We had planned to post each of the first five issues of Quasi one day after another.

Today we would have posted Issue 3.

However, for one simple reason, we are going to publish Issues 3 & 4 next week, and then Issue 5 the week after that.

The reason: if we had posted them all in one week, they would have made the archive file for that week too long, so long that no one who ever went back to read it would ever be able to or even want to make sense of such a large post. The scroll bar on the right would have been the size of a ball point pen mark, and you would have had to scroll for about five minutes just to get to the bottom.

So please have patience. Issue 7 of Quasi will come out on May 14 or 15, and between now and then I am thinking of something that can be posted every day or couple of days that will be short, inclusive to all readers, able to be written by numerous writers, and not too long.

Email your suggestions to me at jonwardeleven@earthlink.net

Thanks

Jon

Quasi
an outlet for young writers

February 28, 2002
Volume 1, Issue 2


Quasi Further Defines Its Role

In this, our second issue of Quasi, things are a little different. In our first issue, we had a short story, and our howlingly popular (even after one issue) “Mouthin’ Off” section, which will be a regular feature, talked about sports.

This time we have a book review below, and our “Mouthin’ Off” piece actually argues for a certain religious viewpoint.

Let us try to further define what Quasi is and is not. Ideologically, the purpose of Quasi is to be a forum and outlet for young writers.

While we would rather not proclaim ourselves as a “Christian publication” or a “conservative publication,” certainly some of our writers identify with those positions, and those views will come out. We make no apology for that and we’ll simply leave it at that.

At this point, though, we do not have an agenda, other than to showcase good writing.

Regarding our content, two fixtures at this point are our “Slam This! Poet’s Forum” and our “Mouthin’ Off” editorial.

This opening piece will usually do a combination of things, focusing mostly on developments in Quasi and developments in current events.

Whenever we can bring literature into this discussion we will.

The section below will be a mixture of short stories, essays, book reviews, and pretty much anything else we want to do with it.

If we do end up expanding our format to more than one two-sided page, we will add more poetry and be able to feature longer essays and works of fiction.
...


What You Should Be Reading
David McCulloch’s John Adams

To say John Adams courted unpopularity would be inaccurate. But he certainly was no stranger to it. “While conscience claps, let the world hiss!” said Adams.

The man who would eventually be the second President of the United States represented the British soldiers who fired on American civilians during the “Boston Massacre” of 1770. And he got all but one of them acquitted.

He knew what he was doing, and he did it anyway. Adams represented the soldiers, and their commanding officer, because he believed every person should have the right to a fair trial.

That is a perfect example of the kind of man Adams was: utterly ruled by principle and determined to do what he believed what was right, public opinion be damned.

Largely due to that quality, Adams is an American hero of seismic proportions. His part in the revolution of the United States of America is rivaled by few, if any.

This reader didn’t know how great a man Adams was. This sizable book has likely enlightened many other readers similarly.

The book jacket accurately boasts that McCulloch writes “from the inside” of history. It’s true. The book is a page-turner and exquisitely written.

McCulloch takes the dusty pages of American History and breathes life into them, telling us, as any good writer does, a story—Adams’ story.

It is one of a plain, industrious, sharp-minded man who stepped onto the stage of history at a crucial time, and who outshone all others because of his abilities but even more so because of his character.

This book is worth the read for the history it gives alone. Our country was founded against the greatest of odds, and by men of great courage and skill. It is to our shame that we are ignorant of this.

Adams wrote in May of 1776, weeks before the signing of the Declaration of Independence, “When I consider the great events which are passed, and those greater which are rapidly advancing, and that I may have been instrumental of touching some springs, and turning some wheels…I feel an awe upon my mind which is not easily described.”

It is not easily described, but McCulloch’s spectacular book helps us understand it quite well.

“Our obligations to our country never cease but with our lives,” said Adams. The difference between Adams and other men was that he really believed this, and his life reflected it. His decisions were always made for the good of America, even, sometimes regrettably, to his own family’s detriment. His son Charles became an alcoholic and died at age 30, leaving a wife and two children behind.

Adams was by no means neglectful of his family. Rather, he was a loving father and husband, who was gone for long periods of time during the Revolution. His absence had an inevitable effect.

While Adams appears to have been a great man with some weaknesses, this book gives a much less flattering portrait of Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson comes off as a spineless, immoral coward of a man. He appears to have been brilliant but vile.

McCulloch’s work also reminds us that as glorious as the Revolution was, some things never change. From America’s inception, party politics has been the norm. In fact, it seems the mudslinging and backbiting was far more malicious during Adams’ day. If nothing else, the insults were delivered more eloquently.

-- Jon Ward
...

Slam This! Poet’s Forum

The New Fantasy
by Justin Toops

The heroes never felt so well
since they put their horses in the shed
and armor to rusting on the shelf
their swords in sheaths beneath the bed
leaving adventure to the books
and fantasy to hash and highs
love is lust and mellowed looks
they trade crusades for television skies

Wizards set up shop in the garage
to morph their spells, all old outdated
and built brown paper package bombs
sent to strangers that they hated
while witches took to modern tricks
and brood about in spider web sites
soothes all skin and lipstick
luring heroes with white lies

Elves climb through trees of silicone
with harps and songs never sung
no heart to write from hearts their own
music’s waves all "zeros and ones"
our dwarves hammers have left the mountain’s side
so as to hack on corporate stones
the wars and battles take place at night
against the banks, buildings and homes

Little of the memory lives on
fantasy is a diminish place
technology stretching and swallowing long
our hearts soon forget the escape
...


Mouthin’ Off
Jon Ward

I See Fake People: An Awful(ly) Good Movie

It’s 1:30 in the morning, and I just got back from watching a movie called A Beautiful Mind. It scared the heebie jeebies out of me.

If you haven’t seen the movie, you probably should. And you probably shouldn’t read any further, because it will ruin the movie’s impact on you if you do.

What makes the movie so absolutely terrifying is that the protagonist, John Nash (played powerfully by Russell Crowe), is very similar to Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense: he sees people that aren’t really there.

Only the people that Nash sees talk to him and won’t leave him alone. For many years, in fact, Nash has no idea they are not real. He builds much of his life around them, and has no clue he is delusional.

I was talking to my brother afterward and he made an interesting comment. The absolute worst thing, he said, would be to find out that people whom you’ve become best friends with, and others that have given you purpose in life, have been figments of your imagination.

He’s right. It is petrifying on many different levels. It is obviously frightening to think that you might be a loon. But even more so, I think the terror of this lies in each of our longings for meaning.

We long to have relationships with other human beings in which we can love and be loved, as did Nash. This is one of the major ways we find meaning in life.

Secondly, we long to find meaning in life through what we do. We long to accomplish things, to not only find meaning but contribute to it and add to it in other’s lives and perhaps in the world. Rush desired this too.

Imagine thinking you had accomplished these things, then discovering they were not real. That is what Nash experienced. That is what
Nash’s amazing wife, who stuck with him in the movie, but apparently left him in real life, had to endure with him. I’m not sure who was worse off.

A Beautiful Mind is much more frightening than a movie like The Sixth Sense, or any other horror movie for that matter, because it shows us something horrible that is within each of our grasps.

Doctors talk of chemicals being the cause of insanity. But let’s all be honest. Who of us can say they’ve never felt a little bit crazy at one time or another?

Insanity, dementia, schizophrenia—call it what you want—it seems like it’s only a hairsbreadth away from each of us. And if we don’t deal with it in our own lives, we know it is all around us. At the very least, we walk by bums who gesture wildly and talk to themselves.

The portrayal of this sickness, and its awful effects on Nash’s wife and family, made me sick to my stomach. It wasn’t until the drive home that I felt better.

Driving home with my friend Jordan, he brought up the fact that God is greater than minds, and He is even in control of them. This is usually a doctrine that is protested and held with contempt, but on this night, knowing that God is good and perfect, I welcomed the thought of a person and power able to stop the worst my mind can do.

The irony of A Beautiful Mind, to me, is that Nash’s mind was anything but beautiful. The movie shows what an awful thing a mind gone haywire can be, and is a sober reminder that we are not gods, but rather, we are dependent beings in utter need of guidance and protection from the one true God.
...

Below, as promised, is the first issue of Quasi, which ran in mid-February.

To your left, if you click on the dates shown, it will take you to the archive for this site, where everything that has been up on this site in the past will be stored. I posted a play review of "Much Ado About Nothing," there late yesterday, if you're interested in reading it.

As always, spread the word and email me with comments and questions at jonwardeleven@earthlink.net


Quasi

February 10, 2002
Volume 1, Issue 1


Quasi Begins Construction on Molehill

Gaithersburg, MD—A small rock can start a landslide. A snowball can become an avalanche. A mountain can be made out of a mole-hill.

Whatever the analogy, Quasi’s publication birth was induced by a small pebble in the literary sea.

Our editorial team of one saw a small bi-fold produced by a 12-year-old and was convicted of its exorbitant expectations for Quasi. The thought was something like, “If this kid is producing something, then we have no excuse.”

Quasi is using the kid’s model as a template. We plan on keeping it simple. We are not going for design and layout awards, though hopefully one day we will. The focus, as it will always be, is on content, and making it available to others.

The purpose of Quasi is to give voice to talented young writers. Whatever our differences, all of Quasi’s writers are united by a love for words and for writing. Quasi is simply a byproduct of that infatuation.

Beyond that, declaring our goals or values is a prospect somewhat frightening. We expect to change and evolve around our basic desire to write.

We’re about writing, and we’re about reading. Meaning we’re about thinking, and seeking truth, and being changed by it.

When we have more information available to us, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll make them available to you.

For now, this collection of quasi-writers and quasi-intellectuals plan on bringing you what we come up with as we stumble along the journey of life, thinking caps firmly planted on our heads.
...

Leaving the Party – A Short Story
Cara Nalle

So it’s months since my last party, right, or years now, and the girls decide to play nightclub in the basement one night. Lights blazing, music blaring thinly from two tiny computer speakers, it doesn’t matter. They wanted to dance. We’re all wearing sweatpants and big, floppy t-shirts, a far cry from some of the stuff I would put on for a cast party back in college. Then it was the make-up, the hair, the perfect outfit for dancing. For drawing attention to yourself, really, in whatever way you saw fit. Or sometimes there’d be a theme, and we’d all go in costume. Like once it was “Catholic School,” and all the girls show up in short pleated skirts and one guy comes as Jesus. No joke.

Anyway, we’re the most unlikely partyers, these three Christian girls sitting home on a Friday night. We’d just watched some girly, ends-with-a-wedding movie, and all of the sudden it’s a private dance party. We find a song with a passably good beat and start strutting around the room, joking about how you can’t dance like this at the weddings we go to. At weddings, there are guys, and certain movements can be distracting to guys, so we don’t do those types of movements, even though they’re the most fun. We’re goofing off, doing these stiff, jerky little dances without shaking our hips or our shoulders, and then we start reliving fads like the Electric Slide or the Running Man or whatever stupid step we learned in middle school.

The song ends and we have to stop and hit repeat, because my roommate only has one decent dance song downloaded. When it comes back on we start to really groove, only “grooving” with these girls is like nothing you’ve ever seen. One of them was raised pretty uptight and never got a chance to break loose, so she’s tentative and keeps stopping to say, “I don’t know what I’m doing!” The other was evidently born without a sense of rhythm. She couldn’t dance her way out of a paper bag, but she knows it, so she plays it up, stomping on the offbeat and madly waving her arms. Hilarious.

But me, hey, I grew up dancing, loving it, knowing how to move and being pretty good at it. In college I never went to these parties to drink or hook up; I just wanted to dance. It was always in some too-small room with a black light and music so loud you couldn’t hear a word anyone said. You’d be standing in a corner with a few girlfriends and dancing, dancing till the sweat started trickling from your neck into your shirt and down your back. Then you’d have to go outside in the freezing cold night air till you were ready to face the heat again. Sometimes a guy would come up and I’d try to follow him for a few minutes until it got weird or gross… you know, I wasn’t into that. Anyway, I could go for hours. It was easy to come up with fresh material, some funky thing with my arms up in the air or a Latin flavor thrown in, some salsa step, cha-cha, whatever.

But now I’m standing in the basement trying to do all the stuff that used to come so easy, and none of it’s coming at all. I can’t tell if my joints are stiff from lack of practice or I’ve lost my sense of rhythm or what. My brain tells me I’m moving in the same ways I used to, but when I look down at my body it’s all wrong. I’m uptight and awkward. Here I was thinking I would show my roommates up by a long shot, and I’m looking like the biggest idiot of all!

“What’s wrong with me?” I’m thinking, and though my roommates aren’t laughing like they probably could, they’re not telling me how great I look either. I start to think about all these months of analyzing my old life and making choices that lead me away from who I was before, a self-centered, unhappy girl who danced till two and then fell into bed fighting myself over whether or not I should have been at that party in the first place. And, I mean, I was, essentially, endorsing that way of life, the drinking for the sake of getting drunk, the orgies, or whatever went on behind the closed doors… you always heard rumors by Monday.

But the dancing itself – was that so bad? I guess it could be that I subconsciously come to associate the physical movement with that whole lifestyle, and therefore my body kind of unlearned the reflexes. Or maybe my motives weren’t as pure as I thought, and I wasn’t there for the pure joy of motion but for the seeing and being seen. Maybe it was because of the sensuality of dance, like being there and moving like that proved to everyone that I wasn’t the uptight religious chick who didn’t know how to have a good time. Then again, maybe there’s something even beyond that, and the dancing itself really wasn’t right. Maybe not being able to pick up now where I left off then is God’s mercy on me… but now I’m getting tired and should just probably go to bed. The fact is, I thought I left all this behind when I walked off the dance floor. I’m not in the mood to rehash and learn more about my sin. I’m sleepy, and I’m grumpy, and if I stay down here much longer I’ll start to get rude with my roommates, who haven’t done anything to deserve my mouth.

So I’m turning around, heading up the stairs, and one of them looks over and shouts, “Hey, where ya goin’? Don’t you wanna dance?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, tossing the words wearily over my shoulder and hoping I’ll come off funny. “I forgot how.”
...


Slam This! Poet’s Forum

ONION FIELD
Ryan Summers

All these raw chunky onions flecked
The field as I hustled past in my truck
The bumpy chains of amethyst were
enough
To make me wish that I was the one to
tend

Their rows and watch their growth and
walk their land.
Crackly, paper skin flagged as the air
whipped
And some flaky jetsam fleered for the
ditch.
To stop and feel the living weight within
my hand

Would have been to prove something
ancient.
To rub the dirt and peel a loosened layer
Would have been to find there disclosed,
foundation.
I sunk my window, going by, took it in,
content.
...

Mouthin’ Off
Jon Ward

A Great Time of Year Gets Even Better

As the long, dark cold of February creeps toward March, I usually start to get excited. College basketball begins to heat up. Each team is playing its last few conference games, all of which are crucial contests. The competition is fierce, the crowds frenzied, and everyone is looking ahead towards the conference and NCAA tournaments.

Then, every four years, like this year, you add the Olympics to the mix. What you have is a schoolboy’s dream. What I would give to be back in high school, with homework to leave in my backpack and a TV waiting in the basement.

Since I’m not, all I can do is catch what I can. And no matter how skeptical I was at the beginning of the Olympics, I’m now beginning to get sucked in once again. I watched curling this afternoon.

I admit I’m weird, but what pumps my blood is the fact that all day for two weeks, there is nonstop athletic competition going on at a centralized location. Sports I never watch—skiing, luge…curling—become fascinating and exhilarating.

The stakes are never higher. Each athlete competes for the sake of their country, and so much patriotism and so much sports combine to overwhelm anyone who pays attention for more than a few minutes.

Back in ’96 during the Atlanta games, I came very close to driving the ten plus hours just to be down there, amidst the excitement and celebration. I admit, I get carried away by such a lavish celebration of love of country and love of sports.

I love it all: the building, stirring music on TV, the teary human-interest stories, and the obscure sports which would usually mean nothing. Suddenly they are full of drama, because the Olympics is one place where individualism does not yet rule. Athletes compete for something larger than themselves—their country—which means so much more.

And in the moments when I do get a little sick of it all, or when the men’s figure skating comes on, I just turn to ESPN and watch college basketball spiraling furiously towards March Madness.

Hey dude, pass the nachos.
...

Issue 1 of Quasi will appear in this space tomorrow. Below is a review of a play I saw on Sunday, in Washington, D.C. Look for the review to be published in the Arts section of Saturday's Washington Times.

I spent an inordinate amount of time online yesterday figuring out how to format stuff for this website. I learned a good bit about html and writing code, and am excited about improving this site in the future. The best thing is that there is a proven (somewhat) product which you can count on appearing here on a consistent basis.

In the meantime, please tell people you know about this website. I mean, I want them to benefit from being able to read Quasi, but mostly I just want to see the hit-counter go bonkers. I must have checked it about 50 times today.:)

Email me with reaction or questions at jonwardeleven@earthlink.net

And here is the review:

Awake for a Dream

One thing is certain about the Washington Shakespeare Company’s current production of “Much Ado About Nothing,” playing at the Clark Street Playhouse in Crystal City: it keeps your attention.

If your idea of attending a play is sitting still for three hours while actors pronounce words you’ve never heard before, sending your head quickly snoring to your shoulder, then drive down the alley just off Rt. 395 to this playhouse, and pack lightly. You won’t be in the same seat the whole time, and you’ll sure as heck stay awake.

While many theatergoers may be lured out to this production by the publicity it’s received via The New Yorker, which profiled its leading man, (former New Republic managing editor Andrew Sullivan as Benedick), most will leave bedazzled by the production itself.

It has warts, but its brilliance and creativity would only be possible in a play wild enough to allow warts to exist.

Upon entering the playhouse, one is not in Kansas anymore; the Clark Street Playhouse is not the Shakespeare Theater. Once you step into the theater, you are, immediately, in Messina, the Italian island where Shakespeare set his romantic comedy.

You hear the sound of semi-distant surf, and an occasional lazy violin, in the lobby and in the theater. You go to the bathroom, and the ocean and seagulls are there to cheer you on. There is no escaping this play.

Not that you would want to. Director Michael Comlish has fashioned a traditionally fluffy play into a tragi-comic semi-dream, where its characters strut and sweat with simmering energy, yet take themselves none too seriously.

Mr. Sullivan, a muscular and intense version of Signor Benedick, is surprisingly the most serious of all the play’s characters. While everyone else is tripping over their own smirks and glances thrown this way and that, Benedick broods over his inability to make sense of fiery and antagonistic Beatrice (played passionately by Brook Butterworth).

While others slink from the stage through trap doors, Mr. Sullivan’s every step as Benedick is an act of power. He struts the stage like a stalking cat. He is, undoubtedly, the star.

He is concrete and real, somewhat stable for all his angst, in a world that shifts beneath his feet (and literally, the stage slopes down toward the audience, giving one the feeling that cast and audience both are sliding into one another). Mr. Comlish’s Messina is not one of scenery or place, but rather one of moments conducted under changing lights and abrupt music cuts from notes to silence and vice versa.

Beatrice, drawn to Benedick’s sturdiness by her own inherent strength of character, is a treat. And it is the sparks that fly between these two that shine most brightly in this play.

Yet they are not the most entertaining. While Benedick and Beatrice provide a stable core which the other actors can revolve around, the real action of Mr. Comlish’s play is in his interpretation of Prince Don Pedro and Michael Henley’s performance in the role.

Mr. Henley, who plays both Don Pedro and his bastard twin Don John, is the semi-comic, semi-tragic genius of the performance. While Benedick is a straightforward fellow, Don Pedro is anything but.

Don Pedro is constantly nervous, always fidgeting and casting sideways glances. He is only still when he has a new plot to ponder, and he only looks confident when he speaks, for he belts out each utterance as if announcing himself to a king.

He is a con artist so aware of his own illegitimacy (his crown is a ridiculous sliver of silver plastic wrapped around his head) that he overcompensates for himself in everything he says, trying his hardest to look convincing.

Mr. Comlish has interpreted Don Pedro as being “much more twisted” than most people think. And the director also has decided that Claudio and Hero are not as one-dimensional as you might think.

It is here that Mr. Comlish’s interpretation is up for debate. It’s possible he reads too much into the play, all for the sake of introducing a homoerotic relationship between Don Pedro and Claudio.

Yet introduce it he does, and whether or not Mr. Comlish’s read is true to the text, the foibles it produces in Don Pedro and Claudio are certainly interesting and funny to watch.

Don Pedro is a clutching, smarmy pimp, to Leo Wolfe’s Claudio, a clueless young man who doesn’t seem to know what he wants. Whatever it is he wants, it isn’t Hero; Mr. Wolfe plays Claudio as reluctant to marry the maiden.

When he is told that Hero has been unfaithful, Claudio displays a distinct lack of disappointment. In fact, he is only disappointed when he learns that Leonato (played garishly by Michael Miyazaki) has a niece whom he can marry. Claudio accepts Leanato’s offer out of guilt over Hero and social obligation to be married to a woman, leaving the crushed Don Pedro to slink away, defeated.

The performance does not remain confined to one room. The audience is invited to get up (out of their seats!) and move to the lobby for the wedding of Claudio and Hero.

Then the third portion of the play is done in a totally separate room. If you’ve got Attention Deficit Disorder, you’ll love it.

Even the low points of the play are quite memorable. Mark Rhea as Constable Dogberry is particularly unfunny, yelling and shrieking lines that are hard to understand. One wants a throat lozenge just from listening to him. Yet he is hard to forget.

WSC’s performance is entertaining, outrageous, and energetically acted. Mr. Sullivan is the satisfying hook which baits a viewer watch this wild production, full of song, subplot, and sex.
...

Quasi
an outlet for young writers

April 28, 2002
Volume 1, Issue 6


It Doeth Good Like a Medicine

“Laughter offers this value: It can change and even correct one’s perspective,” writes author Terry Lindvall, in his book Surprised by Laughter.

And so in this issue of Quasi the mood is decidedly lighter than in past issues, and we think the mag will be all the better for it.

The more unpredictable Quasi can be, the better. The more variable, the more diverse, the better. The last thing we want is for Quasi to run amok in self-absorbed over-seriousness or to go the opposite way of irrational hilarity.

Lindvall himself writes, “Excessive laughter is not only irritating, but dangerous.”

Nonetheless, Quasi is committed to being a publication of depth but also humor.

As Martin Luther said, “It is pleasing to the dear God whenever thou rejoicest or laughest from the bottom of thy heart.”

Laughter brings people together, it opens our hearts, and as a wise old man often says to his son, “It doeth good like a medicine.”

Laughter is also a revealer of our souls. Johann Wolgang von Goethe wrote, “Men show their characters in nothing more clearly than in what they think laughable.”

Once again, Quasi wants to ask you readers to write in. When you’re struck with inspiration to write something, write it down. It probably won’t be back for you to scratch down later.

We’ve begun to ask certain people to write on specific topics, but we want you to feel the freedom to pursue your interests, and write as freely as you want.

We believe that while there are rules to writing, those should be consulted after one has written as one would have spoken, and from the bottom of one’s heart.

...


Huh? What? – Your Favorite Songs
By Jon Ward

Thanks to all of you that responded to the reader response question for this issue, which was, quite simply, which songs or musicians do you like to listen to when springtime rolls around?

To say the least, your responses were interesting. The best part was how many of you embarrassed yourselves. But that should be expected when you ask people to wax poetic about springtime, when emotions are already usually getting the better of folks.

Our first entry comes from the intellectually established Ryan Summers, a high school English teacher somewhere in California.

“I didn't really ‘get’ the springtime song thing,” Ryan said. “I don't have songs for seasons…the only thing that pops into my head is "Brown Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison as a ‘springish’ song. Oh well.”

Oookay, well, I don’t know what there was to “get,” but that’s ok. Maybe no one else was confused and thought I was asking for “springish” songs. I have no idea what that means.

And Van Morrison, uh, who’s that?

Our next entry comes from Hannah Baker, a college student and self-appointed critic from Gaithersburg, MD. Let’s just say, Hannah went off.

“If I said my favorite springtime song exalts a balding bird and is sung by a hippie who's lost any vestige of masculinity in his voice, I'd regret it,” Hannah said.

She continued: “Okay, so I like Steve Miller's ‘Fly Like an Eagle’ and I swear I don't really listen to the words. But, that's a lie. I loved the song when I was fifteen and wanted to blow my parents' heads off.”

Stop! You wanted to blow your parents’ heads off? Dang! That’s messed up, Hannah. Even if I ever thought that, I would never tell anybody. Anyway, I’m interrupting.

Hannah continues: “The line, ‘I want to fly like an eagle/ Let my spirit carry me,’ made me think I was a nice little savage, who wanted to perch on a mountaintop like an eagle, get high, and get my anger on paper. A while later, I heard a sermon about ungodly music and chucked the cd, calling Miller a sinner for doing drugs and the eagle a sinner for symbolizing freedom..”

I liked that line about calling the eagle a sinner. Pretty clever.

“All along it was my own desire to be freed from my parents' authority that stunk, that and Miller's voice. And yes, I want the cd for my next birthday, so I can play it all spring long, for strictly sentimental reasons,” Hannah concluded.

Jen Rezeppa, of Rockville, MD, plays ice hockey and just recently regained her voice, which was a nice bonus. She said she liked to listen to Bob Marley’s “Legend” album, “after a great run, eating popsicles outside on the porch.” Cool.

Jen also said she liked the Indigo Girls’ “Mystery and Language,” or “Kiss: The Songs,” while sitting outside at dusk. Of the Kiss album, Jen said, “the guitar rifts perfectly express the moment.”

Again, I have no idea who the Indigo Girls are, but I can’t help but wonder if Jen’s ever combined her favorite moments. I mean, it’d be perfect to listen to Kiss while eating your popsicles, especially if you were wearing the makeup, cuz then you could stick out your tongue, and you’d almost feel like you were part of the band as you reduced that popsicle to saliva-induced nothingness.

You know, because Kiss wears that crazy makeup, and stick their tongue out and stuff, and...ah, never mind.

Alycia Groveman, of Wheaton, MD, wrote in with a beautiful description of spring songs, “songs
that linger in your head like the long extended hours of daylight. Songs that whet your appetite for the anticipation of summer's call to the white, sandy beaches and serene, blue ocean,” wrote Alycia.

Our next writer went so far as to givve the down low on his love life, but it’s a cute story, so I won’t knock it.

Justin Toops, of Gaithersburg, MD, tells his story: “I’ve only had a crush on one girl since junior high school. Last summer, when Weezer came out with Island in the Sun, this girl and her family took me to spend a day at the beach. We did everything from building sand-castles to boogie boards. When our energy was gone and we we were heading home (the long 4 hour trip from Delaware), she started singing quietly in the car. We‚ll run away together, we‚ll spend some together, we‚ll never feel bad anymore. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. Still true.”

I feel you dog.

Well, last, I saved some laughs for all you faithful readers. And to the man who wrote this, just remember that it’s a great quality to be able to laugh at yourself.

Judah Groveman, of Wheaton, MD, aimed for the same high eloquent heights as his sister (see above).

He, well, he missed.

I’ve included his entire entry for you below, unedited.
Judah wrote, “Although I love to belt it year-round, I think a song that captures the essence of spring is Groovin' by The Rascals. Ok... what is the essence of spring? Well, I always feel more alive at springtime because all the colors and smells are heightened. All the trees are greener and the flowers brighter, etc. You often smell freshly mown grass fields (one of the best smells in the world) while driving with your windows open.

There is also a greater sense of freedom in the soul as you break out the shorts and sandals for the first time in six months. This, taken with the fact that summer break is just around the corner, makes me just want to celebrate!! Basically, this song jives with me cause I always feel pretty groovy at springtime. haha If you're interested, there is a REAL nice reggae/dance remix on the soundtrack to one of those romantic comedies (Parent Trap?). When that track comes on... makes ya wanna run outside and get rowdy!!”

As you’re laughing, please remember that Judah is a great guy and only writes corny stuff every once in a while.

And as you’re riding around this spring, and then this summer, belting out your favorite songs, perhaps you might even feel the unexplainable urge to “get rowdy.” But I doubt it.
...


Slam This! Poet’s Forum

Analysis Paralysis
By Michael DeCarlo

Shadows overcome the heart
Suffocating it to a momentary stop.
Suddenly a “proof” tightens the grip
Of this black hand over all hope.
Sinking, spinning, head rushing,
Heart throbbing beyond control,
Emotions at their height.
Stay don’t move, maybe it won’t notice you.
Sit still, quiet, maybe it will leave without harm.
Trapped by one’s own imagination.
Nothing threatening, but the mere thought
Of a threatening something.
Paralytic for a minute,
Deaf and blind to reason,
In a single moment embodying every handicap
Bringing one’s self to the point of tears.
And no one comes,
Not even the one spawning these fears.

...


Mouthin’ Off
Jon Ward

Hey Topper Shut, What Up?

What is this, August?

Would somebody please tell me what in God’s good green earth is going on?

I mean, I’m sitting here in the wonderful gift of air conditioning (brought to me again this summer, I mean spring, by my wonderful parents), and I’m feeling like I’m about to go run up to the pool and splash around all afternoon.

The weather outside is suffocating, you know the kind where you walk outside and you can’t breathe real well?

Yeah, it’s like that. I was driving down to the city this week, my windows down and the back of my Jeep open, figuring it’d be a nice morning drive.

Ten minutes into the commute my back was absolutely drenched with sweat and only getting worse from being pressed up against the seat.

Then I hit traffic. There wasn’t any way I was going to sit still in the heat and bake. So, my Jeep is unusual in that it has AC. I pulled over across three lanes to the shoulder, shut everything up and turned on the AC.

My AC works, but I only have vents in the front. So it was better than nothing, but the rest of the week during my commute I still found myself trying to keep my back from pressing against the seat.

To that end I would lean forward on the steering wheel, so I ended up looking like some sort of weird hunchback driving around all week. And I was still sweating like I’d eaten a basket of jalapenos.

That’s how stinkin’ hot it’s been.

Definitely time for the pool. Time to spend the afternoon reading by the water and jumping in every twenty minutes or so to keep from frying.

There’s one problem with that. The pool’s closed.

It’s April.

This is really messing with my brain. It’s not all bad. But it sure is weird.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t we in the thirties, like, a week or two ago? What is up?

We have gone from the normal spring routine of mostly cold days and the occasional gem to mid-August dog-day heat.

I’m driving around listening to the music loud, feeling like I should be going to the beach this weekend.

The house has changed its function overnight. It’s gone from the warm center of all activities and action, a refuge from the cold, to a cool oasis, the place where I go to relax after I’ve tired out from being outside.

Think about it: in a couple days we’ve gone from being indoors-oriented to outdoors-oriented. It’s a pretty strange transition when thrust upon us so quickly. We usually have the spring to ease into this.

Then again, who knows if this will last. For all we know now, we’ll be seeing snow in August. Can’t you see it, kids spending their last few days of summer vacation bugging their parents with, “C’mon Mom & Dad, just one more trip to Whitetail!”

Don’t laugh. Nothing’s predictable anymore. Just step outside and tell me you’ve ever felt like this in March.

...

Quasi is Online!

Quasi is a publication for those who love good writing, by those who try to write well. Its primary purpose is to function as an outlet for young writers, to both give them a place to put their writing and to give them a reason to write more.

As Quasi's originator, I am excited to get it going on Blogger. Quasi's evolution is quite interesting, and totally reactionary. The way it came into being as an email publication is described in our first issue (and it comes out every 2 weeks).

The way it has come to Blogger is interesting also. I write for the Washington Times on the Metro desk. I have been there for almost six months, as an unpaid intern, and have published close to 50 articles, 8 of which have appeared on the front page. Last week, my editors, who have told me they want me there and are going to pay me as soon as they can, told me that they were going to start paying me on a freelance basis until they could hire me.

That same day I was asked by the Arts editor to go review the Washington Shakespeare Company's production of "Much Ado About Nothing." The star of that play is Andrew Sullivan, blogger supreme, who plays Benedick. After doing research on his website, which I learned of from the New Yorker, I was introduced to Blogger and thus, after seeing the play yesterday, will commence Quasi online today.

I just finished the sixth issue of Quasi on Sunday, and will post it below. During the rest of the week I will post issues 1-5, in that order, which will bring us up to date. Enough talking; I'll save that for later. For now, let's get to it.