Journalism

journalism.htm

by Jeffrey Marquis

 

I'm testing the waters of journalism with my webpage. Here's some notable blurbs. 

 

Artie Lange: Comedian Extraordinaire, Overweight Alcoholic, Howard Stern Show Commentator I once looked up to this fat stand-up comedian, Artie Lange, "He's got it made!" Whether lauding Jack Daniels and Club Soda beverages ("Jack and Water") or savoring Philly Cheese-Steak sandwiches, I took a liking to this man's in-your-face refinement and off color humor. He's fat. He drinks too much. And he makes this hedonism work in his favor. He looks good being lazy. This man, good with his words, often botches comedy show routines with sippy-sippy antics and uses imprecision as staple of his act. If you enjoy the inactivity of drinking while picking apart life's foibles, you'll enjoy Lange's presence. If you enjoy laying on the couch with clogged arteries and a soothing buzz, you'll find asset in Lange's comparability. And if you feel proud while watching another fumble in life, you'll take pleasure in pitying this fool. Lastly, criminals may feel an equality since Lange's LAPD chase, resulting with a "Possession of cocaine" charge. The unsavory mêlée ended our fat Italian's spree with Mad TV but launched him into a fulltime position with The Howard Stern Show; Lange began to play position for the good-as-dead Jackie "The Jokeman" Martling with Stern each morning. You can catch Artie Lange on The Howard Stern Show each morning.

 

 

Britney Spears, I once loved ye. Do you remember the days when Britney Spears wore a schoolgirl uniform? Her pigtails cried, “Use me as handlebars!” and her skirt added “Yes, please have your way with me!” Of course you remember that naughty craving. But our madame has endured a slippery slope since then. =( This Britney has gotten fat. She smokes. And she may have been knocked up by her scumbag boyfriend or whoever that guy is. She doesn't look good. The most recent times where she’s hit me have been precisely lackluster, and I only expect her to fade into obscurity with a mention of “how happy she is with her hubby” in tabloids every now and then. I remember Notre Dame, the private school, allowed girls to wear certain outfits—mostly anything from home. Something about periods. During my schooldays, the resemblance of this miniskirt Britney was nowhere to be found, and I began looking to the public schools where girls, both, known as sluts and reputable for their tricks, knew that they stood on a lower pedestal than Xaverian boys and paid close attention to the fat ass variable in hopes of riches. That was then, but currently our fat smoker Spears bears much similarity to the Notre Dame lumberjacks. Britney, I loved ye much.

 

 

I've taken a look at all the motor vehicles out there, reflecting upon the ones that I consider special. I've thought about the cars that have meant something to me over the years, and I now present to you the car machines that are—realistically—important to me.   FORD MUSTANG – Fox Body   I saw one of these today: wide tires, loud exhaust, and most importantly a lot of style. I hope to own one of these "bad boys" eventually, where I can shatter my initial gentle-man impression by pushing the throttle and blowing up women's skits on the sidewalk. I'd like to one day own a car with attitude; exactly that; gas guzzler with spunk. I prefer the dirty Joe Dirt image to that of Theodore "Beaver" Cleaver in my vehicles. And while I'm trying to get away from speaking with belongings—like I see so many of my peers doing—there's something to be said about man's connection with vehicles. I haven't gone off the deep end! I will only continue to keep my cars clean and well fed. SCION Tc    A girl I once dated would become wet at the sight of this sedan's elegant appearance. It's slow. It says nothing of, "man on the loose." It's something a Mathematics Major would drive. But it doesn't change the fact, it is sexy. I shall pilot one of these when I return to the road, just the reason why my head spins when I see one. It's stunningly handsome from every angle. I envision myself cruising in style with my hair perfectly coiffed, teeth shining remarkably white, face clean shaven, and biceps bulging with sheer power. Street racing is not my style, but elegance is exactly the Marquis trademark.   HONDA S2000 The japo ricer coupe pins you to the seat with a 9k RPM limit, and the RWD works so smooth through the 5-speed gearbox. I've always seen this—impractical two seater—in a dreamy light. I, just as many men, hope to own a small pocket rocket like this. But not a Miata because those are for fags!   TOYOTA COROLLA WAGON This was my first car; a vehicle where enough juvenile behavior took place so that I can look back—at this wagon—and smile. "Nice wagon, Jeff." … "Yeah but it's a stick-shift!" It sparked my love for the control of a racy transmission and brought along with it contempt for underpowered throttles everywhere. Some notable memories are: a) Returning a wagon-full of the sexiest girls my age, who I knew of anyway, back to their homes after police broke up a party. b) Looking down from a St. John's window and onto the car where it had been lifted onto a bordering curb. I got a lot of shit for having driven a wagon to school. c) Learning how to kick the ass end out; exploring the carnival ride that is "the e-brake slide."   ACURA INTEGRA TYPE-R   When I was in high school the majority of students viewed any Acura Integra in a wishful light, jealous of the few who were so privileged and able to rev that ricey engine. The car shines with simplicity, and it looks good doing it. It's small. It's light. And you bet your ass it's quick, not to mention agile. Enter R. Acura blesses few vehicles with this holy letter of Japanese imports, tuning the suspension for catlike reflexes and giving the engine a much needed bump in vroom-vroom beans. Black, white, and yellow are the only colors these Type R's are available in, and heads spin everywhere, "Look, there's one!" Also it is said, "If it ain't a Type R, it ain't a fast car," and this sentiment is dear to the hearts of those who find equilibrium in looks and speed, concerning how a car should speak for its owner.   BMW M COUPE   Assuming my first book sells well, I shall purchase one of these strange yet beautiful machines. I've driven a wagon to high school and received much shit for it, right, well I'm looking to break that mold of, "hop in the back" with a refined two-seater providing only enough space for the beautiful Kristen Johnson and I. They're sexy machines as well. And while I may refrain from fast and/or furious driving, I hope to turn heads with both respectable parking manners and the unconventional appearance that this hatchback offers. And while I'm on my way to this eventual book signing, I plan to smile knowing that a storm of pistons lay idle awaiting a tap of my foot to the pedal.   SIDE NOTE I've flipped through one of the many, many, and many car magazines I've collected over the years—such a shame—and I see pictures of the featured and modified cars with their owner standing there presenting what they've created. Err, "bought." Merely paid for and then paid more money to have modified. Blech.     What the shit is this shit? There I see a nothing scumbag; proud; like he's done something; when he's flaunting nothing of personal achievement! Yeah. His dad made a lot of money. But what did he do? Nothing. Your reaction is to say, "You're just jealous," but I feel no envy; I'm surprised how blind I once was—and you are—to this sort of thing. I'm disgusted with how I took pride in an elevated pedestal, all because my dad paid a lot of money to buy me something fast. Anyways this kid looks like a pussy with baggy clothing. A personal strength speaks louder than, "Don't I look tough when I stand next to this nice car?" Hold that thought. I see a shitload of my peers doing this, and it makes me sick. What I do respect; I remember Jim Cassidy; his parents didn't have much money; he didn't have the nicest toys; but he did put on a disgusting amount of muscle; envied for what he is; people jealous of him as a person. *rabble rabble rabble* What I'm getting at is this; I see too many people, toooo many people speaking with their dollars. It's precisely why I don't like this that I see in many minorities. Hey you, people like Victor. Continuing this tangent, I just watched some videos of the Scion tC in street races with other cars, and I feel disgusted for having once taken pleasure in "being an automotive enthusiast with driving skill" and "hitting apexes and nailing shifts." Really, I feel sick for having felt pleasure in SIMPLY accelerating quicker than others. It's simply that, "going faster." Not the snazzy, romantic language we give street racing, "nailing shifts" and "going full throttle." There's nothing about driving fast or enjoying automobiles that you must "put your heart into" or the equivalent. Really, you think, no duh Jeff, but this is something new to me. I see someone proud of their street racing history; I think, that's all you can fucking do? Just sit there and drive good? And this is how you spend your free time? Just fucking driving around and talking about cars?   CONCLUSION I must retake the driver's test to re-receive my license as result of the head injury. I'm a wayyysss off from driving. *Jeffrey frowns* Anyways, my desire to tie up the laces on my driving shoes is there, but now the only reason I look forward to sitting my tooshie in the driver's seat is because I'm on my way to a sweetie whore's house, nightclub, or pool hall—not because I'll want to "make crisp shifts" or the disgusting equivalent. Getting away from that, I'm confident of my driving abilities. Rather amateurish but perhaps useful, I've begun playing racing games on my six foot projector screen through X-Box. I'd like to think that my abilities to carve up the track and/or shoot up bad guys will carry into real-world driving abilities. Something else, I've got an interesting bet with my friend Derek; can his agile vehicle run the course that is Henshaw St. at 64 MPH and see the finish line? He claims his new Mitsubishi Evolution MR is capable of it, but we'll see. . . There. Those are the cars I consider special. Those are the cars I hope to own one day, but I'm not willing to sacrifice so much of my life as I once was, simply to own a car. And I believe it's understandable why cars aren't so important to me! I don't have to explain myself. I'll leave it at that.

 

 

I'd like to write for The Student Voice. Maybe I'm good; maybe I only think I'm good.

 

Regards,

JMarquis
Jeffrey Marquis

 []D eace