Editor's Notes from Spite
Magazine, 1998-2001
Author's initials at the end of each one. WH = Will
Hines, KH = Kevin Hines, BC = Bradford Contemporary
ON NOT CARING ABOUT FOOD - The snobs are getting to me, which will happen to you in New York. I remember this guy dating my girlfriend's roommate. He loved cooking and even more, I believe, loved telling people he loved cooking.Every time I stopped by their apartment, he'd be there, planted in the kitchen, spending hours loudly chopping a green pepper, babbling about how he had found the PERFECT place to buy vegetables, and that you REALLY need a knife that is JUST SO in order to produce the right chips of chlorophyll for the stew he was making, and that such-and-such a spice is really VERY exquisite. And I'd sit in the corner and dream of a Wendy's single classic burger, no pickle no onions, if I cared to think about food at all. A friend visited me a few weekends ago. Being too lazy to cook, ever, we headed out to a cheap Italian restaurant I knew. He asked "Is it good?" Sure, I said. But I had no idea. We went. He sat there and commented on every phase of our meal. The rolls: too tough, he said. The salad? Very disappointing. A poor head of lettuce if he had ever seen one. And the entree was not cooked right AT ALL. He had half a mind, he told me, to insist on sending it back. I think that's what he said. I was too busy eating my burger to listen. - B.C. 9/18/01
ON BEING INTRODUCED: "Have you ever met my friend Kevin?" "No, I don't think so. Nice to meet you" No?!? Excuse me?!? I'm afraid you are wrong, you simple-minded idiot. I have met you before. In fact I have been introduced to you on at least three different occasions. And each time, I don't bother to point out that you've met me before, because it's really not that big a deal, right? So what, you don't remember me. Who cares? --- Well, I care. It I a big deal! Because for whatever reason I remember you. And despite the fact that I have no reason to recall those meetings, I do. Look at you. There isn't even a glimmer of recognition in your feeble little mind. In fact I bet you're already on your way to forgetting me. What kind of person repeatedly forgets someone. If anyone deserves to be forgotten it's a self-involved jerk like you. But if I remember you, then you damn well better remember me! Yet that will never happen will it you pretentious bastard? "Nice to meet you too."-- K.H. 11/7/00
ON TEMPING: For one year I temped in a Boston hotel. It started as a five-day assignment and stretched into 12 months. For a smart guy, I was an awful temp. I wore the same suit every day except two. I rarely finished any assignments. I had seniority over many full-time employees. It was one of the most miserable times in my life but six years later that time seems glamorous in a slacker sort of way. Probably because I'm a manager now. Somehow, I have become the man. I worry about projects. I glare at people who are goofing off. I don't take lunch breaks. I sit here stunned at the change. I used to sleep on the floor of an office when my boss traveled. Sure I was in therapy, but I stole bags of office supplies. Now I check up on people and justify invoices. How could I have been so sad? -- W.H. 11/1/00
ON TURNING 30: I'm turning 30 this September. I feel like I've aged about ten years over the past one -- which would make me 40. At first, I thought that's part of getting older -- that time seems to accelerate. But really how old you feel changes dramatically based on what's going on in your life. Like I felt 40 when I was 25, too. But when I was 26 I moved to New York City and felt about 19. At 19 I hated college and felt alternatively 14 and 60. When I was 21 I felt 21. When I was 28 I felt 30. And at this exact second I feel about 43. -- W.H. 8/14/00
ON GREAT SEX STORIES: If there's one tragedy of getting older, it's the lack of great sex stories among your circle of friends. Many people become happily married -- and who wants to hear some happy sex story of your friend and his wife? Others become too old and unattractive to have anything good happen. And then there's that annoying tendency for people to become less willing to spill their guts after the age of 21. Something about being mature. That's crap. We want dirt. Or at least I do. And I want it to be something forbidden. Something wrong. Something awkward. Start talking. -- W.H. 5/8/00
ON A GOOD SPEED CAR: All I need to be happy is a speed car to outrun Smokey. I'll show that no-good sherrif who's boss. I'll drive so fast that he and his son will never catch me. I will be alive on the open road. And when I meet beautiful girls running away from their suffocating marriages I will make them fall in love with me. The Snowman will be able to get his cargo through with no problem. All is happiness. -- W.H. 4/20/00
ON EDITING THE SCENE: The card game had stalled and everyone was trying to decide whether to start another one. Without anyone saying so explicitly, everyone sensed that the time for card games had ended for that night. Well, I've never been good at reading those vibes when it's time to end something. I'll play a card game long after it's time has passed. I can never get out of bed in the morning. I drive a running gag into the ground. And I keep phone conversations going far too long. But no more. I will pay more attention to that energy that tells you when it's time to stop. I will end. - W.H. 4/7/00
ON LYING EFFECTIVELY: If you're going to build a false image of yourself to present to the world -- and by all means do, your friends will appreciate it -- make sure to do it effectively. For my part, I like to buy books not to read but so that other people can see that I own them. That way when people visit my apartment there's a chance they might notice my unthumbed copy of the Tao Te Ching before they see my Christina Aguilera CD. But be wary of letting your books speak for you. I once made the mistake of rounding up books from my high school and college days to subsidize an otherwise boring bookshelf. Unfortunately, everyone is assigned the same books to read in high school and college so when anyone checked out my library they knew right away I was posing. "Nice copies of Catcher in the Rye, 1984 and Scarlet Letter, Will. Read anything this decade?" - W.H. 2/17/00
ON SEEING AL ROKER: Usually, I avoid looking at celebrities. It's my way of being cool via being aloof. But while waiting for tickets to Saturday Night Live, I lost my cool. I can't say I was starstruck - it was Al Roker who snapped me out of my composure. I was rocking back and forth on my heels, zoned out on my ratty shoelaces, when I looked up to find myself in an awkward eye contact with NBC weatherman Al Roker. Stunned, I give him an absurdly familiar nod of acknowledgment, like you do to your officemates when passing them for the third time in a single morning. Al nodded back, then paused and furrowed his brow as if to say "Who are you?" before scuffling off. I was very embarrassed. Elizabeth, a sweet teenage girl from Queens, who had made a huge love note/poster for Jim Carrey ("You're the Ace - Ventura!") told me I handled myself well, but I knew I was blushing. - W.H. 12/14
ON LIKING WRITER CHICKS: While reading arty ezines, I feel that
someone like Alexis would be the girl I'd fall in love with instantly. I
see the whole relationship -- which would never start -- in a flash:
meeting at work, me staying quiet for a few weeks, then her overhearing my
witty, understated comments in the cafeteria, and her becoming intrigued.
Then over the next few weeks she picks up clues about me and finds enough
evidence in the periphery of my life to make me seem Genuinely
Interesting: an interest in writing, good taste in music, healthy distrust
of authorities, a sense of financial responsibility. Then she moves in for
the conversation. And in the first one, she sees what I had so skillfully
hidden up until that moment: the Fear. The absolutely timidity of my
spirit which holds me fast to the ledge, never jumping. No love affairs, no career risks, no crusades, no anger, never really writing. An even, peaceful keel. And she craves adventure and passion -- like most people do, especially girls, especially girls who write. And she transforms from an interested party coyly sniffing for clues into a disaffected bystander who returns to her job. - W.H.
ON PASSING MOODS: That she was an unemployed lawyer did not surprise me. She seemed greedy enough to want a lawyer's salary and smart enough to pass the bar but not disciplined enough to be any good at it. She bitched about everything: the temperature in the cabin, the speed of the attendants, and the cushions on her chair. Before the flight was over she drank four mini-bottles of Absolut Vodka and swallowed a muscle relaxant. Her business card had a softened photo of her face on it. She drove me nuts. But it was easier to talk to her then let her complain loudly to no one in particular. Still, I suddenly found myself wondering what it would be like to have an affair with her. I imagined she was attracted to me because I was younger and appeared to be sympathetic. I fervently devised schemes of how to invite her into the bathroom. Thankfully, the mood passed as suddenly as it had emerged and I returned to just being annoyed with her. -- B.C. 9/28/99
ON PEER PRESSURING THE ELDERLY: A sneaker commercial I saw this week shows a man clearly over the age of 70 running furiously with a determined can-do expression on his face, all in dramatic slow-motion. Another ad on a bus stop near my brother's apartment shows a 65-year-old man sporting scuba gear and giving a thumbs-up as he prepares to jump from his boat. The message was clear: 1) Young is good. 2) Old is bad, except when it's trying really hard to be Young. It's bad enough that advertisements pressure 13-year-old girls into throwing up their lunches and 18-year-old boys into kicking everyone else's ass -- now they're trying to peer pressure the senior citizens. Let the old be old without shame, I say. It's not that I'm jealous of Grandpa blocking my path to the ski mogul but decades hence, I want my bones to crumble with dignity. I will sit in my leather easy chair listening to my grandchildren beg for money as I rest my weary muscles and gum my sugar bread with pride. The only youthful act I plan for my 80th birthday is grabbing some 40-year-old nurse's ass. -- W.H. 9/20/99
ON STOPPING AND STARTING: I decided I had been emailing her too often. We were getting too chummy too quickly and I dreaded entering the Friend Zone. So I stopped without explanation. Where are you? she asked again and again, and I could not answer. It felt like rejection, I'm sure, but this is just a break. It's how I pace myself after starting too quickly. I've never been able to do anything moderately. Turn on the hot faucet. Stop. Turn on the cold one. Months later when she asks why I'm so fickle, I'll just explain that I'm a computer programmer and that "1" and "0" are the only moods I understand. - W.H. 9/15/99
ON QUIET PEOPLE: They bother me. It's like they're hiding something, or are too annoyed with you to tell you what's on their mind. Yet many people have absurd respect for quietness. When Joe Dimaggio died, all these people gushed "He was such a quiet man. Never said much." Like it's a good thing. Give me someone who doesn't mind being obnoxious in order to get his or her opinion out there. Ever see Maltese Falcon? There's a bald dude who says " I distrust a close-mouthed man. He generally picks the wrong time to talk and says the wrong things. Talking's something you can't do judiciously, unless you keep in practice." He knows what he's talking about.- W.H. 8/19/99
ON PLACES I FREQUENTLY IMAGINE PERFORMING AS LEAD GUITARIST OF A BAND: Toad's Place in New Haven, CT; The West End Bar near Columbia University; The Toad Bar in Porter Square, Boston; My 12th grade English class; An outdoor party I was at during my junior year of high school; The Hartford Civic Center in Hartford, CT; Late Night with Conan O' Brien; The University of Connecticut Marching Band practice field. - W.H. 7/15/99
ON DISCUSSING SEX: You want the dirt on the girl you like -- what she's been doing and who with, but you can only manage to discuss your major. Talking sex with acquaintances is like following suit in a card game, and sex is trump. You can't lead trump, but once it is broken, it's fair game. So you have to lead, conversationally speaking, with another "suit" - jobs, ex-boyfriends and girlfriends. But once the girl - the dealer - brings up sex, then the subject is breached, and it's open season for your questions. My friend went out for drinks with a group that included a girl he liked. In the course of the evening, someone else mentioned it had "been a while" since she'd "had any" -- wink, wink -- since she'd broken up with her last boyfriend. The object of my friend's affection agreed: "I hear that." Boom. The topic of sex was then open. Perhaps not a wide-open invitation to discuss preferred positions, but the conversation can definitely become more interesting. - W.H., 7/9/99
ON BEING PRECIOUS: Occasionally, after a subtitled movie, I feel too precious for my own good. Hey, I like cultured crap as much as the next guy, but it can get to be too much. So I find a willing colleague and head downtown to a bar. Swearing, drinking, making fun of nearby strangers very loudly, I'll elbow to the front of a crowd to see a crappy, loud band that has the decency to not have a keyboard player. Or swing my belly into a booth and start singing along with Tom Cochrane's Life is A Highway or some other hideous shit. Ironically, such evenings usually end with me curled up with a pillow in my room like it's a teddy bear, smoky and sated, fixated on people from my high school or something equally awful. -- W.H. 6/29/99
ON BEING SPACEY: It was a typical morning. I was walking to work down Ninth Avenue, imagining what things people would say at my funeral if I should suddenly die, when I realized: for five minutes, I had been absentmindedly singing a tune out loud without knowing any of the words, filling in the lyrics with half-nonsense words. Reminded me of my Great Aunt, who used to improvise nonsense tunes all day that vaguely sounded like what I imagined 1930s radio songs to be like. My senseless song frightened me. It could be a sign that I'm going senile. Or that I've finally accumulated too much information to grasp one thought completely. Or that I'm a country boy finally broken by the hustle of the big city. Or that I'm just naturally absent-minded. Or that I'm a rude, self-centered bitch who can't bother to pay attention to what's around him. -- W.H. 6/18/99
ON INSTANT INTIMACY: Instant intimacy happens when you meet someone you know you will never see again, like the person sitting next to you on the plane who's reading a book you like. You say hello and soon find yourself revealing how you slept with the Peat Moss deliver man. You don't feel that bad about talking because you know they will never see you or anyone you know, ever. Instant intimacy is why kids at summer camps become better friends in three days then they do with neighbors they've known for years. With email, this phenomenon happens more frequently. You tell someone you like their home page, and within three exchanges you're explaining how you hate your husband. But there's one important difference: on a plane, your sounding board disappears when the trip is over. With email, he or she is at your side whenever the computer is on. You were chatty at lunch for two days, and now your deepest darkest secrets linger just a few keystrokes away. - W.H. 5/25/99
ON DEADPAN VS. SMIRKING: For those of you keeping score on such things: A deadpan stare is better than a smirk. Given that, we can safely say that Keaton edges out Chaplin, Rushmore beats Adam Sandler, elephant jokes are better than puns, They Might Be Giants top the Bare Naked Ladies, Charles Grodin beats David Letterman, Bob Newhart beats Howie Mandel, Norm McDonald beats Colin Quinn and everyone beats me. -- W.H., 5/20/99
ON TOO MUCH, TOO LITTLE INFORMATION: A recent episode of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer mentioned Zeppo Marx. We know the world is exploding with information, but is Buffy's target audience supposed to know Zeppo? Granted, mentioning Zeppo is cool, but its implications scare me. Should I remember everything I ever hear so I understand things I hear later? Although even with the amount of information exploding, the world is shrinking. The corporations are devouring each other; and the newspapers are joining into a one huge chain. And everyone buys Nike shoes, installs Microsoft software, and watches the same television networks. So is the world getting bigger or smaller? Are we going to have to all split up into 100 million different groups, each with its own Noble Prize winners and Presidents, because the world will be too big to unite anymore? Or will we all become virtual siblings with the same history and company picnic? What the hell! I'm not really frightened of either nightmare situation, but having to pick between them is killing me. - W.H. 2/26/99
ON DEPTH VS. VARIETY: The worst part of getting older? You have to commit to things, and make choices that exclude other possibilities. Yes, you do. Please don't argue. If you don't, you get increasingly shallow, and you can't relate to anyone anymore. Unless you start hanging with a younger crowd, whom I invariably loathe. It's a question of lateral versus vertical moves. You either deepen your current relationships, or make new ones. You get better at your current job, or start a new one. So it's depth or variety -- and I want both. Ideally: I want a new life, every six years or so, except for that inevitable feeling of drifting loserdom. I miss the freedom of being even five years younger, when it seemed more excusable to constantly start over. The only sort of cheery thought is how much worse it will be in five more years, and therefore I'd better move my ass right now. Already, I'd feel silly doing open mikes, starting a bad rock band, writing screenplays or making another abrupt career switch. But saving for a house? Or owning anything? Or actually advancing in a chosen career? Or reading more than one book about the same subject? Zzzzzz. The idea that I'm not old enough to feel neurotic about this is ridiculous. I've always worried about things at least 10 years before it was reasonable to. And I'm not the only one. -- W.H. 2/3/99
ON BELIEVING THAT WORRYING IS FEMININE: It's a bitch because then, as a man, when I worry I also feel emasculated on top of everything else is bothering me. For example, when Dave Barry writes about the differences between men and women, he often jokes that all the men do is think about is sports and all women do is over-analyze every subtle nuance of their conversations. Reading that, I would realize that sports bore me and I over-analyze conversations and therefore I am a woman. Dave Barry would hate me and all men would find me weak. And then I realize that equating worrying with femininity is probably sexist, so all women would hate me, too. -- W.H. 1/27/99
ON REMINISCING INSTANTLY: In my book, you can't start reminiscing soon enough. I only like things
once they are in the past. This outlook makes it tough to live in the present, but I have a solution. Rather than mature, I just instantly talk about everything as if it already happened. The egg sandwich I
finished an hour ago was something I ate "back in my breakfast days" and the show I saw for the first time last night is "good old Charmed". -- W.H. 1/20/99
ON RUNNING GAGS: There's no phrase so lame that it can't be a running gag. Not funny the first time? Just say it again, among the same group of people. You'll find it evolves from nonsense into a joke into nostalgia, and finally to a codeword that lets you know who's cool enough to be your friend. In high school, my friends and I watched a stand-up comedian end a brilliant routine with the word "Tom," and a month later we were painting it on the side of our school in absurdly big letters, to our -- and only our -- delight. Every few months, we'd evolve a new impenetrable sub-culture of obscure phrases, and half the fun was leaving others out. This is security and joy. Non-sequitor? Jellyfish. Non-sequitor? Jellyfish. Jellyfish. Jellyfish. -- W.H. 12/16/98
ON LAST GREAT ACTS: The pope recently proclaimed that philosophy should use more reason and less faith. Religion bores me, but this proclamation impressed me for many reasons: One, it seems the Pope can change PHILOSOPHY -- at least for a few million people -- just by writing a letter. Cool job. Two, a religious leader who tells people to use more logic and less faith is just plain ballsy. It's like the vacuum cleaner salesmen confidently hurling dirt on your floor. Three, I believe we're witnessing a Last Great Act: someone who knows he's going to die, and wants to get something off his chest even though it breaks from traditions. I dig that. A comfortable man on the way out is the one to watch, because he has no fear. C'mon, Pope: go crazy for me. Ban kittens. Demand gay priests. Your time is now, and we're all watching. - W.H., 12/10/98
ON THE POWER OF TELEVISION AND TIME ZONES: For the past few weeks I have been working in Dallas, and therefore in a different time zone (one hour earlier than usual). On arriving, I noticed the TV schedule was also shifted back one hour. My eight o'clock shows started at seven! As far as television was concerned there was no Central Time Zone. Elated, I settled in to watch my favorite show, Late Night With Conan O'Brien, which normally airs at the painfully late 12:30 am, but now thanks to all-powerful television, was beginning at 11:30 p.m. As the show began, I was shocked to find my body falling asleep, as if it were really after midnight! I was a fool to think I could take advantage of television. Anything that can boldly ignore the omnipotence of time was nothing to be trifled with. I fell asleep before seeing the end of the show. Also, when I awoke the next morning, instead of being well-rested from the extra hour of sleep, I was just as tired as I would have been at home! The terrible one-two punch of time zones and television had stripped an hour from my already too-short day. I was down to 23 hours, and there was nothing I could do about it. - K.H., 12/1/98
ON TOO MUCH NOSTALGIA: Ninety percent of all my radio listening occurs during my lunch break. And as everyone knows between 12 and 1, all radio stations are transported to the 1980s. I enjoy nostalgia as much as the next guy (assuming the next guy loathes nostalgia), but why does every station have to do this? Is there some sort of law that prevents new music from being played during lunch? Does a combination of the New Radicals, Ham on Rye, and Reel Big Fish cause a nuclear melt-down when the sun is at its highest ? And each station acts like they are being so clever and original -- Oooh what a nice break from the most recent over -played hits, now I can hear songs that have been over played FOR THE LAST TEN YEARS! If one station kept playing recent music and boasted, "the only station that got rid of our old albums," they would get more listeners than when they try to compete with the other six stations playing Love Shack. Or maybe the oldies stations should have a 90's lunch break? I don't care, just please don't force me to hear Take On Me again! - K.H. 11/17/98
ON PARENTHESIS: Which movie do I want to see? Hmmm, tough to say... (but sometimes it's tough to say anything to you, now that my feelings are invested in your opinion (unless you're talking about shallow topics, like what movie to pick out, (except of course, during long moments of clarity when we say mean, true things and still smile after, (like in the middle of a vacation when we see each other as new people and reveal new secrets (two strangers sharing an aisle on a long plane trip will sometimes say the most intimate things (although we've never taken a vacation like that, I just keep imagining that the next one will be (you once told me how much I hurt your feelings when I imitated you answering the phone, (I only felt angry for a moment (every morning, my shoulders are tense. I wait to relax and finally feel fully rested (really I feel rested every day about 7pm. It's my second wind, (I never expect it, and I always forget it when it fades around 11 (the red tint in your hair is somehow shiny in these fluorescent lights -- like when I first saw you, (your hair looked more red than it does usually (I can suddenly see that you are constantly accusing me of falling short of something (I think. Or maybe I'm remembering that a long time ago, I saw a future for myself in which I was much stronger than I turned out to be (you knew this, you know I worry too much (maybe...you used to talk about being "let in" and I wondered what you expected to find (that always angered me. I figured it was a symptom of your weakness and my superiority (or maybe you found it, because you don't really ask as much (which isn't a bad thing. If that even happened. I wouldn't mind.))))))))))))))))))). Hmmm. Primary Colors? Yes, that looks fun. - W.H. 11/10/98
ON THE "FOR DUMMIES" GUIDES: Where can I find instructions for the smart people? -- W.H., 11/04/98
ON MUSIC VS. FOOD:There are two types of people in my world: the
ones who like music, and the ones who like food. It's a boring world,
granted. But stay with me a bit. No one can love both. The best-cultured
in the room, or at least the most expensively-cultured, will pretend to
understand both taste and sound but if you peel back the pretentiousness
you'll see he's lying about one of them. Scan the rack of Compact Discs
and you'll find the telltale "Steve Miller Greatest Hits" or "Young MC" among the music fakers. Scour the cabinets for the Hamburger Helper or Kraft Macaroni and Cheese to defrock the charlatan gourmet. There are no exceptions to this rule ever. -- W.H., 10/29/98
ON DELAYING SAINTHOOD: I just read an article about how the Pope said he was going to wait the standard five years before raising Mother Theresa to sainthood. I have some problems with that. If he had said he was going to wait to DECIDE whether she should be a saint, I'd understand. But if it's a given that she will be, why wait? That's like saying I won't tell you who won the basketball game, but in five years I'll give the trophy to the Chicago Bulls. Just give them the trophy… er ... her the trophy, I mean, sainthood. Whatever. You get my point. Will something undermine her sainthood? Is she going to come back to life? Are they going to discover she had an affair with Bill Clinton? No! So raise her to sainthood already. It's not like we have a lot of people walking around that are synonymous with good. Maybe there was a time when people were getting sainted every few days, and you needed the waiting period. "LEONARD wants to be a saint too? Sheesh....tell him we now have a five-year post mortem waiting period." Just make her a saint! -- K.H., 9/9/98
ON PAYING ATTENTION TO GRAMMAR: The Oxford English Dictionary officially approved the use of the split infinitive a few weeks ago (and if I may: to boldly go...ahhhh, the thrill of being legal). The amazing thing is: this actually made the news. You might have missed it, what with all the stock markets crashing, and bombs dropping, but it was there among all the top stories. Although the story was boring in and of itself, I was excited to see another profession -- linguistics (I guess that's what it is) -- receive the same attention that the entertainment industry usually does. I mean, we all knew when Matt Damon started dating Winona Ryder, why SHOULDN'T we know what the dictionary boys are up to? It might be boring, but it's EQUAL OPPORTUNITY boring. Someday, changes to the CPA exam will make it onto the cover of the New York Times, I can just feel it. -- W.H., 9/1/98
ON SAYING 'OUGHT': The millennium approaches, and we should decide now to say "ought" when referring to the first ten years of the next century. So 2002 would be "ought-two", not "oh-two" or "zero-two", okay? It'll be very Music Man, I think. Plus, it'll add a refreshingly old-fashioned phrase to otherwise technology-filled conversations of the future. "Oh, I remember back in ought-nine, when they gene-mapped mind-reading in sheep" or whatever. I also think we should all adopt Maine accents and talk as if we served in World War II. "'Taint never had no scrap metal shortage since the war. Just like the blizzard of ought-three." - W.H. 8/25/98
ON THE IRONY GETTING TOO THICK: Has anyone seen the Sprite ad starring basketball player Grant Hill? Every time Grant mentions the word "Sprite", a cash register rings off screen and a cartoon of bags of money appears at the bottom of the screen. After a few minutes, a narrator interrupts and says "Don't buy Sprite because some sports guy tells you to -- buy it because it tastes good!" or something. So they're making fun of sports endorsements, right? Well, even if they just use Grant Hill to make a joke, they're still using Grant Hill to sell Sprite. My question, and I know this is a subtle point, but is the overall joke a parody of other commercials, or a parody of itself -- even as it is being played? Is it being ironic about its own irony? Something has gone terribly wrong here. I think our tolerance for self-deprecating smirking has become too high. I think we should all be very careful to very genuine from here on out. We're pushing some kind of boundary, sarcasm-wise, and I doubt we want to see what's on the other side. - W.H. 8/11/98
ON FORCING JESUS INTO THE CONVERSATION: Time Magazine is running a "Person of The Century" poll on its web site. Of course, the web community is showing its bizarre priorities by voting alterna-geek rocker John Flansburg, South Park cartoon character Eric Cartman, and video game star Lara Croft among others into the list. But what's more disturbing to me is that Jesus Christ holds the number one spot. Religious philosophy aside, I'd like to point out that Mr. Christ did NOT LIVE IN THIS CENTURY. It wouldn't bother me if 235,000 people (Jesus' current tally in the poll) voted him there because they believed the New Testament took place in the 1900's. But people KNOW Jesus didn't live in this century, and INSIST ON VOTING FOR HIM ANYWAY. It's smug. It's like forcing a conversation to a topic you want to talk about even though it has nothing to do with the subject at hand. "What's the weather like outside, Jed?" "Sunny as long as Jesus is in my life, Will!" Great, Jed. Do I need an umbrella or not? -- W.H., 8/4/98
ON PEOPLE WHO SAY THEY LIKE "ALL KINDS OF MUSIC": They do not. It's a cop-out answer. The irony is that people who say they like "all kinds of music" are usually the most narrow-minded of all. They almost always follow with some incredibly exclusive qualification: "Well, except for rap, metal and country." In other words, you like Elton John, and maybe Whitney Houston, correct? If they actually believe they like all kinds of music it's because they only know one kind. When you hear someone say they like all music, ask her what music she OWNS. Did he put his money where his mouth is? Does she own Mozart, Celine Dion, Motorhead, Ravi Shankar, Willie Nelson, The Pixies, Billie Holliday, Hoagy Carmichael, Gregorian Monk chants and John Cage? Attack with intensity. Force commitment to specifics. You'll be doing them, and their future conversations, a huge favor. -- W.H. 7/28/98
ON BEING BORING, 1994: Her hands gestured wildly at the party as she described an awful experience being a bridesmaid for her sister. She's funny, I thought as I watched from the corner, which means I have no chance. Because I'm supposed to be the funny one and now it's too late to prove it. If I try now, I realized, she'd see me as a jealous threat, not a soulmate. But I have to try, so I do, only to discover I can't! Turns out I was never funny in the first place! I was funny in my head, but when I open my mouth, only boring silly awkward phrases come out! Actually engaging in reality shattered my precariously-built image of myself! Retreat! Back into fantasy! Back from life! Back from reality! -- W.H. 7/21/98
ON MY FASCINATING AND POOR WRITING HABITS: So anyway I start a lot of sentences with "so" and "anyway". I also start a lot of sentences with "and". Throw that in with "so" and "anyway" and you realize that I'm scared of starting a new sentence properly. I want every sentence to sound as if it occurred in the middle of a conversation that was already going on. Even if it's the first sentence in the piece. It's like I'm trying to sneak up behind you in a crowd and begin speaking as if we had both been there for hours. Except with writing, I don't look so strange doing that. And you can walk away without me knowing. And I'd just be here, talking away. I think it means that I'm scared of confrontation. I also like long dashes -- like this -- which I think means I'm frightened to end a sentence as well. Scared to begin; scared to end. It's amazing what someone's writing says about them, doesn't it? Intriguing, aren't I? -- W.H., 7/14/98
ON THE GREEN ROOM: I was sitting in a writing class, and the teacher asked if anyone knew what a "green room" on television was. Each of the 20 students raised a hand. We all realized it was the place on talk shows where guests sit while waiting to be introduced. My God, I thought. Are we so fascinated with celebrities that we even remember the lingo of places they sit backstage? And I was as guilty as the rest of them! WHY do we know this? Why do SO MANY people know that? Is the possibility of being on a talk show finally so great that we all learn the backstage mechanics in case we're whisked into Jay Leno's studio without warning? "Will," said David Letterman, approaching me on the street. "I need you to be a guest, but I don't have time to brief you on what happens." I smiled confidently. "It doesn't matter, Dave. I'm ready. We're ALL ready," I said, gesturing to the crowds of New York as tears glistened in his eyes. -- W.H. , 6/23/98
ON THE UNFAIR WORLD: A long time ago, I wrote a piece on how the popularity of the television show Dharma & Greg was a warning sign that the apocolypse would happen soon. That piece represented a lot of things I like about Spite: it had silly pop culture references, it was an overreaction to something completely meaningless, and it was written by ME. But before I could get my act together and finish it, that damn show faded in the ratings, and now the closest we have to a TV pop phenom is Ally McBeal or maybe Dawson's Creek. I guess I could make fun of them instead, but I'm too attached to hating Dharma & Greg to get involved with another show. Now I can't seem to write anything! I'm washed up! Damn! See? Dharma & Greg are more evil than even I had thought! -- W.H. , 6/16/98
ON WOMEN IN OFFICES: Here is the main concern of all women in all offices everywhere, in order of priority: 1) status of the water cooler, 2) quality of their chair in relation to the chairs of all prettier women, and 3) the degree of enthusiasm with which everyone greets them in the morning. The business can be collapsing, and meteors crashing outside, but a woman will still complain "You didn't say hi to me this morning." or "You didn't sound very happy this morning." Of course I didn't: I was talking to you!-- B.C., 6/9/98
ON PLAYING WITH GUNS: So what's more frightening: India and Pakistan playing with nukes? Public school students playing with guns? Or old men taking Viagra and playing with themselves? Depends where you live, I reckon, and how close your grandfather is. What I do know is that it's making it awfully hard for us to be angry and funny, when real live people are doing such a good job at it. We make fun of pop groups. India and Pakistan start an arms race. We crack a joke about Yoko Ono. A 70-year-old man takes Viagra, gets his first erection in five years, and promptly leaves his wife to "be a stud again." Are we really supposed to be any funnier than that? -- W.H. 6/2/98
ON MANHATTAN LOSING ITS COOL: Without warning, New York is out-of-fashion. 1) Seinfeld, the TV show that made New York cool again, goes off the air with a finale that everyone hates. 2) Deep Impact, the movie that shows a tidal wave destroying New York, opens and rakes in $41 million its first weekend (With Godzilla crushing midtown and Armageddon smashing the Chrysler Building close behind). And 3) Frank Sinatra finally croaks. THANK GOD on all counts. This burg is too crowded anyway, and I don't need any pansy-ass whiteboy sitcoms luring any more of you rural redneck hicks to hoof it over here and take up space that I need. Stay in Kansas, Dorothy, unless you've got the bod to justify taking up space in my view. You're doing more good where you are, and my rent is too high as it is. Now if I can just get crack gangs to start roving again, I might actually be able to afford a bigger bathroom... - B.C. 5/19/98
ON BAD WEATHER: I swear it feels like its been raining for months. I half expect that tomorrow morning, when I head out to my car, I'll see my neighbor in the parking lot working on an ark.
"Hey Bob, whatcha doing?"
"....nnnnNothing."
"When did you get all those pets?"
"Uh......I'm watching them for a friend."
Oh well. At least it makes the traffic worse. - K.H., 5/12/98
ON CHANGING OUR LOOK: We looked in the mirror, and wanted to change our clothes, our hair, our face. And since we exist solely as HTML, we did. Yeah, we change our minds a lot. Yeah, there used to be day-glo colors, and now there's not. And yes, there's too many 'zines on the web already. And too many try to be twisted, sardonic and sinister. So? Who asked you? Who would trade old underwear for what you think? What good is the web if you can't make it up as you go? We've changed before, and we'll likely do it again. We are the superbad daddy of ezines, and we won't take your crap for anything. Besides, there's new quotes, new sections and a new logo. What more do you want? - W.H., 4/21/98