsicles which are perfectly
good but have the stick showing
(unacceptable), hour-long car rides when
one is having trouble sleeping, licensed
character Band Aids for imaginary
wounds, Mexican food over which tantrums are thrown but then, when it arrives
at table, is angrily slapped and scattered
around by two little hands (requires extra
tipping), et cetera.
Kadonklin
(n) Kuh-‘DONK-lynn
This is the term for hot chicks you see
workin’ around various jobs in town, but
when you see them on their breaks, they
have hell of crass habits like walking
around pulling their pants up, smoking
and blowing the smoke out way too hard,
or having a cell phone ear thing. Usage:
“Oh man get me on that chica from the
Cingular store she is crushy pipes and a
thickness / Oh god dude didn’t you see
her last week behind the Pizza Factory
she is a hell of a pants fallin’ down kadonklin who ain’t much at smokin’ cigs.”
Man why you even got to do a thing.
A Bit of Time With
Hans Greckensmer
Hans Greckensmer is a local German
man who is completely set in his ways.
His ways are very German, but sometimes they seem almost reasonable. I
don’t learn much more than that, and
I’m barely sure I learned even that.
—EEH
I go to visit Hans Greckensmer, a
dang old dude from up the street in
Ray’s neighborhood. He calls a
sweet old craftsman three-story deal
his home, and he’s been cold sittin’
on this property since 1943 when he
bought it with his wife, Elza. Today
he’s sittin’ on the big front porch,
watchin’ the wealthy neighborhood’s
light traffic go by while keepin’ his
high-quality bone and brass cane at
the ready. He agreed to talk to me
about things since I am hell of mannered and plus the guy has got to be
damn lonesome since nobody wants to talk to old German guys
who are cantankerous as a rusty drawbridge.
EEH: So uh Mr. Greckensmer I mean
Herr Greckensmer thank you for agreeing to speak with me today. It is all too
kind of you during this hot weather.
Freut mich.
HG: Ja, ja. You should know somesings.
You come up ze porch like dat, you got
to wave fuhst, or I get concerned. You
are not a mailman, you know [waves
finger wisely].
wiz’in’ my rights to use it! I got all ze
documentation and ze papers, signed
since 1953. Ze law is on my side, this is
my land, I know die Conztitution and
Bill of Rights sure like you know ze
MacDonalds or this what they have now,
In and Out Vis ze Burgers, you say.
They say.
EEH: Right uh you are definitely right
about trespassing laws and how freely
people go on property. That is a major
concern and kind of a gray area.
EEH: I don’t doubt it and that is definitely an American right. Thank you for
not blowing a new hole in my head. Lord
knows I got enough of strange types of
holes already. What do you think a new
type of hole in a head would do, if it
existed?
HG: I got a pistol you know, I am
HG: What?
Don’t do that thing.
5
EEH: Like, we already got holes for
hearing and tasting and stuff. What could
a new hole do?
HG: Heh heh. [Waves finger slyly] You
gonna get into trouble wis zat one, boy.
EEH: Heh, I don’t mean to get all dirty.
I just think a head could do so many
amazing things if it had a new hole in it.
EEH: Right. Exactly. Drown out all
extant noise to create a perfect atmosphere of concentration. A sonic utopia, if
you will.
HG: Zat vould be nice, ja.
EEH: Or let’s talk about a hole that’s
way out there. Let’s say you had a hole
in your head that could tell you if a person was lying. Immediately.
HG: Zat vould take experiments.
“ L ike, we already
got holes for hearing
and tasting and stuff.
What could a new
hole do? ”
—[EEH]
EEH: Let’s say all the experiments had
been done, and everyone had been exonerated, and all of the subjects had actually been 100% delighted with the results, in retrospect.
HG: Zat vould be real good, ja. Zees
days, so much sheisse men in America
go up ze schtreets, real sheisse guys all
ways going up your schtreet to sell you
crap or so.
EEH: Say the person was talking to you,
but they always looked like one millimeterto the side of your eyes. Or they always blinked a little too long when
pitching the main benefit of their product.
HG: Ja, zat is the sign of a liar. We get a
hole in our head like zis, we get no more
ripped off you and me! [Taps cane happily upon the floorboards of the porch]
EEH: Well, enough about that. I heard
that you like good hot-cooked meat
dishes, served plain with a winter vegetable that has been cooked nice and long
in a steam vessel with cabbage.
HG: You vant lunch?
HG: Heh. You know ze obvious schtuff.
But a new senses...a new sensations
hole...zis is a good question. You know,
I read some Heinlein in my day. I got an
idea about zis schtuff.
EEH: Cool. Maybe we could have a
hole where when we stuck our finger in
it, we could tune out discordant ambient
noise?
HG: Like ze wife is yelling? Or to quiet
down her TV shows? Zis Golden Girls?
Yes?
6
EEH: I...no, I’m sorry. I did not come
here with a hand out. That is not what I
meant. I am not crafty.
HG: You vant lunch, is grrreat! Elza
makes Kbupfstrudeln today, I am mostly
tired of it but maybe you find it a treat
and delicious. Come, come. [rises arthritically from chair]
...
Man why you even got to do a thing.
INSIDE.
Hans and I sit at a table in a
kitchen which is surrounded
by displays of plates that no
possible person can ever be
allowed to use. A large painting of a kapellmeister or lost
viscount hangs near the sausage chafer. Elza, ashamed,
offers food to us off of several
dishes on a wheeled kreuzengammel.
EEH: Dang uh I mean how much is
alright to take there is so much bounty.
HG: Take vat you vant. I clean up ze
rest later, or we eat it wis Leno. We are
old, ja, aber we abendessen much later.
So it is.
EEH: Alright great because there are
like three colors of sausages that I definitely got to gribblefrussen on.
HG: Elza! Zum Keller!
[Elza opens the door to the cellar and
disappears]
HG: I am sorry. Gribblefrussen...we do
no say zis.
EEH: I...I thought it would just meant to
eat with huge happiness.
HG: Oh, no. Noooo, no. No. It...you
make zis up? You?
EEH: Yeah, it felt like...it felt like it
would be a happy German word. It felt
fun in the mouth.
HG: [Sighs, grows very quiet for several
reflective seconds] No, no. Neinnnnnnnnn. Zis word, it says exactly the opposite of how you feel it says.
EEH: Oh man I am so sorry Hr. Greckensmer uh through my disgrace I am
unfit to be a guest in your house so
please ask me to leave.
HG: Oh, it is alright. Elza, she vill be
okay. But you must “stick” [raps cane on
floor for emphasis] vis English, ja? I am
old, but I am a good man, but I have zis
pistol, and my old brain, my noodle, if I
get into a rage, well, my life is old and
going, but I do not vant for your life to
go too. Because we misunderstand. Because we haf a moment. Ja?
HG: [Jumps up, throws napkin on the
table, Elza cowers in corner] Vot in ze
Himmel?! LEAVE AT ONCE!
EEH: Ja mein Herr. Doch. Danke.
EEH: Oh uh I am sorry! My German is
completely bad! I said nothing wrong
that I know please tell me what I said
wrong!
HG: [He raps his cane on the floor as
though to agree, but then he raps it a
couple more times, like in some strange
morse code. Soon, Elza appears from the
basement with two matching glass steins
of frothy beer.]
HG: Vot you said is not said in front of
women or plates.
HG: Stay for beer. Ve haf it on a plane
since Minnesota.
EEH: Was it the G word?
...continues on page 23
Don’t do that thing.
7
TRÉ-ODOR’S
Gastronomion
“Wot ho,” Bertie Wooster’s
quintessentially British multitasker exclamation, will soon
be replaced by the decidedly
downmarket “Fuck!” of the
imminently approaching
Gordon Ramsay.
Notes on the Current Cuisine Scene by
Téodor Orezscu, Installment No. 1.
I
shouldn’t say approaching — he’s
landed, with two years of American
television under his belt, and a two-star
outpost in NYC — but that’s just the brunt
of it. We have more top-tier English imports poised to hit the shores (Marco Pierre
White, Heston Blumenthal, Hugh Fearnly –
Whittingstall, Giles Coren, Fergus Henderson—all UK food personalities with much
stronger screen presence than even the
highest-grossing US food celebrities), but
the British Invasion has definitely sunk its
taproot in the form of Ramsay, and wouldn’t he like that choice of word. (He’s big
on analogizing the rest of the world to his
member—a thing which will no doubt soon
have its own reality show.)
This isn’t a bad thing by any means.
Gordon Ramsay is Colonel Kilgore to our
Rachael Ray, and White is easily Ramsay’s
solemn, unknowable, unreciprocating
Colonel Kurtz. We haven’t got anything
like them on American food television.
Tony Bourdain can ramble off great
8
grumpy, sometimes withering disdain for
his subjects, but he shows himself at heart
to be a softie, a guy who just wants to like
where he is but has the (too often scatological) ammo to tear it down thoroughly if he
doesn’t. Ramsay and White are colder.
They don’t care if they would personally
like what’s in front of them; all that matters
is perfect execution — joy be damned. I’ve
watched dozens of hours of their footage,
and I’ve never seen one of them pause in
mute pleasure after taking a bite of food.
They are robotically competitive in their
cuisine — or, at least that’s how they’re
being sold to us. I could see either of them
making Bobby Flay cry in seconds, throwing him out of the kitchen by his ear for his
lazy American technique, showy plating, or
five-color embroidered chef’s jacket (in
Ramsay’s autobiography, Roasting in
Hell’s Kitchen, he makes it a point of pride
to not have his name on his brigade jacket,
although it should be noted they’re usually
working in a restaurant named GordonRamsay-Something-or-Other, and his
jacket is custom-made in France, so the
point may well be moot).
I suppose I was first drawn to Ramsay
because nowhere on our Food Network can
you see a chef emotionally destroy a coworker in a barrage of profanity and disrespect, and then smash a hot plate of food
against their chest like a cream pie. I’m
used to seeing Rachael Ray start to chop an
onion with the knife in the wrong hand,
realize her mistake, correct it, and call
herself “a world-class dumb-o!” (In post
production that would be, of course, edited
down to a friendly, girl-next-door
“whoops!”) His autobiography gives many
reasons for his fundamental anger and
competitiveness (including an itinerant and
Man why you even got to do a thing.
abusive alcoholic father who used to make
him fight his little brother), and this strikes
a strong, honest, indisputable groundnote to
which any of his detractors can be referred.
White, on the other hand, possesses an
intensity not even found in Ramsay. Ramsay seems more a tightly-wound high functioning product of circumstances, while
White seems to have been born into the
world an utterly different creature, a humorless Greek god with one purpose: to
prepare food in the finest possible way, and
“White and Ramsay
make [Thomas] Keller look like Freddie
Mercury on rollerskates”
crush the throats of anyone with a suggestion about his garnish or seasoning. I feel
like I should eat his cooking just to obey
him and his immortal ideals.
Before these two showed up, America’s
biggest, highest rated, scariest, and most
impossible to please cook was The French
Laundry’s Thomas Keller. White and Ramsay make Keller look like Freddie Mercury
on rollerskates. If they want to conquer
high-end American cuisine, it might well
be there for their taking, but they both
display one fatal Achilles’ heel: their fundamental Englishness.
You want to go out of business in America in about forty-six seconds? Serve “gray
mullet over cabbage and hazelnut fondue,”
and charge thirty-five bucks. Lean heavily
on saddle of rabbit, or saddle of anything,
for that matter. (We’re American, saddles
are where a cowboy’s ass goes.) Serve
smoked trout over caviar and creamy noodles. Bust out a cantaloupe soup. You’ll get
some stars in New York City, but that’s it.
Don’t do that thing.
Even Frank Bruni of the New York Times
dismissed Ramsay with a wave of his powerful Blackberry.
America’s competitive food scene is
blinking red and blue neon to this subdued
saffron-cream attack. There’s something
they just can’t escape — some sort of politeness with flavor, a reliance on vegetables and meats which aren’t in America’s
top ten — that doesn’t excite the palate of a
country whose billboard landscape promises great creamy tubs of “triple zing” and
“three-hour Chipotle rubs.”
This brings me to the influential hot plate
upon which the U.S. sits: Mexico. England
doesn’t have one of those. They have the
occasional appearances of Indian curry in
their menus, sure, but we have Mexico.
Heavy seasonings, bold citrus, aggressive
chemical heat, peppers in a variety to rival
any Indian kitchen, and corn — it’s not
something they know, and it’s a big part of
our palate. They may do well in the North
East, where people regularly eat large picturesque birds that appear mainly on postage stamps, but to make their craft fly west
of Pennsylvania will take quite a lot of
doing for the English chef.
-T-
Little T’s Notez’ about Current and Emerging Food Trends
1. Mark Bittman, The New York Times’ “The Minimalist,” is
not new news, but his exposure is rapidly growing. His “noknead bread” bit from earlier this year was a gourmet meme,
and since then he’s had shows on public television. His
weekly videos post at NYT.com in the “style/dining and
wine” section. He covers all foods, and is the dignified
person’s Rachael Ray.
2. If tapas are all the rage, how come I can’t get any? The
closest I get to a hot bite is leaving my window open at night
for mosquitoes.
3. For those of you who miss the early “cooking show” days
of the Food Network, the cooking show lineup at PBS
(Saturdays) far outweighs a weeks’ worth of what you’ll get
at TVFN. The lineup can be irregular, but it is not uncommon
to see an actual chef (who is a chef) stand behind a counter
and prepare dishes from scratch. It’s a bit light on fake
celebrities (Guy Fieri) going to tailgaters to sample brats in
beer and announce that they are good, but it may evoke a
twinge of nostalgia in the mildly aged.
9
If I toWere
Date Anew
—by Ed E. Haskell
A
lright so I been truckin’ on with Miss Lady for
some years now and we even’ gettin’ on the marryin’ train before too long. Also, let us just say that
I was never on the date scene too much before
that, and plus I am a real bad catch for most ladies who
enjoy the cinema or going to a place on the weekend. Ain’t
my bag so much, plus often I got enough sense to say that
I got issues to them right up front. This is all by way of
sayin’ that I would be damn useless on the datin’ scene
were I to enter back upon it. Here is a transcript of how it
would go if I managed to pick up a chick who was putting
up with me at first.
The scene: we are at my apartment. The
walls are a pure white, the carpet a deep
brown that can hold many secrets and
indiscretions. There is a laptop on the
card table that I use for a dinner table,
and a length of Cat 5 runs to the cable
modem by the empty wall across the
room. There are some DVDs on the carpet in another unused corner, and on the
kitchen counter is a can of Ro-Tel chili,
about six inches from the edge of the
stove, in case I should ever feel like
cooking.
ME: Alright cool so uh thanks for coming to my apartment after that night at
the dance club um I mean I ain’t got too
much to do here so maybe we gonna call
it a night.
10
KAYLIE: Let’s do melon drops! Do you
have any Midori? I LOVE Midori. Oh
god, it is SO delicious! My friend Trevor
ALWAYS has Midori. Do you do shots?
ME: Well no but we can watch Citizen
Kane on my laptop, plus I think I got
some airplane bottles of Chivas that I
took from a party on sort of a bad dare
but I ain’t actually like Chivas so they
are like six years told.
KAYLIE: I just got a belly button piercing! Do you want to see? I showed it to
my friend Trevor and he LOVED it.
ME: Uh I been seein’ that since a while
ago now uh as you got on some kind of
shirt that is like as modest as a ladies’
Man why you even got to do a thing.
boxing sports top.
KAYLIE: [Shows long dangly bellybutton earring that looks like if you took
a slice off the side of a diamond corn
cob] What do you think?! Isn’t it awesome?! Trevor LOVES it.
ME: Uh it looks you are wearing an
Aztec fishing hook in your front so
probably look out for it catching on
something and horribly ripping your
flesh, I mean I’m getting sick just thinking about the sound that would make.
Plus don’t probably go swimming.
ME: How come? [I quickly realize she
wants to splash some fresh water on her
vagina to make it decent] I mean uh yeah
totally and there is a toothbrush too since
I saw you were smoking earlier. It is still
wrapped, it says DR. DONALD J.
CRULLABENI on it, he is a good dude
if you want any whitening or anything
done, I think it’s his specialty. He has all
these brochures.
KAYLIE: Random! I’ll be right back.
Do you like music? [shuts bathroom
door]
ME: [Puts some Black Flag on the MP3
player]
I LOVE Midori.
Oh god, it is SO
delicious! My
friend Trevor
ALWAYS has
Midori. Do you
do shots?
KAYLIE: You said you had Chivas? My
uncle drinks that! He has a pension. He
used to draw pictures for the Army, I
don’t know, maps and stuff. SO boring.
My dad would always get some for him
at Christmas. Let’s do shots! Do you
have any Coke?
ME: Well uh I guess we can drink Coke
and Chivas on the empty floor by the
Mr. Bean DVD I mean enormous regrets
have started in less auspicious situations.
KAYLIE: Do you have a bathroom?
Don’t do that thing.
KAYLIE: [the toilet never flushes, yet
she comes out again. I wonder what the
hell went on. Is there vagina water on the
counter?]
ME: Okay I guess just lie on your back
by the plate that had nachos on it—you
can put your head there—and we can do
this and then I can check my sites.
KAYLIE: Whoah, wait! You’re giving
off a totally weird vibe! How OLD are
you?!
ME: I’m so old every day is a question
of why.
KAYLIE: Oh, yuck! Oh, gross! I’m
totally leaving! Don’t you DARE follow
me! You’re GROSS!
ME: It’s okay I’ll just be here.
KAYLIE: [slams door, walks back down
the avenue to PRESSURE BEATS
DANCE CLUB]
ME: Oh well space and carpet I guess
it’s just you and me again. [microwaves
three PizzaTino Bites, 138 calories, 3g
Saturated Fat, 0g fiber, 27% sodium per
serving]
11
FOOD & DINING
with Peter H. Cropes
Well what can I say but that I am very upset by this time’s restaurant
review section. First off, well-raised Téodor Orezscu has been added to
the Man Why You Even Got To Do A Thing restaurant review
staff. It is as though my first review disappointed them. Second off, he
was given a very high restaurant to review, while I was given what I
see as a low taco/Chinese food counter. —PHC
THIS WEEK’S REVIEW:
MR. WING’S
TACO
2117 W. Albert #A-3
S
ince it seems my first review
disappointed this magazine’s
staff, I took the extra time to
make sure I knew everything
about Mr. Wing’s Taco. And I do mean
everything. I know where Mr. Wing
sleeps, I know where all his people
sleep. Do they wash their hands? What
about at home? I have a chart. A huge
chart, spelled out on a roll of butcher
paper which I took from a separate business. (A critic cannot interfere by stealing from the business on which he reports.)
Mr. Hubert Wing arises from bed at 8:15
each day. He goes out on his porch in his
underpants and undershirt and smokes a
cigarette, then goes back inside until
9:30. It is not always clear what he does
12
during this time, though his trash is filled
with American cereal product boxes,
such as Special K and Honey Crisp.
Empty milk cartons also appear in approximately related volume.
When he emerges from his door he
wears loose, ugly jeans, a t-shirt, and
black shoes that look like business shoes,
but not nice or classy. He walks 1.28
blocks to his “restaurant.” Once there, he
lazily inspects a few deliveries of meat
and vegetables, then turns on the lights.
At 11:30 he turns on the neon Corona
and Tsing Tao signs, but he can be up to
three minutes late in this. Once in the
last week he did not set out the inflatable
Corona palm tree with sand-filled base.
I go in when the Closed sign flips to
Man why you even got to do a thing.
Open. Sometimes I am right behind him,
which can confuse him. Maybe he is not
used to being so, “popular.” I am told to
sit anywhere. Two paper menus sit on
each table, tucked between the salt/
pepper shakers and the clear plastic tablestand which advertises the alcohol.
There is also Kikkoman soy sauce.
barely ordered. This angers me. I have
known cooks; I have cooked. It is a low
position. No life, no future. A cook is a
slave. I listen some more to confirm,
then stand from my place. I walk to the
Asian curtains which separate the
kitchen from the dining area, and see
what is occurring.
I decide on a taco and a chow mein. It is
the only way to test this restaurant fairly.
For the taco, I choose chicken. For the
chow mein, I choose beef. So as not to
seem of low mind. One cannot order the
same meat in two dishes (though I do
only want chicken). It seems unintelligent. It smacks of the amateur.
The cook stands at his station, combining ingredients. Mr. Wing sits in his
office, looking at papers. Neither sees
me.
“One cannot order
the same meat in
two dishes.... It
seems unintelli-
I feel like a tremendous fool. I am sure
that they are both watching my actions
on their closed-circuit security camera
system. Mr. Wing no doubt sees it all
plainly on his computer screen, out of
the corner of his eye. Clearly they have
seen me reacting to their play-acting of
anger and class-mistreatment, and have
quickly gone quiet and calm. This is a
ruse, and an affront to good decency.
Why they should single me out for torment like this is unforgivable. Were I to
stay, they would serve me the lowest,
most vile food, no doubt to exult as I
forced it down.
the amateur.”
I watch still, though, taking in what I
can. It seems the chef uses a floor-lever
to control the gas under his wok. It can
produce huge, jet-fuel heat. It seems
there is only one small exit from Mr.
Wing’s tiny office. A stack of dry linen
is on a table nearby. Interesting.
He takes my order and offers me a beer,
sake, or tequila. I choose tequila, as the
third choice is always best at a fine restaurant. He smiles as he notes this down.
I have made the right choice. I relax, and
admire the rack of newspapers.
I leave, I sprint. The cool night air feels
good on my arms, on my chest. Some
curls back to my shoulders, and the dark
sky is lit with very little moon. The
moon will wane completely in three
days—on a Sunday, when Mr. Wing
stays late, alone, to do his bookkeeping.
gent. It smacks of
There is yelling in the kitchen, and I
sense it is directed toward the chef. He
has not done anything wrong yet; I have
Don’t do that thing.
MR WING’S TACO:
13
FOOD & DINING
with Téodor Orezscu
THIS WEEK’S REVIEW: Dal’Saada
Dal’Saada
Moroccan/
Mediterranean
Opened 3/11/2007
Dal’Saada, the
highly anticipated
new Mediterraneanate that’s been
some time coming
on Avenue B, fills
Téodor Orezscu
out the old Chez
Tanner space. (For those keeping score,
Chez Tanner lost focus after head chef
Eric Tanner left for Vancouver, and
never righted itself under the more Asiatic focus of replacement chef Jesse
Knoxbow, who is now with Nam Pla on
Ellington.)
Large potted ficus lead one down the
long, whitewashed corridor of an entry
that greets the Dal’Saada patron. A low
Moroccan lighting plan calms and quiets
the mood. Quickly greeted with a smile,
we are offered our table, but having
heard that Mark Appleman is mixing at
the bar, we opt for a quiet round. After
all, we are early, and he is the area’s
preeminent mixologist.
Calvados with a Fuji granita and dash of
rose water—complete with a gentle,
fragrant petal from a Sally Holmes
rose—refreshes as it invigorates, and my
companion’s Guinness is poured expertly by Mr. Appleman himself. We
settle into one of many comfortably situated black-stained padded Burmese teak
lounge chairs and relax over a conversation which concerns itself mainly with
emerging Internet platform standards. It
14
37 Grand Ave
is not my favorite topic, but the expert
mixology of Mr. Appleman nearly
makes me opinionated on the subject.
As soon as the last drop is drained from
our glasses, we are cheerily escorted to
our table, a banquette for two in a dimly
lit corner of the sexy North African dungeon-like main dining room. Our carefully tiled table is a mosaic with its complexity and artistry, as are most around
us. We are handed menus, and a busboy
in a long tunic and sandals immediately
fills our glasses with ice-cold water.
“...[We] relax over a
conversation which
concerns itself mainly
with emerging Internet
platform standards. It
is not my favorite
topic...”
My companion asks after the possibility
of a corned beef sandwich with fries, and
the busboy quickly assures him that our
waitress will be along shortly. I peruse
the menu. It’s a daring but comfortable
exploration of gourmet northern African
specialties. Phyllo cigars of spiced darkmeat chicken, braises of lamb and beef,
chickpea dishes strewn about the menu
Man why you even got to do a thing.
like a scattered handful of the namesake
bean...the opportunity to order, for the
first time in a long while, seems thrilling.
My companion turns the menu over and
over, remarking that restaurants which
don’t serve sandwiches “really ought to.”
He finally settles on a lamb stew with
moufkhata which I assure him will be
every bit like a shepherd’s pie. I know
that once the rich lamb casserole is set
before him, with its cinnamon and cardamom spicing and mashed potato crust,
he will be in heaven.
For myself I order the pigeon in darmalaata, a rich chocolate and pine nut
sauce, served over fragrant golden raisinSauternes orzo. It’s a combination that
cannot fail, given a chef who’s made it
more than once. To pair with the strong
sweet notes of the dish, I order a refreshing Lambrusco. Some might question a
frizzante here, but its sparkling sweetness does a good job of cleaning up after
the dish’s lingering chocolate and crisp,
salty skin.
As predicted, the lamb stew satisfies my
companion on deep, resonating levels,
and I find the pigeon cooked expertly,
with a faint taste of mesquite grilling.
The plating has been thought through
expertly, and there is never a mess. A
tablespoon of minced parsley with tangerine zest and garlic serves as garnish.
A lengthy discussion about gratuitous
sugars and fat in the American diet (a
conversation which I tried to avoid) puts
us off dessert, and the ill effects which
caffeine can have on my guest preclude
me from enjoying their already-fabled
coffees.
Dinner for two ran to $79 before tax and
tip, excluding coffee, appetizers (don’t
ask), and with one party having only one
Guinness instead of sharing wine.
Dal’Saada: * *
Don’t do that thing.
15
Horror in
BY AUTHOR
PETER H. CROPES
the
Micro-Age
Hello, my name is Peter
H. Cropes. You may know
me by such written works
as A Wonderful Tale and
A Hilarious Comedy. I’m
going to do something a
little different for you all
today - a “mini-story.” My
other stories were books,
and well-fashioned if I
can say, but I have been
offered the chance to try
something different here,
and I think I can make a
go of it. I have a feeling
that the shorter format
might just do the trick,
what with my newly acquired—and some say
fashionable—writer’s
block. I hope you stick
around just long enough
to find out.
Horror in the Micro Age - A Medical
Drama
Dan Geslington sat back from his
microscope and switched off the
powerful X-22 computer that it was
hooked up to. Its red-hot processors
whirred down, and soon the fans
were silent. The light on the tray of
the microscope flickered and grew
dark. It was the last that Dan would
see of the bizarre, ultra-deadly 9-10
kilovirus that day. He removed his
—PHC
16
sweaty goggles and shook his head
Man why you even got to do a thing.
like a wet dog.
“Time for a coffee and a sandwich,”
he thought. He knew just the place.
Ten minutes later Dan shambled
firing crouches. On the top of the
maternity wing a mean, mean lesbian
drew Dan into her crosshairs.
He froze. He knew the lesbians
into the Cody Red all-niter, which
would kill him no matter what. With
served mostly medical personnel,
the honor and dignity of a true doc-
and plunked down a five dollar bill
tor, he spread his arms and looked
for a cup of hot hard joe and a grilled
skyward, his eyes closed.
cheese. It was his usual thing, and
The lesbians unleashed a furious
the waitress just smiled and nodded.
storm of lead. As his body fell, they
Her neighbor had drowned six of his
advanced on it, continuing with open
own children that morning, and she
fire. When his remains were but
was glad to see something normal.
stains upon the pavement they ad-
“Oh, Florida.”
vanced upon his Jeep, annihilating
Suddenly, Dan got a code black on
every salvageable part of it before
his pager. Something was wrong back
setting it aflame. No part of the car
at the lab. Very wrong. Code blacks
would ever exist again, in any func-
were automated, they weren’t sent by
tioning vehicle.
personnel. This was screwed. A virus
had gotten loose.
Their job done, they went to a dark
lesbian club and drank hot beer long
Dan steered his humble 1983 Jeep
into the night. It was another victory
into a handicapped spot in the emer-
for the lesbians, and another loss for
gency bay and screeched to a stop.
decent-parking folks, or folks who
This was no time to worry about the
had a good excuse to park how they
lesbians who enforced parking. He
had to.
undid his lap belt and opened the
door.
“STOP IT RIGHT THERE!”
Back in Dan’s lab, the 9-10 kilovirus began to drip from its container—
began to gain in heat. Soon it was at
screamed a furious parking enforce-
a simmer, and not long after that a
ment lesbian. She fired six shots in
boil. An oblivious intern’s coat
the air and then rolled exactly six
brushed against the mess, and then
times, coming to a stop with her gun
she left work for the day, taking the
trained on him. Two more lesbians
train, taking two buses, shopping for
sprang through the air, their beads
dinner, and spreading a stripe of
drawn perfectly on him while they
death throughout the city.
somersaulted and landed in ideal
THE END...?
Don’t do that thing.
17
EROTIC
FICTION
3
By Ed E. “Steam Keys” Haskell
Darren was down by the pool.
He was completely shaved,
head to toe. Even his eyelashes were gone. That is how
hot and horny he was. He was
shaved “to the max,” as they
say in the adult industry. Not
every model wants to work
with a ‘maxer, but those that
do find themselves having a
wholly different experience.
Some liken it to having a fling
with an alien from before time
— like sleeping with God’s prototype for man, floating in a
bright white light. That is what
Liquida was about to experience. Or so some said.
Darren knelt on a foldedover terrycloth towel, playing
his GameBoy, rock hard like a
horizontal banana. Liquida, a
little scared, thought he
looked like a futuristic Nazi.
18
“Go on,” she told herself.
“He’s probably not a Nazi.”
Darren looked up. “Right
on!” he yelled. “All right!”
He hit pause and motioned
for her to come over to his
towel. She stood there awk-
Darren looked up.
“Right on!” he
yelled. “All right!”
wardly for a second, and then
he realized he needed to unfold the towel to make room
for her. “Awww yeah,” he
thought to himself, as he
spread the soft cloth out.
He handed her a bottle of
baby oil, to rub all over him
and herself. She marveled at
the smoothness of his head —
Man why you even got to do a thing.
no stubble, anywhere. He was
like a toy. She felt herself turn
the corner and get into this
guy, this way of being.
Soon her bright orange string
bikini was off and they were
oiling each other from head to
toe. The music thumped, and
the hot Miami sun beat down
on them. They would make
sweaty, strange love and then
“Awww yeah,” he
thought to himself...
jump in the pool. It would be
intense. It would be insane.
Suddenly, the sound of glass
breaking and doors being
kicked off their hinges made
her jerk back with a start. Before she knew what was happening, a dozen SWAT team
officers in black uniforms and
helmets had them surrounded,
pointing rifles from every direction. She instinctively put one
hand in the air, the other shyly
alternating between covering
her pubic area and her
breasts.
“DARREN MICHAELS! PUT
YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!
YOU ARE WANTED FOR THE
MURDER OF SAMUEL PAPEONIS! YOU HAVE THE RIGHT
TO REMAIN SILENT!”
Liquida shuddered to remember her earlier fear that
he might be a dangerous
Don’t do that thing.
Nazi. Samuel Papeonis had
been the prominent Haitian
owner of a downtown cinema, gunned down in cold
blood just three days ago!
“You’ll never get me alive!”
Darren screamed, running toward a nearby acacia which
hung over the fence. Several
officers tried to wrestle him to
the ground, but his slick, oiled
body gave them no friction,
and he practically squirted
out of their arms in his wriggling struggle for freedom. As
he climbed the tree for his
leap into the neighbor’s yard
a desperate officer grabbed
him by his erection, which
caused immediate ejaculation.
Darren slipped from the
stunned man’s grasp, jumped
the fence, and sprinted away.
There would be no more
erotic action that day. The
police questioned and released the nude Liquida, who
then went swimming, ate
some fruit that was on the
counter, and then drove
home in her 1988 Mazda 323.
19
The following conversation took place between Ray Smuckles and Téodor Orezscu, two men who stand on opposite ends of the hip hop spectrum. I was fortunate enough to be a fly on the wall—or rather, a guy on the couch.
Naturally, my tape was rollin’. –EEH
Rappin’
on
R
TÉODOR: [enters room where Ray is
playing a rap song, is in kind of a bad
mood] Ugh! How can you still listen to
this stuff? I mean, I thought it was kind
of funny in the 80s, but what gives?
We’re not seven anymore.
RAY: Man, don’t be steppin’ to my wax.
[LYRICS ISSUE FORTH FROM THE
RAP SONG]
SO I SHOT THAT BITCH WITH MY
ICE COLD GAT /
NOW I’M ROLLIN’ FIFTY DEEP
‘CAUSE THAT’S WHERE I’M AT /
YOU DON’T FUCK WITH NO NIGGA
WHEN HE’S HAD A BAD DAY /
ANY HO I SEE I’M GONNA BLOW
HER AWAY!
[THE SOUNDS OF GUNFIRE, SIRENS, AND A KOREAN GROCERY
STORE ROBBERY GONE HORRIBLY WRONG]
TÉODOR: That’s terrible! Why is rap
the conduit for proud stupidity, unconsidered hate, and poorly-provoked violence throughout the world?
RAY: Chicks love this stuff, and we
lettin’ people know where we at. You
gotta represent if you gonna be all that.
20
!
P
A
TÉODOR: Stop it, and turn this crap
off! If I hear one more idiot bragging
about how he’s an idiot I’m going to go
shut off the circuit to this room!
[LYRICS ISSUE FORTH FROM A
NEW RAP SONG]
I LIKE CRACK COCAINE
I PUT IT IN MY BRAIN
I LOOK INSIDE MY DRAWERS
THERE IS A HORRIBLE STAIN
TÉODOR: Look, see! If that were my
situation, I’d be ashamed. This guy, on
the other hand, wants to get the word out
to as many people as possible. That’s
retarded.
RAY: Dude sports the candiest bling, got
a Lincoln Navigator. Only drinks Cristal,
not even water. This is good stuff, man,
and the booty-ass hoes flock to it. Player
hangs a solid gold ice cube tray from his
rope, each compartment filled with a
fifty carat special-cut diamond. Chicks
craaaave on his money.
Man why you even got to do a thing.
!
P
A
TÉODOR: So what? Don’t you get that
his music is encouraging everyone to be
a dangerous moron? It’s about the downward collective motion of art as it affects
society.
TÉODOR: What’s ten minus three-point
-five?
RAY: I can’t get with that, man. The
booty-ass ho supply gonna dry up like a
two-drip piss, they hear somebody
talkin’ like that.
TÉODOR: Jesus.
TÉODOR: Can you do
subtraction?
RAY: Yeah, if I wanna see
my hoes back away with
their palms facin’ me.
RAY: Somewhere around seven. I forget
which side.
[LYRICS ISSUE FORTH FROM A
NEW RAP SONG]
I WEAR A COAT AND TIE
HARVARD DID NOT DENY
MY WISH TO LUCUBRATE
THEY DID FACILITATE
[Ray and Téodor turn and stare at the
stereo]
EEH: That’s one of mine. I slipped it in
while you two were having the most
pointless argument on the planet.
RAY: That was tight, man!
TÉODOR: You’d sell out American
culture for some booty-ass hoes who
can’t balance a checkbook and have no
hope of ever spelling “incongruous”?
RAY: Dude, watch out wit’ yo’ lame
self. I bet three outta five tries I’d screw
that bad boy up too, and I ain’t no bling
bling Bee-Bee-Double-You mama trout
on some pimp’s hook.
TÉODOR: But you can balance your
checkbook.
RAY: I ain’t need to. My M.O. is to
always, constantly make tons of money
by selling hip hop albums; that way,
there’s always more money in the bank
than I need to spend.
TÉODOR: Can you do subtraction?
RAY: Yeah, if I wanna see my hoes back
away with their palms facin’ me.
Don’t do that thing.
TÉODOR: That won’t have any commercial appeal, I’m afraid. And what’s
with the stupid monotonous beat? Is that
sampled from another rap song?
EEH: What rap song isn’t another rap
song?
TÉODOR: Fine, I’m just saying, why
contribute to the problem.
RAY: You know, they got these rappers
outta Caius College, Cambridge, and
they messin’ with the rude-ass scholar
angle. They got some wicked rhymes
that NOBODY would EVER think of.
I’m talkin’, like, rhymin’ “annihilate”
with “decimate,” hard stuff like that.
EEH: Decimate means to reduce by one
tenth. Annihilate means to destroy completely. Unless they’re contrasting the
meanings, they’re not that bright.
...continues
21
RAY: Dude, I’m pretty sure they were
playin’ it like a contrast. These guys had
some pretty posh accents. On their
iTunes photo they are hella sportin’
school blazers, all with that crest on the
chest pocket. Way Harry Potter, but
more recent, you dig? Like if Harry wasn’t a dork. Seriously—I think some of
their rhymes were about World War II.
TÉODOR: Mentioning a complicated
subject doesn’t make you complicated. I
could rap about the economy and it
wouldn’t mean I was important.
RAY: The economy! / is hella gay! /
how come ain’t nothin’ / never goes my
way!
TÉODOR: See, exactly. That was stupid.
It mentioned the economy, but it didn’t
expand on the subject.
RAY: Dude, were you listening? It was
about a guy who’s down on his luck
because of the economy, and he knows
that unless things get better, his position’s gonna stay pretty bad! Blues was
the same way, and you GOT to respect
the blues!
TÉODOR: Well, at least in the blues
they played real instruments.
RAY: Alright, man, I got to call BS on
that one. Some of these keyboards and
drum machines can be hella hard to hook
into a mixing board, let alone find the
demos to sample. Rappers today got
WAY more challenges than an old blues
guy who just had to drink too much,
have regrets, and play the bottom two
strings on his guitar. Plus, I ain’t even
mentioned some of the websites you got
to follow to know what the latest samples are.
TÉODOR: You’re talking about stuff
that can be learned and then demonstrated by a regular brain in about fifteen
seconds. In order to play convincing
blues, you actually have to have an emotional and experiential depth to your life.
You don’t do it by posing like a guy in a
picture from a magazine that you found
on the ground outside a convenience
store.
RAY: By the time I learn a lotta these
machines, I got genuine blues, dogg.
TÉODOR: Jesus. I’m leaving.
EEH: Seriously man the blues was all
about a guy drinkin’ too much and his
lady left him for a man with a new hat.
EEH: And that’s the wrap on the rap on
rap. Hrap! FIN
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22
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Man why you even got to do a thing.
Ed E. Haskell’s Extremely Self-Indulgent
List of How to Get
Into Real Punk Rock
and Not that Modern
Kid Stuff That is Microwaved Leftovers
Twenty Years Too Late
1. 7 Seconds
2. Angry Samoans
3. Dead Kennedys
4. Operation Ivy
5. The Misfits
6. The Clash
7. DRI
8. Social Distortion
9. The Damned
10. The Minutemen
* You will notice I do not include the
Sex Pistols because they were more of
an act than a band.
** Sorry to The Descendents, I wish I
had chosen Top 11.
*** Yeah, I know, Dead Milkmen and
stuff. Bitchin’ Camaro was good, but it
was kind of gimmicky. That stuff is
usually comedy more than punk. Almost Dr. Demento.
**** Circle Jerks had a nasty name, but
a lot of bands were approximately of
this unimportant quality level.
Greckensmer
...Continued from page 7
EEH: I would love to. Thank you.
HG: Elza! Mehr!
[Soon, Elza appears with large platters of
buttered bread and speck. Garnishing the
center of each platter is a large steaming
hogs’ knuckle studded with cloves and
bay leaf. It looks like a hedgehog that
has died in a plane crash. Brown mustard
is served in crocks, alongside. We end
the evening singing and sipping homemade apple schnapps until Mr. Greckensmer falls against a pillar and goes to
bed. I am not doing too well at all and
Elza knows this, so she shows me to the
sun porch where she has prepared a bed,
complete with those black nighttime
sleepy-shades that old women wore in
old movies. The next morning I wake up
surprisingly alright around 6:30, and I
look out the window to see Mr. Greckensmer, shirtless, grunting and shoveling
dirt for a new retaining wall around his
garden. In the kitchen, I see that he has
already breakfasted on a platter of cold
cuts, cheeses, hard-boiled eggs, beets,
and smoked whitefish. Elza invites me to
partake, with a “Such late schleepink! I
worry you are a bit kranken mit sniffles
or some kalt!” I figure this is how to do
it up right so I eat some of the proteins
and wander out to thank the guy for the
time.] —EEH
*** The Germs never produced even a
single song that you could get into for
more than six seconds.
** JFA and Drunk Injuns, you had the
worst A&R men ever, because you are
barely even on Google.
* No Means No: man so boring these
guys are like the literary theory of punk
rock, totally making you bored by what
does not matter.
Don’t do that thing.
23
concert review
Nowhere, my house
October 1, 2007
PLAYLIST: He Slept All Day / Tommy With the Gunside
Ale / Bill Knows What Bill Thinks / Toecatcher / Stuffing
Socks Into My Stage Boots / My Method of Beauty / Glossconvict / When the Pages Weigh Too Much / BathroomTell
at Suicide Mansion / That Opera Hasn’t Played Here Since
1863 / The Bullet Took the Last Train Out of Town / How
Tom Combo Thinks / Bodie / Bodie (reprise)
Yeah, the Tenmen are off in Europe this
fall, so I just cooled it at home and put
together one of my favorite playlists from
all their oldest albums. They came a long
way but sometimes not at all...I mean, they
wrote Toecatcher for their first album but
then My Method of Beauty is basically the
same idea all over again, without being a
rehash of the same formula. Anyhow I just
got this goin’on the laptop over some headphones, stretched out on the living room
carpet, and turned out the lights. Molly was
at work for six more hours, Ray was at some
dinner for the Mayor, and the rest of the
dudes were at some flick. It was bliss on a
candlestick, and damned if I wasn’t that
asleep kind of awake for an hour, settin’
up a picnic blanket next to a pure river of
notes.
FORTUNE COOKIE CORNER: A child with no nicknames
will grow up plain and calm.
A st u de n t f i l m
Tr é -o do r t h o u g h t o f :
Ch
od d in g
T od d , T
ubbin’ In Vain (1983)
Six chicks from CU Boulder
get
chubby in the hopes of win
ning over
six bachelors, but they are
misinformed: the men do not like
chubby
women. When the six wom
en finally
come down the sidewalk to
meet the
men, the men have a prim
al panic
attack, look at one anothe
r’s eyes
briefly, and then walk faster
than the
women are walking, in the
same
direction.
was hell of
Hans Greckensmer
rted rockin’
sta
he
e
onc
laughin’
the Schnapps
From my hard drive
24
Man why you even got to do a thing.