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In This Issue

• Attacking Evil At Its Root
• Starbucks Gets New Badass Logo
• My Drunken Attempt to Thwart War
• Letters to the Editor
• Sexy Underwear Failed to Solve My Problems
• Democrats and Witchcraft, Proper Bedfellows
• AIM is the Tool of the Devil
• AIM is the Tool of the Pedophile
• Columbia Card Helped Me Sin With the Pros
• Is There Enough Satan In Your Life?
• God's Own Country: Florida
• Predictions for 2003, Withheld No More
• At Last: God Comix for Muslims 'n' Bikers
• My Very First Gun Show Sans Hangover
• Celebrities Bulldoze the Darndest Things
• On Finding Macho Yet Delicious Alcohol
• Angry Cell Phone Guy's Secret Identity Revealed
• The Staff
• They Watch
• Wacky, Fun! Whitey?
• A Message for this Election Cycle
• Sniperman!

Sitting in a restaraunt in Washington D.C. on the morning of Sunday, October 27, I started to wonder exactly what the hell I was doing there. My friend sitting opposite me apparently shared my thoughts as he vocalized this sentiment seconds later. The answer was actually quite simple, if somewhat silly. I had been at Yale visiting a friend, whom I shall refer to as Lance (partly to protect his identity, partly because I've always wanted to have a friend named Lance), on Friday. It was about 1 AM and I had just gulped down a final Sapporo when on an intoxicated whim, we decided to catch the protest buses about leave for D.C. Some people get drunk and wake up next to a stranger, others get drunk and wake up at strange politcal rallies.

Armed with vague anti-war notions I boarded the bus and sat down next to a guy so absorbed in a socialist paper that he was unable to acknowledge my presence. I was so clearly out of my league. Eventually he handed me a big ball of white strips of fabric that was being passed around. I made a drunken-confusion grunt to indicate my lack of understanding. He gave me a look and admonished me "you know, anti-war bands, for the protest." Right. I wrapped a piece of white fabric around my wrist. It soon became apparent that I was in someone elses seat and so I was forced into the very back row where I sat next to the foul-smelling bathroom on a half-seat.

With gradual sobriety came paranoia. I couldn't open my mouth for fear that I might let on that I was not a marxist-ultra-left-super-liberal, for surely these people would castrate me or worse if they were to find out. Seven hours later we arrived in D.C. and intoxication had long since faded into pain and discomfort. We were early; the protest wasn't to begin for hours. So, Lance and I decided to do a bit of touring, checking out the monuments in a very un-activistic sort of way.

Some time later we made our way to the White House. Deciding we wanted a better look, we obtained the free tickets necessary to enter and walk around the garden. After waiting on a short line we entered through the gates and watched the guards ahead of us search bags and pat down other tourists. "We can't go in there," said Lance with a concerned look on his face, "the drugs!" Damn. I had nearly forgotten about the various substances and implements for smoking those substances hidden beneath his jacket. Thinking quickly I explained to a police officer that we simply did not have the time for this walk-through and must leave immediately. It's not clear he actually believed us, but we were allowed to exit nevertheless.

We decided to head back to the protest, which was by now well underway, before we actually got ourselves into any serious trouble. Aha! A line of individuals marching up the street. We quickly joined ranks with them. It soon became apparent that something was amiss--these people weren't protesting against war, they were protesting against diabetes! We were failed activists. Not only were my half-assed anti-war notions not good enough for these people, I couldn't even find the damned protest. Lukily for us a kindly socialist couple was walking in our direction. They agreed to guide us back to the protest and even gave us their own extremist newspaper which I would later use to keep the sun out of my eyes.

Finally we had reached the protest and I felt secure in the mob of sign-bearing, slogan-chanting activists. Susan Sarandon, Jesse Jackson, Patti Smith, and many others sang, preached, and otherwise shouted about why we shouldn't go to war with Iraq. The unity was amazing. Activism finally started to make sense; many good, positive things were said that afternoon. The rest of the day was spent marching, chanting and taking part in various protest activities. We joined in the giant peace sign, we danced in the street, we got kicked out of the street by a horde of biker-cops.

In retrospect, though, I can't say that I agree with everything that transpired at the protests that day. Images of Bush morphed with Osama bin Laden on protest signs are amusing, but what kind of message are we actually trying to send? Other signs loudly announcing that "Bush is a motherfucker," make me glad that activists are so expressive that they can basically sum up all their political beliefs into the single notion of Bush having sex with his mother. But I'd have to say that the winner of the day's absurdity contest was the group chanting "Bush is a terrorist and his father was a Nazi." Has everyone forgotten what Nazi means or are they really so self-deluded that they actually remember George Bush slaughtering millions of Jews? I understand that chants bring solidarity to groups, but they can also be utterly mindless, drawing people into a dangerous kind of mob mentality.

Finally the time came to buy a 30-pack of beer and re-board the bus for the 7-hour voyage to New Haven. And so, we bid D.C. goodbye and drove off into the darkness. On the way back we watched the video adaptation of Dr. Seuss's Butter Battle Book which very well may have been the most meaningful anti-war material I had seen all day.