(startfile 23.6.97 15.36.17)

Neko's welcome
--------------

Hey everybody. It's been awhile, hasn't it? Six months, to be exact. Well,
I'm going home on Saturday, and I wanted to get something out before then.
I actually started this issue a lot sooner than I said I did. I solicited
submissions from the punk-list and have been compiling things for awhile,
but it's really going home that has gotten my ass in gear. I haven't
gotten the web page entirely done yet, sue my lazy self. By the time this
issue comes out, the web page should be located on a different server as
well as having an official (tm) mailing list. We'll see how all that works
out over the next couple of days. My year in Russia is almost over, and
I've had a real good time. I'd advise any and all of you to go somewhere
on an exchange. There's not a lot by me in this issue, but that's okay,
cuz I think that the stuff that is here is pretty good. Dummercon is
coming up in July, and all the information about that is in this issue. I
guess that's pretty much about it for now.

later

john


Index
-----

01 ... Neko's welcome
02 ... Dragged down
03 ... 5 September, 1996
04 ... Drunk and debauched in Tver
05 ... 6 September, 1996
06 ... Dummercon 3
07 ... 7 September, 1996
08 ... Further to fly
09 ... 8 September, 1996
10 ... A girl, a lizard and some other stuff
11 ... 9 September, 1996
12 ... John the III - part 1
13 ... 10 September, 1996
14 ... Racism fucking sucks...
15 ... 11 September, 1996
16 ... Goodbye, sexy
17 ... 12 September, 1996
18 ... Ye
19 ... 13 September, 1996
20 ... Konets

Dragged down by Nate Ganglehoff
-------------------------------
                                                                         
I still remember distinctly the weekend Bert fell apart; I  remember it
and saw it coming.  The whole situation with his life had finally reached
it's boiling point, and we all were going to have to watch it spill over.

Admittedly, at the time I didn't really care anymore since I  figured it
was all his doing in the first place. We all tried to warn him every now
and then, but he was taking his chosen path at full speed, his head firmly
lowered, so I doubt he would have even heard us had we told him directly.
Besides, Bert was the type of person who would have taken offense to an
accusation that his life was falling apart -- his forehead would bunch up
in an angry glare as he'd say "What the hell you talking bout, Mark? Yeah,
you got it great man, just perfect. You don't have any problems, right?
Prick..." or some other garbage, completely missing the point. I mean,
Christ, I don't want to sound like somebody from Alcoholics Anonymous or
whatever, but he really couldn't admit to ANY of his problems; they simply
didn't exist. To imply that they did was pointless, so no one even
bothered. Now, everyone's kicking themselves and feeling guilty about the
whole thing, which is ridiculous and disgusting. I suppose I feel a tinge
of guilt, yeah, but that's just my mind messing with me. I remember how it
really happened.

At the time, we still hung around Bert a little, so we were going to pick
him up that Friday night, get drunk, and drive around town like maniacs.
It didn't bother any of us that we had to stop at a bunch of places first;
we were in no real rush to get Bert anyway. Most of us wanted nothing to
do with him at this point, but we were literally scared of him. To
understand this,  you have to realize that Bert was a pretty intimidating
guy. For one thing, he was just huge, built like an ox (I always thought
he had the body of a football player and the face of a stoner), but his
attitude was just as frightening as his physical appearance. Even when he
wasn't pissed, he'd have this sneaky, sinister smile on his face like he
was about to plunge a knife in your back and then say he was just joking
around. But his grin was just an extension of his brain -- the muddled
thought process that controlled the mechanics of his mind was something I
didn't even try to understand. No one did, really, you just hoped you were
across the room when he flipped out. It was just crazy, I mean I wouldn't
even believe any of it, but it happened to me a few times.  Jesus Christ,
the kid punched his mom for forgetting to buy Coco-Puffs! He got suspended
from school when he pulled a knife on the gym teacher- "I'm not running
the fucking mile". I'm not kidding! The kid was a maniac! It obviously
begs the question "why'd you hang around him, then?", I realize, but you
have to understand my relationship with Bert was like a bad, long-term
drug addiction: it created a need for itself. Once I was in, there was no
way I could blow him off; he'd take it too personally and come after me.
He was like a parasite to his friends, needing their constant (false)
support to stand up. The only difference was, in this equation if you
eliminated the host, the parasite wouldn't die. It would be the other way
around. Yeah, we were that scared of him, but believe me, it was all
warranted.

But we weren't thinking about Bert as we wandered around the convenience
store that night, trying to steal cigarettes. The vaguely sleazy little
store was home to a whole horde of silly little goons, and a bunch of them
were hanging around now, snickering as we walked down the aisles. I
recognized one of them from school, his name was Neil, I  believe. His
face was reddened with tiny little zits, matching the color of his jacket
and shoes. Blue eyes, gelled blond hair...the whole bit. Neil was always
smiling, which made it strangely uncomfortable to look at him, given the
fact that he'd giggle and nudge his buddies if you did. All three of us
walked right past their little group, and I was a good ways down the aisle
when I heard the smack and long howl of laughter. Turning around, Jake and
I both saw that Neil had tripped up Dave, who was now sprawled out on the
floor, his hair covering the dirty tiles like a grimy mop. 

Right then, I just wanted out of there, out of the whole stupid situation.
I had felt like crap emotionally for a few weeks, and stupid little
incidents like this just added to my condition. So I just stared at Dave
as he got up, pushing his hair back and rubbing his forehead. He was 
pretty pissed, but not big enough physically to warrant showing it, so he
just walked over to Jake and I. There were two groups now, face to face,
like a couple of street gangs. It was silly.

"What you boys doing tonight, eh?" Neil snickered. I shrugged without
emotion.

"Nothing". I moved for the door, but one of Neil's buddies, I don't even
remember his name, stuck out his arm to stop me. I glared at him as hard
as I dared.

"I bet you boys are going off to make out at the drive-in, eh?" Neil said,
prompting another round of piercing laughter. I felt my face getting a
little flushed, and mook #1 was still barring passage, so I turned to
Neil. He was broadly grinning, his arms crossed, his eyes raised in a
little "what, did I do something to make you angry?" look. I hated him,
yeah, but I also envied him. It was a no-win situation for me, but I was
pissed, so I tore into him.

"So you still gonna be in the NFL, Neil? High school's almost done, buddy,
are the colleges lining up yet?" He paused, but didn't frown.

"What the hell you talking about? I can do whatever I want, faggot. You're
just a stupid pot head anyway." I smiled, but felt pretty empty inside. My
face was about to get caved in. After making a few derogatory comments
about his mother, I started again about his professional football
aspirations. He was shaking now.

"It's pretty sad that you're not that good at the only thing you do well,
I mean it mu-" I felt his fist crash into my skull as I tumbled to the
floor, landing hard on my arm. My brain didn't feel connected to my body
as I huddled on the ground in a fetal position, but I could feel him 
kicking my back in, screaming like a maniac. I didn't even waver for a 
long thirty seconds, the pain wasn't registering yet. My thought process 
was completely clear; I realized this was just another bad situation for 
me, one of many, so I might as well sit back and take it. The 
store-manager must be too scared to do anything, I figured, cause this was
taking awhile. The blood was soaking through my shirt now, I could feel it
spiderwebbing up my back as I tried to roll over on my side. Just as I
was about to finally scream for mercy, I heard a high, scary shriek emerge
from above me. Rolling around, my blurry eyes saw Neil grabbing 
frantically at nothingness, face twisted in confusion, writhing around in
front of Bert.

No one made any noise -- if it wasn't for the refrigerator's low hum it
would have been dead silence.  Bert was holding Neil in a cheap wrestler
hold, and looked completely out of his brain. He had stumbled in, messed
up on whatever drugs he was doing, saw Neil kicking the life out of me,
and jumped the poor kid. That shouldn't have happened to Neil -- it wasn't
a bad wound anyway -- but he didn't deserve it. I was fully aware my face
was going to get pounded in; no help from Bert was necessary. Now the 
stupid oaf had dragged us into a whole other mess.

I watched Bert throw a rather shaken-up Neil to the floor, and pull out a
thin blade from his belt. "What the hell are you doing?!?" I shrieked,
stumbling to my feet, but it wasn't necessary; the manager had already
tackled Bert, who was too drugged-up to offer any legitimate defense. He
laid on the floor perfectly still, as the manager slowly backed away,
having grabbed the knife.

After a moment of silent confusion, we all started screaming at him
simultaneously, telling him just how much of an idiot he was. Bert 
groggily looked up at me, confused, his mind trying to comprehend the 
yelling. 

"Wha the hell....ya man, I saved your life! Wha you pissed bout?"

"You didn't save my life, you idiot! You got us all in trouble with that
crap, you don't have to pull out a damn knife if someone's getting
kicked!! What the hell are you thinking?!?" Jake and Dave chimed in with
other insults; it felt good to have the upper-hand on Bert -- he didn't
even bother defending the accusations of idiocy. At one point, I thought
he might try to come after me, but he just put his head down and walked
toward the door without a word.

"Stop right there!" the puny twerp of a manager ordered. Bert turned and
stared at him, not looking very hostile. He shot him a warning glare, and
the manager backed off. Even though he had a knife, the guy didn't want to
take Bert on face to face. I suppose at this point he didn't even care-at
least the psycho was leaving his store.

So Bert just left, without saying a word, his head lowered. Good riddance,
I figured. The weak friendship had finally been severed after wavering for
far too long. 

I swallowed my pride, apologized to Neil and the manager, gave Bert's name
and phone number, and retreated home extremely depressed to clean up.

The news was surprising at first, but the once the initial shock left it
was actually pretty easy to explain.  At noon the next morning we found
out that Bert had killed himself when he got home. They found him laying
on his bed, overdosed on a variety of pills, having left "no note or
apparent reason". But now I know the reason, everyone who knew him does.
Bert had expired, basically. His energy ran out, the fun died, there was
nothing left. He was gone. Non-recyclable. Game over. Bert aged 30 years
in 18, and he wasted every one of them. I didn't even care, unlike 
everyone else who got dragged down with guilt. Bert was going to die one
way or another, that's the way his life was plummeting, so I didn't feel
guilty. However, I did feel generally worse, in fact I don't think I ever
felt so horrible in my entire life. That's the way Bert was, I guess; he
brought me around when we hung around together no matter how much I 
loathed it. There was nothing I could do about it. It's just like I said,
it was a friendship similar to a drug addiction, or a bad disease with no
practical cure. Even when he died he had to drag me down with him.

5 September, 1996 -- 22.21
-------------------------

Dima said he would meet me at home to take me to the AFS meeting. At
16.45, he wasn't home yet (the meeting was at 17). So I set out on foot to
find the meeting place. After walking for an hour, I found it. No one was
there. When I got home, 2 AFS volunteers were waiting for me to take me to
the meeting. So a bad situation turned out to be good.

Drunk and debauched in Tver
---------------------------

Last Friday was Victory Day. 3-day weekend. But no! My weekend started
Thursday!@ The shit went down like this:

Thursday. The stupid old ladies here wanted to close early. No problemo.
Vadim, Misha and Kostya wanted me to come out for a beer with them. I told
them I had no money. It was not a problem, I was told. Kostya had money.
Okay, so we first go to Spring Time bar, and Kostya buys four bottles of
Miller for us. We go stand around outside to drink it. After we finish, we
go to Uncle Sam's. He buys us Shavarmas, and beer. We eat and drink, then
leave. Walk up a street. We go to a small cafe. Each get a cup of white
wine (all with Kostya's money). Then we go to another cafe. Much more
upscale. Order food and beer. Refill the beer. Kostya smokes. We don't.
Then we do. We chain smoke. One after another, right down the line. Then
we get the vodka. First shot is okay. Second, I think it went down wrong.
I'm starting to feel sick. I stand up to head to the bathroom. Got to go
talk to the ladies who work there to get the fucking key. Okay. Done. Head
out to the bathroom. It starts coming up while I unlock the door. Little
bit starts dribbling out on the floor. Finally, the door opens, and I run
inside and let it out into the toilet. Then I look at the mess I made.
Need to clean it somehow. No toilet paper. Okay, I look in the garbage
can. I see some paper scraps in there. I take them out and wipe up what I
can. Then I wash up and go back. When I return, there are two girls I know
sitting with the guys (Galya and [I think] Ira). I wonder what they saw...
Misha seems to be macking on Ira, and Galya and Vadim seem to be an item,
so it's just Kostya and me that are alone. We go out to get some more
alcohol. Come back with a bottle of normal vodka and cranberry vodka.
We're sitting there, smoking away, and two young women come in. They are
trying to sell something, but nobody would tell me what. Eventually, we
leave. We walk down the street towards the River Volga. On the way, we
pick up two big bottles of wine. Walk along the Volga, walk, walk. Come to
a stop where some other people we don't know are. Go to talk to them. They
learn I am American and offer me vodka. Drink it. Someone else does the
same. Drink it. Don't remember anything else after that.

Friday is Victory Day. I wander around most of the day, looking for
someone I know. All the whole city is outside, but I see noone I know
(that is worth mentioning). Call my British friends to see what their
plans are for celebrating V-Day. They're going on the Volga Volga disco.
So, I decide to tag along. I arrive at the park WAY early, so I just
wander around. Two guys walk up to me and say 'What is your name'. I reply
in Russian, 'Menya zovut John'...Turns out they already know me
from...LAST NIGHT! So, I am reintroduced to [I think] Vladimir and Zhamal.
We wander around, and then I ditch them to just sit near the Volga Volga
to wait for them. Some old guy comes up and asks if he can have my bottle
when I'm done. Sure, I say. He waits and when he sees me finishing it, he
returns to take it. He starts to make conversation. So, I talk to him. He
was an okay guy. Was happy that he had enough bottles to recycle to get a
loaf of bread. Still haven't seen Alison and Joy (British, er, to be more
specific, English and Welsh, respectively). Do, however, see a
foreign-looking girl wearing one of those dumb 'Soccer is Life' shirts and
sandals with socks. Definitely foreign. I edge closer. Hear English. Say
hi to Paula from Canada. She's a missionary or something. She's meeting
Melinda and Bart from Inter-Contact are meeting her to go on the disco
boat. Well, Alison told me they were meeting Melinda and Bart, too, so I
go along. On the boat are Alison and Joy already. Don't know how they got
there. So, 3 bottles of champagne, 1 bottle of vodka later and the boat
disco ends. So, after walking Alison and Joy home, I decide to go to the
dormitory. I figure, hey, it's a holiday, there'll be free alcohol, and a
disco there, too. So, I go. No free alchol. Decide to leave. Walk by the
disco. hot hot hot Natasha is there, with no boyfriend in sight. I decide
to go dance with her. We're slow-dancing, and I do the ye ole 'can I kiss
you' thing. She says no. Oh well. After the dance is over, she introduces
me to a friend. So, I dance with her for awhile, but she leaves before the
next slow song. Feeling dejected and depressed, I go over to wallflower
it. Vadim is there. He expresses surprise at seeing me there. I tell him
that life sucks. He encourages me to just walk over to this group of girls
standing around and take one. So, I do. Don't remember her name, though.
We dance, and then in a little bit, we, another girl, and two guys go to a
room. Got some vodka and beer. There was another girl in the room. They
started playing slow songs. Lights turned out. Sveta asks if I want to
dance. Okay. We dance. We start making out. She tastes like cigarettes,
but anything is most decidedly better than nothing. Start to feel her up.
That's okay, but everytime I try to move underneath her shirt, my hand is
moved away. Eventually, they decide I need to go home. That's at about
4am.

Saturday I got up at sometime or another. Played around on the Internet
for awhile and then went to visit Alison and Joy. Brought gifts of
Newsweek, CDs and Mac+Cheese with me. Hung around for awhile, this guy
Andrei comes. Drink a few beers, make the mac+cheese. After dinner, Alison
and I go out to get a bottle of vodka. Drink that after watching Dinner
for One in English (great sketch). Andrei leaves shortly. Joy goes to bed.
Alison and I stay up drinking the vodka, talking, and then drinking
Hooper's Hooch (alcoholic lemonade, goooood). At about 3am, I left to go
home. Stopped at a kiosk to get some chips. Some lady comes up to me. She
has blood on her face. Middle-aged. Rather scary. Tells me that she is bad
and could I buy her a bottle of beer? I say okay and get the cheap stuff.
We sit down and she starts to (I assume) tell me her life story. And how
she ended up drunk at 3am begging for alcohol. I didn't really care. Her
husband left her for another woman. Aww. She is a doctor. Now **that**
scared me. There were two guys nearby trying to bum cigs off of us. They
heard my accent when I told them no, and they started talking to us.
Distracted me from the middle-aged drunk doctor lady. She kept telling me
where I lived so I could come there. Never did that, and don't plan on it.
She then wanted me to do something...don't know what, I didn't recognize
the verb nor do I remember it to look it up. I think she wanted me to come
home with her. But I don't know if she wanted me to come home with her or
//come home\\ with her. So, I got out of her armlock and left her there,
telling her that everything would be okay, and no, I don't have any money
to buy you a bottle of vodka. Then I went with these two guys to their
flat, and drank more vodka. Went home at about 5am, and learned how to
puke while walking. 

Sunday nothing interesting happened. No drinking ;) ... However, when I
came home that afternoon, one of the girls from the cafe on Thursday night
was there with some guy. They wanted to make an appointment to talk to me
about something...I don't know what, but I'll find out tonight at 6.

6 September, 1996 -- 21.52
--------------------------

I went to school by myself today -- I made it with time to spare! My legs
are beginning to hurt from all this walking. I suppose I'll give them a
rest this weekend. I have nothing planned, but am open to suggestions.
Today was the first time I conciously ignored my teachers and wrote some
lyrics. CR/LF! The English teacher wasn't here today, so we had that
period free. Some of my classmates took this opportunity to teach me to
swear in Russian -- which, like most other things I'm taught to say in
Russian -- I promptly forgot.

Dummercon 3
-----------

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

            doomed to obscurity, radioactive aardvark dung, Grill,
        and WESN 88.1 FM proudly present the k-rad event of the year...

       pgq
 ::::: $$$ ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ,gy***yy, ::::::::::: P""""9$b
 ,yy** $$$ gg gg .g*gg*g. .g*gg*g. .g*g. gg*g. $$$   $$$ .s*s. ss*s. `     $$
 $$$   $$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$$   $$$ $$ $$ $$ $$       $$
 $$$   $$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$""' $$ $$ $$$       $$ $$ $$ $$ sssss$$$
 $$$   $$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$$   sss $$ $$ $$ $$ """""$$$
 $$$   $$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$    $$$   $$$ $$ $$ $$ $$       $$
 $$$   $$$ `$s$' $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ `$s$' $$    $$$   $$$ `$s$' $$ $$ .     $$
 `9$bsd$$$ ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: `9$bsd$$" ::::::::::: Lssss$$$

                      "dummercon iii - warez forever!"

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

                     what the hell are you talking about?
                     ====================================

        it's almost the time of year that parents warn their children about
 -- the annual gathering known to civilians (in whispers) as "dummercon."

        yes, the true e'zine event of the year is here.  but what *is*
 dummercon, you may wonder?  go ahead, wonder.  ok.

        dummercon is your glorious, once-in-a-lifetime (until next year)
 chance to hang out with 100% pure mackin' _'zine guys_ for a day!  woo-woo.
 that's right -- no mudgeeks, no bots, no doodleboys, no warez pups, and no
 netscape warriors.  just a buncha guys and gals havin' a good ol' time.
 everyone is invited, but only the most eleet will attend.

        for the last two years, various e-zine personalities have flocked
 like flies to shit to this special event... and this year will be our most
 insane year yet.  we're coming to "normal", illinois.  and just for its
 name, too!

        normal is known for its wide cloudless skies, beautiful black-sand
 beaches and its gorgeous mountain peaks that make for the prettiest sunset
 in the world.  the natives are very friendly and most speak english.  many
 of them earn extra money by weaving baskets and spinning pottery and selling
 it all to you.

        read on for more information on happenings, lovecup!

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

                            where & when is it?
                            ===================

              saturday, july 12th, 1997     12:00 p.m. - 6:00 pm

                   miller park        bloomington, illinois
                   (bloomington and normal are twin cities)

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

                           what will be happening?
       or; "why the hell should i haul my ass to central illinois?")
       =============================================================

        although we'll actually be having conversations about e-zines, ideas,
 and whatnot, the meeting is also intended to be a social event.  we're
 assuming this isn't a big deal because no one coming to this deal will be
 some irc warrior who spends most of his suburban life locked up in his room
 because mommy and daddy don't 'get' why he spends every waking hour trying
 to takeover #suicide.  none of those guys here, no sir-ee.

        there are activities planned and raddy-rad things in the works.
 if you have any suggestions on what we can do, you can contact us at the
 places specified later in this file.  amazingly enough, here are some of
 the events that are being planned:

        a picnic!  come prepared to munch away with the telecom legends!

        pin the bullet on the communist!

        'zine writing contest!

        harass-old-people-a-thon!  can you harass old people better than
 handle?  find out!#

        the ultimate dumb stuff raffle!  so much dumb stuff you won't
 believe it possible!

        live music!  live girls!

        the return of bobbing for warez!  lamers still get drowned!

        enjoy the quarex kissing booth!  have your greatest fantasy!

        see, touch, and smell the real glowing peice of radioactive aardvark
 dung that inspired handle & mercuri!

        meet mogel, murmur, jamesy, shadow tao, eerie, mercuri, puck,
 kaia, quarex, swisspope, spiff, beaner, crank, pip, vanir, juke, oregano,
 captain rat, kheldar, rottenz, spirit, erise, poto, glynis, feival, ghort,
 ogre, hrothgar, larissa, rick chen, skooter, neko, trilobyte, cyric, gnarf,
 cstone, fawn, handle, demonika, basehead, and MANY more!  don't miss out!

        miller park also features a lake, a zoo, a large metal breast, a
 love train, playground equipment, a nearby laundromat, grass, trees, birds,
 and much more!

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

                 is there any cost?  what can i do to help?
                 ==========================================

        dummercon will be held on a very inexpensive site for one very simple
 reason; we're all poor dumb moronic youthful angst-ridden rejects.  we have
 no money.  this means bring your own picnic-like food.  don't come to
 dummercon without food expecting uncle moggie to take pity on you.  HE'LL
 EAT HIS FRIGGIN' PEANUT BUTTER & JELLY SANDWICH RIGHT IN YOUR STINKIN' FACE,
 YOU MOOCHER.  YEAH!@  point; bring food.  lots of it.  especially if you're
 a fat, ugly, stupid, slob -- and you smell bad, too!

        that means _yew_, baby!

        you're also welcome to bring fun-fun stuff.  bring your favorite
 tapes and cds (label your stuff so no one will haxor it!#).  bring free
 printed-out examples of your 'zine to pass around.  bring free stuff to give
 out.  bring us food.  bring virgin women to sacrifice.  wear really stupid
 outfits.  bring your pet frog, "al".  bring turnip seeds to plant.  bring
 0-day gnu phresh warez to trade!@  bring cooley-cool high-tech computer
 stuff!@  bring dumb stuff to give away!#  bring your girlezz for us to
 wership!@  bring us barry manilow bootlegs!@

        it wouldn't hurt to tell someone that you're coming, either.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

                               directions
                               ==========

 FROM EAST OF INDIANA, NORTHWEST INDIANA, AND CHICAGOLAND

 If you are coming from the East Coast, you will likely be wanting to get on
 Interstates 80 and 90.  The two meet up in Ohio.  Follow these west into
 Indiana, where you'll want to take Interstate 80 when the two split off.
 Stay on Interstate 80 into Illinois and by Joliet you'll want to take
 Interstate 55 south.

 If you are coming from Northwest Indiana, get on Interstate 80 and take it
 to Interstate 55 south by Joliet.

 If you are coming from Chicago, get on the Stevenson (I-55) southbound.

 Upon reaching Bloomington-Normal, exit at Business U.S. 51 South (Main
 Street) into Normal.  It will be the second Bloomington-Normal exit.  Take
 Main Street into town.  Business 51 splits into two one-ways, Main and
 Center, and you will wind up on Center driving by the Illinois State campus.
 Keep going through Normal and into Bloomington.  Keep driving through
 downtown Bloomington and soon after leaving the downtown area be on the
 lookout for a brown road sign announcing Miller Park Zoo.  Turn right at the
 stop light at Wood St.  Continue on Wood until you reach the big park on the
 left.  You're there.  Give Quarex a kiss.

 FROM NORTH-CENTRAL ILLINOIS, WISCONSIN, AND MINNESOTA

 From Milwaukee and north take Interstate 43 south to Beloit and from there
 take Interstate 90 east.  From Madison and north take Interstate 90 east.
 From Minnesota take 90 or 94 into Wisconsin and continue on 90 east past
 Madison.

 From anywhere in Wisconsin, exit at the U.S. 20 exit (marked Freeport) and
 once on U.S. 20 take the second exit, which will clearly state Interstate
 39 and U.S. 51 south to Bloomington-Normal.

 From Rockford, take U.S. 20 to Interstate 39 south.

 Stay on Interstate 39 south all the way to exit 2, Business U.S. 51 south
 (Main Street).  Exit here and take Main Street into town.  Business 51
 splits into two one-ways, Main and Center, and you will wind up on Center
 driving by the Illinois State campus.  Keep going through Normal and into
 Bloomington.  Keep driving through downtown Bloomington and soon after
 leaving the downtown area be on the lookout for a brown road sign
 announcing Miller Park Zoo.  Turn right at the stop light at Wood St.
 Continue on Wood until you reach the big park on the left.  You're there.

 FROM CHAMPAIGN AND INDIANAPOLIS

 Get on Interstate 74 west.  Upon reaching Bloomington-Normal there will be
 an exit for Business U.S. 51 north (Main Street) into Bloomington.  Exit
 here.  Business 51 will split into two one-ways, Main and Center, and you
 will remain on Main.  Before reaching the downtown area, be on the lookout
 for a brown road sign announcing Miller Park Zoo.  Turn left at Wood St.
 Continue on Wood until you reach the big park on the left.  You're there.

 FROM IOWA AND THE NORTHWEST

 Get on Interstate 80 through Iowa.  In the Quad Cities, take Interstate 74
 east (it should be marked as the way to Peoria and/or Galesburg.)  Stay on
 Interstate 74 east into the Bloomington-Normal area.  When Interstates 74
 and 55 juncture, stay on I-74 and take the U.S. 151/Illinois 9 exit (Market
 Street).  Take Market Street into town.  Just as you reach the downtown area
 you'll want to turn right at a light onto Center.  A few blocks down be on
 the lookout for a brown road sign announcing Miller Park Zoo.  Turn right at
 the stop light at Wood St.  Continue on Wood until you reach the big park on
 the left.  You're there.

 FROM ST. LOUIS AND THE SOUTHWEST

 At the Missouri-Illinois border ensure that you are on Interstate 55 north
 and Interstate 70 east.  Continue on I-55 north through Springfield.  When
 reaching Bloomington-Normal Interstates 55 and 74 will juncture.  Remain on
 I-55 north and take the U.S. 151/Illinois 9 exit (Market Street).  Take
 Market Street into town.  Just as you reach the downtown area you'll want to
 turn right at a light onto Center.  A few blocks down be on the lookout for
 a brown road sign announcing Miller Park Zoo.  Turn right at the stop light
 at Wood St.  Continue on Wood until you reach the big park on the left.
 You're there.

 FROM DECATUR AND THE SOUTH

 Take U.S. 51 north from Decatur.  Upon reaching Bloomington-Normal do not
 turn on to Interstate 74 but remain going straight on Business U.S. 51 (Main
 Street).  Business 51 will split into two one-ways, Main and Center, and you
 will remain on Main.  Before reaching the downtown area, be on the lookout
 for a brown road sign announcing Miller Park Zoo.  Turn left at Wood St.
 Continue on Wood until you reach the big park on the left.  You're there.

 If there are any questions about the directions, please contact murmur.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

                   pre-generated dummercon ideas #28471
                   ====================================

        the BIG contest!

        who can write the most bad 'zines most quickly?  see this competitive
 sport unfold right before your eyes, as pip & jamesy race on laptops to
 create the wackiest, fastest producing 'zines!  as an added bonus, you (yes,
 you!) can submit things for these new 'zines *LIVE*!  impromptu writers are
 needed to help turn this competition sour!

        the rules:  jamesy & pip must, within 15 minutes, come up with a
 wacky info file about their 'zine.  next, the participants of dummercon will
 read these info files and decide which 'zine they like better!  then they
 can write for that 'zine!  all submissions are taken because we all know
 neither pip nor jamesy ever understood quality control when they ran 'zines!

        the points will be tallied by a selected council at dummercon as
 follows:

        best .nfo file -- 15 points
        first to reach 10 issues -- 15 points
        first to release an index of the 'zine -- 10 points
        first to release 20 issues -- 25 points
        first to have 10 writers for their 'zine -- 25 points
        first to get rattle to write for their 'zine -- 50 points
        most issues -- 50 points
        most writers -- 50 points

        after the scores are tallied, the best 'zine leader is acknowledged!
 the loser gets to make his girlfriend turn into a lesbian! it's all fun &
 games here at dummercon!

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

                             what about lodging?!
                             ====================
        what about it?

        oh.  yeah.

        if you plan on attending dummercon and _furthermore_ plan to stick
 around or arrive early or such to hang with the legends a few extra days,
 that's cool.  no problem.  but if you're looking for a place to stay for a
 night - you HAVE TO TELL US.

        we have limited available space to fall back on, so we need to know
 as soon as possible how many and for how long.  this is essential.  if you
 don't give us at least two weeks advance notice that you want a place to
 stay for a night (or maybe more), then we can't guarantee you anything.  we
 can't guarantee you anything anyway if the attendance from out of state is
 higher than expected, but the more time you give us, the more options we'll
 be able to work with.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

                              correspondense
                              ==============

       if you have *any* questions, require additional information, or
 would like to let us know you'll be coming (it's good for us to expect
 you), you can contact us at:

                              dto@op.net (mogel)
                        phuckelb@sun.iwu.edu (murmur)

        we furthermore _implore_ you to let us know if you're going to be
 looking for lodging for any period of time.

        you can also check out the dummercon webpage for more detailed
 information:

                       http://www.dto.net/dummercon

        you might also be lucky enough to catch one of us on irc (ef-net)
 in #zines or #dto.

        we love you!

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-eof

7 September, 1996 -- 21.34
--------------------------

Spent the day by myself. Went for a walk and the oddest thing happened --
two girls from my school, who I barely know, shouted, "Hi, John!" from
across the street to me. These girls say Hi to me every day at school and
I don't know their names. Maybe I should find out. Other than that, the
walk was rather uneventful.

Further to fly
--------------

Exiled to my room. Again. What was the argument about this time? Oh, yeah.
Can I go outside and play. As usual, I fought for my side with the dual
swords of logic and reason. They, on the other hand, retorted with the
strangely inadequate "no" and the threat of further parental rule.

10x15. It wasn't such a small space, I guess, but there sure were days
that felt like it. It was hot outside -- a beautiful summer day winding to
a close. I turned my ceiling fan on and lay down on my bed to watch the
shadows it cast around the room. I quickly became bored of this and turned
it off, deciding, instead, to relish the heat.

I surveyed my surroundings. Empty walls. I still hadn't gotten around to
re-hanging my posters since we'd re-painted. My dresser. My eyes rested on
the various awards I'd collected since my childhood. Further. The window.
The children on the street. Laughing. Playing. Fighting. Forgetting it
all. Lost in their youth.

I walked the short distance to my window. I fumbled with the crank for a
minute. Damn! It was stuck. No. In my absent-mindedness I had forgotten to
release the locks holding it in place. My second try with the crank swung
the window wide open. Now I could hear the laughter. It almost seemed as
if they were laughing at me. I stared at the setting sun through the my
screen. My hands moved slowly -- almost as if my brain and my nerves had
opposing plans. Somwhow my fingers found the little gray tabs that held
the screen in place. Pulling up. The screen was out. I lay it down on the
floor. I climbed into the window fram and remained there -- hunched over.
The laughter pulsated in my ears. I tried to stand up, using the frame for
support. I leaned out and felt the wind blowing ever so casually across my
face. As I let go, I wondered if I would fly this time.

8 September, 1996 -- 22.23
--------------------------

I was home alone again today. So I took this opportunity to shower. In the
afternoon I went for a walk. This evening I called Katya and we will meet
for the first time tomorrow. I have finished all 8 books I brought. That
means I have read over 1800 pages in a little more than two weeks.

A girl, a lizard and some other stuff by David McDaniel
-------------------------------------------------------

So I've decided that I must learn how to hate her -- the invasion of the 
Mongol horde has begun and is heavy upon me; my whole being is
contaminated with her insolent occupation.  I can't plan around her, I
can't pick the corpse apart and separate it into fundamentals and
rudiments, into obedient molecules (carbon-based to the left and everyone
else to the right, please).  Annie, however, is Annie, and she plays
herself in a script that, at times, makes perfect sense-the logic seems
overwhelming and apparent, and it moves in a methodical step-by-step
progression: a bizarre parade, perhaps, but her parade nonetheless.

And here I sit, pondering spiteful little notions that won't hold still 
for inspection, attempting to dissect the trivials: did I say the right
thing at the right time?  I worry about my hair...the car smells funky for
some reason and my jeans are frayed; I'm a temp, for Pete's sake, and I
wear cheap cologne-my house has roaches, I don't sing very well and then
there's this nipple-biting business.  It's not like there is a way to
practice, to hone your technique; you're on and the moment is swollen-her
shirt is off and here's your chance, Casanova, so don't blow it.  There
must be some way to gain reprieve, to ask Annie for a day devoted to the
intricacies of nipple-biting...for that matter, there must be some way to
ask Annie about the whole enchilada, the total tostada, maybe even (God
forbid!) the complete fucking combination deluxe Mexicana plate supreme
with an ice cold Corona and a side of guacamole...

This punctuation thing is reaching crisis proportions; first page and 
my semi-colons already feel trite, and just how many times can you use
that little three dot thing, and the dash does not seem to adequately
capture the cute little spike in my brain waves---no, adding a couple did
not turn the trick!?fuckit...(dotdotdot)period (pause for coffee and snuff
at this point, the old nicotine/caffeine double whammy breakfast of
champions still a trifle early for the first beer.  Sunday morning coming
down and I am driven out of my lair by the encroaching spring time,
blinking and gasping, discovering that, once again, Mother Nature has seen
fit to redecorate my yard.  I drag my winter-worn carcass out into the
day, leaving a trail of green snot.  Writing is resumed in the shadow of a
pink flower; she seems to lend courage, comfort, companionship...)ah.

Image: I see her across a table in a backyard neighborhood Austin-the 
streetlights of Lamar Blvd seize upon her hair, an undulating halo with a life 
of its own; she's trying to tell me something, but I'm zoned out, miles
ahead, imploding with the weight of her...Juliet, Joan of Arc, Athena, no,
wait a minute, it's coming, possibly a bastard cross between Mother
Theresa and last month's Penthouse Pet.  There's something sacred about
this Annie at this moment in time and I must grasp it; desperate reaching
and gnashing of teeth and wanting to weep violently because I know that
the true essence of God is flickering by and giving me the finger once
again...so I take another hit of suds and hope my feeble remarks are
somewhere in the topic ballpark; she must believe that I'm a drunken fool.
And therein lies the root of my angst, the  weight that holds my folded
face to the floor (and everyday the paper boy brings more).  I'm with her
and impatient.  I've created a neat little catch 22, complete with
carrying case, remote operation and power adapter that plugs conveniently
into the cigarette lighter; so absorbed with the possibilities of Annie,
so absorbed...
	
The Legend of Billy Badass, the Lizard Who Thumbed His Nose at Charles
Darwin and Deliberately Rearranged His Genetic Make-up:
	
And I must diverge momentarily to give credit where credit is due.  I 
have been known, on occasion, to slime out of bed on weekend mornings,
park my butt in front of the patio door, slosh coffee towards my face and
contemplate the meaning of life or, at the very least, the meaning of my
actions on the previous night.  On one of these groggy mornings I was
startled out of my reverie by quick movement along the patio wall.  A
lizard, but no ordinary lizard...this was a heavy duty chameleon with
attitude, and the bastard was running amok along the top bricks, pausing
only long enough to perform a macho rendition of reptilian break dancing.
At the time (and to this day) I had a large conch shell sitting on the
wall.  Don't know how it got there and never quite got around to taking it
down-one of those weird talismans that kind of show up in your life and
hang out a couple of decades for no good reason at all.
	
Anyway, this tyrannosauric throwback had apparently staked the shell 
out as his personal throne and would leap to the top, survey his domain,
bob his head up and down while strutting a huge red Adam's apple and then
resume his frenzied patrol of the wall.  And it became somewhat of a
ritual for me to rise on weekend mornings and observe this bull stud
lizard reveling in his primal glory, and it was only natural that I name
him Billy Badass.  And it was always a source of amazement to me that the
sonofabitch somehow managed to stay a brilliant green, no matter what the
background.
	
These days I am still sliming out of bed on weekend mornings and 
parking my butt in front of the patio door and sloshing coffee towards my
face, contemplating the meaning of life (or more likely, the meaning of my
actions on the previous night).  And it is still a source of amazement to
me that Billy Badass II, III and IV all managed to stay a brilliant green
over the years, no matter what the background.  That damned shell is still
parked on top of the wall, and it is comforting to know that some things
can stay the same...So now you know the lowdown on coffee and me and
morning sunshine and lizards.  Back to Annie then (can't keep the little
lady waiting, even in inherently sluggish print).  (And mine is
notoriously sluggish).

Image: The sun rolls in like an ocean, like a high tide crashing an 
urgent surf upon by back porch, foaming and whooshing across the threshold
and onto my floor.  I'm soaking it up like a lizard, imagining for a
moment that I am an ordinary reptile with an ordinary cup of coffee.
Annie is on the brain, glimpses of her darting in and out of cerebral
convolutions, echoes of footsteps down the corpus collosum and off to the
other fucking hemisphere for a while.  She goads the symptoms of my
neurosis like a band of pissed-off pygmies, a small hunk of humanity with
spears for appendages.  God, I think I might love her, but then the guilt
smacks me, and whydoIfeellikeafelonandjustwhomakestherulesaroundhereyeahokgetth
isIfellforherattheChristmaspartyjusttwohoursofsmalltalkandIwasonmykneesinthefor
malattitudeofworshipandnoI'mnotbeingdefensivewellmaybejustalittlebittttt.
	
I want to pin her ears back and eat that little body alive for a couple 
of days-I'm in it for the sex, you bet your ass buddy boy...but then I
want to get up and cook her breakfast, drink java and watch her move
around the kitchen in her panties.  I want to pay bills with her-split up
the utilities, bitch about the credit cards, argue about the checkbook,
then go down on her while she fingers the calculator.  I want to roll in
the mud, wrench my mind with chemicals, throw rocks at cop cars, bust up a
church service, piss off every special interest group I can find,
and...and then call Annie from the clink and hear her say she's on her way
to spring me.  Not bad for an ordinary lizard in this day and age, not too
shabby at all.
	
The mind reels with future snapshots of intimacy: I see us sucking down
pureed vegetables and careening our wheelchairs down the main hall, upsetting
med carts and snack trays.  A mob of angry young doctors, nurses, church
volunteers and Eagle scouts are in hot pursuit, waving enema bags, the latest
magazines and the schedule for this month's arts and crafts classes; wailing
and beating their chests, beseeching us to slow down and show a care for our
brittle old bones.  Eventually they close in, hissing and smiling, and
attempt to herd us back into line with the other geriatrics, all the while
cursing our ancient senility under their breath...so why can't I carry on a
coherent conversation over a present breakfast?
	
The here and now escapes me with Annie, and I feel that I'm blowing it 
on a large scale.  I'm starting to identify with that poor asshole who
crashes and burns on skis once a week for the Wide World of Sports-a
reluctant poster child for the agony of defeat.  I'm the Notre Dame
hunchback, the opera phantom, the beast to her beauty.  The urgent
bare-assed truth covers me like a musty blanket, seeping into my pores,
drilling, boring downward.  It forms a new and hideous organ in my gut;
mutant enzymes brazenly introduce themselves.  The chemical cesspool that
is me squelches along in seemingly random fashion (ponderous evolutionary
bite me religious right squelches, lurid Freudian sex squelches, foamy and
gurgling Anheuser-Busch squelches, high and mighty Reagan supply side
trickle down squelches).  The untrained ear senses nothing, but there is a
demand here, a singular voice barely audible over the cacophony;
purposeful coagulation of wayward protoplasm hand-in-hand with the sound
of interlocking neurons (squelchclicksquelchsquelchclick).  A Mozart theme
bobbing and bouncing, drifting aimlessly through a jazz freakout
hysteria-it surfaces occasionally to suck at fresh air, attempting to gain
purchase on a friendly major chord, and then is pulled down again, sinking
like the proverbial rock, a vagabond classical riff helpless within the
bebop maelstrom.
	
Puberty descends on me with a mighty roar, fire and brimstone, brothers 
and sisters can I hear an Amen!  Hormones like white maze rats dash
pellmell through my skull, confusion sets in and my voice won't work
properly. Thrust, kicking and screaming, into the role of
retro-adolescence, armed only with testosterone and alcohol, I court her
like a bumbling teenager-holding my note book over the raging hard-on in
my pants and trying, against all odds, to think of something really cool
to say...ah, fuck it, I didn't really want to go to the prom anyway.  So
what if I'm the only guy around who sports his own letter jacket and class
ring (she wants to know what's up with all the squirming and staring at
6:30 in the AM-can't she see that I'm 16 years old and sharing a bed with
a woman for the first time?!).

9 September, 1996 -- 22.02
--------------------------

I met with Katya for about 4 and a half hours. We mostly just talked. On
Friday we will meet again and she will have a grammar book and a
children's book for me. As for now, she let me borrow 2 book written in
English. More to read! Yeah! And she has more! So it's all good!

John The III - part 1 by Radiki Pretty Sneaky
---------------------------------------------

The first time I saw Lil' John was at a laundromat. There was a real
shitty punk band playing and I had nothing better to do. Besides, in
addition to washing your clothes and listening to a band here, you could also 
get cheap white trash beer like PBR. Without an ID! And I had lost all
forms of mine during one alcoholic escapade or another.
	
He walked in with a slight drunken stagger. No more than 3ft tall. With a
big nasty beard clotted with dirt and lumps of spit, the color of the piss
I was drinking. From beneath it peered out a malicious grin. Above it hung a 
crooked nose and a pair of sparkling bloodshot eyes of an obnoxious drunk
who gets his ass kicked a lot for fucking shit up pointlessly. I recognized 
the look immediately.
	
He had a big green army surplus backpack that was coming apart in a lot of
places. A lot of crusty kids around town had the same. His long greasy
hair was covered by an equally greasy and worn baseball hat. I don't remember 
the team. 
	
In short, he looked like some evil dwarf out of a badly written fantasy
novel, with pictures by yet another Frazetta wanna be.

The first thing he did upon entering the laundromat was to grab someone
else's beer off a table and chug it down in one gulp, before the rightful
owner had time to intervene. "Hey you...oh..." - the fact that a nasty
looking midget just gulped a 32oz of his beer made the punk/frat a little
confused. Lil' John recognized this and cackled back with an evil laugh.

Next, he went up to the nearest girl. She was busy  watching the band,
holding her beer (it wasn't PBR!) and basically looking hella cool.
Unexpectedly he squeezed her ass and again issued that mocking laughter.
The air of trendy arrogance immediately evaporated from around the poor
little punk rockette who was used to having punk and non punk boys
alike fawn over her. And I'll admit, she was good looking,  both by
"normal" and "punk" standards. Which aren't that different from each other
really. You know; showing off her pierced belly button, pulp fiction
immitation hair, retro shoes with big platform heels. All that. 

The expression on her face, as the midget grabbed her pouted behind made
me laugh and choke on my beer. He then calmly swaggered, a la Johnny
Dagger, to his next victim. Either beer or sexual harassment. I was
beginning to like this guy. If I was a midget, I don't know if I would
behave differently. No chance to experience love, sex, intimacy - just a
bunch of unfullfilled lust and complete emotional solitude. Is that a good
enough excuse to hate the world? Especially the beautiful proper pouty
trendy world which stands calmly being entertained. Does it not ask to be
shaken out of its security and complacency? I dunno...

Much of my enjoyment, undoubtedly had to do with spite. In a way I
understood Lil' John and shared some of his feelings, but experienced them
most likely to a much lesser degree.  Besides, my situation was temporary,
his eternal.

I had just moved to a new city and within a week managed to hate it with
all my guts. I was experiencing urban alienation, or alien urbanation or
something of the sort. I did not like almost everyone I met. The few
people who seemed decent, I could not relate too. This was a different
world, made for others, one that I was not a part of. More so, I did
not want to be. 

I tried to meet people. But how? When? There was an urge to tell everyone
my whole life story. "See? I'm not a bad guy, I'm interesting too!".
However, I also knew that people who tell others their life stories are
really creepy and really annoying. Knowing this shut me up and locked me
within myself. So I wasn't annoying, just creepy. I hanged out in sleazy 
laundromats and drank cheap beer by myself and silently despised 
everything. Myself and my environment. One was a projection of the other,
I guess but which way it went I'm not sure. It doesn't matter anyway, the
end result was that I felt a shit. 

I perceived myself through other people's eyes and I saw  a dumb akward
guy, sitting in a booth by himself. And in our society, solitude equals
sickness. Disease. I felt untouchable and miniscule. Thus, when Lil' John
entered my little sphere of perception I instantly sympathized. In return
he uncounciously provided a bit of vindictive satisfaction to me. At least
for a moment. A respite, as it were.

Even though I wanted to observe what was going to happen next, all those
thoughts hit my half drunk head and honestly, I just couldn't stomach the
whole scene any longer. The trendy beatuiful girls and their hard-acting
boy friends. The shitty band on stage announced that they were going to
play a song called, and I ain't making it up, "Fuckin' Queers, Get Out of
My Way!". I knew what was gonna happen next. Lil' John was gonna get his
ass kicked, or at least thrown out at best. I got up and left. But after
that he kept popping yp everywhere, it seemed... 

10 September, 1996 -- 20.40
---------------------------

I want to say that today was just another day -- but it wasn't. It was
just another RUSSIAN day. A few nights ago, I marvelled at how it hadn't
rained since I'd arrived in Tver. Immediately I realized that Murphy's Law
would come into effect -- and it did. For the past 3 or 4 days the weather
has been rainy and cold and utter garbage. What's worse is that there's no
end in sight. Worse still is that Tver doesn't have central heating for
another month. Looks like I'm going to have to start dressing warmer.

Racism fucking sucks... by Josef Mengele
----------------------------------------

Date: Thu, 24 Apr 1997 05:33:06 EDT
From: Josef Mengele 
To: punk-list@cs.tut.fi
Subject: racism fucking sucks..

Okay, I've already created a feminist backlash on the whole list, so now
I feel the need to make you punk rockers hate me even more.

While everyone here would probaly be quick to champion the concept of
"free speech" there are just certain ideas that people aren't allowed to
have.  LIke the belief that maybe blacks and whites are born genetically
different.  P.C. pukes can't stand that line of thought, or the valid
questioning of that belief.

Actually, its okay to say that whites and minority groups are different
as long as the minority group comes out on top.  Blacks play better
sports, they have bigger dicks "White Men Can't Jump", whites can't
dance, whites can't rap, whites don't have any rhythym, etc.  But you
can't say that whites are born smarter.  Even though the test scores of
whites are on average higher than blacks.  Even though the majority of
the people in our prisons are black.   

I'm not saying whites are smarter.. I've met lots of blacks smarter than
a lot of white people.  I'm just saying that its hypocritical.. racism
against whites is still racism.  You couldn't get away with making a
movie called "Black Men Can't ----------".  

fuck louis farrakhan, fuck spike lee, fuck the nation of islam, fuck the
ghetto rats who beat down reginald denny and fuck the media who gave them
carte blanche to do so.  fuck that pcp-freak rodney king, AND fuck the
LAPD.  fuck O.J. Simpson.  Fuck Nicole Brown Simpson.  Fuck racist whites
and fuck racist blacks.  Fuck the black kids who followed me in their van
for two blacks to threaten me for having "nazi shit" on my backpack.  I
had a Hickey patch with an inverted pentagram.  Those illiterate welfare
addled crackheads should at least figure out what a nazi symbol is before
they try to jump me for wearing one.  Fuck the black kid who threw a
glass bottle at my head for being a white kid in a black neighborhood.

Most of the people who are fighting the hardest against racism live in
all white neighborhoods.  Thinkabout it.  I live in a poorer
neighborhood, and as we all now, poor neighborhoods also have the highest
percentage of minorities, hooray!!  and I'd love to preach unity and
peace but I just keep getting attacked for the color of my skin.  So
don't preach to ME about fucking racism.  FUCK YOU UPPERCLASS WHITES. 
One day I was walking to work and a mexican kid ran at me and made like
he was going to hit me in the face with the board he was carrying.  I
flinched, and him and his worthless friends had a nice chuckle.  Fuck
him.  Don't call me racist, my girlfriend (yes, i have a girlfriend,
despite all you grrrrrlz who think i'm a wifebeater because I sprinkle my
conversation with the word whore.  Sorry, I'm call you sluts "wymmin"
from now on, okay, or is it "bytchs"?) my girlfriend is 50% mexican.  I'm
25% cherokee.  I don't know who my daddy is (remember, i'm white trash
and white trash never meet their daddies) so I might have even more
ethnic blood in my veins.  I'd feel dumb hating blacks and finding out my
great grand daddy was a card carrying member of the NAACP.    And don't
talk to me about white privilige.  And by the way, isn't it odd how gays
are automatically exempted from the phenomenon of white guilt?  Jesus,
maybe I should admit that sometimes I like to fuck boys in the ass and
have stubbly chins bouncing against my balls.  But I think its dumb to
brag about where you put your dick.  You might as well describe you bowel
movements.. its boring and pointless.

You know, ignore what I said before.  Call me sexist, call me racist,
just don't call me late for dinner.  Inspire me with your ignorance. 
Prove that your worldview is fantasy.  Tell me I'm wrong about you,
because you have a few token black friends.  Tell me I'm wrong, because
just because a girl dresses like a slut doesn't mean shes a bad person. 
Tell me about how some of the strongest women you've ever met dress like
whores.  Ignore the fact that women like this make modern rape defenses
possible.  Many a rapist didn't go to jail because of the clothes his
"victim" was wearing.  If you really are feminist, and you really do
think men are potential rapists, then DEFEND yourself against our
uncontrollable lust.  Dress modestly, not to arouse.

Levi A.
am I kicked off the list yet?  did you read all of this?  do you hate me?

11 September, 1996 -- 22.10
---------------------------

I went to a concert tonight. Filipp Kirkorov. The exact sort of pop stuff
I try to avoid at all costs. The only thing worth mentioning is that
midway through the performance, the sound started squealing. Kirkorov
covered his ears, threw his microphone down and left the stage in disgust.
Also, today was my mother's birthday. For a present, I gave her a robe
that Dima essentially picked out for me. She changed into it immediately.
The actual party is Sunday, but I'll be in Moscow then.

Goodbye sexy
------------

When I left America in August of 1996, there were four things I swore I'd
never do: drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes, do drugs, or engage in
premarital sex. I vowed to never do these things because I had declared
myself straight-edge. After coming to Russia and living there for a few
months, I decided to reconsider my position. I'd now like to delve into
the reasons I chose this lifestyle, and the reasons I threw it away.

Once I had started getting into punk beyond the obligatory Sex Pistols and
Clash albums, I started searching. Searching for something that I would
like. I liked the Rollins Band, and knew that Henry Rollins had sang for
two bands previously -- Black Flag and State of Alert. I bought Black
Flag's album "The First Four Years" and was a little disappointed when I
learned that there was not a single Rollins track on it. That
disappointment soon faded after I listened to the album, though. After
that, I decided to buy the State of Alert album. It was packaged
conveniently with a bunch of other albums on Dischord Record's "1981: The
Year in Seven Inches" compilation. Once again, Rollins turned out not to
be the thing that pleased me. Minor Threat had rocked my world.

Minor Threat's lyrics were fairly symplistic, but they, along with the
excellent, powerful music blew me away. The songs that really got to me
were with anti-smoking, anti-alcohol, anti-etc. lyrics. "Don't smoke,
Don't drink, Don't fuck, At least I can fucking thing," sang Ian Mackaye
in "Can't Keep UP." That was certainly how I felt as an out-of-place
sophomore. About the time I bought the Dischord 1981 CD, I got a
Maximumrocknoll where George Tabb wrote about his meeting with Minor
Threat. I learned a little bit more about straight-edge, sXe, and decided
that it was for me. It was where I belonged.

I was proud of my sXe. I didn't really know anything about it, but that
was okay. I told everyone about my stance on life. Most of my friends had
the same ideals, but they didn't go so far as to identify themselves as
sXe. I never really thought about what sXe meant and why I chose to define
myself as such until I arrived in Russia.

In Russia, it is normal for people, young people, old people, middle aged
people, to drink. A problem of mine was that not only did I not drink, but
I tended to shun people who did, as well as those people who engaged in
other anti-sXe activities. It was something I tried not to do, but it
always happened. When I saw someone I thought was 'clean' drinking a beer,
their reputation automatically went down a few hundred points in my book.
Then, one day in October, I was with a good Russian friend of mine --
someone I'd known in America. For some reason it surprised me when she
said, "I could really go for a beer." At that point, I knew there was no
way I could simply 'drop' her like I had with everyone else, I had to
reconsider myself.

The first thing I thought about was alcohol. Why didn't I drink? The
answers I came up with were that I didn't have any good friends that
drank, so I'd never seen the effects of it, nor had any been offered to
me. My parents didn't drink much around the house, nor did they do so very
often. They certainly never offered me any alcohol. The main conclusion I
came to was that, being under the age of 21, I had been culturally
programmed to say no to alcohol. All that DARE crap in school must've
actually worked.

It was a bit easier to figure out the rest. I didn't smoke because I
didn't like the smell of cigarettes. I didn't use drugs (meaning
marijuana) because I thought that most of my acquaintances that smoked it
were morons. I didn't have sex because I didn't have a girlfriend, and
therefore no opportunity.

As I was working these things out in my head, I remembered something my
parents always told me. "Try everything that is on your plate." Well, what
was I supposed to do when there were things presented on my plate that I'd
been told not to try? Why were there certain things that had never been
included on my plate to begin with? I chose to include these things on my
plate, and to try them. And I'm not the least bit sorry for it.

12 September 1996 -- 21.32
--------------------------

I wrote two letters today in history class. Unfortunately, I don't know
where the post office is. Neither does Dima! And when my father came home
(about 20.20), he said it was closed. I may never learn how to send mail!
Perhaps Katya can show me tomorrow. Or maybe I can ask someone from
school. 

Ye by Ben Ohmart
----------------

PROFESSOR: Now. Are there any questions?   Yes.

STUDENT: How do you Know if man is inherently evil, that is, violent, if
you don't know the other extreme?

PROF. I don't follow.

STU. Well. You don't know Pain without pleasure. How can you tell that man
is the cause of everything, if there is no subgroup that illustrates
what we are doing wrong?

PROF. Look at the animals.

STU. But if we compare man to animal - needlessly I say that man Is an
animal, or so you doctorates would have us assume - that is no faithful
comparison. It's like winning an acting competition for different roles.

PROF. I don't follow you...

STU. Here. Look, here we are. We're up here. They. They are down here. If
we rule the world, and they Don't. That is if we Are causing all the
trouble, because we Can. We have the thumbs to survive, the hearts, the 
music, we build our airways over the homes we  build. We pollute the air.
And the animals are not Doing these things. Well, there is no comparison.

PROF. How?

STU. They don't have the equipment. It's been proved they  don't have the
mind capabilities. Or they'd be Doing  it. Don't you see? I mean, if
monkeys were the starting point, why aren't they building houses next to
us? They just like the trees? 

PROF. You're going against Darwin?

STU. No. You're missing the point.

PROF. Gee. I'm Sorry.

STU. Ha, no, listen. It Is our starting point. It was our Start. But the
animals are the humans doesn't wash. So. If they aren't doing the Same
thing as we are. And they are a different class, a different group, sub-group 
species. Then....

PROF. I don't know what medical reports you've read on the subject, but as
far as college knowledge, I'm sure on every peg board there's a rape
notice. Call if you're in trouble. These violent acts are done by Men. Not
even women have the sexual drive.

STU. Yes, but you can't separate men from women. Just because you and I
are men doesn't separate us from our rib. To quote myth. This Myth,  uh,
this Miss World is our same group, our same Being. When you say Man, you
say Woman!

PROF. All right. I understand your point. You're splitting hairs. You're a
logic major, aren't you?

STU. You can't major in ...

PROF. All right. Read the book. I've done extensive research. I  was given
a Grant, for God's sake.

STU. Then, in this theory, how do you explain the tribes in Africa?
You're always seeing them on the Explorer shows. They are passive, they
are peaceful. I can't recall ever  seeing the shot where they're taking
chain saws, screwing up the squirrel homes, the nests...The hole in the
ozone isn't coughing from Their cars.

PROF. By your own Argument, they are not equipped!  How can you have it
both ways?

STU. By their being men. All men. They are all Men. Not violent. Peaceful.
They are Men.

PROF. Smart ass. How old are you?

STU. Twenty.

PROF. You want to go out sometime?

13 September 1996 -- 21.12
--------------------------

My first Friday the 13th in Russia, and with bad luck, too! School went
ok. I went to meet Katya tonight, and she told me that something had come
up and we couldn't meet. At least she had the Russian Grammar Book. And
she showed me where the nearest post office was, so I got my letters
mailed. The second piece of bad luck came about an hour ago when Dima told
me that the language camp would not be tomorrow, but Monday. I elected to
stay home all day tomorrow on the off-chance that there was a
misunderstanding.

Konets
------

This is the end. The end of all the flcs to come out in Russia. Rock on,
right? This is so insanely hard for me to believe that tomorrow I'll be
home. Wacky. I haven't finished packing yet. I don't think I'll have room
to bring any of my clothes with me. Oh well. The year was great. I
wouldn't trade it for the world. But now it's time to go. There will be a
party at my house in Rockford, IL on Monday. If you want to come, email
kheisel@juno.com for information. The flc mailing list is now automated.
To subscribe, send email to majordomo@introspect.net with the words
'subscribe flc_list' in the body. To unsubscribe, add an un.

flc is available at the following sites:
ftp.openix.com/ftp/phorce/flc
scout.chemia.pk.edu.pl/pub/zines/flc
dto.net/pub/zines/flc
http://flc.home.ml.org
and at Chrysalis, 815-965-7034.
And of course, my new contact address is flc@introspect.net

(endfile: 27.6.97 10.13.17)
