According to Phil Carson of Phoenix, AZ, roommate Jeff Watts spent the entire weekend in Nike running pants, though he never worked out. Watts, a 26-year-old bartender, slipped them on Saturday afternoon to watch college football, then proceeded to use them to check his email, set his fantasy football roster, and downloaded music. Late that night, he wore them while eating at Whataburger.

“Sunday, he put on his running pants and his cross trainers when he woke up, so I thought he might be going for a quick jog,“ said roommate Carson. “Turned out went next door to buy some weed from our neighbor Mouse.” That night, Watts used the pants to drink 14 beers before blacking out and drunk-dialing his ex.

 ORIGINALY PUBLISHED ON OCTOBER 16, 2003 IN VOLUME 1 ISSUE 1

Dear Michael,

I’ve stopped and started this letter to you eight different times. The first time I stopped because I found myself being too forgiving. The second time I stopped I found myself being too unforgiving, and so on. With my last attempt, I had formulated what I thought was a rational, thinking man’s response to all that has transpired, and then my dog Clementine jumped up onto the bed, licked my face, and rested her head on my keyboard.

And well, it’s not difficult to surmise the tone of the letter when she’s the editor.

I have an active imagination, and when I read the court documents detailing how the dogs under your care, if you can call it that, were tortured, I started to paint their reality. The terror they experienced overwhelms me to the point where I have to wipe my eyes, close them, shake my head like an Etch-a-Sketch and erase those thoughts from my mind.

What bothers me the most is that when I talk, my dogs Clementine and Simba search my eyes for answers. Their eyes dart back and forth as they yearn for meaning in what I say, or what I do. It kills me that the dogs you tortured searched your own eyes for the meaning behind your brutality and only found confusion and fright. 

The legal system uses the phrase “paid one’s debt to society” when a person is released from prison, so one could apply this to you. In fact, people have applied this you when arguing that you are free. Free to eat whatever you want. Free to watch whatever you want. Free to play for the Eagles. There is the opinion that you served your sentence and should be able to again chart your own course in life and play football. Legally speaking, this is accurate. You are absolved of judgment by the state and the federal government.

But some crimes are so heinous that judgment doesn’t end with the gavel. There are cases where society in addition to the government demands retribution. Yours is one of those crimes Sure, you may free be free legally, but we will incapacitate you publicly as long as we desire. My freedom allows me to do that, and anyone who tells me otherwise confuses legal sentencing with moral sentencing. The public does the latter. You have served your time with the prison system, but not with me. Not yet.

There is also the opinion that your crimes are so inherently evil that they should prevent you from certain activities, such as playing in the NFL. This argument is not a stretch. We take things away from people all the time, especially if they are felons. Society takes away jobs, the government takes away voting rights, and so on. As a company, the NFL certainly would not be setting precedent by disallowing you to continue employment.

I have two dogs and am tempted to share the sentiment of people who don’t want you to touch a football field, but I hate playing God. My beard’s not nearly long enough to start telling people how they can and cannot best provide for their families. You are a felon, but you are a felon with children. You are a human being, and I don’t feel entirely comfortable setting the limits to what that “being” consists of.

I think there is a middle ground here; some common space between “let him play” and “let him die.” We, as a society, just need to define that common ground. For me, it is this:

You tortured many dogs that lived. They have all been placed in homes now, and while I lament what they have been through, I celebrate what they will go through in homes filled with dog beds and table scraps.

It’s the ones that you tortured that died that give me pause. Those are the ones that make me bite my lip and fall into sadness. These are the ones that truly represent the sadistic nature of your dig fighting ring. I won’t go into greater detail describing that sadism because it’s sunny outside today and I’m in a good mood.

But the ones you killed are also ones that can redeem you, so pay attention. This is where the moral sentencing comes in. This is how you can make me feel better about allowing you to go about your life.

You know how many dogs in which you had a hand in killing. Tell me. Give me a number. Be honest with me.

Now, I want you to go out and save the lives of twice that many dogs. Millions are euthanized each year due to old age, demeanor or injury, or regretfully, lack of space. So, go to the county shelter in Philadelphia and find out what dogs will die that day due to lack of space. Save one of those dog’s lives. Then do it again. And again. And again. Start a website if you need to. Hell, I’ll help. Post the photos of the dogs whose lives you are saving. Tell me the story about a black lab you rescued who is now in a loving home in Philadelphia. Tell me the story about a 12-year-old shepherd mix you rescued because you wanted it to enjoy one more year of ear scratches.

Tell me those stories, and it will redefine your own.

Julie Barrett has been trying to get her husband to mow the grass at The All England Lawn Tennis Club ever since Wimbledon began. Roger Barrett, who’s worked as a groundsman there for six years, is supposed to mow the grass once a week as part of his job description. However, he usually only gets around to doing it after his wife’s nagging becomes too much. “It’s always do this, do that. Take care of this, mow that,” said Roger. “I told her I’d take care of it but she just picks and picks.” Julie said this wasn’t a problem until several tennis players called her to complain that they were losing balls in the weeds along the baseline.

Roger promised to mow the All England Lawn Tennis Club’s grass last Saturday, but after he woke up at noon, went and got Burger King  and watched tv all afternoon, it was too dark. Sunday he played 18 holes of golf, and was too tired to get up off the couch. Now he figures he might as well wait until this weekend to do it—probably Saturday. But maybe Sunday. He says he doesn’t understand why the All England Lawn Tennis Club can’t just pay one of the neighbor kids to do it.

ORIGINALY PUBLISHED ON JUNE 30, 2004 IN VOLUME 2 ISSUE 23

There’s something to be said for lead singers of bands who look like they could also be serial killers in their down time. They are always really fucking good. John McCauley from Deer Tick certainly qualifies. I’m half wondering if he celebrated the release of Born on Flag Day by watching Silence of the Lambs and then kidnapping a few blondes in a creeper van while listening to Tom Petty.

I also wonder if he and Matthew Sweet get together and share creeper secrets:

John: “So I’m thinking of growing out my hair. Should I wear it in a pony tail?”

Matthew: “Absolutely not. That’s dorky, not creepy. You’ll look like an IT guy, or a tennis player.”

John: “Good call. No ponytail. What are your thoughts on the receding hairline and the mustache?”

Matthew: “Killer dude, pun intended.”

I have no idea how to classify Deer Tick’s sound. Grunge country seems fitting. I think if Kurt Cobain smoked a carton of Marlboro Reds while watching a CMT marathon on Merle Haggard and then recorded, it would probably sound something like McCauley