===================================================================== ________ /_ __/ /_ ___ ============================/ / / __ \/ _ \=========================== ==========================/ / / / / / __/========================== /_/ /_/ /_/\___ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ / / / /__ __________ / /___/ / / / / /__ _______ _ / /___/ / =/ /_/ / __` / __/ __ \/ / __ /=====/ /_/ / _ \/ __/ __` / / __ /= =/ __ / /_/ / / / /_/ / / /_/ /=====/ __ / __/ / / /_/ / / /_/ /=== /_/ /_/\__,_/_/ \____/_/\__,_/ /_/ /_/\___/_/ \__,_/_/\__,_/ "All the News About Hal that Hal Deems Fit to Print" ===================================================================== AUG/SEPT. 1994 ~ Ite in Orcum Directe ~ Volume 3, Issue 5 _____________________________________________________________________ Publisher: Harold Gardner Phillips, III Editor-in-Chief: Hal Phillips Virtual Editor: Dr. David M. Rose, Ph.D. Managing Editor: Formletter McKinley Production Manager: Quinn Martin Lifestyles Editor: Decedrick Gainous, Esq. Living/Arts Editor: Alex Beam Dead/Government Editor: Vincent Foster Circulation Manager: Ronald Goldman Weapons Consultant: Carlos "The Jackal" Sports Editor: Orenthal James Simpson Latter Day Editor: Orrin Hatch Spiritual Consultant: Cardinal Mannix Editorial Offices: The Harold Herald 30 Deering St. Portland, ME 04101 Satellite Office: c/o Golf Course News 38 Lafayette St. P.O. Box 997 Yarmouth, ME 04096 Letters to the editor are welcome and encouraged. The Herald reserves the right to edit them to fit, or to completely change their meaning to suit our ends. ARCHIVE SITES: world.std.com (obi/Zines/Harold.Herald) fir.cic.net (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald) etext.archive.umich.edu (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald) Subscription requests to drose@husc.harvard.edu Submissions welcome THIS ISSUE: FAME AND FORTUNE (WELL, FAME ANYWAY) GRACE THE HERALD HAL INTERVIEWS A REAL COLUMNIST AN ENTIRE GENERATION IS CASUALLY REVILED WE ACKNOWLEDGE THE EXISTENCE OF OTHER PUBLICATIONS HOLLYWOOD TREMBLES AS THE HERALD GOES TO THE MOVIES SULLIVAN OFFERS PERSONAL GLIMPSES OF A DRUNKEN MADMAN NUPTIALS AND NAUSEA WITH TIM DIBBLE AND, OF COURSE, YOUR LETTERS, ALTHOUGH THEY AREN'T ACTUALLY YOUR LETTERS BECAUSE YOU HAVEN'T SENT ANY LETTERS, HAVE YOU, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARDS WE'RE FAMOUS! By HAL PHILLIPS The people have spoken and, by Jove, they clearly want more! If, by chance, you've spent the previous six weeks strapped to the underside of a Winnebago, you might not realize The Harold Herald and its staff have become stupendously famous following a brief mention in The Boston Globe, which prompted a call from WCVB-TV in Boston and a front-page feature in the Portland Press Herald. Carpenters are here this week widening the top halves of doorways. Subscription and reprint requests are now being handled via our new toll-free number 1-800-BOW-TO-ME. An elderly, often drunk colleague of mine at The Marlboro Enterprise used to bristle when awards - garnered by the newspaper or myself - were announced in the publication. I would invariably bury the short stories somewhere inconspicuous (usually an inside page) so as to avoid the appearance of tasteless self-promotion - a practice that drove my pickled colleague to distraction. "You can't be afraid of self-promotion!" he would bellow, the smell of vodka and Marlboro's enveloping anyone within spitting distance. "No one's going to do it for you!" My colleague (see related story) had a keen eye for the obvious - but he also had a point. It was his sound advice that compelled me to send a copy of the Herald to the Globe's Alex Beam, who saw fit to mention the newsletter in his column of July 20 - apparently a very slow news day. St. Alex gave the Herald three lines, naming it the second best self-published newsletter in New England behind "Owens: A Newsletter about Gardening and Cooking." This makes our Herald the most esteemed self-published, non-cooking & gardening publication in New England! It's amazing what a little self-promotion and a few lines in the Globe can do for circulation. We've been swamped with subscription requests and Chronicle - a news magazine show produced by Ch. 5 in Boston - has shown some interest in doing a "piece." The Press Herald then published a front-page feature (and picture!) on Tuesday, Aug. 2, another slow news day. For the record, my story appeared higher on the page than news of Michael Jackson's marriage to Lisa Marie Presley. "Until two years ago," reporter Ray Routhier wrote, "not a single publication could give readers comprehensive, up-to-date information about Harold Phillips. But one man came forward to fill this crucial void - Harold Phillips." My old Enterprise editor James O'Reilly got some pretty good ink in the Press-Herald story ("Who else could write a newsletter about himself and not have everyone throw it away immediately?"), as did the lovely Sharon Vandermay (for her timely Limbaugh-bashing) and my mom, whose memories of my "unspeakable acts" with vacuum cleaners were reprinted and have surely ruined my political career. With all this attention, there has been some fear the staff's ego - already substantial and nearly unmanageable in size - may now grow out of control. Hey, you can count on it! I'm here to assure you the Herald will continue to provide "All the news about Hal that Hal deems fit print" with all the bombast and pretension you've come to expect. Garcon! Caviar, for EVERYONE! AN INTERVIEW WITH OUR BENEFACTOR BY HAL PHILLIPS The Boston Globe doesn't quite know what to do with columnist Alex Beam. He sort of discovered The Herald with a brief mention in his column, which now appears in the Living/Arts section. However, his column has appeared as part of the business section and on the editorial page, where the Globe tried to pass him off as a conservative. Ha! In any case, his mention of the Herald touched off the flood of media attention so, hereafter, he will be known as St. Alex. The fortyish Beam chatted with us from the Big House on Morrissey Boulevard. HH: How has reading The Harold Herald changed your life? AB: Um... It's made me realize what one person with a computer can do to make the world of publishing a better place. HH: That's touching. AB: Why, thank you. HH: What is your favorite color? AB: I know it's not brown because I'm married to a Norwegian and they have a predilection for brown... Actually, it's blue. HH: That's interesting. I've heard you mention your wife before in print. I was actually engaged to a Norwegian, but it blew up in my face. AB: Well that was your mistake: Getting engaged to an explosive, inanimate object. HH: When they make the movie of your life, who will play you? AB: In my published-but-never-read-by-the-public novel, I note that I bear an incredible resemblance to George Segal, or a young Richard Dreyfus - the American Graffiti Richard Dreyfus. Either could be recruited to play the mature Alex Beam. HH: Name your least favorite cartoon character? AB: I don't like Ren and Stimpy. HH: Why?!? AB: Because they're really bad, really violent and they should be done away with. And their creator should be shot in the head. But I love Beavis and Butthead. HH: I won't even touch that incongruity. AB: Thank you. HH: Complete the following sentence: "Dip me in honey and throw me to the ... AB: Bees. HH: Boring. AB: Yeah, that is boring. HH: If you were a head of lettuce, what variety would you be? AB: Iceberg. HH: Complete the following sentences: The Boston Globe would be a better paper if... AB: Um, if my column ran in 20-point type on the front page every day. HH: The Boston Herald would be a better paper if... AB: If my column ran in 20-point type on the front page every day. HH: If The Harold Herald weren't flawless, what might improve it? AB: I think the occasional serendipitous error would be seen as such an incredible anomaly, it would be viewed as pleasurable by readers accustomed to such excellence. HH: What was the first album you ever purchased with your own money? AB: Rubber Soul. HH: What type of car do you drive? AB: A little Jap job. Cheapo Honda Civic. HH: Regular unleaded or premium unleaded? AB: For the Honda, regular. For the Dodge van, premium. When you get to be my age, you worry about engine wear. HH: Where were you when Apollo landed on the lunar surface? AB: Well, that's a trick question. I was in Leningrad reading it on the back page of Pravda. HH: Honestly? AB: It's true. HH: Did you ever contact the KGB whilst in Leningrad. AB: Every day. HH: Do you consider yourself a Baby Boomer? AB: I've researched the topic and yes, I am. HH: What went wrong with you people anyway? AB: Baby Boomers have ruined everything. They have destroyed the world. They're self-obsessed. Their obsession with the past is very dangerous. I saw the other day that nostalgia is a very minor emotion. If ants had emotion, they would have nostalgia. It's the elixir, the balm of the small mind. Retrospection gone awry: Baby Boomers mark moon landing with trademark cant BY HAL PHILLIPS Okay, I admit it. I haven't the faintest clue as to what I was doing or where I was that July evening when messrs. Armstrong & Aldrin set the standard for political one-upsmanship by setting foot on the lunar surface. I'm sorry, but I was not yet five years old during the summer of '69 when Americans huddled before black & white Philcos and listened to Walter Cronkite verbalize their own sense of wonder... As best I can surmise, I was either digging my way underneath the backyard fence or blissfully sacked out atop my rubber sheet. However, having endured the avalanche of news coverage marking the event's 25th anniversary, I could surely conjure a false memory and join in the mass catharsis, contrived rot that it is. "Where were you when Apollo landed?" "Oh, I was still at Antioch. I remember stocking the microbus, about to leave for Woodstock, when Mara called me inside. We sat in front of the TV, ate some mushrooms and complained about Nixon... and the army. Then we played some Donovan and tried to agree on our mantra for the weekend." "Wow, that's great... Hey, how are things at Morgan Stanley?" Where were you when Bobby Kennedy was shot? You were at Monterey, weren't you? Remember when we got brained outside the convention in Chicago? These are questions Baby Boomers still ask each other, over and over again, usually at cocktail parties thrown by investment houses somewhere in mid-town Manhattan. The moon landing is especially good fodder because its foundation was laid by the oft-recalled President Kennedy, the single greatest beneficiary of this intense need for Boomers to explore their collective memory. The lunar expedition, or rather the 25th anniversary thereof, is merely the latest example the Boomers' superannuated nostalgia - made all the more ironic by the generation's complete disinterest in further space exploration. These are the people who castigated American capitalism, then bought Saabs and now summer in Bar Harbor; the people who remember the Apollo landing as a timeless example of American will and know-how, then pointedly ask what purpose the Shuttle serves. Despite their vast capacity for contradiction and hypocrisy, Boomers cling to these memories - and the ideals they once represented - because they can't bear to look forward. Boomers are obsessed with nostalgia because they're afraid to imagine where in hell they'll take the country next. Responsible as they are for the 1970s and '80s, Boomers are content - nay, obsessed with idealization of the '60s, that period before they fucked up the country and compromised everything for which they had presumably stood. The 25th anniversary of the lunar landing is just the latest in what has been a nauseating string of '60s pop culture memorials, orchestrated by Boomers now in control of the nation's media outlets. And they're not done yet! Did you enjoy Dan Rather's live report from Woodstock II? Well, get ready for Katie Couric on location at the Cambodian border, marking Nixon's clandestine bombings; Joan Lunden, a tear in her eye, wishing you "Good Morning" from Paris beside Jim Morrison's grave; Peter Jennings standing in the Rose Garden, pointing to the spot where Nixon waved goodbye (With all due respect to the recently aired BBC documentary, the U.S. retrospective will take place in 1999, the 25th anniversary of Watergate's unsavory resolution when Boomers finally ascended and their parents grudgingly stepped aside). Mercifully, the deluge will likely stop there because, as we've discussed, Boomers would sooner trade in their Dockers than relive post-1974 America. Too painful. Too revealing of their own hypocrisy. There will be no anniversary celebrations of Reagan America because all the ex-hippies would rather not discuss why they voted for him, why they worked on Wall Street, why they started acting like their parents had. Yes, by 1999, the 25-year retrospectives will give way to 30- and 35- year retrospectives - and to a potentially larger obsession: The institutional worry over their sullen, slacking children, those of us in Generation X. It's possible the Boomers are right about us. Can a generation whose only communal memory is the Challenger Disaster possibly carry on the American Dream? A valid question, but here's a better one: Will the Baby Boomers ever realize what Generation X has already grasped - namely, that Boomers boned and gutted the Dream long ago? Doubtful. Retrospection is one thing; introspection quite another. BOB PRYOR: SOME GUY YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW By MARK SULLIVAN It could be said that white-haired sports scribe Bob Pryor played Yoda to Hal Phillips during Hal's early days as sports editor at the Marlboro Enterprise, in the same way it could be said Dennis the Menace played Yoda to Mr. Wilson. The son of a former Ziegfield Follies Girl who was herself once publisher of the paper, Bob Pryor - schoolboy sports maven, golf guru and devotee of Marlboro tavern society - spent decades at the Enterprise, publishing it, editing it, then carrying on as a sports reporter and columnist when it passed from his family's hands to chain ownership. By the time Hal inherited him, Bob, in his early Õ60s, was a golf- panted, quirkily opinionated, oft-pixilated institution at the Enterprise: He was a fount of information about Marlboro, about the actual number of Hills on which the so-called Highland City was built, about the Marlboro mayor in the 1940s who drowned himself in Lake Williams, about former Red Sox player Steve Lyons' father, Itchy, from neighboring Hudson. Of convivial bent, Bob, to Hal's chagrin, would go missing one or two times a night, typically to Kennedy's pub across the street where, Bob explained, they knew how to prepare the special fish on his diet. He was a reigning fixture at the news staff's after-work haunt, Sully's First Edition Pub, where a drink was named after him - the Pryor Special, a zombie-size glass of straight vodka beside a tumbler of ice water. Bob favored colorful polyester pants from the links and wore his white hair in a spit curl that made him look, in the photo above his newspaper column, like a sexagenarian Kewpie doll. Extended periods of silence in Bob's corner of the newsroom would inevitably be broken out of nowhere by a Tourette-like "Yawwwp!," or a whimsical "HHmmmm!" As a Braintree, Mass. schoolboy playing basketball in the old Tech Tourney at the Boston Garden in the early 1940s, Bob recalls, he was described in the Globe sports-page account as "sagacious." Bob's sagacity extends to other areas, as well. In a recent phone interview, he held forth on a variety of subjects, among them: Woodstock II: "My opinion of Woodstock: It's a naked drunk in the woods. If that's what today's young people like for fun and recreation, I'm glad I brought my three up differently." The Baseball Strike: "I can say it in one word: Greed. How can you collect $1.2 million whether you're on the field or on the bench? On the road you have your meals paid for you. You get your transportation paid for you, your insurance paid for you, your accommodations paid for you. These guys are looking for more, more more... If they want to be self-employed, they should take up the game of golf, where if you don't win, you eat hot dogs." On the Caning of Teen Vandal Michael Fay in Singapore: "He doesn't need a smack on the bum - he needs psychological therapy. I don't think a smack on the bum is going to help this kid." On Worthy Candidates for Caning here in the States: "I know a lot of politicians who deserve it. Ted Kennedy, for one. I'd like to cane [House Speaker Tom] Foley. Hilary ought to get two of them: one tonight, another tomorrow night." On AIDS: "I found out today from a doctor that bleach can kill AIDS. I was amazed! How do you take bleach. That would clean you out!" On the Late Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis: "Jackie was not what everyone thinks she was. It was not Camelot behind the scenes.... Way back when Jack was running for Senator, he stopped by the old Enterprise office on Liberty Street. In he came with her. This was an old building, but we got the paper out every day. She walked in, looked around and said, 'This is a newspaper?' "Jack said: 'Back in the car!' "That doesn't mean she was a bad lady. I think she was a spoiled person... When she married the Greek, was that love? That was a business arrangement. Her whole life was a business arrangement. She ran down the beach in the nude. Hey, that was her thing. I didn't glorify her." NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND BY HAL PHILLIPS Several sister publications have come in from the cold, that is say they have emerged from the murky self-publishing landscape and somehow landed in The Herald letter bin. Most found their way to Portland as result of our recent press, though one seems to suffer from a pre- existing condition. ... You'll notice the good-hearted Herald staff, to this point, has avoided mention of imitation and its relation to flattery - to say nothing of plagiarism, copyright law and respect for the intrinsic value of intellectual property. Suffice to say, these interloping editors are shameless in their use of 8.5- by 11-inch paper and the English language, both of which are Herald trademarks... One of these shameless knockoffs actually had the nerve to use italics as vehicles for emphasis! Why, The Herald practically invented the practice! In any case, let us take a quick, objective look at each of these, these... HIJACKERS! „ "Owens: A Newsletter about Gardening and Cooking" is just that. Originating from Newton, Mass., Owens is published as an adjunct to a gardening establishment there. At eight pages, the newsletter contains expected features like recipes, gardening advice and listings of local services & catalogs. Owens is well written, informative and pretty clever: To sit and look at your garden with a glass of beer or iced tea in your hand might seem like idleness. This practice can be dignified by calling it "on-site planning." Unexpected and less- inspired are the newsletterÕs offbeat stories. One OwenÕs contributor spent four pages in painstaking character study of three women he sees socially. Sorta boring. Readers may remember that OwenÕs took first place in the GlobeÕs ranking of self-published newsletters (The Herald finished second). Staff members here at The Herald have been outwardly gracious about the snub. Privately, the five words most frequently used to describe the voting process have been "fucking travesty of justice man..." „ "Epiphanies in P Major" is published out of Portland, Maine, by Roger Dutton, who either took too many philosophy courses at school, or not nearly enough. Lots of esoteric discussion here, under recurring headlines like "The Self Absorptions of Salesmanship," "Therapy and the Pendulum," "A Reaction to Antonin Artaud" and "The Existential i." Whoa. Heroic archetypes meticulously explored through the writing of Campbell, Sartre and Morrison (thatÕs right, Jim) interspersed with healthy portions of my all-time fave, poetry. It seems as though Roger did his best to include all the things I hate most. Not his fault really. Mine alone. „ Adrian Praeter, one of my college roommates in London, recently weighed in with "AdrianÕs Oracle," published (rather crudely, I might add) with financial assistance from fictional sponsor Jiffy Condoms, whose motto is "Get it on in a Jiffy" - an ironic advertising relationship considering AdrianÕs sexual tag line, "Finished in a Jiffy." In any case, Adrian is an actor so when he isnÕt doing odd jobs, he has a good deal of time on his hands. A large portion of the publication (a.k.a. The Orifice) is dedicated to deftly taking the piss out of me, the world of self-publishing in general, and The Harold Herald in particular. As an Englishman - embittered by his countryÕs tragic plunge into oblivion - PraeterÕs anti-American carping is to be expected and, well, pitied. Sad really. He is, nonetheless, quite a clever boy. For example: An actual letter from AdrianÕs bank manager (and the Ginger NobÕs reply - not, incidentally, "Dear Fascist Bullyboy, Give me some money you bastard...) are set against lively faux letters, like this one: Dear (No madame, itÕs not a third leg) Praeter: Thought IÕd just touch base and fill you in on the details. Well, what about old Henry huh? You know, our old alumni... alumnut... aluunni... tit... arsehole, arrium - sure we all know him, so everybodyÕs interested right? Horoscopes: Virgo - Stop! Read no further. Go to your room, get back into bed and stay there! Go now! ... Has he gone? Good. Capricorn - Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha... no honestly, youÕll be fine. Advice: Dear Auntie Ada, I have recently been dumped by my boyfriend A****N. What he doesnÕt know is that I have a very infectious form of genital herpes. I was going to tell him but I couldnÕt be bothered. Do you think I am being selfish? Yours slyly, X, London. Ada Expostulates: Selfish? You? Nooo... You bitch! You sodding tart! How the hell could you do such a thing to such a genuinely nice, sincere, loving bloke? Personal ads: Marlies and Agnetta, 21 & 22 respectively, seek slightly older man for lessons and fun. Name must begin with "A". 071 443 5899. International News in Brief: "Shock result in USA presidential election. Young English actor elected on a very liberal ticket. Stand by for further details." „ The Highly Esteemed Howl is published by a pair of 14-year-olds who live right here in Portland. So let me say, before I teach the little fucks a journalism lesson theyÕll never forget, that I am truly moved by their literary pluck and plain olÕ enterprising spirit. Actually, without the aid of desktop publishing, Eli & Eli have put together an interesting book with good stunts, like the recently concluded "IÕm an Infringer" contest that allowed readers to transgress copyright laws by sending in a good newspaper comic and printing it in the Howl. Of course, the winner chose Garfield, which is part of the problem here... Hey! TheyÕre 14! Cut Õem some slack! Some heavy Beatle worship on EliseÕs Page spun off into this bit: Woodstock Ō94: Of course, it isnÕt going to be half as cool as the original Woodstock, and there will probably be a lot more drugs, and it will be violent, and, uh, well, 1994 just is not the summer of love!" HowÕs that for Boomer envy...Wonder where they picked that up? "They donÕt learn these things on the streets..." WHY NOT TAKE IN A MOVIE? GLAD YOU ASKED... By DAVID M. ROSE, Ph.D. Cinema Critic Pro Tem IÕm not a big movie person; in the past year IÕve seen two: Mrs. Doubtfire (fluff) and David LeanÕs Lawrence of Arabia (four-odd hours of absolute bliss). With a record like this, I would not presume to tell anyone which movies they should see. However, after careful consideration of this summerÕs offerings, I believe I am uniquely qualified to tell you which movies NOT to see. The Flintstones: Say what you like about Hollywood, this movie proves its creative minds are not afraid to try new things. Imagine taking an old television show, and making it into a movie! The casting here is particularly impressive: the lead role of Fred Flintstone, a fat simpleton, is played by John Goodman, who is undeniably fat and simple. Before you go see this one, ask yourself two questions: First, how likely is it the movie will be better than the TV show? Second, how good was the TV show? Case closed. The Mask: Why is Jim Carrey famous? He started out as The White guy on In Living Color, and he was about as funny as Garrett Morris playing The Black Guy on the first couple seasons of Saturday Night Live. CarreyÕs only other credit of note: title role in Ace Ventura, Pet Detective. No, I havenÕt seen it, but how can a movie with this title be good? With this resume, suddenly heÕs a superstar, hailed as "the new Jerry Lewis." With the exception of a few demented Frenchmen, has anyone been clamoring for the old Jerry Lewis? Another problem with this movie is the emphasis that has been placed on its special effects. Lookit: Jurassic Park proved the kids at Industrial Light and Magic, given enough cash, can do anything they want to do as far as special effects are concerned. Now that this fact has been established, there is no reason to be impressed by special effects. Finally, there is already a movie called Mask, and it stars Cher and a sort of malformed Danny Bonaduce*. I do not want to relive that experience. The Little Rascals: Help me, lord. Forrest Gump: First, this movie has already been made twice before. The first time it was called Being There, and the second time is was called Zelig. Of course, the special effects are much more sophisticated that those used in Zelig but, again, special effects are just a matter of how much money you have to spend. The biggest reason I will never see this movie is that I have seen the commercials on TV and I cannot sit for two hours listening to Tom Hanks talk like Deputy Dawg on Quaaludes. And I like Deputy Dawg. The Lion King: Walt Disney is the purest manifestation of evil on this Earth, and all Disney productions are pure shit. The most inane Warner Bros. cartoon (probably one of the 15 billion baby kangaroo ones) is so intellectually and artistically superior to the best Disney cartoon it makes me positively woozy. If you have children, and if they beg you to see this movie, give them heroin instead. (* Eric Stoltz played this role. Cher was a biker babe who, with her physically deformed yet incredibly well-adjusted son, traveled from West Coast campsite to West Coast campsite with her various multiple- tattoo boyfriends. And yaÕ know, those bikers accepted CherÕs bulbous- faced son without prejudice. It was touching - Ed.) LETTERS TO THE EDITOR Well, thanks to the recent media firestorm, the mailbag is full this month as never before. Interesting, though; nary a letter from our electronic audience. Lets hear some chatter out there, people. Letters, submissions, queries, potshots, etc. can be directed to drose@fas.harvard.edu. d. To the Editor: Well, now that The Herald has been blazoned across the front page of the Portland Press-Herald, featured in the Boston Globe, and open to anyone with Internet access, I suppose all that is left is to go the way of Kurt Cobain, who eschewed the fame he attained. (If he hated success so much, why did he keep performing in public? Asshole.) Please, for the sake of your readers, assign the story of your suicide in advance so that it will be captured in print. Should you decide to issue press passes to the event itself, count me out. I wonÕt be party to these publicity stunts. Regretfully, Alison Harris Cumberland, Maine Ed. I assure you, madame, there will be no eschewing of fame from these offices. But while I'm contemplating my own mortality, despite your protestations, the story is yours. Dear Mr. Phillips, I read about you in the paper the other day, but since you obviously have a better press agent than I do, you probably did not read about me in the paper. My name is Elise (not Elsie) Adams, and I am the founder of a lovely little publication called the Highly Esteemed Howl. I have been doing the paper for a little over a year, and have 100 less subscribers (or whatever you wish to call them) than you do, but hey, I try. I enclosed the latest issue of the Howl (August issue) . I hope you enjoy it. Made by a couple of 14-year-olds, its the best issue in a while (doing a magazine during an attack of mood swings is not advisable). I admit that two entire pages for Eli & Eli is a bit much for them, but Sage backed out of his astrology forecast at the last minute. I was hoping, if you readily agree of course, that perhaps we could trade - one year of the Howl for you and six months of the Harold Herald for me? (The HH is two pages longer than the average Howl). DonÕt worry about paying for the Howl. Since the Herald is free, The Howl will be, too. After all this is a trade. The reason that the Howl needs to be paid for by everyone except those named Harold, is the fact that IÕm 14, do not have a job, and somebody has to pay for the stamps. Elise Adams Howl founder, editor, writer, distributor, publisher Portland, Maine Ed. Kid, you got yourself a deal. Actually, the Howl is well ahead of the Herald in some aspects of the printing process, namely, using both sides of the paper. Dear Mr. Phillips, While in Maine last month on a three-week New England vacation, I was fortunate enough to read the news story in the daily newspaper [Portland Press-Herald] about your individual newspaper. I was captivated because it was very nearly the same thing I had done last year after a two-week writing workshop at Bennington College. There were a dozen of us at Bennington studying non-fiction writing under Sven Birkerts, a published essayist and English professor. We established such a bond that we attempted to keep together through a newsletter, which I undertook to edit. The idea was they would write me and I, in turn, would edit their news for the whole group. To prime the pump, I started putting out a weekly newsletter about what I was doing. Sven commented that I had the best documented life since Samuel Johnson. Letters from the others dwindled, and although it was tremendous fun writing it, I finally reached the realization that nobody out there was listening to what I was saying. IÕm afraid the paid subscription does more than pay for postage and printing; it is a vote of confidence and interest. I suspended publication. I would greatly appreciate receiving a copy of The Harold Herald. If you have discovered the secret of writing non-fiction that sustains interest week after week or month after month, I need to learn from you. Wayne Boyce, editor The Stream of History Newport, Ark. Ed. I don't yet charge for subscriptions, so what you can learn from me remains to be seen. The secret to sustaining interest with non- fiction, it seems to me, is the secret of newspaper column writing. And the secret to column writing, as I see it, is not giving a tinkerÕs cuss what people do with their votes of confidence. Not giving a shit makes it easier to grab a reader by the throat. Until that happens, send it to them whether they want it or not. There - take that to your writerÕs workshop and discuss it. Dear Harold, Could you enroll me as a subscriber? My qualifications: I am a Wesleyan grad (Ō63); I have one foot in Maine (Wiscasset home); I am opinionated in weird ways - for example, I am a strong proponent of television violence. Hard to beat that. Further qualification: I will pay money. How much? Jib Fowles, Ph.D professor, media studies University of Houston Ed. Whoa, media studies. They don't teach that at Wesleyan, my fine friend. Good thing you're employed by an institution unhindered by the principles of liberal arts education. But Dr. Fowles is okay. He sent me a buck. On our scale, thatÕs worth a lifetime membership. By HAL PHILLIPS NANTUCKET, Mass. - The splendid Messinger residence here in sparsely populated Madaket, wedged in the island's southeast corner, features a stupendous porch that nearly encircles the shingled, two story structure. Just beyond an open field teaming with stands of love grass, the ocean can be seen - and heard. With nothing to quell its momentum between here and Bermuda, the heaving Atlantic slaps the sandy shoreline, providing porchsitters a continuous, briny overture of cacophonous but nevertheless soothing tones. Hidden from the revelers - around one corner of the porch - lay would- be groom Tim Dibble, his soft groans drowned out by the crashing surf. For two days he gamely indulged himself and friends by downing repeated libations and deflecting other drinking schemes with customary Žlan. Dibble had escaped Night I of this bachelor weekend (July 22-23), but his luck ran out at 11:34 p.m. on Night II. After much prodding from yours truly, Dibble finally listened to the better angels of his nature before spewing them over porch's edge. Three feet from his preferred spot of expectoration, Dibble gracefully laid himself down, his nose and forehead there to break the fall. Catatonic, his now-fetal form lay half on the porch, half inside. As Dibble would have wished, guests resumed the business of partying, periodically checking on their fallen hero to make sure he was breathing. "Trap-her" John McIntyre, M.D. returned from one visit and assured those gathered that Dibble's listless demeanor was nothing to worry about. "His rectal tone is normal," said the good doctor. „„„ The end, for Dibble, was swift if not painless. He was in fine spirits at 11 p.m. that Saturday night, despite having absorbed numerous shots of tequila, several bong hits and a lobster/clam dinner. He appeared capable of riding out the evening sur porch, yukking it up with his substantial coterie of friends. But fate and friendship intervened. Ringleader Allan Jones soon proposed a pair of cement mixers (shots of different liquors, poured independently and held in one's mouth, shaken about, then swallowed) for Tim Dibble and Ben Taylor. Herr Dibble responded well, as did the Mount Desert Islander Taylor. But just then, fellow MDI native and Wesleyan grad David MacDonald took the opportunity to make a touching, albeit devastating gesture: Single-malt scotch whiskey and tacky Maine crafts! By Jupiter, a truly devilish combination! Mac first presented the fast-fading groom-to-be a hologram picture of a clipper ship in choppy seas, explaining how it symbolized the young Dibble before he agreed to marry. Mesmerized by the ever-shifting waves, Dibble hunched ever so slightly and began to breath heavily. "Bad timing," Dibble muttered under his breath. Next MacDonald presented Dibble a picture of two cuddly kittens painted on a piece of wood, symbolizing the serene union of Tim and his betrothed, Maureen Holland. Despite the manly nature of those in attendance many a tear was shed, so cute were the wood-bound kittens. Unfortunately, Dibble's head was now in his hands and would remain there for the duration of his waking evening, which is to say, about 10 minutes. MacDonald repeatedly offered the would-be groom a shot of single-malt. Rudely, I thought, Dibble refused. The bride's brother then invited Dibble to perform with him three-way cement mixer consisting of scotch, tequila and clam juice left over from dinner. Wisely, I thought (considering the clam juice), Dibble refused. Besides, the end was only moments away. MORE DIBBLE By HAL PHILLIPS NANTUCKET, Mass. - An event on the order of Tim Dibble's bachelor party should be accorded what we in the trade call a "sidebar," a piddling little complementary story that runs alongside a story of great magnitude. If Dibble blows chow, it's automatically a story of great magnitude. Hence, the need for a piddling story like the one printed below, which runs through the moments of hilarity that couldn't be addressed in the bigger, more important Dibble story that appears elsewhere in this month's Herald. In any case: „ This was a first-class bachelor party all the way. No fat strippers jumping out of cakes; no raunchy films; no greasing the groom-to-be with gobs of vegetable shortening and mounting him from... Like I said, real classy. Beautiful seaside location. Catered meals. Even a chartered boat for the ride from Hyannis to Nantucket. Having flown from Portland, I did not experience the excursion. But it was reported that Dibble only bared his buttocks to passing boats on two occasions. And Joe Novicki only once! „ Pretty much everyone arrived at the Messinger household Friday night, and drinking began immediately. At about 1 a.m., a crowd of 10- 15 walked three minutes to the beach where we played some beach soccer under an incredibly bright, full moon. Sometime during the game, Dibble and Ben Taylor rankled each other - in a nice way, of course. The groom-to-be responded by clubbing an unsuspecting Ben over the head with an enormous beach toy resembling a Hippity-Hop - only bigger. While surf rolled his limp body back and forth in the surf, Ben somehow lost his shoes. When he regained consciousness, Ben rejoined the game and laid on Dibble one of the nastiest tackles in the long history of MBSWNG (Moonlit Beach Soccer With No Goals). The next day, Ben remembered nothing of either incident. His shoes were never recovered. „ For a brief five-minute period on Friday night, ringleader Allan Jones dubbed Paul Buckovitch the "Faux Dibble," and convinced poor Paul - with the aid of 30 excitable boys singing the "Ole" song - to consume three consecutive tequila shots when everyone, in fact, expected Dibble to do the shots. Brilliant! Jones should be commended at this time for... oh, why bother. „ Jammin' Jim Jackson picked me up at the airport and shared a few libations with me at the Rose & Crown, a bar where Jammin' used to work during college. After their chartered boat had docked, Dibble or Jones were scheduled to stop by the Rose & Crown, pick me up and take me to Madaket. After considerable delay, Jones shows up with Dibble, who was sporting a bowling ball chained to his ankle (no kidding) and a T-shirt that read: "Dip me in honey and feed me to the lesbians" [Ed. At this time, the staff would like to apologize to all Herald readers who happen to be lesbians or bowling enthusiasts. We also apologize to people who might know lesbians personally and consider them friends. However, apologies to lesbians who bowl - especially candlepin - are withheld. That just isn't natural!] „ All weekend, Jones, Novicki, John Cullinane and Dibble took turns crapping on each other's girlfriends. Dibble carried the day with ease, however, slamming Jones and his significant other, Maria, who is actually beyond reproach. While discussing why the Knicks had lost the NBA title to the Rockets, Dibble explained: "The Knicks would have won if Maria hadn't kept Oakley up all night before Game 7." „ In a quiet moment, Marc Brown and I agreed that, when it came to figures from popular culture, Dibble most resembled Sherman from the "Sherman and Peabody" cartoons on Bullwinkle. As it happened, I had a Sherman and Peabody T-shirt with me for the weekend... Trippy. OBITUARIES Lily Vandermay, 1993-1994 Portland, ME - Lily Vandermay, a border collie/spaniel mix who liked to chew things up and play on the beach, was hit by a car the first week in August. While walking through Deering Oaks Park here, Ms. Lilly bolted after a squirrel and into the busy road. The end was quick and, the veterinarian insisted, Ms. Lilly did not suffer. She was one and a half. It is with great sadness that we report to Herald readers the untimely death of Lilly the Dog, who was first spotted by Sharon Vandermay at a Brunswick animal shelter in May 1993. Legend tells us that Ms. Lilly licked Vandermay's hands and promptly rolled over, looking for a rub on the stomach. This would become her trademark. Like most dogs, Ms. Lilly was not the brightest bulb in the box. Indeed, one of Vandermay's gentlemen callers affectionately called her "Posty" (as in "dumb as a post") and "Flea bag" (for no particular reason). Yet, even this cat lover was eventually won over by Ms. Lilly's good nature and obvious affection for Ms. Vandermay. Ms. Lilly leaves her mom, Ms. Vandermay; her aunt, Cathy Vlietstra; and hundreds of colleagues in Portland's dog subculture who continue to roam East End Beach, the West End Cemetery, and Deering Oaks. In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions can be made to the animal shelter of your choice. (copyright 1994 the harold herald all rights reserved for what it's worth)