NEW Feature Article

Cassie’s Guide to Common Tattoos
With the normalization of tattoos in society today, reputations are emerging. Some people still hold to the mantra that body art should be an expression of the self. Unfortunately, many of the impulsive members of the younger generation lack creativity or fall prey to trends. This has lead to a number of negative stereotypes regarding the more common tattoos.

THE TRAMP STAMP:
This notorious tattoo induces laughter upon sight. Even if it’s sexual connotation as a “bulls eye” is disregarded, these tattoos are rampant among female high schoolers and the uncreative. Yes, this area of skin is a perfect canvas for something, but really? The tramp stamp is completely cliché, and most regret it after a few years. To make matters worse, if it is placed in the wrong spot on a woman’s back, she is unable to get an epidural during labor. Worth it? I think not.


TRIBAL TATTOOS:
Tribal tattoos are the male equivalent to the tramp stamp. Popular among jocks and those who are trying excessively hard to be “bad ass.” If the owner of such a tattoo is actually in a tribe of some sort, this stereotype is not for you. Most white males fresh into adult hood get tribal tattoos because they really want a tattoo and can’t come up with something meaningful. They choose a tribal tattoo because it makes them look “tough.” It is tragic how this previously meaningful tattoo has become a joke. All the non-tribal members sporting them have destroyed the original significance of the designs.


OVERDONE TATTOOS:
A tattoo is forever. Unfortunately, some people do not consider this fact when they get something inked onto their body that everyone else already has.
Sarah, a receptionist at a tattoo parlor responded, “Most overdone tattoos? Definitely Chinese lettering. I guess it was a fad, it was some sort of cool ambiguous thing. Many people that get it aren’t even Asian. They don’t flow with any other type of tattoo, so they just look awkward. Tribal tattoos usually look terrible because they aren’t done correctly. They lose the original meaning because they are overdone by people who have no idea what they are for. The design just ends up looking trashy. Butterflies. Girls get them because they have no imagination and want something ‘cute.’ They just want to get something, and choose a butterfly because it is feminine and pretty. Butterflies usually come as a tramp stamp too.” Double fail.


DRUNK TATTOOS:
These are the mistakes. The tattoos you wake up the next morning and wonder what the HELL you were thinking the night before. Tattoos that make the viewer question your mental health also fall under this category, even though the receiver of the tattoo may not have been intoxicated at the time. See accompanying picture. Luckily, most reputable tattoo parlors will not do work on someone while they are intoxicated because it makes the blood thinner, but that doesn’t stop everyone.


RELIGIOUS AND CULTURAL TATTOOS:

Some cultures use tattoos as a rite of passage or demonstration of one’s faith.
For instance, Coptic Christians often have a small cross tattooed on the inside of their right wrist. This symbolizes their dedication to their faith and identifies others who share their beliefs. The Maori people of New Zealand use tattoos to symbolize manhood. They make these markings by tapping a small tool coated with pigment or soot into the skin. This method is extremely painful. Since the tattoos are all over the upper legs, buttocks, and face, it is no wonder that they signify a real man! Native American tribes tattooed as a rite of passage as well. They used a bone needle and thread coated in soot to make their designs. If these methods were still in place, there would be much, much fewer tattoos out there.

Body ink in Japan goes back tens of thousands of years. It was actually the last country to do away with identifying criminals by tattooing them for their crimes. The most famous Japanese form of skin-art is the full body tattoo, associated with the Yakuza (Japanese mafia.) Today, it is illegal to show any body art in the public bathhouses of Japan, but the tradition of full-body tattoos still lives on behind closed doors.



MEMORIAL PIECES:

These carry the most meaning to the people who get them. They range from the deceased loved one’s name to an image that represents them well. The name is often accompanied by the birth and death dates of the deceased. Sometimes these are gravestones or crosses. Other times they represent an object of importance to the deceased or the person getting inked. Memorial pieces are a lasting tribute to someone that has been lost.






SIGNIFICANT OTHER’S NAME:
These should fall under the “Drunk Tattoo” section, because the sad, lost puppy dogs that get these are completely love drunk. Forever is a very long time, and the odds of someone being around that long are getting slimmer by the year. Even if a couple is bound by marriage, the sanctity of that bond is losing power as well. Most people that get a girlfriend or boyfriend’s name on them are young and impulsive, neglecting to consider what their future spouse will say when they notice “Bobby Ray” tattooed on their wife’s buttocks.


ASIAN CHARACTERS:
As mentioned before, these types of tattoos are highly overdone. Most are Chinese characters. There was a period of time as the normalcy of tattoos increased where parlors were getting into trouble for putting the wrong characters on their customers. This seems like Karma to me. If you are not Asian, you have no business getting their language tattooed onto your body. These people were asking for a joke like miswrite when they chose to get something they couldn’t even understand inked onto their bodies.

Profile- FINAL

Catherine groaned as she drained another mug of coffee. “These things have holes in the bottom of them…” She grumbled as she stood up to brew another fragrant batch. Her short curly hair was going wild, evidence of a dreaded all-nighter. She was wearing a gigantic “Ocean City” t-shirt, sweats, and a fluffy white bathrobe. On her feet were slightly chewed house slippers. I scooted some Japanese and Russian assignments aside to make room for my Cheerios at the kitchen table.

“Rough night?” I asked my roommate, squinting at the foreign letters she had written into notebooks and on loose-leaf. A thick layer of homework covered the entire table, and none of it was in English. I felt the throb of a headache just looking at the immense pile of work yet to be completed. “Yea, but my Japanese portfolio is almost done and my speech for Russian isn’t as bad as it was last night.” Catherine rubbed her eyes as she downed another cup of coffee and turned to pour another. Where would students be without the glorious gift of caffeine?

“Can I get your rent check early this month?” Catherine took a break from stressing about school to stress about rent and utilities. “We haven’t been as prompt as I would like with getting all of our checks in, this month I want everything early.”
I raised my eyebrows and sipped my own mug of steaming coffee, “Want me to take care of it? I can track everyone down easier since I’m home more anyway.” Catherine didn’t get home until past 10 o’clock most nights, after work then class.
“No, I can do it. I just need everyone to put their checks on the fridge. I’ll take them down tomorrow before I leave.” She had self-appointed herself house mom, and refused to let anyone else take control of important house affairs. “If you want something done right, do it yourself,” she always recited whenever I asked her if she needed help. I guess that might insult some people, but that was just the way Catherine was so I didn’t take it personally. Instead, I took out my checkbook, and handed my part of the bargain over.

Sarah, another of our roommates, stumbled down the stairs in her colorful pajamas. “Mmmm coffee!” She also filled a mug and flounced onto the remaining chair at the table, side ponytail swinging.

“Can I get your rent check early this month?” Catherine asked. Sarah was a flight attendant, so she spent most of the week traveling. If Catherine didn’t get her check now, she might not be home again until past when rent was due.

“No problem. My checks are upstairs, I’ll get them when I change.” The entire house was used to Catherine’s routine by now. Even Ramses, her foofy six-pound pom-a-poo, knew when it wasn’t time to play around. When things got stressful, he went into another room and played fetch with himself.

“Did you empty the pot of coffee?” Catherine asked Sarah casually as she reviewed the foreign characters in the book in front of her.

“Oh… Oops… Yea, I’ll make another one.” Sarah hopped up and started another batch.

A pot of coffee did not last long in our house. Caffeine fiends. But at least everyone knew how to make a good pot of coffee. Mornings would be pretty rough without it.

As the clock changed to 9:00 AM, Catherine yawned and went downstairs to her room. Ramses continued to toss his ball against the wall and chase it across the room. Sarah clicked on the TV. I stayed at the table and savored my Cheerios, pushing the little circles around a cool, opaque ocean of soymilk. Twenty minutes later, a sophisticated business woman emerged from the basement, hair perfectly curled and heels clicking on the hardwood. With her make-up, she looked as if she had gotten the sleep of a baby. “See you this evening!” Catherine called as she poured herself another cup of coffee and headed out to work. Sarah and I shook our heads in disbelief.



This piece is still short of the final required word count, but I feel any more writing here would just be fluff and distract from the idea I am trying to convey.

Feature Story - INK

I did not get my first tattoo until I was 20 years old. I did this on purpose. After first getting my ears pierced at age six, I became hooked on the adrenaline of piercings. That was not how I wanted tattoos to become. Even though I have a number of ideas, the permanence of ink is enough to make me wait until I know I really want a specific design. With tattoos becoming more and more commonplace in America, previously imposed stigmas are lifting. It is not just burly old bikers or Vietnam vets who have a tattoo gun scratch some ink into their flesh. Today, you can see Helen Housewife sporting a discreet butterfly on her ankle representing her first born or Charissa Cheerleader showing a peek of her lower back’s ink at a football game. At the gym or on the beach the addiction of an entire generation to skin-art is displayed. This has its benefits and drawbacks.

Personally, I love the idea of expressing myself through the artwork on my body. Many of my friends also sport sentimental symbols, inspirational or pivotal phrases, and beautiful pictures across the canvas of their bodies. The normalcy of tattoos allows us to express ourselves without having to deal with a negative or judgmental reaction from the majority of our peers, as well as American society. I doubt my mother will ever love that I enjoy going to a tattoo parlor whenever I have an excess of cash, but at least she has accepted the fact that I have good judgment and would not put anything on my body unless it meant a whole lot to me. A long time friend has “Live & Learn” written in calligraphy on her left wrist to remind her of the pain she went through after breaking up with her boyfriend of multiple years. The strength she learned from that situation has made her the wonderful woman she is today. What is life but one continuous lesson? One of my best friends has eight beautiful tattoos across her body, and although the number of visible ones may raise a few eyebrows, she has never had to defend her choices. Except to her mother, of course…



With the loss of such stigmas, the permanence of tattoos can sometimes be disregarded. For the number of friends who still adore their tattoos years later, I know just as many who point one out and say, “This one? I don’t know. I guess I just liked how it looked in the book.” My youngest brother’s ex-girlfriend is only 16, but she is dead set on having “Love kills slowly” etched into her lower back. Forever. I know… She plans to do it for her 18th birthday. I can only hope that someone manages to change her mind, but not everyone is that lucky. A close friend of mine moved to Germany right out of high school and went wild with his newly found freedom and access to a tattoo artist as a friend. His half sleeves, tattoos that cover the arms from wrist to elbow, may have seemed like a badass idea at 18, but now he looks at the designs with disdain and wishes he had not been so impulsive. No matter how he feels about them, they are with him for the rest of his life. He has the option of getting them covered with darker colors and filled in designs, but that option comes with a staggering price tag, not to mention pain. Red and blank inks are very difficult to cover, regardless of the talent your tattoo artist possesses. He recently started looking into employment at government agencies, but even with his qualifications, if he lands a corporate job he will have to wear long sleeves year round to cover his impulsive rebellion.

No matter how an individual feels about their ink, most times it is their personal regret that plagues them, not society’s guilt. Since the artwork being etched onto people tends to represent something of importance to them, the regret usually only comes after the symbol loses importance. As long as the image is not offensive, most people respect the importance of the imagery as yet another representation of one’s individuality. Just as people dress differently, people also choose different images to have displayed on their bodies. The exception to this philisophy is shown below. These two men clearly made awful choices in their permanent skin art.


I interviewed Jesse, an apprentice at Marlowe Ink, and he provided a great deal of insider information. Jesse has been tattooing for nine years, but he only recently started working at Marlowe’s. He gave himself his first tattoo at the tender age of 15 with a needle and thread. His first professional ink was done at 16 at a convention. They had to sneak him in after hours since he wasn’t legal yet. Today, in his mid-twenties, he sports 25 tattoos. When asked the most common tattoo he sees done at the Marlowe Ink, he said, “Luckily, we are a custom ink shop so we don’t accept too many over-done tattoos. I guess the most common style is lettering or words though.” When I brought up bad tattoos he laughed, “Yea, we try to talk them out of it. People want what they want though, so it doesn’t always work.” The most unique body art he watched someone get was done on a girl. She got cherry blossoms from the back of her neck, down her side, all the way down her leg. It took multiple sessions, and hours of work. Jesse’s favorite style of body art is influenced by oriental cultures, especially Japanese based artwork. This could also contribute to his vivid memory of the girl with cherry blossoms.


Some cultures use tattoos as a rite of passage or demonstration of one’s faith.
For instance, Coptic Christians often have a small cross tattooed on the inside of their right wrist. This symbolizes their dedication to their faith and identifies others who share their beliefs. The Maori people of New Zealand use tattoos to symbolize manhood. They make these markings by tapping a small tool coated with pigment or soot into the skin. This method is extremely painful. Since the tattoos are all over the upper legs, buttocks, and face, it is no wonder that they signify a real man! Native American tribes tattooed as well. They used a bone needle and thread coated in soot to make their designs.


The art of tattooing has been around for ages. Literally! Scientists have found an iceman dating back to 3300 BC with 58 skin markings believed to be tattoos. Also, in Ancient Egypt, the heir to the throne might have his cartouche (name or symbol) tattooed onto him at birth so he could be identified as royalty for the rest of his life. Body ink in Japan goes back tens of thousands of years. It was actually the last country to do away with identifying criminals by tattooing them for their crimes. The most famous Japanese form of skin-art is the full body tattoo, associated with the Yakuza (Japanese mafia.) Today, it is illegal to show any body art in the public bathhouses of Japan, but the tradition of full-body tattoos still lives on behind closed doors.


I am only 22 years old, and I realize I have my entire life ahead of me. I don’t know what the future holds, but I do not want my choice of expression to ever hold me back from anything. Because of this, I have chosen to get my tattoos in places that the world doesn’t often see. Most of my work will be done on my torso, a rose etched into my side as a memorial piece or a peacock feather on my hip to represent wisdom. The only visible tattoo I have so far is the word “Inspire” on my right wrist. I got this to celebrate the completion of my first book during the summer before my senior year in college. To personalize it further, the tattoo is even in my own handwriting. During a few job interviews, I am sure a potential employer caught a glimpse of something there, but I easily cover it with a thick or chunky bracelet. Even if an employer did realize what the mysterious bit of lettering they caught over my bracelet was, the chances of them having ink of their own are rising steadily. Three of my most recent employers have had tattoos, and after discovering our shared affection for them, it has even spurred a few interesting conversations.

Certain fields still frown upon expression through body art. The judicial field associates it with criminals, so any lawyers wishing to express their wild side must do so in ways that are not visible while they are working. “You would be surprised how many highly paid lawyers and CEOs come in here, drop a huge amount of money, and get full body suits done! They just make sure the ink ends where their suits do so no one knows.” Jesse witnessed. Hardcore on the down low!


Jesse contributes the growing social acceptance of tattoos to reality TV shows that are based on tattoo parlors. “It’s about the only positive thing those shows do for the industry.” He remarked. The more people are exposed to the idea of body ink, the more normal it seems. Not to mention the large number of celebrities sporting flashy designs on their bodies! Angelina Jolie, a huge supporter of tattoos, proclaimed for news reporters, “The tattoo is a strong reminder to live fully in the moment and never have regrets.” Though she has some questionable art, she clearly does not regret the decision to get them.


Social norms are constantly changing and evolving, one of the amazing aspects that comes from living in such a diverse world. Though tattoos may have been regarded as threatening or trashy in the past, they are quickly becoming casual ways to show the things you value in life. The quality of artwork is improving and reality TV shows like “LA Ink” are adding glamour to the industry. It does make me curious to see what my grandchildren will be doing to themselves, but by the time their generation rolls around I hope to have accepted whatever taboo they will be embracing.

Dialogue

“Where is my sock?”

“Isn’t it over there with your shirt and pants?”

“No, and I looked through the blankets and under the comforters on the floor too. I found one but the other is still lost.”

“I’ll clean this afternoon. Maybe it will turn up then. Hopefully we find it before the dogs do!”

“If we come home and my sock is shredded all over the living room I am going to be extremely upset.”

“We’ll keep our fingers crossed then. You can check in the pile by the laundry while I make breakfast if you want. How do you want your eggs this morning?”

“Over easy with toast. I am NOT digging through that mountain of laundry. If my sock is in there, it can rest in peace.”

“If you want, you can borrow a pair of mine. I’ll try to find something masculine for you to rock with those fly kicks!”

“Maybe we can let the little dog in here. I’m sure he’ll find the sock in a split second. If we watch him, he might find it for us.”

“Truth! I’ll go downstairs and find him while I work on those eggs. You should throw some shoes on so we can go out for a cigarette too, I don’t want to stand out there alone!”

“Sure thing baby, have you seen my shoes?”

non-fiction story FINAL

Stars collided in my vision as my natural instinct to breathe halted from the extreme pain in my side. A hot sautering iron split the skin over my ribs and precious air hissed out of my deflating lungs. Paralyzed, I struggled to fill my lungs as the pain eased for a moment-
“I feel like I should be giving you dollar bills, you’re dancing all over my table so much!” Paul laughed, taking a break to refill the ink in his tattoo gun. I weakly laughed along, light-headed from lack of oxygen to my brain. Rolling off the table, I floated to the mirror across from where I was getting my first tattoo. A rose was inked into my right side from mid-ribs to hip bone with one solitary petal blowing away, “SDH” etched in its delicate surface.

Shawn David Huq.

I blinked away tears that had nothing to do with the pain caused by Paul’s tattoo gun.


December 12, 2007.
My phone rang at 10:00 am the morning I found out. My dad was calling, which struck me as odd since he should have been at work.
“Good morning.” I greeted him sleepily.
“Shawn passed away last night. He was in a car accident.” Dad always cut straight to the chase, “We haven’t told Jarrod yet. You should come home after your finals today.”
My skin prickled, emotions threatening to explode through every pore. I went temporarily blind as my mouth flapped open and shut like a fish drowning in too much air.
“Are you going to be ok?” Dad asked.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“I’ll see you this evening.” Dad knows me best; he knew I needed time to process that blow.
Gone? How could he be gone?

I closed my eyes and saw two five year olds slinging mud at each other on a construction site. I remembered running through the orange soupy ground to meet up with my little brother and his best friend, grinning as I took a flying leap into a hole dug for the basement of a house.

December 7, 2003. Sherful, Shawn’s father, suffered an aneurism while Jarrod and Shawn were playing in the living room of their home. The boys called my dad for help, but he did not get there in time to save Shawn’s dad.

I heard Shawn and Jarrod’s devious laughter as they played pranks on each other and members of my family.

Shawn’s laughing face is in almost every major memory from my childhood.

Gone?

When Shawn was 14, his mom moved to Michigan and took him with her. The separation was hard on Jarrod and Shawn, who were like one soul in two bodies. Our parents and Jane, Shawn’s mother, discussed their sons’ depressions and decided to split the holidays.

Winter break was starting early in Michigan that year. Shawn was supposed to be with us until after New Years, and everyone was antsy with anticipation for his arrival. Shawn’s room was ready and that weekend he was supposed to fly into Dulles airport.

Gone?

He had gone to a party, one last hurrah before flying to Virginia for a month. He drank too much. Chad, his step-brother, decided to drive Shawn and two other friends home. He also drank too much. Chad drank so much, in fact, that he didn’t see the 18-wheeler driving down the road when he crossed over the highway on his way home.

Gone.

Paramedics told Jane that Shawn was killed on impact; his BAC (blood alcohol content) was so high he probably never even woke up.

Gone.

In that same accident, Chad also killed his best friend and his little brother’s wrestling team mate. His BAC was two and a half times the Michigan legal limit that night, a stunning 0.2. In addition to the massive amount of alcohol 19-year-old Chad consumed that night, he also smoked pot. This coupled with the alcohol made him even more incapable of operating a vehicle. Why did their friends let them leave the party? Why didn’t anyone try to stop them? I had so many questions, but the answers didn’t really matter because none of them would bring Shawn back.

Chad received a 15 year prison sentence, due to the deaths he caused. He is eligible for release after seven years if he maintains good behavior. He is required to go to intensive therapy to cope with the guilt and depression he feels. When Chad gets out, he will not have a home to return to since his mother is too sick to handle him and Jane refuses to let him back into her house. In court, he said that every time he closes his eyes he sees their faces. He doesn’t know why he survived when they died, but he does know he’ll never be able to live down the decision he made that night.

After the accident that stole their children, the mothers of Shawn and his friends lobbied the Michigan government to impose stricter penalties on establishments that sell alcohol to minors. Michigan Law 436.1701, section 2 states the punishment for selling alcohol to minors. The 7-11 that sold the underage boys beer temporarily lost their alcohol license, but they got it back after paying a fine and waiting a 30-day suspension period. In Michigan, selling alcohol to a minor is only a misdemeanor. The clerk that sold the alcohol to Chad and Terry (both 19) received six months in jail while two other clerks that repeatedly sold alcohol to minors received two weekends of jail time each. Though the mothers have been working for the past two years to make the consequences more punitive, they have yet to get the charge raised to a felony. State Representative Mary Valentine and prosecutor Randy Kostrezwa have been incredibly helpful throughout their fight. Jayne hopes that stricter penalties will discourage many people from committing such a dangerous mistake, and prevent parents from having to go through the hell of burying a child killed because of a drunk driver.


This story is not a unique case in Michigan. The year Shawn and his friends lost their lives, 736 other DUI-related deaths occurred on Michigan’s highways. The victims could fill 15 school busses that year. This outrageous number can be compared to Georgia's 441, taken the same year. The last two weeks of August 2007 alone, there were 18,000 alcohol-related arrests on the highways of Michigan. Clearly, the laws and consequences regarding driving under the influence in Michigan are not harsh enough to discourage people from making that potentially fatal decision.

For someone caught on their first DUI offense in Michigan, the penalties for the guilty party include losing their driver's license for up to six months, but the driver is eligible for a restricted license after only 30 days. Jail time is possible, but not mandatory. The guilty driver may have to pay a fine from $100-$500.

The state of Georgia has a population nearly equal to Michigan’s, and their DUI fatality in 2007 was significantly less, at 441. When a resident of Georgia is arrested for their first DUI, they must serve ten days to one year in jail, lose their license for up to one year, and serve a minimum of 40 hours of community service. A first offense DUI charge will cost them between $300-$1,000. In order to get their license back, the offender must pay a $210 re-instatement fee.

None of the monetary amounts include court costs, lawyer fees, missed work time, or the cost for alternative transportation. They are solely the fine attached to the charge.

As the offenses repeat, the penalties become more severe. When written next to each other, the differences between the penalties are astounding. Michigan’s relaxed penalties become more obvious, and erase any doubt as to why their death toll is so much higher than other states’. Until the state accepts responsibility for their lax laws and takes steps to protect their citizens, there is no change in sight to the staggering death toll.

My tattoo turned out beautifully. My brother and the three other boys in our tight-knit group of friends got inked for Shawn as well. December 12, 2007 changed us all forever. In one phone call we grew up, we faced the brutal reality of mortality. We lost a friend and brother, but we gained a passion for fighting to prevent this from happening to anyone else. Jayne speaks in schools now about her only son and his friends. Every time she re-lives that night it tears her heart to pieces, but she tells us, “If it saves even one life it is worth it.” People laugh when I collect keys before a party at my house, but my close friends always give me a glance of support. I know they will back me up if anyone ever refuses to wait until they are sober to leave.

Profile of a person

Catherine groaned as she drained another mug of coffee. “These things have holes in the bottom of them…” She grumbled as she stood up to brew another batch. Her short curly hair was going wild, evidence of a dreaded all-nighter. I scooted some Japanese and Russian assignments aside to make room for my Cheerios at the kitchen table.

“Rough night?” I asked my roommate, squinting at the foreign letters she has written into notebooks and on loose-leaf. A layer of homework covered the entire table, and none of it was in English. I felt the throb of a headache just looking at the immense pile of work yet to be finished. “Yea, but my Japanese portfolio is almost done and my speech for Russian isn’t as bad as it was last night.” Catherine rubbed her eyes as she downed another cup of coffee and turned to pour another. Where would students be without the glorious gift of caffeine?

Her untamed hair and sleepy eyes may have given her the impression of someone who neglected their work until the last minute, but I knew better. My roommate is one of the most responsible people I know, and her all-nighters are due to the insane class load she takes while working full-time to pay off the car she bought a year ago. There aren’t many people that can handle a double minor in Japanese AND Russian while still holding an office job. I knew I couldn’t.

As the clock changed to 9:00AM, Catherine yawned and went downstairs to her room. Twenty minutes later, a sophisticated business woman emerged, hair perfectly curled and heels clicking on the hardwood. With her make-up, she looked as if she had gotten the sleep of a baby. “See you this evening!” Catherine called as she poured herself another cup of coffee and headed out to work.

NEW movie review

The Little Rascals is a classic. Or at least it will be, once it has been around long enough! It warms the heart of children and adults alike. The movie follows a group of small children through their adventures. It deals with the boys vs. girls mentality of that age, and shows what happens when one of the boys, Alfalfa, falls in love with a girl. The boys have a club called the 'He-man Womun Haters Club' that is dedicated to hating all girls. They have a set of rules that says none of the boys can talk to or be friends with a girl, or else. Alfalfa tries to win over Darla, his Juliet, without his friends catching on. This has the expected disastrous results, and the boys' clubhouse burns down. After this first crisis, it is one hilarious stunt after another. There are bullies, a rich competitor for Darla's affections, and cooties galore as the kids try to raise money for a new clubhouse and win a go-cart race. Eventually everything turns out as it should and the movie has a happy ending.

Given the young age of the actors, between four and nine, their performances are very good. The audience is taken in and believes in the lovable characters, rooting for them to succeed against the bullies. Whoopi Goldberg, Reba McEntire, and Mel Brooks make special appearances, but do not steal the show from the main focus- the kids. Definitely a recommended film if you're in the mood for something adorable and laughter inducing!

Description of an Activity

Cleopatra, my two-year-old Boxer/Pitt stretched across the couch as I finished my reading for one class and picked up the book for another. As I stood, she heaved a heavy sigh and I swear she rolled her eyes. "Hey Cleo... Wanna go OUTSIDE???" The reaction was immediate. She flew off the couch and tap danced next to the front door as I pulled out her collar and leash while getting my coat on.

“Clink.” The leash hit the ground as Cleopatra took off into the empty field, dirt clumps flying into the air behind her. She zigged and zagged, her ears pinned against her head from the wind. I laughed as she jumped into the air and spun a complete 360 before hitting earth and barreling across the ground opening up in front of her.

“Cleo!” She froze, skidding a little because of her speed. I loved how in tune she was to the sound of my voice, despite her ecstasy at being out of the house. Every muscle stood out as she posed, lifting her nose into the air and sniffing for something interesting. Her black tipped ears stood straight up as she looked at me, almost grinning before taking off again. Muscles rippled like an ocean under her short sandy hair as my dog ran laps around the field by our house. She was beautiful in action.

Suddenly, Cleo changed directions mid-stride and came straight at me. I crouched down low, challenging her. Her chestnut eyes glinted as she focused in on her target. Yea, she was going to try to take me out. I jumped to the left a little, her body leaning slightly as she changed course. I jumped to the right a few feet, but it didn’t faze her. A cloud of dust and grass swirled behind her as Cleo’s muscular legs devoured the ground like the athletic beast that she was. I dropped into a football crouch, one hand lightly on the ground as Cleo picked up speed. She was so close now that I could hear her happy panting as the energy that had been cooped inside her all day exploded in her fierce race against nothing. As her front paws left the ground to pin me, I spun to the side as the two of us pirouetted past each other in the air. The instant her paws were back on the ground, she spun toward me, catching me off guard and knocking me flat onto the grass. I laughed as she covered my face in wet kisses, her entire body wagged as her tail whipped the air. We lived for moments like this.

Movie Review

Almost Famous is a film about a boy’s, and a band’s, fall from innocence into the world of rock and roll. It takes place in the 1970s when America is convinced rock and roll has died. William is a 15 year old journalist who follows a band around the country on a writing assignment from the Rolling Stone. He starts out starstruck, determined to glorify the musicians he rubs elbows with. During the journey, he grows up. William’s growing maturity is emphasized by the band’s loss of focus on the fans as they gain fame. Friendships bloom and wither, but the music pulls everyone through in the end. Kate Hudson plays Penny Lane, a “band-aid” or the new kind of groupie. She is adorable and jaded at the same time, giving the movie a softer feel that makes the viewer care for the characters. The soundtrack throughout the film is amazing, and the film makers do a good job bringing famous faces from the 70s into the movie to give it an edge of realism.

Shawny Boy, Draft 2

Played around with it a little, made it more straightforward. Will add more once I get an email back from Jayne with the info about how much she and the other mothers were able to do. Comments and feedback would be AWESOME!

December 12, 2007.

My phone rang at 10:00 am the morning I found out. My dad was calling, which struck me as odd since he should have been at work.

“Good morning.” I greeted him sleepily.

“Shawn passed away last night. He was in a car accident.” Dad always cut straight to the chase, “We haven’t told Jarrod yet. You should come home after your finals today.”

My skin prickled, emotions threatening to explode through every pore. I went temporarily blind as my mouth flapped open and shut like a fish drowning in too much oxygen

“Are you going to be ok?” Dad asked.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I’ll see you this evening.” Dad knows me best; he knew I needed time to process that blow.

Gone? How could he be gone?

I closed my eyes and saw two five year olds slinging mud at each other on a construction site. I remembered running through the orange soupy ground to meet up with my little brother and his friend, grinning as I took a flying leap into a hole dug for the basement of a house.

December 7, 2003. Sherful, Shawn’s father, suffered an aneurism while Jarrod and Shawn were playing in the living room of their home. The boys called my dad for help, but he did not get there in time to save Shawn’s dad.

I heard Shawn and Jarrod’s devious laughter as they played pranks on each other and members of my family.

Shawn’s laughing face is in almost every major memory from my childhood.

Gone?

When Shawn was 14, his mom moved to Michigan and took him with her. The separation was hard on Jarrod and Shawn, who were like one soul in two bodies. Our parents and Jane, Shawn’s mother, discussed their sons’ depressions and decided to split the holidays.

Winter break was starting early in Michigan that year. Shawn was supposed to be with us until after New Years, and everyone was antsy with anticipation for his arrival. Shawn’s room was ready and that weekend he was supposed to fly into Dulles airport.

Gone?

He had gone to a party, one last hurrah before flying to Virginia for a month. He drank too much. Chad, his step-brother, decided to drive Shawn and two other friends home. He also drank too much. Chad drank so much, in fact, that he didn’t see the 18-wheeler driving down the road when he crossed over the highway on his way home.

Gone.

Paramedics told Jane that Shawn was killed on impact; his BAC (blood alcohol content) was so high he probably never even woke up.

Gone.

In that same accident, Chad also killed his best friend and his little brother’s wrestling team mate. His BAC was two and a half times the Michigan legal limit that night, a stunning 0.2 (Lupo). In addition to the massive amount of alcohol 19-year-old Chad consumed that night, he also smoked pot. This coupled with the alcohol made him even more incapable of operating a vehicle. Why did their friends let them leave the party? Why didn’t anyone try to stop them? I had so many questions, but the answers didn’t really matter because none of them would bring Shawn back.

Chad received a 15 year prison sentence, due to the deaths he caused. He is eligible for release after seven years if he maintains good behavior. He is required to go to intensive therapy to cope with the guilt and depression he feels. When Chad gets out, he will not have a home to return to since his mother is too sick with cancer to handle him and Jane refuses to let him back into her house. In court, he said that every time he closes his eyes he sees their faces. He doesn’t know why he survived when they died, but he does know he’ll never be able to live down the decision he made that night.

The 7-11 that sold the underage boys beer temporarily lost their alcohol license, but they got it back after a short probationary period.

This story is not a unique case in Michigan. The year Shawn and his friends lost their lives, 736 other DUI-related deaths occurred on Michigan’s highways. This outrageous number can be compared to Virginia’s 332, taken the same year. The last two weeks of August 2007 alone, there were 18,000 alcohol-related arrests on the highways of Michigan.

Clearly, the laws and consequences regarding driving under the influence in Michigan are not harsh enough to discourage people from making that potentially fatal decision.

For someone caught on their first DUI offense in Michigan, the penalties include losing your license for up to six months, but you are eligible for a restricted license after only 30 days. Jail time is possible, but not mandatory. The guilty driver may have to pay a fine from $100-$500.

In comparison, Virginia takes every convicted drunk driver’s license for one year. There is a minimum fine of $250, but if there is a passenger under 18, the fine can be $500-$1,000 more expensive. There is a minimum five-day jail sentence, which goes to ten days if the driver’s BAC is above 0.2. An Ignition Interlock device is required for those convicted with a BAC over .15 and attendance at an Alcohol Safety Action Program for a number of weeks.

The state of Georgia has a population nearly equal to Michigan’s, and their DUI fatality in 2007 was only 441. When a resident of Georgia is arrested for their first DUI, they must serve from ten days to one year in jail, lose their license for up to one year, and serve a minimum of 40 hours of community service. A first offense DUI charge will cost them between $300-$1,000. In order to get their license back, the offender must pay a $210 re-instatement fee.

None of the monetary amounts include court costs, lawyer fees, missed work time, or the cost for alternative transportation. They are solely the fine attached to the charge.

As the offenses repeat, the penalties become more severe. When written next to each other, the differences between the penalties are astounding. Michigan’s relaxed penalties become more obvious, and erase any doubt as to why their death toll is so much higher than other states’.

After the accident that stole their children, the mothers of Shawn and his friends lobbied the Michigan government to impose stricter penalties on those convicted of driving under the influence or drugs or alcohol. They hoped that stricter penalties would discourage so many people from committing such a dangerous mistake.

My Shawny boy

Stars collided in my vision as my natural instinct to breathe halted from the extreme pain in my side. A hot sautering iron split the skin over my ribs and precious air hissed out of my deflating lungs. Paralyzed, I struggled to breathe as the pain eased for a moment-

“I feel like I should be giving you dollar bills, you’re dancing all over my table so much!” Paul laughed, taking a break to refill the ink in his tattoo gun. I weakly laughed along, light-headed from lack of oxygen to my brain. Rolling off the table, I floated to the mirror across from where I was getting my first tattoo. A rose was inked into my right side from mid-ribs to hip bone with one solitary petal blowing away, “SDH” etched in its delicate surface.

Shawn David Huq.

I blinked away tears that had nothing to do with the pain caused by Paul’s tattoo gun.

Shawn is my brother Jarrod’s best friend. His spirit left its body December 12, 2007 but he will be with my brothers, friends, and me until the day we are all together again in paradise. I refuse to refer to his existence in the past tense.

In 2007 in the state of Virginia, there were 332 DUI-related deaths. In Michigan the same year, that number was 736. Shawn and two of his friends are now a statistic included in that outrageous number.

December 12, 2007.
My phone rang at 10:00 am the morning I found out. My dad was calling, which struck me as odd since he should have been at work. Curiosity tickled me, so I rolled over in bed and picked up.
“Good morning.” I greeted him sleepily.
“Shawn passed away last night. He was in a car accident.” Dad always cut straight to the chase, “We haven’t told Jarrod yet. You should come home after your finals today.”

My skin prickled, emotions threatening to explode through every pore. I went temporarily blind as my mouth flapped open and shut like a fish drowning in too much oxygen. I remember my heart thudding against my ribcage because it hurt, and it may have burst into a cranberry spray if milder forms of pain had not already weathered it into tougher stuff.

“Are you going to be ok?” Dad asked.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“I’ll see you this evening.” Dad knows me best; he knew I needed time to process that blow.

The last two weeks of August 2007 alone, there were 18,000 alcohol-related arrests on the highways of Michigan.

Gone? How could he be gone?

Like a drone, I rolled back over and curled around my dog as the sobbing began.

I closed my eyes and saw two five year olds slinging mud at each other on a construction site. I remembered running through the orange soupy ground to meet up with my little brother and his friend, grinning as I took a flying leap into a hole dug for the basement of a house.
I re-lived December 7, 2003. Sherful, Shawn’s father, had suffered an aneurism while Jarrod and Shawn were playing in the living room of their house. The boys called my dad for help, but he did not get there in time to save Shawn’s dad. The pain of that loss coupled with this newest one tore through me like a hurricane.

I heard his and Jarrod’s maniacal laughter as they played pranks on each other and members of my family.

Shawn’s laughing face is in almost every major memory from my childhood.

Gone?

When Shawn was 14, his mom moved to Michigan and took him with her. The separation was hard on Jarrod and Shawn, who were like one soul in two bodies. Our parents and Jane, Shawn’s mother, discussed their sons’ depressions and decided to split the holidays.

Drunk driving is the #1 cause of teen deaths on our country today. “In 2005, 25% of teens killed in car accidents, which were between the ages of fifteen and twenty years old, were intoxicated at the time of the accident. That 25% is close to 5,000 teen deaths in which alcohol was a contributing factor.” (Teen Drunk Driving Casualties). The world today is a dangerous place, but it seems that the biggest threat to teens is themselves.

Winter break was starting early in Michigan that year. Shawn was supposed to be with us until after New Years, and everyone was antsy with anticipation for his arrival. Shawn’s room was ready and that weekend he was supposed to fly into Dulles airport.

Gone?

He had gone to a party, one last hurrah before flying to Virginia for a month. He drank too much. Chad, his step-brother, decided to drive Shawn and two other friends home. He also drank too much. Chad drank so much, in fact, that he didn’t see the 18-wheeler driving down the road when he crossed over the highway on his way home.

Gone.

Paramedics told Jane that Shawn was killed on impact; his BAC (blood alcohol content) was so high he probably never even woke up.

Gone.

I did not make it to my finals that day. One professor failed me for it. I didn’t care. I didn’t even want to go back to school in the spring. Shawn was not going to be coming to see us in a few days. Shawn was never coming to see us again.

I hated Chad, a hate that burned like nothing I had ever felt before. How could he? How DARE he take Shawn away from us! In that same accident, Chad had also killed his best friend and his little brother’s wrestling team mate. His BAC was two and a half times the Michigan legal limit that night, a stunning 0.2 (Lupo). In addition to the massive amount of alcohol Chad consumed that night, he also smoked marijuana. This coupled with the alcohol made him even more incapable of operating a vehicle. Why did their friends let them leave the party? Why didn’t anyone try to stop them? I had so many questions, but the answers didn’t really matter because none of them would bring Shawn back.

My brother didn’t know how to deal with his grief. He laid in bed for days, barely eating or speaking to anyone. It’s been two years since Shawn was stolen from us, and Jarrod still hasn’t resolved his anger at having his best friend ripped away too soon. Shawn was 16 years old; he had his entire life ahead of him. Fate is so cruel. Jarrod joined the Marines on a whim, and even though he scored high enough on his ASVAB to qualify for any job within the Marines he insisted on infantry. He told my parents he doesn’t care if he dies, as long as it happens while doing something worth dying for.

Chad received a 15 year prison sentence. He is eligible for release after seven years if he maintains good behavior. He is required to go to intensive therapy to cope with the guilt and depression he feels. When Chad gets out, he won’t have a home to return to since his mother is too sick with cancer to handle him and Jane refuses to let him back into her house. In court, he said that every time he closes his eyes he sees their faces. He doesn’t know why he survived when they died, but he does know he’ll never be able to live down the decision he made that night.

In 2007 alone, Michigan lost 732 teens between the ages of 15 and 20 because someone chose to drive drunk. Why are we doing this to ourselves? When will we learn? When will we stop killing ourselves or our friends and realize that sleeping it off in a car is better than trying to drive home?

Today, teenagers and young people have so much potential to work toward. We have more options available to us than many of our parents or grandparents did. Too many young people are robbed of their futures because of the terrible decision to drive drunk. It needs to stop.


My tattoo turned out beautifully. My brother and the three other boys in our tight-knit group of friends got inked for Shawn as well. December 12, 2007 changed us all forever. In one phone call we grew up, we faced the brutal reality of mortality. We lost a friend and brother, but we gained a passion for fighting to prevent this from happening to anyone else. Jane speaks in schools now about her only son and his friends. Every time she re-lives that night it tears her heart to pieces, but she tells us, “If it saves even one life it is worth it.” My friends laugh at me when I collect keys before a party at my house, but my brother always gives me a glance of support. I know he will back me up if anyone ever refuses to wait until they are sober to leave.

Brainstorming

After discussing my ideas in class, my writing can take one of two paths, depending what I want the message to be. If I would like it to be general and focusing on the problem of Michigan’s alcohol laws, I can begin the writing with a snap shot of the funeral and how moving the enormous number of people attending were. If I choose the more personal approach, I would like to open the piece with a description of my first tattoo. With this beginning, I can address emotional pain vs. physical pain. I can also put more of myself into the piece and have it deliver a more emotionally charged message. No matter which approach I take, I would like there to be statistics and facts regarding Michigan and the casualties caused by drunk driving. Regardless the method, the main idea I want to get across is that the laws need to change due to the disastrous impact they are having on the communities.

Exploding a moment

Stars collided in my vision as my natural instinct to breathe screeched to a halt from the extreme pain in my side. A hot sautering iron split the skin over my ribs and precious air hissed out of my deflating lungs. Sweat ran down the small of my back as tiny muscles all over my body twitched in reaction to the agony that was ripping my skin. Paralyzed, I struggled to fill my lungs as the pain eased for a moment-

“I feel like I should be giving you dollar bills, you’re dancing all over my table so much!” Paul laughed, taking a break to refill the ink in his tattoo gun. I weakly laughed along, light-headed from lack of oxygen to my brain. Rolling off the table, I floated to the full-length mirror across from where I was getting my first tattoo. The rose inked into my right side stretched from mid-ribs to hipbone with one solitary petal blowing away, “SDH” etched in its delicate surface. It was bleeding black and deep red now, but once it healed, the memorial piece Paul had drawn would be a beautiful commemoration to Shawn David Huq, my brother in all but the blood seeping from its edges.