Public Notice

Gather 'round the Yule log and the figgy pudding, get out a paper and pen, and jot down some of these items form our Annual Holiday Wish List 2000. Local organizations need you!


So we're having a jaunty conversation with our very butch, very babe pal (who shall remain, for the sake of this column and her anonymity, nameless, despite her up-and-coming stature as world-famous underground artist), and we were talking, of course, about ... what else? Babes. The pal and we had devised this whole scenario, see. Together, we were to invite this one particular rockin' lady to our li'l holiday soiree and proceed to stage a series of mock battles for her lady's hand. The idea was that yours truly would defer to our pal's greater gallantry and let said pal "get the girl" as it were. As we were discussing this harebrained, most-likely ill-conceived, yet-to-be-hatched scheme, our caffeinated friend and us, we were whisked back in time a few years, to the days before knee surgery, broken foot, broken dreams, and shatttered physical spirit, to our own glory days of chivalrous ribaldry or at least moderate feats of careless derring-do that we somehow managed to survive.

We remembered those salad says, perched atop the big black dancer's boxes at local bar, The Hollywood, leaping, eyes wide shut into the mucky fray, with the mission of breaking up some insipid babe brawl, featuring babes who were more often than not armed. But the sight of a large teddy bear of a lass hurtling toward them at great speed from great height must have given them some pause -- or at the very least, time enough to giggle and move out of the way.

This of course reminded us of jumping out of an airplane -- a feat we accomplished despite a previous 17 years spent as a practicing aerophobe, a feat inspired, of course, by unrequited (read: unhealthy) love. We lamely scheduled the jump to prove something to someone and in turn proved something better to ourselves. (Oh, and in case you don't have a score card, we didn't get the girl.)

Leaping out of the side of that roaring Canadian Otter reminded us, predictably, of falling in love. Aside from the falling factor, both acts share another common denominator: the fact that some mystical thing in both ridiculous acts keeps one afloat. Now whether one banks more on physics or metaphysics, flying through the air at some 120MPH will make one a believer in something (if not everything), even if it's just in one's own sweet self. Steeping in the steamy mug of luv can do this, too. What we most clearly recall about parachuting is the feeling of immortality, of heroic purpose. Likewise, it is often said that what we miss most when we lose love, is the person we ourselves once were.

Whatever. It all comes down to leaps, no? Taking chances and all that rot ... .

Rock & Roll held the same sort of soul-saving power -- when we were very young, especially. And when we think of our relationship to that magical musical mayhem, we picture ourselves flailing around on stage or up against a stage, lost in sound, adrift in our own state of "fuck-all." Would we be alive were it not for Patti Smith, we wonder?

Okay, we know what you're thinking: Those "Public Notice"-ers have really lost it. They are devolving into the goo of self-absorption and over-analysis. Well, dammit, it's that time of year, isn't it? Hell, it's that time of millennium.

This whole leaping, hurtling, flailing, flying picture we are desperately trying to paint for you has a message -- and maybe, more importantly, a message to serve as reminder to ourselves. And if it isn't clear yet, here it is in plain Queen's English:

Leap into the void. No hold's barred. And hold tight to this notion for the entire duration of the next four years of impending plague ... oooerrrrrrrrrrr, administration.

That said, here's our contribution to this issue's Top 10 melée:

Top 10 Signs of the Impending Old World Order

10. Bushisms will be dismissed as quaint colloquialisms to the point of acceptance, i.e., words like: Kosovians, Timorians, Grecians, Texanians, undermisestimated, antidisintellectualnism, happenate, and analyzation will become de riguer.

9. It will become cool to misspell de riguer.

8. Dan Quayle will become bafflingly well respected and appear frequently as an elder statesman and color commentatoe.

7. Guerilla art posters featuring a curiously powder-dusted Curious George W. in amusing and compromising positions captioned with old Coca-Cola® catchphrases will show up on telephone poles and traffic light boxes all over the planet.

6. Executions will now be referred to as "putting criminals to sleep."

5. The Anti-Choice movement will pay a PR firm a lot of money to come up with a hip, uplifting new slogan like, "Embrace your inner baby!"

4. The Bush Girls will don mullets that will, in turn, become all the rage. Daddy will be heard to exclaim, "I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully."

3. Laura Bush will cop to the fact that the "whole reading thing" was "a scam," and that George is really "the smart one."

2. Ironically, it is the words of the Dubyuh hisself that are most telling (The Dallas Morning News, May 2000): "I think we agree, the past is over."

1. The change of the name of this column to "Republican Notice."

Next Week, "Public Notice" will resume its usual antics of event and benefit promoting.

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More Public Notice
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This is the last Public Notice ever.

Kate X Messer, Aug. 31, 2001

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"Public Notice" talks about friends and the end of this column.

Kate X Messer, Aug. 24, 2001

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