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Now in its fourth year, the annual Burning Mac Festival brings together a collection of some of the country’s best Def Jam-style stand up comedians in the high Nevada desert to reconvene with nature, come together as a community, and honor one of their fallen: Bernie Mac, one of the Original Kings of Comedy.

Since 2008, a growing number of fast-talking, confident black comedians arrive in caravans often stretching ten or more Escalades, with all manner of supplies overflowing through the sunroof. Tents, mattresses, fedoras, oversized shiny suits with shoulder pads, alligator shoes, baggy multi-patterned fluorescent shirts; every conceivable necessity is carted to the outskirts of Baker in early May. Within hours, impromptu streets and unofficial merchants pop up in the vast desert, creating a village of like-minded individuals looking for a communal experience.

The stage is always the first structure to be erected, serving as the focal point for nearly all Burning Mac activities, many of which run through the night and into the early morning. You’ll always find someone on the stage, charging back and forth across the wooden planks with a microphone in their hands expounding on topics ranging from “child…” to “foolishness.” There are wide, uneven flat patches highlighting ambitious physical joke tellers that have tried The Worm and a six-inch wide hole where three hundred consecutive comics ended their sets by dropping the mic and walking off. There is always at least one audience member to soak in all this mayhem. Deep into the starry night you’ll find a lone patron of the Def Jam arts, jumping out of his seat, clapping wildly after each aggressive punchline. Often times, he points at and high fives another audi ence member who isn’t even really there.

Above all, Burning Mac is about support for an alternative lifestyle. The atmosphere beyond the two arched pimp canes is that of a simple maxim: share, experience, and “give your ladies the dick.” No money changes hands during the festival. Instead, necessities and niceties are given as gifts among the performers, with the simple expectation of reciprocation. On one dark Wednesday evening, as storm clouds threatened on the horizon, Lavelle Crawford swapped his only poncho for a pair of rimless sunglasses with a deep purple lens tint. Hours later, as pounding rain transformed the main Bernie Mac Boulevard into a mud pit, Crawford stood on stage in a cheetah yellow dinner jacket and green felt pants, eyes shining brightly through his new purple lenses. Crawford dazzled fellow revelers with thirty minutes on his wife’s sister always coming around.

During the final evening, all the comics convene at the stage to watch Mr. 3000, speaking along with the film’s dialogue. Yet, as the final credits end and the screen fades to black, so does the festival. The last of the last set fire to the stage, congratulating themselves on another year spent celebrating their craft, their community, and honoring the loss of one of their own. The final caravan pulls into the Shell gas station to fill up on road snacks for the long trips home. And with one “kick it!”, another Burning Mac comes to a close as all get ready for the autumn’s Steve Harviest Festival. ✦

Jack Straton (“I Just Called To Say I Mugged You,” p. 40) is a staff writer and, in his spare time, a sculptor of small statues. He’s able to make them tiny because he has adorable baby fingers.

Janet Wong (“A Billion Dollars a Day,” p. 68) has never been kissed. I mean, she’s been kissed. Just not really kissed. You know, with tongue.

Steve Johnson (“Lolita, pages 8 — 23,” p. 94), a staff writer since 2004, completely forgot he had an article due so he sent in a chapter from the book he was currently reading.

Gail Harrison (“Afe Ttatag Bbbiiita,” p. 40) is the fastest typer on staff.

Leon Parks (“The Hat In The Cat,” p. 42) is the only person to “win” the Presidential Fitness Challenge and won’t let the office, or his fat son, forget it.

Diane Charles (“Sucker Punch,” p. 47) is a longtime contributor to the New Yorker, or at least what she thinks is the New Yorker. Shhhhhh…

Ben Krantz (“Log Cabin Styles,” p. 46) is the author of over sixteen different books. He has nineteen dogs, and one son who really looks like a daughter. We all saw Bully, but come on…

Wanda LaRose (“New Restaurants,” p. 33) is one of the preëminent food writers in the country. She achieved this by eating all of the other food writers and absorbing their power, Highlander style.

Mandy Monroe (“Backyard Snooze,” p. 52) is the third best looking woman in the office according to an informal, non-scientific survey of other people in the office. She was number two until she got in that car accident.

Gerry Connor (“Can I Just Say Juan Thing?,” p. 61) was a senior writer at this magazine until he was recently fired. Specifically, he found out he was fired by reading this blurb just now. Security, show Mr. Connor to the door. It’s called ‘karma’, you racist bastard.

Old Dusty (“These Pants Are Loose,” p. 70) is easily the wisest, most beloved writer on staff. He’s the one we all go to for advice. Oh, Old Dusty, what would we do without you and your necklace of snakes?

Rick Stubbens (“One More Song,” p. 63) is the author of the book “Writing Great One Sentence Bios for Magazine Contributors Lists,” which is now out in paperback.

Uncle Cliff (“Treatise on Comfy Blankets” p. 78) said he only needed a place to stay for a couple nights, but that was six months ago. Someone needs to talk to him and see what’s up. Word of warning: Dude was an ECW wrestler.

Ed. Note: The above articles only appear behind the Minutiæ paywall. Please drop a fifty dollar bill into the magazine and stick it in a mail box. Allow 4 — 6 weeks for processing.

Eleanor Roosevelt
First Lady of the United States.
The White House
1943

Santa, I wish for only one thing this Chrystmastime: a new rocking horse and perhaps two pieces of hard candy. I ever so wish for this to be my grandest Chrystmastime in all of the times I have ever had a time of present reception.

Love,
Ned Kelly
Bruised Kneed Child
Victoria, Australia
1867

Gentlemen, I am writing in response to your article “The Magicians of Kittyhawk,” where you praise those devilish Wright brothers. Let me be the first to say that everyone in our town knowns these boys are meddling with the Devil’s powers. There is only one man that ought to fly and that is Jesus (Christ).

Bedelia Grant
Meddler
Kittyhawk, SC
1903

Gentlemen, I think Minutiæ should report on the ongoing struggles in Rwanda between the Hutu and Tutsi. Make sure to include an opening paragraph and at least three primary sources.

Moe Sanders
7th Grade, St. Louis, MO
1997

Gentlemen, I have the activation codes for the Crutchfield Device. I plan to release the toxin on the opening day of the Panama Canal, marring relationships amongst the Americas. Do not doubt my power.

Dr. Orcus
Acid Face Victim
Deep Underground, Borneo
1914

Gentlemen, Once again I have the activation codes for the Crutchfield Device. It’s a little dusty, but can still release a nasty toxin. I plan on releasing it on the opening day of the Gateway Arch, further marring relationships between St. Louis and East St. Louis. Do not doubt my somewhat diminished power.

Dr. Orcus
Acid Face Victim
Aboveground Greensfield Retirement Community, Flagstaff
1956

Gentelmen, Falcon Bravo Yukon Rebar Simplebutt Klinky Falcon Falcon Falcon Mister Misty Mysterious Reymisteriojr

Sergeant Stephen Slaga
First Brigade
United States Airforce
1942

Scott Farmer is an idealist. A romantic, even.Which makes this story harder to tell.

Scott and Katie, both seniors at Glen J. Davis High School outside of Columbus, OH, had been going out for three months prior to their senior prom. It was one of those deep-seeded friendships that blossomed into romance as the end of high school approached. Katie admired everything about Scott: his position as editor of The Draconian (the school newspaper), his starring role in the Spring production of Anything Goes, and his calming smile. While the rest of the class was asleep during the Honor Roll Lock-In, the young couple snuck away to make out in a corner of the gymnasium. They were an item everyone in school talked about.

Prom was held in the large banquet hall of the downtown Columbus Marriott. Teachers and administrators ensured that the evening’s festivities stayed PG, but six blocks away, the La Quinta Inn was booked solid for the night, overflowing with senior after-parties. The topic of getting a room had come up between Scott and Katie. Perhaps it was the social pressure or the young romanticism that pushed Scott to make a reservation using his friend Mitchell’s credit card.

“His mom just remarried so they gave him a credit card”, says Scott. He and Mitchell drove two towns over to buy condoms, fearing they’d be seen. They kept the prophylactics in crumpled Wendy’s bags in their bedrooms. Like thousands of high schoolers every year, Scott and Katie fully expected to let the excitement of senior prom sweep them into losing their virginity.

As the final slow dance ended in the basement of the Marriott, Scott and Katie walked the six blocks to the La Quinta Inn and up to their rented room. Almost immediately, the ravenous teens started making out, removing their clothes, and lying together in bed.

Yet, an hour later, they were still lying together in bed, still a pair of virgins.

Through the thin walls, Scott and Katie listened to Mitchell and his date moan. “Do you want to?” asked Scott. Katie said yes. Reaching inside the greasy and stale Wendy’s bag, Scott pulled out the condom and slid it on.

Scott asked Katie three more times, just to make sure. Each time she said yes: She wanted to have sex. And then Scott did nothing.

He kept on trying to form new sentences or words as he worked through it all in his head. Is this right? Am I doing this only because it’s prom night? Is she the one? Without a word, Scott removed the condom. The moment was over. They stayed up all night, just talking about the summer and college. After the sun rose, and they got breakfast with their group of friends, Scott took Katie home.

Almost 20 years later, Scott is still a virgin.

2.

I first heard about Scott Farmer, the 36-year old virgin, eight months ago. My boyfriend the caricature artist had just broken up with me; I was heartbroken and confused. We were on The Track. We had met each other’s parents, taken trips together, and even moved into a condo with a shared lease. When it all fell apart, I found myself sleeping on the couch of a friend who worked with Scott’s sister. In the midst of a back rub and ‘things aren’t so bad’ pep talk, Scott was brought up as a prime example of how much worse things could be.

I was surprised that Scott agreed to let me interview him, but I soon found out that his virginity is fairly common knowledge. “I don’t really tell people, but anyone who talks to Peter or my sister finds out pretty quickly. It’s kind of like saying I’m HIV positive, like ‘keep your eye out,’ but I don’t know if this is worse… I bet people who are HIV positive are happier than I am”.

He stares into space for a moment. “I don’t mean that”, he says, unconvincingly.

Scott works from home as a copy editor for a blog network that he didn’t want named. Suffice it to say, Scott spends his days correcting punctuation and fact checking snark-laden posts intended for Brooklynites, women who like “look books,” geeks, aviation dweebs and homeschooling mothers. His dream is to publish a series of novels about a hard nose detective named Chantilly Rose. A few pages into one draft and its abundantly clear: Chantilly Rose is the anti-Scott. Despite the name, Chantilly is confident, self-assured, even egotistical. “I used to deny Chantilly had any relation to me, but I mean, it’s so clear. Women throw themselves at him, and after a while they’re gunned down so he can move on to the next one.”

Scott began writing fiction a week after prom. He tried to keep in touch with Katie that summer, but she left for Venice with some friends and returned in no mood to deal with “high school boys.” Just before heading off to the University of Wisconsin in the fall, Scott learned that his best friend Mitchell had slept with Katie. Worse, they were going to make it work long distance. He hasn’t spoken more than a few cursory words to either of them since, and declined a monogrammed invitation to their destination wedding when the coworker he’d been courting backed out. “I kept on joking that we were going as an item, and eventually it weirded her out. That’s when i started working from home.”

He arrived in Madison in the fall of 1993. Tucked amongst the sessions at college orientation was a frank discussion by SASE (Students And Sexual Equality), an on-campus wellness group that, among other things, hammers down the agreed upon definition of rape and consent. At the end of the talk, condoms and stern handshakes are handed out in abundance.

Scott’s response was fear. “I kept on hearing things about consent, unwanted sexual advancements. It felt like if I made any gesture towards a girl at all, I would be kicked out of school. So, you have to be confident, but you can’t be pushy. I still feel trapped.”

Despite his fear of becoming a sexual predator, Scott quickly fell in with Laura, a coed who shared his dorm floor and a statistics class. They gushed over the recently released August and Everything After by the Counting Crows. They saw A Bronx Tale during a Saturday matinee and made out a little in the back row. A week before Thanksgiving break, only one unanswered question remained: when were they going to have sex? Reuniting in December to resume classes, the question still hung cold in the Wisconsin air. Laura, for her part, was trying to answer it: soon.

On nights when Laura would stay over, Scott would feign headaches or tiredness before rolling onto his side for the night. One night he accidentally knocked Laura off the bed, bruising her butt. As winter break neared, Laura assumed Scott’s lack of sex drive more about being uninterested in her, not just emotionally unprepared. The night before Laura was to return to Milwaukee for Christmas, the unanswered question fell out into the open.

“She asked why I didn’t want to have sex with her,” says Scott, “I knew I was going to lose her, so I tried to go for it.” After some over-the-sweater heavy petting, the two landed in bed together, with Scott reaching for one his orientation condoms. He stared at it the shiny wrapper, so easy to peel open. Except, to reach the condom inside, you’d have to rip the word CONSENT right down the middle. He stared a moment longer, then dropped the condom back into the drawer of his nightstand.

Laura stormed out and the two didn’t speak over the holidays. When winter session resumed, the two avoided each other in the hallways. Eventually, Laura transferred to another dorm.  “I mean, we never officially broke up, so… y’know…” Even now, Scott wonders aloud if he should “maybe call her again?”

“I was worried we were moving too fast, that I wouldn’t be good at it, that I wasn’t ready, that it wasn’t special enough,” says Scott. He pauses, as if he’s had an epiphany. “I guess I’ve always wanted it to be special and romantic. Not in some dorm room while my roommate Duane sleeps in the bunk below us.”

Scott spent the remainder of his college years primarily alone, aside from his volunteer work with the campus’ SASE Walk program, where he would spend his Friday and Saturday evenings escorting groups of girls safely across campus. “I admit that I thought I’d meet some cute girl who fell in love with how courageous I was being.” Mostly, Scott met much taller, drunk women that he’d lend pizza money to.

“I have this philosophy that if I am good and stay quiet, people will give me things,” says Scott, “But that’s not how life works. It’s why I don’t like video games. At some point you have to be proactive and go after the bad guy or the reward, and I’d rather cheat at solitaire.”

Scott graduated quietly in four years. He declined to walk during the final ceremony and left Madison shortly after. He doesn’t speak with anyone from college, which isn’t surprising when you see the stack of manuscripts on his bedroom floor. During the golden years of most people’s lives, Scott completed three novels: “Chantilly Rose: Framed for Regicide”,  “Chantilly Rose: Doomed from the Chart” and “Chantilly Rose: Bullets & The Mayor.”

3.

Peter Leslie is a bartender and Scott Farmer’s closest friend. He’s funny, exceedingly charming and almost defiantly confident, thanks to his handsome good looks and an over-abundance of muscles. When I contacted him, he asked that we talk as he did some grocery shopping.

“When I see a woman, the only thing I have on my mind is sex. Nothing before or after,” Peter tells me as he checks melon ripeness. “When Scott sees a woman, he thinks about how to talk to her, their first date, when they’re going to have sex, what happens afterwards, what if they get married, whose house they go to for the holidays, what brand of laundry detergent they’ll use. He’s doing too much math when it’s all very carnal.” Peter holds up a melon to compare to my breasts. “Nice.”

The unlikely pair first hit it off when Scott was in Peter’s bar with a date. Peter noticed Scott’s social failings and tried to throw him a line or two from over the bar. At the end of the night, the date left with Peter; he and Scott have remained close ever since. “I’ve tried to get him laid, ” says Peter, “I have sent the skankiest girls after him. I’ve persuaded the sweetest, most innocent girls, too. He is incapable of closing. I did everything short of having a girl force herself on him. Hell, if I could get him to leave his apartment and go to Vegas, I’d even try that.”

Peter confides in me that he’s hopeful Scott’s detective novels become successful and maybe get optioned into a film franchise. Of course, Peter himself would get cast as the star. “I am Chantilly Rose. I’ve got the build and the attitude.” Listen to this, he says, before assuming a smoky air. “‘Listen, darling, you hear anything, you give me a call. My name? Oh, it’s Chantilly Rose.’” He drops the character, clearly pleased with his performance. “See? Nailed it.” Peter may not have the chops to play a leading man, but he is the absolute definition of a ladies man. I was almost taken in by his offer to ‘lay it on [me]’ at his bar, but the mystique wore off once I began to hear all of his sordid tales for myself. “I actually wanted to challenge myself,” says Peter, over a late lunch. “I wanted to see if I could tell you exactly how I operate and still have you go home with me. Oh well.” Within ten minutes, he’s talked our single-mother waitress into a date.

“Peter is amazing. He’s incredible.” I’m with Scott at Peter’s bar, watching him operate on the female clientele while serving drinks. “I wish I could have one moment in my entire life where I wasn’t afraid to proposition a girl…Like, propose something…Not propose to her, but, like, make an offer for her…I mean… y’know?” Scott exhales and takes a sip of his free vodka Coke, courtesy of the man behind the bar who just snorted a Jell-O shot off of a blonde’s chest. “I wish I had one moment where I wasn’t afraid of women.”

Scott opens his wallet and pulls out a dry, cracked square of plastic. Stamped across the front, in all caps, is the word CONSENT. He tells me that he’s been holding onto the same condom since college not only as a reminder, but to use victoriously when the time comes. He’ll be vindicated, he says. When I point out that it’s expired, he crumples.

At my tipsy suggestion, Scott and I go to Walgreens to get condoms, which he has never actually purchased himself. Back in high school, it was Mitchell at the register; in college, he never moved past the handful that he was given at orientation. To Scott, the entire process is overwhelming. It takes four minutes to enter the condom aisle, and another six to get him in front of the display.

“I hate condoms. Not like that. I look at them and they’re just staring back at me saying ‘not for you, you don’t need us.’ It’s like an illiterate person browsing books. They’re insulting me.”

4.

A year and a half ago, Scott was miserable. After a two-week relationship with a friend of his sister’s that included (in order) coffee, lunch, dinner and the movie “For Colored Girls”, she had stopped responding to his text messages.

“I know she knew my situation when she agreed to go out with me, and it didn’t bother her. I think she could tell that I kept on wondering if she was the girl it was finally going to happen with, and the whole thing just turned her off. They can all tell. I’ve been out with six women since college, and it doesn’t matter if they know about my situation or not, they can all tell that’s what I’m thinking. Women already know that guys are always walking around, thinking about sex, but with the added layer of being a virgin, it’s just too much.”

Feeling “rejected by the entire world,” Scott didn’t leave his house for two weeks. He resigned himself to the notion that not only would he never have sex, he would never be with anyone in any romantic capacity. “I’d rather be alone than be with a woman who doesn’t want me. And I don’t think I’ll be able to get a women to want me because I come off as such a loser.” When Scott finally emerged from his emotional cocoon, he left his house in a chocolate stained pair of Hanes Beefy sweatpants. Scott believed he had hit rock bottom. Yet, for him, there was one more step to go.

After 36 years as a virgin, Scott knew that all of his relationships had teetered on the notion of sex. All of its questions and presumptions made everything so complicated. Was it going to happen? When? How? Would he do it right? How long should parts stay wet for? It was too much for him to handle, and he decided to seek help from a professional.

Across town at the La Quinta Inn, Scott arranged for a female escort. In the room, with the money on the nightstand, Scott dove into the details. “I wanted to know how many times…’it’ … could happen, because I figured I would need a few times to figure it out”, he tells me later. He paid up front for two hours, unlimited “times”. Yet, despite the business-like nature of the evening, Scott began to shut down. The escort, sensing Scott’s struggle, took it upon herself to get things started. She stripped and lay her naked body over the bed. Across the room, Scott sat in the desk chair in his boxers, looking at her, wide-eyed. She suggested he have a drink, but didn’t want his first time to be “under the influence”. After ten minutes of slow, silent gyrating, the escort turned on TNT and began an episode of Law & Order. One hour later and Scott had not so much as swiveled in his chair. Half of his time was gone. Part of him wanted it all to be over, wishing he could just get drunk and finish the ‘solution’ he had paid for. But the other part of him, the big, burning part of him, was scared.

“I waited so long, built it up so much, that it just couldn’t end that way. It was like I drove my virginity out into the woods and was going to shoot it in the back of the head. I didn’t want to execute my virginity, I wanted to set it free.”

Eventually, the escort left. Scott waited around for a few more minutes, provided his own solution, then headed out. A few days later a $45 charge appeared on his credit card from the hotel for sheet cleaning and accessing one of the ‘premium’ video options. Scott hasn’t been on a date, flirted, or been with a woman since. He has resigned himself to the notion that he will always be a virgin.

5.

Back in the condom aisle, I finally help Scott purchase a 3 pack of name brand condoms. A little tipsy from the vodka Coke, he expounds on what a waste of money it is for him to have condoms, which only worsens his mood. I help Scott back to his apartment, and he lazily lets me in. I was curious to see how a 36 year old single man decorates, and I was surprised. There weren’t superhero figurines or movie posters everywhere. Scott explained everything is from a single page in a Crate & Barrel catalog. He wanted the apartment to look nice to any girl that may come back, but he never uses any of it, no one ever comes over but Peter. Scott’s bedroom is sparse: A bed in the corner with a single pillow. “All I do in there is sleep. What?”

I go through Scott’s DVD collection while he stumbles back and forth. “I cannot imagine any scenario in the next fifty years of my life where I will be really happy,” says Scott. “I have fleeting moments of happiness, and then I remember this huge hole in my life where I should have someone’s love.”

After some digging, he pulls out a manuscript and begins to read from ‘Chantilly Rose: Dames & Doom’. It’s his latest draft, where the detective, after a passionate night with a widow, implies that they’ll never meet again, despite the fact that he’s inseminated her.

“This guy, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want a wife and a family, and I want it all. I want to make breakfast for people who love me. I want to book plane tickets for a family and wake up in the middle of the night because someone had a nightmare. And I’ll never have it because, God fucking damn it, I can’t even make whoopie with a hooker!”

It occurs to me, sitting on a couch that was purchased for the implicit illusion of maturity, that I haven’t had sex in over six months. This living, breathing story, Scott Farmer, so consumed my post-break up life that half a year passed and I hadn’t so much as sat on a working dryer for the thrills. Listening to Scott say “whoopie” grates on me. I’m slightly irritated, a little drunk, suddenly horny, and staring at a 36 year old intoxicated virgin rambling on about wanting a family. I make a move.

Looking back on it now, I guess I wanted to snuff out the torch that Scott had been holding up to the ideals of romance for nearly two decades. I thought, if anything, I could help him move forward. But, most of all, for me, it had been six months.

6.

It’s been three weeks since my night with Scott. In the morning, I woke to a full chocolate chip pancake breakfast, with a wedge of grapefruit and a glass of milk. I wore one of his Oxford shirts, but not because it happened to be laying around. It was folded over the headrest of the only chair in his bedroom, freshly pressed and with a note pinned to the sleeve that read “for you”. As I made my way into the living room, it became apparent that my detached, journalistic curiosity was no match for my pure desire to not talk about what happened. I dressed, he kissed me on the cheek, and I left. We talked on the phone that night, but we kept pausing intermittently and then falling all over each other’s words to fill the empty space. Eventually, I stopped answering his calls or returning his text messages asking to see me again.

Sex is not a test. Rather, it’s an expression of oneself, like dancing or painting or drawing those big-headed caricatures on the boardwalk. We all have the potential to be great at expressing our emotions, but it takes many failures for that greatness to show up. The first time you have sex, it’s special, but not as satisfying or important as once you figure out how to dance beautifully or paint like a master or really nail that delicate forehead on one of your caricature drawings.

Scott waited too long to fail at sex. Like adult braces, it’s something that should’ve been taken care of long ago. Eventually, the fear of failure steamrolled his every romantic move. Scott Farmer is a 36 year old former virgin, but romantically, he’s still 17.

The last communication I ever received from Scott came in the form of a Facebook message:

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about our night, and I realized that I must’ve done something wrong. Please let me know what I did wrong and I will fix it. Whatever you want done differently, I will do it. We never officially split up, so I really think we can make this work. I think we could be something very special. I can change whatever I did wrong, if you just tell me.”

Two hours later, he asked to add me as his girlfriend on Facebook.

Then I deactivated my account. ✦

Set in small-town Pawtucket, Rhode Island, the Channel 7 nightly news is a lumpy sofa with one arm torn off: hard to sit through and with no end in sight. Range Dockweiler plays the strong male lead, opposite Rosslyn Compacho, a fiery brunette of unknown heritage who favors drab pantsuits and large gold necklaces. Together, they are the Action News team, set with the ostensible task of bringing global dramatics into the rickety, trash-filled home of this and every other nightly viewer.

Dockweiler provides an air of strength to the screen, frequently shooting off smiles and coy nods to the disheveled audience. He is, however, an imperfect leading man. The crisp attempts at witty desk banter come off as banal, self-assured nonsense, only occasionally punctuated by the nasally, hollow laugh of Compacho. Having shied away from human interaction for nearly six years, it’s still hard to imagine that this drivel is what passes for conversation in the world beyond the cluttered living room.

For her part, Compacho relies too heavily on make-up and not enough on emotional dialogue, often drowning out the dirty viewer and his cats with a barrage of facts when a few moments of innuendo would more than suffice. If this viewer wanted nothing but facts, maybe they’d open the front door once in a while. No thanks!

As this season drags on, the unanswered question seems to be: will they or won’t they? Dockweiler’s arresting good looks make him an obvious candidate for Compacho’s bedroom eyes, but every time things begin to turn towards what the viewer must assume human contact to be like, a cutaway or screen graphic breaks the affair to pieces. And if you’re waiting for these moments to add up to something substantially more, you’re likely to be sorely disappointed. After 270 consecutive episodes of the evening news, the most arousing moment for this viewer came during a PSA for a cat shelter. Meow, indeed.

Beyond the brokedown romance, what’s left is a series of ever-changing cutaways to field reporters in terrifyingly open spaces, and video pieces that highlight the sort of moving traffic / shopping experiences / public discussions that no audience in their right mind could connect with. Precious few are the moments back at the news desk, safe in an office chair and with all the world’s newsy moments at a comfortable distance. Only the opening visuals – a sweeping mélange of gold and navy-blue shapes that haphazardly shoot towards the frightened and largely immobile viewer, before magically forming the number 7 inside of a circle – seem to be a hit with the feral cat crowd, whose screen-pawing and occasional urinations show off their satisfacation. This is just about the only highlight to the evening’s viewing experience.

It’s a shame that Channel 7 and the figureheads surrounding The Evening News can’t seem to put together a relevant television program, instead relying on outlandish tales of war, crime and other social detritus that is enough to scare common citizens into a world of outright fear at what’s beyond the front door. What’s more, there are pitiful few moments of realism that would allow the viewer to connect with the show. Where is the struggle to find a clean spoon with which to eat cold oatmeal? Or the joys of discovering an old box of Christmas ornaments in the damp basement? Any mention of the thrill of discovering a throw blanket that perfectly covers the living room window? Sadly, there are none.

Until major overhauls are given to this long-running series, it’s as impossible as unlocking the front door to give The Evening News a passing grade. From concept to execution, the Action News team needs an overhaul. Until then, this viewer might just channel surf a bit. Now, to find the remote under all of these mannequin parts! ✦

Following the banning, the strip’s creator Jim Warren came out of the closet himself. It became clear Pudgy & Ralph was based on his life, with many of the famous Pudgy & Ralph story lines, including when Ralph worked as a discrete chauffeur for elite politicians, Ralph’s eating  of pizza, and Pudgy’s constant wearing of sunglasses to mask the sadness and isolation from being scared to present his true self to the world.

Pudgy & Ralph ended three months later with three panels: Pudgy looking in a mirror. Pudgy removing his sunglasses to reveal tears. Pudgy stepping out his window and soaring into the sky like an angel.

Warren later sued Tony Kushner.

At least that is what my father says. I don’t quite understand it.

As the sole heir to the Armour Meats empire, it is my duty to spend several hours a month learning about the family business, which I like because I get candies. Oftentimes, there are these befuddling unions or women’s rights groups saying mean things about my family. In most cases, nothing more is needed in this civilized Chicago society than to pen off a nasty missive. As for Upton Sinclair, my father says that man is simply a  “pseudo-journalist cad.” He’s always telling me to stiffen up, my father, but with entire rooms in our Lake Michigan mansion dedicated to exotic feather pillows, I would rather lie down. For his sake, and the sake of Armour Meats and their fine line of Meat and Meat-Lite products, I shall try.

The Jungle follows the perplexing life of Jurgis Rudkus, a “Lithuanian” immigrant who earns gainful employment at one of Chicago’s premiere meat packing plants. Despite a fair wage and all the suet trimmings he could hope to pilfer, Rudkus finds himself shamed out of a job while his dirty children run rampant in the streets, hawking papers. At one point, a half-crazed nouveau riche man unthinkably gives Rudkus carriage fare – a $100 bill! – but the poor man manages to lose it, his wife and his children all within about thirty pages. How gauche.

According to my father, the animal byproduct magnate Philip Danforth Armour, Rudkus’ tale of losing everything – despite the continued handouts given to him – is a frighteningly common affair. Most immigrant men cannot help themselves but to drown in the ‘fire water’, or manage to work themselves so slowly that they fall asleep while on the factory floor. Many men have indeed tumbled into rendering vats, but due only to their sleepiness and general proclivities to want too much, too fast. Each man is given a ration of pork rendering for his daily sup, yet every year a glut of boat rats (my father’s nickname for the immigrants) find their way into the bottom of a bubbling cauldron of pork after-parts. Gauche indeed!

What Sinclair fails to mention in any of the wordy pages of The Jungle is the plight of the packing baron. Whereas the average immigrant must only provide for sixteen or seventeen children, a single wealthy business owner like my father spends countless pennies a day having men shine his shoes, hold spittoons and act as man-bridges over puddles of excrement. It’s no easy feat to be a father to the city of Chicago, Papa Armour is quick to remind. I weep thinking of my poor father spending a single dime to keep another immigrant employed for three weeks. If only the lower classes would choose to make more money!

While I fail to see what all the ‘fuss’ is about concerning Upton Sinclair’s imaginative work The Jungle, it has caused a bit of a stir in local politics. I know because future Mayor Busse came to dinner last night! He is a boisterous man who enjoys brandy. Indeed, society may be changing (We recently have been having much fun with our new Victrola!), but one thing will almost certainly remain clear: this book is absolute, untrustworthy sensationalist rubbish. Just ask my father.  ✦