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Summer 2019
VOL. CXXXXIII No. 2
BOARD OF EDITORS
Nicholas S. Grundlingh ’20-’21, President Jack G. Stovitz ’20, President Michael M. Miller ’20, Ibis John Lim ’20, Narthex Brendan J. Falk ’20, Treasurer S. W. Roberts ’19-’20
N. A. Araya ’20-’21
B. A. Mella ’19
L. D. Lavrova ’19-’20
S. Wu ’20-’21
M. J. Sciamanna ’19
T. Ninh ’19-’20
T. A. Flodman ’19
C. de Losada ’21
H. B. Flender ’19-’20
M. J. Kassabian ’19
A. M. Peiken ’20 J. L. Gilbert ’21
H. J. Hollister ’19
M. G. Marshall ’19
B. W. Mott ’19-’21
J. T. Ball ’20-’21
P. K. Stoller ’21
P. E. de Sa e Silva ’19
A. Chen ’20
G. P. Lifrieri ’21
K. D. Firester ’19-’20
I. M. Gibney ’20
G. Y. Shi ’22
D. K. Wexner ’19
Y. Ji ’21
J. P. Wolfe ’22
Olenka Jain ’20, Blot Lauren G. Fadiman ’21, Sanctum Lia R. Kiam ’21, Hautbois Marie A. Konopacki ’21, Hautbois Juan F. Arenas R. ’19-’20, Sackbut Maxwell A. Gay ’21, Sackbut Zachary D. Goddard ’20, Librarian Michael R. Perusse ’20, Deputy Librarian Freddie S. Shanel ’21, Nave Liana A. Spiro ’19, Vanitas Scribes to the Accessibility Council Emily N. Orr ’21 Edward H. Sevilla ’20 BUSINESS BOARD Nicholas G. Jaeger ’21, Business Manager David J. Lynch ’20, Advertising Manager Maxwell A. Gay’19, Circulation Manager T. D. Keene ’18-’21 B. Cohen ’19 I. A. Jasper ’19 S. H. Henson ’20 L. F. Hoffmann ’19 J. K. Kelley ’19 J. D. Wasserstein ’21 L. E. Graciano ’21
M. Eczacıbaşı ’20 D. J. Lynch ’20 P. T. Magahis ’21 B. L. Weber ’21 A. E. Harper ’20 K. N. Rachesky ’22 D. P. D. Wasserstein ’22
Elmer W. Green, 1897-1977, Grand Curator DID A COUPLE HOURS OF WORK Matthew J. “Alexander Scaarsgaard” Sciamanna & Michael M. “Matthew J. ‘Alexander Scaarsgaard’ Sciamanna” Miller
ART & LAYOUT EDITOR Marie A. Konopacki
The Harvard Lampoon is published five times during the academic year by The Harvard Lampoon, Inc. Principal office 44 Bow Street, Cambridge, MA 02138. Third-class postage paid at Cambridge, MA. U.S. subscription: $20 for five issues, $35 for ten, $50 for fifteen, $6 for a neck massage from Matt. Overseas subscriptions: call for rates. Postmaster: your reign of terror is over. © 2019 Harvard Lampoon, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduction in any form without written permission is prohibited. Phone: (617) 495-7801. Fax: (617) 495-1668. URL: http://www.harvardlampoon.com. The Harvard Lampoon does not print unsolicited manuscripts or proofread anything it prints. The Lampoon is a registered trademark of The Harvard Lampoon, Inc.
Welcome to page 54 of the Harvard College World Travel Guide! Now that we’ve put that first (of 15) block of advertisements past us it’s time to share the tips, tricks, and anecdotes that we picked up throughout our world travels. All of the experiences you are about to read about come straight from the mouth of Harvard’s best and brightest. Local pastry enthusiast and High School Diploma
recipient, Tim Melvin, also got in on some of the action by cleverly explaining to us that it is his right as an American with a gun to our heads, to force us to publish his travel tips. Enjoy your glimpse into the wide wide world and thanks for taking the journey with us! Let’s Go!
VANITAS
♫ Aruba, Jamaica, girl I wanna take ya to ♫ 617 Aruba St. Jamaica, Queens, NY 11412. Take a right at the Arby’s where Rudy Giuliani got stabbed last year and then hang a U-ey at the Arby’s with the “Rudy Giuliani’s Stabber” Memorial Statue out front. Then it’s the blue house on the left. Sorry, to the left of the blue house. That’s where I’ll need you to go. There will be a small dumpster fire keeping a homeless, yet dignified man lit on fire in the cold of the windy New York night. Tucked into his hat, he’ll have a stash of small bills that he earned from a long day of playing a beat up saxophone outside Central Park.Take the money. Take the hat. Take the saxophone and hop back on the bus to Cambridge, Mass. We just made $34 for ol’ Lampy. Sadly these small money making schemes have proven not to be enough to keep us afloat. Financially speaking, the Lampoon has seen better days. Why just last semester we had so much money that we could waltz right into Tatte and ask for their finest pastries to be served to us on their finest gold plates by their finest minimum wage employees. The waltz lessons cost $750/person. Due to a series of financially imprudent decisions that I can only imagine are entirely the fault of our Business Board, (barring of course our wonderful Treasurer, BJF, who is doing wonderfully in supporting my growing tastes for caviar and exotic animal coats) we are tip-toeing on the tight-wire of bankruptcy. But Money, Schmoney! Who cares?! In terms of content, The Lampoon is a well-oiled supercomputer. We never should have put the oil so close to the supercomputer. It fucking short-cicruited everything. This isn’t even a metaphor, everything in the castle is broken and covered in oil. Our content is suffering. The few people who think our magazine is funny on campus are all named after war criminals, and while Dick-Cheney Thompson is actually a great guy and one of my best friends in Section, it is not the best look for our magazine to have him as our biggest fan. I recently watched a bootleg copy of the film Julius Caesar. I couldn’t see or hear anything happening. It seemed like the bootlegger literally put his camcorder in a bag of chips and forgot about it for the whole movie. Honestly, I am not sure if it was even Julius Caesar- I really couldn’t see anything at
HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
Staff goofball, HJH, is thrilled to find out that he will be sent to Chernobyl for the next few and a half months to capitalize on thrill-seeking vacationers’ desire to see the real location the hit HBO show did not film in.
all. But I know from separate sources that in times of great crisis such as today’s for the Lampoon, the Romans would give power to one man to ensure swift and decisive action. In a similar vein, MAK MJS and I have held up the castle at gunpoint and taken command of the Lampoon against everyone’s interests. We have taken it upon ourselves, in the past 5 months it took to put together this dynamite issue and fix all of the problems facing The Harvard Lampoon. First things first: when it comes to comedy, we are throwing in the towel. A wet, stinky towel. Yes, here we are at rock bottom. The Lampoon is no longer a comedy organization. We’ve partnered with Let’s Go Travel to make earnest travel guides just to earn a few bucks to keep the heat on. We’ve lied to just enough advertisers to finance first class trips all around the world for the travel writers on staff. And with the tragic state of The Lampoon back on campus we can only assume most of them will never return. Nevertheless, MJS MAK and I are confident we can usher in a new era of the Lampoon. Travel guides are money makers and money is what this place should be all about. So without further ado we hope you enjoy this worldly travel guide. And we hope while you’ve been distracted reading this, MJS was successful in breaking into your dorm room and stealing your laundry quarters. MMM
THE HARVARD LAMPOON
THE HARVARD LAMPOON
HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
JESTER Why are you still reading this? You think that I’m going to entertain you with a bunch of clever wordplay and sentences where you think you know the ending but then actually …ALLUSION TO THE 1950s … the ending is less funny than if the sentence just left off in the middle like LFH’s white trash dad. Sorry, but just because you flipped open a page of our magazine doesn’t mean I’m obligated to dance around for you like an orangutan on amphetamines in our comedy writing basement. Orangutans are endangered, you twat. Heck, I’ve only even written this much to distract you while we steal the copper piping out of your home to finance the trip. You see, like MMM I recently discovered that you can get drunk off of plain old Listerine and so we both have far too much on our plates to take much of an active role in this issue. Instead we’re doing this issue the American way. Outsourcing. We sent our staff to places around the world which happen to have no minimum wage laws and are publishing whatever garbage we get back from them. A lot of it is ransom notes. But this outsourcing is about a much more noble cause than simply saving money – that would just get spent on Listerine anyways. You see, laughter is the best medicine because it doesn’t cause autism. And damn if this world couldn’t use a little medicine. While we certainly don’t have any medicine except amphetamines (which we’re not sharing), we do have a God given talent to make unfunny white men who read our magazine and summer on the islands of Cape Cod exhale through their nostrils amusedly. And if by just going to the world’s most desperate places and meeting the people who most need our help, we can make just one wealthy reader at home chuckle slightly and think “gotta remember to tell Kathy that one,” then we’ll have done our part. MJS
IBIS
BLOT
When we were justifiably under attack for poisoning Cambridge’s water supply last semester where was yours truly, the trusted Ibis? I was sleeping off a terrible hangover. When our accountants told us we could not possibly operate through the entire semester, where was I? Buying some hair o’ the dog with my Lampoon credit card to nurse a terrible hangover. When the building was on fire because of a match that I dropped onto a stack of newspapers, where was I? That’s right, fleeing a burning castle with my hoodie in front of my face as I passed the security cameras on my way to the bar.
Dear reader, you’re probably not wondering why this issue is five months late, but in case you’re one of our advertisers, here’s why.
I decided to apply this framework of absent leadership to the rest of staff by sending them around the world to write for this travel guide. MMM
For weeks, my mom had been trying to get me to come to Peru after exams, but I diligently refused so I could work on the very issue you just wasted your advertising budget on. Unable to take no for an answer, my mom offered to pay for a Peruvian boob job. Even with the promise of discount plastic surgery in the back room of a Pollería Chicken King, it wasn’t enough to lure me in. Although I was aware that being a Latina without tits is like being MJS without a fat ass, I was sure that double Ds couldn’t compare to the ecstasy of finishing an issue. (Later this was found to be false.) Still desperate to get me to Peru, my mom did the next best thing: get a brain tumor. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. After a few strokes and invasive brain surgery, she ensured that my brother and I were on a plane to this cursed country.
I knew I had made a mistake as soon as we landed. The taxi on the way to my aunt’s ran out of gas, and my brother pushed the car half a mile while I sat in the backseat. I was convinced the taxi driver wasn’t going to make us pay, but he held out his hand at the end and I was so impressed by his audacity that I couldn’t help but place 10 dollars in his palm. As the old saying goes, a Peruvian without hustle is like LFH without a white trash dad. The rest of my time in Peru passed similarly. The only way I could stomach it all was having a BAC of no less than .08 for the entire week. But what about the issue? Why is it late? To make a long story short, listening to Peruvian radio stations that only played US top hits from 2011 sent me into a spiraling depression that lasted for the next three months. The only way I could cure it was by ignoring co-president JGS’s texts until they got desperate enough. I assume this is why MMM and MJS ignored him as well. MAK
OUR TEAM
Z. D. Goddard I let pretty ladies pee on me. I don’t want them to pee on me, but I am too polite to say no.
M. M. Miller, I started my own fraternity at High School State where I majored in Being The Starting Quarterback. One of my girlfriends is a Brazillian astrophysicist who moonlights as a supermodel. My other girlfriend is dead. Neither of them knows about the other. Wicked!
J. F. Arenas R. Some people call me jfar but i prefer JCLOSE. Jclosetostealingyourbitch!!!! JFAR out!
M. J. Sciamanna, I’m a fun loving Scorpio with the ass of a Capricorn. After College I plan on becoming a cobbler or an astronaut’s husband.
M. A. Konopacki Venmo me @mariekonopacki
L. G. Fadiman At night I lie awake replaying the muffled screams of my father as I wrapped my hands around his neck and squeezed until I heard the telltale sound of his EKG flatlining. I searched desperately for some meaning behind the bloodshot eyes of the man who raised me. I’m still looking for that meaning today.
H. J. Hollister We live in a post capitalism society. But I live in a pre-capitalism society. I don’t get paid to write these issues in dollars, I get bags of livestock feed. I give this feed to a heifer named star. Star is 15 hands and 180 stone of pure beef. Star is my oldest friend. When the time comes for me to go to school, I will slaughter Star and trade her meat for the meat of life, a masters degree in Earth sciences.
L. D. Lavrova Suck my dick, you’re not my real mom. But if you were... then get my dick out yo’ mouth, bro.
M. A. Gay
E. N. Orr
^^ Ditto! But I also play a lot of Runescape Classic.
Your first born shall be a son. As soon as he is of age I will find you, though you may try to hide. I will take this beautiful gift from you to raise in the Mongolian steppe and in your time of greatest need he will come to you.
J. L. Gilbert Yes, yes, my name. People always comment on my name. J.J. Abrams they say, J.K. Rowling. But what will J.L. Gilbert do? Well, last week I photoshopped a picture of Trump onto a horse. I think my legacy is pretty well secured.
A. M. Peikin I collect beanie babies. Ask me about it sometime!
J. G. Stovitz My hobbies include fishing.
G. P. Lifrieri Hometown: Hoboken, NJ. Favorite song: My Sweet Lord- George Harrison Fun Fact: I can self-suck. I can and I do.
J. P. Wolfe If I were a serial killer preparing to kill a little girl, I’d speak to her with the same intonation that I use in regular conversation.
G. Y. Shi The only news source with any balls anymore is Breitbart. Legacy media is on its way to dying a slow painful death, and when it does you can bet your ass I’m gonna be there with my youtube channel.
TRAVEL TIP You must be very careful when visiting the pyramids. They’re technically triangles so they have at least 3 razor sharp edges on all sides. In Egypt (the place where the pyramids is), it is also extremely windy, making them prone to flip over and impale whoever is standing next to them. It may be shocking to find out that the average number of tourists who have been killed this way is 0.000003. Wow, that’s a lot of zeros. And one three. If you have any information, please contact right away.
HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA
I
really resisted this assignment. When my editor told me I was going to Russia, I nearly upended the conference table but did manage to knock over the coffee and burn a handful of writers. Everyone freaked and through this chaos, my editor texted me. I looked down. There, on my phone: a photo of my editor giving me a hard smile. The journey to Russia, in the tiny box into which I was shoved mercilessly, was unpleasant. But this was nothing compared to the unpleasant surprise some lady got opening the package she stole from St. Petersburg’s abandoned American consulate. Imagine, hacking through layers and layers of tape and cardboard and ending up with an American journalist splashing out in a stream of his own urine and, well, you know- I got very sick on the bumpy ride over, eating all that shit so it wouldn’t smell up my little box. And what kind of story do you want from all this, asshole? What the hell kind of story will I be able to write for you after getting beaten by a Russian woman who was not at all pleased to find some guy tumbling out onto her carpet? And the entire time she was kicking my ass, the entire fucking time, I was freaking out because I had no idea what was going on at home, what was going on with my family.
You sent me to this god-forsaken shithole right as my St. Bernard giving birth. I needed to be there to hide those worms as they popped out. Now, I’m going to come home to six new dogs that my husband and children are fucking attached to. What am I going to do? How am I going to get rid of the extra dogs when I see the sweet pups chewing up my little brats’ fingers? I will love those dogs. I am going to love them.
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HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
TEXAS
Would you kiss your sister for a dollar? For ten thousand dollars? For a million? In Texas, they don’t charge you a cent. You drive right past the WELCOME TO TEXAS, POPULATION: Nunya Wimpy-Liberal Business sign and your sister is waiting right there, in line, waiting for a smooch, on the house. Texas is like high school without the gun laws. It’s like Greek Mythology without the plot twists and with double the teen pregnancies. It’s like China but without Chinese people. And it’s racist. It’s like a cancerous growth on the ballsack of America. If you find yourself in the Lone Star State this Fall just remember this one simple rule: “Everything’s bigger in Texas!” My sister was no exception to this otherwise fun rule.
Nam lobortis felis sed est commodo posuere.
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HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
ALBERTA
THE HARVARD LAMPOON
I hate to brag but I am pretty darn successful. I got a lifted ford ranger, a solid 6.5 wife (a Canada 5), a sick gig managing a Tim Horton’s – with a salary that automatically adjusts with inflation. The works.
Once in Edmonton, it wasn’t hard to find Peter. Franklin is a stupid last name so no one else has it. When I found him, you bet I walked right up to him and showed him my Tim Horton’s provincial manager of the month certificate on my phone. He just whimpered back, “Hey man that’s great and I’m happy you found me, I always wanted to apologize for the way –” and then boom! I gave him a noogie so fat it would have to buy two seats on an airplane. Only he was still eight inches taller than me so it was more like an aggressive neck-knuckling. “Nevermind” he said as he smacked me so hard I spit a tooth onto the pavement.
But still, good as my life is now, there’s something missing. I was bullied a lot growing up, I guess. Kids used to gang up on the playground and call me names like “If you don’t stop eating urinal cakes, you will never manage a Tim Horton’s.”
When I woke up, he was gone. I was pretty upset that I hadn’t managed to noogie his skull into his L7 vertebrae like I practiced on the squirrels and would have to pay a fee to cancel my wife’s lease early. But then I googled him on the train ride back and saw that he had married some oil billionaire dude right after graduation. Which means he’s basically a prostitute if you think about it. Just a filthy, syphilated, coin operated cum dumpster with porcelain skin and eyes that sparkle like sapphires. So if you ever find yourself in Alberta, try not to give old Peter too hard of a time, eh?
In some ways my whole life has been about proving those kids wrong. Even all these years later, I’d be lying if I said I don’t get a little rush everytime that asshole Shera Youtha walks in to my shop. She can’t pay for food because her mom is really sick so I get to chase her out of the store with a broom.
Thanks, Lampy, for giving me some bucks to write a travel guide for Mexico City, and not checking up on me when I went to Alberta instead!
But Shera is small fish compared to Peter Franklin. Every day throughout high school, he’d give me one of his famous Alberta Nut Busters, followed by a wicked noogie, followed by an Edmonton Ass Blasting, followed by a regular old Canadian hand job. Followed by a promise that we could stay together forever. And as much as I’ve tried over the years, I still can’t stop myself from coming back to how absolutely wicked those noogies were. But Peter is about to learn his lesson. After 13 years of preparation, I am finally ready to hunt Peter down like the dog he is and give him a fat noogie the whole way into his peanut brain. I sold my Ranger and rented out my wife for the three months that I’ll be away to buy a one way ticket to Edmonton, where he moved after college.
Just graduated and moving to the San Francisco Bay Area? Let me help you find your new home.
Duncan Wheeler Realtor, Top-Producer 2005-2018, MBA, Top Agent 1% San Francisco 415.279.5127 duncan.wheeler@compass.com DRE 01385168 Compass is a licensed real estate broker (01991628) in the State of California and abides by Equal Housing Opportunity laws. All material presented herein is intended for informational purposes only. Information is compiled from sources deemed reliable but is subject to errors, omissions, changes in price, condition, sale, or withdraw without notice. No statement is made as to accuracy of any description. All measurements and square footages are approximate. Exact dimensions can be obtained by retaining the services of an architect or engineer. This is not intended to solicit property already listed.
MUSHROOM PICKING IN BELARUS
M
ushroom picking in Belarus can begin right at the airport, as soon as your Soviet-era plane is done crashing through the terminal and right into the forest. Damn, you’ll think, untwisting yourself from the wreckage, look at all those mushrooms! There are mushrooms all around you, crowding the forest floor and rapidly engulfing whatever’s left of the Tupolev Tu-104. The entire forest is pulsating with mushrooms, thriving on radioactive rain and soil.
constructed especially for you and just this morning. “Yes, I am ready to pick mushrooms,” you say, pulling Fedya out of the mushroom that has grown around his legs. “You ready to pick mushroom?” Fedya who, okay, does not have a basket on his head but rather has a dent in his hugely underdeveloped skull, says again. “You ready to pick-” Fedya forgets.
“You ready to pick mushroom?”
You cram your pockets full of mushrooms, dunk a radioactively charged mushroom into Fedya’s head, and then you’re stumbling out of the forest, carrying a freshly-comatose Fedya in your arms.
Fedya looks vaguely mangled, but genetically so. If there had been any people in the airport, you may have noticed that this is common for Belarusians. But thanks to your little agreement- $15 can go a long ways in Belarus - you flew out of an airport that was
There has to be a hospital nearby. God, please. Two weeks later, you flag down the first car you see. The toothless woman driving smiles big, “Where you from?” and refuses to take Fedya’s corpse until you slip her one American dollar.
The pilot, Fedya, appears with a woven basket strapped onto his head.
HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
NEW HAVEN Those goofs over at Lampoon HQ decided to razz the new guy by sending me to the murder capital of southeast Connecticut: Yale. They bought me a plane ticket and told me I had 5 minutes to pack my bags and get to the flight. So, I packed my gat, tucked my MAC, put on my jeans and missed the flight. I probably would have been stopped at security anyways since I had no shoes on to take off. I wasn’t wearing a shirt either I suppose. And the gun and all. The bus to New Haven had no problem with any of these things. The gun was for safety. I was not scared. I am not a little bitch boy. The Greyhound driver called me that and it stuck for the entire trip. I was shocked at how many derisive songs all the bus passengers knew with the lyrics: “Gavin, you’re a little bitch boy,” woven in. Even if I was scared, I wasn’t because I have the raw confidence of a coward with a gun. If you’d heard what I’ve heard about Yale, you would bring guns too. I’ve heard absolutely nothing about Yale, literally anything could be going on there. And if nothing’s going on there? I’ll be bored and want my gun so I have something to do. All in all, the Lampoon sent me here to write a travel guide, so I set about exploring New Haven with exactly one thing in mind: Not getting shot. I went about this by shooting randomly in any situation I was feeling jumpy. It turned out, this was absolutely necessary. I got notification that during the trip that there were 12 murders within my first hour on campus. News of all these shootings must’ve gotten around to the Yale students because they reacted as only a Yalie could. They shit themselves at the sight of me
strapped up with my Harvard diploma. “Your CS program is superior to ours” they cried out in despair. “Our law programs are about the same,” they followed honestly. Watching the Yale students writhe in their own fecal matter was enjoyable, but I was starting to pity them. Maybe this town wasn’t so tough after all. Immediately after walking off Yale’s campus, I was given a black eye. This woke me back up to the danger, and I resolved to never again slip on a banana peel, wave my arms in exaggerated circles while tottering back and forth, regain my balance, exhale, take a step forward and slip on a leaf. After walking around the town for a few hours just quaking out of confidence and shooting dogs and small pigeons I realized that there’s no way to be safe without finding a Safe Haven in this New Hell. So at the time of writing, I have safely secured myself inside New Haven Correctional Facility, where I am being held without possibility of bail on the charges of 12 counts of alleged murder.
THE HARVARD LAMPOON
Two Harvard graduates walk into a bar… Seriously, I’ve been at the top of the class in Aspen real estate sales for 14 consecutive years and I’m ready to help guide you if Aspen/Snowmass is your destination.
Craig Morris 970. 379.979 5 Craig.Morris @ sir.c om CraigMorris .c om
MY FISHING TRIP IN SOMALIA
I set out for Somalia to experience the simple life, but what I ended up with was the opposite of simple: pirates. May 1st: It’s my first day in Somalia and I’m just having the time of my life in my tiny little fishing boat. I’ve caught 3 beautiful tuna fish and they will do just a splendid job keeping me full for the day (without leaving too many leftovers). I turn my rinky dink little fishing boat around to start heading in to the shore, when a fleet of over 15 pirate boats surround me and demand my fish. The pirates seem legitimate. They have extremely nice speed boats and gold plated machine guns. There are at least 40 men in the fleet. “Ah come on guys! It’s just 3 little tuna!” I blurt out. But I can see it in their eyes, they’re pretty hungry for tuna. I give up my fish and go home hungry that night. Rough first day in Somalia I think. At least I can rest assured knowing that I won’t get robbed by pirates anymore. I was wrong.
“Awwww man!” I shout to the same fleet of pirates the next day from my tiny little paddle boat. It’s the same exact 40 men as yesterday, except with 10 extra men and several new boats. I only have but 2 tuna to surrender to them. “This isn’t fair you guys! I gotta eat something!” The pirates take my fish and push me off of my boat. I’m glad this is finally over for good I think as I swim back to my boat and watch the pirates high five as they motor boat away and shoot fireworks into the sky. But it wasn’t. On day three, I am just thrilled to be out on the open seas catching some fish. I’m just about starving at this point considering that I haven’t had food in 2 days, but luckily I’ve got myself 4 little tuna fish in my haul. Time to eat these fish I think. And then a giant fleet of pirates arrived. Yes. Those pirates. “I’m gonna die,” I plead. “I’m gonna starve to death. I’m actually just gonna die if you keep stealing my fish. I want you to stop so bad. This can’t be worth it for you. This is a dumb move on your part as pirates. The fuel alone it takes
HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
to drive your boats out here must cost more than the small amount of fish you steal from me everyday. It’s just not profitable for you. There’s so many richer people you can rob. There’s an industrial sized fishing boat you can rob that I can see right now. Please. I’m gonna die.” After my plea, the pirates confer with each other on their boats and seem to come to an agreement. The lead pirate takes a moment to collect himself and then hits my head really hard with his gun so I pass out. I wake up 24 hours later on the boat and my fish are gone. I stand up, and I’m surrounded by the largest fleet of pirates I’ve ever seen. I’d never seen pirates before I came to Somalia, but I think this was still a huge fleet. Whereas in the previous days the Somalis had used modern day motor boats, it seems as though now they have used their profits to buy antique wooden pirate ships from the middle ages and fly the jolly roger skull and crossbones flag from it as a novelty. While dozens of the men still hold machine guns, most of them seem to be holding antique swords and aiming mid14th century canons and blunderbusses at my dinghy for comedic effect.
“Give us all yer fish, matey, or we’ll make you walk the plank.” The Somalis all begin to cheer as they unveil a plank they’ve purchased. “I don’t have any fish, ok? Kill me if you have to, but I’m done.” But before the head pirate can raise his barrel to my head, Somali coast guard ships sail toward us, firing shots at the pirates’ ships. The pirates are scrambling, but their ships quickly sink, and the head pirate is taken down. “Hoooray!” I shout. The coast guard ships come near, and I prepare to thank my saviors. The men emerge from the boat, and they are in full pirate clothes. “Where are the tuna?” they ask the rival pirates, knocking me on the head so that I pass out. But there were no tuna. Those pirates would go home empty handed that night, and I would return back to the U.S. with a fresh perspective on fishing, and a fresher perspective on what it feels like to get my ass absolutely handed to me 4 times in a row.
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A bit about me Lily Eve, A Creative Designer & Art Director in New York Hi my name is Lily, I have a strong passion for screen-printing, book designs, and creating memories through personal archives and photograpahy. Below you will see my recent work, screen prints and my comissioned pieces.
C H R I S T I N E “ C H R I S S Y ” H A Z E LT O N Real Estate Salesperson M 914.309.9685 CHazelton@houlihanlawrence.com christinehazelton.houlihanlawrence.com
Contact me for comissioned work www.lilyhere,com (website) lilyevelondon (instagram) lily-london@hotmail.com
If you are thinking of selling or buying in Westchester County, call Chrissy today. CLIENT TESTIMONIALS
“Chrissy really listened to our needs and wishes and help us find the perfect home quickly. She is savvy, responsive, dedicated and was there for us even after we moved in. She is hard-working, experienced and helpful as we went through the buying and closing process, and took care on a personal level to get us familiar with town and the local surroundings.”
“Chrissy has helped us both buy and sell our homes. Without her we would not have found our wonderful home on the perfect street for our family. She works tirelessly for you and is extremely knowledgeable about the area. You are in good hands with Chrissy!”
RY E B RO K ER AG E · 16 EL M P L AC E RY E, N Y
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SAFARI
Since I was a teen I’ve had a single dream: to Sodomize former Libyan prime minister Muammar Al Gaddafi with a bayonet. Like most kids, my dream was stolen from me in 2011 by Libyan National Transitional Council forces. Because I already had a ticket I decided to say “screw it”, pack my bags, pour myself a little mimosa and set-off to the sun soaked capital city of Tripoli. When I arrived I was immediately put on the back of a truck full of other western journalists by a group of men with rifles. I don’t speak Libyan so It wasn’t until we started to go out into the desert that I realized this wasn’t a free hotel shuttle. Even better, it appeared that the state gives all its journalists a free safari hunting trip and these men were our game guides. Take it from a seasoned safari pro like me: it’s not a safari safari until you get to see two hippos going down on each other. After a few hours of back breaking sitting, I had seen no hippos. Let alone horny hippos. Let, let alone two hippos just horny enough to engage in the right amount of foreplay.
Moving to New York City? Let us be your guide. Maria Donadio Licensed Real Estate Salesperson mdonadio@compass.com M: 917.407.1666
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I noticed that the number of journalists was slowly thinning out. Perhaps the truck was dropping them off at their stories’ locations? Good god, maybe this was a hotel shuttle? Just as I was contemplating this a particularly frustrated Libyan man summoned another journalist out of his seat. Silly bastard. I for one would not be getting off this safari until I saw what I came for. After a moment of screaming outside the truck, which I could not be bothered to turn my head towards, the Libyan man re-entered and our journey continued. Then, off in the distance I heard a faint cry of what might have been a hippo. I whipped my head immediately but couldn’t see anything. Hippos are notoriously aggressive animals, so no one was surprised when an artillery shell struck the truck, sending the safari crew flying. Fortunately, no one was injured. Unfortunately everyone else was killed. I was held captive by a group of militant seperatist who claimed responsibility for the hippos’ act of agression. They loved cricket and hated India, so we got along for half the time. Eventually, a woman from the US embassy came to see me. Turns out hippos aren’t native to the desert and apparently I’m the asshole for planning a holiday to an active war zone. She told me I was free to go and she could fly me to any US city, but I told her “no dice.” I was going to go see me some hippo action. Also I wasn’t 21 when I drank that mimosa, so the cops were probably looking for me back home. I will report back with more, once something interresting finally happens.
EMERGENCY ROOMS AROUND THE WORLD EMERGENCY ROOM IN CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA Did you know that Canberra is actually the capital city of Australia? I didn’t, after I slipped on some stairs and banged my head hard enough to erase my short-term memory. This emergency room featured some really nice televisions, which in my concussed state I confused for food. I didn’t eat any of them, but I sucked on a few for a very long time.
EMERGENCY ROOM IN CUZCO, PERU Picture this: I’m walking up the steps of Machu Picchu, the ancient Incan city, and –– clumsy me! –– I totally eat dirt climbing up the stairs and break both my arms! I realize I definitely don’t know how to walk up or down stairs. The emergency room was really nice, though, in that it did not have any stairs.
EMERGENCY ROOM IN ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA I’m walking up the stairs of the Church on Spilled Blood: my foot is about to touch the final step, and then, all of a sudden, my foot lands on the top step. Then I am immediately taken to the emergency room in St. Petersburg, since I am still bleeding pretty bad from my Machu Picchu fall.
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EMERGENCY ROOM IN BEIRUT, LEBANON Contrary to popular belief, Beirut does not have any emergency rooms. I learned this the hard way, when I asked a Lebanese person if there were any emergency rooms in Beirut, and he said “Sir, you are still in St. Petersburg General Hospital. The head trauma is causing you to hallucinate.”
EMERGENCY ROOM IN OSLO, NORWAY This one was a doozy. So there I am, checking out all the art and scenery and stuff and wham-o! I suddenly had this incredible idea to visit the famous emergency room in downtown Oslo! But on the way there, a gang of art thieves pushes me down this super slippery set of stairs and I break just about every bone in my body! And get this, I had to go to the emergency room –– in the suburbs! Suffice to say, my trip to Oslo was totally ruined.
EMERGENCY ROOM IN TIJUANA, MEXICO Not too shabby!
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PAPUA NEW GUINEA There’s comfort in knowing that whenever a new Melanesian Waffle shop opens its doors, no matter where in the world, it will soon be populated by ZDG and myself. We’re staff writers for the Harvard Lampoon. We’re also the Waffle Kids, a select crew of half-human half-hungry twenty-year olds who have a hankering for the fluffy and the crispy, and we’ll travel anywhere in the world to wet our large, dry tongues. When Papa Butters’ opened up on the south coast of Papua New Guinea we knew we finally had to check out what we just learned was a country, and more importantly: a source of waffles. ZDG and I touched down waffleside at 6 AM, sharp, and headed straight for Papa Butters’. We drove straight past the two most famous tourist attractions Papua New Guinea has to offer: Mike’s Independent Syrup Distillery, an independent syrup distillery, and Tavurvur, an active volcano people go and visit after breakfast. ZDG wanted to park outside of the shop, but I thought we’d give Papa Butters’ a nice warm Papua New Guinean welcome, and drove our rent-a-cycle through his store window. It turns out Papa Butters’ isn’t a real person, just a character played by the store owner, Rami, but we weren’t too upset. There’s nothing like laying back on my cycle, watching ZDG clean a stranger’s plate with his tongue, and ordering “one-of-everything” from the seven page menu Papa Butters’ has to offer. If me shorting ZDGs’ parent’s mortgage was bad for our friendship, ordering him seven seedless Cream Puff Waffle Supremes with his dad’s expired credit card was much, much worse. The Waffle Kids will cover every inch of God’s Green Earth in our wet, sticky batter, and if that doesn’t make us world travellers, or better yet, demigods, I don’t know what will. If you ever find yourself in this beautiful country, take it from us: Papa Butters’ Waffle House had great waffles before a store window/rent-a-cycle accident caused it to close its doors permanently. Three stars up.
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MYKONOS So there we found ourselves: baggage claim, London Heathrow. We never thought the layover to Mykonos would be so beautiful. Chris pulled up a sweet pic of Mykonos on his iPhone 6S (battery at 26%, year was 2019) and our stoke was through the roof. My bag would never be recovered but that was ok. Next thing we know it’s day 3 of Mykonos. Drinking hasn’t even started yet. I’ve been dry for 19 years this month, in fact. Anyway I shotgun 5 beers and head to the hotel bar. Here are the best 10 drinks I had: triple-shots of Cuervo (10 of them), virgin appletini. I woke up cervix-deep in sand; looked like the lads had strapped me up and rolled me the 10,000 miles to the beach where I sleep most nights, as I am exceedingly homeless. Little did I know that I was still in Mykonos, my former house was indeed still burned down, and those lads? Well, nowadays you might know them better as the 1992 United States men’s Olympic basketball team of serial-murder. Next to me, barely poking out of the sand, was a small ball of yarn that was… unspooling… towards some kind of maze… or some shit, the quaaludes were just starting to hit. I picked myself up, patted myself down, oiled up, packed a lip, tied off, shot up, laid down, and I was off to the races. It looked like there was a huge beach party going on, and daddy could barely see two inches in front of him.
pain. I held his legs while he keg-stood. Me and this muchacho mosey on down to the estuary where the local endangered dolphins breed, since some guy said we could find discarded needles there. Eventually we came upon one of those twisty things you can get lost in -- what’s it called, a maze? maze something? a maze? -- and minotaur starts sayin’, “Daedalus erected this cage to trap me, bro.” Intrigued, we went back to the beach and funneled 9 beers. Day became night, and we realized we should go back and check out the, uh, maize? Finally we saw its ivy-covered walls creep into view. What secrets might it hold? So we decided to head to this EDM festival downtown where they were hosting a $5 screening of the Avicii documentary for $10. The best part? It only cost $20. More if we wanted to stay for the whole time.
Some guy bumped into me while we were both slurping from the trough of discarded beer and cocktails, and I let out a long, moist scream because -- holy shit guys -- he was half-bull, half-man. But it wasn’t like he was a neat split of bull and man. It was more like patches of him were bull and other patches were man, and he was really lopsided and bloody. He seemed to be in a lot of
Some busters rolled up to the theater in a boat and came at my boy with swords. I would’ve kicked their asses if I wasn’t weighed down by all my concealed-carries. “Boys!” I slurred, loudly. “LADS!” me again, deafening this time. “BABIES!” Wait, that wasn’t me. I continued, “weeeeee don’ haffta fight alla timeeee.” That was all they needed to hear. With a sprightly cheer we raided the nearby trash cans for half-chewed pills and dispersed into the night. Most of those men would later overdose and probably survive. I guess that’s why they call it the Mykonos.
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HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
DEMOGRAPHICS OF SWEDEN I was asked by MJS on behalf of the men of staff to compile a detailed list of the demographics in Sweden. After hours of trying to convince him that this information was readily available on the internet I conceded. I hope this proves useful for your travels. Lacking any resources to accurately measure the demographics of Sweden in the 7 hour layover I was allowed before my return flight home, I decided to sit on a park bench and take a quick survey. My findings: The following findings have been edited by MJS and the men of the Harvard Lampoon to more accurately depict communal fantasies. Blonde: 100% Female: 100% Named Vanya: 50% Named Velma: 50% Hot: 100% Nagging me to brush my teeth: 0% Spaghetti and Meatballs when I come home from a long day of work: 100% Massages that lead to something more maybe?: 100% Think that I am a famous Hollywood actor who has a lot of money: 0% Ed. Note: Sweden sounds great AMP. Sweden sounds just so good.
I’M THE MAN WHO KILLED THE LAST WHITE RHINO South Africa, eh? Oh what a place to be sent. Boy are there some good tourist hotspots I should tell y’all about. I killed all the White Rhinos for the same reason the volunteers at the South African Rhino Sanctuary And Suicide Hotline tried to save the White Rhinos: because there were only 20 left. It started when my cat, Mittens, was trampled on an African safari. I was hell-bent on avenging him. Then I accidentally killed a White Rhino and it was way more awesome than eradicating the Tsetse Fly that killed my cat. Then I took a break because my friend Donny Tagliaferro had a sudden heart attack and died (age 35 wife and two kids). This was a huge wake up call about what actually matters in life. I bought a treadmill, quit cigarettes, and was back to killing White Rhinos. I’ll never forget those halcyon days of my early middle age: a glass of scotch in one hand, a White Rhino horn in the other. A full White Rhino attached to that horn, alive. I give it some scotch. This is a big moment for both of us, why not celebrate. Hell I take a swig or two. Then, suddenly, BOOM: I shoot it with a gun. I spit out my scotch. At this point in the story there are 7 White Rhinos left. I’m outnumbered, but barely. I start calling them WRs to save time but then I realize I’m just wasting even more time explaining what WR means over and over to people. Understandably frustrated, I dump a barrel of potassium cyanide into the local river, contaminating the groundwater and exterminating all mammalian life in a 500 sq. mile area.
TRAVEL TIP Here’s a fun fact. In a little town on the coast of Chile, a little boy was playing beach soccer when he found a body washed up on the shore. No one knew where it came from but police deduced it was a local fisherman who had drowned. Hasta Luego!
Then it was just me and the last surviving White Rhino. I think “we’re making history, why not give him a name?” I named him Donny Tagliaferro, huge mistake. Seriously why would I do that. Suddenly I’m friends with the rhino. He and I do all the things Donny and I did before the heart attack. We watched TV together. We smoked cigarettes, we ate foods high in salt and fat content in excess. We drank scotch. Don’t die on me Donny. Don’t do it, not again, not like this. Donny. Oh God it’s all coming back. I’m the man who killed the last White Rhino. It’s all my fault, dear God I’m so sorry. I should have made him exercise. I should have given him liposuction with my mouth. I just should have said something. Anything. I clutched his hand as he lay on his deathbed at the South African Rhino Sanctuary And Suicide Hotline. Don’t go to the light Donny. Remember the scotch? Donny? Donny remember the scotch? Just keep drinking buddy. Yeah. Don’t worry about the gun. Just keep drinking. Now I’m famous, like I always wanted. I’m basically the President of South Africa. Do I have regrets? Every goddamn day. Even after all of this, people belittle me for having lost touch with the common man or something. I don’t care. Do you know how many Sumatran Elephants I had to kill to build this ivory tower?
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SPORTS AROUND THE WORLD
I
n America, sports are the number one form of athletic entertainment. But did you know that most American sports are not played anywhere else in the world? Here are some of the most popular sports in the world I discovered in my one week trip around the globe.
TIRANA, ALBANIA: DOGFIGHTING Hey, uh, Mr. or Mrs. Travel Guide Writer, this “dog fighting” sport has a cool name, but what is it? Imagine a boxing match between two dogs except
with no boxing gloves and the dogs fight until one of them is dead. In America we may restrict our dogs to cruel lives as mere pets, but in Albania, dogs are allowed to reach their full potential as world class athletes. In America you might see some dumb, overweight, ugly child wearing a sports jersey for a football quarterback. Well in Albania, smart, healthy, handsome children wear tattoos with the names of their favorite dogs on them. You would be hard pressed to find a person in Albania who knows who Tom Brady is. Meanwhile, hundreds of thousands of children run around the country chanting Buster’s name.
SANTO DOMINGO, DOMINICAN REPUBLIC: COCKFIGHTING Two chickens with razors on their feet dogfight each other. Excuse me. Cock fight one another. The chickens don’t know what death is or how to kill each other, but they have razors on their feet so one of them usually dies. In the U.S. we just slaughter our chickens and eat them in some sort of socially acceptable chicken genocide. But in the Dominican Republic, they let their chickens fight each other, so that if one chicken is really good at killing other chickens, it can actually live a happy life with lots of cuts from razor blades.
GLOBAL: ROCKBALL If you think soccer is the most popular sport in the world, then you’re probably a trust fund baby who doesn’t know how real people live. With over 4 Billion players, Rockball is far and away Earth’s most popular sport. This affordable alternative to soccer doesn’t require players to spend a year’s salary on a soccer ball, but instead to merely find a spherical rock and some hard shoes.
PARACHUTE-FREE BASE JUMPING Though only recently gaining popularity in the US in places like Cornell, this sport is as old as time. Though the point system was hard to grasp, it was extremely rewarding to watch the frowns disappear from the athletes face as they hurled themselves to what I assume was victory.
TRAVEL TIP Trees are very good when traveling.
MIDNIGHT TRAIN TO GEORGIA So, Midnight Train to Georgia by Gladys Knight & The Pips used to be my favorite song. Then I took an actual midnight train to Georgia and it was nothing like the song. The lyrics don’t even make sense to me anymore but I can’t really remember them because I left my iPod Touch at home.
but you are just a person sitting next to me. bought a one way ticket to the life he once knew, oh yes he did, he said he would be leavin on that midnight train to georgia,
LYRICS: L.A. proved too much for the man, Okay so already this is inaccurate. L.A. was underwhelming at best. I took the train because of the song. And I’m a woman. Naao just kidding but how feminist would that be. so he’s leavin’ the life he’s come to know, I had not come to know any life. I flew to L.A. from my hometown, Georgia, strictly to take this train. he said he’s goin’ back to find ooh, what’s left of his world, the world he left behind not so long ago. I did not say anything like this. I forgot to buy my train ticket and it was a genuine mistake but the ticket checker was angry anyway because I pretended to be asleep the whole time he talked to me. Then I got busted because there was a lady on the seat next to me who told the conductor that she saw me just five seconds ago playing Roblox on my iPod Touch. he’s leaving, on that midnight train to georgia, and he’s goin’ back to a simpler place and time. and i’ll be with him on that midnight train to georgia, i’d rather live in his world That’s when I realized I didn’t leave my iPod Touch at home at all. It was right in front of me and I was playing Roblox on it. So I said to the ticket checker and the woman (unrelated but seriously why insert
yourself into this situation lady?) okay listen I will play you the song on my iPod Touch and you will understand why I am on this train. than live without him in mine. he kept dreamin’ that someday he’d be a star. To clarify I pretended I was sleep-talking when I said that to them. but he sure found out the hard way that dreams don’t always come true. so he pawned all his hopes and he even sold his old car So I showed them the song and they were like. This song is just kind of the same stuff over and over again. I guess it has a catchy melody but I don’t understand why you would fly out of Georgia just to go back to Georgia because of this song. And I said no you don’t understand how important Gladys Knight & The Pips are to me. And also I am from Georgia the country not the U.S. state. And they both said ok well you still have to pay for a ticket. And I said lady why do you keep getting involved. You have no right to tell me to pay for a ticket. The ticket checker guy does
That’s when the train police came and got involved. And they said that the lady next to me was actually an undercover train police officer. And I was like no way okay my mistake. And they all said sir you need to pay for a ticket right now or we’ll have to kick you off at the next stop at 3:00. And I was like wait is this not the midnight train? And they were like we don’t have trains that go from L.A. to Georgia at midnight. So now I’m so confused because is the song even real? So I tell the train police that I blew all my money on the round trip Georgia-LAX plane ticket. And then they’re like wait you’re flying out of L.A. to get back to Georgia the country? How are you going to get back to L.A.? And now I feel like a total idiot so I just fess up and admit I’ve been fake-sleeping the whole time. This does not happen to the man in the song. So I said please all I have is this iPod Touch can I please pay with this. So they exchange this knowing look with each other and slowly put their guns back in their holsters and take my iPod Touch. When they walk away I realize I totally had Apple Pay set up on my iPod and I’m like you idiot Jeremy. Why do you do this to yourself? and he’s goin’ back to a simpler place and time. and i’ll be with him on that midnight train to georgia, i’d rather live in his world than live without him in mine. So I figure I may as well enjoy the rest of this train ride. I want to start singing the lyrics to my favorite song, Midnight Train to Georgia, but I don’t want to be rude to the lady sitting next to me. But then I realize she totally lied earlier when she didn’t tell me she was an undercover train cop. I guess she never explicitly lied but I personally consider lies by omis-
sion the same as regular lies. So I just start singing it as loud as I can, “L.A. proved too much for the man, so he’s leavin’ the life he’s come to know,” and suddenly everyone on the train is looking at me weird. The train cops put their hands on their gun holsters. I’m like well Jer you have nothing to lose at this point so I stand up and shout, “he said he’s goin’ back to find, ooh, what’s left of his world, the world he left behind, not so long ago.” And people are like sit down this is the quiet car. And I’m like quiet car?? That is NOT in the song. So I grab the lady next to me by the hand and spin her around and do a romantic dip move and sing, “he’s leaving, on that midnight train to georgia,” and she does some martial arts self defense move and just clobbers me in the nuts, seriously felt like they got twisted up really bad. But I can’t give up at this point because the song is stuck in my head and if you don’t finish the song it will stay stuck in your head until you do. So at this point I’m bellowing through tears “and he’s goin’ back, to a simpler place and time. and i’ll be with him on that midnight train to georgia, i’d rather live in his world, than live without him in mine. he kept dreamin’, that someday he’d be a star.” There’s a baby crying now and the cops are actively yelling at me. And I’m like please please stop your yelling and your crying. This is the quiet car. And I am trying to sing. “but he sure found out the hard way, that dreams don’t always come true.” Boy, was that true. “so he pawned all his hopes, and he even sold his old car” So then I’m like wait a second. Maybe the car is a metaphor for my iPod Touch. And maybe the hopes are also a metaphor for that iPod Touch. And then I’m like hold up, I did leave my world behind in a way, if my world is a metaphor for my testicles being in the proper orientation. I’m like hold up this is beautiful. So I start crying and suddenly the whole train is singing along with me. And everyone is locking arms and swaying and some people are even waving lighters around. And I’m like, this is what the song’s about, you know. It’s about 30 people coming together on a train. go, gonna board, gonna board, gonna board the midnight train. gotta go, gonna board gonna board gonna board the midnight train (repeat, fade) But then I remember they don’t have midnight trains to Georgia. So the song is horse shit.
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Have you found your place in Greater Boston?
2016 pinot noir la perla vineyard spring mountain district VINEYARD At 1,700 feet elevation with hillside slopes upwards of 25% grade, La Perla Vineyard is the definition of a mountain vineyard and truly treacherous terrain to grow Pinot Noir. In far northwest of Napa Valley, the cold air from the Pacific Ocean creeps over the Mayacama Mountains, draping itself over Spring Mountain, creating the perfect framework of cold nights and a long growing season for Pinot Noir.
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La Perla Vineyard is riddled with shallow volcanic soils with intermittent patches of sedimentary and calcareous rock. With the meter by meter planting of this site, over 4,000 vines/ acre are achieved, resulting in smaller vines with smaller, more concentrated and powerful Pinot noir clusters and berries. Coupled with the fact this vineyard is organically farmed, this rocky, hillside block is ideal for our single vineyard brick & mortar Pinot Noir. VINTAGE The 2016 vintage was again early, but not as early as 2015. Yields were near normal in all vineyards with above-average quality. With a relatively even growing season that followed welcomed winter rains to alleviate drought conditions, the mild daytime high temperatures and colder nights aided in producing fruit with wonderful depth and concentration. 2016 will go down as the fifth consecutive vintage of exceptional fruit quality in Napa Valley.
Duffy Lamarre Team duffylamarre@compass.com 617.953.4646 compass.com Compass is a licensed real estate broker and abides by Equal Housing Opportunity laws. All material presented herein is intended for informational purposes only. Information is compiled from sources deemed reliable but is subject to errors, omissions, changes in price, condition, sale, or withdrawal without notice. No statement is made as to the accuracy of any description. All measurements and square footages are approximate. This is not intended to solicit property already listed. Nothing herein shall be construed as legal, accounting or other professional advice outside the realm of real estate brokerage.
WINEMAKING Our winemaker strives to allow the site to shine in every wine he produces. All lots of Pinot Noir undergo an extended cold soak until native yeast begin a spontaneous fermentation in open-top fermentors, where the grapes are punchdown by hand once to twice per day. Our small lot fermentations, with no whole cluster, take upwards of a month before a light pressing to barrel for their extended aging. Our Pinot Noir remains in 100% used French oak barrels for 16 months and then is racked once before it is bottled unfined and unfiltered. TECHNICAL NOTES: Vineyard Designate: La Perla Vineyard AVA: Napa Valley Production: 170 cases Alcohol: 13.0% Release Date: October 15th, 2018
WINE The 2016 La Perla Vineyard Pinot Noir exudes a mountain fruit masculinity with a deep and savory complexion. Full of aromas red plum, red rose and lavender, La Perla Vineyard is renown for its concentration and purity. With immense structure and depth, the palate is full of burnt orange, bright cherry and blackberry. This wine shows well in its early years and will continue to age gracefully for 10-15+ years.
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AN INTERVIEW WITH WORLD FAMOUS
W
hen we found out we were going to Yosemite, we were ecstatic. When we found out we were going to Yosemite to interview rock climber Alex Honnold, we shit each other’s pants. No one besides Alex has climbed El Capitan without a rope and we were about to pick the poorly formed brain of this world famous risk taker. “If I die, I don’t care. Big deal. I’m not afraid. I could die at any second if I fall off the rock face. Who cares? Yeah, I have a girlfriend, but she’s dogshit. I don’t care if I die. She’ll meet another man. It’s fine. Ok? I literally do not care if I die. This is a gun. Shoot me with the gun. I’m dogshit. You don’t want to? Fine. I don’t care. My philosophy is that I
could die at any second, so why not sooner rather than later? I’m dogshit. I climbed El Capitan without ropes. That’s how stupid it is. It wasn’t hard. I climbed a bunch of other dogshit stuff before and I’ll climb more dogshit stuff again.” “It’s very nice to meet you Alex,” we said in response to his unprompted outburst. “We’re here to interview you for the Harvard Lampoon.” Alex began to climb the rock face in front of us. “If you use a rope when you climb, that’s it. You love life and you’re a coward.” Alex took one hand off of the rock face. “One hand. It’s more dangerous, but I don’t care.”
HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
‘FREE SOLO’-ER ALEX HONNOLD “Alex,” we shouted trying to keep up as he hurled loose stones down upon us, “We understand that for you, risking your life is a small price to pay when setting out to accomplish something that’s never been done before, but could we conduct this interview on a less, hm, cliffy- cliff? “No legs,” Alex said as he let go of his foot holds. He was now dangling by one hand. “Do you understand how fucked my hand is right now? I don’t give a shit.” He began to flop around, swinging back and forth. “Alex! What was, oh my god PLEASE slow down, the hardest part about climbing
with the added pressure of filming a movie?” we yelled. Alex swang himself so hard that his hand ripped off. His body went flying mid air, hundreds of feet about the ground, until his body hit an opposing rock wall. By instinct, he shoved his remaining hand into a crevice. He was dangling by his one hand. “Whatever,” he said. “This is fine.” And what a magical trip to Yosemite it was.
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SPOTTING AN AMERICAN TOURIST
My trip to Micronesia was very short.
ANTARCTICA There are only two reasons to go to Antarctica: either you were 1) born to a poor fisherman father who worked his fingers to the bone saving up for your college tuition, but he died in a tragic game of dice where he lost his most of his money, and his life to the ice queen or 2) you want to be the next penguin king. If you’re here for any other reason, then I can’t help you, I can only hurt you. Hurt you real good. Anyways, that’s why I’m here. I’m the penguin king. I’ve been ruling the penguins on this continent for so long, it’s hard to tell the difference anymore between a penguin and a penguin that wants me to stop beating the shit out of it. Which isn’t really too much of an issue in practice. The first penguin went down easy and I thought it was over. I thought, ‘You done did it Rags Jr. You took out the big dog and now you’re in charge.’ But, that was just a baby penguin, who then told her father, the king, that I had punched her in the penguin face. I’m standing there gearing up to fight this little monster’s dad penguin for the title of king, but then the king penguin starts sobbing before I can even get one punch in. He’s all: “Look, you’ve gotta help me. I can’t do this anymore. I never wanted to be king. Would any of these penguins even choose to marry me if they played ‘Fuck, Marry, Kill’ on me, Hitler, and Oprah? Fat chance. They’d all just fuck me while Hitler sucks their toes. There’s gotta be more to life than this island. I want to be a star! I want to leave for New York and never come -”
HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
I couldn’t let him finish because I already knew he’d never make it on Broadway. Kid didn’t have the chops. So, I killed him (out of professional courtesy) in front of all of the other penguins. I looked at them. They looked away. And we silently agreed I’d be their new king. Beating a penguin to death in order to gain their tribe’s respect is hard work, but also incredibly easy. You hit a few of them and then they all fall into line like dominos, expect they’re alive and run away. That is, until you kill them. Then they’re exactly like dominos. It isn’t all violence, though. There’s also a lot of love on this continent. While you’re here, you’d be remiss not to snag some of this sweet, stanky monochromatic penguin tail. There’s nothing like it, except for maybe...nope. Nothing like sex with a penguin, not even...yeah, you just have to try it. Eating pineapple is probably the closest thing.
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HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
DELIVERANCE When I heard one staff writer would be sent to Tallulah, GA for this travel issue my heart skipped a beat. My heart murmurs have afflicted me since I was a wee child. The pain in my chest could not squash the excitement in my bones, however. I could have the chance to go to the ACTUAL town where Deliverance was filmed! Bone excitement has afflicted me since I was an even weeer child. It is a disorder where all the bones in your body expand explosively with the force of a thousand airbags. It is discomforting. To my surprise, no other writers volunteered to go to the crude tarp-roofed camp that MMM, MJS, and MAK arranged for the week’s stay in Georgia. Something about a fear of the plot of Deliverance happening to them in real life. Something else about me confusing the plot of Deliverance and Sisterhood of The Travelling Pants. No matter! I paid no attention to staff’s negativity and packed my bags for the big old G-A! There is a significant amount of movie magic in Deliverance, let me tell you. None of the four best friends that I fell in love with during the movie were anywhere in sight. Frankly, there were simply no magical pants. In fact, almost everyone I met was not wearing any pants. Many of the homes used pants as their primary roofing material, which was a nice nod to the film, but just so, so impractical. The town of Tallulah had a vibrant main street which seemed to subsist entirely on selling “Paddle Faster, I Hear Banjos,” t-shirts. Apparently this is is some sort of quote from the movie. I do not remember a single banjo in the film. Perhaps this is just one of those Mandela Effect scenarios, where everyone just misremembers banjos being part of the plot. In my opinion it would’ve made much more sense for the shirts to say, “Pants,” but that’s neither here nor there.
Yesterday I met two nice gentlemen while on a canoe ride down the Chattooga river. They called to me from the banks and offered me some of their teeth, proudly saying that they had plenty to spare. They did not. But, as southern hospitality dictates: when in the South, hospitalize. So I accepted their teeth and sheepishly stored them in my pocket. They made plans to meet up with me tomorrow and, “Reenact a scene from the movie with me.” I hope it is the scene where the four girls skinny dip in the ocean, but I am trying not to get my hopes up. So, if you ever visit Tallulah, GA, I recommend meeting the locals on the banks of the river and trusting them to show you a good time! My only regret is not refreshing myself on the film Deliverance, but luckily the locals have promised to help jog my memory tomorrow.
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WHAT’S UP WITH CHIVILLE, LA? WOULD ANOTHER HURRICANE HELP OR HURT DOWN THERE?*
PROS
CONS
Another hurricane would put Chiville back in the news in a major way
I will have to listen to more conservatives deny climate change on TV.
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More water for thirsty people Next hurricane pushes all the buildings back up to where they originally were?
av Al ai so la bl e
Hurricanes are severely more wet than tornados. Island wide wet t-shirt contest
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I can do so much bad shit while the news is focused on Chiville A second hurricane will better prepare Chiville for a third hurricane Everyone down here claims to not want another hurricane, which makes me feel like they’re hiding something. Literally what is the worst thing that could happen.
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*It has come to the attention of the issue editors that Chiville suffered from an earthquake not a hurricane. We can’t afford cable news. So though we apologize for this error, we could not possibly have been expected to know this. Also earthquakes and hurricanes are both weather so we weren’t that far off the beat. Apparently Chiville, LA is not a real place either. Again. No cable news.
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EPIDEMIC ANDY: DISEASE HUNTER A great man once said “When in Rome, do as the Romans do”. Well I say “That’s applicable to other countries as well, including the Congo River Valley.” I did not enter my voyage to the Congo with the brightest mindset. I recently had to divorce my wife because I found out she doesn’t like post-Norbit Eddie Murphy movies. Yes I was not a happy camper whatsoever. But if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s happy. I am not one to complain, however, and I always try to make the best of a bad situation. The Congo River Valley may not have much in the way of tourist destinations. The coordinates of the Visitor Center that I was given brought me 80 miles off of a rural road to the nest of the most aggressive silverback gorilla in the country. What they don’t show you in animated movies about jungle animals is the absolute lack of singing and the absolute excess of gorillas putting the beat down on you. The CRV hurts. But it is the premier location in the entire world for catching rare diseases and epidemics. I’d have to be a fool to pass on an opportunity like that. A completely unsodomized-by-a-gorilla fool. Still, catching rare diseases isn’t as easy as Big Pharma makes it sound. The locals are very unlikely to make their hospital patients spit in your mouth, for instance. But where there’s a will, there’s a way, and that way is a CDC hazmat costume that convinces 90% of people to spit in your mouth. Take it from me, I’ve had em all: mesothelioma, mad cow disease, bubonic plague, mega-zika, and one crazy bitch of an ex-wife. Hahaha just kidding. She is a bitch, though. The only reason I’m getting all these
diseases is to get back with my ex-wife, make passionate love to her until the earth quakes beneath us, and give her an utterly incurable cocktail of rare tropical diseases. So here is Ebola Andy’s official guide on how to catch the coolest diseases on the farthest corners of the Earth.
RICKETS
The only people who get rickets are cockney British orphan boys with those little pointy in the front hats who sell newspapers on the streets to save money for their little orphan siblings. Thus, the only way for me to experience rickets was to hire an orphan to carry me around on his back with his spindly little ricket legs. What my orphan, Percivel, lacked in pointy hat and newspaper headlines, he more than made up for in moxie and spunk.
GOUT
Gout is a rich man’s disease. And I may not be rich but I sure as hell ain’t no god damn communist, trying to take what the rich folks worked hard to earn. To catch this, I put on my finest tuxedo, headed over to the gentlemen’s club, and let the upper crust cough on me for 45 minutes straight.
TRENCH FOOT
War is hell. But if you get trench foot during a war and have to get sent home, you’re a coward. There are people next to you literally getting shot but you have to go to the hospital because your wittle toesies got left in a puddle for too long? Are you for real? I left my foot in a puddle until it rotted off my leg. That’s not trench foot but its close enough. Trench foot, check.
HARVARD’S WORLD TRAVEL GUIDE
MISC. RASHES
I got herpes in highschool from the toilet seat (my nickname for my ex-wife) so I was able to check this one off the list before I even bought my ticket. Just to be safe though, I picked up some scrap wood at the lumber yard and rubbed it on my body. Mostly I got scrapes but my right arm broke out in horrible hives, which is technically a rash. Rashes, check.
fast as possible without taking many breaths!” Well guess what? Most of us work for a living, and we don’t have time to slowly ascend to the surface while taking deep breaths. We have to get back to our jobs. So don’t mind me if I swim 100 meters straight up while holding my breath and end up with huge bubbles in my blood and then cough up blood inside the rental scuba suit. Bends, check.
TAPEWORMS
MICROPENIS
I ate cowshit, okay? Are you happy now you godless vultures? I asked Burger Hut where they keep their cows and then I went to the cows and opened my mouth and held it to their anuses until they shat. Got it? Laughing it up? Having a real good giggle? Tapeworms, check.
IOWA ACCENT
I don’t want to talk about this one. This was a really dark time for me.
TESTICULAR TORSION
You ever see that seen from Wanted where he curves the bullet? This is like that but there will be no Angelina Jolie at the end. Trust me, your best chance of getting another woman to touch your balls after this one is by getting a woman doctor. So, you know...
A lot of people think penis size is purely genetic. Well I’m living proof that they are nothing more than a state of mind. When I dumped my ex wife and our kids, I couldn’t imagine how my penis could have entered those. The thoughts got worse and worse until the very sight of my penis made me physically sick. Then one day I asked myself “are you going to sit around all day crying about your penis? Or are you going to man up, grab life by the balls, and sever your penis at the base with broken glass from your framed honeymoon photos?” And so, just like that: Micropenis, Check.
THE BENDS
“Ooh look at me I’m a pompous scuba diving instructor. Don’t swim back to the surface as
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TRAVEL TIP Whenever I’m looking for food in a foreign city, I check my favorite app: EatsAndCheats, a high end restaurant finder for unfaithful husbands. I am not cheating on my wife but I use the app for the quality food it can sniff out. It finds out-of-the-way locales which is good for me not because I’m breaking the bonds of marriage but because I support small businesses. I recently found a great waffle place in Belgium. There are so many super hot and horny people in Belgium but I was there for the waffles.
would like to thank Tim Melvin’s friend, MMM
would like to thank all of the toxic people who came into his life in 2019 for reminding him not to waste mental energy worrying about helping someone who would never show him the same respect.
would like to thank whoever stole her airpods for keeping her humble.