Under the Sun

I don't believe in all this dressing up in black. Enough of the Uptown, hipper than thou, depressed artist, cynic skeptic, septic feel sorry for yourself, dealt all the wrong cards outlook on life. I believe in the sun. All things are pastel. And I must really apologize for the recent glut of pseudo philosophical, pigeon psychology that has appeared in these pages recently. No more, only news you can use.


For regular readers of this publication you might have noticed this week's edition is a little bit different than usual. And since it has always been our trademark to specialize in the unusual, irregular readers of this newsletter might just want to eat more vegetables or prunes. As for the above, somehow I have found myself more and more trying to offer advice to people, and specifically relationship and career advice. Maybe it comes from the sheer amount of mistakes I have made in those areas and that I think I actually have something to say, but it has gotten a little out of hand and pretentious. I'm sorry. I'm but a simple man. If just barely that.


For those of you keen enough to have picked up the unusual break from the routine, this week features a three day festival of peace and love. No we're not talking about Woodstock '94, we're talking about the newsletter. I do have to ask myself (and a few of you might do so also) if I will someday look back upon these days as a foundation for something special, something permanent, or at least long lasting, or will all this too pass into that massive abyss that now fills the space between my ears?


So what's going on here? Well, this weekend I participated in a softball tournament where I learned with age you never can stretch out certain muscles (i.e. the groin) long enough. Joan's Jets. We put on quite the show. I always thought it was nearly impossible to be shut out in slow pitch softball, but with this team, everything remained a possibility. But damn that little shortstop could field. Thanks to all of thee for showing up and for all the support. Thanks especially to Becca Will for filling in at Landfill for me. As I know Becca learned, you don't appreciate the green tag experience, the breathing in of mold, the piles of stuff you see on a sunny, Saturday afternoon, until you miss it. And miss it, I did. I owe you one Becca.


Enough of the babble though. We thought we would take the time here to explain the complicated process that goes into producing a regular newsletter every week. We hope to enlighten and put a stop to some of the sillier rumors currently circulating. First of all, it isn't well known but the newsletter is printed only on paper we produce ourselves. The paper is made from a special pulp we create using old Fleetwood Mac green tag album covers, baking soda, ginger root and a whole lot of tender loving care. Sure we could use so called regular paper, but at Landfill we don't believe in discarding anything that can possibly be reused in some form, and damn it, we pass the savings on to you!


Once the paper is produced, we of course have to have something to put on it. The writing of the newsletter is done for the most part by dedicated staff members (Al, Mary, Mark, Denise, Steve, Emmett, Phil, Scott, Sarah...) who we are eternally as well as internally grateful. The rest of the filler is created by our friends at the institution. It's good therapy.


Though it may not always seem so, only certain items of interest may appear in these pages. We do have our criteria: only items about or of concern to the stores; news about the employees; news about cats; and anything incoherent (i.e. what's in my heart or on my mind at the moment). We try to be entertaining but sometimes we slip up and are actually un-entertaining (see what you are reading).


After enough material is captured for the eight page format we have selected, the raw material has to be reproduced in a state of the art computerized fashion. Saturday nights (formerly known as party night, or social time) and Sunday mornings are spent inputting the material into a 486 IBM compatible. Any mistakes made at this point are no longer the result of human carelessness, but now can be blamed on technology. And it is at this point that the editor sighs a sigh of heavy relief. Another week gone by, another issue to distribute into the wind. The feedback ranges from sympathy to apathy but damn it, there is always next week. But for now, the pulp is nearly ready as well as the pap, and if we're not careful, and watch what we are doing, the combination of the two can be deadly. It's a labor of love and damn it, we do as we are.