BOWNE FOR GLORY?

Well, it was bound to happen. I am officially trading my current soul-crushing job in for a new gig which, hopefully, will not be as soul-crushing. Now, as I prepare to begin a new life at Bowne Global Communications, running Word macros for a living, one small question remains:

What is a Word macro, and why would anyone be interested in running it?

I swear, I paid careful attention to my future boss, as she explained the job as best she could over the phone. I even took notes. Yet by the end of the conversation, I was still at a loss as to what the job entailed. Then I e-mailed someone who used to have the same job. My query was something along the lines of: "...I'm supposed to use different macros on Word documents. It sounds like I'm working with food additives." This was clearly a cry for help. But this other person's reply was: "Yeah, it's just like that, only instead of food additives, you're using macros." THIS DOESN'T HELP ME! All you did was invert my original question! I still don't understand what this job is supposed to entail. Perhaps if someone could explain to me what a macro is? Sounds like the nickname for a really big microwave.

Well, I took the plunge. After work today, I went to my local mall and plopped down cash for a Toshiba DVD player (Not the cheapest, but the brand with the best reviews on average) and the Legend: Ultimate Edition DVD. I'm not used to spending that much cash at one time. Strangely, though, I don't feel any buyer's remorse. Perhaps that's because the Legend: UE has so many extras. Whoo! The British cut is so different, and so much better! Jerry Goldsmith does the score!

Expect a full review in a future post.

I didn't do much this weekend because of terrible stomach cramps. However, these cramps led to the wittiest exchange of the weekend:

Phil's Mom (Visiting from Miami for a week): You have stomach cramps because of the sudden change in the weather.

Phil: No, I have stomach cramps because of the flaming fist trying to punch its way out of my stomach.

It's a really gruesome and hilarious story. I must tell you all about it sometime.

So I drop by Sci-Fi Club last night, only club isn’t where it’s supposed to be—someone called the front desk and cancelled the usual room. Chief suspect is some guy named Sketchy. I barely know Sketchy, but he’s got the reputation of having been a huge ass. I use past tense because he supposedly won’t be coming back to the club. The prevailing attitude is he’s persona non-gratis, so he’ll probably be reappearing within the next week or two.

What started all this friction? Something about another club member dousing Sketchy and “skanky ho” (someone else’s nickname) with a pitcher of ice water, since they were practically “dry humping” (another person’s words) in the hallway outside club. I wasn’t there for the actual dousing, but I’ve observed Sketchy before, and he’s both horny and stupid enough to attempt sexual congress somewhere he really shouldn’t.

But spreading rumors is beneath me. As a matter of fact, I would have no comment at all regarding this Sketchy character, except for comments he made about a certain Sci-Fi Club circle, which I have a feeling I unwittingly became a part of. The “Eloi”—mostly former NYU students, many of whom used to cross-polinate with the NYU Yo-Yo Club—have long dominated the Sci-Fi Club politically. According to Sketchy, we are a sexually-repressed and unambitious lot who have selected one Hal Johnson to be our messiah. Hey Sketchy: Lick my ass! Seriously, you’re the sexually-liberated one, so lick my ass! Phil X kowtows to no man! You can lick my ambition in the ass too, because I’ll be in grad school while you’re begging the club you just screwed over to let you back in.

And yeah, I know I wasn’t witness to the actual “event,” but don’t play the pious card when you’ve actually lounged around shirtless. What the hell kinda freak prances around a university facility—and not a gymnasium or dormitory—without a shirt on? It’s common sense! You wouldn’t go to lecture without a shirt, would you? No! Because total strangers, who don’t want to see you shirtless, could see you shirtless! So don’t walk around club without a shirt, because again, people who don’t want to see you shirtless can see you shirtless!

While I’ve only briefly met the Sci-Fi Club “Touchie-Feelies” (or “t-f’s,” for short), they have managed to make me nauseous to a degree exponential to the time spent in their company. 2 minutes of having to endure them groping = 4 minutes of nausea, 5 minutes of having to endure them groping = 25 minutes of nausea. And the reaction gets worse depending on the behavior. Thank God I didn’t have to witness the live sex show two weeks ago, or I would probably be six feet in the grave.

This, however, has nothing to do with being “sexually-repressed.” Sexually-repressed people think bare ankles are risque. They appear in Jane Campion movies. They can’t say the word “Fuck.” Well, I can say the work “Fuck.” Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck! Fuck with anchovies! Fuck o’ the Irish!

I hate to break it to you, but I’ve observed Sci-Fi Club thoroughly, and it isn’t just the Eloi who refrain from slobbering all over each other. It’s also EVERYONE ELSE IN THE ROOM! Sketchy! When no one else in the room behaves the way you do, that means YOU’RE the freak and EVERYONE ELSE are the normal ones. So instead of being “sexually-repressed,” we’re actually what sociologists would call “normal.” Studying others is actually a great way to avoid social faux-paus. Remember: When in doubt, look at how everyone else is behaving. If the no one else is acting like they’re in the Playboy mansion, you might want to avoid telling Miss April to disrobe. This system also works in regards to shirtwear. If no one else has their shirt off, you should probably wait until you’re in the privacy of your own home to unleash your inner Chippendales’ dancer.

Let’s face it, everyone knows that relationships between men and women don’t always revolve around love, or lust. Sometimes it’s ego. I’m sure there are sick twits out there who get a real self-esteem boost when they can make out with someone—even if that someone dresses in a manner that makes them look easier than Sunday morning—in front of semi-strangers. It’s like a game of Keep Away with breasts. Or maybe Sketchy just desperately needs the entire club to know his dick works. He really needs that kind of validation.

Sketchy, I don’t give a shit if your dick works or not. I don’t know if anyone in Sci-Fi Club ever did, and if there are members to whom such information is a priority, perhaps they should look into starting a new club. But I don’t give a shit if your dick works. I would just as soon assume, though I never want to ponder such a thing, that your dick works. Heck, even if your dick didn’t work, if anyone ever asked me, “Does Sketchy’s dick work?” I would tell them “To the best of my knowledge, it does.” Not because I give a shit, but because I really don’t. So please, never, ever, ever try to prove that your dick works ever again, because you don’t have to. Thank you.

I’ve been catching a lot of flak lately about how I’ve lost my edge, that my blog isn’t nearly as funny or offensive as it once was. Well too bad, naysayers. Ridiculing ethnic groups and hippies gets old. I got tired of it. Anyway, it’s only natural to mellow out over time.

So from now on, WHEN BLOGS ATTACK! will no longer feature offensive material. In essence, I’m PG-rating it. If you came here for the usual dose of depraved humor in the form of anti-immigration rants or barbs aimed at “dirty, lazy hippies,” look elsewhere. No more tickling the spleen for me. From this day forward, the only stimulation my blog shall provide is the intellectual kind.

Oh, and one more thing. I want to state for the record that I have NEVER composed, or published, anything that could have been misconstrued as racist. I’ve been accused of racism before, and the remarks wounded me deeply. I vehemently deny being a racist. As far as I’m concerned, we’re all simmering together in this little crock pot called America, and the only way to keep afloat in this briny broth is to grab hold of the potato floating beside you. And yes, by potato, I mean an Irishman.

And now, on with the show…

DEATH TO THE CHIMNEY CHINKS!

What is happening to our society? A few days ago, these two chimney chinks—sorry, that’s so offensive, I meant smoking chinks—stab a bartender to death for enforcing Mayor Bloomberg’s new smoking ban. I turn on the radio this morning, and what do I hear? They’ve been released from jail. Seems no weapon turned up, so everyone concludes that the bouncer must have died from belly stigmata, not a stab wound. Surely that’s reasonable, right? Belly stigmata? Didn’t Jesus take a nail in the stomach at some point? The Romans had to affix him to that cross somehow, didn’t they?

That’s the only reasonable explanation I can think of. Let’s review what happened: Bouncer victim sees these two Chimney Chinks lighting up. He goes over to their table and asks them to extinguish their cigarettes. The two Chimney Chinks insult the man, because fuck you if you’re only doing your job—What do you expect me to do? Move a whole ten feet out to the sidewalk? Bouncer, whose merely enforcing a law that, if he does not enforce it, will bring fines down on his establishment, drags the Chimney Chinks out to the curb.

Before moving on to the devastating and unnecessary stabbing that occurred out on the sidewalk, I’d like to address the smoking lobby’s bullshit argument. Bullshit argument: If I enter your restaurant/bar/tavern, and order food or drink, that makes me a paying customer. As a paying customer, I should be allowed to smoke a cigarette if I choose, because without me, your restaurant/bar/tavern goes out of business. Smokers make up a substantial percentage of customers in New York City, and our economic power as a sum must be represented. In other words: I in your place, I smoke in your face.

FUCKING WRONG, MARLBORO MAN! Let’s take a peek at your buying power through the other side of the looking glass. In our alternative reality New York City, Bloomy introduces an anti-anti-smoking ban. According to this ban, public places are now only open to smokers. That’s right. People who don’t smoke must abscond to the sidewalk. Take your disgusting clean-oxygen breathing habit outside, Rebel Without a Respirator. Now, do you think New York City businesses will make MORE money now or LESS? What, Smokey? Did you say ‘More?’ I think you’re forgetting that those little books of matches next to the cash register are generally free. Right, they’d make less money, wouldn’t they? I know this is blowing your mind, Smokey, so just sit down, put your head between your knees and take deep, clear breaths. …And judging by that wheezing sound you’re making, you obviously can’t. I’m sorry.

If New York City had to rely exclusive on the smoking public, it would fold faster than a Korean dry cleaner on amphetemines. On the contrary, I think our city’s stores and eateries can get along just fine with only the non-smoking public. And anyway, if you’re a smoker, you’ve got to give me this one: How many times has someone on the street asked to bum a cigarette off you? Need a bike meter to keep track, don’t cha? Yeah, you smokers are definitely a sector of the public just oozing with available cash.

But back to the Chimney Chinks. So out in the street, the two Chimney Chinks and their Chimney Chinkette gang up on the boxer. Everyone hits the asphalt. Chimney Chinks get up, bouncer does not. He’s busy bleeding out of a deep wound in his chest. Chimney Chinks run, which is kind of ironic because one of them is a medical student. I’m sure he explained to the cop later that at the college he attends, they taught him that the best way to deal with a gushing wound is to run like Hell. Anyway, just about every credible witness states that the only participants in the melee were the three Chimney Chinks and the bouncer himself. So, unless the bouncer somehow landed stomach-down on a shard of broken glass firmly sticking straight up from the sidewalk—Yeah, that happens a lot—or he in fact experienced belly stigmata, as I previously stated, someone guilty went free this morning.

I understand that to charge someone with murder, the weapon must be on-hand. But is it possible that, while the Chimney Chinks scurried away, they tossed the weapon aside? And is it not possible that, if they could just hold the suspects in custody a little longer, the weapon will turn up? According to the witnesses, NO ONE else was involved in the melee. The bouncer was killed by a Chimney Chink, and right now, he is as free as the rest of us. And I think I can guess at why Morgentheu or whoever our D.A. is finked out of pressing charges. Look at the public outcry over the murder. I use the word ‘outcry,’ as opposed to ‘outrage’ because no one is angry at the two smoking fiends who smoked the unarmed bouncer. No, the venom is aimed squarely at Bloomberg, at his smoking ban. The real injustice, apparently, is that these two poor Chimney Chinks weren’t allowed to light up and be left alone.

Well, I got your injustice, buttfuck! (And I think the word “buttfuck” really does apply here. What do smokers do other than perform extended fellatio on a cigarette? I’m surprised they don’t need to light up another cigarette after smoking one…) THE BOUNCER WAS JUST DOING HIS JOB!!! MAYBE THE TWO NICOTINE FIENDS SHOULDN’T HAVE GUTTED HIM LIKE A FISH WHEN HE WAS JUST DOING HIS JOB!!! And you know what? Cigarettes should be banned because they’re a public health menace. Second-hand smoke is bad for people. Test studies have proven this! I, for one, am not contracting throat cancer just so you can look suave and sophisticated handling a Camel in front of the ladies. Maybe if you threw some of that pussy my way it’d be different. But since you’re not, fuck you and your Jerry Lewis-Buddy Love impression. That camel drawing on the front of the carton is the only hump you’re getting, pal.

I know that the D.A. has habeas corpus bearing down on him like the Terminator, but this is one case where they need to bend the rules a little. Morgie, you needed to set an example. By letting these two Chimney Chinks walk free, you’ve given every smoker in the five boroughs license to tell bouncers and waitresses to fuck off, and you’ve given every bouncer and restaurant manager a reason to be hesitant to enforce the law. And bottom line: Unless the muscle is there to back up that law, Bloomy is basically fucking with a flaccid penis.

Now, is everyone sick of hearing me use the term “Chimney Chinks” to refer to the two suspects? Yeah, I know it’s a derogatory term. But I know some Chinese people, and I think it would be more offensive to put them in the same category as these two scum-and-tar suckers. Normal, decent people do not kill over something as frivolous as smoking a cigarette. And the worst part is, both antagonists are in their 30’s. It’s one thing to be a uptight 21-year old with a chip on his shoulder, who doesn’t know his limitations or the limitations of the world yet. But 30 and up? Now, one of the Chimney Ch—aahhh, scum-and-tar suckers is a banker on Wall Street, so he’s probably already too evil to ever realize the gravity of what he’s done. But the other guy is in medical school. If there’s any justice in the universe, he’ll be opening up a cadaver in his laboratory class someday. Flammable gases from the cadaver will rise up, blending with the air. Someone else in the room will start to light up a lucky.

“Hey! Stop!” the former murderer (or accomplice) will say. Then he’ll point to a sign on the wall that says that smoking is prohibited.

The other person—the only other person in the room—will shrug and smile, his thumb flicking sparks from his Bic.

“No! STOP!” the Chimney Chink will scream, the flammable gases at the four corners of the room, the man with the lighter standing between him and the door.

“Fuck your smoking ban,” says the nameless other. With another flick of the thumb, the rest is history gone up in flames.

So after nearly a decade of being passionately obsessed with the cinema, I'm thinking I should take up a new hobby. I know it's something a lot of people do: they juggle two, three, or a dozen passions at a time. I've never been able to do this. No ma'am, I have always been strictly a one-passion guy. And that passion, in case you skipped the first sentence of this paragraph, is movies.

I'm thinking of taking up anime. My various reasons seem to make logical sense:

(1) I'm already way into movies. It's not like I'll be going "Whoa! Pictures that move?!!!"

(2) Anime is weird and perverse. However, if you know me, you subsequently know my taste in movies. I'm sure you'll agree that I can probably handle whatever anime throws at me.

(3) All my friends are doing it. And yes, I would definitely jump off that proverbial bridge, too.

So I want to sample some anime. Now, I realize there's a plethora of different anime types. I'm not sure exactly what I want, but I think my tastes lean toward what cultural scientists refer to as, "a good story." Oh, and nothing blatantly pornographic. Any suggestions?

You know what I think would be a really good idea? Someone should re-air the Spaceship Voltron cartoons. For one thing, I always thought they were much cooler than the Lion Voltron cartoons. Spaceship Voltron had a bigger, more diverse cast (Whites AND caucasians!) Also, it's so relevant to what's going on in the world today. Spaceship Voltron represented an army that went around "spreading peace throughout the universe." I'm sure I've heard either Bush or Rumsfeld use a similar phrase in a sound-byte. Well, not the "universe" part. You get the idea. Anyway, to conclude: Bring back Spaceship Voltron!

More updates:

I never wrote about my job here in this fictional Iraqi city. I work for the city's primary medical insurance provider. I make spreadsheets and do data entry. It's about as fun as it sounds. However, we've been experiencing a boom in business since the regime change. Suddenly, medical coverage seems like a good idea. In the past, if you became too sick or infirm, you wouldn't go to see a doctor. Instead, you'd start denouncing Saddam publicly. Then Ouday or somebody would visit your house with an M-16. Problem solved.

But now I've got to slowly suffer when I get sick. It's that, or see a doctor.

My department recently moved into a brand new office building. I'm on the 12th floor. Everything's so new. It smells like my old dormitory freshman year. They had just opened "Panther Hall," and my entering class were the first to use it. It's a nice smell; sort of like the inside of a car on a showroom lot. It won't last, of course. Nothing does.

Life as an office monkey is sure dull and repetitive. Thank God America has toppled the regime, and will be bringing their brand of "freedom" to Iraq. I'm sure office jobs in America aren't nearly as restricting as they are here.

Give a hoot. Go and loot.

Wow, lots has happened recently in this fictional Iraqi city. I haven't been able to update, due to the mass looting, which I took part in! I personally looted the Dean's office at Basra University. While all the stupid looters took computers, printers, and stuff like that, I used my smarty brains and stole me a diploma! It was hanging right there in the Dean's office! Now I know what you're thinking: Phil X, that diploma is useless. You didn't do any studying to earn that degree. Well, it so happens I checked on the black market, and apparently, that makes it the equivalent of an NYU degree. So take that!

Here's the story I'm submitting to Pulsar. It's horrible, though neither fantasy nor horror.


“New Year’s Day”
short story by Phil X

I was in Chinatown the same afternoon as the boy who made all the papers. He was the one at the New Years’ Parade, who would’ve been trampled if not for the American. I spent the morning of that particular day in a restaurant that smelled vaguely of dried meat. I sat at a small, circular table, across from my cousin William. He had spent an hour telling me how I’ve been wasting my life, when he wasn’t stuffing dumplings into his mouth. Instead of listening to him talk, I watched him eat. William had a strangely meticulous way of eating his dumplings. He funneled them gingerly past his lips on the tips of his wooden chopsticks. He placed them on his tongue in one piece; one could say that he ate them like communion wafers. I nodded, drank hot tea from a small ceramic cup, and watched the pretty girls walk by the storefront window. I asked William questions about his job, the Knicks, though he had been talking about something else. He would continue droning on in his friendly patrician tone, feeling too amiable to note that I had ignored his comments. Or perhaps he knew, and just didn’t feel like making a fuss. After all, it was Chinese New Year, and his girlfriend Chelsea had made a reservation for later at a nicer restaurant on the West Side.

I poured tea out from the silver tin pot. It streamed into the cup and made a pleasant burbling sound. As the steam wafted up from the scalding dark liquid, he persisted on grandma’s arthritis, grandpa’s Alzheimer. He made some funny comments about it: Sure, they babble sometimes, he said. But that, he assured me, was the way it was with old people. Are you coming over for dinner later? he asked. I told him I’d have to see, though already I had aimed myself out the door. In the street, my face was patted by the brisk wind. Old Chinese women passed me by on both sides, with chalky stiff hair and sagging, jiggling jowels.

There was a bell that rang on top of the door of the restaurant. I didn’t hear it ringing when I first cleared the door. Or at least I didn’t know that I had heard it ringing, but it echoed in my ears ringing after I’d turned my sharp left ringing down Canal Street ringing and was a good ringing paces away. More echoes, things I hadn’t paid attention to, a river of conversation running by. Echoes, memories. The brain traps them all in invisible cages, and hides them behind a tarp like the freak-car of a circus train. For fun, it’ll let a cage open at the moment one least expects. For example, a moment like this, just walking down the street, minding my own business. My unconscious, just for fun, pulls back that tarp and lets a cage door swing open…

William sitting across from me, less than ten minutes ago. Telling me, They don’t have a lot of time left. They’re our grandparents, we’ve got to make them happy while we can. It’s strange sometimes, but don’t let it bother you. Everyone gets old, you know. That’s what happens when you get up there. Just take the subway over stop by and say hello. I have to hit the road so gung hay fah choy. That’s “Happy New Year,” something Chelsea taught me to say…

I don’t know if that boy had grandparents. I did; I used to live with them. My grandparents were kind people, but they were sick, with the kinds of illnesses no one gets better from. I got tired of watching my grandmother’s hair fall out. My grandfather had Parkinson’s, and he couldn’t control his bowels. I got tired of sifting through the crumbled ruins of Rome. I couldn’t stare at them any longer without breathing difficulties. One day, I read an ad for an apartment in Chinatown; a cheap, termite-infested closet with a thermostat that only worked in the summertime. I’ve never gone back to my grandparents’ house.

Every year, the Chinese New Year’s Day Parade brings people to the intersection of Mott and Elizabeth. The crowds that gather to watch the festivities aren’t limited to Chinese or those living in Chinatown. Following the crowds on foot, I saw faces of all ethnicities. Many of them wore clothes that suggested higher-income neighborhoods; they were the most uncomfortable navigating the dirty sidewalks. Along the edges of the curb were channels of green, fish-smelling water. I lived there long enough that I would step in them unthinkingly. But others were more squeamish, and I blew by them without sympathy. Behind me I heard their voices saying, Oh God! These streets are so filthy! But I had my head tilted up to all the signs on the stores, so as the voices got softer, I knew I was getting farther. But it also felt like I was ascending high into the air above everyone…

Fireworks exploded on the posts of the stores. They crackled and burst, crumbled into sparks. They disturbed the silence with welcome echoing smacks. I felt my feet on the ground again, and heard a low drumming sound begin to reverbate from down the block. The lion dance was beginning at the far end of the street, and the crowd became a vacuum. We were each pulled along by the other’s desire to watch the lion. We were crammed shoulder to shoulder, clenched like digits in a fist. The crowds from Elizabeth merged into our own, and when we reached the intersection, where we all wanted to end up, I felt the sidewalk give way to ice. It was right beneath my feet and I nearly slipped on it. But I was cushioned by elbows and shoulder bones, hands pressing against my back. A traffic jam with people, half-a-step’s progress every minute it seemed, but people still pushing from every direction, cursing and complaining. There was a scream clearer than all the irritated voices:

“Yan Yan! Yan Yan…!”

A woman’s voice screaming. I remember how horrible the voice sounded more than I remember the words. Where was it coming from? I tried to turn my head and see. But I could only pivot my neck; both my arms and shoulders were locked to my sides. I turned my head left, where I thought the cry erupted, and as I was thinking Where was it coming from? a big face jumped out in front of me. There were pimples of sweat all over the cracked, chafing skin of its forehead. It opened its mouth to huff an overpowering stench of ginger. The breath of the big face clapped against my own, and my eyes instantly watered. I felt the noxious air inside my nose and stomach, and I started to cough, wanted to double over and retch. But I was stuck vertical; I could only turn my head the other way. With rapture I inhaled the transient aroma of gunpowder, leftover from the strings of fireworks hanging ash-black on street columns. My coughing had produced a blanket of white wisps across my eyes. I could hear voices uttering oaths like Motherfucker, stop coughing on me! Cottony clouds everywhere. The scream sliced the air again,

“Yan Yan! Yan…!

Where was it coming from? I braved Ginger Face again, stood up on my tip-toes and stuck my head over a sea of bobbing heads. Then something dug at the back of my knee. My weight fell back down and I kissed the leathery fold of someone’s jacket armpit. I caught a nostril full of musk, came away coughing once more, but my mind was asking Where was it coming from? Where was the screaming coming from? Then finally something I could understand. A man’s voice, in English this time.

“Hey! There’s a little kid down here!”

But people still pushed with their bodies like they hadn’t been paying attention. I could feel the impatience growing stronger around me, the way one feels the ocean ebb when he’s standing up to his neck in it. The hands in my back got beligerent; the crowd began to lurch forward. A sudden, forceful push, like a great tide had swelled up at the entrance of Canal. Like a thousand new spectators had begun shoving their way into the street all at once. The woman screamed again; as I was pushed forward the faces beside me scrolled back and forth like pendulums, and while a voice in my mind still asked Where was the sound coming from? I also didn’t want to know. The man who spoke English erupted,

“Hey! Hey! Don’t step on the little kid…!”

I never saw the man who was yelling. I think I saw the woman for a moment. She was Chinese, had a face drained of all color, and eyes wide in desperation. They kept uttering things, the woman with the word of one pronounced syllable. I still don’t know what she said; it’s the tone of her voice that haunts me. They kept on yelling, their voices wailing as they receded from me, absorbed by the masses. For the crowd kept pushing towards the parade, completely indifferent. Fireworks began exploding again.

The lion that appeared later was a gaudy-looking thing shaped like a giant helmet, colored like a candy cane, and with a thin, flapping jaw. The person inside the giant head, which didn’t resemble a lion’s, swooped down on a cabbage in the street, and picked it up through the flap of the mouth. After crossing its legs a few times to the drum throb, the leaves were sprayed up into the air through the jaw of the animal. The bells that adorned the pretend lion jangled and rattled with every motion he made, and the crowd applauded generously. They didn’t try to catch any of the falling flakes of cabbage.

In the newspaper the next morning, there was a photo of the same woman. I recognized her instantly, though her face wasn’t shown. She was crying into the shoulder of a man who was beside her. While she could have been any of a thousand different mothers who had been at the parade, I was sure it was her. The article next to the photo confirmed everything. An eight-year old boy had been trampled, her son. He had been trampled to death by the New Year’s Day crowd, at the intersection of Mott and Elizabeth Street.

On the opposite page, there was the other boy, who had almost gotten trampled when a stout young American managed to pull him out of harm’s way. They posed in a photograph. The child was on the shoulder of his fateful savior, and both of them exuded a kind of stupified happiness. The boy had a bright innocence that was amazingly photogenic, and his hero would be profiled on page twenty-six. Of course, the great tragedy on the opposite page would be forever connected with this Chinese New Year. But for some strange reason which I cannot explain, whenever I think about this particular holiday, this particular year, I remember first the boy who had been saved. It isn’t until I sit and dwell on it at length that I realize there was another boy, that my brain is having fun with me. I’ve always thought of memory as a funny thing; it’ll pull something out that’s the last thing anyone wants to think of. I was supposed to tell the story of the boy who had lived. I think this story began on a much happier note…

Coalition forces massacred two divisions of Republican Guard this morning! Yes! I can't stand those Republican Guard punks. Every time we play cards they're like, "I've got two threes." "I've got a pair of fives." And I'll be like, "Pair of aces! Beat that!" But then they'll go, "Screw you! We're Republican Guard. We take your money anyway!" Then they'd bash my head and molest my camel. Every time! Filthy camel molesters. Good riddance!

Due to popular demand, here are the lyrics to the song "Kill a Kitten." I hear it is popular everywhere, and not just here in my fictional Iraqi city.

"Kill a Kitten"
By Stephen Lynch

When the game of like makes you feel like quittin'
it helps a lot if you kill a kitten.

Mark my words 'cause from where I'm sittin'
you can't go wrong if you kill a kitten.

There's no crime that you'd be committin.'
I know the law -- you can kill a kitten.

And if you need yarn for that scarf you're knittin' you'll get plenty
when you kill a kitten.

Feed it turpentine or break its spine.
Crush it with your shoe as long as you kill a kitten.

If the one you love isn't quite as smitten,
she'll like you better if you kill a kitten.

And I'll quote the bible 'cause that's where it's written,
if ye loveth Jesus ye must kill a kitten.

Flush it down the can.
Hit it with your van.
Drown it in a lake.
Bake a kitty cake.
Throw it at a train.
Make it snort cocaine.
Stick some TNT up its cat booty.

Do what you must do as long as you
kill a kitten.

Killing kittens isn't easy
and if the thought makes you feel queasy
grab a pitchfork from the shed
and kill a puppy dog instead.

Kill a kitten.
Kill a kitten
a little furry kitten.

WRITE THE "ARTIST" :
> Stephen Lynch ("Artist" of the Song)
> Email: pushead@aol.com
>
> COPY LYNCH'S AGENTS ON THE LETTER YOU SEND TO LYNCH:
> Stephen Lynch's Press Contact:
> Sarah Hall Productions, Inc.670 Broadway, Suite 502
> New York, NY, 10012
> Telephone: 212.529.1598
> Fax: 212.529.3171
> Email: SHPNY@aol.com
>
> Stephen Lynch's Booking Agent:
> Conan Smith
> William Morris Agency
> 1325 Avenue Of The Americas
> New York, NY, 10019
> Telephone: 212.903.1105
> Fax: 212 903-1409
> Email: CQA@WMA.COM

Out of sympathy to the American woman who had a pen stuck up her nose, the people in my fictional Iraqi village have also stuck pens up our noses. So this is what freedom feels like... Are you supposed to get dizzy and lightheaded?