he whole nation wants to do their part to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina, but a Madison, Wisconsin man is doing so much he makes all the other volunteers and charity donors look like dried puke. For Albert Pohl Martinson hasn't merely taken in three or four family members or refugees from New Orleans: He's taken in a whole jazz band.

"I just wanted to do what I could," Martinson told a deluge of fawning media standing on his front lawn. "So I said I would take in the first group of refugees I could. I sent them bus tickets and had them carted up here immediately. And then, being a good citizen, I called the local news to make sure they were informed."

However, Martinson didn't stop and giving the 5-man combo all the food, shelter, and clean water they needed; he also bought them sparkling fresh instruments so they could take their mind off their troubles.

"I've always enjoyed the real music and culture of working-class people," said Martinson, a retired advertising sales manager. "Not particularly jazz, more the rich and textured Delta blues. Some jazz, I guess… this Dixieland stuff isn't really what I thought I was getting when I agreed to—you know what? It doesn't matter. I'm just trying to give back something to a community that has lost so much."

Martinson, upon opening his front door to go back inside, was greeted with the jovial and unrelenting blasts of trumpets playing, "When the Saints Come Marching In."

"Oh, goody—they're still playing!"

Martinson is not the only one opening his home to those in need from the disaster—only the best. But across the nation, many Americans are staking out their piece of great historic tragedy. Like Amy and Morrie Callum of Albany, New York, who took in New Orleans legendary jazz guitarist Halo Jones.

"It's horrific to see all the death and destruction left in Katrina's wake," sobbed Amy, while her husband nodded perfunctorily. "I had to do something. Like everyone else, I was thinking, 'What can I do? Little ol' me?' But I didn't let that hurt me. I got on the phone. I called disaster-relief people. I told them, 'Get me a jazz guitarist.' And they did."

Sure thing, less than a week later, Jones arrived via cab with his trademark Yamaha acoustic.

"He loves to play that thing," said Morrie with a smile. "Honestly, he won't stop playing it."

Still, there are others. Few who have given to disaster relief groups can match the sheer generosity of Ketcham, North Carolina strip club owner Paco Wiley, who opened his home and his club to 13 refugees from a New Orleans brothel, including 12 high-priced prostitutes and a madame, Ms. Louise.

"You've got to remember these are people like you and me," said Paco, wiping his forehead with a lacey pink bra, in one of his rare public appearances outside his club. "You have to give them back their independence. Give them back their dignity. So immediately, rather than just give them charity and let them live off my contributions, I put the ladies to work for me. It's all in the name of relief, folks."

And we spell relief with media coverage—oodles and oodles of media coverage.

President Demands More Wheels on Airplanes

Today’s Hurricanes Not Worth a Damn, Say Elderly Southerners

Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.”

Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment

Well, well, well, if it isn't Boguslaw Sadowski—actually, it is. Or someone who looks incredibly like him.

That's correct, good people, my old nemesis, 40 years my junior, has returned: Boguslaw Sadowski. Also known as "the mad Russian," when he gets extremely pissed off. He may not actually be Russian, but I'm not here to argue semites. All I know is he's my arch-enemy and the stakes in this game of me vs. the mob are raised considerably.

You may remember Boguslaw Sadowski posed as a woman on the internet and tricked me into paying for his flight over here from Eurasia—at least you might remember it if it happened to you. He broke my heart that day. I was all set to meet the most unconventionally beautiful woman of my life and make her my bride, only to find out I had been conned by one of the best. Sure, things work out for the better in the long run, and I met my darling Felchyana, which brings me to my current mixed-up with the mob existence. So maybe things work out for the best only to backslide into the territory of terminally fucked up once again.

But I'm rambling, which is unlike me. What's important is that although ostensibly nothing has changed, things have changed considerably. In addition to trying to find a way out of new mob family and still keep my new wife, I now have my latest worst enemy breathing down my neck.

Boguslaw is unattractive—large and burly, a pock-marked face, iron jaw, slick jet-black hair parted down the middle and a nose worn away by years of fisticuffs. The same features I found so attractive when I thought him a woman are now reprehensible and threatening. He is what the ancient Greeks meant when they coined the phrase, "a man not to be fucked with."

I wish I had that luxury. And a speedboat. But time is slippin' into the future and I'm running short on ideas. As if things weren't bad enough, now in addition to finding a way to take out Yogi and the rest of the ambiguously Russian mafia, I must contend with the world's most intimidating 5-foot noseless mobster.

I sought out Omar Bricks' advice, being something of a young ruffian himself, and I believe what he said was quite true: "A man can only be pushed so far until he explodes like a mailbox full of gunpowder." That wasn't so much his advice to me on the situation as it was a warning of what would happen if I kept bothering him for advice. But it's as true in our time as it was in his, yesterday afternoon just before happy hour.

It's clear I will have to act, and with extreme prejudice and racial epithets. But like a thick scab, I must pick my moment. Camembert is already on board, and has guaranteed he will "fight like a crazed rabbit if you drag me into this." Whether he was directing the fighting at me or our common enemy, I'm not sure, but when push comes to shove, Camembert will roll in on my side, if I push him in that direction.

My current thought is to make allies with the, let's say, "Russian" mafia while awaiting Lee's return. When Lee comes back, with his kung-fu grip and sizzling bass lines, I will finally have the backup I need to challenge Yogi for leadership of the mob. Not that I necessarily want to be a mob leader, but I've heard stories like this before—hearty and sincere white people forcing their way into gangs, taking them over, and using them as a tool for good. And if I had a Coolio song to back me up, I could even make it into a box office hit. But first thing's first.

Step one: Bide my time. Step two: Gather a bad-ass army. Step three: Challenge for leadership of the tribe. Step four: Make a hit motion picture with a best-selling soundtrack. Step five: Stop telling all my secret plans in my nationally web-published column. But that's a consideration for a more peaceful time.

º Last Column: Not My Bag, Man
º more columns

So I'm down by the movie theater the other day, showing some local kids how to play a game I invented called Pogs on Fire, and you wouldn't believe who I ran into. I won't even make you guess, it was Alvin Reggie. Okay, maybe you might believe it since you probably don't know who in the hell I'm talking about. He could be some guy I see every other day for all you know, so it might not sound all that strange to you. But trust me, it's plenty strange. Unless he was an extra in a crowd scene in some movie without me knowing it, it's pretty safe to say I haven't seen Alvin since the fourth grade.

So that made it strange, even beyond the fact of running into a dude named Alvin at all. Who's still named Alvin these days, anyway? I used to think that was a name specifically partitioned off by the federal government for use by singing chipmunks and the like, kind of like those 555 telephone numbers you see in the movies. Apparently not, which sucks big wet ostrich eggs for Alvin and other chipmunk-named sad sacks out there.

The situation was a bit uncomfortable, as it usually is when you run into someone you've been subconsciously avoiding for twenty years. It probably didn't help that I never liked Alvin at all when we were kids. That guy was so uptight I bet he wiped his ass with a toothpick. I'm not even sure why I hung out with that kid, but you do a lot of strange things when you're in grade school. I didn't like that Dennis the Menace cartoon either but I still watched the lame thing every day, just because it was on. So I guess I just hung out with Alvin because he was there. Sort of like the Mt. Everest excuse.

Up until the fourth grade, that is. That's when our so-called friendship hit the skids. Alvin has held this petty grudge ever since I told him that if he stuck a GoBot up his ass he'd acquire superpowers and robot strength. And the little eight year-old moron believed me! I'm not sure how the world court would view our situation, but I count that one as almost entirely his fault.

Grade school friendships aren't exactly forged of wrought iron; they're more like tinfoil rubber-cemented to a peanut butter cookie, so this little medical episode was enough to convince Alvin that Omar Bricks was bad news. All because the little wimp had to have a robotomy, which is medical jargon for having a GoBot surgically removed from your ass. Big whoop. Most people have to go through a lot more than that before they send Omar Bricks a "BITE MY DICK" candy on Valentine's Day. I guess Alvin was just sensitive.

So you can imagine this made for a tense meeting outside the movie theater. Alvin actually recognized me first, which was strange because I've always prided myself on looking different than I did when I was eight. But he said the flaming pogs in my hand were a dead give-away. Fair enough.

I asked him if people still made fun of him for having a first name last name and a gay chipmunk first name, but apparently he's some big shot "head of pediatrics" at a hospital somewhere so people only make fun of his name when he's not around. Unlike in grade school, where they made fun of his name while peeing on his ears. He told me the kids think Reggie is his first name, since they call him "Dr. Reggie" and kids are stupid. He didn't actually say the stupid part, but some things are self-evident. He seemed to think the name thing was somehow cool, so I didn't have the heart to tell him I almost threw up when he said that. I don't think there's a kid alive who would actually call this guy "Dr. Reggie" on purpose, if for no other reason than fear that if Reggie Jackson found out they'd get their ass kicked big-time for making Mr. October's name sound gay. Or Reggie Sanders, that guy's even bigger than Reggie Jackson and less prone to do comedy movies, so he might even be meaner.

Alvin and I caught up on old times, which took about twelve seconds since we never really liked each other and the only thing we ever had in common was that we both dug Mr. Heath bars. That's enough when you're a kid, though by the time you're an adult you figure out that some real assholes like Mr. Heath bars, too. So Alvin and I went our separate ways, him traipsing off to his "children's hospital" or whatever and me showing the kids which pogs are the best for soaking up lighter fluid without getting all soggy. Which is just as well. It might've been cool if he had thanked me for piquing his interest in medicine all those years back, maybe even diverted some of that mad pediatrician cash my way as a tribute. But he probably had other things on his mind, like when that pog caught his pants leg on fire.

Kind of funny how we both ended up working with kids though. Bricks out.

º Last Column: Whistler's Motherfucker
º more columns