Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine
Volume VI, Issue 5, AD MMI
Monday, June 18, 2001
ISSN 1482-0471
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"I am sitting here contemplating PS2 rumble technology, and thinking 
of a game that could work with a PS2 vibrator.  

I bet it would be a big hit in Japan." - Jason

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[20:12] *** bahnoo (r@205.150.60.180) has joined #scriba
[20:12] *** sheerkhan sets mode: +o bahnoo
[20:12] <bahnoo> HELLLLLLLLOOOOOOO
[20:12] <bahnoo> Hows idle chat doing
[20:12] <bahnoo> Lots of non chatting going on round here
[20:12] <bahnoo> Kinda ironic considering its a chat room.
[20:13] <bahnoo> I meen, would you go on a skiing trip and not 
ski?..Of course not...unless your just a big poseur trying to pick 
up chicks by walking around with a set of very expensive skies you 
borrowed from your rich uncle who tends to sleep with woman half his 
age.
[20:13] <bahnoo> For example
[20:26] *** bahnoo (r@205.150.60.180) Quit

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1.  Editorial
2.  Two and a half days of Greyhound
3.  Graduation Party
4.  CoN at the Movies
-------------------------------------------

This week's Golden Testicle award:

http://divine-interventions.com/

Heavenly orgasms

-------------------------------------------

1. Editorial
By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro

As some of you may have read in the last issue of CoN, or heard me 
discuss more often than it is humanly required to talk about 
(special thanks to all the support from my friends that lent me that 
ear), I was laid off from my last job.  I worked for Gamesmania.com, 
a gaming site, where I wrote silly reviews of games and hardware in 
laymen terms, permitting even the biggest of retards to understand 
them.

I served a wonderful audience of pre-pubescent, under-aged, annoying 
little brats incapable of writing a small sentence with the proper 
use of the English language.  These same kids go around calling 
themselves "gamers".

I fucking hated them.

Now, I should clarify.  I loved my job, especially because I love 
writing.  I loved the people I worked with.  Including my boss.  I 
definitely did not love Hip, the company that I worked for.

When on Monday I was told that Friday would be my last day, I didn't 
feel upset, regret, homicidal urges or the desire to burn down the 
company (I felt that for the whole time I worked there, mind you).  
I felt relieved.  You know when you're taking a shit, and it's one 
of those massive ones that you swear, the next piece is going to 
make you bleed?  Once you're done you feel 10 pounds lighter, and 
twice as happy.   That's how relieved I felt.

When you work for a company that to show an improvement on profits 
for the investors is willing to get rid of 90% of a department and 
expects the sole surviving member to do it all, you know you're 
better off unemployed.  So my desk, which for more than a year was a 
torn on management's side due to the large piles of press releases, 
print outs, computer parts and an insane amounts of stuffed goats, 
became suddenly empty (my desk, apparently, did not give visiting 
investors a good impression, said management).

On Tuesday I came to work, all happy with a big smile on my face.  
For the second time in my life, I was happy to go to work again (the 
first being, when I was starving and they hired me).  The first 
thing I heard about, is that management noticed my empty desk and 
made the brilliant logical deduction that someone had told me I was 
going to be laid off.  Considering the kind of management I've had, 
this is truly an outstanding conclusion for them, and I must give 
them credit for arriving to it in such a short period of time.

We're talking about people, that during a meeting asked the 
difference between two Internet protocols, and I described their 
differences by using the same example for each.  And they all nodded 
in understanding.

My manager, unfortunately, admitted he had told me, and was promptly 
asked to resign for improper conduct.  I didn't understand this need 
for secrecy, until I went to work and discovered that all my access 
had been revoked.  "In fear of retaliation" I was told.  Did it 
occur to any of these clowns that the site was already destroyed?  A 
year and a half in development and this "dynamic" site relied solely 
on my skills of hard-coding pages in HTML.  Our webmaster had done a 
better job in that time, than I could've done in a day with the 
delete key, if I wanted to.

Finally, after some talks from my soon-to-be-former manager, they 
agreed that I wasn't as dangerous as they thought and I'd be and 
granted my access again.  Ironically, I had more work that week, 
than I had any other time, especially considering I was trying to 
prepare everything so that the Editor in Chief, the sole remaining 
employee of Gamesmania, would not commit ritual Seppuku on his 
second day alone.

Some people had no clue what was happening, so there would be 
instances where I'd finish a job for someone else, and they'd be 
like "Oh, I'm tired today, can we finish it off first thing on 
Monday?"  "Yeah, sure" whatever, like I'm going to care.  I could've 
told them that I and half of my team were getting canned, but 
management wanted the utmost secrecy, as if it was some sort of 
shame for them.

Even weirder were the co-workers that feared talking to you after 
the news of the lay-off spread (nobody was supposed to know, but 
everyone knew).  As if, getting terminated, is some sort of venereal 
disease you can catch just by talking to someone.  And they would be 
really obvious about it.  You'd ask a question, they'd walk away, no 
matter how loud you'd call their name.  It made me that much happier 
to get laid off.

Some of the people that I occasionally worked with in the IT 
department, were overwhelmingly nice.  They immediately called 
friends to see if there were any openings, tried their best to be 
supportive and were overly upset about what was happening.  We had a 
few beers that night, talking as always about the evils of the 
Exchange server.  It may not seem like much, but when you begin to 
think that your next rent may be the last one you get to pay, stuff 
like this makes you feel a heck of a lot better.

Friday went by just like any other day in the office.  Once 
finished, I deleted my mail folder (nobody needs to read the e-mails 
I send to my girlfriend with explicit and colourful descriptions of 
what I intended to do to her at any given night), turned off the 
computer, and removed the last bit of remaining stuff that marked my 
area since 1996.  And I left.

So now I'm on my extended vacation, sending stacks of portfolios to 
other magazines, and talking to head hunters, all giving me the 
"there is no work for people with your skills".  And I've had so 
much more time, that I've mastered several new Linux skills.  
Installed security programs.  Went to war with some hacker kid that 
is determined to bring my cheesy website down.  Finished about a 
zillion things I was too tired to finish when I would come back from 
work.

And I'm thinking, fuck web, maybe working StarBucks won't be as 
annoying.  No more management with no clues on what a website should 
be like. No young inarticulate arrogant pricks reading your reviews 
on a product and sending you hate mail to which you still have to 
reply nicely, because being older than them, means I don't know 
twice as much as what they know.  No more corporate insanity seeking 
every possible opportunity to crawl up your ass and give you a 
strong but firm buggering.   And at StarBucks, while it's not 
company policy to do so, you can always spit in the coffee of the 
customer that annoys you the most.

Enjoy this extremely long issue.

-------------------------------------------

2. Two and a half days of Greyhound
By Richard Campbell

It started in Las Vegas. City of drugs, hookers, loners, losers, 
gamblers, RV owners, users, doers, shakers and boozers.  The drive 
took about 3 hours where I was dropped off at the bus station.

Customer service was superb if you love waiting 48 minutes behind a 
woman with an ungodly amount of children trying to convince the 
clerk that sending 4 kids under the age of 14 in the dead of night 
to California is good idea.

Stained T-shirt, overweight, buck tooth, sloping brow and complete 
loss of the ability to reason from years of alcohol abuse. I stood 
there enjoying the pleasant fragrance of 2 years of complete 
hygienic depravity. This man would speak to me in English as if it 
where read upside down. It really wouldn't have been so bad if it 
weren't for the fact that I was told that I didn't need to print out 
a laser printed version of my bus ticket.

Back to my duffel bag, a massive thing it was. I decided to pack 
light so 50 lbs. seemed okay. That is compared to the original 40lbs 
duffel bag coupled with the 90 lbs. crate I decided to bring to the 
states earlier that year. If I could give advice right about now, it 
would be to pack as light as you can. I'm talking lunch bag sized 
quantities here. For every pound of useless shit you kid yourself 
you need, you add ten pounds of stress. That is, if stress where a 
measurable unit, which frankly, I think it should be.

The bus arrives, hustle and bustle. On the bus, find a place sit 
down and relax. Take a look outside, enjoy the site of leaving Las 
Vegas. Think about the song that has that exact phrase in it, try to 
remember who sang it. Then out of boredom, talk to the guy beside 
you.

Denis

Now Denis is a very nice guy, I enjoyed talking to him for extended 
periods of time. He made the trip that much more tolerable. He was a 
hick, lived out of a RV. Had a stripper for a girlfriend and had 
some rather twisted theories, but then again we all do. We talked a 
bit, as strangers do, asking very vague and unimportant questions. 
Where are you coming from, where are you going, why are you going 
there, stop touching me. Its kinda like the "how's the weather" 
small talk tailored for Greyhound voyaging.

So we talk about gun control, being the redneck that he is, was very 
angry about legislation and truly enjoyed his firearms. The 
conversation got rather interesting when we got into the area of 
parenting and then communism.

Parenting

Denis had a little one-year old girl put into his care for about 3 
years for reasons beyond my recollection.  Now I do agree that the 
spanking of children is a useful way to make a child understand that 
being bad results in pain.  Because a child learns so many other 
useful lessons the same way (like doing it anyway, and not getting 
caught).

What I wasn't too crazy about was when he said:
"I tough Melissa (the child) to shoot a gun at the age of 3. I tough 
her gun safety and I think she really understands the dangers of a 
gun and has greatly matured because of it."

Yes that may be true, but there's a certain degree of complete utter 
fucked updness in teaching a 3 year old too shoot a fucken' gun. No 
matter how good the outcome is.

I agree that education is a key part of gun safety, but for fuck's 
sake, there IS a time and place for everything. You couldn't make a 
bigger redneck stereotype out of yourself then teaching a 3-year-old 
to shoot a gun. 

Communism

Now as we all know, communists eat babies and bath in the blood of 
the innocent. They live without electricity or running water and 
have no governmental structure what so ever. Or so thinks the 
average American. I probably heard crazier theories from this guy 
then from an X-Files show, starring a drunken David Duchovny.

Communist Theory: The Russians and Chinese send over young men to 
infiltrate high-schools and Colleges to coherce them into drinking 
and drugs, allowing the creation of a stupider and easier to 
manipulate society, so that introducing and establishing communism 
in America would be easy as gespatcho.

He then followed with an example of a college party he went too 
where a bunch of girls where drinking and this Chinese guy was there 
urging them to drink and smoke pot, supplying both at a steady rate. 
The average schmoe would of course think "Hey, that fat Chinese guy 
is getting those woman high and drunk in hopes of getting laid 
tonight since he's so fucken' lame ".

But of course the smart American redneck sees right past that 
initial impressions and digs deeper into the situation and unveils 
its communist undertones. Of course he also accused Clinton of being 
a communist... but then everyone knows that.

Now don't get me wrong, Denis is a smart guy. He really is. He is 
very loyal to his country, a great person to talk too and could most 
likely be a very good friend. He always had something to say, ever 
ready to elaborate on any topic. Which brings me to a very 
interesting story he told me about his father.

Denis` Father

It seems that his father was a businessman of sorts who spends a 
large amount of time travelling across the united states. On one 
occasion a very sad event happened, which, of course, are always the 
very best kinds.

It seems his father, for some reasons beyond comprehension at the 
time, made little dots on a map he used. Sometimes the dots where in 
on the interstate, far away from any noticeable landmark. Sometimes 
the dots where placed all around a city. Very peculiar indeed.

The wife found this map one day and she asked Denis` father about 
them. He invented some cock-eyed story about things he saw of 
interest that he wanted to make sure to note if he where ever to 
return on that same route.

His wife wasn't a complete and total moron, and immediately realised 
that every dot represented a conquest. The wife did not appreciate 
this personalised map one bit. But, she still tolerated it and gave 
him one last shot with married life.  And its not to say that this 
isn't very nice of her, no, if it weren't for the fact that there 
were over one hundred dots on this map... And so the story ends 
there.

Actually, not quite. For it seems the husband didn't learn his 
lesson and would incriminate himself to the point of stupidity. 
About 6 months later he went on another business trip to Hawaii. He 
came back a few weeks later and the family decided to go on vacation 
in their RV. At some point during the trip the wife decided to video 
tape the vacation for keepsake.

She found the camera and pulled out the tape that was in it, popped 
it in the VCR to make sure that it wasn't anything important. To her 
suprise and to everyone else's in that RV, upon the screen, came the 
vision of Denis` father nailing some Hawaiian booty. Awkward moments 
are hard to create, but you just can't make this stuff up. Of 
course, after seeing this incriminating evidence, she finally asked 
for divorce.

Denis elaborated on the conversation he and his dad had about his 
worldwide sex tromp. I think that the father couldn't resist and 
showed his own son a briefcase full of photos of his past 
accomplishments. It was his treasure trove of interstate sexcapades. 
Hundreds upon hundreds of photos ranging from nude to hardcore. Of 
course owning a penis, he was obligated to browse through them. Not 
too long though, just enough to find 3 photos of his mom giving head 
to what most likely was his dads cock.

I do hope Denis is doing fine in life, living in his RV in the 
middle of the desert, having wild nights drinking with his stripper 
girlfriend and avidly spreading his core American beliefs. Here's to 
you Denis.

Post Denis events:
The obese man siting right across the aisle from me

The obese man was wearing what seemed to be a train conductor 
uniform.  He fit the description of a jolly fat man.  But he was far 
from jolly.

He snored and had terribly foul odours seeping out of every single 
one of his orifices. From snippets of conversations I listened too, 
it seems this man would spend 6 months out of the year riding 
Greyhound busses to several American destinations to eventually pick 
up a RV and drive them to the dealership that ordered it.

He could be the most brilliant homeless man I have ever met. He did 
fit every other characteristic of being homeless.... So anyway, 
between driving other peoples future homes on wheels from one place 
to another, and most likely watching porno on someone else 
entertainment system, he occupied his time with truffle hunting.  
That's right, truffle hunting.

He would spend hours just looking at topographical maps, nodding and 
wincing at them. He spent a great deal of time doing this, even 
though he wrote nothing down... I think he did this in hopes that 
someone would be intrigued by his Indiana Jonesesque prowess and 
would eventually ask him just what the hell he was doing.  And of 
course, someone did...

He went into great detail on this subject as if he knew what the 
fuck he was talking about. Which I really don't think he did. I 
truly believe this was a ruse. Why do I say that? Because after it 
was general knowledge to most passengers that he hunted truffles, he 
made several offers to mothers asking if their children would be 
interested in truffle hunting as well. He offered very good pay, and 
I'm sure the mother was very impressed by this "entrepreneur".

To me, it seemed like nothing more than a simple tactic to get a 
bunch of children in his secluded cabin in the woods under parental 
consent.

Constantly late and snortin' coke

On every single one of our stops, we had one girl who was always 
tardy. ALWAYS. She would hold up the bus for 3-6 minutes every 
single time. And she was always, it seemed, tied up in the bathroom.

Well I don't have to say that it was pretty obvious that she had 
some sort of drug addiction. While everyone would get off and smoke 
a cigarette near the bus or restaurant, she would stroll off from 
everyone's view and come back twice as happy. I don't think I'm 
being petty. I honestly don't care what you inject into your brain. 
But damn... how impudent do you have to be to make 46 passengers 
wait 6 minutes while you feed an addiction that is owned entirely by 
you.

Two fat lesbians

Yes, two fat lesbians. For about one day, I sat four seats away from 
two very enormous women who would kiss each others double chins and 
hug as much as they could of each other.

Which isn't a bad thing if you happen to be blind.

It seemed like the point of their voyage together was to get into a 
fight at every single break-station. Most of the time the fights 
where food related. Sometimes it had to do with other important 
things, like food, as well as the often-neglected topic of food.

For example, on of the incredibly obese lesbians bought a doughnut, 
it wasn't very good, she told her very significant other about it 
and she insisted she bring it back for a refund... lots of yelling 
and crying then groping ensued. After one of these often-
entertaining squabbles you could watch in horror as they splurged on 
food, while groping and sucking crumbs out of each other's neck 
folds.

Baseball stats in only 12 hours

We stooped in Denver and three 20 year olds got on the bus. One of 
them had a glove and a baseball, and it seemed that he had to throw 
the baseball into his glove every 10 seconds or some terrible 
consequence would result (such as an unfortunate accident involving 
me cramming it up his ass).

Not much to say about these three except that they talked very 
loudly about baseball for 12 hours.  Naming and reciting every 
single useless piece of garbage baseball factoid in existence.  They 
played many quiz games involving baseball and also played with a 
deck of cards with baseball players on the back. Of course they 
talked about other things as well.  No one could talk non-stop about 
something as trivial as baseball without changing topics at least 
once. One guy asked who was the greatest NHL player.  The answer of 
course was Wayne Gretsky.

Elvis has osteoporosis

On thing I did forget to mention was Daren. Daren is a 43-year-old 
man who looks exactly like Elvis Presley who lives in Vegas.  Make 
due note that looking like Elvis is Vegas is like wearing nothing 
but overalls in Missouri.  No one really notices until you leave 
your city or state.

Daren had a crippling back disease that made him slouch over quite a 
bit, which was actually quite flattering to his initial appearance. 
He had that slouch slash one foot stomp that only cowboys and drunks 
possess. He was going to Denver to have his back worked on because 
he was in so much pain. Which was virtually unnoticeable if it 
wasn't for the fact that he was taking the strongest available 
painkillers crooked-back doctors could prescribe.

Daren smoked with one arm resting on any object he could find and 
the other hand glued to his lips while puffing furiously on his cig. 
He would smoke it to the filter and then some. He was a very 
pleasant person, if you took the three seconds to talk to him, 
something most people didn't do.  By the first 12 hours, cliques had 
already formed and some of them started to make fun of Daren's walk 
and general pinkyness of his lips, contributed to the litres of 
Pepto-Bismol he drank.

It actually astounded me that adults of 25 and up would make small 
remarks and giggle at the misery of another human being. I left 
Denver with a lasting impression of what a man who looks like Elvis 
could be and I truly believe I shall never judge another Elvis look-
alike ever again... unless there fat.

Candadanada

After spending about 2 hours in Chicago, whoever was left got on the 
bus for blessed Canada. While I waited, a man in his early twenties 
starting speaking to me.  I was quite used to talking with complete 
strangers by now so I thought, eh, what the hell. I learned many 
things after a few minutes of conversation. 

Most notable: he has been on the road for 4 days from Cancun, his 
girlfriend stole most of his money and his car, he had an 
outstanding warrant out for his arrest in Mexico for some unknown 
reason. He told me a few tales about the Federalis and the craziness 
of Mexico, which would take entirely too long to get into.

After the 2-minute drive under one of the Great Lakes, lets say 
Michigan, we arrived at the border office. Went smoothly, the guy 
with the outstanding warrant got in Canada as easily as an Arabian 
terrorist claiming asylum at a BC airport.

I was going to sleep in the last row of seats since there's three of 
em and much more room to nap. Impulsively I decided not too which 
was a good choice on my part for the following reason: A man who 
looks like he came straight out of a Second City skit sat there 
instead, with earmuffs and bright green and red toque.

It was a very comical look that I'm sure the man was quite unaware 
of.  Not that Second City is funny, which it is most certainly not. 
Though it did launch the career  of many participants of the comedy 
series. Most notably John Candy, Rick Moranis, Dave Thomas and 
Martin Short who all had minor to sub-superstar roles in many films 
whose titles escape my mind except for "Honey I Shrunk the Kids". 

The only reason I remember "Honey I shrank the kids" was because I 
saw it when I was 12 and had many fantasies involving being small, 
giant, invisible and invincible. So the movie itself pretty much 
blew my mind, much like "Who Framed Roger Rabbit" did, but without 
the appeal of cartoon booty.

So this guy sits behind me, thinking he's the most brilliant fucker 
in the world. Like no one has ever given the thought of sleeping on 
3 seats instead of two. Too my delight another man decided to covet 
the rear seat and ruin the asshole's chances to a decent sleep.

It was great till he took his anger out on me. You see this bastard 
was sitting right behind me. And kept on kicking my seat and pushing 
and acting very childish in the way a little kids forces his knees 
into the rear seat of a car to make a stand that he need more room. 
Well that bastard ruined about 2 hours of my night and I almost 
smacked him.

I would have if it weren't for the fact that the guy beside him was 
still awake. I eventually moved. I finally fell asleep to the 
soothing rhythmic sounds of Mexican Rage Against The Machine, passed 
to me by the guy from Cancun... "Mues locco in da Coco....". 
Probably wrong... which is okay since I'm not Mexican. Which is a 
good thing I guess, worthy of putting on my resume... right beside 
"Can't whistle" and "Looks like Brendan Frasier".

In retrospect, it's important to enjoy travelling.  No matter how 
excruciating it is, just remember that someone is enjoying it as 
much as you and chances are he's gonna let you know. Oh yeah, and if 
you decide to do the bus thing, bring a goddamn pillow. You'll give 
me big kiss when you come back.

---
"A typewriter is a magnificent apparel. Each letter seems to snap 
into existence, made solid with indelible ink. There is an overall 
sense of accomplishment with a typewriter that seems to be lost in 
handwriting or computer text programs.  A rhythm, a beat. No after 
thought, no backspace. Only continuos thought leaping from your 
fingers tips."  Richard can be reached at: 
richarddavidcampbell@hotmail.com

-------------------------------------------

3.  Graduation Party
By Dan Foster

There is a reason I don't have children:  I don't like them.  My 
siblings hold an opposing view, judging by their breeding habits.  
Either that, or they're incredibly sloppy, considering the sizes of 
their families.  A few nights ago, one of my nieces graduated from 
high school.  My sister made the expected large commotion of the 
event, sending out invitations for the graduation ceremony and 
spending weeks planning a party that was to take place afterward.  
Work forced me to miss the ceremony, but I eventually made it to the 
party.

Angela, my niece, the newly graduated, is a fine, attractive, and 
outgoing girl, polite to her elders and reasonably open-minded for 
someone her age.  When I showed up at her house at one-thirty in the 
morning, she was still these things, only drunk.  Not having seen 
her very often over the last five years, I was surprised to find 
myself thinking that kids grow up very fast.  Parents say that 
often, always sounding overly dramatic and a bit regretful, but that 
doesn't take away from the reality of aging.  One day your child is 
six months old and pissing her pants because she's not yet toilet 
trained and the next your child is eighteen years old and pissing 
her pants because she's drunk.  Who's to say one reason for 
involuntary urination is more valid than the other?

When I first arrived at my sister's house, I was greeted by my 
brother-in-law Steve, taking a smoke break out on the front lawn.  I 
asked how the day and party went.  He said the party was still 
going, and if I played my cards right, I could "get going," too.  
I've never been very good at cards.

After giving my congratulatory wishes to Angela, I went about the 
party talking to all the other eighteen year olds as they did their 
best to drink as much as they possibly could.  Empty bottles lined 
every available shelf and table.  Kids were piled on top of kids, 
thick comforters obscuring the movements underneath.  Out back, 
three torches illuminated the metal table and chairs as the 
occupants joked and argued endlessly and pointlessly, frequently 
forgetting sentences midway, or being cut off by someone louder and 
more drunk than themselves.

I took a bottle of beer from a cooler and approached the group 
outside.

"Who is it?  Who's there?"  A girl called, surprisingly hearing my 
steps over the sounds of laugher and clanking bottles.

"It's me," I said, obviously.  "Uncle Dan."

"Hey, Unca Dan."  Disappointed at finding I was not the person she 
had hoped me to be, she turned back to her friends.

I've never cared much for the title of "uncle:" it reminds me of old 
men who distribute quarters and call everyone "slugger."  I used it 
here, if only because it gives me the aura of a good-natured 
pedophile.  Kids do appreciate older folks who share common 
interests, after all.

A boy staggered over to me.  He looked all of ten years old.
"Daaaaannnn!  What's up?"
"I'm up.  How's it going?"
"It's...  all good.  This is my fourteenth beer, and I only weigh a 
hundred and forty pounds!"
"Quite an accomplishment," I said.  
"Fuck yeah!  Maybe I'll--"  He stopped, trying to focus.  "Dude!  
What is that?"

He pointed to my cigarette filter.  I've used it for the last 
decade, and it still draws comments wherever I go.
"It's a filter," I said.
"What's it do?"
"Filters."
"Dude..."  He took another drink.  "My name's Dan.  What's yours?"  
He held out an unsteady hand.  I shook it.
"The same."
"What?"

I looked around the yard, stopping at the above-ground pool.  Steam 
hovered silently above the still water.  My sister and her husband 
bought this house last summer, wanting a larger living space than 
their apartment offered. The house, full-sized with interesting 
architecture, sits on a huge lot twenty-four miles west of the city.  
Their only neighbor is a hundred feet away.  This style of country 
living is far too remote from civilization for my tastes, but I 
understand that most prefer a home in a quiet area, away from the 
stresses of daily life.

In the dim light, I tried to make out the faces of the other kids.  
They all seemed relaxed and happy, although alert for something 
more.  Whether that was sex or a fight, I couldn't tell.  There were 
more boys than girls, which when mixed with alcohol always makes for 
a potentially dangerous situation.

"Is that where you work?" Dan asked, looking at the restaurant 
insignia on my shirt.
"Yes.  I just finished a thirteen hour double."
"Dude!  My sister works there!  You know Angie?"
I could not think of anyone named Angie who worked with me.  I 
considered the few people whose names I did not know.  "Is she a 
hostess?"
"Yeah!  That's her!  You know her?"

I could suddenly see the similarities between him and a very quiet, 
pleasant-faced hostess who didn't speak very much.  She rarely spoke 
to me, most probably because of some of the things I'd said to her.  
All in good humor, of course.

"No, I don't talk to her very often.  I think I offender her."
"What'd you say to my sister?" Dan asked, his voice rising with the 
socially expected defensive tone of one defending the honor of a 
sibling.
"I said I'd like to stuff her and mount her on my mantle.  She is 
quite attractive, you know."
Dan considered this a moment.  "Yeah..." he said, nodding his head.

Ever since I took this restaurant job a few months ago, I've been 
continually amazed by the coincidences that surround it.  Friends of 
relatives and relatives of friends I've not seen in years have 
turned up there, both as employees and guests.  And now, here, in 
the middle of nowhere, I find myself having a conversation with the 
drunken brother of a girl I didn't know, yet felt inclined to 
compliment in an unusual way.

"Wait `til I tell her I saw you, man," he continued.  "Dan the man.  
I saw Dan the Man!"

Words could not express how tired I am of hearing "Dan the Man."  It 
only serves to remind me how unoriginal and tiresome humanity can 
be.

"Yes, that's right," I said.  "But there are several guys named Dan 
at the restaurant."
"What's your last name?"
"It doesn't matter.  You won't remember it.  Just tell your sister 
it's the Dan with the huge cock."  I held my hands up, two feet 
apart, for emphasis.  "Got it?"
"Huuuuggee cock!" he repeated, mimicking my gesture.  He laughed and 
took another drink.
I took advantage of the lapse in conversation to go into the house.  

In the kitchen two boys and three girls stood around my niece, who 
was playing a pinball game on a laptop.
"Uncle Danny, look what I got for graduation."
She held up the laptop with unsteady arms.  Two of her female 
friends said "Unca Dan" for no apparent reason.
"Very nice," I said, honestly.  It was a new model, compact and 
clean.  I was concerned she would drop it in her less than sober 
state.  She didn't, managing to keep it balanced in her lap as one 
digital ball after another fell down the screen.  
"Aren't you proud of me for graduating, Uncle Danny?" she said, 
laughing.  She pointed to a picture of herself.  "Aren't I sexy?  
I'm very sexy."
"You're very charming, yes."

As Angela smiled satisfactorily, a young girl came in the back door.  
I had seen her outside in the dim light.  She was wearing shorts and 
a very small t-shirt.  Her hair was damp, as though she'd either 
been swimming or exercising heavily.

I watched her glance absently at the group of people in the kitchen, 
then turn in the direction of the bathroom.  She knocked on the 
door.  No answer.  A tall, good-natured fellow with a basketball 
team logo on his jacket looked up from the laptop and said, "Matt's 
in there, Steph.  He's pretty wasted."  Everyone laughed at this.

Stephanie (assuming she had just been correctly identified and 
addressed) sighed and leaned her head back against the wall.  She 
stood about five-six, and had the appearance of someone who works 
very hard for long periods of time, only reluctantly ever taking a 
break.  Behind her back, she clasped her hands to her forearms, 
making her chest swell and her back arch.  Her tight t-shirt 
stretched, stopping just above the navel, as is fashionable for 
girls in their late teens and early twenties.  Her stomach was flat, 
but not sunken.  I tried not to stare at her breasts too openly.  If 
she were on a movie screen, cruel comments would have been made as 
to whether or not they were real.  They were most definitely real, 
and she was obviously not wearing a bra.  She was tan, athletic, and 
eighteen.  An All-American Girl.  I walked over to her.

"I believe there's another bathroom upstairs," I said, helpfully.
She looked at me for a second, then smiled quietly.  "No, thanks.  I 
don't want to have to go upstairs."
"Afraid of tripping over bodies?"
"No.  It's just..."

I waited, but she didn't answer.  She tilted her head back, 
tightening her eyes as though she had a slight headache.
I suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though I was intruding on 
something best kept private.  I started to make up an excuse for 
myself to leave.  Before I could speak, she quickly said, "My 
boyfriend cheated on me."

Her eyes opened and fixed on mine with such intensity I felt for an 
instant like I was the person responsible for this infidelity.  I 
was hardly shocked by the comment itself, knowing full well how men 
are in general, and especially at a young age, but I had not 
expected such a statement to come so suddenly without any preface, 
from a girl whose only link to me rested in a niece I spoke to once 
or twice a year.  But then, strangers do make the best listeners.  
I've been told by many I'm quite strange.

I wondered how best to answer:  compassionate and understanding, or 
mean-spirited and humorous.  I've used both, but only the latter on 
people I know well.  When the boyfriend is a drunken bastard known 
for sleeping around, it's more the woman's fault than the man's for 
staying with him.  Expecting a person to change because of being in 
a relationship is not idealistic and optimistic, it's stupid and 
irritating.

Not knowing anything about this situation other than the five words 
just spoken to me, I decided to give the safest answer.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
With that, I could either continue the conversation or pat her on 
the shoulder and walk away, having expressed sympathy to show my 
humane understanding of people and relationships.  Generally, I 
enjoy hearing stories of relationship woes, simply because they make 
me feel that much better about my own life.  On occasion, I run into 
the odd unbalanced girl who feeds on such drama.  What they express 
or feel is not real sorrow, but manufactured pain, to bring about 
sympathy, conversation, or, usually, to fill a very empty space 
within themselves.  I avoid these personalities whenever possible.

I could not yet judge this girl, so I pressed on.  I had no real 
reason for doing so.
"Have you two been together long?"
Her eyes stayed locked on mine.  Such eye contact is rare in one so 
young.  Her eyes were beautiful.  They were the eyes of a teenage 
girl, but not without strength and conviction.  The force of her 
look made me feel she was daring (or expecting) me to quickly leave 
and move on to someone with more conventional conversation topics.  
I returned her stare, making a point to not be the first to look 
away.  Her stare remained level, and I felt stupid for testing her.  
I looked at the drink in my hand.

"Since sophomore year," she said.
"Three years?"
"Yeah."
"I see."  
For some reason, the chance to get inside a woman's mind of any age 
and root around is infinitely interesting to me.  I wondered how 
deep I could go before she closed herself off to me and went back to 
resignedly waiting for the bathroom.

"Has this sort of thing happened before?  With him, I mean?"
"Yeah.  Twice."
"How long ago?"
"He kissed a girl a month after we started dating, then another six 
months later."
"Just kissed?"
"That's what he said."
"You believed him?"
"I...  Yes."

I had the impression that she did believe him, but didn't know if 
she should.  Such contradictions in relationships are unfortunately 
not limited to adolescents.

"What happened this time, two and a half years later?"
I paid close attention to her here, to see how readily she told me 
the story.  Had she begun easily rattling off a long narrative, I'd 
know this story was either rehearsed or had already been told to 
many people.

"Well, he...  The other night, he was...  I..."  She was having 
trouble focusing her thoughts.  She didn't know where to begin.
Of course, she could have rehearsed the stutters and false starts, 
too, but my cynicism doesn't go to those extremes.

"Last Sunday, he was out drinking with a bunch of people, when a 
girl asked him if she could come up to his apartment for a 
cigarette.  He said yes, and--"
"Your boyfriend has an apartment?  Is this a much older guy?"
"Not much older.  Only a year.  He's nineteen.  Shares a place with 
two friends."  She brushed a lock of wet, stringy hair out of her 
eyes and tilted her head from side to side.  I heard her neck give a 
series of light pops, and her face relaxed a little.

"So he invites this girl up, gives her a cigarette, then sits on the 
couch.  She sits with him.  They're talking, when she starts rubbing 
on him.  Then kissing on him."
She paused here.  She was clearly picturing the scene.  Not knowing 
exactly how it looked--this girl's position next to him, his 
expression as she touched him (Was she more attractive?  What did 
she do to him that he liked better?)--made it even more painful.  

"Then he went up to bed, and she followed him, got into bed with 
him, and then she..."  She looked at me, wondering if I'd be 
offended by her next words.  She must have made the judgment 
quickly, because after only a second's pause, she continued.  
"...gave him a blow job."

"Ouch," I said, hoping she could tell by my expression that I wasn't 
offended in the slightest.  I'm the only person I've yet met who has 
never been offended by anything.  Few people believe me when I say 
that.

"He says they didn't do any more, but--"
"But you don't believe him.  Not totally.  How did you find out?'
"He told me."
"How did he tell you?"
"Well, Tuesday night, we went out, and when we got back to his 
place, he told me he thought we should break up.  I had no idea 
anything was wrong, so I asked him for reasons.  He was vague at 
first, but eventually he told me about this other girl.  At first, 
he only told me the part about her kissing him.  An hour or so 
later, he added the part about the blow job."

This was all predictable.  No men are as cowardly as when confessing 
sins to women.  Men advance their positions slowly, hoping to 
somehow get off on a technicality.  They seem to think that maybe "I 
had sex with six women" could be equally expressed as "I stayed late 
after work, and, oh, yeah, met up with a few people."

If the thought of confessing even a portion of one's wrongdoing is 
too great, then one can always turn to the alternative of ending the 
relationship altogether.  If there's no woman, there's no need for 
confession.  Simple logic, if you think about it.

"So what are you going to do now?  Leave him?"
"I don't know.  I think I should.  But we've been together three 
years.  That's a very long time to get to know one another.  Build 
up trust."
I had the feeling she had just then realized how much of that trust 
was gone, and was wondering how long it would take to rebuild.  To a 
girl of eighteen, three years is a very long time.

"But he's the only one for me," she continued.  "We were going to 
get married..."
She choked the last word out distastefully.  She had probably never 
given serious thought about marriage, or what it meant.

"Don't think about that now.  Unfortunately, all you can do is hope 
that this guy realizes--"

Just then the door to the bathroom opened.  The occupant, Matt, 
stumbled out, eyes teary, legs unsteady.  The basketball player had 
understated his condition of "pretty wasted."  Matt looked at us 
with carefree disinterest and barely managed to say, "'S'all yours."  
The group of people in the kitchen laughed and cheered as Matt held 
up his hand for a high five from one of them.  This simple act would 
have sent him tumbling to the floor had the two boys not stood 
beside him for support.

I turned back to Stephanie.  "Looks like you're up."
"Yeah."

She went into the bathroom, leaving me unsure of what to do.  I had 
two options:  wait for her to come out so we could resume the 
conversation, or wander off in search of other people.  I had yet to 
meet anyone here who was all that interesting, and at least with 
Stephanie I could put my mind to work around a problem, trivial as 
it was to all who weren't involved, as all relationship problems 
are.  There is a reason it's easier to fix other people's problems 
than it is your own.

I decided to leave.  Stephanie was now alone with her thoughts, and 
chances are she was thinking about both her boyfriend and me, the 
stranger to whom she'd just confessed something very personal.  For 
her, I was a one night psychiatrist, and her feelings for me were 
probably very similar to those a man feels for a one night stand 
immediately after finishing his use for her.  The only desire is to 
get away.

I took this time to get another drink.  Mine was barely half gone, 
but it was warm and I wanted a new one.  Drunken parties with 
teenagers is not a time for conservation or frugality, so I took a 
bottle of beer out of the fridge, and walked into the dining room.

My sister and brother-in-law had decorated the table with pictures 
of the morning's graduation ceremony (the pictures no doubt recently 
picked up from a one-hour photo developer).  Pictures of Angela 
hugging various girls with remarkably similar hairstyles, and, on 
some, faces were tacked to a large colorful board proclaiming 
"GRADUATION 2001!!!"  I looked at each picture, but did not see any 
with Stephanie.  I wondered if she was a close friend of my niece's, 
or if she was invited to this party by proxy.  It was then that the 
obvious question struck me:  Where was the boyfriend?  She had not 
told me his name, or even offered a description.  He could be any 
number of faceless drunk youths out in the back yard, or buried in 
the heaps of sleeping bags lining the floors.

The door to the bathroom opened, and Stephanie walked slowly out.  I 
strained my senses to hear this, not wanting to turn to look.  I 
believed myself clearly in her line of sight, standing where I was 
in front of the picture display, and thought it best to let her make 
the decision to continue our conversation, in case she wanted 
privacy.

I can only guess she wanted privacy, because I heard the back 
sliding door open, then close.  I risked a sideways glance and saw 
that she was gone.

I felt a combination of disappointment and resentment at being voted 
out by her conscience, regardless that I understood her reasons.  I 
smiled at my own selfish pride--a slow, broad grin that gives people 
the impression that if I'm not insane, I'm most probably dangerous 
with a knife.  I wondered if somewhere in the back of my own head 
I'd hoped to eventually end up with this girl, letting her take 
solace in my warm understanding of the male animal.  That it was all 
right, dear, he cheated on you, now you can cheat on him.  Yes, 
that's right:  You'll show him.  I told myself I was above this, and 
believed it.  Even though she was very attractive, I wanted nothing 
to do with her in that sense.  She was an interesting diversion in 
an otherwise uneventful evening.  A girl whose life was only 
temporarily difficult because of the lack of willpower of a 
nineteen-year-old boy.  In time, she would graduate college, get a 
good job, marry (someone, if not her current boyfriend), have 
children, retire, and die like everyone else.

I wandered back and forth for the next hour, making obvious jokes at 
the expense of any kid who couldn't stand up properly, or who wore 
pants several sizes too big for himself.  I did not see Stephanie 
anywhere.  At first, I thought I would happen upon her, making a 
surprised, "Oh, there you are!" comment as though I had been looking 
for her for some time.  When she didn't surface, and finding no one 
else of interest to talk to (my sister and brother-in-law had long 
since fallen asleep), I decided to leave.

As I opened the front door, I heard my name.
"Uncle Dan."
It sounded so foul and wrong coming from her lips, I almost felt 
embarrassed.  
"Uh, yeah?  Oh.  Stephanie.  There you are."
And that just sounded wrong.

She was standing in front of the sofa, and it seemed to me she had 
been sitting there for some time.  I had walked by it several times 
that evening, noticing the outlines of people sitting there, but I 
couldn't recall her as being one of them.  I decided I probably 
hadn't been paying close enough attention.

She walked over to me, standing closely, so she could speak quietly.
"Thanks for the talk earlier.  I didn't want to tell anyone here, 
because they might..."
"Yes, I know how kids are."
She didn't seem to mind her friends being referred to as kids.  I 
wondered if she included herself in that group.
"Well, thanks.  I just wanted to talk to someone impartial."
"We only talked for about a minute.  If there's something else you--"
"No.  No, I'm good.  I know what to do.  I just need time to get 
over this.  Thanks, again."
I've had many female friends over the years, and have played the 
role of counselor to almost all of them.  Usually these hours long 
sessions would end with a hug and a reassurance that if you ever 
need me to talk or anything, just call.
With this in mind, I stepped toward Stephanie and held my arms out.  
"I hope things work out for you.  If you need anything..."

She did not move toward me.  She kept her arms close to her sides.  
She cast her eyes down and to the right.  It occurred to me right 
then that there's another reason strangers make good listeners:  
When you're finished with them, they go away.

So I rested my hands on her shoulders, smiled, and said good night.  
Very few times in my life were so socially awkward.  I left her 
standing there, in tired thought, arms wrapped around herself, 
surrounded by former schoolmates, nearly asleep, most in the arms of 
another.

As I got into my car, I felt relief and regret that I would probably 
never see her again.



-------------------------------------------

4.  CoN at the Movies
with Jeff Wright

Hamlet had it easy. 

Getting on with it.  Watch, or don't watch the following films:

1.  BATMAN (1989)

This movie kicks ass!  I'm sure everyone's seen it already, but 
watch it again anyways.  I think a lot of people (myself included), 
watched this a million times when younger, on video.  I remember 
that one Christmas I got both BATMAN and WHO FRAMED ROGER RABBIT on 
tape.  I watched BATMAN so much that I knew every line in it.  I 
know others did too.  Watch it again!!!!!

2.  FEMALE CONVICT SCORPION

This is a fun little, women escaping prison movie from Japan.  
Scorpion is cool.  She'd kick my ass, no problem.  Not that people 
would have a hard time kicking my ass, but she'd really whoop me 
good (Admitedly, I'd probably enjoy it for a moment or two).

3.  BATMAN (1989)

Just reminding you.

4.  MY DRUNK DAD

Don't go looking for this in your local video store.  It's an 
extremely rare film, that's only available on bootleg.  It also 
shows up on TBS, from time to time.  It's a really "funny" film.

5.  COP AND A HALF

Don't watch this movie.  It's bad.  But it does feature a scene in 
which, Burt Reynolds plays "Swords" with a young child.  'What's 
"Swords"?' you say?  I'm glad you asked.  It's a game in which, two 
males (penises are required), both urinate into the same toilet, and 
cross streams.  Not unlike in GHOSTBUSTERS.

6.  BABY BOY

When it comes out next week, or the week after (I can't remember 
what the date is), go see it.  Support the acting career of Snoop.  
We should all strive to be more like him.  I am serious, incase 
someone thinks I'm joking.

7.  PINKERTON by Weezer

Not a movie, but rather a brilliant CD.  Buy it biatches!  "I'm 
dumb, she's a lesbian.  I thought that I had found the one.  We were 
as good as married in my mind, but married in my mind's no good."

There.  Now watch one of those movies, and buy that CD, or fuck off!

---
No bio submitted.

-------------------------------------------

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