Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Meeting 1/18

"Americans eat more fat... [and] they eat more sugar... than any other people on earth. Americans also experience more episodes of acute hunger each day than any other people on earth – many [Americans] eat 11 times a day... and Americans do less physical work per day than any other nation. We ride more and walk less than other people. Could it be this combination that is fattening up Americans?... Is America’s romance with fabricated foods killing her by degrees?"
~Paul A. Stitt, MS, Biochemistry,

"You want to know the real reason we have declared holy jihad? Celebrity Fit Club."
~Osama Bin Laden, private interview

The luxuriously lugubrious Philolexian Society cordially invites you to a debate:

RESOLVED: Everyone Hates America Because We Are Fat.

Come and show off those voluptuous curves.

When: Thursday Jan. 18th
9:00pm snacks and schmooze
9:30pm (sharp) - the debate begins!
Where: Broadway Room (2nd floor of Lerner, next to the piano lounge)

Be there or you won't get the exercise you so vitally need.

~the will o' the whip

The Sensationalist Manifesto

The Sensationalist Manifesto

We declare that we are multitudinous in approach! We assume the role of many, the mind of the massive. We are tapped into the pulse of planet Earth, and we are only beginning to dig in our fingernails.

We believe in ideas and do not hold by beliefs. We are willing to defend what we believe (for the minute) to the death. We are willing to change any of our minds. We are desirous of having them blown.

We think the world is a macro-organism. We consider the emergence of a super-perspective. We know that brain cells communicate across a gap called a synapse, but nonetheless, they pass on information. We think we are neurons on a global scale.

We believe words only chip away at the truth. We think the truth is asymptotic. We recognize the inherent flaws in verbal and written communication. We consider words to be extensions of the ego. We love them anyway.

We believe in the truth of the singular experience. We think that numbers lie. We search for the kernel at the heart of subjectivity. We believe that everyone can understand anything, but not everything. We are eternally astounded.

We are vigilant for morsels of meaning. We see life as a canvas. We are blind artists with paint

We see beauty in the fields and in the city. We search and we search and can not find the unnatural. We believe in consistency and artificial authenticity. We think evolution is the only measure of time.

We are becoming more and more convinced that we are nothing and everything all at once.

As above so below.
As above so below.
As above so below.
As above so below.
As above so below.

We think we are right. We know we are wrong.

We will accept the voice of one. We revel in the voices of the many. We resist the voice of the masses. We believe we exist to transcend. We think we are only just beginning.

We believe we can do anything if we try real hard. We inject new meaning if we say it with feeling. We correct punctuation as vigilantly as we check our facts. We think a misplaced comma can destroy the world. We believe it can be created again.

We believe in the energy. We believe in the verve. We believe sincerity is a virtue. We believe in feeling everything until it hurts. We believe we can separate ourselves from anything. We believe the truth is too great to be a weapon. We believe it is like shooting the president with dark matter, the space between stars.

We believe everything until we are proven wrong. We believe in Nothing, as a state of mind. We believe You can change our minds. We believe in You.


Experiments in Experimental Short Fiction

!) once i was a strip of wallpaper that was listlessly saying hello to the door and goodbye to the window. i miss the sunlight even though it dried me out.

@) a red ball launched, rebounding, bouncing off doors and lockers. aglets of chuck taylor sneakers click clacking their way down to the principal's office. a ferret runs free in the hall.

#) bubblegum snapping and girls deciding who is in and who is out. black is the new orange they say. who made them god?

$) oncewheniwasyounger

%) his arms became fatigued earlier than he expected, and he starting getting short of breath. with every new lift of his increasingly heavy arms, he struggled to grasp those blessed vines. with the strength of atlas he managed not to ever ever look down to the ground where the little people lived. he had bigger dreams of the sky, but it was getting hard to breathe. the air is thinner in the clouds.

^) crash i never want to see you again whack bang thwok i mean it don't you ever step foor in this house again you bastard crash bang crash but i love you


Kilmer 2004

The Winner 2004:

(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)
or: deep thoughts on laundry
or: repeating random nouns and then attaching that same noun to some profound emotion is comedic gold, the gold of joy.
By Joshua Schwartz GS '08

Ahhhhh the taste of victory
I always imagined it would taste more like tiramisu
Or a cinnamon rugelach
Or the salty elixir squeezed from the saturated uniforms of the victims
Of my ring of white slaves.

Riding the roller coaster of love creates within my bosom
This pleasant buzz in my
Nether regions (the auxiliary nether regions I keep in my bosom)
Like if one were to sit on a blender
A blender of joy
Set on the puree
of bliss.
In my heart are the sprites of happiness and their laughter
Warms my cockles as only true love can
True love and microwave burritos.
Happy and bright:
Like the sun shining on the faces
Of my ring of white slaves.

While sitting on the dryer, I begin to
Meditate about death and the innate absurdity of life.
There is no hope and love is false, I cry
As I weep into the snuggles,
The snuggles of despair.
Like the despair that gives me joy that makes me curious that bit the dog that ate schroedingers cat
And killed god
when I see it on the faces
Of my ring of white slaves.

In deep thought, I return from the Laundromat of my soul
Where I pick up the blazer of my spirit and the khakis of my heart
And the afghan of despair
I realize:
I hardly knew my soul at all.

And he is Korean.


Runner Up

The Childhood Memories and Songs of Experience of George Prescott Bush, the Young, Half-Mexican Grandson of President George Bush the First, Nephew of President George Bush the Second, and Possible Future First Latino President of the United States
by Edward Rueda CC '05

I remember the house of mi abuelo,
my grandfather Jorge, a large casa blanca,
a house as white as the supper's soft, white tortillas
I see my grandfather Jorge
strong as a bull in a bullfighting ring,
driving the English springer spaniels across the front lawn,
like soft tortillas across guacamole grass
I see my grandfather in his aviator glasses
hard, unbending, quite unlike tortillas,
I see him wearing an enchilada suit
as he spoke in taco shell press conferences
in the red mole rose garden

I see mi abuela, my grandmother Bárbara
standing next to mi abuelo Jorge
in the red mole rose garden
I see her soft, white, curly hair
and her soft, white, round necklace of pearls
like tortillas, soft, white, curled
and stacked on top of more soft, white, round tortillas.
My grandmother's skin is like tortillas,
soft, round, made of corn and flour from the earth
my grandmother Bárbara has the strength of the earth
in her hands, as she lifts fine china,
fine, tortilla-white china filled with dinnertime tortillas.

But mi abuelo Jorge has hard news to tell,
hard like deep-fried tacos is the news of war
war that must take place in the land of the tostados,
war that he planned with my uncle, Tío Cheney
I see my see my grandfather talking to my Tío Cheney
Tío Cheney, dressed in a black bean black suit
wincing from the plaque in his arteries
thick plaque, hard and white, like old tortillas.
My grandfather says this war may be bad, and not soft,
But if every man fought in the distant land of sand so white,
Soon peace in our world would come around,
a peace we could all look forward to, like our supper, like tortillas

After the news conference, my grandfather Jorge
takes off his aviator glasses, hard unlike tortillas,
sets me on his knee, a knee like a burrito
and tells me, "nieto, grandson,
you may one day run this casa grande, this casa blanca
and if you lead this casa blanca into war,
remember: God has made you a Jorge Bush
you are strong and solid like a burrito,
you are stuffed with good inside, like a burrito,
you have a tough skin, like a burrito
but most of all, you have a heart
that is strong and pure and white and good, like tortillas."

Now my uncle, Tío Jorge, runs the casa blanca,
strong like a bullfighter in a bullfighting ring,
he plays golf on the green guacamole grass.
I see my uncle Jorge, who's as fun as a fiesta,
giving a speech in the red mole rose garden,
now he must share words as hard as deep-fried tacos.
War must take place in the land of the tostados,
war that he planned with my uncle, Tío Cheney
I see my Tío Jorge talking to Tío Cheney
Tío Cheney, dressed in a black bean black suit
wincing from the plaque in his arteries
thick plaque, hard and white, like old tortillas.
Tío Jorge says that war is good,
good for lands so hot with sand so white,
hot, white, sand all around, hot and white, like tortillas.

After the news conference, my uncle Jorge
takes off his baseball sombrero, to say to me,
"Sobrino, nephew, you may one day run
this casa grande, this casa blanca
and if you lead this casa blanca into war,
remember: you are a Jorge Bush
you are not to be evil, like the burrito
you need to be stuffed with liberty and freedom, like the burrito
you need an evil-repellent skin, like the burrito
you need God to continually bless you, like the burrito,
and most of all, your heart needs not to be evil,
but soft and pure and white, like tortillas."

These words, made of corn, made of earth, are strong,
like a bull: big, strong, white, pure, round,
like tortillas.


Runner Up

I Love Little Pussy
by Mike Ilardi CC '05 (With Illustrations by Edward Rueda CC '05)

What follows is a brief anthology of sequels to the 19th century nursery rhyme I Love Little Pussy, a piece intended to teach children proper care for their cats. Children today have all manner of exotic creatures in their care, so I felt it necessary to pen a few updated versions of the old classic. First, the original:

"I Love Little Pussy"
I love little pussy,
Her coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her,
She'll do me no harm.
So I'll not pull her tail,
Nor drive her away,
But pussy and I,
Very gently will play.

And now for the sequels:

"I Love Little Cock"
I love little cock,
His beak is so long,
And when I stroke him,
He does me no wrong.
So I'll not rumple his feathers,
Nor tug him too quick,
He'll come when I call him,
For I've named him Dick.

"I Love Little Beaver"
I Love Little Beaver,
Her fur is so wet,
And though she smells fishy,
She's so fun to pet.
So I'll not burst her dam,
If she gnaws on my wood.
Gee, little beaver,
you're always so good!

"I Love Little Bearded Clam"
I love little bearded clam,
Her shell is so tight,
And if I feed her,
she'll clamp down every night.
So I'll not pry her open,
I'll be kind instead,
I'll drape a pearl necklace
Over her head!

"I Love Little Trouser Snake"
I love little trouser snake,
He slithers up my pants,
And when I play my flute,
Trouser snake does his dance.
So I'll not tie him in knots,
Nor pull him too hard,
For my trouser snake
is nearly one yard!