The Parents Issue by Carly Spiering

Secession 1.4 The Parents Issue

Dear Reader, With graduation just around the corner, parents will soon be flooding our campus in hordes. And though this issue is not 100% suitable as reading material for parents, we find parents to be a most inspiring subject and thus have chosen to dedicate it to those that wiped our bottoms when we lacked the motor skills and comprehension to do it ourselves. As parents are an important source of school funds, we encourage you to tell your parents about The Secession and how much you like reading it, as a surplus of ASWC scrilla will help our situation. Having not yet accquired our funding for next year, it would be nice if some of your doctor/lawyer/professional athlete â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;rents could pony up some dough. This economy, you know? Thanks to everyone who contributed to the Secession over the past semester. With a little bit of luck and some cold hard cash, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll see you next year. -Secession

This is the fourth issue of the first volume of The Secession. It was printed on May 12, 2009 at the Whitman Printing Office, where the prices are low and we think the paper is recycled. The Secession is funded by the Student Development Fund of the Associated Students of Whitman College. The Secession uses the Gill Sans typeface, designed by Eric Gill in 1926, and used in the new Star Trek movie, though in shiny, three-dimensional form.

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CONTENT// Britney (Illustration)// Isabel Blue.............................................................................................................................Cover My father, crown prince of Awkwardland// Sam Alden.............................................................................................p.4 Brush your teeth// Eliza Young.......................................................................................................................................p.4 Suitable swimwear// Jordan Kyle...................................................................................................................................p.4 Diptych 2 (Illustration)// Leah Koerper.........................................................................................................................p.5 A response to “A breath of fresh air” by Tits McGee// Nina Neff........................................................................p.5 Untitled (Illustration)// Sam Alden.................................................................................................................................p.6 Sky’s the limit// Spencer Janyk.......................................................................................................................................p.6 Robbery// Peter Richards..............................................................................................................................................p.6 Things I learned from my parents// Iris Alden...........................................................................................................p.7 The family quote board// Sara Rasmussen..................................................................................................................p.7 Peanust #4// Keren Terrier.............................................................................................................................................p.8 Trasnochando// Sam Alden.............................................................................................................................................p.8 Terrence #4// Iris Alden..................................................................................................................................................p.8 John’s Mug// Finn Straley..................................................................................................................................................p.9 Animal Discoveries #4// Alan Farts..............................................................................................................................p.9 Egyes Isszu**//Dan Cryster and Marty Skeels....................................................................................................p.10/11 Jelusee (Illustration)// Bryan Sonderman...................................................................................................................p.12 So// The Emperor............................................................................................................................................................p.12 Did they really get pinned// Caitlin Tortorici...........................................................................................................p.12 Dear Carly’s Mom; straight talk from a dope lady// Carly and Diane Spiering................................................p.13 Bowling Narrative #4// Andrew Hall.........................................................................................................................p.14 Untitled (Photograph)// Shaheen Qureshi.................................................................................................................p.14 Probably true (Ilustration)// Carly Spiering.................................................................................................................p.15 The two lines that changed my life (Illustration)// Iris Alden....................................................................................p.16

My father, crown prince of Awkwardland by Sam Alden

“Well, here we are at the end of our vacation in Hawai’i. Yes, here we are, eating dinner together on our last day in Hawai’i as a family.” “Are you taking those books to your mom’s house? I bought you those books.” Mumbled while storming unannounced into my room and beginning to reorganize my bookshelves: “I’m through with shit. That’s my new motto. No...more...shit.” Me: Papa, that’s mine! In seventh grade at lunch. Me: “What are you doing here?” My dad: “I’m going to go buy you new underwear today. Turn around so I can check what size you wear.” Eighth grade: “You know, if you ever think you might be gay, your mom and I would be completely fine with it.” Me: “Thank you.” Sophomore year: “You know, if you ever decide that you’re gay, your mom and I would be completely fine with it.” Me: “I know. Thanks.” Senior Year: “You know, if you ever come out of the closet, your mom and I would be completely fine with it.” Me: “I know. I’m not gay, but thank you.” My dad: “Yeah, well, you know. I mean it’s okay with us.” Me: “Thank you. But I’m not gay.” My dad: “I know. It’s all right.” After I got a C- on a quiz: “Do you think you want to keep going to school?” My mom: “Can I help with dinner?” My dad: “Aw, fuck! FUCK!” My brother: “Robert Medley was a being such a douchebag today.” My dad: “Why do you feel he was behaving like that?” My brother: “Because he’s a douchebag.” My dad: “Why do you feel he is a douchebag?” My brother: “Dude, let me tell my story.”

of stuff.” Pause. My dad: “I guess you don’t need me anymore.” After I introduced my girlfriend to my ex-girlfriend: “You’re a little fool, Sam!” Later: “I retract that. No son of mine is a little fool.” In the car: “I realize that in your life you’re probably going to meet other father figures. And I realize that they may be better fathers than myself.” Me: “I think you’ve been an amazing father.” My dad: “I don’t need your pity.” //

Brush your teeth by Eliza Young

Mother used to say that dental hygiene was the most important Brush and floss and rinse But once I started to curse at her She didn’t care whether I had Brushed twice a day or twice a week Too much “shit” is gunna rot your soul I got two cavities that summer The dentist scolded me Told me no more sweets But I hate candy Told me no more ice cream But I hate ice cream And pastries and gumdrops I had shit between my teeth And in my gums It was wedged in the Backs of my molars Stuck on my tongue Hanging from my uvula Dripping down my throat I didn’t need Listerine or Crest I needed a septic crew Or the Merry Maids One time at breakfast I told my mom to “Fuck off ” And my two front teeth Fell into my toast I ate them with my eggs And didn’t say A goddamn fucking word The rest of that day //

Screamed while doing the dishes and wearing a backwards baseball cap: “Everyone thinks I’m just soooo ridiculous!”

Suitable swimwear

On the phone: “It sounds like you’re having a really good time in college, Sam.” Me: “Yeah, I am. I’m getting involved in a lot

It is a hot mid-July afternoon. We are going back to the days when we chased ice cream trucks for blocks, the days when our

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by Jordan Kyle

parents had to sign off on our homework, the days when summer vacation was not tainted by the anxiety of finding a paid internship amidst a tumultuous economic time period. Our summer days were filled with day camps, sports, extreme dehydration, Capri suns, and most memorable: excursions to the local beach or pool. I remember hopping (literally) out of the car, running to the water, so anxious to jump in. Before I could satisfy my urge, there was always one thing to do: take off my dingy white t-shirt. I impatiently took the shirt off, tossed it to the side, and jumped in the water with extreme style. As I emerged from the water and looked around for spectators, I always remember seeing that one individual, rockin’ his or her white t-shirt in the water. For that brief moment, my summer fun turned into an informal wet t-shirt contest of sorts. Never did I understand, or care, why t-shirts were used for this purpose, but I guess that experience was my first discovery of the true versatility of the white t-shirt. White t-shirts are timeless. They suit both men and women. White t-shirts have served as the canvas for a variety of important ideals, values, and messages to be displayed. Whether your preference is under a leather motorcycle jacket, a Rick Owens V-neck to enhance your beach browsing experience, or even a tall tee to rock out to “Yep in my white tee” Junior year of high school, white t- shirts will surely come through to fulfill their intended purpose. The transformation of the white t-shirt is a phenomenon in itself. We went from Fonzi’s plain crew necks on Happy Days to David Beckham’s model-like exposure of the chest via what we now call “the deep v.” The essentiality of the white-shirt has remained unchanged, while the essentiality to prove to the ladies that you do “incline bench press” at the gym has increased. Us guys are determined to use the white t-shirt has much more than a “top,” but as a qualifier of our physique. Women are much more tasteful in their employment of the white-t shirt. The shirt is akin to its skinny designer denim, it accompanies its bangle bracelets from Urban, and it fits perfect with Birkenstocks or Mark Jacobs “slingback” sandals, I guess depending on whether you attend Whitman or USC. It is the versatility of the white t-shirt that makes it a timeless commodity. It is tested and proven, and provides for individuals of different backgrounds, gender, ideological spectrum, and class, the autonomy to creatively construct an amazing outfit. Thus, in a sense the white t-shirt is a liberating component of your wardrobe, but I guess that depends on how you conceptualize the term “suitable swimwear.” //

A response to “A breath of fresh air” by Tits McGee by Nina Neff This article was a satire of some very wrong and sexist assumptions. It critiqued social structures that declare women irrational and men brutish, women obedient and men authoritarian, women menial and men professional. However, in taking on the sexism of The Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary the author buys into some other damaging

gender assumptions. This satire’s first major failing is that it takes on the sexism at a Baptist college in Texas, thereby allowing the readers to avoid thinking about the sexism at a liberal arts college in Walla Walla. Whitman’s sexism takes on a different form, but is not less lethal. However, more importantly, the piece, while laudably attempting to assert that women ought to be educated, empowered, and active, also falls into the trap of devaluing domesticity, childcare, family, humility, gentleness, and piety. The author mocks the notion that women ought to be taught only “how to set tables, sew buttons, and sustain lively dinnertime conversation,” and the assumption that

women are only valuable for their sexual, reproductive, and housekeeping abilities. These are ideas well worth mocking. Unfortunately, the subtext of the author’s satire is that these things—fidelity, children, cleanliness and domesticity—are in fact not valuable. For a long time, part of what has driven the very assumptions that the author mocks is the idea that women’s work is invaluable and mundane. Now, the counter-argument that “women can do anything men can do” (while true) fails to realize that what women do and what they for generations have done is as valuable, rich, and rewarding as what men have done. //

Sky’s the limit by Spencer Janyk

When I ride in the car, I’ve got some bump in the trunk. If you’ve seen me on campus you know I’ve got ice on the wrist with ice on the chains. It’s true: yo girlfriend wanna ride wit me. How do I do it? In a way that I suggest you consider attempting: stay fly. No one has ever been as broke as me, I like that. When I was young, I had two pair of Lees, besides that, I got by sewing tigers and alligators on my shirt. Called it “custom.” I used to go to the mall with 40 dollars in hand. It’s true. I was a shame, my crew was lame. I started smokin woolies at sixteen and running up in gates, and doing hits for high stakes, making my way on fire escapes. Life as a shorty shouldn’t be so ruff. Money, so they say, is the root of all evil today. But when I asked for a raise it was no surprise that they were giving none away. Then, I learned my orange box-cutter made the world go round. Saying to myself, “If the game shakes me or breaks me, I hope it makes me a better man.” Neglected, but now, but yo, it gots to be accepted; that what? That life is hectic I moved on up; new car, caviar, four-star daydream, think I’ll buy me a football team. Even today, I still gotta keep one eye out for the po-po, know they mad cuz I roll the benzo. Girls used to diss me, now they write letters

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‘cause they miss me. I trade ‘em like accessories because it ain’t no stress to me. Now I’m swimmin in women wit they own condominiums, five plus fives, who drive millenniums, its all about the benjamins, what? Nevertheless, I still go to Taco Bell, drive through, raw. Chaperones and limousines, shoppin’ for expensive things. It’s bottle after bottle. The money ain’t a thang when you party with me. But shorty’s running wild smokin sess drinkin beer and ain’t trying to hear what I’m kickin in his ear. I got mo’ class than most of em, ran wit the best of em, forgave the less of em, and blazed at the rest of em. It was all a dream, i used to read Word Up magazine, now it’s a 50 inch screen, money green leather sofa, got two rides, a limousine with a chauffeur Birthdays was the worst days, now we sip champagne when we thirst-ay My advice to you is: only make moves when ya heart’s in it, and live the phrase “Sky’s the Limit.” Because this is Whitman College, bitch. If you ain’t got no money, take yo broke ass home. //

Robbery

by Peter Richards When another person’s more interesting story was left open in Microsoft Word, who was I to say no? I was the only one in the computer lab, the only one on the floor,

probably the only person in the building, maybe the only person anywhere. Maybe I had written the story and not known it; who knows how long I had been in the room? A lot of crazy things have happened before to make such a thing less improbable. I put my Sandra Cisneros and Donald Barthelme books down next to the computer. Still standing I scrolled through the document, then again, and then a third and fourth time. It was without a header. It was 5:30 a.m. and I began to sweat. I don’t remember what the story was about now, only that it was truly a ‘heart breaking work’ of ‘staggering genius’. It was three pages long. It was exactly the length I preferred. It was a very personal story and the characters were very well developed and real. It had a very unique voice. I had been planning on writing a deeply personal story about something embarrassing, with a very unique voice, and here it was on the computer in front of me. I looked around to make sure no one saw, and typed my name at the bottom of the story. I felt proud having just created something in such a short period of time. I printed twenty copies, to send it to major publishers, editors of literary magazines, and MFA programs. I looked at the books that I put by the computer and grinned. One day, with the story that was printing, I would sit next to Sandra Cisneros and say something like “Hey! You wrote that book about that house on that street! Those were some funny stories about kids!” She would probably blush or say something about how great she thought my story was. Maybe she would say “Gracias”. I looked at the Donald Barthelme book and then stopped smiling because he was dead and could never validate me in my artistic significance. Then I thought about the acceptance letters from the Iowa writer’s thing, and places like Harvard! Then I thought about how all my friends would read it and think, “well, he sure has a unique voice” and “he is so much more handsome now than he was before I knew he had such a unique voice”. I walked to the printer and took all of the copies I had printed and put them in my bag, next to my books. I left the computer lab and walked to my school’s literary magazine publisher’s office. It was 5:42 am, so they were not in. I decided to wait. I sat with my legs out on the flood and my back against the door. I closed my eyes and fell asleep. I had a dream where I was eating brunch with Dan Brown and Dave Eggers. In my dream this was a usual occasion, and we were all the same age. This week we were all eating

at Dan Brown’s apartment. Dave Eggers told me about how he had just visited his daughter in San Diego, where she was working as a flight attendant, and that they had broken up as father and daughter. This prompted me to ask if she was single and he looked at me like I just crossed the line. Dan Brown then appeared and said that we had to go on a Da Vinci Code Hunt for our brunch. We searched all over his giant apartment, figuring out a bunch of clues, until he broke down and said that it was just a ruse to hide that he hadn’t made any food. Dave Eggers daughter came through the door just as we were going to yell at Dan Brown for holding out on us. She walked up to me, handed me my new story and whispered: “I am a lesbian”. I woke up and wondered if Dave Eggers really had a daughter, if she were really a lesbian, and if it could be her story. I decided the chances were slim enough not to be worried. It was now about 8:40 am. I realized then that I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I walked to the water fountain to rinse my mouth. I took my time and when I got back to the office the light could be seen beneath the door. I knocked on the door and Sophie Johnson opened it. She is the School’s Literary Magazine’s Editor. I reached into my bag and gave her a copy of my new story. She gestured at a chair on the other side of the desk from her chair. We sat down and she read the story while I watched her reading the story. I sat thinking about all of the wonderful future accolades destined to come my way. I laced my fingers behind my head and straightened my legs in front of the chair. She looked up and said: “I just read your story.” “Yeah I just watched you. It is a really good story with a very unique voice. I wrote it.” “I know you wrote it. I think it is okay. I don’t think I am going to publish it.” “You should read it again, maybe you missed the really good part about Dan Brown and Dave Eggers and Dave Eggers’s lesbian daughter?” I was beginning to get nervous. She started reading the story again. This time I watched her really closely. She looked less interested. She finished and looked up from page. “It is so-so. I like it; I don’t love it. I am lukewarm for it. Hot n’ cold…” She went on and on about her lackluster reaction to the most interesting and uniquely voiced story I had ever read/written while I listened to her and wanted to cry. I wanted to cry mostly because I didn’t really get her criticism. “Will you publish it?” I asked when she finally stopped talking. “No.” //

my mother being what one might call “vivacious,” the principal lesson I’ve learned from my parents is that “birds of a feather flock together.” Certainly, “opposites attract,” but conventional wisdom has proved that “attraction” does not prevent divorce. 2. The older you get, the more prescription medications you will acquire. Grandparents are also useful in the learning of this lesson, but the ability to witness first-hand the aging process of one’s own parents provides a more holistic experience of this truth. 3. You can still smoke marijuana as an adult. You can also still be a student. Here, I’d like to point out my father’s commendable ability to balance his two most frequent extra-curricular activities: smoking “dope” and studying for geology midterms. 4. Related but subordinate in importance is the knowledge I’ve gained about the growth of the marijuana market in America. Namely that in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco in1968 one could purchase a pound of grass for 100 dollars. 5. If the American government doesn’t like you, neither will the French. In recent months, my mother’s manic-depression has swung onto the manic side of the spectrum, thus causing the paranoid illusion that the C.I.A. has been rummaging through her emails and preventing her from receiving text-messages. In an effort to obtain sanctuary, my mother has been spending the past spent the past two months in a Best Western derivative in Paris, where in addition to buying cutesy kitchenware, she has also continuously pestered le gouvernement français about her troubles in the USA. Fortunately, her inability to obtain a visa or to prove her dire circumstances means that her stay will be soon be terminated. 6. Anything is better with butter. Mental instability not withstanding, Mom sure does know her way around the kitchen. The deliciousness of my mother’s cooking results from strict adherence the following maxim: let fatty-dairy products lead the way. A prime example of such culinary wizadry is the inclusion of half-and-half in mashed potatoes.

by Iris Alden

7. Cultivate your tastes now. It seems neither Mom nor Dad have ventured to find new music since their college years, and they both asked for the first season of Saturday Night Live for Christmas of 2007. I suspect this applies to many of our parents. Lesson learned: explore new territory while you still have energy.

1. My father being on the reserved side and

8. Some secrets you’ll keep forever. Or, you’ll

Things I learned from my parents

tell thirty years later when you’re drunk. Like that you had an affair with one of your professors. Whoa, Mom. 9. The best thing in life you can you look forward to is a hammock. It’s like a time-share in your own backyard. 10. Mock ye not a sandwich ye have not tasted. //

The family quote board by Sara Rasmussen

I hate you; you’re in my way and I hope you go away and never come back. I think it’s kind of like you’re England, she’s Germany, and you just signed the Munich Agreement. But it doesn’t APPEAR broken. (Silence). You were the last one. He’s always got to be number one. I want a dog!! You’re better then her. I want a cat!! Well I didn’t have them looking out for me. HE’s there for you. It’s your choice. I feel trapped. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Theoretically speaking, I mean. If I could go back, I would have been an orthodontist. THEN SHUT UP AND GIVE IT BACK! Secretly, I think they should have a long time ago; it would have been so different. Allegedly. He is dead. I don’t understand. Can I buy you something? It really isn’t. Merde. She tries so hard, but I can’t be that. Go, (but don’t go there). She needs you. So what? Well. I’ve got a nautical-themed pashmina afghan. How do you love something? I love you. You do too little. Implicit coercion? You do too much. She gave that up. (Silence). Yes. No. Why? We only want what’s best for you. //

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The following pages are excerpts from the second issue of a short-lived publication from Whitmanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s past, compiled by Dan Cryster and Marty Skeels.

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by The Emperor So, what I’ve been getting at basically is that there are far worse things than physical pain and physical death many of which are our daily lives. I am the unit of measure. //

Did they really get pinned? by Caitlin Tortorici

While April proved a month of many WTFs (it rained a lot, the TKEs staged a relentless rendition of Peter Pan, “A breath of fresh air” came out), nothing had me sprinting home to shit out nine pages like the display I saw on the Prentiss lawn on Choral Contest’s eve. Upon my departure from an a capella rehearsal in the period-scented Prentiss, I noticed a mob of Kappa Kappa Gammas crowding around a second-story window. “It’s a pinning!” one of them cried. I immediately knew I would be late for band practice. I pushed my way to the front of the highlighted hoard and looked down on the lawn. Two tall blondes I recognized from Facebook photos taken in the Beta house emerged from the Delta Gamma section. “Are they the ones getting pinned?” I asked a Kappa who smelled like a fruity fragrance from Limited Too. “No!”

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she shushed, insulted at my ignorance. “Only one girl gets pinned. She comes out later.” I looked out the window once more to see that a long line of DGs had assembled outside of the dorm. A bizarre sight to behold, they giggled gleefully as they staggered in high heels and nipped out in patterned polyester dresses. A privileged few clutched white roses to their breasts. Finally, a gushing DG in white – presumably the lady of the hour – emerged and stood before her sisters. It was around this time that I came to the chilling realization that an entire fraternity had to be en route. Lo and behold, within minutes there emerged from the north the collectively semi-formal Phi Delta Thetas. Some wore dress shirts and slacks with dignified loafers. Others wore t-shirts and cargo shorts. In typical Whitman fashion, many felt the need to match suits with Rainbow sandals. In perhaps the most bizarre image I have seen outside of Mel Brooks’s films, the leading Phis carried a lanky ginger on a plastic litter while the weaker brothers straggled behind with tiki torches. A new round of giggling Kappas arrived on the second floor. “Shhh! They’re pinning!” scolded my grape-scented companion. “There was a pinning my freshman year!” reminisced an RA down the hall. “So cute!” asserted a lisping new arrival. The pinner found his way off of the litter and stood before his lady. The ceremony stood for a moment in silence. “Are they gonna sing a song or some shit?” I joked. “Yes,” replied an

enraptured Kappa who leaned on the windowsill. To my serendipitous revulsion, the Phis commenced to mumble a tone-deaf rendition of “Tell Me Why She Wears His Pin.” “Tell me why she wears his pin, Tell me why she’s strong for him; Tell me why she is so true, She told me why, Now I’ll tell you. Because he is a Phi Delt bold, Because he is a knight of old; Because he wears the Sword and Shield, That is the reason she had to yield.” I honestly felt as though I might vomit. I felt tears of utter disgust forming in my eyes. My mouth could not help but gape. I felt like I was in Sunday school, or the ‘50s, or the South. The pinner spoke inaudibly to the near-pinned for about five minutes while the Kappas squealed mercilessly. “They’re so cute!” “Is she crying? I’m sure she’s crying!” Meanwhile I emphatically mouthed, “WHAT THE FUCK?” over and over again – to Miranda*, the Kappa who made fun of Kappas with me in Olin during an Us Weekly function that I happened upon one strange weeknight; to Jade*, my LA homie who initially scorned the Greek system; to Britney*, who plans to transfer next fall, whose head peaked out of the window one floor up. Someone had to find this ritual as unacceptably primitive as I did. I began to quote Bye Bye Birdie and throw out comments such as, “What fucking year is this?” to see if anyone would bite. But no one seemed at all nauseated, or bubbling with feminist discourse, or anything other than stupidly ec-

static. I took out a purple pen and a crumpled piece of sheet music and began to furiously take notes. “Oh my God, he’s taking off his pin!” cried lisping Kappa as the pinner removed a pin from his shiny, baby blue button-down and clumsily attempted to stick it on his pre-fiancée. In the excruciating minute it took for him to pin the pin on, the yielding lady cherished her Phi Delt bold, kissing his forehead and running her fingers through his mop of hair. The pin finally pinned, the pinner kissed his pinned and incited thunderous applause. “Wooo! So cute! Wooo!” cheered Limited Too Kappa. Windowsill Kappa turned to me– “This means she is more important than his brothers!” she declared proudly. “They’re pinned! I cried,” gushed Miranda. “They’re so cute,” professed Jade. Britney simply stared. “WHAT THE FUCK?” I finally asked aloud. The knight of old remounted the litter and his less important brothers placed the pinned in his lap. “They’re taking her back to the Phi house!” suggested some Kappa. And so it was, the Phi Delts carried the pinner and the pinned to the Phi palace, where they lived happily ever after – if Phi palace is code for beer-covered, Axe-scented pit of despair and “happily ever after” is code for “until one of them inevitably cheated.” I seemed to be the only one in Kappa section who found the idea of a frat boy capturing me via chair to take me to a frat house a fate perhaps worse than death. My evening in Prentiss filled me with burning questions. How does one initiate a pinning? Did the pinner, one day, perhaps after some quick n’ sloppy, ask, “So, how about I pin you?” Did he get down on his knees or did he simply mention it over a Keystone Light? Did she cry tears of joy? Was it the happiest day of her tween life? Or did she simply reply, “I guess that’d be cool.” The whole routine feels as forced as a Facebook relationship between high school students. I text messaged the aforementioned Britney to acquire the times of pinnings to come so I could publicly invite the Indie community. She did not have such information and scolded me for mocking a “special” ritual in semi-wellread print. To that, I say: I chose not to go to Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary for a reason. I do not want a Mrs. Degree and I do not want let misogynistic dinosaur institutions go un-mocked. And for the record, Tits McGee/Wrong Tree: If women receive equal pay it does not mean they will automatically shun the cock for latex toys, fruits and vegetables. Many women I know want tons of hard-earned cash and tons of cock. That said, I offer here and now to buy anyone a latex toy, fruit or vegetable of their choice if they say no to getting pinned.

*Codenames selected from http://nameberry. com/list/25/Names-Kids-Love-Having //

Dear Carly’s Mom; straight-talk from a dope lady. by Carly and Diane Spiering My mom expressed a desire to have an advice column. Being as I thought this was hilarious, I emphatically agreed. However, since I doubted my friends would actually want to ask advice from my mom, I took scenarios from Lily Allen songs and had my mom figure those problems out. Turns out, Mama has some good advice for the hot mess of a songstress. The fact that I’m pretty sure my mom is not aware of who Lily Allen is makes it all the better. Also, I wanted to say sorry to my mom for letting her think these were real questions. -Carly Spiering Dear Carly’s Mom, My sister is a senior here (I’m a freshman) and I hang out with her and her friends sometimes. This one friend always keeps giving me this fucking advice that I never asked for! It’s not so much that it’s bad advice, it’s just annoying that she thinks that because she’s old, she’s wise. I’m tired of it. I wish she would just keep her mouth shut. How do I tell her to knock it off? (Based on “Take What You Take”) You say “girlfriend, will you knock it off!!” It would be best if you could talk with your sister about it beforehand so she could be there to support you when her friend gives you “the look”. Tell her exactly what you told me, that her advice isn’t bad, it’s just that you are trying to figure things out on your own, and when you really need advice, she will be one of the first ones you ask. Dear Carly’s Mom, I am an insanely busy person. So, to satisfy some “needs”, I hooked up with this guy a few times. I just needed someone who would “be there for me”, if you know what I mean. Now this guy just keeps calling me, telling me he loves me and sounding all desperate. I don’t know what to do. This guy is a fool, but I don’t want to hurt him too much. How can I be any more obvious that I don’t want to be with this guy? What do I do? (Based on “Never Gonna Happen”) I don’t know how up front you were with this person when you decided to have your needs met. You must remember this partner has feelings and may truly be in love with you. Would that be so hard to believe? You

need to take a ride on the STRAIGHT TALK EXPRESS. However, you need to take this ride with compassion in your heart because you have some responsibility here. You say you sought him out; you had a good time being there for each other, and now you wonder why he wants to continue to hang out with you? Really? He may actually be both in love with you AND desperate because he knows deep down his feelings are not reciprocated. You need to gentle but clear when you let him know where he stands - this is only fair and right. Think empathetically. This is no doubt easier said than done, especially because you sound a bit fed up with the situation. Remember, it is difficult to be the dumper but even worse to be the dumpee. Whatever you do, do not hook up with= him again. I mean, who could blame him for being encouraged, confused and desperate then? Good luck. Dear Carly’s Mom, I’m currently involved with a fellow who is quite nice. He is very respectful and appears to care very much about my feelings. But he’s awful in bed. Just horrible. I don’t think I can continue seeing someone who is such a giver emotionally but such a taker sexually. What am I to do? (Based on “Not Fair”) This is not as tricky as it may at first appear. First off, let me say how lucky you are to have found someone who is nice, respectful and emotionally open!! I can’t tell you how many bozos I dated before I could say that. Lack of these traits is at the core of most relationship issues. Anyone can learn to be a better lover. All you need is time and desire. Go to a bookstore together, browse the sexuality section, or if you are not comfortable with that, order something on-line. Go back to your room and try a few techniques out - you both may be surprised what you will learn about your needs and desires. Let’s face it - at your age, most people are not all that talented in the bedroom. People can become embarrassed easily and don’t always communicate their wishes. Always be honest about what you like and don’t like, and show him what excites you. Most partners welcome suggestions that will make sex even more enjoyable for their partner, but they cannot divine this out of thin air. Dear Carly’s Mom, Every time I go out to a party, guys always hit on me out of nowhere. They can be really persistent, and I sometimes feel like I can’t just walk away (and I can’t knock them out). Sometimes I make up excuses (I’ve said that I was pregnant, that I have herpes, that I’ve lost my phone so they can’t have my number), but now people think I’m a total bitch. I just want a fun night out

with my girls. How can I make these guys stop hitting on me and not have people think I’m mean? (Based on “Knock ‘Em Out”) Why do you feel that you cannot just walk away? Why do you feel you have to make up weird lies about yourself and then get bummed that people find you mean? Why do you feel that your feelings have to be hidden behind these stories? You need a conscientiousness-raising session with yourself. There is a huge difference between being assertive (i.e., letting people know your needs, desires and preferences) and being a bitch. Tell these dudes exactly what you told me - that you want to have a fun night out with your girls and you just want to hang with them at the party. Period. Just the facts, ma’am. No justification or malice - just what you would like to have happen that night. You have every right to say whatever you want. If they want to be jerks about it, walk away. It ain’t no thang. Who cares about people who don’t respect your feelings? //

Bowling Narrative #4 by Andrew Hall

If I’m remembering things right, there was no bowling between 1997 and 2004. I

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wandered into a bowling alley in the winter of 1998, and the mother of a girl I knew at the time was bowling with friends and gave me a dollar for some reason I can no longer recall. I think the girl dropped off the face of the earth, since I haven’t heard from or of her since someone told me she did hard drugs in the early 2000s and I never saw her again. But in 2004 there was bowling. Someone said “we should go bowling” and ten or twelve of us went bowling. A number of important things happened on this particular outing, including me purchasing “We Built This City” on the jukebox for the first time ever (my current total spent to queue “We Built This City” on bowling alley jukeboxes is likely in the $710 range) and losing about three games with scores in the 60-70 range, prompting largely unenthused reactions from my associates. I think it was at this point that I developed my thirteen point program for improved bowling performance. Described as “totally useless” as well as “fairly useful,” the method is primarily comprised of the following steps: 1. Acquire a large quantity of balls in varying weights, paying no attention to what one would normally use, as this does not matter. 2. Take one of them. Prepare a second in the event of future dissatisfaction. 3. Sit down in the center of the lane. Roll the ball backwards, then send it straight forwards. Get a strike.

4a. If step three yields non-strike results, yell at things. 4b. If step three produces anything that qualifies as success, consider spinning. Jumping and shouting are also optional if not recommended. The method has only produced one score above 120, but given that my average score pre-method was well under eighty, it has proven largely useful both in intimidating the competition and achieving some sort of small victory. It produced a number of strikes on this particular evening, bringing my scores up from 50-60 in games one and two to 80-90. I considered this a success, though I shoved one ball so lightly that it stopped in the middle of the lane, prompting someone in the ensuing confusion to throw a second ball as the first one coasted towards standstill in the middle of the gutter of the lane, where it stayed for at least forty-five minutes. By the end of the evening, we had somehow spent eighty dollars at the bowling alley and I had heard Thriller for the first time in several years. All in all, the evening was a success, leaving me strangely compelled to bowl again and having served as a talent display for the two or three people amongst the ten of us who could actually bowl. I made a note not to play with them again, since they threw things off for the rest of us. //

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