14B - The Michigan Daily - Weekend, etc. Magazine - Thursday, March 9, 2000 0 0 0 0 The Michigan Daily - feekend, etc. Mag Breakdown Poem by Melissa Jones last night downtown dearborn pissing out behind the just-closed Big Boy primal posei the dumpster onto dirt and next to streaming pavement thirty dollars worth of cover and long islands each splash specks on bar shoes this is the title in two senses: one is alcohol into urine once internal now obesely outside running down all over two is in a body a soul-less god-less body chemistry rules all so that an injection of progesterone can promise happiness no babies (a state of mind somehow removed from biology still reveling in it) so that six drinks can do the same bring me here to this exact point this dumpster how to have a self when you're technological exacting deliberate but still hostage to a body and a bladder both Spiders by Sunshine Jenkins Usually the only evidence of the spiders is their cobwebby structures - little masses of threads between the radiator, fine strings like fairy sail riggings between the broad paddles of my jade plant, sprawls spun cryptically on the blank surface of wall - which reappear as quickly as I clean, breaking them with my fingers. What could the spiders possibly hope to catch in the winter of my bedroom? Why this tenacious fabrication of strings? Their bodies are the golden cream of butter, hardly darker than the walls. They move about the room, silent and inconspicuous as dust. In the afternoon, when the light is brightest and lays itself in two long rectangles that swivel slowly before slinking out, I comb out the knots in my stories, my hand assiduously drawing out the lines of words, the way I imagine the duchesses in old paintings, who seem to be stoically tending to their tresses, are inwardly enraptured by the sensuality: brushing and brushing their smooth scarves of hair. Once while I was writing, a spider slipped into view, stopped in the curled edge of a paper and folded together its spindly legs, tucking itself into the tiny shape of a dash - I held my breath as if the still moment were. somehow caught in a fine mesh of silver filigree - impossibly, we floated with the dust; two specks of light. Try to fall in love at least once a day. Maybe it's with the boy who sits next to you during biology lecture. He wears faded brown corduroys, and when he rests his right ankle on his left thigh, his knee nearly brush- es your leg. Spend the entirebclass vying for his attention, but don't talk to him. Claim the armrest that you two share, and cross your legs so that your body faces his. You once read in Cosmo that this sort of body language always gets your man. While you should be taking notes, make up romantic fantasies of your extended life together. You see your- self waking up next to him on a cold winter morning, cuddling under a warm quilt. The morning stubble on his chinv scrapes your cheek ever so lightly, and though it's prickly, it's tender and beautiful. Wonder if this is the type of guy who you wouldn't mind sharing morning breath with. After the hour, when the class lets out and he hasn't asked you to marry him, decide he isn't worth your time, at least not until the next bio lecture. On your way home from class, stare directly into the eyes of every boy you pass. Your evaluation skills are so fine-tuned, it's practically sec- ond nature. Too short, nice eyes, really tall, pretty face, too preppy, perfect. You feel competitive when they walk next to girls, outright hos- tile when the two are holding hands. Give up on this method halfway to your dorm, before you go insane. Jealousy is never an attractive trait. Besides, you're a pretty, educated woman. You should be above' this nonsense. While walking through your dorm hallway, you spot your well-built neighbor emerging from the boys' bathroom, wearing only a towel. His arm muscles flex while he cradles his soap and shampoo bottle. You blush, then quickly look away. Besides the guys at swimming pools and beaches, you've only seen two half-naked men in your life - your father and your 12-year-old cousin - and these weren't exactly enticing images. You pray your neighbor nei- ther noticed your red face nor heard your thumping heartbeat, and you try to continue down the hallway in a most casual saunter, pretending to be fascinated by the yellowing walls. When you walk in your door, the LOUIS BROWN/Daily fetched. And besides, you go to such a big university, there must be some- one here you're destined to be with. Unfortunately, it's already December, and you haven't had any luck, other than fooling around with some of the guys on your hall when your floor decides to get drunk on weekends. But you aren't really interested in these boys; they're just kind of practice for when you really fall in love. The next term, fall in love with your French teacher. He is small, with blond hair and chiseled fea- tures, and although you suspect he's gay, you find his accent so sexy, it's impossible to pay attention during class. Visit his office hours. Tell him you want to work on your accent for when you study in France in a few years. Sometimes he'll reminisce about his life in Paris, giving you tidbits of personal information, like how he lived on Boulevard St Michel, near the Latin Quarter, by Notre Dame. That night, you dream of the hotel room you two share CRUSH by Cheryl Bratt howling with a club tongue, Like the honey said, (you got to) go. Woman, leave. To the Girl Behind the Cash Register at Hallmark's 10 by Michael Lombardo red button on your answering machine is blinking. Maybe it's a boy asking you on a date. "Hello, girls, this message is for Sarah. Sarah, it's Grandma Esther. I haven't heard from, you in a very long time. How are things? Call me when you get this message. Goodbye.". Find your grandmother's phone number in the address section of your tattered daily planner. It's located under "G," because all your names are listed by first name in alphabetical order. In college, you rarely know anyone's last name. "Grandma? It's Sarah. How are you?" you cheerfully greet your grandmother. "Oh hello, dear. I hadn't heard from you in so long, and I wanted to make sure you're okay. How's school?" "Oh, it's fine. I've just been really busy. I've got lots of papers to write and tons of work to do." "And how's your romantic life?" "Grandma, I'm in college to learn, not to find a boyfriend," you chastise her. Your grandmother's the type who wants everyone to be happy and in love. She reminds you of Yenta, the Matchmaker. "Listen, honey, school is also about having a good time. If you don't have fun, what's the point of living? Do you hear me?" Actually, maybe she's more like Blanche from the Golden Girls. "Yes, Grandma, I'll keep that in mind." Think about your grandmoth- er's last remark after you hang up the telephone, but not too much, because it will only depress you and give you a headache. When you came to college, you gave yourself until February to find a boyfriend. Your older sister fell in love in March, and so you, too, are destined to find the right person. Besides, not that you don't love Erica and think she's a wonderful person, but you secretly figure you are generally prettier than she is, with your red hair and hazel eyes, so your goal doesn't seem so far- Her name tag simply reads "JENNY" in thick block letters, but she has added a small daisy drawn in blue sharpie with a heart-shaped pistil in red. And he likes the flower very much, but not quite so much as he likes the breast upon which it lies. He clutches the bright Mother'sDay card he came here to buy tightly, tighter, crumpling watercolor balloons and calligraphy between the moistness of his wrinkled fingers. His breaths are stumbling over each other, words swirling like confetti around his head, and his head is not alone for his drawers are holding their own ticker-tape parade. Then: he realizes his obviousness, averts the gaze, scrutinizing instead piles of assorted kitsch and cheap candy and Beanie Babies with dumb, plastic eyes, fearing that his glasses like teleprompters were displaying his silently composed hymn to the rounded roundness of those two delightful bubbles - but in his song they would not be bubbles for bubbles are such trifling things. It would be too much, he thinks, to hope for a wisp of a smile like Da Vinci's Lisa, were he to unclench his teeth and loose his song. Most likely she would think him just another pervert in a line of hairy-handed perverts, panting like an old wolf staring at the moon, or rather two moons, hanging pendulous against the firmament of a blue t-shirt. Ufe £ttgm 9 t1 Weekend Magazine Editors: Toyin Akinmusuru, Jeff Druchniak Contributors: Cheryl Bratt Chris Fici, Seva Gunitskiy, Sunshine Jenkins, Melissa Mather, Curt Prudden, Joeile Renstrom, Sarah K. Skow. All selected contributors are University students whose submissions were judged b Photo Editors: Jessica Johnson, Dana Linnane, David Rochkind. Photographers: Louis Brown, Sam Hollenshead, Jessica Johnson, Dana Linnane, Je Cover: Photo illustration by Daily Photo Editor Louis Brown. Arts Editors: Christopher Cousino, Managing Editor; Gabe Fajuri, Chris Kula, Ass Editor in Chief: Mike Spahn