Pulse Editor
Jacquelyn Lewis
jacquelynlewis@dciilyemerald.com
Tuesday, November 26,2002
Oregon Daily Emerald
Pulse online
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at www.dailyemerald.com
Don’t feel
guilty for
ditching
deadbeats
Dear Nat: I have a friend who is bad
news — he owes me money and used
njp to get to my other friends. I told
him I no longer want to see him, but he
keeps trying to be my friend. The prob
lem is, I have known him since kinder
garten! How do I break it off while still
being polite?
— Feeling Hopeless
Dear Hopeless: I’m sorry, but “break
it off’ and “polite” are two phrases that
do not match up! People are always
looking for the nicest way to get rid of
someone, but the truth is, no one will
walk away after being ditched feeling
they were treated “politely.”
This guy is obviously bringing you
down. You’ve already told him straight
out to “get lost,” which is all you really
can do. Now he’s just being a nag. The
best way to brush a bug like him off
your shoulder is to pretend he’s not
there, and eventually he’ll skitter away.
Don’t return phone calls or e-mails,
and if he catches you on the phone or
on the street, explain that “urgent ap
pointment” you’re running late for.
And for pete’s sake, don’t feel guilty
because you’ve known him since
kindergarten! Just because you can re
member this guy being put down for a
nap or eating from his Bugs Bunny
lunch box doesn’t mean you owe him
anything. How you feel about him now
should determine how you deal
with him.
On the other hand, if your “friend”
says he wants to start over and vows to
treat you better, I think he deserves a
second chance. Just keep an eye on
him. If he still owes you money after a
month, tell him to hit the road. But if
all he owes you is crayons he borrowed
in kindergarten, I say let him
stay around.
Tu rn to Ask Nat, page 4
Have yourself a Teshinator Christmas
With three gold albums under
his belt, JohnTesh hopes
his latest creation is ‘an album
of pure encouragement’
Ryan Bornheimer
Senior Pulse Reporter
Fans of the artist formerly known
as co-host of Entertainment Tonight
can rest easy. The Teshinator is back.
It’s been eight long months since his
hugely successful album “A Deeper
Faith” blasted onto Billboard charts.
Now John Tesh has set his sights on
the holiday season with the eagerly
awaited release of “Christmas Wor
ship.” This collection of classic and
original tunes is perfect for those long
winter nights when you’ve had 12
glasses of rum-laced eggnog.
Something has been missing from
holiday albums in recent years. Sure
there were classics — Destiny’s Child
gave us “Eight Days of Christmas.”
Christina Aguilera put the sex back in
J.C.’s birthday with “My Kind of Christ
mas.” But only upon listening to the
first track off “Christmas Worship” —
“This is Your Gift” — does one realize
what has been missing — John Tesh.
How many times have you been sit
ting around the Christmas tree with
friends and family when someone
said, “You know what this day needs
— a spoken-word piece by John
Tesh.” Well, you’ve got it, Uncle Sey
mour, and more.
The combined talent of Yanni and
John Tesh have made new-age music
more than just a passing fad for
teenagers. Having conquered that are
na, the composer has since turned his
talents to other areas of music. This
latest effort is a stew of Tesh’s new-age
roots and Christian worship music that
carries a positive message of together
ness and hope for the holidays. But
Tesh himself best describes the release
in the album’s press material.
“I really want ‘Christmas Worship’ to
be an album of pure encouragement,”
Tesh said. Perhaps the musician is
eager to prevent the increased number
of suicides often associated with the
Turn to Tesh, page 4
Courtesy photo
Monty gives clue to Michael; Sarah finds another sign ofKerensa
Chapter 9.
Remembering the fire.
Last week, Michael survived Mon
ty’s attack with population statistics,
and finally met the woman in green.
The Emerald is printing “And the
Dew is Our National 'Treasure” in
serial form, with an installment
every Tuesday in the Pulse Relax
section. Earlier installments can be
found at www.dailyemerald.com.
The signs had been consistent:
Green put me on the plane and led
me to the woman. But what is Fate’s
message, that Kerensa’s a high
priced whore? “No! I’m assigning
motives like Sarah! If I’d only stayed
in Portland and searched for Keren
sa’s journal, I’d know her thoughts.”
The plane jerks to a stop, and I hold
my knotted stomach. I want to curl up,
but I stand with the others and shuffle
forward. Monty waits at his seat.
“Remember, 14,713 per square
mile.” Weird smile, raised eyebrows.
I nod and smile back. He stuffs a
note in my shirt pocket.
“Thanks.” The woman in green is
far ahead.
My cab lurches through the
crowded streets of Kowloon, where
green is ubiquitous, a painful re
minder to me of Kerensa. At the ho
tel, I call Sarah and recreate the se
quence that led to the woman in
green. “Michael, signs are not colors
or things, but people. A 13-hour
flight, and you met no one?”
“Monty..I begin and remember
his note in my pocket. It’s scribbled
on letterhead from the InTERRim
Institute, Portland. “Ffffff...! ”
“What, Michael?”
“Monty’s note. It’s on Kerensa’s
letterhead!”
After several hours on the phone, I
give up trying to find Monty and go
for a run. At first, the pedestrians
around me have briefcases in their
hands, then shopping bags, then
wooden cages, then nothing and
their empty hands reach toward me.
People stare from dark alleys.
Firecrackers explode around the
comer; flashes brighten the walls; I
go to look. Paper dragons with black
legs dance before a bonfire. Sparks
fly into the night. A sting of sharp ex
plosions. I see flames through black
legs as through balusters. I sink...
“Kerensa? ” I scream. I stand in a
doorway in white pajamas printed
with clowns and drums. A hot glow
comes through the balusters. My
eyes sting. “Kerensa!” The stairwell
before me explodes in flame. I fall.
Kerensa’s feet beneath the smoke
run across the landing. I hear
pounding. “Mom! Dad! Mom, wake
up. Dad. ”A lash of flame. I’m on my
knees crying. Kerensa takes my
hand: “Keep close and you’ll be all
right. ” We climb out the window —
flames lick over the edge of the roof
— and go over the dormer toward
the back of the house. Kerensa or
ders me down the trellis. From the
ground, I see her still on the roof
moving around to the back. She
pounds on a window. “Mom! Dad!”
The pane breaks and flames rush
through the hole. Kerensa’s forced
back. She turns and jumps. I’m
paralyzed with fear. She gets to her
knees, then to her feet and comes
over to me. She holds me tight as the
sirens scream.
I hunker against a •wall near ash
es. Her parents were little more. Af
terwards there was confusion and
then questions and discussions, and
then she was adopted as my sister.
The sky lightens. I stand, find a
rickshaw and soon curl up in white,
scented sheets.
“Sarah,” I say before boarding my
return flight. “This has been a disaster.”
“The darker the night, the
brighter the candle. I found her
backpack.”
“The one with her journal?”
“Yes.” Sarah’s cell breaks up and dies.
Peter Wright is a printer living in
Portland. He received his bachelor's
degrees from UC Berkeley, served in the
U.S. Navy, worked as a stock broker and
taught at Stanford University.
© Peter Wright, 2002. All eights reserved.