Heather,

I'm with Slingshot on his suggestion of mix tapes of music that isn't "baby" music. I had one little music box that played a few kid songs like Farmer In the Dell, but the stuff I liked the best was my parent's collection of jazz and classical. I suspect they played it when I was a baby, and I remember at age four asking to be taught how to use the hi-fi (and how to hold an album) so that I could play records without waiting for them to do it. Sarah Vaughn and Jimmy Smith were soooo much better than the early sixties equivalent of Raffi.

Let me add that, while I wish you all the best with the lamprey, I am worried that you won't be able to tell us loyal chickens what wondrous awfulness exists on TV every week; and how can I keep up with America's Top Model without a healthy dose of well written snark to counteract the bilious Banks?

Yes. Yes. Yes. Divorce him. Move. Don't work with him. Get an unlisted phone number. Don't let your friends/acquaintances/therapist/ANYONE plead to you on his behalf to take him back and give him another chance. Another chance to do what, exactly? Beat you? Of course he wants you to come back; if you don't, he can't beat you.

There are some things in life, some actions taken by people, that make staying with that person impossible. Staying puts you at risk. When this happens, you must leave. Even if that person swears they will never do it again, ask yourself if you want to spend the rest of your life wondering and waiting to see if they won't. Don't give him the chance to do this again.

And I think staying gives some kind of implicit (as perceived by the abuser) permission to continue as before. After all, if you are staying, you must deep down believe that the treatment you are getting is o.k., so what can you possibly have to complain about?

You must leave him now. Don't look back. Mourn what you thought you had, but know that you can't have a good relationship with him and let him go. He is damaged, and I hope he finds a way to resolve whatever is making him be violent, but you can't help him by staying.

One of the problems with mixing things into ice cream is, if the ice cream is well made (and well stored, this is key) the ice cream has a delicate texture that is DESTROYED when it's subjected to being worked like dough. I've been to Cold Stone twice, each time at the behest of my dining companion, and each time I was appalled by the condition of the shops (two different locations). They smelled of dairy product that's reached room temperature and the counter surfaces were sticky and gross. But I suppose that's what you get when the counter help is taught to perform instead of work.

I didn't mean to imply in my previous letter that I think Cold Stone's ice cream is well made but poorly handled. I think it's terrible ice cream, overly sweet and with a texture that feels like lard on the tongue, and it's beaten into a gloppy mess. Yuck.

...between the two most knuckle-headed writers ever to have spotted up the pages of Salon.

Please please please, when it comes time for this 'zine to raise funds, do consider a cage match featuring Debra 'Race Ragin' Dickerson and Camille 'Bee-yatch Baitin' Paglia. Considering the volumes of mail from fed up readers that these two generate, I bet if you did a pay-per-view on cable with simulcast streaming online (for a modest fee, of course - you could call it 'Premium Match Streaming' or PMS for short) you could fatten up those coffers for years to come.

And now a word about Buffie the Body. Did Debra actually LOOK at the photos on Buffie's page? Of course they mostly feature her most amazing tushie, but there is one that features Buffie's very fit looking and toned abdomen. Buffie is not fat.

I'd happily tote around a can the size of all outdoors if I could ever get my abs that flat and nice. But they never will be that way. Genetics, you know. Kinda like the reason why Buffie's butt is so big. She could probably eat a diet of carrots and tofu for the rest of her days and she'd still have an ample behind.

Seriously, it's time to kick the Dick to the curb and go find another spokesperson for all us Negroes out here, someone who won't spike our already high ('cause you know it's a problem for us folks) blood pressure.

Yay! Premium 'red carpet' lounge at Japan's Narita airport: quiet, clean (I mean, Mom-standards clean), with smartly dressed workers constantly cleaning up after the weary/sloppy/jetlagged travelers, and let's not forget the beer machine. Free beer, out of a little dispensing machine that tips the glass when it's almost full to put a foamy head on your frosty brew.

Boo! Premium 'red carpet' lounge at Boston's Logan airport. Messy little tables, broken lamps on those tables, no food, and a bonus feature of mice. Mice! Running along the floor, running over someone's luggage...mice. I went to my happy place and tried not to think about vectors for plague.

Slightly mitigating factor: It was nice seeing that kinetic sculpture that is located behind the ticket counter. But that wasn't enough to make me forget the mice.