By Jeff Walsh
With his acoustic album "Motorcycle Childhood," Tyson Meade uses spare arrangement and raw vocals to share details of his life. It's very different from his other role as the openly gay lead singer of the Chainsaw Kittens, where he used to take to the stage in lipstick, tights and mini-skirts.
By Janis Ian
In a small town somewhere at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains, teachers prepare for the coming semester. Professors grimly consult lesson plans, breaking in new Dockers ("I still wear the same size I wore when I graduated," they brag, bellies hanging over their straining waistlines like blubber off Ahab's whaler). Dormitories are surrounded by troops of exterminators bent on eradicating last year's mess before the health department shows up for a final check. The grounds are infested with newly arrived victims, ready to give the university their all and terrified that anything beyond the boundaries of the parents' homes will eat them alive. If they only knew.
By Janis Ian
I am standing with my tit caught in a wringer while a mall-haired technician tells me to relax. I am thinking that if men had to put their testicles in a vise as part of a yearly physical, we would have a cure for the common cold by now. I am very frightened.
The pink slip came as we were leaving on vacation: "We have found what appears to be a routine abnormality..." What's routine about an abnormality? I decide to put on a brave front and joke that in all my life no one has ever called me routine; then I burst into tears. Later on I do the grown-up thing and panic, furtively examining my breasts in the mirror for changes. I'm afraid that if I touch them to check for lumps, I will set something off. I wish they were smaller. I wish they were removable. I wish they were on anyone but me.
Maggie complaining. It happens sometimes.
Perhaps I spoke too soon. Today, Tuesday I've run into difficulty. I sat at the black table at dinner and had nice conversation with a friend.
Chapter 1: Passing Notes
Darrel,
Maybe it was the phone call last night
I ask myself why can't catch up with people I see around me and I ask myself why I'm doing this.
As I emerge from the dining hall
tired, full
the world is as bright as the day is long
bright with snow
bright as winter
through the long white expanse, I walk
on paked down snow, cold and barren
as the frigid air that smaks my cheek
cold
barren
alone
I wish I had a portal, like Homer Simpson, so I could magically appear wherever I wanted to, at the push of a button.
Ahh, the possibilities.
In my job, I speak to americans. everyday, all day. all regions of the country, all differnt clases aswell. and one thing I have noticed is. For the most part they are dumb. I often wonder how most of these people make it thro day to day life,, they are that stupid.
Most have no concept of deductive reasoning, and the rest are so Naive in thier life, they would surely be the first to die in a cataclysmic global event.
