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ATTENTION PEOPLE WHO DOWNLOADED THIS EZINE VERSION!
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December, 1994
This is an un-edited (but proofread) verbatim copy of Whatever
Ramblings #13. You got this for free so don't complain.
Figuring that some of you might have computers and modems, here's
your chance to pour through a literal SHITLOAD OF TEXT. If you ask
me, its easier to actually read the 'zine in its real form;
PRINTED. Not to mention you get a ton of comics and photos and
other cool things. Its 80 pages thick and it takes weeks to read.
You can send three concealed bucks for a copy
to (orders only!!):
Twisted Image
2016 University Ave. Suite 26
Berkeley, CA 94703
Or, you can read this whole damn thing and bug your eyes out. If
you have enough toner (and paper!), I recommending printing it out
prior to reading. It was written on WP 5.1 but converted to
standard ASCII text for y'all.
I can be reached at (swain@enigma.rider.edu). Past issues are
available from me via email if not available elsewhere.
Get your Web browsers handy, the next e-zine issue may be in HTML.
Down with ASCII 'zines! I want pictures!
=================:A Shotty Attempt at a Disclaimer:===============
This 'zine isn't really for kids. Its has a SHITLOAD of foul
language, and I talk about some pretty obscene topics. Therefore,
in theory, you should be a grown adult with enough of a brain to
read this objectively. Shit, its only a 'zine after all.
Support the small press.
Contents of #13:
(1) Stream of Consciousness
(2) Stories/Poetry
(3) Miscellaneous
(4) Travel
(5) Ramblings/Intro/Outro/Etc
(6) Credits/Notes/Random Information
(7) A week in the life of the editor (I had to do it...)
<BEGINNING OF SOC'S>
#41
Vexatious agony will bring us together. The jigger of blue glowing
gel sits high atop the water tower in the East. Marco man climbs
to top in drunken fit -- He downed a pint of Jim and three
Ballantines. Because its not only the weather that is cold in the
East. We perched, high atop the lofty glowing city. The
screaming; quiet snow flurries sticking onto my wool coat. The
older we get the less we "get it". Sure man, things are easier to
swallow. Especially societal propaganda. Add some color to your
life, slit your wrists. Right, or jump from the ice-sheeted water
tower high above the sleeping people peering into the Christmas
wonderlands with the icon gifts and the eggnog stains, the cookies.
The asphyxiated Santa stuck in the chimney. Ahh...Never dive for
a dropped quarter on an icy metal water tower. Unless of course
death spells relief.
#42
Insomnia is a poor excuse for insanity.
Pens runs out on me more than women.
And speaking of...
Celibacy is another word for single.
But married people have it worse...
Intellectuals talk about stupid people
Stupid people don't give a shit
THEY are the intellectuals.
And injection of 35 roetengens,
of maybe Cesium-135 in a glowing beaker,
will turn your brain to a pulp,
or muriatic acid will do just fine.
500 pounds of blubber on an emaciated tabby,
will bring a chuckle from anyone.
Even from a dead president with only half a skull.
Each one of these lines,
of a fortune cookie should be pregnant,
with bad proverbs and philosophy,
someone is sure to wince.
#43
There were swerving planes and East coast trees in my dream --
Laughing lightning bolts and intimidating thunder. Chris strode
through the center to Tenton not caring. His fading blue jeans,
three inches below his waist, he was cool. Well, at least he
figured. It was a bleeding day in Sickleyville. The convenience
stores closed at 8am; Inconvenience... There were young kittens
playing at the trainyard; abandoned. Numb to their impending death
as the local Amtrak smiled by; stopping at nothing. Meanwhile,
Chris was unsuspectingly walking to a convenience store that was
closed. In the purple-washed morning sky, the birds a chirping,
the kamikaze crashing in the horizon like meteors, the white bleed
of the stars. Today will be a good day.
#44 - There's always tomorrow
Brain boil make an idea,
cancer from the cellular phone,
shot to the head,
you spin a full 360,
head flow like Niagara.
Feeling dizzy? Heh
Lead lodged into your spaghetti membrane,
where your thoughts,
hunks of pink flesh and electricity,
getting weiiiiirder and weiiiiirder.
And you lay there,
sunny day in California,
vexed by maple trees,
viewed by many.
"Whassa matta eh?"
"Ev'r seen a dead guy befer?"
oh shit...Now what?
"Is that MY brain over there?"
Sure is sparky.
And so ad infinitum,
scrambled misplaced,
and I try to figure what I'm saying,
what is around me,
how may sl fsdow words aldsfkaslerit
wtalts semm to come atosat out wrong..
throb.
throb.
"He's dead."
There's always tomorrow.
#45
Purveying the situation in many peoples minds I realized that only
a meager few are worth examining.
Rather most are lab rats pre-electrified in their wire-mesh cages.
If I had one bullet, and a family of one million, I'd kill the
mother. Just like cockroaches but more sensitive to radiation.
The scalpel goes in, the scalpel goes out. 300 CC's of pure H20 in
the mainline.
Handcuff themselves to avoid their own destruction. All of them.
Walking down the street eyes on their shoes, muttering gibberish
and waiting for the paycheck. Half goes to ex-wives and husbands
alike. Seems no salvation, as I purveyed the situation.
#46
And it was like...And I was uh, and it was like...It was
like...Like i'm in this plane right? And I'm like, getting super
claustrophobic, and everyone was like, what's up? And man, I was
like, WE'RE GONNA CRASH MAN, WE'RE GONNA DIE! and Adrian was like,
man, totally mellow. Fully smoking hash in the bathroom, and man,
it was like, man, totally mellow. And I got paranoid, and I was
like, "YOU'RE ALL OUT TO GET ME!" and everyone is like reading
Newsweek and the New York Times. I'm like, WAKE UP MAN! DON'T YOU
KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON? And Adrian was whispering going, "Man,
nobody knows, but you and me, man." Shit, doesn't anyone know what
is going on? I was feeling lethargic, shit, LETHARGY HIT ME. All
that hashy smoke in my brain, the plane, should have taken a train,
I'm to blame, what a shame. Rhyming and wheezing, just trying to
get a breath so I could scream. Raining at 30,000 feet. Islike,
the Twilight Zone Man. FULLY. There's this monster on the wing.
Shit man, I was like, "HEY MAN, GET THE FUCK OFF THE WING, YOU'RE
SCARING ME!" And man, I swear to god, a big bolt of lightning
struck the wing and I'm like, "NO! Oh man! Shit, ADRIAN! We're
gonna die!" And the stewardess lady, super covered with makeup and
shit, she looked like hell. Her face waved and pulsed, she was
like, "MAN, MELLOW OUT, DON'T YOU KNOW WERE ALL GONNA DIE?" So I
flipped. I said, I was like, "NO WAY LADY, I'M NOT GOIN' DOWN!"
She smiled. She gave me a blue pill, yeah, like Dilaudid or some
shit. And Adrian says, "MAN, TAKE IT." So I swallowed, she spit,
we spat, I lurched, I slowed, my feet got drilled into the
floorboard. Leather clasps tightened around my neck, the fat man
said, "NOW KID, TAKE YOUR MEDICINE." BUT I DID! And suddenly, it
was so sudden, that the sky turned a phosphorescent purple, the
magic carpet ride, the genie inside my floating seat. It was all
different now, MAN.
#47
All I ever wanted to be.....
Wuz a trucker.
There is a perfect conjecture for everyone.
Prepositions aren't above me.....
Heh
Me and Johnny Creosote, he wuz uh in Ohio in Januuuuarrry, yezzir.
It wuz uh snowing and them thar roads, damn cov'rd with black ice.
You ain't gonna very well say "Hella" in these parts. Johnny
Creosote, he'll break yer fingers and hobble ya; sheeeeet.
Went into a rest'rant, ordered eh cup uh coffee, Johnny eyed th'
waitress. Damn perttiest thang. Aftur we had some grub, did a few
lines in the shitter and headed back up th' interstate.
Late night in Louisiana. Nothing out dere but pesky meskeeters and
travellers.
#48 - "The Complainer"
Smoke pot, write a book.
Dense glowing from the late city nocturnals.
The shimmer of amber luminance on the city streets.
I think that upon these Berkeley hills, perched atop a boulder that
this pipe, this metal pipe, making me high; open; very inquisitive
to the state of things up in the cosmos. I think of all those
beautiful women that don't know me; and don't want to.
My heart is beating,
like the three chambers of a rabbits.
I watch below as the city glows orange; white; sort of a purple
spark. An aura, in the air. Warm, dry, Berkeley night. Nothing
up here but nature and that condominium complex behind me. Yeah -
It might not be the Sierras, but man, it's all right for me
tonight.
#49
I am a sistenal licentious rabbit fucker.
Confessions from the darkside.
Chambers from a rabbits heart,
going PUMP PUMP PUMP.
This is not a test. If this weren't a true emergency,
you'd probably think it was.
DO NOT CHANGE THE DIAL.
What you are hearing is the influx of sweat into a....
BIG PUPPYDOG'S LEFT NOSTRIL.
It was a Monday, the skies were dim, I was still single.
And with a clatter of fuss, Jeffrey spilled the pus,
and Jimmy said, "WASSA MATTUH?"
I betcha Madonna fucked the pope.
Say it ten times as fast as you can.
"POPE."
"POPE."
"POPE."
"POOP." Oops.
And during the season, when Swift began to reason,
the Lilliputians tied him down to a milk crate.
He was like, "Hey you small people, what is up?"
"If I stepped on you guys, you'd be all fucked up."
A little pressure here, a little more there, I could crush your
brains EVERYWHERE.
Then of course, the Lilliputians are like, "FUCK THIS MAN, HE'S TOO
BIG." I tell you..1724 was a good year. At least a good ABRIDGED
year.
And over and over and over again,
my Mom stuck my head flush a frying pan.
I screamed and I screamed and my brains started frying,
this is what happens when I am caught lying.
But sooner and sooner and later and later,
I caught my Mom with a masturbator.
She was bouncing and jumping and shaking like milk,
her breasts were rounded, her hair like silk.
She climbed up upon me with dildo in hand,
asked me real nicely, "Can I put it in yer ass?"
But I refused and refused and began to quake,
I can't fuck my mom for heaven's sake.
Now where's my rabbit?
#50
Pygmy Albino Badgers waiting for a downtown bus to....
(DRUM ROLLS PLEASE)
WOBURN, Massa (something)
Its near Boston.
And if you look REALLY closely, you can see small little things in
the water...
The SMALL LITTLE THINGS, are actually toads.
Toads with goatees and spinach colored skin.
And as Terry lays upon the mattress,
a cloud of THC rises to the roof,
I THINK.
Is there salvation in the Army?
Is there peace in the core?
Oh fuck, I lost my train of thought.
Chugga Choo-Choo.
What riotous laughter ensues in the wee hours of the Berkeley
night.
Where temperatures are rising, the LSD is consumed, the smart
people go to sleep, the rest of us wake up.
But really, NO, seriously, ever fucked a ferret?
No really, NO, seriously, NO JUST KIDDING REALLY.
As honest as a white man from WOBURN can be.
And shit man, that ain't honest.
I ain't scraping shit out of a processed pasteurization company for
a lousy $4.25...Even if its CHEESE-WHIZ.
And not like ORANGE TANG ain't just like puke.
Cause it is.
Those astronauts had it hard.
What a rough life.
Like SPUTNIK...Poor pooch shitting in a space capsule.
THOSE DAMN RUSSIANS.
Evil if you ask me.
Those damn cockroaches.
The little ones.
Look like ants.
But you know...
They suck your blood and infest your liver,
deprive your tapeworm of its right.
With white worms like maggots. Larva from a squashed kitten.
Just infesting your intestines.
They don't even knock first.
And you know, SPUTNIK, there were dogs, cockroaches, the whole
works.
They landed in WOBURN. Man, I AIN'T LYING!
And then I rounded Waverly Place,
said hello to Murison in a dream,
Saw Pygmy Albino Badgers waiting for a downtown bus to.........
#51
Let's be honest. Remember the time when I was telling you about
the old lady that almost hit me, she was uh like driving a DART, of
the DODGE variety. 'member? Well, twas a Sunday sunny slick
sleazy afternoon. My boots were tight, my nunchukas in the
backseat. My girlfriend Joe was playing Tempest in Tempe. It was
a warm day, I was bare naked under my clothes. People were
pointing and flinging large-sized kittens at me (I guess they were
cats.) The ASPCA intervened but alas, my trusty watering spout
unloaded precious amounts of malt beverage on the parade. And then
you know what? The Police came. And on th' o' might bullhorn the
pig said, "LISTEN FREAK, DON'T JUMP." And I'm like, "What? You
think I'm gonna fuckin' jump?" ..By this time the whole damn town
was watching me. I swear, they even wheeled out the grannies from
the old peoples home 'round the corner. Shit....Now what? So I
lit my trusty cigarette, scribbled on my scratchy ball, wept a tear
for Sputnik, propelled a thick lungchunk, thought about my future,
even had a cup of Blueberry Dannon yogurt, and then.....And
then......(Are you in suspense like I was?)
And then I didn't do a damn thing. Bullets began hitting me,
Robert Frost went to Wendy's. And those bullets, those darn
bullets, absorbing into my soft creamy wet vivacious voluptuous
ethereal skin. It hurt a bit (I ain't Superman), so I told the
pigs. "Woah, hold it now..Those things hurt. Do you mind?" The
cops were stunned, even perplexed. The captain, after wiping
powdered sugar from his weenie duster, apologized. "Sorry man, I
really didn't know..." And moments later a huge big bird came into
view. It was yellow, big, and a bird. It was very Sesame Street
like. On a whim, on a certain dare from my wife, a sexual
encounter from a mongoloid leech, I hopped the bird and before I
knew it...I was gone......
Up in the ionosphere, things were quiet. I watched below as people
of all ages and attitudes waved...."Bye man, have a good trip, WE
LOVE YOU." The bird spoke to me in Latin Drawl. It was neat.
Sort of intellectual, bubbly, like a bottle of open Analogy Cola.
The big yellow bird spoke, "I saved you because you are the worlds
only hope." Wow, was I flattered. "Thanks my yellow birdman." I
breathed. We broke out of the atmosphere and a hush fell (never
seen a hush before). In the background I heard nothing; nothing.
We had now entered the Zen Atmosphere. Me and the big bird spoke
together, telling each other bits of wisdom. Me saying, "Life is
like a tarantula, it has six legs and it is alive." The bird loved
me. I loved the bird. We bonded; joined; entered our erotic
unison dream universe. But alas, good things don't last long. The
big yellow bird big farewell, "Farewell." And disappeared into a
microfine silicon dust.
I floated for weeks, surviving on Jerky Treats and peanut shells.
I was a nude interstellar human space oddity. I nearly hit the
space shuttle during re-entry. Life was cosmic, soupy, even salty.
My visions were only conceptions of gods mind (i'm an atheist). I
was a Zen BuddistAstroGlidingPunkFromBerkeley. Woah, what a trip.
#52
Before you comment on my lack of style, sardonic wit, complete
sentences, you must understand my situation. You ask, "What is
your situation?" And I'm glad you asked.
Long before the sun went down, in glorious Berkeley, I sat on my
ledge overlooking the coffee swilling public. Everyone has a
flower day. Today is everyone has a flower day. And you ask,
"What is that?" And I'm glad you asked. Today is Valentine's Day.
Where everything heart shaped is symbolic. Where all the masses of
this great city love just a little more. Phooey.
Here's where I'm coming from. I was on my ledge, and the loud city
was below, the sky was sunny, it was Spring. It was 4pm and I had
smoked a luscious amount of a psychedelic compound. I looked up in
the blue sky and noticed a jet. As I watched it cross the sky, my
mind began creating some weird sensations. The THC pumped through
my chambers and the jet slowed; almost to half speed. It trail
began forming into weird faces. White cloudy faces in the sky.
Lots of odd Greek mythical figures; astrological signs; whatever.
Everything around me was humming, a small vibration of all things.
It felt as if everything was off kilter, that the whole earth was
shaking lightly. The people below seemed to be animated stencils.
A continuous redraw of every footstep, in vivid pastels with a
vector-type spectrum. And the cars were confused. With metal
arguments as horns honk, people yell, exhaust spills into my
window. The birds were flying in up down directions. If I
listened carefully, I drowned out the ambient noise and watched
birds a hundred feet away; listening to their rapid heartbeats. It
was a strange time. I felt completely unable to recognize who I
was, or what my stereotype was. I was a non-figure. Unable to
grasp the concept of myself in society. Even thinking that I
infact was an unknown creature on the earth. Like no matter how
much I yelled at the people below, they would not hear me. I could
scream, even throw things out the window, and they'd disappear into
thin air. Everything about me and everything that I touch or
incorporate into my world, it doesn't exist. With this thought, I
tried to comprehend my environment. Unable to interact with all
these things, it could be a great nuisance. But in defense,
without a single worry in my mind, I admitted that its the THC man,
whom resides heavily in my brain, smoking a pipe of his own, as
high as I am, just sitting there, with a beer, a hookah pope, even
a magical oriental carpet. Let me take you by the hand. He (this
THC icon) makes me oddly skeptical. My idea of things around me
are distorted, negative, or rather non-existent. My hearing is
acute; almost subsonic. The rattle of the typewriter, the clicking
of the keys, the L.E.D. blink of my answering machine. If I
strain, the heartbeats of many cockroaches can be heard.
ThumpaThumpaThumpa, at doubletime. A bit foreboding in a way. I
did question, thinking, if I'm not here, then where am I? Have I
skipped half a dimension? Maybe I'm visiting the fourth? Possibly
the fifth? But if dimensions have anything to do with what I'm
thinking, then there must be a thousand of them. Everything is
oversensory. My senses are too alert.
Now that you've commented on my lack of style, say hello to THC
man.
#53
Those damn students.
It always seems to be raining these days. It's like, its raining
inside. And I'm so GODDAMN GIRL CRAZY. I don't even have enough
energy to, you know, FLIRT WITH EVERY DAMN BEAUTIFUL GIRL THAT I
SEE. Which, so you know, must be at least (if not more) a hundred
a day. Warm testosterone in my head. But hey, you gotta be
careful. I'm not talking about safe sex, I'm talking about making
mistakes. About meeting someone and damn, she's so pretty, so
sexy, so loaded with dreamy qualities. But then you meet her and
uh oh, she's a little slow, and a little too superficial, and she
doesn't like your dirty jeans and your uncut toenails. So you're
thinking, "I'll compromise anything." So you wash those skanky
jeans and cut your toenails. And you're having dinner together and
she's like, she's like ordering everything on the menu, and she's
flirting with the damn French waiter, and you're uncomfortable in
that white dress shirt with the starchy collar. And by now you're
thinking how much a pain in the fuckin' ass this girl is, and how
you want to go home, smoke a joint, maybe play a game of chess.
But you put up your front, appeasing her wishes, kissing her ass,
developing a pitiful psychosis. WHY? Cause you want to get laid,
man. And with chicks like this you gotta kiss ass and be someone
else so you can JUST GET LAID. And its sad, but sometimes the o-
mighty sex fluid in the wang controls your mind. Your brain is the
puppet, your dick is the puppeteer.
SO, what do you do? I'm glad you asked. First off. You get up,
throw your silk napkin on the table, flash and evil grin, and in a
really crude and disrespectful tone you whisper, "YOU SUCK." Then
proceed to walk out the door, leaving the pretty bitch with a
remarkable tab and no money.
RAIN RAIN GO AWAY
COME AGAIN SOME OTHER DAY.
SOMEONE OUT THERE HAS GOT TO LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES.
#54 - "Andrew is the green man."
Pen to the paper,
paper to the pen.
Stoned stupid rantings,
from twenty-one years of mindfucking therapy.
People in white coats -
FUCK THEM ALL.
If I only had....
20 FUCKING CENTS.
I could call my "girlfriend"
and complain to her,
about this fucked up world.
EXPLODING THE MINDS OF US...
US FUCKED-UP DIRECTIONLESS KIDS THAT DON'T WANT TO ANSWER PHONES
FOR THE FUCKING GOVERNMENT....
DON'T GET ME WRONG.
There nothing political about me.
Except for my FUCKING dislike of
P O L I T I C S .
And television shows that fucking lie...
And women that just love to fuck with me.
LIFE IS FUCKING COMPLICATED.
Alot like chess,
minus the predictability.
This town is driving me up the fucking wall.
God was a squirrel's nut.
....SO THERE....
<BEGINNING OF STORIES/POETRY>
Spinebender. Upon rebirth the first thing I desire is music.
I load Lucifer with a tape of Thibetan monk chants; for over an
hour I dance through all the Aikido stretches and Ki exercises I
can think of. My new muscles are wondrous. Though the Eidetic
Fugue has passed, I still feel like I'm on the outskirts of
Kenosha. The tantrists finish their auming and jangling of metal,
and in the silence I sense a band's begun playing downstairs. With
my ear to the floor I can definitely hear their thrumming. I slide
my feet into my leathern hooves and leave them untied; I clomp
downstairs two at a time, out the door and down again, into the
door of Toughie's (propped open with a cinderblock), past Mountain
in his barber-chair, and down down into the basement.
I'm greeted by that smell that's unique to Downstairs at
Toughie's. Already a crowd has gathered. Before I can join my kin
in their festival I must play a casual game of Time Pilot. I spin
a quarter into her, and as I play I try to pay attention to my
entire sphere of sensation at once -- the screen, bar sounds, that
smell, feelings in my fingers and the soles of my booted feet; and
I pay attention to the wanderings of my attention within that
sphere. I circle around, I circle around, shooting bad guys. The
game is barely audible above the din; the speaker is really fuzzy,
partly blown from being turned up too loud. When Time Pilot
finally kicks my ass, I enter my initials as ZEN at #5 on the top
scores board and make my way into the crowd.
Most of them seem to be kids, posing in overly-clean punk rock
uniforms, including an assortment of brand spanking new jellybean-
colored Dr Martens' boots. Way too young to be here legally --
hell, I'm too young to be here. Seems they're here to see the
opening act, this new local band called Hate Squad. I listen.
Derivative. I swim through the pee-wee punks looking for familiar
faces and listening for an original chord change or lyric, and I
find neither. I plant myself in the corner and wait it out.
The Hate Squad pause too long between songs. I survey the
crowd and, with my heel hooked on the rung of a barstool, watch it
slowly thicken with vaguely familiar faces. Still no real friends
of mine. I spot a real stranger sitting foetal on a bench across
the room, chin on his knees; he is so long and thin as to resemble
a reflection in a funhouse mirror. His hair is lustrous black and
perfectly straight and reaches to the bench. Barefoot. He is
utterly beautiful. He rocks back and forth slightly to the music,
a look of total calm on his face. Hate Squad finish to scattered
applause, and they haul their equipment offstage through the crowd
in a surly manner. The beautiful man keeps rocking, watching; as
soon as Hate Squad's last piece of equipment leaves the stage, he
springs forth like a viper. He looks to be at least six and a half
feet tall. With demonspeed he hauls more than a dozen pieces of
equipment onstage and strings them in a spiderweb of electrical
cable. His limbs flail like twigs in a windstorm. He starts each
piece as soon as it is hooked up, so the boundary between setup and
performance is obliterated. Amps, old reel-to-reels sporting tape
loops, two synchronized strobes, a sampling keyboard, drum
machines, racks of effects pedals, a small mixing board, a
hodgepodge of unidentifiable homemade gadgets, even a goddam
Echoplex, and finally his guitar, a Yoyodyne Shuffleboard: the man
that everyone thought to be a roadie is in fact Spinebender
himself. He tarentellas wildly in tandem strobelight, strumming
effects-maddened fragments of almost-familiar songs on his axe,
lunging back and forth across the stage to activate his machines
with uncanny precision. With his long feet he plays his effects
pedals like a keyboard; with dials and switches he reroutes sounds
through them from his various sound generating devices. Each of
his reel-to-reels seems to have a clutch so he can spin them
manually, in either direction.
The crowd is at a loss. The typical Toughie's show -- like
Hate Squad -- never involves such enthusiasm. Dispassion is cool.
The usual hack band stand around stiffly, all but ignoring the
audience, their only vigor in their overwhelming volume; the
audience, in return, stand around stiffly, not touching, all but
ignoring the band, with only scattered heads-nodding-to-the-beat
and the occasional pair or trio of drunken newcomers slamdancing,
for twenty seconds at a stretch, with no regard for those standing
by them, for the novelty of it.
Spinebender's wildness is unheard of. I see surrounding me the
faces of those trying to think him uncool but balked by his utter
grace and the unfollowable, chaotic complexity of his actions.
The crowd is at a loss. They stare. They keep their distance
from him. A few people are pathetic and insolent enough to look at
their friends and laugh nervously. This has gotta stop.
I slowly gyre my hips and head to the ebb and flow of his
synchronized drum machines. And as soon as I move my body to his
music, I am as one possessed. A string at every joint tied to one
of his machines. Slowly at first, slowly, my head circles and my
arms wave like seaweed, like random T'ai Chi strikes. My eyes
focus on nothing. A wave of heat flows up from my belly. And
without warning the ebb and flow becomes a tideless rampage of
deafening, machine-gun-fast BEAT, and Spinebender's weird
strummings become the unlistenable keenings of the enraged dead,
and his hundred other sounds swell into the hoarse voices of all
the emotions of man. The change comes in an instant, and in that
instant a dozen Roman Candles unload a salvo like mortars across
the ceiling. In that instant all the lights but the strobes and
fireworks go out. In that instant my body is whipped at the end of
its strings to flail as madly as Spinebender. In that instant the
entire crowd jumps -- and when their feet return to earth, they are
not the same crowd.
We seethe, body to body. Vision, tricked by the action of the
strobes, has become less reliable than touch; I am rendered
entirely body. Thought? It--. Is as scattered as my vision. I
see flashes of Spinebender, a spider, weaving sound, whipping my
strings. His hair seems a black eruption, a huge crest, wholly
different with each flicker of the strobe. My body lurches and
jumps, touched on all sides at all times. Shoulder in my ribs, hip
to my ass, someone bumps me off balance and I bump into someone
else. My balance is constantly lost and regained as the tides of
the crowd press my body into other bodies. I ride these waves of
flesh without struggle, and thus never fall. The air is hot from
sweating skins and the breath of athletes. My skin is wet, sweat
from my pores and from others' mixed in erotic, dirty alchemy. I
whip my sweaty hair against the necks and faces of boys and girls
alike. Another salvo of fireworks spews across the sky, lighting
the scene like warm lightnings. Fatigues dwell and grow in my
thighs, tensions in my neck and back; but the heat of my belly
mounts, urging me on, and Spinebender's puppet-webs will not break.
Nor would I will it. Ecstasy tingles in my fingers and face.
The crowd surges, bucks me into the body of someone near the
stage. I put my hand to the small of its back -- as an apologetic
gesture, and to steady myself. It sidelongs over its shoulder to
see what's touching it, and its eye catches mine in a flash of
strobe: gem of azure, set in hot unhatched egg of white. Curtains
of warm, wet skin parted slightly: my stare slowly caresses the
innermost curve of each, from tiny duct to faintly epicanthic
corner; brushes the tips of those black lashes; rests in the
sanctuary of the pale surrounding curves, the folds at the edge of
eyesocket, the soft skullbone curve below the arch of eyebrow, the
bright glory of cheek that stretcheth across to nose and ear, down
to jaw and sacred mouth, upper lip measured by the faintest
vertical scar--
She (it is a She) turns away with a smile and demurely
shoulders me back into the pit.
I lose myself again in the crush. A horde of purple
butterflies scream past overhead. When did the strobes stop? Red-
litten Spinebender casts all the voices of all the gods of man into
a terrible choir, each voice to its own nature and no two in
harmony, yet the whole a perfect map of the sound of the human
soul, of everything from hate to love. I close my eyes, abandon my
body to the human tides, and worship.
Something distracts me. Person in front of me backs into me,
bump. And again, bump, bump. I look. It's her, the blue-eyed
harelip. O god, she is exquisite. That's her short straight dark
hair. She wears, I see, a short sleeveless dress with a floral
print. She sure is sticking to me, yep, shoulders butting back
into my chest, her ass, bump-bump, keeps glancing the tops of my
thighs really close to my cock. The back of her head clocks me in
the mouth and I get a whiff of her wonderful scalpsweat. No, no,
this is just the eddies in the crowd, she doesn't even know I'm
here. That ass has got me all wishful-thinking. Do not rub up
against her. That ass is just an accident, an accident or at best
some kind of fucked-up game.
I gotta know. Make it seem innocent, just kinda lean against
her back, bang my head so my sweaty hair whips across her ear,
cheek, neck.
She reaches up and grabs my neck, pulls me down against her.
Pulls my mouth to her neck. Hoo boy.
I bite.
Keeping me pinned, she backs her ass against me like a cat in
heat.
I bite. She lets go my neck, reaches around and grabs my ass,
pulling me against her. My dick starts swelling where it lays, at
an uncomfortable angle along my thigh.
I hug her belly, run my incisors up and down the length of her
neck. She gyrates her ass and shoulders against me. I lift her
entirely off her feet with a growl into her ear. I hold her there
and she tugs at my hair. A surge in the crowd robs me of my
balance, but the bodies pressed against us keep us from falling.
I set her down just in case, move my palms over her breasts; her
nipples are fit to pierce them. Grasping my hair, she draws my
neck taut to bite.
Her bite is superb.
Gotta move my trapped cock, this is really uncomfortable. I
reach into my pants -- no boxers today, denim loose on my armature
from being worn for the past two weeks, to say nothing of being
sweated and stretched tonight -- and redirect that thing to a less
cramped position. My jeans hang so low that the head of my cock
sticks clear out of the waist. Oh well. She frees one hand from
my hair and puts it back on my ass, pulling me to her. She frees
her other hand from my hair and slips it in between us, down into
my pants. Hosanna.
I stripe her with my touch from shoulders to hips, press down
around the mound of her cunt, hold her tightly.
Some elbow clocks me in the forehead. Is it my imagination,
or is the crowd thronging tighter around us?
She pirouettes without letting go. Grasping my cock so tight
it hurts, pulling me closer to her as if there were any space
between us. Our wet mouths touch. I try to feel her scar with my
lip, but it's too faint. Hand up her skirt, I rub the front of her
underwear. The contours of flesh and bone beneath it are
compelling. She bites my tongue and my lower lip.
Now to it.
My fingertips edge under the waistband of her underwear, and
I force it aside to reach that hot wet spot. Her hand pulls
roughly on my cock, hey lady, hold your horses, that hurts. I
slide my fingers along her cunt. Lips part, hot and slippery. A
lock of cunthair curls around her clit. I try to finger it aside
to get at that, but she tugs my hand away. Huh?
Pinned chest to chest, staring into my eye with those surly
gems, she hikes up her skirt and pulls down her underwear as far as
she can reach. Then tugs my pants past my skinny ass without
unzipping or even unbuttoning them. She reaches up around my neck
as high as she can, and pulls herself up, forces her mouth onto my
mouth. I support some of her weight with one arm around her waist,
and with my free hand try to maneuver her underwear off of one leg.
She lifts her knee free, but the thing's caught on her -- green Doc
Martens. She's too old to be a peewee punk, this is some kind of
art school fluke. I wrench the garment, with much difficulty (and
no help from the crowding fans, who are now beginning to put their
hands on us), over the boot. I hook my forearm under that knee and
pull her up. Her boot taps someone lightly in the chin or
something.
I let her support her own weight, elbows around my shoulders,
and reach around behind her thigh to maneuver my cock into her.
Hallelu. Slippery and hot. She grunts like a beast.
Spinebender's fury mounts.
She rides me, pulling on my shoulders, bucking back and forth
with her hips. Strangers press tightly against us, keeping us
upright; I feel their anonymous hands in my hair, on my face. I
snap my jaws at them but they only love it. A thrill hatches in my
lungs, and spreads its pinions through my chest. That heat in my
guts sinks a tongue of flame into my prostate and another into the
base of my spine.
The crush lifts me entirely off my feet. With my hand under
her knee, and my other on her ass, I pull her onto me. With her
leg around my hand, and the other round my leg, she pulls me into
her. I hear the last six lines of Crowley's "Hymn to Pan" over and
over and over, in my head, or Spinebender's singing them, or I am
hollering them at the top of my lungs.
My body is engulfed in flame.
And I am on my feet, stumbling, trying to support the weight
of this girl into whom my stuff is spewing; my skin so
hypersensitive that the slightest touch is an agony of ecstasy, and
people all around me, touching me all over all at once. And then
my mind's eye looks upon a void.
Spinebender's cacophony swells into a crescendo, crests, and
simply cuts out. The house lights go on. WANK seeps feebly from
tinny little speakers in the ceiling. Shocked speechless by the
sudden starkness of visual detail, the dazed, the invigorated, the
overwhelmed, the sad, the joyous, the mystified. They stir faintly
around me. Many self-consciously avoid looking at those around
them and repeatedly stroke the same lock of sweat-laden hair back
behind an ear. I have to sit down on the floor, streaked with
sweaty grime, and bow my head.
When I return the crowd has half-dispersed and I can find my
lover nowhere. Spinebender has dismantled his array and now sorts
it with an uninviting demeanor; the would-be hangers-on lurk at a
respectful distance, none daring to break his circle.
I hear my name. From a tinny speaker. What? I'm due to take
over at WANK in fifteen minutes, the dj's wondering where I am.
Oh.
Mischief night. On the way back from the party the
unmistakable scent of wet ash brings us up short. Alex Ritalin and
I stand in the middle of the dark, empty, silent street, having
split a pint of bourbon (enough to give each of us skinny boys a
good taste of the dizzy) and written "Jim" and "Beam" on our
respective stomachs in red marker, he in the midst of a couple hits
of acid to boot. Before us, on the corner, looms a gutted duplex,
plywood panels fastened upon every orifice..
"We have got to go in," Alex announces.
I check again. Deserted in all four directions.
Bit of porch gives minimal cover so we hit the front door. I
pry the board wide with a silence-rending shriek of protesting
nails torn free. Reckless Alex slips inside blithely. With a
backward glance to the street (still empty, no faces in windows) I
follow, testing the floor (bare solid earth), and pull the plywood
shut behind us.
Dark as dark. Alex strikes a match. Rubblestrewn living
room, partly charred couch, incongruous intact objects scattered
inexplicably everywhere (packet of ramen, coloring book, glove).
Pile of waterlogged magazines and mail atop a cardboard crate. I
follow Alex's will-o'-the-wisp into the kitchen. We check the
blackened fridge, which is still full of food and stinks horribly
of rancid milk. Container of Nestle's Quik on the counter. I try
to open it, fail, pry up the lid with a quarter. Still smells
good. Also on the counter sits a blackened bust of an angel. I
grab that too. Ceramic. Not angel, milkmaid. Lid of a cookie jar
or something.
Back in the living room Alex lights another match. We fill
our pockets and bootshanks with moist letters, bills, junk mail,
magazines, partly finished coloring books: unsurpassable clip art
material. "Wait wait wait," I say, "what's in this box." We toss
the rest of the stuff aside and open it up.
Inside we find a brand new microwave/convection oven, still
sealed in plastic.
We gape.
And out it comes, and into it goes the Quik, the milkmaid, and
the clip art. I heft it and we bolt. By alleys and back streets,
shifting it from shoulder to hip and back and forth between us, we
get to within sight of the cop-infested Bottom of the Hill. With
complete aplomb we mosey uphill and into my front door.
The Quik doesnt mix right, just makes bubbles, dry on the
inside, which, when you try to crush and stir them, just make
smaller and smaller bubbles.
What you just read was an excerpt from Andrew Reichart's up-and-
coming book. He is one of my best friends and I recommend him with
the highest regard. Look for his book in 1995.
Springtime Follies
Oversympathetic for people of the retarded variety. I was given a
free pack of cigarettes and a zany lighter. I visited my friend at
the parking lot. He's a green man that writes books.
He introduced me to his girl friend (ie: friend).
I didn't like her a bit.
And evading more verbal spewings from the bitch,
I headed back up the street to..
A cafe where I met a much cooler girl that was pretty.
We chatted for a while..I sent her vibes...Showed her my stomach.
Then onward up to the plaza while I watched hecklers heckle,
and preachers preach. I absorbed many molecules of sun. I then
was recruited to babysit a yellow lab.
THAT'S A DOG.
I glanced through the Weekly. It read:
"WILL SUCK DICK. I NEED A NEW SKATEBOARD."
I laughed loudly. Then I saw another one:
"WILL EAT PUSSY. I HAVE A NEW SKATEBOARD"
Only in the East Bay I thought.
Another sunny day and not a worry.
Not a job,
Not an agenda,
nothing but sun and caffeine.
So after babysitting it was time...
It was time to play pinball..
Yesterday I had a bad day of pinball..I was discouraged.
I went down there and got to look at the beautiful punk Asian girl
that works there.
I played a game of pinball. I was pretty girl crazy. I felt sort
of stupid.
So I left and went back into the sunlight.
Some fascist politician lady wanted me to vote for her "party."
I told her NO.
She wouldn't leave me alone.
I became irked and almost told her to fuck off.
But I hesitated due to the great weather.
So I went to Cody's and tried to cheer Ace up.
It was no hope.
Then I met up with my green punk friend and we went home.
BERKELEY 'ZINE EDITOR DIES OF CAFFEINE OVERDOSE.
Alex Swain, 21, died wired at 2:07 Wednesday morning. "He was a
real addict" commented his father on the phone. "When he couldn't
drink it anymore, he began shooting the stuff up. He was an
animal, he wasn't my son anymore." Alex leaves behind his father,
his mother, and his grandparents on his mothers side. Mr. Swain
was recognized as a struggling magazine editor with great insight
into the world of writing under the influence of heavy narcotics.
"He was one fucked-up dude." commented Ace Backwords, popular comic
artist and fellow neurotic. Blue, another local Berkeley comic
artist offered, "See, he was like I was. A good guy, friendly and
all, and the caffeine just TOOK HIM. The caffeine overpowered him.
It made him such a loser." "He wanted people to understand him,
but nobody could." At the time of this writing, his death is being
considered a suicide.
Contributions and non-caffeinated gifts may be sent to the Alex
Swain needs a good burial fund, [address withheld]
Heart failure at 21 (4/Mar/94)
------------------------------
When I say I'm in pain, I'm not fuckin' lying.
When my heart pounds, when my circulations fails,
I can feel....
Fibrillatory tremors.
A truly scary thing.
But I ate an orange.
And although I don't feel great,
I feel a little bit better.
Could be these damn cigarettes,
so fuckin' addictive.
Its a wonder they're not ILLEGAL.
I'd be better off smoking a pack of pot cigarettes a day.
I'd be stoned silly, but still I might survive a little longer.
HEART FAILURE AT 21.
What a damn shame.
RAIN, RAIN, GO AWAY
Journal Ramblings #13
It seems like i've spent too much time inside this Winter. I
wanted to go out travelling in October and come back to Berkeley in
March. I hate this job thing. I'm stuck in a vicious cycle. Its
a domino effect. If I quit my job, then I lose my place, then I
can't use my typewriter, then I get hungry, then I lose my interest
in the 'zine and then...Life would be a total wash-up.
Damn. Terry & Brett came by earlier and we got high. Nothing else
to do on a grey dismal rainy day. Fuck. I spent a half hour
tripping on the idea of making a snorkel into a bong. I took some
more Comtrex and finished off the wine. This accelerated my high
by tenfold. I started flying and wrote a few more entries for the
'zine. I found a small B&W TV in the dumpster next door - It works
but it has a real pungent chemical smell. It had been a year since
I saw tv, so I sort of tripped when I started watching it. A
boxful of images. I used my last bit of sobriety to turn the tv
on, and sat there for a fuckin' hour singing a RFTC song and
smoking American Spirits. Terry & Brett were playing chess and
talking real stoned. Infact, they played a whole game and the
bishops were on the wrong squares. Also, I felt a weird depression
come upon me. It was so intense that my eyes began tearing. I
guess its from all these weird drug combinations i've been playing
with. --- Also, I talked to my dad. I was super high and I told
him (as per usual) - He gave me a small lecture (part 76 in a
series of 10,000) and told me he sold a bunch of my 'zines to his
friends. Mostly professors and highscale intellectuals. He moves
them better than I do. Speaking of, Terry and I were flat broke &
hungry, so he went to Berkeley BART to sell 'zines. He sold five
in an hour. He must be a good salesman. He makes up all kind of
shit and people swallow it. Hah. Also, foreseeing that after I
get back from my midwest travelling I won't have a job, I began
writing down all the scams I could think of. I made a portable
guitar amp out of a milk crate. This way if I start dying I can be
a self-proclaimed "Street Musician" and maybe make a few bucks. I
already have a jazz version of Sweet Leaf that I like. Also, Ace
is bailing soon up North, somewhere near Arcata. I've never been
up there before. I hear its cool though. Maybe i'll take a
weekend trip on the Tortoise. What else? Well, #12 is selling
beyond my wildest expectations. About twelve-hundred copies in
five weeks. I can't figure it out. I've done better issues. Its
going to sell out soon too. That's cool - More money for coffee,
maybe rent.
The Man Without Goals
---------------------
He sat and he sat and he sat. He had pisspoor posture as he sat at
his lime green IBM Selectric. "What to say, what to say..." A man
with true confusion.
"Its all been written before, all before..." And he thought, "Every
word has been written in every way..." He thought everything he did
had been done before. And probably better. And so he began
typing:
Its all been done before.
Nothing is original anymore.
And when I rhyme,
its so sublime,
cause its all been done before.
Joseph's Big Mistake
--------------------
"I won't take shit from anybody" Joseph said, as he filed books at
the library he was employed. "Work sucks. IT FUCKING SUCKS." and
he continued to do so. Marcie, a cute teenager volunteer came to
him, "Joseph, um, wanna see a movie tonight?" And Joseph's reply?
"No, NO MARCIE. And DON'T ask me again."
Marcie walked away thinking, "Miserable bastard."
Joseph heard her thoughts.....
He spun around and yelled, "MISERABLE BASTARD!"
Marcie choked, turn blue like the sky, frozen like a tv dinner.
Joseph chuckled and thought, "Bitch, I hate Marcie, hate hate hate
hate...."
And he continued to work...
At 4pm Joseph was manically suicidal and insane.
At 4:15pm Joseph began humming softly...
"Her I am...Yes I am...I am the reaper, deeper, deeper."
Michelangelo Fausto, his manager heard him.
"Joseph, I worry about you sometimes." He said nervously.
And Joseph, "Don't make me angry, you wouldn't like me when I'm
angry."
And suddenly Joseph's eyes turned Albino, and he began getting
muscular, and his skin started turning dark green.
HA...Fooled you.
Actually, Joseph responded, "Mr. Fausto, oh Mr. Mr. Fausto, FUCK
YOU."
Joseph was fired.
At 5pm Joseph was home and picked up his mail.
ALL JUNK...
Except one letter. Typewritten addressed to him....Postmarked from
Washington, D.C.
He opened the letter.
Joseph exploded in flames (He died).
But the letter...It was left unscathed...And it said...
"You may have already won ten million dollars."
Bummer.
PARTING AT THE MARINA
---------------------
Smoking acid can't be done.
But we did drink alot of 22 ounce bottles of Bass Ale. Me and this
guy, and we sat there at the Berkeley Marina at the end of summer.
And end of an era (a virtual era). Still warm but the chilly San
Francisco air blowing across the bay. Trying to pry open beer
bottles with industry-placed boulders. Funny how things can seem
so natural but really its much too patterned to be real. Its all
mapped out, drop a rock here, a boulder there, maybe a three-
hundred year old redwood so the place has that "natural" look.
Cashing in on that beauty thing. But, THIS WAS ALL OBVIOUS.
And we stood there, very tall with posture at 100%. Two tall
characters drunk and stupid. Sort of traded off recent memories
about things gone bad or good. Mostly bad unfortunately. There
was a parting of friendship due soon, between the two of us in
question. And travellers must travel, THEY MUST. And it was
really obvious that he was going out for a US tour. For the first
time I decided (or actually, didn't even contemplate) not to go
with him. Didn't even strike me as odd. Just an old youth I
guess. And we traded arguments, starting them if the old ones
began to fizzle. Its all about defensive distancing. Its a given,
and deep down we knew these arguments were all from built up quams
we had but never voiced.
The Bass Ale went down well......And he left right then at:
10:14pm....
Onto the 80 and off to greater points known and unknown.
Happens Every Day (Reprinted from SHOCK VALUE)
----------------------------------------------
People with AIDS die in the gutters everyday. People without AIDS
die in the gutter everyday. Gay men are being beaten up in your
town. Straight pretty young women are being raped and murdered
near you. Small children are being stolen from their families by
fat old men. FUCKED, then killed. Cats being injected with
chemicals from the pleasure-seeking freak a block down the road.
And Jeffrey thought that injecting Muriatic acid into his victim's
brains would make them sex slaves.
"16 year old teenager stabs dad 57 times in the chest, eats heart,
pours gasoline on himself, burns to death in flames."
Aborted fetuses dripping from a woman into an unsuspecting toilet
in your local gas station. "Critically wounded man lies in
intensive care as gunman enters hospital to finish the job."
Man inserts penis into unsuspecting pooch as dog bleeds to death in
12 minutes exactly. Man cuts off aforementioned organ, shoots
himself in temple. Young woman from your town holds breath and
dies of suffocation. Senior Citizens starving to death in nursing
homes. Surgeon severs temporal lobe and sees god. Man performs
lobotomy on himself, walks to convenience store and dies next to
Slurpee machine. Child born addicted to crack, shakes in cradle
and dies. Age: 1 hour.
HAPPENS EVERY DAY.
All So Random
-------------
Would you fuck a guy (or a girl)....
If you found out....
That that person fucked cold burritos.
I bet your answer would be NO.
I suppose by now you think I am odd.
No sir, I am a sick man.
Or maybe a sick boy.
EITHER ONE, ITS ALL BAD.
And my brothers, I REALISE THIS.
They won't admit me to a crazy place.
If there was an empty room.
Victorian floors, third floor building.
All around is bay windows.
And in the middle of the room,
is a quivering bowl of green Jell-o.
NOW....
This may seem a bit arty.
But really, it's all a coincidence.
Because a bird, one of those big fuckin' crow things,
It smashed through the window, snapping its neck.
And guess where it landed?
No worry, I'll tell you.
It landed in the GREEN JELLO.
Kind of symbolic, isn't it?
A bird of the iconoclast.
Actually, I'm the iconoclast MISTER.
Hello? Still there?
Keep William Burroughs away from apples.
Keep his son away from alcohol.
Keep away from the goofa man.
Better yet. KEEP AWAY FROM ME.
Thank yew.
Adjectiveland
-------------
Okay. The encroaching pepper pigs. I was speaking of this earlier
in my rantings. Jeff was a lactatious and repulsive individual.
He spoke forth brilliant lyrics with witty coalescence. His meager
life was fueled with burning desire of lovingly hot and dissident
adjectives, as well as a bodaciously bustial and bright woman. Her
name was Lucious Grey and she made her home on 24th street near
23rd street. They made love. They made hot unadulterated steamy
wet spiritual unatrocious love in the cesspools of local gas
station bathrooms. LOVE, THEY WERE IN LOVE. But one sunny snowy
day in Montana near California, they were running through a field
of purple and golden daisies. He thought, him being JEFF, "Life is
like a tarantula, it is big if you're an ant." And she laughed and
laughed, "Your philosophy Jeff, its its.....ITS ABSOULUTELY SOULFUL
AND EXTRAVAGANT!" He shook a smuggish grin and conquered another
footstep towards heaven with his Adidas.
But then something happened. They stepped into a black hole of
hell. Placed incongruently in front of their very feet. They fell
at once and swirled into.....THE WORLD OF ADJECTIVES.
They ended up in Adjectiveland (near Disneyland) and this is what
henceforth happened:
First, their dripping smiles salivated confusion in the creamy
atmosphere. Then, her wet lips puckered and he projected his
bulging penis into his sweaty palms.
THEN, they bonded in matrimonial yet divorced sex.
The sky was flowingly orange and questioningly brittle.
The ground dripped upwards with liquid icicle dew.
The trees swayed to the mellow rhythm of King Crimson.
They were gone.
And they came, as liquid dispersed amongst the planets and the
twinkling daylight stars. And then it occurred to them. They were
in an assimilant copulation that only the old staked one, Jesus
Crust understood. Bleeding reams of effervescent mucal agony.
Their eyes protruded like wounded soldiers screaming from
radiation. And suddenly...
The sky turned black..They entered back into the hole where they
travelled to....
--- TO BE CONTINUED ---
Jack London Apartment (2/October/93)
------------------------------------
I chose the room near Jack London square. I live with three other
guys. One of them is a burned out Amish-looking musician that used
to be in punk bands but now plays country music with other wash-up
fellows like himself. The second guy is this ex-marine that is
fully into death metal. It really odd. He's never home, but when
he is, he cranks music like Deicide and Maleovelent Creation all
night long. Luckily, his room isn't near mine. The other guy is
a metal guy with long blond hair and a pretty girlfriend. He's the
coolest metal guy I know that plays guitar. Also the only metal
guy I know that doesn't have a super ego.
I'm not sure how I fit in. I have the back room which is very
small and never gets any sun. Its pretty depressing actually. The
BART tracks are about 30 feet from my window. The freight tracks
are about 100 feet away. There are steady train sounds 24/7, which
actually is pretty cool. The main guy has two dogs which basically
live outside my window. They are both super ugly and have full-
blown mange. I wouldn't touch them if someone paid me. I must
admit -- These dogs suck. If they aren't barking, its because I'm
throwing things at them from my window. Eventually I have thrown
everything I can and then they bark all night long in retaliation.
I guess this place is only temporary. Oh yeah - Here's a good one
-- I was smoking some hash and my room-mate (the washed-up one)
TELLS me to smoke him out. I'm like, "Are you serious?" and he
offers to buy what little I have. I told him I only had a little
and he kept bothering me. "Back in my day..." Blah blah...I
finally gave him some and he got more of a pain in the ass. I know
he got ridiculously stoned after smoking half a gram in front of
me, becoming more and more of a fuck as time went by. At that
point I decided that I'll be out of this uncool situation come
November (I suspect the other room-mates will follow suit). After
me yelling at him for ten minutes I got bored and headed down to
the tracks to space out and count boxcars as they passed by.
Jack London square is rad. Half of it is all washed up and looks
post-nuclear. The other half is super ritzy and modern and clean
and touristy. One block you think you're in Detroit, the next
block you're in Princeton. ...Anyway... Last night after smoking
alot of opiated hash I set out and ended up walking a mile down the
tracks. My mind was totally somewhere else and I almost got nailed
by a SP train. It was only going about 20mph but still scared the
shit out of me. Once it passed I hopped it to Emeryville and
walked around. Emeryville is such a worthless town. All for now.
Candyland
---------
I had this dream.
I was stuck inside CandyLand.
Maybe it wasn't a dream.
But there it all was...
In blurred pastels and the tasty smell of...
Molasses and Candycanes and sugardrops.
The sidewalk was colored squares.
The sky was composed of swirling fudge.
Little hits of LSD on the gingerbread house.
Ex-girlfriends wearing little girl dresses tromping around...
Tromping around with wicker Easter baskets with jellybeans in
them...
I hopped a fence into a backyard. The fence was made of green
licorice.
My hands got sticky from the sugar.
Man I tell you, it was really foreboding.
There were miles and miles of green string bubblegum grass.
Very weird if you ask me.
I had this dream.
Insert
------
Insert the paper.
And then you begin typing.
What is it?
I swear all women.
They are sent from the devil to corrupt mens lives.
AND REALLY, what are the odds?
The odds that you won't be shot down in your prime.
I'm not a pessimist, I'm a realist.
And then comes the question of celibacy.
Yeah. Kind of hard to comprehend these days.
And you know. Sex is really awesome.
Makes that cigarette taste that much better.
And your bedsheets sticky with fluid.
But NO! This is all bad.
Ladies & Gentlemen we are in trouble.
The trouble is...We just want to fuck and fall in love.
Hmm.. I guess thats not all bad.
Tugging on his leash...
-----------------------
As THC man slides the silent whisper, the sun peers above the
menacing clouds. The aimless one sits silently, in the center of
suspecting city, writing notepad gibberish, and atrocious rhyme.
The infrastructure is falling as it stands. A desperate attempt to
retain society.
Aimless one tugs on his leash. Unable to be free, he sits silently
in hope for someday. Meanwhile, buildings loom overhead casting
shadow on the scenario. Aimless one interjects, "Life is trivial."
A trickle of drool drips down his chin. Wipes drool off, lights a
cigarette, drinks carbonated soda. There's no time like downtime.
At this point we find aimless one mixing 7-Up with Scope. Stone-
cold drunk and fresh, minty breath. As THC man embarks to cloak,
The thing that shouldn't be, aimless one falls into depression,
tugging on his leash.
Who's that behind me?
---------------------
City paranoia,
like a model in a display case.
Life can be so silly sometimes.
There are no corners to hide in,
MAN.
How about those Red Sox?
How about nothing.
FUCK 'EM.
Those cameras are clicking away,
preserving the cliche indefinitely.
A good-year blimp named Jason Alex,
hovering over the displaced metropolis.
Where are my keys and,
what time is now?
Can't we all get along?
Channel 9 news at 10.
Channel 5 eyewitness news.
Here's a story, of a man named Brady.
New York's a crazy place,
a CRAZY place.
ALL - Berkeley Square
(A depressing show review)
Before I nod off into my drunken state...Let's recap, shall we?
So at the last minute I decide I'm going to walk down to Berkeley
Square and check out ALL that is playing. If you are familiar with
ALL, you will know that they exist of a greater band, The
Descendents. Yes, ALL as it were are more of a band that seems to
want to keep a dying flame lit. Perhaps that flame was
extinguished in 1986. So, being the sucker as I was (as per
usual), I had finished EVERYTHING that needed to be finished for
WR#12 and treated myself to a show. OOPS...
No matter WHAT people say, and no matter HOW old you are, ALL AGES
shows are very cool. It seems that people are always going down on
ALL AGES shows that have JUST TURNED 21. Interesting, isn't it?
Remember, you may get older, but you'll never grow up (hopefully).
After thinking I lost my money and going home, then discovering
that it was in my wallet the whole time, I was presented with ALL.
What happened man? And not to seem like an old timer (BECAUSE I AM
NOT) but I remember seeing them in 1988 with the Lemonheads in NJ
and they totally blew my mind. I guess by now you've realized that
they were WEAK at their very best points. So weak that I question
why I am writing about it. They again went through another singer
change and are writing more and more GREEN-DAY'ish songs every day.
"I love her, but she's gone, blah, blah, blah, etc, etc" type shit.
This stuff is good in moderation, but give me a fucking break man.
And of course, ALL would be absoulutely NOTHING without using
Descendents as a huge crutch. Which, honestly, were played pretty
well.. And listen, I'm not so aged that I saw a Descendents show,
but the songs were covered pretty well and I smiled, sipping on a
rum & Coke as teenagers everywhere seemed envious. So inbetween
all the mushy songs, they cranked out a new tune that was a total
jewel. Odd meters, 7's and 9's every few measures. Then came the
covers that sped things up, creating some overly violent moshing
and reckless stagediving. Funny. The pit starts when one person
decides to freak out, creating a trend that everyone in the whole
club follows. The encores were drawn out. Three encores that
nobody seemed to want.
So I'm walking home, ears ringing just like the old days, and the
payphone rings as I walk by it. I answer it and there's this guy
going, "Hey man, you want some head?" and I'm like, "Uh, (what?) no
man..." and he says, "Did you just come from the club down the
street?" and I respond, "Yeah, uh, I gotta go..." and then I hang
up. Now that's entertainment. Imagine, pimps looking out a motel
window for guys (like me I guess) that might want a quick blowjob.
Then he calls down, delivers a whore directly to your dick. The
bizarre beauty of convenience. And the rest is history.
What is it?
-----------
What is it,
about cockroaches these days.
They KNOW when you're out to get 'em.
Somehow they know that bathroom light,
it generally means death.
But they never really die,
they just double, triple, quadruple.
Wash down the bathtub drain, entering the sewers, where they mate
with the crocodiles, and then you know what.
AND THEN YOU KNOW WHAT...
Dysfunctional Thanksgiving
--------------------------
The streets empty,
and the only ones left are us localfolk,
with the missing families,
or the dead families,
or never had families to begin with...
Yeah...
We're the ones that climb old buildings,
squint at the Thanksgiving sun,
appreciate the day of solitude,
in an otherwise overcrowded urbania.
Have a slice of pizza and some overcooked coffee.
Smoke a joint and sentimentalize...
Those pilgrims...
They stole food from the indians...
When they landed on Plymouth Rock...
I think they meant...
THANKS FOR STEALING.
I'm afraid to report....
------------------------
March 22, 1994.
The green man began on the lime green IBM Selectric.
Writing a letter to me in Latin Hick Pig Prose.
And on the third sentence....
It left this world without a hitch.
No longer the hum I loved so much.
Its back to the pen.
Kermit the frozen typewriter.
Dead at 25 years.
I'll miss him.
(Note: Said Selectric transferred to green man during move. It
works now)
What happens when the Berkeley City Council teams up with the
Sproul Plaza Religious Zealots:
Repent all ye smokers while you still can. For it is Satan's
breath you so earnestly inhale. Breathe it in deeply, but know
that your Day of Judgment is close at hand. Know that as you
inhale Hell's fumes deep into your lungs that Satan rides the very
same firey trail into your heart. He courses through your veins.
Nay! He rides through your very soul and robs it of all that is
clean and pure.
Know that when you allow Satan's rod to part your lips, you give
him consent to do his will upon you. You can not run from him, for
he sucks the very life's breath from your body.
Become used to the smoke of fire and brimstone. For as you writhe
and burn in Satan's eternal fires you will breathe nothing but the
rancid fumes of your own burning pus dripping flesh.
To exhale in a public place is to condemn yourself to an eternity
of physical and mental suffering. To continue to cast aside the
unburnt stubs of cigarettes is to cast aside God's will. To ignore
the Surgeon General's Warning is to sign over your soul to the vile
Serpent himself. (Written by Dan)
Eric's view of the day...
-------------------------
It was a showery rainy day in lovely Seattle, Washington. Being so
it was a typical Northwestern day. Things were wet, skies were
grey, people were doing their thing. But today in Eric's mind was
his day off. He was a typist at a local rubber stamp company. He
spent eight hours a day staring at a green screen in an overlit
florescent fantasy. "But not today" he thought. Today will be a
great day where anything I do will be great because I'M NOT
WORKING.
Just sometimes...
-----------------
Sometimes life seems so monotonous.
The things I do seem to repeat everyday.
A lesson in Extremity Psychosis.
Its kind of hard to avoid working everyday.
Or more extreme...Eating everyday.
Some things seem so monotonous
Some things seem so monotonous
Some things seem so monotonous.
Neutron Marijuana
-----------------
Production.
We can produce things.
That people will...
HATE
ENJOY
Maybe even not give a shit.
As long as somebody will enjoy it.
Then I will be happy...
And maybe the person that enjoys it.
But hey man, we got jelly donuts,
so if no one really gives a shit...
IF WE PRODUCE...
THATS FUCKING FINE,
CAUSE WE GOT DONUTS.
Just for an encore...
---------------------
Fuck, I am hopelessly confused. Very confused. I'm doing and
thinking things that I think are odd (yes, mindfucking myself).
Funny thing - I've been drug-free for a long time (my last acid
trip was in September) - Maybe thats it. I'm not taking enough
drugs. Yeah.
MONEY! It sucks. I've been bred to want it. So reliant on it.
Especially mentally. All this mental shit in my head. Fucked up
youth crap, still treading on it; no control. This is SICK, isn't
it? But I need it to pay my currently inflated rent and my
addiction to food; zine; coffee. Thats enough, I disgust myself.
13 December 1993
----------------
FUCKING COCKROACHES. I smashed one last night on the bathroom wall
and this morning the fucker was completely alive stuck to the wall.
I SMASHED THE FUCKING THING.
If its still alive when I get home, I think I'm going to stick it
in a jar as a Rambo housepet.
"People bother me. This includes myself. I feel paranoid alot of
the time." Fuck. I need drugs - Prescription or not.
MID 80's hell on the radio (Safety Dance what the fuck?)
Lots of nutty dreams last night - Actually, not that odd.
IE: Freight train that turned into the back of a semi - The truck
driver saw us (?) and drove straight to the Berkeley Police
Department and made us get off. From there we crawled through a
fence and were about to hop another train and the dream ended.
Hmm...Do I dare get meaning from this? Nope...
Grandma's Den
-------------
Locked away in Grandma's Den,
its 20 below in Whitefish Bay,
all that cold wind slithering under.
Under the door.
So I stepped outside to take a walk.
The intention was the park a block away.
Two feet of solid snow.
Absoulutely the fucking coldest weather.
The Alaskan's call it "Angel's Breath".
So cold your breath crystallizes right in front of you,
falling to the ground like microfine glass dust.
Like Jesus walks on water; but snow.
Made it half way, and then...
My ears went numb, my hands too..
Then extreme pain, dizziness, uh oh...
My legs going numb...
So I ran home....
To Grandma's Den.
Ben's Therapy (hats off to Marco man)
-------------------------------------
Oh yeah. Tied me to the mental eclectic chair. Pump me full of
fluid (it was glowing blue and smelled sweet). I relaxed back into
my chair.
"Loosen these straps, man." But he didn't. About to lose
consciousness, the pork chop turned 11 and Snoopy was attacked by
a vicious lawnmower (John Deere I reckon). Where was Ben when I
needed him? And why are my dreams becoming reality? My only
possession, it was my sanity, now its the music box in my head,
playing carnival jigs at halfspeed.
Randumb Violence
----------------
The audacity of some people
Audacity: BOLD; Daring.
And another story about bullshit.
Okay, so I'm walking up Bancroft right?
Its 10pm and I've had that Pinball itch.
As I'm walking up the street, there are two black guys coming my
way.
This I pay no attention to.
As I rendezvous with them, the big one of the two,
twice my weight, twice my size.
He grabs my coat and says, "Hey man..."
And I say, "Hey..." and pulled my jacket back.
But his grip was good. He tried pulling me closer to him.
So I pulled hard, releasing his grip, and said,
"What the fuck are you doing man?"
And he stumbles and throws a really meager punch.
A punch that (as meager as it was) would knock me out for hours.
But being wired I quickly dodged him and continued walking.
Like nothing happened.
I suppose I was in some shock.
His friend continued walking and yelled back to him, "What the fuck
man?"
REALLY. What the fuck?
So thats the really the end. Or is it?
I'm not going to die a bullshit death.
This random violence thing is getting old.
Moby-No-Sober (By Moby)
-----------------------
Wake up you motherfucker
the day is leaving yer ass in the dust
what the fuck ya gonna do
yer shit is for sale and no joke, ass wipe.
the alarm goes off
says "get yer shit outta bed, ya sick fuck."
He said he had trouble waking up in the morning
so we offered to go by and rattle his cage.
the dumbshit said okay.
So at three in the morning we threw a brick through his window
and yelled and screamed until he woke up and screamed:
"Get the fuck outta here ya fucking freakazoid."
Sittin' in the rathole,
wonderin' where the hell old Tony went
then there is a rap on the window
and I look outside and there he is
"come and let me in" he says
and I tell my guests "excuse me please"
but I get so sidetracked
that I leave his plight behind
Forget about that motherfucker
poor sick bastard
left that motherfucker out
he is probably still pissed at me
There was a cute little cat
on the stairs....
And I was nice to it
and liked the little bastard
really.
But that night I had the most fucked dream,
I was running down the street with an arcade token in my hand
and there was a payphone ringing and ringing
and as I got closer to the booth the ringing got louder and louder
until I finally caught fire and disappeared.
Incidently,
a sharp dressed fellow showed up and lead a seminar
about personal responsibility and on crowd control
go figure...
WE ARE NOT CUNTS
----------------
Stoned and staggering. Perplexion entered the Peppermint man,
"Now, is it Monday or Tuesday." Ben, clothed in fine tweed threads
and shined black dress shoes.
"Hello Peppermint." Ben gestured.
"Hello Ben." Peppermint replied.
They sat together at an overcrowded cafe. Beautiful women
everywhere. But nobody knew them. Nobody knew who they were.
They were two classy lookin' dudes. Not college looking, but
rather post-college. Not graduate student, but with the overworked
look of one. As far as anyone else was concerned, they were
nobody.
The sirens overtook the scene. Ben raised his voice as the fire
engine passed, "YEAH THEY'RE ALL CUNTS." Uh oh. Peppermint was
about to reply, in a positive manner, when suddenly, everything
changed. The pretty women surrounding them, they heard. The
espresso machine operator winced; shook in fear.
"Man, that was pretty loud." Peppermint whispered.
"Yeah, it was huh?"
A tall woman, maybe 21, about 6 foot 2, long brown hair,
anatomically correct figure, she came up to them. "Excuse me?" she
questioned Ben. Ben looked up, fixing his gaze on her body,
"Uh....Umm...I was just saying..." Peppermint stopped him, "Don't
listen to him." She stood, pissed as hell, staring at Ben.
And then she tore into him, making an outright scene in the cafe.
"You're the kind of guy I wish I could kill..." Ben sunk into his
chair.
"That's why I always come prepared."
The tall Amazonian goddess opened her jacket and pulled a large
automatic handgun out. She embraced it firmly between her two
hands and pointed it towards Ben.
Ben flinched, shook, nearly falling out of his chair. He couldn't
believe it. "Woah, I wasn't talking to you. You gonna shoot me
because I said CUNT?" Her body jerked, her face turned pale, her
hands began to quake.
"Yes." She said in a calm voice.
Loaded. Caulked. Aimed. BLAM. Let the games begin.
ROUND 1 - A perfect hit into the forehead. A perfectly round hole
and a small stream of blood.
ROUND 2- Ben succeeds in falling over; landing on his back. He is
still alive. Breathing heavily, a lead bullet cozy in his
cerebellum.
ROUND 3- Grazing Peppermint's nose, drawing much blood.
ROUND 4- Just in case Ben was still alive. This was a direct hit
to his heart. BEN IS DEAD
ROUND 5- Peppermint is quite nasal sounding. He gets up out of
his chair and begins running out the front door. The woman calmly
aims the gun, right at the back of his neck. A DIRECT HIT.
Peppermint goes down, stumbling forward, smashing through the plate
glass window, landing on the sidewalk. PEPPERMINT IS DEAD.
Applause ensues. The woman blows the smoke from the gun, puts it
back in her purse and continues studying her book, "WE ARE NOT
CUNTS."
DOGS WILL DIE
-------------
Dogs will die,
from heart congestion,
from old age, bad health, you know.
'Twas a late-night in Cincinnati,
the dogs 'a lurchin' heavy,
he's got a smoker's cough.
Really heavy; foreboding,
he's on his way out...
And he has that...
Look of confusion on his face
"Why can't I breathe?"
So..What should I do?
Nothing to be done....
He begins panting heavily...
And then looks dazed.
He makes a 360 degree turn,
looks at me...
Leans forwards, head cocked.
THEN, he tips.
DOWN FOR THE COUNT.
His muscles tense, he seizes.
There goes his heartbeat.
Then he loses facial control -
Everything goes loose.
Some heavy flinching.
Ventricular Fibrillation.
I could see the last few pulses of blood,
pump through his purple tongue.
And for several minutes,
for a few seconds,
he'd come back to life,
even roll his eyes,
wave his tail.
At this point, he was gone.
And eventually, he stopped.
DOGS WILL DIE.
The realities of pumping cum
----------------------------
Pumping cum into the arteries like heroin,
there are many testosterone crazed individuals....
That want their balls cut off so they don't rape anyone...
And estrogen-crazed females....
That would rape a cute tall guy in a minute...
And a savage dog...
That tries to hump a human leg.
Or a wild bull,
pumping its mate with creamy white flow.
This is all natural.
Ain't it a beauty?
Oh what a mirage...
-------------------
Hot summer nights to contend with. Thick enough to cut the air
with a sword. Caught up in this hot little hole of an apartment.
The fans are so loud I can't even hear my ringing ears. Rattling
of the water pipes, crawling of Backbay rats through the walls.
Even the centipedes that streak across the wall like lightning;
they're hot. Oh the heat. Will it ever end? This wetness that
saturates your mind with dizziness and sleepiness. But you can't
sleep. Just lay there with your clammy nude self, stuck to your
damp sheets. Thinking of the loveliness of laying naked in a fresh
snow. Oh what a mirage...
<BEGINNING OF MISCELLANEOUS>
GREEN DAY, the world's biggest band.
Articles/Cutouts/Clippings from the Hatch Shell riot...
Alex's TOP-TEN FOODS (revised edition)
1. Zona Rosa veggie burritos (Berkeley)
2. Gazpacho soup
3. Taco bell 7-layer burritos
4. Mashed potatoes, corn, pork chops
5. Bagel w/ chive spread, purple onion, tomato.
6. Ham & cheese croissant
7. Korean BBQ @ Durant center, Berkeley
8. Intermezzo chef salad (Berkeley)
9. Bongo Burger. $1.98 breakfast (Berkeley)
10. <All of the above> with extra cheese.
Ten things I really want to happen (1994 edition):
1. Pressrun of 10,000 (including Europe)
2. A car, a 16mm camera, free film, spending money, free gas (any
takers?)
3. A grant in the name of "creative license"
4. Live until i'm 25
5. Get rid of a few useless states.
6. Disease-free & immune to Lung Cancer.
7. Plastic surgery kit for penises.
8. Three girlfriends all named "Gob is rod"
9. A computer & a printer & other shit
10. Free rent for the rest of my short life.
Cometbus #31
------------
I'm always psyched when Cometbus comes out. Maybe cause they're
yearly. Who knows. But Aaron has got a bunch of cool travel
stories and he's a good writer too. This 80 something page 'zine
was read cover-to-cover twice in one week. This is an awesome
issue. POB 4726, Berkeley, CA 94704. (Send two bucks...)
HOW TO PLAY T W E A K E R C H E S S ....
-------------------------------------------
Okay. This is rad. Read carefully. First off, here's the board
setup:
OK. Color wise, the black king should be on white, and white king
on black. Once you've set up (make sure everything is setup
correctly), then you're ready to play.
Most all the normal chess rules are in effect except pertaining to
castling. In order to castle, you simply swap the rook for king.
You cannot castle with the queens rook at any time. Also, you
can't castle after you've moved the king, which means its a good
idea to decide early in the game.
Okay. White goes first obviously. Probably the best opening is
queens knights pawn one (or two) spaces. This is a naturally smart
move in normal chess, but just as smart in Tweaker Chess. As you
see, it opens up both of your bishops at the same time.
Also, your knights are very menacing, because they can control many
squares early in the game (with that, they are great at home or far
away). The rooks are in good places, but (just like normal chess)
take a bit longer to get out in the open.
The pawns take on a bigger role in the game because they are much
easier to protect. So I would then say that (like in normal Chess)
that pawn structure is very important.
The queen is a very big menace. Infact, if the queen gets out into
the field safely, she can simply control the whole game. However,
it is hard for the queen to checkmate early.
Although (as you see) the queen faces a direct diagonal from the
opposing king, I put the rook and knight next to him so there are
several safe ways out. Both sides face this dilemma, which should
encourage castling or other proper defenses. An earlier version of
Tweaker Chess had the knight next to the king. This was bad
because if given a chance, a bishop can run directly in front of
the king, being backed up by the queen, and checkmate. So with the
rook in this new place, it may block a check. From then on, if
bishop takes rook (and depending on your situation) then king can
move in to rooks spot. Of course you'll recognize other details as
you play more.
One other thing about castling: As in normal chess, you can't
castle into a space that the opposite side controls.
About queening: I'm not positive, but I think queening your pawn
is much harder than in normal chess. I made it a little bit more
feasible by saying that you queen diagonally and that you take any
piece that may be in that square. Also, you don't have to get a
queen. And, you can get eight queens if possible.
OTHER NOTES....
Note that the rooks are on opposite colors. Also note that the
same amount of pressure exists with them because they still face
each other.
Note how bishops can backup each other. This surely is a menace
and in most situations a gambit decision.
If one side loses the queen, I think (in most cases) the game is
still undecided. IE: the queen isn't as important in Tweaker
chess.
If a queen or rook gets to the opponents side, they can generally
take many pieces before being threatened. It may even be worth
sacrificing your queen if you can take the majority of your
opponents pieces (I call this the "banzai" strategy)
In normal chess, any piece can be a severe threat based on the
circumstance. In Tweaker Chess this also applies but pay special
attention to the rooks, the bishops, and the knights. The way they
are setup (the bishops and knights because of their initial
position, the rooks because of their proximity to the king) makes
them much more threatening.
Once you're confident enough, try playing 5-minute games (after
which its a draw) or ten-second-per-move games.
I don't have enough time in my life to explain wrap-around Chess,
but if you know how to play, I suggest trying the Tweaker version.
Also, long Chess, where you have two chess boards connected
together (lengthwise) is always a treat.
Every other rule should be played in the name of tournament chess.
Whereas a single king has 20 moves to avoid checkmate (which then
is a draw). No single move may be repeated more than three times.
(ie: white starts, white ends, black must go elsewhere.) Blah
blah.
IN CLOSING....
I've played this game about two hundred times as of this writing.
I am pretty certain i've covered everything needed to play the
game.
BUT, I know there are millions of possibilities and strategies. If
you find errors and/or discrepancies in this game, please contact
me so I can update the rules, or possibly consider the whole game
stupid. HAVE FUN.
ALEX'S SPRINGTIME READING
-------------------------
As the winter tapers off, I spend a lot more time exploring
Berkeley. When I happen across a cool place, I'll absorb some sun
and read a book. Here are my recommendations and not:
Gulliver's Travels (Jonathan Swift) - In a nutshell, this is the
coolest fantasy book i've encountered. Its super imaginative, its
humorous, and its 250 years old. Highly recommended sunny day
reading. Make sure its unabridged.
Basketball Diaries (Jim Carroll) - Well, I was recommended to read
this book. I spent some time looking for it and when I did get it,
I was excited to begin reading it. Unfortunately, the book, which
is about a kid that grew up relatively normal and then got hooked
on smack, is a totally passe subject as far as I'm concerned.
Every damn young autobiographical writer writes about their heroin
experiences. I don't know. I don't particularly like his writing
style, and he writes a book that is boring and hauntingly
predictable. Skip this one.
Houses of the Dead (Fyodor Dostoevsky) - Something drew me to read
this again. This book is a fucking sad account of a man in prison
for political crimes. It is pitifully depressing and seemed to
ruin my best of moods. Read only if you're feeling TOO happy.
Dharma Bums (Jack Kerouac) - In a nutshell (again) this book is
about a man trying to find out who he is. Alot in her about
drinking wine, bathing baked with friends, meditating in the
Sierras, you know. Very "beat" esque. Also a very Bohemian
slacker feel. I read this because my green man friend recommended
it. It was cool, but I sort of grew weary of their Zen rantings
and spiritual/poetry conversations. "On the Road" was much more
interesting to me.
Sentimental Education (Gustave Flaubert) - I'm only 40 pages into
this, but its looking mighty good. I guess its about life in
France in the 1800's. Centered around his youth, I bought it
because of the back page, "I know nothing more noble" wrote
Flaubert, "Than the contemplation of the world." Awesome.
A FEW MEAGER MOVIE REVIEWS
--------------------------
WAYNE'S WORLD 2 - Reviewing this movie probably tells you that i'm
a piece of shit; you're right. This movie fucking sucks. The
first one fucking sucked, this fucking sucks worse. I am a fucking
loser for going to this fucking sucky movie. FUCKING AVOID THIS
FUCKING MOVIE AT ALL FUCKING COSTS. P.S. It was FUCKING FREE and
I was FUCKING HIGH as FUCKING HELL. ("Fucking" Count: 11).
FEARLESS - This doesn't suck as much as the aforementioned "MOVIE".
Caught in a fruitless loop of mitosis and pointless non-emotion.
Really makes you wonder what the point of life is. Always makes
you look forward to sleep.
FREAKED - Great tweaker film with washed-up celebrities (Brooke
Shields, Mr. T, Randy Quaid). Highly recommended for those into
mind-altering substances (LSD, DMT, Lacquer Thinner).
SLACKER - (I missed this one). Get it?
PULP FICTION - Mr. Tarantino did a fine job on this film. I've
seen it four times already. I won't go into details, but I will
say that this movie is better than Resevoir Dogs, bloodier than
Scarface, and has a GREAT soundtrack. Minus a few points for a
crazy fucked-up layout of the separate stories. Bad seguing if you
ask me.
<BEGINNING OF TRAVEL SECTION>
Saratoga Street - A definition.
-------------------------------
The Saratoga street household is quaint. Its location is in the
center suburbs of East Boston. I'd guess at least 80% of the
population is working-class Italian, the rest being students and
people such as myself. In order to get to Saratoga street, you
have to catch the green line to the blue line and get off on Wood
Island. This (T) stop is the most makeshift I've seen yet. Then,
after a 15 minute walk around, through the suburbs and past a few
sketchy bars, you're there. I get to sleep in the basement. My
rent is 75 bucks and my neighbors are a loud washer and dryer.
When laying down, I can see the under-workings of this beat-up
house. Complete with neverending electrical wires and toilet pipes
that go directly over my head. Every time someone flushes a
toilet, I hear the whole thing. The water rushing begins at one
corner of the basement and travels through pipes, over my head, and
outside to wherever. I can visualize random feces rushing through.
This provides for some peculiar dreams. For example:
I've been here long enough now that I sleep through people washing
clothes and Paul practicing his drums. The people upstairs are an
interesting lot. The couple both work at a pet store and are
constantly bring home new snakes, Siberian gerbils, whatever. The
girl keeps the gerbil in the refrigerator to prevent it from
overheating. She also claims to have 589 separate personalities.
The guy is constantly playing with snakes and never talks except to
ask his girlfriend if he can go to the bathroom. Its sort of
strange. But they're friendly people and they let me bum smokes
from them.
10/16/91
Well, here's the first entry. Wow. Things have been moving
quickly. Tim decided to come to California with me. It was a very
dangerous decision in many ways. I think I might regret it, but at
the same time, the two of us together will provide for some insane
thrills. The U-haul with all the music shit was too heavy for the
Honda, and not long after leaving the transmission went. We're
here in Morgantown, PA at the Conestoga Wagon motel. Tim is
jumping on the bed and I'm high as hell on Dramamine. Funny thing,
its supposed to stop you from ralphing, but I feel pretty sick.
The Dramamine is only a small portion of what we brought with us.
We're pretty much stocked for a nuclear war. Anyway, the car is in
some dinky auto shop down the road. The hicks that worked there
received us badly and said it would be a week before the car was
ready. I offered a certain "bribe" and it'll be ready in a few
days.
We walked around the town looking for action, but to no avail.
This town has nothing to offer except a few mediocre restaurants
and skyscraper-sized power poles. We went to a NAPA and bought a
whole bunch of spray paint. Mostly silver and florescent orange.
Tim wants to fully trip out the car and paint the tires orange.
When we left only a small handful of people seemed to really give
a shit. Obviously my dad was completely freaked out, and Tim's
parents were equally delirious. Thank god for being the age of 18.
Alot of people thought that we were completely insane. Mostly
because there is a ton of acid floating around and we had been
binging on it for two weeks. Infact, I'm just coming down now,
which reminds me, time to take more. Life can be so good
sometimes. I suppose you could call our lives "virtual reality."
And not in the campy corny sense. It might also be that every
single motherfucker that I called a friend pointed out how fucked
up I am, how crazy and incorrigible I am. Of course I really don't
believe them, I'm just not quite as bland. I really don't know
what the hell I'm saying. Frying my brain with King Crimson's
Neurotica. Now Tim, he's a fucked-up guy, maybe able to be the
craziest person alive if he strives for it. I mean, we totally
deal with each other, both in the eighth dimension all of the time.
But after he was formally introduced to acid, he completely
disconnected. But again, it was all for the better.
We really haven't decided yet, but I think we'll end up somewhere
in Northern California. But if we find somewhere cooler along the
way, we just might make that home for a while. I'm so into the
idea of making some new friends. I'm totally into the idea of
absorbing culture that isn't so closed-minded and predictable like
in New Jersey. Wow, this room is messed up. The carpet is thick
enough to swim in. It looks so dirty its almost intentional. Oh
yeah, Nirvana just completely broke into the mainstream. There's
even a video on MTV now. Thats fucked up. Would have never
guessed a band like Nirvana could be so big. Then again, Primus
did it and they're totally quirky.
Ben Selenium's Travels (With respects towards Marco)
----------------------------------------------------
It was a warm day in Berkeley California. The men and women were
actively chatting in beautifully gifted American verse and the kids
were playing in the park. Ben realized how blue sunny days made
him happy. Unfortunately, he was not a happy soul. He was a
gifted average American. His tall and thin body, his bespectacled
eyes and his shortblack hair. He was on a quest for survival. He
had just broken up with his true love and he felt empty and
unloved.
Late that night, after the blue skies had faded to black and the
sun was in Japan, he realized that was a run-on sentence. So
instead, he rewrote the line reading "I went to Jupiter and drank
a few beers. There were many pretty women there. I felt out of
place. I felt that everyone knew I was sad. I felt invaded by
alien people. I felt cut off from people just like me. I just
wanted to get drunk and fall asleep. Maybe my dreams would be
better."
He wrote that upstairs where the vintage people and pinball
machines interacted with each other. Things were dismal. He had
a hundred bucks in his pocket and he wanted to spend every red
penny on microbrew.
"I felt like god was punishing me. It was scary. I don't believe
in god." A waiter came to him and asked, "Why not get a pitcher?"
as he grabbed six empty pint glasses from the table. And to the
question Ben responded, "I have friends you know." and the waiter
stepped away looking quite perplexed.
Ben surveyed his surroundings and found a young girl that made his
gaze. His bleak smile was greeted by a harsh look and a sigh as
she got up and walked out of the bar. He wondered...
"It always seems so dead in this town. But I know somewhere people
are laughing and fucking and having a great time. I know there are
women out there thinking they are disconnected too. I KNOW IT. I
KNOW..."
And Ben continued to think about all the lost souls living in his
town. People who had purposely (or not) disconnected themselves
from other people. They feel alienated, they feel guilty,
depressed. They feel the problem lies in themselves and that life,
as entertaining as it seems to be, is nothing more interesting than
death. And Ben was beginning to find that death seemed good. Like
an eternal dream where all his problems and confused emotions would
lay to rest and he could relax, be happy, feel content, feel alive.
And that night, that night, is the night that Ben began to lose his
grip on Sanity; and Society. And he wondered, "Sanity is
society..." And he thought about that alot. "Sanity is society.
I can't handle society, I must be insane." His thoughts backlogged
until his thought processes slowed and lurched forward at
halfspeed. His mind drew blanks and certain thoughts would
disappear the moment he conjured them. And he realized this. It
scared him. He thought, "I am going crazy, and I know it, and I'm
continuously diagnosing my condition." And that drew him deeper
into a confused stupor. He rest back in his chair and crossed his
long legs.
To be continued.
10/28/91
Sunny Pomona, California. And I thought things couldn't get any
weirder. We ran out of drugs and began sobering. That was the
biggest trip yet. Thank god this shit isn't addictive. The
apartment we got is ok. It has a really fucked up feeling to it.
Shannon and Darren brought over a bunch of dilapidated furniture.
Mostly super cushy reclining chairs and weird lamps from the
seventies. We've been spending alot of time sitting around and
tripping on things. Kind of an odd pastime. I have to admit, the
pot here is absoulutely magnificent. Today consisted of waking up
in a pitch black apartment, eating some weird health food mix,
drinking Lucky Lager, and playing chess whenever we get tired of
getting high. Shannon comes over pretty often and tells us about
the outside world. Tim ventured outside earlier this afternoon and
must have bought ten colored lightbulbs, a million sticks of
incense, and a huge box of Captain Crunch. We quickly removed
every white lightbulb and replaced them accordingly. REALLY WEIRD.
I don't know what the fuck I'm thinking, or Tim, or anybody else
for that matter. I'm in a really weird state of shock. Everything
has some sort of weird magic to it. And even crazier than that is
when I'm sober everything seems to rattle a little bit. This I
can't express, but its sort of like living inside of an idling car.
Tim took some acid with an ant stamped on them. I think he took
too much cause everybody else fully winced when he ate five of
them. Now Shannon is saying that Tim is in his room on his bed
making weird squeaky noises. Infact, I think he's totally gone.
Wow. Be right back..
Fuck man...He's like all cramped up and I was like, "You ok, man?"
and he was just making this squeaking and crying sounds. I told
him he'd be ok, and he looked at me, totally looking insane and
lost and was like, "I'm a cockroach, you have to help me." And the
first thought I had was totally not believing it. Then I thought
again and completely knew where he was coming from. So much that
I sort of freaked out with him. Very eerie feeling indeed. He's
got his window blacked out and the blacklight on. Shit, two in the
afternoon and we're like acid and pot junkies. Bizarre.
ANN ARBOR - 1/28/94
9:30am
Well, after the dog died at 2am, I got the willies and couldn't get
to sleep. So I made two pots of dangerously strong coffee and got
myself thoroughly wired. Then I walked around the house in a
frenzy trying to hold the puke down. Then I got super cabin fever
and decided to take off to Ann Arbor:
Hey..Hmm...Route 75 North in th' morning. En route to Detroit. Uh
Ann Arbor. Driving again, what a great feel. Quiet; serene; very
few cars. This is my first long drive in a year. Super open out
here. Very MidWest-ish, like if you've never been here, you could
imagine it anyway.
10:18am BOWLING GREEN OHIO
Home of the Tractor Pulling Association. Also home of the American
Legion. Damn, this town is super-white. I'm eating an Egg
Mcmuffin. Never realized how much these feel like foam in your
mouth. Damn, this shit is nasty. I can see the campus from here.
What would make anyone go to this school? What would you study
here? Cow Surgery 101? Heh heh. Yeeeea Hawwwww...Gotta get past
Detroit before the lunch rush... Heh Heh..Shit - I'm hella sleepy.
10:52am MICHIGAN
11:25am Ann Arbor
Ahh - Ann Arbor - Downtown Ann Arbor. In the freezing cold sub-
zero snowy midwest. Why couldn't Ann Arbor be next door to
Berkeley? Pretty much the same thing. I dunno - I haven't
recognized anything from the past yet. Its a trip knowing that I
lived here for 10 years and I hardly remember things. I'm kind of
glad that its winter - I remember the winter most.
I treated myself to a double mocha. The cafe's here look identical
to the Berkeley ones. Sort of arty, spacious, full of students and
random malcontents. The campus is so huge. I never knew there
were 40,000 students. Lots of really rad stores too. And FINALLY,
I found a city that has a great selection of weekly papers (not
forgetting Austin). Some of them worth framing. The guy that
works here does a 'zine called, "Before the end..." he just started
it and he gave me a copy. I told him I'd mail him a copy when I
get home. I did alot of exploring through the campus. The women
(like in Berkeley) are all drop-dead gorgeous (for the most part),
I was getting alot of looks. I'm not sure if they are bad or good.
I went deep into the suburbs and went back to my old house. There
used to be woods behind it, but since then they ripped them down
and built condos. (go figure). The street is really steep, and
there was ice everywhere, I must have fallen 5 times on the way
down. These fuckin' shoes suck. I also ran into a girl that I
could have sworn I went to elementary school with. I told her who
I was and she was like, "Um, I don't know you." She was fully cold
so I figured that it didn't matter anyway. At one point during my
walk, I became fully sentimental and began Deja Vu'ing like crazy.
I sat inside the Fleetwood Diner, which I frequented when I was 9
or 10. I sat there and drank watery coffee and did some mental
masturbation. I talked to the waitress, whom seemed oddly
familiar. I didn't touch on the subject because of the last girl
I spoke to. Later on I found out that I went to elementary school
with her. There was a Rocket from the Crypt flyer on the telephone
pole outside. That sort of brought home the universal punk
feeling. Whatever that is.
Also when I was younger, me and my friend Po would go to this
arcade called Mickey Ratts (?). It was this super seedy house with
a million rooms with games in them. My mom didn't want me to go
there because she said people smoked pot and got stabbed. With my
50 cent allowance I'd go there and play 4 games of Space Invaders
(the pinball version). So I slipped and slided over to where I
thought it was, and it changed its name to Pinball Pete's. I went
inside and it was still a labyrinth of rooms, and all the same
games were there, totally destroyed and non-operational. And the
messed up thing was that there was only one pinball machine and it
didn't have a left flipper. Oh well. That was a washout, so I
went into a few bookstores and looked for some books (makes
sense.). I didn't find any so I went to another cafe that was like
a mall or something. There were so many rooms with chairs and
tables and espresso bars and faggy wall art and photos. It was
super crazy. I asked them for a "Bianca Mocha" and the guy behind
the counter fully laughed. We got to talking and it turned out
that he's from Berkeley. "There isn't a single cafe that has white
chocolate." That didn't stun me so much, so I got a cup of black
coffee. It was so watery that I bought a shot of espresso to put
in it. This brought on instant sickness and reminded me that I
hadn't slept in two days. I drank it solemnly watching
"alternative" girls talk about boots. I was going to greet them
but when they starting discussing the Red Hot Chili Peppers and
Nirvana, and who was cooler, and what T-shirt should they buy. I
got turned off and made my exit. When the sun went down, it must
have dropped 30 degrees, cause my hands and feet instantly froze
and my face was numb. I decided it was time to give up for the
day, so I headed back to the car and went to the Days Inn.
END
Christmas Fantasy
-----------------
One microdot fantasy after another.
It was Christmas day and there was nothing planned for myself.
However, broken families are everywhere, and I wasn't alone.
Woke up, got out of bed, sketched on the shower...
I wore green socks... And a red t-shirt.
Brian stopped by at 1pm and we went to Chris's house.
He lived in a cramped shack near College by campus.
The streets were dead. Nothing was stirring man, not even
Telegraph.
The panhandlers were being generous.
At Chris's house we conceptualized about a few things.
There were crudely strung Christmas lights and no EGG NOG.
But there was Devil Mountain Ale and deli sandwiches. Good enough.
And eventually we ate some acid.
It wasn't very strong. But things did get weird and we picked up
a few battered acoustic guitars and watched Chris sing country
songs several octaves too low.
It was so funny that Tom nearly shit hit pants. That began an
eternal grin that didn't leave my face for two days.
There was a weird feel in the air. Battle of the superpowers...
Nobody really won...Lots of debating and general acid tweaking.
Tom and I left back for my house and spaced for a while.
Tom went home.
Now its 5pm and Christmas is still going on.
the neverending day for dysfunctional families.
Or rather, for children of dysfunctional families.
Always the question, "When will it end?"
And then Jack called.
"Want to go to a Christmas party?"
"Um, yeah sure (excited). Where?"
"In San Francisco." he says.
Now i'm thinking, "can I handle people on LSD on CHRISTMAS?"
I can hardly handle people sober.
"Yeah, come over."
And Jack is on his way.
Meanwhile I try to read a 'zine I picked up a few days back.
Impossible to read.
I just lay there looking at this pronounced crack on the ceiling.
Looked alot like a snake. But I'll spare the details.
We hopped on the Berkeley BART. Jack showed me a cool BART scam.
My attention was diverted. Jack sort of let me relax and didn't
expect any sort of realistic conversation.
I rambled...rambled...and so on and so forth.
And that microdot that I took before we left. Uh oh.
I forgot how strong that stuff is.
And when we got off at Civic Center,
everything was a stereotypical acid trip.
With the multitude of colors (especially the black asphalt).
And the quirky annoyances like cars; people; bright lights, you
know.
But I kept my composure.
Afterall, it was Christmas everywhere.
And Thanksgiving was a washout,
so I was thankful for Christmas.
And finally we ended up (years later) at the party.
Lower Haight & Mission.
A brisk & clear San Francisco night.
Twinkling stars, bus fumes, the clanking of 40 ounce bottles.
Entrance:
Oh shit, I shouldn't have come. My heart virtually murmured.
Lots of pretty women dressed very nicely.
I think I was casted wrong for this role.
Ham, red wine, candles, hardwood floors.
Europeans & Bohemian-looking types.
Instant sweat collects on my brow.
"Alex, this is ...." Jack introduces.
"Uh, hi, (long pause)....Hey."
"Nice to meet you Alex. Can I take your jacket?"
Etcetera and whatnot...Formal introductions...blah blah..
I'm not used to this stuff.
And I wish they'd put out those fucking candles; too bright.
More Christmas lights. These were strung elaborately.
I spent an hour looking at them.
Aware of what I was doing, but enjoying it.
I wanted to get up and yell "HEY! I'M TRIPPING, I CAN'T HELP IT!"
But I sat on a corner sofa playing with a vicious kitten.
Occasionally aweing at beautiful women and sipping on great wine.
Jack felt comfortable and would occasionally check on me.
"Are you ok?" he'd say curiously.
"Yeah, you knowwwwww, drugs."
And he'd grin and walk away.
I was completely terrified to enact conversation.
Mostly hoping that nobody knew I was there.
I just wanted someone to put the FUCKING candles out. Never
happened.
The view was spectacular. One of the gorgeous women was sitting in
front of the window. I stared beyond her looking at the
landscapes.
She was intimidating me with her beauty.
But I kept on.
Playing with the kitten,
staring at the Christmas lights,
eavesdropping on conversations.
"Do you want to leave?" Jack asked
"Yes." I offered
And he bid farewells as I surveyed the guests and tried not to
freak out.
A walk to Market street.
Hopped on the BART.
On the way back to Berkeley.
THANK GOD.
Jack and I got in a conversation that turned philosophical and
mostly psychopsychotic.
I was in a shitty mood. I had no fun.
He was content; that was good.
And that was Christmas.
HASH ADVENTURES
---------------
It twas the night before Tuesday,
took the BART from Berkeley,
right when it stopped,
at 12:35
Thought to myself, "BART SUCKS, isn't 24 hours."
on the way to SF.
Looked out the window, nothing was there.
Except lights, cities, people, cars, urbania, and the like.
I ran up and down the car, nobody was there; but me.
The moon was waxing, no actually it wasn't.
Well, maybe.
When I got to SF,
I felt good but I didn't know why.
Maybe cause I found a hundred bucks on the platform.
I took that hundred bucks and found a 24 hour restaurant.
I wasn't hungry. I just wanted to look at people like me.
They were quirky acid people.
The kind you always find at 24 hour places.
They were drinking black acid oil coffee. That's the good kind.
They looked at the hundred bill kinda funny.
LIKE IT WASN'T REAL.
But it was, REALLY.
I walked all around the city,
met this guy named Jack.
We had nothing in common......NOTHING.....
So we talked about nothing
all the way back to BART....
sat there until dawn...
and then it came...
and then it came....
PURPLE DAY....
So I hopped on the BART....
through the tunnel and back to
BERKELEY....
NEW ORLEANS
-----------
It was 8:30pm - We drove energetically into New Orleans. At this
point on our trip we had already been to all the awesome North and
South East attractions. South of the Border, for those who haven't
been there, is a completely whacked tourist mecca in literally the
middle of nowhere. Lots of big stores; restaurants; and TONS of
neon everywhere. Highly recommended, but leave the LSD in the car.
We had been to the Florida swamplands, bought boiled peanuts in
Southern Georgia, stopped whenever we saw fucked-up abandoned
backwoods houses (one house we stopped at was severely destroyed
and had two hand-painted signs. One read "Gunsmith", the other
read "Thanatos". Which means "death" in Latin. Eerie is right.
So anyway, we were very happy to be in New Orleans. It was
December 28th and 80 degrees at night. We changed to our summer
attire, rolled down the windows, cranked Rocket, stuck our bare
feet out the window, and rolled up Drum we bought in North Carolina
(sidenote: we visited the worlds largest cigarette store. It was
the size of an airplane hanger. We bought cartons of name-brand
cigarettes for $4.99 - And an 8-pack box of Drum for $6.00.)
Life was grand. Living in Berkeley I sometimes forget what torture
winters are like elsewhere. Coming from New Jersey to New Orleans
was an orgasmic thought in itself. I digress.
We ended up there on a Friday night which honestly sucked because
it would have been cooler to see ten thousand people stumble down
Bourbon St. on maybe a Monday morning. You still there? Anyway,
FU and I were a great attention getter. Fu was pretty punk looking
and I sort of looked like a stereotypical nobody. We were getting
the staredown even in huge crowds of people. Now, of course New
Orleans is popular for 24 hour a day alcohol consumption. And you
only have to be 18 to get a beer (it may be legally 21, but
apparently 18 is ok.) Fu and I were both 20. Now the tricky part
is that to go inside an actual bar you have to be 21, and we didn't
learn until months later that the beer stands were carding for 18,
not 21. Duh. So we didn't get a beer. Not like we really wanted
one, but you know.
So we ambled around, walking up and down Bourbon St. and the
neighborhoods. We met a few Louisiana punks which was our first
introduction to their thick Southern drawl. REALLY THICK. I
thought they were fucking with us at first. But no, they were
sincere and cool and that was mildly reassuring.
During our walking around we ran into a girl named Erin, which to
this day there is nobody I hate and despise more. If you're
reading this, YOU OWE US MONEY BITCH. Ok - She followed us around
sneakily. After several hours, we headed back to the car and she
caught up with us. She was visiting with her parents and wandered
off to explore. Within two minutes of meeting her she was offering
to give us money; put us up in her hotel (the ritziest hotel I've
ever seen) and wanted us to visit her at home. She lived in
Arlington, Texas. We went to her hotel and she got yelled at by
her parents for whatever reason, so we walked around the place.
There was a rooftop swimming pool, tennis courts, gym, EVERYTHING.
It was larger than life and we poked around stealing towels and
walking through sidedoors and utility rooms. Erin disappeared but
beforehand invited us North to Arlington to give us $300.00 cash.
As it turned out, we met her at a public park. She had the cash
and before we got the $$ we got arrested and jailed. Most of our
trouble stemmed from the bitch lying to the cops, resisting arrest,
telling them "I'm with them...I'm from New Jersey." type shit, and
pointing the finger at us.
And late that night we headed up to Texas to get involved in the
aforementioned situation. Other parts can be found elsewhere in
the 'zine.
30 January 94 - 5:40pm
(In a damn plane...)
I am not in a chipper mood. The main reason is during my
thousandth lookover for errors in WR#12, I noticed some things
missing. And you know what? I think there are six missing pages.
Also, the pages are VERY out of order. If I hadn't spent two
fucking years working on this thing! Two pages of detailed notes
about the prints; specifications; etc. What the fuck? I AM MAD.
I'll just consider it a loss.
The other reason is a 4 fucking hour stopover at Dallas fucking
airport. When we finally left (6:40pm, scheduled at 3:50) the
Captain goes, "I don't know what took so long." Duh- I have better
things to do like smoke crack or opium. FUCK! I am distressed,
feeling almost ruined.
Otherwise, I'm glad to be coming back to Berkeley. Ohio is boring.
I didn't get anything done. I ate alot, read, watched a whole lot
of tv; the dog croaked, etc.
Ann Arbor was nice - Cold but nice - Only spent a day there. I'd
be interested in coming back in the summer. Dad met me there. He
was fine. Shit, my 'zine is really fucked up. I'm getting even
more pissed as I write this shit. I sort of hope this plane
crashes.
Okay...Fuck it for now...I read Basketball Diaries today. I had
been searching high and low for it for a while. Guess what? It
was pretty weak. Very few interesting parts, very non-descript.
Three quarters of the book is him either shooting heroin or looking
for it. Completely worn-out topic. That book also left me
unsatisfied and made me feel like I wasted five hours on nothing.
I need a drink. Here comes the headache. A bad one too...
FUCK.
Arlington, TX
-------------
Pay no attention,
nobody else does.
Cause there are 49 states,
and Texas is a whole other country, right?
If you want torture,
try going to a small Western Pennsylvania amish town called
Morgantown.
If you want desolation,
drive through the Utah salt flats at 3am,
and if you want trouble,
drive through Arlington, Texas.
We got arrested for being in a public park after closing, for
having fireworks, for having rolling papers, and for being with a
rich whore of a girl named Erin. This part we didn't know until
later. We had the car impounded and were thrown into the back of
a cop cruiser and transported to downtown Arlington. They made us
strip down and put on super orange jumpsuits that were really
oversized on us. And of course sandals to walk around in. All for
being in a park after 10pm. Well, that and the fireworks, blah,
blah. So here it is 5am, we were ready to go to sleep after
driving from New Orleans. We were very tired. We slept on shiny
concrete floors. It was cold and I could hear the cartoons on the
tiny tv that was mounted WAY above us. We were in one of four
prisoner cubicles. In the middle about twenty feet above us was
the guard tower.
One guard could watch all four cubicles at once, and he did. But
actually, it wasn't really that dismal. I haven't been in many
jails, but the really sucky thing is just wasting quality travel
time encased by cement & cops. As it was, our suffering had just
begun. Once out of jail, which we incidentally spent 7 hours in to
pay off a $168.00 ticket (thats 12 bucks and hour each) we walked
a mile to the place that towed the car. They wanted a shitload of
I.D. & whatnot, and the car was a driveaway from NJ, so I had to
get a faxed letter from the owner that I was allowed to use her
car. That took the whole day so me and Fu walked around the
industrial areas of Arlington smoking cigarettes and calling this
girl Erin to cough up the cash she promised (altogether a different
story) -- We kept hearing we were going to get either arrested
again or beatup or both if we hung around Arlington that night. So
we both were stressing hard. Especially cause Fu is a dreadlock
mulatto and there were undoubtedly a bunch of racists. And at
about 4:50pm we had just about given up, wondering if we should go
to a shelter or a youth hostile somewhere.
As it ended up, just in the nick of time, like 4:55pm, the fax came
in, I convinced the tow shop guy to let me in our impounded car to
get the I.D. they wanted - And by about 5:30pm all the paperwork
bullshit was over. And we were off West to Abilene and wherever
else. Cracked open the Cuervo and had a toast to Sam Wallis from
Wallisville, TX (hence the name).
My Summer in Boston (1994)
--------------------------
Its a goddamn pain in the ass to write. Seems as though I got
severe Tendinitis from playing too much here at Berklee. I'll try
not to complain too much. Thanks to various friends, regardless of
my hand condition, offered to type this issue. Thanks.
SINCE WE LAST HEARD, I was in Berkeley "doing the punk thing".
Well, thats what Jim Testa said. Actually, I was only punk in the
sense that I drank swill whiskey and 40's of Cool Colt.
Fortunately, here in Boston its a task to get wasted for a buck-
fifty. At the last minute; pretty much literally, I decided to
have a go at college again. I packed up some shit, left behind
more, said a quick goodbye to my friends and headed to L.A. to
visit Mom and bond, for a week. I ended up that week drinking 40's
with old friends and practicing late-night, drunk, stupid, and not
remembering what I did the next morning. Oh well.
Stopped over in New Jersey; which as usual is completely uneventful
and plain boring-as-fuck. There are so many people in this town
that SUCK in every way. But I digress. Jersey bashing is cliche
by now. The only quality time I had was with my friend Jon from
the olden days (like 1992). We walked around the town buzzing on
overpriced watery swill coffee. If you had green bud and
commercial swag, this would be swag coffee. Headache producing,
sleep inducing CRAP. However, my friends Matt and Joe had the free
hookup due to a girlfriend who worked there. Rambling. Ok - I hate
coming back to a town two years later and all the people I thought
would have bailed are on the same fucking bench. A damn shame.
I spent alot of time at the cemetary across the street from my Dads
house. Writing about fifty pages of complete shit. I threw it all
away before I left for here. Why keep what is worth not? Right.
Time came to head to school and I was a bit nervous. Something
about music school that makes a musician like me a bit sketchy. I
was really more excited to go walking around Beantown. I had a
week to kill after moving into those goddamn dorms. That was a bad
mistake that I had to suffer for three months. During that week I
walked as far in every direction until I couldn't anymore. Then
I'd take the (T) further. Its always good and comforting to
realize where you are in relation to everything around you. It was
scary how safe I felt. Crime, where? Maybe somewhere, but I saw
none. Crack dealers, pushers, 13-year old gangster kids. They
might be sketchy, but they won't kick your ass unless you ask for
it. Ok, this is only partially true. As for comparison, the
Aileen & San Pablo hellhole in Oakland makes most things laughable
now. People around here shudder to think about the liquor-store-
on-every-corner scenario. I think its convenient.
The city is big. There are ten million suburbs here, maybe half a
million students. The (T) runs from here to fucking Alaska. There
are at least two or three downtown areas. I explored some, but not
all of these areas. Same old shit really. Businessmen & women
walking to and fro staring at their shoes. I mean, only on LSD can
I really appreicate this meniality. And even so, i'm just giggling
and cursing under my breath. I sort of do that anyway. Blah
Blah..
Socially speaking, although primed in New Jersey, I found my jaw
dropping wide in horror. What happened to all the friendly people?
Most of them live in Berkeley. I remember thinking that the days
of evil looks and snide remarks were over. People had a damn
field-day when I scored a pair of size 13 wingtips for five bucks.
I admit, they're a bit big, but does this constitute finger-
pointing and bad comments? I'm certainly paranoid and maybe a
little funny looking, but in Berkeley I fit in fine. Now I felt
like a sponge for someones anger. I did locate Brighton, a kickass
city-suburb type place about a 40 minute walk from pretentious Back
Bay. I was pleased and spent time walking around looking at
delapidated buildings and having unlimited coffee in random pizza
joints.
School began and I was in a mild state of shock. Its been years
since I had a real schedule. The structure was actually cool. My
life, my mind, everything shifted into Jazz mode. Just about
everyone I met spoke about music all the time, generally confusing
me (Harmony, whats that?) but nevertheless inspiring me. I played
guitar sometimes 8 hours a day and learned how awesome Piano is.
Inbetween I met lots of cool folks. Murf, Stu, Jaime (my crazy
friend from Bolivia), Dan, Dominic & Christoph, George from
Austria, etc, etc. I also hooked up with a good friend from
Berkeley who was now going here. I spent this whole summer, now
ending, absorbed into music. Jamming late night Free Jazz with
Mike, Dave, and Murf. Playing crazy-stupid Foreigner tunes in the
park with Bleu, whom incidentially has the coolest polyester shirts
ever printed. Arguing with Dan, the sensitive 90's guy that digs
Dave Matthews and Bob Dylan.
Random encounters with random women has been my forte in this town.
There's a certain air of mystery about women here. No doubt some
of the craziest games are played, the craftiest schemes. When I
grew weary, I switched to playing Go with Nicolaus or head to
Harvard Square with Marcello to play Chess. The chances of seeing
the same person twice in this big city are almost none. This means
if I see someone then I better get up enough nerve to say hello or
its all over. Sometimes its indifference, sometimes its the Deer-
in-headlights syndrome. Either way, I never talk to pretty women
unless i'm drunk or on some sort of odd confidence kick. Being
shot down seems so unenjoyable.
So how about those Red Sox? I really don't give a fuck. The
apathy for sports grew larger when I arrived. I mean, playing them
is one thing, but watching Baseball is just not something I can
dig. This place is saturated with sports and sports bars. I can
respect sports, or rather the people that enjoy them, but it ain't
my deal. I smoke too much anyway.
Tourism. Shit, its thriving here. This may explain never seeing
the same person twice. These stupid trolley-looking buses without
windows, they're everywhere. The drivers noting all the
attractions via pa speakers. You can hear them on the street. I
noticed how they impregnate these foreigners with such elongated
truths and stereotypes. One day a bus passed Berklee and the
driver said, "The ones with short hair are Jazzers, the longhairs
are metalheads and rockers." Hah Hah. Sure, its a joke, but some
of these people will retain that until Berklee is brought up at a
wine & cheese brunch in Westchester. Rumors, rumors, rumors.
The Charles River is by far the most polluted river I've laid eyes
on. I actually swam in it the first week I was here. Stupid. I
felt my skin burn. I went there a few times with other people.
Tripped on either mushrooms or LSD at least ten times with Mike,
Marcello, whoever. The whole area, including the fountains, ducks,
weird fish that come out of the water, its all contrived. One
night on LSD I went there and got convinced that the Prudential
tower created all the clouds for the city. But then again, the
water was solid and I could see through time. Hmm.. Another trip
took me and Mike to the Hatch Shell, where all sorts of shows
happen. Its this crazy acoustically designed shell that sounds
amazing when you're in it. We must have spent almost our whole
trip there. A nice view of the park, Prudential, Hancock tower.
Still though, its contrived. I went to see Joe Henderson one rainy
awful day. Cold; gloomy; LAME. I mean, some rainy days are better
than sunny days but this one, it SUCKED. I had my corduroy jacket
on, my holed shoes, and I hadn't an umbrella. I was driven though.
Made it there and sat in the mud while Herbie Mann played his
flute. I smoked my first and last bowl of Berkeley green weed and
sat back stoked, especially after some crazy lookin' hiphop girl
traded me a 22 of Pete's Wicked for a hit. I was sick in bed for
a week after.
Several times when at the river, I'd see groups of homosexuals
going at it, right under the brighest light in the park. No
penetration or anything, just some smooching and circle jerkin'.
Hey, whatever.
A perfect place to take girls. Actually, i'm full of shit. But I
spent some time smooching under the willow trees with a few random
attractions.
Rumor has it that it was the Charles' pollution that threw Dukakis
off the ballot. I mean, there REALLY is green slime on the shore
and it SMELLS LIKE SHIT. Who cares. Onward.
I went to the Boston Commons alot. Another contrived tourist
mecca. But it is pretty. Trees, fake lake, flowers and other
happy shit. There's this crazy swan-looking tourist boat that goes
in circles around the lake. Its a damn riot. Would you believe
they are ridden like a bike by some clueless kid? Crazy. I came
there often, usually with a pint of Gordon's finest swill vodka and
a full pack of Old Golds. Generally with a certain attraction. We
drank and theorized about stupid redundant things that were
worthless to everyone including us. It was fun. Every once in a
while a huge white bat would fly by and trip my shit. Never seen
a white bat before.
My roomate, being that 18-year old young strapping buck that he is,
was always looking for women. He didn't go to school for most of
the semester, drank a 6-pack a night, and smoked at least a gram of
this crappy commercial weed every day.
I tried taking him to see the Murder Junkies at the Rat but he
digressed. He was more psyched to go to the clubs to pick up women
ten years older than him, and he did.
So at about the beginning of August, school was nearing its end.
I'd been playing too fucking much and the wrong way. Needless to
say, my hands and arms took a shit and still they hurt as I dictate
this. I got depressed and started drinking alot and staying away
from the area. After another three weeks of craziness, I finally
got through the semester. Got home at 5pm, went to the river,
watched the slime wash ashore as the THC kicked in.
Three weeks in the Hole.
"The 505 Beacon St. Experience."
Thanks to my friend Cedar, I wasn't left on the streets for these
three weeks inbetween semesters. He gave me the keys to his
centrally-located pad and bailed to New York. Stu was also in my
position so I in-turn let him crash here. The pad is about this
big...
(INSERT DRAWING HERE)
I named it the "Hole" the minute we arrived. Maybe cliche, but
certainly fitting. To see anything, even at 12 noon, the light
must be on. "Heroin junkie hideout" was its second name. Seems
like a great place to fix up and lay numb on the floor counting the
dots on the posterboard ceiling. The place smelled like shit one
minute after closing the small window. Interesting bathroom. The
water trickled out. Drip, drip, drip. It took ten seconds to get
enough water to splash your face. The shower would be fine, except
that the water temperature changes; usually by getting a hundred
degrees hotter.
We spent our time on the front steps drinking 40's of Schlitz and
smoking too much. There are at least five frats on our block. The
buildings are very old and the whole area breeds pretentiousness.
Feels sketchy to drink out there, but it is OUR place afterall. We
met a South-African guy who was staying at a hostile down the
street. He bought a 12-pack of Milwaukee's Best, thinking it was
good beer. Me and Stu were 40'd up by then, so Stu showed this guy
how to shotgun a beer. He was pretty impressed. I laughed my ass
of and blew some St. Ides foam through my nose.
I must have said hello to three hundred people in the last week as
they walked by. Maybe fifty of them acknowledged me. Fortunately
though, most of them were women. If I saw a couple of guys
drinking 40's on their front steps, i'd practically invite myself
to hang out. Its not like we're menacing. I'm so emaciated I get
a headrush from standing up. I guess Stu is a big guy, with a body
full of Celtic tattoos, but he's cool as fuck. Ok, so maybe we
were a LITTLE displaced. Met a few girls that live in the same
building. They smoked us out and went to sleep. Hows that for
exciting?
Last Thursday, being my birthday and all, I called Marcello and we
headed to Harvard Square to play Chess and drink mass coffee. It
was a stressful two hours, and it doesn't matter who won either.
The square is too hectic most of the time. And at Au Bon Pain,
where at any time there are ten people playing Chess, playing five
minute games, chainsmoking, cursing. Its crazy. Great place to
hang out though.
Landsdowne street exists simply because of all the clubs. Probably
pushing ten. However, if you put them all together, they still
wouldn't be as big as the Palladium in NYC. Alot of the typical
pretentious attitude-loaded bullshit doesn't exist at most of these
places, which makes me content to hang out and have a few beers.
The women in this city are for the most part drop-dead gorgeous and
nice. This I like. Still, with that Berkeley open-mindedness-
peace-and-love feeling still coursing through me, there are some
occasional bad vibes.
A night at the Cape...
----------------------
In three months I didn't really leave the Boston area. I mean, NO,
I didn't go anywhere. Except for one Friday at the end of August
when me, Tim, Nicolaus, and Stu made a trip to Cape Cod.
It was 8pm on a warm summer night. Stu and I had been drinking all
day. The semester had been over for three hours. Spirits were
rising and the mushrooms were delicious. At exactly 9pm lets say,
roughly, we were ready to leave. Mel was going to go but suddenly
got sick as hell and almost died. I offered to sit in the back of
the HUGE U-Haul truck that was taking us. Nicolaus wasn't quite as
excited, but had no aversions either. So we ran to the store,
bought a few six-packs and got comfortable. Well, so to speak.
Stu and Tim were at the helm of this beast. Pretty much a farm
truck with a huge engine and a storage compartment. We waved our
goodbyes as Mel (the one who rented the truck) wiped the sweat of
his brow and prayed we'd make it back.
There wasn't much of a view. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, it
was still pitch black. Nicolaus leaned in the corner and tried to
open agitated beers. Now, suspension is a relatively new concept,
I guess, because there was none. We were feeling the pavement
below as if we were being dragged on it. The truck was loud as
hell and Tim had serious problems changing gears.
After an hour the novelty wore off and I was now too inebriated to
even speak straight. We began singing bad 80's new wave tunes as
loud as we could (I later lost my voice). Seemed like a damn
eternity. We became restless and practiced standing up and
"Surfing the U-Haul" as it were. It was actually a challenge. The
beer was coursing through me and I knew it was time for number one.
So I grabbed a few empties, got my stance in a corner, and
proceeded to piss all over the place and get maybe a few drops in
the bottle. It was a riot and I moved a few wet boxes to another
corner of the truck.
Meanwhile, up front, Tim and Stu are starting to trip and Stu's
been sucking on this bottle of Cossack vodka every few minutes
(note: This particular swill is made in Somerville, Mass.).
So, what seemed like a week later, the truck stopped and the two
came back to let us out. To my surprise, we were at a dock of a
bay somewhere. Tim pointed out two boats of his fathers'. It was
dark and misty and Tim & Stu were feeling special. I was pretty
sick and Nicolaus was indifferent. We climbed aboard one boat,
which was for "fishing" and yacht-sized. We gaped at the scenery,
awed at the lack of honking horns, and took fresh breaths of fresh
air. Stu couldn't stop laughing and being sketchy. Tim was on the
top deck of the boat messing with the radar system. Nicolaus was
still on the dock chain-smoking menthols, and I was sitting in the
fishing chair pretending all sorts of silly things.
Onward to Tim's house to drop him off. It was of L.L. Bean fashion
and we watched his brothers and friends drink Blackened Voodoo
microbrew and eat stuffed oysters at 2am. It was really like
living out of a J. Crew catalog. The whole house was nice and he
had one of the huge refrigerators I always trip on. This is what
Dahmer needed. So there were the formalities, directions back, and
of course a few moments of feeling seriously displaced. No
problem, its fun.
So now we're on our way back to Boston. Its 2:30am and i've just
eaten a handful of small but potent psychedelics, chasing it with
this Cossack bile. I think the mushrooms might even taste better.
This time its me driving, Nicolaus in the middle, Stu at the
window. I'm feeling sketchy, being wasted and all, but confident
and ready to roll. Getting lost was a given, and we did. Anything
to prolong the sense of freedom. And really, without being too
cliche and boring, we drove back without too much consequence,
other than me ralphing at a gas station on the way back.
We had to have the U-Haul back by 5:30am. It was now 4 when we got
home. We dropped off a tired and weary Nicolaus and went on a tour
of the city. This truck is fun. Its fucking fast and hates sharp
turns. We took it all over Jamaica Plain, Roxbury, Back Bay, South
end, etc. Switching off driving and chasing the Cossack. This was
fun. Even more fun when Stu took over and started taking super
sketchy maneuvers and ignoring stop signs, running over curbs and
driving 40 in first gear. A good time. Free at last. Made it
home by 5:30am and slept for a day.
<RAMBLINGS/ INTRODUCTION/INFO/COMMENTS/OUTRODUCTION>
Whatever Ramblings #13 - (17 January 94)
----------------------------------------
The last year has really aided to make me more of a confused
person. Alot of it had to do with trying to make decisions and
trying to be creative in a fucked-up environment. Living in a
predominately black area with alot of racial tension and random
violence. It made me a very cynical and sobered individual. A lot
of the million things I wanted to do were done half-assed and badly
planned. I spent my first few months here discovering for the
first time that there were REAL people in this country. I met a
bunch of severely creative friends that I watched crank out
records; comics; zines, whatever. All driven by their own urge to
get some real solid shit done. Meanwhile, I was at the outside
looking in. Feeling really disconnected and getting more and more
confused. The amount of stimulus at any given time was ten times
what I could handle. What to do next. Do some writing, drink some
thick black coffee, go to the hills, talk to random street people,
go to the library - WHAT?! And all these opportunities drove me
crazy and I ended up doing nothing. Worked at Blondies for a few
months, hated that job with a passion. Had to walk home at 1am
through shitty neighborhoods always looking over my shoulder and
thinking only about where I would run and how to handle a
confrontation.
I knew there was good in all of this, but I was so caught up
culture shock and extreme confusion that all I saw was the bad
side.
Chris and I spent a lot of time during Summer 1993 driving around
in his beatup Volvo going to the Marina and the Berkeley hills. We
also drank alot and began doing speed pretty regularly. Both of
us, pretty much emaciated and sickly at any given time, slowly
started tweaking. And one day we took of to Claremont down South.
Me and my roommate Joe would spend late nights playing chess and
recording bad drunk people music. Occasionally the next door
neighbor would get trigger happy and blow ten or twenty rounds into
any car or object in sight. Not sure if he avoided moving objects.
Things were crazy in that place. Always someone pissed off or
speeding their brains out. Alot of the craziness that fucked me up
was centered in that place. Lots of weird situations, fucked-up
vibes, clashing personalities. That and the worry that at any
given time we could get murdered on our own corner. Alot of
realization. Alot of reality in my face. I was willing to taste
it, but swallowing it was much different. Rikki took advantage and
made necklaces out of 9MM shells found in the curbways.
Joe was working 40 hours a week at Emery Bay movie theaters as an
Assistant Manager. He made 7 bucks an hour and loved that job.
Every day for 6 months he'd come home with a 12-pack of Miller High
Life ($4.99 at our local watering hole) and drink himself asleep in
our dumpstered Lazy-Boy. Chris worked for two weeks at Burger King
for minimum wage. Which was a long time to me working at Jack in
the Box for three days. And Fu worked at Act 1/2 theaters in
Berkeley. It was rad because at any given time we could go to a
movie and get free popcorn too.
In the same building on Aileen St. lived a bunch of other friends.
Rus, Terry, Rikki, Erika, Johnny, John B., Dave C., Christopher,
etc, etc. The only place I've ever seen fifteen people sleep on
one floor; comfortably. It was like a small white community in the
middle of a black neighborhood. But we never got any shit and most
other close-by neighbors ignored us or were genuinely cool.
There are, however, a few cool things about living in a place like
that. We had a full band setup in our living room, and we jammed
many times at three in the morning. The nursing home directly next
door never complained. Also there was always something to do, and
Joe and I NEVER got tired of Chess. Sometimes spending 8 hours at
a time playing games.
So things weren't remarkably shitty. There was a balance of good
and bad things, but the bad things fucking sucked. Not to mention
getting beat up and Giant Burger on San Pablo. And my friend
punchdrunk going, "Whats wrong man, why'd you hit me?" and the hood
goes, "I hit you because you're white." etcetera. That shit
happens so often in Oakland that the local papers don't even pay
attention. They're more concerned with multiple homicides and
serial killers. One of the more hardcore towns i've lived in (next
to Pomona).
So now I'm up to July or so, and the culture shock has died down
and now i'm just numb and fully negative. My confusion fueled my
negativity and vice versa. LIFE FUCKING SUCKED. Everybody in our
building was getting sick of the area, and all my roommates were
making immediate plans to move either back East or to the Santa
Cruz area. I bought a super cheap motorcycle and Trevor and Otto
fixed it up. That made things much better. No more blowing my
money on the 51 and the 72 everyday. I loved that bike and drove
it all the time everywhere. Terry and I would take late-night
cruises to S.F. - Mostly just for the thrill of crossing the Bay
Bridge at 3am (highly recommended), walk around the city, go to
Sparky's and drink good coffee. I don't recommend Sparky's, but we
went there anyway.
The summer was O.K. - I had saved a few pennies from working at
Blondies (yes, a spare fucking few) that lasted about a week after
I quit and I spent the rest of the summer eating other peoples
leftovers and way too much popcorn and Chipatties (see WR#12).
Also Terry and I spent two weeks playing Wizardry on FU's
Macintosh. To this day that game is the best way to waste time and
enjoy doing so.
Then came my 21st birthday where Joe and I went to every bar in
Berkeley to cash in on the unwritten "free drink on you 21st
birthday" rule. Only a few bars bought it and the rest would say,
"Happy Birthday, 3 bucks." Evil money hounds if you ask me.
Regardless, I had some plans that my 21st Birthday would be a great
fun-filled day of travelling, drug taking, and creating. - It
turned out a day where I got remarkably drunk & lethargic by 4pm
and was asleep and depressed by 8pm. No matter though. It taught
me another lesson. The lesson of reality. You can't really
understand what reality is all about until all your hopes, dreams,
EVERYTHING have been dissolved into nothingness. Then you can sit
there thinking, "Wow, this is pretty real, life sucks." Really
though, I learned alot on my 21st Birthday.
So as my numbness grew, I found myself getting more apathetic and
very cynical towards the people around me. I was pretty miserable
and I was too fucked up to see anything good ever happen again.
But during all of this I kept thinking that I'm in a total state of
psychosis. Multiple psychoses that were working all in the same
brain, but at different times. I knew that I would eventually end
up a lot less ignorant, and alot more understanding of wingnuts and
psychopaths.
After the Aileen St. house disbanded, I spent a few months crashing
with friends and thanking god I could walk around the streets at
night without worrying so much. All I really wanted to do was work
a decent job, play my guitar, do my 'zine. Maybe party once in a
while, get a beautiful girlfriend I could eventually marry and move
to Tahiti with, whatever. The typical. Of course, the big plans
I had were buried deeply in the backburner of my brain. I even
refused thinking about big plans because I just got super excited
and then super depressed ten minutes later. I was so fucking
hyper. Anyway, I guess my big (?) plans as of this writing are
STILL big plans: 1) Travel more 2) Back to school (at this point
it seems more of a societal thing than anything, but still its
important to me.) 3) Find a beautiful woman that I can get really
into. 4) Obtain a super-huge car, get money somehow, and spend six
months traversing the country with film cameras and still cameras.
Taping, writing, doing whatever it takes to produce a decent two
hour movie about.....about.....I don't know...About
something....About what people my age (or within my generation) -
what they do...Whether its exploding atoms in Princeton or cooking
speed in Barstow, as long as its real.
I could go on forever. But you get the drift. Have fun, get shit
done, be happy, try not to go crazy in the meantime. Its so easy
to 'slip and fall' in this world.
Onward into the present day, sitting here in my comfortably warm
room in Berkeley. I'm still confused as hell, and partially a
recluse, but I'm a lot happier and a hell of a lot wiser than I was
a year ago when Fu and I landed here. But alas, who knows what
will happen next.
- Alex Swain
APOLOGIES FOR WHATEVER RAMBLINGS #12
------------------------------------
Oh my god. A lot of people noticed how fucked up #12 was. I mean,
just about EVERYONE who bought it. Missing and/or fucked up was:
1) Missing pages
2) Wrong weight front/back cover
3) Wrong color back cover
4) Photos not screened
5) Stapled incorrectly
6) A month and a half late from the printer
Sorry about that. Several different writings ended abruptly.
Unfortunately it wouldn't really help to reprint what was missing.
The staple problem succeeded in cutting off many pages from being
read (unless you ripped out the staples). Some of the photos are
undefinable. After five years you'd think I would have resolved
things like this. You thought wrong.
Goodbye my Friends (ala Grand Finale)
-------------------------------------
Write a book, kill a tree. He spoke to me in a highly overdosed
conjecture of Marijuana and microbrewed beer. He smiled at me as
I dropped another hit and worked my way into the Nude Swirl that
commanded my attention and plundered my writing abilities. Life is
not about trying to be someone, its about trying to survive as a
nobody. Much more philosophy can be found at your local
library...Look under "BULLSHIT" or the like...
Maybe Marijuana is the drug of choice for 'zine editors
everywhere...Or random people that really do nothing but at least
try to. We could make a difference maybe...But its just more
killing of trees and waste of 20 pound stock.....Maybe we should
all just relax and stop drinking all of this caffeine.
What am I saying? Okay...I am curious (so was Jesus) if drug-
induced rantings such as this appeal more to drug-induced readers
of this trash. Useless drivel with bad analogies (like, you know
what I mean?), bad speeling and circumcised thoughts. Just as long
as you do what you want to do, even if its not magazine editing or
underground comic producing, if you can find a gleam of happiness
in it, GO WITH IT MAN. Too many people in this world sitting
behind terminals typing in bullshit data that really doesn't do us
any good. Maybe the government, maybe the rich, but I won't preach
about the rich, they are lucky bastards, and I (poor and relatively
humble) would love to be rich. But isn't that a bit cliche?
Everyone wants to be rich. But there isn't a single rich person
that wants to be poor. Life in the slow lane, ahh, the trilogies
of youth, middle age, and senior citizens. Mid-life crisis. I
worry about that...I'm only 21...But what if I die when I'm 42? It
pays to think ahead...Ahh...Thats bullshit...So for now, my
wandering aimless slacker friends, this is where I say goodbye.
Goodbye.
Credits/ Notes/ Random Information
----------------------------------
Mediums
-------
I used a combination of Wordperfect 5.1 and 6.0 to type this out.
Marc Leckington printed this for me, he is a good person. John Boez
and Andrew Reichart are rad because they let me use their computers
to type this out. Jon Peterson got all the shit I did on Mac and
converted it to IBM, he's rad.
Excuses and computer malfunctional bullshit
-------------------------------------------
The dog ate my computer. Actually, a virus did. I spent three
weeks sector-editing about 940 files back to working condition.
Luckily I had an old backup of this issue. I spent another two
weeks proofreading what I had already proofread. The reason why
this only comes out twice a year is because these are the only
times I have money. Write me if you want to publish this thing.
You can have all the money, if there is any.
Contributions
-------------
(1) I am looking for all underground comics that are non-political
in origin and don't look like Marvel or D.C. trash. (ie: stupid
super-hero comics)
(2) I'm also looking for photos of cool places you've been.
Preferably B&W and of good quality (at least 300dpi).
Ads
---
If you are a small time nobody such as myself, i'll print your ad
for free. Keep ads smaller than a half-page please. Any company
that might dare to print an ad, the cost for you (my friends) is a
mere $250.00 per page (PREPAID), and I ain't kiddin'. Money Order
only payable to ME. I don't print more than five ads per issue.
My definition of a company is making more than $1000.00 a week.
'Zines get priority.
'Zinemakers
-----------
I'll trade mine for yours - But keep in mind that it costs me $1.90
to mail this First Class. If your 'zine is small, PLEASE SEND
EXTRA STAMPS!
Back Issues and other shit I write
----------------------------------
Issues #11 & 12 (the only ones I haven't lost) are $3.00 PPD (that
comes to $1.90 postage, $1.10 for the 'zine) Send less if you want
3rd or 4th class. If you want other stuff, send as much postage as
you want, I have enough stuff to keep you reading for years.
Pressrun
--------
2,000 copies more or less.
Distribution
------------
If everything works out, this issue should be all over the U.S
(1,000 copies), a few hundred (maybe more) in Europe, and the rest
in Berkeley or wherever I might be living.
Thanks
------
Bette Feldeisen, my awesome Dad, Andrew Reichart for being the most
supportive, Diallo, Terry (for getting me high and for his general
support), Tom at Cody's, Ace Backwords (for selling WR#12 and for
being understanding), Mahtab (for putting up with all my shit),
John Boez (for use of his computer and his awesome record
collection), Martin Brooks (for printing my shit), Moby (for giving
me consistently good comics), Jim Testa, Blue, all the rest of my
coffee-swilling friends (Dan, Trevor, Otto, Gannon, CoffeeHead
people) and everyone else that influenced me and inspired me to
keep going. You know who you are.
<BEGINNING OF 'ZINE JOURNALS>
25 February 94 - 2:20am
Ahh life...
I fucked up. I thought today was the 24th. Rocket played tonight
at Gilman, I missed them. I swear, I'm destined to miss all the
shows I really want to see.
I must document my life....
I am buzzed. I hung out with Mahtab tonight. We talked alot.
Kinda funky. Beforehand we went to a party right by her house. It
was pretty cool. Lotsa pretty girls. Brett and I played the
"Marsha Brady" song on his conga.
I bet my handwriting blows. But upon realization, it magically
gets better. Wow..Heh Heh.
Life is so UP IN THE AIR sometimes. Whatever. G'nite.
26 February 94 - 5:07am
"Honey I fucked the kids"
(strung out coffee Bottega quote)
I feel ill. Ugh - Spent most of the day feeling like shit. Really
funky, kinda nauseous, very dizzy. Yuck. My heart hurt. BAD
diet, no doubt. A V-8 helped alot. Hung out w/ Ace @ his table,
hoping to sell WR so I could eat. It started raining so that
didn't happen. So I ended up @ Bottega. Spent entirely too much
time there. Maybe two and a half hours. I felt like hell. Gannon
and others were there. We clowned around and eventually I got
completely sick of nothingness so I headed home. I sat around,
slept for an hour, read my book (Sentimental Education by
Flaubert), whatevered. Called up Andrew, chatted a bit, then John
(psych. major John) He swung by, brought very nice smelling weed,
we talked about things. Terry got off work, came back home, got
high. Then just more talk. I played my guitar, realizing how much
I love it. Then John left, I wrote out the rules for "Tweaker
Chess" and now here I am. MY DAY IN A NUTSHELL. I feel like hell.
GOODNIGHT. I feel worried about death at this point.
27 February 94
Wow - Last night was a hard night. Very sick - Feeling insane &
very weird. I was tripping on my heart, it REALLY hurt. Oh well.
Today in a nutshell:
I was supposed to head to S.F. with Diallo today, but it didn't
happen. Instead, I took a shower and headed to the Ave, proceeded
to make some money by [doing a few bad things], and hung out with
Ace @ his table for a bit. I sold a 'zine which I used the $$ to
buy coffee. Moby was @ Bottega drawing for his new comic book. We
hung out a bit, I ran over to the copy shop and copied the rules to
"Tweaker-Chess."
I saw Carolyn which is a friend through Brett. She's very cool and
has a pretty dysfunctional past (oddly reminiscent of most of my
friends) like myself. We talked for many hours as I pounded coffee
and shook like an epileptic.
I ran into Rob, whom was walking around looking for something to
do. Also Phil showed up and told us about a barbecue/show at
Roachdale co-op. Also I ran into another friend Mark who bought a
'zine.
We hung out on the roof overlooking the courtyard. This was at
about 7pm. The Brown Fellinis were playing. The reverb was
awesome. Rob pulled out a bowl and we got super high and talked
about how an earthquake may happen at any moment and how were we
going to escape? I went down to the courtyard and awed at their
musicianship. I was higher than hell; it was great.
Eventually Rob and I left and ended up at the Mediterraneum to page
Diallo. He didn't call back so we sat upstairs and listened to
more jazz from below. I nodded off and sort of flirted with this
beautiful student.
Anxious to play my new version of Chess, the two of us headed to
Bison for a game. There were a ton of beautiful girls there and it
was hard not to be distracted. By now it was 10pm or so. I spaced
on a few crucial moves as I daydreamed about Birgit and a few other
pretty memories. I traded a pretty girl a 'zine for a beer.
Sometimes I wonder if 'zines are as good as legal tender? Hmmm..
After Rob beat me at my own game, we headed back down the Ave. and
then back home.
Its getting warmer out. This is good. Still, i'm girl crazy.
Today wasn't as bad as Friday at the party.
All fer now, B U C K .. (howdy, Tim!)
28 February 94 official "who gives a fuck" day.
I love to write. Especially when i'm really HIGH. Such as now.
But I won't bore myself with such details.
I woke up late @ around noon. I was feeling pretty alive. It was
sunny and very warm. I ended up on Telegraph, swung by Bottega
then to visit Ace @ his table. I went out for a 6-pack and we hung
out, talking mainly about women and bad comic art. Speaking of Art
--> Art Spiegalman wrote about Ace, "I hope he dies a slow and
excruciatingly painful death." - Of course Ace insulted Spiegalman
first. Today I was particularly girl crazy, a tad bit crazy in
general.
I headed over to upper Sproul and read some of my book. Carolyn
showed up and we chatted some. I was beginning to feel the effects
of the Codeine Mahtab gave me, plus a Percocet I managed. This
along with my coffee made things very odd and fantasy-like. I
listened to her voice as I looked up through a tree and saw planes
and other bird-type things go across the sky REEEEEEAALLLLYY
SLOOOOOWWWW. Unfortunately, I thought about my current life
situation and I sort of got freaked out.
Then Terry showed up, stressed out about life and other things.
Then I sat alone in this BEAUTIFUL day and nodded in and out of
prescription-drug-and-coffeeland. Wow. Ok...Then over to hang out
with Mahtab and play with her dog. He was eating ladybugs and then
regurgitating them; always a treat. I did some more nodding off,
having odd visions of rolling down this small hill and somehow
breaking my neck and dying. One of the stupider ways to die I
think. Also I kept hearing this crazy carnival music slowed down
to half speed. An ODD sound. --- Eventually it was back to the
Ave. for another shot of caffeine and a stoned game of Tweaker
Chess. People seem to be catching on - After Chess, and after
telling Otto he looked like Stalin, Rob and I swung by Bison where
Mike and Diallo were. Then Rob and I went all out and played two
games at once. One of Tweaker, and one of normal Chess. It was
super intense and by some incredible stroke of luck I won both
games. Then I convinced Diallo to play me a game of "Long Chess"
which is two boards connected to make a "long" one; HENCE THE
NAME.. Heh heh...Again, because I was so girl crazy, my
concentration was hindered.
Rob and I came back here and Terry was home, with that total "I'm
high as HELL" grin on his mug. Rob pulled out his pipe and after
getting to Terry's plateau, the two of them played a game of Chess.
Meanwhile, I began getting my shit together to go play on the
street tomorrow. I have a cool setup. My milk crate converted to
a speaker cabinet (which doubles as a chair), my Marantz portable
with naturally tweakable delay, and my Rockman in the daisy chain.
I managed to get it pretty loud. I still haven't decided what to
play, but it'll probably end up being mostly improv. jazz shit.
Maybe some jazz version of classical pieces or whatever. Shit, I'm
not working. Might as well make a few bucks and practice all day.
-- The Codeine began wearing off, which restored my stamina, but
the Percocet continued to make me super sleepy.
Also, during their game, a real weird fog converged on Berkeley.
It was (and still is) so thick that I can't see across the street
to the hotel.
Brett made his entrance by playing his drum outside my window. He
insisted on going out for a beer and after going to a few places
that were closed, I left them and headed back from College. It was
a long an overly paranoid walk home. A lot of people have been
getting fucked with lately. Groups of bored kids; whatever. When
I was younger I fucked around, but never got violent. Thats
stupid. I actually heard gunshots which reminded me of the good
ole West Oakland days. I came to a fork near Strawberry Creek and
HAD to sit down from being so high. At first I thought I was going
to start crashing hard, but infact I needed to get the paranoia out
of my head. Also lately there have been stories about nuclear shit
in the creek, which I tweaked on so much that I left campus and
went home the long way.
And here I am now, cooking rice and watching fog creep through the
sky into my window. Goodnight.
"The rain rain has gone away."
Music of the day was Paul's Boutique and The Wall (hence the
drugs.)
1 March 94
Editor's Note: I was high and disoriented when I wrote this, which
renders all discrepancies invalid.
Somehow I spent the whole day sober. (ed: see what I mean?) I woke
up at 11 this morning, absoulutely baking from the heat of the sun.
I opened the window and it was still hot. I got pretty excited
about the idea, so I threw on a pair of shorts (which a year ago
they were too tight and now they're too loose), headed over to my
P.O. box to check 'zine mail. There were five orders and a bunch
of worthless CD's from awful bands. I used the 'zine money to eat
with because of all the $1.90 metered stickers I have. So I mailed
out the orders and took the CD's to Amoeba and made an easy 15
bucks. Here's where the excitement begins. No- Actually, then I
went to the Social Security office and tried to get a replacement
card. I didn't have any I.D. so the lady laughed me off. Now, the
excitement:
I'm walking near Berkeley BART when I see this fight. Its like
five black guys against one latino guy. Sounds unfair right? No
way. This latino guy was beating the shit out of them; kicking and
punching them up and down the street & whatnot. They were faster
than him, but he fucked them up if they were caught. This one guy
he captured, this latino guy was so strong, he picked him up and
threw him onto a car. Looked like some sort of superhero stunt.
Then he grabbed a bike and threw it at him full speed, which hit
him right on the head. -- Eventually it was all over and the cops
never showed up. That fight, along with my coffee, was sufficient
to awaken me to the day.
Back home to drop off mail, send 'zines, and back into the
beautiful weather. So I'm on my way towards Telegraph thinking,
"Life can be so good sometimes." when suddenly a black cat darts
across the street and gets squashed by a pickup truck. The bad
timing was so impeccable it was eerie. Some Cal student saw it and
she spontaneously dry-heaved. I sort of winced and watched the
pickup keep going, dragging the cat a good fifty feet. The cat was
jerking and flinching like mad and, from very recent experience, I
knew it was a matter of a few minutes before it was dead. So I
stood there watching it spray blood like a fountain. It bounced
its way like a basketball to the curb, passed out, fibrillated a
little bit and then that was that. Judging by the broken skull and
the gouged eyeball, i'd say it got its head run over. What a damn
mess. I looked at its collar, and while I was writing down the
owners #, the cat let out a final meow, which really freaked me out
in a big way, then a few more spasms - Nasty because I got my hands
and arms covered with blood. No digression here, but I'm almost
through. So I called the owner and in the most tactful way I
could, I told him his cat was dead. He showed up, a Jerry Garcia
looking guy with a VW bus & Dead stickers all over. He took it
well until he saw how mangled the cat was. I continued walking and
I overheard him retch.
So the day was off to a weird start. I saw Brett on upper Sproul
and we hung out playing his Conga and singing the "Marsha Brady"
song. There were so many beautiful women out today. Jesus, there
is a savior. But what else is new...Its almost passe....So I did
a natural thing which was to flirt and make googly eyes whenever
needed. I managed a phone number of a total "older woman". Maybe
30 even. She offered it to me and I was wondering if she had a
house in the hills with cable even -- Heh heh...Anyway, I read a
greater part of my book, said "hello" to Ace who was melancholy as
usual, then I ran into Japheth at the upper Sproul grass. He was
probably trying to study but I wouldn't let him, so he showed me
some stretching and meditation exercises instead. We talked a
little about all that crazy Math stuff he knows, then he left for
class and I fell asleep for whatever reason. Well, half asleep
cause I overheard these two people. They were talking about
"parties" and "vodka jello" and "rush week" and other such things.
They sounded so L.A. it made me depressed. Super gossip students.
I envisioned duct-taping their mouths shut; all by myself.
After leaving, I contemplated job hunting, but only as a passing
thought. Back home for a while to play guitar and take a Vicodin
or two. I timed the Vicodin badly and passed out in dreamland by
4pm. I woke up at 6pm sweating bullets and tripping on some very
bizarre dreams. I was still pretty zonked so I sat in bed counting
planes out the window.
Then back up to the Ave. AGAIN to catch up with Otto, Dan, and Rob.
Also I saw Chris Hatfield. He looked like his comics were getting
to him. We began walking, and for some odd; mysterious;
unexplainable reason, we ended up at Bison (for the third day in a
row). The rest is pretty worthless - We drank beer, played Go &
Chess, then I walked home and was back by 11pm. I'm going to have
funky cat dreams tonight. Goodnight.
2 March 94 - 1am
Cum-toothed gleam.
What a great intro to this entry. But I digress. Digress, I love
that word.
What was today like? Well, it was warm & sunny. A definite rarity
(read: not). I began by waking up @ 11:20 and taking a quick hot
shower. Then I headed up to Terry's work to get free lunch. Then
to Bottega for a free coffee to-go. Dan was there studying so I
popped a few Comtrex and went deep into the university to read and
finish a short story ala Jonathan Swift. It was awesome. I was in
a tree-surrounded field and nobody anywhere. Looked like an alien
landing sight or something.
Back again - I spaced out and ended up writing a bad song about
some non-existent girl. Ok - Afterwards I decided to go with Dan
down to Second st. and pick up his bike which was fixed. We walked
through campus to my P.O. box, I got my mail, then on the 51 to the
72 bus to Cedar St. - I love the area behind San Pablo. Its all
odd housing and eventually railroad tracks and water -- It was
getting hotter & hotter. It was about 4pm by now. Most of the
houses had those old hand-painted signs that read "tobacconist" or
"gunsmith" or whatever. They were mostly dilapidated, but somehow
they still had class. I was feeling remarkably alive and in a
fantasy world. This situation had "I get high with a little help
from my friends" feel all over. I had that song in my head until
now. Just as we were approaching the tracks, a freight came by.
It brought back very cool memories. We stood as close to the train
as we could and leaned forward. The wind would pull you inward.
ODD FEELING. Dan spent some time with paperwork bullshit while I
awed at random car parts in the graveyard. It felt as if I was in
Mad Max or something. Dan finished the paperwork crap and we went
up Cedar and up to Piedmont to indulge in the sun. Afterwards I
headed home to put on pants, and somehow got really psyched on
sleeping, so I did. Terry and I were going to go see Charlie
Hunter at Homemade cafe, but as I said, sleep oddly seemed more
important. Diallo and Rob swung by, Rob being super fuckin' drunk
- We smoked a bowl and Rob told us about all the pretty girls he
met at work today. One that wouldn't surrender her phone number,
but said, "I'LL BE BACK, DEFINITELY." Lucky him. We headed up to
Blake's to look for Brett, but to no avail. It was fully packed.
"DJ NIGHT" as it were. I saw my ex-girlfriends friends friend (got
that?) there. She was looking like a bombshell as usual. I don't
know her, but it doesn't matter either way. Rob and I ended up --
No, take a W I L D F U C K I N G G U E S S ...
The BISON, where was played a game of GO on the upstairs patio. It
was a warm night out, a perfect starry sky, a GO board, and a pipe
fully of swag bud (which is just fine thank you). So we smoked and
we talked and I kept on thinking we were having an earthquake and
only I could feel it. I did better this time @ GO, but still need
more practice.
We left Bison @ around 11pm. But first I set my eyes on the
beautiful bartender that works there. Don't know her name, don't
know anything about her except she's a bombshell.
Rob walked me back as we took a long way through the Berkeley
streets. No-one around, high, quiet everywhere, very nice. I kept
looking @ the pavement from a GO perspective. The squares that
made up the sidewalk were actually GO squares. One thing that pot
will never do is leave me reaching for things to ramble about.
After Rob headed home, I called my mom and she let me know that
Metilda (a 14-year old grey cat) had Lung Cancer, and that the vet
suggested killing her, which my mom agreed to. She (my mom) wasn't
sure if she made the right decision, but I think it was smart. But
how the FUCK does a cat get Lung Cancer? I only venture to guess
it has to do with the L.A. smog. That does suck though. The cat
was RAD. Especially because it was super-friendly and would come
up to you, cock her head, and if you didn't call her, she'd lightly
pat your face with her paw. So lightly that it seemed oddly human.
Now my mom has one cat left (my cat, Puff). She wants me to take
her but unfortunately I can't now. Puff is hella lazy. My dad
would call her a "California cat" or something related. Thats two
dead cats in two days, GONE. Wait - Also when the vet put Metilda
to sleep, he injected the "serum" into a catheter. He fucked up
and only about 1cc of the potion went in her. The vet went to
refill the syringe and the cat had already died. He said she would
have did just as soon naturally if only 1cc killed her.
OKAY ---- O N W A R D ...
After getting home I played guitar for at least five or six hours.
I must have just completely ran out of steam because I woke up now
(5am) and it hadn't left my hands.
Adios for now....
Music of the day: Rocket from the Crypt - Circa Now
Jawbreaker - Unfun
3 March 94 - S . O . B . E . R D . A . Y
Berkeley, Kaliphornyah
Last night was a bad night for sleeping. I woke up several times in
terror. Most of the nightmares had to do with cats (go figure).
Funny thing - Only in my nightmares do cats scare me.
I woke up this morning psyched to be alive. I went to North
Berkeley to try to sell a bunch of worthless books, hoping to get
at least enough $$ for the days food & caffeine fix. The fat old
hippy guy laughed off most of my books and only took the Idiot and
Basketball Diaries (which I would have given away). I got two
measly bucks for them. I sat there and decided trying to sell some
'zines. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, but the hippy
guy saw the cover and told me to get out and never come back. I
swear this is true. At first I was shocked, but only because I
would have never guessed it was THAT shocking to some people. Then
I laughed heartily on the way out. I spent my first 43 cents on an
orange. I was so starved for Vitamin C that it tasted delicious.
Then I headed over to the Social Security office. This time I
brought a notarized photocopy of my birth certificate. They told
me, "This isn't I.D." I said, "Then what is?" Shit, its my
notarized proof of existence. And the lady got rude and cocky so
I gave her an evil look and walked out feeling conquered. I was
pretty bitchy at this point, so I went home and found a bag of Top
Ramen under a stack of Weirdos. I made that up, and with nothing
else on my agenda, I walked the long way (through campus) to
Telegraph. I rendezvoused with this mystery girl that gave me a
rose on Valentine's Day. She flashed a beautiful smile and I stood
in awe like a deer in headlights. Her legs were so long that she
was halfway to S.F. before I regained my composure. Oh well, I
guess thats the way "mystery girls" are supposed to be.
I caught up with Rob on Sproul and we played a grueling game of
Chess.
The rest is boring - So boring that I am too bored to write it out.
Well - Maybe there are a few more things....First off -- Terry left
and moved to do some couch-surfing @ Brett's.
Rent is due and I haven't a clue how I can pay it. I suppose I
should get any old shit job @ this point. Fuck, I hope I don't end
up flipping poisonous patties at Jack in the Box.
I got my last shipment of 'zines today. About 250 left. I'm still
waiting on news about distribution in Europe (other than England).
I just slammed a cup of tea made with six teabags and a heaping cup
of brown sugar. Wired as all get out (that's an understatement).
Guitar time, cigarette time, running out of time.
Music of today would be:
Mahavishnu Orchestra - Birds O' Fire
Chick Corea - Inside Out
Schlong - Waxy Yellow Buildup
4 March 94 (but written on the fifth)
Heart attacks aren't cool. ? = Alex
So what happened yesterday? Seems so long ago.."And these memories
lose their meaning..." I think my handwriting is declining in a
bad way.
In a BAD WAY -- Ok - In summary: Woke up - Another sunny day. My
heart hurt like shit. So bad that I contemplated a visit to the
hospital. See, i've seen alot of death lately, mostly caused by
heart troubles (or simply, car tires). I have been getting sketchy
on my health - HEART ATTACK PARANOIA CENTRAL. Apparently it IS
possible, even at my youthful age of 21. OK - Went down to my P.O.
box, got a ton of mail (translates to about ten letters) - I went
back to the Social Security office with a phone bill - The people
there STILL gave me shit (they told me to bring a phone bill). I
bitched and nearly lost it, envisioning wiring C4 to the
foundations that night. Lucky for them they took it and I headed
home to mail more 'zines and read some hate mail. This one guy
wrote me telling me how "he's coming to get me." He got a package
of ketchup and put it in the envelope, which obviously exploded.
Not exactly a great hint to my pending death. Most of the fucked-
up mail comes from Berkeley anyway. I headed up the Ave. to meet
Gannon & Ace. We were going to mix some songs to DAT but we all
flaked and postponed it. Then I spoke with Andrew (my favorite
green hair punk rocker guy ever) and we chatted about his book; my
book (?); and my heart and mind troubles.
A N D R E W I S G O D .... (I love you man) ....
Ok- Then he loaned me a few bucks that I desperately needed. Then
to Bottega for coffee to-go. Then.....
M I D - A F T E R N O O N N O T H I N G N E S S .....
Then to the library for info on building a radio transmitter. Then
my heart began acting up again, and I began feeling super dizzy and
then I degraded to paranoia and a feeling of perpetual earthquake.
5pm ---
I tried sleeping but to no avail. Ace swung by and we talked about
the record and went over the songs so far. He "faded into a blurr"
as he would say and I went across the hall to ask Blue for strips
for #13. Then I spent an hour in turmoil trying to feel better...
ROB'S POTLUCK...
So the plan was to head to Rob's for mass food, Tequila, Chess, and
hash. That happened, but only after sitting around wondering if
death would strike. I got a few tacos across the street and THAT
DIDN'T HELP.
Woah - So I opted for an orange. That seemed to help temporarily.
Still i'm not sure if its my fucked-up diet - But maybe.
I was hoping for a woman-free evening. Yes. Dan and I took his
bike to Rob's and met Nick, Christie, John B., and a few other
people I don't recall. Nick and I played a Chess game and it was
close. But he won and I LOVED IT. Lately i've been more of a sore
winner, even feeling guilty. Then food - Tacos, fruit salad, hella
hot curry and Tequila. Also a ton of swag bud and random chunks of
the o' mighty hash.
Hash is the solution to all the worlds problems.
Onward into the night - Most everyone took the last BART back and
Rob, Dan, and I smoked more hash out of a bong and talked about
abstract things that made no sense to anyone but us. Too bad I
can't remember any of it.
I tried to benchpress 125 pounds and couldn't even lift the damn
thing up. Not like I had figured otherwise. My heart was content
but I pulled every damn muscle in my back trying to lift so much.
And then we all entered sleepyland and I dreamed about a graveyard
of dead hearts and a bunch of gravediggers digging graves for them.
The theme music to this dream was "schizoid man" by Crimson. Oddly
ODD. No, just odd.
And that was my wonderful day. Not so wonderful, particularly
bland, and pitifully non-directional. There will be better days.
Adios.
5 March 94 Saturday (Alex = ?????)
But written on the sixth.
Okay. I woke up yesterday at Rob's @ 8:30am. Still stoned, I went
to the bathroom and Rob made a pot of coffee. Also, I lost my rad
pen which SUCKS if you ask me. Never forget the simpler things in
life.
It was another sunny day in Richmond Annex. I headed to Del Norte
BART - My heart was acting up which left me feeling lethargic. At
the BART, I saw some old man passed out. I asked the ambulance
driver what had happened. He said in a Vincent Price tone-of-
voice, "HEART ATTACK." Is this an omen or something? I considered
hopping in the ambulance with him. So I went to Berkeley BART and
then home. As of now, this is what might be wrong with me:
1) I'm a Hypochondriac
2) I'm completely stressed out
3) I have lung and heart cancer
4) My heart is clogged up
5) The caffeine is killing me
WHO KNOWS. I'm prepared to go to the hospital if serious shit
starts to happen. Anyway: 2pm ---
I met Rob again, saw Johnny, Terry, and Japheth showed up. We went
to lower Sproul and played Frisbee. Brett was at the drum circle
in the fifth dimension.
I cramped up from the coffee which really thrashed me. The sky
clouded over and it got cold. Omen number II? Shit.
Then I headed to Strada to write some notes for the book. Going
slowly and thats the way it is. Strada is such a Europeon (or not)
trash cafe, but its a good place to get shit done. Unlike Bottega
where its impossible to spend 5 minutes there before getting
dragged somewhere to get high.
4pm and i'm on Northside wandering around with my psychoses and my
malfunctioning heart. There were two shows to consider: Charlie
Hunter or Chill Factor. Sometime around 7pm I got sleepy so I
headed home. Blue dropped off a bunch more one-panels to use in
#13. This shit is really good, REALLY good.
I layed in bed envisioning not-so-comforting thoughts. Mostly
about falling asleep, never waking up, rotting away, and being
found two weeks later when my rotting corpse smell seeps into the
neighbors apartment. There were many more thoughts like this that
succeeded in keeping me from sleeping a wink. So I sat there
trying to decide what to do. I ended up re-reading a Modest
Proposal and some other Swift prose. My clock was an hour ahead,
so I cleaned up myself and headed through campus to see Chill
Factor. They were recording a demo, and everyone there was a
friend or a friend-of-a-friend. We "hammed it up" and it was fun.
Of course Rob and I "stepped out" and indulged in a tobacco-free
smoke break. ROB IS GOD. Even if he doesn't have hash.
That went on until midnight -- A nice setting indeed. Low ceiling
dimly-lit lounge. Buzzed on hash and 99 cent wine.
1am
I'm walking slowly through campus thinking of nothing and tripping
on the smallest obstacles (this includes Coke cans). I made it
back to Southside panting and wheezing, but still alive. I swung
by the Bears Lair which was packed to the rim with Charlie Hunter
aficionados. He's getting much bigger now, especially after
opening for Primus. Luckily they weren't charging cause all I had
was 27 cents and a broken pick. I saw a bunch of people I knew
including Ani, Marina, and Marina's roommate who I went to middle
school with in New Jersey. Small world, ain't it?
As per usual, Charlie Hunter was awesome. I've seen him enough
times now that I know all their songs. I'm so psyched they signed
to Prawn Song. Its always a treat to see Jazz bands get recognized
by wide audiences.
I spent 15 minutes watching from the back. I saw the "mystery
girl" again that gave me a rose a while back. She was with another
guy but that didn't stop us from taking a walk and "swapping spit".
I couldn't resist saying that. "Swapping spit" hah hah..
I DON'T WANT A FUCKING JOB,
I JUST WANT TO WRITE.
(but don't quote me on that...)
A very hormonal day - Every guy (and girl) I ran into was
remarkably oversexed and ready to bend over backwards for a "good
fuck." A GOOD FUCK.
2am
I went home feeling good about flirting with the "mystery girl".
Sometimes I think flirting is the only safe staple in my life.
Relationships are so dangerous, so twisted. As Fred would say,
"FUCK THAT COMMITMENT SHIT."
Music of the day:
Nude Swirl
not Green Day (hahahahaha....what a joker...)
"Take a look its in a book, a bleeding rainbow.."
6 March 94 - 1:10am - (aka: March 7)
Ditto for the last few days weather-wise. I got myself a better
pen, which is good.
Woke up @ noon today absoulutely depressed and not interested in
living the day. However, I did get up and take a shower.
Afterwards, I was feeling a bit better. NO heart bullshit to deal
with. I called pop in NJ and asked him if i'm covered on his
health insurance. He doesn't know. As we were speaking, my heart
started acting up and I hung up prematurely. Saw Jay across the
street so I went over to chat. Then up to the Ave.. Hung out with
Terry for a bit then inside Bottega to write some. I had a cup of
coffee which didn't do much heart discomfort.
Met up with Rob and Christie and I finally learned how to juggle
(21 years later). I must be cut out for it because it took 15
minutes to learn. The whole rest of the day was spent walking
around Southside refining my new skill.
THE DAY WAS UNEVENTFUL...
However, @ around 9pm my heart got worse and then I called mom for
some advice or not. She told me about a (possible) genetic heart
problem called a "P.A.T." Which is when your heart "short
circuits" and beats entirely too fast (my mom claimed 200 beats a
minute). I didn't want to hear that. Apparently it isn't "life
threatening" though.
I got spooked enough to head over to the hospital E.R. and see what
was up.
They drew blood, did x-rays and a EKG. I spent 4 hours in that
same room with a guy that overdosed on "psych" medication as the
nurses called it. After hours of listening to all this shit, the
nurses being strangely unsympathetic for this guys condition. A
nurse came up to me and said "I know it looks like were being hard
on the guy, but he overdoses all the time." They were pumping his
stomach with charcoal (which makes you ralph anything in your
stomach). There was some weird suction machine that was gurgling
and wheezing. I could only imagine what it looked like.
At about 1am the doctor came in and told me I need a 24-hour
heartbeat recorder called a "Holter Monitor". Also, which was the
worst part ---> He told me NO NICOTINE AND NO CAFFEINE. That
sucks. However, I asked him about smoking weed or drinking and he
had no objections. The good thing about doctors is that they're
always speaking objectively. Well, at least this one.
So here I am drinking a 40 and high on hash. So things aren't that
bad. He also said "No sports" which doesn't pertain to me of
course.
So tomorrow I have to go back and get some sort of clip-on heart
thing. I guess sort of a "Pacemaker for kids."
Well, thats all for now.
SPRING FEVER IS CRAZY.
Music of the day:
James brown, "I feel good" (a coincidental contradiction)
Clockwork Orange soundtrack (a bit more fitting)
Dead Kennedys - Frankenchrist (Dick Dale tribute record)
7 March 94 - 6:50pm
Okay - This morning I woke up @ about 11 and went to the 99 cent
store to blow my last 2 bucks on peanut butter & ginger ale. The
cheapest store on this planet.
I came home and was too lazy to clean a fork so I ate the peanut
butter with chopsticks. That turned out to be quite a disaster.
However I had the ginger ale to offset the possibility of clogging
up my lungs and/or heart. Then up to the Ave. to sit in the grass
and practice juggling. I called pop and he still didn't know if I
was covered on his insurance. I ran into Walter bare-skinned on
his 3-speed bike. He's been here seven years and still looks as if
he got off the plane yesterday. Then I saw Ace who was in a manic
stupor depression. Shit, so many people are so fucked up. So I
then ran into Mahtab who was wearing a scantily clad dress. Even
women were checking her out. She convinced me to hang out and
listen to her "guy troubles". I was thinking about Birgit at the
time. Then onward to Walter's house in North Berkeley. I've never
been there before really. Its like a whole other world. Big rich
houses, nice cars, kids playing kickball in the street. Super warm
and ethereal day. At Walters we ran into Dave from Pomegranate and
drank beer, indulged in homegrown. It was a scene from some bad
rock documentary (Spinal Tap was rad). Sitting around, leaning far
back in the chairs, acoustic guitar in hand. Walter announced his
departure for Europe in April. So, he gave me a huge Jimi Hendrix
Poster. Then we went into "downtown North Berkeley." Everything
that happens down there is picture perfect. The yuppie couple
buying a pound of super rare cheese for their "dinner party." To
quote Op Ivy, "Down here you gotta have a label, just like cattle
in a stable." I wonder if there are movie cameras strategically
hidden in the trees. We hung out at the North Berkeley version of
Espresso Roma. We ate for free as Walter tempted me with his
Caffeine drink. Shit - I've been without caffeine & nicotine all
day. What a fucked-up feeling.
And really, thats all that has happened today. Its 7:45pm now so
I guess the night is young, but who really knows.
9pm
I ran into Dan and told him of my heart misfortune. He was bummed
for me and invited me to come by his house and smoke hash and drink
Jim Beam. That sounded fine.
So we swung by my place so I could read my mail and answer it.
Then we hopped on his bike to the Lake Merritt area. I'm STILL
sketchy on being in anything moving that i'm not controlling.
Once there, I was greeted by his roommates little "Pug" dog. The
thing was so ugly that I couldn't help but laugh at it constantly.
We sat in the living room smoking hash/tobacco spliffs and getting
the dog high as hell at the same time. The dog was so high it
would tear around the house at fullspeed, attacking various objects
as well as me. Eventually the dog "mellowed" and things were fine.
Eventually we got to that point, and for lack of anything else to
do, we passed out in front of a movie called "Bad Lieutenant" Oh
yeah, the dogs name was "Binky".. Ha ha ha....
Music of the day
Smashing Pumpkins - "Today"
The Cars - The Cars
<TITLINGS/HEADERS/ETC>
print all out in varying sizes and fonts.
Whatever Ramblings #13
Whatever Ramblings
Whatever Ramblings
5 Greenview Avenue
Princeton, NJ 08540
(please take notice of new address!)
Issue #13 - Fall 94/Winter 95/Spring 95
Editorial
A PAGE OF INFORMATION...
$1.00 (thats right, what a damn bargain!)
Special "Who really gives a fuck" issue.
Address Correction Requested
NOTE: This may offend a lot of people, possibly even disgust. We
recommend this as reading for ADULTS ONLY. (Seriously folks!)
Stream of Consciousness
Spinebender - Andrew Reichart
Travel and whatever...
Miscellaneous Excitement...
Whatever Ramblings: Table of Contents...
Introduction...
Outroduction...
Pertinent Information...
'Zine Journals...
OFFICIALLY endorsed by Me and My Friends, Inc. (MMF Inc.)
Note: This 'zine does not contain any of the following: Politics,
Religion, Band interviews and lame poetry. We are proud of this
assertion.
DO NOT ERASE THIS:
Word Count: 51295
Last line: Page 77 Ln 9.5
--END--