Jeffrey Dispatch: ANTIGUA, GUATEMALA

A new dispatch from Jeffrey, hot off the wire. Also check out his pictures:

Jeffrey's pictures




28 April 2005
SAN PEDRO, Guatemala

It was with much jubilation that the Guatemaltecos
welcomed in the new Pope. Everything came to a screeching halt when the news of his selection made its way to Guatemala. My Spanish classes were stopped and we all gathered around the TV to watch this emotional moment. Given the chaos of the ensuing celebration, I was grateful that the armed guard watching over the Pepsi truck did not start firing into the air.

I interviewed several Guatelmaltecos about the quick selection of el
nuevo Papa. Lorenzo, the director of the Spanish school I attended,
said, "We are all very happy for the quick turnaround. It is good to
move on." Addressing the widespread disappointment in Latin America that the young, up-and-coming Honduran Cardinal was passed over for the much more conservative German, Lorenzo added, "Ratzinger is 78. He will be dead soon."

Several days later, still suffering from a post-succession hangover, I traveled to Antigua, which had been Guatemala’s capital until it was destroyed by an earthquake in 1773. Passing the Iglesia y Convento de Nuestra Senora de La Merced, I heard a voice that was so sweet I thought it might be God himself.

God, it was not. But the passed-over, up-and-coming Honduran Cardinal was doing his best impression. Undeterred by his near miss (rumor has it that God had him fitted for a ring the night before), and backed by the hardest working band in Christendom, he entertained the audience of roughly 40 with some of the Holy Ghost’s greatest hits. He even had the grace to send a shout-out to el nuevo Papa.


This one's for Benny...Band, tune your instruments to "Holy C!"


This is going to be our last song. By the way, if any of you sees Jay-Z, could you let him know that God wants him to stop doing that "J-Hova" thing?

Introducing Central America Bureau Correspondent Jeffrey

Hello, Friends!

Fortunately, while Pinto has been lying low (in LAX or elsewhere), someone else has taken it upon himself to quench your thirst for knowledge of distant lands. Today we introduce our friend Jeffrey, amateur geographer and professional man-about-town. Like Pinto, Jeffrey left behind a lucrative job to explore that sapphire jewel we call Earth. Jeffrey, we salute you!

And thus, without further ado, we give you the inaugural dispatch from blue skies forever NEWS Central America Bureau Correspondent Jeffrey:





26 April 2005
SAN PEDRO, Guatemala

Thinking of you.


Jeffrey


Dog

Has Science Man Found Science Woman?

Greetings, Readers!

It has been an eventful few months for our poet laureate, Science Man. First, in a fit of melancholy, he left Berlin, renouncing the life of letters. Shortly thereafter, he survived an attempt on his life, and then spent several weeks evading his would-be assasins. Most recently, a spat with a former gigolo led to his expulsion from an elite equestrian academy. But perhaps things have begun to turn around for our friend. He writes below, detailing his newfound hope for happiness (as well as providing an explanation for the curious results to our first poll).


Dear Damon,

I have calmed somewhat since I last wrote you. I did spend several days searching for my would-be assassins, my frustration growing with my lack of success. On the fourth day, however, I had an epiphany. Believe it or not, it was as I was browsing the archives of your blog. I read once more the post about your friend Shiri, and suddenly it struck me: I am in love. (I proceeded to vote for her fourteen times in the Mooncalf poll.) Please, Damon, do me a favor and publish my letter to her.

Your friend,
Science Man

[Play music now]

Dear Shiri,

You may not know me. You may never have encountered my poetry, my scholarship, nor my dog, Raw. But I think you could love me. And I know I love you.


Raw

Please, let down your guard, love. Let me be your guard, love. (Let me guard you with my love.) Let me be your mirror; see your beauty reflected in my love of your beauty, love. Are you getting dizzy? I know I am. I want to touch you.


That's actually John Bolton, not me. But people say we look pretty alike.

Love,
Science Man








I see her face and I can’t let go...

If my friend Hammer told you
(you’re so bold and cold; you
had me sold at hello)
how I feel.

Would you smile? Be surprised?
Would you narrow your eyes?
"All these guys,"
(Here she sighs)
"What’s the deal?"

Oh, my Dear Shiri,
Please, my love, hear me,
Hear Hammer’s sweet query...
I’ve seen her, I said.

Could I be any clearer?
She’s the girl in the mirror,
or the passing car’s window
as traffic stops dead.

She'll be mine, she'll be fly, and it'll last


Let's not mask our feelings, Shiri. This is love.

Hey Cardinal, Is That a Fly on the Wall? Behind the Scenes at the Papal Conclave

Yesterday, white smoke rose from the chimney of the Vatican, signaling that the cardinals had chosen a new pope. The winner? Germany's Joseph Ratzinger.

Yet still we wonder: what went on in the papal conclave?


Ratz! Several cardinals expressed disappointment upon realizing that their votes had not, in fact, gone to the actor who portrayed television's Cliff Claven

In this groundbreaking piece of reporting, our friend Nirav takes us behind the scenes:

A Breakdown of the Popefuls

Bedtime Story: Mind Your Manners, or When the Very Important Judge Visited the Very Special Ivory Tower

The Very Important Judge

Once upon a time, there was a very important judge who went by the initials A.S.; to save a syllable, we’ll call him Ass.


Chief Justice Crow was receiving treatment for karmic cancer and thus was not present for the picture

As a member of the United States Supreme Court, Ass had made a career of coupling what might generously be termed nostalgia for an older social order with extremely clever rhetorical maneuvers. For example, one time a state amended its constitution to bar laws protecting homosexuals from discrimination. Ass became angry when his fellow justices called this law unconstitutional. A master logician, he pointed out that theirs was an error of analogy: homosexuals should be classified under the law not with racial minorities and other traditionally oppressed groups, but rather--and this was purely a legal point and not in any way an indication of his personal views--with murderers and animal abusers. The key is that justices shouldn't insert their personal views on morality into their legal decisions.



One day, a very special Ivory Tower decided to invite Ass over for a visit. More specifically, one of its many oft-read publications desired to honor him for his great contributions to the interpretation of law.




The Hero

The controversy began at the afternoon's question and answer session. It is here that we first encounter our hero, a student named Eric.


Eric, the Hero

Eric asked Ass about a case called Lawrence v. Texas, in which the court struck down a law that criminalized homosexual sex. Ass dissented in the case, and, prompted by Eric's question, was dismissive of the liberty and privacy interests of homosexual couples. In response, Eric decided to act out what law professors like to call a counterfactual. Reversing the roles that Ass had envisioned, he asked, "Do you sodomize your wife?"

Genteel jaws dropped. The ears of the pure burned with shame. Monocles sprung from see-no-evil eyes. A woman fainted. A child renounced Christ.

"Did he just say 'sodomize?'" queried one student, his world of professionalism collapsing before him.

"Has he no respect for the robe?" Wondered several students and administrators.

Lost among the murmuring: one student, suffering from a rare form of color-blindness, mistook the black robe for a white one, and expressed his sincere confusion.

"I am not going to answer that," said Ass, his face reddening.

"Well, it appears from your response that you do value privacy," Eric continued. "So why do you want to send the cops into my bedroom?"


The Goon

Later in the day, Eric joined other agitators to make noise outside of the ceremony honoring Ass. And not just quiet noise, far away from the ceremony, but loud noise, close by!

Luckily, the administration was prepared, and sent in its favorite goon, Vice Dean Clay, or V.D., for short.


V.D.

V.D. approached the rabble-rousers and, through violent gestures and schoolmasterly reprimands, attempted to bully their putative leaders into moving the group to the law school's courtyard.


Let me be very clear with you, young man. This is a public sidewalk. We want you back behind the cordoned-off area in our courtyard immediately. Do you understand me? Where is the professionalism at this school? We had a deal! You winked when you told me you couldn't promise anything!



The wagging finger of the condescending schoolmaster did not work for you? How about the chop?! Did I mention that this is a public sidewalk? In loco parentis! IN LOCO PARENTIS!!! [Ed: note the handsome gentleman in the blue hat]

The protestors ignored his demands. When all was said and done, Ass had received his honors, but not without disruption.


The Very Special Ivory Tower Strikes Back

Many future professionals--their necks still red from violent collar-loosening maneuvers, their sensibilities still offended from having heard the word that was written in the opinion being discussed--expressed their disapproval.

"Utterly classless...I think that a Supreme Court Justice deserves a modicum of respect," wrote one. Another suggested that the heads of all the student groups sign a letter apologizing to Ass--and then get together to mow his lawn.

Perhaps swayed by this outburst of indignation, Dean Ricky, usually a vocal opponent of discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity, weighed in with a curious e-mail.


What would Paul Simon, er, John Sexton do?

He said that Eric's question contained "offensive and insulting language" (no word yet on whether Lawrence will be excised from next year's textbooks) and that his friend Nadine, who was there to honor Ass, said that the protestors were not within their First Amendment rights.


My donors say money=speech!

Like a bridge over troubled water, Ricky clarified that he would be mowing Ass's lawn as soon as the weather warmed enough to require it. V.D., on the other hand, would wait in the car and work on the following: 1) fabricating agreements that he could later accuse students of breaking; 2) writing a letter of apology to U.S. News and World Report; and 3) designing an obstacle course to be completed by progressive groups that seek funding for symposia. Finally, Ricky announced the law school's new motto:






THE END



Note to NYU Law Students:

Join Dean Ricky Revesz, Vice Dean Clayton Gillette, and the Annual Survey of American Law in presenting posthumous honors to the Plessy v. Ferguson court for its contributions to American jurisprudence. The ceremony will be held in Greenberg Lounge.

For those offended by this ceremony, a protest area has been set up in Mercer Pub.


*****************************************************

Keywords: Antonin Scalia, Nino

Reader Mail/Our First Poll

Greetings, friends!

We have a couple of pieces of reader mail to share with you. First, in response to The Morah's conspiracy theory, a reader sent us the following:

Confirmed dispatch from hell-ay sleeper cell operative:

Pinto wuz here, clad in crisp pink security shirt, with freshly groomed
facial hair and well-tailored, allegedly Indian pants. During his brief
SoCal tenure, many Angeleno tourist destinations were visited, including,
but not limited to, the Magic Castle Hotel and Home of the Academy of
Magical Arts, the famed Hollywood sign at dusk (complete with
pollution-induced scarlet sunset), El Conquistador Restaurante Mexicano
family hangout cum boys' nightspot ('a feast for the eyes as well as the
palate'), and, finally, Madonna's house for a Courvoisier nightcap on the
lanai.

The Morah's visit, however, passed undocumented by local authorities.


Madonna


Next, our good friend Navy Bean, of the band currently known as Mooncalf (but which we often call Hot Atmosphere), wrote us in the hope that you, Dear Readers, would be able to help him and his mates settle on a new name:

I'd really appreciate it if you could poll your friends and maybe blog
readers. It could be like click here if you like Touch Tank, click there
if you prefer Hot Atmosphere, etc. They can also write in if they have
another name in mind. It's pretty safe to say no one likes mooncalf, so
we don't need that as an option.

Navy Bean

P.S. Maybe ask that Shiri girl. She seemed to have good taste. Of course, she'd probably suggest that we name the band Shiri!



It was a good run, cowboy, but we're gonna have to let you go.


Below are the names the band is considering. After each is a brief description provided by Navy Bean himself.



Hot Atmosphere

I think your readers are familiar with this name and its potential.


Touch Tank

When I was a little kid, I loved the touch tank at the aquariam. I even fell in once.


Tall Buildings

Tall buildings were another thing I really liked as a little kid. If we named ourselves tall buildings, we’d be like a skyline, but with more recognition of the unique contribution of each member, or building.


All Kinda

You see, this is a funny name, because it sounds at first like we're islamic militants, which we’re not. The non-committal 'kinda' is just further proof of that.


The Split Ends

What’s great about this name is that it can refer to football OR hair.


Asbestos We Can!

Asbestos gets a bad rap. I mean, it's definitely not the best insulator, but it's a little like a sleeping dog or tiger—if you don't disturb it, it won't mess with you.


We tried to post the poll on the page, but Internet Explorer users were unable to read it. Hence, you'll just have to click on the link below. The poll should allow you to vote only once, so consider the choices carefully. And again, if you would like to suggest another name, feel free to e-mail us.


Vote in the poll

We welcome reader mail. Send to ohgivemeahome(at)gmail(dot)com.

Welcome Back, Ourself!

Greetings, readers! And welcome back, ourself!

(Applause)


Our hiatus from blogging was an emotional rollercoaster

While we were gone, our friend Nirav resumed battle with his dastardly nemesis, the unbearable lightness of being.

We learned that our friend and classmate Chris has a blog full of amusing links.

And last but not least, we received some more reader mail. It seems our readers are fond of conspiracy theories. First, Chris of Philadelphia suggested that Science Man and John Bolton might have been seperated at birth. Now Portland, Oregon's The Morah writes the following:

...we arrived safely at LAX at 7:30 in the morning. We had to transfer from the international to the domestic terminal, which was something like a four-mile walk. When we finally arrived at our gate, imagine my surprise when I saw Pinto sitting there reading the newspaper! I put my bags down and yelled 'Pinto!!', but Pinto did not respond. I'm telling you, this was not a Pinto lookalike. This was Pinto. Reading the paper. He refused to acknowledge me, so I puzzled for a moment then went to get a bottle of water. When I came out of the travel shop, Pinto was gone. I am now convinced that he is not in Paz. He has not been in Thailand or New Zealand or anywhere else. Pinto has been sitting at LAX for the last 6 months.


We doubt the Morah's theory, as Pinto has sent us a number of postcards postmarked from the locales they depict, and as he may well have stopped in LAX en route to one of his destinations. Nevertheless, we shall leave it to him to respond. Pinto?


Say it ain't so, buddy


It's good to be back, readers. We missed you!

PS--If you don't like Antonin Scalia and you live in New York, check out the protest over NYU's decision to honor Scalia on Tuesday.



We welcome reader mail. Send to ohgivemeahome(at)gmail(dot)com.

OMG! THE POPE DIED!!

Science Man Strikes Back

Dear Damon and Readers,

Let me begin by thanking you for your concern; I am exceedingly lucky to have such devoted friends.

Since my last missive, I have exchanged one remote location for another. As the result of my friend George's generosity, I just completed several days of "offshore" recreation. Originally, I was scheduled to stay for a week, but my hosts have asked me to leave. Let me explain:

I came here to attend an elite, all-male equestrian camp. The men who run it insist that its existence, let alone its location, remain a secret.

I should clarify that when I call it elite, I refer only to the quality of instruction; the students are of all skill levels, something pointed out regularly and profanely by our instructors. (They are fond of telling us that we're "trust fund candy asses" and that the camp administrators would accept "any shit-for-brains" who could pay the tuition and keep his mouth shut.) It seems that the majority of the students are exiles or misfits of some type who attend on the dollar of another. Rumor has it that Bobby Fischer "rode" in '94 and insisted on calling his horse Kasparov.

On to my story: It was high noon on the third day at camp, and I, along with my fellow campers, had just settled down to lunch. Despite our soreness, we straddled the tiny wooden stools provided by the camp. (The instructors ate roasted duck and sat in the cushioned booths of the cafeteria, a privilege they told us we had yet to earn). As I bit into my bologna and American cheese sandwich, I caught the unmistakeable whiff of cigarette smoke. I turned to my left and encountered the pinkened, ovoid visage of none other than my fellow student JD, whom you more likely know as Jeff Gannon, the discredited journalist/political hack/male escort.


JD/Jeff Gannon

"I thank you to extinguish your cigarette or move away," I told him. (Had someone else been smoking, I might have moved along myself. But I had had enough of JD.)

He refused, spewing some pablum about individual freedoms.

"Listen, Bulldog," my anger was rising, "My mother acquired lung cancer because of your freedoms. If you don't 'beat it,' I will beat you."

JD responded by blowing smoke in my face.

Every man has his breaking point, and I had reached mine. The days of running and hiding from hired assassins; the knowledge that those hired assassins hid my true adversary, an anonymous coward; the frustration resulting from my inability to confront him; the inconvenience, the isolation, the terror...it all culminated in this moment.

I reached for my riding gloves, which sat in the dirt below me. With cat-like quickness, I whipped them around in a forceful forehand, catching JD across his left cheek, knocking the cigarette from his mouth and his backside from the stool. (I would like to think I knocked the stool from his backside, but I suppose that’s too much to ask of a glove slap, however well executed.)


riding gloves

I was quickly restrained by my fellow students, and by 1:00, the administrators had asked me to leave.

Some may think I was out of line, as had been General Patton before me. But I think JD finally got what he deserved. Let this serve as a warning to the asses who chase me, to the person(s) who hired them, to JD and his reactionary benefactors:


The tables have turned. I'm coming for you.


Science Man

Pinto Dispatch: NEW ZEALAND IN PICTURES

From former New Zealand Bureau Correspondent and Current South America Bureau Correspondent Pinto:



31 March 2005
CHRISTCHURCH, New Zealand

Today is my last day in New Zealand. I'll fly out of
Christchurch at 6:30p. This therefore will be my last
dispatch as NZ correspondent. It's not really a
dispatch at all. It's "New Zealand in Pictures":


St. Yusef's kebab stand, Christchurch


Dead fish, Akaroa


Sailing the seas of green, Hokitika

He sent one more picture, but that juggernaut of a graphics program, Microsoft Paint, refused to open it, so we couldn't reduce its size to put it on the page. However, it is an excellent picture, and you can view it here:

Colorful nightlife, Greymouth