Is the Hey moving to a Monthly or Bi-Weekly format? Because I haven’t gotten a new one in some time.
You should know by now that many of your readers rely on the Hey for relief from their drab workaday lives. This being undisputably the case, I hereby call, on behalf of all Heyites, for a revitalization of the Daily Hey as a true Daily, or Weekly if Daily is too ambitious — academic institutions being the frantic, fast-paced places of constant change and innovation that we all know them to be, I as much as any — so that the average, hard-working, Hey-reading global citizen can once again enjoy the diversion from reality, however temporary, fleeting, shallow and narcotic-like, that a cursory glance at each new Hey affords.
One idea, if “Weekly Hey” seems too cumbersome or rhyme-deficient a name, is to forgo The Hey as a title altogether, and rebrand oneself as the “Weekly Cheek”, or, slantwise, the “Weekly Check”, or even, in a clever workaround, the “7th-Day Hey”. Alternately, in a tribute to Norman Rockwell’s alma mater, one could call it the “Saturday Hey”, and “post” the new edition each Saturday evening at 10:15 sharp. That would be a cunning “cure”.
Puns and pop music references aside, good friend, let us put behind us these dark days of infrequent and spotty publication, and gaze ahead to a future of limitless Heys, commenting on all manner of interesting social and cultural phenomena, offering a pristine window into the maturing, self-doubting soul of Generation X, eulogizing popular humorists, skewering the inept, upraising the meek, and soldiering on through remarkably slow download times and browser compatibility difficulties to deliver, through it all, like a rock, like a tower, like an island in a sea of dispiriting, worldweary ennui, a few minutes each day (or week) of blessed diversion to its deserving, patient, voiceless readership.
Thanks.
I.F.C. Hammond-LeKaak
Monthly Archives: May 2001
Douglas Adams, R.I.P.
Douglas Adams, author of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series of books, of which I am a fan, passed away from a heart attack yesterday at the age of 49 – that’s the official story, anyway. Rumors have been circulating online which reveal that Adams’ untimely departure was actually the result of a slight warp in the fabric of spacetime which had the unfortunate effect of erasing him from existence.
Now, I’ve read the arguments against the existence of warps in the fabric of spacetime. But I have seen such warps with my own two eyes. On the train this morning, a large, chubby, bald man with a beard and dark sunglasses entered the car behind me and sat down across from me. The headphones this man was wearing did nothing to dampen the Kenny-G-type soprano-saxophone-based easy-listening music he was listening to at a very high volume. In addition to this he was swaying his large head back and forth, not just bopping along in time to the music, but engaging in some sort of complicated cranial choreography, almost ritualistic in its complexity. Suddenly light began to bend along the contours of his body, and space itself began to distort. I had to look away lest I lose my sanity; in fact, I think that I have lost a portion from that mere second. The light around the man continued to bulge and pinch and bubble, and as the train pulled into my station, the man swirled out of sight.
So rest in peace, Douglas Adams, and wherever you may be, I hope that this other guy’s headphones are more effective on the other side.
In a land of blind monsters, the one-eyed monster is king
May is the month in which a young gentleman’s thoughts turn to those of fancy. Love floats on the breeze like a cheap perfume. I have spent the last few weeks searching, in vain, for a date to the prom. Perhaps it is not in the cards, but as I have already booked a limo and hotel room, I am loath to waste them, so now I am combing the Yellow Pages for the city’s finest whores. Unfortunately, many of them already have dates to the prom themselves. I may be relegated to punch bowl duty.
This morning I discovered that a pair of wings had sprouted out of my back. They were small, maybe a wingspan of just a couple feet. Still, I thought it would be an interesting experiment to see if I could fly to work. I leaped out the window of my second-story apartment and landed on the pavement with a resounding thud. As I stood up I realized that I had forgotten to cut holes in the back of my shirt for the wings to poke through. I went back upstairs to change shirts, as the shirt I had on, as well as having no wing-holes, was also covered in blood from my fall (I had apparently landed in a puddle of blood). I put on a new shirt, cut some holes in the back for the wings to poke through, and leapt out my window again. Once again I dropped like a rock. I lay on the ground and wonder what I could have possibly done wrong that time. I realized that I needed to build up speed to get the proper lift. I ran down my street at top speed, and as I felt the wind catching my wings, a car appeared in my path. Aha! I thought. Perfect timing! I’ll just take off right before the car hits me. I jumped into the air and came crashing down through the windshield. I dangled over the dashboard, looking at the driver, who had been bombarded with shards of glass somehow, and thought, well, maybe I’ll try again tomorrow.