The Melon just got wind of a great new music video from Fice, a T-Loc hip hop artist. The video for the song “Two Five Three” features a some shots and props to a lot of great locations (hello MSM deli) and captures the proud spirit of Tacoma well. Look for Fice’s song to become Tacoma’s new unofficial anthem. Take a listen.

In response to the current oil spill disaster in the Gulf, Green Peace has developed a design competition charging participants to redesign BP’s logo to better reflect their image. Here are some of my favorites.

Friend of The Melon, David Tveite has begun presenting his work on “A Regular Dude’s World Atlas, ” a presentation of the world by someone with a really good internet connection. Here’s a clip from one of his hilarious entries:

“Andorra is a thoroughly unimpressive little country of some 88,000 citizens located in the Pyrenees mountains between France and Spain. Andorrans speak Catalan, a language which is kind of like Spanish but not nearly as useful. Andorra was first discovered in 1278, when France was taking a shower and noticed a kind of abnormal growth near its genitals. Distraught, France rushed to the doctor, who assured it that the growth was Andorra, not cancer. France was very lucky this turned out to be correct because relatively speaking, 13th-century oncology wasn’t exactly the most reliable science ever.”

David is only on the A’s right now, but I’m excited to see this develop.

more comics at btdcomics.com

Scene: Tacoma, 1885

Mayor Jacob Weisbach: Okay, so, we’ve got this problem here where all y’all want jobs but there’s not too many extra ones about. You know the reason why? The Chinese.

Group of White Dudes: Yeah!

Businessman: I would venture to suggest that the problem lies in the fact that you white dudes won’t take jobs you perceive as “Chinese,” and also that you don’t work hard.

Weisbach: Also the problem is profit-driven businessmen!

White Dudes: Let’s burn down his factory!

Weisbach: No, no, that’s not a lawful thing to do. We want to become a state, guys. States don’t do that.

White Dudes: Well, what should we do about the Chinamen?

Weisbach: I have a great solution: sewers. We’ll refuse to connect city sewer lines to privys and laundries in their part of town, and then we’ll arrest them for not being dirty like they are! Drive ‘em out that way! (wipes nose with shit-encrusted handkerchief)

White Dudes: Aw, that’s booooriiiing. But those Chinamen are totally gross.

A White Dude: (raises hand) Um, Mayor Weisbach? You said we’re not a state yet, right? So…this is still the wild west. Technically.

White Dudes: We still live in the wild west? Then fuck it let’s form a mob!

Weisbach: Okay, but you guys – you guys, listen! Hey, I’ve made myself police chief now so you have to listen, so there. You guys, we have to be orderly about all this, ‘cuz we’re almost not the wild west, just a little. So don’t kill anyone on purpose.

Mob: Okay! (They round up and kick out the Chinese, steal their property, and burn their homes. Two men die of exposure while forced to wait through the November night for a train to Portland.)

Seattle: What the fuck, Tacoma? You’ve just totally gone and done something, like, way unlawful.

Tacoma: You’re just jealous ‘cuz we thought of it first and now you’d be copycats.

Seattle: Well, duh. Though you do make Washington Territory look pretty unlawful, FYI, so don’t be so bitchy.

Broadside reproduction courtesy of Washington State Historical Society Digital Collections, http://digitum.washingtonhistory.org/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/ephemera&CISOPTR=106&CISOBOX=1&REC=8

One afternoon in ‘93, my mother and I were watching a VHS of My Girl. Back then she had more control over what I watched and as long as it wasn’t a repeat of Little House on the Prairie I would comply. During the movie, Anna Chlumsky and Macaulay Culkin’s characters cut themselves and became blood brother and sister. My mother paused the tape and told me to never(ever) do what we had just witnessed. “Why?” I asked her. “Because you can get AIDS,” she explained. Since there was no mention of a virus, all my eight year-old mind took from her explanation was that if you mix your blood with the blood of another person, you’ll get AIDS.

The following weeks were filled with intrigue and terror. In my history class we had just started learning about the American Revolutionary War. After showing us an old projection of middle-aged men fighting one another in costumes, the teacher asked if anyone had any questions. I raised my hand. “Weren’t any of the soldiers afraid of getting AIDS when they got blood on them?” The teacher, having not expected such a question, responded with, “No, see, they didn’t worry about AIDS back then.” I assumed by her response that she meant the people of the late 1700s weren’t smart enough to figure out why the victorious soldiers that came home covered in their enemy’s blood were dropping dead.

Soon enough, I began fearing for my own safety. I avoided the monkey bars, sharing food with anyone, as well as participating in games of Bloody Knuckles. I tried my very best to avoid physical contact with my peers in fear that one of them might possess a fresh scab that might let out a drop of blood.

I remember a weekend soccer game, where my father and teammates’ parents were rooting me on as I dribbled the ball by the sideline. Someone from the other team had decided that the best way to stop me would be to run directly into me. His forearm went across my mouth and scratched against my front teeth, but he continued after the ball none the wiser. I, on the other hand, came to a complete stop as a look of panic washed over my face. I ran over to my father at the sideline who was surrounded by the rest of my teammates’ parents. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?” he yelled trying to contain himself. “That kid put his arm in my mouth. Am I going to get AIDS?” The other parents stared at my father, silent and confused by what they had just heard. “What the hell are you talking about? Get back in the game!”

It wasn’t until a few months of uneasiness had gone by that my beliefs were corrected by my mother.

“What? No, someone needs to have the virus for you to get it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me there was a virus?” I asked angrily.

“I thought you knew!” she yelled back.

“So why in the world would the kids in My Girl have AIDS?”

“I don’t know, I was just trying to teach you to be careful!”

Official Minutaur Moment

How will you commemorate this momentously meaningless coincidence?

image by http://www.flickr.com/photos/acidcookie/

I was playing Blackjack at the Bellagio around two in the morning last week.   Sitting beside me were two Texans and their prostitutes.  The girls claimed to be sisters in their 20s but looked nothing alike and one of them was sporting a cesarean scar.  I didn’t particularly feel like having a conversation with them, but if you’ve been in a casino before you know it’s not entirely up to you.  “So are you a Cubs or Sox fan, Chicago?” I was asked for probably the twelfth time in a fortnight.  Knowing nothing about baseball, I answered dismissively with, “Depends who’s winning.”  The Texans let out an unnecessary, hearty laugh and tugged their women close.

One of them reached into his pocket and looked at the dealer, “Can we smoke at this table?”  The dealer tapped on the sign beside him, “Afraid not, this one’s no smoking.”  “Ah alright,” said the Texan.  He then reached into his other pocket and withdrew a can of chewing tobacco and tucked some black slop into his mouth.  The hooker beside him frowned as she thought of what’s to come that night.  Our eyes met as she collected herself.  “I’m sorry,” I mouthed to her.

An hour in, the Texans had lost most of their money and I had found myself up by several hundred dollars.  As I won a big hand, the Texans, now drunk, approvingly slapped their hands down on the table and hollered over my win.  It was like having my own middle aged, sweaty cheerleaders.  As I pulled in my winnings I noticed the other prostitute was looking at me.  I smiled politely and stacked my chips as I felt her continue to stare.

Minutes later, the Texans stood up and grabbed their girls and wished me a good night.  They began to walk away when the hooker turned back to put her wine glass down on the table.  She leaned in and whispered, “Meet me in the bathroom in ten minutes.”

Before you start wondering silly things, I’ll assure I did not take her up on her offer– and no, not just because I was on a hot streak.  It always amazes me how content people are with prostitution.  They love buying into the idea of Vegas, a city of sins and no consequences in a false reality.

The day before, I was playing across from a man who was on a horrible losing streak.  “My wife is going to kill me,” he told the table.  A moment later, a girl came by and wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him.  “How are you doing?” she asked.  “Not too great,” he said with a smirk.  “Oh well, you’ll hit it next time.”  The dealer smiled and chimed into their conversation, “Well, your wife doesn’t seem so upset.”  The man and woman laughed.  “That’s not my wife, silly,” he told us.  Everyone at the table started laughing as I sat there somewhat surprised by their reaction.

Frankly, I was a little embarrassed it bothered me as much as it did.  It’s not as if I’m unaware of the belittled sanctity of today’s modern marriage nor does it actually interest me.  I think what I find surprising is their open willingness to sleep with a prostitute.   I mean, who knows what tobacco spitting Texan she was just with?