By Evan Redmon

[Editor's Note: Courtney Enlow is moving on up to the east side today, so while she enjoys her piece of the pie, we bring you this special guest blog post from former HoboTrashcan columnist Evan Redmon.]

Well hello again everybody. Good to be back. Glad to see HTC is still up and running like a well-oiled machine after all these years.

There’s been some discussion about yours truly returning to this here webernet site, perhaps to pen a regular column which is political in nature. Nothing would please me more, except maybe seeing the Nationals score more than 11/16 of a run every time Stephen Strasburg pitches.

Since my last article, I got married, divorced (must have been the $2.99 engagement ring that started things off on the wrong foot) and had my right hip completely replaced. Stuff’s been happening, in other words. But as a wise man once said, I stayed out of jail and I’m still alive, so things aren’t all bad. In fact, they’re pretty damn good, all things considered, despite being sexless and limpy. (Actually, I’m limp-free and pain free for the first time in six years. Thank you, Dr. Mont. Now, can you help with the other thing? I mean, not you personally of course, but … dah, okay, let‘s move on here.)

So then, I’ve decided to be more positive and complain less. This seems especially sensible, considering how entitled and utterly void of perspective people appear to be when they complain about trivial things, particularly in the wake of the disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. Seriously – how much of a tool do you have to be to whine about the temperature of your Caramel Macchiato when black sludge fields bigger than most Texas counties are washing up on the Redneck Riviera. Maybe talk to a shrimper in Gulfport about how his livelihood is probably gone for the remainder of his life before bitching that Nordstrom is out of size medium in your favorite khakis.

So no complaining.

Yeah right, who am I kidding. Let’s start with Metro …

If you live in, or have ever visited, Washington, DC, then you’ve almost certainly ridden Metro at some point. And it’s nice, isn’t it? That’s what people from out of town always say. “Wow, this is nice! The floor is carpeted and the seats are cushiony! And the ceilings in the stations are so high, and those long escalators are amazing!” True, when compared to New York, Boston or Chicago, the trains and stations in the Washington, DC Metro system are clearly a cut above.

Only one problem; Metro completely blows. For a great many people who use it for commuting to and from work, hardly a day goes by when the seemingly simple task of getting from one place to another becomes an exercise in patience and acceptance.

Now , Metro is well aware of their inherent suckage, so they tout the things they have going for them, as any dysfunctional organization will do. Case in point: a commonly seen billboard prominently features a large brown rat with the caption: “You gonna eat that?” The subtext goes on to say that eating and drinking is illegal in the Metrorail system, which is why they don’t have “rats the size of house cats, like some metro systems we could name”.

First, I’ve seen rats scurrying along Metro’s tracks, so shut it. Second, the aforementioned advertisement is a thinly-veiled bitchslap at New York City’s Metro system. Well, okay, Washington probably has fewer large rats than New York, but then, New York’s system does a few things that Washington’s doesn’t. Namely, it gets passengers from point A to point B, 24 hours a day for $2, no matter how far the trip or time of day.

I currently work near the Vienna Metro but I live near Silver Spring. This means that during rush hour, I pay $5 each way. That’s $10 a day, $50 a week, over $200 a month and about $2,500 a year to commute to and from work. And this is without the next wave of price increases due in August (which will be the third increase in as many years, and the second since June), which will increase fares even more during peak rush hour times when most people travel. Leave it to Metro to invent a second rush hour.

$2,500 a year to commute 20 miles. Soon, close to $3K. Reefreakingdiculous.

This wouldn’t be so frustrating if the reason Metro constantly raises fares was for something other than gross mismanagement over the years, on an almost criminally incompetent level (feel free to Google ‘WMATA mismanagement‘ to get an idea of the horror show). It would be one thing if we got reflexology treatments on the way home from work, or free shrimp cocktails or something. Then I could see forking over three grand for riding the slow train to the U Street/African American Civil War Memorial/Cardozo station (an actual WMATA station name). C‘mon Metro, it‘s not too late, you can still add 17 different locations to the name of every station. Hell, you‘ve definitely got the funds to pay for the new signs.

Personally. I’d rather travel in a tin box with wooden planks if it meant I could get to and from work without spending more than the cost of two pretty sweet vacations.

And the midnight closing hour … and the mistimed transfer connections … and the 20 minute waits on weekends … and the escalators that break down and stay broken for months on end … and the fare gate doors that closed right on my junk last Thursday … what am I paying for, exactly? Oh right, carpet and cushions to impress tourists who ride Metro twice in their lifetimes, and the salaries of executives who solve no problems.

Speaking of things that are better in New York, why is it do damn difficult to get a good bagel anywhere outside of a 50 mile radius of Manhattan? This is really a referendum on Einstein Bagels more than anything else. When you put the word “bagels” in the name of your store, you’d better have some pretty righteous bagels. The only place that trumps Einstein for bad bagels is Starbucks, which will generally be conveniently located right next door to any Einstein Bagels that you may care to visit. Guess they wanted to keep all the taste-challenged, pre-fabricated bagels in the same area.

If you want to know what a really good bagel tastes like, check out Hot and Crusty on Lexington Ave near 86th St. in New York. Actually, if you want to maintain your misguided belief that Einstein has pretty good bagels, you’d better not. Hot and Crusty will ruin it for you.

To end on a positive note: I recently returned to Shenandoah National Park for a day of unparalleled joy and mirth. This park is truly a national treasure; waterfalls, picturesque pools in which to swim, natural beauty at every turn … I could live happily-ever-after in a tent there, if they had WiFi and ice cream.

On my previous visit, as some of you may recall, I was the unwitting victim of an unprovoked attack by a vicious, man-eating turkey. No such encounter occurred this time, thus it appears the supremely talented park rangers at Shenandoah have eradicated the park of these noxious beasts, presumably with modified 9mm semi-automatic machine guns. Trust me, that’s what it takes to eliminate these tenacious predators.

So if you bite into a spray of spent bullets while gnawing on a turkey bone this Thanksgiving, say thanks to the folks at the Tec 9 company for keeping the forests safe.

Evan Redmon gets a lot of spam. If you are not spam, please feel free to drop him a line at hoboevan@gmail.com.

By Brian Shea

[Editor's Note: Aaron R. Davis is busy thinking of excuses to get out of spending Christmas with his loved ones, so today we bring you a special guest column from Brian Shea.]

I took a playwriting class during my junior year of college. For our final project, we had to write and present a one-act play. We didn’t have to worry about a set or stage directions. We just had to recruit some people to sit on the stage and read our play.

So I convinced a quartet of friends to read the parts in my play. I just had to sit in the back of the room and watch.

The class took place in the first trimester of the school year, which meant the final readings took place in mid-November in the northwest corner of Pennsylvania. It was fucking cold. There was probably a bunch of snow on the ground.

I distinctly remember wearing a t-shirt underneath a heavy sweater. Normally, that kind of detail would escape my memory, but the experience scared me so bad, I sweated a ton. I could have probably wrung out the shirt when it was finished. You don’t forget things like that.

I really had no reason to worry. People liked my play, which was a comedy. I wrote one of the few comedies in the class. One person actually wrote a “should I leave the farm for the big city” play, which I guess could be classified as a comedy since it was so bad I wanted to laugh. But I digress to address my recent predicament.

A flyer came home from my daughter’s elementary school in early October looking for youngsters to fill out the cast of the high school play. The director, who we know fairly well, was putting on Miracle on 34th Street and wanted to turn the production into a school-district wide event. We live in a pretty small school district so it made a lot of sense.

We couldn’t make the original meeting and, by the time we got in touch with the director, he only needed people for crowd scenes. All of you should come take part, he urged. So my wife and I agreed to lend a hand and take part in a few scenes. Two weeks later, I found sweating through my shirt just like that day in college. Except this time I had to stand on stage and speak. I somehow inherited the role of Mr. Macy.

I guess, in a way, I knew I would end up filling a role once the director announced that some cast members had to drop out. My wife and daughter both ended up with speaking roles as well. We had already made a small commitment and wouldn’t let the performance struggle just because we suddenly got shy. I just needed to keep one thought going in my head: I can do this.

I kept that thought going through dress rehearsals and all the way through opening night. I had never really acted before – other than acting like a grownup for the past 20 years or pretending I knew what I was talking about in general conversation – but something felt right.

I struggled at first even though it didn’t show. The director sometimes singled me out for praise, especially for how well I projected my voice. I have seven older siblings – that just comes naturally from trying to be heard above the crowd at family parties. But I worried about succeeding beyond the volume. Would I get any laughs? Would I sound authentic? Would I remember my lines?

That last question bothered me the most. I had just around 20 lines, three of them simply being “Yes,” so I shouldn’t have worried. When I practiced my parts alone on my commute to and from work, I found I would stumble over one line or another. That scared me.

Then I got out on that stage, the light hit me and I looked at the high school students playing opposite me. If they could pull this off with all the lines they had, I could too. I only messed up once in three performances. People may not have noticed, but it burned me up. The feeling went away, however, when one of the students whispered in my ear just as we stepped backstage.

“You fucked that up.”

I felt like a real actor, especially since we had a bunch of screw-ups that day, most of which people managed to pull off without disrupting the play in a way the audience would notice. I also realized that these kids didn’t see me as the father of some elementary school student filling out the background. I was one of them. And I didn’t even have to buy them beer to convince them I was cool.
I certainly enjoyed having an auditorium full of people – and the attendance was fantastic – looking at me and only me, but I especially enjoyed getting to know and working with the high school students on the cast and crew.

We all know stories about the bad things that go on with teenagers. Every local newspaper has stories about the court cases and drug problems and concerns about school performance.

I can’t say that every bad thing will go away or that the schools are perfect, but I do know with complete certainty that my town has cool, smart, talented students. I actually knew that before I started working in the play, but now I know the older ones by name. I can joke with them or maybe offer a piece of advice. That’s the least I can do after they helped a dork like me realize that he can stand up on stage and entertain people.

Brian Shea used to write for HoboTrashcan, but like Gladys Knight, he left us Pips behind to write for his own site, Regular Guy Column.

Amanda Lowery

[Editor's Note: Aaron R. Davis is busy working on his epic Disney/Marvel crossover fan fiction, so today we bring you a special guest column by Amanda Lowery.]

It all started in a Wal-Mart, as every wholesome American reflection should. Standing in line for the self check-out aisle, swine flu preventative meds in one hand and glow in the dark toothpaste in the other, I performed my cleverly positioned head tilt to dodge eye contact with others and began surveying the compulsive purchase items. Bics, batteries, 5 Hour Energy shots, Nerds Rope – and then it happened, as it inevitably does when you’re sandwiched between cranky consumers trying to keep your soul from drowning in the fluorescent sea of roll back prices, crying children and incessant bleeps from scanners; the tabloid invasion.

I could literally feel the gravitational pull of Us Weekly. Splayed across its cover was a shocking revelation and investigative journalism triumph: Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart Engaged! Now, aside from Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series’ ability to tickle my inner Goth – I regard the books as poorly written and could care less about what goes on between that gorgeous Brit and that monotone twit. So needless to say, I’ve read all four novels and have watched that terrible movie several times.

The idea of Bella and Edward inspiring love in the real world, if Hollywood is still considered part of the real world, was heartwarming. It was like Madonna’s ray of light in this dark, pessimistic and politically-ridden reality. My hand reached out in rebellion of my common sense, and I narrowly avoided the social embarrassment of picking up the magazine by the sudden movement of the line.

It didn’t occur to me that this might be a blatant lie until after I’d posted the information as my Facebook status in all caps followed by four exclamation points.

On a hunch I turned to Google, and its infinite ways of knowing. It was there upon the World Wide Web that the plethora of celebrity gossip media quickly overshadowed the joyous news from the Wal-Mart shelf of lies.

Apparently, while I’ve been living in a cave in Afghanistan reading Twilight with the book light that came as a bonus with my Snuggie, slander became kosher. It seems like the entire art form of storytelling has been infiltrated by the “Reality TV” phenomenon, morphing into some hybrid form of journalism. Real people have replaced made up characters, but most of the soap opera scenarios remain the same.

My favorite is The Superficial, which posts a disclaimer that “The Superficial is a celebrity gossip site which publishes rumors and conjecture in addition to accurately reported facts.” So good luck figuring out what the truth actually is, the site is not equipped with an alert that lets you know when you’re getting warmer.

I can’t decide if I should label these writers as artists or phonies. On the one hand, they conjure up an entertaining story that evokes a pre-planned emotion and sells. On the other hand, they invade the privacy of individuals, purposely misinterpret situations and speculate with no viable sources. I don’t think I would have taken issue with the fallacy had it been above the fold of the National Enquirer next to a photo of the woman who ate her husband because he was an alien. It appeared to be a legitimate news source, the magazine cover eerily mimicking People.

My intuition screams yellow journalism. Yet, there has been suspiciously little hullabaloo from the victims of this horrific social trend. I’m guessing from the lack of lawsuits that celebrities build forts with stacks of cash and hide from the humiliation. How else can they escape the likes of TMZ and E!?
But then I find myself asking what makes a celebrity so important to begin with? Surely media has a hand in creating the image they love to destroy. But why are we, the people, addicted to this constant unraveling and rebuilding of social figures? When you’re jonesing for your celebrity gossip fix, the junkie jitters making it hard to hide from your boss that you’re really waiting for his coffee to kick in so you can surf the web for unreal drama, then reality becomes blurry. Suddenly people you’ve never met have become integral parts your day, officially making us a Stalker Nation.

And when did celebrity become synonymous with royalty? Red carpets, extravagant jewels, impressive gowns and ceremonies commemorating their own importance. Don’t get me wrong, I love movies and I think the people who collaborate to create them deserve recognition, but why are we following them on Twitter?

And what about the celebrities that aren’t even movie stars or music artists? Paris Hilton is a whore heiress who became famous because of a sex video, and some people can’t wait to see what she writes next, or where she goes, or what she wears. Donald Trump is a capitalist buffoon with the most absurd head I have ever seen, and Jon and Kate Gosselin shouldn’t be entrusted with the care of a Beta fish, let alone eight children. Yet, they all reap exuberant amounts of attention from the people who want to know the intimate details of their lives.

What the hell is wrong with the general public? Can we really be a bunch of bottom feeding Jay Leno viewers who supplement lacking in our own lives with the fake drama of people we’ve never even met?

By the way – why do you care if Heidi Klum is legally changing her last name to that of her husband? That seems like a decision between her and the Seal, yet now it’s public knowledge, and I bet that it brought a little bit of light into someone’s sad day. Or perhaps it served as a conversation starter in one of those awkward Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner type situations. Regardless, that information mattered to someone outside of the immediate situation, and it just doesn’t seem right. It reaffirms the illusion that because we know these details about their lives we have a connection with them.

The overload of useless snippets of information from other people’s lives that may or may not be true make Wal-Mart seem like the Mecca of genuine American community. So I say we embrace that sense of community and instead of focusing on the magazines on the rack, we turn to the other people in line for our entertainment. At least you know for a fact that the woman in front of you is pregnant with her husband’s brother’s baby – her sparkly t-shirt says so.

Amanda Lowery works as an editor in Maryland. She is a slave to punctuation, but a comrad to words.

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Rich Lovatt

[Editor's Note: Courtney Enlow is currently holding up a boom box playing "In Your Eyes" outside of John Cusack's house, so today we bring you a special guest blog post by Rich Lovatt of Comic By Comic.]

I was walking to work this morning and, being without my iPod for some reason, overheard the following conversation between a boy of about eight years and the lady walking him to school – who I assume was either his mother, grandmother or nanny.

Him: “I want the Emperor, Han Solo and Chewbacca.”

Her: “Hmm.”

Him: “But I really need the Emperor.”

Her: “Isn’t it more important that you’re playing the game rather than what dolls you have?”

Him: [horrified] “They’re not dolls.”

Unfortunately at that point the people behind me headed in a different direction, but I’m pretty sure that the rest of the conversation involved a detailed description of the many, many differences between action figures and dolls, and how dolls were clearly for girls but action figures were obviously for boys.

I remember similar conversations when I was little around Star Wars toys specifically. Sure, I had a Hulk toy somewhere and maybe a Spider-Man toy, but it was the Star Wars ones which I collected almost religiously, playing with them every day.

I still remember when I was six years old and I was lying on the couch, under a blanket and off school. My dad came home and produced a Star Wars figure I’d never seen before: Han Solo in some kind of parka. On the picture on the card, he was riding some kind of weird horse that looked like nothing I’d ever seen, and the logo …

… the logo, with the original Star Wars logo wrapped around it, read The Empire Strikes Back.

It turned out that the figure was from the new movie that hadn’t been released yet. At that point, in the days before VCRs and TV showing movies a year after they’re released, I hadn’t even seen Star Wars, but I had a hardback annual reprinting the comics adaptation of the movie.

I actually think that this may have been the very first figure I got, but my memory is hazy on the point.

In any case, that Han Solo figure, and the fact that my dad had given it to me when I was sick, really paved the way for what – to his eternal confusion – became pretty much a lifelong habit.

The thing is, I think that I knew in my heart that my mum had picked the toy up and passed it to him to give to me as he came home. I knew somehow that with the hours he worked he didn’t really have time to stop in and pick something up for me, but that was on a subconscious level.

It wouldn’t really have mattered anyway. I loved that figure – and my dad – for opening the promise of a new adventure with these characters that I’d read about.

And to this day, I find myself explaining to him and my mum that they’re not dolls.

They’re action figures.

Rich Lovatt runs a daily blog, Comic By Comic that, in spite of the name, also does stuff with TV and film. He can be contacted at rich@comicbycomic.com.

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By Brian Shea

[Editor's Note: Aaron R. Davis is busy watching The Watchmen on DVD, so today we bring you a special guest column from Brian Shea.]

I have really ambitious plans this year for Thanksgiving. First off, I will gather around a table with family and reflect on the blessings we have received during the year. We will eat and chat and enjoy the special bond we share.

Then, later that weekend, I will single-handedly ruin the National Football League for millions and millions of fans.

How do I plan to do that? It’s easy, actually. I’m going to go to Delaware and gamble on NFL games. At a casino. Shocking, huh?

If you listen to the folks with the NFL, the other sports leagues and that fine upstanding organization, the NCAA, I might as well just pillage neighboring towns and defile the womenfolk. Gambling on sports is the worst thing ever, they say.

That’s why they have fought so hard to stop gambling in Nevada. Oh, wait. They haven’t done that. In fact, they pretty much have a love affair with Nevada. They’re going after Delaware, the home of Andrew Shue and Valerie Bertinelli. Yep, they are blaspheming the state which gave us Billy from Melrose Place and the chick who married Eddie Van Halen. Have they no shame?

In case you hadn’t heard, Delaware is set to unveil sports betting at its three racetrack casinos on September 1, just in time for football season. The governor pushed through the initiative earlier this year because the state has a budget deficit, and he is apparently a pretty good dude. I say that because he also signed legislation to bring table games to the state next year.

After all the hubub died down about how everyone was going to gamble away their life savings, the NCAA and pro sports leagues rode in on their high horse and took the state to court to try and stop the plan. They say they want to maintain the “integrity” of the sports.

One of the people supporting the league’s position is a North Carolina Congressman named Heath Shuler. You might remember him as a pretty shitty NFL quarterback a bunch of years ago. I think people like him on the football field hurt the integrity of the game more than me spending a day in Delaware trying to decide if the Ravens will win their game that day.

And never mind that the NFL has just cut a deal to have team logos on lottery tickets, the NCAA lets conferences hold their championships in Las Vegas, the NBA has an ownership group which also owns a casino and has a WNBA team which plays in a casino and Major League Baseball has teams with outfield wall advertising local casinos.

They’re just looking out for us. You know what? Screw you. I’ll look out for myself. Luckily, a federal judge has agreed and refused to stop the gambling plan from going into effect next month. The leagues, naturally, are appealing.

I hope they lose since I already have my Thanksgiving weekend trip planned. When the plans for gambling came together, I looked at the NFL schedule. I wanted to find a good weekend to catch the Ravens in a sports book because watching games in a sports book when you have money riding on the outcome is one of the most awesome experiences you can have.

Thanksgiving offers the perfect opportunity. The Ravens play the Steelers in the Sunday night game. Earlier that day, the Redskins and the Eagles play just over the state line at Lincoln Financial Field. A day filled with rivalries. There are even 10 NBA games sprinkled throughout the day in case I get bored. I can’t wait to find out what college hoops games might be on tap that day too.

If Delaware hadn’t added gambling and if the leagues hadn’t acted as if we would just be learning about this new gambling thing, I might not be this fired up. But they can’t just let people have fun. They have even passed a new rule so no NCAA playoffs can take place in states which have single-game bets even though both Nevada and Delaware won’t accept bets on games which take place in the state.

That means the University of Delaware won’t get to host anymore Division I-AA (I refuse to call it Football Championship Series) playoff games. Little Wesley College will have to travel for its Division III playoff games. But there will still be a Las Vegas Bowl each December where the teams will stay at Planet Hollywood and the Venetian.

Because they’re all about the integrity of the game.

Brian Shea used to write for HoboTrashcan, but like Gladys Knight, he left us Pips behind to write for his own site, Regular Guy Column.

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