The Hyperion Institute

#10 TOP GUN – Take my breath away! (Sorry, I had to.) There’s a reason they show this every July 4, and it’s not naked silhouettes (well, not JUST naked silhouettes). When Maverick takes down the evil Russian MiGs in the final act, you’ll want to join the Navy.

#9 JAMES BOND – I’m including all them here. Never has one man done so much to raise the coolness quotient of an other wise dorky country.

#8 ENEMY AT THE GATES – I know I personally wanted to kill Germans after watching this movie, if only to impress Rachel Weisz so she might get naked for me too.

#7 CANADIAN BACON – This movie is about Americans invading Canada (strangely, the Americans are played mostly by Canadians). However, you’ll end up with quite a bit of fondness for those Cannucks, as well as the morons who try to take them down. Best line, when an American threatens a Mounty with: “We have ways of making you pronounce the letter O.”

#6 ROCKY IV - Rocky goes to Russia to avenge the death of Apollo Creed. By the end of the fight (on Christmas, no less), even the evil Commies are cheering for Rocky, who makes a plea for peace. At least, we think that’s what he does. By now, no mortal can understand Sly.

#5 TORA TORA TORA – The best Pearl Harbor film ever made. I know that’s damning with faint praise, but it’s still great. You’ll switch from Playstation to X-Box after watching this.

#4 THE PATRIOT – A fairly ridiculous film (I’m pretty sure no British officer was that evil), Gibson runs around killing every red coat in sight. Viva la Revelucion!

#3 INDEPENDENCE DAY - The president of the United States (who’s incapable of lying, talk about wish-fulfillment), flies a fighter-jet to take down the Aliens, who are also thwarted by using software compatible with Apple, and not Windows.

#2 BRAVEHEART – My college roommate wore a kilt for a month after this came out. Who didn’t want to fight the (this time more legit) evil British after what they did to William Wallace’s wife? “But they will never take…our hot girls!”

and…

#1 ALEXANDER NEFSKY – Probably the best film you’ve never heard of. Stalin originally wanted this for propaganda, but at first rejected it when Germany and Russia were buds before WWII. However, once that went by the wayside, he demanded it shown in every theatre in the country. But forget ol’ Mustache, NEFSKY is simply a breathtaking film. The evil Teutonic Knights are coming to enslave Mother Russia, and her sons must defend the homeland. Featuring the greatest land battle of all time – on melting ice going toward a waterfall. Supposedly based on a real battle, it contains the great quote: “Those who come to us with a sword will die from that sword.” Okay, it loses a little in translation, but you get the message.

The Hyperion Chronicles
"Come and Get Me"

#352 Both Barrels

A little girl was raped in your neighborhood yesterday.

How did you feel when you read that sentence? Were you uncomfortable? Did it bother you to read it? Did you resent me for writing it? Did the whole experience make you upset at all? If no, why not? And if so, just one more question: why didn’t you feel that way yesterday.

When it comes to the standards of safety and well-being, Western society has come a long way. Despite a grossly myopic misunderstanding of history, most are far better off now than in centuries’ past. There are still places where it is dangerous to walk at night, or to walk any time with an unfavorable skin pigmentation, but the very fact we recognize this and show concern speaks to the vast improvements made, as it used to be the plight for everyone everywhere.

But there is one place that—shockingly—has not gotten safer, or maybe it has, but the progress lags so far behind the rest of society that the failure is more glaring. I speak of the home. Every day women—and men—and especially children, are subjected to waking nightmares from which they cannot escape. And while we have all the programs in the world that are supposed to fix the problem, there is a still a culture of permissiveness, an unwillingness for many to get involved.

“It’s not my business.” This is the rationale, the excuse. How many women have you known in an abusive relationship? How many times did you hear some lame excuse about how she tripped, or wondered why she stayed with someone who terrorized her? We’re all part of this problem.

It starts early.

A little boy, a little girl, is often abused in the home; a close relative or a trusted friend. Fully functioning adults are scarcely capable of separating the myriad feelings that come from such a personal betrayal. For children it is almost impossible. The damage inflicted runs deep; the scars last forever. And those children learn a warped sense of right and wrong, how to behave, and the proper expression of love.

The boys can look forward to a lifetime of crippling emotional problems, alienation from society, and an unsympathetic world that still often views male emotions as the domain of fags. Sadly, these boys will often grow up to become abusers themselves, perpetuating the violence in an endless cycle of futile attempts to exorcise their own pain.

The little girls have it no better. Often the sexual abuse gets confused in their identity and how they relate to males. Daddy only loved me when I let him do this. Therefore, other men will only love me if I do the same. It seems simplistic and condescending, but how many of these girls become sexually permissive when they hit their teens? Are they all just loose women making bad choices? Or do the roots run much deeper?

Adulthood doesn’t hold much more promise of peace. If she’s lucky, a woman can expect to have difficulty relating to boyfriends or a husband. Many, though, unwittingly end up again and again with men who continue to abuse them emotionally, physically, and sexually. They cannot figure out what they are doing wrong. Worst of all, they bring monsters into their own home who end up doing the same to their children, as was done to them, their mothers, and grandmothers before them.

The numbers are so staggering that they become abstractions. One in three girls is sexually abused by the time she is 18. No, wait. I just read a study claiming that number is blown out of proportion. The real figure is more like one in four. Thank Christ. Please cancel my moral sense of outrage and allow me to go back to my uninterrupted daily life.¹

Don’t care for my words? Don’t appreciate my tone? Why is this the thing that bothers you? I know not your heart individually, but I do know that we as a society are failing. Why we are not angry enough to commit murder is beyond me. Oh, people get up in arms every once in awhile. We hear on the news of a little girl abducted from her home, and the cable channels cover it obsessively for awhile, but eventually they move on to something else, and we too let our attention wander. What about the children in your own neighborhood? The ones who don’t have television crews camped out on the front lawn interviewing neighbors, and scads of volunteers looking. What about the kids who were not abducted, but wish they could be? Are you out looking for them?

Then there are the worst offenders: those who know something might be up, but complicitly stay silent. You know the woman may be in a bad situation. You shake your head, but do nothing. You know that the man shouldn’t be trusted around children, so you keep your own away from him, but neglect to tell anyone else.

This is especially true in extended families. I have news for you: it is not just the wrong side of the tracks that produces abusers. It is everywhere: even yours. It happens so often that it sometimes becomes a joke. I remember Chris Rock in a comedy routine talking about how every family had “that molester uncle.” The audience laughed. It was funny because they knew it was true.

Why, you might ask, are these abusers not exposed? I really don’t know, but my guess is denial and embarrassment. What it comes right down to is the unwillingness of people to venture outside of their safe little homes. If they are lucky enough to have escaped it themselves, they certainly don’t want to think about what their friends and neighbors might be doing behind closed doors. People don’t want to admit that someone they have known and lived with all of their lives might be committing these acts; that there are wolves among them.

Well, I say fuck their embarrassment. Do I anger you with my choice of words? Well, fuck your anger too. Do you understand what I am talking about? A little boy, a little girl—if they are lucky—are asked to touch some adult’s penis. They are touched themselves. At worst their legs are pulled apart and their vagina or rectum is penetrated.

These are ugly words. It is an unspeakably ugly thing. You should be furious. You should have so much anger in your heart at those who do this that you would do anything to bring them to justice. And you should have almost as much anger for those who cover it up, who do nothing. You tell me now my words are inappropriate. My question is, why haven’t you been using them?

So what do we do?²

This problem isn’t going away over night. If I could I’d execute every single child abuser on the planet, but that’s not going to happen right now. We have in place an entrenched system that punishes those who speak out. This must stop. It begins with us. We must absolutely demand that people do not stand by idly while abuse happens. It is now illegal to watch someone die and not at least go for help. It should be no different here.

I know it is uncomfortable; no one likes talking about it. But your discomfort—and mine—is a small price to pay to protect these children. It must be the norm to report this behavior aggressively, and the shame should come for those people who do not.

Women have to play a part too. The odds are I am never going to be sexually assaulted, so I cannot speak to the fear a woman might have just getting out of the car, in a situation I wouldn’t think twice about. I am not passing judgment, and my heart breaks.

But I have seen the statistics. I know how often an abused woman will raise children who will also be abused, and I cannot sit silent while this epidemic continues generation after generation. Somehow, we have to get to the point where victims are not ashamed. If someone is murdered, the name is not withheld, because everyone understands they were a victim. But when it comes to rape, we keep everything hush hush. This is, in part, what lets the vast majority of rapists get away with it.

There is no magic formula to just fix this overnight. But we have to see that as the goal. We have to want to get to a place where without question you would report a sexual crime, just as you would a murder or robbery.

Beyond that, though, there is a generation of women, survivors of abuse, who need help learning how their behaviors can be unhealthy and can become pathology. Understand: in no way am I placing the blame for rape or assault on a girl because of her clothing or how much she might drink. But the fact is that most rapists, these wolves among us, prey on girls who have been victimized in the past; who have unwittingly become professional victims. These girls often don’t make the smartest decisions leading up to things, and they feel guilty afterwards, as if it is their fault, and they don’t report it.

Some victim's rights groups actively ignore this part of the equation, mainly because it makes it seem like women are to blame. I am not saying that. I don’t think anyone who knows me could attest otherwise. But it is part of the equation. For many girls, trouble comes because, despite everything they know, they still like the creep. For those of you who have been there or know someone who has, you know what I am saying is true.

I used to work with a girl, 16 years old. Her dad raped her repeatedly growing up, and then her brother. Now she had a 25 year old boyfriend. He would often rape her too, and on special occasions pass her around to his friends. But she kept going back.

I only wish I were making that up. I want to live in a world where I didn’t have to take matters into my own hands, where that doesn’t happen every day. Where a boy isn’t abused and grows up to be like that girl’s father. Where that girl is not raped by her own father and brother, imprinting upon her the idea that she must let men abuse her to receive love. Where she understands that she is worthy, and that a crime against her is worth reporting and prosecuting, no matter what has gone on before.

We don’t live in that world, but I desperately want to. And so, I take the step of writing this column, knowing full well I will offend many, some egregiously. I do this because I want people to be more aware of what is going on out there, to look for the signs³, to at the very least be available for someone to talk to, and not pass judgment. I do this know that I risk opening old wounds, bringing up pain long buried, and on a personal level I risk losing many of my readers.

Knowing all of that, it is worth it to me. We simply have to do something, and it starts with me. This is what I believe. This is what I feel more strongly about than anything on Earth. This is where I draw my line. This is for what I load my gun, and am willing to unload both barrels.

Hyperion
May 12, 2005

Notes
¹ This comes from an article I read a few months ago where the author spent the entire time arguing that the 1 in 3 number was a myth, and it was really 1 in 4. My point is: if it were 1 in 5 or even 1in 10, would you be any less mad? That one in ten children are abused by an adult they trust?
² http://www.aacap.org/publications/factsfam/sexabuse.htm
³ Here are some of the signs of sexual abuse in kids: http://www.helpguide.org/mental/child_abuse_physical_emotional_sexual_neglect.htm

Credits
Thanks to Koz, Quincy and Alcott for feedback

You have read this column. There is not now--if there ever was--any claim that you did not know. Your task is to do something, ANYTHING, to make a change. I hold each and every one of you completely responsible from this day on if such a child, such a woman passes your path and you do nothing. You've been warned.

THE WALL

There is a town; just like the one you grew up in. In this town—quiet, unassuming—there is a neighborhood; just like your old neighborhood. Elm trees line the paths. Children ride bikes and skip rope. Every afternoon at 4:06 those faint sweet notes can be heard right on cue that every child knows: the ice cream man. In this neighborhood is a street; it's just like your street. Lawns are kept mostly mowed, there are a couple of gossips, and there is only one house that the children avoid. (It’s that one on the corner where the mean old man lives.) Idyllic and safe as can be. And on that gently winding street is a house; just like yours.

The house is old, but well-built; not beautiful, but with a certain charm. The outer walls are not connected directly to the inner walls. There is a little space that runs between them, made to let the house “breathe.” It is to this little space that Jemmah often goes when she hears the footsteps.

About Jemmah: she is 12 now, with beautiful curly hair. She is smart as a whip and will read anything put in front of her. She likes puzzles and games, and all types of riddles, and hates Brussels sprouts (which she secretly feeds to the dog). She also hates secrets. Jemmah is friendly, but doesn’t really have many friends. She used to play with Connie and Annie, but they didn’t understand why they could never come over to Jemmah’s house. They didn’t understand the secret.

Mostly, Jemmah plays by herself, which is fine with her. She loves to do her puzzles, read books, or make-believe that she’s a princess or a warrior, somewhere magical and far, far away. At night Jemmah will talk to Wall, her one true friend.

About Wall: it occupies one half of the crawl space behind Jemmah’s room. You get to Wall behind the radiator through a hidden opening. As soon as you crawl through you notice the pillows, blanket, and night-light Jemmah has placed there (she often stays all night), as well as the new puzzle she’s working on and a favorite book.

Wall has been there for several little girls when they journeyed back there over the years, including Jemmah’s own sister. Wall has listened sympathetically as each girl discovered the door and crawled through; huddled and frightened as they listened for footsteps. These girls would sometimes talk with Wall; share their feelings, if only to have someone to talk to. Their stories made Wall sad.

When Jemmah’s sister left home and Jemmah moved into the room, her sister showed her the hidden door to Wall. “If you need it.” her sister said.

“What would I need it for?” she asked. Jemmah’s sister looked at her for a long time without saying anything, and then walked out of the room, and out of the house.

That was when Jemmah was almost seven. By 8 ½, Jemmah knew exactly what the door was for: to hide. Jemmah first went to Wall the Night After. She heard the footsteps, and desperately looked for a place to conceal herself. Then she remembered what her sister had said. She spent the whole night shaking and crying; terrified. Wall was the only one who got her through it.

Wall listened to every one of those little girls who came there, but Jemmah was the first one to expect Wall to talk back. So, it did. Wall and Jemmah would talk about almost everything: what happened in school, a new puzzle Jemmah was working on, a grand adventure they could pretend to go on together. There was only one thing they never mentioned: the reason Jemmah was there.

One night Jemmah started talking about it. She had kept it all hidden deep down inside for so long, and she felt like she would burst. Jemmah told Wall, “I don’t know how much more I can take.” Wall would comfort Jemmah the best it could, and sing her to sleep.

Jemmah learned the hard way, and sometimes she wasn’t fast enough. When that happened she imagined she was far away, in one of those fantasies she created. Jemmah adapted, learned to sleep right on the edge of wakefulness; discerning every sound, knowing which ones meant danger. The nights got harder. The evasions, the excuses, the tricks more difficult to pull off. Wall could see the fight slowly draining out of Jemmah. Its planks ached with sorrow for this little girl, and Wall yearned to ease her pain and make her feel safe. Then it got an idea.

“Jemmah,” Wall said one night, “I have some riddles for you.” Jemmah perked up immediately; she loved riddles. “What are they?” she asked, sniffling away the last few tears.

“I’m going to give you two riddles,” said Wall. “When you get the first one right, I’ll tell you a story. When you get the second one, I’ll grant you a wish.”

This made Jemmah forget all about what waited on the other side. Her face became animated and a smile split her lips; all too rare a sight on Jemmah the last few years. Wall already felt better.

“Do I get any hints?” asked Jemmah.

“Yes,” said Wall. “The riddles have something to do with you.”

“I’m ready,” said Jemmah, a look of concentration on her tear-stained face. Wall started with the first Riddle:

“May be cold, or may be hot!
Sometimes glitters, but often not;
Ever changing though the eye can't measure,
Concealed within are many a treasure.
Some find safety beneath its gate,
While others are crushed beneath its weight!
Old and broken, it brings forth life.”

This was a hard riddle. Jemmah worked on it for three days, thinking of and discarding various answers that didn’t quite fit. Finally she figured it out. She couldn’t wait for that night, to talk to Wall.

“It’s a rock!” she said excitedly.

“That’s right!” said Wall, impressed at how quick Jemmah was. Wall was just congratulating itself when Jemmah spoke up again.

“How am I old and broken, and how do I crush things beneath my weight?” She asked suspiciously.

“Uh…” said Wall, who hadn’t thought that part of the Riddle through. Changing the subject, Wall said, “Are you ready for your story?” Jemmah nodded. Wall started in:

There is a fox and a hedgehog. They say that the fox knows many small things, while the hedgehog knows one big thing.

One day the hedgehog comes out of its burrow, in the side of the hill, and goes down to the bottom of the hill to get a drink out of the stream. The fox approaches and says, “I’m going to eat you, Hedgehog.” The hedgehog replies, “You can’t eat me or you’ll never find out how water runs uphill.”

“I know many things,” says the fox, “and I know that water does not run uphill.”

“I may only be a hedgehog,” says the hedgehog, “and only know one thing, but I know that water runs uphill.”

The fox is hungry, but he’s also curious. He gets a crafty look in his eye. “Show me how water runs uphill,” says the fox, “and I won’t eat you.”

“Observe:” says the hedgehog, as it takes a long drink from the stream. “The water is now inside me. Watch closely.” The hedgehog runs up the hill.

“And thus,” says the hedgehog,” water runs uphill.”

The fox is very angry; he’s been tricked. But before he can do anything, the hedgehog (who is now halfway up the hill by its home) runs into its burrow; safe from the fox.

So, even though the hedgehog knows only one thing, it knows the right thing: that it is smarter than the fox.

Jemmah clapped her hands softly in delight. “That was just lovely,” she said. Jemmah fell asleep that night curled up against Wall happier than she had been in some time.

The next night she was ready for more. “Tell me the next riddle.” Jemmah said.

“Okay,” said Wall. “Here goes:

“With no wings, I fly.
With no eyes, I see.
With no arms, I climb.
More powerful than any beast,
Smarter than all enemies who fear me,
I am cunning, resourceful, and tall;
in the end, I rule all.”

Jemmah had to think about this one for a long time. Each day as she played she would try to guess; what was more powerful than any beast? Oh, to be that strong. What could be so smart that your enemies would fear you? Jemmah wished her enemies would fear her. She thought of her Princess, and her Warrior, but they didn’t quite fit. Then, in a flash, she figured it out.

“The answer is imagination,” she said triumphantly to Wall that night; her eyes shining.

“You are so right,” said Wall, very proud of her. Jemmah was thinking what she should wish for when she heard the footsteps. She and Wall went instantly still. The handle jiggled and the door creaked open. Jemmah held her breath and trembled in the darkness, and Wall wished it could do more to help her.

When the footsteps finally retreated Jemmah became resolute. “I wish,” she began fiercely, “that I could feel safe again. I wish that everyone like me could feel safe; knowing that they were protected.”

It broke Wall’s heart to hear such anger, although it understood. “Your wish is granted.” said Wall.

One bright March morning, over 4% of the world’s population disappeared. When the day dawned they just Were. Not. There. With census figures already suspect in many less developed countries, officials have never been able to confidently give a final tally of The Vanishing (as the press almost immediately began calling it), but the best guess of the United Nations is that on the day 273,000,000 people (±4,000,000) were simply gone.

273 million anything doesn’t just disappear. People were frightened, but there was very little violence, as most were too stunned, and feared they might be next. Every country in the world lost people. Black, white, brown; across the board. Some were in prison, some poor and middle class, and some were CEOs and Captains of Industry. At first a few religious groups tried to claim it was the Rapture, because several religious leaders were gone, but there were plenty of True Believers left, so that didn’t add up.

All segments of the work force were hit. Police, Fire, Doctors, Plumbers, Teachers, Clergy, Lawyers, Athletes, Accountants. Government officials (some quite high up), as well as judges; the list went on an on. The major stock markets in New York, London, Hong Kong, and Tokyo remained closed for days as officials tried to assess the damage. It was like a world-wide earthquake had hit, but instead of buildings it hit people.

Martial law was declared in most countries. Talk radio and cable news had round-the-clock coverage (once they replaced a few of their own who were missing,) discussing The Vanishing in minute detail; offering and debating every theory under the sun as to how this could have happened.

Several weeks later, once order had been restored, a Blue Ribbon International Commission was put together; experts from all over the world trying to get to the bottom of this. The numbers were too vast, over too wide an area for any one person to have master-minded it. Suspicion naturally fell to terrorism, but Intelligence sources reported that terrorists were just as hard-hit.

Since no one had a clue how it happened, inquiry focused more on who disappeared, and what connection they might have. Patterns were maddeningly hard to come by. Most of the vanished were men, but a sizable number were women. Some were considered “unsavory characters,” but many were well respected in their communities. Most were adults, but some were as young as 12, or as old as 108.

From the streets there started to be rumblings of a new name. They didn’t use “The Vanishing.” They called it “The Purge.” “The Purge of what?” many reporters asked. No one was talking.

At least, not to reporters, or Blue Ribbon Commissions. People were talking, though. They would gather quietly, in homes and talk in hushed tones. The vast majority of these people were family members of the now departed. Governments the world over got wind of this, and tried to pry the secrets out. They sent out tens of thousands of undercover agents, but they didn’t learn anything of note. The governments even tried interrogation and the threat of prosecution, but that didn’t go very well with the general public. These “surviving” family members were bereaved, and generated a lot of sympathy and good will.

As a group, they didn’t seem as grief-stricken as one might expect. This occurred to more than one investigator, but the observation was never passed up the chain of command.

Maybe those investigators figured it out, and didn’t want to ruin it. But while the families went through all the proper stages of mourning (and insurance forms; what a nightmare for that industry), many of them could not hide a small quiet smile. When asked, most would say they found solace and peace in God and spiritual things.

Jemmah’s eyes opened slowly, and she smiled; sharing the private joy of these families. “Was that real?” Jemmah asked Wall after a few minutes, as the image slowly faded, like a dream.

“What do you think, Jemmah?” She thought about it for some time.

Finally, Jemmah said, “I think that happened because I wished it. I didn’t want to hurt anybody; I just wanted those who have been through what I have to feel safe. Nobody; not boys or girls—not even adults—should be afraid of those footsteps in the dark. To live life freely: without that pit of dread in the back of your throat; what a gift to be given.”

Jemmah started crying softly, but she didn’t let that stop her. “I want to feel safe. I want to know that no one will ever make me do anything horrible again. I’m just not sure how.”

Wall had never felt happier in its whole life. To every girl who had come here, Wall had tried to whisper this idea in their minds. Jemmah was the first to get it.

Wall told Jemmah, “You are exactly right. You understand.”

“What do I understand?” asked Jemmah. It’s all so horrible.”

Wall looked lovingly at Jemmah, knowing she was ready. “Jemmah, I told you that story and those riddles were like you. You recognize that people want to feel safe and free from harm. Jemmah, you have the power to help make that happen.” Jemmah’s eyes shone with unshed tears, but she said nothing; not wanting to break the magic of Wall’s words. Wall went on.

“First you must tell. You must tell everyone, until they listen. And you must keep telling as long as you have to. But Jemmah, you are special, and you can do even more than that. You can grow up to help create a world where people can feel safe. No one should have to go to bed at night, fearfully listening for footsteps; wondering what’s around every corner.” Jemmah was now silently sobbing, not in agony, but relief that someone was showing her the way.

Wall continued: “Jemmah, you can make a difference. You can share your story, and help others share theirs. You can break these walls of silence.” Jemmah laughed at Wall saying that. Wall did too. “You know what I mean. You can reach people, and help them, because you understand.”

Jemmah felt honored, but afraid. “How can I do that?” she asked Wall. “I’m just one girl.”

“You can do it, Jemmah. It won’t be easy,” Wall went on, in a more serious tone. “People will attack you, call you a liar, and maybe even abandon you. But you, Jemmah, you are that rock; strong and steadfast. You can withstand the pressure and outlast them all.

“It may even be dangerous. We both know there are foxes out there. But you, Jemmah, you are the hedgehog. You may not have the sharp teeth or claws, but you’re smarter than all the foxes, and can figure out ways to outwit them.

“Lastly, Jemmah, you have the imagination. It is this weapon that has saved your life, as you have been able to take your mind far away when you needed to. More than that, though: you see the world as it could be, as it should be. That vision you saw earlier didn’t mean you wanted to get rid of people, because you can’t get rid of all the bad people out there who hurt others. What it meant was that you want to see a world where people feel safe in their homes. You can be one to make the world more safe; because you, Jemmah, you get it. You see the world as it should be, and I know you’ll make it happen.

Never had anyone believed her, or believed in her. Never had anyone thought she could make a difference. Inside Jemmah’s heart, fear began to ebb, and new feelings came in. Jemmah felt pride, a sense of purpose, and confidence. There was anger there now, building as a driving force, which she would use to make a change. It would be difficult, but she could and would do it. Jemmah would tell everyone she had to; what was happening must stop. But she wouldn’t stop. Jemmah would continue on, and help others, so that no little girl or boy, no man or woman would ever have to face this alone. She was the rock. She was the hedgehog. She had the imagination. Jemmah would help break down these walls of silence, because Jemmah had a Wall of her own.

Hyperion
May 30, 2004

Thanks to everyone who read and gave me invaluable feedback: Cephas, Koz, Bear, Castro, Jerrica, Tootsie, and Kimbo