It seems like there was something I wanted to tell you, but I can’t remember what it was.

Hello, Superman. Come on in, have a seat. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me. Just let me close the door here.

There. So, we finally have a chance to chat.

Before we begin, I just want you to know that everything started off pretty well here at the Smallville Wal-Mart. I know you moved back here a little while ago from Metropolis wanting to find your roots, and I hope you did that. I know our little paper, the Smallville Dispatch, didn’t have much to offer you due to cutbacks, but I’m glad you could find a place here at Wal-Mart.

And, not surprisingly, things started fairly well. People thought you were genial, and your presence here definitely helped out our sales on multiple occasions. You were fast around the store, and I’m sure the boys in back really appreciated your helping them move those big pallets with just a flick of the wrist. You have a lot of potential, Superman, and we all saw it when you started.

Which makes this so much harder to say, but I’m afraid I have to say it anyway– I wouldn’t be a very good general manager if I didn’t. I’m sorry, Superman, but I think your job here at Wal-Mart just isn’t working out.

People change, I guess, and as the honeymoon of having a real-life superhero in the store wore off, you’ve become a real burden on both the customers and employees. All this speedy running and flying around the store is, frankly, making everyone else look bad. I know you meant well, but when you used that heat-ray vision of yours to shrinkwrap those DVDs the other day– well, let’s just say there were a few customer complaints. And again, though we were all very impressed with your lifting abilities in the backroom, we found it kind of hard to explain to our Spanish-speaking employees what you were doing. None of us knows how to say “alien freak with crazy powers” in Spanish, and, well, you were kind of creeping them out.

And, Superman, the more I’ve watched you, the less pleased I’ve been with your overall performance. You’ve refused to wear the Wal-Mart uniform multiple times… Yes, I understand it doesn’t work with your cape, but we’d like to project a feeling of familiarity here that requires common apparel. And it seems that you’re always leaving the store without permission at random times. I know, I know, there’s always a giant meteor or a huge monster that needs a deflecting or a beating, but the fact of the matter is that there could be a customer that needs assistance in aisle 6 at any time, and here at Wal-Mart, we don’t want them to wait. Plus, since Lexcorp acquired our retail division in that surprise merger last month, you just haven’t shown the same commitment to the company that we’d like you to.

And I don’t mean to insinuate anything, Superman, but we’ve all noticed that you’ll spend a lot of time staring in the direction of the changing rooms right after some attractive woman has walked in there. I don’t mean to judge, but if what I think is going on is really going on, it probably shouldn’t be going on here at Wal-Mart, and that’s all I’ll say about that.

But nevertheless, Superman, I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go. Besides all of the other reasons, we’ve determined that the Wal-Mart philosophy just doesn’t vibe with your ideas of “truth,” “justice,” or even “the American way.” We’re about low, low prices, not super-powered alien vigilantism. I’d be happy to offer you a recommendation, but I can’t promise it will be any good.

And I’m sure we’ll do fine without you. In fact, I have an interview this afternoon with someone that seems a better fit with our old-time values and demands of loyalty. His name? Let me check here. “Steve Rogers,” is what I have written down. Haven’t met him yet, but I’m sure he’ll be a terrific greeter.

That’s all, Superman. I’m sorry it had to end this way, but I’m sure you’ll do fine. Make sure to clean out your locker on the way out.

What a great day!

Yesterday was a really terrific day outside, so I decided to walk around my neighborhood hunting for churches. It wasn’t that hard, because they’re everywhere for some reason. No shortage of churches in the Ukrainian Village. Lucky for you, I brought my PDA along, and I put all the photos up on my photoblog.

Also, we’re starting a new feature today! Starting today, every Monday mikeschramm.com will feature real things spoken by real people that I’ve heard in the past week. Banal conversation in my bookstore, strangeness in line at the grocery store, even eavesdropped tidbits from parties and events! You’ll find it all here every Monday on mikeschramm.com.

And you can help. If you hear someone you don’t know say something dumb, send it (word for word) to overheard[at]retardedjimmy.com, and we’ll post it up here the next Monday. Let’s all laugh at the human race in a random, anonymous way! HA!

This week is kind of sparse because I only thought of it on Friday, but do me a favor and help me flesh it out next week by sending in your own. Logically, I’ve decided to call this feature…

“She said she was hungry, so we have to go to Starbucks.”

“Dad, remember when we were here yesterday and I was doing this? Dad! Remember when we were here yesterday and I was doing this? [kid bangs head into rope barricade] Dad?! I was doing this? Remember, Dad? We were here yesterday and I was doing this? [bang bang bang] DAD!”
“Yeah, buddy. That was last week.”

“This book is in Spanish.”
“No it’s not, it’s a real book.”
“This book is in Spanish, it’s all Spanish.”
“No, I’m telling you, it’s real. Bring it here.”
“It’s Spanish.”
“No, it’s a real book. Look, it’s real.”

“I swear I never knew Bambi was a boy. The whole time, I thought Bambi was a girl, until the end. All of a sudden he shows up with antlers and he’s like, [deep voice] ‘Hey.’”

Overheard will run every Monday on mikeschramm.com. Send in all that dumb stuff you hear people say!

Lock your kids up, parents– Martha Stewart is out of prison.

How to Make a Shank from Old Envelopes and Ripped Bedsheets

Beautiful Patterns That You Can Carve On Your Wall With a Spoon

Gardening: Using Your Two Hours a Week of Yard Time Wisely

Scrapbooking Your Time in Cell Block 8

Recipes: Martha’s Classic Gruel

Trading Cross Stitch Patterns for Cigarettes

Easter Doilies: Make Them Your Bitch

Look at this! Here’s something I wrote for Newcity (out today in Chicago), and here’s something uberneat lit site Uber decided to post! How sweet!

Violence erupted at New York radio station Hot 97 the other day, when rapper 50 Cent announced on-air that he was dropping rapper The Game from his G-Unit record label. Apparently, some of The Game’s pals heard the announcement on the radio and were so angry that they went down to the station to relay their concerns to 50 Cent personally. When they got there, they caught him coming out of the building, there was a fight, and someone (one of the The Game’s friends) was shot, though not fatally.

Turns out, however, that violence seems to follow 50 Cent around. He’s been shot nine times before. Has it always been for reasons as simple as dropping another rapper from his label? I decided to find out.

Then, I did, and it was boring. So I decided to make them up.

1. Accidentally ate Dr. Dre’s pudding. Nobody touches Dre’s #(%!ing pudding, mother$#@(er.

2. Got in beef with Jay Z about who was the greatest English poet after Shakespeare– Donne or Milton. Persisted in claiming that Donne was the greatest of the metaphysical poets, got gatted.

3, 4. Caught sneaking into girlfriend’s house, girlfriend accidentally thought he was a burglar, shot him in the dark. After the lights got turned back on, had lipstick on his collar.

5. Didn’t clean up his room, shot by mother. “I did it because I loved you, little Fifty!”

6. Bought new gun, but when it didn’t work, made the mistake of checking to see if something was stuck in the barrel.

7. Shot self, to establish “the street cred.”

8. After being elected as sheriff of town, challenged to duel by local cattle rustler. Shot, but was fortunately wearing metal plate under poncho. Ran cattle rustlin’ varmints out of town.

9. Casually mentioned to homies that he thought the new Rod Stewart album sounded “pretty good.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that today is the last day of I Require Sustenance as a regular feature. For a few months now, every Wednesday, I’ve brought you a real recipe and my attempt to cook it, and I’m sure we’ve had a lot of fun. But now the time has come, as it always does, for the fun to end. I Require Sustenance will stay on as an irregular feature here on mikeschramm.com, but will no longer be seen every Wednesday. Circumstances which are too complicated to explain (I was getting bored of it) have made this so.

Please enjoy the last regular I Require Sustenance.

We’ll end I Require Sustenance where we began it: with bread. The first kind, where I started, is the more complex type of bread– you use yeast to make it, and the bread has to be allowed to leaven and rise. But the other kind doesn’t require yeast, and is much easier and faster to make. For this reason, it’s usually called quickbread. Actually, waffles and pancakes are versions of this– usually you just mix flour, milk, and eggs together and bake for a certain amount of time. Milk and Honey Bread is a sweeter version of this, more like a really sweet banana bread, best used for breakfasts– it’s pretty rich. You may actually want to put in honey to taste– I put in the whole 1/2 cup and the bread turned out really, really sweet. We’ll need:

1 cup milk
1/2 cup honey (or to taste)
3 tblsp. butter
1 1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup sugar
3 teas. baking powder
1 teas. salt
1 egg, beaten

I’m pretty proud of the fact that after having done this for a good three months now, this is the first recipe that I didn’t have to buy anything for– I actually had everything sitting around my kitchen.

First things first, you’ll want to preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Then, start by mixing the honey and milk in a saucepan, and cook it at medium heat until the honey melts. You’ll end up with a sweet smelling mixture with a consistency somewhere between honey and milk. Add and melt the butter, and then turn the heat off and let the mixture cool.

Then, mix up the dry ingredients. I mixed the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt into a large mixing bowl and mixed it up pretty well. Beat the egg, and have it ready to go as well.

Once the milk has cooled, I combined the egg in with the milk, and then slowly mixed that mixture into the dry one. The original recipe that I had said to beat the whole thing for a minute or two– again, no beater in my kitchen, so I just grabbed a big spoon and churned it all together for a few minutes. Eventually (surprise) I had a dough like mixture.

Which I poured into a greased loaf pan. This is a pretty small recipe, and it won’t rise, so it shouldn’t fill more than half the pan or so. Stick that thing in the oven and let it bake. I went back into my room and watched a little Sealab 2021. That’s great stuff.

The original recipe I read said to bake 65-75 minutes, but by the time my timer said 50 minutes, I smelled the thing cooking, opened up the oven, and found it was almost burned around the outside. I pulled it out and saved it in time– I would say, depending on the oven, you should probably check it at 45 and only let it go to 60 if you need to. The general rule in the recipe said to poke it with a toothpick in the middle and see if it comes out clean– if it does, it’s done. I didn’t have a toothpick, so I just stuck my whole finger in. No, just kidding, I stuck a knife in, and it came out clean, so I assumed it was done.

Let it cool, then take it out of the loaf pan and let it cool some more. Voila, you’ve got a bready ticket to the land of milk and honey!

Man, I know– that was bad. I ended this column none too soon.

I Require Sustenance is over and done, but used to run every Wednesday at mikeschramm.com. If you wanted to submit a recipe or be a guest chef, that’s too freaking bad. You missed your chance. Oh, all right, fine. I’ll make an exception just this one time. I can’t stay mad at you!

Dear Girl Who Says “Hey” In That Hip-Hop Sample,

I don’t remember where I first heard you and your singular syllable. Maybe it was in an old Beastie Boys song on one of those tapes I had. Maybe it was a KRS One rap that I heard on the radio, or a Cut Chemist remix on a CD that was burned for me. In college, I found Nas and Common, and I’m sure they dropped you in one or two of their songs. I seem to remember you being in an old UB40 song (yes, I had that tape too), but the only place I can find you for sure now is in the Offspring song, “Original Prankster.” About thirty-eight seconds in, Noodles’ (I think his name is Noodles) voice breaks off from singing, the guitar hits a beat, and you get dropped in in the left channel– your sweet “Hey” singing in behind the music, filling in the empty spaces, making it whole, making it real. As far as I know, all you’ve ever said is “Hey,” but all those hip-hop artists must have sampled you from somewhere, because time and time again over the years, I’ve heard you say “Hey” in many, many songs. All kinds of beats and all kinds of rappers have included you, the one thread tying them all together, Girl That Says “Hey.” And now I’m sending you this letter to tell you how I feel. And, of course, to say “hey.”

Before I wrote this open letter, I figured I would try to reach you personally. I scoured the Internet for a credit of your voice– I figured if so many people had used your original recording, someone else would have paid attention, someone else would have realized that you needed to somehow be noticed, be known. Someone, somewhere would know you as the girl that says “hey”. But my search ran dry. Don’t get me wrong, I actually did find a girl that says “hey.” In the early 90s, Prodigy released “Firestarter.” You know that song– everybody does. There’s a girl on that song that says “Hey”– says it three times in a row, in fact, sped up by Prodigy to fit the dance remix, manipulated to match the beat, just like you were. This girl’s name is Anne Dudley, and she was a member of Art of Noise, an 80s electronica group that produced a single called “Close to the Edit,” which Prodigy remixed for “Firestarter.” Unfortunately, he remixed it without their permission, and Anne sued and won a settlement. She also later went on to produce the Oscar winning soundtrack to the Full Monty. She’s a girl who says “Hey,” and a pretty impressive one at that.

But, Girl Who Says “Hey” In That Hip-Hop Sample, I’m not entirely convinced that she’s you. I listened to “Close to the Edit,” and while her “Hey” is certainly vibrant and very 80s, it’s just not enthused with the same rebellion and scintillating offense that yours is. Your “Hey” is seductive and playful, just like the early days of hip hop. Your “Hey” is like an enticing eyebrow raise, a pretend-to-be-offended exclamation of shock at a terrific party. “Hey!” you say, in between bass beats, as if you aren’t sure that what’s going on is right, but can’t hide the fact that you might want to be a part of it.

And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interesting in finding out more about you. Anyone who can put that much meaning and message into a single exclamatory syllable seems like a pretty amazing person. You seem like you know what you want, and aren’t afraid to try for it. Your “Hey” is demanding, and yet consoling, a point of human contact in an otherwise drum and machine produced record. Some of the early hip hop you’re heard in, especially, is more a product of its time, a hard to reach playground of local meaning and sentimentality, and yet your “Hey” reaches through the years and cultures and pulls the listener, new or old, right on in. “Hey,” I imagine you saying, listen to this! And yet, having been in so many different types of work, and involved with so many different artists, you seem like a pretty adaptable person. You find your place and make it your own, another attractive quality. Also, though I’m hestitant to be so gauche with someone so graceful, you sound pretty hot.

So, Girl Who Says “Hey” In That Hip-Hop Sample, keep on doing what you’re doing. I’m sure that with the recent popularity of music mashups, you’ll be shouting your greeting for years to come, and maybe someday some intrepid sampler will actually give you credit for it. But I imagine you not caring much about that, Girl Who Says “Hey.” I imagine you as a slightly older but still sexy woman now, living in a small apartment on the Lower East Side. You exit through your plain front door, leaving the apartment to your loyal cats for the day, and make your way down to the street, stopping only to pick up the royalty checks from that old recording you did from the mailbox. You walk out onto the pavement, and the sun is shining as it can only in New York as Spring is coming on, and you smile as you pull your coat around you and walk the three blocks to the corner grocery. You need to pick up a few things, maybe a mango or two, and food for the cats. Once there, you step into the grocer’s familiar shop as the bell above the door rings. He (an old Italian man who prices items with an ancient pricing gun and runs the store with his two sons) looks up from shelving peanut butter and beams, waves.

“Good morning, Ms. Girl!” he says. “Nice to see you!” And you smile back, thinking that life is good, and say “Hey.”

Sincerely,

Mike Schramm