Hmm...

Since its inception over five years ago, the Chronicles has tackled a variety issues ranging from full frontal male nudity tothe magic forces of Janet Reno's neck skin. We work hard to provide a viable alternative to main stream media's hollow rhetoric as well as a dedication to topics that play important roles in our daily lives. We get a lot of criticism for our opinions but you know what they say, "You can't make an omelet without sleeping with a vegetarian." Nonetheless, there are certain times when we have to take a stand on larger, even poplular subjects. Let me reiterate that the Chronicles is apolitical and only concernced with the personal opinions of our writers.

That being said, our Philadelphia office has been flooded with phone calls, letters, and even pop-ins by people expessing their feelings about the Eagles' acquisition of acclaimed mobile quarterback and PETA enemy (sorta like getting dissed by members of The View, not too serious) Michael Vick. In the weeks leading up to preseason, they were completely consumed by the news. People even went so far as to abandon the team they had loved all their lives and toss out their Eagles apparel with the weekly trash. Dog lovers criticized the franchise and local businesses advertised anti-Eagles stickers in their windows. In the last two weeks of August, it seemed that every asshole at the bar wanted to talk about Michael Vick and argue about animal rights. Heat makes people crazy, and Michael Vick's presence sure wasn't helping.

All the yelling and screaming got me thinking about what was really going on. Loud-mouthed bozos are about as hard to find as double chins at a Boy Scout Jamborees so I wasn't really concerned with these slobbering hacks. The ones that really got me thinking were these uptight activists that really seemed to get pissed about the issue. The ones that lectured me about the need for compassion in our greed driven culture and the sanctity of animal life. But what I was truly struck by was the hysteria surrounding the issue. Every media outlet had a segment on Vick and the Eagles and every keg party was buzzing with conversation. There are few things in this world as satisfying as watching people getting pissed off and arguing until people around them actually feel awkward. I tried to find example of other people in our society that had garnered as much notoriety as Mr. Vick. Why do people condemn some celebrities for their personal lives while easily forgive others.

Just when the Vick pandamonium died down I was hit with some startling news: acclaimed director Roman Polanski was arrested in Switzerland. Roman motherfucking-Chinatown Polanski. Didn't that dude make a bunch of classic movies like thirty years ago? Wait, why haven't I heard about him lately? Oh yea, that little sex scandal business. For those of you unfamiliar with Mr. Polanski's indescretions, we're not talking about some hazy case where a desperate fan was trying to get money by falsifying a few facts. Actually, in 1977 when Polanski was 44, he invited a 13 year old girl over for a private photo shoot. No he was not creating a middle school yearbook or even writing an article about a field hockey team, he was being straight up creepy. Polanski then fed the young girl champagne and quaaludes and forced himself upon her against her will. After Polanski was charged, he fled to Europe so he could avoid jail time.

In 2002, Polanski released The Pianist and was hurled back into the limelight. The film was so successful, that Polanski won an Academy Award for Best Director and received a standing ovation at the ceremony. Was Polanski at the Academy Awards? No because if he set foot in the U.S. he would have been arrested. Hmmmm........

So let's recap. Michael Vick gets arrested for killing dogs, serves jail time, is publicly humiliated, takes a huge pay cut, makes public apologies, does charity work for animals, and will always be labelled as a degenerate, heartless murderer. That's fine, I don't really give a shit about Michael Vick nor do I enjoy or endorse the killing of dogs. Oh yeah, he killed dogs didn't he. Don't we keep dogs as pets? Don't dogs eat their own shit and chase after balls? Aren't hundreds of dogs "put to sleep" because people don't want them. Don't we cut of dogs' nuts off so they won't hump our legs, and don't we make dogs sleep with dogs that don't even look like them just so we can have a funny looking animal?

Now let's look at Mr. Polanski. He drugged and raped a thirteen year-old girl. Rather than face the consequences, like Vick, he went to another country and continued doing his job. Further, he has been rewarded and complimented for his artistic achievements since he fled.

Obviously these two people don't really have much in common. Further, there is over thirty years between the two arrests and time definitely promotes forgiveness. Maybe Michael Vick will better accepted and receive awards thirty years from now. We are not really equating their crimes or discrediting any of Mr. Polanski's work. We just find the two cases interesting.

I have recently begun research on a new project that examines the relationship between food and dreams. Every night before I fall asleep I eat or drink a unique substance. In the morning I record my dreams. Here are some preliminary findings:

Glass of milk: Standard erotic fantasy but for some reason there is always wall to wall carpeting.

Pickle: Life threatening situation where I wake up the second before fatal disaster.

Pickle dipped in glass of milk: ?

Crazy from the Meat

Thinly sliced corn beef piled high on top of rye bread, spicy mustard dripping through the folds. A pickle bar beckons and a cushy Jewish ass flows over the side of a vinyl booth. Morty and Saul are stuffing themselves with coleslaw while Shoshanah teases a matzah ball...

Nowadays young men hardly have any positive role models. Brando's dead, Bukowski's dead, James Brown's dead, Swayze's ill, Steve-O's sober, Bowie's a recluse, Burt's retired, and Mick Jaggers' beans and toast are just a dusty fixture on eight grade health videos. It seems like all our champions of testosterone have flickered away, their tales of excess safely confined to family dinner tables and Vh1 specials. The swinging dicks of yesteryear have been replaced by low fat ranch dressing, pilates, and the Jonas Brothers. Who will be there to save a whole generation of thirteen year old Jewish boys from the tentacles of metrosexuality? Do you really think jort wearing hipsters will revitalize this economy?

Have no fear boys there is still one man out there. He can sing. He can dance. And you bet your ass he can still kick his leg far above his head. His voice is like a crescendo of female climaxes, and his spandex clad figure served as the blueprint for 80's sexuality. I'm talking about Van Halen's only lead singer, David Lee Roth.

Several unsuccessful Van Halen reunion efforts coupled with his '93 drug arrest, have pushed Mr. Roth off the glistening podium he so rightfully deserves. But trust me, this country's Jewish population has still got it, "bad, soooooooo bad," for David Lee Roth.

This is why I implore David Lee Roth to open a traditional Jewish deli called, "Crazy from the Meat." The restaurant would combine the gluttonous portions of 2nd avenue deli with the refined sophistication of Katz's. The walls would be adorned with pictures of Roth's countless admirers and loyal patrons. Basically, the eatery would combine the visceral pleasure of consuming salted meats with the raw sexual power of David Lee Roth. It would be a place to bring your wife, your girlfriend, or that olive skinned beauty from your Hebrew school class. Further the restaurant would implicitly promote Jewish proliferation by bringing together sexually charged Jewish youngsters in the most lascivious environment: a Jewish Deli.

David Lee Roth has already inspired a generation of Jewish men. Now I call on you, Mr. Roth, the tribe needs you now more than ever.

Step Into My World, Inc.

...He's got psoriasis, male pattern baldness, and halitosis. He has an unhealthy obsession with celebrity gossip and an underactive sex drive. He subscribes to two bimonthly political magazines but usually only uses the free samples of cologne. He is shorter than average, fatter than healthy, and smells frequently liked lunch meats. He fantasizes about his neighbors, but has only had verbal exchanges with two of them. He listens to commercial radio and compulsively reads the escort advertisements in the back of free newspapers. His skin has that unmistakable tint of an overused porcelin toilet b0wl but the dubious texture of a kindergarten carpet, worn in and fuzzy. He has back hair, chest hair, and stringy pubic hair. He rarely wipes his ass to hygienic satisfaction. He enjoys adding -holic to the ends of words especially in self-descriptions (see: chocoholic, sportsaholic, cataholic, etc.). He lies on occasion but does far better with exaggeration. A cursory glance of his apperance would easily place him in the 18-35 age group but exact age classification would be much more difficult. He avoids vegetables at most costs and is mezmerized by the cereal aisles at large supermarkets. He memorizes astrological signs but has difficulty following an ethos. He is our perfect customer...

...The executives bobbed slowly in their black leather chairs and adjusted their neckties. Tim felt the sweat slide down his back as the sea of pleats and double breasted jackets absorbed his presentation. Finally, the fat man at the end of the table rose to his feet and used his left palm to steady himself on the marble table. With a mature, syrupy rumble, the man cleared his throat and looked Tim straight in the eyes, "I for one, love it. Get ready to make some fuckin' money." The sea of black bubbled and popped and the fat man shook Tim's hand the way his father used to.

Mena Cohen

When I was little I distinctly remember going to department stores with my mother. She would always plan these trips and not really check with me to see if they conflicted with my schedule. Of course, when you're a little kid, you never really plan anything yourself. Initially I would never protest these trips and, in fact, looked forward to getting lost in the men's fashion department, or diving head first into a rack of hound's tooth coats. Everything is a playground when you are under five feet and don't have pubic hair. It's like a magical world that conforms to your fantasies.

At some point in our adventure, I would always see someone with a strange and different physical characteristic, someone who obviously looked diffent than anyone I had ever seen in my entire life. One time I saw a bald guy who, rather than resign himself to a hairless life, opted to insert plugs into his shiny head. I distinctly remember this man because the gleam from his waxy skin was abruptly interrupted by a stiff line of hair stubs. My mind was filled with questions. Did the hair come from another part of his body or from another person? Why didn't they just put really long pieces of hair in his head to make it look less obvious? Does his hair cutter cut the stubble, or just kinda pretend it's not there?

Another time I saw a woman with no ear on the left side of her head. Her right ear was perfectly intact, and actually quite appropriately sized and shaped. However, on the left side of her head, she had like a bubbly wad of flesh that looked calcified silly putty. The fleshy mound was positioned around a hole which I could only assume would lead to the ear canal. As she carelessly ruffled through pocketbooks, I stared at the wilted flesh and crafted my own questions. Did the unusually shaped ear make her hear differently, like at baseball games when the announcer's voice rings around the stadium? Does the ear throw off her balance and, as a result, does she need to wear weights in her pockets to overcorrect the discrepency? Are these medically developed weights or simply regular everyday weights?

When my mother caught me looking at these people she would always say, "Don't stare, it's not polite." Since when is staring not polite? Am I unconsciously delivering offensive remarks through my eyes and destroying these deformed peoples' self-esteem? Of course not. If anything, I am so intrigued by these uniquely sculpted bodies and body parts that I am affording them the respect the only way I know how, to stare. If they made cards congratulating people on shotty hair translplants or mangled limbs I would be the first one to buy them: signed, sealed, and delivered.

Now, as I got older, my voyeuristic tendencies developed with my changing interests. Suddenly, women dominated my visual landscapes. My stares fell on pudgy, tan thighs and saggy side tits. I stared till my eyes hurt at the asses stuffed into stiff school chairs. When the weather got warm I could gaze for hours at bare shoulders and moist lips. My eyes were like cameras recording the beautiful scenes to play in my head.

My teenage years started out great. Everyday I would play movies in my head, starring my female classmates. I could envision scenes and never even use electricity. Well all that was great until the spring of my seventh grade year. Our science teacher had rearranged the desks into rows and sat Mena Cohen in front of me. Now Mena was one of those girls that had seemed to bypass that whole journey through puberty. Imagine if Drew Barrymore had made E.T., went on vacation for a week, and then came out with Poison Ivy. I mean Mena was that perfect physical, seventh grade speciman, and I was like three feet from her ginger hair for five hours a week. One day in late spring, Mena sat down in front of me, and I noticed something new. I had never seen anything like this, and really have not been the same since. Peeking out from her capris were two, very thin, flesh-colored straps. The straps rested just below her pelvic bones, ran along her back and seemd to converge right above her ass crack before plunging back into her pants. I had just had the rare and very special opportunity to see a thong, the most scandalous and provacative female undergarment for a recently bar-mitzvahed, thirteen year-old boy. My luck was finally turning, and I knew I could not fuck up this situation. I eased up in my chair and just stared at the glorious piece of fabric. It was if those capris had looked at my tortured brown eyes and said, "kid, today is your day." Then they just reached out over the waistline and entered my line of sight, truly a middle school miracle. I stared and stared and just let myself get hypnotized by Mena's undapants.

Well, friends that moment proved to be short-lived. Mesmerized by my discovery, I seemed to detach from the world around me and slipped into my frenetic thoughts. I didn't even notice when our teacher passed out the day's worksheet and instructed those in the front row to pass it back. As Mena turned around to give me the paper, her eyes met full force with my curly mop. She then craned her neck and followed my eyes directly to the object of their obsession. Oh she knew alright and smacked my head with the papers. I was jolted from my fantasy and slipped up in my chair. My body stretched back into the real world and suddenly I was painfully aware of my surroundings. Mena was pissed and never really talked to me for the rest of the year, and I began making my staring less obvious.

But see here's the thing. I don't think I have ever caught someone staring at me. I mean I'm no Justin Timberlake but it would be nice to be in him for like a moment (no homo). I can't ever recall a time when I was upset that someone was staring at me. It's the not staring that kills me, it's the not staring. Fuck it, I'm tired of hiding my beautiful brown eyes from unsuspecting females. You're out there, lookin' fine, and be ready to get stared at.

The Bleu Cheese Stands Alone

While the Old Testament reveals the beautiful struggle of the Jewish people, overcoming monumental adversity and hardship, many shikzas, gentiles, and goyim easily discard the resilience of the Jewish people. Sadly, in modern times, Jewish people have been most closely associated with big noses, nagging mothers, mediocre atheltic skills, and extreme sexual awkwardness. Of course all these stereotypes are not only hurtful and embarrasssing, but simply untrue. Ask at least half of my lovers and they will quickly admit not only to long nights of passion but an exceptional 37% satisfaction rating. On several occassions I think I may have even taken girls to that magical place; of course any recognition of female pleasure is pretty difficult to detect when you're circumsized member is peaking through a hole in a sheet.

But let's get back to that one Jewish stereotype that has plagued me throughout my life: Jewish people are cheap. The reason I bring up this point is not to dive into a lecture about the merits of wisely budgeting your money, or slip into the role of ruthless Shylock and demand court fees for Dr. Rosenburg's malpractice suit. No, the reason I allude to the thriftiness that has characterized Jewish culture is to illuminate our present economic situation, and more specifically, the buffalo wing crisis that will finally hit home this Sunday.

As a naive college student, I was living in a fantasy world. The party didn't stop on Sunday, but kept going all week long. See weekdays were the time to find the best beer and food deals and blow off some steam from my hectic, hour and fifteen minute classes four days a week. While I have indulged in nearly every bar deal: half priced pizza, thirty-five cent tacos, even reduced appetizers at D.C.'s now defunct Dark Horse, I always believed wings were the best deals. Buffalo wings are quite possibly the greatest permutation of meat to have every slid its way down my welcoming throat. Once I get wings on the mind, the sun just seems a little brighter, asses just a little fuller, and all the douchebags around me just seem a little more tolerable. When you wake up on a Monday or Tuesday or even Thursday morning and know that cheap wings may be in store for that evening, you just have such a positive outlook for the rest of the day. But that's what wings do, just a little deep fried present wrapped up in gooey sauce and flanked by crunchy celery and chunky bleu cheese dressing. For several months in college, I consitently woke up on weekday mornings with orange finger nails, still bearing that delicious evidence of the previous night's indulgence.

Now once I graduated college, my desire for cheap wings did not decrease, if anything, my appetite grew and my economic sensibility became more focused. I sprung for the twenty-five cent wings. I experimented with bbq, honey bbq, and even some weird amalgamation of Old Bay, Jack Daniels, and brown sugar. What I began to notice is that ten cent wing deals were showing up less and less until one day they practically disappeared. Furthermore, the wings were less meaty, drier, and often poorly seasoned. Lately I have even passed some bars with the audacity to advertise second rate chicken wings at an outrageous fifty cents a pop. Am I really supposed to blow my load for that deal? Fuck you bar!!!

Then it finally all fell apart. I get home from work, check my inbox and feel my testicles claw their way back into my body. Apparently, the shitty economy has serreptiously creeped away from the housing market and taken a giant shit on the wing market. Pilgrims Pride, the company responsible for processing a quarter of the chickens we eat has filed for bankruptcy. In addition, the high price of gas and something called "chicken feed" has fucked up the wing industry causing jacked up prices for the consumer. Moderately overweight men with drinking problems between the ages of 21 to 27 have reported a noticeable decrease in sexual activity of all kinds. That demographic is undboutedly the backbone of America and sits on the pulse of change. Well friends, don't complain to this "cheap Jew" when some skinny bitch at your Super Bowl party serves up salad with that bleu cheese dressing. Sometimes being cheap really does pay off.

Crybaby

As an adult, I try to operate as much in the "adult world" as possible. My friends are all well into their twenties, decently educated and have similar adult interests. I consume alcohol, drive cars, shop in the "men's" department, and even enjoy the carnal company of a willing female from time to time. While my humor, hygiene, and life goals have really not changed since age thirteen, I am slowly assimilating to adult culture. I have no problem with getting old and hardly ever desire the whimsical endeavours of my more youthful days. I love being able to make my own decisions and take responsibility for my mistakes. I have spent nearly a quarter of a century working hard in school, joining the workforce, and etching out strong relationships that have been vital to my development. That is precisely why I have a an extreme dislike for babies (hate seems like a really cruel word).

Now I know what you're thinking, "Weren't you at one time a baby? Wouldn't it be self-destructive , misanthropic, or even nihilistic to condemn the natural order of life." Of course not. See I don't have any problem with the living, breathing baby. I mean a lot of babies grow up an do extraordinary things. Michael Douglas was a baby. Even James Brown was a baby at some time. I have a problem with the role of babies in our society. See babies can do whatever they want and be completely oblivious to any ramifications. They're like shaved cats that don't know how to clean themselves. I challenge a baby to do any of the things I do on a daily basis. Let's go down the list. They can't feed themselves, they can't wash themselves, they can't walk on two feet, they can't talk, and they don't know how to use toilets. They have no idea how much their parents or guardians have to work to keep them alive. In fact, you probably don't know what pain in the ass a baby is until you have one of your own. To make it worse, everyone seems to gawk and gape at babies like they're some sort of sparkling engagement ring behind foggy glass. Smitten spectators like to squeeze, pinch, hold, and, for some Godforsaken reason, talk in cartoonish voices to babies. All the time the baby stares blankly with fishbowl eyes and creepily squeezes his pudgy fingers. His legs dangle like shrink wrapped bologna at a deli counter and drool cascades from his little mouth. His role has been defined by the adults that surround him.

Of course most of my animosity towards babies stems from severe envy. When I finally entered the adult world, I felt as though I had just gained access into some exclusive club. Now that I have been an adult for some time, I realize that this "club" is shit. Babies really have it down. As an adult, I have to work, acquire food, keep a socially acceptable level of hygiene, pay for my less-than extravagant lifestyle, and not fuck up too bad. On the other hand, babies are on a constant vacation. They get to eat liquidy food (sweet!) and don't have to worry about any bills. Furthermore, they can shit and piss themselves whenever they want and are forced to suck on titties to survive. They shower in a sink and get a little celebration if they talk or walk. Whenever I see babies, I am reminded of all the societal norms that constantly dictate how I live my life. Fuck it, age ain't nothin' but a number. I'm takin' it back. Fuck you babies and your pampered lifestyle. Try living just one day in my world.