WHEN BITING YOUR TONGUE ONLY DRAWS BLOOD

I fought censorship at Craven Community College and the press bellowed victory in such sonorous tones that reverberations still ricochet through the hallways and into the too-sterile brick and plaster classrooms.

Lately I have felt more censored and repressed than I did during the student newspaper wars, but there is no nefarious administration or bungling, foot-in-mouth college president to blame. This time, I'm the culprit.Sometimes my speech can be intemperate, sometimes unwise, sometimes costly.

The consequences, I've found, are rarely worth the momentary relief catharsis brings. Expressing myself has gotten me into such trouble that I've begun to repress the feelings I can't give voice to for fear of manufacturing catastrophe.What good would it do, I reasoned, to get everything off my chest at the expense of someone else's feelings? I thought there was some nobility in clamming up, but I always doubt the wisdom of dishonesty via the sins of omission.

There are times when I should have shut up and didn't, and the results were damning. But if I hadn't challenged circumstance, I probably would have harbored doubt and floundered in a sweat stew of what-ifs.

My words have both saved my bacon and cooked my goose, to unite two gastronomic metaphors. The trick is distinguishing which maladies can be averted by an impassioned plea and which tailspins are unrecoverable.

It's a skill I've never had and have thus far failed to cultivate.

Without surrendering specifics, there are at least three people around whom I consistently watch my words. It's wearying, and I have little skill with tame banter and small talk.

The one threshing my mental faculties now will be resolved by remaining unresolved. In this case, honesty would be hurtful and bothersome. I refuse to be either.

Maybe an old fashioned print journal (a non-public forum, unlike this blog) is in order. Because I'm bursting at the seams with things I just can't say.

A NEW LIVEJOURNAL CONVERT ABANDONS BLOGGER

This will probably be the last Voice of Reason Weblog post in a while, unless I decide to revive this blog sometime down the line. This bare-bones blog refuses to archive my posts, so I converted to LiveJournal, which, I'm told by a very reliable source, is much, much better.

The new journal is www.livejournal.com/~coreyoreo.

IN DEFENSE OF THE CELESTIAL

To the anonymous commenter who has misused this space to insult, malign and libel my best friend, your inane ramblings are no longer welcome here.

Far from being full of herself, as you charged, she is by far the most modest and humble person I know. She is the most unselfish, loyal and altogether wonderful friend I've had the privilege to encounter. Her smile is electric, and her friendship is the greatest honor that will ever be bestowed upon me. J, I hope this nameless assailant has not upset you.

You cower beneath a cloak of anonymity and snipe at the bearer of this blog's full admiration.

It's not hard to see the dark corners where the real vermin oozes.

I WALKED OFF TO LOOK FOR AMERICA

It's amusing, zipping along U.S. 17 on the short jaunt between Pollocksville and New Bern at just-dawn with a recording of Simon and Garfunkel's 1981 Concert in Central Park blaring on the stereo.

Music has always wielded the power to transport me into a realm of boundless possibilities. Neither a musician nor an actor, I'm suddenly the star of my own music video, and for once, the stars align my way and no becomes yes. For a few sublime moments, all that has been denied me seems well within reach, and it's a damned shame when I reach my destination and reality regains its jurisdiction.

Freewheeling and imagining the dream incarnate, I coast along and nod rhythmically as the two aging folk musicians exert their dominion to temporarily overthrow the oppressive nature of real life.

Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike/ They've all come to look for America.

POOR IN SPIRIT, POORER IN POCKETBOOK

There's always that false sense of security, that blissful ignorance that precedes life's intermittent onslaughts of misery.

Today, life decided to sock me in the chest with a $670 car repair. My brakes had corroded to the extent of a highway hazard, and both front tires needed replacing. With one swipe of the credit card, my recent financial victories were blotted out, and I went from having more than $500 in my bank account to having $12.

And then, there's Her. Perched at the forefront of my mind every day, she is the unattainable future I wish I could claim. Human emotions are such jagged, complex, unwieldy things.

That's all for now. This starving student has pennies to count.

COUNTING BLESSINGS AND CURSES

It's not that good things don't happen to me, I realized, as they complimented me and offered me the honor of representing my school. It's just that the blessings always seem confined to the mundane, ordinary aspects of life and never extend to the dynamic realms of the romantic or supernatural.

I have the wrong kind of good fortune.

Earlier today, I was nominated to attend the N.C. Community College Student Leadership Institute this summer in Raleigh. Craven will foot the entire bill, and I will attend a six-day leadership workshop as their sole delegate. It's an academic honor I don't deserve, and I'm grateful and strangely proud.

For all the misfortune that plagues me - being rejected by every crush I've had since sixth grade; most recently, my best friend, with whom I had fallen hopelessly in love - I am blessed sevenfold. I enjoy full reporter status at the local daily newspaper, a job many aspiring scribes would kill for, I have a wonderful immediate and extended family, I rarely have extra, but I am always taken care of financially, I enjoy school, I love work, and the few close friends I have are fiercely loyal.

But none of that matters when your heart is pining for someone you can never have.

COMMEMORATING A DUBIOUS HOLIDAY

"With its treacly messages and taste-challenged aesthetics, Valentine's Day can sometimes feel like a contrived, bottom-line boon for the greeting card, candy and flower industries. But it is also a day to reflect on that wondrous and universal intangible human quality of romantic love."
-Editorial, St. Petersburg (Fla.) Times, Feb. 12

Blogging advisory: The Chatterbox comment thingee has been added once again.

FAST FOOD FOR THE DISAFFECTED SOUL

Subsisting on a diet of greasy hamburgers and sugary sodas won't get you healthy, but it will keep you alive 'til the next day. So it is with false hope -- it's a poor substitute for contentedness, but it keeps you going.

The next stage of my life looks like it will be completely devoid of the wholesome, farm-fresh optimisim that cultivates mental, emotional and spiritual health. Instead, I'll gorge on the indulgent, impossible dreams of a future romance that hinges upon someone who may never accept me as hers. A year ago today, I would have said that what has conspired already was wholly impossible, so there is a slight chance that this circumstance will change, even though the odds are clearly stacked against me.

If I can fill my schedule with the rigors of academia and the demands of a part-time reporting job at a daily newspaper, I may be able to sufficiently distract myself from the curse that ails me. I'll pray, wish and hope for an opportnity to chase happiness, but with any luck, I won't obsess about it constantly as I've done for the past three weeks.

I've also decided that several times a month, on a lark, I will apply for a job for which I am ridiculously underqualified, such as religion reporter for The Tennesean in Nashville or political correspondent for the Washington Post. I'm not expecting a job offer, but if one of America's premiere dailies is willing to take a chance on me, perhaps my dismal future will brighten.

Who knows? And, more practically, who cares?

A VIOLENT SHIFT IN PERSPECTIVE

It's not without irony that I find myself more than willing to bury the hatchet with the science fiction and fantasy genres I've railed against and derided for most of my conscious existence.

I fell in love with my best friend, who watches Star Wars and Lord of the Rings movies religiously, reads manga novels, draws anime and even attends anime conventions in full Japanese cartoon character regalia. My pronounced disinterest for these hobbies has evaporated. Love will do that to a person.

Now, I imagine being with her, and I can envision watching a full-length anime film and enjoying every minute of it. Wrap my arm snugly around her shoulders on a cozy couch, and I'm pretty much ambivalent about what's playing on the television screen. But distraction is no substitute for genuine interest. I want to take a sincere interest in her hobbies, because what is important to her is important to me.

But even a conversion from snide anime critic to devoted anime enthusiast won't bring me a step closer to becoming the one she calls her own. I hope and pray otherwise, but I fear not even all the Jedi force in the universe can shield me from watching the love of my life walk away and entrust her secrets and dreams to someone who will never understand.

Not even Captain Kirk can save me now.

LEARNING TO LOSE GRACELESSLY

A few more days of nauseous anxiety, of fervent hoping despite my defeatist tendencies. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, maybe it's just pessimism, but I sense a grim assurance that the jury of one will again convict me unworthy of her love.

I finally admitted the truth I've been sandbagging for so long -- that I love her -- but I fear my declaration is too late to influence her decision. I may have had a real shot at happiness, and somehow (I haven't even figured out how yet) I did something to spoil it.

Words have always been my saving grace in trying times, but I can't find the right ones to say. Even if I could, she wouldn't want to hear them. Still, I wish I was capable of the kind of stirring, show-stopping, passionate-kiss-inducing speech that the suave Hollywood actors have perfected to an artform. I wish my words had power and consequence behind them; that the abundant and unconditional love with which they were spoken would somehow impact the one at whom they were directed.

But this is real life, and I'll suffer in silence, and she'll never hear what I could never say.

My greatest fear is that this ghost of a chance, this brief flicker of radiance, will be silently snuffed and quickly forgotten. I'll lose the love of my life unceremoniously, without even the benefit of fully pleading my case before the guilty verdict is read.

If there is any dynamic romanticism in the world, this is the time for a miracle. I need it. I need her.

Learning to lose gracelessly is a lesson I just cannot endure.

A FITTING SEND-OFF FOR 2004

Cynics of all stripes will find devious humor in Dave Barry's 2004 Year in Review column, available here for your perusal. So read, cackle uncontrollably, and bid farewell to the year that even Pope John Paul II described (in a papal bull, no less, whatever the hell that means) as "a considerable bummer."

Not that 2005 will bring magical wish-granting pixie gnomes fluttering down to earth, either.

MORE THAN PYROTECHNICS MEETS THE EYE

Do they know it's Christmas?

They, the romantic misadventures and soul-withering rejections that plague me on each of the other 364 days of the year, they certainly don't observe any yuletide grace period, not even enough of a respite to allow hope to creep its way in before they smash it to jagged shards of freeze-dried dreams.

So, like a moth drawn to the scorching flame, I read more narratives penned by the object of my affection describing her budding affinity for a recent friend of hers. Aside from poking oneself in the eyeball with a surgical needle, this has to be one of the most masochistic and least merry ways to spend Christmas afternoon.

Yes, the family woke up at the crack of dawn, lounged beside a crackling fire and ripped wrapping paper, as is customary. Yes, we gathered for Christmas dinner, a hearty combination of ham, turducken (chicken, duck and turkey all baked together) and doughy rolls. But the savage void of a dream deferred knows no season. At present, I am poring over a three-page declaration of dependence, which I plan to present to her and plead my case for happiness with the fervent freneticism of a convict on death row.

The National Weather Service predicts freezing rain will wallop the area overnight. My personal forecast: Mostly cloudy with a 90 percent chance of heartbreak. Let it snow.

AMERICAN KRYPTONITE

If what was done could be undone, would you undo it? I honestly can't answer that question.

No specifics here, because there's no telling who's out there in Readerland. So, although the sordid details are veiled, suffice it to say that there is confusion. "Judas, there is some confusion up in here," I'm apt to say, at any moment.

But this is lame -- I'm bellyaching about an issue I don't even want to disclose. Discernment sucks. Morality sucks. Unrealistic expectations suck.

This post sucks.

YOU ASSURE ME I'M A LITTLE MORE THAN USELESS

The difference between failure and success is a matter of opinion -- hers.

After a string of withering disappointments and painful realizations, I was convinced that I had failed at life in a big way. The little remaining hope that hasn't been pummeled out of me is barely sustainable. But my best friend has more faith in me than I have in myself. She doesn't think I'm a failure. And her opinion is all that matters to me.

It's humbling that anyone -- least of all the one person upon whose feelings my sun rises and sets -- can find a redeeming quality or two in a life that has been so poorly mismanaged. It's hard not to feel like a failure, but if someone who herself is the very definition of success believes I've accomplished something significant, who am I to question her wisdom?

I am so reassured that, in some small way, my life matters.

It matters to her. That's all I care about.

REGENESIS

The blog is back. For now.

After yet another months-long hiatus of brooding, internalizing and refusing to post, I'm reactivating the Voice of Reason Weblog -- at least temporarily. I'm currently working on a news feature about the blogging trend for the Sun Journal, and some preliminary research restored my desire to post random, sporadic bits of the cynical commentary I'm known for.

It's 1:34 a.m., and I'm not even tired. I was tired at 6:30. This has to be a sleep disorder, there's no other possible explanation. Of course, I did just return from pacing around the house about seven thousand times. Pacing should be outlawed. Scratch that; it's the thinking. They really should outlaw thinking.

Maybe then they can pass that gay marriage ban in Congress.

FIRST AMENDMENT FIASCO

The student press was dealt a severe blow early this month when administrators at Craven Community College in New Bern, N.C. forced the censorship of an article in the Campus Communicator, a 1,100-circulation student newspaper of which I serve as editor.

One story has already been printed in a local boating newspaper, which I have linked to below. I'll post more as other media outlets continue to cover the censorship and the resultant backlash.

"College newspaper's Page 1 gets censorship treatment"
http://www.coastnews.net/college.html

'SO FAR, SO BAD, THAT'S HOW IT GOES...'

Another day, another setback, another distant glimmer of hope.

Without rehashing the details, suffice it to say that another severe disappointment has been batted my way, and the persistent volleys have worn the threads of sanity on my tennis racket of resilience. (Warning: Do not attempt meaphors like this except under the supervision of a trained humor professional, such as Dave Barry, or if he is not available, that weaselly-looking guy from "Encino Man.")

So, hollow platitudes notwithstanding, I'm once again hopeless -- well, nearly hopeless. There's still a faint wisp of hope alive, sustaining itself on sheer will, because it has to. And life will be manageable, if not enjoyable, as long as the bruised and battered hope can purloin a couple quick stabs of oxygen and remain vibrant. Alive.

When we appreciate the value of hope, we can begin to turn our attention to other matters.

For example, that weaselly-looking guy is Pauly Shore.

'HOW YOUR HALO FELL'

Like shoveling coal into a furnace.

That's what life has become -- a maze of mind-sapping routines that refreshes every day, adding to a mounting deficit as committments clash and rest proves elusive. But fortunately, work has provided a great creative outlet for my frustrations. If it weren't for the Sun Journal, the 20k circulation community newspaper where I serve as weekends reporter, I doubt there would be much variety in my life.

Reporting is awesome. To swipe a Peace Corps recruitment slogan, "It's the toughest job you'll ever love."

Love. Now there's a word I've been avoiding for some time. And, if the past serves as a fair barometer of the future, things aren't due for a change anytime soon. But you have to keep hope alive, or so they say.

One of my closest and most loyal friends lost her job today. With a department full of bumbling incompetents as superiors, it's no great loss to her in the long run, but I'm sure it still stings. The fascination with modelling as a viable career choice is beginning to concern me. Men are pigs, and fashion photographers are pigs with telephoto lenses. It's a cruel, bottom-line driven industry, and I disagree with the philosophy that a person, no matter how attractive, should be a model for others to emulate.

More is on the way. I'd like to post a more complete update, but since this is the first post in months, I'm not too ambitious about stretching the word count.

"DeLorean/Those days are gone/ This may feel so distant/ Feels like a million miles/ Trouble was nonexistent/ 1985"
1985, Roper

A HOMELESS COLUMN

Below is a sports column that was originally intended for the Aug. 25 edition of the Sun Journal. Coincidentally, my editor chose the exact same topic for his column, so this one won't see the light of day--except on the Web. Hope you enjoy it!

Unworthy of the gold

By Corey Friedman

What does one do with an unearned Olympic gold medal?
An eBay auction to find the highest bidder comes immediately to mind, but if the medal's owner should want to keep it, maybe it could be pressed into service as a beverage coaster.
It certainly wouldn't belong in a trophy case, or even on a dusty particle board shelf, wedged between faded Little League plaques and elementary school attendance awards.
Stumped as to where would be appropriate to display such an undeserved bauble? Just ask Paul Hamm.
The American gymnast was presented with the gold medal for the men's all-around final on Wednesday, but officials later discovered that the bronze medallist received a lower start value than he should have been awarded. Tack on the extra tenth of a point that judges erroneously omitted from his score, and the bronze medallist--South Korean gymnast Yang Tae-young--would have edged out Hamm for the gold.
Three judges were suspended on Saturday for the grave miscalculation, but the International Gymnastics Federation said the results would not be altered and Hamm wouldn't be stripped of his medal, the Associated Press reported.
The question is, if you are awarded a gold medal in error, why wouldn't you surrender it voluntarily? Hamm wasn't really the best on Wednesday, and he knows it. While Tae-young is sulking and rightfully cursing the bamboozled judges and their fuzzy math, Hamm will be strutting around with a medal he hasn't really earned.
USA Gymnastics president Bob Colarossi "insisted the federation's decision should not put an asterisk on Hamm's gold medal," the AP reported.
Why on earth would true sportsmen and Olympic purists put an asterisk on poor Paul Hamm's gold medal? OK, so he didn’t technically deserve the medal, but does that really diminish his remarkable accomplishments?
It should, but it won't.
The South Korean delegation is incensed, and they have good reason to be. Country officials will bring the matter before the Court of Arbitration for Sports, which will determine whether Tae-young will receive a gold medal.
Like the 2000 Florida recount imbroglio in an international arena, this ugly incident is reinforcing the idea that Americans will use miscounts and mathematical sleight of hand to their advantage. In Hamm's defense, I should point out that neither he nor the three suspended judges have been accused of any kind of deceit or impropriety.
But the funny thing about stereotypes is they don't have to be 100 percent true to become international canon.
If Hamm had the integrity of a true Olympian, he would return the medal and refuse to claim such an undeserved prize. Since that hasn't happened, it’s not unreasonable to expect that he will try to capitalize on his ill-gotten gains.
Maybe he can do TV commercials. I hear Gold Medal flour is looking for a new spokesman.
Hamm seems to think the medallion is like a card from the Monopoly board game that says "Bank error in your favor. Collect $50." Someone had to make a colossal mistake for him to receive his reward, but as far as Hamm is concerned, it's his lucky day.
Of course, compared with the pewter top hat, Scotty dog and thimble, an Olympic gold medal would make a great gamepiece. Maybe that's what he'll use it for. He definitely won't display it with pride on the mantel.
Or at least, he shouldn't.
Corey Friedman can be reached at 638-8101 ext. 271 or at corey_friedman@link.freedom.com.

GROUND CONTROL TO MAJOR TOM

For the eight trillionth time this year alone, the Voice of Reason Weblog is relaunching. We do this from time to time because we get sick of wading through old commentary that is now irrelevant and, when you get right down to it, wasn't even relevant in the first place. We also like using the word "relaunch," which sounds far more technical than it is.

The "we" is Corey, a college student and reporter for a daily newspaper who sometimes refers to himself in the plural and sometimes in the third person, depending on how he is feeling. Which is usually not especially splendid, because he is plagued by the Kennedy Curse and tends to be pessimistic when one of life's little lessons decides to manifest itself as one of life's little Crushing Torpedoes of Death, which is every other Monday.

But all pessimism aside, this blog will become a repository for Corey's (my, our) opinions on everything from the Israel-Palestinian conflict to the diminishing length of drinking straws. It is our sincere hope that the latter half of 2004 treats us better than the first half of the year.

Which shouldn't be hard.

OBSERVATIONS

"It's probably not going to come as a great surprise to you to learn that, over the last week or so, I've been victimized in another of a seemingly endless series of mind-muddling messes that find me like how a tornado inevitably pounces on a defenseless mobile home park.

Or the way lightning zaps a rod atop a barn.....

To quote Rod Stewart's line in "Every Picture Tells a Story," six little words that have suddenly become the story of my life, "Look how wrong you can be."

I'm sure I'm not alone in this, but once things spin out of your control and you're on your own against the world, I expect the worst and am seldom disappointed."

--Mike Dewey, Sun Journal columnist

DEPENDENCE DAY

Here are the lyrics to a 2001 Brave Saint Saturn tune to ruminate upon. Enjoy the Fourth!

One time on the Fourth of July,
I went out to see the fireworks fly.
From a hill, I could see all the rockets as they flew
from the town below me.
Bombs bursting in the air,
The crowd cheered with every flare,
In the distance, clouds were cracking and flashing,
Mountains shaking with every explosion.
I remembered thinking that night,
As I looked into the sky,
More than pyrotechnics meets the eye.

And the fireworks fly,
And the fireworks fall,
But I have seen the best of all.
And it's true,
After every charge is through,
I can still hear the thunder call.

Glitter bombs turn pasty pale,
Under five-mile electric trails,
Soaring skies and lofty Sierras,
Never looked quite as good in the pictures.
Neon flickers in the haze,
Billboards set to catch our gaze,
So much noise,
Nothing holds our attention,
It has all been done before.
So let the rockets sparkle and fade,
Let the streamers fill the sky,
More than pyrotechnics meets the eye.

"Fireworks," Brave Saint Saturn So Far From Home, 2001

A WISH FOR EVERY CANDLE



Binary Star,

For two decades of brightening the world with your smile, for all the lives you've touched, for all your diligent prayers and dreams, we wish you an unforgettable 20th birthday and a 21st year filled with all the joy and happiness this world has to offer.

A SITE TO BEHOLD

Fans of satire, irony and faux news should be sure to check out The Idol Bat at www.idolbat.com, which added me to its stable of college satirists yesterday.

The Idol Bat features tongue-in-cheek college news and social commentary with an ironic twist in much the same vein as The Onion and its Canadian counterpart The Hammer. My work will begin appearing on the Idol Bat site shortly.

The online tabloid publishes weekly and offers several products on its online store, which I encourage everyone to check out. Contact me for information on contributing to the Idol Bat.

Enjoy the fake news.

DEPT. OF SAD BUT TRUE

.

'IN VERY POOR TASTE'?

Ah, to live in the United States, where we are fortunate to enjoy broad First Amendment freedoms and live under strict laws against tracking someone down and putting sugar in their gas tank simply because you don't like something they wrote.

This week's installment of my weekly column prompted one irate reader to leave a 10-minute phone message on my editor's voicemail, ranting about the column which he felt was "in very poor taste" and threatening to cancel his subscription.

In the column, "Portugal's reefer madness," I wrote about the recent news that Portuguese police in Lisbon announced they wouldn't arrest visiting British soccer fans for posession or consumption of marijuana, following the rationale that hey, if the hooligans get stoned out of their gourds, they'll be too mellow to start a riot.


I chided the police for making it known that the nation's already lenient drug laws were being selectively enforced, but I noted that dozens of Europeans have been killed in soccer riots and if letting the pot go unpunished increased public safety, then they've got to do whatever it takes to keep order.

What was perhaps an oversight on my part was devoting about 10 inches of the column to the lighthearted suggestion that maybe we should try passing the pipe to sports fans and athletes in the U.S. It was meant to be taken lightly--there's no way I'd actually support the introduction of drugs into pro sports--but if someone totally missed the sarcastic tone, I can see how it would appear to be a puff piece on puffing the magic dragon.

More telling stil, I received four e-mails in response to the column at my Freedom Communications e-mail address; three of them clearly written by proponents of marijuana legalization. One e-mail was from a self-styled "Welsh stoner" writing all the way from Wales.

Anyone who has read the offending column is invited to give their feedback in the tagboard on the right hand side of the blog. Let me know what you think; was it harmless hyperbole or pot-friendly piffle?

SOMEWHERE I BELONG

Yesterday was my first day on the job as a reporter intern for the Sun Journal, a community daily newspaper in North Carolina's colonial capital. And for the first time in 19 years, my job isn't just a tedious chore for mindless drones. It's a career, and it trulymakes a difference in people's lives.

And so, Corey the supermarket bagger and Corey the waiter and Corey the coffeehouse barista are now just phantoms of the past.

Corey the journalist has arrived.

The day began with contract signing and the usual new hire jazz, followed by a crash course on the finer points of ACT Editorial and FirstClass, the shell system and e-mail program the paper uses, respectively.

Before long, I found myself writing obituaries--the starting point for just about every cub reporter. It's a little jarring to realize that you're typing up and filing the last thing to ever be written about a person. But nevertheless, it is important--if not glamorous--work.

I pondered how I'd like my obituary to read. "He is survived by ________."

Wife's name here.

The crushing weight of not being able to fill in that blank will remain an albatross around my neck for some time. I guess like death itself, some things will remain mysterious until the very end.

During my time at the Sun Journal, I'll be covering local government meetings, American Legion baseball games, car accidents and arrests, feature stories on local artists and musicians and maybe even a festival or two. I will also write a weekly sports column that will run Wednesdays throughout the summer.

Though I could blather on for a thousand more inches about the internship, suffice it to say for now that I'm having a blast at work.

If only everyone could be so lucky.

LETTING GO AND HOLDING ON

I lost about 20 pounds today.

The excess weight wasn't shed from my body, however, but from my corpulent, overstuffed desk. This afternoon I removed old, tattered notebooks, crumpled papers and faded folders by the fistful, as I filled two trash bags to the brim in an impromptu cleaning session.

First to go were the documents I no longer had use for; graded English papers, various news article printouts and the like. Then came the old bank staements. (Shhh...don't tell anybody! You're not really supposed to throw them away, ever, even if you live to be 173 years old and the bank that issued the statement is no longer in existence, but I was on a roll.)

I also junked a trio of folders stuffed with copies of e-mails, instant message conversations and other paraphernalia from a long-expired relationship. There was even a CD I made for my former paramour packed with 19 songs that once held special significance to the two of us.

Letting go of these relics was a necessary symbolic act to break the bonds I once worked tirelessly to forge. Though the relationship ended painfully, I am much wiser today as a result. She and I remain friends, though we rarely talk anymore, and I wish her nothing but the absolute best in life.

But as for me, in the words of REO Speedwagon, "It's time for me to fly."

Which brings me to something else I found while cleaning out my desk--something I didn't throw away. I rediscovered a few yellowed pages of poetry my father had written in college, long since archived and forgotten. Each syllable surges with boundless ambition. Truth be told, Greg Friedman was no Walt Whitman, but his poems are raw, emotional, honest.

Pure.

So as I re-read his words today, I feel the same uncompromising determination to bring my ethereal dreams full circle. I am driven to succeed. I only pray that Greg's son will someday be as successful as the State University of New York-Geneseo freshman who wrote these haunting words decades ago.

I wonder if I will reach my potential
They fail to offer me any encouragement.
Pressure mounts...I must succeed.
Should I [suffer] defeat?
For those who have hindered me
Make me will that much more to succeed.
So I search for my outlet.
My search is relentless.
I am a born fighter.
I am slowed--but not stopped--by failure.
Won't give up.
Must make it.
I strive to reach my inevitable goals.

Ditto, Dad. Ditto.

BACK IN THE CLASSROOM

Analyzing the complex neurological causes of human behavior is never something I thought I'd be doing at 8 a.m. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday.

My first psychology class of the summer semester commenced bright and early this morning, taught by academic skills center director Chris Pfautz, a left-leaning fellow who is nevertheless a competent and intelligent instructor. As an icebreaker, he passed out "Who Are You?" sheets containing nine squares in which students are supposed to write an interesting factoid about their classmates. It definitely beats taking notes.

The class will meet for four hour-long sessions each week. I'm looking forward to the intellectual debates and arguments that will undoubtedly follow, because we all know what happens when you put a Christian communications major who calls himself the Voice of Reason in a room with a couple dozen liberal humanists and a kindred soul or two.

Poor Mr. Pfautz doesn't stand a chance.

In other news, my car is still awaiting a sorely-needed door transplant. I'm not exactly sure what driving around in a dented vehicle with no side-view mirror is a metaphor for, but after another week's worth of classes, I'm sure I'll be able to figure it out.

SHATTERED GLASS, INCOMPETENT POLICE DAMPEN SUMMER--BUT THERE ARE STILL REASONS TO SMILE

I'm starting to think that the old joke about my family being related to the Kennedys and thus subject to the Kennedy curse might not be so farfetched after all.

Monday, May 17 brought a car accident in the Twin Rivers Mall parking lot access road. As I made a signaled turn--for which I had the right of way--a black Toyota pick-up T-boned my front driver's side door.

The impact crushed the driver's side door in my Ford Taurus sedan and shattered the window glass, spraying it across the front seat. Though I wasn't injured, the collision was frightening nevertheless. As the force of the impact jostled me around in the car, I thought about the person who is most important to me. I remembered the things that really matter in life.

It was an epiphany of sorts.

But then, reality set in.

As the officer who soon arrived at the scene surveyed the damage, the other driver told him her version of events. He inspected her vehicle and walked with me to mine, parked a few yards away, to inspect the damage. I asked the officer if he would like to take my statement, to which he replied, "No, that’s OK."

I cooperated fully with his investigation and gave him my driver's license and registration card. After taking the information to his patrol car, the officer wrote what was presumably an accident report for approximately 20 minutes.

The officer found me to be at fault for the collision and cited me for unsafe movement. When he handed me the ticket, I respectfully asked the lawman how he could make a determination of guilt without hearing my version of events. I reminded the officer that I had offered to make a statement and he declined.

I took photographs of the scene of the collision, the damage to my vehicle and the skid mark it left. A simple glance at my skid mark showed the officer's sketch on the accident report to be erroneous.

After talking in circles with the patrol sergeant at the New Bern Police Department, the police finally dispatched an accident reconstruction crew to reinvestigate the crash days later. Though he seemed impartial, this officer ignored my irrefutable evidence--the skid mark that proved my vehicle had turned from the turn lane and had the right of way.

The original accident report stands.

Now I'm deliberating whether to fight the charge in court and if so, whether to hire an attorney. Either way, the experience will be stressful and drawn-out. No matter what, I'll be out hundreds--if not thousands--of dollars.

With my abysmal luck, it's difficult not to become cynical and flippant. In the words of columnist Mike Dewey, a fellow situational pessimist, "I'm sure I'm not alone in this, but once things spin out of your control and you're on your own against the world, I expect the worst and am seldom disappointed."

But things aren't all gloom-and-doom. Here are a few things--some major, some minor--that give me a reason to keep smiling this summer:

* My friend Kristin, who has been a constant source of comfort, inspiration and camaraderie and is the sole most important person in my life.

* My reporter intern job at the Sun Journal, which will be a career dream come true. I'll take residence in the newsroom cubicle beginning June 1.

* Seeing Hollywood flops like Van Helsing and listing the innumerable things that make these movies truly terrible.

* The music of alt-rock starlet Alanis Morissette, who released a new album May 18.

* Entering the annual Associated Collegiate Press Reporter of the Year contest...and aiming for the N.C. Press Association newswriting award.

* Finding a potential candidate for a new church--St. Paul's Lutheran Church in Havelock

The more I think about it, I've had more than my fair share of good luck as well as bad luck.

Sorry, Mr. Dewey, but I expect the best, even if experience has taught me to prepare for the worst.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

OK, BUT THIS HAD BETTER WORK...

Conventional wisdom from the 1700s: "If you want to get married, stand on your head and chew a piece of gristle out of a beef neck and swallow it , and you will get anyone you want."

So can I put some A-1 steak sauce on the beef neck to make it more palatable, or would that somehow be cheating?

Week in Review
SUMMER ARRIVES WITH NO SHORTAGE OF PROJECTS

My first full year of higher education ended Wednesday, signaling the summer's long-awaited arrival. I'm relieved to have my freshman year out of the way and look forward to some much-needed time off.

Blogging has been sparse as of late because when I'm not too busy to post, I'm often too tired to do so. But there are no great revelations to report. Yesterday I slept in and watched Comedy Central for awhile, did some work around the house, went shopping, cooked dinner and read before turning in around 2 a.m. Not exactly the stuff of legends.

Today I had to scrap my initial plans to pick up my sister from school after she called home sick. On the way home, I stopped by the Sun Journal to pick up my internship contract and some new assignments for the advertising department. I'll be piecing together New Bern's 2004 AnswerBook, a tabloid guide to local utilities and services, in addition to writing a series of business profiles. My corkboard is filled with assignments and special projects; they'll definitely be keeping me busy.

Earlier this afternoon I took a lengthy walk through the neighborhood until I reached the banks of the Neuse River. The sun-dappled scenery was awe-inspiring, with evergreens at full hue and the bright blue water rippling gently along the grassy riverbank. For a moment, I wished I had toted my camera along, but I knew that film couldn't capture the scene's impact.

TODAY IS AS GOOD A DAY AS ANY TO APPRECIATE MOM

Millions of grateful children across America will honor their mothers in various demonstrative ways today, from serving breakfast in bed to sending flowers or giving jewelry. As wonderful as this outpouring of gratitude may be, mothers deserve far more than the observance of one arbitrarily-chosen spring holiday.

My mom has never failed me, and she's often played the role of both a mother and father, since my dad lost a battle with lymphoma cancer when I was 10 years old. Through the years, she has been a constant source of inspiration, a confidant, an ally, a teacher, a tireless homemaker, a breadwinner and so much more.

Drawing on her vast reserves of determination, my mom returned to the classroom to finish college--while working and raising my sister and I--from which she graduated with the qualifications to earn a better living as a radiologic technologist and eventually as a mammographer. She has never faltered or wavered as she shoulders the weighty burdens of children, home and work.

Though the song itself is about the lead singer's split with his longtime fiancee, there is a snippet of Brave Saint Saturn's "Independence Day" that will always remind me of my mom.

"You're strong and resilient/ Beautiful and brilliant/ Proving that you're free/ Independently"

With a legacy like this etched in the lines of her face, shouldn't every day be Mother's Day?

PRESCRIPTION DRUG ADDICTS DESERVE HELP, LENIENCY

This morning I was shocked to read that Cindy Eubanks, a school resource officer at the high school I graduated last year, pleaded guilty to two counts of common-law forgery and was sentenced to 90 days in county lock-up for duplicating legitimate prescriptions for the painkiller OxyContin after she had become addicted to the drug during the course of her treatment.

Eubanks, a 15-year veteran of the New Bern Police Department, lost her job patrolling the 1,800-student high school and, according to her attorney, will never work in law enforcement again. Although I by no means condone her irresponsible behavior, I believe putting Eubanks behind bars is a gross overreaction and an abuse of our nation's stringent anti-drug laws.

Conclusive research has proven OxyContin to be extremely addictive, and one wonders why the Food and Drug Administration approved it for medical use knowing the vast potential for abuse. Eubanks was prescribed the drug legitimately, and since she developed the addiction through no fault of her own--by following doctor's orders, in fact--should we as a society throw the book at her?

A more humane and understanding solution would be to assign Eubanks to a mandatory stay in a drug rehab clinic and put her on probation with regularly scheduled and surprise drug tests. Prison never rehabilitates anybody; it makes the violent criminals more dangerous and it often causes people of conscience to forever lose their moral compass.

District Court Judge Paul Quinn, who sentenced Eubanks to prison, failed in his duty as a jurist to consider extenuating circumstances. Instead of showing mercy and leniency, Quinn has set a legal precedent for harshly punishing addicts who have had addictive drugs handed to them by trusted doctors. It's the ultimate bait-and-switch, and the injured deserve better than a painkiller with a possible prison sentence attached.

STRANDED BY THE ROADSIDE

The past couple of days have been absolutely dismal. Returning home from the movie theater late Saturday evening, my right front tire blew out and set off a string of undesirable events. I managed to nurse the Ford sedan off U.S. Hwy 17 and into a Blockbuster Video parking lot, where I attempted to replace the offending tire. As luck would have it, I was missing the mystery tool that would unlock the stupid anti-theft lugnuts, allowing me to complete the tire change. (Please explain to me the reasoning behind anti-theft lugnuts....is tire theft really that common?)

So my next move was to call the 24-hour roadside assistance hotline included with my cell phone service. A mechanic with a truck bed full of tools at his disposal soon arrived and replaced my blown tire with the miniature spare in my trunk, and I did eventually make it home, albeit at 3:30 a.m. The next morning, I was on the way out the door to head to work when I noticed that the spare tire had deflated overnight. Attempts to reach a few relatives who weren't in Asheboro with my family were unsuccessful, so I had to wait for a taxi for over an hour and finally made it to work nearly two hours late.

One of the managers at the coffeehouse where I work (the current manager count is four, although the number could increase at any time) gave me a good dressing down for being so late and warned me that I'd lose my job if I was late again. After scraping maybe four hours of sleep and then sacrificing time and money to get transportation to work at great personal expense, the last thing I needed was to put up with a lecture from a third-rate wannabe boss, but I managed to act apologetic enough to save my skin for the time being. Not happy with work though--not by a long shot.

Sunday evening was devoted to writing an argument-based research paper due at 9 a.m. sharp Monday morning. I got maybe a half hour catnap before it was time to get ready to leave for school. Today I have to go spend money I don't have on new tires....provided I can temporarily inflate the spare with Fix-a-Flat enough to get me to the service station, that is. The past couple days have been exhausting and all I can say is something's gotta give. If my current luck continues, I'll be in a padded room within a month.

Mmm, I can almost taste those little white pills already.

GOOD JOBS ARE HARD TO FIND, HARDER TO KEEP

For the third time in six months, I may soon be seeking part-time employment. During my shift earlier today at Port City Java, a coffeehouse in the heart of New Bern's historic downtown district, I was infuriated to learn that I'm scheduled to work just eight hours next week. If my hours are slashed again the following week, I'll have no choice but to submit my immediate resignation due to my employer's failure to honor a scheduling promise made at the time of my employment.

When I was hired at PCJ, the manager guaranteed me a minimum of 20 hours per week. Unfortunately, she was not available today for me to speak with directly, but another manager assured me she had consulted with her and the current schedule would stand.

For background information, there are at least three and maybe as many as five managers for the small coffeehouse. I can't keep track of who's really in charge over there; the franchise suffers from a ridiculously scattershot management that is as inefficient as it is incomprehensible. But the point is, there are too many chiefs and not enough Indians, and the employees get short shrift because of it.

I've grown tired of these low-wage part-time jobs, and it will be a tremendous relief when my summer internship begins and I can get a taste of a professional work environment. Problem is, when I start school again in the fall, I'll have to find another crummy job to cover tuition and other expenses.

To quote Mike Meyers' character in the early-'90s cult classic movie Wayne's World, "I've had my share of Joe jobs. Let's just say I have an extensive collection of name tags and hair nets."

CLOSING THE BOOKS ON ANOTHER WEEK

Friday finally arrived on the heels of another long, repetitive week of school, work and freelance assignments. Even though I will be working both Saturday and Sunday, it's still a relief to get through the workweek, when mornings are earlier and days busier. If time permits, I may make it to the movie theater to see The Punisher, which looks interesting even though I'm not familiar with the original Punisher comics. From what I've heard, the soundtrack is definitely worth a listen.

At the moment, I'm tutoring in the college writing lab, if you define tutoring as getting paid to chill out for long periods of time and occasionally edit an essay or assist with a thesis statement. I'll be here for another few minutes before attending my 12:10 p.m. world religions class, then I'm done at school for the day. The afternoon will be devoted to covering high school baseball in Pamlico County (tourism slogan: "Running Water Now in Some Areas") and filing the game story from home.

I'm making a concerted effort to focus more on the day-to-day and worry less about the future right now, and even though I doubt a day will go by without daydreams of a better tomorrow, my hope is that a renewed emphasis on the here and now will ensure that if the perfect future I've dreamt about never comes, the present will be tolerable enough. I'm also very thankful for the continued friendship and support of the person who has changed my life and will always have my admiration and gratitude.

RELAUNCH BEGINS TODAY

This blog is relaunching. Posting will resume shortly.

Week In Review
TYING UP LOOSE ENDS WITH AN EMPTY SPOOL

My horoscope in the hilarious satire newspaper The Onion once cautioned me, "You won't be able to get through the week without using the word 'brutal' a lot." Such is a fairly good way to describe the past seven days.

School has become more demanding now as the semester skids and shudders its way to a May 12 ending, I have to put in hours in the math lab this upcoming week if I hope to scrape a passing grade, and I still have plenty of research to conduct and pages to write for my argument-based research paper, final draft due May 3. The best and worst thing about school, in fact, is the end of the semester. I won't miss the boring lecture days and time-intensive projects, but I will miss seeing my amigos and amigas on a daily basis, the feeling of having something important waiting the next day, and yes, even all the drama surrounding the stupid student newspaper I'm involved with. I may take one course over the summer, but it's getting late to sign up.

Binary Star and I won't be meeting in New York this summer. She won't financially be able to afford the trip, and can't spare the time. I'm trying not to interpret this as a sign that we'll never be together, but at first it felt that way. Impatience isn't my main problem though--I could wait 100 years for her if that' s how long it took--but I have a feeling that the nagging worry about whether we'll ever be more than friends would haunt me whether she's 1,500 miles away or living right next door.

Work has been...well, work. I pulled a 10 1/2-hour shift yesterday and was anxious to leave, but couldn't accomplish anything productive when I finally got home. The last couple days I've felt alternately lazy, then guilty for being lazy, then apathetic about laziness, guilt and most other things under the sun. In time, this funk will lift. Right?

I'm very much looking forward to the summer reporting internship; it should be great. I crave the excitement of covering a big story, then rushing back to type up some punchy, pithy prose, then helping to lay out the page where my story will appear the next day! I realize that to some, it doesn't sound either exciting or appealing, but it is equal parts passion and calling for me.

In recreation news, today I purchased a humor "history" book, Dave Barry Slept Here: A Sort-Of History of the United States. It's truly uproarious, a dozen laughs a minute.

For now, it's time for me to fly. I will try to post more often, however. Excelsior.

FEEDBACK POURS IN

Over the past week, I've received quite a bit of feedback on my last posting, an admittedly depressing missive on what it's like to yearn for a Star that is, by all human reckonings, unreachable. Most of it has been of the "Awww, that is so sad!" variety, and I appreciate everyone's comisseration and concern.

In fact, it's a bit disappointing that Blogger doesn't have a feature allowing users to comment--other services such as Xanga and LiveJournal have excellent commenting options--but if any readers are more computer-literate than I am, that is to say, more technologically adept than your average baked potato, you can feel free to clue me in on how to obtain one of those comment boxes for the blog.

But thanks for the feedback, vox populi.

UPDATE--To remedy Blogger's lack of a comment option, I installed a ChatterBox tag board, which allows readers to post brief messages to me and to each other. Feel free to take advantage of this ChatterBox, whether to offer praise or criticism. Just share your opinions.

'WHERE DREAMS MAY SPARK AND FLICKER'

Her eyes blaze with a celestial conflagration of jewel-bright hazel and untold depths, and the possibility that I may never behold them again is as utterly deflating as the thought that when I search their depths, I'll find that I have no place by her side.

The one I call Binary Star has unwittingly cast an unbreakable spell on me; my eternal devotion a result of her beauty, purity, faith, humor, integrity and loyalty. I find myself dreaming grandiose dreams of a life spent with her, dreams that will likely be shattered when someone more deserving comes along and sweeps her off her feet. And for all I could offer her: unconditional love, honesty, devotion, admiration; I know that if my dreams ever come true, I will be the biggest benefactor--the luckiest man alive.

I want what is best for Binary Star, and I truly and honestly believe that no one could ever love her as much or provide for her as well as I. And how invincible and content she could make me feel, no other girl could compare to her. I'd cherish a cutesy nickname that most guys would be embarassed to have; I'd wear it like a badge of honor. I want to belong to her, and I want her to belong to me.

But in all morbid honesty, she will probably never accept me as hers. Although we share a wonderful friendship, she has never felt for me what I do for her, and the chances of her having a change of heart are slim. Most frustrating of all, there's nothing I can do to convince her that I am the one for her. I'm drained, sapped, hopeless and helpless. There's nothing left to do but pray and dream.

Compounding my melancholy is the diminishing possibility of seeing her this summer. Initially I planned to visit her in her home state in the Midwest, but some logistical problems presented themselves. She may be coming to New York for a few brief days, but if so, will she have time to see me? Will she even want to?

Binary Star,
You're the brightest blue by far
And up against this starry sea
I thought that you were meant for me
Please tell me you were meant for me.

SEE HOW THEY RUN

For record-keeping purposes, here's a track meet story running in today's paper. Don't care? Then don't read it.

SUMMER INTERNSHIP SECURED

They say when you join a gang, the only way you can get out is in a body bag. Here's hoping that the same holds true in the newspaper business.

Today I received official word that I have been accepted for an eight-week summer reporting internship at the New Bern Sun Journal, a medium-sized community newspaper in my new hometown in historic New Bern, North Carolina. This summer, I will have the unique opportunity to cover a smattering of local events on a variety of beats, to write long-term project stories, sporting event and local government meeting coverage on deadline, not to mention news briefs and obituaries.

The Freedom Communications-owned Sun Journal circulates 41,955 copies daily and 50,297 on Sunday, according to the parent company's Web site. Freedom owns over 30 community and metropolitan newspapers, the crown jewel of these being the prestigious Orange County Register.

BLOGGING DOWN THE BUNNY TRAIL

On Easter Sunday, we suit up in our brightest fineries and don ribbons and bonnets to celebrate the miraculous resurrection of our Lord and Savior. Then we eat eleventy pounds of solid milk chocolate in the form of eggs laid by a giant white rabbit. It's very religious. And surreal.

Today my extended family convened in Wilmington for an Easter Sunday dinner at Wilson's, a restaurant, buffet and sports bar. It was an enjoyable experience and felt like a mini-family reunion, even though the majority of my family lives here in New Bern now. The only downside was that I overslept this morning and ruined church for my mom, which I regret immensely, but still, I have no recollection of the stupid alarm clock going off. Those geniuses at General Electric sure make some quality consumer products.....

In other news, school starts up again tomorrow, and I'll be there bright and early at 8 a.m. I'm only working three days at the coffeehouse this week and have two assignments for the newspaper, so it should be a pretty light week. There's a possibility of an exciting summer vacation down the road, but I'll post more about that as it develops. (It might not even happen.)

Hasta la bye bye for now. As always, keep the faith and Excelsior.

ADRENALINE FOR CUBICLE-DWELLERS

Athletes have their fourth-quarter save-the-day showstoppers, weekend warriors have the thrill of hiking several brisk miles or scaling a mountain, and even manual laborers like construction workers can get a fair jolt of panic-produced adrenaline now and then.

But what about us writers, pencil pushers whose most arduous physical challenge is mashing the gas pedal in our bulbous sedans as we speed off to one assignment or another? We, too, have a means of drumming up adrenaline rushes every so often. It's called deadline.

Yes, parking one's rear in front of a computer and typing like a fiend to meet a retardiculous 10:20 p.m. print deadline sounds a lot less exciting and a lot dweebier than any physical pursuit, but so what? is our feeling on the matter.

Here's a rushed game story I had to eke out earlier this evening at the paper. It wasn't exactly Pulitzer Prize material......OK, it wasn't even N.C. Press Association prize material. But it met the length requirement--15 inches--and if I did my job correctly, you'll be able to figure out who won after only 17 readings.

WHO'S LOOKING OUT FOR WOMEN OF CONSCIENCE?

In a week's span, the venerable New York Times has maligned and disrespected American women far more than the anti-abortion activists the Times criticizes for doing just that.

A series of editorials on the recently passed Unborn Victims of Violence Act, which cleared the Congress by a narrow margin, equates charging those who murder pregnant women with two crimes instead of one with hacking away at Roe v. Wade, the 1973 Supreme Court case that formally legalized abortion. Furthermore, the Times' notoriously libertine editorial board yawps, undermining abortion rights shows a "profound disrespect for women."

Oh really?

How can this be when almost half of all women oppose abortion, according to a 2003 Gallup poll? What the Times conveniently never mentions is that although the statistical majority of women support abortion rights, there is a large minority comprising nearly half of American women who find the elective medical procedure gruesome and repugnant.

And enough with this tripe about pro-lifers being a bunch of right-wing fundamentalist men who want to limit women's options. Most pro-life think tanks have women, not men, at the helm. They're no dummies. They know that this is a women's issue, and as women, they must make their voices heard.

It's a shame that the New York Times isn't listening. Because with its trumped-up charge of disrespect toward women, the Times itself has disrespected tens of millions of women of conscience.

Who's looking out for them?

HURRICANES AND HEARTACHES

If there's anything more frightening than being in love, it's the realization that the object of your affection doesn't return your feelings. Hoping against hope and reason, I wish and hope and plead and pray for a chance to change this, and no matter how bleak and dismal it looks--no matter how infinitesmal my chances--I can't give up. I love her.

As a youth in central Florida, the possibility of a hurricane making landfall always excited me, and I kept my fingers crossed that the technicolor blob the meteorologist pointed to on the TV screen would veer off course and run aground over Tampa Bay. It wasn't destruction I looked forward to, but the excitement of the high winds, the stinging rain, the rising waters.

Today, I know I must treat my precarious situation like another long-forgotten, uneventful hurricane season on Florida's Gulf Coast. The chances of this silky-haired, hazel-eyed hurricane choosing my coastline remain unlikely, and although expecting a change of course will probably only lead to disappointment, I must prepare for a Category 5 storm even as the sky shows nary a strike of lightning.

Bring in the plants and patio furniture. Just in case.

BIRTHDAY UPDATE

Binary Star sent me the most adorable e-card. Awwwwwww.

A HECTIC BIRTHDAY

This morning I celebrated my 19th birthday at home with the family. I had to crawl out of bed at 6 a.m. to gear up for the long day ahead, and hours later, I'm still groggy. After opening a few presents, jetting off to school and e-mailing my Binary Star, I'm parked in front of an old computer in the college's academic skills center writing lab, where I tutor on Mondays and Fridays.

After another hour or so in the writing lab, it's off to World Religions, then to a local Chinese restaurant for lunch. I'll have just enough time to get home and change before I have to run off to work, which will be insane tonight because of a downtown district night festival.

This year, I'm not too melancholy about growing older. It's just an indicator that my goals of finishing school and entering the workforce are becoming more reachable. Celebrating this occasion with the massive New Bern contingent of my family will be enjoyable, but there are several friends--one in particular--who will be missed.

Overall, this should be a pleasant birthday. That is, if I can survive the remainder of my 16-hour day and make it through 'til Spring Break.

VOICE OF REASON RELAUNCHES TODAY

With a new, improved format, a leaner layout and 37 percent fewer carbohydrates, The Voice of Reason Weblog today scraps the 90-plus assorted posts from its 10-month history and starts from scratch.

My new blog will feature personal journal entries as well as opinions on local, state, national and world affairs. As tomorrow marks a dubious milestone and the next several months are rife with uncertainty and potential excitement, I'll likely be updating this blog more often.

Until next time, Excelsior.

RHUBARB CULT BLOG ECLIPSES 100-VISITOR MARK

The Rhubarb Cult Writers' weblog. of which this blog is co-founder, on Friday logged a record 100th visitor after being launched approximately five weeks ago.

The literary blog, named for an amateur writers' guild in Holiday, Fla., hosts works of poetry and prose by Eric Heppner as well as published news and sports articles by this blog, a freelance reporter.

GIBSON'S 'PASSION OF CHRIST' IGNITES FIRESTORM OF CONTROVERSY
Don't Blast Director for Biblical Accuracy, Reverence

By Corey Friedman

Paint a sacrilegious portrait of the Virgin Mary spattered with elephant dung, as artist Chris Ofili did in 1996, and the world applauds your unique vision and fresh perspective. Direct a Biblically faithful film on the death of Jesus, as Mel Gibson did this year, and you will be branded a bloodthirsty, anti-Semitic bigot.
I see something inherently wrong with this picture, and I’m not referring to the one that premiered on the silver screen late last month.
Since Gibson's private motion picture company finished production of The Passion of The Christ and studio execs and focus groups previewed the 127-minute crucifixion chronicle, Gibson has been lambasted in the press for producing a gratuitiously gory movie that incites anti-Semitism and could encourage hate crimes against Jews.
An Associated Press review tapped Gibson as “fetishistic in his depiction of the pain Jesus suffered in the last 12 hours of his life” and called The Passion “frightening…for the relentlessness of its brutality.”
Anyone who saw the movie—as I did on Feb. 25 at New Bern’s Southgate Cinema 6—won’t easily forget the stomach-turning sight of a man being flayed within an inch of his life, blood draining from his body even as it hardens and cakes upon his skin. It makes an indelible impression. It also makes us uncomfortable and causes us to squirm in our seats.
But isn't that grotesque trauma the whole theme of The Passion?
The Bible is explicit in its account of Jesus' immense suffering. Naturally, a film faithful to this account would contain more bloodshed than beauty. Critics froth and rage at Gibson for this bloodbath as if it were a product of his imagination. It’s not.
While theologians and laypersons have debated Jesus' messiahship—whether or not he was the Son of God—for centuries, it is almost universally acknowledged that a man named Jesus of Nazareth really existed and was really crucified. To somehow mute the carnage of crucifixion, to water down the gruesome reality of a Roman flogging would be doing a grave disservice to both history and religion.
In a baleful rant the day following the film’s release, New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd called the closing scenes “a spaghetti crucifixion,” conjuring an inappropriate gastronomical image that is both disgusting and demeaning.
Seeming extremely coy and catty when opining on weighty matters is no new trick for Dowd, who Pulitzer Prize-winning Arkansas Democrat-Gazette editorial page editor once branded “a fashion columnist out of her depth.” Her obvious disdain for Gibson and his art almost seems a façade for a deep-seated antagonism toward the Christian faith, which has manifested itself in much of her blithe, self-important blather.
In her column, Dowd implies that Gibson purposefully vilified the Jews and cautioned that his film might cause a spike in hate crimes.
Sorry to be politically incorrect, but the Jewish leaders who comprised the Sanhedrin, a religious senate of sorts, did in fact hand Jesus over to the Romans, demanding his immediate execution.
There, I said it. The Jews and Romans killed Jesus of Nazareth. But we've known this for 2,000 years; it’s only recently that stating the obvious has become taboo.
Denying this would be ignoring historical fact, and failing to portray it on the big screen would represent a dangerous attempt to sterilize history. People didn’t fear an anti-German backlash after the release of Schindler’s List, neither should they expect modern Jews to face discrimination for the centuries-old actions of a minority of Jewish clerics.
Two truths emerge from this controversy: crucifixion is unspeakably brutal, and the Jews did play a prominent role in Jesus' execution. If either of these things upset you, sorry. But don't blame Mel Gibson.
He didn't write the script.

JUST FOR THE RECORD

This dude is NOT this blog.

BLOG SEEKS CHEAP AIRFARE

...or failing that, someone willing to buy a kidney. This blog is scouring the Web for affordable airfare, and let us tell you, we have learned quite a bit about the airline industry, such as the fact that all the major carriers are price-gouging lowlife scum.

Any leads, please e-mail this blog. Any ledes, please call this blog. Collect.

COMPUTER GAME IS 'GREATEST EVER MADE'

The world's most beautiful woman wrote to this blog in an e-mail that this game is the greatest computer game ever made. "Take out all your frustrations," she wrote. "LOL! It's great!" See what you think about this productivity enhancer.

VALENTINE'S DAY UPDATE

Here's wishing you and your sweetheart a joyous Valentine's Day. Just because it's an ancient pagan festival of fornication that has been turned on its ear by commerce and now exists only as a flimsy excuse to exploit romance that is propped up and fueled by the craven corporate media doesn't mean you shouldn't make the best of it.

That's all this blog is saying.

BLOGGING TECHNICAL ADVISORY

This blog has a veritable cache of material it is itching to post--opinions on the Super Bowl, the recent wrinkle in Israeli-Palestinian peace negotiations and even some personal insights. However, none of it will be posted right now, because it would be doomed to disappearing forever into the Realm of Lost Data.

This blog lacks something called an "archive index template." Without this piece of asininely complex code, posts will be lost without hope of recovery. The Voice of Reason Archive dating back to last summer has vanished.

Anyone with technical knowledge or experience on Blogger, please HELP!

A 'SUPER' DISAPPOINTMENT

RANDOM DATELINE, N.C.--Carolina fans here are gearing up to see a spectacle.

North Carolinians are waiting in the wings today for the opening salvos of Super Bowl XXXVIII Jr. II Esquire, in which the Carolina Panthers, drawing on a rich franchise history, will muster enough stamina and sheer grit to shock the world and...get crushed by New England.

This blog predicts a slaughter of the newly minted NFC champs, and another commanding performance by Patriots quarterback Tom Brady and safety Ty Law. But the strange thing is, this blog is neither a fan or foe of the Carolina Panthers.

This blog is a Buccaneers fan.

And seeing two teams for which this blog has no strong sentiment compete in the biggest football game of the season is a Super disappointment. Not even the snarky halftime show and clever commercials can salvage this game.

But the cinnamon stromboli from Pizza Inn, now that's another story.

Pretentious Pregame Prediction
New England 31, Carolina 17

A FREE COUNTRY?

Once both liberal darlings, the fundamental right to personal freedom and the struggle for social equality are locking horns this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

In a Jan. 18 St. Petersburg Times column, Times media critic Eric Deggans explains that some in the African-American civil rights stronghold are becoming increasingly resentful of gay rights groups that use the blanket cause of "civil rights" to justify their push for gay marriage.

Deggans cites a case where a Tampa landlord was forced to rent to homosexual tenants against his will, due to state antidiscrimination laws. Though tangential to the point of Deggans' column, this begs the question of which is more an American right: the right to freedom of personal choice or the right to freedom from discrimination.

You can't have both. It doesn't work that way.

Forcing bigoted business owners to allow patrons belonging to an ethnic group, race or sexual orientation which they would rather deny service negates their right to run their own business in a matter of their own choosing. Though it's hard to feel sympathy for such louts and lunkheads, remember that the Founding Fathers weren't interested in foisting the morality and conventional wisdom of the times on American citizens.

True freedom of association would allow individual business owners the freedom to discriminate. As repugnant as it sounds, protecting the American freedoms that only the most repugnant of lowlifes would exercise is the reason that the Framers tacked a Bill of Rights onto the Constitution.

HERE'S TO ANOTHER YEAR OF SPORADIC BLOGGING

The New Year has carried with it the tradewinds of change, and this blog is hopefully anticipating that 2004 will be a banner year, or at least one that doesn't suck pondscum.

While blogging will be sporadic as ever--sometimes there will be three posts a day, sometimes there will be a month with no posts--check back every week or so for updates. This should be an interesting year, one way or another.

And Kristin, this blog misses you and greatly treasures your friendship.

WE GOT FIDEL CASTRO...ER, SADDAM

Is it just this blog's imagination, or do the photos of Saddam Hussein bear a striking resemblance to octogenarian Cuban dictator Fidel Castro? Eight months have elapsed since the fall of Baghdad and finally the United States has achieved one of its top objectives: the capture of Saddam.

This is all good news, but this blog was troubled by the video of Saddam's medical exam shortly after his capture. The military shaved his beard, presumably to make him look more like himself.

We SHAVED this dirtbag's BEARD? Why go out of our way to give dignity to someone who has stolen it from millions of dead and wounded Iraqis?

Less exfoliating, more interrogating, please.

JOURNALISM UPDATE

It's not a Pulitzer, but this blog is finally in the record books! This blog's latest article must set some sort of record for having the most loquacious headline in a newspaper other than the New York Times, which thinks nothing of printing headlines longer than the actual stories in such papers as USA Today.

MAYONNAISE EATERS: BRAZEN CRIMINALS?

We report, you decide.

AND THE PULLET SURPRISE GOES TO.....

OK, maybe it doesn't warrant a Pulitzer, but this blog sincerely appreciates local ABC affiliate WCTI-TV 12's efforts to investigate Quality Auto Tune Up, the dishonest car dealership and repair shop that bilked this blog out of $700 it did not have. Channel 12 reporter Stephanie Maxwell interviewed this blog today and began taping a consumer advocacy piece in which Maxwell will confront Quality owner Pheap K. Phang, who refuses to honor his own posted 90-day warranty for services performed on this blog's car.

Channel 9 ignored this blog's repeated requests for a consumer investigation, so this blog hopes that Channel 9 will get crushed like a wayward armadillo on a country road when it comes to ratings, and that Channel 12 will continue to win broadcast journalism awards as if they were more common than magazine subscription cards. This blog will let its readers know when the piece airs and whether it will be available online.

DEFENSIVE CONVERSATION

This site provides telemarketing victims with an arsenal of rapid-fire questions to weary any salesperson. A good idea, but this blog suggests that you turn the tables by trying to sell the telemarketers on YOUR cheesy consumer goods. If that doesn't work, there's always the Michael Jackson lisp, which will frighten away telemarketers but may make you a magnet for Santa Rosa, Calif. prosecutors.

BUCS BUNGLE PLAYOFF BID

Tampa Bay's playoff chances were already down to slim and none. Slim left town Sunday night.

The Buccaneers (5-7) floundered their way to a 17-10 loss at the hands of the Jacksonville Jaguars in an abysmal performance marred by penalties and a sputtering offense dying a slow, painful death. The loss to Jacksonville (3-9) was especially painful because barring a miracle, the Bucs have been statistically eliminated from competition for the NFC Wild Card playoff slot. The defending Super Bowl champions spent the first 10 weeks of the season digging themselves a hole that even formidable defenders Ronde Barber, John Lynch, Simeon Rice and Warren Sapp could not climb out of.

Tampa Bay posted an anemic 40 yards of offense in the first quarter, but sprang to life early in the second. The Bucs had knotted it up at 10 points apiece at halftime, but a Jaguars touchdown midway through the fourth quarter proved to be the nail in Tampa's coffin. Ronde Barber picked off a wobbly Byron Leftwich pass with 3:09 remaining, but a Jacksonville challenge and subsequent reversal of the original call allowed the Jags to sit on the ball and end the Bucs' playoff hopes.

As a former Bay Area native, this blog is a diehard Bucs fan. This season has been a tremendous disappointment, because the seemingly superhuman defense met its kryptonite: old age. The Bucs have fallen to sixth-best in terms of defense, and even that estimation is generous. Unfortunately, this is not the same championship-caliber team it was just six short months ago.

Better luck next year.

LOOKING FOR A CELL MATE?

Those old, defunct cell phones collecting dust in the closet (or wherever you keep your old phones) could be worth money. Not much, mind you, but during the holidays, every little bit helps. This blog today discovered the Web site CellforCash.com, which offers to pay a pittance plus postage to redeem old cell phones. They're probably being used to build a nuclear device to be sold to al Qaida--why else would someone want thousands of dead cell phones?--but there's no proof of that yet. This blog's old Audiovox CDM-9100 phone would fetch $5 on the web site, but this blog would rather cut out the middlemen and sell it directly to the terrorists. They'd probably pay $10.

AN INDEFENSIBLE STANCE ON ABORTION

In a decidedly ignorant editorial, "Frank Talk About Abortion," the New York Times overlooked reason and science in its myopic and irresponsible endorsement of abortion rights.

"But it must also be made clear that few understand its practical, heart-wrenching dimensions better than the doctors who perform the procedures," wrote the Times, "and the people fighting in a difficult political environment to preserve a woman's hard-won right to decide whether she will carry a pregnancy to term." This would dissuade some from restricting abortion rights because such decisions are ultimately made by medical professionals who know best, which couldn't be further from the truth.

Abortion is a multibillion dollar industry, and in abortion and women's clinics--where the majority of the procedures are performed--the only medical consideration necessary is whether the prospective patient can afford to pay for the abortion. The Times acts as if abortions are performed under sage medical counsel, when in fact they are elective procedures medically necessary less than 1 percent of the time.

Also unnerving is its perpetuation of the myth that a majority of Americans are pro-choice. In an August 2001 Gallup poll, 46 percent of Americans said they supported abortion rights, while an equal 46 percent said they were against them. These numbers may fluctuate by a couple percentage points, but there has been no seismic shift in public opinion. The Times is exploiting what must be a marginally slim difference in polling to mislead the world into believing all Americans are as libertine as New York Times editorial writers.

This blog minces no words when it comes to abortion, so the fact that it is a pro-life blog should come as no surprise. However, as an acquaintance of several rape victims, this blog understands the need for medical and moral exceptions. But by and large, abortions are both medically and spiritually unhealthy and morally abhorrent. Pro-lifers are caring, considerate people who immensely resent the uberjournalists at the Times portraying them as mouth-breathing, fist-dragging Neanderthals.

The Times has every right to disseminate its thoughtless propaganda culled from Planned Parenthood pamphlets in its editorial pages. What it is not justified in doing is deceiving its readers, which this shortsighted editorial has undoubtedly done.

TRUDEAU'S TEMERITY

Ultraliberal cartoonist G.B. Trudeau has taken the meaning of meanspirited to a sickening new depth with his recent series of "Doonesbury" strips defaming California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. Trudeau depicts Schwarzenegger as a 7-foot-tall hand behind a podium addressing past allegations of sexual harassment and misconduct. He's given the unflattering "Gropenfurher" as a moniker; in response to his admittance of groping several women throughout his film career and his (long estranged) father's Nazi party ties.

For starters, Trudeau's sudden outrage at a political sex scandal evidences a blind hypocrisy. The artist, after all, defended President Clinton throughout his sexual misdeeds which spanned two terms in office, from Paula Jones to Monica Lewinsky. Schwarzenegger's actions are deplorable, but Trudeau thinks so only because the transgressor is a Republican, despite his Kennedy family ties and his left-leaning social views. Secondly, taking a swipe at Schwarzenegger for his parents' and grandparents' connection to the Nazi party is repugnant. The man can no more control who his parents are than anyone else on earth. Trudeau thinks he's pretty clever, but the Nazi label smacks of sophomoric McCarthyism and sheer desperation.

The popular Doonesbury strip should depart from its wrongheaded political cartoon stage and return to a lighthearted narrative. Trudeau is no Tom Toles (Washington Post editorial cartoonist), he's no pundit and he's no journalist. He is, however, a talented artist and creator. Why doesn't he lay off the Terminator?

THIS IS ONLY A TEST

This blog is republishing itself. This is a test to see if the changes are actually made. Stay tuned for actual content coming next month--we promise!

PALESTINIAN TERROR HITS HOME

This blog was incensed and outraged to read today that three American diplomats were killed in a brutal terrorist attack in the Gaza Strip.

After reading the write-up in the New York Times, this blog felt compelled to dispatch a letter to the editor. Here it is, in its entirety:

To the Editor,

Re: "U.S. Diplomatic Convoy in Gaza is Attacked, Killing at Least 3," by John F. Burns and Greg Myre (news article, Oct. 15):


This gruesome and senseless act should come as no surprise to anyone who read reports of perverse Palestinian celebration as America wept on Sept. 11, 2001. Whether or not Palestinian grievances are legitimate, the slaughter of civillians--American or Israeli--is inexcusable.

The cartographers of the 'road map' to Mideast peace must insist that Palestinian statehood be contingent upon the eradication of terrorist groups. After all, granting sovereignty to a state that incubates terrorists is tantamount to handing the car keys over to a marathon drinker. In both cases, the party behind the wheel is in no condition to steer, let alone follow a road map.

DRUNKEN JUDGE UPDATE

What about Drunken Judge Underwear? Available in boxers or--of course--legal briefs. This could spawn a whole clothing line, you know.

LIMBAUGH'S BUM RUSH FROM ESPN

Conservative talk-radio firebrand Rush Limbaugh resigned from his position as sports analyst on ESPN's "NFL Sunday Night Countdown" after remarking that Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb is overrated because the liberal media wants to see a black quarterback succeed.

Limbaugh's ominous rhetoric didn't sit well with the network or with McNabb--who said he has no qualms about panelists critiquing his performance on the gridiron but took offense at the mention of his race--and the radio mainstay has been blasted in the New York Times' editorial page. ESPN released a statement meant to cleanse the network's hands of Limbaugh once and for all.

This blog is a fairly conservative blog and has sporadically listened to Limbaugh's radio program and found him to be spot-on about 75 percent of the time. It's the other 25 percent that worries this blog. Limbaugh really stepped in it this time; he used his position as an NFL commentator to advance his personal agenda against affirmative action and preferential treatment of African-Americans, besides the fact that his criticism was baseless.

Syracuse alum McNabb is among the league's five best quarterbacks and to suggest that he deserves less acclaim for his skilled gamesmanship is ludicrous. This blog sides with Limbaugh on many partisan political issues, but in this case, Rush is wrong and should cut his losses by apologizing as soon as possible.