Send your ads and responses to isawyouads@transistormag.com

I saw you. You: enforcing the pullout of the Gaza Strip last weekend at a religious school near Sanur. Me: throwing rocks and screaming Hebrew text cursing all those who force the withdrawal of the Jewish people from their homeland. You were wearing a beautiful beige uniform with black belt . I was the young lady with the mustache and the yellow shawl. Wanna hook up? I'd love to make you some tea and knish in Homesh. See you?

I saw you. Last Saturday at brunch at the Old Country Buffet. Wow! I didn't know that there was somebody who loved ham and crème corn as much as I do. You: wearing overalls and using two chairs to sit down for a good ol' fashion meal of ham, crème corn, muffin, tater-tot hot dish, apple pie, second plate of ham, cookie, and three glasses of diet coke. Me: wearing an orange muu muu and crying softly by myself in the corner booth as I tried to eat away my self-loathing. Get back to me as soon as you can. My two for one coupons for the OCB run out in two weeks. I love a big boy!

I saw you. I have seen you from time to time over the last few years, but haven't had the courage to talk back...until now! Let's get to know one another. You: in demon form above my bed chanting in Mesopotamian from the Book of the Dead. Sometimes you are in the form of my neighbors cocker spaniel who speaks to me in Latin telling me to start random fires so you can . Me: the one you possess if I don't take my medication and look at things that provoke too much sexual thought. I'd love to meet for coffee and maybe more. But friends first. LTR possible.

I saw you. I looked out my window at four in the morning last Sunday, and lo and behold, I SAW YOU, CUTEY! I saw you stealing my neighbor's car and driving away mysteriously into the night. You: wearing sideways baseball cap, Cleveland Browns jacket, and baggy jeans worn low. Your smashing of the side window awoke me from my slumber, and yet looking outside at you in the darkness, it felt like more of a dream. And the way you yelled to your homey, "Get in the car, bitch!" I wish I was that bitch. Me: I'm just the girl in the next door window...and potential witness against you, so don't be a dog. Call Me!

Send your I Saw You to isawyou@transistormag.com

© Mark Lindquist

Was it just me, or did the most exciting thing about the latest (and possibly last) space shuttle mission occur when we found out that it landed safely? That seems sad. That's equivalent to borrowing your cousin's crappy 1970's flatbed truck to pick up a new refrigerator from Sears and just hoping that it makes it back somewhere close to your home without breaking down. I consider myself a "shuttle guy." In 1986, I remember watching the Challenger disaster live on television. I also remember watching in shock as fiery pieces of the Columbia crashed back to Earth. People my age grew up with space shuttle missions including the Hubble launch, international space station repair, and...well, that's about it. Like a first round draft pick that never really reached its potential, the shuttle program's retirement seems bittersweet.

Outside of the astonishing pictures of the universe that the Hubble telescope produced, I can't think of much the space shuttle did that changed our lives. In fact, the shuttle acted more like a pizza delivery driver for the Hubble: you're excited to see him pull up, but he's quickly forgotten once you receive the pizza. Same goes for the space station. Other than constantly repairing it, what the hell did people do up there? You know, if the shuttle brought back a couple of scientists from the station, and they said, "We've devised an affordable solution to hair loss, discovered an endless energy source in vodka, and intercepted a radio wave broadcast of an ancient alien civilization's pornography;" then we would think that's pretty cool. But usually, our shuttle goes up there to fix the unisex toilet on the space station.

Plus the shuttle never offered any personalities. No Neil Armstrong or Buzz Aldren came aboard to offer a history changing speech. I think the little robots popping wheelies on the Martian surface have more personality and spunk than the community college physics teachers that went up in the shuttle. Wouldn't we feel tempted to spend more money than the space programs one percent of the national budget if NASA sent some good comedians up to the heavens? Andrew Dice Clay hasn't done work years. Send him up to do a show. We'd be glued to CNN for the Diceman comparing the size of North America to his ex-wife's ass. Or how about the dudes from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy mixed with commentators from the 700 Club in a sci-fi type reality show. I don't know how much we'd find out about space, but I think we'd find out something important about ourselves.

Whatever our next endeavor explores, let's put some lasers on it and a guy with a heavy Scottish accent. Or have a race around the moon with the Chinese space program. We could gamble on that kind of thing with a percentage of the vig going to NASA funding. Monkeys on rocket ships seem passe' these days, been there, done that; so how about bald eagle and an all girl new wave flipping around in zero gravity? That'd be a big screw you to the Chinese, huh? I'm not sure how much we'd learn from that kind of experiment, but it wouldn't be any less than the space shuttle missions.

© Mark Lindquist

As I said two weeks ago, there exist only two types of people who ride the bus on a daily basis. One type: me. The second type: a bunch of annoying, unhealthy, delusional whack-jobs who talk too much. In that second type of riders are a lot of sub-categories. And the one I'd like to address this issue is the guy who raps out loud from the back seat of the bus.

Nothing can ruin my ride home like the guy who raps out loud from the back of the bus. Not even the overweight teenage girl in pink sweat pants who can't put down her cell phone any more than she can put down a bottle of Diet Coke and bag of Cheetos kills me like the rapper. I want to describe this guy to you so you can just plain avoid him. He usually wears a baggy stained light blue Charlotte Hornets athletic outfit and a Los Angeles Kings sideways baseball cap. And he freestyle raps, loudly and horribly, to the rest of the bus. "My MC name is Squizzly Dee, I'll bust up any skeezer who mess with me...Cap in your ass, cap in your chest, I'm Squizzly Dee, and I rap the best." It goes on and on. I just made that up, but trust me, his rhymes sound that bad. In fact, it's worse because he mixes in swear words on every line. And it's not like he's doing this along with headphones or even a buddy that provides a beat box. Rapper guy just raps away out loud.

Now here's the thing. His outfit's statement, I assume, is to project an idea that this guy has a love of old school sports. But in my heart, I know that if I asked him whom Larry Johnson played for he'd not know. Or even who Gretski's second pro team was, rapper guy would sit stumped. Want to know why I don't wear Dave Matthew's' Band tee shirts or NASCAR hats? It's because I harbor no correlation to either one. Don't front, rapper guy. You haven't picked up a basketball since you dropped out of 10th grade. And even more important about not fronting, do not freestyle gangsta lyrics on public transportation. There's nothing tough about riding the bus. If you rolled in a sweet black BMW, wearing custom made leather jackets; then, then you can bust out rhymes about how you'll slap down any beeootches who touch your bling in an unsavory manner. You are riding the bus and can't even afford a good set of headphones. The area between downtown and 6th and 9th Spur is not open stage at the Apollo. Don't front on us, MC Squizzly Dee.

© Mark Lindquist