Hamburg Haiku and Foto Journey

Upon seeing my 100 Haikus about Bonn, my friend Moritz scoffed that he could not believe I hadn't written at least 10 about Hamburg, my second town of residence in Germany. I've finally prepared a few dozen to share, though they are in some cases little more than captions to some photos from 2004-2006. Photos are by me and a few by Jenn unless otherwise noted. Thanks to Hamburg friends for the inspiration and encouragement. Please let me know of any mistakes you might see.


Boats on the harbor
take tourists between barges
and through the canals


woman is free but
everywhere she is in chains
clamped on golden calves


The beckoning blue
guides you to the U-bahn stop
at Landungsbruecken


Hopes of the squatters
are shripwrecked at the shores of
the Hafentreppe

(Hafentreppe = harbor steps)


the Hafentreppe
a gateway to the harbor
you can buy drugs here


The protestors shout
"Kein Hotel im Wasserturm!"
but to no avail



These are the green vines
that cling to the old brick walls
of the post office


bin viel geschwommen
unter die gruene Lichte
am Holthusenbad


Weinachtsmann of Wurst
slings his Christmas sausage links
to winter shoppers


the Rote Flora
rock shows and vegan dinners
for the anarchists


graffiti dreamland
an activist jungle gym
behind the theatre


Philosophenturm
"tower of philosophy"
I had class here once


Pfanner Gruener Tee
is the elixir of life
drink it by the box


altes und neues
stehen gegeneinander
Kirche und Hochaus


Koenig der Loewen
shuttles the theatergoers
to the musical


steht auf dem klingel
"auf zwei raedern bleibt man jung"
bikeride and believe


pedal past chapels
and the fields of soldier's graves
nameless in the sun


the grabengel weeps
and lingers on the headstone
of her dead husband


all the ice-skaters
skate along to the sounds of
Harry's Eisdisco


Elbetelescop
see across the galaxy
for just 50 cents


alte Elbtunnel
surrealistic frisbee
und lichtenspiele


once you've hacky-sacked
in the bowels of the earth
you can not go back


at the Hafenklang
you never go home alone
der Rhythmus kommt mit


Susannenstrasse
where the Sternschanze starlets
go to drink coffee


wall of astronauts
who have ventured into space
and brought back new sounds


back when I was young
me and Susi had fun at
the Crocodile rock


St. Pauli Fussball
Pirates drunk in the floodlights
nachts am Millerntor

(photo by Ayla Kiran)


at the Grey Havens
bid farewell and chart a course
to Undying Lands

(and a few I don't have photos up for yet)

Every weekend night
prostitutes in puffy coats
line the streets of Kiez

red retro ballroom
ascend velvet rolltreppe
to Revolver Club

Zardos is the place
to drink a cappucino
and buy some records

riding around the
Stadtpark Planetarium
on my bike at night

Auf der Reeperbahn
the spirit of Hans Albers
sings a festive tune


when it's time to leave
I board my private shuttle
to the USA

Ghosty Music Revue

One of my favorite bands of all time is playing a concert Friday at the Granada Theater. They are called Ghosty, and they hail from Lawrence, Kansas. You can hear some of their music on their official Web site, or at their MySpace page.

And now, thanks to Brett Hendrix, you can catch (and hear) a glimpse of what they are like on the stage. In this particular clip from their recent West Coast tour, they cling to the shadows, like true Ghostopolitans. However, they are generally a more animated bunch, and are worth checking out both in person and on record.

Finally -- and many of you have already seen this footage years and years ago -- there is still a video circulating the Internet of the band performing on the front porch of a dilapidated house while a young man and large bunny combat each other. You can find that on the band's page at Lawrence.com, under the videos section. But I don't necessarily recommend it. Unless you a) have never seen it before b) like to see giant bunnies fighting college students c) have 4 minutes to kill and like good pop songs.

See you tomorrow.

Covered Wagons: we'll drive them some day

Andy's convinced the world is going to end, but he doesn't remember telling me this.

It was the spring of 2004 when we had the fateful conversation. We were at Josh's house, eating ice cream -- I have no idea now what flavor or brand. Andy was back in town from his private liberal arts college in the pacific northwest, and the three of us had been enjoying a pleasant evening of companionship, frozen treats and conversation.

Just before we parted ways, however, Andy steered the conversation to more somber matters, specifically the predictions of a particular prophet/bestselling author who had it figured out to the hour when doomsday would occur. Because we'd made it so far without any real awkwardness, and because my departure was pending anyway, I went along with the conversation, saying nothing in favor or against these views. Josh, however, nodded along and chimed in with a bemused "yeah," and "really?" every so often, which only encouraged Andy's espousal of these apocalyptic views.

Finally I excused myself, bidding a warm farewell to my two friends. I held my laughter in check long enough to drive around the block, but by that point I had been keeping a straight face too long to want to even crack a smile.

Later, I mentioned the conversation to a couple of other folks, who said they'd heard of the doomsayer but couldn't think of his name. I wasn't terribly interested in researching the matter further, but at least I knew Andy wasn't the only proselyte.

I didn't see Andy for another two years, at the Ad Astra per Aspera CD release party at the Record Bar. He was in town until he could save up some more money to return to his college in the pacific northwest, and in the meantime his arm was in a sling as the result of some kind of snowboarding mishap.

When I asked what he had been up to, he said his chief interest of the last several weeks had been researching the exact history and location of the Oregon Trail. His uncle had come into some land outside of Lawrence, which Andy suspected had lain directly on the course of the Oregon Trail.

In order to research this, he'd gone to the Spencer Research Library in Lawrence and dug up some old trail maps of the area. Using these "ancient scrolls," as he called them, Andy had determined that his family's land did indeed lie where the Oregon Trail used to be.

Upon hearing the words "Oregon Trail," I immediately hearkened back to my own history on the Oregon Trail, all of which took place on the Apple IIE computers in my grade school's rudimentary computer lab.





I told Andy about my long-held wish to write a Bildungsroman about my time on the trail, which would consist of a series of flashbacks to the times when I'd needlessly killed hundres of pounds of buffalo, died of dysentery a dozen times over and always forded the river even when I couldn't afford to.

Where most people my age would chime right in with their own stories of Oregon Trail computer game mischief, Andy remained silent, patiently waiting for me to finish so he could continue talking about his research. It was then that I realized that he was serious, that his interest in the Oregon Trial was more than some ironic diversion and reflected a true historical interest in our proud state of Kansas.

It turns out Andy had even been talking to the employees of the nearby Ritz Camera store about the history of the covered wagon statue just a stone's throw from where we were standing at that very moment. Anyone who's driven by the Westport Road/Southwest Trafficway intersection has surely seen this monument to pioneer days, an authentic covered wagon mounted in gravel in the corner of the parking lot. At Christmas time, it's decorated and lighted up to look like an Old West version of Santa's sleigh.

I don't know what exactly the people in the camera store had said to Andy about the wagon, just that it was a sturdy piece of equipment that wasn't likely to go anywhere soon.

"Shucks, Andy," I said to him. "Some pre-apocalyptic weekend, you and me are gonna take that sucker for a spin. We can roll all the way down Westport Road and then swing up to Loose Park to fire the cannons one final time."

"Pre-apocalyptic," Andy repeated, a smile spreading across his face. "I like that."

frisbee folklore

These photos from fall and summer are included here as an incentive for you to check out and read the legend of the frisbee poet, a short tale inspired by the Brothers Grimm, Langston Hughes and multiple visits to the disc golf course.

Deconstruction (photo) Diaries: Nov. 24

Here are a couple more views of 4832's demise, complete with a shot of Bean-dog on the turkey-day game gridiron. As for the new residence, it feels less like a temp home and more like an old aristocratic cabin, thanks to the paintings of my great-grandmother's, antique furniture and the sounds of my parents and sisters playing the piano and singing selections from Les Miserables. On Monday, the old home comes down. And just because we're sad doesn't mean we can't take the bulldozers for a joyride or two.


Bean Dog: All-time cherry-picker


Sweatlodge Studios recording artist Laura W.

All photos by Jennifer Brothers

of dream homes and destruction

"A perhaps overly dramatic end to tonight's Skittles fight. Breaking down the door felt good. It looked so sad, the Star Wars poster still on it. It was a statement, I suppose, more violent than the kind I usually make. Laura was laughing uncontrollably, and I laughed a little, too, but afterward I just wanted to go outside and cry."

-Excerpt from the Oct. 2nd entry of LW's Deconstruction Diaries

Right now there is a bulldozer in front of the house I grew up in. I'm not speaking poetically -- it's true. Though the house has been wonderful, it's been through a lot and was plagued by a few structural problems, and the family all agreed it was time for a complete overhaul (as long as the cold-war era bomb shelter remained intact).

In memoriam of 4832 Adams, I've included a lone entry from my journal of the house's deconstruction process, as well as this old photo taken by my aunt Joan in which the front yard almost looks like a Japanese print.



It's a bit of relief for everyone that the process has begun, even if it looked like it might not really happen until the last minute. Pookie Thornhill and friends had threatened to form a human chain barring the wrecking crew from the property, but they didn't follow through, and I kind of figured they wouldn't. I didn't, however, expect that the person operating the equipment would be none other than Sam Stepp.




Sam Stepp: Homewrecker

As traumatic as I imagined all of this would be, it hasn't been so bad, and it's not like I don't have my own apartment. Even so, I've done some surveying of the region and found a home that I think would be suitable once I decide to take up turnip farming and start a family. I first drove by it on the way to a cousin's graduation party at a barn outside of Lawrence. It's made of stone and quite lovely.


dream home


miles and miles from nowhere

I eventually picked up the Douglas County Historic Building Survey from a few decades ago and identified the home in question.


VERMILIA HOUSE
1 mile north, 1 mile west Jct. 24-40
This stone house was built by Ed Vermilia for himself and a sister in the 1860s. The coursed stone walls probably come from the hills just to the north of the home. The home is vacant but owned by area residents.

So, if you happen to be the area residents in question, please know that I am very interested in your property. I'm not so handy with stonework or home repair, but I am willing to do what it takes. You can reach me at mossby at gmail.com.

my myspace treatise

While dusting off my old quill pins and shaking the loose German phrases out of my head in preparation to write about my most recent European adventure, I went ahead and finished up my sociological treatise about making sense of life on MySpace. In this essay, I make sure to ask and attempt to answer all the big questions, such as "Why are we here?" and "If half of your top 8 friends have profile pictures featuring perverted/fictional bunny rabbits, what does this say about you as a person?" Whether you abhor the social network or are a MySpace veteran, I encourage you to read my take on the whole affair and possibly even chime in with your own observations. Together, we can make sense of our online world.

bin jetzt wieder da

It's a sunny day on Sonnenallee. I am about to venture out into the Grünewald region outside Berlin and see if I can find this little museum at the edge of the forest park. I have been back in Germany for a week, and will not be here much longer. Last night I had a dream that I was stunt-diving off the top of the Berlin Fernsehturm and broke a bunch of my teeth. So I guess I have acclimated, on some level. Things have been rather lovely here, and if it weren't for love, employment and certain Mexican restaurants along SW blvd, I probably would not return to Kansas City. But return I shall, and when I do, I'll give an update on my brief foray into the Teutonic. I have been taking a lot of photographs, but mostly they are of the odd little mannakins and puppets in store window displays. Until I post this slideshow of Schaufensterpuppen, you can check out some recently posted 2005 europicks by my flickr mistress/lady-in-waiting, Natalya B. Until then, ich wunsche Euch einen wunderschönen Tag.

Halloween wrap-up: spooky nerds and prizewinning poems

All Hallow's Eve has come and gone, and though I suppose belated "Happy Halloweens" are in order, my own post-Samhain depression has grown so great that I have been unable to blog for days. I guess it's mostly daylight savings, which means I now leave work after dark, or maybe my near-overdose on sweet but deadly cocktails of Pumpkin Ale and orange-flavored Wonka Spooky Nerds. It's not that I'm addicted or anything, it's just that I couldn't decide whether I liked orange-flavored Nerds or not, so I had to keep eating the little boxes until I was absolutely sure they were awesome. And they are awesome, except that they kind of remind me of orange Tic-Tacs, which isn't really their fault, because if anything orange Tic-Tacs trespass on candy's territory more than orange spooky Nerds stray into breath mint turf.

A few other Halloween highlights/troubles:

Green collar blues
On Monday there was a Halloween parade for the children of my coworkers. I wore my Kermit mask and sat at my desk. A few kids were spooked, but nobody cried, and a few of them actually said hello in such a way that indicated they might actually believe I was a real frog. But then they left to go eat donut holes and drink cider and I was still there at my computer, typing, with my mask on.

Guess which one's my girlfriend
On Tuesday Jennifer decided to decided to show up for work wearing a moustache, a cosmetic affectation that looks distressingly at home on her once-feminine visage.

Scant tricks and treats for Midtown tots
I didn't figure any kids would trick-or-treat my neighborhood, due to the prevalence of apartment complexes, weirdos and students in the area. Nonetheless, I saw a few groups of kids making their way around the neighborhood with their parents. I felt especially sorry for a young Hispanic woman who crossed the street in front of me, leading her twin boys by one hand while they dangled their plastic pumpkin-shaped buckets around their free wrists. I thought about rushing inside and divulging some of my own sweets to share with them, but the chance of them catching a contact high from one of the smoky neighboring balconies was too great for me to risk it.

Houdi-Who
I read on my random Fun Facts calendar that Harry Houdini died 80 years ago on Halloween after succumbing to internal injuries. As the story goes, some wiseacre punched him several times when he was lying down, and although Houdini could usually withstand any blow, he didn't have time to steel himself for the impact so he died a week later. This upset me greatly. Can you imagine the nerve of the guy who punched him? Way to go, asshole, you killed Houdini!

I decided to redirect this anger toward a positive cause, namely holding a seance to resurrect the famous escapist, something his wife did every Halloween for 10 years after his death. However, because I lacked the secret code Houdini gave his wife in order to contact him "if possible" in the spirit world, I decided to try an alternate tactic. At midnight, I cued up my boombox cassette player and played the 1984 party classic by Whodini, "Freaks Come Out At Night" at high volume. Although neither Whodini nor Houdini arrived on the scene, I thought it was a fitting and funky tribute to both the rap duo and the famous escape artist for which they are named.

Never talk about these things
I watched "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" for the first time in 10 years and was surprised to see that it is actually Linus and not Charlie Brown who waits all night for the Great Pumpkin to arrive. Because it is an election year, a few of Linus' lines carried an added weight, specifically his statement that, "There are three things I have learned never to discuss with people: religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin."

Long live the King (and his friend, BBQ)
The Best Costume of the Year goes to the King Khan & BBQ show, a touring rock duo who played last week at the Record Bar in Westport. Their album was on the Top 10 list of pretty much everyone at Kief's Downtown Music last year, and although I didn't like it much at first, I eventually grew to love their ratty-sounding garage-rock, punk and soul. As you can see here, Mr. Khan performs at least half of his set in a sequin-dress and purple wig. This might not be the most revolutionary outfit for a man, but the fact that he wears it night after night makes him more than deserving of this blog's coveted Best Costume prize. The show at the Record Bar was one of the most fun rock shows I've ever been to, and if you would like to hear another song and learn more about their hyperbolic greatness, visit their MySpace page. "Why Won't You Lie" and "Waddlin' Around" are great tunes, and there's a good chance they'll waddle through your town soon as well.

Last, and definitely not least, I am elated to announce that we have a winner in the 2006 photo-caption write off. The winning entry comes in the form of a poem by Ralph Waldo Bojangles, who will receive a 2007 Bichelmeyer Meats calendar as a prize. It is believed that R.W. Bojangles is the pen name of a Ph.D. candidate at a New York University that was founded by Methodists. But in the blogosphere, as in life, nothing is certain...Thank you R.W. for your kind participation.

The Transmigration of Lucas Wetzel's Soul


you found yourself in 1912
in small white shoes
a small white town

and everything you loved
was nowhere to be found
on halloween

nothing now to do but laugh
lean back and hold
a small hand out

for kisses or candy
or something else
on halloween in 1912

Happy 180th Birthday, Hugh!

Today Lt. Colonel Hugh Cameron would have been 180 years old. Who was Hugh Cameron? Basically he was a decorated Civil War veteran and free-stater who for one reason or another decided to live in an old wooden piano box along the bluffs of the Kansas river in his later years, earning him the nickname, "The Kansas Hermit." But he is much more than that. He is an inspiration.

I first happened upon the plaque at 5th and Louisiana streets the morning of July 5, 2001. I was still awake after an extended and enjoyable Independence Day celebration, and finding this plaque at that moment was a nice bit of serendipity. I hadn't even finished reading the synopsis of Hugh's life before I decided he was as much of a literary fairy-godfather as I was ever likely to need, at least for that summer.

I went back there that night with my friend Jacob, who did a bit of research on Hugh's life and wrote a piece about him for the 2001 Disorientation Guide. Among the things Jacob uncovered were the reasons Hugh gave for leaving the town in favor of the wilderness:

"I wanted to be alone; I wanted to become a seer so I buried myself here in the woods. Some day the vision will come."

Aside from the account Jacob compiled and the plaque itself, I hadn't found out much about Hugh until I read this wondeful historical essay about him and a couple of other Lawrence eccentrics. If you have any interest in Hugh's life, or just want to hear an interesting story, I recommend it.

For now, here's a drawing I did of Hugh that depicts him in a whimsical, Whitman-esque light. The placard he is holding reads, "Gallons of Tzatziki Flow Thru the Wakarusa," which at one point I thought would make a fetching title for a collection of poems about the river. It is unlikely that I will ever seek to publish such a chapbook, at least under that title, but Hugh remains a truly inspirational figure. Happy Birthday, Mr. Cameron. 180 years young.

the microphonemask noise rock experimental

As many of you know, there is more than one young wetzel in my family, and all of them play one instrument or another. The newest instrumental addition to the family repertoire is the "Microphone Mask," something my brother James and his friend Eric invented for their new noise experiment. From what I understand, the mask is a t-shirt affixed with a rotary phone speaker/microphone that can be draped over the head, thereby freeing the arms for drumming. Eye-holes and feathers give the masks a decorative flair. A classmate at their college in Galesburg, Illinois apparently found it interesting enough to turn into an art project of her own, enlarging a solarized photo of the drum duo, printing it out on several hundred sheets of 8.5 x 11 paper and taping it to the wall near the admissions office. When I had my mom forward this photo to me, she said she hesitated to even title it a photo of James, because they looked too much like guerilla fighters. I told her that experimental noise rock outfits weren't necessarily formed with moms in mind. But I'm sure even my folks would like to wish James and Eric the best of luck with their first gig this weekend. It looks to me like it could be a lot of fun.

febrile fantasies from the pumpkin patch

As promised, I am back with more Halloween-themed subject matter. To get into the spirit, I went with some family and friends yesterday to Schaake's pumpkin patch outside of Lawrence (see left). In fact, I was so overcome with Halloween spirit and the month of October in general that I dug up a particularly bizarre ballad I wrote five years ago when I was homesick and had a bad fever. It's basically about what all the Halloween folks are up to in the off-season, though some of the details (chili-dogs, Dr. Pepper) are hard to read as anything but a celebration of childhood. At least one friend I shared it with some years ago voiced his concern for my mental well-being, but I kind of have a soft spot for it. Read it here, and see what you think.

UPDATE! Even if you find the poem itself to be juvenile and absurd, you might enjoy the director's commentary I just added at the bottom of the poem itself. It reveals, in tantalizing detail, the origins of each charater and how they were filtered from real people, personality types and life events into cartoon monster archetypes.

Also, in case you're wondering why I've created a second blogger site, it's mostly to make a home for some of the more lyrical experiments that for one reason or another I feel like putting online. If you prefer more conversational, poorly punctuated musings on life and daily events, you might try my newly created MySpace page. Otherwise, most of what I write will still wind up here. Thanks for reading.

writing contest

While I deal with the sudden loss of free Internet at my apartment, I am sending out a call for guest submissions. Or in other words, a story contest. The theme for this one is: "What is the deal with the kid in this photo?" I found this picture at a flea market and liked the looks of it, though it kind of creeps me out as well. Any forms of writing are fair game: short stories, anecdotal flashbacks to childhood, limericks, what have you. Send entries to mossby at gmail.com, or just post them as a comment. You may use your real name or a nom de plume. Totally up to you.

Froggy boy goes to the art gallery

Last night, Froggy Boy paid a visit to the art gallery


He became one with the artwork of Magdalena Abakanowicz


At midnight, the Nelson's new addition looks positively spectral


Later, Froggy discovered his old street would never be the same


So he went to the art institute disco and hopped the night away

all photos and illustrations by natalya bond aka jennifer brothers

nippin' out

Sometimes people ask me what are some good comics to read. A lot of my favorites are Webcomics, but the company I work for does distribute quite a few comics that I am a big fan of. Among these are Lio, by Mark Tatulli. Lio is a pantomime strip, sort of a Harry Potter meets Buster Keaton with a hint of Edward Gorey. Lio's world is an interesting one, full of pet dinosaurs, grisly experiments and fooling his parents into thinking he's dead by lying on the ground with his head in a pool of cherry pie filling. Needless to say, not all of his rough sketches make it into print. The comic displayed here is such an example. I hope that nobody from my job sees this, because it would be strange to have to draft a cease and desist letter to myself.
Also, it would be neglectful of me to mention both my company and silent comic strips and not provide a link to Pepe, a daily comic drawn by someone named Moco which could just have easily been drawn in the 1930's as today. Also interesting is that it's referred to on the site Pepe en Espanol, even though there are never any speech bubbles. Not to worry, though. Pepe's antics speak for themselves.


Pepe is often the death of the party.


There are Octopus gags aplenty in Pepe.


Pepe does not like his wife very much.


Like Lio, Pepe also conducts traffic with the spirit world.


Outmoded racism in Pepe makes a good joke great.

Finally, in a bit of an attempt to regain any good karma I might have lost in last Tuesday's post, here's an interview with Garry Trudeau, another of our cartoonists. One of his characters, B.D. was the subject of a longer story arc in which he was wounded in Iraq, lost his leg and suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

100 Haikus about Bonn, Germany

After months of intermittent efforts, I have finally finished writing one hundred haikus about my year living along the Rhine. I finished this project in September 2006 to coincide with the five year anniversary of my arrival in Bonn. I am posting them today because it is national poetry day in the United Kingdom, and that's a good as occasion as any.

Eventually, I would like to make these into a little booklet complete with translations, footnotes and photographs. So let me know if you might be interested, and I'll make sure you get a copy. For now, though, I thought I would just let the text stand on its own. Comments and corrections are welcome, as are questions about language or content. Thanks to Adam for encouragement and editing, Cory for penning the inspirational collection "100 Haikus about the Science Library" and thanks to you for reading. And be warned, 100 haikus is quite a few, so it might be best not to try and read them all in one sitting, if you dare try reading them at all.

Mr. Airplane Man

Editor's Note: I had some ethical qualms about the caption contest that I announced earlier for this photo, so that has been withdrawn and replaced with the original post. Sorry for the confusion.

Before you read any further into this post, stop for a moment and see if you can figure out what is going on in this picture.

My initial guess was that it was photoshopped, but unless Gibson Studio Photo Service in Grove, Oklahoma was way ahead of its time, that's not the case. Next I thought the man was waist-deep in a frozen lake, but the ice would hardly have supported the weight of the plane. And the guy would probably not have such a calm expression on his face if he were in water that cold.

The answer, which you may have guessed by this point, is that the man is an amputee. Bizarre, huh? My neighbor brought this picture over one night while we were all drinking beer on the porch, and after we'd stared at them a while, he gave us the back story.

Apparently his sister had purchased some land in Garnet, Kansas, but in order to claim it they had to dissemble an entire barn and move it off the property within 24 hours, a fine-print clause the seller had already used to scam a few other folks. My neighbor's family, however, succeeded, and in the process discovered a box of documents similar to this one.

Turns out the previous land owner had taught war veterans (either WW2 or Korea, I'm guessing) how to drive again, and in some cases, how to fly small aircraft. My neighbor says he has another picture of the same guy sitting in the cockpit with a dog sitting beside him, but he's not sure exactly where it is right now. I know it's a bit exploitative to display them here, but I couldn't help but share these. Thanks to my neighbor for letting me do so.

Hex appeal

Editor's note: with the onset of October, this site will be indulging in a large number of Halloween-related posts. Earlier today, I had posted a movie review of a short educational film designed to teach high schoolers about the dangers of heroin, but I decided to go with something less macabre to kick off my favorite month of the Gregorian calendar.

This summer, a friend of mine was supposed to attend what she called a "witch camp" somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. Unfortunately, she didn't wind up being able to go. Regardless, the idea of a "witch camp," whatever that is, stuck in my head. If there's a witch camp, than surely there's a fashion camp out there somewhere. I started to wonder what it would be like if a candidate from each camp did an exchange (A witch goes to fashion camp, and vice versa). So far, I have only written an article about the first scenario. However, I would certainly welcome a submission about a beauty queen going to witch camp. I think this drawing works either way.

Witch Goes to Beauty Camp

The first thing the witch did when she got to fashion camp was stick the handle of her broomstick in the beauty fan. When the photographer rushed over to ask what in Hades she thought she was doing, she told him she thought her bangs would look better flat against her forehead.

The photographer, who was already irritated at having to spend valuable time photographing a witch, was about to launch into a tirade when he noticed something peculiar about her. "Oh, my...your black dress is offset perfectly by your green skin," he said, brushing a strand of blue/black hair back from her blemished forehead.

The witch remained nonchalant, remarking simply, "If I must pose, I would prefer to do so au naturel. I want the world to see me, warts and all."

She is known only as Witch, and she is the fashion world's newest sensation. Within days of her arrival at Fashion Camp early last summer, Witch has landed a number of lucrative endorsement deals. Her leap from the pages of Goethe's Faust onto the glossy covers of some of the most high-profile glamour mags in the world has been remarkable, and so far she claims to be enjoying herself.

"A black mass on Walpurgisnacht is not terribly different than the launch party for a designer's new line, aside from the beverages. Personally, I find a lot that is hideous, beautiful, and a lot that is beautiful, hideous. It can be difficult to tell exactly who is posing in the shadows of whom."

The fashion press has seized on the candid crone's remarks, citing her "hex appeal" and crediting her with the invention of "wicked chic." Many glamour specialists say "wicked chic" offers a viable alternative to young women tired of the druggy waif look that has dominated magazines since Kate Moss was a teenager. Also, Witch's arrival on the scene is just in time for fall styles, which rely heavily on cutesy skeletons and other traditional Halloween imagery.

"There's something supernaturally sensuous about the way Witch walks down the catwalk with her black cat beside her," said Cleo Hirschberg, an editor for Fazshion Magazine. "Never in all of my days as a fashion correspondent have I seen such an enchanting combination of awkwardness and aplomb."

Miss Witch herself appears rather nonplussed by all the hoopla surrounding her sudden iconic status. "I'm going to live as long as Methuselah, so it's all very much the same to me. I'll still be zipping around on my broom when Louie Vuitton's great-grandkids are six feet under."

The witch's unnatural beauty and candor have won her a place at the top of the fashion world, but there have also been uncomfortable moments. "At one of the press parties, a bigwig designer proposed a toast to her," reporter Hirchberg recalls. "He asked her what her poison was, and everyone just gasped when she answered 'frog's wine.' They all laughed, though, when Witch explained that Frog's Wine is just an old sailer's term for gin."