Potvin Newsly

Monday, September 20, 2010

Potvin Reviews: The National Parks – Black Canyon of the Gunnison

The Shit You Find Out from the National Park Website: Here you’ll learn that even small rocks can be fatal, somehow, and that poison ivy grows five feet tall near the river in the canyon. Five feet. This is poison ivy that is tall enough to nearly equal the height of former NBA player (and first round pick) Muggsy Bogues, who, might I add, blocked 39 shots in his career. You can learn about the lovely and scenic East Portal Road, which has a steep 18% grade and hairpin turns, but should be driven at no-less-than 50 miles per hour, but that last part is just a personal recommendation. Hey, if you’re going to pussy-foot it in a national park, why even bother going?

The website will also warn you that hiking the inner canyon is perilous, to wit, “There are no maintained or marked trails into the inner canyon. Routes are difficult to follow, and only individuals in excellent physical condition should attempt these hikes. Hikers are expected to find their own way and to be prepared for self-rescue… Not all ravines go all the way to the river, and becoming ‘cliffed out’ is a real possibility.” Also, remember the MUGGSY BOGUES EDITION of the poison ivy, which the park claims is “nearly impossible to avoid.” Put it all together and you have the script for the next National Lampoon’s Vacation movie, where the family ends up bloody, lost, starving, dying, and pretty fucking itchy. And once all that is in mind, the website adds that “Inner canyon routes are not meant for small children.” Why is that sentence on the website, when it’s pretty damn clear that small children, let alone super heroes, do not have any business trekking down into the canyon? Well, I for one suspect that there might be a small skeleton lost in that canyon somewhere, and now that warning is a bit more obligatory.

Oh, and a fun fact you might encounter is that the temperature inside the depths of the canyon can be eight degrees warmer than the rim. That’s what she said!

The Shit You Find Out When You Get There: Hiking the inner canyon is not as necessarily difficult as it is made out to be, but to be sure, I think you still have to be a partial badass to do it. You DO have to be prepared, but it should take less than a day. Then again, when you stand out at the edge of the canyon and look down…

Below: Black Canyon of the Gunnison
Uh, yeah. Fuck that.

Oh, also, I don’t know if I would call it a black canyon. The rock color is sort of blackish, but really, it’s more gray. I guess Gray Canyon doesn’t really cut it, especially when you see how magnificent and balls-out-intimidating this thing is. I mean, seriously, balls-out.

J. and I camped here, and found out that it gets windy as fuck, and soon our attempts at grilling were ruined. Luckily for us, my trusty propane stove doesn’t care so much about wind. Throw in some bad whiskey, and you’ve got a pretty nice situation going. We tried to hike most of the next day, and were creeped out by a woman we saw dressed in some olde-timey clothes. I figured she was a Twilight Zone case, but J. thinks it more likely that she was part of some fundamentalist Mormon cult. Either way, she probably got beat by some male figure in her life because I stared at her for way too long. Overall, it was a pretty good time.

Thing I Never Expected to Hear but Then Did: I asked one of the rangers, who had taken just about every path possible into the inner canyon, if the poison ivy really was five feet tall, or if that was some park bullshit that they used to keep fat Midwesterners from starting a trip they are physically uncapable of finishing. “No,” she said, “it’s really that tall. Actually, some places it’s a foot or so taller, and you just have to walk through a sort of ‘poison-ivy tunnel’ in a few places.” That’s what I didn’t expect to hear: poison-ivy tunnel. Seems to me that there must be some sort of very important, very elusive, very dangerous artifact hidden in that canyon, and Indiana Jones (and possibly the Nazis/North Koreans/Mooninites) is just itching to get his hands on it.


Saturday, June 26, 2010

Potvin Reviews: The National Parks – Great Sand Dunes

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jill Hater @ 1:49 pm

The Shit You Find Out from the National Park Website: Here you would find out that Great Sand Dunes National Park also includes some sort of preserve, and it is located somewhere in Colorado. Turns out it was also turned into a National Park under the careful watch of Billy Clinton, who vehemently denies that the blowjobs he received from Great Sand Dunes (which was at the time just a lowly national monument) had anything to do with its redesignation as a full-on, raging boner, very hardcore national park.

The Shit You Find Out When You Get There: Great Sand Dunes is sandy. Like, very, very sandy. Probably the sandiest place I’ve ever been to, and I’ve been to Kuwait, which is just sand, oil, rich Arabs, and indentured servants who “work” for the rich Arabs. But mostly, Kuwait is sand. (Bad sand, at that: I heard that they can’t even use it to make glass, or even concrete, because it’s totally shitty sand. So, ironically, they must import the sand they need for concrete.) And after living there a year, and being at Great Sand Dunes for two days, I can say that maybe Great Sand Dunes is sandier. Let me tell you this for sure: if I had a vagina, it would have been packed to the hilt, and then I probably would’ve been moody.

J. and I camped the first night, taking a slight refuge from the sand by pitching our tent on soil and near trees. But we did have to trek through sand to get there. And might I add that, for a place with a lot of sand, they also have a lot of mosquitoes. (J. ended up with ass-bites. You know what the fuck I mean – don’t make me explain it.) The next day, though, watch out. Sand here we come. We hiked to the top of a sand dune, called High Dune, armed with the knowledge that it was not the highest dune in the park, just the second highest. I guess that’s why it’s just called High Dune.  Nevertheless, we hiked the 1.15 miles to the top in the lightning quick time of (roughly) 1 hour and 45 minutes.

We planned on getting water at the Medano Creek, near the base of the dunefield we had just hiked into, but J. felt it was a bad idea as some children were playing in the creek. I was armed with a water filter that is designed to remove hyper small particles of dirt, as well as the pain-inducing protozoa giardia, but J. rightly refused the offer to drink mountain fresh creek water as science has yet to design a filter that removes children’s cooties (as well as the disgusting tastes of both their innocence and lack of cynicism).

The Thing I Never Expected to See but Then Did: The Dune-Accessible Wheelchair, which I believe the visitor center hands out for free to handicapables, so that they, too, may experience sand. Lots and lots of sand.

The Pinnacle Achievement of 30,000
Cumulative Years of Human
Civilization: A Wheelchair that
Can Go in Sand!

Introducing “Potvin Reviews: The National Parks”

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jill Hater @ 1:15 pm

Hello all. I’m sure that I have no dedicated readers left as I have not posted in… many months. That’s okay. Currently I am on a big road trip, with my close associate/lover, J. We have headed into the Great American West, and are scheduled to stop at over fifteen national parks. I feel it is  my duty to review my stay/stop at each of these parks, to let you, my somewhat-valued readers, know which ones to miss, and which ones to drive around in, pointing at America’s unrivaled natural beauty, and say, “Ooo, looky there! That shit’s purdy!” You’re very welcome.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Super Blogger Defeats Super Lawyer in Phone Conversation

My memory gets a little hazy at times, but I remember this whole thing clearly. It was like any other Monday, really, except that it felt sort of like I was living in some sort of film noir from the late 1930’s to early 1950’s. You know, everything’s in black and white, and I’m wearing a plain, dark-colored trench coat, no tie, with a matching fedora hat. I talk in a scruffy, slightly toned down voice. I have an office, and the stick on letters that I put on the door when I first rented the place have deteriorated, and some have fallen off. My underpaid secretary sits outside. She gives me a lot of grief, brother, but I guess I deserve it. I haven’t found any solid detective work for months now. I’ve been just barely making it by calling up ex-girlfirends and charming them into granting me favors, and occasionally I’ll get a small detective job, usually for some kid trying to find Waldo. Well, I do it, but I ain’t proud.

It was already late afternoon, no calls all day as usual, and my secretary, Cybil, has been telling me she needs to go before too long, but I tell her to stay. “You don’t pay me enough to stay!” Alright, alright ya crazy dame, go ahead and take off.

But then she walks in. Or calls, rather, but let’s pretend she walks in. She’s got a long stride and a voice to match. Wait, I’m not sure that makes sense, but it sounds sensual. She sits down, and opens up her cigarette case, and puts one in her mouth. I strike a match and reach to light it, but then she tells me “It’s only candy, baby.”

So what’s your name, I ask her. “Monica. Monica Richman,” she tells me as she chomps down on her sugar stick. Already I know why she’s here. And she knows I know. Not long ago I was investigating The History Channel. I had suspected that they were going to change their name to the Hitler Channel. Problem is, A&E Television owns the History Channel, and I used the name of their executive vice president in the article. Let’s say he wasn’t too happy about it. To cut a long story short, Monica Richman here is a big time lawyer, representing A&E. She works for some law firm down town, I forget the name exactly but it sounds like “sunshine” when pronounced by an Italian immigrant with a thick accent.

I ask her, What are you doing in this part of town, in the docks? She tells me she was just in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by. Come to get me to change my story, I ask her. “You know that story’s not true,” she tells me. Well that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it. “No it isn’t,” she says. She shifts her body language and tone of voice, and I can tell she’s trying to seduce me. Not gonna happen, lady, I tell her. The Onion breaks stories like these all the time, and I don’t see you going after them. “You’re not The Onion,” she tells me bluntly, licking her lips, chomping down on the last piece of her candy cigarette.

So there we were, deadlocked in a sexy sort of struggle. I tell her, I’ll take your VP’s name out of the article, but it’s getting published. She tells me she can handle that, but she keeps looking at me in that way. I get up to pour some whiskey. I set a glass down on my desk, open the bottle, and fill the glass half way. I turn around to put the bottle away and when I look back, she’s got the glass in her hands, and already there’s an imprint of lipstick left on it. You wanna a glass, I ask her. “Oh sorry, I just assumed we’d share.” Why would I want to share with somebody who’s come to coerce me into changing my story, I ask her.

She starts to get real different after I say that. She gets a little apologetic, saying she doesn’t want to hold me back. I ask her if she liked the article I wrote up. I can tell she does, but she tells me that because of her work, she preferred it hadn’t been written. She calls it “hurtful” among other things, but then she starts to talk crazy to me. She starts working me up as some sort of creative genius, and starts using big, sexy words like “defamation” and “fictitious”. I knew this doll wanted to get with me, but now I think she might be trying to suck me in long-term, see. I can’t handle that. Maybe my mother’s right, maybe I do need to settle down, but not right off the bat like this. I start to feel real uncomfortable, see, and start tugging at my shirt collar, even though I’m not wearing a tie as I’m sure you’ll recall.

She looks at me with big eyes and pouty lips, waiting for me to make a verbal response. Sorry babe, I say, it’s just not in the cards for you and me. She jumps across the desk, grabbing me by my shirt, yelling my name, telling me that we need to be together. I give her a slap on the face and tell her to sit down. She does, her hair a mess, and a look of shame draped on her face. I lie to her. Look dame, I’m married. “You’re not wearing a ring,” she points out. Yeah I know, I do detective work. You think I want the perps I investigate to know I got a wife at home? Not a chance in hell, lady, not a chance in hell. And that goes for you and me. I’ll change the name, but that’s all. Get outta here.

She grabs her coat and walks away, then pauses in the open door and looks back at me. She has this fierce look in her eyes, and it seems like she’s gonna say something, ‘cept she doesn’t. She just slams the door and walks out of my office. So I sit there and finish the glass of whiskey, grab my hat and coat, and head out the door. Sometimes I wonder just what it is that I’m doing in this town.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

The 100th Post Spectacular Extravaganza Divertissement Special

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jill Hater @ 12:36 am

Welcome to the 100th post (not counting pages) on The Potvin Newsly. It only took me well over a year.

Originally, when I started this damn, lovable thing, I was in Kuwait and I had way too much free time on my hands. I made posts regularly.

Then I came back to the United States. Things changed. I was suddenly not so bored and writing to pass the time. Now I had to get myself to write for the sake of writing. It’s tough man – real tough. I am disappointed with myself and how long it took to reach 100 posts. I am trying to vow for 100 posts per year from this point – and that’s not actually hard when you think about it. It’s slightly less than two per week.

Man I suck.

I will now bring you an insider’s look at The Potvin Newsly. First, some stats.

Most Viewed Posts

  1. Chernobyl Goes Record Sixth Day Without Zombie Attack
  2. Bobby “Psycho” Fischer Dead at 64
  3. Serial Killer Spotlight: Delfina & María Jesús González
  4. Bear Survival Kit
  5. Half-Vampire Half-Werewolf Running Amok in PA
  6. Bear Attack Week: Bear Lethality Index

All of those have over 1,000 views, and How to Be a Good Stand-Up Comedian is nearly in that group with 981 views at the time of this post being published. This clearly tells me what the readers want: Zombies, Psychos, Serial Killers, and Bears. Without even trying that hard, I’ve established clearly the most brutal blog on the internet. Permission granted to bow to my superiority.

Comments. Comments are always welcome here on The Potvin Newsly, even if they are combative, cordially demeaning, lack capitalization, come from Ireland, are way off topic, or irrelevantly disgusting, are contrived and directionless, lack grammar and punctuation, or are just generally retarded. I’ve only ever denied one comment, and that was because it was about a page and a half long and was about as hard on the Jews as Egypt. The ancient one.

One of my favorite things that has happened, several times, during the course of the first 100 posts, is the response I get from fake news stories. Even though the stories are listed with the tag “Fake News” they still get reported as true by some people. Often times threads are started on faraway websites because of the fake news I post – sometimes in a foreign langue (scary). And some people were very upset (and confused) when they heard that an 11 year old boy was arrested for being an accomplice to murder when his aunt shot and killed a doctor with his spudgun.

So that’s the jist of the cool stuff. See a more candid look at The Potvin Newsly by checking out the 200th Post.

Saturday, March 28, 2009


Filed under: Uncategorized — Jill Hater @ 9:38 pm

There are few things as worthless as a writer in love. Perhaps a Fig Newton wearing a wristwatch is comparable. People might think that a writer in love has an advantage, as writing does need inspiration, and what’s more inspiring than love?

Poppycock, I say! Writers in love are lethargic, miserable beings. They aren’t inspired; they’re consumed. You know the thought of “two lovers being one”? Isn’t that the same as saying you’re half the person you used to be? Still, people can argue that a writer in love is a writer with his/her priorities set.

Hogwash, I say! Someone in love has their priorities skewed, I promise you. They don’t understand the importance of much, least of rationality. And if you can’t rationalize, then you can’t relate. This does occasionally work when you write to an audience who feels they can’t relate to anyone else, like teenagers. R.L. Stine, you whacked out fucking genius… He must be a great writer.

Poppywash, I say! He’s a marginal writer at best. But still way more famous than me. And the tragic part is he doesn’t even seem to be held captive by love’s hold; he’s just a bad writer. Not that I’m here to pick on Stine. There are thousands of shitty writers getting published all the time. I’m just mentioning him because I’ve owned and read many of his works.

Now some writers do have their best works come out of them when they are absorbed into a relationship. But this “best work” comes out of the most fucked up relationships, quite honestly. Or it comes when the two have split, and one’s ego must meet one’s humility – then let the writing begin. So being in love can be good for a writer – either your fucked up relationship gets you to type out fantastic manuscripts, or your heart-wrenching breakup does.

Hogcock, I say. Being in love is bad for being a writer. Still, right now, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

[What a shitty post this turned out to be. Man, I really am a bad writer now. – Author]

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Open the Political Satire Floodgates

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jill Hater @ 4:22 pm
Tags: ,

I hadn’t touched on much of anything heading up to this here general election. I probably should have.

I’d always like to think that I could make satire without inserting my own bias, but I know that’s probably not true. With the elections over, however, I can write pretty much what I wish without being accused of using my very powerful position as a psuedonym’d blog writer (who happens to write about bear attacks, serial killers, and the 1888 Yale Bulldogs football team) for political gains. Yes, open the political satire floodgates.

And for anyone who’s disappointed that I didn’t post at all in the month of October, let it be known that I am also disappointed with myself. No worries, though – I’m sure I haven’t disappointed anyone. Any fan base I might have had, if any, is surely gone by now. That’s stress-free blogging, right there.

Also, we here at the Potvin Newsly are nearing 100 posts. Also, we’re nearing our first anniversary of web-logging. Also, there’s no “we” – really, it’s just me. Nevertheless, I expect the be at least nominated for a 2008 Peabody. I am submitting my Bear Attack Week articles. I don’t know why I’m bringing any of this up, except to say “Thanks, internet, for always being there and full of porn.”

Sunday, September 14, 2008

The Drought Is Over!

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jill Hater @ 8:35 pm

Yes, I have returned from the Desert of No Internet. I have some left over “Bear Attack Week” drafts that I wasn’t able to get posted before my internet was turned off for approximately one month, and I will be sure to post date them to maintain the Bear Attack Week’s weekiness.  So check that out, it’s kind of a big deal.

Also, I’ll be sure to be posting some stuff that will keep your mind off of the current political state of affairs, which, if you’re reading this, chances are that you don’t follow politics anyhow. Cheers!

Tuesday, July 29, 2008


Filed under: Uncategorized — Jill Hater @ 11:38 pm

Break’s over guys… Seriously, I mean it this time.

Actual post tomorrow.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Presenting “Too Busy Week”!

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jill Hater @ 9:30 pm

I’ve been too busy to write consistently, so I just haven’t done so at all.

I have some time now, but I’m really tired. You know the feeling. Maybe tomorrow.  Well, see you later.

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