
I recommend displaying/printing this document in a monospaced font such as
Courier. Your choice, though.


CRANK #3

Do you like to laugh? Well, sure you do! 
Who doesn't like to laugh?!

(*indicates omission from text-only version)

CONTENTS
  1. Teenage Misfit Revisionism
* 2. Mein Krank
  3. Incoming Mail  -and-  *Tidbits for Modem Nerds
  4. Outgoing Mail
* 5. Useless Mail
* 6. Screw Blacks, Part 1
  7. Interview with a Killer #2
* 9. Crusading Christians, Online
*10. Two Easy Ways to Fuck With the Religious Right
*11. Clip Art Christ -and- 
     Just buy the fucking shirt already
*12. Cheap Vinyl Feature #1: The Bossa Fucking Nova
*15. CRANK Body Double
*16. Screw Blacks, Part 2
 17. To Hell & Back: Potato City, PA
*21. Last Issue's Contest Winner
 22. A Recommendation for Lawyers
*24. Cheap Vinyl Feature #2: 
     Swank Vinyl for You and Your Lover
*26. Finally, the Definitive Death to All Reviews!
*31. The Great Zine CIRCLE JERK
*32. What sort of man reads CRANK?
 33. An Equipment List for Surviving the Low-Life
 35. True Confessions
 36. NEW CONTEST!!

CRANK is a production of Jeff Koyen, Philadelphia, PA. No clever company
name.

The articles in Crank #3 may be used and reproduced for any reasons you deem
appropriate, so long as you credit the source.

There is now an official BBS for Crank. Burn This Flag (408-363-9766) houses
the complete text of all issues of Crank. You can download the Macintosh
version from here as well. For more information--direct from the horse's
mouth--see the advertisement on the inside back cover. I can still be reached
at CRANK@AOL.COM.

My continued thanks: Amy Nathanson; Tom Bielavitz; Stef; Blake; Dennis;
Steve; Shyamala; the Mauls; distributors generous enough to sell CRANK for a
paltry buck profit; whoever filled my box with something interesting; and you
(for your cash more than anything else).

Super thanks to Vinnie Jordan (Interview with a Killer #2, p. 7) and Tom
Bielavitz (Time to Kill, p. 22).

Reach me at PO Box 1646 . Philadelphia PA 19105-1646; or Crank@aol.com.

Crank (issn 1076-9102) c 1994 Jeff Koyen, except contributions by the above
authors.

Self-mockery is the foundation of an unconquerable ego. And don't you forget
it.


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            1.

Fuck Your Big, Bad Selves:
Teenage Misfit Revisionism

It's funny. No one ever says they WANTED to fit in when they were in high
school, do they? No one ever says they had some good friends, dressed like
everyone else, and kept their odd tastes hidden, DO THEY? No. Everyone you
talk with about their adolescence was terribly misunderstood for one reason
or another. Everyone wore their fucking hearts on their sleeves and had a
miserable time because of it.

If I hear one more of you insecure fucks talk about how much of a loner you
were in high school, I'm going to figure out a way to go back in time and
kill your parents before they have the chance to meet and spawn your
miserable bones. All your talk about troubled youth is obvious
over-compensation for a lackluster adulthood punctuated by small-minded
artistic conquests; small conquests like having your etchings on display at
that coffeehouse your boyfriend's uncle owns.

But take comfort that you're not alone (or does that defeat your originality
goal?). Everyone's doing it. Revisionism, that is. It's the latest
intellectual buzzword. Holocaust Revisionism. Disney's America Revisionism.
And if people aren't discussing modern Revisionist platforms, they're trying
to set the record straight from past revisionism (Indian rights, accurate
accounts of slavery, etc.) Welp, I don't fucking care-they can battle it out
on Crossfire.
It's the other, more commonplace Revisionism that drives me fucking insane.
And SO MANY of you participate that EVERYONE turns a blind eye. It's what I
call Teenage MISFIT Revisionism.

I'm willing to admit it. Growing up, I was a plain-Jane prick who wanted
nothing more than to find the cool party every weekend, talk with pretty
girls, drink  Busch from a warm keg, and try to get laid. Of course, I never
got laid, rarely found the party, and usually sat in someone's living room
watching bad horror movies. Conformity? Fuck yes. Bring it on, baby. Call it
what you want-I don't care. At least I'm honest-and unashamed-about my
history. 

I didn't dress in black. I didn't look like a freak. People didn't think I
was strange, or crazy, or angry, or rebellious, or queer, or anything else
that's fashionable to have been. I wasn't a loner, and I wasn't trying to be
different-I was trying to be the same. I desperately wanted to fuck a pretty
girl and not be ignored. Period.

I wasn't beat up for being the loser. I wasn't laughed at, or ridiculed, or
held up as the object of mockery. 

I wasn't escaping through my poetry. I wasn't dreaming of living on the road
with Kerouac. I wasn't shut up in my bedroom boo-hoo'ing because I had no
friends.

I was, quite frankly, nothing special.

There are 2 archetypes of you fucks out there: the LONER and the LOSER. I'm
equally sick of both of you.

The loner portrays him or herself as having suffered because of being so
different than the mainstream. "They used to laugh at me because I wore all
black!" I overhear at a bar. "Jeez, now people look at you weird if you wear
bright colors!" Your friend agrees-you were BOTH desperate teenage fuckheads.
And so it goesxtoo cool for the timexahead of your daysxmature beyond your
yearsxtoo subversive for your own good.

To the former teenage loner oddballs: I implore you to cut out your tongue
and shove it up the deepest hole on your body. You didn't like Bauhaus in
'83-you like Bon Jovi. And you didn't read Anais Nin at 14-you read V.C.
Andrews. So stop lying to yourself and everyone around you-your friends are
embarrassed to be humoring you so much.

On the other hand, the LOSER silently begs for sympathy by putting himself
down. It's the same tactic as the guy who talks about having a small dick
when he's got at least the average amount of cock. "Because I didn't play
sports," he says, "and didn't want to date rape cheerleaders, everyone
thought I was a faggot. If it wasn't for my poetry, I never would've made it
through being a teenager." This asshole already knows that the LONERS are
full of shit, so he takes the opposite angle.

To the former teenage LOSER PUNCHING BAGS: you're STILL full of shit. You
were an everyday pussy playing Dungeons & Dragons when you were 13. You
didn't get beat up any more than every other person who has a big brother or
a drinking father. Your escape was called "college," buster, where you
re-created your life with that extra dash of tragedy.

Why can't everyone just admit it? In 1985, at the age of 16, I liked Rush,
King Crimson and Tangerine Dream. In fact, I LOVED Rush, and hearing an old
Rush song on the radio still gets my toe tapping. Ditto for the occasional
Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd song (Waters, only, please.) And if my memory
wasn't shot, I'd recall favorite TV shows and movies for you. They weren't,
and still aren't, PBS & Fellini. Rather, more like Moonlighting & Indiana
Jones. Sound like someone you know? Perhaps your big, bad,
punk-rock-and-proud self?

But sometime around 1985, I aIso got my first Replacements tape, along with
Big Black, Agent Orange, and Bauhaus. Can you guess who knew that my friends
and I were listening to that crazy music? NO ONE. We didn't liberty spike our
hair; we didn't even dye our hair. We didn't put safety pins in our boots, or
paint our jackets with Anarchy symbols. We just weren't punk fucking rockers.
We were basic teenagers who LOOKED and ACTED like basic dumb teenagers. We
didn't have MTV to compel us to join the Alternative Nation. We didn't have
Details to tell us how to make our mall clothing look hip.
I didn't want to be different then, and I don't need to be different now. To
see me on the street, you wouldn't look twice (well, except for the
occasional "wow, that guy is Super Macho!" that I hear whispered behind my
back) and you wouldn't look twice at me sitting at the bar. Secure in my
paradigm of superiority, I walk amongst you desperate fucks unnoticed. Good
for me.

SO, WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP NOW? Stop telling me about your
misunderstood youth? We all did it, friends, and it sucked. But it was
unremarkable in EVERY way, even in its unremarkableness. Got it? Just stop
trying to be special through re-invention. We all know that you're absolutely
and positively full of shit.


Welcome to CRANK #3   This is just the beginning...



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            3.

To: Crank@aol.com
[Regarding the trepaning article in the last issue,] may I recommend that you
use a stopping device of some sort? After all, if you're trepanning yourself,
you'll probably only want a hole in your head, not a lobotomy! So, attach
something to the drill that will prevent the bit from going in TOO far!
Something like a piece of 1/2" cold-rolled steel bolted into that hole on the
side should do the trick nicely. Put a rubber foot on the end of it, and make
sure that the bit only extends 1" beyond the rubber foot. After all, we just
want to open a hole in the head, not destroy the brain.. Haven't you ever
been drilling something and had the drill suddenly BURST THROUGH the
material? It's not a laughing matter when you've got a 1/2" wood-bit sticking
3" into your brains...

Also, the page 23 illustration of the plain one-man trepan... Is COMPLETELY
unrealistic, unless you're a bodybuilder. When you try to drill into the top
of your head in that fashion, you have to use your triceps more than the
other muscles in your arm. Triceps are usually the weakest arm muscles
because people usually don't use them that much. Now imagine that not only do
you have to hold your arms in that position, but you also have to prove a lot
of pressure so that the drill will cut into skull... UNREALISTIC. You'd have
to be a bodybuilder. That's why I recommend drilling through the fore-head.
After all, if you drill a hole in your fore-head you'll be able to sleep on
your back without cerebrospinal fluid dripping out while you sleep...

For the one-man WELL-EQUIPPED trepan, I recommend using a pulley centered
above your head, and then giving the rope ONE-TURN around the spindle in the
direction of rotation. This will ensure that even if the drive handle should
slip backwards, you'll still be pulling it in the RIGHT direction when you
re-apply pressure.

Also, please use a clove-hitch for the knot holding the handle, as all of
those wrappings illustrated are unnecessary and will probably help the knot
capsize. Have fun, and let me know how black-and-decker replies to your
letter!
Rev. Mrzlak Nyzamot! (mrzlak@nevada.edu)

To: Rev. Mrzlak Nyzamot!
It is my firm conviction that a single individual would indeed be capable of
drilling a hole in the top of his or her head, as illustrated on page 23 of
Crank, Issue #2. My Single Trepan Theory needs no "magic muscles" and no
extraordinary dexterity to accomplish the task at hand. In fact, in a series
of carefully observed "dry runs," a number of individuals were able to
simulate the procedure well within the given parameters.

In regards to your other suggestions, you may rest assured that they have
been forwarded to the appropriate departments for consideration.



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            4.

The following publications were listed in Factsheet 5, saying that they WOULD
trade their publication for another publication.

I sent them a copy of either #1 or #2, and have yet to receive anything--not
even a short note--in response. (If you don't want to trade, just say so [see
page 31 for Crank's new policy on trading.]) I guess you got too popular to
bother with upstarts like myself, eh? So a big Fuck You to:

Fugitive Pope
Asylum for Shut-Ins
Duplex Planet
Fish Balls & Coffee

The following people have not yet responded to my letters. I did not expect
responses to being with, but fuck them anyway.

Black & Decker
Joey Mellen and Amanda Fielding (the British Trepaners from Issue #2)
Dave & Buster's

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            7.

Interview with a Killer #2
From Vinnie Jordan (vinniej@sco.com)

The following is an interview with former Sergeant Patrick Kelly of the 8th
precinct in New York City, accused of murder in the abduction and death by
extreme trauma to alleged child molester Dallas Orton. As is always the case
in these interviews, the questions and comments of the interrogators have
been omitted, leaving a monologue with the suspect.

============================

"My name is Patrick Kelly, and I give this statement of my free will."

"You know, I've taken so many of these statements. I never thought I'd be
giving one. I've been on this force for nearly 12 years. My record until now
has been spotless. I'll bet you guys are wondering why I threw it all away
for one bad idea. But you don't know what led up to the end result."

"This Orton, he was a bad seed, a sexual predator. He was especially fond of
boys under the age of 10. The first time I busted him, I had caught him in
the act of raping a 9 year old boy he had abducted from out of his yard.
Orton grabbed him and dragged him around the alleyway and had him pinned to
the ground. He had his hand over the kid's mouth, so no one could hear him
scream, and he was slamming away at that poor kid's asshole so hard that
blood was dripping down the back of the kid's thighs. I was in my first week
of walking a beat in that neighborhood. I had requested a ground pounding
beat. I thought it would be good therapy for me, to help me forget about
losing my partner."

(Kelly's partner, Herbie Koenig, was killed in an aborted holdup attempt at a
deli where he had stopped for lunch. Two men who were robbing the store
opened fire. Koenig was wearing a bulletproof vest, to no avail. They blew
his head nearly off with two blasts of a shotgun. The suspects escaped out
the back, and were never caught. Kelly felt responsible.)

"Anyways, I hear these muffled screams coming out of this alley on Lofton. I
turn the corner on the scene I just described, and I just went apeshit. I
have a son about the same age, and I thought of scum like him prowling the
streets, looking for boys like my son. He didn't even see me coming, he was
so engrossed in ravaging this poor kid. I snatched him up by the hair. His
dick slipped out with a slurping sound. The cries of the kid as the hand
around his mouth loosened and   the yelling of that animal who was indignant
at having lost a handful of hair mingled, the noise was horrible. So I kneed
Orton as hard as I could in the groin. At least he shut up. I left the kid to
scream himself out. He had a right."

"I held Orton down with one foot. It wasn't a problem. The knee took any
mickey out of him that he might have had, and I let the kid's screams subside
to cries and then to moans. I asked him if he was able to talk, and he shook
his head yes, but the look was so pitiful I didn't have the heart to ask him
anything, except to pull his pants up. Blood was drying on his legs. I told
him we'd get him cleaned up down at the precinct house."

"On the way back to the station, I could hear Orton starting to whisper. I
thought that he was trying to catch his wind. I turned around, and noticed
that he was trying to get the boy's attention. I slammed on the brakes, went
around to his side of the car, and opened it. Orton tried to kick me, and I
grabbed his leg and pulled him from the vehicle. His face struck the
pavement. I rolled him over, looked him in the eye, and swore if he said
another word to the boy, I'd kill him."

"I pushed him back into the rear of the vehicle. I was seeing red by this
time, and Orton, who had recovered from the kneeing to the groin, was
screaming shit at me. I just wanted to stick my pistol in his mouth and empty
it. The scum kept saying that I couldn't make anything stick. Fuck. I had him
dead to rights. I had the boy. I had the bloody pants. I had an airtight
case."

"Well, you know how the case turned out. They let him go on that damned
technicality. They said I violated Miranda. That's bullshit!! Every cop is
trained to read these scum their rights, even when being popped for violating
the rights of others. The boy stood in front of the court, and stated that he
hadn't heard me read this asshole his rights, even though he was right there.
Orton was released. On the way out of the courtroom, he looked at me and
smiled. I think the seed of the idea of what I would end up doing to him was
planted right then."

"I talked to the boy afterward. He had received a phone call, and I have to
presume it was Orton. He told the kid if he didn't tell the judge that I
hadn't read him his rights, he would kill his daddy. I tried everything I
could think of to persuade him to testify, and that we'd bury the guy so deep
he'd be a threat to no one. But the kid was beyond fear. He was terrified,
and wouldn't go for it. I had to finally give up. I thought Orton had gotten
off scot-free, and it was a drag."

"A few months later, Orton was a suspect in another case. I asked Drayton
[Chief of Investigation--ed.] if I could have the case. Drayton knew my
involvement in the Orton affair, and refused at first. But I kept hounding
him and finally he let me have it, with the admonition that he would suspend
me if I fucked up another bust with my temper. I swore to myself that
wouldn't happen."

"It didn't take a lot of police work to finger Orton's involvement in the
case. This kid was abducted and forced into a van which fit the description
of Orton's. He was forced to orally copulate the bastard, then raped him and
left him a couple of miles with no pants on. His jeans were found a half mile
from where the kid said he was forced out of the suspect's van. I asked if
the underwear had been found. As far as anyone knew, they hadn't."

"So, I went over to talk to Orton. I promised myself that I wasn't going to
lose my cool, I wasn't going to blow it. I knocked on the door. Orton opened
it, but didn't seem all that surprised when he saw that I was on the other
side. He was a cool customer, the bastard. I at least wanted a chance to
shock him. If someone who'd rammed his knee into your privates suddenly came
knocking on your door, wouldn't the memory at least make you flinch? This
bastard showed nothing."

"Anyway, I start asking him his whereabouts on the night in question. His
alibi was pretty vague and almost surely a lie. I tried to take his story and
trip him up with no luck. I asked if he any corroborating witnesses as to his
whereabouts. He had none. I asked if I could look inside his van. He got a
little irate at that, and would have refused until I started getting the
cuffs ready for a field trip downtown. He relented, though I wish he hadn't."

"My search of the vehicle turned up what I had hoped. There was a pair of
boys' underwear under the back seat with the victim's name sewn on a tag in
the waistband. I had the son of a bitch this time. I was none too gentle when
applying the cuffs, but nothing out of line. I was too close to fuck up now."

"The trial was a farce. The defense moved that my search constituted illegal
search and seizure. We countered that we had probable cause, due to the
previous case. The defense explained that since we were unable to obtain a
conviction, Orton was not considered to have any record of sexual deviancy.
The judge let him walk again!! Can you fucking believe that? I was
incredulous!!"

(The record shows that Sergeant Kelly was a bit more than just incredulous.
He stormed the bench, shouting at the judge and pointing his finger. He was
warned that he was going to be jailed for contempt of court. His last words
to the bench were, "Might be your kid next time, you fucking idiot.")

"It wasn't right at that moment, but later on that evening, that I stopped
being a cop. My world view had been shattered, and I had the feeling that
everything I had done for my whole career had been a sham, and I was crushed.
Anything like that ever happen to you guys? Aah, I guess you wouldn't tell me
if it had. It's the lowest I've ever been, and I felt I had to do something.
If I couldn't get what I wanted from the courts, I would get my satisfaction
another way."

"I had that cabin north of the city, you know, the one that burned down the
night I killed Orton. The place was chock full of tools. The place was a
trash can when I bought it, and I spent a lot of my weekends up there fixing
it up. It was the perfect therapy, after a week of chasing bad guys and
watching them get off with slaps on the hand. I'd reached the point, with
this Orton thing eating away at me, where hammering nails by the hundreds and
tearing down old wood and slamming up new was therapeutic. I began to imagine
Orton's face on the nailhead."

"I knew I was starting to crack. I knew I was going to make Orton pay for
what he'd done to those boys, and the ones I didn't even know about yet. I
was trying to talk myself out of it, but not very hard."

"Anyway, there was just about every tool you could imagine at that cabin. I
grabbed a roll of duct tape and threw it in the back of my car. Then I drove
over to Orton's house to wait. I had his schedule figured out, as I had been
unconsciously casing him ever since he got off that first time, and I began
to know his routine pretty well. He was coming out of his door about 15
minutes later, and I crossed the street. He and I arrived at his van at the
same moment. He hadn't heard me coming up on him, the smug cocksucker. So,
when he opened the driver's side door, I grabbed him by the hair and smacked
it against the doorframe hard. He slumped, and I slid him over into the
passenger seat. I liberated his car keys, and started the engine. I figured
I'd come back for my car later."

"He was bleeding a bit from the blow to the forehead. You guys know how head
cuts are. But he wasn't in any danger. Possibly a concussion, but as you
know, he'd wish that was all that happened to him. His wish would not be
granted. He was scum, and if we couldn't get him off the streets by the book,
I was going to have to break the rules."

"I drove back to the cabin, and he was still out, but his breathing was even,
and he was OK. I wanted him to wake up with a clear head, because I wanted
him to remember everything I had to say to him before I ended his existence
in a painful way."

"Don't look at me that way!! In my heart, I'm still a cop. Sometimes, you
just can't do the right thing, because it really isn't right. I doubt if you
catch my meaning."

"I stripped him naked, so he wouldn't try to run off. He'd have never found
his way off of that hill. Shit, it was 35 degrees out there. He'd have died
of exposure. He was going to die anyway, but he didn't know that. Then I tied
his arms behind his back, and his legs to the legs of a workbench I had
there. I slipped a handmade noose around his neck and secured it around a
bench leg on the other end. I had the bastard right where I wanted him;
immobile, naked and flat on his back."

"He started waking up then. He looked around as if to orient himself, but he
was in a strange place and his brains were probably scrambled from the blow
to the head I knocked him out with. Finally, his eyes fell on me. He looked
as if he was pissed off or something. He was one smug bastard. He mumbled
something through the duct tape. I walked over and yanked it off none too
gently. He sputtered and spit, then he made a mistake. He said 'You know I'm
going to have your badge for this.' I said, 'No. You're not. You're not going
to leave this place alive.'"

"That's when he knew he was in deep shit. You could see it in his eyes, and I
was damned glad. I'd tried to get that look on his face ever since I'd first
met him. He was still all bluster, but it wasn't convincing. As I stood over
him, I debated where I was going to start. I decided to bury my fist in his
stomach. The wind was knocked out of him, but the way he was tied didn't
allow him to curl up in the fetal position. The pain in his eyes was visible.
I spit in his face. Then, I told him, 'When I decide to let you die, you'll
be grateful.'"

"He was crying then. I'd scared him to death, nearly. Then, I gave him the
speech I'd made for this occasion. I said, 'Orton, you are scum. You hurt
kids and feel no remorse. You don't deserve to live, and you won't. I'm going
to kill you, but I want you to know why. You are a monster, and I can't stop
you by legal means, so I'm taking the law into my hands. You have been
sentenced to die, but I'm going to hurt you first. There will be no appeal.
There will be no mercy. And, for me, there will be no remorse.'"

"He was begging now. He said he'd give me money. I wished I hadn't taken the
tape off of his mouth now, not because I was afraid someone would hear him.
Shit, that cabin was a mile from any traveled road. I just didn't want to
listen to him snivel. He went on pleading and crying, and I went over to the
wall and took down the sledge."

"The fucker thought I was going to cave his head in. But that was too good
for him. I brought the sledge up, and brought it down in the meaty part of
his thigh. It was a heavy sledge. The skin just sort of burst and the bone
snapped with a cracking sound, like a .22 pistol shot. Orton let out a scream
that liked to split my eardrums before he passed out. I wanted to finish him
off now, but I wanted him conscious. So, I did the other leg, figuring that
if I waited until he came to, he'd just pass out again when I smashed the
second leg."

"He lay there with both legs laid open and blood flowing freely. I hoped he
wouldn't die before I was ready for him to. I went outside and took a pull
off the whiskey bottle that I kept there. I lit a cigarette and waited for
Orton to wake up. Went through 3 cigarettes and a half a pint of soothing
whiskey, when I heard him whimpering and crying in what must have been
excruciating pain."

"I walked over to him and looked at his eyes. They were pleading, though I
wasn't sure if he wanted me to help him or put him out of his misery. I then
walked over to the paint cabinet and removed the drum and began pouring the
stuff in a circle around the bench to which he was secured. I said, "I'm
going to cremate you alive." He whimpered again, but there was little
conviction. I poured some of the paint thinner into the open wounds on his
legs, which got one loud scream out of him."

"Then, I simply dropped a match and walked out. The place went up in no time.
I waited until I heard him shrieking, the signal that he was now on fire. I
walked further down the road. After his screams stopped, I heard the drum of
flammable chemicals explode with a "WHUMMFF" noise, so I drove back into town
and called you guys."

============================

There was little left to identify the body of Dallas Orton by the time the
authorities got to the Kelly cabin. Due to the grisly nature of the crime,
Kelly was sent to the mental unit of the jail, where he was deemed sane at
the time of the crime. He was tried for murder, convicted and sentenced to
life in prison, in the Protective Custody wing.

Nevertheless, he was killed in a freak accident in the kitchen area when he
fell into a vat of boiling water used to prepare food for the inmate
population. After a short investigation, it was officially deemed an
accident, the fourth time in recent years that a former law officer had died
at the facility under like circumstances.


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            STRAY BONUS

Words You Will Not Find in the Bible

dick
scrub
felch
fisting
toenail
crank
slick 50
winona
hemi
MC5
abortion is murder
meat is murder
christ was a chump
xian
sassy
suckle
squeal
grrrls
pie hole
the virgin mary wasn't one
blowjob
smashing pumpkins
disney(TM)
jeff koyen
slurp
aardvark
godzilla
bossa nova

Words You Will Find in the Bible

creep [leviticus 11, psalms 104, ezekiel 38, II timothy 3]
crumb [matthew 15, mark 7, luke 16]
god zilla [genesis 4: god + "zilla" as part of the name "Zillah"--color me
fucking surprised.]


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            12.

A Short & Sweet Tribute to the Lambada of the Americana 60's: The Bossa
Fucking Nova

Subtitle: This man finally gets to dance.

It started at places like the Palladium and the Apollo, pre-WW2. Cuban jazz.
Today, of course, it's nothing special. Hell, every metropolitan area has AT
LEAST one FM station that mixes in top-40 dance music with latino beats, not
to mention a slew of Spanish AM stations that stick to more traditional
music.

But this was 19-THIRTYsomething. White big band leaders were Top Dog across
America. Billie Holiday was still referred to as "that nigger wench" in the
very clubs she was selling out [source: some NPR show--maybe "Morning
Edition." I ain't too sure, bub.]. And the up-and-coming craze was Cuban
Jazz.

It's no surprise. Cuba wasn't an enemy--wouldn't be for quite a few years.
Havana was still the biggest gambling spot in the Western World; all the
money-men flocked there to play with their fortunes...and whores. In a
nutshell, South American culture was exotic, not...well, not low-class. 

By the time World War II was over, a handful of Cuban musicians had made
names for themselves in New York City. Again, consider: America's latest
enemy had been European and Asian; our Southern friends were just that:
friends. No talk of closing the border; no problem with Mexican immigrants.
Joe America hated those troublesome Nazis, Nips and Niggers; not them
friggin' Wetbacks. Not yet, anyway.

So people like Buddy Rich and Charlie Parker wanted to record with these
upstart Cuban band leaders, and musicians like Dizzy Gillespie did record
with them. Overnight, Cuban jazz was ALL THE RAGE.

Ever hear of Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass? OF COURSE YOU HAVE. Well, Herb
and the boys owe it all to these hombres. It was the cuban jazz band leaders
of the 30's & 40's who opened up the door for the Latino music craze of the
50's & early-60's.

So what does this have to do with me being able to dance? Everything. If it
weren't for these guys, I never would've found my first Bossa Nova LP. And
without the Bossa Nova, I can't dance. Just read on.

Rather than having me try and explain the Bossa Nova, I'll let the albums
speak for themselves.

From the back of "The Big Bossa Nova," by Bob Freedman and his Group (shown):

  "Literally translated the name Bossa Nova means
  "new wrinkle" or "new flair." Still another
  translation into English could be "New beat";
  which is exactly what the Bossa Nova is: a new
  style of lyric and rhythm."

  "Bossa Nova, to put it simply, is a "new dance."
  A wedding of the samba and Rhumba harmonies on
  guitars and saxophones with a syncopated harmony
  of clavas, cabasos and bead-filled gourds."

  "Bossa Nova is a dance of great relaxation, with
  an attitude of freedom; a sound which moves body
  and spirit to ask: "So who wants to work
  anyway?""

AMEN, BOB! Who the fuck DOES want to work, anyway?!? Not me, kiddo. Not
fucking me.

From "BOSSA NOVA, The New Swinging Samba" by the Stan Field Sextet (shown):

  Bossa Nova...has taken the nation by storm. The
  "new beat" is a variation of the twist--with a
  Latin approach...If you have not already become a
  fan of this new dance beat, we guarantee that
  this album will make you do the BOSSA NOVA.

How true. How true. Let me tell you about it.

MY OWN PRIVATE BOSSA NOVA: THE FIRST PURCHASE

Well, Christ, of course I'd HEARD of the Bossa Nova. I'd seen an album or two
kicking around the vinyl bins. But you know what? They never appealed to me;
I always passed them by. Perhaps I wasn't ready. Perhaps something was
keeping me from the Bossa Nova until my naturally-poor rhythm was ready to
accept it. Or, perhaps I was being a fool.

One Saturday afternoon, late in the day, flipping through the stacks,
bitterly cursing the popularity of used vinyl (but cursing myself more for
hitting the bin so late in the day) I came across the two albums pictured
above. Much like the first time I decided to waste my money on a Jerry Vale
record, I decided that IT WAS TIME. Time to buy the Bossa Nova. Time to drop
the big dollar. Of course, Jerry Vale has NEVER been worth a dime I spent,
but the above two records are another story.

They hit the turntable with the customary pop and crackle. Almost
immediately, the rhythm lifted me off my feet; a light, playful Latin beat.
Now, don't get me wrong--I wouldn't know a fucking samba from a conga from a
kook-a-fucking-racha, but I know what I like. And I liked this watered-down,
Americana Latino beat nonsense. It seemed such easy dancing. But how?? HOW
does a clod like me dance to it??

Hopeful, I grabbed the record sleeves and found the fucking Rosetta Stone of
Bossa Nova's--a step-by-step guide to Dancing the Bossa Nova, in simple
Ingles, on the back of the Bob Freedman Record (reprinted below). Imagine!
Those crazy Latinos had actually GIVEN US THE SECRET OF THE BOSSA NOVA!!

And IT WAS SO EASY TO DANCE TO! With full instructions in hand, I followed
the steps. Slowly, at first. And just then, growing confident that I was a
natural at the BOSSA NOVA, I threw the album down, grabbed my bottle of
Schmidts, and DANCED THE BOSSA NOVA without the aid of the INSTRUCTIONS! It
was pure epiphany for this man whose previous experiences of rhythm were
slow-dancing with a hard-on to Journey at the Junior Prom, and, over the same
weekend, discovering the unexpected pleasure of jumping around at a Naked
Raygun show in '86. I was a man who could not dance. Period.

BOSSA NOVA AND ME

Enthralled, I craved the Bossa Nova every waking hour for a week straight. I
fell asleep to the Bossa Nova. I drank to the Bossa Nova. I danced to the
Bossa Nova. I drank and I danced to the Bossa Nova. Oh, how I danced.

I even convinced Amy to dance the Bossa Nova...in the privacy of my bedroom
with the shades drawn. (No need to make the neighbors even more curious.) And
she admitted, after the particularly thrilling "Devil" Bossa Nova (Hal
Freedman once AGAIN!), that the BN was, indeed, a pretty fucking cool dance.

I decided that research was is order. But I didn't conduct research like YOU
might conduct research. I didn't go to the library or anything. Christ, no! I
just bought more vinyl, and drew my own conclusions.

Piecing together various liner notes, we discover that the Bossa Nova began
in Rio in a "little club called DRINK, and caught on faster than you could
stir a scotch and soda with your finger."(1) Beginning in 1958, the Bossa
Nova spread across the city of Rio de Janeiro, culminating in two open-air
Bossa Nova concerts in 1960.(2) In late 1962, the Bossa Nova "washed up on
Yankee shores" and "almost succeeded in flooding the music marts before it
began to 'settle in.'"(3)

"Settle in," indeed. Not only did the Bossa Nova settle in, but it managed to
infiltrate every aspect of pop music culture that America had to offer.
Forget the shmucks like Bob Freedman and Stan Fields--they needed whatever
angle they could find to sell albums in the competitive world of
pop-jazz-orchestra music. Let's look at guys like Dave Brubeck--an otherwise
respected jazz composer whose albums litter the collectible racks in old
men's record shops across the country.

In 1963, the Dave Brubeck Quartet released "Bossa Nova USA," a collection of
songs that were either re-arranged specifically as Bossa Novas, or new songs
that were written as half-assed Bossa Novas. The album blows, even by Bossa
Nova standards--an obvious attempt to hop on the latest craze. And doesn't
their album cover (shown) just STINK of the Beach Boys? It's pure crap.

Even more sinister is the blatant Revisionism that occurred--unnoticed--in
the short-lived era of the Bossa Nova. Take a look at Joao Gilberto's album,
"Pops in Portuguese." Like Dave Brubeck, Joao was a respected musician; he
played with all the greats. The album in question (shown) was released BEFORE
the Bossa Nova "washed up on Yankee shores" in 1962, but was later adorned
with a sticker that read:

"THE ORIGINAL BOSSA NOVA SOUND! PERFORMED BY JOAO GILBERTO" 

Sound like a CASH-IN to you? It does to me. This album is traditional
Brazilian jazz guitar compositions. Do you really think that Joao Gilberto
knew the Bossa Nova from a Jitterbug? I doubt it. And I doubt he even knew
that Capitol Records was trying to tout him as the "original Bossa Nova
sound."

But the Bossa Nova didn't stop there. Oh, no. It got worse. Take a look at
the album released by The Bossa Nova Pops, Joe Harnell, His Piano, and
Orchestra (shown). Any of these song titles ring a bell? "Fly Me to the
Moon"? "I Left My Heart in San Francisco"? "Cry Me a River" (popularized of
late by none other than those swankster-come-latelies, Combustible Edison).
Oh, yeh, baby, it was an album of COVER SONGS a la BOSSA NOVA. Ack! What a
fucking can of worms I opened up! It was too much.

THE BOSSA NOVA MOB

Feeling like a UFO buff who uncovered too much, got scared and packed up the
tent, letting the government have its way, I have since retired all but my
first 2 BN records: Bob Freedman and Stan Fields. There the others sit, on my
shelf, next to other shit records I haven't touched in months. Bob and Stan's
slabs, however, remain in regular play on my turntable, especially after a
few drinks and a good meal, and prior to a good roll on the sheets with Amy.

Did I tell you that the Bossa Nova is a wonderful rhythm for two people about
to fuck? Well, it is. Much better than the Lambada ever became, which was
obviously fashioned after the Bossa Nova's success thirty years prior. But
that's for another issue. An issue in 5 or 10 years, when the 80's suddenly
become RETRO and we have to re-live that fucking decade over again.

Until then, good luck, enjoy, and (of course) adios.

Sources:
1) The Big Bossa Nova (Hal Freedman); 
   Coronet Records.
2) Fly Me to the Moon (Bossa Nova Pops); 
   KAPP Records.
3) Bossa Nova USA (Dave Brubeck Quartet); 
   Columbia Records.

Once again, from the back of "The Big Bossa Nova," by Bob Freedman and his
Group:

HOW TO DANCE THE BOSSA NOVA

"Gentle swaying of the hips while the body remains straight and almost
motionless is the Bossa Nova. Knees bend with each step, weight must remain
evenly balanced on balls of each foot.

"The degree of hip motion for example is up to each dancer. Partners can
dance near to each other or at some distance apart as they choose. And
remember the Bossa Nova is essentially a rhythm dance; that is, the dancers
accent each step to the distinct beat of the music.

"Start with feet together.

"Man steps forward on left foot, close right foot to left foot without
transferring weight. Right foot back, close left foot to right foot without
transferring weight. The woman makes all her steps in the opposite
directions, as follows: feet close together back right foot--close left to
right foot without transferring weight. Forward left foot. Close right foot
to left foot without transferring weight.

"The partners' next step is to reverse steps--each taking the other's.

"Remember, the basic element required is the bending of the knees on each
step followed by swaying of the body. The knees bend and the body sways
slightly forward on the backward steps, while on the forward steps the body
sway is slightly backward. The rhythm in each movement is the Bossa Nova's
secret.

"Many variations of the basic step are possible. The dancers are apart from
each other holding hands. The man takes four steps to the left, bringing
right foot behind left each time. Then the man takes four steps to the right
reversing feet movement. Remember, the essential is to take these steps with
bent knees and a rhythmic swaying of the hips.

"Strange to say, the Bossa Nova is so flexible that even a waltz step can be
adapted to it. When trying this step, remember that because of the knee bend
and the rock and sway movement the steps must be shorter. Also try the
fox-trot side step to the Bossa Nova. Slide the feet when you try this step.

"The fun in dancing the Bossa Nova is that the partners are not restricted to
a set of rigidly patterned steps. Partners are free to let their own
interpretations flow gracefully with the music."


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            17.

To Hell & Back...Potato City, PA

THE HISTORY

Every year in Philadelphia, as you might well imagine, there is a spectacular
fireworks display for Independence Day. Last year (1993) Amy and I saw it
from perfect seats--the Vine Street Expressway. See, we'd been at a bar on
the east side, and I live on the west side. Unfortunately, it was my first
summer in this city and no one told me about the residents' long-standing
tradition to sit on their cars along the Vine Street Expressway (THE major
road that passes through town) in order to watch the fireworks at the Art
Museum. It is--I must admit--a perfect view.

As I was saying, Amy and I were across town at a bar and decided to go home.
We had to get across town, eh? The logical choice is the Expressway--a 10
minute hop. But it was July 4th. The fireworks had just begun. We got ON just
far enough to have no way OFF when we were suddenly faced with 300 cars
stopped dead--the owners were watching the pretty boom-booms.

So between sitting there for the display and trying to get home when everyone
cleared out, we got fucked. We got fucked for 6 hours. I vowed to never be in
Philadelphia for July 4th for the duration of my meager life.

THE IMPETUS

Tom and I were both particularly broke. We'd both been surviving on a diet of
potatoes, rice and pasta for a couple weeks.

One night, watching tv, we came upon a PBS program about Roadside Attractions
in Pennsylvania. There were the regulars--restored dining cars across the
state, the Melrose Diner here in the city, etc. But one feature made us laugh
out loud: Potato City, PA. What the fuck? POTATO CITY? Yeh, Potato Fucking
City. Sounded like our own personal Meccas, considering that we were each
eating 10 lbs of potatoes a week.

A motor lodge located in Coudersport, Pa, Potato City's claim-to-fame is
having been founded by Richard Nixon's uncle as a meeting place for the
potato industry. Now, Potato City survives as a Motor Lodge and Roadside
non-Attraction in North Central PA.

According to the PBS program, the house specialty is a dish called "Potatoes
Fiesta," a mish-mash of potatoes, 3 cheeses, onions, peppers, and secret
ingredients.

Oh, how we laughed and laughed.

THE "VACATION"

I get no time off at my job. Sure, I guess I'm entitled to 2 weeks of
vacation, but I just can't take a week off, you know what I mean? There's too
much shit to do.

Back in February, I told my boss that instead of a full week of vacation--a
week inevitably interrupted by calls from the boss and incompetent
co-workers--I'd decided to extend the three 3-day summer weekends: Memorial
Day, July 4th, Labor Day. Everyone was happy with my idea.

Well, wouldn't you know it? Memorial Day became nothing more than an extra
day to drink late. Then June rolled around, and July 4th was approaching like
an abusive trick approaches a cheap whore. I had to get out of Philadelphia,
I knew, or face a miserable FOUR-DAY weekend, one-third of my summer
vacation.

"Want to drive down to DC?" Amy asked me. "Or maybe even get a room down the
shore?" / "No," I say. "How about Potato City?" Mustering up courage, I tell
her about my great idea for the weekend.

Amy was sold. And don't let her tell you any different--she was excited by
the idea. She may joke that I owe her a trip to somewhere SHE wants to go on
our NEXT "vacation," but fuck that--we went in this together.

I called the Motor Lodge and got more information. The fellow there faxed me
a flyer about Potato City, which explained the connection to Tricky Dick, and
described the "most beautiful potato fields in Pennsylvania." 

Fuck, who knew Pennsylvania even grew potatoes?

I made reservations for Saturday the 2nd. PLENTY of rooms, the fellow says.
That, my friends, should have been taken as a warning.

THE DRIVE

Coudersport, PA, is located dead center along the north border of
Pennsylvania. I figured on a 6-hour drive from Philadelphia, maybe 7 from
Amy's place in Central Jersey. We decided to leave early Saturday morning,
stay in Potato City that night, leave from there Sunday late morning, drive
aimlessly, then find somewhere to stay along the way back on Sunday the 3rd.
We'd make it back to her place sometime on the 4th and I'd stay there that
night. 

"No matter what, I refuse to be in Philadelphia on the 4th."

NEW JERSEY

We packed some food and hit the road at 9am. We chose to take Amy's 4-door
Honda Civic, a comfortable and gas-wise car. But mainly, it has a
stereo--mine doesn't. We took 287N to 80W, which I planned to take straight
into the heartland of Pennsylvania.

There is, simply, nothing of interest in New Jersey, so let's skip right to
PA, which was FAR more exciting.

ROUTE 80: PENNSYLVANIA

Our first stop was to empty our bladders. The Holiday Inn at Exit 45 was very
clean and well-kept. I took a picture in the parking lot, but my finger was
over the lens. Photography has never been among my strengths.

We'd already clocked 112 miles.

From there, we continued for another hour before stopping for lunch at the
Columbia County Roadside Rest Area, 170 miles into the trip. There, we at
turkey sandwiches on--appropriately enough--potato bread which we had bought
at the onset of the journey. Of the 20 cars in the rest area, at least 15 had
NJ plates. Of these 15, at least 10 were filled with fat people. Not just
large people; large people don't draw my attention. I'm talking people
weighing in at least 250 on 5-foot-4 frames. Whole fucking families of them,
rushing the candy machines, while Amy and I chewed on dry turkey sandwiches.

I believe that New Jersey, among all the states, is filled with the largest
population of disgusting and distasteful people.

I should know. I lived there for 23 years.

WILLIAMSPORT

When I was planning the trip, I checked the map for attractions between NJ
and Potato City, figuring on a little sight-seeing to laugh at locals. The
best I found were Williamsport, a supposedly pleasant, "antiquey" town, and
the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania. Well, we passed right through
Williamsport--never considered stopping; it's a hole. As for the Grand
Canyon, it was 10 miles off the main road, and from what I'd been told by a
friend of a friend, it's also a hole. Literally. Just a big fucking hole.
Nothing to see.

WELLSBORO

We took 80W to 180N (through Williamsport) to 15N to 6W, where we came upon
Wellsboro, a small town that thrives on the hunting and fishing trade.
Wellsboro consists of one long road littered with motor lodges and diners.
Every single lodge advertised a discount for AAA card holders. Amy is a AAA
card holder. I guess a lot of hunters and fishermen are AAA card holders,
too.

It seemed to me that if you want to make a living in Wellsboro, you do one of
3 things: lodge hunters & fishers; feed hunters & fishers; or sell junk to
hunters & fishers & the people who lodge/feed hunters & fishers. I have never
in my life seen so many fucking roadside junk sales that were selling true
junk. Five dozen "yard sales" and they all sucked ass, with one exception:
Stefanko's, a small house turned junk shop. Here, for 25c, I bought a 16-oz
glass tumbler with drink recipes etched on the side. And as an added bonus,
owner Joe Stefanko was a real jokester. One of those "Hot enough for ya?"
jerks; an old man trapped in a 35-year old body. Inside that coffin they
called home, it sure was hot enough for me. And Amy. And Joe's wife, Ellen.

Fuck the heat--I think JOE was enough for Ellen.

When Joe pulled his "You want that glass in a SMALL bag?" [holding a hammer
menacingly] routine for what must've been the 100th time that day, I thought
Ellen was going to grab the hammer out of his hands and smash in his goddamn
chucklehead skull.

Still, for 25c, it was a worthwhile stop.

Further up the road, we hit the Wellsboro Exxon. For those of you who have
never bought gas in the Keystone State, we pump our own gas here; it's the
law. And in Philadelphia, you pay BEFORE you pump; you have no choice--the
pumps are controlled from inside. So naturally, that's what I did in
Wellsboro; I went inside, told the young woman my pump number, and slid $7
across the counter. A confused look came across her face when she rang up the
purchase. "Oh, you haven't pumped the gas yet?" she asked.

"You let people pump the gas FIRST?" I must've looked like a real rube.

"Of course. This is the boonies, mister." Daisy Duke chirped.

I spat out, "Man, you're a bunch of suckers." (I must work on that restraint
thing). Daisy smiled condescendingly, like a priest to a repentant lad. "Ring
me up for a bag of ice while you're at it," I added, sliding over a buck and
a half.

Outside, I grabbed 2 bags of ice from the freezer, threw them in the cooler,
pumped $10 worth of gas into the Honda, and hit the road. 

Suckers.

POTATO CITY PROPER

The Potato City Motor Inn lies atop Denton Hill, elevation 2424 feet,
towering high above Potter County, also known as God's Country, according to
the local literature. I sure hope God likes to hunt, fish and sell junk to
backwater hicks, because that's all there is to do in Potter County.

Potato City, unlike most of its neighbors across the fucking county, does not
offer a discount for AAA card holders.

We hit Potato City at 3 o'clock. Not surprisingly, it was a dump--a step
above the average fuck-me motel, a step below the average Motel 6, with worse
furnishings. And everything about the room itself was average--the bed, the
tv, the bathroom, the view. Hell, who the fuck am I kidding? There was no
fucking view.

But, still in optimistic spirits, we had sex, showered and went to the dining
room that had been so predominantly featured in the PBS special that suckered
us there in the first place. 

We were hungry, and boy, was I looking forward to trying those Potatoes
Fiesta! Si! Si!

Potato City is owned and operated by Joe and Kay Bohn, a husband-wife team
who bought the place a few years ago. Joe was a nice enough guy, but, right
off the bat, Kay was a real cunt. Kay Bohn, if I ever meet you again, I'm
going to spit on your shoes. You were a patronizing, typical, small town,
close-minded fuck. Although we were about to plunk down $40 for one of your
shitty rooms, drop another $40 at dinner and $20 at the bar, you still looked
at my boots with a sneer, and at Amy like she was a dumb bitch for being with
a jerk like me. Fuck you, you damn whore.

Let's cut to it: dinner sucked.

The menu was almost entirely fish. (I hate fish. Pull it out of the fucking
ground, or feed it something FROM the ground, or I won't eat it. Nothing with
scales, thank you.) We were expecting Potatoes Everything! Baked Potatoes!
Mashed Potatoes! French Fried Potatoes! Fucking BROILED Potatoes, for
christ's sake! Nope. We got a menu full of fish.

"And there's a buffet, for $14.95." Sold.

The $15 buffet was: a salad bar of lettuce, cucumbers and a dozen mayo-based
dishes; a table-full of bread; a terrible teriyaki-style chicken; frog legs
swimming in butter; more fish dishes; undercooked, white trash wedding-style
prime rib; and, lordy, there were the infamous Potatoes Fiesta! Mary Mother, 

I was saved! Whooee! I piled 'em high--$15 bucks' worth--alongside the stack
of lettuce and cucumbers which were my main course.

Needless to say, the Potatoes Fiesta did NOT make the trip worthwhile. A
hybrid of mashed and au grautin with peppers and onions thrown in, Potatoes
Fiesta aren't even worth a 2 mile drive to Pathmark. During dinner, we
overheard an obese gentleman at the next table whisper to his companion, "the
secret behind the fiesta potatoes is feta cheese." Oh, christ, big fucking
secret. Now it's out! Better close up the joint--now everyone knows! THERE'S
FETA CHEESE IN THE POTATOES!!

After dinner, we drove to the local hotspots: the PA Lumber Museum (see
photo; ho-hum) and a Deer Petting Zoo that houses the mangiest,
saddest-looking baby deer. If I were 6 years old, I'd've bawled my eyes out,
because Bambi looked like she'd been through her own little Deer Holocaust. 

We took some pictures, bought a six-pack, and decided to hide out in our
room. So the big evening was "Operation Petticoat" and the best sex we'd had
in weeks; we were obviously over-compensating.

THE DEPARTURE

Bright and early, we were so anxious to flee that we did not indulge in the
complimentary coffee. Instead, we bought some merchandise (4 coffee mugs (2
for ourselves; 2 for gifts), a crappy t-shirt for Amy, and a baseball cap
which I wore right out the door without actually purchasing) and got on the
road.

The trip back was uneventful, with the exception of a Truck Stop along Route
80, about 50 miles from the Jersey Border, where that I saw the foulest candy
made by man: bubblegum fudge. Rather than chocolate, they use marshmallow;
and rather than nuts, they use pieces of gum. This slab of tooth decay is
then coated with confectionary sugar. I imagine that before you can buy it,
you need to produce proof of pick-up truck ownership, a barefoot child in
winter, and a pet rotweiller. Of course, if you drive a semi, I'm sure it's
free with the purchase of a cup of coffee.

GRAND TOTAL

We drove 708 miles. We took 24 pictures.

Ironically, the most potatoes we ate on the whole trip were in the loaf of
potato bread we'd bought in the Grand Union in Jersey for $1.39.

WE DIDN'T SEE ONE SINGLE FUCKING POTATO FIELD.

I did, however, avoid the Fourth of July in Philadelphia.

EPILOGUE

Just the other day, Amy called for information on "The Corn Palace," located
in Mitchell, South Dakota. Originally constructed in 1892, The Corn Palace
grew so popular that they had to add another structure in 1921...

I think we've found our next vacation spot. And I bet they've got cheap
flights out of Potato City International. (e-readers: insert photo of Potato
City airport here)


Our Thanks to the Following for Getting Us There & Back:

The AP Network News at the top of the hour 
  on some backwoods family radio station
Archers of Loaf
Combustible Edison
Crunt
Drive Like Jehu
Green Day
Guided By Voices
Hazel
Honda Air Conditioning
The Muffs
Pegboy
Picasso Trigger [Amy]
small 23
Shades Apart [Me]
Stanford Prison Experiment
Superchunk
Texaco & Exxon Gasoline
That Dog
Yuengling Lager


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            21.

Winners Read! Readers Win!

TEXT-ONLY READERS: The contest was visual, so I won't bother giving you the
answer, since you didn't see the clue anyway. I will, however, reproduce the
list of crap I sent the winner, if only to tease you into entering the new
contest, as found on "page" 36.

Rick (the winner) was sent the following items:

VINYL: Martinis, Music & Memories, Jackie Gleason; Boys, Boys, Boys, Leslie
Gore; The Mirror, Spooky Tooth; Bulletin Board, The Partridge Family; Live,
Barry Manilow*; Bay City Rollers*; More Twistin' in High Society, Lester
Lanin; Gold, Neil Diamond; Whipped Cream & Other Delights, Herb Alpert...;
The Living End, Jandek (sorry it couldn't be HD's Living End); Foster Brooks
"Sings"; Crack Attack 12", Big Stick; Little White Lies/A Cottage for Sale
7", Mel Torme.

CDs: Mono, Fury in the Slaughterhouse; the marble index, Nico.

BOOKS: SIGNED EDITION of Sometimes God Has a Kid's Face, Bruce Ritter (of
Covenant House, NYC, fame--charged with child molestation); SIGNED EDITION of
Marriott, The J. Willard Marriott Story, Robert O'Brien; SIGNED EDITION of
Everything to Gain, Making the Most of the Rest of Your Life, Jimmy and
Rosalyn Carter; SIGNED EDITION of The Irish Potato Famine, World Disaster
series, Lucent Books.

MISC: 1- 15 oz. can of Orleans Jack Mackerel* ("ingredients: Jack Mackerel,
Water, and Salt"); 1 - 3/4-full 375 ml. bottle Hawaiian Blue MD 20/20*; 1 -
1/2-full .4 oz. tube of Johnson & Johnson K-Y jelly*, for the lucky lady
sharing the MD with Rick; 2 tablets of Imodium A-D, for the morning after the
Mad Dog; Cremation Options, an informative pamphlet by The Oliver H. Bair
Company, Philadelphia PA, for the day MD does him in once and for all.

As you can well see, Rick made a killing, just for knowing his cheap booze.
Ironically, the postage to send out this package was far more than the worth
of the contents. (* indicates a donation by Tom Bielavitz of page 22 fame;
I'm sure Rick thanks you, Tom, especially for the K-Y.)

Be a winner, too! See page 36 for the new contest!


</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
       **ADVERTISMENT**

Factsheet Five: The journal of independent media  and free thought.

$6 sample / $20 sub to 
Factsheet Five,
PO Box 170099,
San Francisco, CA 94117

</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
            22.

Time to Kill (lawyers, that is)
By Tom Bielavitz (jitbagger@aol.com)

We all hate lawyers, everybody from Rush Limbaugh to Howard Stern bitches
about them; suit-happy sharks, and who pays for it all? We do, of course. Old
story. Boring Story.

A friend graduated law school about five years ago, and his first year out he
had a civil case pending vs. BMW; a design flaw in the anti-lock braking
system threatened his safety. His REAL motive? The profit from a winning case
will afford him a more expensive BMW, or maybe a Mercedes. One with a better
anti-lock braking system, of course. I don't know what the outcome was, but
if it made it to court, I do know my that you and I paid for the time of the
judge, bailiffs, stenographers, etc., to hear that greedy prick whine about
his brakes. Fuck that. He's making $60,000, and I was driving a truck
delivering cheese.

The kind fact-checker at the Philadelphia office of the Pennsylvania Bar
Association informed me that approximately 4600 people took the Bar Exam this
past July. They expect that 80% will pass it on their first try. (3700 people
can do it in one shot, but John-John took how long?) This is just
Pennsylvania.

Clearly, we have enough lawyers in this country.

Recently an opportunity came my way to force back the tide. I don't propose
as aggressive a plan as murder--very few people are successful at it in any
quantity to make a difference. However, like weeds, lawyers can be removed
one at a time. And I have pulled my first would-be lawyer. Please follow
suit.

MY METHOD

Another friend of mine--I'll call her Alexis--graduated from law school this
past Spring. Of course, she immediately applied to be accepted into the Bar.
For most states, a number of personal references are required, in addition to
the Bar Examination itself. And since we've been close for nearly a dozen
years, I was a natural--if not safe--choice.

You see, the Bar Association sent me a form to complete, which I did. It is
reprinted on the next page for your amusement. I lied--made up stories to
make her appear, to put it lightly, UNWORTHY. In short, I fucked her. 

Soon, Alexis will be hawking uniforms at the Gap, and I'm to blame. As they
say--not your Mom, but some of those radical types--"Revolution begins in the
home," and so I figured I couldn't pass up this opportunity. My social circle
is not large; I won't get another chance to eliminate a potential lawyer; all
my other friends are lucky to have warehouse jobs. 

I'll never tell Alexis. She wouldn't admire my conviction and adherence to
principles. No, this is the type of thing that can kill a friendship, and
though I'm the guy that would shoot a lame dog, tell you when your shirt
makes you look fat, or frankly inform you that your ass stinks, I am
sensitive to the gravity of my actions. Coolly and logically, I knew what had
to be done--what type of model would I be if I suggested such an action, yet
did not take it? I'm a man of action!!

In the hopes that even one reader will follow my lead, I am providing the
following tips. Please take them, make them your own, and run with it:

1. Tone is all- important.
Make it look as if you feel obligated to give a recommendation, but really
don't have anything nice to say.

2. Find out how long the applicant claims to have known you.
He says 6 years? You say, oh, 2 years. But be careful! You may rend yourself
an "unacceptable reference" if the length of time you state is less than the
required minimum. Your best bet is to check with the victim in a roundabout
way.

3. Acts of instability make one appear...well, unstable.

4. Use ambiguous verbs such as "seemed."
For example: "Carl seemed like he had a lot of integrity." Such a statement
implies the author can say for sure that Carl has integrity; lawyers
reviewing this statement can't miss a sly statement like this. Hell, they eat
this shit up.

5. Drug use looks bad. 

6. Most law students are meticulous about their resumes. In fact, they are
often specific down to the exact days of when and where they worked. It is,
therefore, tough to make them look truly transient. Instead, a hint of a
transient lifestyle here and there is a good measure. Perhaps use something
such as "Although I knew John well for two years, he was always evasive about
his home life. Sometimes he did not appear to have showered for a week or
more. However, these are inconsequential facts in determining whether or not
he'd be a good lawyer. John certainly seemed like a smart guy. I'm sure he
would make a great public defendant." 

7. "You can judge a man by the company he keeps." Make yourself look like an
idiot. 

All in all, it's not hard to make someone look bad.

(REPRODUCED TEXT OF THE) Reference Letter

1.  How long have you known the applicant? 

    2 Years.

2.  In what capacity or under what circumstances have you known the
applicant? Describe any opportunities you have had to observe the applicant
(for example, as a coworker, employer, or neighboy).

XXXXXX and I became friends about two years ago.  Our relationhip started as
merchant-customer (I tend bar in town), but soon became friendly in that
manner that people who spend a lot of time together will. XXXXXX has always
been a good egg, in my eyes.

3.  Has the applicant to your knowledge been involved in any incident which
might reflect unfavorably on his or her character? If so, please describe the
incident.

The most unfavorably reflective incident occured just before closing on a
weekday. XXXXXX and her sister had been arguing about who was going home with
a man they had both been talking to. XXXXXX reached over the bar and grabbed
the scissors I had been using to cut coupons, and then tries to stab her
sister in the back!  She really wasn't injured, but I called the ambulance
anyway. And being sisters, she didn't press charges. I feel I should add that
up to that point, XXXXXX was arguing excellently and I'm sure I'd want her on
my side in a courtroom. That girl has spunk!

4.  Do you reccomend that the applicant be admitted to the Bar based on what
you know of the applicant's conduct, general moral character and standards,
legal ability, honesty, integrity, and fitness?

NO. In general, in knowing XXXXXX as I do, I'd choose another lawyer before
her.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: This is the real thing, kids. I saw the stamp go on the
envelope, and the envelope go into the box. Shit, she ain't my fucking
friend. -Jeff.]


</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
       **ADVERTISEMENT**

      HIGHBALL MAGAZINE
From the editors of "Die Evan Dando, Die" and "Crank"

The Definitive Guide to Booze, Cars and Girls.

Available at your more daring stores and stands or c/o CRANK, POB 1646,
Philadelphia, PA 19105-1646.

Single issue price $4.00 postpaid.

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</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
            26.

Hot damn! No more fucking reviews!

(TEXT READERS: BY NOT READING THE PRINTED VERSION OF CRANK, YOU LOSE OUT ON 5
PAGES OF SWELL LITTLE ICONS THAT I PREDICT WILL SPELL THE END OF THE
RIDICULOUS REVIEW SECTIONS THAT FILL JUST ABOUT EVERY ZINE ON MARKET. $2 AND
IT'S YOURS...)


</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
            31.

Grab the Nearest dick, quick!
It's the Great Zine Circle Jerk!

(TEXT-READERS: ONCE AGAIN, AS A TEXT-ONLY READER, YOU'RE MISSING OUT ON A
COUPLE OF THINGS. WHILE YOU WOULD CERTAINLY UNDERSTAND THIS ARTICLE, IT IS
IRRELEVANT TO THE COMMUNITY OF E-ZINES. IT'S AIMED SPECIFICALLY AT THE WORLD
OF PRINTED ZINES. IT IS, THEREFORE, OMITTED.)


</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
            33.

Surviving The Low-Life:
-or- Better Living Through Crank

Lots o' kids dream of living that crazy, downtrodden lifestyle that all the
great ones lived. Sure, baby: wake up at noon, slug down a couple pints to
settle that stomach, shower, shit, and hit the nearest bar by two. Well, you
know what? I've been there, friends, and it ain't that easy. It works well
for a few weeks. In fact, it's very refreshing to binge for a month or two
when your job has you in a deep rut. But then you find that extra 20 pounds
hanging on your pasty, fat face; your boss is walking the line between pity
and anger; and one evening you realize that a lot of things in your apartment
are broken...things like all the lightbulbs, more than half the dishes, and
your intestines. You need a fixin' up, pal. And you SWEAR that next time,
you'll be ready for that glass all over the floor that keeps sticking in your
feet when you try to walk to the fucking bathroom. But you know what? You
won't be ready, because you'll just pluck out the glass, empty your bladder
and go back to bed, drunk and happy.

Believe me when I tell you that I've hit lower than most of you. No, no, I've
never killed anyone, or beaten up my girl in a drunken rage; none of those
bullshit stories. You want a true anecdote from one man's bottoming out? Ok,
one Thursday morning, sitting with my boots up on my desk at work, I noticed
what looked like splotches of white paint on the tops of my shoes. Huh? I
took a closer look and wracked my brain for an explanation. Had I painted
recently? Spackled? Walked through cement? Nope. Aaahh, it finally hit me:
the last time I'd worn those boots, I'd gotten so drunk I wound up vomiting
in the gutter outside my apartment. The white spots were the last of the
turkey sandwich I'd eaten earlier that evening. At least it didn't smell--not
that I could notice, anyway. That was a turning point--I knew I had to start
being a tad more responsible in this ridiculous life I was leading. Even if
it only meant washing my boots before I was sober enough to be ashamed.

So, for all you guys and girls stuck in the same sinking, stinking boat, it's
time to take the rational approach to this overly-rewarding lifestyle. The
MBA phrase-boys call it "Proactivity." I call it "Living Smart."

Here are the things you should own if you plan to live the low-life: 

Some are intended for cleaning up the inevitable damage; Some are intended as
diversion against the boredom that inevitably leads to violent, drunken
binges; Some are just meant to make your life seem more respectable, which
(if you believe the 12-step programs) is important to keeping your impulses
under control.

As with all things CRANK, I take no responsibility for YOUR actions, but,
please, do send photos of the damage, especially if it involves flesh.


1. Wet/Dry Shop-Vacuum

Though it's primarily viewed as a masculine toy, a good shop-vac can serve
both sexes equally. Much like a pair of ViceGrips, a wet/dry shop-vac can do
anything and everything your clumsy little hearts desire.

The vac' that saves our apartment just about every weekend is a SEARS
Craftsman, 6.0 gallon, 2.0 horsepower powerhouse. (I would have looked for a
Black and Decker, if those motherfuckers had even TRIED to respond to my
trepanation letter from Crank #2.) This particular model cost $40, which
seems a little steep, but you've got to understand--it was NECESSARY after a
bad night of cheap beer and mad dog. The glass was 2 inches deep, no shit,
and our new friend chewed it up without choking.

But let's forget the OBVIOUS industrial applications for a moment. We also
have a recurring problem with mice. And the runt cat that Tom picked up--much
to our surprise--has turned into a formidable mouser. Now, a mouse hunt is
fun to watch in your living room, but when that last bit of squealing life is
squeezed from Mickey's head, it's your job to dispose of the remains. Should
you scoop 'em up in a wad of paper towel? Wrap 'em in the morning paper?
Fuck, no. Get your shop-vac out and suck little Jerry straight up to mousy
heaven. Come to think of it, I think those three little mice corpses are
still rotting in the bottom of the vac. I wouldn't lie to you.


2. Cheap Binoculars

Just like Zsa Zsa, I love city life. 

I'll grant that Philadelphia ain't THAT much of a city, but we've got all the
trappings of a major city: hostility, crime, violence, theft, dirt, and
plenty of bars. Oh, and I suppose there's a bunch of museums and probably a
big library somewhere, too.

Really, though, I love the absolute saturation of people that is unique to
city life. When you put too many people too close to each other, crazy things
happen. CLOSE PROXIMITY is THE source of crime.

If you live in the city (or anywhere else where a few neighbors' houses are
in view), buy a pair of binoculars. They ain't for spying titty, kids, so you
don't need a goddamn telescope (and if you can even afford a telescope,
you're reading the wrong fucking magazine). No, the binoculars are for
watching the people, not their parts.

So far, with my trusty 8X glasses stolen from a church thrift store for $5, I
have seen the woman in the apartment across the back alley beat her
7-year-old daughter on five different occasions with a wooden spoon. I have
seen a drunk man pull a steak knife on another drunk man (no bloodshed,
though--the other guy bolted out). I have seen countless arguments between
presumed husband-and-wives. And yes, indeed, I have even seen two people
fuck, but it was over before I finished my drink.

It might sound...pathetic? Is that the word? Yeh, I think that's the word.
But it's not pathetic--it's diversion. When I sit in front of the TV, I am
liable to go through a fifth of gin in a night. If I sit in my room and read
or write, I'll only drink a couple beers. If I don't feel like reading or
writing, I'll get out the binoculars and do my liver a favor.

And it is better than TV. Hands-down.


3. Electric Heater & Microwave & 
   Toaster Oven & a TV w/Antenna

Months ago, in one of the local newspapers, I read an excerpt from the latest
"GenX" handbook. The excerpt concerned the multi-colored envelopes from
utility companies stamped URGENT that pile up on the author's coffee table; a
relentless stream of unpaid bills marking her Generation X lifestyle. It
angered me to near-violence.

What an obnoxious load of self-glorifying bullshit. What a stupid fuck that
author must be. Who the fuck glorifies unpaid bills? Who the fuck wants
unpaid bills? Unpaid bills have left my credit rating so bad that I can't get
a fucking gas card. I can only DREAM of a Sears charge card. I'd probably
have to get a fucking co-signer to borrow 10 bucks from a friend.

I do have trouble paying my bills on time. But I can only speak for myself: I
never have enough money to cover all my bills every month. So, every month, I
pay one bill's balance from the previous month. Maybe when that NEA grant
comes through with a few grand, I'll pay everyone off. In the meantime, I
DON'T LIKE HAVING MY FUCKING UTILITIES SHUT OFF BECAUSE OF UNPAID BILLS. And
I'm sure as fuck not going to use my unpaid bills as a badge of honor for
induction into the Generation X Club.

Right now, there is no heat and no cooking gas in the apartment.
Surprisingly, this time it's not our fault--it's our cocksucker landlords,
who accrued a $6000 bill with the gas company and then stopped paying the
mortgage on the property. So the bank foreclosed and doesn't want to pay the
$6000 to get everything turned back on. THIS IS TRUE. And it's decidedly NOT
hip and GenX. It's cold, just plain fucking cold.

I cook everything in the microwave now that the stove and oven are useless. I
WISH I had a toaster oven; if the gas isn't turned on yet, then I'm looking
for a used one this weekend. I have a space heater next to my bed for the
4:00 a.m. chill that tears through the paper-thin window panes. The cable is
still on, because I consider that bill a priority. (I can't seem to live
without the Food Network, which is odd, considering I didn't cook that much
even when the gas was on.) Still, the TV antenna is in easy reach.

Get these items if you're planning to fuck up your bills because you're
either too much of an asshole to pay them on time and/or you're too broke.
You'll be happy you own them, believe me.


4. Good Bottle of Red
   Good Bottle of White

It doesn't matter which you prefer. Just go out and blow 20 bucks on a couple
decent bottles of wine. Oh, just shut the fuck up--I know that $10 ain't
gonna buy you something you can serve the President, but we're down at my
standards, ok? Don't know shit about wine? Neither do I, so do what I
do--Mondavi. It looks nice on a cheap wine rack, and makes a great gift if
you get roped into a dinner or something at the last minute.

Most importantly, though, it's always nice to have another bottle of
something to come home to when the bars are closed, your fridge is empty, and
you've got another few hours to go. (Ok, so maybe this entry shouldn't have
been accompanied with the icon for "respectability," but I had to use that
graphic somewhere.)


5. Spackle

And a spackling knife, trough and wall-repair patches (for small jobs, they
work wonders). 

So, yes, we've put some holes in our walls. (Fuck you, it's better than
picking barfights. Boys will be boys, right?) We found that you should also
know the location of the nearest hardware store, naturally, for those things
you never think you'll need, like tile grout.


6. Ice Pops

My secret for surviving particularly nasty mornings. Better than drinking
water, because they've got some sugar to get your belly into shape. They're
not too solid, so that you can still keep them down (or IN, if your bowels
are the problem).

Ice pops are also fine treats to give to neighborhood kids (so long as you
don't look the type to stick razors in apples). They, in turn, will put in a
good word with the folks who, in turn, will give you one last chance to turn
down that Big Black before calling in the law at 3 am.


7. A Good Sense of Humor

Because you're either going to laugh at your shitty life, or do yourself in
as soon as one bad month comes to a spirit-crushing end. If you choose the
latter, I'm sure there are at least 3 dozen little zines out there with kooky
advice for potential suicides. Go consult them.

No suicide tips here, kids. I advocate squeezing every drop of indulgent
experience out of this mundane life some people call "sacred."

I'd like to think that I've helped you achieve that goal.

THE END


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            35.

True Confessions

I am intrigued by the idea of two obese people having sex. I'm talking OBESE.
FAT, baby.

I enjoy looking at young women, 15 to 18 years old.

I might wax my back when it becomes very hairy, at the age of 40 or so. 
I was a late bloomer.

I sincerely believe that people are, on the whole, useless.
It appalls me that the average woman would have sex with the average man.
I am the above average man.
I also sincerely believe that if you go to a community pool and spend one
single hour looking at people, you will share my disgust for humanity.

Some of Bukowski's fuck stories have excited me.
Bukowski's story of a guy raping a five-year old girl did not excite me,
thank heavens.
Cooper's Frisk, though an enjoyable book, did not excite me, thank heavens
even more.
Jokes aside, I really don't care where you put your cock. Or cunt.

I have never paid a woman for sex, outside the conventional dinner and
drinks.

I enjoy getting drunk from jugs of cheap wine. E&J Gallo's Pink Rose is among
my favorites.

I am, undoubtedly, one of the most paranoid persons you will ever meet, when
it comes to intellectual property.
I don't exactly own 80 acres of intellectual property, if you know what I
mean.
More like a 1/4-acre plot in Bayonne.


</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
            36.

Win Big with CRANK!

You think you know your beer? Well, you just might. But do you know your old
man's beer? That's right--get yer pappy on the phone and ask him to recall
the beer advertisements that drove him to drink.

Below are five slogans and/or pitches that were used as recently as 25 years
ago to sell four different brands of beer that--with the possible exception
of one of 'em--are still sold in just about every liquor store that has a
half-decent beer selection. All you've got to do is match the name with the
blanks (to make it tricky, there are more names than blanks, eh?) The person
who identifies the most outdated beer pitches gets a package of crap in their
mailbox. (See page 21 for the manifest of garbage I sent last issue's
winner.) Ties will be broken in some biased way.

The Brands to choose from:
Amstel Light
Bass
Blatz
Budweiser
Busch
Colt 45
Coors
Country Club 
Falstaff
Fosters
Guinness
Heineken
Michelob
Miller
Molson
Old English 800
Pabst Blue Ribbon
Rolling Rock
Schlitz
Schmidts
Steigmeir
Straub
Stroh's 


1.
"When you're out of ___________, you're out of beer."

2.
"The Thirst Slaker! __________"

3.
"Next time you feel like a couple of beers, have a _____________."

4 & 5.
(Two different clues for the same brand)
"Great on the rocks...with a lemon peel. It's also great in a tumbler. A mug.
Straight from the can. Or sipped through a straw. However, we recommend you
drink it like a beer, so long as you don't mistake it for one. A completely
unique experience!" ___________________

"A secretary writes: Getting dates used to be a problem till I switched to
___________. It succeeded where sexy perfumes failed. A completely unique
experience!"


Send your answers on whatever to POB 1646, Phil PA 19105-1646, or to
CRANK@AOL.COM. Issue #4 is due in January, so you've got until sometime in
December to get off your ass and send me your stupid guesses. My thanks to
Tom for such a wonderful contest idea. Oh, yeh, I almost forgot--if anyone
actually gets all of these right, I'll be really fucking impressed ...by your
dad's collection of old Playboys and such.


</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
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THE END
CRANK #3. PO Box 1646. Phil PA 19105-1646

Crank logo, icons and contents, copyright 1994 Jeff Koyen

As always, correspondence is welcomed, if not always appreciated.

Regards,
Jeff Koyen

