SMITH’S GOOF
The folly: In 1862, Secretary of the Interior Caleb Smith traded San Francisco’s Chinatown to the Chinese in exchange for a plate of delicious “dump-lings.”

The fallout: To this day, visitors are required to carry a passport, and the Chinese have continually used the locale as a springboard to attack Northern California, including as recently as 1993. (Gov. Schwarzenegger was elected in part due to his strong stance on the border issue; the state has not been attacked during his tenure.)

BLAIR’S BONER
The folly: In the fall of 1864, Postmaster General Montgomery Blair shot a mail thief to death. That wasn’t the mistake—in fact, to this day, stealing mail remains a federal offense punishable by firing squad—but after firing, he handed the still-loaded pistol to Charles J. Guiteau.

The fallout: Guiteau shot President James Garfield to death in 1881. Though in fairness, Garfield had it coming.

CAMERON’S MISTAKE
The folly: Because of Civil War-era regulations, Secretary of War Simon Cameron was put under 24-hour surveillance. Which became a problem when, in the midst of making love to his wife, he accidentally called her by his mistress’ name: Marvin.

The fallout: Cameron tearfully addressed reporters, confessing “I am a gay American.” But he blazed the trail for later openly gay leaders, such as President Ulysses S. Grant.

BATES’S BLUNDER
The folly: Photographed at a meeting to address disputed tribal lands, Attorney General Edward Pates appeared to be bowing to an Indian chef.

The fallout: Critics on the right declared that Pates was diminishing America’s standing in the world. He was partially vindicated, however, when he pointed out that the photographs required a ten-minute exposure, and he was merely exhausted from defeating the chief in ceremonial wind sprints.

WELLES’S ERROR
The folly: At Lincoln’s second inaugural, Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles’ dowdy ball-buster of a wife wore a dress declared “so spring 1864″ by Beltway fashion critics.

The fallout: Mrs. Welles was summarily dumped in the Potomac to hearty applause.

JOHNSON’S GAFFE
The folly: Immediately after Lincoln gave the Emancipation Proclamation, he leaned over and told Lincoln this was quote-unquote “a big fucking deal.” Unfortunately, the phrase was caught by a live mic.

The fallout: All was redeemed when it was revealed Johnson had invented the microphone.

BELOW: Jean genie Legs Malone models five denim looks that are both haute and hot.

Photographs by Ashley Macknica and Joel Barhamand; Garments by Anna Macknica

In my soul the fire grows >:)

The deafening light of Aphrodite
swallows my blood essence :D

In between translucent raindrops I dodge and swerve,
battling the demons that ravage my blood essence :P

Drip. Drip. Splash. Sploosh. The knight of
Eight castles brings me good cheer 8)

Ten thousand wishes fall out of my heart <:[

As a summer sun sings it’s winter song o_O

Parenthesis lunge at my face, they suck like a leech
On cheekbones of grace :}

The end? Or not the end? :/
Is the end an end? Is a the a the? :\

Can ravaging lions mate, springing me forth from
Their lion vaginas? 8O—-

Take care,
Scott Summers

—–

From: Julia ****** *******
To: Scott Summers
Date: Tue, Nov 10, 2009 at 5:56 PM

Thanks,
Julia

—–

From: Scott Summers
To: Julia ****** *******
Date: Wed, Nov 11, 2009 at 12:10 PM

Take care,
Scott Summers

—–

From: Julia ****** *******
To: Scott Summers
Date: Wed, Nov 11, 2009 at 12:29 PM

Thanks anyway,
Julia

—–

From: Scott Summers
To: Julia ****** *******
Date: Tue, Nov 17, 2009 at 3:08 PM

Urgently,
Scott Summers

—–

From:Julia ****** *******
To: Scott Summers
Date: Tue, Nov 17, 2009 at 3:37 PM

Please do not contact me again.

—–

From: Scott Summers
To: Julia ****** *******
Date: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 5:07 PM

JULIA PLEASE HELP MAGNETO HAS US TRAPPED IN HIS ASTEROID BASE PLEASE CONTACT PROFESSOR CHARLES XAVIER JULIA YOU ARE MY ONLY HOPE AND ALSO THE FIRST NAME TO COME UP IN MY GOOGLE CONTACTS ALSO IF I SURVIVE I WOULD STILL LOVE TO INTERVIEW MY REFERENCES INCLUDE TONY STARK AND DOCTOR HENRY MCCOY WHO IS A REAL BEAST WHEN IT COMES TO RESEARCH I WONDER IF YOU HAVE FIGURED OUT BY NOW THAT THIS IS A PRANK MAGNETO IS A SUPERVILLIAN FROM THE POPULAR X-MEN SERIES OF COMIC BOOKS AND FILMS HOPE YOU HAVE ENJOYED YOURSELF AS MUCH AS I HAVE SINCERELY PETER PARKER

The Issue at Stake: Should Dogs Be Allowed to Vote?

Elliott: Dogs. Man’s best friend. We let these noble animals sleep in our homes, eat our food and perform simulated intercourse on our legs. They have contributed immeasurably to our arts and culture, whether by being photographed in human clothing, being painted playing cards or being filmed saving children in peril. And yet, dogs, no matter how well behaved they are, cannot vote in local or federal elections. This must be rectified.

I believe that any well-behaved dog should be able to vote, as well as hold office and manage campaigns. A well- trained dog should have no problem understanding the complex issues of politics today, just as they understand that they must keep off the sofa in the living room. You may ask how can we tell which dogs are well-behaved and which aren’t? There are the obvious signs, of course. If a dog is unkempt in appearance, smelly in odor, or bites you, then it is safe to say that he is poorly trained and must be escorted from the polling place so that he can be humanely murdered. In addition, all dogs attempting to vote will have to prove their behavior by performing a trained act, such as retrieving a poll worker’s slippers. This Poll trick will remove all doubt as to whether the dog can make his voice heard. Metaphorically, that is. All well-mannered dogs bark only when commanded to.

If I sound personally invested in this issue, it’s because I am. I own a beautiful German Shepherd named Fuzzy Wumpkin and I have no doubt he has the discipline to vote. He knows that there is a time for Frisbee-throwing fun, but there is also a time to keep it down, because the neighbors are complaining. And he does keep it down. Fuzzy Wumpkin, like all well-behaved dogs, has a place in this great, small-d democratic process of ours. Yes he does. Oh yes he does. Doesn’t my Fuzzy Wumpkin deserve the vote? Doesn’t my Fuzzy Wumpkin deserve the vote? Yes he does!

Brock: Let me start by saying that the topic of this debate insults my intelligence. Any able-minded person knows that the right to vote should not be extended to well-behaved dogs. It should be extended to all dogs. By only granting voting rights to well-behaved dogs, are we not just practicing dog segregation? What if I were to suggest that only well-behaved black people should be allowed to vote? You’d call me a racist. and you know what? You’d be right. I am a proponent of universal dog suffrage. One dog, one vote. No exceptions.

After all, who is to decide what behavior is considered good? Society says my dog is bad because he tunnels under the fence in my backyard and roams the neighborhood unsupervised. I say he’s a good dog because he values his freedom and is willing to do whatever it takes to escape the oppression of his leash and collar. Society says my dog is bad because he attacks the mailman. I say he’s a good dog because he isn’t afraid to confront authority, no matter what uniform it may wear. Society says my dog is bad because he soils the carpet in the lobby of my building. I begrudgingly agree with society here, but only because I’m the one who has to pay to get the carpet cleaned. Were there a cleaning service that accepted payment in chew toys or small, freshly killed forest creatures, then I say let my dog hike his leg up and micturate on whatever he likes, as he has wealth enough to pay for his urinary indiscretions one hundred times over.

My point is one man’s bad dog is another man’s man’s best friend. After all, what was George Washington to the British if not a dog that simply refused to be housebroken? Let me conclude by quoting Doctor Martin Luther King, Jr., “arf, arf.” Doctor Martin Luther King, Jr. is what I named my dog to prove to everyone i’m not a racist.

Elliott’s Rebuttal to Brock’s Nonsense: The risks are too great in letting all dogs vote. I estimate there are 400 million dogs in this country. 390 million of which are, by my standards, bad dogs. Yes, I have very high standards. Some might call me a dog snob. But then, I am a former Westminster Kennel club show judge.

The point is bad dogs would immediately run this country. Their likely first course of action would be deregulation of the Snausage industry. Treats would no longer go to the most deserving dogs, but merely to those who begged the loudest. Ronald Reagan warned us about welfare queens, but what about welfare bitches? Bottom line: I hope you like rabies. Because if all dogs can vote, our next president will have them.

Brock’s Rejoinder to Elliott’s Claptrap Bunkum: We have nothing to fear about electing a chief executive with rabies. One of our greatest presidents, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, had polio and what is that, if not rabies for people? Also, Grover Cleveland had mange, yet that didn’t keep him from serving two non-consecutive terms and snagging a hot, 21-year old First Lady.

Finally, Elliott, you have no one but yourself to blame as to why you are a FORMER Westminster judge. The handbook states that decisions are to be made on the basis of a dog’s musculature, gait, color/sheen of its coat and temperament, not on how good it looks in costume. Just because a bloodhound has a deerstalker cap tied to its head doesn’t mean it deserves a trophy.

Conclusion
In which Elliott and Brock make token concessions to the other’s argument, while remaining fundamentally unchanged about the validity of their own rhetoric.

Elliott: Brock, I admire your idealism and your uncompromising nature. However, I refuse to believe that any dog is well-behaved enough to sniff the ass of voting rights, unless that dog is wearing a top hat and monocle. No matter what those douches at Westminster think.

Brock: Elliott, although the chances of it happening are very slim, I admit that it would be a national tragedy if the president died of rabies. That said, I feel the building association should have to pay to clean the carpets MLK, Jr. soils, not me. Why am I paying these outrageous common charges if not to have stuff like this taken care of?

AGREED!

2. Speaking of the fridge area: When I buy eggs, I just have to assume I’m going to lose at least three when he tries to incubate them. I understand the confusion once. However, this is a consistent problem, and in nature, penguin eggs are not found with 11 other eggs in a cardboard carton. It is very reasonable that he be asked to figure this out.

3. He is always playing up the fact that he is a penguin, and therefore, his life is harder than mine. What bothers me most about his moping is that it’s always so well timed to coincide with whenever a chore needs doing. Example:

Me: Hey, penguin, I think it’s your turn to clean the bathroom.
Penguin: (Gives me a look that clearly alludes to his abbreviated 15-20 year life span.)
Me: Ugh. Fine. I’ll do it.

I agree, the life span sucks, but that’s the card he’s been dealt. He’s a penguin, He’s not going to live as long as me. He is, however, going to live as long as other penguins, if not longer, since he lives in a midtown manhattan apartment away from his natural predators.

4. He is always bitching about serial monogamy, how he only gets one lady a year. Hey buddy, want to try lifelong monogamy? Yeah, I didn’t think so. All of a sudden, fresh tail once a year sounds pretty glamorous, doesn’t it?

5. Smoking weed with his buddies when I’m gone. I just don’t like drugs. It’s risking eviction, and whether you believe it’s a gateway or not, it can’t be healthy for him. Still, he’s always surprised when he’s out of breath at the top of the stairs. I think this one pretty much speaks for itself.

6. He never pays the rent on time. I told him when we signed/wing-printed the lease, that I don’t know where he gets $700 a month from, and I don’t care, as long as the check is on time and doesn’t smell like fish. That rarely happens the way I would like.

7. The sky-high air conditioning bills year round, and his insistence that we split it down the middle. Like there’s any chance I’m the one cranking the AC in January. Please. He moved to new york with a damn good idea of what the climate would be. It’s time for him to take some responsibility for his own choices. He’s like 40 in penguin years. Grow up.

8. Come to think of it, everything in the apartment has to be adjusted for him, and he has no sympathy for how this makes things difficult on me. Our couch is two feet from the TV. I have a headache after watching for 10 minutes, but no, we can’t move it back. Why? Because apparently all penguins are nearsighted. And I know at least one penguin who is too stubborn to buy glasses.

We come from different backgrounds. My parents are divorced. He doesn’t know what that’s like. Four generations in a row of his family have been eaten by seals. God willing, I’ll never have to deal with that. I just wish he would work a little harder to meet me in the middle.

Illustrations by Mark Rossi

By this point, the work of celebrated food delivery box artist Nathaniel Stringman has become a staple in all of our lives. Whether the calligraphic exoticism of “Delicious Chinese Food,” the classical elegance of “Greek Gyros,” or the subtle satirical dig at consumerism in “20 Pc. McNugget,” Stringman’s work is the very height of food transportation packaging. Of course his story has become legend, how the penniless urchin with a dream rose to the very pinnacle of the Boston social scene before being killed by a gorilla who had mistaken him for someone else.

Yet how many of us have heard the tale of the man who inspired Stringman’s most famous and beloved work, “Pizza with Smiling Italian Pizza Chef?” If ever there was a time to tell that story, this is it. For that man, Luigi Gabagoozzini, has died after a long battle with mustache cancer.

Gabagoozzini came from humble circumstances, the son of a poor tailor who, to make ends meet, moonlighted as “Tony the Squeege,” the all-powerful crime boss of the eastern seaboard. Though he dreamed of being a doctor, Gabagoozzini was rejected from the university system due to anti-Italian sentiment and his refusal to move out of his mama’s apartment. He passed through a series of short-lived jobs –- organ grinder, opera singer, gigolo, racecar driver, “man hanging around barbershop even though he doesn’t need a haircut” –- before the fateful day when, while rinsing out a chianti bottle for re-use as a candle holder, Stringman first saw him.

Stringman recorded the moment in his diary:

“Oh most joyous of days! At last I have found my pizza chef, as if plucked from my own fevered dreams of cheese and dough! His smile, his mustache, his round friendly countenance. His very eyebrows scream out to me, ‘Mangia mangia! I make-a pizza for you!’ Brick oven muse, I shall repay you for smiling upon me! This shall be my monument!”

Ironically, Gabagoozzini knew nothing about making pizza. Once outfitted in chef’s hat and apron, however, a disc of dough tossed powerfully upwards, he exerted a powerful charisma that was soon looking out from every pizza box in the country. Hailed as Stringman’s greatest find, Gabagoozzini was escorted by the artist into America’s cultural world. Rumors of a romantic relationship between the two have never been substantiated.

Hailed as “the face that sold a thousand stuffed crusts,” Gabagoozzini became a media darling, appearing on the covers of Garlic & Ammo, Italian Aficionado, and U.S. News, World & Pizza Report. It wasn’t long before Hollywood, looking for an edge over the emerging television market, snapped up Gabagoozzini, starring him in over 40 films including the minor classics The Meatballese Falcon and From Here to Ethnicity. Unfortunately, his ride at the top was brief, and he was soon trapped in a series of low-budget “wopsploitation” films with titles like Pizza Owns This Town, Garlic Dynamite, and Shut Uppa You Face!

As his star fell, Gabagoozzini reached his lowest point. He describes it in his self-published 1992 memoir I Am Not Pizza:

“There-a I was. Scrambling inna da garbage for som-a-thing to eat, all my money gone-a right uppa my nose thanks to my addiction to Sicilian White [a particularly potent strain of Parmesan cheese]. That’s when I see it. My own-a face looking right back at-a me from a pizza box. Thrown away in-a da trash, just like-a me. And yet he look so happy. So innocent. I cry like a man without a mistress, and promise on my momma’s grave to kick the cheese for good.”

That’s exactly what Gabagoozzini did. Retiring to Brooklyn, he gracefully faded into obscurity. Perhaps if you walked past the white plaster lion gates of his modest home, and rapped loud enough on the Virgin Mary doorknocker, the friendly old man might show you his collected memories of the time when “Gabagoozzini” was synonymous with “Italian stereotype.” Or he might be too busy playing bocce and making inappropriate gestures at his grand-niece’s high school friends.

Services will be held this Sunday at 2 p.m. at Famous Ray’s. In lieu of flowers, it is requested donations be made to the Pro-Defamation Society.

In Search of Lost Thyme by Marcel Proust

A sprawling, 3,000-page opus about the foibles and contradictions in Parisian high society through the early twentieth century, In Search of Lost Thyme tells the story of an unnamed narrator who, because of his poor health and emotional fragility, looks for solace in the art of soup-making. Conflict erupts when, upon cooking at a dinner party for the Princesse de Guermantes (a high-profile and fabulously wealthy contributor to the French nobility), the narrator discovers his spice rack in disarray. In Search of Lost Thyme chronicles the narrator’s utter bereavement as he scrambles to find not only the proper flavor to his stew, but the proper ingredients to lead a fulfilling life.

The Art of Par by Sun Tzu

Sun Tzu miraculously published his classic manifesto in the sixth century B.C., approximately 18 centuries before the sport of golf was invented. Short chapters in bullet-point format delineate the proper tactics, strategy, and execution of a sure-to-be-victorious golfer, including: “Divinely mysterious, the golfer is inaudible. Thus he is master of the enemy’s fate”; “All golf is based on deception”; and “Treat your caddy as you would your own beloved son. And he will follow you into the deepest sandpit.” Some of Sun Tzu’s notions still hold weight to this day, but not all; for example, “Speed is the essence of golf” was rightfully debunked in the early nineteenth century, due to golf enthusiasts’ preference for never-ending tedium and bitterly lethargic pacing.

Moby, Dick by Herman Melville

Melville’s soaring American epic tells the story of a young Captain Ahab, who, blinded by his unceasing ambition and his utter contempt for lousy music, enters on a quest to search and destroy the title veteran electronic musician, Moby. Ahab recruits a plethora of hipsters to join him on his transcontinental odyssey, wherein they suffer the slings and arrows of The Recording Academy. After Moby’s henchmen bludgeon half of Ahab’s crew to death with copies of Rolling Stone, Ahab continues to struggle onward. Unfortunately, he realizes far too late that his search is unattainable, when it dawns on him that Moby has already died from obscurity.

War and Peach by Leo Tolstoy

War and Peach broadly chronicles the love affairs and turbulent times of Princess Peach during Bowser’s invasion of Mushroom Kingdom. It follows the three most well-known characters in video game history: Mario, a mustachioed entrepreneur who, fatigued from arduous rescue missions and realizing their pointlessness, succumbs to lack of faith in a higher deity; Luigi, his slightly taller brother, who wishes to abandon his family not only to crush Bowser, but also to overshadow his siblings’ well-established glory; and finally Peach herself, the kingdom’s monarch, captured time and time again by the faux-reptilian imperial conqueror, who fascinates both aforementioned men. War and Peach is a searing document about the inevitable, perpetually moving engine of History, and how it propels us always to keep searching, even if what we are looking for is, yet again, in “another castle.”