Uncommontary

By Lucas Hudson

What's fresh off Darth Vader's mug, doubles as a soup ladle, and is all the rage with emo daywalkers?

That's right; it’s these gargantuan Onasstacized sunglasses. Transforming their devotees into Gulliver on a praying mantis Lilliput, they meld distinctive facial features into a mirrored black Pangea. I've seen pairs that, on sight, would turn any well-adjusted alien abductee back into a slobbering ball of catatonic probe bait.

Text messaging: Nglsh only, please

By Lucas Hudson

No, this isn’t about Valley Park, or any other Spanophobic anomaly to bohemian Midwestern sensibilities. This is about the retinal scourge of text messaging. Much like the electric slide, it’s hell to look at but once it hits critical mass, you almost have to join in. Boy did I try to resist. I insisted people just call me. With voodoo taxes and Reaganomic fees, I dreaded adding anything to my cell phone plan. Eventually, I gave in, and now my cell phone is steadily buzzing with texts from people with Ph.Ds and Master’s degrees that read as if originated from the Pixy-Stix stained fingers of some preteen reading Tiger Beat on their way to a Hannah Montana concert. Really, it’s excruciating:

You know, St. Louis’ precipitous drop from being America’s fourth-largest city to being oft-derided as a “big town” has taken its toll on our collective egos. As a city, the ghost of St. Louis past haunts our present and teases our future with the possibility that once again, the world-class city that captivated the globe in 1904 can overcome the myriad problems that led to its decline in popularity, influence and population. For the first time since my father rode a wooden horse in a near north side backyard, St.

I’ve had all I can stand, and I can’t stands no more!