[I first posted this at SWC Board Must Go! a few hours ago.]
It's no secret to anyone that the Governing Board of SWC has major issues with its school newspaper, the Southwestern College Sun. The Sun, which is unquestionably one of the finest student-run newspapers in the country, has received numerous awards for its writers, its advisor, Max Branscomb, and for the paper itself.
Why does the Board have problems with it? Because the Sun insists on printing the truth.
This time, the board and the administration have gone several steps over the line past just complaining about it, to...
I'll let the following letter speak for itself. As a person highly interested in the Sun, I received a copy of this letter today and have spoken with the writer.
As usual, I have edited it only to remove the writer's phone number.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Who Wants to Review a Short Film?
Today, for no good reason whatsoever, I popped over to IMDb - the Internet Movie Data Base - where I have a tiny, tiny entry. I then checked out the short film project with which I was involved, and realized that we were suffering from the vary thing that affects most litle homemade films.
No one gets to see it. And those that do, don't get to make their opinions known.
A few years, I wrote a short film. Then with director Monte Kraus, Philip Scarborough (an occasional visitor here), Tom Beck (a frequent houseguest here), Sam Morris IV, Diego Velasco, Sam Watson, Matthew Beall, and others (stay for the credits!), we put together the short film and entered it into a small film festival. It won. This made us happy.
Not long after, we entered it to IMDb and were delighted when it was accepted.
So, it is with just a little shameless interest, that I am going to point here - The Pop-Up Prophecy.
Then, if you feel the muse upon you, pop over to our IMDb page here and leave a review, or even just a vote on the site's 1-10 scale. None of us have ever tried getting anyone to the site, so it would be interesting to see what people think of the short. (You can also read the script here.)
Then, if you're a high-powered Hollywood type and you'd like to offer any/all of us a job, just drop us a line here.
Smirk if you want. But I'll bet you smile first.
No one gets to see it. And those that do, don't get to make their opinions known.
A few years, I wrote a short film. Then with director Monte Kraus, Philip Scarborough (an occasional visitor here), Tom Beck (a frequent houseguest here), Sam Morris IV, Diego Velasco, Sam Watson, Matthew Beall, and others (stay for the credits!), we put together the short film and entered it into a small film festival. It won. This made us happy.
Not long after, we entered it to IMDb and were delighted when it was accepted.
So, it is with just a little shameless interest, that I am going to point here - The Pop-Up Prophecy.
Then, if you feel the muse upon you, pop over to our IMDb page here and leave a review, or even just a vote on the site's 1-10 scale. None of us have ever tried getting anyone to the site, so it would be interesting to see what people think of the short. (You can also read the script here.)
Then, if you're a high-powered Hollywood type and you'd like to offer any/all of us a job, just drop us a line here.
Smirk if you want. But I'll bet you smile first.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Fiction: "Ploughman"
I have no real comment to make for this one, except to thank you in advance for any feedback you might give. I have published it in its entirety on this page.
**This is the version that I have edited for submission. It is quite a bit different in phrasing, rhythm, and style than the first.
Ploughman
Somewhere overhead, flies buzzed and a hawk called. Tall grass swayed in the breeze, tickling his face and arms. He breathed raggedly, open-mouthed, the only human sound around. Beyond the smell of blood and death, the scent of wheat still lingered, drifting to his nose, his mind. The smell of good earth and green grass; it was the smell of life to a ploughman.
He touched again the blade that pinned him to the earth. Slick with oil and his own blood, it had resisted his attempts to pull it from his belly. He’d lacerated his fingers trying; now he was too weak to do anything but try to push it away.
He had never meant to be a soldier. He’d never wanted to wear the leather for his king, never wanted to go into battle with an axe in hand. An axe was meant for trees and stumps. It wasn’t meant to be used on another. His axe was steel and oak, and lay just out of reach. He had always planned to use it until the grave, never knowing how close that would be.
His king had called him, and he, a man of the plough, had come.
The king was not a bad man. He taxed his subjects at the same rate. It was steep, but it was fair. The taxes paid for the wardens who patrolled the lands, the roads that carried the goods, the priests in the city, the walls of the stronghold, and the men that stood upon them. They paid the price of civilization.
They paid the price of protection.
**This is the version that I have edited for submission. It is quite a bit different in phrasing, rhythm, and style than the first.
Ploughman
Somewhere overhead, flies buzzed and a hawk called. Tall grass swayed in the breeze, tickling his face and arms. He breathed raggedly, open-mouthed, the only human sound around. Beyond the smell of blood and death, the scent of wheat still lingered, drifting to his nose, his mind. The smell of good earth and green grass; it was the smell of life to a ploughman.
He touched again the blade that pinned him to the earth. Slick with oil and his own blood, it had resisted his attempts to pull it from his belly. He’d lacerated his fingers trying; now he was too weak to do anything but try to push it away.
He had never meant to be a soldier. He’d never wanted to wear the leather for his king, never wanted to go into battle with an axe in hand. An axe was meant for trees and stumps. It wasn’t meant to be used on another. His axe was steel and oak, and lay just out of reach. He had always planned to use it until the grave, never knowing how close that would be.
His king had called him, and he, a man of the plough, had come.
The king was not a bad man. He taxed his subjects at the same rate. It was steep, but it was fair. The taxes paid for the wardens who patrolled the lands, the roads that carried the goods, the priests in the city, the walls of the stronghold, and the men that stood upon them. They paid the price of civilization.
They paid the price of protection.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Southwestern College Board Must Go!
As of just a couple days ago, I have started running a website dedicated to defeating our corrupt Governing Board at Southwestern College, by voting the bums out in November. The site is not a Writer's Washroom site, but it is certainly related to the work I did last year to trash the Board at every opportunity.
The site is located at: http://www.swcboardmustgo/ - and I'd love some visitors familiar with the situation over there. If things go right, we'll have essays from students, members of the faculty, and me; a video or two; maybe some nifty evidence of corruption; and more surprises than you can shake a stick at.
If you'd like to write something for the site, email me here at my usual address, or visit the SWC Board Must Go! website and join in.
This does also mean that I will be keeping most, if not all, of my new anti-Board work over there, and not here. For my South County-based readers, this may be a hassle. For those of you who come from elsewhere and just like reading the drivel that I post, this will probably be a blessing.
One last thought: I still get a buttload of hits from people searching for "Nick Alioto" or some combination of his name on this site.
(Some real recent searches: "Nick Alioto Wisconsin Criminal", "Nick Alioto Wisconsin School Corruption", "Nick Alioto Southwestern Corrupt", "Nick Alioto Kenosha Wisconsin Rip-Off", and "Nick Alioto Thief". I'm not saying any of that; I'm just saying what searches brought you to me.)
If you know Nick Alioto from the past - people of Wisconsin, I'm talking to you, then I would love to hear from you. I'd like to know every stinking thing he did in the Midwest to rip off all those school districts. Anyone want to drop some knowledge on me, do so. Send me an email. If you want to remain confidential, I'll respect that. If you want to trash him publicly, I'll respect that even more.
Thanks for visiting everyone, and remember: SWC Board Must Go!
The site is located at: http://www.swcboardmustgo/ - and I'd love some visitors familiar with the situation over there. If things go right, we'll have essays from students, members of the faculty, and me; a video or two; maybe some nifty evidence of corruption; and more surprises than you can shake a stick at.
If you'd like to write something for the site, email me here at my usual address, or visit the SWC Board Must Go! website and join in.
This does also mean that I will be keeping most, if not all, of my new anti-Board work over there, and not here. For my South County-based readers, this may be a hassle. For those of you who come from elsewhere and just like reading the drivel that I post, this will probably be a blessing.
One last thought: I still get a buttload of hits from people searching for "Nick Alioto" or some combination of his name on this site.
(Some real recent searches: "Nick Alioto Wisconsin Criminal", "Nick Alioto Wisconsin School Corruption", "Nick Alioto Southwestern Corrupt", "Nick Alioto Kenosha Wisconsin Rip-Off", and "Nick Alioto Thief". I'm not saying any of that; I'm just saying what searches brought you to me.)
If you know Nick Alioto from the past - people of Wisconsin, I'm talking to you, then I would love to hear from you. I'd like to know every stinking thing he did in the Midwest to rip off all those school districts. Anyone want to drop some knowledge on me, do so. Send me an email. If you want to remain confidential, I'll respect that. If you want to trash him publicly, I'll respect that even more.
Thanks for visiting everyone, and remember: SWC Board Must Go!
Thursday, August 5, 2010
"Conduit" - Prologue/Chapter 1
Howdy, readers. I'm going to be honest about this bit of fiction: it's fairly long. It is both the prologue and the first chapter of a completely different thing I've been working on. Which means I had the idea about two years ago, started it, stopped, started again, stopped again, rebooted it, rethought it, regurgitated, reduced it, enlarged it, and got enraged with it. Then I just started over and am much happier with it.
Should you choose to read on, you'll notice that the prologue is an entirely different flavor that the first chapter. That is correct. Don't think you stumbled into two different works.
As always, I thank you for reading, and I'd like any feedback you have to give.
And as always, I've only put the first few chapter of each on this page. I've also made it so you can read either the prologue and Chapter 1, or just Chapter 1 - for those of you who skip the prologue (which I don't understand).
Conduit Prologue – “Obelisks”
The hermit stepped out of his shack and into the sun. He covered his eyes with a leathery hand, squinted up into the sky. The sun seemed to be closer to day than usual – and moving quicker. The day would shorten if it was. Walking onto the hardpan dirt, he hurried around to the side of his shack where a split-rail fence surrounded his little garden. Rooted more in sand and loose dirt than in real soil, it was difficult to maintain, but not impossible. The straw-man propped in the corner helped keep the crows away, and they were as destructive on the few green plants as the sun was. He pulled a wide-brimmed hat off the straw-man and slipped it onto his own head. His eyes not yet adjusted to the sun and unable to see, he turned and stumbled over a rough patch of ground. He dropped to one knee. He rubbed the knee for a minute before standing and gathering his robes around him.
Glancing back up at the sun again, he blinked his eyes and struck out down the slight hill, away from the shack and toward the pen where he kept his goats. Tending the goats was at least a thrice-a-day venture: milking and feeding the morning, feeding in the evening, and watering them early in the afternoon. But it was a necessary thing. It took him only a few minutes to shuffle down the bare hill to the pen and check the trough. It wasn’t empty, but would be within the hour. He sighed as he always did, and reached for the nearby pump handle. Faded by sun and time, the once-blue handle was now barely gray. He used both hands to loosen it. When most of the shrill squeaking stopped, he pumped using only one hand. He rested his other arm atop the short fence and leaned against it. As he waited for the trickle of water to appear, he looked north toward the horizon.
Should you choose to read on, you'll notice that the prologue is an entirely different flavor that the first chapter. That is correct. Don't think you stumbled into two different works.
As always, I thank you for reading, and I'd like any feedback you have to give.
And as always, I've only put the first few chapter of each on this page. I've also made it so you can read either the prologue and Chapter 1, or just Chapter 1 - for those of you who skip the prologue (which I don't understand).
Conduit Prologue – “Obelisks”
The hermit stepped out of his shack and into the sun. He covered his eyes with a leathery hand, squinted up into the sky. The sun seemed to be closer to day than usual – and moving quicker. The day would shorten if it was. Walking onto the hardpan dirt, he hurried around to the side of his shack where a split-rail fence surrounded his little garden. Rooted more in sand and loose dirt than in real soil, it was difficult to maintain, but not impossible. The straw-man propped in the corner helped keep the crows away, and they were as destructive on the few green plants as the sun was. He pulled a wide-brimmed hat off the straw-man and slipped it onto his own head. His eyes not yet adjusted to the sun and unable to see, he turned and stumbled over a rough patch of ground. He dropped to one knee. He rubbed the knee for a minute before standing and gathering his robes around him.
Glancing back up at the sun again, he blinked his eyes and struck out down the slight hill, away from the shack and toward the pen where he kept his goats. Tending the goats was at least a thrice-a-day venture: milking and feeding the morning, feeding in the evening, and watering them early in the afternoon. But it was a necessary thing. It took him only a few minutes to shuffle down the bare hill to the pen and check the trough. It wasn’t empty, but would be within the hour. He sighed as he always did, and reached for the nearby pump handle. Faded by sun and time, the once-blue handle was now barely gray. He used both hands to loosen it. When most of the shrill squeaking stopped, he pumped using only one hand. He rested his other arm atop the short fence and leaned against it. As he waited for the trickle of water to appear, he looked north toward the horizon.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Revisiting an Old Friend: "Melbourn's Storm" (the re-edit)
This WIP is down. In September 2012, Lore magazine will
publish a much better version of "Melbourn's Storm." As such, any
version of the story is unavailable except through them.
Monday, July 26, 2010
"The Wyrd Magnet/Meet Martin Black" Chapter 3 - Regret (Urban Fantasy)
[This has been cross-posted to the Writer's Washroom Annex.]
This is the next bit in our still-as-yet-unnamed saga. If you want more information than that, you should check out the first two chapters. I am still interested in any other idea for a title. All suggestions are welcome!
Let me know what you think; I genuinely do enjoy hearing from you readers!
Chapter Three – Regret
I left the cab, pulled up my collar to keep the rain off my neck. If serendipity provided, Mari might already be here. The city’s semi-famous shopping district, with its bookstores and cafes, coffee shops and boutiques, was one of her favorite haunts. She read every word she could get her hands on and loved to sit and watch the passersby on the sidewalks. Her passion for watching and reading was matched only by her love of coffee; it was as if she lived on it. Fact is she might actually be living on it. I could never be sure. In so many ways we were exactly alike, except for that one thing.
I passed the fountain in the center of the square, pockmarked with precipitation. I thought about dropping a coin while making a wish, but I didn’t know what to wish for. Besides, those things rarely came true.
Hidden speakers played jazz near Banagon’s side door, something from the Blue Note catalog, perhaps. I slipped inside; Dean was behind the counter. He apologized, explaining that Charlie had been called away. I asked where he was.
“Off to see a manuscript, he said! I’m sorry!”
He didn’t seem to be lying and I didn’t press him.
“I’m going over to Brew Mountain. Can I get you anything?” I asked. It also paid to be polite to bookstore employees. You never knew what they knew.
“Why thank you! But no, sir, I picked up a chai latte earlier!”
“Okay. When Charlie comes back, tell him Martin Black stopped by.”
“Happy to, Mr. Black! Is there a message?”
“That should do it.”
This is the next bit in our still-as-yet-unnamed saga. If you want more information than that, you should check out the first two chapters. I am still interested in any other idea for a title. All suggestions are welcome!
Let me know what you think; I genuinely do enjoy hearing from you readers!
Chapter Three – Regret
I left the cab, pulled up my collar to keep the rain off my neck. If serendipity provided, Mari might already be here. The city’s semi-famous shopping district, with its bookstores and cafes, coffee shops and boutiques, was one of her favorite haunts. She read every word she could get her hands on and loved to sit and watch the passersby on the sidewalks. Her passion for watching and reading was matched only by her love of coffee; it was as if she lived on it. Fact is she might actually be living on it. I could never be sure. In so many ways we were exactly alike, except for that one thing.
I passed the fountain in the center of the square, pockmarked with precipitation. I thought about dropping a coin while making a wish, but I didn’t know what to wish for. Besides, those things rarely came true.
Hidden speakers played jazz near Banagon’s side door, something from the Blue Note catalog, perhaps. I slipped inside; Dean was behind the counter. He apologized, explaining that Charlie had been called away. I asked where he was.
“Off to see a manuscript, he said! I’m sorry!”
He didn’t seem to be lying and I didn’t press him.
“I’m going over to Brew Mountain. Can I get you anything?” I asked. It also paid to be polite to bookstore employees. You never knew what they knew.
“Why thank you! But no, sir, I picked up a chai latte earlier!”
“Okay. When Charlie comes back, tell him Martin Black stopped by.”
“Happy to, Mr. Black! Is there a message?”
“That should do it.”
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Fiction: Urban Fantasy - "The Wyrd Magnet/Meet Martin Black" - Chapters 1 and 2
(This has been cross-posted to the Writer's Washroom Annex.)
About a year or so ago, I posted a much earlier version of this. I wasn't happy with it, and even a couple of (very tolerant) friends of mine critiqued the bejeezus out of it. I decided to overhaul much of it, and try it out again.
This is not part of the Heroes... universe; it stands in an urban fantasy world of its own. I'm interested in your thoughts on the first two chapters - both of which are posted here.
Furthermore, this will fall somewhere between novella and short novel length. I've bounced a few names around, but haven't decided on one. So far, I've gone with "The Wyrd Magnet" and "Meet Martin Black." Like one? Have a better one? I'm interested in your thoughts, your criticism, and quite possibly your title idea.
Feel free to post your comments below. If you want, I'm also happy to take your thoughts via Twitter, Facebook, or email.
Beware... there are some adult ideas below, and a smattering of naughty words. It's also got a bit of a post-'80s vibe, and that may be even more frightening...
Chapter 1 – Sub-Culture
Rain spattered the windshield as my cab driver pulled up into the garish light of Club Houngan, the city’s momentary it-spot. A Wednesday-night crowd snaked around the corner; the vanguard shuffled impatiently under the canopy protecting the velvet rope. Friday or Saturday lines would reach another block or two. The cab eased alongside a row of limousines, and the driver slammed the shifter into park.
“Thirty-one forty,” he said, turning down the pounding tech-metal music. “Make it thirty-one. I don’t need your forty cents.”
“Keep it.” A pair of twenties – a decent tip, not enough to be extravagant, but enough to ensure the next time I needed him, I’d get him.
He thanked me and thumbed the button to unlock the doors. I glanced through rain-dappled glass at the red and white light reflected on the pavement. Atop the three-story building shone the gaudy neon image of a smiling voodoo priest. Charmless, it looked as threatening as a fast food sign. I pushed open the door, jogged past the limos and their lurking drivers and went straight to the canopy. The damp patrons not yet close enough to the front, those sheltered under umbrellas, coats, or fashion magazines, glared as I pushed forward. Two bouncers, eyes like gun turrets atop the walls of their bodies, turned to watch me approach. I squeezed between the velvet rope and a scrum of young females.
I’d buffed and shined myself the best I could; I’d shaved, shampooed, styled, and suited up in my finest. Even with that, I was a decade beyond the club’s freshness date.
About a year or so ago, I posted a much earlier version of this. I wasn't happy with it, and even a couple of (very tolerant) friends of mine critiqued the bejeezus out of it. I decided to overhaul much of it, and try it out again.
This is not part of the Heroes... universe; it stands in an urban fantasy world of its own. I'm interested in your thoughts on the first two chapters - both of which are posted here.
Furthermore, this will fall somewhere between novella and short novel length. I've bounced a few names around, but haven't decided on one. So far, I've gone with "The Wyrd Magnet" and "Meet Martin Black." Like one? Have a better one? I'm interested in your thoughts, your criticism, and quite possibly your title idea.
Feel free to post your comments below. If you want, I'm also happy to take your thoughts via Twitter, Facebook, or email.
Beware... there are some adult ideas below, and a smattering of naughty words. It's also got a bit of a post-'80s vibe, and that may be even more frightening...
Chapter 1 – Sub-Culture
Rain spattered the windshield as my cab driver pulled up into the garish light of Club Houngan, the city’s momentary it-spot. A Wednesday-night crowd snaked around the corner; the vanguard shuffled impatiently under the canopy protecting the velvet rope. Friday or Saturday lines would reach another block or two. The cab eased alongside a row of limousines, and the driver slammed the shifter into park.
“Thirty-one forty,” he said, turning down the pounding tech-metal music. “Make it thirty-one. I don’t need your forty cents.”
“Keep it.” A pair of twenties – a decent tip, not enough to be extravagant, but enough to ensure the next time I needed him, I’d get him.
He thanked me and thumbed the button to unlock the doors. I glanced through rain-dappled glass at the red and white light reflected on the pavement. Atop the three-story building shone the gaudy neon image of a smiling voodoo priest. Charmless, it looked as threatening as a fast food sign. I pushed open the door, jogged past the limos and their lurking drivers and went straight to the canopy. The damp patrons not yet close enough to the front, those sheltered under umbrellas, coats, or fashion magazines, glared as I pushed forward. Two bouncers, eyes like gun turrets atop the walls of their bodies, turned to watch me approach. I squeezed between the velvet rope and a scrum of young females.
I’d buffed and shined myself the best I could; I’d shaved, shampooed, styled, and suited up in my finest. Even with that, I was a decade beyond the club’s freshness date.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
What I've Learned, While I've Been Busy
TIM FERRISS is the guy who wrote a book about living the good life by working only 4 hours a week. I find that no matter how hard I try, I still don’t care to know anything else about him.
ON THE OTHER HAND, Tim Farriss is the chief guitar-slinger for INXS, those guys that ruled the airwaves for much of the 80s and 90s. Him I care about.
INXS STAYED RELEVANT by writing songs that seemed both immediate and timeless. Not many current artists do that, and those that did have been around, doing what they do, for quite some time.
THAT SAID; I STILL BELIEVE that “Don’t Change” from 1982’s Shabooh Shoobah album remains INXS’s high-water mark. Probably because of Farriss’ jangly, fierce guitar and Michael Hutchence’s bold, yet plaintive voice – a sweet merger of one of rock’s best voices with one of its great underrated guitar gods.
I ALSO FIND THAT I’m listening to a lot of Bob Mould lately, in all his forms – with Hüsker Dü, Sugar, and solo. He’s yet another artist of the era that wrote both immediate and timeless songs and music; and he’s a guitar god of his own. He’s still recording; he’s been around, doing what he does for quite some time.
I’D BET THAT neither Tim Farriss nor Bob Mould work only 4 hours a week. Now, they could, and they’ve earned the right to. After twenty-odd years of creative work, it’s expected. Pimping out a book that supposedly tells you how to score the good life without really trying isn’t quite the same thing. It’s shameless pandering to the easily-led.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Southwestern College Earns Prestigious Award from the Thomas Jefferson Center - the "Muzzle" Award!
Yes, folks, it is official. Our own little campus corner of the world has received one of the most perfectly representational awards that could be given us. The prestigious Thomas Jefferson Center for the Protection of Free Expression has awarded one of its ten annual "Muzzle" awards to "The Administration of Southwestern College in Chula Vista, California."
Please, oh please, use this link to check it out.
It takes a brain-dead administration to try to hide from this "honor" bestowed by a non-partisan organization affiliated with the University of Virginia. Having heard no rumbles of response from any member of the administration or board, we can assume they either haven't been informed yet, or they simply don't care.
I feel certain that we can assume that they know, which means that they don't care. Remember, this is an administration that, when confronted with the actual financial status of the school* basically used that first-grade response, "nuh-uh."
After watching President Raj K. Chopra, Vice-President Nick Alioto, and the board spend a couple semester stomping on the students' and professors' civil rights, it feels good to see them called out by the folks who actually keep tabs on situations like these. I feel delighted in knowing that we've drawn enough attention here that attention will remain focused on the college.
I have to admit it does give me a bit of a thrill to see myself name-checked in the award presentation; I'd be lying to say it didn't**. But that doesn't mean I agree with the way it was written. If anyone should have been mentioned, it should have been the four professors who were originally and illegally suspended - Andrew Rempt, Dinorah Guadiana-Costa, Janet Mazzarella, and Phil Lopez. These are the ones who were initially attacked by the administration, and they are the ones who should have been named.
As a final thought, let me suggest that every time you see one of our fair-and-balanced board members in public, or have an opportunity to say "hi" to a member of the administration, you take a moment to congratulate them on this huge honor. After all, it takes someone special to stand with previous winners like FEMA, the FCC, the Bush Administration, the MPAA, CBS, and the Texas Democratic Party.
Who knows? You might get even more out of them than "nuh-uh."
-----------------------------------------------
*Remember their statement, "The Worst Fiscal Crisis Evar!" being smacked aside by Phil Lopez's, "Thirteen million in the bank and we're making money!" argument? Yeah, we do, too.
**And does that photo over there look familiar? Does to me, too. But I like it over there just fine.
Please, oh please, use this link to check it out.
It takes a brain-dead administration to try to hide from this "honor" bestowed by a non-partisan organization affiliated with the University of Virginia. Having heard no rumbles of response from any member of the administration or board, we can assume they either haven't been informed yet, or they simply don't care.
I feel certain that we can assume that they know, which means that they don't care. Remember, this is an administration that, when confronted with the actual financial status of the school* basically used that first-grade response, "nuh-uh."
After watching President Raj K. Chopra, Vice-President Nick Alioto, and the board spend a couple semester stomping on the students' and professors' civil rights, it feels good to see them called out by the folks who actually keep tabs on situations like these. I feel delighted in knowing that we've drawn enough attention here that attention will remain focused on the college.
I have to admit it does give me a bit of a thrill to see myself name-checked in the award presentation; I'd be lying to say it didn't**. But that doesn't mean I agree with the way it was written. If anyone should have been mentioned, it should have been the four professors who were originally and illegally suspended - Andrew Rempt, Dinorah Guadiana-Costa, Janet Mazzarella, and Phil Lopez. These are the ones who were initially attacked by the administration, and they are the ones who should have been named.
As a final thought, let me suggest that every time you see one of our fair-and-balanced board members in public, or have an opportunity to say "hi" to a member of the administration, you take a moment to congratulate them on this huge honor. After all, it takes someone special to stand with previous winners like FEMA, the FCC, the Bush Administration, the MPAA, CBS, and the Texas Democratic Party.
Who knows? You might get even more out of them than "nuh-uh."
-----------------------------------------------
*Remember their statement, "The Worst Fiscal Crisis Evar!" being smacked aside by Phil Lopez's, "Thirteen million in the bank and we're making money!" argument? Yeah, we do, too.
**And does that photo over there look familiar? Does to me, too. But I like it over there just fine.
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