I discovered a picture of myself from August 1984. In this image, I’m sporting a PAC-MAN foam cap, oversized sunglasses, a red bandanna, and a too tight t-shirt with a faded print. I’m also wearing a pair of red pants. (How reassuring that, apparently, some things never change.) I appear to be throwing signs. In short, I am a perverse predecessor of VICE Magazine circa 2002-4. Many apologies to those who had to live through it. At least I’m not responsible for the faux-Cowboys who haunted Williamsburg in 2001.

The last time that I last saw my old pal and BFF, Arafat Kazi , was way back September-way. That particular trip was total shite, but me and Kazi had us some good times– bumming around Harvard Square at midnight & road-runnering up from Boston on 1A and Route 128 to Salem and Gloucester. His countrywoman, the ever lovely Jisha, accompanied us as we toured a crummy Wax Museum. With the advent of night, a natural fear of vampires forced our return to the state capital, where Arafat’s mother offered me some of her famous tea and sympathy. It was enough to cause a massive emotional panic; it had become too much, too familiar. Too many choking old memories. I bid my Banglaboy goodbye and fled down Burbank-street. Desperate, totally desperate, to get out of Boston.

How reassuring that, apparently, some things never change.

Now Kazi’s back in Bangladesh and I’m here in Hollywood. There is a near-daily exchange of emails that pledge our undying fraternal love. He can come on heavy with his Muslim public/private opprobrium regarding my life choices, but still. I miss my monster.

This longing got me Googling-oogling, and I discovered remnants of the days of future past, when Arafat was an undergraduate at Boston University and a columnist for the student newspaper, The Daily Free Press. It’s hard to imagine what possessed the editorial body– boredom, probably– to print Kazi’s dirty filth on their clean pages, but for several months, the man wrote weekly under the heading of “300 Pounds and Rising.”

Amazingly, these articles remain available. To shame Arafat Kazi for a period of indefinite duration, I offer links to each and every one. Salaam, Arafat-bhai, and give my regards to Auntie:

September 8th, 2003 – The American Way and a third of the world

September 15th, 2003 – Downloading tips and tricks for the Pope

September 22nd, 2003 – Stars and stripes: an exposé

September 29th, 2003 – Don’t Be Hating the Fat Kids (*)

October 6th, 2003 – The Perfection Solution to the Crappy Day

October 20th, 2003 – Whetted by the American Dream

October 27th, 2003 – The lonely path of the frotteur

November 3rd, 2003 – All that glitters is not Goldin

November 10th, 2003 – Mindless drones: come to me

November 24th, 2003 – Don’t Welsh on me, homophobes

December 1st, 2003 – Hope for more than a Lindt truffle

December 8th, 2003 – A life in the life of a BU lifer

(*) To Arafat’s lasting horror, the 9/29/03 column, “Don’t Be Hating the Fat Kids,” which he considers best amongst the lot, was co-authored by yours truly. This was done to expedite matters– I needed Arafat out of my apartment, but the column was overdue. I pushed him away from my computer and did the second half in about five minutes. For the record, my opinion is in total opposition: I think it’s the worst.

This flier came last December. Earlier today, it fell out of my rarely used backpack on to the floor of one elly. I was happy to see it and thus she scanned it. Marz Bar is an important place in the personal cosmology. In celebration of this rediscovery, I have also uploaded a third and final video of an hilarious time ending poorly. It is entitled, “Too Drunk to Drink Anymore.” Thus the vortex of the Marz Bar consumes us all.