I guess it is time that I posted something...

Amber and I have moved to Wisconsin for new jobs. Our new address is up on facebook or you can e-mail me for it.

Packing sucks...as does unpacking.

I got to drive a 24' bed GMC 4 ton truck to move all our crap...

We'll be sending out invites for the wedding soon...

I'll be sending out stuff on tuxes before to long (hopefully)...

Life is kind of a drag...

There are 7 bars within 4 blocks of our apartment...

so it goes

DAVE FRANK
700 COLLEGE ST., APT. #3
CLINTON, N.C. 28328

We all know Drowning Bob is dead, has been for a while. Jon Gibbons once said: “We killed a cactus. We are less nurturing than the desert.”



Thanks to the Root System, a Jonesville-area roadside cactus and succulents shop, Prickly Pete—not to be confused with George Costanza's fake horse at his fake house in the Hamptons—is the euphorbia canariensis that now graces the Beat's upstairs hallway.

We are confident Prickly Pete will grow in girth and stature.

—Econ

Well done, Dylan. Well done.

So I fashioned this little thing to demonstrate the far reaches of (an intoxicated) Econ's authority:



Of course the poster will be worthless when it comes to actually...you know...being clean. But you have to admit it's nice to look at for about 5-7 seconds.

Amber and I are moving to Wisconsin in about three weeks...any of you bastards going to be in the area this summer/fall?

I went to Jacksonville last week and had dinner at the Marina Cafe and I can't say I was impressed by either. A Hillsdale on the bay.

No pants party gone awry in Roma. So I went for a little walk tonight at about midnight. I walked out to the place where the thieves market ends, as I turned the corner I looked down and thought to myself, "How odd, that looks like a man without any pants on." But I kept walking anyway, because that's just the kind of guy I am. Then I thought to myself "Fucking shit, THAT WAS A MAN WITH NO PANTS ON!!!" So I walked back, and sure enough it was this guy without any pants on, wearing a red button down shirt, khaki socks, and nothing else, lying in a pool of his own blood. I wasn't really sure what to do, but there where other people there who spoke Italian. I don't speak Italian. I just sort of stood there, noded when people looked in my direction, shruged every once in a while, and waited for the ambulence to show up. Actually, I didn't know that the guy was lying in a pool of his own blood until the medics got there, up to that point I just heard that he was breathing, and knew that there where about eight other people there. A medic felt for a pulse, and I think he said "He's drunk" but like I said, I don't speak Italian, though I'm pretty sure that he didn't say "He's dead" because that sounds something like "Morte" and the ambulence drove off with the lights on, and I think that's a good sign... Anyway, if you come to Rome, don't have a no pants party face down on the sidewalk in a puddle of your own blood.

-HARVY

The Demolition




So now I can always explain the fact that I attended Hillsdale by saying, Well it's changed.

Mell sez hi

A question to all Beatniks: What is the weirdest meal you ever ate/drank in this house?

To start things off, for dinner today I consumed...

one entire can of King Oscar sardines,




a cup of Nissin Chicken Vegetable Flavor Cup Noodles,



and three Entennman's Glazed Chocolate Popems.

Where are they now? Well, this is HARVY, and I'm in Rome, Italy. It is pretty damn sweet.

Thursday: The BEAT:

Toga-gypsy-viking-cap 'n' gown party.

9 p.m.

We're all watching the Ky. Derby this Saturday so we can root for the Nunn family's horse, Lawyer Ron.

Location and pres·ence of mint juleps to be determined.

Tattoo?

The founder of THE BEAT is Catholic priest who has no great amount of affection for Allen Ginsberg. He has an alter in the trunk of his Bug with candles and the whole works.
Here's to Quinn.

Happy 10 year anniversary, THE BEAT.

Beat Night

Friday, April 28

9 p.m.

All I have to say is FUCK the career planning office for making me fill out their fucking carrier information forms before they will send me my cap and gown. Fuckers didn't help me get my goddamn job. But I suppose the college needs to show that some grads can actually get jobs outside of the college.

Which was funnier?

Dr. Jordan's 3 or 4 year old daughter doing a back flip over the front pew while her mother watched in horror, or the 10 to 13 year old girl behind me whining right after communion, "but I did do it right. Why does it even matter?"


Happy Easter all.