Skilled Labor-
Angel
Irlanda
It's widely thought that science
and art reside at opposite poles. Science, many argue,
with its reliance on cold, hard facts has no place in
art, where the more ethereal faculties reign...
(read more)
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Get Out of Town-
Coachella
07
Nine hours after leaving the U.S., we were enjoying
one of the Alpenland’s seasonal treats: bock beer!
Beer was invented by the ancient Egyptians, but perfected
by the Germans who have adhered to the same strict purity
law, the Reinheitsgebot, since 1516. ...
(read
more)
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Restaurant Review-
Djon's
Steak and Lobster House continues to fulfill his initial
promise of providing a fine dining paragon that breaches
the barrier separating dedicated gastronomes from curious
visitors.
(read
more)
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20 Questions-
Clammer
Bill
Clammer has been a local legend since time immemorial,
and his intimate knowledge of the Indian River comes from
seemingly having plied it since it first began to trickle.(read
more) |
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News of the Weird
Crossing
The Bar The Wisconsin Supreme Court ruled in October
that attorney Michael Inglimo did not violate a state
regulation that bars a lawyer from having sex "with
a current client",.
.(read
more)
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 Horrorscopes
by
Lance Stardancer
Get your monthly horrorscope from our own in-house astrologer
Lance Stardancer. Free!
(read
horrorscopes)
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 Ah,
Spring!
We're all very
busy these days, what with worrying about the economy and
googling our youtube facebooks all the time, so in the interest
of saving precious time, I'd like to propose melding upcoming
Mother's Day with National Conservative Broadcaster's Day...which
I think normally falls somewhere around the 37th of Decembruary.
It sounds cockamamie, I know, but consider their similarities.
And think of the money we'd save on daffodils.
Like mothers, conservative broadcasters have devoted much
of their time to either embarrassing me, scolding me, or telling
me what I should be doing against my better judgement. Both
are adept at delivering shrill philippics, despotic directives,
and unfounded, knee-jerk reactions to anything slightly beyond
their limited ken. They both cravenly adhere to prejudices
informed by paleolithic events and both have a convenient
disregard for niggling ephemera like facts.
They lock their car doors at stoplights when someone unshaven
is near, and they still think we need help wiping ourselves
despite our having a pretty healthy five o'clock shadow well
before noon. As they wag their fingers in time to a distant,
martial beat, they launch, like so many crooked javelins,
opinions based on conveniently inflated statistics and moldering
sixth-grade textbooks. After having ascended dizzying heights
of imperious beration, they followed with an unending stream
of threadbare platitudes and feigned concern, and reach out
to us for the terminal hug, which is somewhat fulfilling but
for the witheringly dismissive pat on the back. Like welted
whelps, we cave at the merest sign of their having cooled
and slink back trustingly/meekly to their heels.
And still they're never happy.
But the real reason behind this proposal is to give the bloviating
Bill O'Reilly his due as the Mother of all motherBEEPBEEP!
Sorry. I have to take this call.
It's probably you-know-who.
The Editor.
My/I vs. Our/We
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