Doug Clark

Sometimes there's a very blurry line between art and garbage. For example: Lynn Colwell and Sarah Porter once threw away all the squiggles, curlicues and zigzags they routinely scribble on their desk calendars at work. The pair now stockpile their inky scratchings as if they were priceless Picassos.

Except for playing solitaire and writing deep thoughts, I've always thought computers were the world's biggest wastes of time. Lord only knows how many glassy-eyed cyber nerds have surfed off on the Internet never to return to dry land. Thanks to a revealing new Name Change Game, I now consider the computer more of a microscope into the human soul than even astrology or palm reading.

Cupid, draw back your bow. Aim for poor Darrell's forehead. Any guy who gets dumped twice in 20 minutes at a Valentine's Day dance deserves to be put out of his misery.

The operation was a success, but unfortunately Dave McCann's patient is still dead. McCann isn't worried about being sued for malpractice, although being put under a curse has crossed the Spokane surgical equipment dealer's mind. With good reason. The guy McCann ventilated with a pneumatic drill the other day is a 2,600-year-old Egyptian mummy named Usermontu.

Buddy the dog shows his great tolerance for humans as Margaret Ferrell, with Manito Veterinary Clinic, shows students how to help a choking dog during Tuesday's first-aid class for pets. Photo by Colin Mulvany/The Spokesman-Review

Homeless, my butt. Thanks to gullible givers, the shiftless brigade under Freya Way Bridge wouldn't swap their life of grimy leisure. And why not?

I woke up the morning after Super Bowl on Sunday with a bolt of dread. Dancing through my noggin were unholy visions. Visions of yet another 1,500-mile drive of doom - this time in reverse - from sun-baked Phoenix through the frozen tundra back to Spokane. I'd rather be Troy Aikman walking in uniform through the anguished streets of Pittsburgh. It's time to end this weirdfest.

Editor's note: When we left columnist Doug Clark Thursday, he was headed for Las Vegas in a last-ditch gamble to win a jackpot big enough to buy a ticket to today's Super Bowl in Tempe, Ariz. War is hell in Las Vegas, that glittering tar pit of sunken dreams. Especially when the enemy is an evil dragon of a dealer who fire-bombed my Super Bowl hopes in just three quick hands of a game called War. But more on that later.

The road to the Super Bowl runs through Hoagieville. At least it does on this bizarre junket. In a supreme lapse of common sense, I agreed to leave the comfort of my home, lovely wife and two adoring children for a week to be part of the prize in a radio station Super Bowl contest. The lucky winner gets to ride 1,500 miles with me and the station's happy-go-lucky wheelman, Jason Valentine. We road warriors are headed for Sunday's NFL finale between the Dallas Cowboys and the Pittsburgh Steelers in Tempe, Ariz.

1. Host Bruce Ridley (right) discusses the finer points of single-malt scotch while guests Curtis Wilson, left, and Jack Bishop enjoy the festivities. Photo by Dan Pelle/The Spokesman-Review 2. (Robert Burns) 3. The scotch party included a variety of foods. Photo by Dan Pelle/The Spokesman-Review

Ferris sophomore Paul Spangler vows to wear his lima bean green shorts to school every day until he graduates. Photo by Sandra Bancroft-Billings/The Spokesman-Review

The walls have eyes. Wild game hunter John McGowan in his Spokane Valley home. Photo by Kristy MacDonald/The Spokesman-Review <

Muslim pilgrims head for Mecca via Lincoln County. Photo by Colin Mulvany/The Spokesman-Review

Listen. All that mindless clucking and fluttering you hear is from sorority snob sisters scurrying for cover like scared chickens in a henhouse. The snooty Tri-Delts of Washington State University have had a positively amazing change of heart regarding Summer Vail, the 19-year-old WSU sorority member who dared stand up to her preppy peers. Remember, last Sunday I told you how Vail refused to pay a $400 fine the Tri-Delts slapped on her because she chose summer school over Rush Week partying. Delta Delta Delta pooh-bahs told the sophomore from Spokane to either pay up or get out.

Think of a four-letter word that can get you into big trouble. Hey, drag your minds out of the gutter. You don't have to dredge the vernacular sewer to come up with something explosive. As crazy as it seems, the owners of two area pro-gun enterprises are taking legal potshots at each other over use of the most harmless word imaginable:

Chuck Whitcraft stands by his likeness painted on his North Monroe shop. Photo by Shawn Jacobson/The Spokesman-Review

We all know the main purpose of going to college is to ... A. Get a good education. B. Have fun at parties.

For a New Year's Eve bash it was more of a wake. Tears flowed with the espresso as midnight struck a bittersweet chord inside cavernous Java Junky's, 221 N. Division. The usual diverse gang of street kids, gays, punks, straights and neo-beatniks came to not only ring out 1995, but to say a sad so long to their famed coffee bar hangout.

1. Budnick wannabes can look to Coucilman Chris Anderson for behavior tips. 2. Van Camp

Dashing through the snow. No matter the weather conditions, Rob Wagner fulfilled his 1995 New Year's resolution to ride his mountian bike eight miles to and from work each day. Photo by Colin Mulvany/The Spokesman-Review

Next up on Oprah: How about "Descendants of Famous Movie Monsters?" Dwight Frye Jr. hasn't received that level of exposure yet, but he's ready for the call. The 65-year-old New Yorker, who is visiting his Spokane relatives, is enjoying new-found fame as son of the late actor who set a standard for movie lunacy.

Too bad the saga of Bert and the burglar can't be like one of those corny TV police dramas, where everything gets tied up in a neat bow. The case had such a positive start. Shortly after her antiques-filled cabin in the north woods was plundered last October, Spokane's Bert McInturff rejected the usual passive victim's role.