Recently, I’ve discovered a new love and appreciation for Led Zeppelin. I know. I’m about 30 years late to the game on this one, but I’m hoping there’s some room left on the bandwagon.

I can’t say for sure why or when I finally figured out that they were pretty good. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard them before. I’ve been aware of them for as long as I’ve been aware. But one day, just over this past summer in fact, their music finally made sense. I think I was driving around Sacramento, to be exact, when it happened. I was driving alone on the 5 with my stereo playing, listening to the radio because I’ve had the same Helloween CD stuck in the player for months, and I can’t get it to eject. (And as much as I love their 14-minute epic “Keeper of the Seven Keys,” it bothers me that I can almost recite all of the lyrics with a straight face.) “Over the Hills and Far Away” came on—a song I’ve heard countless times before—and though I never thought it was a bad song, I don’t think I’d ever really heard it before. A few minutes later, the volume was blasting, and I was singing along, even though I didn’t really know the words (one of my favorite pastimes).

Ever since, I’ve been hooked. I don’t own any of their albums, but the good news is, I don’t have to. I do the majority of my music listening in the car—as I’m sure most people do—and lucky for me, there is no shortage of stations that will play Led Zeppelin songs. It’s a satisfying experience for me, being someone who has often fallen for more obscure bands since getting hooked on Nirvana in the ‘90s. With lesser-known bands, you really have to work (or used to anyway) to get your hands on their music. You couldn’t just flip a switch and hear them—no fancy equipment necessary.

Now I can understand why they’ve had such longevity. Jimmy Page’s guitar work is a metaphysical brew of bluesy riffs, proto-metal crunch and psych-rock atmospheres. Robert Plant sounds like I would imagine Gandalf the Gray would if he were a rock ‘n’ roll frontman. And that rhythm section gallops like a horde of Visigoths. In short, they’re the musical equivalent of a Boris Vallejo painting. Given my well-documented love of metal (read blog tittled Death Metal), I can’t believe I’ve never liked Led Zeppelin before. It was like when I finally discovered a taste for eggplant; as an Italian-American who’d never liked the vegetable before, it was as if I’d at last become whole.

Recently, it was announced that my new favorite band (well, one member at least) will collaborate with my all-time favorite band. Sonic Youth will perform, with Led Zep bassist John Paul Jones, a piece of music composed by Takehisa Kosugi. The gig will be to commemorate the 90th birthday of choreographer Merce Cunningham, composer John Cage’s life partner and long-time collaborator. The Merce Cunningham at 90 event is scheduled for April 16–19 of next year and will take place at the Brooklyn Academy of Music.

As exciting as I find this news that some of my favorite musicians will be performing together on stage, I have to say I’m not a big fan of avant-garde composers. But who knows—30 years from now, I might start feeling it.

James Barone
jb@submergemag.com

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By Bocephus Chigger

Admit it. Everyone has done it in some form or another at some point in their lives… usually in their teens. It might begin when the boredom becomes unbearable, or it may need no impetus at all. No, I’m not talking about sex or drugs, or even stealing. I am referring to that certain form of mischief that only a teenager knows. So, grab your eggs and toilet paper and remember: It’s not about revenge. It’s more about the hilariousness of the idea that someone is going to wake up, see the mess you’ve made and wonder what the hell happened.

I’ve done my share. I didn’t grow up in the most exciting town, but we made it work. In my neighborhood, pedestrian paths tied several cul-de-sacs together; so it was almost too easy to make a quick getaway. Having that sort of freedom led to frequent, precision attacks on random neighbors I didn’t know.

For example, a friend and I regularly put bologna on some poor schlub’s car. We heard that bologna would peel off paint, but it only managed to leave greasy polka dots. When bologna was scarce we switched to Spam, which makes a delightful plopping sound upon impact. We also conducted weekly bombing missions on two Volvos around the corner. The reason was simple: anyone with two Volvo station wagons was asking to be egged. To help with the cleaning process, we would follow up with some toilet paper.

There is something about that roll… the way it just glides out of your hand, unraveling as it floats toward the tallest tree branch. At first we chose houses based on difficulty of cleanup, but soon we discovered a couple of favorites. The first house must have contained a wild boar, because the snoring sounds we heard from the front yard could not have come from a human. We didn’t even have to be quiet since there was no way that guy was hearing anything but himself. The second house was perfect; the yard was full of giant trees (the tallest on the block) and their branches were spread just right. Three of us filled our bags with T.P. and went to work. Within 10 minutes the yard was devastated. As we prepared the final two rolls, we heard the door open. While trying to blend into the shadows, we watched a short, fat man step out on the porch wearing only his underwear!

When we weren’t out disrupting the sleep of fat men in tighty-whities, we’d hit up the Goodwill parking lot on the after-hour tip. People would leave the weirdest shit: couches (fuck yo’ couch!), an organ, refrigerators, a giant stuffed flamingo, and a puppet that a friend later named Bocephus Chigger [see above photo]. We would fill up my truck and either scatter the goods in random places around town or smash them somewhere. Soon, we branched out and began “borrowing” other things we found around town. Depending on the season, we could have been hauling traffic cones, pumpkins, political signs or plastic balls from the McDonald’s playground. The idea was this: the weirder, the better.

It wasn’t long before our looting began to pay off.

Sometime around Halloween, we found a pool just over the fence from the pedestrian path. Trash collection went into high gear, as this was to be our pièce de résistance! On a cold October night, we formed a sort of bucket brigade from the bed of the truck to the fence. The goods passed from hand-to-hand, over the fence where they hit the pool with hilarious results. In minutes, the pool was filled with several large pumpkins, a stack of traffic cones, a toilet plunger, a purple velvet robe, a stack of newspapers and the entire contents of a napkin dispenser. It was truly a sight to behold (and one that we would never enjoy again, as the pool was thereafter under police guard).

I miss those times… the world was a different place. People today are so uptight that a kid could get shot for burning a bag of shit on someone’s doorstep. Maybe it’s time we all grab a roll or two and cut loose. Tell the world that you want your fun back! Tell them you are ready to be a kid again! After all, being an adult is hardly all it’s cracked up to be.

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It’s been difficult to find anything to write about—other than the obvious. You know who won you know what, and hopefully we’ll all be better off for it. I’d like to think so, but I guess time will tell. For now, the future certainly seems a brighter place.

Speaking of the future, it’s become fashionable to bemoan the fact that science, technology, the Japanese, what have you, still haven’t bestowed us with the flying car. Or maybe I’m just hanging out with the wrong people. I was a big fan of the Back to the Future movies too, being a child of the ‘80s and all, but could you imagine what that would really be like? I think the result would be more like what was depicted in Luc Besson’s Fifth Element—congested, nasty and extremely dangerous. Think about your morning commute. Now think about that asshole drinking a soy latte, smoking and fucking with his iPhone while driving the car beside you. Now imagine picturing him piloting what amounts to a personal jet. Flying cars suddenly don’t sound all that appealing.

I’ve never been all that stoked on flying cars. Becoming a cyborg, however, is a different story. I understand those who’d rather not mess with Mother Nature. The human body truly is a miracle; I think even us godless heathens would agree to that. But some are more of a miracle than others. Maybe Nature blessed you with great hair, good eyesight, athletic acumen and chiseled bone structure. I wasn’t so lucky. A bit of a hardware upgrade certainly wouldn’t hurt. Enter the Japanese.

Honda may or may not be working on the flying car, but they’ve been busy on the robotics front. The Japanese motor company has created a robotic leg aimed at assisting the physically disabled. According to an article at Dailytech.com, “The new robotic leg assists the user’s natural movement and exerts significant force to take stress off the users’ joints when walking, travelling up stairs, or ‘semi-crouching.’” The device runs on a lithium ion battery and runs for two hours per charge. Honda says the robotic leg is ready for real world testing and works with its user’s center of gravity to create a natural movement. This is a wonderful technological advance for sure, one that could certainly help a lot of people, but I do admit it’s a little boring. Don’t worry, though, there’s more.

The Japanese are an industrious people. If you’re familiar with anime, you know they also have a fascination with giant robots (and tentacles, but that’s for another column). Japanese technology company Cyberdyne has developed a robotic exoskeleton. It is said that this device could even allow partially paralyzed people to walk again. Weighing just 22 pounds and boasting five hours of battery life, the exoskeleton has the power to nearly double the strength of a healthy adult. According to Dailytech.com, “Someone who could leg-press 250 pounds would now be able to life 450 pounds with the help of the suit.” Furthermore, Cyberdyne is also developing a 60-pound full body suit (I know!), suggesting that the device be used for “heavy labor support at factories, and rescue support at disaster sites, as well as in the entertainment field.” If by entertainment they mean robot-on-robot mighty mech showdowns on Pay-Per-View, then I’m all for it.

It’s just the next step in human evolution. Sometime in the distant future (or maybe not too distant future) babies will be fitted with USB ports—you know, that Matrix shit. But I’m not fearful of this new cybernetic dawn. What makes us human will always be there no matter how much after-market gadgets we bolt on to brains. We won’t be better or worse, just different. Well, maybe better; hopefully better, because once I get my robo-legs, the NFL better watch out.

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By Bocephus Chigger

I’m not gonna lie… after the last two fiascos, I was worried. I had lost faith in others, and who could blame me? After eight years of stupidity, war, greed, corruption, God-pimping and fearmongering, there didn’t seem to be much hope. The world had officially gone to hell in a hand basket (and I ain’t talkin a Longaberger!).
I can’t just blame President Bush or the Republican Party; the problem went much deeper. Something had driven roughly half the country bat-shit crazy. I wanted to believe they had been glamoured by Count Cheney, but I knew there was more to it than that. Despite not knowing the source of this lunacy, its effect was clear: America had lost its way.

The brain-damaged half of the country was happy with their brain-dead president and his team of know-nots. They were ready to swallow whatever shit was shoveled their way. They turned off their brains and changed their outgoing message to “FOUR MORE YEARS!!!” “SUPPORT THE TROOPS!!!” and the tragically comical, “U.S.A!!!” Differences were answered with cries of “TERRORIST!” A horror flick had become reality and the media was immediately smitten.

Those in the news business met up to decide which piece of this mindless bitch they could claim as their own. Fox News was appointed as the White House Press Secretary and Geraldo was shipped off to fight Al Qaeda. CNN put a bowtie on a small retarded child, named him Tucker, and unleashed him on the country until he was stopped by Jon Stewart. MSNBC’s Chris Mathews literally figured out how to talk out of his ass and proceeded to subject the world to his bungie-flower every evening. “Newsertainment” was born, but it still needed guests. Fortunately, some of the worst politicians in history just so happened to be in office at the time and they all wanted their turn on the m-i-c.

The Republicans drilled into the earth and summoned Karl Rove from Hell. “Turd Blossom” recruited Donald Rumsfeld, John Ashcroft and Alberto Gonzales to say things so confusing that it would take the public, the courts and the world over eight years to figure out. The Democrats, trapped in a recurring wet dream involving the Clinton years, did little more than shake their finger at the GOP. (“Bad dog! No earmark!”) With all of the scolding going on, the left had no time to choose a candidate with even a semblance of personality; of course, they were under the influence of a Sith Lord (I’m on to you Lieberman!). After eight years, we were broke, unemployed and homeless, and the government was busy picking fights around the world.

Many figured the end was near, until someone held up a sign calling for change. The battle between old and new began, and it was epic. On one side, probably the closest thing to the American dream, Barack Obama; and on the other, the self proclaimed “maverick” John McCain. Of course, they brought along friends; Obama had Joe “The” Biden and McCain had Sarah “The Warrior Princess” Palin. I’m not sure I will ever figure out why McCain chose the mom from Bobby’s World as his V.P. Perhaps he was hoping to parlay the campaign into some kind of variety show. If that was his plan, he forgot one simple fact: this country knows shitty TV, and it smelled that turd-burger from a mile away. On Nov. 4, 2008, with clothespins in their noses, America elected Barack Obama the 44th President of the United States by both a majority of the Electoral College and the national popular vote (imagine that!). I hate to admit it, but I cried when I heard the results. For the first time, in what feels like my entire adult life, I was truly proud to be an American… then I checked California’s propositions.

What the fuck is wrong with this state? California overwhelmingly votes for change with Obama and then proceeds to ban gay marriage and shoot down two attempts at reducing our dependence on foreign oil? California, the first state to legalize marijuana for medicinal use, decides against easing prison over-population by letting non-violent drug offenders opt for treatment programs? Apparently, we have better things to waste our money on, like riding a bullet train into economic derailment. Congratulations assholes, thanks for stomping on our prosperity!

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Remember when heavy metal was the devil’s music? Before Korn and Limp Bizkit got jocks involved, even before Poison and Guns N’ Roses started getting chicks hooked on screaming riffs, metal was solely the domain of misanthropic losers who had a boner for Satan. Now, with the rise of the Guitar Hero / Rock Band phenomenon, the once lonely dark forests of the metal realm are now erupting in five-alarm bonfires. I mean, even Christians like the dudes in Underoath have joined the party in greater numbers. Christians! As a lifelong metal fan (I like other forms of music too, obviously, but I’ve been into metal for as long as I remember), I see this as a mixed blessing: While I miss the rebelliousness of metal’s past, I’m happy I no longer have to face public scrutiny if I’m driving around and wailing along to Iron Maiden’s “Fear of the Dark” with the windows down.

This wasn’t always the case. If you were alive in the ‘80s, you may recall that every news source / church group / parent / what-have-you were railing against the evils of heavy metal. On Oct. 16, 1984, a 19-year-old by the name of John McCollum shot himself while listening to Ozzy Osbourne’s “Suicide Solution.” In January 2006, McCollum’s parents took Osbourne to court, claiming that his song was to blame. The claim was dismissed, but the bug was planted. Bands like AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Judas Priest and even poseurs like Mötley Crüe came under fire for corrupting young minds and coercing with the Dark Lord. I even came under fire in my own family, while I was just in fourth grade, as a cousin berated me for my love of metal. She told me it was the music of the devil and if I kept listening to it, I’d rot in the festering pools of hell (something like that); and I think it made me cry like a bitch.

It’s not like that any more. Metal—though forced to sit at the weird relatives table—has become an accepted member of the musical family. No longer is it harmful to your body, mind or soul. It was simply misunderstood… OR WAS IT?

A recent study led by Dr. Michael Miller, from the University of Maryland Medical Center in Baltimore, concluded that listening to “joyful” music is healthy for a person’s heart. Meanwhile, listening to “heavy metal” causes anxiety.

According to an article on Telegraph.co.uk., results of tests performed on 10 healthy, nonsmoking volunteers showed “Stressful or disturbing music … narrows the arteries and may be bad for the heart.” Joyful music—like John Denver—caused subjects’ arteries to open 26 percent wider, while music that made them “anxious” caused their arteries to narrow by 6 percent.

This may very well be true. The music I love may be killing me. But then again, so are the beer, whiskey, red meat and pollution. I’m pretty sure the dudes in Gorgoroth couldn’t care less about my health anyway, and I’m glad they couldn’t. Unhealthy things are just more fun. My arteries are just going to have to get tougher, because I don’t think John Denver is going to work his way onto my Shuffle anytime soon.

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By James Barone

For me, Halloween is sort of a mixed blessing. I love the holiday—the decorations, the costumes, its history and of course the parties—but it falls the day before my birthday and my friends are usually too hung over to party after their All Hallows Eve debauchery. Luckily, I’m not opposed to drinking alone. But the best thing about Halloween is the horror movies. Cable networks go deep into the vault to pull out some old favorites, new classics and all that screams and splatters in between. It’s also a good time to go out and catch a scary movie in the theater. At least, it used to be.

For the past five years, the horror genre has been a totalitarian state. In 2004, Leigh Whannell and James Wan created something of a horror revolution when they released the first Saw movie on Oct. 29 of that year. It had a creepy doll, the dude from The Princess Bride and a mysterious villain who seemed to have every angle covered—no matter how ridiculous. There were enough plot twists to make M. Night Shyamalan envious and enough bizarre gadget-kills to trick audiences into thinking they’d seen something cool or edgy. A Saw movie has been released every year since, with the fifth installment of the series released on Friday, Oct. 24—just in time for another Halloween. But the fact that they’re not very good doesn’t bother me. There are plenty of shitty movies and shitty franchises out there. What pisses me off about Saw is that it’s so fucking popular, so popular that no studio dare release a horror movie on Halloween to challenge it. And for this, I blame all of you.

I hate the Saw series. I’ll admit to seeing the first and the fourth in the theaters, but they won’t get my money again—swear! However, my negative opinion of the torture-porn franchise is certainly in the minority, at least you’d imagine so by the box office numbers this drivel pulls in. According to the New York Times, Saw V pulled in a staggering $30.5 million in its opening weekend. Considering that even oil companies are crying poverty these days, I’d say that’s a pretty impressive figure. How does that stack up to the prized horror series of my youth? Well, according to the article, the Saw franchise has already pulled in more money than all nine Halloween movies combined, and it should surpass the total amassed by all 11 Friday the 13th movies by the time Saw V leaves theaters. The article goes on to say that these numbers do not take inflation into account. I guess that counts for something.

It’s not that Friday the 13th or Halloween were great movies or anything. Both series went downhill after the second sequels, but at least they were fun. The kills were creative, there were plenty of young kids all hopped up on drugs and having pre-marital sex. They were bloody and exploitative, but they had a sense of humor. They were also humane—homicidally of course. Neither Jason Vorhees nor Michael Myers toyed with their kills. They never forced someone to hack off his own arm or chew out her own spleen (or whatever) to save themselves. If they got a hold of you, you were dead—period. Maybe you’d get gutted by a weed machete or chopped up by a band saw, but your demise would be quick—painful as fuck, but quick.

Maybe that was just a kinder gentler time. A time when simply watching people get murdered by unfeeling metaphysical psychopaths were enough. Why isn’t that good enough for you anymore? You’re a bunch of sick puppies. It’s because of people like you that there is waterboarding in the world.

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If Switzerland seemed like a cleansing spring shower, then Rome was like walking into a filthy steam room (thankfully, without the naked fat guys). The city is covered with ruins in various stages of decay. Some sites were truly awe inspiring, but many had suffered the ravages of time and took serious imagination to appreciate (legalizing drugs in Italy may help with this). Fortunately, Rome has more than solitary columns and decapitated statues to enjoy.

The food easily makes up for anything Rome lacks. Gorge yourself on the four Ps: pizza, panini, pasta and pastry. Of course, don’t forget to finish off with a quadruple scoop of gelato (do it, fat boy!). You would think with all this food around, loose clothes would be clutch, but the Italians beg to differ. Prepare yourself for tight-ass jeans, booty shorts, Capri pants and body-clinging shirts… and that’s just the dudes.

If eating and people watching isn’t your thing, maybe you should check the tube. The first show that caught my attention was Commissario Rex. Rex was a tough cop who didn’t take guff from anyone. Unfortunately, Rex was also a dog. Needing more Turner and less Hooch, I moved on to a game show. I still don’t understand the premise entirely, but it started off sort of like Double Dare. The contestants were a 15-year-old boy and a woman in her early 30s with huge tits, which she pretty much rubbed in the boy’s face at every opportunity. In addition to competing in physical challenges and pop culture trivia, the contestants dressed up like rock stars and performed covers with a live band. After 30 minutes, the contestants were forgotten and the show inexplicably switched gears to a body-type showdown. A runway was brought out and the game became fat vs. skinny, tall vs. short and, of course, big tits vs. no tits. With this last piece of the Italian culture puzzle now in place, we decided it was time to move on to Paris.

Another city, another airport… we were seasoned vets. So far, we hadn’t had any trouble; but our luck was about to change. Easyjet requires you to check in at least 40 minutes before takeoff. Brocephus and I arrived at the airport with just minutes to spare. The concierge was nice enough to ignore us for about five minutes while she pretended to do shit on her computer. Of course this meant that we had now missed the 40-minute cut-off for check in. Thanks to Easyjet’s awesome customer service, we had to pay full price for a later flight and got to enjoy the airport’s luxurious metal chairs for 12 hours (yay!).

The Easyjet bitch slap at the airport cut our three-day stay in Paris to two, leaving a lot of ground to cover with not much time to do it. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Brocephus had begun speaking some hybrid form of Italian/Spanish, thoroughly confusing everyone we encountered. Despite the language barrier, we managed to see, eat and drink our way through much of the city without incident. We even made a concerted effort to get a Royale with Cheese, but France’s love for McDonald’s proved to be a serious barrier. Leaving France burgerless and exhausted, we headed back to the States.

After the longest travel day of our lives, we settled in at Brocephus’ apartment for a little shut-eye. Signaling the end of the trip, Brocephus woke up the next morning and abruptly vomited on the floor. What a fitting end to three weeks of excess.

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Congratulations, North Korea! On Saturday, Oct. 11, the Bush administration announced that Asia’s most mysterious communist nation is no longer on the list of states that sponsor terrorism. I, for one, am glad.

I don’t know much about Korea, or Korean culture, other than Jin and Sun from Lost are pretty sweet. I’ve also eaten at a Korean barbecue joint once and was really impressed. The table was just full of raw meats and spicy pickled things; and in the center of the table was a grill and fire pit so you could grill your meat to your liking. I got drunk on soju and didn’t even have a hangover the next day. Overall, I was pleased. However, I’m sure North Korea isn’t as bad as they’ve been made out to be—just a bit misunderstood.

Relations between the U.S. and North Korea have never been all that good. There was that war in the ‘50s that never really got resolved. Back in 1994, things seemed to be lightening up in the two countries’ tumultuous relationship, as President Clinton signed a similar agreement with the North Koreans. That all went to hell in 2002, though, when the Bush administration pegged the mysterious communist Asian nation as part of the “Axis of Evil,” an announcement that ruffled the well-coiffed feathers of North Korea’s enigmatic and creepy leader Kim Jong-Il. The situation really got interesting in 2006 when North Korea detonated a nuclear device, changing the Bush administration’s “Fuck you!” attitude toward Pyongyang to “Hey, guy. How’s it going?”

An uneasy accord was met. In 2007, “six-party” talks (including Russia, Japan and South Korea) were held. Thanks to those meetings, North Korea kind of sort of agreed to halt their nuclear activities…probably. But in 2008, those shaky ties looked about ready to break. According to an article in the New York Times, just days before the Oct. 11 announcement, North Korea had barred international inspectors from a plutonium plant in Yongbyon. In a last ditch attempt to make it look like they have done something positive in its eight years in office, the historically stubborn Bush administration made a compromise. Imagine that.

The deal doesn’t really change the situation all that much. U.S. inspectors will now have access to the Yongbyon plant; however, whether or not inspectors will have access to sites international experts suspect may be used to make weapons grade nuclear material remains to be seen. Inspectors will now be able to gain access to such sites “based on mutual consent”—good luck with that. For its part, North Korea gains a modicum of international acceptance. They’re no longer that disturbed little child picking the wings off flies at the kiddie table; now they’re breaking bread with the big boys…just as long as they mind their manners and don’t ask for seconds.

The Oct. 11 announcement raised the ire of Republicans. Presidential nominee Sen. John McCain complained “that North Korea had yet to demonstrate that it was serious about adhering to its commitment to denuclearize.” Meanwhile, Democratic nominee Barack Obama was like, “Whatever, I’m going to be president soon anyway.” (I’m paraphrasing.)

Maybe we’re just making a big deal over nothing. For all his eccentricities, maybe Kim Jong-Il isn’t as insane as people think. Maybe the only way to get noticed as a player in international politics is to wave a loaded gun around. If it’s truly going to be a global community, doesn’t that mean everyone should have a voice? Perhaps it’s the only way he could ensure the safety of his government and his people—to create a sort of stalemate. Maybe if everyone had The Bomb, everyone would go forth in peace. I’d like to give the world a nuke? I suppose it has a ring to it.

James Barone
jb@submergemag.com

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It boggles my mind that someone would want to mistreat an animal. I have a dog (he eats meat too, mind you), and he’s not always cooperative. In fact, he’s on behavioral medication, because he’s kind of bipolar. When he’s bad, I’ll yell at him; he’ll get all pouty and I’ll feel guilty. Back when Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick got in trouble for dog fighting, I was as outraged as everyone else. If I accidentally step on my dog’s paw, I apologize with a handful of treats, soothing words and copious belly scratches. If I’d sent him to die in gladiatorial combat for my own profit, I’d probably kill myself.

So, I’m glad that organizations like PETA exist. While I don’t always agree with their stances, I certainly believe they have the right to push their agenda as aggressively as they see fit. The way I see it is, in this current social climate where everything is so over the top and in your face, you have to be extreme to get your point across.

Whether it’s demonstrations or anti-fur ads featuring naked celebrities (particularly Roselyn Sanchez—good call!), you’ve got to get people’s attention somehow. Recently, PETA has made waves in the news again, and like before, breasts are a part of the equation; but in this case, it’s the functionality of the breast that takes precedent.
In a recent letter, PETA implored eccentric ice cream moguls Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield (Ben & Jerry’s, duh) to use milk from nursing human mommas as opposed to cow’s milk. Tracy Reiman, PETA’s executive vice president, wrote, “Using cows’ milk for your ice cream is a hazard to your customers’ health. Dairy products have been linked to juvenile diabetes, allergies, constipation, obesity, and prostate and ovarian cancer.” So much for the old slogan: “Milk, it does a body good.” Reiman’s letter also said that the switch to breast milk would be better for both consumers, and of course, the cows.

Honestly, I’ve often wondered why people drank cow’s milk to begin with. Every so often, there’s a feel good story in the news where some momma dog or whatnot takes in a litter of bear cubs and nurses them, but that sort of thing is rare—life affirming and adorable, but rare. We’re the only species that subsists mostly on the milk of another. Maybe we should take PETA’s suggestion to heart. At the very least, trips to Starbucks would be a lot more interesting if they had to squirt a couple drams of breast milk into your morning latte. On the other hand, I saw a porno once where one actress shot a stream of breast milk into the other woman’s mouth, and I was so mortified, I had to skip to the next chapter. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t breastfed as a child.

Ben & Jerry’s was magnanimous with their response. In an article on Independent.co.uk, author Rachel Shields quoted a Ben & Jerry’s spokesperson as saying, “We applaud [the group’s] novel approach to bringing attention to an issue, but we believe a mother’s milk is best used for her child.” Excellent use of the word “novel,” by the way.

Dairy farmers were not as courteous. Dr. Judith Bryans, director of the Dairy Council, called PETA’s claims “a misrepresentation of science.” Maybe she wasn’t breastfed either.

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It was a hair past midnight. We were entering a land where words were meaningless (at least to us). After a short skip across the continent, we had arrived in the medieval city of Prague.

Prague is the embodiment of beauty. The aptly named “old town” area of the city is filled with immaculately maintained gothic architecture. Feeling lost in the Lego castle of my childhood dreams, Brocephus snapped me out of my daze in time to realize what else we were surrounded by: beautiful women! Each was prettier than the next and my jaw began to hurt from scraping on the cobblestone sidewalk. We had truly found “Eye-Candy Land,” and I refused to blink for the next three days. As if my senses weren’t already overwhelmed, we soon noticed that the main drag was lined with strip clubs, bars and hot dog stands. The innuendo was heavy as I saw many bangers eating foot-long dogs like champs (bangers having bangers?).

However, not all was good in Prague. For example, Czechs use consonants like they are going out of style and put them where they can’t possibly go. With street names like “Truhlarska,” asking for directions was out of the question. Fortunately, I had my trusty Garmin to guide me… or so I thought. In honor of my country, I decided to take a piss in a Subway bathroom (word to Jared!).

There I was ready to free of my bladder of its burden, when all of the sudden the Garmin slipped out of my hoodie pocket and into the bowl. A small splash and a few bubbles provided the eulogy for this burial at sea. Jared, like the Garmin, you are dead to me. With furrowed brows, we wandered Prague aimlessly until it was time to move on to our next destination: Amsterdam!

The effects of the wide availability of marijuana quickly became apparent upon our arrival. Walking through the airport, we were trapped in a bottleneck created by an employee who parked his cart in the middle of a narrow walkway to enjoy a sandwich. As people pushed past him, he starred out the window in complete and utter bliss. I should have realized that I too would be there soon.

Amsterdam is the kind of place where the average 16-year-old American male might go into seizure from overindulgence. Brocephus described Amsterdam as Disneyland with weed and hookers. Though I didn’t see Walt Disney’s frozen head, I did catch plenty of people losing their minds. While it wasn’t quite ghost ridin’, I saw people jumping out of cars to dance in the streets (which I caught on video). I really can’t blame fools for losing it, though. Imagine being surrounded by lingerie-clad women, weed, drank and food; now add narrow streets filled with people, cars, bikes and scooters. Throw a few canals into the mix, and you have Amsterdam.

The weed alone is enough for some people. Amsterdam is full of “coffee shops” that sell herb in its various forms. There are detailed “descriptions” of each type’s supposed effects that include such phrases as “uppy high without a comedown” and “no munchies” to fool hippies and weed nerds. Despite the help, we managed to meet a German guy who happily purchased some Thai weed that looked like it came off a brick (do some research, homie!). Others ignored warnings and bit off more than they could chew.

For example, there we were, on the back patio of the “Jabba the Hutt”-esque Flying Pig Hostel. A dude from New Jersey and I talked for about 10 minutes before he inexplicably toppled like a tree. Down he went, face first with one hand at his side and the other clutching a McDonald’s cup, which exploded upon impact. He awoke for about two minutes before crashing again. Fortunately, he was placed in the loving hands of a bartender/attendant who gently whisked his high ass off to dreamland.

He may as well have stayed awake because Amsterdam is a dreamland in and of itself. Only in a dream could I absorb so many toxins and still live. However, like all dreams, my time in Amsterdam had come to an end. So, with space cakes in our stomachs and visions in our heads, we set off for Switzerland!

Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com

Post from: Submerge Magazine