The brains behind the group Say Anything, Max Bemis became a semi-star after the 2004 album ...is a Real Boy was a breakout success. I was 16-years-old the first time I heard this album and you could say that it had the same effect on me that Helter Skelter had on Charles Manson (minus all the sociopathic murders). Every line, every note, and every noise on that album transcended my expectations of what music should be. I became a die-hard Say Anything fan, and they became my favorite band.

In the fall of 2007, their next album In Defense of the Genre was released. I remember the anticipation and excitement of those days. And then I listened to the album; it was pretty disappointing. The problem was, the album was supposed to be this double-album -27-track-epic-godsend. Instead it turned out to be corny, overdone, and inconsistent. It's almost like there was a good CD in there somewhere, but it was too hard to find among 20 tracks of filler.

So after the disappointment of In Defense of the Genre, I was skeptical that Say Anything could put out another great album. Luckily, their self-titled new album is an improvement from In Defense of the Genre but it is still light years away from ...is a Real Boy.

The album opens with an up-tempo acoustic-then-electric piece called "Fed to Death" which is great and I wish that it could be longer than one minute and 16 seconds. The second track is their current single titled "Hate Everyone" which isn't really a witty name because the song is about hating everybody. It is good though. The lyrics are simple, yet efficient. It's catchy and the shouting gang-vocals during the chorus make it a staple of the Say Anything sound.

During the chorus of the third track, "Do Better", Max states "You can do better, You can do better, You can be the greatest band in the world." I find this especially ironic because I remember saying these same things about Say Anything after In Defense of the Genre was released. But this is a good song. The song's got clever lyrics and one of those drum beats you can't get out of your head. I just wish it wasn't so repetitive.

The next several tracks I was particularly unimpressed by. However, "Crush'd", "Death For My Birthday" and "Ahh Men" save this album from more harsh criticism and my trashcan. "Crush'd" is an uncomplicated song about having a crush and it works especially well because it's one of the few songs on this album that has a well-done transition between the verses, bridges, and choruses. In fact this song would be one of their all-time best songs if during the chorus Max didn't say "bah-bay." This isn't The Jonas Brothers, Max. Don't say "baby", "bah-bay", "bebe" or any variation.

"Death For My Birthday" is probably the best song on the album. It might sound like a dumb title, but the song is great. It's straightforward, consistent and doesn't include any of the things that hurt the other songs. What I'm talking about are the electric drums, keyboards, horns, cheesy background vocals, repetitive lines and unnecessary spoken word interludes in the middle of songs. Although those things might work in some cases, they don't work here at all. Thankfully Max was kind enough to keep some of those things absent in some tracks, leaving "Death For My Birthday" to be an excellent example of Say Anything's work.

The final track, "Ahh Men" was the one song I liked since I heard the album (My first impression of the album was far from positive). It's a slow song, but it builds up as it goes along, and by the end it explodes into a wonderful melody. This was a great track to end the album with, and as far as intro-conclusion goes, Say Anything executes both of them very well here.

I think as time goes on, I may grow to like this album more. I enjoy a lot of it, but there are parts of it I hate, and will probably always hate. Although it is an improvement from their last effort, I'm starting to come to the conclusion that ...is a Real Boy is one of those once-in-a-career types of albums, and even if I held this album to its own standards and didn't compare it to ...is a Real Boy, it would still only be good; not great.

I remember growing up and watching the Batman films by Tim Burton and Joel Schumacher and wanting to have a Batcave of my own. After my dad took me to see X-Men when I was 11-years-old I would have done anything to have my own unique mutant ability. Then came September 11th and I wished so badly for a real life superhero to exist. And all these things never left my brain; I still believe that there should be superheroes in real life.

Of course there have been countless heroes and superheroes written about since the Golden Age of Comics. But it is hard to find a story that portrays heroes as well as The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon. Now, don't get me wrong, I still think characters of the Marvel and DC franchises are staples of American youth, culture, and art. But I have yet to read any adaption of their stories that truly humanizes their characters in the way that Kavalier and Clay humanizes comic book heroes.

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay is a testament to the Golden Age of Comics, a period before and during World War II in which comic books were as popular to American youth as video games are today. It tells the story of Joe Kavalier, a Jewish youth who escapes Nazi-occupied Prague, leaves his family behind, and moves in with his cousin and soon-to-be-partner, Sammy Clay. Joe is a talented artist who knows the bare-minimum about American culture when he arrives in New York City. When Sammy introduces Joe to the world of Comic Books, the stage is set for a lifetime of big-business-deals, artistic breakthroughs, and relationships of hope, love, and lust.

In order to compete with the successful comic heroes of the day, Joe and Sammy brainstorm to create a hero that is unique enough to get recognition, yet believable enough for readers to empathize with. Joe recalls his childhood to bring back memories of when he attempted to be an escape artist, inspired directly by Harry Houdini. Joe also wants the hero they create to be the type of hero that would save his family from the tyranny of the Nazis. That is when they come up with their first hero: The Escapist. The creation of the Escapist becomes a way for Joe to relive his childhood fantasy, and at the same time create a world in which a hero exists to help save those in need of escape from the chains of oppression. This is not the only comic they create, but it is the most important.

Once the Escapist hit shelves Sammy and Joe become made men in the comic book industry. They live in a world where they start calling the shots, and the people above them start allowing them the creative freedom they deserved. Through this lifestyle the two young men earn themselves enough money to start enjoying the finer things in life. Joe and Clay soon meet Rosa Saks, a beautiful young lady who plays a central role in the life of both protagonists and is a direct inspiration for their female heroine, Luna Moth.
All these characters work to create a structure that is nearly perfect. Joe Kavalier is a man that shows what loss can do to a person. Should Joe have chosen to turn down a path of bitterness for the rest of his life and at many times he almost does, he would have become the story's antagonist. But Joe overcomes his loss and disappointment in order to help those around him.

Joe is not the only character who must deal with personal defeat. Sammy Clay's life is also filled with hardship. Although he was on the path to success, his struggles with his sexuality lead him to a life of secrecy. Because Sammy lived in an era where it was socially unacceptable to be a gay man he must live a double-life.

Rosa Saks is the archetype of an outstanding female lead. She has a steadfast love for Joe that makes her character seem weak at times, but ultimately she is not. She is a strong willed woman who is intelligent, sexy, and wonderful throughout. I can't imagine this story told without her being a part of it.

These characters complete the story because by understanding who they are, the reader also understands the comic book characters they create. If not for Joe's background as an amateur escape artist there would be no Escapist. If Sammy didn't use his comic books as an outlet for his frustration over his personal struggles, he may not have created anything great. And without Rosa Saks, there would be no Luna Moth, and no female lead to complement the excellent protagonists.

The book's biggest strength does not come from its characters, it comes through how well this book is written. Michael Chabon seems like the type of author who knows exactly what his readers want him to say. This novel is filled with details that go beyond the readers' imagination, but at the same time do not bore at all. The dialogue is well executed, and his use of foot notes to help describe his euphemisms is almost unprecedented. Another thing about this work that is great is the historical accuracy. This book takes place in New York City between the late 1930's and early 1950's and I could not find one inaccurate reference anywhere. Seriously, I could not find one thing that seemed like it didn't belong. This is one of the more well-researched novels in recent years. My biggest criticism is the length. This book is a little over 600 pages. I felt Chabon could have omitted some parts, specifically Joe's war story, and the novel would not have been hurt in any way.

Anyone who is a fan of comic books needs to read Kavalier and Clay. There have been many works in the last 20 or so years that have a central focus on having the audience relate to superheroes in ways that haven't been seen before. When it comes down to it Kavalier and Clay is the cream-of-the-crop of these works. If there is anything that comes close to how good The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay is at humanizing its characters and superheroes, I will be thoroughly impressed.

Halloween weekend I saw plenty of Lady Gaga's and Sailors running around Cortland. SUNY Cortland was not lacking witches, bumbles bees, or professional sports players. The costumes that caught my attention, however, could not be seen in Marc's Pizzeria or walking through Main Street. It was the creepy makeup and outfits of the cast of SUNY Cortland's production of "Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street" that I could not help but marvel at. I mean how could I avoid those faces when they kept popping up from hidden crawlspaces only inches from where I was sitting?

Sweeney Todd was the perfect play for Halloween weekend. The musical theater department obviously knew what they were doing when the dates were picked. From the sudden appearance of scary looking ensemble members and the use of fake blood made this play scream Halloween. Speaking of screams, I heard plenty of those from audience members when the cast came jumping out at them. Many people were squirming in their seats as cast members frantically ran around the stage reaching out to their spectators.

The cast consisted of 35 people. There were not only Cortland students partaking in the play. Some teachers as well as town people were also involved in the making of this production. There is Tom Fuchs, who is a physical education faculty member, was joined by his son Tim a freshman musical theater major. Tim was cast as Pirelli, a main role. A sixth grader, Cassidy Halpin was a member of the ensemble.

The play is about Sweeney Todd, formerly known as Benjamin Barker, who comes back to his home town after having been sent away unjustly by the Judge. He comes back and befriends Ms. Lovett, the owner and chef of a meat pie shop. Sweeney hears that his wife had poisoned herself and that his daughter Joanna was taken in by the Judge as his ward. Antony, a young man who helped Todd travel back to England unknowingly falls in love with Sweeney's daughter Joanna. In order to secure his daughters safety and to get revenge Todd decides to kill the Judge and his assistant Beadle. Ms. Lovett and Todd from an alliance and have a business selling meat pies out of the customers Todd killed in his job as a barber. In the end most of the main characters end up dead except for Antony, Joanna, and Toby, a boy Mrs. Lovett adopted after his caretaker was killed by Todd. It's a story of love, revenge, and death.

Douglas Robbins, who played Sweeney Todd, did a spectacular job. His acting skills were superb. When he was mad, I could feel the anger radiating off him. His laughter was an evil laugh that made the audience uneasy. Rebecca Rozzoni, who played Ms. Lovett, was hysterical. She played a good motherly character toward Ryan McDonalds character Toby. Her voice was excellent especially when she sang By The Sea. Ryan McDonald's character had a loveable naive personality that the audience couldn't help but adore. He kept the audience laughing at the sight of such a character getting drunk and with his enthusiasm to make the meat pies. Kara Howard, Joanna, and Anthony Festa, Anthony, had an on stage chemistry that had the audience jealous of their relationship. When they sang Kiss, it was hard not to smile and the cute idea of love at first sight. All of the actors in the play did a good job. I was particularly pleased with the accents they donned for their roles as citizens of England. The play was put together very well.

My favorite scene had to be the in which God That's Good was performed. I thought this was done perfectly. I liked how most of the cast was on the stage at that point. It was a funny scene in which Ms. Lovett sells her meat pies made of humans. The townspeople all love her food and are having a good time dancing and drinking. During this time Sweeney Todd is delivered his new barber's chair that has trap door at the bottom sending the bodies of his victims to the cellar to be made into pies. It is a fun song that shows the differences in Sweeney Todd and Ms. Lovett's purposes of the business they have created.

This play was a great success. Audience members left the theater ranting about the whole performance. Those who did not attend the show missed a spectacular performance. But don't worry if you're one of those unfortunate enough to have not seen the show, another musical will be performed in the fall. This is one that should not be missed since its going to be RENT! It's going to be difficult to exceed the success of this show but I am sure that they will do it.

While driving to work with the radio on one day over the summer, I heard an ad for Give an Hour, a nonprofit organization seeking volunteers. The general idea that I gathered from the seconds-long advertisement was that volunteers donate their time, one hour at a time, to listen to veterans or family members of veterans affected by the war in the Middle East. I thought to myself, "This is great! What a fantastic idea." Having recently realized the power of catharsis myself, I recognized the great potential benefit of such an organization. "I can listen to some veterans tell their war stories," I thought. "After all, if there's anybody that needs someone to talk to it's somebody that just came back from war." I recalled the words of my eight grade English teacher: "War is hell." This was the "author's message to the reader about life" (the definition of theme that she drilled into our heads) of the book we were reading at the time. I decided to learn more about this new organization.

I did some research and found out that it wasn't as simple of a concept as I thought. It's much more organized, I found. On the home page of the Give an Hour website they explain the organization in a nutshell: "We are a nonprofit organization providing free mental health services to U.S. military personnel and families affected by the current conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan." Only licensed mental health professionals with malpractice insurance are recruited to treat "military personnel and their families." They "provide one hour per week of mental health support or treatment at no charge." Give an Hour asks other potential volunteers (anyone willing to volunteer that is not a doctor or mental health professional) to place themselves in the "team" that best suited for their "skills and interests"--The Green Team focuses on "administrative operations, including recruiting other volunteers," the Orange Team focuses on "outreach to the mental health community," the Purple Team on "outreach to the military community," the Blue Team on fund-raising, and the Red Team on "marketing, local media relations, [and] event coordinating."

My first choice, when filling out the application, was the Red Team. Weeks later, although it has little to do with "marketing, local media relations, [or] event coordinating," I was researching military culture for mental health care providers, educators and employers, "gathering information about the military culture, as a way of increasing the cultural competence of employers and educational programs." In an e-mail to the volunteers, Celia Straus, the project manager, and Pam Woll summarized the objective of our task:

Basically, the purpose of this project is to make it easier for returning veterans to be educated and employed, by getting a concrete and conceptual handle on the resources that are out there for increasing access to and effectiveness of education and employment for veterans--and what remains to be done in this area. Our special focus is on veterans with operational stress injuries such as posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), depression, or anxiety, and on veterans with traumatic brain injuries (TBI) and mild TBI.
Through the study of military culture--a culture completely unique from our civilian culture--Give and Hour along with The National Organization on Disability, with whom Give an Hour works closely, can explore and develop "ways of educating the organizational or educational culture so they can understand and accept people coming from the military culture and experience," "good ways of welcoming veterans back into the school or workplace," "common characteristics of the veterans who will be coming into their systems, and how those characteristics may have been fostered by the military culture," "possible ways in which military culture may clash with workplace or educational cultures," "positive elements of the military culture that they might choose to weave into their organizational or educational cultures," and "ways of avoiding or de-escalating war-related political conflicts that might arise in the workplace, classroom, or dorm." Even to be such a small part of this project was an enlightening experience.

A "proposal to address certain aspects of the growing crisis associated with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) among severely injured U.S. Army soldiers and veterans returning from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan" was "advanced by the National Organization on Disability (NOD), which, with foundation funding, is operating the Army Wounded Warriors (AW2) Career Demonstration Program under a Memorandum of Understanding between NOD and the U.S. Army." The U.S. Army created AW2 in response to the medical needs of soldiers due to the Global War on Terrorism. The program helps injured soldiers and their families until they no longer require the medical care. Of course, there has been much controversy over the Army's treatment of wounded veterans.

The role of Give an Hour within this proposal is to maintain the care and support needed for veterans to "successfully heal from their physical and psychological injuries" even once they have returned to work. Give An Hour has shown "commitment to a holistic, comprehensive support system for our wounded warriors and their families." The organization has gone beyond "its original mission by galvanizing its volunteer network to address the plethora of needs experienced by those warriors and their families" and acknowledges "that mental health is inexorably linked with the successful pursuit of those activities that comprise a productive life, including employment and/or education."
Give an Hour's mission, as explained on their website, "is to develop national networks of volunteers capable of responding to both acute and chronic conditions that arise within our society." Their "primary focus will always be to attend to those in need by linking them to individuals in our society best equipped to respond effectively." It is also part of their mission to "develop research and educational programs to further promote the value and importance of a new kind of volunteerism" and "to encourage an increase in shared responsibility for those citizens who are suffering." Veterans of the war in Iraq and Afghanistan and their families comprise the "first target population." But there will always be something affecting our society, something that requires the efforts of many to combat.

It's rare that a nonprofit organization would engender so much excitement in a person, but that's exactly what Give an Hour did for me. I've volunteered with many organizations and supported a lot of causes in my day, but Give an Hour seemed different. The issues it addresses are current, they are urgent, and they are now. Don't get me wrong, I love the work I do with, for example, Habitat for Humanity, and there will always be a need for more affordable, decent housing. But our fellow citizens who have been fighting over seas need us now or never. The sense of urgency that accompanies the issue of veterans' and their families' mental heath is really what got me so excited I think. So I told everyone. "I just got involved in this great new organization. It's called Give an Hour. Have you ever heard of it?..." Despite my excitement, though, I feared that my friends, all hippies at heart like myself, would misinterpret my enthusiasm for such a cause as support for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan or even war in general. But of course, in case such accusations were to be made, I was prepared with a response, which, were anyone to actually make such accusations, would have gone something like the following:

It's not about war or politics. It's not even about patriotism. It's about people, human beings. Simple as that. Trust me, I'm as pro-peace as it gets. And I would never, ever, amuse the idea of letting someone that I care about--be it friend or family--go off to war without putting up a fight of my own. I once threatened to disown my partner if he even thought about joining the army. That's just me. Other people hear their lovers declare that they're going off to war and shed tears of pride and love, even if they are mixed in with tears of fear and sadness. That, it just so happens, is not me. Either way, though, the soldiers requiring the aid of Give an Hour have already experienced the hell of war. It is too late to beg them not to leave or to see them off with a nod of approval and appreciation. And whether or not we can all agree that they have in some way served us by fighting, I think we can all agree that it is our time, as fellow human beings, to serve them in whatever way we can. As it says on Give an Hour's website, "We have not only the potential but the duty to help one another in times of need."

Want to help out? Know someone who could benefit from Give an Hour? Go to
Give an Hour. Doctors, click "For Providers" on the left hand column. Other volunteers, click "For Volunteers." Veterans and loved ones, click "For Visitors" to find a provider in your area. Other great sites to check out include:
http://www.ivaw.org and http://www.iava.org.

All quotes came from the Give an Hour website and personal e-mails.

This summer, while sitting in the living room of my friend's house (this was probably the 20th night in a row we ended up in this room at night), my friend's mom brought us her old photo albums from when she was a teenager.

For a few years now, I have had an obsession with old photographs, especially those involving friends and family members. I found a treasure trove of old photographs at, of course, my grandmother's house that date back to the early 30's and 40's. But with the album my friend's mother showed me, something sparked in me and my friends. Who wants to show their kids Facebook and myspace picture albums? In 20 and 30 years from now, I want to sit down on the floor with my children and show them a real photo album of pictures printed on real photo paper, with little hand written captions and drawings. And that is what brought me to my new found obsessions: Polaroid.

Yea, I'm a little late on the band wagon, especially since film and cameras were put out of productions last year. But they truly were an art form. I'm not just talking about one of those cult-ish, hipster/indie, artsy folk ways. I'm talking about the ingenuity and genius behind those little 3 1/4 x 4 1/4 pictures.

In a day and age when everything needs to be instant, why remove Polaroid? Just because we live in the digital age, doesn't mean we need to remove everything physical. Digital cameras are not instant. Sure you can see what they look like instantly on the screen on the back, but you still need to go home and upload them to your computer and various social networking websites. Even disposable cameras weren't instant. You needed to bring the camera to a shop and pay for it to be developed and printed. But with Polaroid cameras, you put the film in, click the button, and within a minute or so, you had your picture. So what if they weren't taken in HD quality or the lenses didn't have 500000x zoom. How many people actually need those aspects in a camera? Besides professional commercial and sports photographers, how much does a person need in a camera?

When Polaroid announced that they were discontinuing their line of instant cameras and film, the world took a heavy blow. It wasn't only the artists and nostalgic teens/adults that used them. The fashion and modeling world utilized the instant photographs when needing hair and make-up samples for future reference. And since this announcement, prices of the film has sky rocketed. My grandmother gave me her old Polaroid camera and in hopes of taking really cool pictures this summer I checked out prices on the internet, mainly eBay. What I found is that not only was I probably not going to be taking many pictures with my "new" camera, but I would probably go broke trying to feed this obsession within a few months. One would think that with the demand for the Polaroid film going up and up and the reserves running low, that polaroid would want to fill the void and start production up again.

So as I hit a wall, metaphorically, with my Polaroid obsession I set out on the internet to look for options. After all I wasn't giving up on my far off dream of photo albums that could be displayed on a shelf, not just a computer screen. So of course I hit the internet in search of ways to feed this new obsession. In my searches I stumbled across a website called The Impossible Project. This site is run by an actual team of specialists whose goal is to reinvent and re-establish the instant film market. They saw a niche in the market and struck while the iron was still hot.

The production of instant film only ended in June of 2008 and the moment the announcement was made, people began stocking up on film like the Apocalypse was coming. So it was clear that there was a large gaping hole in the photography world without Polaroid instant film and cameras. The team has signed a 10 year lease on a factory building and has committed themselves to working this mystery out. They not only want to reinvent but to make better what already existed. There is even a section for people to submit their help. There is a long list of roadblocks ahead of the team and they welcome help from all people.

So it seemed that I had found an answer to my obsession, but it was so far off. How can I wait for a year for something that might not even happen? I felt almost defeated. I went back to the internet and found what I'm hoping will be my salvation. Fuji Film has recently come out with 2 instant film cameras. They are different from the Polaroid cameras, but the concept is the same. Instant film is inserted into the camera, which is about the size of a large digital camera from a few years ago, and once a picture is taken, it is printed out of the top. Depending on which version of the camera it is, the printed pictures are either about the size of a credit card, 4X2, or a little smaller, about 1x2.5. Smaller than the Polaroid, yes, but still serves the same purpose. No need to upload them and print them out of a computer. No need to bring a roll of film and have it be developed at the nearest Walgreen's. Just pure, instant pictures. Wonderful. What could be better?

Dear Susie:
Sitting in a coffee shop just around the block; sipping a green mint latte I see your face gliding through the glass pane windows. Is this the day that I will last see your face? Ever since you took that job in D.C working for a newspaper company; your attitude has completely changed. You were once a care-free person who let life take you where ever it will. In fact I remember once when we were both younger we went (as couples do) to the cemetery behind the railroad tracks where the old buried the young in hopes of a greater harvest the next year. There we showed our love by carving out heart shaped blocks of grass and dirt, confirming our affection for one another with a single kiss and a long nap afterwards. Those were the good times, those were the innocent times.

We grew older as the years passed and it seemed that our love would remain the same and it did; perhaps that is where we fell short, our love never growing out of our teenage years. For awhile I had thought that our love would become grow stronger over time especially after that incident two years ago precisely to this date. It was a cold autumn night; we had just taken our younger siblings out on the town to get them their treats early.

We hurried them up with the hopes of getting some time to ourselves. Finishing shortly before 9:00pm we dropped them off at home; convincing you to head out to that cemetery so that we can make love. We put the kids in bed, grabbed our coats and headed out the door (Oh how I curse that day). As we were walking down the path to the cemetery we heard some noise up ahead. Grabbing your hand I dragged you into the shrubs and up the steep inclined hill. Stopping at the top we slowly crept forward until we could see into the shallow valley. There we saw several flaming fires with people dressed in dark hoods silently dancing around in three semi-circles that encompassed one another. In the dead center of the three circles were three children whose hands were bound by thick tree roots. To the outside of the circle were three graves freshly dug. As the people danced the kids were screaming. Suddenly there was a commotion, a man who was standing guard pushed three new kids in front of him to the front section of the circle. The priest who was standing on a tall dark log suddenly raised both of his hands in the air. The three circles came to a dead stand still. Pushing the kids forward in front of the priest; the guard took a step backwards and lowered his head.
"Who dares disturb our sacred ceremony?" Hollered the priest. "Any and all outsiders are not welcome; however if an outsider witnesses our ceremony one of them must forfeit his life while the others are free to go under the condition that they never return." Motioning for a torch to be shined on the kid's faces, the priest said "You have one minute to decide which one of you stands in proxy for the other two."

As their faces were illuminated, I saw to my horror that they were our three younger siblings: my younger sister and your two younger brothers. Motioning for you to stay still; I got up and ran down the hill into the midst of the circle. Seconds later I hear a rumbling behind me; turning slightly around I saw you run down the hill and come to a sliding stop right beside me.
Grabbing you by the shoulders I screamed "I thought I told you to stay up there!" You replied (oh do you remember your reply) "It is the twenty-first century; women have rights to you know." "You stupid broad" I screamed.

"Do you even know what you got yourself involved in? I don't have the time right now for your feminism crap; just get your skinny ass back up that hill now." "No! I'm not going anywhere." You retorted.

"Don't make me ask you again." I growled; as my clenched fists turned white at my sides. "Silence!" the priest hollered. "Approach me now." Several hands shoved us forward until we were right beside the children. "Now instead of one standing in proxy two must now stand in proxy." The priest said "Decide now." Stepping forward I asked "What would be the cost if one was to take the place of all?" The priest replied "To take the place of all upon one's self; is to give everything of you freely to us and to our mistress of the earth."

"When you say everything do you mean my soul as well?" I asked. "Everything." the priest replied. Without a moment's hesitation I replied "I'll do it." "Let the scrolls be brought up." The priest proclaimed. "One moment if you please priest." You said. "What is it my child?" the priest asked. "I'm here to stand in proxy for those other three children." you said. "You understand the terms of the agreement?" the priest asked. "Yes I do." You replied. Grabbing your arm roughly I said "What the hell do you think you are doing?" "I'm saving the children too; women can be heroes to you know. I do have free will and my own mind to decide what I want to do. I don't need a male to make up my mind for me." You replied. Turning back to look at the priest I said "I certainly hope you know what you are doing."

Unrolling an ancient scroll the priest said "Approach". Walking up right underneath the priest; we stopped and stared straight ahead observing the scenery in front of us. The priest's voice boomed throughout the forest "Do you my children understand the terms of this agreement?" "Yes we do." We replied. "Do you understand that once you sign this parchment in blood, that you forever belong to this cult. There is no turning back; the only way to be free from our accursed lot is to accept deaths cold embrace. "The priest said. "Yes we understand." We replied. "Do you understand that from now on you are to be considered one and that everything you posses, including yourself and your offspring belong to us?" the priest asked. "Yes we understand." We replied. And do you agree to these standards?" he asked. "We do." We replied. Then step forward and sign your name on the scroll with the blood that you will spill when you prick your finger with this feather pen. Stepping forward I pricked my left thumb signed my name making sure that I got enough blood on the pen; I signed my name on the scroll. Stepping off to the side; I watched as you pricked your own thumb and signed your name right below mine.

Finishing, you stepped over beside me and grasped my hand tightly. We're in this together, you said to me under your breath. "Don't you dare mention this to anyone or else I'll kill you." Raising his hands above his head the priest said "You have appeased the hunger of our mistress. You are now members of our community. You are free to leave now and take the children with you. We will call upon you when we need you. Now a note of warning I will pass your way: if either one of you decides to leave the other and forsake this community that they have now adopted; thus breaking the oaths that they have sworn too. The other must dispose of that one half that broke the oaths; if this rule is not followed then we will hunt down these children and slowly kill them one by one,

And now you see why I must kill you. In all actuality by the time that you read this letter; you would have about five minutes to live. Remember those chocolates that I gave you last weekend? Remember how I made you try out at least half of the box; while I refused any on the grounds that I was trying to lose weight? Those chocolates were laced with a slow lethal poison that has no cure.

I'm sorry that it has to be this way. My only thought and concern is keeping the children safe; Even if it means sacrificing you.
Your friend and once time lover
Francis.

A recent article in The Guardian, a prominent British news source focuses on how a staggering number of people are getting high "legally". One of the interesting facts is that for the first time, legal drugs are beginning to make a dent in the annual survey of drug use. Whether it be using nitrous oxide to do whipets, mixing cough syrup and Sprite-Lil Wayne's drink of choice- or buying over the counter products such as salvia or Spice, which is popular in Europe and has an effect similar to marijuana.

Tom Lamont, the reported behind this article decided to go to a head shop to do some investigation into legal drugs. For those of you who don't know, a head shop is your one stop get high spot. You can buy a bong, or maybe a bowl if you want to start small. Need to clean your bong? Pick up some 420 cleaner, or perhaps you're just looking for something to mask the smell of whatever it is you are doing in your room at 3 in the morning, watching re-runs of "Cops".

Lamont, half expecting to find a bunch of products that barely work, asked the head shop owner about his merchandise. "We don't sell much that doesn't work, but some things work better than others." One of those products that does "work", is Spice. Released in 2006, it was recently under investigation by the UK's Advisory Council for the Misuse of Drugs, and come 2010 it will become illegal to sell or possess. This marks the first time a legal recreation of a substance has been changed to an illegal product.

Some people have even made the legal drug business their main source of income. John Clarke and Jo Hall, recent college graduates sell legal substances from their very own home. "It helps pay the bills", says Clark. "We sold to a couple in their 30s last month. It was their anniversary, a weekend without the kids, and they wanted an interesting time. I think you'd be surprised that our customers are not just 18-year-olds wanting to get high. There's an entire culture of sensible people out there."

Unfortunately I think it is safe to say, that as long as people try and find legal alternatives for getting high, the government will be right behind them at every step trying to stop them. But for the time being, if you follow the rules, why not get high?

"I hate all of you."

I don't hate the Yankees. I really don't. It's the fans that I have a problem with. And it's not that I hate all their fans. My dad doesn't either (despite the quote above, which was clearly said in context). I have great friends and family members who are die hard Yankee fans and I love them as much as anyone else. But what I do hate, and I'd like to speak for most Mets fans as well, is the cockiness, mind-set, and unabashed attitude Yankees fans have. Every season they expect to win the World Series. Does anyone remember last year the shitstorm that occurred when the Yankees didn't make the playoffs? Most Yankee fans were either irate, or just pretended like the season didn't even happen. I can only hope that there will be a period of time, somewhere in the near future, when the Yankees will have a string of seasons comparable to the last few seasons the Mets have had. Not because I want the Yankees to fail but because I want Yankee fans to understand what real disappointment is.

But I must say it is painful to be a Mets fan right now. If the last four seasons weren't bad enough, this had to happen: a World Series between the Philadelphia Phillies and the New York Yankees.

As for the Phillies, they can go to hell. Seriously, I hate them. I hate their egotistical players (Jimmy Rollins specifically), their manager (old bastard), their ballpark (too small), their fans (shrill, whiny, obnoxious Pennsylvanians), their logos (lame), and their mascot (Mr. Met could take the Phillie Phanatic any day). But really the reason I hate them so much has to do with more than these things. It's the fact that for the last few years I was more than convinced the Mets were a better team. If I was told in the beginning of the 2008 MLB season that after the Mets had acquired one of the best pitchers in the game, Johan Santana, that not only would they miss the playoffs again but that the Phillies would win the World Series I would have laughed my ass off. I thought for certain that Jose Reyes could hit lead-off better than Jimmy Rollins, David Wright could hit more home runs in a season than Chase Utley, and Carlos Beltran could cover twice as much ground in center field than Shane Victorino. But all of these thoughts proved to be irrelevant.

Bad losses, an absolutely dreadful bullpen, a ridiculous number of injuries and basically just failure to come in the clutch have been responsible for the Mets' demise. And now I am left in unimaginable defeat. It truly is a horrible feeling. When the Mets had their September collapse at the end of the 2007 season it almost felt like I was getting dumped by a girl, but somehow worse. At least when I'm getting rejected I know I could just find another girl to talk to, or just stay up all night and listen to Bright Eyes (not that I've ever done that...), but when your favorite team since childhood blows a 7-game lead in the middle of September, it's hard to fathom fully recovering.

So now the question is, "Who are you going to root for?" And to be perfectly honest I would love to root for the Yankees. I would. For a while I've been saying that if the Yankees were playing the Phillies in the World Series, I would absolutely have to root for them. Yet this remains a difficult transition.

During the American League Championship Series, any time a Yankee would get a hit, score a run, steal a base, come out of the dugout, go into the dugout, or chew a piece of bubble gum, I would be informed about these things by Yankee fans on their Facebook statuses. Why? WHY MUST YOU PESTER ME WHILE I'M ON THE INTERNET AS WELL? HAVE YOU NO SOULS? DON'T YOU REALIZE THAT NOT ALL OF YOUR FACEBOOK FRIENDS ARE PART OF THIS STUPID YANKEE LOVING LIFESTYLE? MOST OF US DON'T CARE THAT NICK SWISHER GOT A HAIRCUT, OKAY?

I digress. What I'm trying to say is that it is difficult for me to root for the Yankees, due to their fans. Yankee fans like to make fun of the Mets failures while gloating about their success, which is part of the NYC bragging rights and general sports talk. I mean I'd be lying if I said haven't taken many verbal bashings in the cafeteria and schoolyard as a kid, especially during the 2000 World Series when the Mets lost to the Yankees 4-games-to-1 (This is a period of time that I've almost entirely blocked out of my memory...). But this time around, I'm going to have to let it go. The Yanks are in, good for them. I'm still not rooting for them... well... not really.

This is the way that I see it. If the Yankees win, then the Phillies lose, which is a small victory for Mets fans because it will keep the Phillies from repeating a championship, and it will dismiss all these sports journalists who keep mentioning a "Phillies Dynasty." Now if the Phillies win and the Yankees lose, it will hurt for Mets fans. It will hurt a great deal watching a team that's humiliated you for the last several years winning back-to-back World Series. But if that happens, Mets fans will be able to go up to Yankees fans at their job, school, or wherever and say, "Sucks right?", and it will be a good feeling.

So the best way for me to survive this ordeal is to not root for either team, because either way I lose as a Mets fan, but ultimately I can still enjoy the failure of the Phillies or the misfortune of Yankee fans. If I had to pick a team to root for on a positive note, I really couldn't. I'm just looking forward to the failures here. As for now, it's football season, it's hockey season, basketball is coming up, I'm sure someone in Australia is playing cricket - I'll pick teams for those sports. I'm done with rooting for a team in baseball until Spring Training when I'll be putting on my Mets cap and getting laughed at by everyone again.

The genre of graphic novels, graphic memoirs, and graphic stories has grown exponentially. Comic books, the progenitor of the graphic novel, were once seen as "kids' stuff."

But, with the publication of MAUS, the boundaries of the genre expanded. Who would have thought that a comic book that portrayed Nazi guards as cats and Jews as mice could be so affecting?

Since then, graphic memoirs have tackled the Iranian Revolution (Persepolis I and II by Marjane Satrapi); coming out as a lesbian while dealing with a father's suicide (Fun Home by Alison Bechdel); while graphic novels have examined a post-apocalyptic world (V for Vendetta by Alan Moore). Such a tiny representation of what's out there.

A perusal of a local bookstore reveals entire sections of the store devoted to graphic stories. Hundreds and hundreds of them.

The Secret Life of a Cashier by Tiffany Ward

Fight by Eric Earley

Elephant by Brian Roach

Scrap by Jay Saunders

"I'm making the bagels as fast as I can, Battle Axe!"

On the days I don't wake up this way, I have to motivate myself otherwise, usually just by chanting in a deep baritone voice,

"It's time...It's time...It's time to make the bagels!"

I usually don't shower in the abyssal morning of my workday. Instead, I gallivant straight toward the coffee maker and drink a hot brew post-haste. Coffee wipes the early morning residue from my brain, so I can function properly at work. About forty per cent of the time, I spill some coffee, either on myself or on the floor. Spilling on myself is no big deal; I'm just making bagels for eight hours (not a fashion show). Spilling on the floor just gives my dog a head rush. Everyone's happy when I spill a little on the floor.

I do mean everyone. Until about 6 a.m., when the first cashiers arrive at the bakery, only the dog and I exist in my world. The four-mile drive is a lonely one. I glance at the clock and fantasize about noon, when I'll be allowed home for my auxiliary sleeping time. (It's not really a nap if it's over two hours long.) Before I delve into this fantasy too deeply to return, I pull into the bakery parking lot.

"Glory, Glory, Hallelujah! Any spot I desire!"

I approach the entrance with a caffeinated mind and body, eagerly seeking the door's gracious approval.

"Let's see, insert key here, turn counter-clockwise, listen for mechanized beauty, push the door open and revel in the splendor of human ingenuity!" (Can you tell it's 4:00 a.m.?)
I push straight past the counter, into the back room, where my state of the art bagel kettle lay dormant.

"Rise and shine, you magnificent bastard!"

She cooks 4800 bagels an hour. After they're kettle cooked, I move them into the oven--where they get baked! It's fast paced work when the bagels are done simmering in the kettle. The most crucial aspect of my job comes in bagel transport; kettle cooked dough en route to oven is at first daunting, then challenging, and after some time acknowledged as tricky. The bagel-man must move gingerly if he wishes to keep his job. I feel like Keller Williams, the one-man band, trying to orchestrate bagel production with rhythmic elegance, while consciously planning my every next move. This chaos constitutes the entirety of my eight-hour workday, but the human drama unfolding between the workers and customers provides me with at least some comic relief.

My first day was rough. Old Battle Axe nearly fired me on the spot for "not wearing appropriate attire". Battle Axe's real name is Dorcas, but that's far too lusty for the likes of her. My nickname fits her well. She comes down hard on everyone. She looked at me as though I were a menace, so I subtly became one. Immediately upon making her acquaintance, I began to burn with mischievous intent. I felt like Problem Child in the presence of Mr. Peabody. You see, I couldn't openly assault her as I would have liked, but I instead felt strong vindication to do and say what I thought was right (and have a little fun), while working my ass off as a sort of job insurance. After all, good help is hard to find, and the counter girl Anna had already told me the last two or three bakers had caved in and stormed out because of the pressure. They even left bagels in the oven. I had resolved not to do the same.

"Will you show me how to do it," I asked.

"What?" she replied.

"Make the bagels swiftly."

"Well yeah, I guess." And with that she danced around the tiny kitchen, motioning with choreographed hand gestures around the equipment I would be using. She showed me without really showing me. Still, her dance was hilarious, to the point of which I would have called her "Fancy Feet," were it not for everything else about her that screamed to me "Bloodthirsty Battle Axe". I always have this reoccurring image of her real job at the bakery--how, instead of management, she's really in charge of slicing the bagels with a battle axe for the entertainment of the crowd. She'd do exceptional work at it, I'm sure. It's also fitting she'd be obliged to wear the black hood for the sake of the theatrical performance. (She's ugly, to boot.)

Once an argumentative couple came traipsing along and quickly became an obnoxious annoyance. Battle Axe quickly confronted the two idiots:

"Excuse me, what are you two doing," she asked like an elementary school teacher separating class clowns.

They both shot her a quizzical look as if to say, "Excuse us but what are you doing?" But Battle Axe had already sized them up and seized control of the scenario. Next came her non-negotiable rhetoric:

"Yeah, you two. Your negative energy is: a.) causing a scene in my bakery, b.) driving away the other customers, and c.) interfering with my FUCKING flow! GET OUT!"

"Whatever happened to the customer is always right?" the man asked.

"Listen guy, you're messing with the wrong bagel bitch today."

And then they both left--quickly. I stood awestruck at Battle Axe's behavior, but Anna took no notice, which told me this conduct was normal.

Battle Axe stormed past me, but time seemed to slow down as she turned her head and looked at the obscene coffee stain right down the front of my white shirt.

"Can't you wear a clean shirt? Jesus!"

"What's the difference?" I asked.

"If you look good, you feel good, and do your job better."

"That's an odd way of looking at it. How do you manage yours?"

Before she could respond, I disappeared into the back room and began to make bagels swiftly.

Another time, a dispute between Anna and I developed into a tussle. Let it suffice to say she had half of a blueberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese and I desired it. We each had one end of the bagel and tore it in half before we expected. Anna's half ruffled some man's hair and left a hearty slab of pink cream cheese on his temple. My half shot across the room and hit Battle Axe dead center on the left tit. It looked like a pink smiley. I could see the malevolence raging within her, only visible to me through her eyes (which have at other times revealed she has no soul at all). She chased me into the consumption arena and caught me, but not before I had managed to grab a plastic fork for my defense. I held it close, and threatened her life. She pushed me off and said, "Shape up!" Then she went on her lunch break and vanished through the front door like a gorilla retreating deep into the jungle. I looked at Anna and said, "My shift's over."

After this encounter, I considered myself fed up with the job. I went out drinking late one night before work, and was wasted by three o'clock. My friend Dan managed to drop me off at work by four o'clock, though, and I stumbled in triumphantly. I made it to the back room and started mixing bagel ingredients for Blueberry.

"Okay," I thought. "I've got flour, yeast, blueberries a..." VOMIT, all in the bagel mix.

These were going to be Pukeberry bagels. I had to cook them for want of time in undertaking any other course of action. The horror of what I'd just done sobered me up a bit, and by the time I saw any other workers, I looked right as rain. The only person who seemed to notice anything was amiss was Anna. She asked what I'd done and I knew I couldn't hide it, so I confided in her. She, least of all, wanted to see me get fired. She covered for me, and told Battle Axe the blueberries had gone bad. The rest of the day went rather smoothly--that is, until my ex-girlfriend walked in.

Anna knew Samantha and I used to date, and hadn't taken a particular liking to her in the first place. So when Samantha said,

"Can I get a blueberry bagel with plain cream cheese?"

Anna glanced at me through a slit in the wall and I knew her mind immediately. I grabbed one of the Pukeberry bagels and handed it to her. From that point on, my scheming in the matter was over. I peered at the unfolding drama before me and cringed when after Samantha had chewed and swallowed her first bite she asked,

"This is good. What's in it?"

I took off my apron and walked out the back door, with bagels still in the oven. What more could I have reaped from my meaningless job at the bakery? It had already given me all I could possibly handle.

Darkness stretches its finger tips out across the earth blurring my vision as I try to find the keyhole to unlock the car door. It is 3AM. As I sit down in the seat, close the door, and place the key into the ignition to start the car, I am thinking to myself, why? Why am I putting myself through this again? I start the car and grip the steering wheel tightly as I pull out of the driveway and onto the road. The car seemed to be driving down 69th Street much slower than usual as if it had extra weight or a heavy burden it was carrying. There was no one else on the road. I look into my rearview mirror but can not recognize my own reflection. Red light stains my face. I have arrived at my destination but am still wondering if I should have turned around. My phone rings. Your Leo animal instincts must have told you that I am here. I slowly open the car door; it feels heavier too.

***

You never told me you were going into the military after high school. You just left. No one knew where you were not even your brother. I never stopped worrying about you. We were so good together; nevertheless, I thought it was something I did...I thought I was the reason you left. For weeks and weeks I searched for you and came up with nothing. I hated myself. I cried every night, and sometimes I would scream. When you came back, you did not tell me. I did not know if you were even alive for two years until one night you called me and told me to come outside because you were waiting for me there. That was nine months ago. You called me again tonight.

***

My breathing follows my footsteps as I walk towards the apartment complex. The building is five stories high. From the outside, you can look up and see that each apartment had its own balcony. I see cream colored walls with coral painted squares. I arrive at the backdoor and you open it for me. We enter the elevator and I go to its opposite corner. We reach your floor and the doors open; I take a deep breath as I exit. Silence's strong hands choke my vocal cords as we walk down a hallway that seemed to last for miles. Every few steps you turn around to make sure that I am still behind you. It is hard for me to still be behind you. We finally reach your room number and you unlock the door and push it open. It is dark. I am entering the lion's den.

***

"I can not apologize for the past because my actions speak louder than words. I don't want to help you; I want to heal you. I was wrong, stupid, and childish, and I needed to grow up. I was afraid of what we had and afraid of you, but now, I am a better man. Tomorrow is never promised, so you have to live today to the fullest and I realize that now. I have not been complete since I lost you. There has been this void in me that only you can fill. " I did not even say "Hello" yet. Not even a "Longtime no see-where have you been for the last nine months or better yet, three years?" Your deep, dark brown eyes are alert and frantic looking. It seems like you would have burst if you had to keep those words in for another second. "I don't know if you can find it in you to forgive me because I can not even forgive myself, but I need you to give me another chance."

You always know exactly what to say to me. Your tenor voice makes your words seem poetic. When you speak, it is as if you are reciting a song or a stanza from an ode that you wrote freestyle just for me. That is why I never trusted you. You were always too good with words. Every time you speak, it is almost as if you have played and replayed this scene in your mind or have practiced it on someone else. How many people have you hurt? It is because of you that I package my heart away, and now, cinder block walls and barbed wire guard my emotions. I can not welcome the calm, soothing words of another. My heart is cold; it is now synonymous to the warmth that radiated from the cold, wet, dirt floor that you slept on in boot camp. My feelings are numbed like your toes were on those cold nights when you could have been warmed by my words even if they were only on paper. My thoughts are silenced like yours were when the platoon leader screamed your name. For the second time in my life, I am at a loss for words. The first time I lost my words was when you left. How dare you take my words from me! You have no right. I had it all planned out earlier, so that I would know exactly what I was going to say to you, for I had played and replayed it in my mind over and over. I was going to tell you how much I hated you, and how I had waited for the day when I could lay it all out for you in person because a phone conversation would not have given me the same satisfaction.

Nevertheless, a lump is developing in my throat preventing my thoughts from leaving my mind. You reach for my hand and I give in...but then I take it back. You always did like the feel of my hands...but I can not let you win this time. My body wants what my conscience will not let it have. Your eyes are piercing my soul. I can see that your biceps have grown since I saw you last. My heart is pounding like a symphony of car horns in a traffic jam. My thoughts are racing and my vision is blurred. I can never think straight when I am near you. " No, " I begin to say as the lump that blocked my words began to dissolve; thus, allowing my words to flow free like water after the ice thaws. "Are you crazy? Did you really think it was going to be that easy? Did you honestly think that I was going to completely disregard all the pain and anger that you have caused me so that we could pick up where we left off all those years ago? You just think that you can walk in and out of my life whenever you feel the urge? I am no longer the same person that you once knew. I am different because of you. We were so good together. I loved you but I..." Your hand drops as I begin to step backwards. Your shoulders tense, and the look in your eyes scares me; they are growing in size so that all I can focus my attention on is darkness and splashes of white. Your face is blank. Tears trail down my cheek. Your eyes are turning red as they fill with tears that you refuse to let drop. My chest aches, and I remember this pain. It hurts to breathe. I grab hold of the nearest chair with my flimsy arm to sit down because I no longer have the strength to stand. You are sitting on the couch across the room staring at me, hoping I will change my mind, I guess. I can not look you in the eyes because that is where your power lies, so I stare out the window.

***

The sky is now a shade of pink. It is 6:35AM and silence still prevails. I look over at you, and you are still staring. I look away. You say, "I'm sorry." The only two words I ever believed as they left your mouth. The only two words throughout your whole rehearsed routine that you never said and the only simple words I wanted to hear from you. You were never the type of person to say that you were sorry. You will say everything but those exact words. As I look over at you again, the sun begins to shine through the open spaces in the blinds and project slices of light on the carpet and your face. As I still sit in the darkness, I can not help but ask myself if this is a sign? Am I supposed to forgive you or am I just looking for a reason? My mouth has suddenly become dry; it is as if I have swallowed a handful of sand. I decide to say, "In time I might forgive you. Dealing with your memory has made me a stronger person and forced me to mature in a sense. I know now that I can not let just anyone get too close to me so soon or get inside my head. I have learned that I can not be so naïve and so open. Nevertheless, just because I might forgive you, that does not mean I can fully trust or believe in anything you say anymore. If I can not trust you, then I don't understand how I could ever be with you again." I stand up and proceed to get my coat. I put my coat on, walk to the front door, and turn the knob, and step outside. Suddenly I hear, "I will be patient and wait for you." I turn around and you are right behind me as I step down. Your scent is intoxicating. All I can do was glance into your eyes and take a deep breath. I am inhaling your pheromones. My knees...my palms are damp...my...maybe I can just...past images flash in my mind... I blink..., breathe..., turn around..., and continue to walk outside. The lion's claws did not claim me this time. Lust and past feelings can not control me. They are not stronger than I am. The sun peeks through the clouds forming a teepee of light around me. The Libra finally beat the Leo. The scales are balanced. A lioness is born.

Eighty-six percent of U.S. public schools have experienced incidents of crime between 2005 and 2006. In 2005, approximately six percent of public school students between the ages of 12-18 claimed that they were afraid of attack or harm at school.

***

Georgia awakens to the blaring, trumpet like sound of her alarm clock. It is dark outside. Darkness fills the room like a blanket of shadows. There is only one small light that peeks through and cascades over the entrance of the doorway from the hall. It is 6:30am; it is time for round two of trying to get her children to arise from a profound slumber that seems to regularly catapult them into an endless abyss. She dreads this part of her morning routine because she knows that eventually she has to let go. She has to let go of her children and send them away. She is aware that there is a strong possibility that she may not see them again; nevertheless, she refuses to live in fear. Her favorite sayings are "Everything happens for a reason" and "God will find a way." She closes her eyes and clutches the cross on her necklace that she wears everyday. She walks into her sons' room and watches them while they sleep. Her heart flutters. She taps them, rubs their backs, and softly says, "Wake up, time to get ready for school." They groan as all children do at the very sound of that phrase. Finally, they wake up and proceed to start their daily routine. Georgia heads toward the kitchen and begins laying out all the cookware and utensils for her sons so that they can prepare breakfast. They have recently reached the age where they want to do everything themselves. Georgia returns to her room and hears a knock on the door; it is Jaylen, her oldest son. He enters the room with a look on his face that could cause a solar eclipse to occur on the sunniest of days, forcing her world to darken. He looks up at his mother and says, "I don't want to go back to that place. I shouldn't be there- no one should." Georgia looks at him. She knows what she wants to say but can not get the words out. They are lodged in her throat. Jaylen continues on to tell her what happened the previous day. "My history and P.E. teachers broke into a physical fight. They were just talking about vacations and the next thing I know, they were actually throwing each other around the room in front of us. Books and desks were soaring from one side of the room to the other. Then they went into the hallway. I have heard of this happening before but I had not seen it in person. All of the students spilled out of their classrooms and into the hallway to see if this was really happening. There was a sea of students in this long, poorly lit, narrow hallway. Everyone was pushing each other around and placing bets on who they thought was going to win. Water from the pipes kept dripping on my head. Someone knocked Denise's backpack off her back and when she turned around to pick it up, it was gone. She saw who took it and chased after them. When she caught up to them, they pulled out a razorblade on her. The teachers are starting to behave like the students. The two teachers were later led out of the building by the police. It's like something happens everyday. School is always unpredictable. Just last week a teacher took an iPod away from a student and in an attempt to get it back, the student waited for the teacher outside of his classroom and then put him in a headlock until he returned his iPod. The student eventually snapped the teacher's neck.... Mom, I don't think I can do this anymore. I'm trying but I don't see the point." Georgia sat on her bed with her eyes closed clutching her cross necklace. Once again, a lump had developed in her throat; thus, preventing her thoughts from leaving her mind. All she can do is gaze at the floor, she is searching for answers.

***

In the U.S., the current average expenditure per student for instructional materials in both public elementary and secondary schools is approximately $5,492.

***

The school bell rings and everyone explodes out of their classrooms excited because it is finally Friday. Elijah has a big exam coming up on Monday that has been weighing on his shoulders like camping equipment that has been soaked by the rain. He worries because his grades are important to him. He has dreams of being the first person in his family to attend college, but it has been a constant struggle for him because of his high school and its lack of funding. His school does not have enough space in the classrooms to accommodate all of its students. Many of his friends have dropped out of school because they no longer saw a reason to attend. They felt like just another number; like no one truly cared whether they stayed in school or not. His best friend, Shai, is in jail but is being released tonight. Elijah could hear the solitude and despair in his voice when they spoke on the phone; its emptiness made him shiver. Shai has a desire to rewind the past but is frustrated because he does not know how to change. He fell into the unpredictable grip of the streets. It can be as warm and inviting as a mother's hug, or it can change and become as temperamental as the weather, reacting without permission or cause. Many times Shai would ask Elijah to skip school and join him for "a day off" as he called it, but repeatedly Elijah would refuse because he knew what that really meant. He would be standing on the corner of North Broad and Olney Streets dealing drugs with him; nevertheless, he always wondered what would happen if he did go with his friend. Shai would always say, "I really don't see the point" and "What are you learning there anyway? Our books don't even have pages in them, and the ones that do are so old that you can barely read what it says." Elijah sits down and opens his biology textbook, it is so old that the thread that binds the pages has turned brown and become frayed. The edges of the book are worn. It is almost as if it had been set on fire but refused to burn. He turns to the review section--the words on the pages have been so rubbed out that all that remains are thumb prints and half of the page has been torn. It is impossible to read any of the words. He pushes the book away and reaches for the phone. Shai answers.

***

Complaints about the public school in your district can be directed primarily to your local school and then to your state department of education. No child's future should be jeopardized because of the unsafe learning environment and lack of funding that plagues many U.S. public schools.

1All statistical information was gathered from the National Center for Education Statistics (NCES) at http://nces.ed.gov/

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