In case some of you don’t know, the apartment I am currently living in has a lot of problems with its plumbing. Things are always getting stopped up, leaking, whatever. So, being the man around here, it is my charge to try and fix all of these problems. In doing so I have acquired a wealth of knowledge on the subject. Allow me to share some of it with you.

GENERAL

1. When a pipe begins to shake violently and makes a kind of guttural and mechanical sounding howl, abort mission.

2. Black bile coming out of every source of water in the house is a problem best left to professionals (true story, and trust me on this one).

3. If and when you do choose to call a professional, make sure that upon their arrival you explain to them in detail exactly what you have done to try and correct the problem. That way, not only can they undo your damage, but also they will have a right good story to tell the boys back at the office. Oh, and try to get them to say “lay some pipe” as much as possible. Harass them if you must.

4. Wrenches are a plumber’s best friend. To use a wrench, simply place it in the palm of your hand and bang on the pipe with it.

5. Plumbing systems are known for their redundancy. Most parts that you take off of something can simply be thrown out.

6. Just to clear this up, the proper place to vomit is in the TOILET. Okay? Rizz’s friends seem to keep believing it should go in the sink. This is a mistake. I don’t shit in your bathtub do I?

BATHTUB/SHOWER

1. Often times the greatest problem with bathtubs are keeping them clean. I suggest spraying water all over the bathtub to rinse it all off. No other steps are needed. This is known as “showering”.

2. People oft complain that when you flush the toilet, the temperature rises in the shower suddenly and briefly. A good way to remedy this is to render the toilet incapable of flushing (see section TOILETS).

3. Another complaint about showers is that the hot water often runs out before the shower is over. A good way to remedy this is to fix the toilet and have somebody flush it repeatedly.

4. Sometimes, the bathtub starts getting stopped up and then starts regurgitating what looks like black bile. When this occurs, call a priest.

5. If your bathtub DOES start getting stopped up, simply bring a bucket with you when you bathe and empty the undrained water into the toilet (note, the converse of this does not work as well and can be quite unsanitary).

6. A good way to cut down on water bills is to shower-pool. Bring some friends with you next time you bathe.

SINKS

1. Your kitchen sink should have a garbage disposal unit already installed. This is the disposal receptacle for all organic matter in the house, no matter how much your roommates insist to the contrary. Uneaten food, old fruit, body parts, vomit, dead pets, any of these things are all perfectly acceptable candidates for “The Disposer”.

2. Remember however, that most bathroom sinks DO NOT have a disposal unit.

3. In any case, you shouldn’t have any problems with the sink anyway. Sinks are easy. The hard one is the…

TOILET

1. Your girlfriend will get mad at you if you clean the toilet with her towels. But then again, she will get mad if you don’t clean the toilet at all. I don’t get it either.

2. Any problem with a toilet can be solved by doing one of two things:

A: Using a plunger.

B. Jiggling the handle

If you are experiencing a problem that cannot be solved by doing one of those two things, you will have to replace your toilet.

3. If you ever do dare to venture into the tank of the toilet, there are a few things to consider. For one, there is a thing called a “flapper”, a black piece of rubber that regulates water flow into the bowl. Any work that needs to be done on the flapper needs to be done with lightening speed, or you will find yourself need deep in shit in 11 seconds.

4. There is also a part of the toilet called the chain that runs from the handle to the flapper. These sometimes come off of the flapper, and thus the toilet can only be flushed manually (i.e. lifting the flapper by hand). If this occurs to you, you will quickly discover that even though the chain attaches to the flapper with a simple hook, getting the chain back on is akin to solving a Rubik’s cube. And you have to lift the flapper in most cases to do it. Please see TOILETS #3 regarding this.

5. There are also some tubes and things inside the toilet tank. Please disregard these, as they serve no purpose other then storing condoms filled with cocaine.

6. If you have a child of young age in your household, try to keep the seat down. Otherwise, you have to constantly fish out household items as well as your child from the toilet.

7. There has been much debate over the years as to having a man and a woman sharing a bathroom, and whether or not the seat should be kept up or down. My take on it, from a plumbing perspective, is that if we keep the seat down, we have to lift it up to piss. If we keep it down, you have to put it down to piss. Seems an equal amount of unfairness goes into either option. However, most men will in fact not put the seat up to piss regardless of which method you choose, at which point you have to decide if getting piss on your ass constantly outweighs falling into the bowl once every other blue moon. Choose wisely.

8. If your toilet is clogged with a whole bunch of diarrhea, and before you get a chance to use the plunger you are sent to jail for a week, put into mandatory rehab for a month, and then spend a week with your mother, when you come back, do not look in your toilet. Trust me. For the love of Christ, please trust me.

OTHER

1. In some backwards nations, there is something next to the toilet that shoots water up your ass to clean it. In the states, we have something called “toilet paper” that serves the same function. We are working on exporting this marvelous invention sometime in the next five years.

2. Washers and dryers do a terrible job cleaning dishes, but dishwashers do a fantastic job of cleaning clothes. Go figure.

Under the leadership of JEB Stuart, we also have on board bowmore, CAL, Wasted Potential, and one more columnist to be named later. And as for the sixth, we are still hunting down a possible permanent columnist for that slot (e-mail Paint CHiPs if interested).

In any case, we're rolling out our rolling column for your cinematic patronage.

JEB's special gift to you is his review of Hannibal, seen by him a night before the film was released to the general public. JEB managed to swing this by bribing a theater owner with a case of malt liquor and a few cigars from the Dominican Republic that he passed off as Cubans. We are sure he can elaborate on that particular scheme. Also, don't forget to check out his review of O Brother.

Go check it out people. The column is already off to a great start. *licks lips*

Oh yeah, and post your thoughts on this column and any others in the Suppository. The best way to reward a writer is to provide them feedback. Well, I guess paying them money is good too, but screw that.

(Mike suddenly felt nervous, he wasn’t expecting this, but how could he turn her down. Deep down he felt the same way and he was relieved she made the first move this time.)

Mike- "I want you too, so badly."
Kim- "Well, I’m going to take off my clothes, you be ready when I get back."
Mike- "I will be."

(Mike began to tear off his clothes and then realized that maybe he shouldn’t seem so eager. He slowed down, made sure everything was set out just right, then sat down waiting for her.)

Kim- "I’m back. Well, I guess you’re ready! I’m going to start, let me touch your chest. Mmm, so smooth and strong. You have a great body I love it. Do you like me nibbling your chest?"
Mike- "You know I do, but I don’t want you to do everything."
Kim- "It’s okay, I like it, I like being in control."
(Mike feels himself getting excited deep inside. He’s never had a woman take such control and he likes it)
Mike- "Okay, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me."
Kim- "Great, let me touch your cock, I’m so wet I can’t wait any longer. Mmm, you have such a nice cock, I’m going to lick it, okay?"
Mike- "Sure, go for it, your hand feels great."

(Mike can feel the warmth envelop his cock, pleasure shoots through his body.)

Kim- "Are you close, I can feel how hard you are?"
Mike- "Yeah I am, what about you?"
Kim- "I’m close too, but I need you to touch me. Mmm, that’s it… you’ve got the spot baby."

(Mike’s heart raced, his feelings of pleasure, excitement and love were building inside of him. He could feel the cum rising from his balls and knew he couldn’t hold out much longer.)

Mike- "You are the best, I’m dripping everywhere, I can feel it cuming soon."
Kim- "Oh baby, your cock is so hard, I’m going to cum too!"
Mike- "Cum with me baby, come on…"
Kim- "I’m cuming, oh it’s rushing through my body, god I’m cuming!"
Mike- "Oh, me too, you’re the best… I love you babe, I love you!"

(Mike feels his body start to convulse, the wonderful feeling ripping his body and mind apart. He’s never felt this way it’s amazing.)

Kim- "Oh my god Mike, you made me cum a quart. I got everything so wet, I’m sorry."
Mike- "It’s okay, that was so hot. You are the most beautiful, sexy woman I’ve ever known."

(Mike felt a wave of embarrassment come over him. He’s never spoken that way about any woman, but this time he meant it and wouldn’t take it back.)

Kim- "Stay with me until I fall asleep, please?"
Mike- "Of course I will, I’m not going anywhere. Let me run my fingers through your hair."
Kim- "Mmm, that’s nice. Did you mean what you said about me being beautiful?"
Mike- "Of course I did, I wouldn’t have said it if not."
Kim- "Thanks."

(Mike smiled, he found her, the one woman that could make him forget the troubles of a long day. He cared for this woman, he loved her deeply.)

Kim- "I’m dosing off, your touch is guiding me to wonderful dreams. I probably won’t see you until tomorrow morning; I’m so relaxed and satisfied. Let me say goodnight before I dose off." "Goodnight."
Mike- "Goodnight honey, you sleep well with me at your side."
Kim- "I will."

(All Mike could think about was how wonderful Kim was. How much she meant to him, how much he cared. As he sat back and thought about her last words, he couldn’t help but pray they stayed together. It was a wonderful relationship; just what he was looking for.)

As he reached for the power switch he thought to himself, "Maybe one day we’ll meet… one day."
(Mike turned off the computer, walked over to his bed and fell asleep)

Is Mike right, is this a relationship? Can you have a real love relationship with someone you haven’t met or known in real life? I don’t think so. I think these people are aching for something real but they don’t have the self-esteem to go out and meet people in the real world, they then fall into this cyber-world of "dating" and "relationships". Of course, some relationships can start this way, with an eventual meeting being the start of the real-life consummation. This is rare though, too many times we have seen friendships blossom into so-called online "relationships", only to end with someone giving up all his/her friends and personas to save themselves the embarrassment of realizing that they couldn’t even survive an online relationship, let alone a real one.

Maybe I’m being overly harsh of these people, kids will be kids right? Our problem is that many people are throwing away the chance at the real life excitement of feeling another’s touch for the first time, their lips gently pressing against their own whilst tongues entangle in a magical dance. You can’t taste someone online, you can’t see the color of someone’s eyes change when they get excited, you can’t feel their heart beating when your bodies press against each other. That’s real, real for all of us. If your idea of a relationship is anything like Mike and Kim’s, then you haven’t lived.

1. Do you rent video tapes at least once a week?

2. When you rent video tapes, do you have to carry 'em out in a sack?

3. Do you sometimes plug in a tape you just rented only to realize after a minute, or so, that you've seen it before?

4. Do you wear a coat with pockets to the theatre, regardless of the weather, to carry in your own drinks and/or snacks and, hence, avoid the theatre concession robbery?

5. In the alternative, do you have your girlfriend, or spouse, empty her largest shoulder-bag in order to carry in your own drinks and/or snacks, etc.?

6. When you go to the theatre, do you frequently watch two or more movies during same trip?

7. When your friends want to know something about a movie, do they ask you?

Though not all-inclusive, an affirmative response to any or all of the above questions is a strong indicator that you are a movie junkie.

There's one obvious thing most movie junkies share in common--we love watching movies. Doesn't matter whether they're on tape, or on the big screen--we love 'em.

While we movie junkies love to watch movies, it does not necessarily follow that we love all the movies we watch. To the contrary, it turns out that an inevitable consequence of watching so many movies is that the movie junkie becomes more discriminating; harder to please. This is, at least, what I've found to be true for me.

Nevertheless, what I want from a movie is simple. I want to be entertained. If a movie entertains me then, in my book, it's a good movie, regardless of what the pea-brained critics say.

As for the movie critics, here's what I think of most of them--they strike me as mostly talentless people, trying to conceal their envy of those they critique, by attempting to pass themselves off as elitists possessing exceedingly superior tastes and far deeper insights than the ignorant masses for which they write.

True, in all fairness, there are exceptions. I am also mindful that the good folk of AsylumNation tend to share a dim view toward overly-broad generalizations of any class, group, etc. Hence, I will say that, in my opinion, Gene Siskel (R.I.P) seemed to strive to be fair and non-pompous, although I didn't always agree with his assessments.

Anyway, I'll make it simple. All I intend to do is tell you whether or not I was entertained by a particular movie and why. I'll also tell you a little bit about it, but never enough to ruin it. Further, I'm going to let my trusty, leg-humping, dog Fred assist. He's provided the rating system, which is:

No Fred Heads: Wouldn't rent this tape, even on bargain night. If someone gives it to me for a present, I will put the tape to good use by recording over it. If it's a DVD, Fred and I will use it as a frisbee. Put another way, flick is a candidate for the Steamin' Pile O' Dog Shit Award.

One Fred Head: Not totally horrible. Perhaps worth a watch, provided there's nothing more important to do, such as watching your screen-saver.

Two Fred Heads: Okay. Mildly entertaining, but mostly forgettable.

Three Fred Heads: Pretty damn good flick. Have seen better, but have seen much worse. Was fairly entertaining.

Four Fred Heads: Well worth the watch. Will highly recommend it to your friends. May even watch it again.

Five Fred Heads: One of the best you've seen in a long, long time. Won't forget this one and would be proud to buy it as a gift for a good friend. A "must-have" for your collection, if you're a collector.

I just saw "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" This is another flick by the now legendary and enigmatic brother team of Ethan and Joel Coen. As you know, their biggest claim to fame so far was "Fargo", but they've made quite a few other movies. Frankly, I've been a fan of theirs since "Blood Simple" and highly recommend it to anyone who wants some more tastes of the Coen Bros.

O Brother stars George Clooney, John Turturro and Tim Blake Nelson. The yarn is set in depression-era (1937) Mississippi and is an unusual escaped convict spin off of Homer's "Odyssey". There's several other well-known actors in this movie. For example, you should get a big kick out of John Goodman portraying, in essence, a redneck, Mississippi Cyclops.

The Coen Bros. are twisted in the best possible way. Not everything they have done has entertained me as much as I'd like, but they are never cookie-cutter.

One of the things I enjoyed most about O Brother was the soundtrack. Regardless of your tastes in music, take a listen to "I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow" by The Soggy Bottom Boys. This is honest music, without hi-tech dressing. This movie also brought to mind an old hot, flamin' guitar and boogie classic entitled "Parchment Farm" by a band called Cactus (watch the movie and you'll get the connection).

Clooney does something I've not seen him do a lot--he truly acts in this one and does it well. Turturro, underrated as hell in my book, does another fine job for the Coens. To me, however, Nelson took the prize. He was great.

You can almost smell the stench of the sweat and pomade in this one. More info can be found at http://www.obrotherwhereartthou.movies.com.

I give it 4 Fred-Heads. Amen.

…

“Fucking nigger piece of shit.”

1/2Man takes a long, drawn out breath, than continues his dialogue:

“I’m guessin’ ya’ll didn’t notice our proper white cross in the front yard?”

“Mmmpffff” replied the bound and gagged book salesman, a black man, a university student, maybe twenty-two years old. He is tied to a chair in a basement. The american national anthem plays quietly, burdened by static, from a small radio.

“Stupid shit sells books and he can’t even talk right! Ain’t that the funniest shit ya’ll been seein’ Gitch?”

Gitch, tall white skinhead, a mechanic with a fourth grade education and five remaining teeth is 1/2Man’s “associate,” nods and grunts over enthusiastically to express his approval.

“Shut up Gitch, you sound almost as stupid as the nigger.”

Gitch quiets down.

“Almost as stupid…” says 1/2Man.

Gitch gets excited.

Stop.

Held tight, so tight no air could ever enter his lungs.

Start.

1/2Man clears his throat, than soliloquies: “So you didn’t see our proper cross didja, stupid coon shit? Well that cross, had ya’ seen it, would’ve told ya’ll that we don’t fuckin’ care much fer niggers and shit roun’ ere’. Maybe, if you’s wasn’t so fuckin’ stoopid yall’d of recognized our swastika and wouldn’t have shown yer monkey fuckin’ face at our god fearin’ doorstoop.”

Desperate and afraid, the student, a man named Thomas, screams “Mmmppppffffff!!!!”

He is crying. He is terrified.

He should be.

1/2Man punches Thomas in the face. The chair falls back against a wall; the electrical tape muffles the student’s screams, but does nothing to shield the pain.

“Don’tcha fuckin’ be interuptin’ me or I’ll cut off yer dick and feed it to Gitch!” 1/2Man screams, than clears his throat: “as I was sayin’, you done trespassed in my holy land, my domicile, and I ain’t gonna fuckin’ be too tolerant o’ you bringin’ nigger cooties and shit all over gods country.”

Stop.

Hate.

Start.

“You’re gonna have to pay for yer wrongs nigger.”

Stop.

Held tight, so tight no air could ever enter his lungs.

Start.

Outside. Somewhere in some Appalachian forest you can hear a muffled scream, surrounded by an empty laughter. 1/2Man and Gitch break both of Thomas’s legs, crush three ribs, and smash his testicles with a hammer. They lay down a tattered, blood stained american flag, place Thomas in the center, and drag him over to their truck, whereupon they tie his shattered legs together...

“So you’s probably askin’ yerself ‘why these two white folk tying me to the back of this here tailgate?’ Stupid nigger would ask a dumb question like that.”

1/2Man leans in close; so Thomas can here every word, smell 1/2Man’s toxic breath:

“Well you stupid fuck I’ll tell you why we’re tying ya’ll up, this is my lesson to ya’ll: you committed a crime against us and now we’re gonna’ exact a divine retribution. We’re sending ya’ll to hell along with the rest of yer ugly fuckin’ shit for skin race. Along with all the other coon slaves our rebel brothers killed. Hell, we’re sendin’ ya’ll to burn you fuckin’ nigger.”

1/2Man clears his throat, than continues:

“But before we send you ta hell, we’re gonna drive along this here gravel road with you danglin’ about behind our truck like a fish on lure, only, we ain’t gonna reel ya’ll in and skin you… We’ll let the road tear you up. Let the road shred off your nigger skin and let your white bones shine through.”

Directly into Thomas’s tear streaked face, calmly, ambivalently staring into his bloodstained eyes:

“See, I got’s me this theory that all niggers would be white if not for their dirty skin. God just wants us white folks to carve you fuckers up and get inside, to your bones, and expose you as our white brothers. Really, I’m doing ya’ll a favor. Maybe you’ll be able to get into heaven with me and Gitch because when we’re done with ya’ll ain’t no one gonna know you’s was a nigger. They’ll think you’re a used tampon or some bitch’s blood rag.”

“See, ‘hate’ don’t begin to describe it nigger coon. Hate’s just a word. Fuck, anyone can hate, and what I got is not just what anyone else’s got. Other people hate and never do shit about it, but I’m gonna kill you nigger. I’m gonna take my hate and kill you with it.”

1/2Man breathes: “god gave me a beautiful feelin’ and I’m gonna learn it to you.”

Stop.

Held tight, so tight no air could ever enter his lungs. This is the 1/2Man:

permanently

Flexed.

Against an army

of no one.

Start.

Police find a pile of wet, white bones, bound up in a tattered, bloodstained american flag, tied to a telephone pole. An autopsy will later document the words “My lesson to ya’ll” crudely etched into the skull of a former student, valedictorian, and black, posthumously identified by his dental records as “Thomas.”

His “christian” name.

Stop.

I drove across town and picked her up. Then we went to Blockbuster. She wanted to rent “Run Lola Run” but she also needed to sign up for a rental card. She signed up for a card but then there was dispute among the crack staff as to whether or not she could actually rent the movie since it was rated R. It seems some of the staff thought that you had to be over 21 and others couldn’t add at all and thought my friend was under 18. They finally figured it out and let us go.

She told me to turn on to Seven Mile Road and drive for a while. She had me turn down some side street in Detroit and park in front of a house. If I had known I was going to be watching a movie in Detroit I would have stayed home. She told me to follow her around the house and as we passed through the gate she said “they live in the garage”. Hmm, great. In the driveway was an old Ford truck with some uneven vinyl lettering that said “Candlery Detroit”. Parked in front of the one car garage is a vehicle covered by a tarp, easily distinguishable as an older Volkswagen Beetle by its shape. Next to the large garage door is a standard door like you’d see on any house. She knocked on the door and a girl answers, she’s in her twenties, stocky and wearing a plaid shirt, cargo pants and glasses. “Doug, meet Morning Glory”. I said hello and stepped in to the twilight zone.

Inside the doorway was a garage that has been converted to a sort of studio apartment. I was suddenly hugged by a man with long greasy hair and a beer belly. “Hi, I’m Richard, welcome”. “Hi” I said.

The back wall of the garage had a large bed against it. Behind the bed was a headboard with candles, books and packs of cigarettes. There was a couch and a chair along the wall on my right and the wall to the left had an odd array of audio/visual equipment. The entire lower portion of the wall was filled with racks of records. In the center there was what appears to be a desk with a pedestal in the middle. In front of the pedestal was a mixer with turntable resting on each side. On top of the pedestal was perched a very large television. To the right was a rack of audio equipment that is taller than I am.

They immediately invited us to sit down and offered us 7-Ups. I noticed that against the inside of the large garage door was what looked like two dressers stacked on top of each other. Morning Glory grabbed a photo album from a shelf and starts pointing out photos of she and Richard with various DJs and promoters at recent events. Some names I was familiar with, Derrick May, Juan Atkins, others I was not. While I was feigning interest in the photos Richard looked through several record bags before donning headphones and taking a seat on the stool in front of the desk. Soon the garage was filled with a crisp but sparse electronic beat.

The fireworks girl asked Richard to show me the lights. She tells me that Richard and Morning Glory sometimes do the lighting at raves. I look up and notice the ceiling for the first time. It is covered in some reflective surface. A framework of metal tubing follows the lines of the roof. There are 8 fixtures with black light bulbs arraigned at different angles. There are strobes, colored lights and several oddly shaped fixtures. Richard started reaching for switches and the place went black except for two small red lights behind the turntables. The black lights came on. There were small plastic planets and shooting stars hung everywhere that were glowing. A string ran from one end of the garage to the other and was lined with long dead glowsticks. The glowsticks took on new life in the black light. Many of them had dates and comments written on their plastic bodies in black felt tip pen. I asked Richard if it was a kind of timeline, he gave me a wink and said “sort of”.

We finally sat on the couches and watched Run Lola Run. Watching the large television and listening to the surround sound coming from several speakers placed in strategic nooks and crannies it was easy to forget that I was sitting on natty old couch in a garage in Detroit. Soon I smelled the distinctive odor of pot. I looked over to see Richard lighting up a glass pipe. I was glad that I was sitting on the end because I knew that I would very possibly be drug tested for a position that I had applied for and I wanted to be as far away from the smoke as possible.

It occurred to me as I looked around that the space was very efficiently used. Racks and shelves and everything very neat. I imagined Richard as a Deadhead from way back. Probably used to living in a Microbus. This garage was likely palatial to him. He seemed like the sort of guy that would have followed the Dead until the end. When it was over he probably wandered back to Detroit, and his parents offered him the garage. Or maybe he had his eye on the garage, to him it may have seemed like a perfect spot. He went to work dipping candles and fell into the rave scene. The leap between the two is not that drastic really. Love, drugs, twirling around.

Suddenly the movie was over and Richard lept up to shut it off. The glass pipe fell from his lap and broke on the floor. He considered it for a minute and then carefully swept the glass into a pile with his shoe.

We announced that we had to leave, but Richard insisted that we check out something first. He searched his racks and pulled out a laserdisc, not the CD size variety, but the ones that are the size of an LP. He lit some candles and put in the disc.

“What is this?” my companion asked. “Just watch, it’s short” came the reply. Suddenly men were chanting on the screen. Moving in unison. Some sort of ancient culture. Then another group of people with their bodies painted, moving in a circle shouting. Then the sun rising over a mountaintop. More scenery, more rituals. Then people on bicycles, then ramshackle housing, tanned gaunt figures picking through large garbage dumps, then people walking on city streets, ignoring each other, traffic moving through cities, crowds pushing through airports. The entire film was fascinating and completely without commentary. It seemed to say beware of where we are headed and what we are losing. I wished that I had caught the name of it. 90 minutes after it started it was over, but I was glued to it the whole time. Richard tricked us into watching it and I was glad that he did.

As we went to leave Richard disappeared into a back room and returned with blue slips of paper. He announced “hot off the presses!” and handed us each one. I thought it was going to be a party flier, but instead it was filled with typewritten words that appeared to have been mimeographed.

There was a round of hugs and then I stepped back into the cool dark Detroit night. Past the run down VW and the candle truck to my car and then through the grimy ghetto streets toward my apartment.

I don’t understand hippies and I don’t understand ravers. I felt a bit out of place in their garage even though I was welcomed openly and asked to please come back. I think someday I wouldn’t mind stopping by again. Of course I haven't heard from the girl since.

DM

On the slip of paper:

Bees dance to tell others in their hive how to get to food sources. Ravers dance to tell their tribe how to get into the vibe. This is spontaneous art as communication. Perhaps even more than that. I think it’s funny, when the powers that be, tell us they are not against our forms of dancing. Because they are. When we dance we go beyond the visible. We understand and accept each other AND keep dancing. We come away each night refreshed and ready to face life with wisdom that we are not alone, that we don’t have to hide and let someone make our choices for us. Our dances create unique patterns, freeform and ever changing. There are no set steps, there are no rules, other than the peace we hope to create, the love we show one another, the unity to which we strive and the respect by which we create space for others. In dancing we can truly be ourselves and express ourselves fully to and with one another. M.G.

As the site has grown, so have the demands on the administrative team. There are times when we barely get through an evening finishing everything we want to while still maintaining day-to-day operations. We also have future and more expansive projects on the drawing board which will stretch us even thinner. We have always strived to be more than just "web site managers"; we want to be as much of a part of the community as everyone else, but sometimes we can't with the other demands on our time.

With this in mind, we recently put our heads together (though Paint's didn't quite fit due to its odd shape), and decided it was time to do something about it. We thought long and hard, and saw it was time to recruit from the ranks for a new admin. It took all of about 11 seconds further to decide who it was we wanted.

We'd like you all to welcome and congratulate our newest admin:

Joey has already taken on some duties for the site, including handling the web ring, and we have several other things in mind for her (*evil grin*). To us, this is also about rewarding Joey's dedication and time commitment to the site and its members. No one here is more respected and loved: she's Mom! And of course, she's a fox.

Welcome Joey!!

I always went fast in life. I read stories to my teachers in kindergarten. I read stories to my aunts, my uncles, my cousins, my parents, my grandparents, the barber I went to, the clerk we always went to at the grocery store, the Chinese ladies who would take me into the kitchen and show me off to all the people in the back at China Garden, my dog, but never the children in my class. To everyone in my world but my peers I was important for being alone. To the classmates, when I was alone I was simply alone. And I was beaten for it. I was made to help teach the others. And I was beaten. I learned in first grade that being alone wasn’t as joyous as I had been told by all those people it was. Being alone was cold. Being alone was beatings. Being alone was hate.

I found joy in being alone in third grade. I left my peers, and found them again. The faces changed. In addition to such, I also found someone who I deemed worthy not to call my peer. Someone I trusted enough not to be associated with. I found someone I could read to. I slowed down. I grew to hate being alone. Eventually being alone meant hate, and cold, and beatings, but they all changed hands. They were all my own, delivered upon my peers.

Eventually I lost all the people I didn’t associate with. All I was left with were peers. Being alone reclaimed its place as a refuge. I read while alone, I played alone, I thought alone, and it was oh so very warm.

I’ve been alone for the past 5 years and 4 months. My meanings changed again. Drastically. I found no solace in solitude. I found no hole in my books to dive into. I found emotion I neither cared nor asked for. I sped up. I took heed of my early days. Of my previous beatings. Of my prior hate. I shelled myself. I was as strong as could be in these days, I could hold up a mountain. I could part my mental sea with the breath from my mammoth lungs, and consume all the fears that swam in it like so many tiny fish. My fears were so dull then. Then I found out that it wasn’t strength I found. It was separation. Seclusion. Absence. Hate. Autonomy. I learned I didn’t want any of this. I learned joy. Hunger. Tears. Hope. Disdain. Love. And then she died. She died because I thought I was strong. She died because I enjoyed being alone. And now she’s rotten away.

I maintained my shell. I was one fine fucking turtle. But I found pain in being alone again. Then I came here. I found people I liked enough not to associate with. I made a list of everyone in the forum, and next to each name I wrote what I remembered most vividly about you all. It went on for 6 pages. I think you were right sphinxy. I love all of you, in a way that you’ll never understand. In a way that I simply can’t express. I wrote this 7 times in the past 20 minutes. I think I did it best this time. You people are a staging point. You people I can read to. You people I trust enough not to call you peers.

Now you’re all alone too. You’re separated from everyone else in the world. You know things very few people do. You know more than my parents. You are truly alone now.

Does it feel warm?