BY THE SEA BREEZEŽ In the bathroom we are defenseless. We see our reflections in that stark fluorescent reality (the most honest reality) and prune and pick and exfoliate, hoping to reinvent ourselves with a splash of water, regain our resolve with a dousing of Sea BreezeŽ. But there is no escape. Paulo Pesci Brooklyn, NY GAG ME WITH A LOON I hate that feeling of helplessness when you get hot food or liquid stuck in that cavity just behind the roof of your mouth and can't swallow, but it burns and your gag reflex kicks in and you experience the anxiety that someone might have to perform the Heimlich Maneuver or something just as embarrassing on you. Doug Merrill Salt Lake City, UT IT'S NOT UNUSUAL One of the most disturbing experiences I've ever had was when I made this early morning drive (like 5 a.m.) from Charlettsville, VA to the airport at Norfolk. Tom Jones' version of Prince's "Kiss" (with Art of Noise) was playing on one of the radio stations. At first I figured it was the extended version of the song because it kept on playing. Then I realized after awhile that the song was somehow looping over and over, quite seamlessly, with no discernible beginning or end. Out of some stupid endurance test, I kept listening for I swear what must have been half an hour, waiting for it to stop. It never did. I finally had to change stations. J.T. McMammon Floyd's Knobs, IN NONSCENTS! What is this magazine's problem that you would run a "scent strip" in the January issue? Have you lost all reason?! "Seat: The bold new fragrance for a man or a woman" my ass! The book smelled like a Goddamn septic tank! I'm cancelling my subscription! Pamela Hansell Bristol, PA EERIE INDEED A mysterious beast, Alpengeist takes alpine skiers on the most chilling ride of their lives as six staggering inversions turn an innocent ski ride lift into a blizzard of fright. This eerie creature is now stalking the hamlets of Busch Gardens Williamsburg, just as it did in the German and French Alps of long ago! Dale Williamsburg, VA LEGGO MY EGO We reach the House of Waffles at quarter to two, ready to partake of the alcohol-soaking properties of The Happy Days Omelet Breakfast. H. grabs a booth, G. walks over to a table of people he knows and I go to the bathroom to clean my glasses.

The frame is miraculously unharmed, despite its frolicsome ride in the panties of an innovative Joker's Wild! dancer. H. is joking about that woman's fetish for opticals yet again when I rejoin them. I say nothing, but mold myself into the green plastic cushion, letting my eyes adjust to the fluorescent pall over the country kitchen decor. Half the booths contain regulars in our same semi-conscious plight. One table in the corner is filled with young townies who were just at Jokers Wild! too. They carry on like they're still there. Across from me I notice this barely-pubescent black girl sitting with two middle-aged redneck truckers, caps low and faces grim, saying nothing. The one beside her is stroking and patting her leg. I try not to stare, but can't help it. Then I'm caught. She glares at me. Her look is like some kind of challenge. I turn my full attention to the sugar dispenser. G. points out four of the dancers we saw at Joker's! are now sitting down across the room. H. says he wouldn't have recognized them in their "regular clothes." Their makeup-buffeted features are harsh in the light. We joke about saying something, perhaps thanking them for the show or buying them a round of omelets. But the townie table beats us to it. They holler requests to see various body parts, dancing on the table, etc. The women ignore them. Within minutes the men dispatch one they call S. for further harassment. He offers his glasses to the woman who handled mine so deftly. She stares into her coffee. He drunkenly stands there waving the glasses in her face and calls his friends to join him. The women look increasingly annoyed. Of course there's not a waitress or manager in sight, just the sound of something frying in the back. At one point in his monologue S. stumbles halfway back to drag over his laughing companions. The dancers promptly make their break and leave. As they're walking out, I can't help but think of the end of an early 80s video where a group of New Wave hookers (at least that's the implication), led by the female rocker, rebel against their pimp and walk into the night as sad piano chords linger. S. returns to his seat a hero. I accidentally glance to the trucker table and find the girl's eyes are still on me. Our food doesn't come for another thirty minutes. Travis Clark Rineygrove, Kentuckiana THE GOODBYE LOOK Won't you pour me a Cuban Breeze, Gretchen? Donald Baton Rouge, LA -top-