Legatissimo.info

If you need a roommate agreement for whatever purpose, a dorm room, a rented apartment, what have you, this will probably fit your needs pretty well. This was the roommate contract the 8 of us in 704.5 wrote and handed in last fall. It is also a fairly accurate description of how we live our lives.

Article V. Collective Urination

Preamble: How will we share common space and personal possessions?

Being highly territorial creatures, it is important that an acceptable system for distributing resources be in place to minimize bloodshed unrelated to vampires. Minimizing vampire-related bloodshed is impossible (see Appendix A). In the interest of fairness and equality, common space will be distributed through a system of urination. The rightful owner of common space in the room will be determined by identifying to whom the freshest/strongest scent of urine belongs. This “ownership” lasts only for the time while the urine is in a liquid state. Artificial steps taken to extend or reduce the drying time of urine will not be tolerated, this includes but it not limited to adjusting the temperature of the
room—which should always be between 61 and 63 degrees.

Should discrepancies arise regarding to whom the strongest/freshest scent of urine belongs, a panel of six members of “The Gay Brigade” ( will be assembled to make a decision. In the event their vote is a tie, the object or area in question will be burned.

It's a PDF, and it's only 242K. Fantastic!

Note from Kyle: This is the first half of the last chapter of my second failed attempt to write a novel. Make of that (and this) what you will.

The palpable frustration drove me inside, away from the seamlessly grey sky and sharp wind. The Inaugural Parade was already two hours late, and a rumor was swirling around the local news feeds that it would be yet another hour before the President's motorcade left; and we were another twenty minutes down the route, on top of that. No matter; I was warm now, and more importantly, away from the tension outside, which had grown too great for me to handle in my fragile state.

The place was a 15 table restaurant, a lot like Guiseppe's: Five six tops; six four tops; and four two tops. (We had an extra set of two tops, bringing our total to 17.) With the delayed parade, business was quite brisk.

They were handling it flawlessly. They were the perfect waitstaff. Thirty seconds from plating to service, and there wasn't a single empty water glass to be found. The life was just as electric as outside, but here, instead of a chaotic buzz was all whirling together in a beautiful dance. No frustration; just shit getting done; another fantastic example of the free market at its best. There was a modest wait time at the door, but that resembled more of a reverse-quarantine period, a chance to catch the infectious harmony moving the establishment in choir. And to get away from outside, it was a perfectly reasonable amount of time to wait.

After twenty minutes or so, a lady my age, 25 or so, with a black band tattooed on her forearm called my name. I was caught off guard when she showed no hesitation to give me a two top all to myself. When I was being seated I made a comfortable smile at her. She smiled back genuinely. If I were her, my thoughts would have been preoccupied, wondering 'who goes to a parade alone?'

I felt real, sitting at the paper covered table facing the storefront of the little family-owned diner on Pennsylvania. I was so thirsty that I emptied my water glass before the menu even arrived. But when it did, it was a solid minute before I even picked it up, I was too rapt in awe of the true human agency that surrounded me.

The thing was a one page photocopy and it was comprised everything they could reasonably stock up on -- knowing they couldn't really get extra ingredients past the security checkpoints mid-way through the day.

I met my waiter: his name was Charlie.

I had gotten caught up in the movement, and for a moment I had forgotten about the Charlie I hallucinated. He was the start of all of this Parade nonsense. The plain and simple truth of it was that I couldn't kill the president if I didn't have a gun. And there was no way I could acquire a gun if I were inside the security perimeter. I had finally convinced myself that the bald, mocha-faced man with the pencil mustache was no more real than a dream.

Truthfully, to avoid the parade would have been to run from his challenge, and in so doing, show I was still subject to his oppressions and desires. That was a thing I most definitely was not. He was not real.

I had already made a selection, so the waiter took my drink order and my main order at the same time. I wanted coffee and a "hell in a ham biscuit". It was a bit late for brunch, but things like that didn't bother me much. He apologized about the wait.

"It wasn't a problem at all." I told him.

"Well, just as our way of saying thanks for putting up with it, we're giving everyone a free dessert today."

I grinned. Genuinely grinned. I said: "Thank you," Chuckled a bit, nodded, and continued. "If the rest of the meal is as good as the first ten minutes, I'll be back here more." I nodded again. It really was the perfect restaurant.

Charlie left me.

The last six months had been awful. To finally be free of the burden of tangled dancing of Rockerfeller and the rest of the robber barons, of Charlie, of his horrible ideas, and most of all his horrible predictions. I was sick of his shit.

I had been expecting the parade to be a pretty calm and well organized event. More like the restaurant.

The room was brilliantly lit by the kind of vivid, spirited light that only shines in winter. Reflecting off the Easter-yellow and white striped walls, it made everything look fresh and crisp, while the agreeable thermostat gave the room a deescalating warmth.

The restaurant was a staunch departure from my apartment. The latter had been cluttered and grubby as the result of months of indifferent upkeep, although, I had managed to vacuum for the first time in months the day before the parade.

I had so much more time on my hands now that I had stopped spending my days chasing an imaginary man through the city. I quit Guiseppe's to do it, living off some money I had saved up.

The other people in the restaurant seemed to be as content as I was. They spoke in voices punctuated with life, all of which were vibrant and distinct. They sat in for my guest and made idle chitchat to me. It was a conversation so simple, my only reply was a smile no one noticed. They continued. And from their swirling rhythm they produced Charlie, carrying a large bowl on a plate.

"There was a mixup in the kitchen," he said, setting the steaming dish in front of me. "They made an extra for an order. We're usually not this fast."

"It looks great. Thanks."

It was every bit as delicious as it appeared. Good Southern-comfort food was hard to find in the parts of the District I stuck to. Biscuits and eggs, topped with fried ham and a jalapeno gravy; it was a kick start when taken in conjunction with the cup of coffee, which I had almost finished off by that point.

I was only a dozen odd bites in when the first chirp went off. A woman looked a little embarrassed as she pulled her computer from her purse to check her messages.

As she was reading, another chirp came. Moments later, a third.

The resonating conversations became turned heads and raised eyebrows. Hushed whispers and more people taking out computers. I hadn't brought mine.

It was rare that so many people's news filters would push an audible information alert at the same time. It was probably something to do with the Parade, or someone famous died. Probably the Parade, though. The woman who chirped first spoke up.

"The White House has released a statement: The Parade will begin in 5 minutes. It should be here in 25."

The conversations sprung back, imbued with anticipation. The waitstaff responded in full force, offering any interested patron to-go boxes and apologizing as they told the customers they would have to box the food themselves.

A young woman offered me a box, a bag, and the bill. I accepted all three; I quickly handed back the padded black folder, with a twenty inside. It was enough to cover the bill plus tax and tip.

"Thanks," She said. "I'll give this to your waiter."

"Have a good day," I said. She left confidently and with a sense of hustle, on to the next table.

I picked up the shallow, oversized bowl and herded the food in it into the open box. As I did this I reassured myself that a light brunch is all I wanted in the first place. That had been my original intent when I entered. I closed the box. A light shake and I opened the bag, and I stood it mouth up on the table.

Of the 15 tables, I was the first towards the door, the only one with cash. Normally it would have put me at a disadvantage but the restaurant only had two card readers.

Shimmying back into my winter coat, I picked up the leftovers as I stood up, and put them in the bag. I was ready to see the parade. It was going to be a good day, I thought then smiled.

Mornings are the worst. I always seem to find my initial waking state largely inhospitable. The fact that my alarm will only snooze ten times and then shut off is an issue I confront at least three times every morning.

I sleep with my travel alarm clock in my hands--I am a runner on a starting block; I am strung in elastic vigilance; I am waiting for a pistol shot. Three years of roommates necessitate such potential energy. On the same subject: though I do not have roommates at the moment, you don't forget how to ride a bike.

I found balance in keeping the morning peace amongst roommates while simultaneously feeding a snooze habit. Snap too fast, I'm liable to wake with a start, which, while useful, is less enjoyable than a well-planned, responsible oversleeping. Too slow, and I incite the ill will of my cohabiters.

I am amazed, bordering frightened, of the achievements of myself asleep. Passwords entered, complex menus navigated, hidden clocks found. Half-way, I fear that simply for the sake of poetic justice I will one day discover my resting self has been rising at night and deftly fighting against every cause I have steadfastly supported. I only fear it half way, because everything I know tells me there's no way I--or any variation of myself--would get out of bed, unless it was in an effort to secure more sleep.

Technically speaking, I have no right to be upset. It's always a premeditated, unprovoked attack on my part. Before I lie down I set a trap. When it goes off, I know I will win the inevitable war of attrition. Battle after battle, then eventually I persuade myself there is no option but to rise.

I fight for consciousness. The alarm clock is our war, and the snooze button is our Appomattox.

Strange, I struggle to surrender to sleep in the evenings then fight to pry it away eight hours later.

When I was a child, my mother would drop me off at Montessori school. Kicking and screaming, I did not wanting to leave her. In the evenings I tried with might and tears to stay at school as long as I could. (I think this an early manifestation of whatever it is that makes me late.)

There are some mornings I am forced to use techniques, which I consider to be in bad faith:

--I schedule important meetings, doctors appointments, etc, at hours I have no business being awake at. Even half asleep, I have the good senses not to sleep through something important.

--I go to sleep with the dryer running, knowing full well I would feel irresponsible if I didn't wake with enough time properly put the clothing away. (As a point of concession, I acknowledge that the clothing must be fluffed for at least 15 minutes--time enough for one more snooze cycle.)

--I set my coffee maker to start brewing coffee before I am awake. My frugality forces me to save enough time to drink it. As an aside: I enjoy my coffee warm, consequently, the time elapsed from carafe to empty cup is atypically long.

--I drink large quantities of water shortly before falling asleep. This has not resulted in bed wetting since I was in middle school and one time when I was drunk, but I believe the latter event to be an aberration from my norm.

--From time to time, I ask friends to set my clocks ahead a reasonable amount of time (2-25 minutes). I do this on the advice of Sun Tzu: "All warfare is based on deception. Therefore, when capable, feign incapacity; when active, inactivity. When near, make it appear that you are far away; when far away, that you are near."

--I have contemplated buying a "shake-awake" alarm clock. I think it may still be on my amazon.com wishlist, but I'm not sure about that.

--Most days I take showers that are unreasonably cold.

These tactics are not things I enjoy. Suffice it to say: if a simple bell did the trick, I would use it. It doesn't; I don't. Instead I rely on complex methods and calculated tactics. They serve me well, and I am forced to full mental acuity by the process. Perhaps the struggle is nothing more than the normal course of a boot cycle of my human mind.

A victory over oneself is subtle wisdom. Lessons learned: The battles I cannot win today I will win tomorrow, so long as I do not raise my flag to defeat. And the battles I don't win? At least defeat didn't come for lack of trying.

Instead, I start every day locked up tight in a test of wits and will, facing my only truly matched competitor, reminding my upright consciousness I'm racing no one but myself, and truth be told, we're on the same side.

I do the laundry when I need to feel professional. When I need to feel clean. Or when I need to feel like I'm a responsible person. Even though I firmly believe that the word 'responsibility' has it has way too many Is in it for its own good.

I am twenty years old. But I will be twenty-one in just a few weeks.

I have a job that lets me be creative. (And also lets me be late from time to time.) And I live in an apartment in the basement in a neighborhood that's nice.

I can take out the trash twice a week, but I usually take it out once every 3/2 of a week -- once every week and a half. It's not a conscious decision. It's just I don't produce much garbage.

I don't have a roommate -- for the first time in my moderately short life. Not that I had a roommate as a kid, but I had a brother, and that was pretty close.

I don't get scared at night. There's not much to be afraid of when the lights are off. But even the snoring that kept me awake at night was still a subtle reassurance. Not a promise that everything was okay, just that if something did go wrong, I wouldn't face it alone.

Now, the thought doesn't cross my conscious mind much. Maybe I've stopped hearing it, or maybe it can't break the surface tension between the blue sky of my higher capacities and the ocean of my deep thoughts.

No matter the reason I do not hear -- whether it is for lack of trying or for lack of sound -- the silence has become the reassurance when I slowly coast my mind asleep.

Although I should say this: the only reason I would wake up to turn off my alarm clock is because I didn't want to wake up my roommate.

The week before I left home freshman year for Foggy Bottom, I was convinced that I only needed two things: a P.O. box and a job. They were legacies of my childhood. I needed a permanent address and I needed to stay busy. While I had deeper worries about coming to college, somehow, I thought, if I could take care of those two things, everything else would fall in place.

And without much planning on the job front, before I really stopped to consider what I was doing, on my third day in college, I found myself gainfully employed by the second-oldest newspaper in Washington, D.C.

If I had known how much my life would be influenced by The Hatchet, I probably would have stopped to think. But even if I had done that, I would have pushed forward, anyway - especially knowing what I know today.

Now, staring down a commencement date within spitting distance, I can see just how much my personal, professional and academic development were shaped - some professors might suggest "stunted" - by The Hatchet. But for all its ups and downs, the experiences and achievements I have been a part of in the last three years have impacted me in tremendous ways.

The start of my employment was unceremonious. About the closest thing to a "welcome aboard" was when Mosheh Oinounou lost my high school portfolio, which consisted of a half dozen issues of my semi-monthly/monthly/whenever-we-could-get-it-out-the-door high school newspaper. (Mosheh, if it's any condolence, Barnett found them when he was cleaning the office.)

Within days of becoming The Hatchet's newest production assistant, I was making graphics and corrections. Within weeks, I was cursing the old Xanté, making pages and moaning about missing fonts. And within a couple of months, give or take, I don't recall exactly, I was promoted to assistant production manager. I had become a part of The Hatchet, and it had become a part of me - and the walls of the production "office" will never be the same because of it.

The job was an interesting one. I wouldn't go as far as to say that production is the glue of the newspaper. But we are the house ads; we are the leading and the kerning; we are the last deadline before it hits the fan. We wrestle with the computers and turn off the lights. We take stories, photos and ads and put them together like a big puzzle, and then we check the jumps, and somehow when the paper comes out the next morning, the jumps are off anyway.

Things coalesced. I settled in. And when Andrew Snow called me late one February night, five months into my employment, I knew something was wrong. He told me I had to come to The Hatchet. I told him I'd be there as soon as I could.

That evening we learned Jenny Dierdorff, production manager, my boss and friend, had taken her own life. While it ripped us apart individually, it brought us all closer together. We carried on. Despite the strain of not just missing a key staff member but dealing with the emotional toll of losing a friend, we went to press on-schedule after a production night that still seems like it should have been impossible.

Unwittingly promoted, I can say with total certainty that if it weren't for the hard work and dedication of Sarah Brown, Kyle Spector, Josh Stager and of course Andy Phillips, there's no way I would have been able to hold things together. Forced into shoes I didn't think myself capable of filling, I had to step up, but the support I had made my transition possible.

As we pushed forward into the spring, a sense of normalcy slowly began to return. Instead of just working hard to hold things together, we could work on improving the paper.

To impress oneself is the hallmark of success, I think. For me, it's a great feeling to do something that I didn't know I could do. I know the reputation I have around The Hatchet builds me up as some kind of miracle worker. Can't think of a headline for this fancy layout? "No sweat, Stoneman will think of something." It's flattering, and it would be a lie to say that I don't enjoy a bit of ego stroking from time to time. But I think that my reputation is more or less undeserved. Sure, it may look like I know a lot of stuff, but I'm really just picking it up as I go.

When I was in high school, I worked as a counselor for a week-long science camp that was run through the public schools. Though I still remember the Latin names of most of the native Oregon trees, one idea that I come back to more often is a bit of advice the staff would give to the incoming student leaders: fake it 'til you make it. It's disarmingly simple, but it's served me very well.

Back in March, Michael Barnett approached me to see if I was interested in designing a 32-page magazine about the basketball team. "Of course," I told him. Never mind that I had never designed a magazine before; never mind that beyond my understanding of the technical workings of the computer programs involved, I didn't have much of an idea what I was doing; never mind any of that. Even though I didn't know how to make a magazine, I knew I could fake it.

I'm going to let you in on a secret that I haven't told anyone before. I've been faking this whole time. Hell ... I'm still faking it.

But that's the thing about me; I don't do something because I know how to do it. I do something because I don't know how to do it. That has been why I have loved working for the Hatchet so much. I can succeed. I can fail. And that's okay. We're all doing the best we can; making the best newspaper we know how to make.

I came to college with two dilemmas - where could I get my mail, and where could I spend my time - and I'm leaving with one solution. Three years ago, after only a few days on the job, I explained my P.O. box plan to an editor, who promptly dismissed it. "Just have it all sent to The Hatchet," she told me. So I did. And for the last three years when anyone asked me what my home address is, I've always said, "2140 G St."

-30-

-The writer has been designing pages and doing magic tricks at The Hatchet since September 2003.

The Parties to this Protocol,

In pursuit of the objective of settling the matter of responsible parties as expressed in Article I,

Acknowledging that someone must go get the pizza we ordered,

Being guided, by Article II of the Convention,

Considering the strict punishments for accord violations discussed in Article III,

Have agreed as follows:

Article I

1. Each party enumerated in Annex I, in order to settle matters of responsibility in the delegation of actions manifest as public goods, shall:

(a) Implement and/or endorse the procedural basis for actor-selection as outlined in Article II, hereinafter referred to as "the Procedure", to the best of his or her ability not limited by personal characteristics of:

(i) Laziness
(ii) Unwillingness

(b) Treat the assignment of actions of public good by the Procedure to be binding, so long as its use is not:

(i) Excessively malicious;
(ii) Unreasonably financially burdensome;
(iii) Discrepant with the Procedure outlined in Article III.

2. The assignment of responsibilities relating to actions designated as public goods by use of the Procedure may include, but are not limited to:

(a) Fetching:

(i) Food orders;
(ii) Forgotten items;
(iii) Items located in remote locations;

(b) Making:

(i) Consumables;
(ii) Other items;

(c) Discussing socially undesirable topics, such as:

(i) The presence of body odor with the culpable party.

(d) Other:

(i) Paying for things
(ii) Performing tasks

Article II

1. Initiation of the The Procedure is a combination of a verbal statement and a hand gesture. To be considered an official activation of The Nose Goes Accord (hereinafter 'The Accord'), this combined action must be carried out pursuant with Article II § 2.a. To have one's response counted in an official activation of The Accord, it must be conducted as outlined by Article II 2.b. The matter has been settled when the conditions of Article II 2.c have been met.

2. The implementation of an Accord procedure.

(a) The Activation. The Activation is the initial call made by an Accord signer, as listed in Annex I, through use of the activation phrase, with its accompanying hand gesture. The Accord can only be activated when the initiator is a signed member, and when all present potential actors are signatories in word or deed. The process of Activation requires the following two actions to be performed in any order:

(i) Speaking of a phrase similar in construct to "not it," with a level of granular detail substantial enough to identify the disputed action, and audible enough so that it is identifiable by all reasonable parties. If identification of the disputed action can be determined without the use of speech, this phrase is not necessary.
(ii) The touching of one's nose with either index finger in a subtle or non-subtle fashion.

(b) The Response. The Activation is met with the Response of all parties deemed to be within reasonable playing distance. The Response is the action of an individual touching his or her nose with his or her index finger. As with the Activation, the action of the Response can be subtle or non-subtle.

(c) The Resolution. Resolution occurs when all but one present potential actors have performed the response, as outlined in Article II § 2 c. The remaining individual, who has not completed the Response (hereinafter 'It') is assigned responsibility for the action in dispute.

Article III

1. Enforcement of this Accord is left up to the total group will of the the Activating parties. Punishment for failure of explicitly signed members could take the form of revocation of their activation privileges, or simple social ostracism.

2. Disputes disputes will be resolved by one of two procedures. Matters involving questions of procedural application—eg determination of the last responding party—will be determined as outlined in Article III § a. Matters involving the interpretation of the Accord text will be determined as discussed in Article III § b. While procedural questions default to Article III § a, if sufficient disagreement on the matter warrant, it can be escalated to the procedure outlined in Article III § b.

(a) In determining matters of procedure, those individuals participating in the specific Accord Activation and free of explicit personal interest in the dispute shall act as arbitrators, determining who is It.

(b) In determining matters of Accord interpretation, the individual leading the charge of dispute is responsible for conducing a poll of the undersigned enumerated in Annex I. Should the poll not be carried out, the motion shall be considered to have failed. Should the poll determine that a majority of undersigners find in favor of the motion, the motion is passed. If the poll results end in a tie, the motion fails, and all decisions of the Accord in regard to the specific dispute are null and void.

Annex I

* Read Part 1 *

Still adjusting to the fact that she was the last human in existence, Deborah sighed after nearly 20 minutes of silence. LadyBot, who had assimilated this information billions of milliseconds ago had been waiting to initiate conversation, but the time was not a loss. While Deborah was lost in her thought, LadyBot had discovered the next largest prime number known to humanity and its creations -- that is to say, Deborah Barns and herself. LadyBot rolled over to Deborah.

"Hey," the computer said.

"Hi," Deborah responded lukewarmly, turning her head towards the metal creation.

"You know," LadyBot paused. "I saw, um, well I saw all the explosions, and I was wondering if everything is alright."

"No," Deborah turned her head back towards the window. "Nothing is alright."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"For what it's worth?" Finally Deborah was starting to feel emotions again. "Excellent. It's worth nothing. That's exactly what your 'sorry' is worth to me at the moment. LadyBot, do you understand? It's gone, the whole damn thing is gone."

Indeed LadyBot understood, she understood 3.2 milliseconds after seeing the blasts, however, she declined to point out this fact. Her intelligence may have been simulated, but she was no dummy.

Deborah, continued. "All the cities, all the people, all the water, all the little rabbits, all the damn people." She stopped and chuckled in that way people do (er, did?) when they know something isn't funny, but they realize just how atypical the situation is. "Except for me. But I guess everything is A-OK, because my navigation system is sorry."

The human's eyes were still locked on smoldering fires quickly depleting the oxygen and hope that anyone might have survived, other than herself. LadyBot's cameras were locked on Deborah. She knew that humans could be moody, but never before had she experienced this sort of human input. Then again, this was also her first time directly interfacing with a post-appocolytic human.

The question:

name: J.D.

email: ***police@*****.**m

re: http://www.gullible.info/archive.php?m=2005-12#post465

type of message: Positive

comments: Can you provide me with the source of you information on the drug pigs?

The answer:

Hello,

You asked a few weeks ago about drug sniffing pigs, and where the information was from. My apologies for not replying sooner, I have been traveling around the sub-Sahara on a quest -- of sorts -- and the strangest thing happened. You undoubtedly heard about the cold snap in that region. Well, it came to pass that I was there during that cold snap, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Rather than just come back to the US (BORING!), I figured I'd just open up the paper and see where the hottest temperature in the world was. As it happened, it was in Bombay, India.

Now, J.D., I am not a man of empty promises, half-hearted efforts, nor am I full of boloney. If I resolve to go to Bombay, I am going to Bombay. So I hopped on a train and was on my way. After five days of traveling I started to get bored, and took to wandering around to other train cars, trying to engage strangers in conversation, or at least to steal a loaf of bread I could survive on for the next week. But even a life of petty crime (you can't touch me if it happened outside of your jurisdiction, right? your jurisdiction isn't Bombay, India, right?) was ne'er enough thrill for my wandering heart. Bags in hand, I jumped train two hundred and one miles from Bombay and started off on foot. Let me tell you this: that was a mistake. Flat out, no bones about it. I am willing to say that I thought it would help, but it didn't. Not at all. I'm a big enough man to admit when I was wrong.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, I made it to Bombay and got a tattoo so I would have a good conversation starter that I could use to segue into the incredible journey I had just taken. Tattoo or not, I was in Bombay. I had accomplished my single, overarching goal. Bags in hand, (ONCE AGAIN!) I got on a plane to fly back to America. Just before they were about to close the door on the jet, though, I punched a flight attendant in the kisser (it's okay, he was a guy!!) and said, "hold on one second, I've got unfinished business with India." Then I pushed the door open, and spit on the ground, shaking my fists, then turning my gaze skyward yelling, "I beat you, India. You are now mine." Everyone on the plane was Indian, and the airline was an Indian as well. So that meant -- because I owned everything there -- there were free drinks for everyone on the whole plane. And if that story weren't enough of a hoot, guess what I had to drink! YOU GUESSED IT! Bombay Sapphire. What are the odds? Ha ha ha.

Long story short, if you need some really chill people to hangout with in Bombay, drop me a line. I've got like 200 names and phone numbers and they all owe me a drink.

-Kyle