I was born exactly two years after Bill Fury, an actor whom I've never heard of, died of heart failure at the age of 42. January 28, 1983—Bill Fury is watering plants, or eating a sandwich, or making freshly squeezed orange juice or lemonade. Something with citrus, surely. He takes a sip, chokes down a seed or two, and smiles.

Hello, this is a review of a book talk with Mr. Tony D'souza. You may remember Tony from such places as here or here. Anyway, T. Doyle and I went to see him a few nights ago at the Harvard Bookstore. This is a conversation from the day after.

Mark: hey

Valentine’s day: a day celebrated for the saint of love, the saint of sweet, sweet sex. Sweet chocolate covered sex.

The Man in the Road

By Chris Killen

So it’s aphorisms you crave, is it Mr. Geary? Well here’s an aphorism for you: Geary tends to blab about nothing in particular, and absolute Geary tends to blab about nothing in particular absolutely.

Ah, the blogosphere! It is a mystical realm bustling with lore and incontrovertible truths, where gnomes tread the same ground as the dictatorial ogres that have forever subjugated them. Where trees of wisdom sprout from the finest members of the Young Republicans, and where you can rectify your sins with the click of a mouse [Eternal Salvation just $1.95 a month!].

Barrack Obama (D) and Mike Huckabee (R) topped the polls in Iowa. Hillary Clinton (D) and John McCain (R) were first a week later in New Hampshire. Former mayor of New York City Rudolph Giuliani (R) failed to finish better than fourth in either contest, both of which play a vital role in determining each party's eventual nomination for the presidency (if for no other reason than they are the first caucus and primary, respectively, and thus there exists a media feeding frenzy around each), yet still holds on to a close second place behind Huckabee in the national polls.

You should be, in a word, embarrassed if you have not yet heard of any of these bands: October Dave and the Silicon Werewolf Masks, The Peaking Beaks, Shaq Attack, Soup Kitchen, Paternity Case: Mine or Yours?,

Holiday reporting by Terrance Doyle

review/story by T. Doyle Perfect. Christmas is coming. A shooting pain in my head and a hole in my wallet. Definitely the most wonderful time of the year. Twenty-five aunts and uncles and cousins asking me the same stale questions about the same stale things. Store-bought pie because this year aunt Prudence is hosting. No liquor to take the edge off because this year aunt Prudence is hosting. Where the fuck is my flask? I really need to find that flask. Oh, and then there's Kathy, too. I can hear her now. "But the kid's would really love it," she'll say. "Nothing has changed in the month since thanksgiving, Kathy," I'll say. "But the kids." "But my dignity." She'll stand there, smoking a cigarette in the cold on the porch, holding the itchy red suit and looking like, because I told her no, the world is going to end within seconds. I'll stand there, anxious and wishing that I could bum a cigarette off of her, or at least take a drag from hers, but afraid to reveal to her and, inevitably, the whole of my family, that I am a smoker. "I'm going to go inside now," I'll say. "Okay," she'll say, her heart yet again broken by my unwillingness to bring joy to anyone. Once inside, after navigating the maze of family members and unbridled angst, I'll grab a bite to eat. Cookies or a brownie or something. Maybe some turkey, if there is any left. I'll wash it all down with a coke or some coffee, find a spot on Prudence's plastic covered couch in her sterile living room, and wait for dyspepsia to consume me. I'd watch the game, but Prudence prefers not to expose her children to the evils inside the box. A baby grand piano sits in place of a television, and I can't play a lick. Aaron the ignorant Christmas pig and my racist uncle will be within earshot and I will be disgusted by whatever base ideology is spewing from their collective vile maw.

A group of people with Parkinson's who are walking down the street together looks a little bit like a game of electric football. -Terrance Doyle

"I'd really rather not." "But the kids, they'd love it." "Again, I don't think so. I really don't."