You all wish you were little French schoolchildren

I recently discovered possibly the most amazing thing about France--there IS a Santa Claus.

Well, at least, you can write a letter to Santa and stick it in the mail and it will get sent to Wambrechies (59), some random town in northeastern France, where there are some 50 to 60 "assistants to Santa" waiting on hand to receive and REPLY TO your letter.

So for years, little French boys and girls have been writing to a Santa located in northen France, asking for toys, money, and mommy and daddy not to get divorced, and have been getting responses.

Think about all the poor little boys and girls across the pond who write similar letters and send them to the North Pole and never get a response, think about all that wasted postage, all those letters thrown in the mail by uncaring postal workers.

My roommate and I have decided to write to Santa this year. I would NOT let an opportunity like this pass me by.


France, upholding childhood myths, one letter at a time.

The greatest and best tournament in the world. Tribute.

As you may know, I consider myself something of a Rock Paper Scissors enthusiast. I am a card-carrying member of the World RPS Society, and I co-founded a high school team which had several impressive accomplishments: getting featured on the Nickelodeon network; achieving recognition as a chartered school organization; and most importantly, making kickass t-shirts. My blood, sweat, and tears went into the varsity team, and my subpar performance in AP European History reflects this prioritizing. But after high school, my activity in the sport declined. Perhaps because no collegiate circuit existed at Bowdoin. Perhaps because I decided it would be wise to keep my love of a game that most people outgrow by the age of five on the DL if I ever wanted to get laid. The reason's not important. The point is that my true passion was sidelined, and for four years I wandered through life with neither purpose nor direction.

...Until recently, when my friend Mike and I competed in the International Rock Paper Scissors Championship in Toronto, Canada. We each took a day off to allow for travel to our hometown of Buffalo, then relaxed for a day before leaving our fair city for the forgotten tundra of America, Jr.

The events that ensued can be described only as a complete and utter shit show. I have no idea how in the hell so many people could exist with a passion such as ours (even with our custom-made shirts we were among the more normally attired participants), but I do know that about 500 RPS athletes from around the globe competed in the tournament. We met people from England, Norway, and Australia, and the night was beyond insane. Mike and I were both eliminated in the first round. He lost to a guy from England who ended up winning the whole tournament (!) and I lost to some random girl who happened to be pretty attractive, and as it turns out, I always lose when I RPS against hot girls. But perhaps the losses were a blessing in disguise, as they allowed us to devote the remainder of the evening to consuming exorbitant amounts of ale and playing street RPS with the various crazies who attended the event. (Street RPS is an unofficial match in which you bet official World RPS money on best-of-3 games. We won a ton of them, and proceeded to rub the cash all over our faces and bodies, much to the chagrin of our recent victims.) To make a long story which we don't really remember short, it was pretty much the greatest thing that has ever happened. Period. A few choice pics:

Yep, the greatest thing ever. RPS is back, baby, and next year I intend to not only win the tournament, but also... well, I plan to win the tournament. But even if I don't, as long as there is beer and guys like the one above with mullets and giant "Shock 'Em!" foam fingers, I'll be a happy man.

News at last

Okay, so I finally have some damn news to announce.

First, a sidenote to Mary and Krips: I'm working on a new children's book about a boy with terrible b.o. who saves his school from mashed potato monsters. Start sketchin'!

In more life-altering news...

I had an epiphany three nights ago that kept me up until 4 a.m.

The epiphany came about as such:

I was lying in bed last Tuesday at 1 a.m., replaying random incidents and conversations in my head as I am wont to do, when I eventually stumbled upon the subject of magic. In most cases, when someone learns that I am a magician--or, more accurately, a practicioner of the magical arts--he or she invariably asks if that's what I want to do for a living, what I want to be when I "grow up." And invariably I tell him or her no, that I like magic fine but that I have no real drive or passion for it. In short, it is not what I want to do with my life.

As I lay there, examining that boilerplate response in a semi-conscious haze, I realized something. I've been slamming my head against the wall for two months looking for full-time employment, applying for jobs I knew for a fact would be merely tolerable 40 hours a week just so I could be with my girlfriend, and for my efforts I was reaping nothing more than a constant headache and an ever-declining regard for societal norms. Then it hit me, with all the weight of Huckins' testicles when he teabags me, but none of the subtlety: Magic is not my dream job, but it doesn't have to be. I don't have to love it; I don't even have to like it all that much. I just have to do it. With my experience, connections, talent, and raw sexuality, I have as good a shot as any amateur to make a realistic go at it, so why bust my hump working some desk job I can barely stand for days on end when I can work half as many hours a week doing magic gigs? As blah as I've been about the immediate prospect of every magic show I've ever been hired for, even the most taxing performances were no worse than a typical shift at Shaws or the North Shore Music Theater.

So to sum up: I have decided to become a professional magician in Connecticut. Why? Because why the fuck not. Yeah, I'll have to get a part time job in the beginning to make ends meet since I won't be established or have any local references, but whatever. Just averaging four shows a week will put me in the 25K income bracket, and that won't even include the scratch I'll be pullin' in with a random side job. I'm not lookin' to become rich and famous (not through magic anyway); I just want to be able to look at myself in the mirror every morning and say, "Damn, for someone who doesn't really work out that much, you have great muscle tone."

You hear that "system"? I BEAT YOU. Hell yeah.

P.S. I'll be accepting suggestions for my stage name in the upcoming weeks, so if you've got any good ones, lemme know. (And Smithy and Schollard? I'll be more than a little disappointed if I don't get at least three names from each of you implying my homosexual tendencies and small penis size.) If anyone's too lazy to come up with names themselves, I'll be sending out a mass e-mail next month with all the possible pseudonyms I've collected so far asking each of you to rank your top five.

Easy There Loosey Brucey

Look big boy, the reason none of us has posted is because none of us has anything relevant to say. Since settling into our dreay, post-collegiate existences, life has taken on the feel of a bad summer rerun. The fact is, we're not doing anything worth posting about. Every day I get up between 10 and 11, eat a bowl of cereal, go to work till 6 or 6:30, come home, talk to my girlfriend, and watch tv and juggle till bed. That's it. I have no job, I have no life. I'll let you know when that changes. Until then, chill Tonto.