Forino slept on this futon for the remainder of his college years, then packed it up with him as he moved away and began his first in a series of crappy underpaid jobs, including: short order cook, watch salesman at Macy’s and night shift security guard at an upscale apartment building in San Francisco. The apartments may have changed, but futon (and the sheets) never did.

A year ago, Forino moved to a small house in Santa Cruz where he works as a journalist for a small local magazine. He enjoys the steady paycheck and of course, the fact that it gives him plenty of time to pursue his true passion: surfing. Forino returned to Ikea recently to purchase furniture for his new house. Among a bookshelf, kitchen table and set of drawers, Forino also bought a bed frame and mattress. “I moved the old futon in the garage,” says Forino. “That was about seven months ago. I just couldn’t get rid of it. It had so many memories!” Truly, the stains on said lumpy futon could tell many a tale of wonder and intrigue, but Christine Hath, Forino’s girlfriend, decided these were stories not worth hearing.

“Christine really put her foot down,” says Forino, who – at his girlfriend’s request – spent the past weekend cleaning out the garage and throwing out the items from his past that he no longer uses. “I gave away my cassette tape collection, some clothes and yeah, the futon. At first I put it on craigslist, yeah know, thought maybe I could find it a good home. I had a few emails, some interest, a couple people came a checked it out, but yeah, I guess it’s pretty old and stained. There’s a tear on one corner from when it got caught in my car a few years back.”

So, in the end, Forino decided that the street was the best place to lay his beloved futon to rest. “At least it’s not a dumpster. Here, maybe someone will drive by and see it and want to take it home with them.” So far, the only people that have shown interest are a local homeless couple who were seen fornicating on the futon.

Exactly how many units were heated is unknown, although experts predict that as many as 250-300 units were heated.

Just how one unit heater could have single-handedly heated so many consecutive units is a mystery to most. But not to George Goolart, who professed to having seen the same thing happen once before.

“Sure, I’ve seen this kind of unit heating before. Sometimes it just gets so that a whole lot of units need heating all at once and you’ll just get tons of units heating up,” said Mr. Goolart, continuing to remind us that, [he's] seen all kinds of unit heating over the years.”

While Mr. Goolart’s input was entirely useless, he did touch on one aspect of the miraculous unit-heating that has had an effect on most people in the small wintry community: the immense relief brought about thanks to such an extensive and exhaustive unit-heating.

“It’s about time some units got heated around here,” said Sean Toddy, an expert on unit heating. “I mean, I can definitely think of at least one unit that was in need of heating really bad for way too long.”

As of press time, it is widely believed Mr. Toddy was referring to his own unit.

Throwing up their Hands: The Arthur Hadley Wemedges
Arthur and Denise Hadley Wemedge of Harrison, NY and Key Montreux, FL officially sundered their union this afternoon in the clubhouse of Winged Hoof, the nation’s most exclusive golf club that is also a stockyard. Mr. Wemedge graduated in the course of things from the Buckley Under School and is the son of Warren Wemedge, a retired senior partner at Anonymity Exterminators, a publicity firm, and Wendy Wainscott Wemedge, an insomniac.

Arthur, a fellow at NYU’s Wemedge School of Institutional Aggrandizement, attributed the breakup to the effects of a repetitive-motion injury. “I’ve been throwing up my hands on a daily basis since I married her. My arms are all but out of their sockets. I simply can’t go on.” The officiating judge, who declined to identify himself but was heard to answer to Solomon, said he felt the same way.

Mrs. Wemedge, the former Denise LaMinquée, who graduated Summa Cum from St. Mandrake’s, noted that Mr. Wemedge had repeatedly failed to meet her needs. Her mother, a runner-up in the Miss Hudson County competition of 1966, is a dermatologist specialising in the treatment of anxiety. Her father, who deals in a broad range of protective garments, delights in serving his country when no one is looking. “I gave up everything for Arthur,” the former Ms. LaMinquée reflected, “even my accent aiguille. And that breath!” Chelsea, her West Highland terrier, is the man who shot Liberty Valance.

Mr. Wemedge claims that his needs hadn’t been met either, and that because he is better, this is worse.

A Civil Secession: Tad de Gadboit and Lex Tenderloy
Guillaume Wilhelm Thaddeus de Gadboit, Jr. and Alex Ababa Tenderloy formally dissolved their union today at Moments of Teaneck, an events space featuring the loudest outdoor fountain in the tri-state area. Sidney Wing, R.Ph., used a bullhorn to officiate; still no one caught a word. Professor Anders Headgear and Sir Rector Vector-Trowels were in attendance. Professor Headgear’s fame preceded him; Sir Rector’s fame followed in a silk and linen ensemble by Zegna.

The couple devised their own ceremony for their last hurrah. Each dropped an Alka-Seltzer tablet into a glass of water and joined hands while the tablets dissolved; the tablets having vanished but the solution still fizzing, they drank from the glass; each let go the other’s hand, slapped the other in the face, backed away from the podium, and whispered, “be gone.” In contrast to Mr. de Gadboit’s exquisite composure during the performance, Mr. Tenderloy wept silently, until, unnerved by his partner’s apparent equanimity, he cried, “Look at him. Doesn’t miss a beat.”

Mr. de Gadboit, who assists physicists at the National Laboratory in Washington in searching for their inner children, pooh-poohs higher education. His father, Guillaume Wilhelm Thaddeus Etcetera the First, used to withdraw $60 from the cash machine; he has lately taken to withdrawing $100. His mother, Florence de Gadboit, née Saint Bernard, was flayed alive by cannibals after failing to convert a putt for birdie on the fourteenth green at Praying Mantis; she works in a marketing capacity for Pfizer. The couple met in the bucket seat of a ’67 Camaro. “It was a fun car, no question” the elder Mr. Gadboit wryly commented. “Only, the cigarette lighter gave me trouble.”

Mr. Tenderloy, a freelance food photographer who was among the first to insert microscopic cameras in aspic, is a graduate of Cornell; the university registrar declined to confirm this. His father, Langley, a systems analyst, reinvented the wheel. His brother, Mikey, can play famous melodies by drumming his fingernails against his teeth. His sister, Lisa Gedenkt of Kansas City, has a hard time throwing away old stuff and enjoys train travel; she asked that her name not be mentioned here.

Saying Tomato: Lawton and Hermione Owens-Mammon
Lawton Owens-Mammon II, after whom Cushing’s Disease is named, and his wife Hermione, née Ropsz, chose the Secant Hunt Club, the site of colonial America’s leading water-treatment facility, to announce the end of his marriage, published in these pages in this typeface on this very day lo nine years ago. Their offspring, Li’l Danny, nine, a Fellow in Special Surgery at Harvard Medical College, and Jason, eight and three quarters, an aide to Senator Rick de Campe, work in a sales capacity for Pfizer.

When asked by the officiant, the Reverend Clarence Norman Thomas, Secant’s Master of the Hunt and a member of the board of governors of the Institute for Higher Blood Sports, about the grounds for his divorce suit, Mr. Owens-Mammon snickered and replied, “Grounds? My good man, there are grounds, I assure you.”

“A gentleman’s word is his bond,” Reverend Thomas mumbled, and granted the petition.

Mrs. Owens-Mammon, who was out on the chase when the announcement was made, seemed taken aback on her return. She quickly regained her poise, however. “It’s not my way to complain,” she said. “Never has been. Though I must add that it was a perfectly happy marriage. As long as I put the request in writing, Lawton always let me share his mistresses.”

Mrs. Owens-Mammon’s aunt is the triple-crown winner Seattle Slew.

Remembering Where They Came From: Yu Tsun and Stephanie Albert
Yu Tsun, who in 1993 relinquished his role as the murderer of Dr. Stephen Albert in J.L. Borges’ 1941 “The Garden of Forking Paths” to attend The Emory University School of Medicine, and Dr. Stephanie Albert, a gastrointerologist in private practice whom Dr. Tsun met there, agreed to a divorce at Karim’s, a falafel stand beside the entrance of Emory’s main library, to which Mr. Tsun repaired after the ceremony. This took place under a thin cloud-cover and light winds; a thirty-percent chance of precipitation went unrealized. The Right Honorable Seymour Feingold, who trimmed his sideburns for the occasion, officiated. “I hereby renounce you,” Dr. Tsun was heard to say in a firm yet shaken manner. “Ditto,” Dr. Albert, who friends said had grown distressed on learning of her husband’s role in the original story, replied. Karim was also distressed after his requests to the parties to indicate whether they’d like extra hummus on their falafel were ignored.

Dr. Albert was more expansive once her erstwhile husband had made his way back to the PZ4.B73 section of the library stacks and dived between the covers of the celebrated Ficciones: “Helping others while earning a lot, realizing my parents worst fears through miscegenation-I won’t deny that it was fun. But that kind of thrill wears off after a while. And when, just as that was happening, Yu decided to tell me about his past. I started to wonder about his attraction to me and we both agreed that it was time for him to resume his position in Borges’ elaborate construction. Love is so fragile, but I guess that’s what makes it beautiful.” Dr. Albert’s father, Vice President Emeritus in charge of brand management for Management Brands, currently divides his time between the living room and kitchen. Her grandmother appears in Chapter XII of Vladimir Nabokov’s Ada, or Ardor.

The internet has invaded virtually every aspect our lives, with our personal and romantic lives being no exception. The Center for Statistics and Such recently reported that over 20 million people have used online dating sites such as matchymatchmatch.org, and TruELove.net. Even if you’ve never signed up for a free trial at NeverEatAloneAgain.com (and who can honestly say they haven’t?), then you at least undoubtedly played out some of your relationship drama on the internet’s stage. Perhaps you have flirted via social networking sites, or stalked an ex via social networking sites, or declared your self taken . . . via social networking sites. No matter the medium, you’ve been there – sending the e-card, the e-mail, the e-kiss and hug. None among us can claim that our romantic selves have lived a life hermetically sealed from the permeating tentacles of technology.

And like any major movement to overtake a vast population in a short period of time, not all are happy with the change. There are those that see the influence of the digital age in our love affairs to be meddlesome and unhealthy. They have created a “backlash,” or negative response to the trend.

Folks across the country, disgusted by watching their friends and families personal dramas play out on a broadcast net of ones and zeros, have decided that matchmaking no longer belongs in our computers. They are calling for something called “extreme matchmaking.” At the forefront of this movement is “Singles and Couples United for Old-Time Romance” or “S.C.U.O.T.R.” These proponents of “old fashioned dating” offer, completely free of charge, a chance to try out “a different kind of singles scene.: Saul Merkin, chairman of S.C.U.O.T.R. says “this IS your grandmother’s matchmaker.” What S.C.U.O.T.R. offers, through Extreme Matchmaking, is unlimited access to a “old-timey matchmaker,” usually an elderly woman, who knows everyone in your community, has watched you grow from childhood, knows you better than you know yourself, and has very strong opinions about who you should be dating, and really – who you should have married five years ago when you actually had some proper baby-making years left in you – Oy!

This matchmaker, once “hired,” cannot be “fired” and will not rest until she has seen you married and pregnant. The service has already gained immense popularity – mostly among those who have tried online dating with poor results. Membership numbers grow daily and Extreme Matchmaking already claims to have testimonials from over fifty “happily married couples.”

But much like the iPhone case made from hundreds year old polished oak and Victorian age brass — in a Steam Punkian sort of gesture — Extreme Matchmaking relies heavily on technology, using free software downloads to put you in contact with your very own “traditional” matchmaker.

Alan Smithson, also 28, grew up down the street from Tinnert in the suburbs on the north side of Chicago. They attended the same elementary, middle and high school and were close, though not best, friends. Smithson has since moved away to St. Louis, Mossuri but returns to the Chicago area every winter to spend the holidays with his family. Smithson recalls that for the last 12 years, Tinnert has not once failed to recount, in great detail, how in the tenth grade, Ms. Ackers gave Tinnert a “C” in Geometry, despite his “totally deserving a B.”

“Every year it’s the same thing,” says Smithson. “Chuck will be totally fun and awesome, but man, around beer number six or seven, he’ll get this look on his face and you just know you’re in for it.” The “it” that Smithson speaks of consists of a 45 minute average rant about what a bitch Ms. Ackers is and how she “totally had it out for him from day one.” Tinnert will recount how he consistently received B’s on all his tests and turned in “most of his homework on time.” Yet, despite this evidence of obviously deserving a “B” in Geometry, Ackers gave Tinnert a “C.”

Another long time friend of Tinnert, Tom Overton concurs with Smithson. “He does it every year at Billy C’s Christmas Party. He’ll start drinking and we’ll all be talking about high school and the stupid stuff we used to do and then Chuckie will say ‘Hey, who remembers Ackers?’ or something like that. Then he won’t shut up for like a hour about this teacher and how she screwed him over. It was funny the first few years but man, it’s been like ten years now, you think he could just drop it already.” Overton is considering not attending the local holiday parties this year and says his decision is greatly influenced by Tinnert.

Tinnert left Chicago directly after high school and attended the Univ ersity of Michigan for four years, recieving his Bachelor’s Degree in Political Science. He then moved back to Chicago, into an apartment above his parent’s garage and has lived there ever since. He works at a local law office as a Administrative Assistant and has a nice car and a girlfriend of two years. When asked how the notorious “C” has impacted his life, Tinnert shakes his head, pops open another Miller High Life and says, “I got a B on every goddamn test! How do like 10 B’s equal a C? It doesn’t make sense!”

Los Angeles, CA – The official announcement that America is in a recession came right on the heels of Black Friday, the biggest shopping day of the season. (Incidentally it is called Black Friday because black is the only color dark enough to hide the shame we should all be feeling knowing that a man was trampled to death so that someone could pay $4.99 for a copy of whatever crap Ashton Kutcher most recently barfed out.) Is it a mere coincidence that the binge of post-turkey spending should bring on a rancid purge of economic trouble? Or is the almighty Thor punishing us? It’s the second one, but that’s not the point. Americans are now facing the biggest spending time of the year, and its looks like old Saint Nick might be a little lean this year. But just cause the bottom of your Christmas tree will be empty as your wallet, be not afraid.

Green is the color of this Christmas. Environmentalism is hotter than your knock-off Loius Vitton. Follow these pieces of advice this holiday season and stay on the cutting edge of culture while also saving money.

1. Don’t go anywhere. Traveling is overrated and spending time with relatives is the quickest way to kill the holiday spirit. Blame the high cost of gas, and “caring about the planet” and forgo the flight or road trip out to see Nana. She’ll last another year.

2. I know that no one wants to be that crazy cat lady that washes and reuses scraps of tin foil, but recycling doesn’t have to be creepy. Instead of throwing away your holiday decorations, put them in a box and put the box in your basement, attic or closet. This time next year, you can take it out and re-use those same decorations. My family and I started doing this last year and boy did we save a bundle! Instead of burning our plastic Christmas tree ornaments in a massive bonfire on the 26th, we burned our wrapping paper instead. We kept the ornaments and are going to reuse them this year! Even my hubbie got involved, deciding he would try not throwing away the Christmas lights after New Years.

3. Fake your death and the death of your spouse the day before Christmas. The children will be so distraught they will forget all about presents. Later reveal yourself alive and declare it to be a “Christmas miracle!” That should be all the presents they need. (Warning: this will not work in your children hate you.)

4. All too frequently, we spend money on buying presents for people we do not even like. Tell any non-essential friends and family that you have converted to a new and strange religion and therefore will not be participating in any of their “heathen rituals.”

5. Another cheap gift idea: tell friends and family that you made their present this year then proceed to give them any old piece of garbage. They will be forced to pretend they like it.

With all the money you’ll save, you can finally buy that endangered species fur wrap you’ve always wanted!

Happy Holidays and may all your Christmases be Green.

While not as immediately visible as commuter bikers, those die-hard riders who have committed to a bike-style abound. Evidence of LA bike culture can be found in the group: Urban Ridahs, a hundreds strong group of cyclists who get together every Tuesday night to ride together in celebration, and sometimes, protest. They will take over whole intersections, stopping traffic and ruining business for street vendors. These rides frequently will have a theme such as Ocean Breeze: a ride along the coast from Malibu to Long Beach. Another popular, though hard to complete, ride is the In-N-Out crawl: a ride that features stops at all twenty-two of Los Angeles County’s popular hamburger chain. Most of these rides leave participants feeling euphoric and accomplished. But last Tuesday, disaster struck.

No one is quite certain whose idea it was or why it was so enthusiastically embraced but somehow the week’s ride theme was deemed: The Potholer, a scenic tour down Culver City’s most rough and ragged alleys. It is important to note that these rides take place at night and most alleys are not well-lit. The ride also featured some of the most neglected pavement Los Angeles county has to offer and moments into the ride, several injuries had already occurred. Some were hurt by riding head-on into nasty pot holes, flipping bikes and crushing body parts against asphalt. Many others were injured while suddenly trying to avoid a pot hole and crashing instead into their fellow cyclists.

Despite these pit falls, the ride continued until midnight, at which point ambulances had been called a total of nine and one half times. Some locals later reported having seen several cyclists hoist their injured comrades onto handballs and ride them directly to the local emergency room at Our Sister of Misery. Those lucky enough to avoid injury were left emotionally damaged, shedding tears over popped tires, broken chains and mangled spokes.

Jones went out last Friday night with several other women to celebrate a friend’s job promotion. After a few hours of drinking, the ladies found themselves at one of the few bars in town that offers karaoke. “I never would have done it if I wasn’t wasted,” recalls Jones who was on her seventh whiskey sour at the time. As Jones tells it, she began to sing “Islands in the Stream,” performing both sides of the duet and once she got started, she did not want to stop. She went out to perform ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” and the traditional folk ballad “Danny Boy.”

Several friends who witnessed the event, as well as the karaoke DJ, all described the evenings festivities as “like watching a train wreck happen in reverse.” Meredith Montag, the receptionist at Jones’ office, elaborated, saying, “at first it was ridiculous. A lot of laughing and forgetting the words and just totally embarassing herself. But then she got a little better. And a little better. And soon it was clear she was really into it and that made her good at it. I think she ended up doing like seven songs.”

Apparently the night left a lasting impact on Jones, who did not show up for work the following Monday or any day after that. “I just didn’t realize how awesome it is,” says Jones of karaoke. “And you really don’t have to be a good singer. I thought it was only for American Idol hopefuls and you know, those weirdo businessmen who totally could have been the next Sinatra but gave up on their dreams.” So now Jones has begun to dedicate her life to spreading the word about the Japanese singing sensation that most people discovered in the late eighties. She reports to have no plans to return to work, or bathe.

“All that matters now is that people know. They have to know. Kareoke is the best. I don’t know why anyone does anything else.” When pressed for more specifics on what exactly makes kareoke so great, Jones declined to answer, obviously pretending to not hear the question. As this reporter walked away, Jones could be heard to sing, “islands in the stream, that is what we are, no one in between, how can we be wrong, sail away with me, to another world…”

“It’s not so much what he said, as how he said it,” she explained, pulling out her blackberry once again and handing it to me. Michael and Marlene both got Twitter accounts last spring. This latest internet phenomena allows members to update their status at frequent intervals so that “friends and family” always know what you’re up to.

Some examples: “JERRY just had coffee. MARLA can’t stand taking the bus. SUSAN cried all night. JERRY coffee again – I’m totes addicted! ”

The Dereks thought this would be a fun way to keep in touch throughout the day, but soon it became clear that Michael was more committed to “twittering” than Marlene. “It got to the point where he was updating during dates, during dinners, at special events — he posted the song lyrics that were stuck in his head at our son’s briss!” Now Marlene is reeling from Michael’s recent update: “MICHAEL is leaving Marlene.” “I got it while I was at work. When I came home, all his stuff was gone.”

Now all that remains of Marlene’s marriage? Twitter updates from her ex: “MICHAEL is Thanks for letting me crash on your couch Jim.”