Crank #4
Your Luck Just Ran Out, Hipsters

(I recommend using a monospaced font to view this document)

Here's The Beating You're In For This Time 'Round:


Don't Piss Where You Drink                             2
Liquor Takes a Holiday, Almost                         3*
Excerpts from Grooming Tips for Stylish Young Men      4
ARREST Me! A Conversation with Jim Goad                7*
Don't Get the Joke? Ask Your Hippie Neighbors         10*
Poetry Slam! Crank Style--Part 1                      11
Roadside Terrorism                                    16
Black & Decker: Not the Humorless Fucks I'd Thought   18
It's Criminal! Inside the House of the Anarchists     20
Crank Home Surgery                                    27*
Poetry Slam! Crank Style--Part 2                      28
The Almost-Return of the Almost-Wordless Reviews      34*
Disastrous Coincidence                                36
The Squeaky Wheel                                     37
Kicking Yet Another Dead Trend                        38*
Last Issue's Contest Winner                           39
Last Issue's Contest Answers                          39
Index                                                 40**


*Omitted from electronic version because it is either 1) a visual joke, or 2) too long to include. Sorry.

**The first-of-its-kind CRANK index was omitted because it would contain too many references to other articles that were omitted. Quite a conundrum, eh?


---2---

Don't Piss Where You Drink

So they say. My problem is, I drink wherever I go.

I am moving out. Moving on. Movin' on up. Making tracks. Hauling ass. Becoming scarce. I am, simply, getting the fuck out of Philadelphia. 

In March, Amy, Crank, and I are moving to Sin City, NYC. By the time most of you read this, I will have had the motherfucker of all garage sales, my car will be sold, and rent will be giving me an ulcer. But it's time. Time to get out of this would-be city.

The problem with Philadelphia: Small-town scene, big-town assholes. Everyone knows the owners. Everyone's on the Guest List. You're either in a band, or the person you fuck is. Everywhere I go, everyone's got something to say about What's Cool, and it invariably gets me angry.

You know what, kids? Philadelphia isn't big enough to foster all of your egos. Philadelphia is a rest-stop for bands on their way to New York. Philadelphia is smaller than most malls in Jersey. Philadelphia is nothing more than another place for has-been's and would-be's to spend time deluding themselves about their usefulness in this life.

(Oh, of course New York won't be any less infuriating, but at least it's a change of pace. Ok, friend?)


I have a tendency to move early, move often. And when I move, I lose touch with most everyone behind me. This time, though, few will miss me. I've got more readers in the fucking state of Idaho than I do friends in this city. (And this issue will do little to change that, I suppose.)

See, I try to keep to myself. I've got 3 friends, a printer who works cheap, and a job that pays my bills. It's not a bad life, so long as you're willing to swallow your aspirations each day on your 1/2-hour lunch break.

Unfortunately, I can't seem to keep to myself, which throws my otherwise even-keeled demeanor a little off-kilter.


Anonymous living suits me very well. I don't want recognition in public. See, it wasn't until the Philadelphia Inquirer ran a story about Crank--complete with a crappy photo of me at my desk--that anyone in town knew me as the person who publishes Crank. Ironically, that article ran just two weeks after my decision to leave town. "Local boy does good" and then hits the fucking tarmac without telling anyone.


So, just when Crank is gaining a little momentum in town, I decide to pull up stakes and start over somewhere else. Self-defeating? Perhaps. Local success has never been a priority.


Only in the last 6 months, really, have the small-town dopes been getting on my last nerve. Why do all you scenesters need to advertise yourselves to anyone who will listen? Why do you insist on being just so fucking connected? Is it to get work? Is it to get laid? Is it to get respect? Well, you've never had mine, because you have no humility, no self-awareness. And the lack of self-awareness is one character flaw I do not tolerate.


I should fucking know better than to get angry about these people. I SHOULD know better, but, somehow, you still disrupt my life.


So I am making like a tree, like a banana. Outta here like Vladimir. Riding off into the sunset with my bitch in tow.
I am, simply, getting the fuck out of Philadelphia. And, with the exception of my 3 friends, I won't miss any of you.

Goodbye.

************************

CRANK is still a by-product of no one but Jeff Koyen (NY, NY)

As always: the articles in Crank #4 may be used and reproduced for the purpose of spreading The Word, so long as you credit the source.

Thanks to everyone who deserves it. I hope you know who you are.

As of April 1st, CRANK will have a new PO Box in NYC. Unfortunately, I am unable to publish it in this issue, due to print deadlines and postal restrictions (something silly about maintaining a residence before getting the box. I suppose if I had more friends, I could've worked something out...ah well.) In any case, expect delays when corresponding with me.

PO Box 1646 M-% Philadelphia PA 19105-1646
issn 1076-9102 M-) 1995 Jeff Koyen.
Crank@aol.com
************************


---4---

from Grooming Tips for Stylish Young Men

"And you...you could be mean / And I...I'll drink all the time." Boy, Bowie sure got that one right. Talk about aspiration. Goddamn.

The price of Crank is up to three bucks?!? Jeff sold out, man. Look at all those ads! That's fucking corporate money, man!!

Let me tell you armchair idealists something--I can't afford to produce another issue of Crank unless I get some cash back from this issue. I just can't afford it. You got that? I'm talking about not being able to pay rent, about not having $4 in change to do a goddamn load of laundry. Sometimes I can't go to the bar because a dollar draft is too fucking expensive--I'm stuck drinking $3.95 twelve-packs of Schmidt's cans in my goddamn living room.

You're still getting your money's worth--the page count has increased to accommodate the advertisements, ok?

Besides, at least eight people wrote to say that Crank was a steal at two dollars. "I'd gladly pay $5," one person wrote.

Blame them. I still ain't making a fucking dime.

--
"Punishment By Horse Cock" was common for women in Old China. Go look it up if you don't believe me. The woman was strapped down--legs spread--and forced to copulate with a horse. Ever seen a horse dick? Christ. Punishment indeed.
--

Sorry, gals, but I'm glad to be a man.

I'll happily take a finger up my ass once year after the age of 55 in exchange for no menstruation, no pregnancy, no yeast. My occasional awkward hard-on is a small price to pay for non-invasive reproductive system maintenance.

--
You better get drunk, toots. Your life must be intolerable otherwise.
--

It just wasn't a classy joint. We don't frequent classy joints.

The hostess swings by with the standard bowl of popcorn for everyone sitting at a table near the bar.

"Keep it," I say. We've just eaten a large meal, and I know that neither of us will be eating the popcorn.

"Huh?"

"The popcorn. Keep it. Give it to someone else."

"Why?"

"We won't eat it. Give it someone else." 

Confusion came across her face; then it turned to anger. She was angry that I had disrupted her routine--now, she had to return that bowl of popcorn to the kitchen.

In an ideal world, I would've punched her in the mouth. Instead, I was forced to stare her down until she begrudgingly returned to her station at the front door, bowl still in hand. Apparently, she didn't know what to do in the event that a customer turned down the free fucking popcorn.

--
I dim the lights, turn up the music, grab a jug of cheap wine and deal with my problems the way I should have in the first place--by myself; in the dark, naked except for my wineglass.
--

The trendy guy in head-to-toe leather sauntered up to the bar and asked, "How much are The Mermaids?"

"Huh?" asked the bartender, an older guy with a keen sense for no nonsense.

"A Mermaid?" Mr. Trendy asked.

Nothing but a blank look from behind the bar.

Inside, I smiled. Outside, I drank.

"How about a Dead Maxi?"

The bartender was incredulous.

Inside and outside, I smiled. I looked into my mug, admiring the simplicity of "gimme a beer."

"A Lemon Drop?"

"You want a Lemon Drop? Like with the packet of sugar?"

"That's it. How much?"

"Four bucks?"

Leather boy got the Lemon Drop plus 4 ponies of Rolling Rock (at an outrageous $2.25 each), and strolled back to his friends, leaving no tip for a bartender who, in my opinion, had been more than helpful in a demanding situation.

--
I am the most generous type of drinker: the poor man who tips well.
--

An empty cup of Coke, its waxy cardboard soft from holding liquid too long, is on the desk next to a sandwich that I made last night but didn't eat because I was too drunk to concentrate on the eating part. Funny, I had no trouble making the sandwich.

The bedsheets--leopard-skin patterned with 2 bleach burns and one small tear in the side--are on the floor next to my clothes. Apparently, I had a restless night of sleep, though I don't really recall much. In fact, I don't really recall waking up; I found myself alive at my desk, absently pecking away at the keys.

Naked, soft and very pale, I sit in this small, dark room; the terminal's glow washes over me so that it looks like I must've spilled bleach on myself as well as my sheets. The door is open, but I'm out of sight around the corner from the living room. No one sees me, but I hear them walking down the hallway out to work or to Church or to eat or whatever.

I eat the stale sandwich and go back to bed. I'm still naked, and the door is still open. It's still quite dark in here, even at quarter past eleven.

Nobody will bother me; they never do.

--
For me, good-looking people are like shiny objects--distraction, not attraction.
--

"Are you ok?" she asked, reaching around three people, caddy-cornered across the bar.

"It can't be that bad. You look so...so morose," she claimed.

When my eyes met hers, she realized that she'd made a big mistake. If she was trying to be nice, it was in vain. If she was trying to flirt, it was offensive.

"I'm just a bad drunk," I muttered.

Without another word, she changed her seat, finished her drink, and left.

And I wasn't all that drunk--certainly not drunk enough to make any real difference in my demeanor. I really am just a bad drunk, sober or not.

This world is overpopulated by idiots and many of you should be embarrassed to be yourselves.

I was cramped against the bar, waiting for the bartender to head my way.

"If you get his attention, I need a Black and Tan," she said, taking me by surprise. When anyone talks to me, it takes me by surprise.

"Sure, sure," I mumbled. All I knew was that I wanted a drink. And quick.

When I did get the barkeep's attention, I asked for my draft and motioned to her. He arrived with 2 drinks, took my 5, and gave me change for 2 drinks. Fuck.

I pushed the beer toward her; she looked up with an "Oh?" She had meant to pay for the drink, I suppose, but was willing to take it off my hands free of charge.

"You owe me a buck," I stated. Now she was surprised.

"I'll get the next one," she offered, all full of girlish, coy sweetness.

"No. You owe me a buck. Tip the man," I said, taking my drink to a back corner where I could at least get waitress service without the hassle of conversation.

--
There are 3 things you will never see in Crank: a layout that is intentionally hard to read, an ad for a guitar shop, and anything good said about Tom Jones.
--

I caught a show called Sensaciolisimo on one of the local Spanish channels.

With four years of high school Spanish, I can barely ask a Mexican whore for a blow job (and, boy, haven't I tried!) But I didn't need to hablo no espaM-^Vol to enjoy Luis Rodriguez. He's gotta be pushing sente-siento, but still manages to wriggle into shapes that put Jim Rose's freaks to shame.

No shock-value piercing. No rods through his genitals. No regurgitation. No fire-breathing. No midgets. No lesbians. Just good, clean Latin American freak-show fun. Like the old days when geeks ruled the carnival coop.

The rest of the show, unfortunately, was filler: circus-level acrobatics and death-defying stunts. Worth watching with a few drinks on a bored night, but don't cancel those Guest List passes for the next John Spencer show, eh, kids?

--
Children should be raised in group homes 'til they're old enough to keep their traps shut in public.
--

My god, I've got relatives, you know? I'm not too close with them--births, deaths, most holidays, etc. But I do know them well enough to see that the raising of children in the Koyen (and spin-off) Clan is still a sacred ritual of firm discipline and respect for quietude.

What the fuck is wrong with the rest of you? Every trip to the Early Bird Special at my favorite restaurant is disrupted by your screaming brats and bitchy grandmothers.

Aren't you happy enough that the Sirloin Platter with Salad and Potato combo is only $7.99? Christ, I am. I'm happy enough to shut the fuck up and let everyone else enjoy themselves, even if the meat comes a little overcooked and the lettuce is limp. With the six bucks I save, I have three drinks. $14 for a real meal and three drinks. Doesn't that sound like a great deal? It is.

Big fucking deal, Marge, so they only gave you one pat of butter with your rolls. Just sharpen those choppers and get chewin', eh? And while you're at it, take a minute to keep those goddamn grandkids quiet. I can't afford the number of drinks it'll take to drown them out.

--
The Ironies of Crank #3
. In the "Teenage Revisionism" piece, I indulged in the same behavior for which I lambasted the rest of you: date-stamping your "underground" name-dropping in the interest of being cooler-than-thou.

. My Wordless Reviews were anything but wordless. (And they're still not.)

. The Bossa Nova was, in reality, a fairly legitimate--though mercifully short-lived--"craze."

. For all my posturing against record company giveaways, free things garnered 42% of my review space. (And that ain't the HALF of it! Seen this issue's reviews yet??)

But, since none of you genius critics were wise enough to bring any of this to my attention, I was forced to examine myself with unbiased, critical skepticism. So before you give me shit for grammar, typos, sexism, racism, homophobia, or whatever, why not just stick to the above 4 points, before I'm forced to tear your literary assholes nine inches wider with your own precious Fine Arts degrees?
--

It's real fucking easy to complain when all your life is Paid For In Full, filled with cool wind in the summer and warm, dopey satisfaction the rest of the year 'round.

This one fight I was in--he was a goddamn monster.

Nearly broke my fucking hand when I punched him. He grabbed my arm, threw me down, and kicked at my skull. Eighteen stitches just above the nape of my neck.

Damn near broke my nose and gave me a concussion, the doctor said.

It was the coffee and wine, I figure. That's what kept me from giving in and passing out cold on the sidewalk.

It's real hard to give up when you taste the blood in your mouth and you realize that you're much too bitter to let some asshole knock you unconscious. Much too bitter to give up and die without having your say in this life. Much too bitter and angry with all the boredom that drives you to get drunk and act like an idiot, starting fights with men twice your size just because they look like they deserve a little derision.

I got up, sure, but I couldn't see straight. Some old guy in the bar--some good fucking Samaritan--put me on the train out of town.

It cost me three bucks to re-connect and get back into town, where I live.

I don't even remember why I started the fight. I'm not, by nature, a fighter. That might explain why I got the concussion and the 18 stitches and my adversary walked away laughing.

--
Few women make my heart flutter like Amy. And the fact that I have the privilege of being in love with her makes it all the more satisfying.
--

I've consummated a dozen or so marriages with women I didn't know. A few of them I loved, but that was because we had sex, not the other way around.

Most people don't see that it's tough to love in a life of lust and need and insecurity and loneliness and hunger. And it's even tougher to love in this world of need when you don't even know what you want.

But the last thing on my mind is what I need. Every day, I undermine every value and every bit of compassion that I've cultivated through these years of faux concern and faux dedication and faux love. I reached a turning point some time back, and now I'm retracing my steps in an unspoken effort to be indecisive and alone.

--
If you don't have any regrets, then you just have not tried hard enough.
--

Outside, the rain is the color of old nickels and my life is worth less than 2 drops. While everyone else is halfway to waking I haven't yet gone to sleep, and it's three a.m. and my pen is almost dried up. Meanwhile, my mind is parched from working extra hours at straight pay, but I'm glad to have a job. The girlfriend is still out with some guy I don't like, but I'm glad to be in love. Each morning, I wake up queasy, begging for someone to buy out my only asset, that's how broke I am. I'd love to sell th
e car, but I need a new catalytic converter, a new rear-view mirror, and I'd lose my job if I didn't have the goddamn car.

Without money, and with no drive, all I have is a pen and paper to write my own script and the falling rain is the perfect cheap soundtrack.

--
Drunk is fine, but I'm a little past that now.
--

It was years ago.

The two bartenders, attractive women in their mid-20's, recognized us and smiled when we walked in the door. My friend Jim, not a regular drinker by nature, was so pleased that he suggested we find more bars to frequent.

The rest of the night was fine, as usual: I got drunk and depressed looking at so many drab people. Sometimes I resent sharing the air with them; they sicken me with their media fashions and libido brains. Sure, I would've enjoyed fucking either one of the bartenders, but I didn't have the energy to pursue it.

So I dropped Jim off, went home and had 3 or 4 more drinks. I turned the TV to a soft porn movie and masturbated, rubbing myself damn-near raw because I was too drunk to stop in frustration.

I learned that night, and countless others like it, that the only person you can depend on for pleasure is yourself. And even then, you've got to accept your own limitations, or else you still get hurt. But overall, it takes a lot less energy than dealing with someone else, once you've overcome the loneliness.

--
The phone rings to remind me that my apartment is not the center of this world. It rings, again, again and again, incessant, like an infant screaming for my whole attention.
--

Jealousy is one thing I do not miss in my life. While I generally accept any and all emotions as legitimate experiences, jealousy is never missed. Well, almost.

I occasionally yearn for the anonymous screw, that nameless encounter with a stranger after a night of drunken flirting. But then I remember that I was never able to enjoy that nameless fuck, at least not the next day. The next time I'd see her, I'd become jealous because some other guy was getting ready to take her home for a nameless fuck of his own. Or once we'd been at it a few times, I'd be looking at other women while simultaneously keeping a possessive eye on her.

It's a roller coaster that I miss only occasionally. It's not a healthy emotion, I admit, but it is a legitimate experience.

But I don't really miss it, at least not when I look at it from this somewhat rational life that I'm nursing to maturity.

--
Please don't eat the fucking daisies, pal.
--

Why do people drink to excess when they damn well know it's self-defeating? Because other people like you are yammering away with your little egos about this and that and blah blah and my name should be bigger and my dick should be longer and blah blah and I was published in The New Yorker you'll never get anywhere with your little magazine.


Send me kiddie porn, asia porn, and pictures of relatives who sicken you.

If that wasn't worth your extra buck, then I'll never win at this game.



---11---

Ack! Hide your journal!

It's a POETRY SLAM! Crank style
Part 1: It Was Tom's Idea; Send him your hate mail.

Drinking in the park one afternoon, we were laughing at a bunch of Hiparchists dancing around with their dogs. Suddenly, Tom's eyes lit up (no small task considering that sloth and drunkenness were the standing orders for the day.) It was his most vicious idea in weeks.

"Go on AOL under a fake name and ask all the poets to send you their stuff," he said. "Say you're putting out a new journal or something. When you get some good ones--some really stupid ones--sit down, get drunk, tear them apart and publish it."

"A Poetry Slam," I slurred. "Crank Style."

The following poems were solicited in the Writers' Forum on everyone's favorite online service, America Online. The original request was posted under the name "PoetPblshr":

"Fields of Macabre, a small-press poetry journal now accepting submissions for possible publication and discussion. Please send no more than 6 poems, no more than 40 lines, to: PoetPblshr. Subject matter tends toward the gothic, macabre, etc. Please include short bio which includes age, location, previous publishing experience. pax vobiscum, Daniel Licht (PoetPblshr)"

After getting a dozen good ones, I closed the account.


><><><><><><><><><


Two from Shelly, 28 years old, San Francisco, California

1.

like an ancient and solitary tomb the doors to my heart
remained rusted shut...until you...
you came into my life like a whirlwind
consuming me in the fiery intensity of your eyes
you probed the very depths of me
where my emotions were buried beneath the dust
you explored the inner caverns of the canyons of my mind
and unearthed an overwhelming love long since dead and 
forgotten

like a scoundrel you smiled as you stole my heart
from the pyre in my soul
you filled the voids i never knew existed
with a love that made me whole
my love for you grew like the gnarling knotty roots
of the sturdy timeless oak
as love became a tentacle reaching out and disrupting
the barriers built by time

i was lost in the tangles of our love...


2.
i sat on the park bench for hours
watching the filthy pigeons
strut aimlessly about
as if they knew
what you and i will never know
i asked them for the answers 
but they mocked me

i met a store-front prophet who said i'd go to hell
if i ever thought an unclean thought
or lived a sinful life
and i laughed at the madness of it all
did we get lost in the world
that together we disowned

just when you think you know the answers
to questions you don't know
inevitably the questions will change
and you're left wondering
how you ever go here in the first place

ramblings and scramblings
trying to escape the reality of it all
the street people know more than you and me
they found their answers in the bonfires
of a thousand cold and lonely nights
and now they hide in the sobriety of their intoxication

i sat on the park bench for hours
too amazed to speak
the filth of the city permeated my soul

i heard the voices all around me
they were ringing in my ears
i realized that the voices
were my own madness
my own sadness
and the tears of those who would not be heard



Dear Shelly-

You are the perfect example of what I envision the bad female poet to be: overweight with cats crawling all over the place. And even if you're not overweight, your poetry certainly is. Maybe some forced rhymes would help. Or try some dragons or cats or flowers or the moon or even some vagina references. Oops! I just realized that you do have a slipshod vagina allusion, and it still didn't help.

Your longer poem reads like the lyrics to a new Bad Religion song, only your words aren't big enough and there are no catchy rhymes. Maybe you can get a job writing for BR, as I hear they're awfully busy with all those bands making it big on Epitaph these days. In fact, I hear the folks at Epitaph are SO busy they can't even meet simple advertising deadlines! Find their address in Rolling Stone and send your stuff there. Or if you do get the hang of the rhyming thing, maybe Hallmark could use you.


><><><><><><><><><


From "John," a 25-year old Grad Student from Upstate New York


1.
Generation X

X marks the spot -- 
I'm looking for a war.

doctor, can you possibly understand
the vicious terror of the bore?

christ, I am scared out of my skull.

prat prat prat
goes the rough tongue of the lazy cat --
he tries to lick the grit from My eyes
but they have swollen shut from allergies

(the worst affliction I can hope for these days)

I join the throng --

a legion of swollen-eyed, runny-nosed, antihistimine addicts
who roam along in a pathetic daze --
glad when we stub our toes on the steps of the doctor's office
so that we may sue him for
libel, or malpractice, or divorce
(or was that our parents we were suing?)

no one really remembers these days

we don't even pretend to search for brains to eat anymore --
most people, when you shake 'em,
maggots fly out their ears to the floor with a plump tapping
finality.

though, I've heard tell maggots are full of protein . . . 

"huh-huh, huh-huh.  He said maggots.  maggots are cool."
huh-huh, huh-huh, yeah.  pass me that inhaler, butt-head."


2.
the picture

frozen hardblown dirt --
musty stillness covers
bareplank walls --
windwhips iceknives
into your eyes:
you brush away the frozen debris
to slowly uncover
the picture.

glasscracked surface,
velvety-brown
with its very own
deadcoat of
people & places past,
quickly smothers your reflection.

you wipe away
countless cares and myriad memories
with a casual flick of your hand,
and peer intently at
the picture.

the image accuses
you through the coldhard glass
(brownbeardbrwoneyesbrownhairbrowncrown)
and you start in surprise,
slicing your thumb
deeply
on the jagged splinters --
as thickblood spatters,
soaking into frozenground,

the image wavers,
smiles at you gratefully --
you gently replace it in its nest of debris,
and quietly return
into the howling
storm.

The above poem features the Prize-winner for the WORST line featured anywhere in this article:
"countless cares and myriad memories"

The above poem also features the Runner-up for the WORST LINE featured anywhere in this article:
"(brownbeardbrwoneyesbrownhairbrowncrown)"


3.
a.m. necrophilia

the stupefied city / drools halitosis / into a cracked and /      empty / coffemug, /     forcebreeding / its stillborn /      vapors / with the ghosts / of beans past.



Dear "John,"
I see a spark of potential in your somewhat raw verse. While your writing is not "grammatically stylish," perhaps with time and experience, you will find your stride. 

Hey, wait a second, you're 25 years old?? A GRAD Student!?! Oh, Christ! I thought you were in HIGH SCHOOL!! Are you kidding me?? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? You're 25 years old and you're writing poetry with Bevis and Butthead allusions?? You want to be a respectable poet, but the best you can do for poignant satire is crap about Generation X?

And what the FUCK is up with that "a.m. necrophilia" thing? Was I SUPPOSED to laugh at you? Are you a comedy writer, John? Or are you just another BAD FUCKING POET??

Just give up and get a real fucking job.


><><><><><><><><><


From Barbara, who would provide me with more information only if I was interested.


1.
ALL-CONSUMING

Once I feasted freely on you;
sucked the honey from your mouth,
ate up the adoration in your eyes,
devoured your every word...
I swallowed your essence,
and nourished myself by transfusion.

In greedy hunger, I licked the salt from your body
and tasted what love was like.
I grew fat on my contentment.

You are gone now---
Voracious cells, grown mad,
have consumed you - totally,
chewing through places
even I couldn't reach.

Tonight, in my loneliness,
I nibble on carrot sticks & celery stalks
and later run skeletal fingers
over jutting ribs
and bony pelvis in the dark.

My life has been reduced to this.


2.
On the phone you tell me
squeezing through the narrow black veins
on the map of your life,
the journey is constant agony.
"VACANCY" in flashing neon
signals your loss of innocence.
protected by darkness,
you give yourself over to degradation
while choking back the desire to turn lights on,
looking for mirrors, seeking reflections...
the reason why no longer matters.
waking up together is terrifying,
leaving you exposed to yourself.
the moon alone does not spill your blood.
you've begun to accept despair as your right,
and must invent yourself in order to exist.
you trade yourself in religiously,
every two years for the same model,
and are always saying goodbye without meaning it.
it is not by accident that you leave open doors 
behind you.
you call yourself by different names,
yet each scar you bear is a name-tag.
suicide is no escape...
Oh, women, you think were born to suffer--
if you weren't a masochist,
you'd be a man.



Babs,

In your first poem, you write that "I grew fat on my contentment." Come on, now, didn't the Ho-Ho's help?

You conclude an otherwise OK poem with "I nibble on carrot sticks & celery stalks." In my opinion, you pushed this already-weak metaphor much too far. This poem sucks ass.

On your second poem: While I genuinely like that super-chick line "the moon alone does not spill your blood," it was wasted in a poem that also includes "M-TVACANCY' in flashing neon signals your loss of innocence." Ugh, momma.

I think that perhaps you should reconsider your stance that "suicide is no escape." It IS an escape. It really is. Go ahead and try it. Or at least have a drink and lighten up.


><><><><><><><><><


From Brian, Winner of the Worst Overall Poet, Male Category

"Brian (b. June 12, 1962)  Was raised in Lancaster Co., Pennsylvainia studied Libral Arts at the University of Arizona at Tucson, while, working for the Roman Catholic Diocese of Tucson from 1981-1988 in the Tribunal Office.  Is a self employed Computer Consultant, and works for the Carondelet Hospital System in Tucson.  He has been writing and publishing poety and short stories since 1982."


Trip to the Candy Abide

Sleep my child and soon you will see
a place where candy will grow on a tree
The place the unicorn calls it's home
and many other strange animals roam
Close your eyes and lay down your head 
so the angels can come to guard your bed
And the horse with a horn will give you a ride 
to the place they call the candy abide

Close your sleepy eyes and dream, dream, dream
and take a long ride by the soda pop stream
Where licorice trees grow in groves
and the bread is made into Teddy bear loaves
The grass is yellow, blue, green, and red 
where only the children are allowed to tread
So close your eyes and be off to sleep 
for your ride is waiting and it won't keep

I remember the place from years gone by
where marshmallow clouds float in the sky
and the rivers are lined with chocolate banks
and the pumps there all have candy cane cranks
But I have grown and can go no more 
it now is your turn to go and explore 
and find the tin soldiers who march in a row
so be quick and hurry before you too grow


--Holy fuck, Brian. That was terrible, even for a children's poem. And for God's sake, at least get your its vs. it's straight.



Grandma's Cure

When tears come into your eyes 
And the blues chase your smile away
When happiness seems forgotten 
and you can't face another day
When everything that was perfect 
starts to go all wrong
just sit back and close your eyes 
and hum a gospel song

when the beautiful colors of nature 
seem just shades of grey
or the joy of being with a friend
seems to have passed away
when your heart is heavy in your chest 
and your minutes are an hour long 
just breath in deep and close your eyes 
and hum a gospel song 

Grandma played the piano


--Your Grandma's dead.
Not alive, just like lead.

So I hum a song,
but not for long,
because your grandma is
just plain fucking dead.

So shut the fuck up, ok?



These Pages Of Our Souls

I sit, and allowing my mind to wander
through the words and songs of ages past,
I hear that same gentle melody; which has 
always inspired the minds of minstrals and bards.

Though the songs are varied in their topics, 
as are the tounges diverse and strange.
the emotions as deep as the midnight sky
can still be felt in every word and phrase
in every refrain, carved from the souls 
of generations past.  

Wether of battles or of gods or the tourture 
of love or hate, the praises of admiration 
the torment of affection unrequited.
These songs reveal the heart of "man"
and all men who've ever walked 
and felt the throbing of emotion in their mind.

And on these the pages of our souls 
we bleed the essence of our being.
Revealing life as a simple reflection 
of the ages past.


--"words and songs of ages past"
"minstrals and bards"
"tounges diverse and strange"
"Wether of battles or of gods"

So, Brian, D&D fag, were we?
AND a chronically bad speller??


><><><><><><><><><


From Cynthia, Winner of the Worst Overall Poet, Female Category

"Mr. Licht, I write the type of poetry I believe you are looking for. My poems and bio follow...Cynthia [X] enjoys  reading, sculpting, watercolours, genealogy, travel, theater and writing. Cynthia has studied in England, France, The Netherlands, Switzerland and Italy. Her favorite authors: E. M. Forster,  A.C. LeMieux and R. Frost. She was born in 1955 and lives in Michigan with her four rescued pets Moosie (dog), Mewsette (cat) and Katherine Hepburn & Spencer Tracy (two parakeets). These peoms have all b
een copyrighted and are listed with the Library of Congress."


Copyright, shmopyright, Cynthia. Consider yourself FUCKING PUBLISHED!


Forrest Lovers

Misty, envious moon
Watches, shy sometimes bold.
Her cloudy veils are blown by playful breezes.
Lichen forms our pillow,
Fern fingers caress silken thighs
Rain wet lips trace spidery pathways
From snowy breast to my love for you and back.
While we, in breathless urgency, 
Sway with the tall grass in our dance of time;
The envious moon watches, sighs and...smiles.


--Fuck Christ, Cynthia! If you must invoke such sappy, crappy overwrought images, AT LEAST LEARN HOW TO SPELL "FOREST," YOU DUMB CUNT.



After Frost

The beauty of that November day
Did not escape her eye.
The wispy clouds, softly grey,
Passed her orchard by.
Oft-times she wishes 
They would notice her there.
Sometimes she wishes
They would carry her away.
Maybe, from that orchard, 
They will lift her to the sky,
Taking her along with them
To where they swiftly fly.
Maybe from that orchard, 
Dressed in Hoarfrost lace and alone,
She will not escape their eye
And they will come and take her home.


--ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz



Snowflakes

The winter wind whispers, 
It flutters and fluffs about.
Freeing the fulsome lady flakes to 
Dance in their frost white gowns.
A singular perfection, are they,
As they lift, then take wing.
They are beauty itself 
In their waltz of creation 
With the unborn flowers of spring.


--Cynthia, that was so beautiful, so serene, so peaceful...it made me believe, for a moment, that my miserable life just might be better come Spring... Alas, tis not so. Fuck you. 



He's Returned...

He's returned...
But without the rhymes.
Only lilacs and reasons 
For the endless succession of time
And the oncoming of seasons.


--Whoever "he" is, "he" should be rewarded for returning without the rhymes, if nothing else.


---16---


Roadside Terrorism: An Illustrated Guide to Converting Small Animals into Instruments of DESTRUCTION

Words & pictures by Dennis McGee (DennisMcGM@aol.com)


Driving home from work one steamy, August afternoon, I passed a dead raccoon in the gutter--no doubt the victim of an oncoming vehicle not unlike my own. Over the next few days I observed that my trash-can-flipping friend's stomach had almost tripled in size from the sweltering heat--it was beginning to look like a red VoitM-* kickball.

While the exact chemical reaction is beyond the scope of this article, I do know that the gas accumulating inside of my furry friend's intestines was at least partially hydrogen. If you know just one thing about hydrogen, know that it is extremely combustible when exposed to an open flame or spark. Hindenburg combustible, got it?

Combine the potential for igniting an explosion with my desire to kill time, and we've got ourselves a way to turn small, dead animals into weapons that can be smuggled past any airport metal detector. Or if international terrorism isn't your thing, then we've got ourselves one more thing to piss off the folks at PETA.

Before you start, here are a few questions you should ask yourself before building your varmint bomb: 

How large of an explosion do I need? Oh, fuck that--How large of an explosion do I WANT?

The obvious rule of thumb is the bigger the animal, the bigger the explosion. Since you're entering uncharted territory, we recommend that you start small. Try a fresh rat or squirrel and, once you've gotten the technique perfected, move onto raccoons and (if you are lucky enough to find one intact) a dog or deer.

Where do I find a dead animal?

A drive on any major highway should provide plentiful bounty. Look for recently developed areas, where new housing projects force Bambi and her cohorts onto the roads in seek of new homes.

How do I choose the right animal?

Any dead animal will work just fine. And don't be squeamish about using Fluffy, the neighbor's dead cat--just don't let them catch you. Keep in mind that the test subject should be an endotherm because, all kidding aside, I don't think you're going to get a fuse into a frog's asshole.

What supplies will I need?
1. Dead, bloated animal
2. Flat head screwdriver
3. Lighter or matches
4. Safety glasses (optional, really, but don't they lend legitimacy to the most dangerous advice?)
5. Silicon caulk and caulking gun
6. A cannon fuse

Items 2 through 5 can be found at your local hardware store. The cannon fuse, on the other hand, is a restricted material and must be found elsewhere. I consulted Shomer-Tec (360-733-6214) and ordered their 1995 catalog, in which I found all the things that fall, let's say, below the line of the "legitimate" market.

I quote:

The cannon fuse is top-rated Grade AAA and has four coats of varnish to make it completely waterproof. It burns evenly without flickering, even underwater and under the worst environmental conditions. Burn Rate: 30 seconds per foot. Diameter: 3/32". Color: Green. Length: 75 ft. Not shippable by air; subject to extra shipping fee. No C.O.D. orders.          Q-CF Cannon Fuse $17.00

(Shomer-Tec, Inc.: Phone: 360-733-6214; Fax: 360-676-5248; Box 28070, Bellingham, WA 98228)

Now that you have acquired all of the essential items, you are ready to take one step back on the karmic ladder of life. For those of you without some sort of destructive instinct, I've put together an easy step-by-step guide to walk you through the fun of backyard pyrotechnics.

5.
Fill the animal's mouth with silicon caulk. This will keep any gas from escaping when you insert the screwdriver and the fuse into its asshole. You see, when rigor mortis sets in, the animal stiffens, its sphincter clenches tight, and (with luck) the jaw clamps shut. But you can't be certain that the mouth is airtight, so you need to seal this orifice, just in case.

4.
Position the animal Ass Up, if wasn't kind enough to die that way.

3.
Prepare your materials.
Place the fuse on the screwdriver as shown in Illustration #1 below (sorry, e-readers). This will give you leverage when you insert the fuse into the animal's rectal cavity.

With a generous portion of silicon caulk, butter the buns of Smokey's little friend (see Illustration #2, below (sorry again, e-readers)). Also apply some to your screwdriver and the fuse. The silicon seal will prevent any gas from leaking out of Rocky's ass.

Note: The length of the fuse is up to you; I have no idea how long it will take for you to dive behind the picnic table.

Note #2: When considering the amount of time you will need to run away from the ignited varmint, please account for any alcohol in your system that will inevitably cause you to stumble during your escape.

2.
Insert the fuse. 

Grasp the animal as shown in Illustration #3, above (my final sorry, e-readers). Remain calm. Concentrate. Take a deep breath (if you can stomach the stench).

Position the tip of the screwdriver on that puckered pink spot and GENTLY push. It might fight you at first, but with patience and a few kind words, it should comply.(Sound familiar? Good. Be just as gentle.) When you feel the tip enter, ease it down about an inch and a half until you reach the colon. (BE CAREFUL: You are not driving in a friggin' tent spike! You are inserting a screwdriver, so be careful not to puncture anything!)

If you made it this far and haven't heard any flat tire noises, ducks being stepped on, or a gentle "poof," you're almost there.

When you withdraw the screwdriver,  do not wiggle it, pull it to the side, or let it shake. Just pull straight back and the sphincter will close right up behind you, sealed tight with the caulking you applied earlier.
If you have followed all these steps correctly, you are now ready to be the life of the party. Friendly advice: Don't wear your Sunday best, ok? Think "disposable."

1.
Find a place to take cover. Invite the gang over for some sandwiches. Find a video camera. Turn on the video camera. Ignite.


If all went well, your little furry friend's intestines will have just expanded at a dangerous rate, all due to a simple chemical reaction given to us by God Himself. You won't see this kind of fun on Mr. Wizard, kids.

Please send all video to Crank at the address on page 1. If you just hurt yourself, be warned: Neither Dennis McGee nor Jeff Koyen will accept any responsibility for your bad judgment. Please destroy your copy of this magazine before you kill yourself and/or your little sister trying to make a dead animal go Boom Boom.


---18---


Black & Decker Responds, Sort Of

Everyone who read Crank #2 raved about the Guide to Trepanation, the act of adding another hole to your skull, thereby letting your brain breathe a little and attaining an enlightened state. Included in my article was a letter I sent to Black & Decker seeking their advice in the matter of which drill bit to use (reprinted below). As of Crank #3's printing, I had not received a response. (Not even a form letter thanking me for my interest in their products.) Then, a letter came from Cy Colac, also reprinted
 below.

Cy Colac is, by the way, a clever pseudonym created from "cycolac," a G.E. plastic commonly used in the manufacture of B&D tools--I don't know his/her real name. I've withheld his/her address.



                                         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 experience 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 the 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


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


Dear Crank,
I was intrigued enough by your cryptic "Black & Decker never responded" in issue #3 to track #2 online. I'm an engineer working for B&D and your article reminded me of the enclosed letter that appeared on the bulletin board a couple years ago. [Ed. note: Cy enclosed a letter from a South American missionary that recounts on-the-fly brain surgery performed with a Black & Decker drill. It is reproduced in the print version of Crank. Sorry.] It took a couple of hours of asking around, but I finally found a de
viant who had saved a copy. Unfortunately, the letter does not mention the type of bit they used. But when kicking it around with my co-workers, we decided a Bullet(TM) drill bit would be ideal. It has a small diameter pilot drill incorporated into the end for fast starts with no "walking." Its unique cutting edge geometry also gives a clean breakthrough--something Rev. Mrzlak Nyzamot was worried about in his letter in issue #3. However, we came to the conclusion that the right tool for the job is not a dr
ill at all but the BD6200 Plunge Router. Its powerful 1 1/4 hp motor spins at 25,000 RPM, enough speed and power to get the job done very quickly. And the precise base allows for accurate maximum depth setting. [And it lists for $78 less than the DeWalt that I originally recommended!]

Incidentally, the reason no one responded to your inquiry is in #3: lawyers [see "A Time to Kill," Crank #3]. B&D gets sued 500-1000 times a year and no one wants to give any ammo to the blood-sucking lawyers. Here is a couple bucks, please send me issue #2 + #4.

Cy Colac


---20---

NOTE: THIS ARTICLE CONTAINS A DOZEN OR SO PHOTOS THAT ARE REPRODUCED IN THE PRINT VERSION OF CRANK. PLEASE DISREGARD ANY REFERENCES TO THE PHOTOS HEREIN.

Inside the House of the Anarchists

An exposM-^N by Jeff Koyen
Breaking & Entering Assistance by Tom
Photographic Assistance by Amy

For many, the word "anarchy" conjures up images of political chaos, social unrest, and the upheaval of whatever it is you oppose. Not a bad image, I admit. For the initiated, anarchy means "freedom," "individuality," and "equality," right? Wrong.

In Latin, "anarchy" really means "nonsense." And--as I have expounded upon in previous issues--today's Anarchists are nothing more than hippies re-incarnated for the Alternative Nation. Has The Gap started selling pre-soiled thrift store clothing yet? It will, just as soon as Jason Priestley has his "anarchy" episode, akin to that infamous "euphoria" episode that everyone yacks about.

In West Philadelphia, Anarchists have found their home. Owing to rental laws that lean greatly in favor of tenants, there is a large squatter population in that stretch of the woods. And 99% of the West Phila' squatters are part of what I call the Anarchist Clique.

When we moved into our building two years ago, we discovered that the neighbors were squatters. Word is it had been a squatter property for the last few years. For the record: I am in favor of squatters taking over places that will otherwise fall into disrepair. A squatter-occupied property will not turn into a harbor for criminals, and it will not become infested by animals. And since vacant houses are dangerous places for neighborhood children to play in, most people on most blocks are just as happy with
 squatters on their street as they would be with paying tenants. I agree 100%.

But over the course of my two-year stay in West Philly, I cultivated a profound dislike for the Anarchists next door. I must admit that as far as neighbors go, they were swell: very quiet (keeping a low profile) and VERY neat (they actually raked their leaves while everyone in our building let the wind take care of it.) I don't really know what my problem was with these Anarchists. Could have been my suspicion that they were just a bunch of students playing dirty punk rockers, living on their parents' cash
. Could have been the snotty attitude whenever I tried to say "Hello" when I passed one of them on the sidewalk. Or, it could have been a premonition of things to come.

In August, we heard rumor that the Squatter house was up for sale. Apparently, the City finally got around to putting it up on the auction block of foreclosed properties. While it's easy to squat in government properties, once they're sold, it's another story. 

This change in ownership seriously affected OUR lives. Most West Philadelphia houses are joined to the one next to it, resting on what seems to be a single lot. In other words, if you look straight at a typical West Philly house, it's really two houses joined on the outside only, with separate apartments on each side. Ownership of these "halves" are often split as well, since it's not TECHNICALLY one house. Really, they just share a firewall between them and a large front porch which is usually divided.

Concerned about the rumored auction, I spoke to the Headmistress of the Anarchists. I told her that I had asked our landlords if they knew anything about the Squatter place being up for auction; we wanted to know what would happen if their place was sold. (The landlords knew nothing.) Queen Anarchy said that they didn't know what was going on with their property either, but would keep us up-to-date.

Well, well, well. I never fucking spoke to her again.


Two months later we noticed that the lights were off in the Squatters' house. It was Christmas-time and, suspecting that most, if not all, of the Squatters were students, we figured they were home on break.

Four weeks passed. Nothing. Not a single light. They were gone.

Thanks for telling us, you motherfuckers. We may not have been the chummiest of neighbors, but we did TRY to contribute to your fucking cause. We tried to help you out. WE tried, but you fucked us.

We waited another few days, checking for lights each evening. Nothing.


One Friday night, with a few drinks impairing our better judgment, Tom and I decided it was time to take a look-see inside this mysterious house. Although we were positive the place was empty, we still pounded on their front door, just in case. Nothing.

Equipped with flashlights and weapons (a screwdriver and The Muddler for me; a pipe and pocketknife for Tom), we crawled out my bedroom window, across the second story roof, and broke into a window. (Well, we didn't even really BREAK a window--it lifted right up from the outside.)

We explored for more than 2 hours, picking through shit and rubble. In these 2 hours, my disdain for these so-called Anarchists grew to such a proportion that I couldn't keep it quiet.

Two days later, Amy and I went back in with a camera, determined to document my disgust. Look carefully at these pictures, and the next time you're deciding which "look" you want, please reconsider Anarchist Chic, ok? I'm ushering in the Backlash, here and now. 


(---the statements---)

We broke in through a bedroom window. A filthy mattress, empty dresser, broken desk were all we found in this first room. Frankly, we were a little disappointed that we didn't stumble across a corpse, or that we weren't staring at a naked Squatter hanging in the closet with his dick in his hand.

Then we looked at the walls. Pay dirt. The harvest had begun.

The west wall was covered with red handprints, the kind you made in kindergarten for your mommy on Mother's Day. Scrawled alongside were the proclamations "I Live Here" and "This is my home." The inside of the door was adorned with "I AM THE GREAT SATAN."

Fueled by laughter, we made our way into the hallway.

Our artiste had obviously run out of "canvas" in the bedroom, so he or she ventured into the hallway. Gems like "Curses to Evil Doers" and "This House Will Bring Bad Luck" almost persuaded Tom into believing that whoever wrote and painted these was joking around when they did it.

"Christ," he said, "who the fuck could paint this shit without laughing at it?" 

But with bonus quips like "TO MAKE MONEY OFF OF OTHER'S MISFORTUNE IS A UNIVERSAL SIN," "Blood on your hands," & "Capitalist Pigs," Tom was convinced--they were serious. They weren't too bright, but they were serious.

(It was at this point that I decided to come back with the camera; this article was burning in my mind brighter than the goddamn North Star in the Arizona sky.)

----------------------------
The 2nd Floor Hallway

These statements were painted on the wall in the 2nd floor hallway:

"House of Usher"
"Capitalist pigs"
"Parasite"
"Curses to evil doers"
"Evil deed"
"Blood on your hands"
"To make $ off of other's misfortune is a universal sin"
"Hex on you"
"Land can not be owned"
"Bad karma"
"This house will bring bad luck" 
"Mishap will befall"

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

Further down the hall, we hit another bedroom. While its door wasn't decorated with Lucifer's Declaration of Being, it was adorned with a self-righteous, pseudo-anarcho poster that instructed us: "Many Have EyeS but do not see." Thanks for the 10th-grade lesson, pally.

This room was occupied by another graffiti artiste. The photo below gives us the Gospel According to the Anarchist: "$$$ Stupid arrogant selfish greedy foolish ignorant humans," "Death of spirit creative community," and "God loves the rich." I laughed so hard I almost dropped my flashlight. (The hanging object is a doll tied up in a necktie. Oooh! Eeek!) 

Fucking chumps.


(---the squalor---)

Far be it for me to judge another person's habits. Truth be told, I'm quite the fucking slob. Beyond messy, I am often quite dirty; I'm downright unsanitary on the right days.

However, my bad hygiene remains confined to the realm of my body and my immediate surroundings, rarely intruding on anyone else's life.

The people next door went far over the line of filth. They have left a legacy behind them that was not only appalling to see, but can (and probably will) develop into something unhealthful to the apartments around them, including ours and the one above us, where two young children live. Oh, and let's not forget that a group of 6 neighborhood kids--YOUNG kids, ages 6 to 10--routinely hang around our area of the block; they will eventually decide to explore this place.

Nice consideration for your fellow man, you fucks.


The first--and most unforgivable--example is presented below. Yes, indeed, it's two buckets of urine sitting cock-level on a windowsill.

We found 3 bathrooms in the house--all destroyed. In one, the bathtub was filled with stagnant water; in another, the sink and toilet were filled with chunks of plaster and drywall. Apparently, our good neighbors forgot the difference between sink, toilet, tub and garbage can.

But before I get into organic filth, a few words about physical damage.


The floor plan of the Squatter House is identical to ours, reflected at the firewall which divides the building in half. Now mind you, it ain't a fucking palace, but it is a good-sized space at an affordable price. Both properties have basements (ours is unused, since it's terminally unlocked) and very large attics (the third floor apartment in our building has access.) It is, honestly, a real decent space.

Theoretically, the Squatter House can support at least 10 people, if 4 agreed to share rooms. (If you're living rent-free, wouldn't you share a room? Fuck yes.) We counted 3 bathrooms and 2 full kitchens. The basement was clean, good for storage; the attic could serve as a large bedroom for 2 (or more storage, or somewhere to hang out.) Let me tell you, this fucking property is a Dream Come True for 10 people responsible enough to maintain the building.

Instead, our neighbors destroyed the fucking place.


It was my understanding that Today's Anarchists are Champions of Equal Housing. I was under the impression that Today's Anarchists live by the ethics that they so vehemently preach to everyone else. Today's Anarchist talks about exploiting the Government to help the less fortunate. Now, wouldn't that include utilizing every raw material at your disposal? And wouldn't you consider an empty, safe, government-ignored house to be prize raw material?? Wouldn't you try your best to maintain a free property, even
 if you were moving out? I sure as fuck would. In fact, I did.

Shit, I don't even preach the Anarchist Doctrine, but I do seem to practice it. See, Tom and I didn't pay rent for six months because the property was foreclosed and the bank tried to fuck us. In effect, we knew that when we left, we would not be getting our security deposit. But did that mean we should tear up the floor, fuck up the plumbing, and make the space useless for someone else? No. When we left, the apartment was in great shape because we wanted someone to benefit from our vacancy. When we left, 
we told some people that a space was open. "Go squat," we said.

But our neighbors fucked up their property. Floorboards were torn up. Stairs were missing. And, as I mentioned before, the bathrooms were useless. Even if the property is up for auction, should you destroy it? What if a non-profit housing organization is bidding on the property, hoping to come in low and renovate? If someone wants to renovate now, they'll need to gut the place and start over.

With all this destruction, though, I still wasn't angry. "Stupid kids," I said. "Worse that frat boys," Tom said. It wasn't until I saw the first floor that I got Angry.


In Crank #2, I wrote a piece entitled "Anarchists: Same Old Hippie Shit." Some of you may remember it. Therein, I lambasted a local anarchist rag for their statement: "We encourage you to take the initiative to express yourself, but don't bother to send us any racist, sexist or otherwise hateful material." Wanna hear something funny? The publishers of this piece of shit were my neighbors. Small fucking world.

In the front bedroom, we found cases of their little paper. Literally thousands of copies, stacked waist-high in cardboard boxes, all waiting to be recycled with other newspapers that had accumulated. Basically, our chums left us a nice, big fucking firetrap, when all they had to do was put the boxes at the curb for the City to pick up free of charge.

On behalf of the entire block, which includes at least 20 small children and more than a few innocent adults: fuck you. Got that? FUCK YOU.

One hot July day, when the temperature inside that sealed apartment tops 120M-!, we're going to see a firestorm kick up. And it's going to take the rest of the building with it and, quite likely, a house or two down the block.

Granted, I already knew that I'd be gone before the building burned down. So, who cares? One less building? I'm safe and sound.

It's the kids I worry about. You've gotta worry about the kids.

A small pack of children play near our house. They ride their bikes up and down the block; the boys and girls chase each other with as-yet-undefined sexual tension. They're all good kids, even if they do mix up our names.

But they're still kids. And kids explore. I remember when I was their age: any and every parking lot, construction site and empty building was fair game. As soon as the nice weather rolls in, the kids will be crawling in basement windows to go exploring (much like Tom and I with our flashlights and booze.)

And it still gets worse.

In the first floor living room, we found more newspapers, stacks of text books (computer science, mostly) and FOOD. On the shelf in the picture to the right (and others like it on the second and third floors) we found bags of lentils and grains that were already serving as steady food supply for the mouse and rat population.

How hard can it be to throw the food out? Everyone who lives in a city knows how hard it is to keep mice and rats out of your apartment (not to mention the fucking cockroaches.) Did you guys just not care? Or were you deliberately leaving shit behind, just to fuck us over? Well, I got news for you: I ain't fucked over; I'm gone. But wait until this apartment is knee-deep in vermin and the families next door are forced out because of it's so goddamn dangerous.

One of the most confusing things about the Squatter House was the presence of four refrigerators. The first was in the living room, lying on its side, serving as a table. The other three took up all of the space in the kitchen, and all three were full of rotting food. The worst example is shown in the photo on the left. Note the dark specs all over the place: rat shit. No shit.

Again--how hard could it be to throw out your old food? This wasn't fucking Masada--you didn't decide to kill yourselves all at once, leaving no one behind to do the chores. You knew you were leaving, but you still left a fucking health hazard behind.

And again--Nice consideration for your fellow man.


(---the hypocrisy---)

I can't tell you how many fucking Rape Culture articles I've read in all the little Anarchy rags that come to my mailbox. Not lucky enough to have them sent to you? Well, then spend five minutes in your local Anarchist book shop and you'll be inundated with elitist feminist books on the shelves and elitist feminist attitude from the little college cunts who volunteer there. Do I have a problem with Feminism? Nope. I do, however, have a problem with misguided, tunnel-vision condemnations. Let's take, for in
stance, pornography.

PORNOGRAPHY IS A-OK BY ME.

Hey buddy, you get your rocks off by looking at naked chicks with small asses, big tits, and bigger hair? Fine. You like to watch people fucking and grunting like dogs? Great. You masturbate to high school cheerleader panty shots? No problemo, padre.

But what's that? You're a man who strolls around all day on a pro-Feminist platform, but then you go home and whack off to airbrushed shots of an 18-year old, coked-up, Penthouse model? Hmm.

Did you stand up in your Women's Lit class and proclaim that Paglia's got some real valid points, but then you pay-per-viewed the Playboy Channel later that night? And you taped it for later "use?" Hmm.

Hey there, guy, ain't you one of the Squatters who lives next door to me? Didn't I hear you condemn the Male-Dominated Corporate Power Structure for contributing to the drastic disparity between opportunities for men and women, but then you quietly went to your room, greased up and watched a woman get double-teamed by two guys with glistening, shaved asses? I think I've got a problem with that.


The buckets of urine were a surprise. The rat shit was a surprise. But neither of them surprised us as much as the smut we found in two of the bedrooms.

In one dresser, underneath a stack of old notebooks, I found three copies of Penthouse, one Playboy, and one New Look. Is it bad for a grown man to have girlie magazines in his dresser? No, not at all, so long as you're not walking around all day screaming the hard Feminist line. Do I find it hypocritical for a man who claims to rebel against the male-dominant paradigm to have a stack of titty-mags hidden in his sweater drawer? Titty mags that showcase the visual distillation of women's exploitation? Titty
 mags that make a fortune on advertising revenue from liquor and cigarette companies? Yes, I find it incredibly hypocritical. I must reiterate: these mags wouldn't make me look twice if these men weren't proclaiming their Feminist solidarity so fucking loudly.

I mean, my christ, you can't put your money into a worse institution.


Oh, yeh, and then came the video.

At the bottom of a closet, we found 5 videotapes. Yes, yes, we were both hoping to find home video of one of the cute Squatter chicks fucking a dog or something. It was a long shot, sure, but hell, they're supposed to be crazy, you know? They sure look crazy.

Each tape was pornographic, but nothing remotely interesting. No snuff, no bondage, no flair, you know? They contained: 1 night of the Playboy Channel, 1 night of the Spice Channel and 3 run-of-the-mill frat party porno flicks.

Jeez, Louise, seems that next door we had a couple super-progressive, super-Pro-Chick guys secretly jerking off to a woman taking loads on her face. Fuck, man. I wouldn't do that to a 20-dollar hooker with your cock. Do you really want to talk to me about degradation? Are you sure??


We needed two trips across the roof to haul home the treasure. We had: one big can of dental plaster, one box of dental syringes, 5 videotapes, 5 magazines, one weapon-sized pipe, and 2 reams of paper. Oh, and there were the cassettes.

On the way out, I found a milk crate full of tapes. Whooee! Between the video and the audio tapes, I just knew I was gonna find something just great, eh?? Maybe something I never get around to buying, like some Germs, or maybe early Black Flag. You know, something someone probably stole from me--something I always consider replacing, but never do.

Let me tell you--for a bunch of Anarchist Punks, these kids had bad FUcking taste in music. Joan Baez. Cat Stevens. Bob Dylan. I swear to God, I will lick the cat's asshole before I will listen to any of these tapes. Where's the Minor Threat? Where's the HM-^_sker DM-^_? WHERE ARE THE STANDARDS?!? Not in this Punk Rock Boarding House.

Wow, Jeff, do you mean to tell me that these people who go to such lengths to look like nasty punks are really just hippies that don't think it's cool to be hippies any more? Er, yes. I'd say so.

Now I know why we never heard any loud music coming from their house--they didn't own any loud music. And that explains why I never ran into any of the neighbors at any show in town. (And I went to everything from the word-of-mouth punk shows to the $15-in-advance events.) I never saw any of them there because they aren't PUNKS. They're FUCKING HIPPIES.


(---Good riddance...---)
...you pompous, self-righteous, unoriginal, hypocritical, useless fucks. My contempt for you and your supposed lifestyle has never been stronger, and I hope you all burn in suburban Hell when you graduate and gets jobs at your Daddy's corporation.

Meanwhile, I will continue to struggle to publish Crank. I will continue to walk the streets, nondescript and bland. I will continue to practice what I preach, put my money where my mouth is, and back up my words with actions.

You, on the other hand, will come and go with the impact of a feather landing in the ocean. You will regret the tattoo, remove the nose ring, and watch yourselves rot alongside any dreams you once had. Fuck you.


---29---

Poetry Slam: Crank Style
Part 2: This Drunk's Luck

Those who cannot writeM-Iwrite poetry.

Those who cannot write poetry...force it upon anyone stupid enough to say "Oh? you're a poet?"

Those who can write poetry...know better than to bother writing poetry.



One Wednesday night, last January: Tom and I were at the bar, leaning on the jukebox, waiting for a place to sit. After a few minutes, a booth opened up. Edging past two underage suburba-punks, we slipped in.

Bedding down for the evening, I took off my coat and put it on the ledge that runs alongside the booths. Hey, what's this? A notebook? No, it's a 3-hole, soft-cover folder.

A thief by nature and reflex, I slowly slid the folder onto the seat next to me. The cover was blank--no name, no phone, no address. I opened it up quietly and, to my surprise, it was filled with typewritten poetry. No names, no phone numbers, no addresses.

I read the first line of the first poem: "They send children to war because grown ups wouldn't go / They send children to war because they do not know."

HOLY SHIT! It was bad poetry. REALLY BAD POETRY! I'd found fucking GOLD MINE!

I leaned across to Tom and told him to finish up, that we were getting out of there now. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Nothing," I said. "Just trust me. Let's go."

I put the folder under my coat and we left. On the way home, I read the poems aloud. Boy, did we laugh.

In an effort to rid the world of yet another bad poet, I am printing the folder in its near-entirety. Originally, I had planned to critique each poem, but I found myself with the same comments for each poem: "you deserve to get fucked by a horse," "you should be ashamed at yourself for forcing so many rhymes," and "boo hoo, vet' boy."

Instead, I asked a few friends and acquaintances to do the work for me. Their instructions were: "read the enclosed poetry, and--when you've stopped laughing--please sketch your vision of this would-be poet."

My eight favorite renditions follow. Most people drew their vision of the "poet," while one person rendered a vision that came to him after reading the poetry. Between the poetry itself and the accompanying illustrations, you're in for a real treat.
Thank God I'll be out of town before this hits the streets. Between this guy and the Anarchists (see page 20) I'm a dead man next time I step into town. No joke.


NOTE: In the print version of Crank, I've published 8 illustrations by the likes of Dan Kelly (Danger!, Chum), Barbara (Hey There, Barbie Girl!), Gregory Hischak (Farm Pulp), R.D.Bone (Real Deal). and others. Obviously, you're missing out by reading the text-only version. I will, however, include the worst examples of the Vet poetry below. Enjoy.



But Its Not Me
There is evil in this world but its not me
There is hatred in this world but its not me
There is prejudice in this world but its not me
There is deceit in this world but its not me
Oh look a mirror on the wall Hey its me


They Send Children
They send children to war because grown ups wouldn't go.
They send children to war because they do not know.
They children to way because they believe [Ed. note: not a typo]
They children to war because they are naive.
They send children to war because they can.
They send children to war because they couldn't do that to a man.
Now after it is done and children are no more,
"They take a break until there are some more."


Duty Calls
My country asks and duty calls I shan't refuse I can't.
I don my soldier's uniform look my best impress the rest.
Now I long for a fight it is my right and we have the might.
I am in the melee knowing God is on our side.
Is this only a test because we are the best.
How could I tell that surely now I am in hell a mere broken shell.
Duty calls is the reason "My county asks and God is on ou side."


Eye
As I looked into her eye I knew she was about to die.
Depp into those eyes with out the ability to even cry.
Hell rages to and fro, but now it is her turn to go.
Smokes rises, men scream, life goes on but not serene.
I knew her but a short while just enough to be a pal.
The eyes begin to dull, I pound the ground with my skull.
For in this madness she brought me some small gladness, now only sadness.
As the light faded and she becamse still "I knew I would become ill."
But once again I had to snapp back run with the pack.
But on this day I promise to say
"Never again will I invite a puppy to play."
(A puppy wandered into the middle of a fire fight came to me lay next to me then got up and left only to get shot)


Pan Am
How could we understand Uncle Sam flew us to war on Pan Am.
Stewardess's serving coffee tea or me how were we to see.
Pillows behind your head never guessing soon you could be dead.
Oxygen mask demonstration, exit point debarkation.
Seat used for floatation when all we would really need was rotation.
Captain turning signs on and off, in flight movie showing golf.
Airport bars last look at flashy cars on our way to receive scars.
How could we understand Uncle Sam sent us to war on Pan Am.


Like
Never have I seen the like of my love on her bike.
Never have I seen the like of my wonderful little tyke.
Never have I seen the like of my good friend Mike.
I hope the never is again a time I never see the like.


---36---

Disastrous Coincidence

For one reason or another, readers of CRANK have come to regard me as something of a source of wisdom--a man to turn to for advice, for counseling, for a good word on a dreary day. To illustrate this, I present excerpts from the following letters, all received between June and December, 1994. In response (since I never wrote them back properly) I commissioned one of my artfag friends to render easy-to-remember graphic icons. [Icons not available in this version, obviously.]


Excerpts from actual letters:

Dear Jeff:
[Much praise deleted]. As a commuter, I drive a lot. Last hurricane season, I found myself caught in my car along a small freeway. I was scared and don't wanna go through it again. What should I do? Move? Where to?
Sarah K. (Tampa)


Dear Crank Guy:
[Also much praise deleted]. A friend of a friend, M_________, gave me a copy of Crank #2. You seem to have been through a lot in your time, and I wonder if you know anything about surviving tornadoes. Last year, my trailer and my dog were both lost (both on a Sunday, too. So much for God's day of rest, huh??). Anything you know about this might help.
Sincerely,
Jonathan L. (Kansas)


Jeff,
Man, Philadelphia sounds fucking great. I was fucking born and raised in goddamn North Fucking Dakota. I wonder what fucking SPRING is like?? [blah blah--thanks for Crank--blah blah]. Did you know that the fucking highway commission in this state tells people to stay in their cars if they get caught in a blizzard?? Fuck that. I got caught in the snow once and left my fucking car behind. Made it to a gas station in 3 hours and broke into their garage. Stayed there for 2 days, eating fucking fritos and pickl
es from a micro-fridge. When I went back for my car, it was 4 feet under snow. Fuck staying in your car.
Keep warm. I won't.
Dell (ND)


Dear Jeff,
LA is nice. Nice weather. Nice looking women behind every bar and under every tray of food. Earthquakes suck though. The last one got my computer, back issues and bed (water damage from busted pipes). My sister was on the highway when it hit. She was stuck for 10 hours. She was 50 feet from that guy they rescued live on TV. You might have seen her if you watched it. She's pretty hot. She wants to be an actress, of course. Anyway, I'm getting a car now that I have a long commute, so I'm hoping for the next 
earthquake to hit at night, so I can die in my sleep, like my mom did (cancer, not the earthquake).
Later,
Tim W. (Los Angeles)


Jeff Koyen:
I loved Crank #3 so much I want you to come visit and hang out with me and my friends. We drink and get high. It would be fun. Yes, we live in Atlanta, but go to school here. (Not hick bitches, which I'm sure you hate.) If you're ever down this way, call me at ---------. Plan ahead, don't get caught in the floods, like my brother did last year. He almost drowned in his car. That would suck.
Take care. Please call.
Melissa H. (Atlanta)


---37---
The Squeaky Wheel...

Let me preface: I am NOT the kind of person who complains at a restaurant when I'm seated near the kitchen. I am NOT the kind of person who complains when the bartender is moving too slowly. Basically, I'd rather suck it up than talk to someone unnecessarily.

Written consumer complaints, however, are another ball of earwax. I do not hesitate to dispatch letters to companies that produce inferior products. I have no problem AT ALL sending the most vicious letters to some hapless customer service rep.

Why? Because I see the Profit Potential in writing a letter. While complaining to your waiter may get you a better table, it might also get you the busboy's come-shot in your alfredo sauce. And while bitching to the barkeep may get your beer in front of you 10 seconds sooner, you might very well find his phlegm floating in the foam.

As with all things, I feel that anonymous writing is better than personal confrontation. Few rewards are worth the price of personal contact. Recently, I had a bad experience with a Healthy Choice lunch item. So I wrote them a letter. Then, seizing the opportunity, I sent a similar letter to one of their competitors. Curiously enough, their responses reached me within a day of each other.
God bless The Power of the Consumer.

                                    P.O. Box 1646
                                    Philadelphia, PA 19105-1646
                                    February 15, 1994


Healthy Choice Customer Service
c/o Con AgraM-( Frozen Foods
P.O. Box 3768
Omaha, NE 68103-0768


Dear Healthy Choice:

As a drinker, I often have to concentrate for a couple weeks on losing those extra pounds that accumulate on my face and belly. That as my goal, I often eat low fat, low calorie, prepared lunches and engage in light exercise. As a general rule, I buy Weight Watcher meals, but one day I decided to try Healthy Choice. This past Tuesday, I purchased your Country Inn Roast Turkey.

It was less than satisfying.

Now don't get me wrong--I don't expect gourmet meals from 4 grams of fat. But I was not prepared for the cardboard-like texture of the turkey, the rubbery taste of the bread crumbs, and the downright confusing chemical taste of the vegetables. I took 5 bites (hoping to find a region of tastiness) before throwing it out.

Now I understand why the last word in your instructions is "Enjoy" --purchasers of this meal need to be told to enjoy it, since they never would on their own.

Satisfied with Weight Watchers,
I remain,


Jeff Koyen

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

                                    P.O. Box 1646
                                    Philadelphia, PA 19105-1646
                                    February 15, 1994


Weight Watchers Food Company
PO Box 41
Boise, Idaho 83707-0041


Dear Weight Watchers:

As a drinker, I often have to concentrate for a couple weeks on losing those extra pounds that accumulate on my face and belly. That as my goal, I often eat low fat, low calorie, prepared lunches and engage in light exercise. As a general rule, I buy Healthy Choice meals, but one day I decided to try Weight Watchers. This past Tuesday, I purchased your Brick Oven Style Three Cheese Pizza.

It was horrible.

Now don't get me wrong--I don't expect gourmet meals from 4 grams of fat. But I was not prepared for the cardboard-like texture of the crust, the rubbery taste of the cheese, and the downright confusing chemical taste of the sauce. I took 5 bites (hoping to find a region of tastiness) before throwing it out.

I'm certainly glad that you don't include the word "Enjoy" in your instructions (much like Healthy Choice products) since I don't see how purchasers of this pizza COULD possibly enjoy it.

Satisfied with Healthy Choice,
I remain,



Jeff Koyen

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


While both companies responded with standard form letters, Weight Watchers kissed more ass by giving me a coupon for a free entree. Healthy Choice, on the other hand, cheaped out and sent discount coupons. [Coupons shown]

Question: 
Which company gets my cash in the future?
Answer: 
Neither. ALL this stuff tastes like shit.


---39---

In Crank #3. I asked you, the readers, to identify beers based on their outdated advertising slogans, all of which were culled from mid-60's Playboys. Joe Marshall, of Tucson, Arizona was our big winner!

[I printed a photo of Joe that he provided. You'll just have to take my word for it that he is quite a dashing young man.]

As reward, Joe was sent the following items:

One promotional clock inscribed with the CRANK logo.
One pair ridiculous gorilla slippers; 3 pairs of cheap shit sunglasses
1 - 6" Gumby; 1 comb, white; 1 - 1.5 oz. jar Knott's Pure Honey
2 - 1 oz. bottles of Trump Taj Mahal Casino conditioner
1 - 30ml bottle Paco Rabanne cologne
1 clip-on bowtie (green with black pattern)
4 - 1/8oz. bottles McIlhenny Tabasco Sauce
1 Charlie Brown PezM-* dispenser; 1 miniature toy accordion
1 package Pally brand Coconut Cookies (cholesterol free)
1 - 1 oz. white clown makeup; 13 cheap shit CRANK stickers
5 VERY old issues of the Bottom Line; 1 - 4" bust of a Pope John
1 burgundy sweater-vest, used; 1 Love & A .45 promotional condom

Smut from page 26:
Playboy, March 1987; Penthouse, September 1986; New Look, September 1986; 4 VHS tapes filled with softcore porn

Sweet, Sweet Loretta 7" - The DeFranco Family, featuring Tony DeFranco
Everything Your Heart Desires 7" -  Hall & Oates
James Bond Moonraker 7"
Theme from Beverly Hillbillies 7"
Spectres LP - Blue Oyster Cult
Sing Along with Connie Frances, presented by BrylcreemM-(
Inside Information - Foreigner
Street Lines EP - Oriental Spas
The Astounding Bernard Peiffer LP
ONE NATION, underground CD comp.
Mono - Fury in the Slaughterhouse
1 full-page printed photo of young Michael Jackson, found on the stage after the Shellac/Brick Layer Cake/Rodan show (May 9, 1994) as reviewed in Crank #2.


CONTEST ANSWERS:

1.
"When you're out of ___________, you're out of beer."

SCHLITZ

2.
"The Thirst Slaker! __________"

FALSTAFF

3.
"Next time you feel like a couple of beers, have a _____________."

COUNTRY CLUB

4 & 5.
(Two different clues for the same brand)
"Great on the rocks...with a lemon peel. It's also great in a tumbler. A mug. Straight from the can. Or sipped through a straw. However, we recommend you drink it like a beer, so long as you don't mistake it for one. A completely unique experience!" ___________________

"A secretary writes: Getting dates used to be a problem till I switched to ___________. It succeeded where sexy perfumes failed. A completely unique experience!"

COLT FUCKING 45



</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
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--------------------------------------


THE END
CRANK #4. PO Box 1646. Phil PA 19105-1646

Crank logo, icons and contents, copyright 1994 Jeff Koyen

As always, correspondence is welcomed, if not always appreciated.

Regards,
Jeff Koyen