With regards to your policy:

I just spent two hours writing my “story” for my profile page only to find out after I was done that I’m being censored.

I went back and took out all the “swear words” and I still had to submit the thing for review.

What the fuck?

What’s wrong with you people? I can’t say shit? I can’t give a factual account of what happened? This is a site for full-grown adults, not some kids show on the Disney channel. Besides that, as I’m typing there a flashing ad for “Sexy Singles in my Area” with ridiculous pictures of photoshopped model whores that might as well have cum dripping off their faces. That’s acceptable, but the word “fuck” isn’t? What year do you think this is? Your intrusive ads, your shameless self-promotion, and your site’s endless visual noise are far more offensive than anything I could ever write in words.

I’m not even going to go into how stupid, clunky, and generally shitty the rest of your website is compared to facebook where I’m NOT censored and they NEVER ask me for my money, but I will tell you that I’m absolutely fed up with your bullshit site. If, by tomorrow, I don’t get a letter of apology from you and permission to write whatever I want on my page I’m never going to your stupid site again. Not only that, I will also post this letter all over the internet and forever badmouth and mock classmates.com until your site goes under, which it absolutely will.

You people are retarded dinosaurs. Get with it.

Garbijman

Recently Barack Obama’s citizenship has come into question. A pack of hard-line conservatives led by Obama’s former Illinois Senate rival Alan Keys has questioned the validity of the President’s Hawaiian birth certificate.

To be clear, President Obama has provided an official copy of the birth certificate that was validated by the U.S. Supreme Court, but for Keyes and a handful of others that claim that, “Obama is a Communist” and “…will destroy this country,” that doesn’t seem to be enough. The state of Hawaii has refused to provide the original birth certificate citing reasons of “personal privacy” and that has fueled what appears to be a desperate attack to have Obama thrown out of office for fraud and treason.

To anyone with a clear head and an objective mind Keyes appears to have a nasty case of sour grapes. His allegations against the President seem to be a desperate last-ditch attempt to smear the most overwhelmingly popular President since Jack Kennedy.

But Keyes’ allegations bring to light a very valid and important “what if?”

What if the birth certificate Obama provided and the Supreme Court ratified was a fake? What if Barack Obama wasn’t born in the United States of America?

Article II, Section 1 of the United States Constitution states, “No person except a natural born citizen, or a citizen of the United States, at the time of the adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to the office of President; neither shall any person be eligible to that office who shall not have attained to the age of thirty five years, and been fourteen Years a resident within the United States.” Those are the only legal qualifications for the Presidency and, if we are to adhere to the Constitution, the very basis of this country’s ideals and ethos, those qualifications must be met.

If Keyes is right and Obama is not a natural born citizen, we, as a nation, are left with two options:
1) Remove Barack Obama from office immediately and charge him with fraud and treason
2) Amend the Constitution

These are both very extreme options, but there is no other recourse. If Barack Obama was not born in the United States then he is not legally qualified to be President. And surely, if he wasn’t, he knew it therefore he willfully committed fraud and treason at the highest level and intentionally usurped the one thing he was sworn to protect and uphold at all costs.

Taking into consideration Obama’s overwhelming popularity and his seemingly good intentions it is not out of the question that the second option would be strongly considered by Congress. If those steps were taken and the Constitution was amended to allow Obama to remain President it would open the door for Arnold Schwarzenegger to become President someday and would fuel conspiracy theorists around the globe to presume that it “was the plan all along”.

This is all assuming that Alan Keyes and his team of radicals are not just making a pathetic and lustful power grab, but actually have legitimate concern for the welfare of this country. Given the recent record of conservative Republican behavior in times of a Democratic White House however, the latter seems unlikely.

Remember Kenneth Starr, the former judge and solicitor general who was appointed to the Office of the Independent Counsel to investigate the Whitewater land transactions by Bill Clinton? His findings led him to ultimately file the Starr Report which unveiled the Monica Lewinsky scandal that led to Clinton’s impeachment.

IMPEACHMENT

Bill Clinton was IMPEACHED. The only other President in the history of the United States to have been impeached was Andrew Johnson, 17th President of the United States. Andrew Johnson inherited the Presidency when Lincoln was assassinated in 1865. He is renowned by historians as being one of the worst Presidents ever and was eventually brought to trial for violation of the Tenure of Office Act, a blatant abuse of power and justifiable grounds for his impeachment.

The official reason for Clinton’s impeachment was perjury. It was alleged that Clinton lied on the witness stand when accused of having sexual relations with Monica Lewinsky, an unpaid intern. While perjury is a very serious offense the question remains as to why Clinton’s fidelity was ever brought into question in a court of law in the first place. There is no law against infidelity. It is not a crime to get a blowjob in your office from a college student, and if there was then probably every President except for Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush as well as all of Wall Street would be locked up.

In the end Bill Clinton was acquitted. He served two terms as President, but the ramifications of his impeachment have set an ugly precedent. If adultery is grounds for impeachment then surely Obstruction of Justice, Burglary, and Treason should make the cut. Those were the crimes of Nixon, Reagan, and both George Bushes.

Nixon’s crime was the Watergate Scandal, a clear-cut case of political fixing, illegal surveillance, and burglary. Nixon resigned under a cloud of shame only to be pardoned by his loyal Vice President Gerald Ford while much of his cabinet saw jail time.

Reagan and Bush Sr.’s malfeasance was the Iran-Contra affair. Sometime in the height of Reagan’s Presidency senior executive officials were busted selling weapons to Iran, who was under a weapons embargo at the time. The tens of millions of dollars they made were used to fund the Nicaraguan Contras, a military junta that illegally overthrew a democratically elected government. The main scapegoat in the Iran-Contra affair was USMC Lt. Col. Oliver North, a high-ranking official in the military brass who had regular discourse with both Reagan and Bush. Somehow they all walked. No one got busted and Reagan was written into the history books as a true American hero even though he is remembered by most as a hapless dupe and a foul and wretched stain on the national character.

George W. Bush used the World Trade Center bombings of September 11, 2001 as a springboard to declare war with Iraq, a country that was not involved in the attacks in any way. The U.S. Constitution clearly states that only Congress can declare war, but Bush did it anyway citing reasons of “national security”.

He also signed into law the Patriot Act, a vile and vicious 1000 page document that all but renders the Constitution obsolete and impotent. The Patriot Act, among other things, allows the FBI to tap phones, intercept e-mails, and review medical and financial records without a warrant (a direct violation and undermining of Amendment IV of the U.S. Constitution). It also provides the federal government with the legal ability to detain anyone they want indefinitely without due process of law or even a simple explanation as to why they have been apprehended. At its core the Patriot Act completely undermines the Constitution, the one thing George W. Bush was sworn to protect. Treason.

When compared to those crimes, Bill Clinton and Barack Obama (if the bogus charges have any legitimacy at all)’s indiscretions seem like nothing at all, and their investigation a tremendous waste of time and taxpayer money.

Still, Bill Clinton came out of it alright. He is widely remembered as a successful and popular President that maintained an era of peace and prosperity in the last years of the American Century. And while Barack Obama’s ordeal is just beginning, he is handling it in the best way possible. He is ignoring it completely. The Supreme Court has found him legitimate. He is the President, and he seems to know that he has more important things to do than succumb to a political witch hunt by vindictive fools that blame him for the 8 years of looting done by the Bush administration and who are led by a small pathetic man with a chip on his shoulder and an axe to grind.

The Hockey Beard is a phenomenon I’d only just heard about. It came up when some friends and I were ganging up on my roommate to try and convince him to shave his wretched beard that his girlfriend proclaims “smells like wet cheese.”

“I can’t shave now.” He declared, “It’s the playoffs.”

“What in god’s name are you talking about?” I asked.

“It’s the third round of the playoffs. You know, hockey. It’s a Hockey Beard now.”

“What?”

“You know, a Hockey Beard. You’ve never heard of this?”

“Heard of what?”

“Oh, man! You don’t know about the Hockey Beard?”

“What’s a Hockey Beard?”

He explained, “Every year at the beginning of the Stanley Cup Playoffs hardcore hockey fans start growing a beard until their team gets eliminated. That’s why, at the Stanley Cup Finals, most of the crowd has beards.”

“I’ve never heard of this. And besides all that, what does hockey have to do with you and your beard? You’ve never watched a game of hockey in your life.”

“Not true,” he proclaimed, “this is a Hockey Beard and the Red Wings are still in it. I can’t shave.”

“Bullocks.”, I told him. “You’ve been growing this beard for months now. It has nothing to do with hockey. Besides, you’ve never even been to Detroit.”

“Detroit?” he asked. “Who’s talking about Detroit? I’m just a fan of red wings.” He laughed a drug addled laugh and took a sip of his beer.

I had seen through his façade easily enough, but he had sparked new questions in my brain. I was now fixated on the Hockey Beard. How long has this been going on? Where did it originate? Why hadn’t I heard about it until just now? Is this somehow related to the phenomenon of the bad indie rock beard of this decade? Are the hockey playoffs partly responsible for why hipsters everywhere are running around dressed like Tom Sawyer? Perhaps this is the missing link I’ve been looking for. Perhaps the Hockey Beard is the root of all my confusion as to why pop culture has been so generally rotten and foul for the last 9 years.

In my mind there was only one way to get to the bottom of this. I needed to get in touch with my old philosophy professor Terry Allan Breese.

Back in the mid 1990s Professor Breese, as he was known professionally even though all his students called him Terry, was famous around the beaches of Southern California for throwing fantastic tiki lounge parties at his beachfront villa in Malibu. The parties would always start out as a small gathering of students to discuss matters of philosophy over fine wine and cigars in his very elegant study. As the wine flowed and the conversation became more abstract the party would spill out onto the beach where the mood was more festive. There was always good music; Terry had excellent taste. Indoors there would be soft classical pop lingering just loud enough to generate an ambience yet low enough to keep conversation at a civil and natural speaking volume. Outside on the beach the music was more upbeat. It was usually of the space lounge variety hailing mostly from the middle sixties, but interspersed with some modern equivalents like Combustible Edison, Mark Mothersbaugh, or Sukia. The speakers on the beach were always set at just the right level; so strategically placed, and so well camouflaged that it seemed like the music was emanating out of thin air. The mood was always semi-tropical and the weather was always perfect like only Southern California can be. There was always a fully stocked bar where the guests would take turns bartending and showing off their skills at mixing drinks that were sweet and colorful and looked as though they should be drank from a coconut. It became sort of a running competition as to who could make the best mai-tai, the best bay breeze, or the best fuzzy navel. Eventually the party would evolve into a glorious orgy of the beautiful elite getting naked and celebrating life and love beneath the stars of a picturesque Southern California night sky.

I spent many hours pondering as to how the parties never got out of control. Or for that matter, how news of them never seemed to spread beyond a controlled circle of very attractive and equally intelligent thinkers. There was never a fight, or even any hint of violence. Everyone would be drunk, stoned, or both, but very rarely did anyone ever get belligerent or rude. Somehow Terry always maintained an atmosphere that was calm and civilized even into the wee hours of the morning. When the sun began to come up everyone seemed to instinctively know that the party was over. The guests were always careful to clean up after themselves as they would make their way to their sports cars and their motorcycles. By that hour mostly everyone had sobered up enough to drive, and those that didn’t were often escorted into town where they could sit at a bistro in Santa Monica or Venice and enjoy a latte or a cappuccino, and maybe a spot of breakfast on a patio overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

Those carefree days are over now. The late 1990s were a golden era of peace and prosperity that this country may never see again, and Southern California, to me at least, seemed to be the epicenter of it all. These days I live in Olympia. Terry likely keeps his beachfront home, but currently resides in Washington D.C. as Minister-Counsellor & Chargé d’Affaires as well as acting U.S. Ambassador to Canada.

I went through my rolodex calling old phone numbers of fellow students and friends from back then trying desperately to get in touch with Terry, now a very prominent member of the Obama Administration. After a few hours and many phone calls I was given his cell number by my friend Ephraim who still keeps in touch with Terry and now works as a model and an actor in Los Angeles.

I called from my car as I made my way across town to meet with a professor at The Evergreen State College over a different matter entirely. To my good fortune Terry was available and answered his phone.

“Terry, this is Wylie VanWenger. I was one of your students at Pepperdine. You might remember me. We used to discuss Spinozan theory at length in your study at your beach house in Malibu.”

“Ah yes. I remember quite clearly. You used to argue that the illusion of free will is in fact the root of all freedom. How are you?”

“I’m good. How are things in Washington?”

“Oh, busy. Busy. We’ve got a lot of work to do. There’s an awful big mess to clean up and nobody really knows where to start. Still, we’re trying. What can you do besides chomp at the bit, eh? What can I do for you, Wylie?”

“Well, to be honest I just found out about this thing called the Hockey Beard and I was wondering what you could tell me about it.”

Terry laughed. “Ah yes. The Hockey Beard. A strange superstition indeed. What would you like to know?”

“Well, for starters, where did it come from?”

“Well, no one knows for sure, but the general consensus is that it was started sometime in the 1980s by the New York Islanders.”

“So it’s not a Canadian thing?”

“I didn’t say that. I said it started with the Islanders. Since then it’s been co-opted by professional hockey players and fans everywhere, especially in Canada.”

“That makes sense. It’s bloody cold up there. Any excuse to grow a beard is probably a good one.”

“That, and it’s a sort of tradition now. It’s silly really. The notion that luck is a force that can be controlled by anything, let alone a beard, is nothing more than ridiculous superstition. Still, try telling that to a Canadiens fan in a pub in Montreal and you’re likely to get rolled by a gang of bearded French-Canadian thugs.”

“So people take this pretty seriously then?”

“Oh they take it gravely seriously. I’m met men that won’t even buy shaving cream in May and that shave their beards with a hunting knife and cold water if their team gets knocked out.”

It was just about then that I took a right turn and noticed a helicopter that was flying overhead. There was nothing unusual about it at first, but as I watched it further it seemed to be flying a bit erratically. It was rotating upwards and gaining altitude while its tail dropped. It was putting itself into a position that couldn’t possibly sustain flight. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Something was definitely wrong and I had to do something.

“Jesus Christ!” I yelled. “Terry, I’ve got to go. I think a helicopter is about to crash.”

I didn’t wait for him to respond. I hung up on Terry, yanked the car to the side of the road, and dialed 911. As I did the helicopter lost its grip on the skies and began tumbling backwards toward the earth.

“Emergency services, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m on the West Side of Olympia. There’s a helicopter falling out of the sky. I need you to deploy every emergency vehicle you have.”

“Where exactly is the crash taking place?”

“Christ, how should I know? Somewhere northwest of Harrison and Division. Send something fast!”

As I hung up the phone I saw a bright flash and heard a tremendous explosion. There was now a plume of black smoke billowing into the sky somewhere to the west. I pointed my car in that direction and sped toward the beacon.

As I made my way toward the wreck I was passed by a motorcade of speeding police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks. I followed them to the crash site which was somewhere on the outskirts of town past Louise Lake and out near Delphi Road, and old logging road that winds through the mountains. We were not the first to arrive. The whole area was a sea of red and blue lights, emergency vehicles, military vehicles, and a swarm of cops, EMTs, and soldiers that I assumed were from nearby Ft. Lewis. I followed in my car as far as I could go, but before I got anywhere near the crash I was stopped by a uniformed soldier holding an assault rifle. I noticed that he had a beard.

“No civilians beyond this point.” He said matter-of-factly.

“What happened? I saw the helicopter go down. Is the pilot alright?”

“Are you the person who made the call to emergency services?” he asked me, his tone now more human and less official.

“Yeah. I called 911 about 5 minutes ago.”

“We appreciate the effort, but we had warning already. The helicopter you saw was engaged in a field exercise. All further information is classified.

“I understand. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“The best thing you can do is to go back about your business and forget you ever saw anything. Don’t tell anybody what you saw here today. We’ve got the situation under control.”

I shrugged. He was right. There was nothing I could do at that point even if I had wanted to. The pilot was likely dead. Mangled to an unrecognizably charred and bloody pulp entangled is a flaming wreck of twisted metal. His death would be chalked up as collateral damage, and his family would be told nothing. He would get a military burial while his wife would get a folded flag and probably a check for five figures.

I started to turn around and continue with my business at the college, but before I did I had to ask, “Sir, are you by chance a hockey fan?”

A smile made its way to his face. “Pittsburgh. Born and raised. I’m not shaving this thing ‘till the Penguins win the Cup.”

The Hockey Beard
Part 1.

My roommate is hell bent on growing a four-foot long ZZ Top style beard for no good reason at all except that he can. He has made several beard attempts in recent years, but they all have ended with feelings of despair, regret, and shame.

The first time he tried was in the autumn of 2003; the only attempt with any logic behind it. He had been cast a small speaking role in a production of The Medea, an ancient Greek tragedy by Sophocles. He, as well as every other male character, was required to grow a sizable beard for his role.

And grow a sizable beard he did indeed. Jabe is half Italian and very hairy. His beard grows fast and thick as does the hair on his head. After 6 weeks he was sporting a full thick mat of hair on his face that would rival that of any Alaskan fishing boat captain.

Being the loyal friend that I am I decided to join him in a “sympathy beard”. I also refrained from shaving for 6 long weeks. My beard, by comparison, was pathetic. It didn’t look all that bad, but compared to Jabe’s it was the difference between a sporty economy coupe and a Formula 1 racecar. My beard had no real shape and you could still see skin and the remnants of a once-attractive man beneath it.

It was the last time I let any facial hair get out of control. I didn’t like who I became. The beard started taking over. It was influential in key decisions. It clouded my judgment. It was a surly and cocky beard and its arrogance pinnacled in a monumental boast that I could out drink anybody in Olympia that was willing to challenge me. For a short while my beard remained unchallenged, but it only fed fuel to the fire. With each passing day my beard shouted louder and louder and became more brash and offensive. “Cowards!” it would shout from atop a coffee table at a party, “I’ll out drink any one of you weak-stomached amateurs. Name your alcohol. Name the place and time. I’ll show you what it means to get drunk in this town!”

Finally my good friend Anna Severn stepped up to the plate. “Enough!” she yelled. “You and your beard are full of shit. I’ll out drink the both of you!”

Money started flying around the room instantly. My beard had stirred up a lot of mixed emotions. Its confidence was inspiring to some and detested by others. There was no middle ground. You were either with me or against me, and in that way the contest was not unlike a race for the Presidency of the United States of America.

I laughed in her face. The notion that I could get taken down by a girl was simply preposterous. This wasn’t Raiders of the Lost Ark, this was real life. And in real life women cannot out drink men.

That’s what I thought, at least. Had I been clean shaven I might have given more thought to the fact that we were nearly the same weight and that she was quite the competent drinker. I may have considered the fact that out of the gates I’ll match anyone, but as the night wears on—especially when hard alcohol is in the mix—I tend to go from zero to passed out cold in a split second.

These things did not concern my beard, however. “Name the place!” it yelled.

“Right here!” she yelled back. Ooohs and ahhs came from the crowd. More money changed hands.

“Name the time!”

“This Saturday, at the Halloween Party!”

“Name your poison!”

“Cape Cods!”

Immediately the room exploded into laughter. More money exchanged hands and the scales were tipped in my favor. We formed a committee of Anna, myself, and our two biggest supporters to establish the rules:

1) We would begin in the kitchen of Mara and Christian’s house at precisely 10:00pm that Saturday night.
2) The drinks would be double tall Cape Cods, made with Absolut vodka and mixed by a third and impartial party.
3) Every drink must be matched. It would be up to the discretion of whoever finished their drink first whether they wish to wait for the other to finish their drink, or force them to pound it and begin another.
4) Should a drink be spilled it must be replaced in full with no credit.
5) Passing out constitutes a loss.
6) Vomit constitutes a loss.
7) Any unwillingness to participate any further constitutes a loss.

The rules were agreed upon. Hands were shaken. Bets were made. It was a contest of honor and pride. There was no prize for the winner other than glory and gloating rights. It was a testament to all things noble of mankind. It was on.

The contest began innocently enough. Our drinks were prepared. We counted down. When 10:00 struck a pistol was fired, we clinked our glasses, and we began drinking. I was the first to finish the initial drink. I opted, out of politeness and a spirit of sportsmanship, to let Anna finish at her own pace. By the end of the second double, however, things began to get hairy. Our genteel contest was beginning to get vicious and cutthroat. There was still laughter and smiles exchanged between us, but beneath it all ran a tone of treachery and bloodlust. The side bets, which were constantly being updated, were spiraling out of control. It was no longer a simple contest between two friends, but an epic battle of opposing forces with hundreds of dollars at stake.

The odds were lingering in my favor at around 5/4 by the end of the third round, but I was starting to get nervous. How long can I keep this up? I wondered. I’ve been preparing for days and I’m getting straight faded. She must know how drunk I am. How much longer can I last?

Things got blurry from there. It was somewhere toward the end of round six that I decided in my mind that I’d had enough. I had little at stake in this. By Jove I was drunk and I wanted sleep. I’d had nearly 12 drinks. What would be the shame in conceding at this point? If I lost to Anna at least I would be losing to a friend and not some random drifter that would mark our hometown as a den of suckers and rubes for all eternity.

The decision was made instantly. I staggered outside to find Anna and concede the contest to her. I vaguely remember tapping her on the shoulder and seeing her swing around. I tried to tell her that I gave up and that she was the winner, but all that came out of my mouth was some mumbled gibberish.

It didn’t matter, though. Anna knew what I was trying to tell her. A glow washed over her as she asked me, “Are you giving up?” I nodded my head in agreement. There was a roar of simultaneous cheers and boos from all around. I was pelted with garbage as I made my way back inside while Anna was congratulated and her victory celebrated by everyone that hadn’t bet against her.

It wasn’t until I had reached the kitchen that I realized what I had done. How could I have folded so easily? Yes I was drunk, but I wasn’t finished. How could I have been so hasty? So short-sighted? So weak? Every wrong turn I’d made in my whole life was manifesting itself right before my eyes and mocking me.

Enough is enough, I thought. I focused my attention on Stacy, our impartial bartender. “Make me another one.” I demanded.

“But I thought…”

“Never mind. You heard it all wrong. This contest is far from over if I have anything to say about it. I need another one fast. I spilled my last one and I’ve got some catching up to do.”

My case was sound. I had never actually admitted defeat. I never even said any words at all. All that cheering and shouting must have been over something else entirely. I’ll walk back outside proudly with a nearly full drink as though nothing had happened and no one will be the wiser. We’ll see yet who is the better drinker!

And that is exactly what I did. I walked back outside with a second wind and a fresh drink. My actions sparked a massive explosion of confusion and chaos. Money had begun to change hands, but there had not been enough time for business to be concluded. People thought I was out of the running, but here I was with a drink in my hand and a smile on my face implying otherwise.

Anna, who was still basking in the glow of her win, glared at me. Her face contorted from lighthearted glee to a distrustful grimace. “What’s going on here?” she demanded.

“What are you talking about?” I asked her as I sipped my new drink.

“What are you doing with that drink? I thought you conceded.”

“Wherever did you get that idea?” I asked taking another drink.

“You did! You came out here a minute ago and conceded! This contest is over! I won!” She was shouting and waving her finger in my face. Her arms were flailing around like a muppet on speed. She was visibly upset and a little confused, but she knew what I was up to.

“I did no such thing.” I proclaimed. I flashed her a knowing and mischievous grin. Its subtlety did not go unnoticed.

“Right there!” She pointed at my face. “You know you gave up and you’re trying to cheat!”

It was all true what she was saying, but I was never going to admit to it. As far as I was concerned I hadn’t broken any rules and I was still in the running, but I knew I was doomed. Too many people had witnessed my concession, and even though they were all drunk few were as drunk as Anna and myself.

The crowd was forming into a mob now. Faces were getting angrier and people were starting to get violent. My stunt, I thought, was clever, but the people that had their rent on the line didn’t find it as charming as I did. The crowd started jeering and booing. Anna looked like a judge at a witch trial. She had god on her side and she knew it. She was righteous and she was casting out the devil. She had all the momentum now. The crowd started throwing cans of beer at me. I managed to dodge a couple, but they kept coming. I was being run out of town like a snake oil salesman.

“This whole contest was fixed from the start!” I yelled as someone dragged me around the side of the house. “You’re all a bunch of winos and drunks and potheads! You people are worse than Nixon and Bush put together!”

That one did it. People started throwing their bottles now. I had no choice but to turn around and make a run for it while covering the back of my head with my arms. I felt like Frankenstein’s monster and Spiro Agnew. I was being run out on a rail, and for what? What crime had I committed other than a healthy commitment to the spirit of competition?

Of course I knew how absurd I was being. I broke every rule in the book. I boasted and mocked my competition. I conceded, and then tried to weasel my way back into the running. I behaved like a scoundrel from the very beginning and I got exactly what I deserved.

The next afternoon when I woke up I went to the bathroom, vomited, brushed my teeth, and took a razor to my face with extreme prejudice. It was the beard’s fault that I had behaved the way that I did. The beard had cost me my honor and my pride.

I looked in the mirror at the old me; the sensible and pragmatic me. I breathed a sigh of relief and vowed to myself never to let that happen to me again.

But that is neither here nor there. The real story is the phenomenon of the Hockey Beard.

—————– Original Message —————–
From: Ford Models
To: Glass Elevator
Date: May 11, 2009 6:33 PM
Subject: Win a Ford Modeling Contract!

MySpace has teamed up with Ford Models for the Next Fresh Faces Contest, and you could be the newest addition to Ford’s roster! If you’re female and 16 or older, visit myspace.com/fordmodels to enter now. Check out the photo gallery to size up the competition, and subscribe to the video channel for modeling tips and to see what it takes to be a model. Don’t miss the blog for an insider’s look from a Ford agent. Good luck!

– - – - –

What the fuck is this shit?

Is this the way myspace is going? Bullshit ads and contests for suckers? Why don’t I just buy a fucking lottery ticket, or enter the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweeptakes? For that matter, why don’t I just sit on my ass and wish for fame?

Don’t bother me with this brand of nonsense. I’ve got better things to do than waste my time with junk e-mail. I don’t send you nonsensical garbage, do I?

If this is the way myspace is going to be run I’m going to switch over to facebook like everyone else already has.

Get your shit together.

Wylie
GE

I don’t want to be that old man that says things like that. I want to believe in my heart that teenagers will always have potential to do great things and posses a pure lust for creativity and awesomeness. But after last night I cannot deny that this current crop of teens is as worthless as a sackful of pennies. It isn’t unanimously true across the board… I know a handful of nineteen-year-olds that know what’s up, but the vast majority of these “Y Generation” kids are completely useless for anything more than human shields.

It’s not entirely their fault. The odds were stacked against them from the start. Anyone born in the 1990s was dealt a shitty hand. By the time they were old enough to perceive the world around them our culture had already been bankrupted and spent. By 1995 mainstream culture had gotten so homogenized and dumbed-down that anything you saw on TV or heard on the radio was insulting to anyone who knew better. With the exception of a very small few exceptions that sad reality has remained unwaveringly true for almost 15 years. These kids were children in the 1990s when it was all the rage for all the new-yuppie parents to pump their kids full of Ritalin at the first sign of independent thought. They were deprived of emotion and chemically forced into neat little rows. They were bred and nurtured to be sheep.

By the time even the oldest of them were in high school the post 9-11 neo-con mentality was in full swing. George W. Bush was acting like King of the World and pushing all his shitty agendas through a spineless congress that bowed to his every whim, no matter how ludicrous or how blatantly wrong. Most of these kids have heard of Kurt Cobain, the very last legitimate rock star, but few of them ever listened to Nirvana. They were left alone in a wasteland with no frame of reference for anything artistically legitimate the whole time being endlessly bombarded by a relentless onslaught of crap shoved down their throats. They were born with a credit card glued to one hand and a cellphone glued to the other. And without any sort of accessible spokesperson with any inkling of credibility or legitimacy they never had a chance.

But it’s still no excuse. To grand leniency and sympathy to fools is to do a disservice to anyone that has enough sense to rise above their disadvantages. It was Friedrich Neitzsche who wrote that charity does more damage to the race than genocide. That may sound harsh, but when you look at what’s happening to our culture and the world at large it is a cold and difficult truth to turn a blind eye to. Any human being that does not posses the ability to smell a rat, or sniff out a shyster is a rube and a sucker and deserves the fate they carve out for themselves. But sadly their loss is ours as well because by handing their money and support to those that would do them harm they grant power to the dark forces of greed and short-sighted selfishness. As a result we, as a people, are forced to wallow in the dismal aftermath of their bad taste and ignorance and there is endless grotesque evidence of it everywhere you look.

I wanted to believe in my heart that if the kids are shown something truly good and pure that they would have the sense to recognize it and embrace it; that it would act as a beacon of light in the darkness and help lead them on the path of shedding their worthless and shallow ideologies in favor of substance and fulfillment. The kids let me down almost unanimously last night when I went to see the Hard Way (http://www.myspace.com/thehardwayrocks) at the Midnight Sun; one of the only underage venues in all of Olympia.

The Hard Way is a four piece rock outfit with influences deeply rooted in tight rock and worthwhile and engaging pop. They are an extraordinarily tight band with high energy and something to say that should be listened to. But their excellent performance of pertinent songs seemed to fall on the deaf ears and blind eyes of a rag-tag ensemble of mall rats and 12th generation “punk rockers” who don’t seem to know the first thing about the ethos of they styles they attempt, and fail, to flaunt.

The band that performed immediately before the Hard Way was a soft rock emo Christian band that took 45 minutes to set up and sounded like all the worst aspects of Live, Creed, and the Counting Crows rolled into a ball of shit before being watered down. That band, whose name I never bothered to find out, played to a full room of sheepishly nodding heads and semi-forced smiles. The Hard Way took the stage immediately after, but the bulk of the crowd didn’t have the patience to wait the 10 minutes it took the Hard Way to set up. When the Hard Way began their set the bulk of the crowd was made up of our crew who came down specifically to see them. The remainder of the 2/3 empty room seemed unimpressed by their excellent sound, their high energy, and their virtuoso-like musical ability. They idly played with their cellphones and slowly filtered out of the room while the Hard Way put on one of the best performances I’ve seen in Olympia since Estradasphere played to a similarly empty room at the China Clipper 2 long years ago. The only people in the crowd younger than 25 that seemed to recognize the Hard Way’s worth were members of Off Shore Radio (http://www.myspace.com/offshoreradioband), the band that set the show up.

The Hard Way, being the consummate professionals that they are, didn’t let it get to them. They rocked as hard and as well as if they were playing to 50,000 screaming fans at a sold-out show at the Hollywood Bowl, but I knew better. I know how it feels to play to an ungrateful crowd. I know how it feels to put on a truly great performance only to watch the crowd yawn and be disinterested and then later throw their love at a regurgitated 5th wave stale homogenized version of something that was never good in the first place. I know that, even though they’ll never let on, that it got to them. I know how discouraging it is to know that you gave your all for all the right reasons and that it was squandered and ignored by fools and imbeciles who would rather give their money and their love to a band whose sole purpose is to sell them McDonalds, Pepsi, and Abercrombie and Fitch. Last night I saw pearls cast before swine and it’s almost enough for me to give up on their entire generation completely.

Ms. Gregoire:

Today I was unpleasantly reminded about how inconvenient, backwards, and bureaucratically wasteful Washington State’s liquor laws are.

Since I’ve lived here (10+ years) the State’s laws and policies have been a constant source of aggravation for me and almost everyone I know. I can see no good reason whatsoever why the State keeps a monopoly on liquor stores that keep terrible hours. For that matter, why aren’t they open on Sundays? Is it some sort of archaic and puritan kickback to Christianity?

I find it completely frustrating that I, a taxpaying and law abiding citizen, can’t impulsively buy liquor whenever I want let alone on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Other states allow the privatization of liquor sales and they seem to be doing just fine. In California I can walk into a grocery store at midnight and buy a fifth of Jack Daniels if I so please and they don’t seem to be overrun with wild drunks. In New York City I can purchase tequila at four in the morning and people seem to still like that place. In Spain a 10 year old girl can purchase and drink a bottle of wine without their infrastructure falling apart. So why, in this otherwise progressive and forward-thinking state, are the liquor laws in league with the dark ages?

I don’t expect much… actually I expect you’ll do nothing at all. Surely, in your eyes, you’ve got bigger things to worry about, but in my registered voter’s eyes you seem to spend most of your well-paid time imposing on my freedom.

Sincerely,

Wylie Wenger
Olympia

P.S. I’d like to also thank you for the recently increased taxes on tobacco and alcohol. I loved it when you made me stand in the cold rain to smoke, but now that it costs more it’s even better. I hope you use that extra $225 million of my money for something really necessary like a new stadium for a privately owned and extremely profitable sports franchise that gets named after a separate, but equally profitable corporation. Whatever you do, though, please don’t legislate any sort of state-funded healthcare system. We wouldn’t want citizens being able to see doctors or anything. Before you knew it we’d end up like Canada where people are generally happy, there’s not a lot of crime, and art is funded by the State. God forbid that should ever happen here.

We live in a very urgent time. There are multitudes of pressing issues at hand, some of which will determine the near future of our society and way of life, and some that will even determine the survival of our species on this planet. The world is running out of oil. Capitalism is crumbling and falling apart right before our eyes. There is a race between world powers to control the remaining sources of clean water in the world. There is a very real, very imminent, and very constant threat of nuclear war. The global climate is dramatically shifting in ways that will displace millions of people from their homes. Mexican drug lords by the hundreds are jumping our borders and kidnapping our citizens. There is a floating pile of human garbage the size of Texas swirling around the middle of the Pacific Ocean. And what are we concerned about? We, as a nation and a people, are concerned about Miss California’s response to an online question asking her what she thinks about gay marriage.

This is the main topic of discussion on the Fox News website. It is currently logging in about 43 responses every minute. As of noon Pacific Daylight Time on this April 20, 2009 there were 5,063 responses posted. Most of them are nearly unintelligible and replete with spelling and grammatical errors including quite a few by former beauty queens. About 30% are from religious fanatics quoting the bible. About half are sympathetic to Miss California (she didn’t win the title of Miss America and many believe it is because of her response, but once again, who cares?). But not one of the responses points out the absolute absurdity of the topic itself when placed against the backdrop what is actually going on in the world we live in.

This particular incident doesn’t amount to much when isolated, but when you compound it with all the other futile and ridiculous things our society seems to be concerned about it is cause for tremendous alarm.

Not two weeks ago Britney Spears was passing through town to perform a concert at the Tacoma Dome. The cover story of the local weekly was What Will Britney Do While She’s In Tacoma? Not, Why Isn’t Barack Obama Prosecuting Dick Cheney and George W. Bush For War Crimes And Treason?, or What Are We Going To Do When China Comes To Collect The Bill? These would seem to be far more pressing and newsworthy issues, but apparently they are not. Our culture has become so decadent and so superficial that we are on the verge of collapse. Perhaps the Fundamentalist Muslim psychos are not so far off when they call us a “Nation of Infidels”.

I am reminded of the times leading up to the French Revolution when the aristocracy was so self absorbed that certain members had 5 servants pouring liquid chocolate into their mouths while right outside their gates the peasants were starving and revolting. Eventually the gates crashed down and the French Aristocracy was brought to justice by the blade of the guillotine. Certainly our situation is not quite so lopsided, but the analogy is clear. How long before the rest of the world get’s fed up with us and “crashes the gates”? We won’t be able to ward off the mob forever, especially if what we’re concerned about is what the Jonas Brothers are wearing to dinner.

Wake up America. The bottom is dropping out. If we don’t start taking care of our shit we will be overrun by the hordes. Pretty soon we will be fighting in the streets over bullets and clean water. If you’re smart you will get a gun and learn to farm.

Last Saturday (April 4, 2009) at the Eastside was a blast. We’ve played with some good bands before, but it is truly a rare and treasured occurrence when shows go that well and I enjoy myself as thoroughly as I did that night.

We (Glass Elevator) opened the show. We began promptly at 9:00pm (that’s 8:45 bar time), which is early for a Saturday night in Olympia. Consequently there were not a lot of people in the crowd, but that was okay with us. We knew how it was going to go and we planned our set accordingly. We eased into the show with mellow psychedelia. As the show went on the music got more and more intense and the crowd grew larger and larger until the end where we exploded into a full out assault of rock and the now large crowd was cheering and demanding more.

Being the professionals that we are, however, we made way for Eldridge Gravy and the Court Supreme who got not only the entire club, but seemingly all of Olympia shaking its collective booty which is no easy feat. They raised the roof and then tore it down. They made believers of the most skeptical and unwound the most uptight. We’ve played with the Gravy twice now and both times I was honored to share a stage with a band that pure and that professional. It’s no doubt that Eldridge Gravy and the Court Supreme will make it and make it big someday soon and I can go to my grave knowing that we kept up with them even if only for a moment.

My friend had taken some mushrooms earlier that evening and I was reminded of that fact as Z-Kamp was getting prepped. The last time I dropped acid was at a Z-Kamp, Meat the Vegan, Human Jukebox show so I knew what she was in for. I asked her how she was doing. She told me that she was having an awesome time. I asked her if she was ready for Z-Kamp and she replied confidently, “Oh yeah. I’m not peaking anymore.” but I knew better. I knew that as soon as Z-Kamp started that her face would begin to melt and her mood would rapidly swing back and forth from hysterical and giddy laughter to befuddled awe.

And I was right. Z-Kamp didn’t waste any time. They busted right out of the gates with gooey psychedelia that released all the pent up Lysergic Acid Diethylamide 25 that was so innocently resting dormant in the base of my spine. I’m older now and I don’t take psychedelic drugs as often as I did once upon a time, but it wasn’t all that long ago that I, and seemingly all my peers, spent most of our time in a bubbly and colorful world where the ground was elastic, the air was liquid, time wasn’t linear, and communicating with speech was nearly impossible. Seeing Z-Kamp play live always floods my brain with vivid and lucid flashbacks of that golden era and the memory that they burn onto my brain stays with me just like all the best trips I ever took until real life seeps in and I have to start dealing with bills and money and responsibility and work and and all the little things that combine and clump together to make life seem unpleasant and disappointing as day after day goes by until I almost completely forget about how much I actually love Z-Kamp and how much they represent everything positive and magical that life is really supposed to be about and my days drift by in a haze and I forget what I spent last week doing and then a Z-Kamp show comes up and I go to see them and they just smack me across my face and say “Wake The Fuck Up And Smell The Goddamned Flowers Dipshit! Life Is Awesome And You Should Be Thankful Every Day You Spoiled And Ungrateful Cockroach!” Thank you Z-Kamp. The world needs what you do.

Fair Madame:

In response to your inquiry for a thief I am scribing you thusly to offer my services.

I am a notorious and highly skilled thief. I have stolen from peasants and kings alike nary to be caught. I have a lockpicking skill of 113 which, to the layman means naught, but such numbers are the envy of all my colleagues. I posess all the stealth of the fabled Nin-ja as well as the dexterity of Irina Vashchenko- world famous contortionist and acrobat.

Are you familiar with a little known painting in the Louvre known as the Mona Lisa? It is a fake! I know because I myself stole it in a stunning and miraculous display of thievery. Not to worry, though. The real Mona Lisa is safely hidden away in my lair far from the leering eyes of Frenchmen.

If you so wisely choose to render my services please contact me via the world wide web. We may discuss compensation at that time. My rate varies with the individual risk of the endeavor.

Sincerely,

Garrick the Mischievous