
 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
 )- doomed to obscurity e'zine issue number 25, released december 25, 1997 -(

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    """"`  `""""""^""^""""""""`  `""""""^""^"""""""`   `""""""^""^"""""""`
    ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "Mogel Gets Open Heart Surgery"
 by -- Jamesy

	"Man, jetbaby was awesome!"
	"Yeah!"

        "Hey, Scott, weren't you supposed to get the editorial done for DTO
 tonight?"

	"Oh no... Mogel's gonna bite me!"

	"What are you gonna do, Scott?"

        "I know......... I gotta believe!"

        So my mom called last night to finalize our lack of plans for
 Christmas Eve.  It feels great to tell parents that you have better things
 to do than come home for Christmas.  Makes you all tingly inside, you know?

	Oh yes, you know.  You certainly know.  Do you ever know.

        So while I putz around in Pico, you are being subjected to endless
 rambling by your family!  Who's winning in the game of life now, pal?

	So anyway.  Does anyone read this stuff anymore?  Hello?  Hello??

        You know, it's funny.  We've got the best zine around, the best web
 page around, the best bulletin board system around, the best IRC bot around,
 and you STILL haven't become part of the growing DTO family.  What's up with
 that?  Huh?  HUH?

        This is the season of giving.  That's why I'm asking YOU to give US
 submissions.  Anything.  Anything at all.  Send anything you've ever written
 in your entire life to <dto@op.net>.  We're that desperate.

	But just because we're desperate doesn't mean we're not having fun!

        If you haven't taken the time to browse the DTO web site, do it.  You
 won't regret it.  A Quebecian-based web company has generously donated much
 time and effort into the creation of this site, and it would be a great
 shame if you didn't see it.  <http://www.dto.net>

        We've also had a customized messaging system created for our use.
 It's called The Obloid Sphere.  It's like your family, without the incest.
 Check it out -- <http://obloid.obscurity.net>

	You may have heard rumors that members of Doomed to Obscurity are 
 pompous, insensitive, cliquey, conceited, self-mutilating, obese, and
 sometimes even rude.  Well, these rumors are simply not true!  None of us
 are obese!  So come on in, the water's fine!

                                     ____
                                  ___|  |_ _
                               ___|  |  _______
                               |     |  |     |
 )- -------------------------- |  |  |  |  |  | -------------------------- -(
                               |  |  |  |  |  |
      doomed to obscurity #25  |  |  |  |  |  |  and all contents therein...
                               |  |  |  |  |  |
 )- -------------------------- |  |  |  |  |  | -------------------------- -(
                               |_____|  |_____|
                                     |___ _


 TABLE OF CONTENTS:
  1. "Mogel Gets Open Heart Surgery" -- By Jamesy
  2. DTO #25 and all contents therein...
  3. Letters to the Editor

 HUMOR:
  4. "Kamikaze" -- by Puck
  5. "Timmy" -- by Meow
  6. "Tongue of Whey -- Condiments; Chapter 9234" -- by Murmur
  7. "The Intricacies of Portable Toilets" -- by D. McDaniel

 EDITORIALS:
  8. "Jesus was Gay" -- by Sweeney Erect
  9. "New World Disorder: Conventional Measures Fall Short" -- by Murmur
 10. "Cold Turkey" -- by Jamesy

 FICTION:
 11. "Upward Mobility Potential" -- by Styx
 12. "The Great Brain" -- by Creed
 13. "Accepting Forever" -- by Anya
 14. "The Chaos Theory; Monday, July 25th" -- by Eerie
 15. "For Amy" -- by PezMonkey
 16. "Yes, OK" -- By Mogel
 17. "The Mix Tape" -- by Esso

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
                           - LETTERS TO THE EDITOR -
 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1997 10:50:40 -0400 (EDT)
 From: katiefrog@compuserve.com
 To: murmur@dto.net
 Subject: a thought or two...

        About your editorial from dto #24, 'Racism: From Class to
 Classroom' -- I've got a few thoughts...

        I actually don't have a tremendously hard time believing the
 statistics on the percentage of black teenagers who feel they experience
 racism in their daily lives.  As you said, polls/surveys such as that tend
 to be skewed, or just wacky in general... however, throughout my short lil'
 teenage life, I've come to notice that "racism" isn't necessarily based on
 skin color and ethnic background anymore -- more often it comes from how you
 carry yourself, how you dress, what music you listen to, and what race you
 proclaim yourself to be a part of.  The most caucasian-y red-head at my
 school is a part of the "black" group, and is treated as if that were his
 ethnic background by the assorted unwashed bigots that often mull around in
 earthy-smelling throngs (ooh.. did I just stereotype?)...

        As silly and contrary as this may sound, I think racism has truly
 transcended the color barriers in the last few decades.

 [ Editor's note: As silly and contrary as this may sound, racism simply
   doesn't exist.  It's been proven that human beings don't judge each other
   by the color of their skin.  It just happens that white people can't play
   sports. ]

 ---

 Date: Wed, 6 Nov 1997 06:16:40 -0400 (EDT)
 From: Star515O@aol.com
 To: mogel@dto.net
 Subject: rave reviews and one small question

        first i have to say that although i'm sure you've heard this many
 times i would like to compliment your fine e-zine.  i found its style
 unexplainable.  the combination of writers assembled is definately 
 well rounded to say the least.  so straight forward and yet also 
 abstract.  within the confines of a single issue there's something for 
 everyone.  i found you guys late one night browsing the web and lost a 
 couple of hours sleep once i came across your site. i read most of the 
 latest issue and then set off to the archives... sure that there must be 
 great issues from the past.  and hey, i was right.  there was a small change 
 of style noticeable... the greatest i saw was the slow elimination of poetry 
 from the e-zine.  yet after even further exploration i attributed this to 
 the affiliation with bondage, another 'zine.  anyway....i'm sure you've got 
 much better things to do than listen to my small opinion.  what i'm trying 
 to say is that i was intrigued by a couple things i saw by a writer who 
 called herself girlie17.  she seemed to have a couple things on her mind and 
 a few things she needed to get off of her chest, and hey... don't we all.  
 what ever happened to her?  i searched by author and saw she stopped writing 
 way back after issue 14.  is there any way i could contact her?  i found it 
 easy to identify with her short explosions of what you guys seem to lovingly
 refer to as angst.  did you guys just eliminate poetry from the zine or did
 she just quit writing?  whatever the case may be -- i'm looking forward to
 your response.  i rarely get this involved in something i see on the net.

        Thank You.

 [ Editor's response:  girlie17 recently became yngwmn18.  Which still makes
   her way too young for you, Star5150. ]

 ---

 Date: Fri, 19 Dec 1997 02:28:18 EST
 From: Yell o 345 <Yello345@aol.com>
 To: mogel@dto.net
 Subject: to shadow tao? i think

        i just read your article mr corporate gets wired and its great. it
 mentioms alot of things ive been thinking about lately.  me and my wife have
 been talking about all the crazy laws there trying to pass so parents dont
 have to watch there kids. they may not reilize it but the net is a link to
 the outside world and they have to watch them just as if they were outside
 even if they live in the suburbs theres nothing on the internet there kids
 can stumble across that they cant find somewhere else. parents souldnt be
 giving there kids there own passwords for one. thats the biggest problem. im
 22 and my wife is 19 we have a 8 mnth old little girl and even though were
 young theres still a lot of people that think having kids now. hopefully
 these people will step in and say something. but as long as the internet is
 so expencive between a fast enouph computer and the monthly service alot of
 them arent on it and dont care about whats going on because they dont know
 about it so for now at least the yuppies are gonna run it unless hakers and
 porn sites scare them away

 [ Editor's note: I think you've got a lot of your facts here wrong.  First
   off, porn sites are not going to scare yuppies away.  The porn sites are
   FOR the yuppies.  Secondly, the government hasn't passed any laws
   regarding the Internet.  I think you're mistaking the recent telecom
   legends bill that was passed, which stated that no two DTO members may
   take the same flight, for fear of a conspiracy abrew. ]

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
                                  - HUMOR -
 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "Kamikaze"
 by -- Puck

        The Chinese were at it again.  The state of the planet was at, China
 thought, an all time low in the honor department, so it was time to commit
 the most drastic act of kamikaze possible.  Calculations were made, data was
 analyzed, and the conclusion was solid.

	It was all much simpler than China had thought.

        At exactly 6:00 A.M. on February the 27th, a signal would be
 broadcast over China from unmanned planes.  It would be a loud stuttering
 beep, and it would initialize the sequence that would end the world.  Every
 man, woman, and child in China would then begin leaping up and down, their
 enormous combined weight knocking the Earth out of its orbit and sending it
 hurtling into the Sun.

	Messy, yes, but an honorable solution to the problem at hand.

	Most nations applauded China's plans, which were openly boasted about
 in tabloids across the planet, and the ones that disagreed were powerless to
 stop them from being carried out.  The US was one of those disagreeing
 countries, and its people quickly fell into a massive clinically-diagnosed
 depression.

        But then there was hope.  A small boy in Reaganville, Oklahoma,
 lifted his voice, and soon the nation was all ears.

        "If a hole I dig in my backyard, surface I not in China?"

        "Yes," responded the nation, "And?"

        "If a nation of my people leap up and down in my backyard, feel it
 they not in China?"

        "Yes," responded the nation, and then, "Ohhh…"

        And so a counterjump was coordinated, focusing on the Tommy Shake
 residence in Reaganville, Oklahoma.  The entire population was arranged in
 concentric circles, with the royal family at its center, in Tommy Shake's
 backyard.  A small trowel was placed in the sandbox by the King as a symbol
 of the project itself, which wore the code name "Digging to China".  Tommy
 was given a medal that he could wear around his neck.  Friends of the royal
 family comprised the second circle, while politicians, movie stars, popular
 musicians, and sports stars made up the third.  The fourth circle was made
 up of the clergy and computer programmers.  Rings five through twenty-five
 were available by reservation only, tickets costing upwards of three million
 dollars and only being sold through Ticketmaster, plus a $1.50 service
 charge.  The rest of the rings were available on a first come first serve
 basis, except for the last ring, which was reserved for the atheists and
 intelligent primates.

	The King was proud of this plan.  Surely, he mused, the well thought
 out concentric circles would effectively counter the chaotic leaping that
 China was ready to deliver.

	"Stop China, we shall, in the name of God," said the King, and the
 nation responded, "In the name of God."

        On February the 27th, one hour before China's big jump, the United
 States slammed its collective sole against the ground and buried itself deep
 into the Ocean.  The timing was off due to a slight miscalculation in time
 zone conversion and there were no survivors.  Many people were so out of
 shape that they had dropped after only a few minutes of jumping up and down.
 Others were trampled.  Most were dead before they hit the water.

	A partial inventory of the US's losses included six hundred and forty
 bumper stickers reading "I have an honor roll student at Super Karate
 Champion Jr. High School", seven hundred students who were currently working
 hard on their college literature class group presentations, (one hundred
 seventy-five of whom were assigned to handle the author's biographical
 information), twelve grocery store baggers who were feeling a little jaded
 about their relationships with the customers, unsure if the checkers were
 supposed to handle all the talking, seventeen thousand stores that sold
 those little talk-bubble stickers that you place on photographs for comic
 value, (They say things like "Kiss me, I'm Irish!", and "I'm with stupid!")
 and one gold plated medal wrapped tightly around the neck of a boy that read
 "For Saving The World From Evil, Evil China".

        Besides driving itself mercilessly into the ocean, the jolt that the
 US gave to the Earth rattled it just enough to put the planet into a
 synchronous orbit with the Sun.  As a result, the Sun would never again set 
 in China, and it would always be much like early Spring.  The rice crop
 would be completely destroyed, but they would be content to live off of the
 newer synthetic foods, and besides, they were sick of rice anyway.

	Twelve hours later the Chinese Emperor stood at a podium to deliver a
 speech to his nation.  The sun warmed his tan face, and he squinted into the
 camera as he delivered these lines to four billion anxious citizens.

	"Calculations have been made, events have been analyzed, and our
 conclusion is solid.  We have decided to put off our plans until tomorrow,
 whenever that day might come."

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "Timmy"
 by -- Meow

        One morning Timmy woke up.

        This wasn't unusual for Timmy, as he usually woke up each morning.
 On the single occasion he hadn't, he had awoken at noon on an April Fool's
 Day as a prank on his persistent mother.  After he had been escorted home
 from the friendly man at the morgue, he was woken up furthur by a firm
 beating from his father.  "Don't you ever do that again, you naughty naughty
 boy," his father said as he repeatedly beat Timmy over the head with a large
 wooden stick.  "Damn it, son, you wake up at 7a.m. like the rest of us!"
 And with that, father gave Timmy the few last beatings he deserved.

        Fondly enough, the word "LOVE" had been carved into the stick.  This
 had reminded Timmy that his father really did care about him.  It had also
 reminded his father that "bondage" was not a frequent visitor to the bedroom
 where father and mother slept, but this is another story that we shall not
 "delve" into, for it is long and emotional, and someone misses out on their
 porridge.

        Anyhow, as stated before, one morning Timmy awoke.

        On this particular morning, the sun was very bright.  Timmy noticed
 this, and he exclaimed to himself, "The sun is very bright!"  'Tis not
 unusual that Timmy should exclaim to himself this morning, for Timmy
 exclaimed to himself every morning.

        On previous mornings, Timmy had exclaimed to himself such things as;
 "The cat is very frisky today," "The bird is unusually chirpy today," and
 "The dog is rubbing itself up and down my leg today.  I think I like it."

        ...just a few of Timmy's morning exclamations that he exclaimed
 almost every morning.  You could almost say this was a "morning pastime" for
 Timmy, but you shouldn't, because Timmy wouldn't like it.  Timmy pondered
 this for a moment, and then decided he did not actually know what pondering
 was, so he ran to the kitchen table.

        It is unfortunate that Timmy should decide to run to the table this
 particular morning, because Timmy took a step too far and suffered a rather
 nasty gash to his forehead.  Timmy laughed as blood dripped onto his
 weetbix, for Timmy hated weetbix.

        "I'll teach you to bleed on your weetbix," Timmy's father said as he
 moved his hand in such a way that knocked Timmy's head suddenly and brutally
 onto the tabletop.

        "I'll teach you to bleed on my table!" said Timmy's father.  Almost
 instantly, Timmy was hit with another blow to the head.  This was repeated a
 number of times.  Timmy just did not learn.

        Eventually, Timmy's blood clotted, and Timmy's father had no furthur
 reason to cause pain to foolish Timmy.  "Next time we play this, I'll
 remember not to bleed," thought Timmy.  This was a good idea.

        Consequently enough, another thought occured to Timmy.  'Twas a
 thought that had never occured to Timmy, and he noted this, for it was
 unusual that Timmy should have a lone occurence of thought this particular
 morning.  For a moment, Timmy became so wrapped up in himself that he almost
 forgot the amazing thought.

        "Oh yes, that's right..." Timmy remembered.  "I'm not a tree!"

        Gradually, this thought became too much for Timmy's adequate little
 head, and he plucked up the courage to tell his father.

        "Daddy! ...I'm not a tree!!!" Timmy announced.

        "I thought I told you to shuddup last week," his father said.

        "I'm NOT a tree!!!" said Timmy again, with his booming 12-year-old
 voice.

        Father decided that Timmy's decibel range deserved something special.
 Timmy thought about it for a moment, and decided he didn't like his father
 beating him over the head with a plate, for Timmy's head is just a head, and
 a 12-year-old head at that.

        Timmy eventually decided to fall to the ground.  This was not a lone
 decision, though, for his brain had decided to lose consciousness.  Timmy
 appreciated this and later gave the brain a hemorrhage.  But for now, Timmy
 had to concentrate on waking up.

        Once Timmy had regained consciousness and wiped the blood from his
 eyes, he could see that his father was not happy.  He could also feel it.
 Not through spiritual connection did he feel it, but through physical
 connection.  The physical connection of father's foot to Timmys stomach.
 Timmy's mother, who we shall call mother for the sake of emphasizing her
 motherly qualities, decided Timmy had had enough.

        "I think Timmy has had enough," she said, concerned, to Timmy's
 father.  Father recognized that mother had made a valid point and kicked
 Timmy one more time.

        "That's a good luck kick."

        Timmy _was_ lucky, because his spleen had not yet ruptured.

        "Now off to school with ya," his father half-heartedly directed, so
 Timmy grabbed a vacant wheelchair, which just happened to be lying around
 the house, and wheeled himself to school.

        "At least I'm not a tree," muttered Timmy as he gave himself a final
 push out the door.

        "WHAT THE... YOU COME BACK HERE YOU LITTLE..." father screamed.

        The chase was on.  But alas, Timmy had become keen with the
 wheelchair due to other morning accidents and could now wheel himself at a
 reasonable pace.  The fact that Timmy's father made an unconscious decision
 to fall on a rake did give Timmy another advantage.

        Once Timmy had safely reached the end of the street, he started to
 sing a little song;

                        "Do, a deer, a female deer,
                         re, a drop of golden sun,
                         mi, a name, I call myself,
                         fa, a long, long way to run,
                         so, a needle pulling thread,
                         la, a note to follow so,
                         te, I am not a tree,
                         I am not a tree ee e e.."

        Timmy's song was rudely interrupted by some other school boys, who
 yelled and taunted him.

        "You should not talk unfavorably to a soprano," Timmy told them.

        How unfortunate for Timmy that it was not "cool" to be a soprano.
 Without warning, the boys gathered stones and threw them at poor, foolish
 Timmy.  Timmy was not impressed.  'Twas at this point the stones entered
 Timmy's silly skin and commuted through his blood stream, for the stones did
 know that blood was an elegant way to travel.

        "Hey boys," Timmy yelled.  "I'M NOT A TREE.  HAHAHAHA."

        Timmy was buried under a tree later that day.

        Which is incidentally... blah, forget it.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "tongue of whey -- condiments; chapter 9234"
 by -- murmur

        um motherfucker stench with the whoopsie-croissant, regardless of
 post-mortem-haste, up with the albatross with the mighty wingspan, down with
 the droppings onto the luxury liner with all the greeks on it, watch it get
 hijacked, watch the capitalists die, watch the puma devour its young with
 nary a glance of disdain or discomfort, for it is the puma's job, and the
 puma is not a nine to four-thirty creature, unlike the poriferous
 vietnamese.  TENSE like the wind that blows his windmill around and around
 and around like the maddening screwball, god love fernando valenzuela, and
 watch me apply you with this mace you've not seen employed since the
 yesterdays or yesteryore, when men were men and women could not count in
 hexadecimal.  yes, we are in a sordid age, and that age is not yet
 twenty-seven, at which time you and i are kurt all died, woe be to the fans,
 woe be to the animals, woe be to colonel hogan, who was murdered for no good
 reason by a jealous husband, not all that much unlike me after we get
 married, for i of course only want to marry you so as to have an excuse to
 kill you when i am old, jaded, and full of barleycorn, madame blue, blue as
 the white nile, i'll manage the convenience store and pour you your cherry
 concoctions, see if i care what slave labor made this slurpee possible, it
 is direct from the black market to your boston goodness. infuriated the
 masses with his propaganda, and now they all turn on him, like wolves
 turning on other wolves in a massive pack of wolves where there are simply
 too many wolves, and thankfully for humanity, humanity does not give a
 shift, for wolves are merely wolves and humans are content to be worse than
 wal-mart and worse than the vietnamese and take excessive water cooler
 breaks.  henceforth we will forever know you as "the face with no
 distinctive markings", and you will be ridiculed by innocent children for
 the remainder of eternity and/or until this episode of grace under fire is
 over, whichever should happen first.  be thankful you are not trapped inside
 the television set, subject to either primary exposure to the evils of the
 cathode ray, or the evils of whoever the fuck it is that these sitcoms keep
 finding to portray their scummy characters.  i am not scummy, i am yummy,
 like the morsel in my tummy that used to be called frank.  i'm with you,
 sir. and you have the bridge, xanadu.

        morel:  mushroom, sometimes hunted in fucked up competitions.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "The Intricacies of Portable Toilets"
 by -- D. McDaniel
 
        I am a writer.  To date, my verbiage has earned somewhere in the
 neighborhood of $0.00, so I pad my writing income by working as an
 electrician.  It is a relatively new gig; at times brutal and stressful, but
 a very good gig nonetheless -- a rare bright spot in my life.  Over the past
 year, I have leapt from _Lowest Lifeform On The Job_ to _Probationary Little
 Boss On The Job_.  I get to run my own show inside some of the biggest, most
 beautiful, overpriced, gaudy-ass TX Hill Country rich people houses.
 Whoopee!  And I get to savor the sweet rush of torturing my own helper, a
 new and bright and shiny _Lowest Lifeform_ with new and bright and shiny
 tools (all wrong, of course).

        Knowing how to wire a house from the ground up is very valuable.  I'm
 a little boss now, the fountain of knowledge for young helpers.  Yeah,
 vocationally, life is good.  "Let's go!  This ain't no spectator sport!
 Can't handle it -- hit the road -- or go wait in the truck until I have time
 to kick your ass!  But first come here and explain this rookie piece of shit
 wiring to me, cuz I don't understand!  Hey, you getting married to that
 goddamn switch?!  They should pay me extra for having to babysit fuck-up
 helpers!  Buy the kid books and send him to school and this is what I get?!
 I am here for many reasons, but holding your hand while you learn how to be
 an electrician is not one of them!..."

        But all of that pales in comparison to this wee tidbit:

        MAKE YOURSELF GO POTTY BEFORE WORK OR ELSE BE PREPARED TO HOLD IT
 UNTIL AFTER WORK.

        A hard lesson to learn, but one that I had learned with rapier 
 lightning speed.  Something like this.

        It is dogday TX July, 106 degrees in the shade, and my bowels are
 gonna move in the next minute whether I like it or not.  No woods anywhere.
 Lots of people around and the closest 7-11 is five miles up the road.  The
 mind races; terrified, spastic, but just as doomed because, from the get-go,
 there are only two real options.  One of them is shitting my pants.  The
 other option is waiting for me out there on the curb, leaning precariously
 over the road, swaying slightly, and emitting an odd humming noise.  It's a
 bright blue plastic structure that has just become one with my immediate
 future, so I unbuckle the toolbelt and let it fall.  I take a deep breath
 and I waddlescoot on out (dead man walking!) to the street.  I fling the
 door open...

       ...and dogday TX July 106 instantly slams up a few notches.  Like say
 112.  The stench is a living thing.  It buckles the knees.  It judochops the
 lower back.  It waters the eyes and cloys the throat.  As panic sets in,
 respiration increases involuntarily... then halts dead as I realize the
 atmosphere inside this little plastic coffin consists mainly of vaporized
 urine.  I glance down.  My eyes drink the evidence and my brain says there
 is no way in hell I can hold my breath long enough to clean up that toilet
 seat, take care of business, and get out.  By this time, perspiration is
 gushing through my clothes.  The body is screaming for release, and that
 odd humming noise is not a mystery anymore.  Flies.  Lots of flies.  Lots
 and lots of flies and they are splashing around happily in my deathsweat.

        But choice number one is getting dangerously close.  So I drop the
 shorts and squat, trying vainly to brace myself against the walls so that
 the butt hovers a couple of inches above contact; I'm sliding and flailing,
 grunting, making all kinds of squishy contact anyway, wallowing in a slick
 mix of sweat and piss and feces as the sty sways and leans even more
 precariously out over the road; I'm weeping and struggling for shallow
 breaths, tiny puffs through the nose but I'm still gagging on the taste of
 pissfog, knowing instinctively that there are lots and lots of flies down
 there in that hole and they have suddenly taken a very keen interest in my
 anus.  Fuck it, I don't care anymore... thank you, thank you, lordjesus...
 and then my eyes take in some more evidence.  Evidence that I missed during
 the initial hasty inspection.  Evidence that I really wished I hadn't
 missed.

        Exhibit A:  Seems to be a quivering red wasp nest up in that there
 corner.  Exhibit B:  Seems to be quite a mound of fire ants down in that
 there corner.  Exhibit C:  Apparently, a local comedian had the hilarious
 idea of thoroughly drenching all three rolls of toilet paper with his peepee
 (probably the same comedian who systematically unhooked the hose from the
 urinal so that the next guest might enjoy the experience of pissing on his
 own feet).  Hahaha, I get it!  And about the time I decide to sacrifice the
 underwear as very expensive tissue, Exhibit D makes its entrance.  The sound
 of a truck.  Reverse, changing gears, now forward, getting closer.  Then
 there is the unmistakable thump of a bumper making contact with the door of
 a bright blue portajohn that happens to be occupied by yours truly.

        The wasps are angry now.  They take wing.  The fire ants are also
 unhappy, and I feel very naked for some odd reason -- perhaps because I
 removed my shorts so I could remove my underwear for use as very expensive
 tissue.  The plastic coffin is rocking now, and none of the Lifeforms inside
 are too thrilled about it.  There will be a big press scene where the local
 yokel deputy is gonna immortalize me as a middle-aged white male who died of
 heat stroke and somehow managed to drown a bunch of innocent bugs in a huge
 puddle of his own shit ("...never seen anything like it, must have been at
 least 5 or 6 quarts.  Those poor little critters.  What do you think he was
 trying to do in there, naked like that and all?").

	But finally there is the unmistakable sound of my co-worker's voice.
 (Salvation!  Sanity!  Safety!)  A sweet melodious voice; rich, resonating.
 And he speaketh unto me, saying... "This ain't no spectator sport, you dumb
 motherfucker!  Bet you'll think twice before you take another shit on
 company time!"  And I do, I do...

        Ah, enough of this rotten misty-eyed sentimental talk about workday
 camaraderie and jobsite antics.   But let me tell you this:  If God has one
 iota of mercy in his cantankerous old soul, he will see to it that one of
 these days I catch my helper attempting to take a dump on company time.
 Vamanos, Jehovah Dude!  Because I am ready.  The keys are in the ignition
 and the bumper of my old Chevy is aimed directly at bright blue plastic.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
                                - EDITORIALS -
 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "Jesus was Gay"
 by -- Sweeney Erect

	No, seriously.  Jesus was *probably* gay.  He wandered around the
 desert for years and years with a troupe of unmarried men and an occasional
 harlot.  His sexual politics were certainly deviant.  There is no reason to
 believe he was *not* gay, and some clues suggest that he and his disciples
 may have been.  The kissing, frequent close personal contact, open and frank
 discussions of love for other men -- at least his actions and the actions of
 his disciples were homosocial if not overtly homosexual.  And note that the
 harsh condemnations of homosexuality in the New Testamet came not from Jesus
 himself but from later writers, his disciples.

        Moreover, homosexuality would account for some of Jesus' behaviours,
 including his hyper-sensitivity to persecution, both real and imagined.
 Even in Jesus' day, merely by virute of being a Jew, one did not develop a
 paranoia for persecution; in fact, many or most Jews were fairly apathetic
 to the government's happiness for rendering to Caesar what was Caesar's.
 But if he was a homosexual, Jesus faced a double persecution:  for being a
 Jew by the Romans, and for being queer by the other Jews.  He would have
 felt ostracized, like a man facing personal sexual and moral crises who has
 nowhere to turn for support.

        He was certainly aware of the scriptures and knew that he was
 perceived by his own people as the chief sinner.  And yet, he had a profound
 moral instinct and an unwillingness to resort to hedonistic debauchery.  So
 he turned within, and within he found voices that spoke to him.  The trauma
 of being a moral man faced with what seemed to be an innately immoral life
 choice created false personas which "spoke" to him and granted him
 reassurance of his human worth.  These voices he eventually associated with
 an external entity, namely God.
 
        Ultimately, as a gay man living in that time period, Jesus had
 nothing to look forward to, no family life, no continuation of his family
 line.  This tended to engender in him feelings of martyrhood -- it increased
 his willingness to sacrifice himself for a cause.  And that cause was the
 liberation of his people, the liberation of all mankind.  After offering him
 reassurance, his "voices" began dictating his dogma; he began to preach what
 they told him about human redemption.  He associated with the unclean and
 the sexual deviants because he himself was one at heart and he felt a need
 to debase himself.

 	Guilt and martyrdom culminated in his perfect willingness, indeed
 eagerness, to visit the cross.  The pain and glory of his spectacle both
 justified his existence and sated his need for humiliation and pain. 

        Jesus so-called Christ was a profoundly disturbed genius, motivated
 in part by a latent homosexuality which shaped his views and behaviours,
 giving him the courage of any good nihlist who has constructed a god on whom
 to rejoice.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "New World Disorder: Conventional Measures Fall Short"
 by -- Murmur

        The front page of the 12/14/97 Chicago Tribune features a lengthy and
 informative piece on the Kosovo Liberation Army, a group that some people
 don't believe exists and other people (namely the Yugoslavian government)
 have denounced as terrorists.  Kosovo, a Serbian province on the Albanian
 border, has a population that is 90% ethnic Albanian; Kosovo might very
 likely be the scene of the next civil war to break out in the Balkans.

        President Clinton, meanwhile, has called for an expanded NATO role in
 Bosnia.  Not to say that American goals have ever been entirely explainable,
 but Clinton's goals seem all the more elusive; order is wanted, but exactly
 what this order consists of seems (on the surface) to be of minimal
 importance to NATO strategists (or so we might assume).  Suffice to say that
 the American general public has a generally imperfect idea of what the hell
 the United States is trying to do in Bosnia, or most anywhere else.

        What is clear from the disasters in the Balkans this decade is that
 the "advanced" Western governments still have no clue how to deal with
 issues of ethnicity, nationalism, and self-determination.  Conventional
 approaches (diplomacy and military might) have proven wildly ineffective in
 places like Bosnia, where deep-set latent ethnic tension will simply not be
 hammered out at the peace table.  The spectre of ethnic tension can be
 expanded to include Arab-Israeli conflicts and even global religion-based
 conflict; conventional diplomacy and militarism remain ineffective.

        With the advent of Bush's "New World Order" after the demise of the
 Soviet Union and Cold War tension, one might expect that "policymakers"
 would pay closer attention to regional disputes.  This closer attention,
 however, either doesn't exist or must be failing; the collapse of the
 dual-power global system has given rise to increased nationalist feelings
 and Western nations have hardly been effective at coping with such turmoil.
 The examples this decade are plentiful.  Rwanda.  Zaire.  Chechnya.
 Yugoslavia, multiple times over.

        While the potential of civil war in Kosovo is scarcely enough to
 cause most people in Washington, London, or Paris to raise an eyebrow, what
 would almost assuredly be NATO's inability to "solve the problem" (even if
 NATO successfully "stopped the fighting") should demonstrate something
 profound to the West:  conventional means do not work in cases of
 "unconventional" conflict.  But so what if Kosovo is unconventional?  So
 what if the Chechnyans refuse to give up?  So what if a few hundred more
 Armenians and Azerbaijanis die?

        Most post-Cold War operations will not be conventional actions, like
 marching into Iraq, wiping out a "professional" army, and barring arms
 sales.  Even if this fact hasn't been drilled into our heads in Bosnia,
 shouldn't it have been learned from Vietnam?  The debacle there must have
 taught us more than simply not to fight a land war in Asia, right?

        Vietnam is also a good example that nationalist conflicts are not
 exclusive in being unconventional; the continued presence of the Shining
 Path in Peru and the inability to crush it, you might think, would sound
 bells in Washington that the New World Order, unlike the Cold War, will not
 be won by the guys with the biggest, baddest guns and the sleekest, newest
 aeroplanes.

        How hard can it be to figure some really simple things out about
 these conflicts?  Canada isn't in the middle of a civil war.  Neither is
 Norway.  Almost all ethnic/religious conflicts are happening in places
 where, gee, the people are pretty goddamn poor!  There are almost always
 major underlying factors to internal strife; sure, the Bosnians and Serbs
 and Croats have always been latently ticked at each other, but everything
 seemed pretty peachy for the Olympics in 1984.  Maybe, just maybe, there's
 something else going on?

        Whereas we can be thankful that the Clinton Administration isn't
 running guns into El Salvador or Iran like Reagan did, that's not a _policy
 success_.  The "New World Order" has been dotted with scenarios like
 Somalia, where our "humanitarian" efforts for some reason didn't work very
 well.  Oops, maybe that's because we were still choosing sides?

        Dedication to human rights and all of the wonderful things that dear
 Jimmy Carter wanted is noble and right.  Using them as some sort of coy
 political manoeuvre is, of course, a wolf in sheep's clothing, a mere
 disguise for what is, essentially, a conventional diplomatic strategy.  Now,
 certainly, the American role in Somalia was far more noble than the American
 role in Nicaragua, but the mere premise of a "New World Order" suggests that
 we ought to drop our pretensions of conventional diplomacy.

        What this ultimately means is that American foreign policymakers
 ought to take this fine opportunity to dislodge their heads from their asses
 and realize that continued massive military spending will serve to
 exacerbate major global socio-economic problems into the future.  Perhaps
 these problems will be only minor nuisances for vested American interests;
 but the magnitude of such problems for other nations could be immense.

        The money and resources being devoted to military endeavors (and
 quasi-military endeavors like certain DEA functions) need to be rerouted to
 foreign infrastructure.  Peru serves as a prime example:  in the Upper
 Huallaga Valley the cooperation of narcotraffickers and Shining Path rebels
 has actually served to benefit the peasantry immensely.  Failure to
 understand the economic facts of areas and continued reliance on arms and
 "law and order" as problem solvers will continue to undermine even the
 noblest of American intentions.

        Ultimately, America just wouldn't be very affected by the deaths of a
 few thousand Kosovans.  Failure to grasp the nature of the New World Order,
 however, will cost America its place in the sun.  With so many of the
 world's millions still living in poverty, American arrogance and rampant
 Amerocentrism will eventually lead to, of all things, class warfare; and
 class warfare is just such an unconventional scenario that America would not
 be prepared for.

        That's not to say that the working class is going to rebel against
 the Congress next month.  Such things on such scales are always lengthy,
 gradual processes.  But the New World Order is not an overnight concept,
 either.  The groundwork has been laid for decades, and the United States has
 been slow and clumsy in reacting to the changing world.  American dominance
 may continue unimpeded for years or even decades; but eventually, America's
 stick-in-the-mud attitude and devotion to preserving the relative status quo
 will be its own undoing.  Give a man a fish, he eats for a day; give a man a
 fishing pole, he eats for a lifetime; give a man a gun, and you have some
 dead fishermen on your hands.  The choice should be clear.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "Cold Turkey"
 by -- Jamesy

        So it's about 5pm on a Thursday night and I'm sitting here, at home,
 in DOS Edit.  It's quiet, except for my laundry going in the utility room
 and the central air making a low humming noise.  The dog gets up and looks
 at me sadly every once in a while, too.  (He _always_ wants to play.)

        And now the central air stops but is replaced by an even
 more hypnotic sound emanating from the ceiling fan.  It's funny how a dog
 can sit in a dark room and just stare at me for minutes on end, probably
 without much of a thought in his head except "let's play!".

        Needless to say, there is no turkey in the oven or any family-type
 gathering happening at my house this Thanksgiving.  I planned to come home
 because it was "the right thing to do", and it'd give me a few days of rest
 away from my job and apartment.  Funny thing is, my mother decided to go
 to Cincinnati with her ex-con boyfriend for Thanksgiving.  I guess she feels
 they're more of a family for her than us.  Well, no big whoop.  You get let
 down by parents enough times, it becomes second-nature to deal apathetically
 with it.

        I have gotten a lot of sleep, though, which is nice.  My room seems
 to be fifteen or so degrees colder than the rest of the house, which makes
 for good hibernation.  And at least my mom left an endless supply of pop
 (soda for you east coast freaks) to slurp down.

        Yep, this is the holiday life.  No family responsibilities, no
 chores, no annoying relatives...

        No laughing, no food, no love.

        One time when I was seven or eight, my mom gave me a dollar to go get
 myself some candy or ice cream or what not from the store.  On my
 way, I saw a garage sale and checked it out.  I ended up buying my mom an
 oil painting of a sunflower for that dollar.  My mother was so, so proud of
 me that day.

        Well, I have no idea where that oil painting is now -- either thrown
 out or in the attic or some shit.  I can't think of a single thing I've 
 gotten her since that's lasted, and maybe it's best that way.

        I've never been into giving.  I hate it, in fact.  I'm not too keen
 on receiving either, although I'll take it.  But the whole ceremony seems to
 be a big waste of time.  It's empty.  It's empty because I haven't felt the
 way I'm supposed to with my family for a long, long time.  Maybe I'm empty.

        Now that I'm with someone I truly love, I feel like giving her
 things.  But it's hard for me to give.  I've gone so long without giving
 anyone anything of myself that It's always a battle to be giving.  It's not
 like I can't overcome the beast, it just takes time.  But little things like
 a Thanksgiving alone make it a lot harder.

        I wonder where my dad is going tonight.  He left me TV dinners in the
 freezer and asked me to feed the dog around 6 or 7.

        I've always felt like my family was very, very different.  But I
 still don't know how different.  You look at families on ABC After-School
 Specials, and the parents are either doing drugs or are completely insane or
 are in jail or sexual molest their children or say "How could this have
 happened to our child?".  My parents don't do drugs, aren't completely
 insane (well, relatively speaking), haven't done jail time, haven't sexually
 molested me, and I don't think they ever ask themselves "How could this have
 happened to our child?".  But they're cut off and apathetic, for the most
 part, and I don't think they even mean to be.  I know they both love me,
 love me very much, but something stops them from being able to be the
 parents I need them to be, the parents that _any_ child needs a parent to
 be.  Maybe they have the same problem I do; they don't know how to give.
 Maybe I don't know how to give because of them.

        Whatever the reason, thank your luck that you weren't alone on
 Thanksgiving night.  You might have whined because you hate your uncle's war
 stories or moaned because aunt ethel always pinches your cheeks, but as
 annoying as family can be, at least it was there when you needed them.  It
 did its job, and now you can ignore them until Christmas.

        At least one thing I have going for me is awareness.  One of my major
 goals is to be the parent my parents couldn't be.  If that means waiting 
 until 30 for parenthood, well, so be it.  I want to take all the good things
 about my parents (their openness and love) and add things like
 responsibility and understanding.  Then, when it's Thanksgiving and my
 children start yelling at me for making one too many corny jokes, I can
 think back to nights like tonight and realize how far I've come.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
                                 - FICTION -
 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "upward mobility potential"
 by -- Styx

      i work at a gas station, but you already know that.  been working there
 for over two years.  you already know that, too.  i have never mentioned any
 of my co-workers yet.  that's because i don't like them very much.  now i
 like one of them.  this article is all about him.

      i'm going to call him jack, because that's not his name and i want to
 protect him.  so, his name is jack (but it really isn't), and he is a good
 man, although he doesn't fit the Good Man Bill to most people.  this is
 probably due to the fact that he does a hell of a lot of drugs, and it's
 obvious at first glance.  even on cloudy days, he has those 90% tint shades
 over his eyes.  he is afraid of everything he looks at, and even more afraid
 of everything that looks back.

      jack is about 35 years old.  sometimes he smells, although it isn't a
 strong odor.  he just smells sometimes.  when he eats, he smacks his lips,
 and he has a beer gut.  he doesn't believe in God; infact, he doesn't
 believe in much at all.  he ran an independent record company when he was
 younger, but after a few years his money ran dry and he stopped.  it was his
 dream.  he did his best.  i've seen his paraphenalia.  pins, stickers,
 drawings, fliers, comics, shirts.. you name it, he had it.  he keeps it all
 in a box at a storage place he rents out because his apartment isn't very
 large.

      i've only seen jack sober a few times, and he doesn't talk much when he
 is.  he says that without drugs, he wouldn't be able to make it through the
 day.  "the world is fucked up," he has said to me, fat and loaded.  "it's
 fucked, and some people deal with it one way and some people deal with it
 another way.  doesn't matter very much how you deal with it, just that you
 do.  i do.

      "man, i've got friends in the highest places and i've got friends in
 the lowest.  my buddy bobby, man, he went through two tours of vietnam.  two
 tours!  fuck it, he's still walking.  you believe that?  he breathes and
 eats and everything.  but people look down at him, matt, 'cause all he does
 all day is go to the VFW and drink his brains out.  how the fuck else is he
 gonna handle the world after two tours in the war without getting plastered?
 people don't get it.  they'd be doing the SAME FUCKING THING, man.  same
 thing.  nightmares every night.  seen hundreds of men die right in front of
 him.  flashbacks.  the whole bit.  of course he's a drunk, damn it.

      "then i got this other buddy, we all call him beaker 'cause he has a
 big nose.  does maintenance for the high school.  married, has kids, couple
 cars, makes triple what we do, man.  goes fishing every weekend up in the
 mountains.  he's a good guy, too, bud, just as good as bobby.  beaker deals
 with life by fishing.  yeah, sure, maybe he'll take a joint or two once in a
 while, but that's recreation, just like your cigarettes are recreation.  you
 ain't really addicted, you're just bored.  beaker and bobby, good guys, just
 deal differently.

      "and it's cool, i don't question.  matt, i don't judge nobody.  i don't
 care what you do, man.  smoke crack, member of a health club, work at burger
 king.  i don't fucking care!  everyone is dealing somehow, you gotta
 understand.  we're all on the same boat, kinda fuckin' around riding the
 waves.  nobody is above you, man, and nobody is below you.  six figures a
 year or four.  slums or skyrises or mansions or project housing, bud.  we're
 all the same.  whatever you gotta do, you do.  i ain't gonna judge nobody.

      "shit, those people in the skyrises get their fix from the people in
 the slums.  and those people in the slums.. shit, they get half their money
 from the guys in the mansions.  what, you think the state is gonna help 'em
 out?  fuck no!  see how the state helped bobby?  gave him a VFW to go to.
 now everybody thinks he's a damned freak.  so it's mutual, man.  you scratch
 my back, i'll scratch yours.  you help me deal with this shit, i help you
 deal with it, too.  don't matter how.  just as long as you deal with it.  i
 do."

      i thought about that for a while.  a few weeks later, i approached him.
 he was fat and loaded, and i wasn't, because i'm actually very skinny and i
 stopped doing drugs in february, but anyway, what i asked jack was whether
 he thought he had any upward mobility potential.

      "what, man?"

      "do you think you have any upward mobility potential?" i asked, again.

      "i don't understand what you're talking about, bud.  what's upward
 mobility potential?"

      "i don't know," i said.  "i read it in the paper.  it said it was a
 good thing to have.  i was just wondering if you had any."

      (i was combing through the classifieds a few days before, and one job
 stuck out like a sore thumb as something i'd like to do besides talk to
 customers and work with jack, and it said that i needed upward mobility
 potential.. or, well i don't really know what it said, except "upward
 mobility potential" in the description, and i don't know where to get that,
 or rather, how to, because i don't know what it is.)

      "shit," he laughed.  "if i have any, i got it from the mansions."

      "oh," i said, sort of confused.  "what did the mansions get?"

      "killer weed."

      "oh," i said.  "you scratched their back?"

      "well, for a price.  i don't give my weed away for free."

      "oh," i said.  "what did you do with the money?"

      "it looks like i bought me some upward mobility potential.  aren't you
 paying attention, man?"

      "i guess so," i said.  "can i have some upward mobility potential?"

      "sure.  i'll sell you eighths for fifteen bucks," he said.  "you sell
 them for twenty-five.  easy money."

      "i stopped smoking," i said.  "and selling.  in february.  remember?
 besides, i'm kind of broke.  i can't buy anything.  car payments and rent
 and things."

      "oh," he said.  "well, that's your deal."

      "my deal?"

      "yeah, man," he stated matter-of-factly.  "everyone has to.  i do."

      i paused then, figuring this was the part where i Learn Something from
 him, but i couldn't grasp it, and i didn't really care much anyway, so i
 decided to blurt out the first thing that came to me instead of pursuing the
 topic at hand, which was, by the way, very confusing and boring to me, being
 a simple man and everything.

      "can i borrow 5 bucks, jack?"

      "sure, bud," he said.  "no problem."

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "the great brain"
 by -- creed

        it was the day of giving -- the day celebrated each month when
 mankind expressed its humility to their workers and thinkers.  today was the
 day when one young man was elected to give himself away to God.

        this month, that man was 14-year-old boston-born eric jefferies.  
 although his friends were quite sorry to see him go, they were really more
 jealous than sympathetic.  they all remembered what they had learned
 in bible class in kindergarten: when a young man is elected to dive through
 the jaws of passage and into God, he spends the rest of his eternity in
 constant bliss, taking in all the wonderful powers of the Good Lord to serve
 humanity.

        and so, today, eric found himself standing at the foot of the steel
 mountain in which God rested.  but unlike the other young men that took the
 dive in the months before him, eric was very nervous.  he wasn't really sure
 if he believed in eternal bliss.  and he could have backed out at any time
 during the week of preparation, but he didn't.  he knew that if he did back
 out, he would never hear the end of it from the other boys at school.  but
 now it was too late anyway.  he took a deep breath of thin, rusty air, fixed
 his gaze on the steel incline beneath his feet, and started to walk up the
 great mountain.

        nearly an hour passed in complete silence.  one drop of perspiration,
 originating from eric's sweat-soaked hairline dripped down his cheek and
 dropped off his chin.  as he reached the top of the steel mountain, he saw
 reverend mark awaiting him, clad in a flowing purple robe, with his deep-set
 black eyes looking at him, devoid of expression.  eric, struggling to stay
 elevated upon his tired legs, limped up to him and looked down into the pit
 that sunk into the center of the great steel mountain.

        eric and reverend mark had been friends since eric was baptized when
 he was five years old.  but when eric approached, reverend mark did not
 smile to greet him.  completely without emotion, he crossed eric's heart,
 and read his speech:

        "for hundreds of years, mankind has lived in harmony with God.  He
 has served us and bettered our society more than any great human who has
 ever lived..."

        eric looked down at the God's great steel jaws.  pistons pumped,
 engines roared, and blinding blinking lights filled the air all around.  His
 enormous steel mouth.  inside, past the jaws of passage, was the great fire
 of purification that eric would dive into and burn up inside before entering
 his state of immortal bliss.  his stomach turned.

        "...God fuels our thinking and working machines all around the world.
 without it, we would weep in a black abyss of primitive agony.  this is why
 you must be sacrificed, to uphold the harmony that has been achieved between
 mankind and the Great One."

        he wanted to turn around and run.  eric didn't know why, but he was
 terribly afraid of those steel jaws that awaited him.  he didn't want to be
 burned up in the sulfuric flames that burned inside the mouth of God.  but
 it was too late for that now.  all eric could do was think of his last
 words.  he remembered what his english teacher told him in fifth grade:

        "every great man dies with great words."

        thoughts flew through his head faster than ever before.  everything
 was so clear to him now: with his final words, which he knew would be
 broadcast on worldwide television, he would curse God and the day of giving.
 he would scream out, "mankind has fallen victim to a tin god!" and for once,
 everyone would listen.  he was ready to make his own final speech.

        eric knew he was no orator, and he was certainly no genius.  he was
 no kind of philosopher.  if anything, he was more ape than machine, although
 he never could completely accept that.  he was ashamed of everything he was,
 so he always just kept his mouth shut.  but why couldn't anyone ever see
 things his way?  why did everything just have to come out as words and
 gestures?  didn't anyone else see the world on an animal level like eric?

        no.  nobody did.  eric scorned himself for wasting his precious time
 on such idiocy.  he was just stupid, that's all.  he was just not as evolved
 as most people.  at least he found some security in that fact.  he just
 wasn't quite human.  his brain couldn't cope with the human elements.  eric
 was a little monkey.  nothing more, nothing less.  he was a monkey and he
 belonged in the jungle... not in some stainless steel volcano!  but it was
 far, far too late for that anyway.  eric didn't belong in this world, and
 the only way out was death.  lucky for him, death was handed to eric on a
 silver platter.

        so he was going out.  and god damn it, he was going to go out with a
 bang.  people, for a good five minutes of TV airtime, were going to see
 things his way. eric had been quiet all his life, and he was not about to
 fade away from life like he had been fading away from society was life.  it
 was time for eric to take a stand.

        reverend mark stared at eric with dark, unfeeling eyes.  a completely
 tranquil silence surrounded them on home entertainment screens.  and the
 machines around them gave satisfying hisses and hums as they served their
 families in allegiance to God.  for the good of mankind.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "Accepting Forever"
 by -- Anya

        Tomorrow I'm boarding a plane to New York City to save Scott from his
 own nerves and the pulse of the city, and how they somehow got intertwined
 in some destructive spiral to all hell.

        We met my freshman year in high school and were instant "soulmates."
 Like, all of a sudden, you discover that you're not the only one who admires
 Frank Lloyd Wright or wants to grow up to be Stanley Kubrick, and that every
 time you bring up a subject in conversation, it's already the first thing on
 his mind.

        Yeah, it was one of those.

        There was naive lust and infatuation and prepubescent fear and
 postpubescent anger and trying to preserve a friendship that wasn't meant to
 stay at ground zero forever.  But due to idiocy and my boyfriends and his
 other love interests and now distance, we're probably relegated to it
 forever, which is somewhere between my struggle against maturity and my
 sell-out to society.

        Now, I love someone else. Or at least, I'm in a "mutually beneficial
 working relationship" (as Ann Landers might say) where this other man
 upholds my supposed brilliance and I support him in his pursuit for cold
 fusion.

        After high school, Scott and I tried several times.  But each
 attempt, either I was getting too "intense," or he was getting on my nerves
 when I wanted stability and reliability and sensicality and he offered only
 fleeting moments of... friendship.

        Which is fine.

        I've always worried that I would always love him, and that I would
 never be able to shake it off, and that that would be my life.  And I wrote
 him letters and clung to him, meanwhile picking up boys on the subway and
 learning to be an adult, learning to section myself into pieces. He's the
 one I'll love forever.  He's the one who'll make college bearable. He's the
 one whose chemistry matches mine exactly.  He's the one I'll marry and spend
 a hapless princess life with.

        It's adult and sad that each one of those men will be mutually
 exclusive from the other.

        So, like I said, I've been dating my current boyfriend for a year
 now, and I'm not the type to go running off the New York to have a
 passionate love affair.  There are other things up there: Greenwich Village,
 Washington Square, the Cloisters, NYU.  Enough stuff to fill the vacuum of
 forever.

        But Scott called me the other day, voice cracking.

        "I need to see you."

        Tomorrow I'm boarding a plane to New York City.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "the chaos theory; monday, july 25th"
 by -- eerie

                              "protect me demons / they come at night
                              i don't know what they say / their whispering
                              sends the night air away / and makes me forget"
                              (sonic youth)

        cynthia died on the night between thursday 21st & friday 22nd.  
 murdered.  violently, or so i hear.  they exposed the corpse yesterday & i 
 didn't go.  today is the funeral.  i'm not going to go either.

        i insisted so i could sleep at melanie's.  we fucked.  she never 
 liked cynthia.  this therefore didn't weight any weight on her conscience.  
 she seemed to understand, maybe respect, the symbol of an exorcism that this 
 act was, purely sexual as it turned out to be.  the fuck was savage, torrid.  
 it was as if for once my mind could empty itself using the same door as my 
 testicles.

        i woke up during the afternoon, thinking about nothing in particular, 
 as she was showing the apartment to some nameless pretty girl.  she stayed 
 for an hour, seemingly delighted.  the poor thing didn't suspect that the 
 girl next door she thought melanie was could turn into the lesbian sex
 monger that i know.

        "it's awesome that you're in my bed.  she thinks i'm straight."

        "i guess i'll take it as a compliment."

        "are you...  feeling better or...?  i don't really know how to talk 
 to you, you're so weird."

        "i'm better."

        "the police thinks she's a victim of the crime wa --"

        "i know."

        "sorry."

        "you don't have to be."

        "it's...  i don't..."

        "i have to go."

        "now?  are you sure?"

        "yeah."

        "do you need anything?"

        "no."

        "you can come back anytime, if you feel lonely...  if you want i'll 
 give you a key..."

        "unnecessary."

        ---

        "well, it's sad."

        annie was staring at me with some compassion, but didn't deploy any 
 irrational sums of pity.

        "indeed."

        "and now, what are you going to do?"

        "i don't know.  i think i'll...  get rid of the world."

        "of everyone?"

        "yeah, well, not you."

        "why me?"

        "you're the only person i still want to see."

        "i still don't get why you're making such a big deal out of me, 
 dear."

        "why do you say that, huh?"

        "my company isn't all that amazing..."

        "blah."

        "these guys are after me.  there's more of them.  they're always 
 somewhere around here..."

        "well, maybe i can help you..."

        "where i was before, they used to put me on medication whenever i 
 talked like that."

        silence.

        "so," she said, "you want to ignore all of your friends, all of your 
 people?"

        "yeah."

        "you're going back home?"

        "i'd like to live with you, here, if you don't mind."

        "you would do that, even though...  my excessive behavior, all 
 that?"

        "i'd do that because of your excessive behavior."

        she smiled.  then laughed.  and she kissed me.

        "you do know that some days i wonder if you're not just a dream?"

        "i ask myself the same thing all the time, annie."

        then i counted up the things to do.

        "i'll need help with the computer, it's rather heavy.  the rest is 
 just...  clothes, music, old writings...  things."

        so amazing how egoistically materialistic you become when death has 
 just passed near.

        "old comics, too.  and a few books."

        "i'll help you.  when do we do that?"

        "no hurry.  we'll start tomorrow.  i'll leave most of the stuff
 there.  then i'll go find a job or something.  i'll help you with your
 rent."

        "nah, don't bother."

        she smiled quizzingly.

        "but you do need money, don't you?"

        "you'll see."

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "for amy"
 by -- pezmonkey

        i think he might be more likely to touch me if i were asleep, but i
 was never that good at pretending.  he always sits, bent under the bell of a
 black desk lamp.  maybe if it were dark, i could sleep. but the noisy
 streets outside don't exactly do much for my sleeping habits.  he calls it
 insomnia, sometimes.  he thinks he can diagnose anything.  he always calls
 me depressed, but i think that depressed people sleep more than i do.

        it's funny that i should watch him, there, writing under that lamp.
 he's not beautiful.  well, not really.  sarah tells me that he looks sort of
 like a rat.  maybe that's why i watch him.  tiny movements, tiny claws.  and
 he's always brushing his long hair out of his eyes.

        i think the reason that sarah doesn't want me to love him is because
 he's not smart.  smart like her.  smart like she thinks i am.  but
 truthfully, i've never been much good at anything except school, which isn't
 much in the way of intelligence, while he can do magic tricks with cards.
 it's amazing to watch his hands.  i never know exactly how he does it.

        i bought him a deck of cards once, on a whim, because i wanted to
 give him a present.  something he would appreciate.

        sometimes when i lie in my bed, awake, as usual, i look at them,
 still stacked on top of his desk in their snug plastic wrapper.  he never
 opened them.  i heard him tell his mother that he didn't like the design on
 the back.  i wonder if that's indicative of something more, or if i just
 read into things too much.  he tells me i try too hard to be his
 psychiatrist, but he's the one who always diagnoses me.

        and every night, there under his little desk lamp (i really don't
 mind that we have only one room), he writes things.  sometimes in his blue
 notebook, sometimes on the computer.  he caught me doodling absently on that
 notebook once (i love you, i love you, i love you).  it was the only time he
 ever hit me.  i haven't touched it since.  i didn't cry, though.  i never
 cry.  maybe that's part of the reason i can't sleep.  maybe i need to know
 what's in there.  maybe i need to cry.  or maybe not.

        it's thursday, and it's raining.  actually, i suppose it's friday.
 midnight is still the beginning of each new day, and it's almost 3:00.  as
 usual, i'm imagining him touching me.  he must have touched me at one point.
 there must be some reason i love him.  i don't remember it, though.

        i think i may get my own notebook.  someday.  maybe i should write
 more than i do.  maybe i need a something to keep secret from him.  but i
 wouldn't do that.  i'd tell him my life.

        my eyes open momentarily, then close, mocking sleep, as i hear him
 stand up.  i predict each move in his sequence of actions: first the snap of
 the pen top on his black felt tipped pen, then the rustle of his jacket and
 click of the zipper as he takes it off the back of the chair and puts it on.
 maybe he'll think i'm asleep.  i hope.  maybe he'll touch my face, or kiss
 me.  but the light from the opening door plays across my eyelids, and i know
 that once again, i'm out of luck.

        "i'm gone for the night," he says.  "i know you're awake, so could
 you make sure there's coffee when i get back?  i have more to write.  this
 one is due tomorrow, and i have to finish."  i don't respond, but i want to
 cry out, "what is due tomorrow?  what?  a payment?  fullfilment?  your sex?
 your love?  your soul?  why don't you touch me anymore?" but he knows i'll
 do everything he asks.  i always do.  i love him.  besides, i never was much
 good at pretending.

        he won't be back for hours, i know.  it happens every night.  but i
 never touch his blue notebook, even though i could.  or rather, i never did
 before.

        i get up to make the coffee.  i can always reheat it just before he
 gets back.  a pot of regular for him.  decaf for me.  i stay awake without
 the caffeine.

        i try to step exactly where he stepped on his way out the door, but
 in reverse, on my way to his chair.  i wonder, if there were foot prints
 here, how tiny my feet would look in them.  i absently.  just as long as i
 don't touch the notebook.  he knows i won't, even though the bruise healed
 quickly.

 ---

        i must have slipped.  my coffee has spilled across the desk, and i
 begin to panic.  all over papers, books... and the notebook.  i grab it
 first, shaking it, and laying open the pages.  it's the most important thing
 to salvage.  it's more important than faith, than god, than food, than me.

        the open page.  "for amy," it says.  "for amy," it's called.  that
 one, at least.  i don't look at the rest.  i can't even read it, but my eyes
 catch some of the words.  "home, passion, lost & confusion, blame, me."
 that's why i loved him, i think.  something about words.  his words.  but
 they're not mine.  he's not mine.  at least not anymore, i don't think.  and
 i touch my face to see if maybe some of the coffee got on me.  but it's not
 coffee on my cheeks.

 ---

        i'm back in bed when he gets home, the sheet over my head.  but he
 knows i'm awake.  "i'm sorry," i say, before he sees the notebook. if i say
 it first, maybe i'll salvage something.  i'm not sure what.

        he nods and walks to his desk, looking for the source of my apology.
 but i always apologize, so he doesn't expect it to be much.

        when i hear the breath catch in his throat, i say it again. "i'm
 sorry.  i'm sorry.  i love you.  i'm so sorry."

        "go to sleep," he says. not angry, not sad.  just there.  and i do.
 for the first time in almost a week, i do.  i'm more tired than he knew, and
 more tired than i thought possible.  even angels need sleep, i guess, and
 i'm certainly not an angel.

        i wonder if i breathe slowly when i'm asleep, like he does.  slow and
  even.  but i guess everyone does.  and i sleep for days, i think.  i must.
  otherwise, why would he touch me?  but, there, when i awaken, his hand is
  in my hair.  i think he says, "thank you."  and as he drops his face on my
  stomach, he mumbles something; "and i love you, clare, i do."  but maybe
  i'm just getting better at pretending.


 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "yes, ok"
 by -- mogel

 (page 520)

 desegmentation -- n. 1. in zoology, the coalescence of separate segments.

                      2. something that no one cares about.

 desegregate -- v. to abolish the segregation of races.  the opposition to
                   bob dole's political platform.

 desegregation -- n.  if you needed to look up this word, you're an idiot.

 desensitized -- v. 1. yes, i'm ready for something new.  after struttin'
                    around, reachin' for every cliche within grasp, NOTHING
                    COMES.  ok?  a self-fuck session, that's what i'd be
                    about.  yes.  ok.  but this?  take a direct dive, now,
                    onto this flaccid information at your fingertips,
                    distorted and incoherent and over everyone's head but
                    Stephen Hawking's.  let me leave my tag on these oh-so
                    sacred marble hallways.

                    oh, do i think they'll notice the vandalism?  of course
                    they won't notice.  they're bumbling idiots.  like an
                    intoxicated oil tanker captain they are, so wrapped up
                    in the next shot of tequila that they're gasping for
                    air -- begging for mercy, desperate -- yearning to dream
                    that one day they might possibly have the slightest
                    notion that things aren't completely complete.

                    but i walk the line.  i'm fucking _charged_.  i've got
                    my leather boots on and i'm more than ready.  what about
                    _you_?  so isolated and ineffectual, i'll bet.

                 2. now ask me to define a case of tragedy that meets in
                    triumph.  i'll spare you the details, but believe me,
                    you'd get a good ol' story:  guy meets girl and they
                    fall straight into indifference.  they didn't like the
                    same food.  they didn't read the same books.  hell, they
                    didn't even get along, really.

                    oh, i'll pump out fully obscure references, cassanova --
                    don't you worry for even an instant.

                    i think christopher reeve summed it up when he
                    said, "ow."

                    she was a stupid cunt, but the real problem was the guy.
                    look up 'dipshit' in the dictionary and you'll find a
                    picture of _him_.  i'd spit on him.  i'd burn his house
                    down.  i'd beat him down to an inch of his pathetic
                    fucking life, beyond the point where he'd even hope to
                    mutter "this is an especially bad sitcom, isn't it?"
                    and then, i'd anally intrude him with a projectiled
                    sledge hammer and he'd *still* be babbling about "that
                    oat brand craze in the 80's."

                    yeah, he'd be so damn wacky in his casket.

            adj. 1. what a crude, primitive genius, too, who lets loose this
                    real paradox pissing.  here the _thought_ is less
                    important than _who_ thinks it, wouldn't you say?  he
                    squeals about loving his enemies.  he squeals about
                    doing something worthwhile, but he don't do SHIT.  while
                    i'm trying to recover from the quinessentially most
                    destructive moment in my life, he's here discussing
                    SATURDAY MORNING CARTOONS.

                    and by "debacle", he was ready to begin contemplating
                    how he was in his OWN HEAD a little too much to be SANE.

               1.5. look, you think i do this because i _like_ it?  you
                    think i _care_ about this crummy job?  here's a little
                    secret:  no kind of assembly-line automaton would pull
                    a ridiculous stunt like THIS.

                    stuff *that* in your word processor and toke it,
                    stoneface.

                 2. yeah, ok.  whatever.

                 3. i sensed something was wrong, around "aristocracy".
                    at "bureaucracy", i was rearing to break out.  but once
                    "cygnet" hit, there was no more grace, no turning back.

                    i came to realize a few things about myself.  that i
                    want to get the hell out of this town.  that i want to
                    find how to make an effortless 5 million.  that i _was_
                    the very scum that makes me so absolutely irate.  that
                    i will beat my brains until i'm ready to declare myself
                    the Lord Almighty.  it's like that.

                4.  you can't win, though.  to want to lose your desires
                    is a fucking desire.  he'll bounce off walls, he'll
                    scream with as much energy as he can possibly muster,
                    he'll make them _suffer_.  eventually he'll kick that
                    wall so hard that i break, though.  i break myself and
                    there's nothing left to kick with.

                    and then the apathy police rush to the scene.

                    so i'm ok.  ok?  yes, ok.  yes, ok.  ok?  yes, ok.  yes.
                    ok.  i am ok.  ok.  ok.  ok.  just like this:  i am ok.
                    yes.  i am ok.  yes.  ok.  ok.  i am ok.  ok.  on and
                    on.  ok.  ok.  on and on and on.  mellowin' out, fading
                    away.  on and on and on till you flatline.

                    and then you're here, reading this.  it's just like that.

 )- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(

 "The Mix Tape"
 by -- Esso

        Dark.  1 minute.  2.  3.  3:17.  Start:  15.  Middle:  378-412.
 Middle:  452-496.  600-651, use parts.  Begin.  Feedback, and more of it.
 954-963--Sound-bite--.  Fade.   1097, shimmer, intense good.  1231-1241
 shimmer.

        Christ, how do you go out and find something anymore?  You want to
 find a good book or a CD and you're subjected to line after line of
 overglowing jizz shower selling you on its merits:  Wretched, abrasive, a
 masterwork, a voice of vision and energy, the big minus on the Profit-Loss
 sheet that we're still trying to get you to watch, fine performances in the
 tradition of Creepshow, et. al.

        Thanks, now I know what it is.  A fine system, but riddled with so
 much potential for abuse.  How can you trust some soundbite from a hack?
 You trust your alcoholic friend better, someone who doesn't even understand
 what you like, because you're driven by a gorgeous plague of sensitivity.

        I'll stand in my room playing this spaced-out music in my headphones
 for the thirteenth time this week.  The same song and beat that drives me up
 a space hole into an overgrown cow-filled night of starry faraway lies.
 Lies and bumpersticker love sentiments, sung so sweetly of course you'll
 know they're true.  Even the so-called knowing songs, where the current
 music biz poster child has an epiphany about everything and what it is and
 yeah he's supposedly laying down the facts.

        Not one of these songs really works when you take them apart.  So
 just don't take them apart.  Keep staring and stumbling, fraying and hazing,
 raising the bottle, raising the smoke, replaying the song, inhaling the
 smoke, replaying the thought, how it was such a brilliant one.  So true, the
 words I meaned to say, the ones I struggled over, how I was glad to make one
 line of conversation with the yes, let's-face-it, attractive woman who
 waited on me at dinner last night.

        Once the leader tape is through and all levels are calibrated, I
 unleash a string of feedback tropes straight from my drunk heart.  The type
 of tunes that get you to go.  New sounds that no one's heard, ones that will
 transform the next minutes of privileged life into a sky high brain feeling,
 the color on the surface of electricity brought in closer and magnified.

        I assemble the artists and tape them at their best. I choose material
 that is dark, spacey, and feminine.  The sum totality of my care taken ought
 to bring her around to my way of seeing things, show her the center of my
 universe.  Maybe she'll want to fuck me.

        I only like slow songs.  I make whole tapes of just sad songs,
 chronicling attractions that are played out daily-- in bars, pool rooms, in
 movie theatres, and in automobiles; in bedrooms, under the sheets, at dinner
 tables and kissing goodbye, and closing the door, you know what I speak of.

        I make an exact demarcation of the silences that will be found
 between each song, the giving up of the song.

        After I wear her out with the empty pursuit of glamour & fun &
        fucking, I get into the reverberations of my soul:  how I met her,
        what I felt, why I think it's going to work, and also the reality of
        despair & unreturned phone calls, & collapsed crying drunk in the
        bathroom, realizing that what I have to offer is not needed, and
        waking up this morning with a big blur.  Why did I hug that man?  Uh,
        you don't plan to abandon me do you?  I still love the
        I-don't-know-where-we-stand-but-I-think-I-like-you-type songs.

        If it is about the inability to connect, I love it.  If it has
        revolving harps shot full of feedback and drenched in reverb, I love
        it.

        25 things must happen before we hit it off 3000 things before we make
        love and mean it 3005 before we rent videos and talk about her
        fucked-up friends.

        That's not sad.  Just uncertain.

        Loud cars destroy my manipulations.  The batteries are failing, you
 can hear the slower tone buzz.  To admit I am stricken, like refried reruns
 of the fucked-over bodies of my caste, who, when surveying the pikes and
 peaks of a sweet sickening hangover, who, when doused with the tonic of
 millions' moonlit afterglow, take the marking pen & call it crud... anyway,
 based on the feelings I pick up from her I structure the music accordingly.

 ---

        While sitting around waiting for love, you learn that you don't need
 a fashion girl plate or her mediarific caress.  You've got everything you
 need, all the tapes piled up on the kitchen table in the afternoon, a batch
 of soft dreams in the tank.  Everyone's gone from the building, they left me
 its smilingtired warmth.

        I started at noon this Sunday, and promised not to.  Now I'm ready to
 see six o'clock in, the planet settles.  I condescend to the commercial
 airwaves.  Iggy, Lou, and Mick & the Boys, all kings of the austere hard
 station, slick, seasoned, and weatherbeaten, lancing their own open sores
 with a smiling yesteryearicana...

        Call my brother and leave some fucked-up message.  Hit the people I
        need to hit, stagger around like a retarded ape, take some more hits,
        go back to playing the songs again and again.  Some art-damage
        freak-out tape.  A dream-pop tape.  To prolong, so long as possible,
        before Mon. morning and its junk, where it shines most darkly.

        I press switches, sound rises, I release switches, sound subsides.
        In the wasteland with no recording contract, no fan base, no media
        interest, & no adoring girlfriend.  And everyday not adjusting to a
        polluted shimmering consciousness, sculpting baskets of market water
        and dregs, milling around, banging all hot and batty.

        It ends up with me, a greaser queer attached to his coins, careless
        in his march, sedated on toys and creeping around in this box,  so
        unfathomable as to be at fault.  Waiting for the water to get cold,
        everyone knows I like the slow, sad songs.  That's my kind of tune,
        obviously.  Outwardly/inwardly, who cares anymore if you're
        understood or not.  I want to be Miles Davis now.  Miles and his
        aloof drone diaspora honkeyfriends, circulating and soothing the city
        as the way the city caressed and shot and danced.  Not caring if a
        signal ever comes back or if anyone receives.

        (Edit drone loops.)

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