The Rogue Stitch

From a U.S. District Court, Judge Sim Lake presiding:

Ok, so this is a shot of Kenneth Lat testifying before Congress. But doesn't it look better than those cheesy courtroom drawings?



Kenny Boy's on the stand this week, and the cross-examination has been sweet. Government prosecutor John Hueston seemed to irk the Elmer Fudd lookalike on a couple different occasions. My favorite part of the testimony:

Hueston: Have you ever engaged in character assassination?
Lay: Are you considering yourself in that league?
Hueston: I am a U.S. Attorney, that is my job. You can call me anything you want.

Keeping it real, folks, at its finest.

For all you've ever wanted to know regarding the trial, check out the Houston Chronicle's website, where you'll find photos, court documents, profiles, timelines, prosecution scorecard, forum, and everything else in the kitchen sink.

In other news, Barry Bonds hit No. 711 off of Mets closer Billy Wagner today in the bottom of the 9th--to tie the game. Mets won, though, in 11, so all is forgiven. Unfortunately, this proves that Bonds can still hit a 99mph fastball.

At least the most despicable player in the game had something nice to say about Wagner and the Mets:

I haven't hit a ball like that off him ever. Ever.... It was a big boost for us because it tied the game. They came back and beat us. It shows what kind of team they are. We played good against them. Right now, they're probably one of the best teams on the East.

You're close, Barry; they are the best in the East.

From the concrete jungles of Brook-nam:

So, a recent conversation had me thinking about my days in Europe and the numerous poli-cultural questions asked of me while I was over there. Naturally, the French had no idea just how far Texas is from Massachusetts--both literally and figuratively--nor did they care, for that matter. (France, btw: 211,207 square miles. Texas: 268,601 square miles.) Accordingly, they felt little compunction when it came to making sweeping generalizations about Americans. I tried on occasion to describe the States as something between a département and an autonomous country and Americans as loyal state residents who often hold little in common with each other--citizenship and language notwithstanding. Some frogs got it; many more did not. For the latter group, an American was an American: all the chicks had fake blond hair and chunky asses; all the guys wore Nikes and baseball caps.

The memories from France came back when I caught some CO residents offguard with the term hipster.

Me: I don't care if it is a Vespa; I wouldn't be caught dead on a scooter.
Girl1: What's wrong with scooters?
Me: This isn't Brooklyn and I'm not a hispter.
Girl1: So you're not cool enough to ride one?
Me: Hipsters aren't cool--no matter what they may think.
Girl2: So why are they called hipsters?
Me: Who the fuck knows.
Girl1: Well who would you call a hipster?
Me: I don't know.... people who like Sleater-Kinney or the Killers.
Girl2: I like the Killers.
Me: You would.
Girl2: [handicapped noises]
Me: Well, you don't wear eye makeup and you're not wearing a wife beater, so why would I call you a hipster?
Girl1: That's how they dress in Brooklyn?
Me: The women? Yes. And they ride the L.
Girl2: What?
Me: And they smoke cigarettes but eat organic food.
Girl2: Weird.
Me: That's what I'm sayin'. Go to the Cobrasnake dot com if you want to see them in action.
Girl1: What's that?
Me: A website with a bunch of photos from a dude who hangs out with Devon Aoki's brother.
Girl1: Who's Devon Aoki?
Me: The cute Asian chick with the fake French accent in D.E.B.S.
Girl1: Ok...what's D.E.B.S.?
Me: A ridiculous movie about lesbians. Jordana Brewster. [quick raise of the eyebrows]
Girl2: Is she a hipster?
Me: No... thank God.



I guess the point of the story is that even we sometimes don't know who we are. I mean, how many of you out there know what a guilder is?

To learn more about the hipster infestation of Williamsburg and elsewhere, please check out this site and ask youself, "Do I have hipsters?"

Big up to Kent Ave, btw.

From a dark room redolent of death, and perhaps sandalwood:

So, a few people got together the other day to hold a sceance and channel some spirits. Now, normally the Stitch wouldn't be the least bit interested in the story, but the event took place at an Upper West Side cafe called La Fortuna:

Ah, the story gets better. Turns out the cafe was a favorite of a particular musician.

Wait a minute, I recognize those glasses--and unfortunately the Asian woman as well.

Yes, that's right. The group tried to channel the spirit of John Lennon--and now claims to have succeeded.

And you can experience the event yourself for only $9.95.

Forget that gas will soon hit a national average of $3.00. Forget that mortgage rates are on the rise; forget the present war in Iraq has cost about $275.5 billion to date. Forget that social security is approaching insolvency. Forget all your financial worries and please waste ten bucks on an expoitative pay-per-view special that promises to delivery EVPs (Electronic Voice Phenomena) through which John will speak out from the land of the dead.

Imagine that.

For those of you actually interested in what John has to say after 25yrs, send me the cash through Paypal and channel his spirit yourself through this simple DIY guide.

In the wake of the Stuart "Mickey" Wiles scandal, Ben & Jerry's is sporting yet another black eye this week. Turns out a few people are upset with the new flavor Black & Tan:

As some (though not enough) of you probably know, the term Black & Tan traditionally refers to auxiliary members of the Royal Irish Constabulary Reserve Force. The na Dúchrónaigh were nothing more than British paramilitary thugs who spilt Catholic blood on Catholic soil in the two years leading up to southern independence.

The B&J's spokesman, of course, apologized, saying the company was built on the philosophies of peace and love.

All I know is that I'll be getting two free cones on Free Cone Day--else I shall avenge the violence suffered by my people.

Come out ye Black & Tans!

Come out and fight me like a man.

Show your wife how you won medals down in Flanders.

Tell her how the IRA

made you run like hell away

From the green and lovely lanes of Killeshandra!

From a cozy corner of the Oval Office:

The Veep fell alseep as the Pres played host to you know Hu.

Cheney said he was looking at his notes. Right. I tried using that excuse one time in class. No one bought it then, and no one's buyin it now, Dick. Wakey wakey, you've got a Chinese ass to kiss and a trade deficit to widen. But don't mention Iran--you might upset our guest.

What's with people falling alseep on the job? Remember Ginsburg caught forty on the bench:

Funny, Souter and Alito didn't even try to wake her up. That'll learn 'er, eh.

I wonder if Britney was napping when her kid fell off the bed.... twice.

Oh well, politicians will be politicians. And with the public's insatiable hunger for shaming, we'll continue to fault them for sleeping, flippin' the bird, or puking on the prime minister of Japan. Enjoy the clip.

From Abraxas, 12-14 Jonge Roelensteeg:

Don't know who this kid is, but I know where he is and what he's doing. Youthful indulgence, I'm sure. For it's one of those days, especially in the 'Dam. De facto holiday, here, for half the population (perhaps more) of Boulder. Just another excuse for kids to revel in the bubble.

My advice is to do what your parents did; get a job, sir! The bums will always lose! Do you hear me, Lebowski?

Beware the evils of marijuana and the trippers, the grasshoppers, the hip ones--all gathered in secrecy and flying high as a kite.

Leave it to a coffee shop to have a fresh juice bar, dj sets, and a wonderfully designed website.

Big up to H.I.M. Haile Selassie I, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, King of Kings, Lord of Lords:

Sure, you might have died at the hands of the Derg during Ethiopian Red Terror (damn Marxists), but what would this world be without the inspiration you gave Burning Spear?

Btw, I'm planning on catching the Spear at the Festival de Rambouillet in July--despite the nearly certain presence of dirty French hippies.

Furthermore, Susan, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised to learn that half of the undergrads here in Boulder would enjoy seeing the film Scontri stellari oltre la terza dimensione, aka Star Crash, aka Female Space Invaders:

Why don't they make films like this anymore? The trailer is absolutely classic. And it stars a young Hasselhoff.

How this film escaped a lawsuit by George Lucas is beyond me. I mean, check out the tagline:

From a vast and distant galaxy... A Space Adventure for all Time!

The alternate title Female Space Invaders didn't really make sense til I saw the French lobby card:

In other news, Bigfoot has been captured.... or not.

This is how a deposition should not go. I hope these Southern gentlemen were disbarred for their antics.

And finally, midget muay thai is bad ass. Who got ya, little man?

From a Hollywood maternity ward:

Let the brainwashing begin! Rosemary.... err, Katie Holmes gave birth yesterday. I wonder if there's an online petition to have Child Services take the kid away yet. Of course, there's gotta be an evil plot--backed by Xenu himself--to have baby Suri kidnapped and implanted with the worst of thetan leftovers.

Tom, I guess, ate the placenta--even though now he's saying that he was joking. Right. Who knew Scientology preaches a no-carb diet.

Rod Stewart brought his kid's placenta home and buried it. Yup. And he's still asking people if they think he's sexy.

To be fair to Katie (whether she deserves it or not), it would be hard to say that she'll be a worse mother than Britney:



It was the paparazzi! They were threatening my baby, so I put him on my lap where it'd be safer.

Really, bitch? Get yourself a better publicist. Spin doctor says what. Just wait til that kid finds his way into Papa Zao's coke stash and brings it to class in a few years... that is, if he makes it that long. (whether "he" refers to your worthless husband or your unfortunate son, I'm not sure.)

So Tom and Katie went with the name Suri. How cute. Actually, more reasonable than Moses or Apple.

What other great celebrity baby names are out there? Well, my favorite is Shannyn Sossamon's son, Audio Science Clayton. (yeah, she was a dj before an actress.) Now I'm naming my firstborn Feedback Castleton like a true rock star.

Your daily SoaP:

Not to be confused with Peeps on a Plane (which I think comes out sometime around next Easter... it's a family movie):

Peeps do Shakespeare too. Romeo and Juliet.

From the verdant pastures of the Green Mountain State:

Ben & Jerry's ex-CFO Stuart "Mickey" Wiles was sentenced Monday to 27 months in prison (plus 2 years supervised release) and ordered to repay the $300,000 he embezzled from the company after pleading guilty to a federal wire fraud charge in U.S. District Court.

Wiles had a habit of writing company checks for fictitious charitable donations and legal settlements. Turns out he just cashed them to splurge on vacations, car repairs, clothing, and electronics.

Wonder if they serve ice cream in federal prison.....



God, this guy looks like that nut on American Idol:



Lock 'em both up. One for being a crook in the style of uber-shyster Andy Fastow--the other for being, well, on American Idol. Shame on both of you.

Funny, the UMass (Boston) website still has posted an adulatory article on Wiles. And the best quote from the piece:

“One of the nice things about Ben & Jerry’s is that we work for a company that is measured in top and bottom line like any other company in corporate America,” says Wiles, “but we get to be deeply involved in causes and social justice issues. Most people would have to do this in their spare time, but I get to do it at work.”

You forgot to mention criminal justice, there, Mickey.

In related news, conservative talking head and spawn of Satan Sean Hannity actually likes Ben & Jerry's ice cream, despite the company's commitment to environmental causes and support of liberal politicians. It's true.... look:



His favorite flavor: Lucky Schmucky (with nougat)

Mark your calendars, Stitch fans.... Free Cone Day is coming. April 25th. Someone remembered last year:



Ha! Heidi Klum and ice cream. Throw in the Mets winning the Series and you've hit the trifecta.

Oh yeah, in response to Free Cone Day, Carl's Jr. has come up with Asian Baby Burger Day (limit one per customer):

From Flushing, Queens, with love:

Congratulations are in order. Pedro got his 200th win last night, and beat the Braves to boot. The two teams play something like nine more times in the next three weeks--basically the same amount of time I have left in the semester. The possible outcomes of those three weeks cover the spectrum, ranging from empyrean (Mets win; I ace the exams) to abysmal (Mets sputter; I sleep through Con Law). I reasonably expect the Mets to win at least six.



Yeah, hopefully I'll be thanking the Big Man too.

Btw, here's a look at the new stadium proposal (to be built in Shea's parking lot). It's supposed to evoke memories of old Ebbets Field--erstwhile home of the Dodgers. Props given to a Brooklyn stadium out in Queens? Why does that feel like an LL Cool J song?

From the sands of Naxos (Dia):

Many thanks are due to the kindred spirit who named, through cultured percipience, my unknown painting. Titian's Bacchus and Ariadne. That makes at least two representations of the god of wine and patron of the bacchanalia in V's gallery.

The allusions made by the iconography should now seem a bit clearer, no?

Consider the inspiration for Titian's work, Ovid's Ars Amatoria (Book I Part XV: At Dinner Be Bold), and Miss Portman's character transformation in the film:

Ah, Bacchus calls to his poet: he helps lovers too,
and supports the fire with which he is inflamed.
The frantic Cretan girl wandered the unknown sands,
that the waters of tiny sea-borne Dia showed.
Just as she was, from sleep, veiled by her loose robe,
barefoot, with her yellow hair unbound,
she called, for cruel Theseus, to the unhearing waves,
her gentle cheeks wet with tears of shame.
She called, and wept as well, but both became her,
she was made no less beautiful by her tears.
Now striking her sweet breast with her hands, again and again,
she cried: ‘That faithless man’s gone: what of me, now?
What will happen to me?’ she cried: and the whole shore
echoed to the sound of cymbals and frenzied drums.
She fainted in terror, her next words were stifled:
no sign of blood in her almost lifeless body.
Behold! The Bacchantes with loose streaming hair:
Behold! The wanton Satyrs, a crowd before the god:
Behold! Old Silenus, barely astride his swaybacked mule,
clutching tightly to its mane in front.
While he pursues the Bacchae, the Bacchae flee and return,
as the rascal urges the mount on with his staff.
He slips from his long-eared mule and falls headfirst:
the Satyrs cry: ‘Rise again, father, rise,’
Now the God in his chariot, wreathed with vines,
curbing his team of tigers, with golden reins:
the girl’s voice and colour and Theseus all lost:
three times she tried to run, three times fear held her back.
She shook, like a slender stalk of wheat stirred by the wind,
and trembled like a light reed in a marshy pool.
To whom the god said: ‘See, I come, more faithful in love:
have no fear: Cretan, you’ll be bride to Bacchus.
Take the heavens for dowry: be seen as heavenly stars:
and guide the anxious sailor often to your Cretan Crown.’
He spoke, and leapt from the chariot, lest she feared
his tigers: the sand yielded under his feet:
clasped in his arms (she had no power to struggle),
he carried her away: all’s easily possible to a god.

The Cretan girl is none other than Ariadne, the same who helped Theseus slay the Minotaur--only to be left (pregnant?) on the shore as he sailed away. Bacchus made her a bride, and potentially gave her the clap.

Ovid went on, btw, to paint quite the picture of seduction:

When Bacchus’s gifts are set before you then,
and you find a girl sharing your couch,
pray to the father of feasts and nocturnal rites
to command the wine to bring your head no harm.
It’s alright here to speak many secret things,
with hidden words she’ll feel were spoken for her alone:
and write sweet nothings in the film of wine,
so your girl can read them herself on the table:
and gaze in her eyes with eyes confessing fire:
you should often have silent words and speaking face.
Be the first to snatch the cup that touched her lips,
and where she drank from, that is where you drink:
and whatever food her fingers touch, take that,
and as you take it, touch hers with your hand.

Sweet nothings in the film of wine, eh? Kind of reminds me of Ben Jonson's To Celia. But, then again, he would eschew the drink for a mere kiss.

From the Shadow Gallery:

So, at the behest of a friend, I went to see V for Vendetta over the weekend. Not bad. Entertaining in the style of The Matrix. (thank you, Wachowski Brothers.... errr Wachowski Siblings.) A bit over-the-top at times. Well written, though, with plenty of eloquent dialogue for Hugo Weaving to play with--as only Agent Smith could in a Wachowski film. (yes, the allusion's made to Keanu "I know kung-fu" Reeves.)

I got a kick out of V's hideout, which was filled with objets d'art rescued from the censors of the oppressive British regime. I believe I recognized a few of them:

Caravaggio's Sick Bacchus (though this painting is at the Borghese in Rome):



(Caravaggio is one of my favorites, btw.)

Van Eyck's Arnolfini Portrait (which is at the National Gallery in London):



Waterhouse's Lady of Shalott (from the Tate Gallery):



I also spied an unidentified St. Sebastian--inevitably French or Italian--as well as what looks to be a seascape by Claude Gellee (dit Lorrain). This makes sense since he was a major influence on JMW Turner, probably the most famous English romantic landscape artist. And, of course, Turner had to be in there since he painted The Burning of the Houses of Parliament:



I'm pretty sure the version used in the movie was this one form the Clore Gallery in London. In any case, the little Jewish girl from Syosset blew up Parliament in the end, hence the suggestive iconography.

As nothing should wind up on set by accident, the thoughtful viewer should ask him or herself "To what purpose are these paintings included in the story?" or "What am I supposed to understand from their inclusion?"

I'm sure this point was lost on the majority of stoners who went out to see the flm. (Whoa, dude, the guy lives in like a museum and shit. Think about how much that painting's worth. I'd buy like a new car and a house with it. I wouldn't have to work or nothin'.)

The one part they might have got was the scene where Natalie Portman stands next to the painting of a young nude girl. (didn't recognize this one, but check it out for yourself.) I mean, the juxtoposition was rather blatant, but I supposed it worked even for those stuck in a drug-induced stupor.

One last painting. Drop me a line, Stitch fans, if you figure out who painted this one:



Remember, remember, the 5th of November....

From the pages of Alighieri's Inferno, again:

To Hell and back. (Must have bought the stygian rail pass.)

Deep in the bowels of Beelzebub's abode, Dante and Virgil come across the fortune tellers and diviners, walking backward with unnaturally-turned heads and eyes unable to see. (4th Bolgia)

Wonder if the Cumaean Sibyl wound up down there.

Probably not since the Medieval Church (the long-standing arbiter of God's decisions) held her to be a prophet of Christ's birth based on an obscure messianic phophecy contained in the fourth of Virgil's Eclogues.

Ah, that explains the tour guide choice. And the cameo on the Sistine Chapel.

Sibyl herself was something of a guide in the Aeneid:

Then thus replied the prophetess divine:
"O goddess-born of great Anchises' line,
The gates of hell are open night and day;
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:
But to return, and view the cheerful skies,
In this the task and mighty labor lies.


So, recently I met up with some friends and made the acquaintance of filmmaker (perhaps better described as a struggling artiste) who asked me two initial questions:

Have you seen any avant-garde films?

What's your birthday.

Interesting, right? Small talk, lovely small talk. Naturally, we had a conversation about what "avant-garde" means and how to apply it. Suppression of horrible memories meant that I could only come up with Cocteau's Orphée as a reference. How uncouth of me to better recall the finer moments of Le Diner de cons.

The birthday question went like this:

Me: December.
Her: December what?
Me: The **.... Why?
Her: I'm into astrology... just sizing you up.

You can imagine the sardonic comment I had lined up, just waiting to get in the game like a fat kid on the bench. But I held off; she was serious and came off as intelligent.

So for shits and giggles, I hit the web and came across a free tarot reading. Course, after that conversation, I had to choose the Palladini Tarot, which claims to "bridge the ancient and the future" using elements of Medieval, Egyptian, and modern art. I also opted for the Celtic Cross spread like a good Mc with a drinking problem. And without further ado, I give you the result:



What does this all mean? Beats the hell out of me. What to follow when so much of the reading contradicted itself. But I did like the last card, which claimed to predict "the ultimate outcome should you continue on this course." The Hierophant:

Hierophant--from the Greek ta hiera (the holy) and phainein (to show).

In Attica the hierophant was the chief priest in the Eleusinian Mysteries.

To go off on a tangent for a moment, participants in the Mysteries were said to drink kykeon during the culminating ceremony. This was an odd mixture of barley, water, herbs, and ground goat cheese. Mmmm. Some suggest that the barley used was infested with ergot, a fungus containing the psychedelic agent LSA. Visions ensued. Afterward, the participants gathered in a field to celebrate the pannychis--an all-nite feast accompanied by dancing and merriment. Probably some knockin' boots in there too.

Funny, I knew a kid who took LSD at a concert and saw Jesus.

Ergot posioning has also been blamed for the paranoia associated with the Salem witch hunts.

So, getting back to the tarot reading, the hierophant represents a guide toward knowledge, insight, and wisdom. There was also something in there about faith in tradition and the "old school."

Yeah, how fitting. Like I said, shits and giggles.

From the first base line, Shea Stadium:

Can you believe it's been 20 years since the Mets last won the World Series? Me neither. I do say, however, with guarded optimism that they look great this season.

Shout out to Bill Buckner, wherever you are. I hear Tarrantino is making a film about your folly in Game 6 of the '86 Series.



God, Red Sox fans are so lame. (and I know a few of you read these posts on occasion.)

Buckner's a much-maligned figure in Sox lore, but remember the game was already tied when he blew it on Mookie's ground ball. The Mets would have won regardless of Billy Boy's error, sans doute mes amis.

For all of those who'd like to relive that fateful night, here is the entire inning recreated with one of the best video games of all time, RBI Baseball (original Nintendo, son), complete with the annoucner's broadcast. INCREDIBLE.

From the Valley of the son of Hinnom:

Yeah, the OT calls it ga ben Hinnom, which was Gehenna to the Greeks. Some English dude eventually decided to call it Hell. Eternal damnation replete with fiery flames. We don't need no water; let the mother... wait, this place looks rather nice. What gives?

Apparently Manasseh and dissapointed parents from the tribes used this valley to burn their kids. And we're not talking cigar burns on the forearm for not taking out the trash. No, this was human sacrifice made to Molech. Booga booga booga. (Kings 23:8-10; Jeremiah 7:31-32; 2 Chronicles 33:1-6) Josiah cleaned things up and turned it into what looks to be the perfect setting for a golf course.

The Bible also likes to replace certain words with this all-encompassing term called Hell. Sheol, Hades, Tartarus, Abyss, grave, pit, etc.

Whatever the name, a lot of people tend to think that the perfidious, the lustful, and the like are heading down faster than a Thai hooker to some subterranean lake of fire and brimstone for an eternal vacation of suffering the wrath of a vengeful God.

Dante was, of course, no exception. Behold the Nine Layers:



So, ask any stranger on the street about the professions they expect to find in Hell. Drug dealers, maybe. Politicians, surely. Lawyers, mostly. (don't forget many are both.)

Ok here's the fun part; let's throw some people from this last profession into their rightful places in Dante's scheme.

Talk about pushing limits and buttons... I mean, who among mortals really has the audacity to relegate others to Hell? Why, yours truly, of course. Love me or hate me, I don't give a f*&#@ how offended some people are--only how pharisaic. Rest assured--I will keep it real for all the OGs out there. Sure, I'll meet my own Maker one day. But, in the meantime, I'm callin' bullshit on number of chumps.

And there's something to be said about action and reaction here. If some would-be lawyers don't want me spouting off, they'd better start thinking about the consequences of their words before proceeding to openly discuss, for example, how their esteemed parents barely have mortgages on their multi-million dollar homes, the prestigious boarding schools they attended (you're seriously talking about high school?), or their specific grades during classroom discussions.

And no, I won't necessarily address the whole "gunner" label floating around these days. That, I think, has been taken up by someone with another bent. Suffice to say, the appellation includes those would-be lawyers who not only open up their mouths when they shouldn't, but do so with such self-satisfaction that they would nominate themselves as alternatives to the Supreme Court in times of dire need--despite only having two semesters' worth of legal training. Obviously, they'll be subsumed somewhere within.

Kudos, btw, to those who actually make classroom discuss worthwhile. If you've formulated something pertinent to say, then by all means go ahead and do your thang, playa. But for the rest of you, please spare me the hemming and hawing, the articulated mishmash of your failure to think first/speak second, the gross generalizations based on non-existent empirical evidence, etc. etc. etc.

The Dark Wood of Error: I found me in a gloomy wood, astray. The true starting point for a 1L experience.

The Vestibule: This is the land of opportunists, and not quite technically Hell. It's reserved for those neither good nor evil. A few might fall into this category, though who ever really toes the line? I wonder if God keeps a scorecard for this destintation, letting certain acts cancel other ones out... like if you sleep with your client, can you escape Hell by donating $10k of your bonus to St. Jude's? (probably not if it's merely a tax write-off.)

1. Limbo: Home of the "virtuous pagans." Sorry, no Aristotles in the law profession, though Rehnquist might have been born before Jesus. R.I.P, Bill.

2. The Lustful: Residence of Minos, the beast who assigns each soul its final place and torment. (Would that be me?) There are plenty in the field who would qualify for the lustful with ease, for they are so caught up in their own passions that every word out of their mouth has to somehow relate back to their personal agenda. Granted this might be a stretch for a realm reserved for those with sins of the flesh, but the analogy works. These people constantly remind me just how obsessive the self-righteous can be.

3. The Gluttonous: Yeah, NAAFA will sick its dogs on me (if they can get off the floor) for this one, but ain't it funny that, in a health-conscious city like Boulder, gluttony appears to be more prevalent in the law profession? Granted we may have a triathlete or two running around, but let's face it--they're freaks.

4. Hoarders & Wasters: Have I seen hoarding in my days? Why yes, I do recall a tale about someone refusing to share case names with other students during a group exercise.... That schmuck might as well have been ripping pages out of books on reserve, like some do at other cutthroat schools. We--as a student body--may have an honor code, but you certainly have no honor.

5. (The Styx) The Wrathful: Home to the souls of the sullen, who are shut off from all sunlight in their suffering.



6. (City of Dis) The Heretics: At the gates to Hell's city, Dante and Virgil were stopped by a band of fallen angels barring them entrance. The two travellers could not convince them to open the gates--an allegory of human reason's inability to deal with evil itself. How fitting, then, to find the most self-satisfied atheists in Boulder to be those as equally obstinate in their views. What a correlation. To them, I say enjoy the blistering iron tombs, which will be sealed forever upon you come Judgment Day. (October 13, 2047, if anyone was wondering.)

7. The Violent: Reserved for warlords (violent against neighbors), suicides (against self), and blasphemers (against God), the 7th layer is the current home of such notable figures as Pol Pot, Adolph Hitler, L. Ron Hubbard, and Joseph Smith.

8. (Malebolge) The Fraudulent: Wow, ten concentric circles.
I. Panderers & Seducers
II. Flatterers
III. Simoniacs
IV. Fortune Tellers
V. Grafters
VI. Hypocrites
VII. Thieves
VIII. Evil Counselors
IX. Sowers of Discord
X. Falsifiers

Don't VI thru X seem just perfect for the worst members of the legal profession? (Which will be Scalia's final abode?)

VII is so right for the ambulance chasers--you know, those TV attorneys who always pretend to champion the cause of the little guy while lining their pockets to attract their trophy wives.

9. (Cocytus) The Treacherous: The treacherous against kin, country, guests, and masters. Judas Iscariot and Satan himself. I think Saddam has a reservation too, for once the trial is over.


Ok, the Stitch is done for now. If any reader out there feels like I've implicated you in a fate that's less than desirable, well so long as you're still breathing I guess you can change your ways.

From the aisles of Whole Foods Market, the country's largest retailer of natural and organic products:

I tend to call it Whole Paycheck Market, Yuppie Foods, or Granola Central. Great place, good times, quality food, earthy ambiance.

Gentlemen's Quarterly calls it the one of the best places in the country to find beautiful women.... specifically in Boulder, CO.

For six months, a special team of GQ investigators canvassed the nation--from the debutante parties of Houston to the champagne-soaked banquettes of Miami--in pursuit of the country's most beautiful women.

Apart from Boulder, Denver was also mentioned in the American Girl Cheat Sheet.

Amy, 32, said: "The Denver man dress code: Not GQ! An old pair of khakis or jeans is acceptable attire for anything from job interviews to dates and from weddings to funerals. And don't get me started on their shoes...."

Cara, 35, said: "The don't call it Menver for nothing. The numbers skew in favor of women. Denver guys exist in a protracted state of adolescence. They tend to act, think, and live as if they were ten years younger than they are. Why? Many of them were lured here by the lifestyle."

Well, ok, I admit that I left a coat from Zara back East. Why? Well it doesn't say North Face on it, and the undergrads just wouldn't understand.

Great anecdote: I had the coat on back in Manhattan over break and several visiting Boulder students made comments. Maybe it was the sake that loosened their tongues. Btw, I never posted these crazy photos from that evening.... no it was definitely morning by then:





Of course, Burton apparel suits me just fine out here in CO. (Another anecdote: Burton opened up a store on Spring Street a few months back. From the woods of Vermont to the streets of So-Ho... unbelievable.)

GQ also named the corner of Prince and Broadway as the best spot in the US to meet a beautiful woman, making me just a little homesick.



The magazine also listed the 29 Best Dirty Song Lyrics. Two highlights: Spinal Tap's Big Bottom ("My baby fits me like a flesh tuxedo/ I'd like to sink her with my flesh torpedo.") and Starland Vocal Band's Afternoon Delight ("Thinkin' of you's workin up my appetite/ Looking forward to a little afternoon delight.).



Um, I'm sorry, it's the-- it's the pleats. It's uh, it's actually an optical illusion. It's the pattern on the pants. It's not flattering in the crotchal region. I'm actually taking them back right now. Taking them back to... the pants store. Oh, this is awkward.

Oh yeah, check out these articles on Whole Foods:

NYT and the WSJ via Brand Autopsy.

And the scandals.