AssembledWrong is an egotistical part-time playwright/full time person who can sometimes string a few words together to form what could potentially be referred to as, in certain circles, a joke.
He can be contacted at [email protected]
Roger was the kind of guy who liked to wax poetically on the beauty of suicide by G Train. The G Train, he said, was the most beautiful way to die, not because it left such an indelible mark on the tracks and the psychoses of everyone on the train or in the station, but because by choosing to jump in front of the G Train, one chose to wait. They chose to postpone their freedom. Roger Lygram was a patient person and he found beauty in his patience, so when he found his way into a holding cell on Canal Street (Roger found the NQR to be the least poetic of all the trains he could use as venues for suicide), he sat there and waited patiently to be freed.
Happy Phriday little birds! Are you ready to “C” each other?
OHMYGODIMSOCLEVER
Ladies, Gentleman and Straight Men™, here is your mission: Share something you own that involves the letter “C“. It could be a computer. It could be a calendar. It could be a Chevrolet. It could be cocaine. Anything! As long as it starts with the letter C. Here’s mine: A Service Change sign for the C Train. I have a bunch of these because it was how I rebelled against the MTA. This post will not self-destruct. Do not be alarmed.
Good morning little birds! Oh dear, oh me, oh my! You’re all covered in residue from the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. And on Earth Day too! We’ve got to get you cleaned up, but we’re all out of Dawn™ or whatever detergent is the one that has those commercials of workers cleaning ducks. Covered in black gold on Earth Day! Oh dear, oh me, oh my! Let’s get clean with Joseph:
There! All clean! You’re no longer an endangered species! We’ve saved you! But because you’re all such individuals, maybe you are endangered. We know for sure that LaZiguezon is endangered. That Canadian weather, man! We don’t think we could handle it and we live in Southwest Ontario*! Anyways, it’s Life, Death and Violence™, America’s number one source for environmental journalism** and jokes about The French™. Oh, the French™! And on this day, the anniversary of the greatest environmental tragedy ever perpetuated on the world by those smarmy English®, we bring you people and events that matter to their sworn enemies for all time, no matter what any treaty says! That’s right, we’re talking about The French™ so surrender your seriousness and grab a baguette, we’ve gotta get going or we’ll miss the last bus to Giverny! France shuts down on Good Friday (they’re good Catholics, well, the France we romanticize is), so we’re going to talk about what happened yesterday! OMGSHUTUPLETSGO
LA VIE!
(En ce qui entre parenthèses est absolument vide de sens)
Michel Rolle: 1652: That hair! So French™! A mathematician, which explains the adult onset acne*** (or is that supposed to be scruff?), he developed Rolle’s Theorem which states that “a differentiable function which attains equal values at two distinct points must have a point somewhere between them where the first derivative (the slope of the tangent line to the graph of the function) is zero” or f'(c)=0. He also hated calculus, which isn’t surprising since Wikipedia says he deserves to be credited with the invention of Gaussian elimination which stems from Newton’s notes and Newton invented calculus. J’accuse Rolle! J’accuse! The French™! Always at war with The English®! There is no known portrait of Rolle. Newton slashed them all****.
1774: Jean Baptiste-Biot: Watch out everyone! Rocks can fall from the sky at any moment! Not only that, they’ve been sent this way by aliens! Three run homer for the Orion Warriors! And The French™! They believed him! Meteorites are now considered scientific fact as opposed to sports history, which, really is a shame, because the Warriors went all the way that year for the first time in a lightyear*****.
Jean-Baptiste, and how could he not be French with that smug face, also participated in the world’s very first hot air balloon ride! Is anyone shocked by the fact that the French conquered hot air? Anyways, he rode with some gay guy named Lussac. They talked about physics, if you know what we mean.
He also studied polarization which gave us LCD televisions and camera filters. Bow to your French master. He lived in Paris, he died in Paris. He knew how fucking magnets worked.
1972: Gwendal Peizerat: Listen Gwendy, ice dancing is not a sport. No matter how many medals you win (silver at Nagano, gold at Salt Lake), no matter how much the Olympics tries to legitimize it, ice dancing is not a sport. Couldn’t you have been a figure skater like your cousin****** Jean? He never amounted to anything, but at least he had some athleticism!
All you have is jazz and a pretty face, Fabio. You’re from Bron for chrissakes. You couldn’t do something more befitting of the Brawny paper towel guy? Oh, you don’t know who that is, Fabio? Of course you don’t. Get back to your theatrics, pretty boy. I’m sure the high school quarterback is really as interested in you as you want him to be. We’re sure he is.
Anyways, we’re sure that after your “career” is over you can sell fake butter and be on romance novel covers. Oh wait, that job’s already taken by actor slash model Fabio! Dance away Gellert Grindelwald. Dance into the sunset and do your French thing. We don’t care.
LA MORT!
(La mort est tout sauf féminin, à moins, bien sûr, il est le résultat d’une cession)
1142: Pierre Abélard: Peter was a sexxxy theologian who is famous for sexxxing sexxxy French nun*******Héloïse. With all those accents and umlauts, how couldn’t he find her attractive? They met at the Notre Dame (the Parisian one) and it was love at first sight. She with her deep knowledge of classical letters in Greek, Latin and, oh!, HEBREW and him with his ability to spout theology and philosophy to thousands at once! Oh! Le petit mort! How couldn’t they be together? But, oh, it wasn’t to last. After one particular petit mort, Héloïse’s womb grew and grew until out popped a baby boy named Astrolabe (who would later become the inspiration for the Japenese AstroBoy********)
To appease her uncle, they married secretly, so as not to harm Peter’s Important Man Career™. The uncle, j’accuse!, announced the marriage publicly and after Pierre sent Héloïse to a convent, Fulbert, the uncle, castrated him! He castrated him! Why? Because he thought Pierre wanted to be rid of Héloïse who was then forced to become a nun and write letters saying how sad she was because all she ever wanted to do was be a can can dancer at the Moulin Rouge which hadn’t even been built yet which is probably why Fulbert was always so confused by his niece. She spouted crazy talk. Witch? Maybe that’s why she was forced to be a nun. She was a witch*********.
1699: Jean Racine: He wrote plays at the same time as Moliere and was considered one of the Big Three. Unlike Moliere, he wrote tragedies. He drank too much and died of liver cancer. Obviously, the following video is all that needs to be said of Jean:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-hXzKnVgMdU
LE VIOLENCE!
(Dans lequel je suis pas par des traducteurs)
1809: Battle of Eckmühl: Oh, it’s on. It’s on like Donkey Kong! BANG! POW! SHOOT EM UP! Napoleon took control of the horribly named “Campaign of 1809” after having to, oh my god le grande mort, retreat eleven days earlier after a surprise attack when the war began. However, Napoleon didn’t know that the French garrison of Ratibone had fallen to the Austrians and inadvertently gave the remaining Austrian calvalry (since he killed about a third of Austria’s army) a route to escape. Damn Austrians. Why can’t you just let The French™ have what’s theirs!? Oh, because it’s not? Oh, well, that seems fair. You go on with your bad selves. Bee tee dubs, Napoleon the Short (ohmahgawdguyzthatssowittyandoriginal) showed up and rotated the entire French army with his mere presence. Now, that’s a leader!
Re-cue "You Sexy Thang" here.
D’AURES TRUCS SYMPA QUI S’EST PASSÉ AUJOUD’HUI!
(Certains cela n’a rien à voir avec le français)
753: OMG NEW AND IMPROVED! Twins found Rome™! Rome™ conquers France sometime later.
33: OMG BETRAYAL! Judas betrays his buddy for some silver. The French™ go cuckoo for the buddy sometime later.
1519: OMG SHINY! French neighbor’s Spanish son Hernan lands in Veracruz and begins slaughtering everyone due to his gold-lust. The Aztec™ never saw it coming until sometime later.
1898: OMG WAR! The United States (patent pending), with land purchased sometime before by The French™, declare that they’re at war with Spain! The Spanish find out sometime later
1910: OMG A COMET! It flies over France and the rest of the world, too, we guess, but mainly France.
1910: OMG SAD! Comedian Mark Twain, born under a comet, on land originally owned by The French™ sometime before the Louisiana Purchase, dies under the same comet that flies over France and, we guess, Connecticut, but mainly France.
1952: OMG SECRETARIES! It’s Secretaries Day! Canadian fellow David Rakoff has a story about how when he was an assistant at a publishing company, he and all the other assistants would take the day off so as not to be confused as secretaries. These shenanigans would obviously go over well with the class obsessed French.
1994: OMG ASTRONOMY! How many Poles does it take to find an extrasolar planet? Just one! Aleksander Wolszczan! Poland is near France (sort of, not really) and we know that the aliens on extrasolar planets are just goo goo for French cinema. We just know it!
You know what? Fuck The French™. We always liked American boys better. See you on Tuesday, birds, for more historical accuracy. We’re outta here (until Photo Phriday. Stop by that!)!
*Southwest Ontario is what we call Detroit. Mainly because of Tim Horton’s and hockey.
**Life, Death and Violence is not and has never been America’s number one source for environmental journalism.
***People who study mathematics are no more likely to get adult onset acne than people who study, say, business.
****Mr. Newton is not responsible for the absence of any portrait of Mr. Rolle.
*****We are aware a lightyear is a measure of distance, not a measure of time.
******We have no proof that Mr. Peizerat has a figure skating cousin named Jean.
*******Héloïse did not become a nun until after the culmination of her affair with Pierre. This obviously diminishes how sexxxy they were together.
********Mr. Astrolabe is not the inspiration for AstroBoy.
*********Ms. Héloïse was not a witch. She was a very nice person by all accounts who found herself in a bad situation.
Good morning my little birds and Happy Tuesday! You know, we’ve been feeling like this thing has been going in the wrong direction. More crass than sass, if you get the gist, so on today’s program, we’re going back to basics. Now, that’s a very broad statement, so we must ask ourselves, what do we mean by that? We don’t want to rehash past glories and we certainly don’t want to offend anyone with our blatant inaccuracies, poor judgments and crude jokes (this is, after all, the column that once quipped ‘Remember that group of anti-Nazi protesters whose members were arrested last week, The White Rose? Yeah, they were executed.’), but, honestly, we think there’s too much hot boy. It’s distracting! That’s not to say that we are discontinuing the Life, Death and Violence Crush Object™, but we will be taking a break from the male models for a hot second and going back to that boy we all know and love. That’s right, birds, he’s back:
Tax man got you down? Of course he does, man. Of course he does. You work so hard for that dough and then it all goes away, man. It all goes away and if it doesn’t? Then bam! Straight to Alcatraz. Al Capone killed 937259023475 people, and what is he arrested for? T-A-X-E-S. So file those forms today or request that extension lest you end up the Birdman of Crasscatraz. Damned Big Brother. Like a monkey on our backs, and that’s an actual monkey, not a pinko Commie pre-human version Chim-PAN-zee*, man. You got a problem, man? Then you better take it up with the muscle and today’s Life, Death and Violence Crush Object™ Tobias Sørensen.
Wanna Try?
From WCRS Detroit and Public Snark International, it’s Life, Death and Violence, brought to you by pencils. Pencils: damn they’re sharp! Don’t use a pencil on those forms, though. The IRS doesn’t accept pencil. Pen only. Black or Blue. What an awful day to be sponsored by pencils really. If only the IRS did tax forms by ScanTron!
Today on our program: Inconveniences. Happy Least Favorite Day in America™ everybody!
LIFE!
(Inconvenient, but fun, and hey, at least it doesn’t last forever)
1894: Nikita Khrushchev: Led to rapid baldness due to the stress of his jealousy over his predecessor’s magnanimous mustache, the lovable fat man of the Soviet Union caused many an inconvenience for the glorious post-war American government, not to mention his people (and several dogs), whom he shot into space on rockets made out of string and bubble gum, hurtling to the stars, hurtling to their deaths. He also banned Doctor Zhivago, regretted banning it, forced the author to decline his Nobel Prize and let his people become the most detestable group of people known to man: Tourists.
After being charged for war crimes over the mistreatment of his cordwainery, Khrushchev was removed from office and given a pension where he grew depressed, wrote a memoir, smuggled it to the West, drank some vodka and died of a heart attack while wondering if it was stiflingly hot in Africa. Speaking of stifling heat:
A Swedish Tourist Tours the Fields of Russia
DEATH!
(Inconvenient AND Permanent)
1865: Abraham Lincoln: What an inconvenient time to die, man. At the theater? With your best hag? By the hands of a failed actor? Gee, whiz. America’s First Gay President had to deal with other inconveniences though, including but not limited to: That inconvenient Civil War (right when cotton and tobacco prices were dropping!), those bleeding hearts inconveniently fighting over his suspension of habeas corpus (damned human rights), and Mary Todd’s insanity (listen lady, it aint gonna happen!)!
All highly inconvenient, but, Abe gone done fixed e’rything and then to be inconveniently shot? By a failed actor? At the theater? Oh, wait, already said that. His stovepipe hat, though? Very convenient, IFYOUKNOWWHATWEMEAN**
We’re pretty sure he revolutionized armor though, and even if that’s a blatant lie***, it’s just an excuse for this:
Union Soldier Circa 1864
VIOLENCE!
(Never ever inconvenient, except for those who die, in which case it’s a little inconvenient)
1912: The Titanic sinks. Lots of (famous!) people die. How inconvenient. The real tragedy, however, will not occur for another 85 years.
Gagworthy
OTHER NEAT STUFF THAT HAPPENED!
1635: Tobias’ ancestors defeat the Romans in the 30 year war.
1755: SamJo pubs the English Dict.
1817: Some guys with French sounding names found the American School for the Deaf in, ugh, Connecticut, but fail to solve the core problem: How will they hear the television ads?
1896: Olympics are over. Hope you’re in good enough shape four years from now!
1923: Insulin is released to the public, but the real question is, will the deaf hear Wilford Brimley telling them they need insulin?
1947: Jackie Robinson becomes the first black baseball players after joining the Brooklyn Dodgers. Bed-Stuy Do or Die.
1983: TOKYODISNEY!
2002: Plane crash
2011: There was a suicide bombing in Indonesia today.****
That’s it for today, folks! See you on Tuesday! And remember, Swedish men are never inconvenient.
*We are aware chimpanzees are apes, not monkeys.
**Sex Toy Storage
***It was a lie
****UPDATE: Insensitive comments were made, removed. Sorry.
Memories fade, minds decay, and still we go on with the recording of history. We don’t remember much though. Hell, we forget more about ourselves as we grow old than we do the facts that we’re taught, that we learn and absorb. The episodic memory is faulty because it causes us to add and remove details as we see fit, but what is deemed important enough for history is written down so that we will never forget, even if we almost always forget. Will we know who, say, Madonna is in a hundred years? It’s possible, but we know we can’t name a singer from 1911, nor do we really care. Cher, of course, will be remembered forever because she will never die. We believe she’s strong enough.
From WCRS in Detroit, it’s Life, Death and Violence brought to you by coffee. Coffee, it’s damn good! Join us and Life, Death and Violence Crush Object™ Janice Fronimakis as we delve into Wikipedia and discover the people that we’ve forgotten about. It’s your day in the sun, April 12.
Janice Likes to Think About the Stuff that Society Forgot
LIFE!
(You think someone’s going to care about you when you’re dead? Ha!)
1705: William Cookworthy: Cookworthy? Not according to his wife! He did, however, kill scurvy by telling those saucy seamen to make sure to eat their fruits! The seamen, naturally, misinterpreted his dietary suggestion and continued to succumb to the disease until sometime later. Always carry Trojans and a bottle of orange juice, boys!
He also discovered kaolinite in Cornwall and figured out how to turn it into porcelain, thus allowing the English to make fine bone china. Bilking the Chinese out of their profits? How dare you Cookworthy! In this case, Bill’s surname is apt as he did know how to operate a kiln.
Wikipedia has a whole section dedicated to Cookworthy’s friends. His dinner party guests included James Cook (couldn’t even scramble an egg), John Jervis (there’s no pun here), Doctor Solander (who?) and Joe Banks who is a god in our book for giving us mimosa. Oh wait, upon further review, he found the plant, not the drink. There’s a mimosa plant? Wow, we guess you really do learn something new every day. Maybe the seamen Cookworthy advised invented the mimosa. Hell, maybe that explains all the orange juice. Prevent scurvy! Go to brunch!
You snooze, you lose! English bone china? More like English bone China! Hey-Oh!
DEATH!
(In memoriam: Forever or for thirty days, whichever comes first)
1684: Nicolò Amati: Amati made violins, but no one can name a single luthier (that’s violin-maker) other than Antoni Stradivari, so, better luck next time Nick! Still, Nick’s violins are generally agreed to be the best in his family, at least for modern violinists and who can afford a Stradivarius anyways? Those things cost more than a one bedroom apartment in Chelsea. We’d rather have the apartment and use the savings on an Amati if we played violin. However, we don’t. We started taking lessons briefly after hearing Neon Bible but we didn’t really take it seriously and quit after a month or so.
But wait, there’s more! It seems that Antoni Stradivari was an apprentice of Nick Amati! This isn’t confirmed, but it’s on one of the guy’s violins, so it might be true. He at least liked Nick’s fiddles. Nick Amati: Historical footnote, overshadowed by a student. Isn’t that what we all worry about?
He also taught Andrea Guarneri, but, once again, we must ask, does anyone outside the music world know these names other than Stradivarius? Maybe that’s the key to history. No one is really forgotten, just by those outside their field.
Aw shucks, now we’re starting to get it and so is Janice, who’s so excited about unraveling the threads of time that he’s hopped on a horse and is preparing for war!
Giddyup!
VIOLENCE!
(The blood no one remembers)
238: The Battle of Carthage: Led by the father/son empiric duo of Gordian the First and Gordian the Second, the Romans fell to the Numidians (modern-day Libya). Gordian the Second was killed in battle, and upon hearing the news, Gordian the First, who was 80 at the time, killed himself.
Interestingly enough, the Gordians were only emperor for twenty days and presided over Rome in what is now termed “The Year of Six Emperors” so don’t feel bad about losing that battle Gordie Sr. and Gordie Jr. Everyone had a bad year. At least the Roman Senate made you gods!
Seriously though, even though the blood was shed in vain since we no longer remember you, take solace in the fact that the modern world has exalted another Gordie to the pedestal of divinity. Gordie “Mr. Everything” Howe. Go Wings!
That battle, man. I’m exhausted.
OTHER NEAT STUFF THAT HAPPENED!
(This stuff’s notable)
After that battle, Janice is tired of talking about things that no one remembers anymore. Frankly, we’re tired of it too, so we thought we’d let you guys know that:
In 1606 the Union Jack became the official flag of Great Britain.
Unfortunately, that didn’t help Galileo. Italy’s formal inquest into his heretical science stuff began in 1633. Oh, the Inquisition!
In 1861, the Confederacy fired on Fort Sumter, sparking the Civil War.
And in 1917, Canada took some German land during World War One. Wait, Canada has an army?
1955: The polio vaccine is certified safe!
Too bad it came too late for FDR who died exactly ten years earlier in 1945.
1961: Bang! Zoom! Straight to the moon! Or, well, at least to orbit as Yuri Gagarin becomes the first man in space. No one will ever remember a single other Russian cosmonaut.
1992: EURODISNEY!
Bill Clinton is cited for contempt of court for not knowing what the meaning of ‘is’ is in 1999
And last, but not least, Zimbabwe abandoned their money in 2009! It’s not like it was worth anything anyways. We’re quattuordecillionaires by their standards.
That’s all folks! Until next time: Don’t worry, you’ll forget everything bad in twenty years! Drink up. We’re going to go take a nap outside with Janice now. Bye!
As someone who’s done their fair share of couch crashing, I feel I’ve become somewhat of I’m definitely an expert on being poor in New York City. Yes, I moved back home to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my failure of a life and, more importantly, be able to eat on a daily basis, but you know what? Being poor in New York rocks. Well, as long as you’re young, pretty and know the right people. The following may not work for anti-social uggos.
1) Be a Good Actor
Did you spend all the money your parents sent you on bagels and coke and now find yourself in the middle of Times Square at 1AM, in drag, without any way of getting home because you’re borrowing your friend’s bike and she went upstate for a few days and it’s locked away in her dorm at NYU?
It’s not a problem! You can’t hop a turnstile in this area, it’s too heavily policed, but while walking down 40th, give yourself a panic attack, walk into the subway station and start freaking out about how you just got mugged and mutter about how you used to think the Garment District was safe these days!.
The station operator will alert a police officer who will ask if you want to file a report. Say no! You just want to get home. He’ll ask you where you live. Say Brooklyn, off the G. He’ll feel bad for you and let you in. Congratulations! You have just conned your way to free transportation. Get home safe, buddy!
2) Know Your Parties
Have you not eaten in days? No worries, go downtown! I know, I know the Meatpacking is so five years ago, but, you know what? A lot of those clubs serve dinner, and they’re actually really good! I had some great burgers and a mind-blowing grilled cheese at Avenue one time. They have really good steak too, and, as long as you’re with a promoter, that’s all free, along with a couple bottles of vodka!
SoHo Grand’s been cutting down on their promoters and, my favorite (who no longer works there, unfortunately), the fabulous Sofia Lamar always ordered us fried octopus, pizza and fries. No food tastes better than free food.
It’s also a good idea to know which open bars work best for you. The answer to that? All of them. My favorite is the Vandam party which serves free vodka drinks for the first half hour. It’s my favorite because my friends and I have a system that nets us around 30 free drinks during that period.
2a) Don’t Discriminate
Forever 21 makes really cheap clothes, but if you ever get a chance to go to one of their parties, go. They throw the best damn parties. Champagne flowing like it’s water, hors d’oeurves of amazing quality that never seem to run out and gift bags with free clothes! And they’re always early! We finished around 1130, then popped up to Hudson Hotel for more bottles before heading downtown for yet more free alcohol and cute boys.
2c) Know Your Bartenders
I can’t stress this enough. Tip them when you have money and tip them well. You will be rewarded with free drinks after enough time. This one bartender shot me a missed connection after seeing my most terrible karaoke performance of all time in Williamsburg and while I never got to his bar because it was all the way in Greenpoint (seriously people, I just don’t do the G late at night. It’s traumatic. I’d get off the A and walk to get home), I have drink tickets for when I’m back in New York because we stayed in touch.
3) Sleep Around
Explore the city by letting others explore your body. You don’t have to sleep on your friend’s floor every night! Just meet a cute guy and go back to his place. After all, you have an insane roommate, so you obviously can’t go back to your place! Finally, a good night’s rest!
4) Be Into Art
Did you know that you can get into the Met for a penny? Surely you can scrounge up a penny. That will give you hours of air conditioning during those sultry, summer months.
There’s also a gallery opening every night, and you know what’s at those openings? Free food and booze.
5) Be Social
You never know who you’re talking to. It might be the owner and then you might get more free booze. Happened at B.E.S., happened at B.East, and, basically, it can happen anywhere. Everything from cocaine to Patron to Margiela can be yours for free as long as you’re a social butterfly who knows how to work the game. It’s not easy, but you can do it! I know you can! Get out there and enjoy being young and poor in New York City! To be in poverty is to be in bliss.
From WCRS Detroit and Public Snark International, this is Life, Death and Violence. Every week on our program we choose a theme and research a number of people and events that fit that theme. Today on Life, Death and Violence: Paradise. Imagine, for a moment, if you will, that paradise is exactly where you are right now, only much, much better. This is the land in which we will be traveling to today. Paradise though, is merely a dream, a hope, and, naturally we’ll be discussing the very nature of hopes and dreams today as well. I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I was about to be murdered in old Tiger Stadium, but, at the last minute, I was saved by this week’s Life, Death and Violence Crush Object™, Diana Rigg.
Diana entered from the visiting dugout, dressed, obviously, as Mrs. Emma Peel in a bright orange jumpsuit. She shot my attacker’s knife out of his hand and proceeded to dispatch him in a brief battle in hand to hand combat. Diana and I then rode out of Old Tiger Stadium on a beautiful white stallion which we rode across the pond and into Paris.
It seemed like an instant, that ride, and I found myself transported from urban decay to a quiet little cafe in Montmarte drinking coffee delivered by our waiter, a centaur. The centaur began to tell a long story, which I will summarize in brief. His utopian home had been ravaged by humanoid goats and all the centaurs were forced into exile by the king of the goats, a potbellied pig named Phillip. Our waiter, Brian, then took my name and number when I asked if there was anything I could do to help and Diana and I each received a letter shortly after enlisting us as Generals in the Centaur Army. We went to Centauristan, kicked some goat butt, made delicious bacon out of Phillip and returned the land to the centaurs. Brian, for enlisting us who saved the nation, was named King and we all had a champagne toast in their golden palace. I woke up just as my gift from the centaurs, Joseph Gordon Levitt, leaned in to kiss me. I hate dreams. They always shatter.
Our show today, in four acts.
Act One: Trouble in Paradise: She was on top of the world, but found herself ready to snap.
Act Two: The Fulfillment of Dreams: The story of a writer who hit the big time and stayed there.
Act Three: The Death of Dreams: A disastrous failure shocks the nation.
Act Four: The Birth of Dreams: How one nation’s discovery changed the world, but was it for the worse?
Act One: Trouble in Paradise
The Carpenters: Top of the World
I remember, being a little kid in Metro Detroit, when I heard my first Carpenters song. I was, maybe, four, and having trouble going to sleep. I’d gone to sleep for a little bit, but had had a nightmare and was too afraid to try again. I called out for my mother around 1AM. She got me a glass of water and sang me “Close to You,” which calmed me down enough to fall back into the land of good dreams, where the impossible becomes possible and everything is made of rainbows. The next morning, I asked my mother to sing the song for me again, but, instead, she pulled out a vinyl copy of the Close to You album and played it for me while she got ready for work. At the time, she was working the afternoon shift at the local hospital, so my sister and I got to see her in the morning as our days were starting, which I really liked. I wasn’t in preschool at the time. I’d dropped out because the other kids were being mean to me and I had massive separation anxiety. Karen Carpenter’s voice reminded me of my mother, even though my mother didn’t sing nearly as well, so I played that record over and over and over again. We got rid of it a few years later when my parents switched from vinyl and tape over to compact disc, but it was fairly well worn anyways. Who knows how much longer it would have lasted.
The devastation felt when I found out Karen Carpenter had died before I was born was heartwrenching. I wasn’t blind. I understood from the copyright on the album that the record was released in 1970, but the girl on it looked so young. She couldn’t possibly be dead. People only die when they’re old. Such is the naivete of youth, I suppose. And when I found out she died because, as I understood it, her heart stopped, I was even more confused and all my mother would say was that Karen stopped eating. My mother doesn’t eat a lot, so I didn’t really understand that. Why had she stopped eating? Was she on a diet? Why would she be on a diet? She looked pretty. I was too young to understand media blitzkrieg, so I just sat there for years questioning what happened to Karen Carpenter.
Karen left my thoughts and my music collection for about a decade, until I found myself in New York City. It was big, scary, unknown. I felt alone. I didn’t know anybody. I was living with strangers I’d met on Craigslist and had planned to get an apartment with since they were moving out of theirs. After that plan fell through (which I find to be the worst thing to happen to me: a true 3br with a fireplace and a big kitchen, lots of light and in a pre-war building for 1400/month fully furnished was lost because one of the girls I was going to live with decided Bed Stuy was too dangerous for her and she’d find another apartment for 450/month elsewhere. As if, woman. I was too weak and insecure to find two other people to take the apartment with me and I ended up in a bedbug ridden hellhole in Sunset Park before moving into the dorms at Pratt Institute), Karen came back into my life. I was depressed and lonely, feeling the peak of my suicidal wishes. Rainy Days and Mondays, I decided, was what I’d kill myself to. It wasn’t a very happy time, until, I started re-listening to the happier music, going out and feeling better about myself. I can’t say that Karen Carpenter saved my life, but she did play a part in making me feel sane again, even if that sanity is still frequently challenged. I’m grateful for that, and I’m grateful that even though I didn’t get the chance to ever see her live since she died before my birth, that at least there’s a recording of her voice in every record store across America. The voice of an angel ready to change another person’s life, ready to make the world seem full of hopes, dreams and possibilities yet again, even in our darkest hour.
The Carpenters: Close to You
Act Two: The Fulfillment of Dreams
Today is the deathday of famed comic book artist Hergé. I first wanted to start writing watching the adventures of his famed Parisian journalist, Tin Tin and his dog, snowy. Let’s watch some of it together.
That Tin-Tin! Always getting into some sort of misadventure. This must be what it’s like to work for the New York Times! Right?
Act Three: The Death of Dreams
I wasn’t born during the Challenger Incident. It predated me by three years, but I did feel a closeness to the incident once I’d found out that our middle school principal, the only principal I’ve ever liked, whose name was, and if I’m lying about this may the Flying Spaghetti Monster strike me dead, Dr. Freeze, was one of the runner-ups for the Teacher in Space program. Someone I knew could have been killed in a massive space-oriented explosion, which horrified me as a space-obsessed tween who’d gone to Space Camp a few years earlier. This event was revisited shortly after the attacks on 9/11, which, naturally, my awful middle school neglected to tell us about causing me to come home all happy-go-lucky because soccer practice was cancelled and I really didn’t want to go to soccer practice that day. My sister, in response, snarled at me viciously and directed my attention to the television. It felt weird to watch an explosion over and over and over again and I got the sense that this is what my parents were doing in ’86, not knowing that someone they would soon know was almost on that shuttle. This week wasn’t the 25th Anniversary of the explosion, that was a few months ago. Instead it contains an even sadder bit of emotional violence: The discovery of the crew cabin in the Atlantic Ocean.
These “what if” fascinations haunted me for quite some time, especially once the Columbia shuttle exploded on reentry. I kept thinking to myself. What would I do if someone I knew died in an explosion that was plastered all over national television? How would I react? I never came up with an answer, simply because I understood that I couldn’t empathize with anyone involved in such an incident if it didn’t happen to me. I could sympathize. I could say “I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m here if you need me,” but I couldn’t say “I understand. It’s going to be okay,” because I didn’t understand, I didn’t know if it would be okay. Months later, I experienced my first death, that of my grandfather/puzzle partner. Even then, I still felt I couldn’t empathize with a death so sudden. My grandfather had been ill for months from lung cancer and we weren’t surprised when he finally passed. I think that, as crushed as she was, it was a bit of a relief for my grandmother. That year was very stressful in my family because of my grandfather’s rapidly deteriorating health, but if he had died in, say, a car crash, things would have been a lot different. The mourning would have lasted much longer, just as I’m certain that Christa McAuliffe’s family is still morning her loss, after that fireball in the sky, and having a record of her exact moment of death on hand has to be a surefire way to make it impossible to move on. For that reason, as easy as it may be to post, I’m opting to not post a video of the Challenger Disaster. I’m not going to promote the fetishization of death. All those disasters and space misadventures though did nothing to halt my love of space and desire to be an astronaut. That’s the responsibility of my complete hatred of Algebra 2 which led to my complete hate of Chemistry which led me into the arts.
S Club 7: Reach For the Stars
Act Four: The Birth of Dreams
In 1938, Saudi Arabia discovered oil in its borders, launching the 20th Century Mideastern Oil Boom and creating a dependence on the region that, nearly a decade ago, led to war, yet again, over the black, golden syrup. I’m not an expert on Mideastern Affairs and I’m not going to pretend to be. We all know that our over-reliance on oil is bad for the future of the planet. I’m going to leave Act Four up for discussion in the comments. Would the world be any different if that level of oil was, say, discovered in Western Europe, or would we just be at war with the French instead (oh what an easy war that would be!?) Can tension ever be resolved so as to lighten the stress on our ever dwindling oil reserves? What is there to be done? Let’s talk oil.
The D, The Dirty, The 313, Hockeytown, Detroit Rock City, Motown, Motor City. Call it anything you want; just don’t call it Hell. Hell’s 60 miles to the west. I have a love/hate with the city, almost as much as my love/hate for New York, but, even if you don’t want to live amongst the urban decay (but, really, why wouldn’t you? One of my friends lives next to a goat slaughterhouse and she sees goats killed e’ry day!), it’s a stellar place to visit, because then people will look at you and say,
“You went on vacation…in Detroit? Why?”
And you can tell them its because you’re a hardcore badass and you saw, like, five shootings and had your rental car stolen (good thing you got that insurance!) and everyone will believe you. That’s the beauty of Detroit. There’s so much awesome crap, but everyone stays away because of the crime, which, to be honest, is bad, but more in some parts than others and I wouldn’t send you to the bad side of Mexicantown. That’d just be reckless.
Now, I by no means claim to be an expert on Detroit. I grew up in the suburbs, but we’d go down into the city for games or theater and then we’d get a bite to eat somewhere nearby. My first long-term exposure to Detroit was my first two years of college when I went to school in midtown. Then I left for 18 months to be in New York. I’m going to do my best to give you a rundown of what to do in and out of the city because Detroit, as special as it is, is also a city that thrives off its suburbs. Detroit, never just means Detroit. It almost always means (in my head) the area west of Telegraph, East of the River, North of Detroit city limits and South of 26 Mile Road (yes, there’s not just 8 Mile). The best stuff, though, is in the city proper.
Before I begin, I’d like to say something controversial. New York pizza sucks. It’s awful. Just terrible. The true king of pizza is Detroit and I will be covering the top three, two of which are in suburbia.
Michigan Central Station
Eat:
Detroit Proper
Mudgie’s: 1300 Porter at Brooklyn 313.961.2000. OMFG MUDGIE’S. If there was one place I’d like to lift to New York City via helicopter, it would be Mudgie’s. I talked about Mudgie’s briefly in the last The Detroiter column, but, OMFG, it’s so good. I finally went down there last week for the first time since I’ve been back in Detroit and I had a total foodgasm. All of the sandwiches are made with fresh ingredients, most of them local and organic and the meats are all ethically sourced. Their mustard supply alone is worth the trip. Best sandwich?
Madill – house roasted turkey, Nueski applewood smoked bacon, avocado, tomato, romaine lettuce, Mudgie-made garlic mayo and melted pepper Jack cheese on an 8 “ sub bun served warm – voted into Detroit’s Top 21 Sandwiches List, Detroit Free Press, March 2008 – $9.50 lg / $7.50 sm
Also amazing is their famed dessert, the fudgie mudgie. It’s a ghiradelli brownie waffle, topped with Calder’s vanilla ice cream, hot fudge and walnuts. This is what it looks like. Disclaimer: I am not responsible if you buy a ticket to Detroit after seeing this photo.
Walnuts cost extra and this person evidently doesn't like walnuts which makes them awful because walnuts are amazing
Union Street: 4145 Woodward Avenue at Willis Street. 313.831.3965. Reservations recommended. Union Street has awesome burgers, awesome fries, awesome Spanish coffees and is right across the street from Garden Bowl
Cass Corridor
Cass Cafe: 4620 Cass Avenue at Forest. 313.831.1400. Cass Cafe isn’t just a restaurant, it’s a complete state of mind, a great place to go drinking between classes, and one of my favorite galleries in the city. Cass has amazing food. It’s thrilling. The best burger I’ve ever had in my life that I haven’t made myself is from Cass Cafe and that’s their pub style angus steak burger ($7). Well, actually, it’s tied with the Good Stuff Burger at Good Stuff Diner on 14th and 6th in NYC. Besides the point! PBR’s are $2, but it seems like every time I’m there it’s dollar PBR night, which, let’s face it, is swell. The art is hit or miss, but that’s what makes it so great. It’s all local artists just putting themselves out there. My favorite was a charcoal drawing of a brisket I saw a few months back.
Le Petit Zinc: 1055 Trumbull Street. 313.963.2805. There’s a bit of a rivalry amongst those who like their crepes from Le Petit Zinc and those who like them from Good Girls Go To Paris, but the fact of the matter is, they’re equally good. Le Petit Zinc wins out though for smelling like French cheese all day long. The stench is so strong, in fact, that you too are bound to smell like French cheeses for the rest of the day. I think that’s a plus. Others don’t, and those people get their crepes from Good Girls.
Lafayette Coney Island: 118 W Lafayette Blvd. 313.964.8198. Do not, I repeat do not be tricked by American Coney Island’s glitz and glamor. Its shady, gross-looking next door neighbor is the best Coney Island in the city. Dirt cheap food, bad service and weak coffee are the hallmarks of all Coneys, but there’s something special, something, well, right about Lafayette.
Yummy Heart Attacks Are Yummy: Coney Islands from Lafayette Coney Island
Traffic Jam and Snug: 511 West Canfield at Second. 313.831.9470. Splendorinda said it best:
I wish I could order the waiters off the menu
Traffic Jam is not a place you go to for food, it’s a place to go to for the eye candy. Yes, the food is good, but it’s a little on the pricey side. The best thing about it is the dairy and bakery in the Snug portion, but it seems like everyone who works at Traffic Jam is impossibly gorgeous (I haven’t been in a while, so this may have changed, but I doubt it). They mix their drinks on the strong side and, being a brewery, have a great selection of beers, the best being the amazingly named “Don’t Touch My Junk”
Pizza from Niki's
Niki’s: 734 Beaubien at Lafayette 313.961.4303. Yes, I just threw a fit the other day about how I quit Niki’s, but the point stands: This is the best pizza in Detroit proper and third best in Metro Detroit. Detroit pizza, if you will, is a miraculous blend of Chicago and New York that just works. Traditionally, it’s a square pizza, what New Yorkers call “Sicilian Style” with a good amount of cheese and sauce. It’s nice and crunchy, and when in pie form, it’s just a little thicker than New York slices. The only pizza in New York that I’ve found can compare is a Sicilian pizza from Rizzo’s in Astoria. Yes, I have to go to Queens for pizza. Queens, people.
Greektown
Astoria Bakery: 541 Monroe at Beaubien 313.963.9603. Best damn bakery in the whole wide world. Get your dessert there after pizza at Niki’s and before gambling your life savings away at Greektown Casino.
Slows BBQ: 2138 Michigan Avenue at Wabash. 313.962.9828. A little on the pricey side, but, sooooo good. Ribs and Mac. Make it happen, yo.
Suburbia:
Alibi Pizza: 6700 Rochester Road at South Blvd in Troy, Michigan. 248.879.0014: Best pizza in all of Metro Detroit and, therefore, the world. Granted, I grew up on this stuff, but it’s totally true.
Como’s: 22812 Woodward Avenue at Nine Mile in Ferndale, Michigan. 248.548.5005. Second best pizza in Metro Detroit. Get it with feta and pepperoni because that’s the way to do it, yo. With a great atmosphere and location in the heart of Fabulous Ferndale, its no wonder that the restaurant is hugely popular and a great meeting place during Motor City Pride. I broke up with someone here once, but it didn’t taint my love for their pizza! Seriously, it’s real good.
A variety of pizzas from Como's. Como's pizza is more similar to NY pizza than Chicago on the Detroit pizza scale.
Original Pancake House: 33703 Woodward Avenue at 14 Mile Road in Birmingham, Michigan. 248.642.5775. They don’t take reservations and if you plan on showing up after 9am, you better be ready for at least a half hour wait and ten minutes waiting outside. That’s how good this place is. The coffee’s whatever, but their pancakes and crepes are just the bees knees. The best thing on the menu though (It’s awful as takeout. Come with an appetite big enough to eat it in one sitting) is the famed Big Apple. It’s basically a deep fried apple pancake in, like, a million layers. It’s guhmazing.
The Big Apple
Drink:
Oslo: 1456 Woodward Avenue at John R. 313.962.7200. What’s cool about this unassuming sushi bar is its kinda trendy looking mini-club downstairs. The drinks are great, and the best night to go is First Friday’s for Adriel Thornton’s Fierce Hot Mess party, a little retro gay hipster bacchanal. Michael Trombley throws a similar party, but with a disco theme at the R&R Saloon on the last Saturday of every month. They can be a little hit or miss on the crowd, but the music is simply grand at both parties.
FHM @ Oslo
Atlas: 3111 Woodward Avenue at Charlotte. 313.831.2241. Great little unassuming bar with decently priced, strong drinks. That’s all. Nice place to go with friends at the end of the day.
d’Mongos Speakeasy: 1439 Griswold at Clifford. No phone number. Same as Atlas, but only open on Fridays. D’Mongos stays afloat though by being absolutely insane on Friday nights and you’re always bound to meet someone interesting.
d'Mongos
Menjos: 928 McNichols at Pontchartrain Blvd. 313.863.3934. Menjo’s is a terrible, terrible club that I sort of am in love with. It’s like Splash in Chelsea, but so much worse. So much worse. The crowd? Whatever. Not my kind of gays, the drinks are cheap, though. Two dollar wells on Thursdays which is the best night to go anyway, and a house drag queen whose schtick is boring after you’ve seen it so many times. I don’t know why I love such an awful place, but I do and, yet, I find myself cringing every time I’m dragged by a friend to Splash or, even worse, Rush, ugh.
Los Galanes: 3362 Bagley at 23rd. 313.863.3934: Great Mexican food, but this is in Drink for a reason. Las Galanes’ happy hour is the best thing in the whole wide world. Three dollar margaritas from 3-6 and boy are they strong! You’ll need a designated driver after two, for sure.
Do:
Great Hall @ The DIA. Photo by Tom Pidgeon for the NYTimes
Detroit Institute of Arts: 5200 Woodward Avenue. 313.833.7900. Detroit’s preeminent art museum is also one of the nation’s best. I like to call it the Mini-Met because it has everything, but is a lot smaller than the Met and a lot easier to navigate. Admission is eight bucks and the best time to go is Friday night’s for free concerts (free with admission) and a variety of activities around the museum.
Museum of Contemporary Art Detroit: 4454 Woodward at Garfield. 313.832.6622. The DIA may be the big boy in the Detroit Art World, but MoCaD is the scrappy little upstart that’s got all the buzz. MoCAD (nobody calls it by its full name) is a graffiti marked cube blocks away from the DIA with some of the best curation of a museum in the city. From Rei Kawakubo to the current exhibition of work by Edgar Arceneaux, the museum caters to everything now.
Michigan Central Station: 2001 15th Street @ Roosevelt Park. No phone number. This abandoned Beaux Arts train station designed by the same team who did Grand Central isn’t open to the public, but that doesn’t mean people don’t get in. A huge pastime is sneaking in and exploring the ruin before heading up to the roof to get a great view of the city. A great idea for a self-made tour would be to scout out a series of abandoned buildings and sneak into them all. There’s a lot of them in Detroit!
Inside Michigan Central Station
Theater District: Basically all of Woodward south of Warren. Fun fact! Did you know that Detroit has the largest theater district in the country after Broadway! I bet you didn’t, and we too get lots of Broadway shows. The Fisher just ended In The Heights and starts Les Miserables later this month and you can catch, like, any concert at Saint Andrews, The Majestic, The Filmore and The Masonic amongst other places because everyone stops in Detroit because Detroit is known for two things: Cars and music. There’s also a lot of great independent theaters like Magic Giraffe and The Abreact. The Fox is pretty hit or miss with their material and tends to do a lot of family friendly stuff, but the space is just gorgeous. Seriously:
Lobby @ The FoxView from balcony @ The Fox
The Fox is also known for being the first theater in the country to get the equipment to play talkies! Seriously though, there are so many performance spaces, it’s no wonder a lot of artists are flocking to Detroit. It’s essentially a hyper-cheap Brooklyn.
Heidelberg Projects: 3680 Heidelberg @ Mount Elliot. 313.537.8037. OMFG HEIDELBERG! Tyree Guyton’s open air installation piece with a storied history (the city spent a good deal of time in the 80 and 90s trying to destroy it) is probably the quirkiest place in all of Detroit. Seriously. It’s in a bad neighborhood, so it’s not as popular as it otherwise would be, but it’s just a really colorful, happy place that highlights the downfall of the city (at least, that was my takeaway).
Heidelberg Projects. Photo by Gerry Visco
Eastern Market: Alfred and Riopelle. This is actually a bit of a lie since Eastern Market is a neighborhood, not a strict place. I’m just choosing the center of it as its address. Anyways, Eastern Market is popping in the spring with an amazing flower market as well as other little doodads. It’s just a swell place to be. Its NYC corollary would be the Union Square Farmers Market.
Eastern Market
Other Cool Things in Detroit Proper There’s Just Not Time For
Penobscot Building
The Penobscot Building is one of Detroit's many fine art deco buildings
Detroit Artist’s Market
Garden Bowl
CityClub
CityClub, Detroit's best bisexual industrial goth nightclub is in the Leland Hotel, pictured, which also has another club in its basement called Labyrinth
Renaissance Center (a study in how not to design a building!)
Meeting me for karaoke at Soho Bar in Ferndale on Wednesdays!
Lots of other great stuff too! Go buy a book about the city!
Special Events of Interest
January: North American International Auto Show
May: Detroit Electronic Music Festival (DEMF)
June: Motor City Pride
August: Woodward Dream Cruise
The Woodward Dream Cruise is when everyone brings out their classic cars and cruises down Woodward Avenue
September: Tour de Troit Bicycle Race
November: Turkey Trot 5k/10k Run Through Downtown
Winter: Ice Skating in Campus Martius
It’s a super town with a lot of super things and a lot of super people, but you’re going to need a car and you’re going to need to be okay with the fact that you can’t change your mind on a whim because everything is really spread out, but, seriously, give it a chance. It’s just like Brooklyn, only with more cars and better music (I said it). Beware during winter. It gets cold. So cold.
Author’s Note: in 1859, Charles Dickens founded the magazine All the Year Round, which published serialized novels in weekly formats. Many of Dickens’ own novels were in this format, but he didn’t write a novel and then break it up, he wrote it as it was being serialized in order to maintain proper deadlines, as well as switch up the story based on what people liked and did not like about the work. I hope to continue the tradition with this series for Crasstalk.
The Reconciliation of Lucas Lygram
Prologue
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been seven weeks since my last confession.”
“What ails you my child?”
In the past seven weeks, I had committed 89 acts of homosexual conduct. I had lied 897 times. I had stolen 37 grapes from the Trader Joe’s in Union Square. I had murdered twelve flies, seven spiders, and thirty seven cockroaches. I had cheated on my taxes. I had eaten shellfish even though I deplore the taste. and I had sworn exactly 1,432.5 times (the half swear was accounted for in 27 interrupted conversations) to name a few infractions. I knew all this because I kept a daily journal with a daily count on all of my sins so that I might go participate in the sacrament of Reconciliation. I went every seven weeks, in honor of the seven sacraments.
The irony was not lost on me that I, at present, could only partake in six of those sacraments, and, given that I was not dying, the seventh, Anointing of the Sick, could not be performed, thus making the number of sacraments that I could partake in at five. However, in reality, I only partook in four sacraments as I had no desire to be chaste or in poverty (I mean, I already was in poverty, it’s just that I had no desire to be in poverty) which was what would have been required of me had I partaken in the priesthood. How savage it is to be so slavishly devoted to a religion that has sent you to Hell.
I nearly forgot to tell the priest about bedding that lesbian lumberjack. We were both drunk. She had short hair. I shave my body hair. Once we’d realized we were with members of the opposite sex, we just decided that we might as well go with it given we were on a flannel electric blanket in a clearing in a wood upstate. This would have come back to bite me had I not noticed the loose page in the back of the sin book reminding me to tell him since, according to the notes, the original page died in a tragic coffee accident. Oh, yeah. The book. I should probably explain that.
Introductions first. Mother taught me to be the consummate example of a proper gentleman . My name’s Lucas. Lucas Lygram. It’s an awful name. I hate it, but mother would kill me if I changed it. At the very least, she’d leave me out of the will and has threatened to do so on numerous occasions. I don’t particularly see how that’s threatening since I wasn’t raised in a wealthy household, but, still, she feels the need to make that threat.
The only other things that are relevant at the moment are that I’m currently dating and in love with a complete ass of a human being named Samuel Grey and that I have an obsession. This obsession stems from an emotionally violent incident with my grandmother after my first confession at the age of nine in which she gave me a very graphic description on the consequences of not accounting and atoning for each and every single sin that I committed. Deciding that that certainly wasn’t going to happen to me, that I certainly wouldn’t be a singed, shell of a corpse that Virgil and Dante just happened to come across on their journey to Paradise, I began a quest: to make sure that every single thing that I did that was considered, well, unholy by The Bible would be written down for future reference, and it was. Sam stems from getting drunk at a club. The sin book was truly a masterwork. A series of fine, leather bound notebooks (that I could barely afford), each with the word “Sin” and a number corresponding to their order in the series embossed in gold leaf sat on a bookshelf in my Brooklyn apartment. There’s currently 4,942 of them, but I only keep the latest group in the apartment. The rest are in a storage unit on Staten Island. I just don’t have the space, you know? I head up to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral and take up a few hours of their time every seven weeks before sitting down for Mass. I’m fascinated by the sacraments, particularly Communion and Confession. They say confession is private, but I’m pretty sure they know who I am. Then again, these are the same people who believe in transubstantiation, but I guess that doesn’t really have any influence on their observational skills. Who cares, really?
“My son, you have sinned much. To atone, you must say eighty rosaries, one hundred four Our Fathers and the Act of Contrition, let’s say, thirty times. I’d also suggest going to see Sister Ann about volunteering to help in the Church Bazaar. For the heck of it, toss in a couple creeds. Your choice, Luke.”
I sat in the pews and began to pray. My rosary wasn’t anything particularly special, but I did get it blessed by Pope John Paul 2 when I visited the Vatican as a teenager. I thought I’d start with the Nicene Creed though. That one’s easy. A homeless man had taken sanctuary in the cathedral and sat down on the opposite side of my pew. Mass had already started and he began to sing with the rest of the congregation, until he didn’t. He started throwing up.
We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life who proceeds from the Father and the Son and is worshiped and glorified. We believe in violently upchucking in the one, holy Catholic and apostolic church. We look for the…fuck it.
I proceeded to leave. I could finish that shit at home.
Michel Rolle: 1652: That hair! So French™! A mathematician, which explains the adult onset acne*** (or is that supposed to be scruff?), he developed Rolle’s Theorem which states that “a differentiable function which attains equal values at two distinct points must have a point somewhere between them where the first derivative (the slope of the tangent line to the graph of the function) is zero” or f'(c)=0. He also hated calculus, which isn’t surprising since Wikipedia says he deserves to be credited with the invention of Gaussian elimination which stems from Newton’s notes and Newton invented calculus. J’accuse Rolle! J’accuse! The French™! Always at war with The English®! There is no known portrait of Rolle. Newton slashed them all****.
1774: Jean Baptiste-Biot: Watch out everyone! Rocks can fall from the sky at any moment! Not only that, they’ve been sent this way by aliens! Three run homer for the Orion Warriors! And The French™! They believed him! Meteorites are now considered scientific fact as opposed to sports history, which, really is a shame, because the Warriors went all the way that year for the first time in a lightyear*****.
LIFE!
1894: Nikita Khrushchev: Led to rapid baldness due to the stress of his jealousy over his predecessor’s magnanimous mustache, the lovable fat man of the Soviet Union caused many an inconvenience for the glorious post-war American government, not to mention his people (and several dogs), whom he shot into space on rockets made out of string and bubble gum, hurtling to the stars, hurtling to their deaths. He also banned Doctor Zhivago, regretted banning it, forced the author to decline his Nobel Prize and let his people become the most detestable group of people known to man: Tourists.
1865: Abraham Lincoln: What an inconvenient time to die, man. At the theater? With your best hag? By the hands of a failed actor? Gee, whiz. America’s First Gay President had to deal with other inconveniences though, including but not limited to: That inconvenient Civil War (right when cotton and tobacco prices were dropping!), those bleeding hearts inconveniently fighting over his suspension of habeas corpus (damned human rights), and Mary Todd’s insanity (listen lady, it aint gonna happen!)!
1705: William Cookworthy: Cookworthy? Not according to his wife! He did, however, kill scurvy by telling those saucy seamen to make sure to eat their fruits! The seamen, naturally, misinterpreted his dietary suggestion and continued to succumb to the disease until sometime later. Always carry Trojans and a bottle of orange juice, boys!
Amati made violins, but no one can name a single luthier (that’s violin-maker) other than Antoni Stradivari, so, better luck next time Nick! Still, Nick’s violins are generally agreed to be the best in his family, at least for modern violinists and who can afford a Stradivarius anyways? Those things cost more than a one bedroom apartment in Chelsea. We’d rather have the apartment and use the savings on an Amati if we played violin. However, we don’t. We started taking lessons briefly after hearing Neon Bible but we didn’t really take it seriously and quit after a month or so.
238: The Battle of Carthage: Led by the father/son empiric duo of Gordian the First and Gordian the Second, the Romans fell to the Numidians (modern-day Libya). Gordian the Second was killed in battle, and upon hearing the news, Gordian the First, who was 80 at the time, killed himself.
.jpg "Leland Hotel")
