By Lindsay Toler
By Chad Garrison
By Brett Koshkin
By RFT Staff
By Lindsay Toler
By Riverfront Times
By Danny Wicentowski
By Pete Kotz
The phone rings.
"Would you like to interview David Sedaris?"
Why not? We have much in common. Sedaris is chatty, urbane, well-read, a practicing homosexual Unreal is clearly three-fourths the person he is. And besides, Unreal's tight-fisted employer, Riverfront Times, is sponsoring Sedaris' evening of drollery at Powell Hall we're practically entitled to a chat with Sedaris. Like seeing your cousin nekkid during your teen years, the experience would be weird, uncomfortable, titillating and fated to happen.
"David's only doing two interview in each market. I can put you down for one "
The weight of that looming "but" blots out the light, much like the nether cheeks of Damocles, the aforementioned cousin.
" but only if it's for a feature-length story."
"Or the cover would be good. And it has to run the week prior to his appearance."
Outstanding! Unreal's demesne is a brusquely platted duchy of tête-à-têtes with ass doctors, sex pervs and the occasional Scientologist, and now we should pull a feature and cover from rump central and break the rules of Time and Publishing if we want to ask Amy Sedaris' younger brother questions about France? Balderdash. That honor is reserved for Jerry Mathers only.
Fast-forward a week.
The phone rings.
"Would you like to interview David Sedaris? He's only doing two in each market."
Who do you think you're talking to? The Ladue News?
"This is a rare opportunity. Now, it'll need to run a week before his appearance, and "
Fast-forward a few days. The phone rings.
"Do you have anyone there who would like to interview David Sedaris? This is a rare opportunity...."
"I'd like to offer you the rare opportunity to interview David Sedaris."
The barrel of a .38 Smith & Wesson tastes exactly like you think it does promising.
Scattered throughout this week's issue, alert readers will spot several likenesses of David Sedaris. Some are obvious, others hidden. Point 'em all out and e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org. Maybe we'll put you on our cover.
Last year, Washington University senior class president Jordan Friedman had an idea for a tremendous public service. What if, in the tradition of the "senior sleep list," his classmates were to catalogue everyone they'd always wanted to do the horizontal bop with but never did? He'd compile them, sort them, alert the matches and dorm laundry-room hookups would ensue. Glorious!
"Senior year, you're about to leave, who cares?" says Friedman, reached by phone from New York City, where he's now a grad student. "If there's a way to find out if a girl likes you without actually asking her, that's neat."
Wash. U. administrators found the plan un-neat and kiboshed it.
The free site, which went live at www .crushu.com in February, lets students create individual profiles similar to MySpace and Facebook, but with one key difference: While browsing profiles, they can flag "crushes," which are quietly stored in the site's database. Unless, that is, two users indicate a crush on one another, in which case each is notified.
A quick sampling of members shows geeks, jocks and scantily clad bottle blondes suspiciously similar to the spammers flooding our MySpace inbox imploring us to "Cum Out and Play."
For now participation is limited to Wash. U. students, but Friedman says the site will soon allow access to counterparts at Saint Louis U., Fontbonne and Emory University this last presumably because its coeds are less ugly. (See Unreal, October 5, 2005.)
Friedman whose Crush U profile makes him look like a bearded Tom Cruise and lists his stats at six-foot-four and 208 pounds says membership stands at 240. A recent stroll through the Harvard of University City's newly christened Danforth Campus indicates that the service has yet to capture the Wash. U. imagination.
"It kind of reminds me of a site at my sister's high school, which ranked the girls based on appearance," says Jen, a sophomore who's not a site member. "In fact, I swear we had something like this in middle school."
"It doesn't seem to have critical mass yet, but even if it did, I'm not sure I'd join," adds her study partner, Sam, also a sophomore. "If you want to tell your crush you like them, that's what alcohol is for."
Delmar Poet R.I.P.
In the days after Jim Igoe died on April 3, the Delmar Loop felt a little...off. "JIM IGOE: DELMAR POET R.I.P.," declared Vintage Vinyl's marquee, announcing to the neighborhood that the district's caretaker and conscience had died.
It had been a few years since Igoe made his regular rounds up and down Delmar, and longer still since you saw him with his flock of teenage disciples hanging at Meshuggah coffeehouse. But until a few weeks ago, John Igoe would occasionally roll his 76-year-old uncle up and down Delmar in a wheelchair. Even in his frailty, Jim Igoe's Merlinesque beard, gray ponytail and empathetic gaze were reassuring.
"He was the gray-haired hippie sage wandering on foot through the Delmar Loop and Soulard, and a surrogate father to a lot of people," recalls Bruce Kurt, a long-time friend.