Fag penguins, that is.

I don't know what byzantine Googling stream of consciousness led Tracie to this article, but she wanted to share it with me, and I wanted to share it with you.

So read it.

Oh, the poor things. Just trying to get their monogamous penguin freak on with someone they love. Stupid people, butting in and gumming up their love.

The four Swedish females were dispatched to the Bremerhaven Zoo in Bremen after it was found that three of the zoo's five penguin pairs were homosexual.

Insert your own "they work their formalwear better than all the other penguins" joke here.

She said that the birds had been mating for years and one couple even adopted a stone that they protected like an egg.

Didn't this break your heart just a little? I think I'll expand on the concept when I pitch the upcoming children's book Heather the Zoo Stone has Two Penguin Mommies. Does it call one "Mom" and the other one "Mommy"? In either case...sssssssh, the baby penguin rock is sleeeeeping!

earlier experiments revealed great difficulties in separating homosexual couples.

Until one of them meets Portia DeRossi Penguin, and then FUCK ALL TO MONOGAMY.

Director Heike Kueck said that the zoo hoped to see some baby penguins in the coming months.

Well then, maybe Herr Director should start thinking about boning some penguins himself. And if one of those baby penguins comes out looking like David Crosby, we're coming to ask that zoo some questions.

Oddly, this article about Swedish penguins, indigenous to South America, living in a German zoo, seems to have been printed in a Pakistani newspaper. The whole world cares about the plight of the gay penguins. And said website also features a link to something called "Infotainment," which, unless I completely miss my mark here, was a word invented by Homer Simpson.

Antarctica just got a little bit hotter.

US Comedy Arts Festival, 2005

Aspen, Colorado

Opening Night

Warning: This shit is long.

As a writer, you have to do a lot of work for free. What most of the free work shares in common is that it is free work written in hopes of procuring more work. The below is one such fantastic example.

Several months ago, I was asked to apply for an editor job at a fabulous New York glossy whose name I will take minimal pains to disguise. As part of the application process, I was asked to put together 1) a critique -- the good, the bad, the vaguely ass-kissy -- of the magazine's previous issue, its yearly arts issue and 2) ten pitch ideas for the magazine's upcoming issue, which was to focus on the basic thematic concept of "ritual."

I'm not going to lie to you. I rocked the crap out of this assignment. I knew the person who asked me to apply for the position through another job I was working at the time, so I wanted very badly to impress him. We finally got together about a month after I handed the thing in, and was told that financial concerns had sent the timing of the new hire into flux, but that my incredibly strong proposal meant I could count on a trove of freelance work for sure. Since that time, I have written a grand total of 101 words for the magazine, for which I still have not seen payment. No more work looms on the horizon, despite several amicable emails traded on both sides. And trust me, I know how to schmooze and follow up and go for breakfasts. I had that job for three years.

So, below, the proposal. I'll leave out the ten pitch ideas and just say that I began THAT section with a John Lennon quote about rituals ("Rituals are important. Nowadays it's hip not to be married. I'm not interested in being hip.") that they USED IN THE FOLLOWING ISSUE. Which I discovered when I bought it on the newsstand.

It may not be the most exciting thing you ever read and it will probably lack some necessary context, but I thought it was important someone saw it.

--------------------------------------------------------

A Critique of [Unnamed Glossy] No. 34, Fall 2004 -- The Arts Issue

As I mentioned in my Fametracker critique of the August issue of Vanity Fair, it is immediately apparent and terribly jarring to the reader when the content of a magazine is at odds with the overall editorial mandate of the publication. A James Wolcott-penned polemic about the sorry state of reality television appearing a mere thirty-two pages ahead of a puff piece profile on Jessica Simpson indicates someone is asleep at the switch. And if that person is an Editor-in-Chief who is more focused on espousing static political rhetoric and paying Harvey Weinstein for his next cover story, then that Editor-in-Chief must go, or at the very least he needs to rigorously review his own magazine's mission statement.

[Unnamed Glossy] stands in sharp contrast to these paradoxes. The periodical is a beacon of progressive culture, and the topics covered by its writers indicate a passion for seeking out what is next and best in arts and entertainment, fashion and lifestyle. Of paramount importance in this equation is the overarching theme for each issue, which acts as an effective grounding agent that pulls the whole issue together. It worked in "The Journey," it worked in "The Arts Issue," and I don't doubt it will work in the upcoming issue concerning ritual.

Right from the "Editorial Notes" in [Unnamed Glossy] No. 34, the current issue finds itself on solid thematic ground, as we're introduced to the strongest pieces in this issue: the Damien Hirst/Irvine Welsh Face-To-Face, the evocative [Unnamed Glossy] 25, and the "Hemingway Challenge," which I consider to be the culmination of this issue's strengths and the creative high point of the book.

The "Fodder" section leads off with the pieces most deserving of full-page attention. The painting that dominates the story on the art lending library and the nostalgia-pang-inducing shots of 90s mix tapes set up the rest of the section perfectly. My single concern about the "Fodder" section in this issue is that I am already intimately familiar with two of the items featured. I know the intent of the section isn't to prove the magazine's inherent hipster nature by being the first kid on the block to discover every trend, but I remember reading about Shelley Jackson's skin project in The Guardian what must have been a year ago. And reading the Glasgow spotlight in the "'Hoods" piece, I felt hungover all over again at the sight of Irn-Bru, which had its first wave of kitschy fame a few years ago. But then again, I spent a few months in Edinburgh in the Summer of 2002, and Irn-Bru was all anybody talked about during the rare instances in which they stopped talking about David Beckham. Regardless, the whole section works, as seeing some more familiar visual cues helps balance out the more cutting-edge material, like a children's book about drugs or the last issue's piece on Jared Buckhiester.

The "Face-To-Face" sent my mind reeling for people I would team up for this incredibly unique section. I couldn't stop thinking about Elliott Smith and George Harrison having a chat from beyond the grave about songwriting, sadness, and spirituality, or Sofia Coppola asking Todd Solondz if there was something he should tell her about how not to be proclaimed the next great hope of Hollywood and then vanish from the landscape soon after. The meeting of Welsh and Hirst is pitch perfect, the ideal mix of personality and process. Flipping the page, the "Brief History of Art and Outrage" reminded me of a time in this city when one could be openly critical of the Giuliani administration without it reflecting negatively on one's patriotism. And a very nice reminder it was.

In "Goldfinger," I had some trouble sussing out the exact topic of the article. Of course Glenn O'Brien is a name in his own right, but I felt that much of his self-introducing introduction could have been confined to the "Contributors" page. When he turns his attention to his subject, it comes off as a bit overstated, and I felt almost bullied into agreeing with O'Brien's contentions that Fabien Baron is a "genius" and a "maestro" and a "legend" without being given the breathing room to come to that conclusion by myself. Once it turns to the interview portion, however, Baron's focus on his material makes the rest of it a joy to read. The interview was so unbelievably specific about his process, and I was absorbed by his descriptions of "the rulers, the blades, the smell of ink." Also, [Unnamed Glossy] here makes use of one of the best aspects of its design: the synergy between the text and the accompanying artwork. On page 86, Baron talks about these incredibly ephemeral design concepts, veering from architecture to furniture, fragrance bottles to magazines, and so on. The art on the next page, then, takes pains to anchor the text in specific ways, featuring some of the most famous faces and products Baron has worked with, providing that essential "ah-ha!" for readers. And, speaking of genius photography, has there ever been a more appropriate shot than the Jason Evans picture of Grayson "Claire" Perry in a dress?

I really responded to the main text of Michael Martin's piece about pop star artists. Some of the framing devices around it struck me as slightly off-key, however, and might shortchange the text of a bit of its power. First, I felt that the title worked perfectly, but that the intro text didn't frame the article accurately. The introduction asks, "How far will this craze go?" whereas, in the article itself, Martin asks the more appropriate "Is the art world next?" But, ultimately, the question the article seeks to answer (in response to the contention that pop stars are invading the art world) is, "Is this okay?" Martin hits on something early on when he observes, "We fall in love with the shtick, and any deliberate deviation from form is considered a betrayal." And I think it's a great call to focus on the artists who the writer feels are actually creating legitimate art outside of their societally-dictated genre. However, I wonder if it descends into filler when we get to the "sampling of other martists." It feels at this point as if the trenchant critique of a cultural trend descends into blurb-y review. Also, I wondered the whole time if the absence of John Lennon was simply because including him would have been too obvious. Nevertheless, this story stands in sharp, wonderful contrast to James Wolcott's Vanity Fair piece about the micro-fame of reality television stars, as it looks boldly at the sometimes destructive, sometimes cannibalizing crossroads of art and celebrity.

Appropriate for an arts issue, the photographs take over primary storytelling duties for the next two pieces. Mark and Sam's pictures in "Freaks of Fashion" successfully evoke the circus sideshow imagery of the piece's subject, and Stella Vine's paintings really bring to life that artist's journey as well. In particular, I love the "Hi Paul can you come over" painting. I was working at the publishing company responsible for Burrell's grossly opportunistic memoir when the book came out, and it was this crazy, zeitgeist-y moment that can only be accurately captured in Vine's childlike, grotesque way.

Besides the fact that I'm so woefully pedestrian that I had to look up Hieronymus Bosch (I'm know, and I'm not proud of it either), a few things in "Capturing Saddam: Portraits of a Tyrant" caught my attention, and not just the typo in the first line of the fifth paragraph. I understand the thesis statement of this article: the end of the dictatorship has upended the Iraqi art world, and has brought an end to the radical art underworld now that people don't have to suppress their antigovernment tendencies for fear of violent reprisal. And though the story makes the concession right near the end that "electricity in Iraq is still as uncertain as the nation's future," it also seems to embrace the stance that the absence of order (that is, the bungled occupation) is tacitly better than the presence of Saddam. And maybe my own ideologies are getting in the way of seeing this piece objectively, but I'm not sure that reality has actually played itself out on the world stage, in politics or in art. The opening paragraph asserts that "[w]hen the monstrous bronze statue of Saddam Hussein was toppled in Baghdad's Firdos Square in May 2003" -- though, in fact, the statue fell at the hands of U.S. troops on April 9th -- "it was more than just the symbolic end to the regime." I assert that it was not. I assert, sadly, that the moment was only symbolism: a symbolic end, a symbolic taking of Baghdad, a symbolic victory for America, a symbolic liberation for the people of Iraq. The piece crawls with pro-liberation sentiment, but only seems to do so as a means of proving its thesis that the art world has been, I guess, deradicalized in some way. But then Sites backs up in the final moments to remind us that the nation is "staggered by the devastation of war and a continuing violent insurgency." At times this article is at odds with its own belief system: on the one hand, the writer supports the notion that toppling Saddam was best. But he also damns the occupation for its political and artistic ramifications, making it a gooey, centrist piece that lacks a really strong point of view. Wisam Rady is a fascinating case study, but I can't shake the feeling that he and his work may have been slightly shortchanged.

On page 112, the issue regains its footing with Sam Schechner's funny, engaging, and brilliantly photographed (the porn star carpet and the vacuum cleaner couldn't have been more perfect) story about the sexification of the art world. I love that he treats the topic with the gravitas of a fully realized art form, and that he places the 80s and 90s treatment of porn in its proper, Reaganized context. My major concern with this piece is whether John d'Addario was a strong enough source to provide the connective tissue throughout the entire article. Also, we were never told why the Koons exhibit failed while others thrived. But, in general, the art scene is captured beautifully by this thoughtful investigation.

Dana Vachon's introduction to "Wrapping with Christo" rang much the same as Glenn O'Brien's intro a few pages back. Now, I don't really know anything about Christo, and the introductory description of "wrapping synthetic fibers" didn't do much to crystallize my knowledge. I ran into an overstatement problem with the language, my eyes straining to make sense of the Vachon's feeling of Jeanne-Claude's hair "burning bright and red like my anxious blood." The Lari Pittman article on the next page, however, rang true, and I was gratified and relieved to note that the Volkswagen ad on page 121 was not, in fact, one of Pittman's creations.

Into the well of the issue and where it really takes off, conceptually, aesthetically, and topically. First of all, a brief bout with nonsensical fawning: I love Naomi Watts. I love her on the cover. I love her in the photo spread. I love everything about it. Arty Nelson nails this piece. The photos, the interviews (Forster! Russell! Where was your Kidman quote, I wonder!), the effortless recall of the central theme of the issue were all spot on. Naomi Watts is an artist who talks about her acting as her art, and she is in tune with the issue's focus on artists who refuse to be bound by genre lines. Watts comes across exactly as she should: as an artist who just happens to express that art through her acting. Similarly, I found the "Hemingway Challenge" an utter stroke of genius in concept and in design (I'm a big fan of white space and words), and I'm going to go out on a limb and vote Ben Greenman's entry as my favorite. Moving on, I found the fashion spread a perfect addition to the magazine, though to truly give it its fair due would require an entirely separate critique.

Francine Prose's intro to "Tokyo Godfather" was much more effective than the kickoffs to the stories about Baron and Christo. I like that she puts herself into the intro while still assuring the audience that she's there to profile Murakami. And pointing out that the artist seeks to "radically diversify the venues in which his work appears, as well as his means of production" nicely ties this article back once more to the central theme. I wonder if the decision to "shine the spotlight on six emerging artists" in addition to a traditional interview was Murakami's idea? It feels tacked on, and could probably have made for an entirely separate article.

After two fine works of fiction by two fine authors, I couldn't get past the opening shot in Jason Sheftell's article that read, "the male artist has become a Hollywood icon. Every woman wants to fuck him. Every man wants to be him." If that was self-conscious irony instead of dangerously overused jargon, I missed it.

I'm a reviewer at heart, so I really enjoyed Richard Hell's take on Tarnation, and I started making a mental list of what films I would choose for the Flick List in an issue that hit stands in October: Sideways, I Heart Huckabee's, The Machinist, and maybe Dear Frankie, if they ever settle on a release date.

In conclusion, I have John Copeland's "Rear View" hanging on the front door of my apartment for all to see.

In the corner of this condo, by the couches, we have found wireless.

I do not recommend trying to carry a stack of wood and two bags of groceries five blocks, in the snow, in the dark, by yourself. What seemed like a good idea last night became one of the dumbest things I've ever attempted. It took twice as long to walk home, as I kept having to stop, put everything down, gain my breath again, and then try to carry all of those things -- in gloves -- while walking on an icy street. I am dumb. I've also never really experienced life with snow.

I don't sleep so well in Aspen. This time I'm even more anxious, and as much as I'm trying to do all the rules of living at this altitude (drink an amazing amount of water, wear lots of sunscreen, reapply lip balm constantly, eat carbs, limit alcohol, get lots of rest, realize you can't work out at the same level of intensity you usually do...) I still woke this morning with a dry mouth, puffy eyes, a twitchy stomach and...

this is the same feeling I had the morning of my wedding. Exactly. Minus the constant stream of tears. Although last night I did squeeze out a few tears of anxiety over a lost scarf, like I'm that kid in Parenthood who lost his retainer, because I'd had a very long day and a really good scotch --

One sip of wine or booze and you think, "Mmm." Three sips: "Everybody in this room is a genius. And so good looking!" Five: "EERR-body in the club gettin' TIPSY!" You finish it and go, "I don't ever need to drink again. Also: I love Aspen. Also also: I love my friends."

Then ten minutes later, when you realize the scarf you knitted for your husband last year was lost some time during your tech, you weep quietly and wail, "Why is everyone mad at me?"

Luckily Jessica and Liz were walking way ahead of us to avoid this display of me at my not-so-finest, and sweet stee was like, "You need sleep. And to calm down. And maybe not scotch on your one drink of the day next time. And the show is going to be good. You know the show. This isn't the test; this is the reward."

We watched half of the stand-ups here last night, and they were performing on the same stage we'll be on. There was something immediately comforting about standing on that stage at our tech rehearsal. It looks almost exactly like the stage Liz and I first performed on together at Second City. Same carpeting. Same two view-blocking pillars, same black walls. It's just bigger. A lot bigger. And we'll be wearing microphones, which I haven't done since the twelfth grade, when I was Rizzo in Grease. We didn't have enough microphones for everyone who had to sing at one point, so I was the only one singing my ass off for "Look at Me, I'm Sandra Dee." Loud as hell. Tangent...

Our stage manager was the first stage manager we had back when we did this show for the Comedy Central Workspace last year. Our assistant stage manager, who will also be running our video, is the man who was the lighting designer for the last run of Call Us Crazy. This is pure coincidence, but it's also a relief. The rest of the crew is so nice and helpful that we're bringing them lunch today. This is because they're giving up their lunch to have an extra tech with us because we haven't exactly finished teching the show. We ran out of time. They say "bad tech, good show," and that is usually how it goes. And it's not that what's left to tech is difficult or possibly won't work. It's just hard to relax when you've never seen it come together before you go on that stage. I'll feel much better tonight, when it's all over. Hopefully. Unless my microphone falls off and the video is wrong on every cue and the music cues go wildly wrong and Liz and I just end up staring at each other like morons. I'm beating myself up a little about the tech, because I wasn't on top of everything like I would normally do. I didn't triple-check all of the tech stuff, because we've always had a technical director. I didn't get involved in this part. And when I didn't know the answer to some of their questions yesterday, I felt like an ass. I finally get to this place, and I don't have six different ways to make the show work in any situation? Why the hell did I do three years of UIL One-Act play if I didn't retain any of those skills? When they didn't have a computer to run the show, I should have known how to immediately run it on DVD. I should have already anticipated we'd need a CD of just the music cues to pop into a CD player. I should have thought of that, and I hadn't. I should have written a sheet of paper of just the light cues, one of just the sound cues, and one of the video cues. I should have made eight copies of the latest version of the script and handed them out fresh at the top of this rehearsal. I'm so grateful to Jessica and stee, who had run tech on this show so often, they knew where the lights were supposed to be pointed, and I was very happy to hear Shane answer his phone, so I could hand it over to the sound op so he could explain what all these CD's are. I don't know exactly when I'll forgive myself for this. It's really out of character for me, particularly in performance, and I learned last night that even murmuring the word "wedding" to two bridesmaids and a groom gets you absolutely no sympathy at all. "Oh, were you too busy honeymooning in Hawaii? I'm so sorry for you. Let me bust out my tiny violin."

I really hope we find that scarf.

I also would like to sleep for more than a few hours a night.

In twelve hours, tonight's show will all be over. And I won't need to come here and brian dump my insecurities and frustrations. I know it's going to be fine. We've done the show a billion times and the lights will come on and the sound cues were perfect at rehearsal and the video is seriously not a hard thing to do. Watching the stand-ups last night got me really excited to take that stage and do a show right next to that sign that says HBO and the other sign that says US Comedy Arts Festival, and hear the sound of 250 people exhaustedly laughing.

Oh, and it's absolutely gorgeous up here. Pristine white snow everywhere and this wonderful sunshine. It snowed the night we got here, hard enough that I was this nervous this time yesterday, hoping stee and Jessica's plane would land without being rerouted. They made it, but in the air they were told there was a good chance they were going to have to turn back. Luckily the snow cleared up for a little while, and they got here safely. stee has run into someone he went to high school with, a good friend of a friend and a good friend of an ex. It's fun to see how small the world can be at a festival, how we're the same people all trying to achieve the same things, here to entertain each other.

Okay, I'm going to drink another glass of water. We're going to find the gym today because working out is supposed to make doing the show tonight easier on our lungs. How's that for motivation? You want to not pass out during your monologue tonight? You might want to run a few miles this morning.

Brain dump over. I am so excited to be performing here I cannot even begin to explain. Nor can I sleep.

It's the blog post we've all been waiting for from Darren, because it's almost entirely about ME!

Subject: bread and fishes in The Gambia

Dear All-

Let me start right off by saying that there is now a baby donkey in a small village in the middle of the smallest country in Africa named after me. (The donkey, not the country. The country already has a name - The Gambia.)

I was travelling through The Gambia with a remarkable kid named Ousman. He's about twenty, although he doesn't know for sure. He was homeless - on the streets - from the age of about four to fourteen. The Gambia is a primarily Muslim country - and in their religious tradition are holy men called "marabouts." They teach the Koran to young boys - often sent to them by parents too poor to take care of them. The boys, called "talibes" or "almudos", learn Arabic and literally memorize the Koran under the marabout. In exchange, they go out on the streets and beg for food and money, which they take back to the marabout, his family, and the older talibes. They carry around these big old empty tomato cans, and beg people to put little scoops of cooked rice in them. When they have enough, they take it back to the marabout.

The boys sleep on the streets, on cardboard, or whatever they can find. They are filthy, starving - and in desperate need of so many things. Many do not even have shoes - and their little toes are so cut up and often almost falling off. But here's the remarkable thing - their spirits are so open and sweet and lovely - despite what they have to go through just to stay alive. It's different from any other street child culture I've ever seen. They share food, they're kind to each other, they're honest. As my friend Brian put it:

"These children do not fit the streetkid stereotype. Not only do they seem singularly unaffected by circumstances that should reduce them to brutalized, cynical, criminally oriented urchins, but they seem to be remarkably well balanced and sane. This is not just a shallow first impression. It was strengthened over time as I grew to know the almudos better. How does this come about? Here we have children who are separated from their parents, who have to beg for their food and other basic necessities in the city streets, who have no access to medical care or facilities to keep themselves clean, have to beg a certain amount of money every day and sleep on the bare ground at night. They should be alienated, antisocial, depressed and potentially violent. It is clear they are none of these things. This is an important mystery."

Ousman's life changed when he met the man who wrote the above - Brian Horne. A Canadian who was in the Gambia working in 1994, Brian saw the conditions of the almudos and set out to change them. He started a feeding program for the boys in one city and took in a few himself and sent them to school. He had to go to their parents and promise to care for them in order to get permission for them to leave their Koranic study under the marabouts. Of course, this did not sit well with the marabouts. When Brian went to talk to Ousman's parents, not only did his father (who is a marabout himself) say "no" but also he said he would kill Ousman if he went to school. Ousman told me how his heart broke when he watched from a side alley as his best friend Idi, formerly a street boy like him, now all dressed up in a school uniform, going to "where people learn." Ousman said "he looked so nice and clean. And he had once been just like me."

Ousman was sent away from the city, to another marabout, to get away from the bad influence of Brian. But the image of Idi in his uniform would not go away. When Ousman was fourteen, he ran away from his marabout to go to school. He begged everyday to get enough money for his school fees. He talked his way into the second grade, even though he was so much older than the other kids. He taught himself English, the only one in his rather large extended family to learn it so far. After a few years on his own, he got back in touch with Brian - who put him in touch with me.

Ousman is now in high school - and at about twenty, much older than the other kids. He wants to come to the US for school - or actually almost anywhere but there. There's no college in the Gambia and Ousman desperately wants a good education - specifically to go to journalism school. One day we were reading a Gambian newspaper together and noticed an article about stolen cows that said "The police were called in to shit light on the issue." When I pointed it out to Ousman, we both agreed it wasn't a typo - the journalist really thought that was the correct term. Ousman said (after we laughed for ten straight minutes), "See! That was written by our TOP national journalist! That will be what happens to me if I stay in The Gambia for school! I too will think that you're supposed to shit light on issues!"

His goal is to become a photojournalist and cover children's rights issues. He spent hours taking photos with my camera of the little talibe boys on the street - talking to them, telling them how he used to be just like them. They looked at him like he was an alien - so clean in his new clothes (my husband's old shirt), speaking English to me. Ousman told me so many stories of when he was a talibe on the streets - how he didn't bathe for years (and when you see the kids, you believe it), how he had finally filled his rice pot one day with food begged from a "rich Embassy house" and been attacked by a dog - the hot rice spilled out on his leg and burned him so badly he still had scars. A kind man took him to the hospital and paid for everything - they cleaned him up and gave him food and were so nice he was almost glad for the burns.

Ousman was also beaten constantly when he was a talibe (as most of them are) but especially because he is left-handed and refused to write the Koran with his right hand. (The left hand is considered unclean.) His stubborness, which caused him so much trouble, is also the thing that saved his life. He is just a kid who has so much drive and love and innate belief in himself - I wouldn't be surprised if he is the one to bring a revolution in his country toward the treatment of the talibes. His goal now is to document his experiences and those of the other talibes - especially the ones still on the street. He's bugging me for a digital camera (just like an american teenager!) so he can post the photos of the kids on the blog he has started. (There are internet cafes in even the remotest places on this planet!)

One of my most poignant memories from this whole trip is buying loaves of french bread and cans of sardines with Ousman and feeding all the talibes we could find. It was so sweet, especially because Ousman remembered that sardines was what Brian had bought and fed him so long ago - when he was starving on the streets. For him to be able to feed the talibes now was a very powerful healing act. The symbolism of the fish and bread wasn't lost on either of us. Just being there felt like a miracle.

I'm helping him write a young adult novel now about his experiences called "Bringing Water". The title comes from an incident just after Ousman was born - his father didn't announce his birth, because he was so small they didn't think he would live. An old man "gifted with sight" as Ousman says, went to see him and then went to his father and said "Why haven't you announced this child's birth?" When told by Ousman's father that he didn't think Ousman would live, the old man said "You're wrong. One day this child will bring water." That's a Gambian saying for "bringing something of great value."

So, Pam R, your father's Sony Vaio is now helping Ousman tell his story and "bring water." He cried when I gave it to him, unable to take in the idea that this amazing thing, this computer was his. He carries it with him everywhere - and now knows how to use every function. You'll be the first to get the book.

Now Ousman's father has come to grudgingly support him - even be a bit proud of him. His mother has supported him all along and is a really remarkable woman. I went to visit Ousman's family - I've been paying his school and living expenses for the last three years and have become his "American mom." The whole family turned out to greet me - they rushed to my car, singing and laughing and calling my name. It was my birthday on my last night there and all eighteen kids and three wives serenaded me with a Happy Birthday tune that sounded roughly like the one we know. : )

I'm now looking for sponsors to help Ousman's brothers and sisters get into school. For the first time, his father has agreed that Ousman's sister (a brilliant little girl) can actually receive an education. School is so inexpensive there by our standards, but is definitely out of reach for them. Let me know if you'd like to help out. I don't have the exact amounts yet, but it will be very very low-cost - and every dime will go to the kids' school, medical, and food expenses. (I have photos of all of the kids!)

Ousman's father still has talibes of his own, but Ousman put his foot down and said that they could not go out and beg. Instead, he has been budgeting his own food allowance to cover enough rice for the whole family every month. (My husband had no idea he was helping buy rice for an entire compound. Neither did I, but I think it will pay off when Ousman graduates college and can help his family on his own. This is about changing an entire lineage and will take a little time.)

Ousman took me to his family's ancestral village (they live in the relatively large city of Serekunda, but are from a tiny village originally). It was a two day trek involving three bush taxis, an overcrowded ferry (where I luckily managed to avoid both a stampede and an overzealous riot cop), a donkey cart, a short walk, and finally a horse ride into the village. Swathed in full Muslim dress (fuschia is SUCH a lovely color for a burka) and suffering through innumerable red dust storms, by the time I arrived I looked like some kind of crazed Arabic chimney sweep who found a really good sale on hot pink cotton-poly blend.

The people in the village were amazing. They killed a chicken for me (presenting it like a fine wine for my approval) and then we stayed up late in the night with the village elders, listening to my IPOD and talking about Iraq and Halliburton and the differences between Muslims and Christians, Americans and Africans. And what we had in common - which apparently is a love of bad 70's music. (See earlier comment re: my IPOD.) I broke out my food stash, and shared salmon, instant oatmeal, and Folger's coffee packets. They gave me attaya, which is like green-tea espresso. Highly addictive.

Late at night, after the moon rose over the huts and they all laughed at me for wanting a photo of it ("do you not have the moon in America?"), we were all feeling very happy and one-love-like. That's when it was agreed that the next donkey born in the village would bear my name. (There was a running joke about how much I love donkeys, and how I wouldn't let any of the donkey cart drivers beat them when they drove us.) Since Ousman's family name is Cham and my maiden name is Chambers, it was decided that the newest donkey to the village would be named "Cori Cham-bers." So there you have it. Immortality - or however long a donkey's lifespan is in a desert village in Africa.

Thanks for reading!

Your Friend on the Continent,

Cori

PS - Ultimately, Brian had to leave the country because of his opposition to the marabouts. He still supports four of the boys - they're all in high school now. It's through him that I met Ousman. You can order his beautiful books about his experiences or just check out his excellent website all about street kids, especially almudos/talibes) If you want to contact him to learn more about almudos/talibes - his email address is on the site, tell him you're a friend of mine. He's a truly good man.

Happy Lunar New Year: Thank God Lane's back, since that means more MamaLane, which is 54% of the reason to watch this show. Hey, did you guys know Kirk has a lot of jobs?

"Wake up, Liz!"

"Unh."

"Happy Aspen!"

"Happy Aspen to you."

"It's like Christmas for Funny!"

"I'm Jewish."