Despots' Log (a.k.a., the Editors' Page)

• Kari Bauer, who can be reached at

  klbauer@midway.uchicago.edu

• Francesca Parker, who lives at

  flparker@midway.uchicago.edu

• Kate Pickering, who can often be found at

  kate@snafu.mit.edu

DESPOTS' LOG:                                                VOLUME I
                                                             ISSUE 11

A few nights ago, 5 or 6 (or 10 or 12 or 60) inches of snow poured out
of the sky. We know it's March, and we're in Chicago, and such events
should not be surprising...but spring seemed so close. And were our
expectations thoroughly uncalled for? Why, only last year at about
this time, we were making our way down I-57, I-80, I-55 and Route 116
to Peoria for an evening of music for the soul (NOTE: this may seem
to be just one insignificant detail in a running train of nostalgic
but mostly uninteresting thought. It is not. Hey. That rhymed. But
that drive, that fateful drive, will be brought up again later in the
issue. Dig out Utopia Parkway 1:1, if you dare. -ed.). A year ago it
was also March, and it was still Chicago - yet the weather was so
beautiful you could stick a fork in it. (NOTE: okay, maybe it *was*
just an insignificant detail; we'd still like you to bookmark it for
future reference.)

Still. We're not bitter. As we move as if in a dream (or was that "as
if asleep"? (or was that "asleep"?)) through the barrage of papers and
exams and projects and portfolios and scenes and orals, we praise this
icy frost ripping at our noses, making the thought of a stroll over to
the library all the less tempting....

[it's actually very beautiful.  really.  -ed.]

[Actually, the real reason we're not bitter is because we're so busy
getting excited about UTOPIA PARKWAY'S VERY FIRST BIRTHDAY. That's
right, it's next month already. Which makes us considerably older than
_Urban Desires_ and all the other trend-meister 'zines that get
mentioned in _Newsweek_. So anyway, amidst the planning for cake,
cotton candy, and guest clowns, we thought we'd let you know in plenty
of time to mark you calendar, take your best suit to the dry cleaners,
get your gifts in the mail, and make whatever spiritual preparations
you deem necessary. We will also be accepting goat sacrifices. Just so
you know.]


Franny, Kari & Kate

• I was touched to receive your holiday verse
  (I'll try some of my own, though it might well be worse.)

  
  I'd planned to sit out this day of love's zeal
  Thinking "It's only for Hallmark, I'd rather not deal."

  
  With all of the flowers, all of the fuss
  (Or kisses in the hair you promised to muss.)

  
  Or all of the comments, the strange looks, and yea,
  Questions asking why I wear black on Valentine's Day.

  
  It's not a Morissey thing, though that may be part
  Of why I eschew celebrating affairs of the heart

  
  On only one day out of three sixty-five
  Valentine's day just seemed like some jive

  
  From card manufacturers, poets and proses
  (And also the dealers of red long-stemmed roses.)

  
  Why not speak our love, if it's truly so dear
  (A radical concept) all through the year?

  
  Therefore, I'd rejected the whole Valentine's season
  (Lack of a lover also could be reason.)

  
  February's rotten anyways, it's only a session
  (At least in upstate New York) of winter depression.

  
  But enough of the seasonal-affective-depression and gloom,
  Your poem was like Prozac--my love's now in bloom.

  
  (Let me postpone this one moment, allow me to plug
  That never have I taken that mood-altering drug.)

  
  Your Internet missive to everyone who could hear it
  Was lovely and thoughtful, and lightened my spirits.

  
  (If you're thinking now "Gee, *THAT* rhyme was forced,
  Why not count your blessings? They're usually worse.)

  
  Your verse has inspired me to, come what may,
  Relax and enjoy my Valentine's Day.

  
  (Though it still strikes me as odd, how people plan weddings
  To fall on the dates of obscure clergy's beheadings.)

  
  So, as I send this to Chicago, a place I adore
  (Whose name means "city of garlic" in Indian lore)

  
  (Whoops, that was tangential--you're starting to snore
  I better wrap this poem up soon; I'm becoming a bore.)

  
  Thanks for reminding me, like a bolt from above
  To have fun on this day devoted to love.

  
  Your sentiments are lovely. I hope you're not faking
  (Your economics department still must be quaking

  
  From the day you decided to vie
  To turn an econ geek into a regular guy.)

  
  So, dear Utopia Parkway, on this day of Saint Valentine
  This doggerel thanks thee--will you be mine?

  (Sam Meyer smeyer1@ic3.ithaca.edu)

• Truly a 'zine
  Whose editors unseen
  Their readers' hair would muss
  Must cause a fuss
  Must rate a buss
  Must reason thus:
  "They're out there, somewhere, reading,
  And if, thru taste and breeding,
  They read US!
  Well, mutually we grow and learn,
  To the Diner a fern,
  To Roadkill -- badger!
  Hmm, where was I?..."

  Happy Valentine's Day to you, indeed! ("cardialgia," bonus word for the day ...)
  (John Bacon jbacon@interaccess.com)

• Hello I'm Michael a UofC alum, UWisconsin graduate lab slave, I do science. I'm barely computer-literate enough to access your publication, and about as "hip" to pop culture as Bob Dole. Now that I've established my right to judge you, I'd just like to offer congrats for your new nuptials with THE MAN. I say sell-out, schmell-out; we all know money turns the Big Crank of Creativity. Utopia Parkway is truly a gleaming beacon to the self-starting, idealism-weary, and brand-loyal youth of our land.
  (Loyal Reader Unit mbenedet@students.wisc.edu)

• Uhm.... I was just flipping through your homepage, you know, Utopia Parkway.

  And, well, I think it's a good thing that you're taking on the imperialist foe and everything, but that guy - you didn't hurt him, did you?

  I mean, I'm all for the revolution, but, those innocent business students - they don't really know what they're doing.
  (Nathan, purveyor of Bob, bracken@sentex.net)

  [Well, Chuck's currently dating a member of our editing staff. Cruel and unusual punishment? You decide... -ed.]

• 
  Rapping is my favourite game,
  Rapping Bob is my name.
  I like to rap out in the street,
  I rap rap rap and tap my feet.

  
  Sometimes I rap out in the rain,
  I've rapped with people out from Spain.
  They liked to see my rapping style,
  But now they like rapping Kyle.

  
  Kyle is evil and wears pants,
  He has an army of marching ants.
  The ants will rip out all your hair,
  and when you're bald you'll be scared.

  
  So listen to my rapping song,
  so play the drums and ring the gong.
  I must go; I must flee,
  Thanks for rapping with li'l ole me.
  (Speaking of Bob...beanie@golden.org)