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352 lines
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QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ]
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Volume II
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Issue II
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ISSN: 1062-6697
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~~~````''''~~~
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CORE is an electronic journal of poetry, fiction, essays,
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and criticsm. Back issues are available via anonymous
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ftp from ftp.eff.org from the /pub/journals directory.
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They are also available on CompuServe from Library 5 of
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the EFFSIG forum.
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Please feel free to reproduce CORE in its entirety only
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throughout Cyberspace. To reproduce articles individually,
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please contact the author.
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Questions, submissions, and subscription requests should be
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sent to core-journal@eff.org.
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~~~````''''~~~
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Little Teapots, Short and Stout:
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Weirdest of the WELL .......... Bryan Higgins
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.......... David R. Smith
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.......... Flash Gordon, MD
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Autumn and Spring .......... Alexander Blue
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Woolworth Parakeets .......... William Dubie
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Being with Beetoven .......... Aviott John
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______________________________________________________________________
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WEIRDEST OF THE WELL
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!!~~~````''''~~~!!
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The following three pieces recently won the weird conference writing
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contest on The WELL. The weird conference is just like it sounds. The
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WELL is a message-based BBS in Sausalito, California.
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->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->
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Bryan Higgins bryan@well.sf.ca.us
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Shoplifting. My friends and I were into it in a big way back in junior
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high school. We did it as a sport, as collectors, rather than stealing
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stuff we really wanted. I focused solely on Score hair cream (7 ounce
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tube) and I would never have put that stuff in my hair. Rather, I liked
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the white box with the green lettering, and I liked the fact that unlike
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the typical white hair cream Score was a transparent green gel. Actually,
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I knew this from television, because I never opened a single tube that
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I stole.
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I got my tubes at several drugstores around town. Also, Safeway carried
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it, but A & P didn't, for some reason. It was surprisingly easy to
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steal Score by putting it in my coat pocket. I only took one or two
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tubes from a store at a time, because I didn't want them to get suspicious
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at finding the entire Score stock depleted, but I would sometimes hit five
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or ten stores in an evening and return home with a backpack full of a
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couple dozen tubes. I had to hide the backpack outside of each store so
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as to not arouse suspicion in the store with the pack.
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By the time I quit I had about 350 in my collection. It became a real
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problem hiding such a large collection in my room. One time I was sure
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my mother found it where it was hidden in my closet, stacked behind some
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old shutters that we no longer used that were stored there, because it
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seemed to me that the shutters had been move. But if she did she never
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said anything.
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I finally quit because one of my friends who shared my hobby (though
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he collected assorted bars of soap rather than Score) told me that the
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FBI had been notified because Score is an ingredient, along with Clorox
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II dry bleach, in making an incendiary preparation used by arsonists and
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terrorists. It seems you mix the two together, and after ten minutes or
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so the stuff gets hot enough to spontaneously burst into flames, by which
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time the perpetrator is long gone. I don't know if my friend was making
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this up or not but I got scared because I didn't want to get caught.
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Luckily I never was.
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->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->
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David R. Smith drsmith@well.sf.ca.us
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The event that defined my relationship with John Jaster involved
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a butter dish. We were working at General Electric in
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Schenectady, former site of Thomas Edison's lab. In fact, it
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was only just before I started working there that GE tore down
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one of Edison's old buildings. My coworkers mocked a guy
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who went down to the lot and scavenged demolished bricks from
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the old Edison site, but they were singing a different tune once
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GE started selling commemmorative bricks with brass plates
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mounted on teak frames, for twenty-five *big* ones.
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But Jaster. It was the Christmas luncheon, 1987 I think, and my
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group sat at a table in the back, where coworker Ed unleashed
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bad puns on any who would listen. Ed would put the small,
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decorative dish of butter in front of you, and joke "Have some
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butter pecan without the pecans." This dish eventually ended at
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the vacant seat next to me.
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Jaster came to the luncheon late, and sat next to me. Ed had a
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chance for one more milking. "John, it's butter pecan, without
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the pecans," said Ed. "Oh," said John, who -- oblivious to the
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pun, and in spite of the fact that no one else had dishes of butter
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in front of them -- immediately picked up a spoon and dove
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right into that dish of butter. Before I could think what to say as
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a warning, a generous helping of pure butter was on John
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Jaster's spoon and in his mouth. At that point, he suddenly
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stopped moving so quickly. I suspect he was taking a mental
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tally of the situation, calculating how many boss brownie points
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he would lose by spewing out a mouthful of saliva-melted butter
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in the middle of a corporate Christmas luncheon. New meaning
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to the dilemma "Spit or swallow?" He ended up swallowing.
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I never did hear the end of that butter incident; because I
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happened to be the one sitting next to him, JJ seemed to blame
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the incident on me. Well, *I* wasn't the one who made the
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butter pecan pun, nor was I the one who failed to get it. At
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every social gathering thereafter, the butter story came up again.
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John Jaster worked for Jerry Jaiven. Once they attended a
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work-related conference at the Jakob Javits convention center in NYC.
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->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->
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Flash Gordon, MD flash@well.sf.ca.us
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Dear Ms. Manners:
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I have never written any advice columnist, but recently found
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myself in a situation where I was somewhat uncertain of the
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etiquette. I hope you can help.
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I'm a physician and writer and maintain an office in my home.
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Recently a woman came by on a business visit (hers, not mine).
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She noticed Edison, one of my two cats (his twin, Electra, was
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upstairs) and proceeded to stroke him and compliment him.
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Edison appreciated the attention, and, noble beast that he is,
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decided to give her something in return. Something wonderful.
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Something tasty. Something both chewy and proteinaceous.
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Something he found in the wastebasket in my bedroom. Something
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that I had worn, briefly, the night before, on a part of my
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anatomy that is probably not suitable for mention in your column.
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He retrieved this prize and deposited it at her feet, looking up
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at her adoringly, saying "Here! This is for YOU!"
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I was embarrassed. Try as I may, I could not remember which, if
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any, rule of ettiquette was applicable to this situation. So I
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said
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"Gee, he must really like you! He's never given one of those to
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anyone else before."
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She laughed, and I then put the used condom into the waste
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basket.
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I don't anticipate this exact dilemna occuring again - for one
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thing, the cats are no longer allowed in the bedroom. However, I
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hope you can recommend what to do in a similar situation.
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Thanx in advance. I greatly enjoy your column and all your
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books.
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Yours very truly
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________________________________________________________________________
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William Dubie dubie@tnpubs.enet.dec.com
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WOOLWORTH PARAKEETS
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They nod, gridded against windowglass
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and no wide eyes. But you behave
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passively, beginning to pass
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knowing you cannot save
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them, as though they'd sing in your parlor
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and learn the swears you'd teach.
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They live anonymously here, not unlike your
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countenance; still, you reach
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to see what you can afford--another existence
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that you could well do without,
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and it without you--so you two trade silence
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for subsistence, and you scout
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the aisles for fragrance, razors, any other thing
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to carry yourself well past remembering.
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________________________________________________________________________
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Alexander Blue ajblue@COLBY.EDU
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AUTUMN AND SPRING
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i
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No baptisms in this rain. The dead
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squirrels wash along the gutters.
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Sewer gratings are blocked with colored
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leaves, and there the corpses will rest,
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frozen in manic death-poses, forelegs
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outstretched, backs arched, and screaming.
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ii
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As the sun is rising, men in orange
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pick with gloves the bloated bodies
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from gratings, and collect also the confetti
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of autumn. They leave them
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in the back of their truck to be chewed
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and swallowed. Water flushes underground.
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________________________________________________________________________
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Aviott John avjohn@iiasa.ac.at
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BEING WITH BEETHOVEN
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Before he actually came to Austria and visited the city, he had not
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believed in its existence. To him it was not a real place but a
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literary device, invented by writers of spy thrillers and musical
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fantasies as a background for their plots. He came to Vienna in
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search of Ludwig van, as though hoping that some of the composer's
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immortality would rub off on him. He found he was a century and a
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half too late; but still clung on, trembling a little in every
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passing breeze, like an autumn leaf caught in an abandoned spider's
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web. He looked frail and infirm, but in reality was a sprightly old
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man; an iconoclast in his old age, wandering around the town looking
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for adventure, finding it sometimes unexpectedly; in the Volksgarten
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for instance, where a knotted gardener advanced on him like a house-
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proud hostess with a threatening shout: 'Hey you, don't walk on the
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grass!' His helpless shrug and hands splayed in expiation did not
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appease that zealous keeper of the green. 'I never could levitate,'
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he said by way of added apology. 'Ich hab's nie gelernt, frei zu
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schweben.'
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Or it might be the ubiquitous little old lady (like him, a dying
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species, he dispassionately observed), who objected to his nocturnal
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ramblings, his insomniac prowling around deserted city streets when
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all self-respecting citizens were in bed. And his reply: 'Ah, but
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who with?' was met by a stare of unamused indignance and a slammed
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window.
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There were many compensations. He enjoyed quiet moments in his
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favourite cafe, where the smell of roasting beans clung to the faded
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velvet curtains with the tenacity of tradition; the welcoming smile
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as the waiter brought unbidden a cup of hot chocolate and his
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newspaper. He was known here, and therefore he had a station in
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society; retired as he was, a distinction he did not take lightly.
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He still clearly remembered the first time the waiter had addressed
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him as Herr Doktor, a smile of flattering complicity, not the least
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subservient, on his lips. The complimentary epithet bound him to the
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coffee house for ever. He knew from now on he would never patronize
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another. To his tired old heart, it was as though he had found a
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second home.
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In his first years here, finding his feet in this strange city soon
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after retirement, he had wandered around like a homeless waif,
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clutching a fistful of Reisefuehrers, Polyglotts, Baedekers,
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Fodor'ses, Harvard Guides, Berlitz Books, city maps. He sought
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traces of his favorite genius in the dozens, scores, of buildings
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where he had once lived, for however short a time. He sniffed the
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air around these buildings as eagerly as a young puppy, hoping to
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find some lingering traces of Beethoven's presence in the air. He
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wandered through the Stadtpark in the summer where the strains that
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waltzed through the crowds were of Strauss rather than Beethoven, and
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could hardly hide his bitterness and anger, the wounded sense of
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sacrilege, when the magnificent opening bars of the Ninth Symphony
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were used to advertise the efficacy of a brand of detergent.
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Still he lingered in the city, buying a ticket to a concert here,
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listening to a new rendering of the piano sonatas there, spreading
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his arms out wide to clasp the elusive bars of sound to him. In the
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old Gasthaus with its sooty, wood-panelled walls, chequered
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tablecloths and white-tiled ceiling, he imagined the hairy, barrel-
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chested owner's ancestor serving the great man a schnitzel, together
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with a limp, pickled salad and a carafe of the strong, dry red wine
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that the penurious composer always downed with great enjoyment.
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But time did not stop and exchange rates continued to fluctuate.
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The value of the schilling rose. When it rose it seemed to him as
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threatening as an advancing tide, cutting off his retreat to safety;
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and when it fell, he walked with pleasure and impunity by the edge of
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the sea, collecting the treasures revealed by the retreating tide.
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His pension was adequate, but he had to to be careful. In the summer
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now there were hordes of tourists, many groups of young people. They
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swarmed and chattered in clusters, following the paths he had traced
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years ago; all hoping, like him, to encounter a wisp of genius,
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however brief the encounter; to inhale a trace of an ancient
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ambience, however musty the air. 'Sit still,' he wanted to tell them
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with his hard earned wisdom. 'Sit very quietly and listen hard, or
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you won't hear it.' But still they thronged and chattered, and still
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they came, walking by the old man with hardly a glance at him. 'He's
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a bit ga-ga,' they said to each other, for he sat and stared at the
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empty sky with a smile on his lips. They thought he was mad and
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avoided him, because they couldn't hear the strains of the music.
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** First published in Imaginary Friends, an Anthology of American
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Fiction, Apple Blossom, 1985) **
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___________________________________________________________________
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CORE is published by Rita Rouvalis. December 1992
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