💾 Archived View for clemat.is › saccophore › library › ezines › textfiles › ezines › FLODIS › flodis… captured on 2021-12-03 at 14:04:38.
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FLLLLOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i am lonely in the forest, here. OFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF waiter, bring me something. DDDDDDDDDDDDDDIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS a diet cola, please! RRRRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTTTIIIIIIIIIIOO no, not diet rite! that crap make me ralph! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN trilobyte's zine for anjee tasha and the greater elephantitis-influenced population of north america and elsewhere, not to say that tasha and anjee have elephantitis, but if they did, they should see a doctor about it or perhaps take pictures and sell them on the internet ........................ there is an arcade in lake geneva, wisconsin. there are games there that have been around since games were first invented. the joysticks and pinball machines have been manipulated and cursed at by children of many ages, of many times. children of chicago millionaires played nickel target shoots during the 50s. the same, but different kids, did acid and played pinball there in the 60s. still other american adolescents enjoyed the transformance of mechanical entertainment machines to electronic entertainment machines in the 70s. town kids and tourists played the graphical masterpieces of the 80s, and kids in the nineties get to do all of the above, and explore polygon-depicted worlds as well. i walked in and sat down at a galaga machine, from the early eighties, popped in a quarter, and played to about 65,000 points. that's a decent score for a hobbyist such as myself. then i sat down at the tabletop machine next to it and played tetris. had there been a girl with me, we could have played against each other, on opposite ends of the table. but then i wouldn't want any strife to break us apart when i whooped her ass in tetris... so, instead, i would take her down by the lake, after buying some popcorn, perhaps caramel-coated. we would sit on a bench in the shade of a tree, the wind would be blowing gently, and i would smoke a cigarette and talk about old people. the kind sitting in the library, facing the lake, and reading a newspaper. the pretty seagulls, bobbing boats, and tumultous waves are nothing new to these folks, who have seen ages of people come through town, tearing it down and subsequently building it back up again. they've seen vacationing teenagers meet at the beach and fall in love, come back for their honeymoon, and return on a family vacation with kids. these elderly folk have seen the life in this town, perhaps lived it. some elderly people stroll along the cement path, smiling as they remember the wild 40s when they fell in love. and certainly these old people had kids of their own; kids who grew up having rich parents, rich kids who grew up travelling the world with other rich kids, rich kids who vacationed in lake geneva, wisconsin, and got to see girls and guys they could party with on the beach, or on boats, during the comfortable and lazy summer months. the kids would go from making sandcastles on the beach in their youth, to experimenting with alcohol in their adolescence, to forming cocaine habits in their eruptive years around twenty-two. and soon enough the guys would calm down enough to take the high-paying, low-lustre deskjob in their fathers' company, and marry one of the sweethearts he used to make sandcastles with. they would have kids, whom the father would play football with or the mother would bake cookies for. they'd live in a big house outside of some big city, and take family vacations in wisconsin. _+_++_ speaking of college life, and how it can affect one's mind, body, soul, existence, and non-existence; speaking of rambunctiousness during late adolescence; speaking of love between girls, guys, and poets; and having made a little reference to the great gatsby as an introduction to zaff or ron or sweeney erect's submission would have been a great thing to do, but i have failed: a friday spent lonely and bored by ron , zaff, sweeney erect, et al note: what you see here, except for the post-script is simply some notes i wrote on a friday night/saturday morning before passing out, transcribed word for word. walking on the fucking quad tonight and i ran into this lanky, smelly, blonde bastard named jay. jay has a chipped front tooth and a lisp and wants people to like him and that's why i think he sells drugs. he's the only guy i know who can get mushrooms all the time which is the only reason i talk to him at all, and i still don't know his last name or how to get ahold of him except that i run into him sometimes. i was broke and didn't feel like talking to the fuck, so i said 'i'm broke'. = i was walking away when he said 'wanna come do some lines? no charge.' and i don't fucking like coke very much, but just then i realized that i really was in the mood to get severely fucked up. i'd rather have gotten fucked up on shrooms, but that wasn't the offer on the table, so i said 'sure.' we went to this shitty mexican restaurant on main street called 'la bamba's'. they say their burritos are as big as your head but they aren't. but you can't make jokes about it to the help because they're mexicans who don't speak much english, or anyway pretend not to. the tacos were good and greasy and when we finished we went to the bathroom. i bet the mexicans thought we were queer--jay would have been my sugar daddy because i am the better looking of us by far. one of us would stand against the door while the other did the lines. the coke was shit stuff (i hadn't expected any different) but it hit me pretty fast so i wasn't going to bitch much. jay knew a party we could walk to and get some beer or vodka at, so we walked down a narrow street with lots of trees and couches full of fucking frat boys on all the lawns until we got to maybe the shittiest house on the block, which had flashing lights inside it and a bunch of fucks smoking on the porch. i paid for cups because jay had bumped me so i was still way ahead of the game financially. the party was loud hot and crowded and the beer was way the hell off in a corner, which meant i almost got into a lot of fights because i hate running into sweaty stupid frat boys with no glimmer of intelligence in their eyes and not having them say 'excuse me' so i always said it pointedly on my way to the keg. after 8 or 9 beers i asked jay if he had any more shit because i was starting to come down already and the beer wasn't cutting the buzz. i knew it wouldn't really do much good because for me when the buzz starts to go it is going to go--but he slipped me a little packet and i went into the bathroom and snorted it off the toilet top. waiting to get into the bathroom i was really irritable and pissy, and once i got in i checked the lock about 5 times to make sure i was secure. i came out and noticed a girl who looked a lot like my ex gf, and so i went over and started to talk to her. = i don't remember what we talked about, but i must have been a charmer because she stood and waited time and again while i went to get more beers. after my 15th she left the fucking party with me. we got back to my dorm room at about 1 or 1:30 or something and she sat on the bed and asked what i wanted to do. she asked if she could smoke and that made me mad because my ex would never smoke, but i said sure, and then i started to read her some yeats. the bitch didn't get the yeats at all, i realized when i looked up, she just liked the fact that somebody was going to read her poetry before he fucked her. just then i fucking hated that bitch more than anybody else in the world, more than george w bush, and i told her to leave. = she said 'what?' and i said 'fucking leave before i throw you out.' i think she was bawling and she slammed the door. so i went and got a half bottle of vodka i had left out of my underwear drawer and here i am now. huzzah post-script all i have to say as an addendum is that i woke up the next afternoon sprawled on my floor clutching my pillow in one hand, a book of byron's poetry in the other. the bottle of vodka is empty, but it isn't clear how much i drank and how much i spilled. 0-0-=-0=0-=0-=0-=-=0-=0-0=-=0-0=-=00-= memories can turn a water-filled hole in the ground into a momentous destination; and a booming town into a row of saloon-sized gravestones. but i'd build a track for trains going through the old dusty main street, rename the ghost town WESTERN LAND, and dozens of thousands of millions of families will come 'n visit year after year, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gold seen a century ago, hoping to sneeze on a piece of the past. some kid would pick up a stupid green rock, take it home with him, and keep it for the rest of his life. and hopefully he wouldn't inbreed with his relatives because that could make things messy. and hopefully that kid wouldn't turn into oregano, because he already exists, and wrote this nice t-file for this here zine-thing: