Eustace Tilley is Sexier Than Your Mama!

Has there ever been a finer American magazine than the New Yorker? Really, has there? For sheer intellectual value, cultural commentary and art? No, kidlets, nay campers - this inveterate bastion of the highbrow reigns supreme. I have cut my teeth on its cartoons, its poetry and fiction since I was barely in my teens.

Go ahead, I dare you - name another American periodical that sports as many "I was there" memoirs than the New Yorker. How many "I wrote for" tell-alls have you heard from Time? Newsweek? How many grandees have stepped forward with their stunning insider's look at the National Geographic or People magazine? I'll give you all the time in the world.

Because, fair readers of this eleckytrawnikul fishwrap, there are none. The New Yorker is the ne plus ultra of American print journalism.

Sure, it's proud heyday may have waned a bit since the glorious reign of William Shawn, but it's still miles beyond what most folks fill their heads with these days.

It's glossy, artsy covers will outlast Survivor and American Idol, it's reporting will continue on until the final mutated cockroach pulls the last bit of cracked concrete off of its carapace with newly-minted thumbs.

Do yourselves a favor - buy a copy. Better yet, let yourself marinate in the history of the magazine by reading the biographies of those who've written for it - A.J. Liebling, J.D. Salinger, Renata Adler and Lillian Ross. James Freakin' Thurber, fer chrissakes! Then go out to a fine local bookstore and purchase the latest issue. Make friends with Hendrik Hertzberg and David Denby. There might be an article from good old John Updike innit for you, too.

There are some things that make America great - the crack of the long ball, a night out on the town for a musical, Edward Hopper paintings and the almighty New Yorker magazine.

When You Were Five Is Back

Yes, kidlets, WyW5 is back, after an extended hiatus imposed by a sudden disruption of internet access, now ameliorated by a spankin' new cable i-net hookup. So now WyW5 is coming to you 500 times faster than before. Neat, hunh?

What to say now, of course? Some amazing observations about life without the net from this interim:

1. I don't write when my blog is down. Ever. My creativity is hidebound to public viewing.

2. I read 10 times as much when my internet doesn't work. I've been to the library about 20 times since my dial-up went bye-bye.

3. I am more anxious without the internet. My thirst for knowledge is severely impaired when the internet isn't a chair swivel away.

4. I am more reflective without internet access. I tend to spend more time by myself, examine my life more thoroughly and am generally more active as a human being.

5. I am more frustrated without internet access. I wake up and spend the day with a weird "what did I miss?" tension flowing subconciously through my system that is only abated slightly by the fact I can keep up with e-mail through my work hook-up.

So there it is, kidlets. A toss-up, really. I'm less creative, but more thoughtful. Less informed, but more active. More frustrated and anxious, but somehow better focused.

Sociologists and technophobes, I await your interpretations. For all the rest of you blogophiles, techno-geeks, and surfer Rosas, Why 5 is back, faster than ever, and ready to invade an unstable Middle Eastern country.

Working With Wifey and Child

Some of the best months of my life were when Wifey and I worked together at the company. Times were hard, and we were lucky to have employment. She'd make me sugar-and-wilted vegetable sandwiches, or sometimes we'd go out for lunch. We'd pass abandoned buildings and cars, or disaffected people talking to themselves as they tottered down the street. But we still had our convertible and it was nice to get away from our desks for awhile.

I remember once when Wifey had our daughter B.A.R.O.P.S in tow. We named her that because it was an acronym for a project we were both significantly involved with at the company. She had her little blue bonnet on and was looking over Wifey's shoulder at some meat we had purchased. A lot of the time she was with Ma-nonna, my mother-in-law, so I frequently forgot we even had a child. Still, she seemed happy and I was thankful for that.

Cherry-Picking Pig Hearts, or My 3 Black Scorpion Wedding

Once I had been invited to a old girlfriend's wedding. I still held a torch for her, but in that lazy kind of way that says "yeah, I still care if we ran into each other. I've got her number here somewhere...". Her new husband was a decent guy, a handy guy. I could tell after a few minutes that he was taking care of her alright. I forget what he did for a living. Something safe and near the 3-digit salary range. His belly told the story better than he did.

She was still upset with me over our past. There was a lot of "go on, dear, tell Steve what you do for a living", and talk of where they'd gone on vacation. I wasn't listening. I felt as if I'd been invited just to be shown up, and that she'd moved on. So when she brought out a small, lacquered box containing several adult male black scorpions, I thought it was just another piece of her arrogant puzzle being fitted into the evening's plans.

She emptied the scorpion box onto the back patio, and I could hear their sharp, ebony claws scuttling on the mexican tiling back and forth outside the sliding glass door.

She told me that to "get closure" on our relationship that I'd have to get stung by them.

"It's the only way," she said, with a condescending smile.

I looked over at her fiance for some male back up to this obviously demented request. But he just looked at me and gave me that diluted "Women - what are you gonna do, man?" smile that left me hanging.

I looked out the patio door again to see a curled and sinister-looking appendage flash by. I hesitated. I looked up at her dubiously and she suddenly marched to the door and opened it.

"Get out there!", she demanded, "We've got the wedding to look after, you know!"

She was stung as the words left her mouth, quickly and stiffly on the underside of her foot. She staggered back to the bed, sweating and twitching into seizure. Her fiance tucked his hands under his armpits and started looking around frantically.

"Get a doctor, you idiot!" she screamed at him as she flopped around on the bed.

I gave him a "what are you gonna do, man?" look and left. The sun outside their bungalow was warm, and it felt good to get into the car and drive. Maybe I'd go get a bagel or something. As I headed into town, I could see them leaving for the hospital in my rear-view mirror.

"I like him," I thought to myself, "they're good together."

Post-800 level musings

I'm very distracted by the Iraq situation today, as it turns out an Italian hostage was shot and the man who helped negotiate her release was killed by U.S. forces on her way to the airport. Great. The President says a full investigation is pending.

Why not fully investigate what the hell we're even doing over there?

Of course, I can bitch and moan, sitting here in a comfy suburb in Washington. What have I done lately to stop this from going on? 1508 U.S. soldiers are dead already, with roughly 20,000 Iraqi civilians already gone as well. Subsidiaries of Halliburton are getting 8.5 billion dollars from the government to build huge bases in Iraq for the troops, with Pizza Huts included. But we can't keep our boys knowledgable enough to stop them from shooting people we've released? I don't understand it. It's almost too surreal to even take as the truth anymore.

And the sick shit is that I'm part of it. It doesn't matter how many angry posts I write, I'm still somehow okay enough with the fact that people are being slaughtered. What am I going to do to prevent it? What will be the most effective way to make it end?

I don't believe that a sillyass yellow sticker on the back of an SUV will change things. What does that really mean? "Support Our Troops"? What does supporting our troops entail, exactly? How about preventing them from enlisting? Or is that too over-the-top, anti-patriotic?

What I'm asking of myself (and anyone, really) is what do we believe in when we say we're for or against something? How passionate are any of us about these things? Liberal or Conservative, blah blah blah? What part of our lives are we dedicating to preserving, informing or researching our beliefs? What part of our week are we giving to creating a better place to live? Which is more important, Survivor or a protest?

I'm getting to the point where this doesn't cut it for me anymore. By being complacent and withdrawn, nothing happens. And the people I despise who make the decisions about Iraq are counting on me to continue on in this way.

How can I have any sort of opinion on world affairs being some fat, lazy suburbanite who blogs about playing video games and the Oscars?

Is that what "supporting the troops" means? Thanks, nameless, faceless 20-yearold kid for getting your face blasted off on a sandlot in downtown Baghdad so I can sit back and go about my daily routine of self-absorbed whatever-ness.

I am the war in Iraq. I am the thing I hate the most. I have no moral values.

I have no value period unless I define my anger, define my reasons, and take action to prevent others from hiding behind their bumperstickers and complacency.

Kidlets, ask yourselves: what do you believe in? If something is wrong, why? And by allowing it to continue, are you equally wrong? If not, why not?

There are over 1500 American people dead from this war, and ask yourself what they thought they believed in. What did they believe America was doing and what it is as a country. What will make what's happening in the world more personal for you?

Existential Angst and the Virtual Celluloid Panacea

My life is shit these days, kidlets. I am slogging through the anomie of winter, chastened by reading Noam Chomsky and horrific books about the hideousness of Hollywood. I come home at 7pm each night, and immediately begin drinking well-made local beer until things get fuzzy. Hence, the no-post zone you all have been flying through recently if you read this rag regular-like.

However, there is hope. I found a little piece of pure joy on the web recently that I'd like to share with you all: namely, the Hollywood Mogul PC Game.

This is a fantastic little chunk of retro-gaming that basically lets you be the Executive Producer of your own Hollywood movie studio. Complete with your own hand-picked assistant, a talent pool of stars eager to do business with you, and going to your opening premiere with the audience.

So far I've released 6 films under the When You Were Five International logo, only to dig a multi-million dollar hole for all concerned. My own assistant isn't even taking my calls anymore.

But Hollywood loves a scrapper, and WyW5 Intl has a massive historical epic in the pipeline that will re-define the genre for years. Or get my virtual ass kicked to the virtual curb before the commissary opens for lunch.