Please contact me if you do not receive 3 parts. The last lines of Parts
1 & Parts 2 should read "end of part X"

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



CRANK #2

28 pages of good news, love & happiness.

 1    Intelligent Religious Discourse
 2    And You Call Yourselves Anarchists?
 3    Interview with a Killer
 4    I LOVE JESUS!
 5    LOOK HERE FOR A COOL SERIAL KILLER ARTICLE!
 5    I'm an admitted pervert
 6    Screw Women (#1)
 7    I Hate Sports. So What?
11    Man's Best Friend is Still a Dumb Animal, After All
12    Ah, to be so SWANK.
13    Rampant millenarianism: THE END IS UPON US!
15    My life, my fun, pal (REVIEWS! REVIEWS! REVIEWS!)
18    Dave nd Buster's: Neo-Fascists or just Texas-Style Screws?
19    Head like a Hole (and then some)
20    DIY  Trepanation
22    Black & Decker gets hassled
23    A 3-page, Illustrated Guide to DIY Trepanation
26    Screw Women (#2)
26    CONTEST



************************************
1.

Hey Jerry Falwell: Suck My Ass You Useless Shitbag.

(Note for electronic readers: The above was printed in 122 pt. Futura
Extra Bold Condensed type, kerned real tight, PMS 072. Quite
striking, actually.)



************************************
2.

A continuing by-product of Jeff

Well, well, well. Number Two. Keep 'em coming, barkeep. God bless
clip art. And booze.

The Usual Crap
==============
Crank may be used and reproduced however you deem appropriate-
-just keep the copyright intact. Advertising in CRANK is cheap. Write
for info. Advertising barters will be considered, I guess. I do not: Do
Lunch, Touch Base, Interface, Confirm, Point Things Out FYI,
Brainstorm, or Check In. And, as a rule, I do not like people who do
those things.

Thanks to: Amy Nathanson; Tom Bielavitz; Jeff Fox; my day job;
Tower; Blacklist; distributors of Crank-E; anyone who responded with
kind words; and you for the marginal interest.

Appreciated contributors to this issue:

Vinnie Jordan: Interview with a Killer, p. 3
Tom Bielavitz: Dog Stories, p. 11
Dennis McGee: Trepaning Artwork, p. 23
Unappreciated contributors:
Dave & Buster's: The fascism behind p. 18

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

PO Box 1646 - Philadelphia PA 19105-1646
or Crank@aol.com (see page 22)

Crank logo, icons & contents (c) 1994 Jeff Koyen, except contributions
by the above authors/artists, who retain the copyrights to their
work.
the horror. the horror.


Names I should have chosen--rather than CRANK--that would have
attracted media attention and ensured national distribution:

Die, Dave Pirner, Die
Catch a Cold, Evan Dando, Catch a Cold
Mouth Rape Minors
MTV Sucks Ass
Skull Fuck the Virgin Mother
Newsweek
Wired
Fugazi
i fuck dogs
I Am Going To Kill The President



Anarchists: The Same, Old Hippie Shit
-------------------------------------

Could be that I'm naive. I'm willing to admit it if, indeed, I am. But I
don't think I am. Not this time anyway.

Wasn't there a day when anarchy meant a lack of central control?
Lack of government? And--more importantly--a violent upheaval of
the existing organizational structures in order to achieve a perfect
(utopian) society? Yeh, that's what I thought it used to mean. It don't
mean that any more, I tell you.

The self-declared anarchists that walk the streets today are nothing
more than too-cool, punk-rock hippies playing themselves off as
lovers of anarchy. Their literature is about feeding and sheltering the
homeless. Their pamphlets ALWAYS talk about Nicaragua and the
injustices put upon the people by totalitarian governments. They
scream about the oppression facing fellow human beings worldwide.
You know what you sound like, you anarchistic windbags? FUCKING
HIPPIES. Fucking hippies fighting for the rights of the impoverished.
Pioneering housing for all. YOU'RE NOTHING BETTER THAN REHASHED
HIPPIE GARBAGE.

Seventy years ago, they had the right idea. Bombings, sniping,
murders, riots. An effort for TRUE anarchy. But today, we're stuck
with the money kids, the squatters who can afford not to squat, and
two dozen other variations of shitbags wearing that fucking Anarchy
"A" on their leathers jackets, all worrying about equality for mankind
and feeding the homeless.

I see them everywhere, from the garden-variety teenager in the
mall, to the dirty poet in the coffee house. What do they have in
common? (Goatees, generally, but that's something else.) They all
dress alike. Anarchists? YOU ALL LOOK THE SAME! You dress in torn
clothes, dirty t-shirts and Doc Martens, with nose rings of course.
You've got a very TRIBAL tattoo that means Eat Me in some dead
Native American tongue. You don't seem to drink much, don't ever
seem to loosen up from your idealist stance. And--don't forget--
you're all either vegetarians, or you don't eat beef. You know what I
eat? WHATEVER I CAN AFFORD THAT DAY, FUCKER. Sometimes it's
plain spaghetti, sometimes it's take-out Chinese with enough beef to
clog 10 colons. Christ, you're all so PREDICTABLY ALIKE. And
HOMOGENEITY has got to be the furthest thing from anarchy that I
can fathom.

Worse yet, you're so fucking smug and self-righteous. I figure that
anyone BOLD enough to declare themselves in favor of Anarchy
should be willing to take the heat. You should be willing (and
intelligent enough) to listen to contrary opinions, and then decide for
yourself if you agree. And if you don't agree, THEN DON'T AGREE. One
magazine I found with the Anarchy "A" in the title declares that "We
encourage you to take the initiative to express yourself, but don't
bother to send us any racist, sexist or otherwise hateful material."
THEN HOW THE FUCK CAN I EXPRESS MYSELF? Do you want poetry
about the stars in the sky? Stories about my cat? Prose describing
my empathy for the oppressed? Anecdotes of how I tried to educate
20 children in the Peace Corp? ALL IN THE NAME OF ANARCHY?? I
can't write about that shit. I am able to write about very few things:
working all the time but still being broke, surviving hard nights of
drinking in spite of myself, and rejecting ideas AFTER LISTENING TO
THEM WITH AN OPEN MIND.

Anarchy? You want anarchy? Go LIVE in Nicaragua. Or, better yet, go
to Bosnia and try to house the homeless over there. See how much
good your thorough knowledge of Ginsberg and Creeley does you?
You're all full of shit. You're all just a bunch of hipster fucks who
fancy yourselves fringe. And as soon as you get out of school, or as
soon as the SCENE dries up and it's no longer fashionable to be you,
then you'll dye that hair back to brown, hit the Gap for a pair of
Khakis, get that job, and pay your own rent. Just like the rest of us
working shits.

Fuck you.



************************************
3.

Interview with a Killer
-----------------------

Provided by Vinnie Jordan (vinniej@sco.com)

The following is a transcript of an interview with teen killer Alvin
Harper, accused in the murder of his aunt, Thelma Kidd. Harper is a
slightly built youth, seemingly incapable of the crimes of which he
has been accused. As is the case with all these types of interviews,
the dialogue by the police has been left out, leaving only the words
of the suspect.

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

"My name is Alvin Harper, and I make this statement of my own free
will."

"Listen, do you think they're going to send me to prison? God, I'm
only 16, but they said they were going to try me as an adult. Oh, shit!
What am I going to do?"

"You have to understand, this woman was the most sadistic person I
have heard of or met in my life. When Mom died, she stipulated that
she wanted me to go and live with Thel. I knew she was an alcoholic,
and I know she had been through two bad marriages, but she had
always treated me well. I guess you really don't know someone until
you live under the same roof. Had I known what she was really like,
I'd have surely run away."

"She used to beat me anytime and for any reason. Mom died when I
was 12, and life was complicated enough, but she slapped me right
after I moved in with her for saying I missed Mom. She said 'She's
dead, and it's time you moved on with life. Dead!! Do you
understand?!' I just thought I had caught her at a bad moment. But it
was only the first in a long string of violent episodes. She was a big
woman, as you probably know, 5'10", and she outweighed me by 80
pounds."

"I was a real good student up until this tragedy. I was making all A's
in my studies, but I wasn't any good at organized sports. She said if I
didn't improve my grades in gym, she was going to punish me. That's
how she referred to any kind of abuse, as my punishment. Sure
enough, when I got my report card, I had a D in gym. She grabbed
me by the wrist and twisted it as she dragged me over to the stove.
It was one of those electric ones, and she placed my palm on it, then
turned it on. You can see the scar."

(At this point, Harper holds out his hand. Indeed, there is a large
burn scar on the palm.)

"One time, I forgot to take out the trash, and she came up on me,
quietly. She moved like a cat for a large woman, at least when she
was sober. Anyway, she snuck up on me and punched me in the ear.
My equilibrium was off for nearly a week, and my hearing is still
affected from it. This is no isolated condition. It happened with
frightening regularity."

"Why didn't I report her to the authorities? Aren't you listening to
me? The woman was dangerous, sadistic!! You know as well as I do
that Protective Services usually ends up returning kids to their
parents or guardians after the most perfunctory of investigations.
And where would I be then? In the hands of an angry sadist."

"OK, I'm getting to it! So that last night, I was late coming home from
school. I tried to sneak in, but it looked like I had lucked out, and
Aunt Thel wasn't home. I crossed the kitchen when I felt this
stinging on my back, like I had been stung by the world's biggest
bee, and I turned to find her holding a belt by the wrong end, so the
buckle was the portion that struck me. She swung again, and again,
and had me on the floor, with my arm up in a half-hearted attempt
to defend myself."

"When I awoke, I didn't know how long I had been out. It was dark
now, and I was bleeding from several gashes on my back. The bitch
had left me there on the floor, and it was cold while at the same time
the raw skin on my back was burning. Out in the living room, I could
hear the TV going, and I saw a half-empty bottle of whiskey hanging
from her limp arm. Drunk again, and hadn't even checked to see how
I was. That was when I decided to do what I did."

"I dragged myself up from the floor with a lot of pain. Look at this!"
(He lifts up his shirt, and there are several long streaks of bruised
flesh, giving an indication of how bad they must have been 10 days
ago at the time of the murder.)

"Anyway, I dragged myself to my feet, and went to the kitchen and
got into the utensil drawer. I took out the ice pick and started off
into the living room. It was at this time that I almost talked myself
out of it. But a drop of blood had flowed all the way from my back to
my fingertips, and fell all the way to the floor. I looked at it, and
thought if I didn't do something soon, she was going to kill me."

"As I entered the living room, I could hear her snoring softly. The
area around her head was cloying with the smell of alcohol fumes
and halitosis. As a heavy drinker, that aroma was not uncommon.
Her gums were receding from the constant burning away of skin
from drinking straight whiskey, and her breath smelled like she ate
carrion for breakfast, all the time. Her head was bent slightly
forward, and I plunged the ice pick into the back of her neck. It was
eerie. Her pelvis lifted off the chair with such force that it jerked the
pick out of my hand as she flew out of the chair and landed on her
belly on the floor. I thought at first that she was dead, but then I
heard her making mewling type sounds. I must have hit some nerve
or something, because she seemed to be paralyzed, though she still
seemed to have feeling. I poked her in the leg with the ice pick, and
sure as hell, she made that mewling sound again. For just a moment,
I thought about calling an ambulance."

"Yeah, you're right. I should have let it go at that. But something just
came over me when I realized that she was helpless, and all the old
anger from years of abuse. I remember everything, but was out of
control of my faculties. I was no more able to stop the next sequence
of events than I would be to stop my bladder function."

"I dragged her limp form to a sitting position. She could barely sit up
because of her stomach being so big, but since she was paralyzed, I
was able to force her into a sitting position, although there was much
creaking of stretched muscles and cracking vertebrae. She looked at
me with the same pleading look I had given her when she had
beaten me. Her head was lolled over to one side, and a thin run of
spit ran out of the side of her mouth. I leaned toward her, smiled,
and spit right in her eye. It ran down the side of her face. Then, I
took a step back, and reared back and kicked her directly in the
center of her chest. She went back and hit her head on the floor. I
looked in her eyes. She was awake."

"Why did I sodomize her? Revenge, I guess. It seemed the ultimate
insult to someone who had caused me so much pain. She seemed to
be trying to scream, whether in pain or shame, I guess we'll never
know. And to be honest, it doesn't matter, as long as it was pain,
emotional or physical."

"No, I guess I wasn't done yet. I dragged her and into the kitchen. As
I said, she was a big woman, but I had never felt so physically
strong. I draped her fat ass face down over one of the kitchen
chairs."

(Note: The suspect is becoming agitated as he tells this part of his
story)

"By this time, I was out of control. I wanted to be sure she was still
with me, so I heated up a kitchen knife and applied it to her left
nipple, which was hanging over the chair. She had big tits. Not nice
tits, But big saggy ones that went with the rest of her big saggy body.
Anyway, she was still with me. The heat applied to the nipple
brought the loudest noise I had heard from her since she was hitting
me with that goddamned belt. I couldn't think of what to do next,
and as I looked down at her big fat ass, with the old stained
sphincter staring up at me, I decided to finish her in the most vile
way I could think of."

(Suspect is breathing hard, and flushed. I ask him if he wants to rest.
He says no, and we continue.)

"So, I go to the cabinet and take out the cooking lard. I spread it all
over my right arm, up to the elbow. Then I slathered it all over her
asshole. I thought about just reaching in and yanking her fucking
colon out. But she deserved more than that. At this point, I couldn't
let her off easy. So, I spread her cheeks and just started punching at
her sphincter. I wondered if the lard would allow my clenched fist
inside. I just kept punching as hard as I could, until I lost count. I
was caught up in some sort of frenzy, and I just kept punching. I was
about to give up, when the wall of her rectum caved in, and my fist
slid inside her. Problem was, my thumb was bent back when my arm
had entered the rectal cavity, and it was stuck. It felt as if it was
badly torn, too. I tried to pull my arm out, but the pain was so
intense I couldn't move my arm more than an inch in either
direction."

"So what am I supposed to do? I gritted my teeth and pulled as hard
as I could. I could see the blood, probably mixed with her shit,
dripping out of the opening of her asshole where my fist was buried.
I started to panic, because I was afraid of bile and poison getting into
my bloodstream from the open wound. So, I put my foot against her
ass, held my breath, and yanked as hard as I could."

"The last mental reaction I had was to squeeze my hand shut, and as
my hand exited her rectum, it closed onto a handful of flesh, and
although it was probably the most pain I have ever felt, including
the beatings that bitch gave me, I was rewarded with about a foot
and a half of that cunt's colon hanging out of her ass."

"Then, I looked in her eyes. They were still open, but the light had
gone out of them. She was dead. I was unsure of what to do then. So,
I called you guys."

"Remorse? No. I feel no remorse."

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

Alvin Harper was convicted of first degree murder, sodomy and
aggravated assault. He was found criminally insane, and sentenced to
the psychiatric unit of Vacaville Prison in Central California.



************************************
4.

The "I'm Already Going to Hell" Merchandise
Three t-shirts designed to loosen your money from your wallets.

"Fish for Satan"

That "Peace" or "Christ" in a Fish symbol, straight from the bumpers
of obnoxious Christians and onto your chest, with a little twist. White
on Black.


"HEY JERRY FALWELL: SUCK MY ASS YOU USELESS SHITBAG"

Fuck subtlety. This design is BOUND to get you thrown out of the
mall. Or your house. Black on White.


"jesus saves... other people"
And ain't that the truth? Black on white.


Oh yeh? How the fuck else am I supposed to support myself? Ad
sales? HA! Just buy one of these shirts.

All shirts 100% Cotton. Large or X-Large only. $10.00  + $2.00 for
postage & my personal handling. Send cash, check or m/o to "cash" or
"Jeff Koyen." PO Box 1646 - Phil PA 19105-1646 $2.00 covers
postage and handling for AS MANY SHIRTS AS YOU BUY. $2 FLAT
RATE! (International orders must add $2 per shirt for postage/etc.
Sorry.) Allow at least 3 weeks for delivery. I'm a very busy man,
after all. All designs 1994, Jeff Koyen. Please don't fuck with my
copyrights; they're all I've got.

NOTE TO ELECTRONIC READERS: Write me (crank@aol.com) with your
fax # and I will return-fax a copy of the above designs. Continental
US only, sorry.



************************************
5.

No More Fucking Serial Killers, eh?
-----------------------------------

Doesn't the title just say it all?

I am so fucking sick of articles and poorly-written, unoriginal
worship-oriented pieces about serial and mass murderers. Sick to
death, in fact. Haven't we (especially as the so-called UNDERGROUND
& INDEPENDENT small press) done enough to stomp this dead horse?
Yes.

Fortunately, there is an end in sight. "Natural Born Killers" arrives
one of these months. Though Quentin Tarantino is supposedly
unhappy with Oliver Stone's treatment of his script, the film will be
incredible if it maintains even one-half of Quentin's brilliance. The
only disappointment I expect are the stars: Woody Doldrum
Harrelson and Juliette Bad-Actress Lewis.

The script is truly wonderful. A piece of art to anyone who has been
a part of the serial/mass murderer fascination throughout the years.
Quentin obviously did his homework (or went through his library) to
create Mickey and Mallory Knox, the dynamic-duo, Sid & Nancy of
killers. He's built them from the ground up to be the quintessential
media icons: attractive, sexual and witty, with a death count of 44.
Tarantino makes fun of your fascination, too. He throws the Sid &
Nancy crap in your face; he pounds you with Geraldo allusions; he
grinds down the Americana serial/mass murderer attention to it's
ridiculous core. It's beautiful.

And I expect "NBK" to finally put this serial/mass murderer nonsense
to a bitter death, so that I won't have to open any more 'zines and
see articles and fluff about the same half dozen killers. But in an
effort to hasten the process, I offer the following declaration:

Attention Writers, Editors, Publishers

I, Jeff Koyen--embittered serial/mass murderer afficionado, failing
writer, snotty elitist, working shit--am hereby officially declaring a
moratorium (look it up, kids) on the publishing of the following:

-- articles about  the personal lives of serial/mass murderers;
-- articles about/pictures of the artwork of serial/ mass murderers;
-- articles about/pictures of the deeds of serial/mass murderers,
unless they are previously unpublished and particularly gruesome
(see page 3);
-- reviews or exposs of other media covering any serial/mass
murderer (current article excluded).

In fact, I don't want to see ANYTHING AT ALL about serial and mass
murderers. Got me? I'M SO FUCKING SICK OF IT. It's all so goddamn
redundant.

Do you know how many places I have seen the Richard Remirez and
Henry Lee Lucas artwork? It was interesting when I first saw it in
Answer Me! But I've since seen it in 2 or 3 other small press,
UNDERGROUND magazines. Shit, it's probably been in Newsweek and
Time by now. Haven't YOU had enough?

I will grant 3 exceptions to my totalitarian decree. As "Murder Can
Be Fun," "Evil," and "Answer Me!" have always published interesting
articles, photos, etc, in the true crime vein, I feel they're the only
publications capable of continuing to engage me in spite of all the
other shit out there. Let the professionals do it, ok, kids? You just
won't do it better than the Goads.

Please don't tell me that your magazine published a Gacy painting
way back in 1990 because I don't care; so did "Details." And don't tell
me that YOUR magazine printed a letter from Manson 5 years ago; it's
been passe for 15 years. (Hell, when the Lemonheads covered a
Manson song, it was interesting, SIX YEARS AGO. Guns 'n Roses jumps
on the wagon and gets national media attention?) It's all crap. It's
boring, mass media nonsense, ok? You've been sold out by
yourselves and all your little dangerous rags. But don't take it up
with me. I don't like to argue.

So. In the way that "Airplane!" spoofed and ultimately ended the
string of "Airport 19xx" movies, "Natural Born Killers" will do the
same to the national fixation on serial/mass murderers. After all,
when your so-cool hobby is being detailed on a 50-foot screen at the
local MultiPlex 12, how underground can you REALLY be? Even the
stupid motherfuckers buying Gacy paintings for $5000 will be
bitching that "now EVERYONE'S got one. I had mine X years ago." Shit,
when your grandmother knows what Gacy's body count was, how
CUTTING EDGE can you possibly be?

All I can say is that I got my Gacy for $100, and it's up for sale for
$2500. I've also got my Bloody Visions trading cards, and they're for
sale, too. But I need to sell them quick, before the public realizes how
trite and commonplace all this crap is. I'm selling 'cause
I need the money; I've got 2-color covers to print and sacrifices must
be made.

So, quick, get yours now, before "NBK" outcools you!!
I'll even pick up the shipping and insurance! Make me an offer.



One for the Boys
----------------

An actual question reprinted from somewhere:

Q:
I am a girl from France, 15 years old. I am a virgin, but I love
making oral and anal sex with men friends older than me. I have
many girl friends that also like very much making anal and oral sex
only. We say that we avoid pregnancy and keep virginity in this way.
I think such kind of sex is the sex of the future. What do you think?

A:
Oh my.



************************************
6.

Screw Women, Part 1
-------------------

A few years ago, Date Rape hit BIG. Movies of the Week. 20/20
Reports. College Dormitory Seminars. The running truth? Guys are
assholes. Amen.

Fuck education and awareness--men still cling to an underlying
philosophy that women are nothing more than fuckholes dropped on
this earth for their pleasure. Doubt me? Read the below passage.

I suppose it's outdated, but you know what? It demonstrates an
attitude that has been passed down from father to son for countless
generations. An attitude that still--in 1994--dictates that women
should fuck guys when the guys want it, WITHOUT QUESTION.

If you're a woman, listen up: For every nice guy you know there are
3 dozen assholes waiting to date rape you and your friends. For
every nice word a guy has for you, he's got 20 words for describing
your cunt to his buddies. It's our nature as assholes.

If you're a man, listen up: Ever try to talk a woman into fucking you?
Sure you have. Ever leave a woman's bed, unfulfilled, feeling
cheated, and maybe a little angry? Sure you have. Ever told your
friends about that girl's pussy that felt looser than a stretched-out
sock? Sure you have. You're a fuck.

And the solution, ladies? Kick any man in the balls at the slightest
provocation. Carry a taser and fuck him up as soon as he grabs your
titties a little too roughly. If he does hurt you, hurt him back. Or find
someone to hurt him. Fuck the cops--they won't deal out nearly the
right amount of punishment he deserves. Shit, they'll probably high-
five each other.

Above all, don't fall for men's bullshit. On the first date, assume that
he's an asshole. Really now, who needs benefit of the doubt for one
cock? There's plenty more out there. And somewhere in the batch,
you'll find that swell fellow who looks at you as something more than
a fuck. We're out there, hiding from the rest of the motherfuckers.
And we're just as sick of the little boys and their big bad cocks as
you are.

"In kissing a girl whose experience with osculation is limited, it is a
good thing to work up to the kissing of the lips. Only an arrant fool
seizes hold of such a girl, when they are comfortably seated in the
sofa, and suddenly shoves his face into hers and smacks her lips.
Naturally, the first thing he should do is to arrange it so that the girl
is seated against the arm of the sofa while he is seated at her side. In
this way, she cannot edge away from him when he becomes serious
in his attentions. This done, on some pretext or another, such as a
gallant attempt to adjust the cushions behind her, he manages to
insinuate his arm, first around the back of the sofa and then,
gradually, around her shoulders. If she flinches, don't worry. If she
flinches and makes an outcry, don't worry. If she flinches, and makes
an outcry and tries to get up from the sofa, don't worry. Hold her,
gently but firmly, and allay her fears with kind, reassuring words.
Remember what Shakespeare said about "a woman's no!" However, if
she flinches, makes an outcry, a loud stentorian outcry, mind you,
and starts to scratch your face, then start to worry or start to get
yourself out of a bad situation. Such girls are not to be trifled
with or kissed. It is such as they, in most cases, who still believe the
story of the stork which brings babies because of the consequences
of a kiss."

--from The Art of Kissing, Hugh Morris, 1936.(without permission.
emphasis added)



************************************
7.

Jerking Off: The Self-Publishing Trap
-------------------------------------


They were wild times lived in a sort of bored desperation. Starved
for excitement, driven by apathy, we hunted for diversion in the
trickle-down environment of suburban pop culture.

It was a time before collection agencies and before bad credit ratings.
When a cheap used car could break down and not lose me a job, and
me and my friends would withstand the shit and grief we gave each
other; I knew, from all the bad movies and worn-out Coming of Age
novels, that I'd "start missing everybody" as soon as I told anybody
anything. Old J.D. sure was right.

--

It was 1986 and we smoked dope in a semi-corporate parking lot
across town, stuck behind a thin row of pines and a drab concrete
building. One night, Laurie was high and knew there were police in
the bushes. We all ran. Laurie first. Ed and I fell over each other,
Tom disappeared, no one knew where Jason went.

There were no cops. We walked back to the lot and kept smoking.
Jeff and Joe were also there, but they didn't smoke. After the police
scare, Laurie sat with Jeff and Joe, deciding she wasn't all that high.

Another time, the same parking lot, we didn't have any pot but had
beer and vodka. I was a cashier at a liquor store, so booze was cheap
or free, never expensive. It was me, Tom, Ed and Jason. Tom had the
tape player he took from someone's car down the shore, but it was a
little fucked up.

We got pretty drunk and after a few hours walked to Pathmark. On
the way, it was all-around pitch black except for sporadic bursts of
music from Tom's broken radio. Over Route 80, Tom threw the player
off the bridge onto the Westbound lane. Traffic was sparse. He'd
forgotten to take out his Replacements tape. It was his second copy--
he'd lost the first copy in a similar incident.

At Pathmark, we shoplifted Hostess cakes and Ed & I drank cooking
sherry in aisle 12. Cooking sherry is very salty, to prevent people
from trying to get drunk on it. We spit it out on the floor.

Tom was close to home, so he left us at Pathmark. Ed, Jason and I had
been closer to home before we came to Pathmark, but it was too late.
We asked a trucker for a lift back into the developments, but "No can
do, I'd never be able to turn around back there." No money for a cab.
We walked home.

My drab, white duplex had never before looked so comfortable. I
woke up the next morning at 8 and met Tom and Ed at work where
we hung old women's polyester clothing on ten foot high racks. We
were hungover, dizzy, miserable.

--

Summer of 1986. We took the bus into NYC to see some bands at the
old Ritz. I stole six ready-mixed cocktails from work for the bus ride.
My liquor store was in the Pathmark shopping plaza, which included
a K-Mart and Drug Fair, plus the usual card shop, florist, pizza shop,
et cetera. The bus stop for New York was at the far end of the
parking lot, so Tom met me at work and we rode In from there. I
figured on sleeping at Tom's apartment that night.

The bus cost $7.20 round-trip. I'd won the tickets to the show on
some local college radio station. At the Ritz, Tom and I talked our
way into the back room where the opening bands drank before and
after the show. There was a sink filled with bottles of Rolling Rock so
Tom and I helped ourselves and got drunk.

Coming out of the band's lounge, two girls, Joy and Kris from Long
Island, nailed us for suckers and picked us up. Horny and drunk, we
bought them overpriced white wine. We spent too much on the
drinks, but we fucked around with the girls in the middle of the bar.
I was grabbing Joy's tits and Tom had his hand down Kris' pants. It
was quite a scene. If you'd been there that night, you'd remember it.

The last bus out was some time around 1:30am, so at 1:15 we left the
club. Outside, Joy vomited up the wine in the gutter and Kris wrote
her phone number on Tom's hand. Then we kissed them goodbye and
hopped a cab to Port Authority.

We missed the last bus Out. It didn't matter, though, because the cab
fare from the club had been our last 4 bucks. We were broke. And
drunk. In NYC. Fuck.

Ed's summer job took him into New York every morning at 7. We
could wait 'til morning, find him at work and get bus fare. That left
us for 5 1/2 hours on the streets. Instead we found a stupid cabbie to
take us to the suburbs with my driver's license as collateral. "C'mon,
man, we're desperate. Shit, you've got my license--what am I gonna
do?"

In the cab on the way back, we stopped on Route 10 to help two
young women whose car was broken down. They asked for a lift, but
changed their minds when we told them what we'd be doing. Sorry.

In Parsippany, Tom directed the cab into the dark maze of a random
development. Turn here, Turn there, That's my house, Stop here, Be
right back.

Tom left the car door open, ran up to a dark house and searched his
pockets for keys. In the cab, I thanked the driver and made small
talk. At the right chance, I leaned over the seat and snatched my
driver's license, dove out the car door and dashed into someone's
back yard. As I was grabbing my license, I saw the meter: $62.80.
"Thanks for the ride, pal." Don't forget a generous tip.

The cabbie chased us through two yards. Tom and I lost him behind
tool sheds and air conditioner stacks. We ran into two fences and set
off one house alarm. Between the house alarm and the cabbie's CB,
cops flooded the neighborhood in 10 minutes.

It took us over an hour to fight our way through the yards across
town to Tom's apartment complex. We stumbled in, exhausted and
sobered. We were pretty miserable, but we knew there was one fuck
of a story in that night.

--

One of my most fond memories of childhood is standing in front of
the bowl, urinating, trying to break a discarded cigarette in half with
the force of my urine. When my bladder was just about evacuated, at
that last moment, the butt broke, sending wet shreds of tobacco
swirling around the water, floating in and under the foam of my piss.
Triumph.

Every time there's a cigarette in the toilet when I'm pissing, I try to
break the butt. Most guys do, I figure. Ask your boyfriend or spouse.

--

My next-door neighbor, and best friend for the first 10 years of my
life, was Dave. He and I were chums and all that shit from the start.
When I was in high school, I used to buy dime bags from him.

My sister would buy me booze and I'd buy her dope. A very close
relationship. She first bought me liquor when I was in eighth grade.
Andy R., Jon C., Jeff and I were going sledding at the hill behind St.
Clare's hospital. Jon got a pint of rum, I brought a pint of blackberry
brandy. The four of us got drunk and when my mother picked us up,
she knew.

We dropped Andy & Jeff at Jon's house. Mom took me home and told
me it was o.k.: "I'd go into your sisters' rooms and it would smell like
the Napa Valley. Just don't let it become a problem." No problem.

--

Will didn't drink, but he was a great host. His parents often went on
vacation, and when they left, we arrived.
The first party at Will's house was around Mother's Day 1986. We all
drank too much. Ed held Tom's head over the toilet. I passed out
somewhere.

Will's house, New Year's 1986/7--we all drank too much and I
fucked Jason's ex-girlfriend, Jen. I was so drunk I was blacking out,
and when I snapped awake, my cock was raw and my balls ached. It
was still early, so I started drinking again. Jen had left; I never saw
her after that.

That same night, I met Laura from Randolph and began dating her
the next day. We never had sex because she was absolutely terrified
of getting pregnant. That kind of terror isn't worth the lay.

It was to Laura that I wrote my first cheesy love poem. For
Valentine's Day. I threw it out years and years ago, but I think of it
every once in a while. I was a sincere young man, if not a good poet.

--

We worked at a shit warehouse in North Jersey. Jason got a job there
through an outside friend. He got Jeff a job. Jeff got me, Tom, Ed and
Joe jobs. $5.50 an hour part-time after school and weekends. Good
money for high school kids in 1986.

Warehouses are interesting places, and they remain a place of
comfort for me. Office buildings and corporate environments hold
death and boredom --the people are stale, fake and narrow.

Oscar, Jerry and Goody were our supervisors. They seemed so old at
the time, but were only 25 or so.

We climbed racks of clothing 10 feet high in order to move, pick,
pack and count units of women's clothing--Alfred Dunner,
Sportswear for Mature Women. Polyester. Rayon. Nylon. The
warehouse needed us to keep distribution flowing. We knew they
needed us.

We were young and we didn't like being inside when the nice
weather came. And the bosses--like most bosses--were cocksuckers.
But we found satisfaction. It started with changing garment labels. It
quickly progressed to wrinkling, tearing and soiling them. Tom
finished by pissing on them one day.

None of us ever jerked off or shit on a garment. Not that I know of. If
I had, I'd tell you, right?

--

Michelle was a very attractive blonde woman who worked on the
picking and packing line. She took a liking to me and asked me out.
She was 23 to my 17. I'd sneak away from my assigned rack, hide in
a rack near her line, and steal snatches of conversation. It felt good
to have someone you didn't grow up with enjoy your company.

Michelle and I never had sex and I guess I know why. She was very
shy and I was very nervous. We talked on the phone for hours and
sat in her car fooling around a few nights a week. She'd drive 20
minutes to see me. As I said, it was nice to be accepted by someone
outside the group you went to elementary and middle school with.

We broke up when I went to live down the shore for the summer of
1986. It wasn't particularly sad; we'd had fun. During that summer, I
bought a '68 Mustang for $600, lost my virginity, met and said
goodbye to Laura from Florida, and missed my friends.

--

I don't remember much about middle school. The memories that do
stand out are vague, cartoonish images of a cut kneecap, nervous
school dances, playing trumpet in the band, starting to smell when I
sweat, and waiting for pubic hair. I realized in 7th grade that middle
school was the place where young men and women jockeyed for
social position. It is there that boys become masculine and girls
become desirable. I found I wasn't interested in sports and wasn't
seen by the girls I desired.

But I was cute, I suppose, in a girlish kind of way. I was the kid who
always seemed to be friends with the attractive girls. I was a mascot.
My first love was a girl named Ay. Spring, 7th grade. Our
relationship was written in notes in class and spoken over the phone
each night. On occasion, we'd walk to class and I'd hold her hand. I
soon discovered the problems of getting hard in public.

Rob Pellino lived down the block from me. We'd grown up together,
though he was more Dave's friend than mine. Rob and I always had
some sort of tension between us, because I didn't follow his
neighborhood leadership. I was too selfish to follow anyone other
than myself. Rob was a year older and went to a private middle
school; he always told us about the girls he was screwing and what
they did to him. I was, secretly, in awe.

April: It was nice weather, so I'd ride my bike across town to Ay's
house. I once made the mistake of bringing Dave and Rob along. Ay
fell for Rob and dumped me a week later. I hated him.

When Ay dumped me I was so upset I cried in school, in the middle
of classes. It was a turning point. Full of emotional weakness, unable
to keep it hidden like the tough guys. I was ashamed. I'd become
attached to a fleeting relationship. Start of a bad habit.

Ay got pregnant during her senior year of high school and might or
might not have gotten married. I don't remember. I might not have
ever known.

Rob's brother, Danny, died in a car accident on his honeymoon in the
Bahamas five years ago. Fuck my condolences; I couldn't've been
happier.

I am, on the whole, a bitter man who takes pleasure in the
appropriate misery other people receive.

--

Mary Beth was a friend of Janet, Jason's little sister. I met Mary Beth
when I was 15 and she was 13; she was young and awkward, but
cute. When Marybeth was 17, she was no longer awkward.

Ed's house, 1988: His parents took the camper and left for a week
every summer. Usually Memorial Day. We were 19, drinking from a
keg of cheap beer and smoking Tom's pot. Tom usually got the best
pot.

We were having a picnic, and Janet and her friends were old enough
to drink with us, mainly because they were suddenly old enough to
be sexual.

It was the first time I'd seen Marybeth in a couple years. She was a
very beautiful young woman. Probably still is, I suppose. Tall, dark
hair, very nice breasts and long legs. Fucking American wet dream.

During the night, Marybeth and I flirted, while I drank. Ed drank,
flirted and got bent out of shape. Marybeth and I walked around the
neighborhood and made out in the bushes next to Ed's house.
Someone drove Janet and Marybeth home to Janet's house; I took the
ride with them, and Marybeth and I molested each other for a few
minutes in the backseat.

I took her out a week later. Conversation was dull. I was dull. She
was dull. She probably still is. I am.

It was my own fault that we were both disappointed. I should've
known, even then, that the best and worst aspects of my personality
come out when I'm drunk. I'm a very bland person sober; whatever
passions I have come out through the crutch of booze.

Problem is, people interpret the same good and bad qualities as
attractive or repulsive, depending on my relationship with them. In
the times of Marybeth and the rest of them, I exhibited my passions
physically when I was drunk; this tended to attract. Fortunately, I
stopped getting drunk and fucking a few years ago. Too many lost
friendships. Too many regrets. Now I wake up and regret saying
things too loudly or too frankly. I am often uninvited to people's
apartments.

I don't have many friends anymore. Back then, though, the friends
were the unassailable network of trust and love. I guess it's still that
way for most people. I wouldn't know. Really.

--

I still think about the few women I fooled around with that first year
at school, before I transferred. Pam, a pretty blonde punk who never
wore a bra; we'd get drunk and dance at parties. Eilleen, Pam's friend
with a cute little ass. And some girl with bad breath at a hardcore
show in Philadelphia.

I was dating Laura from Florida, and I thought that I loved her. But I
was still lonely; Laura was in Florida for a few months and I was
rotting in Pennsylvania, surrounded by men and women my age who
had nothing but fucking on their minds. I was also drinking and
smoking a lot. I also dropped acid every once in a while. So it's no
surprise that I couldn't keep the loneliness at bay.

Sandy was a friend who wanted to fuck me; we talked about it. She
was the sophomore who had slit her wrists in the dorm the year
before. Thank god she survived; she was a great person: intelligent,
attractive, without inhibition. After all, when everyone around you
knows you as That Suicide Attempt, what place does inhibition have
in your life?

I don't understand how or why I never had sex with Sandy, but I did
regret it, sometimes. Laura dumped me in May after she fucked
some guy in Florida. For all my flirting and the occasional kiss, at
least I kept my dick dry. The year after I left that school, I heard
that Sandy was pregnant and married during her junior year.

It was too late to go back, of course. Sandy was dating someone, Pam
was dating someone, and I was left alone, still. Would it have been
better if I'd fucked Sandy? Laura would've still fucked her guy in
Florida. I probably would've stayed at that school and kept the
friends I'd made. Sandy wouldn't be pregnant and I wouldn't be so
bitter.

But, then I wouldn't have what I have nowtrue fucking love. And
ain't True Love worth a world of shit?

I miss them, sometimes, those friends for a year. But I don't want to
see them ever again; I don't want to see what life has done to them.
And I don't want them to see what life has done to me.

--

When I was 14, mom & dad gave me the option to buy a moped or a
computer with the money I'd saved from working. When I was 15--
legal moped age--they gave me the option to buy a computer.

Sold.

I hit the computer age when 300 baud modems were top dollar and
my Atari 800 came with (I think) 8K of Ram. It was the time of "War
Games" and "Cloak and Dagger," when computer hacks were heroes
for a new suburban revolution.

On the computer bulletin boards, I found a new world of intelligent,
anonymous people inhabiting islands of intersection on the phone
lines. It was beautiful: everyone used aliases. I found a place to
express myself without giving my name. I found an audience for my
ranting and raving. I made a lot of enemies, for someone without an
identity.

An older woman started leaving dirty messages for me on some of
the bulletin boards. Horny, confident and anonymous, I answered
them.

A month later, one Thursday afternoon, I met her in the Pathmark
parking lot, a short walk from school. She had straight black hair and
a yellow VW bug. Mid-thirties, a little overweight. I can still smell
her perfume; I don't know what it was.

We went to the Willowbrook Mall and walked around. She bought me
a drink in the Irish restaurant at the far end of the mall. She held my
hand. She bought me a box of discs in the computer store. I was
beyond fucking terrified.

She wanted to fuck me, only because I was 15. She was a freak for
young boys. And I was a young boy.

Of course, I really wanted to lose my virginity; and I knew I wouldn't
be screwing the head cheerleader anytime soon. I just wanted to
fuck fuck fuck.

I didn't do it. I was too scared. She kissed me goodbye and dropped
me off at home.

We still talked through the BBS's for a few weeks. She got me and my
friends tickets for a concert once, and I saw her at the show, getting
high with a friend. After that, I never saw her again.
I can't remember her name. Just her perfume. And the taste of
mature sexual terror she gave me that Thursday afternoon.

--

I had my first fuck on a bed in my grandparents house, down the
shore, summer 1986. Dana was a little whore--though I didn't realize
it at the time--who was fooling around with half the guys on the
boardwalk. We hung out together for a week or so.

One afternoon, before I had to work, we were petting on the couch.
Out of nowhere, she says "I like it on the bottom" and slides
underneath me. I didn't know what to do. Instinctively (?) I led her
to the nearest bedroom and closed the door.

On the bed, she dropped her pants. I dropped mine. She wouldn't
take off her shirt--I don't know why. I felt her up a little, stuck a
finger or two inside her, got on top, and got it in. "Don't come inside
me, ok?" "Sure, fine," says Mr. Cool.

I couldn't feel a thing. I don't know if it was the fear or if she was
really loose. Probably both. And just like a bad movie, I pumped
away and her head smacked into the headboard a few times. We did
that for a couple minutes and I rolled off.

I hadn't come. I hadn't felt a fucking thing, in fact, the whole time.
She rolled halfway on me and kissed me tenderly. I guess it wasn't
that bad for her; not painful, if nothing else. Maybe she'd actually felt
something good? How the fuck would I know? It sure as shit couldn't
have been too good.

Then, the front door opened. I don't know what the fuck I'd been
thinking; my grandparents were rarely away from the house for
more than half an hour.

So we jumped up and put on our clothes. I cracked open the door and
saw Dana's friend, Lisa.

I stuffed my underwear in my pocket, smoothed out the bed, and we
joined Lisa in the living room. Dana was chatty, I was embarrassed.
It was 4:50 and I was due at work by 5:00. So Dana and Lisa walked
me there, I kissed Dana goodbye, and went to work, befuddled by
the whole experience.

We never fucked again. She must've lost interest in me, because I
heard she was fucking around with some guy who worked further
down the boardwalk. I guess maybe he knew what a clitoris was. If
someone had told ME, then maybe I would've gotten a second chance.
And, maybe I would've gotten off.

--

Diamonds and rubies, her father used to tell her. He drove for a
living, and, you know, late night highways get real fucking boring. So
you think. Or you talk, or sing. Or you watch other cars. And it
became diamonds coming at you, rubies running away in front of
you. When you drive the highway at night, it's all diamonds in the
headlights and rubies in the tail lights. That's what he told her as a
child.

I met Jennifer at school. It was my first year at Rutgers, a sophomore
transfer. She was a freshman; very outgoing, pretty, enchanting. It
was great, when I was nineteen. When I was twenty, I hated her.
And I still do, at 25.

But I still find myself driving at night and my mind's rushing around
in boredom, I see the rubies of the tail lights and the diamonds of the
headlights and I think of the year that I (once again) thought I was
in love.

I was no great fuck when I was 19, mind you, but I'd dated Laura for
almost a year and we'd screwed when we had the chance. So when
Jen and I got into it one Friday night, I was better than most of the
boys she'd been with in high school. Unfortunately, the booze gets
most of the credit; I was able to last pretty long because I was pretty
drunk. The next night we had sex sober and I was done in 30
seconds. But being young, I got hard again right away and did a
better job of it the second time.

Sex was ok. She'd had a good bit of experience; simple, normal high
school sex. Eventually, she'd get on top, all that. I'd guide her around
a little; we had fun playing around. It never became phenomenal, but
it was the best I'd ever had. Hell, it was regular.

After 6 months, she dumped me for Tony, a guy I drank, smoked
dope and played cards with. It sucked shit; I had to see this guy at
least twice a week--I couldn't avoid him.

Aside from the emotional collapse, the decline into apathy, harder
drinking, afternoon dope and the occasional cocaine--all that break-
up/breakdown crap--what really sucked was that all my investment
was sleeping in his bed. She told me I'd done wonders for her sexual
ambition. So now my investment was riding someone else's cock,
pulling him around in ways he'd only seen in videos and cheap
magazines. She probably scared him, she was so sexed-up. Teach her
how to have fun fucking and then watch someone else get my profits.
Man, life is unfair sometimes.

So, like that little boy in 7th grade, I was destroyed.

But six years later I'm not going to waste your time with bullshit
love-saga trash. I'm talking about sex, about how fucking affects the
simple routine of life.

Do I have to be blunt? Diamonds and rubies; expensive, pretty, petty
pieces of stone. If that's the only thing that reminds me of her, then
why not remember the utility of the relationship? I don't think of
her when I see diamond earrings or a ruby ring; only the red and
white lights of cars on a fucking highway. It's not real. See? It's not
the real thing. Just an excuse. And so the memory of fucking her isn't
really all that's left of her in my mind. It's just the only thing I feel
like talking about.

So, anyway, I guess the diamonds and rubies will always be with me.
At least once a month, like it or not, they come to mind when I'm
driving the highway alone, late at night. Ironically, her father hated
me, and all I remember about his little girl is fucking her.
But, as I said, that's not entirely true.

--

"Liquor! Girls!" the sign reads.

If I could have both, 24 hours a day--or at least every hour that I'm
awake--then I just KNOW I'd be happy. But if I had to choose one, I'd
choose booze. Because when I have any amount of liquor, I can
always imagine the girls. But when I've got my girlfriend in bed, but
no liquor to speak of, I always seem to feel half empty.

--

Hey, I'm a fucking human being, ain't I?

--

It ain't much, but it's mine. Thanks for your time.


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************************************
11.

True Dog Stories for Young Readers
----------------------------------

By Tom Bielavitz (jitbagger@aol.com)

When I was an infant my parents took a puppy in and named it
Sugar. It was a small, terrier type. It loved my father greatly, and
was very obedient. However, Sugar took to backing my mother into a
corner, baring it's teeth and growling. Sugar became more aggressive,
especially when I was the center of attention. My mother had to
carry a small baseball bat to beat it off. Finally, she convinced my
father to give it away, but they had a hard time doing so. It seems no
one wanted a full grown pit bull.

Years later we got another dog, a pointer mutt we called Bronco. As
Bronco aged, he had many health problems; arthritis, cancer lumps,
and ears that would fill with fluid. The epilepsy was the worst,
though. He was a large dog, and during the seizures his hind legs
would stretch forward, past his nose. His tongue would hang out,
salivating, and his eyes would glaze much like a human epileptic
(except the part about his legs stretching forward). I was about ten
years old and it was disturbing to watch: he would scoot around
backwards, and then, suddenly, he would flip backwards, his hind
legs acting like the spring on a mousetrap. Since we lived in a small
apartment, and he was about three feet tall, furniture and stuff
would be thrown about the room. Once he lost control of his bowels.
The worst part was to look into his eyes and see the shame he felt
after the seizures. It became obvious that his accumulation of health
problems was paining him. My dad thought it was cruel to make an
animal suffer, so we decided to put Bronco to sleep. I watched as the
vet put the needle into his leg, as he stretched, closed his eyes, and
died.

While riding my bike over a small bridge about 10 miles from home,
I noticed a dog, a german shepherd, in an unusual position; he was
hanging from a tree. Upon further inspection I decided he was
hanging from a hook jammed into the roof of his mouth. Also, he had
been gutted, kind of like a bear skin rug you might see in a cartoon,
so that his head, back, and front paws were intact, but his
hindquarters were removed. I wasn't allowed in that town at that
age, so I didn't say anything.

--

In college, I visited a friend's home during winter break. He had a
small toy dog that also had problems. It had lost an eye to a tumor,
so all that remained was a hole with an open sore above it that
collected lint, hair, and dirt in it, complete with oozing mucous. The
dog's other eye was cataracted; it had a heart stutter, and asthma.
When it would bark it would begin to wheeze, which would cause it
to fart involuntarily. It would just wheeze, and fart, wheeze. and fart.
Once, I saw it in the back yard barking at a neighbor's dog when it
went into one of these fits and fell over sideways, rolling for a few
revolutions down a small hill.

--

I was living in a boarding house with about sixteen other men, and I
decided to take in an elkhound that was going to be put to sleep. His
tail curved strangely, and he came with the name Clue. Although he
was meant as a common house pet, he became very attached to me,
and would sleep outside my door, and growl at visitors. When my
girlfriend came over, he would nuzzle in between us.

A guy down the hall named Pete didn't like Clue, and would often
taunt him. I think Clue knew I didn't like Pete either. One night Pete
and another guy, Steve, ate some LSD, snorted some coke, and drank
for many hours. I wasn't around that night. At some time, Pete began
sticking his head out the door and yelling "Party on, Clue!" When the
dog would lunge forward, Pete would slam the door on his head and
he and Steve would laugh from the other side. The next day, I heard
the stories. When I went back to my room, I was looking for Clue to
give him a biscuit or two. I walked to the second floor porch door
just in time to see Clue dart from around the side of the house and
sink his teeth into Pete's leg. He locked in, and shook his body
fiercely, tearing Pete's flesh. I turned around and walked back to my
room to get Clue his biscuit, listening to Pete screaming as I walked.

Pete now has four half-dollar sized holes in his left calf. He moved to
Florida, and I haven't heard from him. I hope more of his life went
the way of his flesh when his town got hit by Hurricane Andrew.

--

I've heard that when a dog gets the taste of blood, he'll bite again,
and I believe it. A few weeks after the Pete incident, one of the men
in the house decided to do some woodwork with a circular saw. It
was about 9:30 am, and I had just finished three MD 20/20's mixed
with Andre champagne when I heard him screaming. When I got to
the back porch I saw that he had severed the upper half of his
forearm down to the bone. I could see the striations of the muscle,
and white cord things; ligaments, I guess. Blood had splattered across
the porch flying from the spinning saw wheel. The safety guard
didn't slide back, and the dope had crossed the saw across his body
to put it down. Ironically, there is a warning on this particular saw
telling the user not to set the tool down in this manner. Pictures are
included, if English isn't your language.

I grabbed a bath towel, wrapped it around his arm, and dropped him
at the hospital. I took my towel with me because the blood had made
a nice Rorshach image I intended to hang on my wall. I put it on the
fire escape to dry. Unfortunately, Clue tore it to shreds while it was
still moist. A week later, Clue bit me, barely breaking the skin, and
also leapt at a mailman's throat, although held back by his chain. I
took Clue to the pound's night drop off with a note that he's a biter.

--

Sometime later in the same house another guy brought in a huge
Golden Retriever named Buster. He was a good dog, but hated
Meathead, the Black Lab next door. The day after Buster got fixed, he
was lying on the second floor balcony sleeping with me. Meathead
came outside and began barking at Buster; Buster began barking
back. I don't know what went on between the two dogs--maybe
Meathead called Buster a ball-less faggot. I do know that Buster
jumped over the balcony railing, dropping 25 feet down to the
parking lot. He landed without even a wince, and ran over to
Meathead, who looked pretty surprised, for a dog. Buster proceeded
to bite Meathead's fat head, until the owner ran over and began
beating Buster over the head with a large stick. It took about six
good whacks before he let go. At first, the guy hit him pretty lightly,
but by the end he was winding back for some good swings. No shit.

--

After a year or so Buster left with whoever brought him, and I was
suckered into another puppy I named Bob (a Black Lab). Bob, like
most puppies, would eat anything and so we all took great enjoyment
in checking his shit for interesting things--you know, crap we'd lost,
like maybe a ring, or whatever. Once, while playing volleyball in the
side dirt lot, I went to throw some of his shit aside by picking it up
with a stick, but it fell into two pieces, held together by a used
rubber. He had eaten someone's jitbag. I flung it, and the two hunks
of shit spun like a bola.

Another time, I saw that Bob's meal for the day had included a pool
cue (blue goo), a few rubber bands, some broken glass, and a walnut
sized rock.

During the summer of Bob's youth we had a party at the house,
which was very old and in terrible condition. There was a bathroom
on the first floor, and another on the third. Girls mostly used the
third floor, for the privacy and because the guys had pissed all over
the seats downstairs. Late into the shindig, the upstairs bowl became
clogged, but the women continued to use it to shit, piss, and even
change their rags in. I know this because we didn't call a plumber for
a week or so, and all that crap just sat in that bowl. Also, for a day
after the party we neglected to tell Dave, a blind man, who continued
to use the bowl. It always smelled bad up their, so he thought
nothing of it. After a couple days, however, you would have to hold
your breath to move around the third floor. When we finally got a
plumber in, he filled up a five gallon bucket more than half way with
the various ass puddings, and left it in the bathroom, where it stayed
for another couple days. I finally moved it onto the third floor fire
escape. It sat there for at least a week in the summer sun, until
someone kicked it down into the lot below.  One evening I found Bob
into the bucket up to his shoulders. I yelled, and he lifted his head
out, toilet paper stuck to his face, and looking mighty proud. I chased
him out, but he had eaten it all.



************************************
12.

Born Too Late to be Truly Swank
-------------------------------

Readers of CRANK #1 already know how much I yearn to have lived
in 1961, rather than 1994. Why? Shit, the Swank Man ruled the
fucking world, baby. "Get me a drink, hon'." "When's supper ready,
darlin'?" "Mix me 1 last highball--I've got to get back to the office."
What livin'!

It pains me to have such envy weigh on me. (And sorry, gals, it
wasn't exactly a liberated paradise. Tough darts.) But it sure looks
like it was a swell time to have been young and devilishly handsome.
I happen to be both, in case you didn't know.

Fuck Sinatra. Give me Dean Martin, toots. He was THE MAN. The Man
charged with keeping the Swank Man a mass appeal. And this album
drives it home in a big motherfucking way. Sure, many of the pop
culture references are woefully dated, and the racist comments will
offend some of you, but FUCK, man, that's why they call it "dated."
Take your lumps, kids. I have marked the places [?] where I'm
admittedly lost. You may catch stuff I didn't. Call me ignorant. Also
note where the author was out of his mind [!] when writing. Suck it
up!


From the notes on "Happiness is Dean Martin," Reprise Records, 1962.
Back cover:

"Happiness is Dean Martin" Singing "Lay Some Happiness on Me" And
Other Selected Hoop-Las

"Aesthetically, he ends up somewheres between '39's Mickey Mouse
Watch and Lichtenstein's neo-heroic painting, "Take That . . . Pow !"

"A little camp, perhaps, but too much of our current action really to
rate that high on the Camp Charts. Put him more in the Hula Hoop-
Silver Mini-Skirt-"Chelsea Girls"- William Manchester bag [?]. That is
to say, awfully celebrated right now, not to mention being hellishly
good examples at what they're driving at.

"Nothing, for example, is more hula-hoop than a Pink Plastic 1960
Hula Hoop. Nothing is more Dean Martin than Dean Martin.

"Of course, doing a really preposterously good job of being Dean
Martin depends a lot on knowing the rules about what makes the
best Dean Martin. Knowing the archetypal definition of Martinism:
How is he different? Why is he individual? What is he driving at?

"What Dean Martin is driving at seems to be to lead a Life Of Sloth. A
Life of EPIC Sloth. Not just your common little ol' Sunday afternoon
lazy Sloth, like you get with minor Erskine Caldwell Georgia darlins.
[?]

"No, Martin now epitomizes EPIC SLOTH. Sloth like Joseph E. Levine
would come up with. In big, 3-D letters, like in those Ben Hur movie
ads, with all forms of EPIC EXHAUSTION draped over the letters.
"Epic Sloth," starring Dean Martin, and then running around the
bottom, instead of Mongol hordes and Jack Palance you find other
things, for this is "Epic Sloth." Things like deflated innertubes. Like
the ears of sleeping Spaniels. Like Kleenex ashes. [?] Like all of Life's
Most Unresilient Stuff.

"And there, leaned up in Herculean-Scope against those giant letters,
our Pop Star slumps. Dean Martin. Kind of half-eyed looking out at
you, grinning "Hi ya, pally," like he hopes you haven't got anything
heavy on your mind.

"Dean Martin has been working at becoming an Epic Pop Art Object.
He's been getting in a good deal of pop art hypnotizing. Avis knows,
you don't get to be Number One by just sitting round. Some
detractors have published this about Martin: that he sits round,
trying to make spaghetti look tense. [!] "Pish tosh," we say, and
"Yellow journalism."

"You have to publicize to get to be Our National Epic Sloth. Martin
has. His medium: the most popular art object of Our Times, meaning .
. . your television set. (Breathes there a soul with fingers so dull he
can't find his Vertical Knob blindfolded?) [Note similarity to remote
control in 1994.-Ed.]

"The mind-boggling task which DM has accomplished in his upwards
surge to Number One Epic Sloth in [sic] this: he has put other would-
be number one lazy slobs into limbo. "Amos 'N Andy's" Lightnin, for
instance, now is largely forgot. Shiftless and No-Account has moved
to Beverly Hills, where dey got no deltas, chile. [!!!-Whooee!-Ed.] The
other competition--those slothy Southern belles once played by Lee
Remick and Joanne Woodward--are now minor league stuff.

"Martin (few people have known this until this very minute; it has
been a closely kept secret) was actually only Number Two until quite
recently. The spot of Number One Epic Sloth was recently held by
another performer. Not a human being, but a small dog. His name:
Red Dust. He is (or was, for he has largely disappeared from our
scene) part of a Vaudeville turn. His master would bark out
commands: "Red Dust, Roll Over! Up, Red Dust!" But Red Dust was an
utterly and irrevocably sag-boned hound. Red Dust never voluntarily
moved anything, least of all a paw. The pooch looked permanently
pickled. It was pretty funny stuff.

"Dean Martin finally won out over Red Dust. Much of his triumph has
been ascribed by some scribes to his ability to project an alcoholic
aura from coast-to-coast, into millions of Puritan homes. Good,
Puritan, beer-drinking homes. Martin has almost by himself
established Booze-o-Vision as America's new Art Populaire. It's
difficult to imagine any other object that would currently be more
welcome in our historic nation's thousands of beer bars and juke
joints. Nothing more popular than DM, slumped there, looking for his
cue card, all brung [sic] to you in NBC's surrealist color. Martin and
his--dare we say it?-- goopy baritone. [??] Martin: the biggest sex
symbol to hit neighborhood taverns since the heyday of The
Rheingold Girl, may she in our secret imaginations requiescat in
flagrante delicto.

"Nothing should slow up his reign as our beloved epic boozer short of
a sudden attack of dysphagia.--Stan Cornyn"

Oh, yeh, and if anyone from Reprise is reading this,
just cut me a fucking break, won't ya, pally?



************************************
13.

Watch Out: Here Comes Big Bad 2000
----------------------------------

"The greatest wave of millenarian excitement--one which swept
through the whole of society--was precipitated by the most universal
natural disaster of the Middle Ages, the Black Death."

Eeeeeeek! It's the year 2000! Something bad just HAS to happen,
right? Maybe the environment will crap out once and for all! Maybe
AIDS will wipe everyone out! Maybe a crazed Middle Eastern dictator
will drop THE BOMB on us! AAAH! That's THREE things that can
happen! At LEAST one is just BOUND to!

Run for hills, motherfuckers! And take your brats with you.

In brief, I've got some problems with the hegemony of apocalyptic
doom that's been going around for the last, oh, say, 100 years. No
matter who you talk to, it seems, everyone has at least one doom
issue on their minds. Either it's the fucking Christians planning for
HIS imminent return; or it's the jerk-offs who quote Nostradamus at
length; or it's the h-bomb paranoids buying into the government's
pitch for nuclear exclusion in the name of saving the world; or worst
of all, it's the environmentalists screaming at you to save the earth
by recycling your newspapers. YOU'RE ALL VICTIMS OF BLATANT
MILLENARIANISM, YOU DUMB SHITS.

Stand back. Take a number. One at a time.


Christians
==========
A couple months back, here in Philadelphia, billboards popped up
proclaiming September, 1994 as judgment time. They gave an 800
number which turned out to be a Christian radio station in California.
They wanted money. How shocking! Christians? God's People?
Playing on your fears just to get your wallet open?

Check your history books. Look up a certain William Miller. In the
1830s, he convinced 50,000 people that the world would end in
1843, based on calculations made by cross-referencing Biblical clues,
specifically Daniel 8:13,14 and Revelations 20:4-6. After 1843 passed
uneventfully, Bill announced a corrected date of October 22, 1844.
After this date, too, passed, most of his supporters got fucking smart
and hit the road. One group of suckers, though, maintained that
Miller was correct with the prediction, but instead of the end of the
world (a premillenaristic prophecy), 1843 was really the beginning
of the Judgment process, to end at an unspecified future date (a
postmillenaristic assertion). This group is now called the Seventh Day
Adventists. Ever hear of them? They're probably the largest group of
postmillenarists in the world.

And they're not the only assholes out there. Look up Charles Taze
Russell. He predicted October, 1914 as the end of the world, only to
see that date pass uneventfully. His people hung with him, and
continue to be on-the-ready for JC's grand entry. Today, Russellists
are called Jehovah's Witnesses. Yeh, those fucks. Probably the largest
group of premillenarists in the world.

But it's not all ancient history. Check out Edgar Whisenant's "On
Borrowed Time." He predicted September 11-13, 1988, as the time of
"rapture." Then he went for September 1, 1989, with an outside error
of 1993. Tough luck, eh, Ed?

Of course it's nothing new. Go look into something called the Sibylline
Oracles. Compiled sometime before the year 1000, they encouraged
Christians to see themselves as "the Chosen People of the Lord--
chosen both to prepare the way for and to inherit the Millennium."
No shit. Do you know how much panic those writings caused during
the approach of the Year 1000? Everywhere you turned, there was a
new millenarist proclaiming the end of the world and the return of
Christ. Yeh, that's right, 1000 fucking years ago. But don't take my
word for it, go read The Year 1000 by Henri Focillon. It's the book
that will shut your apocalyptic Christian trap.

So why 2000? Well, Christians point to the Bible for their evidence.
Some acid trip nonsense about 1000 years of Christ and another
1000 years of heaven on earth. You want an original idea from me?
Here it comes, and you better not steal it, or I'll sue your ass. Maybe-
-just maybe--ONE THOUSAND is the largest arbitrary number that
the translators of the Bible could envision, eh? You know how you
say "Man, I'd like a million dollars." Why 1 million? Why not 2
million? Or 1.38 million? Because it's the best large, round number to
suit your needs. Hold on, all you geniuses, this idea goes beyond the
simple round number theory of millenarianism. It's about paradigms.
Example: Carl Sagan's "billions and billions" of stars. Why not
"millions and millions?" Because a billion is closer to infinity? No.
Because we can easily count a million stars; people can EASILY put a
finite perception on a puny MILLION. "Millions and millions of stars"
didn't carry the same punch as "billions" because we're jaded by the
attainability of one million. So we got "billions." Similarly, I'd bet the
house that if the Bible were translated today, fresh, that passage in
Revelations would point to a Million-Year (or Billion-Year) Reign of
Christ, because ONE THOUSAND YEARS would seem miniscule,
considering there have been Chinese Dynasties that lasted longer. So
we'd get ONE MILLION as the appropriately awesome number, and in
the year 999,999 people would be shitting themselves silly.


Nostradamians
=============
This one's easy. Doesn't it occur to you that this jerk Nostradamus
was himself nothing more than a victim of religious millenarianism?
Why the fuck else would he place the end of the world at the very
end of his own millennium? Why not 1793? 1845? Nope. Had to be
close to 2000. Nostradamus was a religious man, kids. He read the
Bible. And he fell for it, too.

We just happen to be at the wrong place at the wrong time: the end
of the millennium. So stop producing TV shows about Nostradamus,
will you? Just stop this kiddie-scaring crap.


Paranoids
=========
You remember "The Day After?" That fucking movie scared the piss
out of me as a kid. Nightmares for weeks. You know what that movie
was, don't you? An easy way to approve a larger defense budget.

And it's still the same way. North Korea might have nuclear weapons.
Radical Middle Eastern countries might have nuclear weapons. So
what? Listen, if WE didn't use OURS (and we were, I assure you, the
most likely to have launched a first strike), and the Soviets never
used THEIRS, you think the North Koreans are about to use the ones
they MIGHT have? Of course not. And hell, even if they do, what the
fuck are you going to do about it?

So the Pentagon keeps getting the cash to fund nuclear weapon
development. More spy satellites are launched. And you sit in your
house afraid of the end of the world. That's just plain dumb.


Environmentalists
=================
So you're not religious. You're not particularly political, and you're
smart enough to not worry about nuclear bombs falling on the
farmland. That Nostradamus crap never even gave you the shivers.
But you really do think that this environmental issue needs to be
addressed, right? Mother Earth is gasping for breath? The ozone
layer? The landfills?!

Whatever you say. Sure, the planet is fucked. But you think that
recycling your cans and newspapers for a couple years will solve the
problem? Think Locally, Act Globally? HA! You and me ain't the
problems, buddy (well, I might be one of the problems, actually.) It's
humanity's consumption OVERALL. You've got a refrigerator?
Whoops, big problem. You use batteries? Shit, they clog landfills. You
drive a car? Man, that's a lot of pollution.

Of course it's not good for the environment. Big fucking surprise. But
do you really think it's the end of the world? It's not. This planet is a
lot bigger than us, and if wants us gone, then we're gone. Who knows
what those pesky dinosaurs were up to? They might've been
washing their fucking shorts in the oceans and dirtying up the water.
Look what happened to them. Poof! Gone. Simple as that.

I'm not really taking issue with the idea that we're doing something
wrong. Of course we are. WE'RE ALWAYS DOING SOMETHING WRONG.
WE'RE HUMANS. But it's just like worrying about North Korea having
the bomb--waste of time. When the world becomes inhospitable for
human life, we'll pull up tent and hit the road. Or we'll learn to
breath carbon monoxide. Or just peel off that annoying case of skin
cancer and grow out of it, like acne. Christ, man, we'll adapt. Or die.
And fuck the scenery; I don't spend much time outdoors anyway.
And there's always Vu-Masters.

If it were the year 1234, or 6573, or 809145, we wouldn't be trying
to save the environment. I guarantee it. We'd still be dumping our
old motor oil in the sewers. Everything would still be made out of
Styrofoam. When we found that hole in the ozone layer, we'd've just
put on stronger sunblock. We're stupid and ignorant. It's our nature.
If it weren't for a nice round number heading our way, we wouldn't
even notice the impending doom.


What's to Come
==============
Remember the opening quote? Go back and read it. It's from Norman
Cohn's The Pursuit of the Millennium, (Oxford University Press, New
York, 1970, p.282). You know what that means? THINGS ARE GOING
TO GET WORSE. In a few years, after every person in every country
has seen AIDS kill their friends and family, the prophets will be
everywhere. The religious zealots, the political paranoid freaks, and
the Whole Earthers begging for environmental penance. In fact,
they've already got their angles: God sent AIDS to punish; the
government created AIDS; Mother Earth is using AIDS to thin the
population. You've already heard them, and you're going to hear
more. Shit, they've probably already got their pamphlets in
storage.

JUST YOU WATCH. The End is Near. Or so they say.



************************************
15.

Here's What I've Been Doing for Kicks
-------------------------------------

The A-Bones--Maxwells, NJ--June 4, 1994

Seven years ago, Tom & I went to a waterfront festival in Hoboken,
NJ. It was a fine Saturday. We strolled around the docks, ate over-
priced food, and saw this crazy little band called "The A-Bones." Since
that first waterfront show, I have seen the A-Bones at least 50 times.
Why the A-Bones? Fuck, daddy-o. They are the best swamp-abilly,
goddamn rock 'n' roll band to be found. For 10 years, they played
rock-abilly the way it was meant to be--loud, fast & danceable. And
I've danced at A-Bones shows. Hell, yes. I've gotten drunk at A-
Bones shows, too. Hell yeh! In the mood to hoot and holler and dance
around like an asshole with strangers? A-Bones. Want to hear a band
and jump around in a crowd WITHOUT the hostility of jerk-off
suburban kids acting like bad-ass punk rockers? A-Bones. Wanna
drink?? A-Bones. Well, you COULD HAVE done those things, if you'd
seen them before June 4th. But the A-Bones are now DEAD. Yep.
They've broken up. Billy & Miriam (ex-Cramps drummer from the
old days) run Norton Records and are doing well enough to do it full
time (read about Norton Rec's in one of the REsearch volumes). And I
assume the rest of the band have other things to do as well. So on
Saturday, June 4, 1994, they played their farewell show for a
roomfull of regulars--people I've seen at shows for the last 7 years,
but have never spoken with; girls I've danced with but never gotten
a name. Amy & I swung ourselves around like idiots. They played an
hour and a half, complete with guest appearances by The Great
Gaylord (a.k.a. the Sultan of Squat) and some old rockabilly singer
who I didn't recognize but I'm sure is famous in that circle. God bless
you, A-Bones. You will be missed. See you at the first reunion gig.


Mule, Arcwelder, Kepone--Khyber Pass, Philadelphia--May 5

I knew the name, but I couldn't place Kepone. UNTIL I saw the bass
player and remembered them as the band that bored me when they
opened for Jesus Lizard some time back. They sound good for a few
seconds, but quickly becoming monotonous. And that fucking bass
player can't seem to keep his tongue in his mouth. Arcwelder,
though, were real fucking good. Basic loud, noisy guitar-driven songs.
And try as I might, I couldn't think of a bad thing to say, except
maybe that the guitar/vocalist was too pretty, or was trying to be
pretty. Shit, I'm supposed to be critical, right? Regarding MULE: hey,
it was a Thursday night and we were tired. We left before Mule got
on. I'm sure it was a mistake, but I make mistakes every day. One
more won't hurt. Next time, Mule.


Thurston Moore, Lee Ranaldo--Khyber Pass, Philadelphia--April 27

I wouldn't recognize Lee Ranaldo if he stepped on my foot, so I didn't
realize he was one of the two guys who opened up, playing with their
guitars and synthesizers. What one of the local rags called "a wall of
buzz," I call shitty guitar art noise. Sorry, Lee. And the same goes for
the 2nd act, a very hip japanese noise rocker (whose name I've lost)
who played with his guitar for 20 minutes. But Thurston's little side
project was pretty good. Not amazing, but worth 6 bucks on a
Wednesday night. Sounding like Sonic Youth outtakes from the last 2
albums, the band was entertaining enough to keep me there. I
would've preferred something a little more daring, or something, but
it was just right for the kids in their "Goo" t-shirts.


The Fenwicks--Brownies Pub, NYC--April 30

Many years ago, I heard a punk cover of "I am the Walrus" and, ever
since, I've stood by the statement that "The only good Beatles song is
a covered Beatles song." Test it out for yourself. And if you still don't
believe it, go see The Fenwicks perform "Ob-la-di, ob-la-da" at a
fever-pitched ska beat. The Fenwicks are not normally my thing,
describing themselves as a ska-funk-punk-amalgamation (or
something like that), but I did enjoy them live. The main
entertainment onstage is the singer; he's a fucking goofball. Half
eccentric (a la Tom from Alice Donut) and half Art School/Theater
reject, he's got quite an act, including stuffing his harmonica in his
mouth (width-wise) and playing it, and later playing a tune on a
plastic trumpet with his nose. Their album is called "Member of No
Tribe," out on Argus Records. Give it a shot, if you feel like it. But do
see them live if you have the chance.


Shellac, Brick Layer Cake, Rodan, Shortie--Thread Waxing Space,
NYC--May 9

Tom has a tape of a show from WFMU (the ONLY thing I miss about
living in North Jersey) that announces--among other amazing shows-
-Big Black appearing at CBGB's. This was 1986 or so. We were
working; we didn't go. In 1988, Rapeman played The Roxy in New
Brunswick, NJ. I was new to the area and didn't know where The
Roxy was; I didn't have a car; I didn't know anyone to ride with; I
didn't go. In 1989, Flour played Maxwells with Albini guesting on
guitar; I was working again; I didn't go. Now--eight years after
falling in love with Atomizer--I REFUSE to miss the latest Albini
incarnation. So Tom and I drove to NYC this Monday night. And fuck
me, wasn't it worth it. We sat outside while Shortie was on, though
they sounded good from the street. Rodan was good enough to enjoy.
Brick Layer Cake (Todd Trainer, Shellac drummer, singing) sucked
ass; with or without Albini smacking the drum for them, they were a
band to endure, not enjoy. Sorry, Todd. You seem like a nice chap,
but, well, sorry. But then Shellac came on and kicked the shit out of
this (mostly) industry crowd. (It was such an industry show that
there was a back area set aside with a monitor and bar--for the label
people who didn't want to get too close to the band, but wanted to
see how they'd look on TV. Even Todd Trainer bitched that he's
"played 13 shows on this island, but together they don't add up to
the fucking guest list for this show.") Shellac played 4 of the 5 single
songs (no "Man who invented fire") and a load of unreleased
material. It was a truly great show, complete with heckling kids in
the audience and a surprisingly nice rapport with the band. They
even urged everyone not to pay $25 for copies of their singles at
Bleecker Bob's; they've got enough copies to go around. A great show,
a great band. I hope you caught them before they go the way of
Rapeman. You know how fickle Albini is.


Shellac, Brick Layer Cake, Don Caballero--Walnut St., Phil.--May 11

(As I said, I wasn't missing them if I could help it.) I'm a sucker for a
strong bass line. That's one of the reasons I was always crazy for Big
Black and why I'm crazy for Shellac. And as luck would have it, Amy
& I were able to park our asses on the ground next to the bass stack.
Whooee! Talk about loud. And talk about a great fucking time! Sitting
there with a couple drinks in my belly, Amy leaning against me in
these tight shorts, the bass pounding in my stomach, Albini's 12-
string tearing through my hollow skull--shit, I wanted to throw Amy
down on the floor behind the drums and fuck her, hard, in tune. Now
THAT would've been a show. But even if we didn't screw, we did get
FREE FUCKING BEER. Yes, the guys hosting the party--it really was
more like a party than an organized show--had a couple kegs of free
beer. And it was 5 bucks to get in. FUCK ME, it doesn't get better. So
what more can I add? We skipped out on Brick Layer Cake (having
been burned on Monday) and saw half of Don Caballero, who were
ok, you know? Good enough, but not as good as I'd heard. But the
sound wasn't so hot, unless you were sitting in front of the stacks, so
I'd go to see Don C again. But then it was over and we went home.
And fucked, hard. What a perfect night.


1-800-544-2028

I cannot accept automated phone solicitations. I am so fucking sick of
getting up off my ass to answer the phone, only to hear a fuzzy
recording asking me to call for more information on real estate, or
banking, or home repairs. In the right mood, I call the numbers back
and scream at their machines. Other times, when it's an 800 number,
I ask people to call them from everywhere in the country. It's my
aim to make it so uneconomical for these companies to solicit in this
fashion that they'll stop this shit. So call these fuckers. And stay on
the line a long time. Thank you.


Although I don't expect it to happen often, I do receive free things to
be reviewed. And unlike CMJ and those other industry jerk-off rags,
I will tell you what I think of a band, show, etc. With that in mind, I
will inform you as to which materials were received for free, so that
you can take any praise with a grain of salt if you don't trust my
integrity.


Surgery--"Shimmer"--Atlantic Records

What we've got here is a slow starter, a real slow starter. Flat out, the
first 2 songs annoy me: "Bootywhack" and "Off the A List." I've had
enough tired guitars and slung-low NYC vocals to last a lifetime. But,
then out of nowhere, "Vibe Out" (4th song) whips in and lifts my
spirits. And it continues. "D-Nice" is a great track; the guitar is
interesting, the vocals engaging. Same thing "Gulf Coast Score." But
then "Didn't I know You Once" loses me like the first couple songs,
and the album ends on a so-so note with "No 1 Pistola." Overall? Half
great, half eh. I'll tape the songs I like & forget the rest.


The Miss Alans--"Blusher"--BMG/Zoo

A sticker on the shrink-wrapping led me to expect The Miss Alans to
sound something like Lush, or Luna, or any one of those flaky 4AD
bands. In any case, I was looking forward to an atmospheric, ethereal
background music; I had a six of Porter in the fridge and Amy naked
in the bed. It was going to be a pleasant fuck. But after 2 songs, I had
to jump up and turn it off. The Miss Alans aren't a pleasant, dreamy
music. They're shit. The first 10 seconds of the first song are all right.
Airy, plucky, sythn'd guitar. And then the singer opens his hole and
out comes crap leftover from a 1986 John Hughes movie. And even
worse, on a few songs he slips into an inflection like that fuck from
Smashing Pumpkins; I hate that shit. The worst song of the album is
far and away "Winona," an honest-to-god sympathy song to the big
W. The best song? No such beast. Don't give this crap your time.


small 23--"True Zero Hook"--Alias Records

The current curse of North Carolina is Superchunk, and the
comparisons that are inevitably made to any band hailing from that
area. But even before I checked the production notes and saw NC as
the home of small 23, I was considering a bill with them opening for
Superchunk. But that's not to equate the 2 bands--not at all. small 23
reminds me more of the good (rare) Das Damen song, or "Home
Again" Doughboys. It's more on that powerpop end of the spectrum.
And do I know the singer from somewhere else? (I wish I got bio's
with some of this shit.) Whatever the category, it's a great album. Try
"Noodles" and "Saturday" for the quick argument.


One Nation, underground--compilation--Monkeyland Records

If I liked this kind of music, I'd enjoy this CD more. But the selections
are mostly the same poppy, radio-ready crap that I avoid in daily
life. It runs the gamut, at least, from the hippie-edge with The
Grovers to alternative-metal tracks from Little Savage and Betty
Stress to synth/techno-crap from Night Shade. The standout of the
disc, though, isn't a song--it's a soundbite from "Barfly" included at
the end of the Zen Parade song. It's the conversation leading up to
one of my favorite lines of the movie: "Nobody in this neighborhood
can swallow paste like I can." So I guess I won't throw this CD out,
like I will The Miss Alans. I'll just leave it on the shelf until I find
someone to give it to who'll appreciate it more.


ExVegas--"1993/Thin Across" 7"--Nylon Rash Records--438 Denison
St., Highland Pk, NJ 08904

Some bands need to be seen live before they are heard from out of
the studio. ExVegas is such a band. For instance, I don't like bands
with female singers who sing like female singers--Scrawl, Throwing
Muses, etc.--and at first listen, ExVegas should be lumped into this
bunch. But I saw them live before I heard the single, and it made all
the difference. 3 guitars, 1 Fender Jazz Bass and a drummer: ExVegas
is a great band to have blaring out of a large stack in a small venue.
Live, the singer gets drowned out, which I wish would've happen on
their recording. I missed their first couple songs, which included a
cover of HD's "Pink Turns Blue," but enjoyed the half dozen songs I
did hear. Worth seeing, and even worth a couple bucks for the
single--especially if you like female singers.


Iron City Beer--3 - 40 oz. @ $1.25 ea.--Camden, NJ

After a particularly rough week and accompanying weekend of
drinking, I decided to dry out for a week or so. It's tough work--
drinking--you know? I've actually been waking up sore from the
exertion. Shit, when you're starting at 7 and going 'til 2, it's like
another fucking job. So I decided to take a vacation; call out sick from
my boss, Mr. Booze. I didn't drink at Shellac (NYC) mainly because I
had to drive 100 miles back to Philadelphia at 2 a.m. And I didn't
drink too much for the local Shellac show, just to see if I could stop
drinking at 5 drinks. And I did. So confident that everything's OK--no
trace of alcoholism here, thank you--I stopped at my favorite liquor
store after work and picked up 3+ quarts of my favorite cheap beer.
I knew you'd be happy for me. Thanks for the concern.


Beer Frame #2--c/o Paul Lukas--160 St. John's Place, Brooklyn, NY
11217

A fine publication that has a healthy respect for the swank man and
America's by-products, "Beer Frame" offers a wonderful listing of
some of the more odd objects and services to be found in this fine
country, such as Guycan Canned Mutton, the Car John Disposable
Urinal and a complimentary extra button service by a small shirt
manufacturer. I'll be sending out my $2 for a copy of #1, since I
enjoyed #2 so much. You should do the same. Or go find for a copy at
your local bookstore.


Urotsukidoji--Penthouse Distributors

Japanimation with a hardcore demonfuck slant. Even in their
animation, it seems that the Japanese cannot show pubic hair. Oh
well. I recently watched the undubbed version with 2 quarts in front
of me and Peggy Lee playing behind me--I recommend you do the
same. This is a perfect video for the art school crowd that screams to
be dangerous, but will cringe and protest when the multi-cocked
demon rapes a high school cheerleader. Show it at the next hipster
party you throw.


Boxing Helena--Rented--May 13

Holy Cow! What a horrible fucking movie! If I were the King, I'd've
put a bullet through the TV. Even seeing whats-her-name (the lead)
with her shirt off didn't help. Whooee! No wonder it bombed! From
bad dialogue to bad acting to a PATHETIC resolution, this film has
NOTHING going for it. I cannot believe that in 1993, anyone would be
stupid enough to use the "it was only a dream" cop-out. Is that Ms.
Lynch's idea of artsy? Quirky? MACABRE? The ONLY thing that
could've possibly rescued this movie would've been watching Julian
Sands fuck Helena the Stump. BUT THEY STOPPED SHORT and
consequently, this movie is not worth watching at all.


Friday Night Asia Fuck--Cinemax

A few months ago, I got a call from a pleasant woman at the cable
company. She caught me at 8pm and I was already a few drinks into
the evening. She offered me HBO and Cinamax for $10 a month, for
both. Shit, I figured, 10 bucks? If I see 3 good movies, it's paid for.
Then the bill came 4 weeks later--I wasn't being charged a dime.
And now, 3 months later, still no charge. So we've got 2 movie
channels which we rarely watch--for free. But about this Asia Fuck
thing. The last few Friday nights that I've turned on Cinamax, usually
getting home drunk from a bar or some such place, I've encountered
softcore porn featuring skanky Asian women screwing old white
men, or screwing dirty Frenchmen, or screwing each other. Shit, if I
were paying the 10 bucks a month, I'd consider Cinamax PAID FOR.
IN FULL. And I suppose if the TV weren't in the living room (and in
my bedroom instead) then I'd be getting a lot MORE out of these
movies, you know what I mean? (Get it? I'd be pulling myself, eh?
Ah, grow up. You do it, too.) But, as it is, I sit back with another drink
and enjoy the nudity. Is this an official programming decision at
Cinamax? Did the big wigs decide to feature Asian Fuck Films every
Friday night? They've already got the Vanguard Cinema, where they
show ART movies each Wednesday night. And I think they offer a
Meathead Action Night and a Dismal Romantic Film Feature every
week, too. Good marketing, Cinamax. Very good marketing. I'm not
cancelling my subscription (until you make me pay, that is).


Rocko's Modern Life--Nickelodeon--Was Sunday a.m.--Now Sunday
5:30 p.m.?

Here's the first version of this review, written 5-94, now painfully
outdated: "If it's not already, RML is sure to become the next big
MTV hit. Rocko's Modern Life is cool as shit. Rocko is a cynical, dry-
witted wallaby who lives in a shithole apartment with shit furniture
and a stupid dog, has loud neighbors (frogs named The Bigheads) and
has shitbag friends, principal among them being a cow appropriately
named "Heffer." Heffer is the adopted son of a family of wolves who
regularly serve him beef for dinner. Sarcastic, intelligent and
obnoxious, RML is the perfect entertainment for nursing that Sunday
morning beer, with or without the kids." Problem is, RML has already
been picked up by mtv! FUCK! AND they moved it to the late
afternoon! I'm a fucking cultural prophet, I tell you! First early-60's
swank cocktail jazz, now Rocko! In any case, my thanks to Amy for
introducing me to Rocko. (Hmmmaybe Amy's the prophet this
time?) And fuck "Entertainment Weekly" for calling RML a Ren &
Stimpy knock-off.


The Operation--The Learning Channel--May 17, 8:00 pm

I was eating dinner and flipping around the channels. Then--glory
be!--a man's sac fills the screen. Enter a doctor: he grabs one of the
balls, squeezes it tightly in his fist, pulling the normally-wrinkled
flesh nice 'n taut, and SLICES IT OPENS. Whoa, mother! Stopped me
dead, I'll tell you! It took half a dozen slices to get through all the
veins to the ball itself. And it was a fucking mess! I cringed and
turned the channel. After finishing my food, I turned it back on. By
this time, the doc was deep into this guy's testicle, noodling around,
looking for something. And you know what? A man's balls, flayed
wide open, look EXACTLY like a woman's genitals when you take 2
fingers and spread the lips. Raw flesh, baby. Watch "The Operation,"
weekly (Tues. nights, I think), on The Learning Channel. But finish
your dinner first.



************************************
18.

The New Third Reich: Dave & Buster's
------------------------------------

I sometimes wish that I didn't use vulgar language so often; I've
become jaded & desensitized to the impact of obscenity. The English
language simply doesn't contain some of the words I need.
Specifically, the words I need to convey my utter disgust and
contempt for a place called Dave & Buster's, located on the
waterfront here in Philadelphia. Based in Texas, D&B's has opened a
couple of these places across the country. Basically, it's a Chuck-E
Cheese with liquor; a giant arcade with Bennigans-style bars and
food. They cater to the white 20-something crowd that wants to go
out, have a safe time and not question their hosts. The patrons of
D&B's are the same element that, in Mussolini's Italy, said "I don't
know nothing from a totalitarian dictatorial regime. The trains are
running on time, eh, paisan? Keep you mouth a-shut." But I'm getting
ahead of myself.

A couple of Tom's friends were coming into town and we decided to
go out with them. One of them, Jim, is a bit of a cheeseball. He enjoys
the places that the Philadelphia waterfront has to offer--big hair,
tight pants, abundant assholes. He wanted to go to Dave & Buster's,
much to my dismay. Dave & Buster's is immense, the size of an
airplane hanger, filled basement to ceiling with suckers and assholes.

We paid $5 to get in--fine, fine; I'd already written the night off as a
disaster. Tom & I were both wearing hats; we had to remove them to
get past the door. On the way up the escalator, I was struck with
image of Don Johnson descending into the underground, future-
America in "A Boy and His Dog." And the analogy held up--no "loud
or abusive language" was posted on a sign near the bar. It was Texan
ideals (Read: backwards, conservative) carried to an extreme. Five
minutes in the hole, I said "Fucking Budweiser" a little too loudly and
was scolded BY THE FUCKING BARTENDER to "keep it calm, now."

We had a couple drinks and stood amidst shitheads pumping money
into VIDEO GAMES. Men and women in the 20's and 30's PLAYING
FUCKING VIDEO GAMES. There's one of those bullshit "Virtuality" rigs
and a "virtual" golf that you rent for $20/hr. I couldn't believe what
I was seeing. A giant Nintendo nightmare. One big fucking scam. And
it was PACKED.

Needless to say, Tom & I put our hats back where they were meant
to be--on our heads. Within minutes, a D&B Stormtrooper was in our
faces, aggressive: "I KNOW you were told to take those hats off." He
could've been polite. you know?  He could've ASKED us to remove the
chapeaus. But he was an asshole. "Sure, sure. They're off," I say.
"Fine," he responds, "keep them off." As he turned to walk away, I
called him a Fascist. Affronted, he threatened to throw us out, but we
parlayed that into our "First Warning." (I SWEAR THIS IS TRUE.) I
told Tom then-and-there that we would be kicked out before the
night was over; there was no other logical conclusion. And sure as
shit, after a few more drinks, we donned the hats and the same SS
Fucker said we were "OUTTA HERE." He called 4 other Fucks and we
were impolitely escorted to the door. Along the way, we proclaimed
to everyone watching the scene that we were being kicked out
"because we're genetically inferior--you're next, brown eyes! They're
Nazis!"

Outside, one of the genius managers got in our faces. Ten bouncers
(big motherfuckers, real big: "If I had six inches, and maybe fifty
pounds, and maybe if I had kung fu training, then maybe you'd have
to watch your ass.") surrounded us on the sidewalk, itching to throw
a punch. Tom and I stood firmly, smart enough to keep our fists at
our sides. I normally disdain the litigious segment of bloodsucking
American society that uses lawsuits to supplement their income, but
that Saturday night, I PRAYED to get hit. Just ONE PUNCH,
motherfuckers, PLEASE, and I'll bring this cocksucking, right-wing,
Nazi company to its knees. Mr. Dave & Mr. Buster themselves will be
kissing my ass! But the bouncers were too well-trained to place an
unprovoked shot.

Two highlights of the sidewalk confrontation: 1. After repeatedly
calling the whole pride of shits a bunch of "fucking fascists," the
manager turned to one of the bouncers: "I think 'DESE guys are the
communists, don't you?" Brilliant. 2. The D&B shuttle bus (NO SHIT)
pulled up and we tried to board, to get a ride back to our car a couple
blocks away. The manager, of course, wouldn't let us. Tom: "I was
planning on taking this shuttle to mass transit, so that I don't have to
drive drunk from DAVE & BUSTER'S, but even though I'm a paying
customer, you won't let me use it? So now I get behind the wheel,
kill some people, maybe your wife and kids, and you're going to be
liable. Fine. Let's go drive drunk, Jeff!" "Whoooee!" I respond, "Let's
go run over the fascist's whore wife and bratty kids!" They did call
over a cab for us, but refused to pick up the bill, so we drove home
where we drank for another 2 hours, doing our best to keep the
anger down under a complacent haze of booze. It was an infuriating
night that will stick with me for weeks.


I long ago dropped the notion of getting justice through consumer
action. When a company fucks you, and you look for retribution, the
best you'll get is a form letter, or maybe a free coupon or two. So I
don't bother. I don't try to arrange boycotts. I don't expect a refund.
I don't expect shit. Instead, I do my best to incur expense. I do this
by occupying managers' time and running up 800-line charges (see
page 16). Unfortunately, D&B's doesn't have an 800-line, but they do
have a regional manager. His name is Mike Plunkett. Write him at
2751 Electronic Lane, Dallas, TX 72520. I'm planning on writing one
letter a week. Well-written, intelligent letters that make it clear how
disgusted I am with the Dave & Buster's Reich. I don't plan on
receiving anything more than a token response--I won't be getting
my $5 back, for instance. But it will cause Mike Plunkett to take an
hour (salary $$) to make some phone calls (toll charge $$), talk to the
Philadelphia managers (more salary $$) and have his secretary print
up and send out the standard disgruntled customer response letter.
So if you've got nothing to do one day at work, write Mike a letter
saying that you'll never patronize their Southern-minded, white-boy
fascist establishments. But don't tell them I sent you; I don't need the
legal hassle. The Nazi Logo (--print version--) is going to cause me
enough problems.



************************************
19.

Trepane Yourself for Enlightenment
----------------------------------

The Greeks did it. The Romans did it. The Egyptians did it. Ancient
Peruvians and the Neolithic French (as far back as 10,000 years ago!)
did it. What--pray tell--am I talking about?!

TREPANATION

Synonymous with TREPHINATION, trepanation has been around for
thousands of years. In the strictest sense of the word, "to trepane" is
nothing more than opening a hole in the skull, usually for medical
purposes. But we're interested in the more spirited experiments with
skull digging.


History
=======
In the Cuzco region of Peru, more than 9,000 trepanned skulls have
been unearthed, many dating back to the first millennia before
Christ. In one Paracas Indian site south of Lima, more than 10,000
well-preserved bodies have been found, with more than 6 percent of
the skulls showing evidence of having been trepanned. That's a lot of
drilling for a fairly primitive culture. Of course, these holes were
PROBABLY made in the interest of medical experimentation. The
society's doctors likely rounded up the slaves (or working class, or
whatever they had at the time) and opened up their skulls to see
what would happen.

In the 19th century, 120 prehistoric skulls were found across
European archeological sites. Of these, 40 had manmade cranial
breaches! Coincidence? Maybe. Mere injuries? Maybe. But take a look
at the skull presented by Paul Broca in the 1800's (below). The
opening in this skull is unquestionably MANMADE, evidenced from
the cross-hatched incisions. It was also Broca's opinion that the
opening was made while the individual was ALIVE and that there
were no fractures or injuries to require this trepanation. Ah ha! Proof
of voluntary trepanation? May be, buster.

In brief, it seems that EVERYBODY WAS OPENING UP THEIR FUCKING
SKULLS!

Why, you ask? There are 3 theories. 1: to treat depressed skulls
fractures (a medical procedure); 2: to treat headaches, convulsions
and mental disorders (in the Middle Ages, holes were drilled in
skulls to let demons out; artwork of the rigs included in print
version); or 3: those who survived trepanation were endowed with
special mental powers. That's where my money is, momma. Just ask
Joey Mellen and Amanda Fielding. They're a couple in England who
drilled holes in their heads and claim to have never been happier.


Modernity
=========
In 1962, the Dutch doctor Bart Hughes put forth a radical new idea.
He observed children and adolescents and determined that as we
grow older, we lose touch with a childish intuition and perception
that is dependent on the volume of blood flowing to the brain. He
reckoned that infants have the most desirable view of life, since their
skulls are essentially wide open and the brain is free to pump as
much blood as their little hearts permit. As we age, our skulls slowly
harden and gravity thereby restricts the blood flow over our gray
matter. He said that an individual can temporarily adjust this
situation through a number of methods, such as jumping form a hot
bath into a cold one, standing on your head, or the use of drugs. But
Dr. Bart was looking for something a little more permanent, so he cut
a small hole in his skull with an electric drill. HE NEVER FELT BETTER!
Dr. Bart was thrown into a Dutch asylum after he publicly praised the
benefits of trepanation.

In 1965, Joey Mellen met Dr. Bart and became entranced by the idea
of enlightenment through trepanation. Shortly, Joey himself was
ready to put a hole in his own skull. One weekend, apartment-sitting
for Amanda Fielding, who was away for the weekend with Dr. Bart,
he made up his mind and bought a manually-operated trepan
(probably similar in fashion to those from the Middle Ages), a bunch
of hypodermic needles, a local anesthetic, and tabs of LSD. On his first
attempt, it was impossible to get a groove started. So he called Dr.
Bart, who agreed to return and help Joey. But Doc' Bart was refused
entry at the British border.

Amanda took Bart's place to give Joey a hand. She took the trepan
and got the saw-teeth started; Joey then cranked the saw, after
dosing with LSD again. Things went smoothly for hours--the hole was
coming along nicely. Then Joey collapsed. Ambulances were
summoned, and the doctors at the hospital were horrified by the
home-surgery. The psychiatrists were called in and so onthey let
him out with warnings of instant death, etc.

But Joey ain't no slouch. His third attempt was a success. Here, in his
own words, is the moment of truth:

"After some time there was an ominous sounding schlurp and the
sound of bubbling. I drew the trepan out and the gurgling continued.
It sounded like air bubbles running under the skull as they were
pressed out. I looked at the trepan and there was a bit of bone in it.
At last! On closer inspection I saw that the disc of bone was much
deeper on one side than on the other. Obviously the trepan had not
been straight and had gone through at one point only, then the piece
of bone had snapped off and come out. I was reluctant to start
drilling again for fear of damaging the brain membranes with the
deeper part while I was cutting through the rest or of breaking off a
splinter. If only I had an electric drill it would have been so much
simpler. Amanda was sure I was through. There seemed no other
explanation for the schlurping noises. I decided to call it a day. At the
time I thought that any hole would do, no matter what size. I
bandaged up my head and cleared away the mess." from Bore Hole
(publisher, etc., unknown)

Though he writes that Amanda was sure he was through, Joey wasn't
certain. He couldn't be sure that the euphoria he felt was from the
hole, or from the cessation of drilling, So in the Spring of 1970, with
Amanda away in American, Joey took his fourth shot at his skull.
Using an electric drill, Joey worked for an hour and a half until the
drill burned out. The next day, with a borrowed drill from a
neighbor, he took crack number 5. Again, in his own words:

"This time I was not in any doubt. The drill head went at least an
inch deep through the hole. A great gush of blood followed my
withdrawal of the drill. In the mirror, I could see the blood in the
hole rising and falling with the pulsation of the brain."

Joey's spirits rose higher and higher until he reached a state of
freedom and serenity which he claims has been with him ever since.
When Amanda returned, she was envious, so they went to work on
her. With a new electric drill and a movie camera, Amanda Fielding
put a hole in her head ON FILM. The film of Amanda's skull dig is
entitled "Heartbeat in the Brain" and I have been unable to track it
down.

Amanda and Joey live happily in Chelsea, have a child, own an art
gallery, and lecture on the benefits of trepanation. I wrote them a
letter a month or so ago and have yet to get a response. It is possible,
of course, that this information is pure shit, but I'd like to imagine
otherwise. When I get a response--if I get a response--you'll be
reading it here. Watch this space.



************************************
20.

DIY Trepanation
---------------

If you're like me, the first question you're yourself asking is HOW?
How can I do this in the privacy (and comfort) of my own home?
Well, I'm here to tell you.

The Tools
=========
I took a trip to Rickel and Pathmark in search of the right
trepanation equipment at the right prices. I
followed three guidelines:

1. Buy only dependable hardware--having the drill crap out in the
middle of the procedure would be a problem, I feel.

2. Try to save money--this ain't like suicide; you've still got to pay
the rent, even with a hole in your head.

3 Buy American--I don't know why; standing in the hardware
section, though, it seemed like the right thing to think.

I shopped in the order the procedure would follow: Situate Yourself
in some stable manner, Prepare the Drill, Assemble the First Aid,
Make the Hole.


Situate Yourself
================
I considered 2 possibilities: a friend will help you trepane, or you
will trepane yourself. If a friend will be assisting you, the shopping
list is considerably shorter:

--3 1/2" Steel Beam Vice Bench SWL BS ($69.99).
This is the typical vice you find in any typical workshop or garage: a
big, red chunk of steel bolted onto a workbench or table. I found that
my head fit inside this model with half an inch to spare on either
side--PERFECT! With a couple rags to protect the sides of your head,
your buddy will have a good angle of approach, and you won't twitch
or flinch when the hole gets started. Also look into the situation
proposed below, for the Solitary Trepane. It involves 2 smaller vices
and 1 wood vice, but might be more comfortable. Also refer to page
23 for more details.

--8" C-Clamp. Steel. ($12.49).
This is listed only as an alternative to the above vice, just in case $70
puts you over budget. I'm warning you, though, that trying to keep
yourself still--even with your head secured by a c-clamp --will be
difficult. And could be dangerous. And shit, who can't use a vice,
anyway?

And if you're doing this alone:

--2 - 2" Steel Beam Vices ($24.99 ea.).
Smaller versions of the above-listed vice, these 2 vices will be used
to hold the wood clamp (listed below) in place. Be sure to securely
bolt these babies down--find a heavy workbench or table.
n4      12" Rock Hard Maple Standard Wood Clamp,

--KC Professional [no. 94644] ($19.99).
This is a standard wood clamp you see used every week on The
Yankee workshop. Tighten one of these on your head and hold the
clamp itself in place using the 2 vices listed previously. This will give
you full access to your forehead and the top of your skull, all the
while keeping you in place. MADE IN USA.

--18" Quik-Grip ($26.99)
From the makers of Vice-Grips (one of my favorite tools--probably
everyone else's, too), I found that the grips weren't deep enough and
didn't offer enough "grab" for my comfort. Definitely stick with the
wood clamp. MADE IN USA.

--Prolite Tool Bag ($15.99)
Once your head is clamped down, you won't be left with much
mobility. This in mind, I'd purchase a tool belt to keep the booze (see
page 21), your drill and first aid supplies in easy reach.

--Nicholas Lifter's Belt ($34.99)
This isn't a WEIGHT lifter's belt--it's a package  lifter's belt. See, my
back is sensitive to trauma. And if I'm going to drill a hole in my
head, the last thing I want to do is throw my back out with all the
thrashing about; a lifter's belt will keep my back straight and
prevent unwanted lateral motion. So for me, the $34.99 is worth it.
Consider it.


Prepare the Drill
=================
Again, we must consider that you may or may not have a friend
assisting you, and shop accordingly.

With a friend helping out, make his/her job as easy as possible. Buy
this drill:

--DeWalt Professional Rev. Spade Handle 1/2" Drill
($156.99)
Sure, it's an expensive drill. But this is the motherfucker of all drills
available for less than $200. TWO HANDLES (one on the side, one at
the rear). Triple gear reduction. 100% Ball and Roller Bearing. 7.0
amps. 450 rpm. Rear handle adjustable in 90 increments. Fairly
lightweight. Reversible. With this baby in hand, your friend will
ENJOY liberating your brain. MADE IN USA.

If you're going this alone, though, you've got to consider other
qualities in a drill: ease-of-use? Is it lightweight? Is it unwieldy? A
2-handled beast like the DeWalt will not work. Instead, consider:

--Black & Decker D1000 3/8" Drill ($34.94)
Single speed, reversible, 2-year warranty, and (most importantly) a
LOCK-ON BUTTON. This drill is perfect. It's lightweight and simple to
use. When I asked Jim, the fellow working the hardware department,
which drill HE would use if he were drilling a hole in his head, he
told me that "any of the Black and Decker's are top of the line--the
D1000, though, is a real nice drill, and it's on sale." (No shit, that was
a real conversation.) SOLD!

So you're all ready to go, right? What kind of drill BIT are you going
to use, smart guy? Standard wood/ metal? Wood boring? Tile and
Ceramic? I hadn't considered it, so I had to go back to Rickel the next
day. I found Jim in hardware and had this conversation (it's true, I
swear--I polished up his grammar, though; he was a bit of a dolt):

Me:  (assuming he remembered me) "So what kind of bit should I
use?"
Him: "I think you have to figure out which is best for what you're
working on."
Me:  "I'm the guy who's drilling the hole in his forehead. I was in
yesterday. You recommended the Black and Decker D1000."
Him:  "Oh, yeah, I remember you. That's a good drill."
Me:  "So which kind of bit should I use? Wood boring?"
Him: "You definitely have to figure out which one is best for you
what you're working on. I don't know about that stuff."
Me:  "This isn't trial and error, Jim. I'm drilling a hole in my head.
I've got to choose one."
Him: "I don't know. Sorry."

So these are my choices:
--Black and Decker Standard Wood/Metal bits
7/16", 15/32" or 1/2" (B&D #s 15639, 15641, 15643; $7.49, $7.49,
$9.99)
These are the normal drill bits you'd use to put a hole in the wall, or
a piece of wood, or a piece of metal. They're also the bits I assume
most people would use to put a hole in their head. My main concern
is that it'll be a real slow start to get a good groove in my skull. So I
considered others.

--Black and Decker 1/2" Wood Boring bit
(B&D # 17204; $2.99)
These bits are used to put larger holes in wood.  They are very mean
looking. (see illustration). Described on the package as "fast, rough
drilling in all woods," I am afraid this one will tear the shit out of my
skull and scar real badly, leaving me a freak [sic]. "Always wear eye
protection." Yeh, no shit. "Money-back guarantee." Sure, but I doubt
they'd honor it with blood and bone fragments stuck to it.

--Black and Decker 1/2" Glass, Tile bit
(B&D # 16905; $14.99)
At first glance, this carbide-tipped, easy-start bit looks perfect (see
illustration). But then I read the package: "use a slow drilling speed;
variable or hand drill is ideal." Well, if I'm doing this myself, then
I've got the B&D D1000, which is single speed. And I sure as fuck
ain't gonna use a hand drill for this. And, come to think of it, even if I
do have a variable speed drill like the DeWalt Prof. Spade Handle, I
don't particularly want to do this slowly, eh? "Apply a lubricant such
as white spirit or turpentine to keep drill bit cool." The ice cold blood
in my veins should do the trick.

So there I was: STUCK. I don't know which type of bit to recommend.
But rather than buy one or the other, and make a mistake, I wrote to
the professionals: Black and Decker. (See the letter, next page). As
soon as I get an answer, you'll get the answer.


Assemble the First Aid
======================
Whenever you open up any part of your body, something can go
wrong. Isn't that what we've all learned? Well, trepanation is no
different.
Face it. Not many people have access to real medical supplies. Not
many people can get sedatives, or pain killers, or antibiotics. So I
took a trip to Pathmark and nosed around the OTC drug and first aid
aisle.

--J&J Sterile Pads, 4"x4". Box of 25 ($7.99)
You're going to bleed like sick. Buy 2 boxes.

--Witch Hazel, Generic Brand, 1 qt. ($1.87)
Buy 3 quarts, close your eyes, and pour it right on your head. It's
already going to be messy, so what's a little more liquid all over the
place?

--Cotton Roll ($4.99)
Wrap yourself up like The Mummy. It'll be fun.

--Liquor (various)
There is no question in my mind that booze should play a major role
in your decision to open up your skull. Personally, I'd buy 2 quarts of
cheap beer ($2.50) and a bottle of really good gin ($23) for the trip.
Make sure you've got enough liquor for recovery. You will need it.

The strongest over-the-counter topical anesthetic comes in products
such as Anbesol and Chloraseptic. You might as well buy a shitload of
it and try to numb yourself beforehand. Check the shelves for
yourself; the active ingredient you're looking for is BENZOCAINE.
Check with your pharmacist.

Iodine. Rubbing Alcohol. Neosporin. All of these things will help keep
your new orifice clean. Go spend $20 on everything you can find.
And pick up some Advil ($4); you're going to need it.


Total Expense
=============
So how much is this trip to enlightenment going to cost?

Doing it with a friend:
  3 1/2" Steel Beam Vice Bench SWL BS            69.99
  DeWalt Pro. Rev. Spade Handle Drill           156.99
  B&D 1/2" Glass, Tile bit (most expensive)      14.99
  First Aid supplies                             50.58
  Liquor (various)                               25.00

TOTAL: (add your state's sale tax)              317.52

Doing it alone (And doing it right):
  2 - 2" Steel Beam Vices @ 24.99 ea.            49.98
  12" Wood Clamp                                 19.99
  Black & Decker D1000 Drill                     34.94
  B&D 1/2" Glass, Tile bit (most expensive)      14.99
  Prolite Tool Bag                               15.99
  Nicholas Lifter's Belt                         34.99
  Liquor (various)                               25.00
  First Aid supplies                             50.58
TOTAL: (add your state's sale tax)              246.46


Looks like you'll save about $70 if you take care of business alone.
But keep in mind, that if you do it with someone else, he/she can
pick up half of the $318 if they decide to follow your lead. That
would bring costs down to less than $160 each! Not bad for total
enlightenment, eh? That's even cheaper than a year's worth of
church dues, I think.

If you do drill a hole in your head, PLEASE take photos. Or video.
And send 'em in! Good luck, sucker.



************************************
22.

Actual letter:

                     PO Box 1646
                     Philadelphia, PA 19105-1646
                     May 13, 1994


Black and Decker
Customer Relations
10 N. Park Drive
PO Box 798
Hunt Valley, MD 21030


To whom it may concern:

I recently read about a couple in England who have drilled holes in
their foreheads in an effort to enlighten themselves. I will spare you
the details, but will mention that they claim to have "never been
happier."

I am planning to perform this procedure on myself in the immediate
future. And because of your company's reputation and my past
experiences with your products, I intend to use Black and Decker
tools exclusively to accomplish my goal. I have already purchased a
B&D D1000 for the job--I found it to be a very lightweight, easy-to-
use drill, on sale at an affordable price! The lock-on button was very
important, all things considered.

My question is this: which type of drill bit should I use? I'm looking
for a 3/8" - 1/2" opening. I'm favoring the 1/2" Wood Boring Bit
(#17204) but am afraid of the package description: "fast, rough
drilling." Will this be a little TOO rough and hard to handle? I'll be
doing this alone.

On the other hand, I considered the carbide-tipped, 1/2" Glass and
Tile bit (#16905). My only problem with THIS bit is the advice on the
package: "use a slow drilling speed; variable or hand drill is ideal." As
you well know, the Black and Decker D1000 drill isn't variable speed!
Maybe I've made a hasty purchase with the D1000? Should I have
sprung for a more expensive model??

Or should I just stick with a trusty 1/2" metal/wood bit? (Maybe
#15643?) But I'm afraid it might be difficult (and painful!) to get a
hole started.

Any advice you provide will be considered with great attention. Your
hasty response is appreciated, as I am--of course--anxious to get this
done.

                     Sincerely,
                     Jeff Koyen



I patiently await their response. Watch next issue.



Crank@aol.com
-------------

I am easily reached via the Internet, or less easily via the US Postal
Service. Either way, I'm here.

The text of this document is available from a variety of sources. FTP
from etext.archive.umich.edu (pub/zines/crank). Gopher from The
Well. A bunch of BBSs, including Mac Tersius (215/245-3211). Of
course, you can email me and ask for a copy. For financial reasons, I
cannot email copies of the last issue, sorry. FTP or Gopher it.

If you are currently reading CRANK electronically, then you really
are missing half the fun. Send me $2 and you'll get the printed
version. Its got a swank, 2-color 80# cover, 28-pages total. Plenty of
art, etc, to make it worthwhile. And as an extra bonus, you'll get that
swell feeling gained by supporting independent press.

Crank is also available as a DOCmaker file for AOL Mac users. E-mail
to "CRANK" on AOL--SPECIFYING THAT YOU WANT THE MAC
VERSION--and I'll attach it to my response. It'll be a self-extracting
archive. Or you can send me a floppy, if you are so curious.

My deepest thanks (no shit) to everyone who helped distribute
CRANK 1.1 worldwide. Yeh, that's right, baby, we made it to Sweden
and Finland (not to mention Canada and the UK.) God Bless the
Internet.



Advertisement
-------------

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Deviants Mailing List, a free Internet service provided by a chap
named Ian Dickinson.

Subscribe with the email msg: "subscribe [your net address]"
to:deviants-request@csv.warwick.ac.uk

"Occasionally disgusting--but not always--the home of ranting,
experimental reports, news clippings and other related items.
Medical curiosities, cults, paranoia, murders and other phenomena
are well in place here."

CRANK TESTIMONIAL:

I've been a member of the Deviants Mailing List for a year or so.
Among other things, I found out about Joey Mellen & Amanda
Fielding, the British Trepaners (p. 19) from the list. The quality of the
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like it. If you don't, then simply unsubscribe. No gun to your head,
eh?



************************************
23.

Trepanation: An Illustrated Guide
---------------------------------

"I need __________ like I need another hole in my head."

Well, baby, maybe you DO need another hole in your head! Ever
consider that? Here's THREE FUCKING PAGES dedicated to how we, at
CRANK, would acquire new holes of our own.

Ink by the Incredible Dennis McGee. Swell typography & call-outs by
yours truly, Jeff Koyen.

NOTE TO ELECTRONIC READERS:
For obvious reasons, the artwork cannot be included for your
consumption. Your loss, I assure you. You're missing detailed
illustrations of the single-man trepanation with a hand drill, the two-
man trepanation with a hand drill, and the single-man trepanation
with a drill press. Yours for $2. Seek the address out elsewhere in
this issue.



************************************
26.

Screw Women, Part 2
-------------------

Q:
May a woman politely refuse to dance with a man who cuts in?

A:
No. She must dance with him until a third man cuts in or until the
music stops. The partner who was first dancing with her should not
cut back in.

--from Emily Post on Entertaining, Elizabeth L. Post, 1987 (without
permission-don't tell Emily.)

We are doomed.


CONTEST
-------

Identify the Corporate Spokesman!!


NOTE TO ELECTRONIC READERS:

Well, tough shit, but it's a visual thing. Consequently, you're not
eligible for this zany contest. Tough titties.


IN THE WORKS
------------

The Bossa Fucking Nova
Swank Vinyl for Lovers Only
An Equipment List
for Living the Low Life
Interview With A Killer #2
A Recommendation for Lawyers
Christ Bashing au Go Go
And loads more, chump.

CRANK #3: the farce continues

Available mid-October.

Reserve your copy? $2 to PO Box 1646, Phil PA 19105-1646.



THE END
CRANK #2. PO Box 1646. Phil PA 19105-1646

Crank logo, icons and contents, copyright 1994 Jeff Koyen

Correspondence welcomed, if not always appreciated.

Regards,
Jeff Koyen