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I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
------------- E l e c t r o Z i n e ------------------------------
********************************************************************************
Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
Information Communication Supply 10/19/95 Vol.2: Issue 7-1
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU
S T A F F : Email: ICS Positions:
============== ============ ==============
Steven Peterson STU000012255 Managing Editor, Writer
Tim Halas STU000058410 Writer ...
David Trosty STU000037486 Writer, Poetry Editor
George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor
Others TBA All addresses @WESTERN.EDU
_________________________________________
/=========================================\
| "Art helps us accept the human condition; |
| technology changes it." |
\ - D.B. Smith /
\***************************************/
_____________________________________________________________________________
/ \
| ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State |
| College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about |
| topics that are important to all of us as human beings. If you would like |
| to send in a submission, please type it into an ASCII format and email it |
| to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you |
| want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is |
| distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. |
\_____________________________________________________________________________/
REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere
you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information
came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU.
DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the
views of the editors of ICS. Contributors to ICS assume all responsibilities
for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating copyright laws and
protections.
|\__________________________________________________/|
| \ / |
| \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / |
| / \ |
| /________________________________________________\ |
|/ \|
| Included in the table of contents are some |
| generic symbols to help you in making a decision |
| as to whether an article or story may express |
| ideas or use language that may be offensive. |
| S = Sexual Content AL = Adult Language |
| V = Violence O = Opinions |
|____________________________________________________|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 1) First Word -=- By Steven Peterson: Of Aspens and Aesthetics |
| 2) MBS -=- Poem By Tim Halas |
| 3) WorldNet Tour Guide: PEG, the Peripatetic, Eclectic Gopher -=-|
| By Steven Peterson: Review/Description of a gopher site. |
| 4) Religion + Romance -=- Poetry Sampler: |
| * One Day Jesus Went Down -=- By David Trosty |
| * Fate -=- By Tim Halas |
| * I Went to Church Today -=- By Joe West |
| * Romance -=- By Jason Manczur |
| * Untitled -=- By Stacy Kuehnel |
| * HC -=- By Tim Halas [S, AL] |
| 5) The Bus is my Circle -=- Short Story By Tim Halas: Taking a |
| ride down the road of life . . . |
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 6) Liquid Philosophy \ |
| Persistence of Presence -=- Poetry By Tim Halas |
| Big Sister / |
| |
| 7) Toon Therapy -=- Review by Steven Peterson: The hippest, |
| hottest 'toons on the air today rescue a lost art form. |
| |
| 8) 6 Different Ways of Looking at a Monk and other selections |
| -=- Poetry By Stacy Kuehl |
| |
| 9) Organ Donor -=- Poem By David Trosty |
| |
|10) Warehouse District: Charity, Chastity, Prudence and Hope -=- |
| Halloween Story by Steven Peterson: Yuppy Vampires . . . |
| |
|11) Last Word -=- Commentary from the Editor. |
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
####################################################################
+-----------+
| First Word \
+---------------+
Black Aspen Leaves.
The aspens in the Gunnison country are shedding their leaves; normally,
it's one of my favorite times to grab the dog and go for a righteous romp
in the woods--this year, a foul fungal invasion has dampened the annual
display of golds and reds. Some of the leaves are mottled, some are solid
black, a few retain their colors--once again, nature provides the root
metaphor.
As I understand it, the "aesthetic continuum" forms an essential part
of many of the world's cultures; without the occasional year of the black
leaf, we fail to fully appreciate the depth of beauty when we find it.
Literature, and perhaps all creative writing, bows to this principle--
without the contrast of comedy, tragedy loses a dimension (and vice-versa).
The compressive nature of poetry creates a counterpoint to the extravagence
of prose and the explicit detail of narrative offers a contrast to the
shadowy allusion of verse; as always, we try to bring you, the reader,
an effective balance of mood, form and genre.
In this frag, we've collected poems, a short story, and a non-fiction
article for your reading pleasure--some are dark, some are mottled, and
a few reach for beauty; we hope you enjoy them all . . .
--Ed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+
MBS
----------------------------------------
his knees hit the ground
all was dramatic
tramatic for him of course
the crowd was entertained
sure they've seen him around
nobody knew him
how hard he tried
the beautiful side of his personality
the lost love
the mystery of his birth
like a piece of meat
eaten by one who never saw the cow
they laughed at him
he wore his faults on his sleeve
the world kept turning
for the first time he could feel
the magnetic forces known as gravity
energy is the whole
do we have black holes in our brain
perhaps the brain is its own separate universe
he is an animal
living in denial
denial makes his life miserable
no TV has he for comfort
dramatic enough his life
like a dark tunnel
the end dimly luminated
birth is probably much like that
with no knowledgeable end to the universe
will his life end when he dies
will people remember him
he wastes much time
pondering the future
right now is all that matters
--Tim Hallas
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
_________________________________________________
/ W o r l d N e t \
\____________ Tour Guide ____________/
\_______________________/
|PEG: The Peripatetic,|
| Eclectic Gopher |
\ gopher.uci.edu 70 /
\---------------/
WorldNet Tour Guide is a feature which appears in ICS from time to time.
The Guide consists of articles designed to help you in using the WorldNet to
the fullest potential. These articles will range from tutorials on aspects of
the 'Net (programs) to reviews of places and stuff we find out on the WorldNet
(content). Why? Because together we know more than any one of us can know.
If you would like to write a file or document to appear in this section,
please do so. Send your final copy (in ASCII format) to:
ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU
-------
This time around, we're going to stop off at one of the more popular
and useful gopher sites on the WorldNet: PEG, a Peripatetic, Eclectic Gopher.
It's located at gopher.uci.edu 70 --choose Accessing the Internet/,
then choose PEG: A peripatetic, eclectic gopher/.
As the name suggests, the folks at UC-Irvine have assembled a
collection of files and pointers which serve as a "lyceum," or path
to what appears to be the best Netstuff available from various sources.
According to their "About" file, "one of PEG's goals is to ferret out
exemplary resources . . . [and] in 1994, there were some 4,000,000
accesses made to PEG from locations around the world." Browsing over
the extensive menu selections, it's easy to see why so many people
point their 'boards to PEG.
Currently, PEG offers links to: biology sites, Ejournal archives,
and other gophers arranged by country and language; library sites,
math, medicine, and philosophy collections; political, governmental,
and scientific sites; they even maintain a "Virtual Reference Desk"
and pointers to resources in Women's Studies. Designed to assist
both the network novice as well as the network expert, PEG truly
has something for everyone.
Fair warning: PEG's menus are frequently altered as new menu items
are added or old ones deleted. Keeping up with the dizzying pace of
growth on the Net makes this inevitable; however, the sys_ops have
vowed to avoid disrupting bookmarks set by users to PEG's main menu
selections. As they claim in their "About" file, "nearly all of the
resources listed among PEG's menus are in reality links to hosts
offering the resources . . . so the removal of a menu selection
from PEG's offerings should not affect a bookmark set by a user."
Comments and questions about PEG's character and coverage are always
welcome; suggestions for PEG's improvement are likewise always welcome.
send comments/queries to: cjboyer@uci.edu
Calvin Boyer
University of California, Irvine
Office of Academic Computing
Internet: cjboyer@uci.edu
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tip 'O the Month: When using gopher, it's easy to link your way through
a labyrinth of sites in a fashion which may be impossible to repeat--not
a problem, until you find that crucial site. You know you're going to want
to return some day or send a friend there: how do you get the address?
Simple--while you're logged in to any given site, strike the =
(equal sign) key: the technical info and address will be displayed as a
file which you can download; or, just jot down the info someplace handy.
>8*)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Religion + Romance: A Poetry Sampler
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
One Day Jesus Went Down
One day Jesus went down to the banks of a river.
One by one he saw the leaves, torn and tattered,
Worn by the weather,
Floating listlessly down the river.
Their silhouettes casting shadows on the bare sandy bottom.
And Jesus wondered where the leaves go to die.
Where do these yellow and brown corpses end up
When they disappear around the bend? asked Jesus.
And Jesus wondered,
Is there an elephants graveyard
Filled with leaves from seasons past,
Or do they drift about, like a lone sailor lost at sea,
A viking funeral as their fate?
--David Trosty
============================================================================
Fate
-----------------------------
Will god forgive
The sins committed on nature
Or does the two-faced coin
control itself
unaware for so long
ignorant of contradictions
Maybe better off ignorant?
cares no one
for the murdered messenger
The cave grew darker
and a car setting in the sun
comparable to the heat
too late it was
for the inhabitants
none were their choices
self chosen can be fate
--Tim Hallas
=============================================================================
I went to church today....
Looking in the fabric of time
my chaotic soul unfolded on the eyrie above the current
of the empty singing souls...
Leaping into the chasm....
only to find that hope and dreams were a useless lie...
and torment...a jousting pleasure of consciousness...
and reality but a constant satire of possibilities....
I returned to the nest...and opened the EYE...
there was my soul with Lincoln, the Beaver, Calvin, & Bill Clinton....
munching malted milk balls from a still quivering corpse....
I *cackled* in glee at the supposed sobriety of it all...
Love is all we need...John, Ringo, Nowhereman,...where are we now?
Does anybody know what time it is? Can anybody tell me?....
NO...cuz the music died...but what's that? in the light within?
Hey Jesus! Let's Rock & Roll!...now to the music within......
>fini< (Fall 1993)
--Joe West
==============================================================================
==============================================================================
Romance
----------------------------------
How can I possibly love Thee?
This I do not know,
But if You will return it,
My love for You will show.
Even though we do not
Know each other well,
Being without You
Is a living hell.
As to the reason
That I feel this way,
That is one thing
That I cannot say.
You seem to bring out
The best I have to give,
But without You,
What reason have I to live?
This does not mean
That without You
That I must end it all,
This I could not do.
For if we are both alive
There's always a chance
That you will see that I
Am looking for romance.
When You look at me,
What is it you see?
Do You see the love I feel?
Or do You just see me?
Think about this,
The next time that we meet,
And I will try my best
To make our lives complete.
KNYGHT
============================================================================
Untitled
-----------------------------------
Feelings of odd and tiredness
sick of the world
with its twisted minds
My feelings are there
but only for now
The future so far off
Not wanting to waste
away something that could
be good.
My love is hidden, do
not want to share it.
My mind is wigged by
his thoughtless words.
Peoples feelings are for their
own, not giving a damn
what the men think.
It's not cool to down my
tripped out messages.
For now, I don't need a
man.
My knight in shining armor
is still in the haze of
passion.
He will be there when it's clear.
I live now on the spirits.
Entangled in the wisdom the
soul endures.
I feel my goddesses power
within her dark chambers.
Probing at shadows of being
myself.
I change only in myself
to reach the high point
where I will never come
down.
Those demons will never suck
me dry.
I have wasted nothing.
Multiple personalities take up
all my features.
No one controls no more.
Lost in the blowing firey winds
of individuality.
Please seek me no more.
--stacey kuehnel
stu000070412@western.edu
=============================================================================
HC
---------------------------------------------
I smoked a joint and went to the coffee shop
she was beautiful
her voice of arrogance
created a feeling of royal ancestry
stoned and shy
stupid was I
her scent fancied by my sense of smell
natural yet like perfume
an uncontrollable erection
made my face turn red
Weeks went by
accidentally we met
an infatuated relationship
we went out on occasion
There was no special bond
strictly conversation
drunk one evening
I drove her home
frivolous sex would be nice
the talk was weak
suddenly Holden Caulfield
took over
I don't love her
her meaninglessness could create a nightmare
The evening ended
exchanging a handshake
instead of a hug
will life always be this painful?
--Tim Hallas
============================================================================
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
/-----------------------\
| The Bus is my Circle |
( )
( By Tim Hallas )
\----------------/
Hopelessly, I sat waiting, but not in any hurry. The rain splashed
relentlessly on my sopping wet clothes. I felt a thousand dead spirits
blow through my body. Cold. Nature did not care about my plight. My
flesh felt goose pimpled, and my toes and my fingers began to feel numb.
All I could do was wait.
Alone, I sat silently on a wooden bench that felt uncomfortably stiff.
Peaceful, yet the rainfall gave the day a somber sense of bewilderment.
I wondered how long I had been waiting on this bench. Cold and wet and
alone. What brought me here in the first place, I am not even sure of
anymore. I'm not sure where the Hell I am going.
When I tried to think back all I could do was look ahead. Perhaps,
it was the pain that the past could make me feel. I sat on this cold wooden
bench confused about the future. I think I have felt this confusion before.
My path is long and filled with channels that make great dilemmas, and I
seem to always wind up in this condition. Many wrong decisions.
_________________
In the maternity wing of St. Joseph's hospital, the nurses prepared for
another woman to give birth. They set out sterilized tools, lining them up
for the order in which the doctor would use them. The room was well-lit and
the bed was capable of helping a woman sit in the position that made it
easiest to give birth to her baby. The bed was surrounded by monitors and
special lights, and other devices that help to guide a doctor.
_________________
The sky had this mystical sense about it. The way the mist and fog made
everything seem luminescent and dreamlike. A sort of white light lit the area
surrounding the bench. An eerie feeling sent chills through my body. My
search has begun, my path long and treacherous. There are ends that need to
meet.
_________________
The nurse wheeled the pregnant woman into the room. In a calm comforting
voice, she instructed the woman through the procedures, and prepared her to go
through the pains of labor. The woman, who was not really a woman by age, but
more by situation, looked scared. She had a petrified look on her face that
broke with episodes of labor pains that ripped through her body.
Nine months had passed. Nine months of carrying a child so it could be
adopted by more suitable parents. This little girl had turned into a woman in
nine months. Now, it was the moment of truth. She was ready for the doctor.
_________________
When I got on the bus, I felt disoriented. What is the matter with me?
Nothing except for this empty feeling? A need for renewal. I would like to
start over, not just in a new town, but all over. No matter how far you run,
your problems will always be with you, a part of you.
There were only a few empty seats, and they were at the front of the bus.
I usually would have sat alone, but for some odd reason, I took my seat next
to a man wearing an army uniform. We sat about third row from the front of
the bus, which, except for the seat next to me and the three seats in front
of me, was full. The soldier looked quiet and unemotional, yet out of place
in his uniform as if he belonged to another time, in an army that no longer
existed. Although I have never been in the military, his outfit does not
seem the appropriate uniform for a soldier to wear on a bus. This man was
dressed in what appeared to be fatigues. I took a good hard look at him.
He seemed familiar to me. I don't know how or why, but he looks familiar
to me, and I know I have never seen him, until now.
The bus had this uncanny feeling about it. Every passenger's face was
emotionless. What the hell is going on here? How could everyone be so
expressionless? They seemed like zombies, like cattle sent on their final
drive. I could hear them talking over the bus driver changing gears and
accelerating and decelerating. The voices were very quiet as if we were
in a church. The bus was dimly lit and the seats were arranged like a
typical greyhound. I felt confused. Shrunken. A chill sped through my body.
I nodded as if to say hello to the soldier, but when I tried to speak,
my voice felt frozen. I began to look around and noticed that there were many
different people from many different lands and cultures riding the bus.
A chill went straight through my chest and into my soul. They all looked
different, yet familiar.
I began to wonder where I intended to go. Deep inside I felt as if I was
experiencing something impossible to imagine. Something dark. Undescribable.
Even though I was hearing voices, none of the passengers appeared to be
speaking. I heard a very warm and soothing voice come from the man sitting
next to me.
"Everything will be all right," he said.
When I looked over at the soldier it appeared as if he never opened his
mouth. In fact I am positive he did not. What the hell has happened to me?
I have never felt this way before. Hot flashes burned through my cold body as
if an inner answer was dying to come out of the deepest depths of my soul,
for I have rode this bus before. A part of me that I had no idea existed,
wondered how many times I would have to ride this bus before I would discover
the true meaning.
___________________
"Everything will be all right," the doctor said in a calm voice.
The girl gazed up at the doctor with a doped look in her eyes. She was
not quite sure how long she had been in the bed waiting. It seemed like hours
of heavy breathing. The doctor began to give instructions around her, and
voices were quietly communicating in the delivery room.
The doctor would instruct the girl to push. Sedative or not, she could
feel the baby ripping through her body, and she would push. With each push
she felt closer to the end of the burden she had carried for nine months,
the end of a bond which would never be completed and would cause great
emotional stress in the years to come.
___________________
I felt the power of my soul ripping out in flashbacks of realities that
had nothing to do with the place I had left. It was as if my soul is a
hologram that grows bigger. If you break off a piece, it would create an
entirely new hologram that forms an entirely new reality. A reality that has
occurred out of mere fragments of experience from my soul. One large hologram.
I felt related to everyone on the bus. This was strange because many of
the passengers were from different parts of the world. Yet, I felt as if I
knew them all. The ride felt like an intermission. Enlightenment filled
certain voids, but created voids larger than one could possibly imagine.
I have no idea where I am going.
I began to observe everyone on the bus. All of them looked familiar and
the longer I sat on the bus, the more I seemed to know about them. Some of
them were very old. Not old as in age, but as in time. Some of the outfits
they wore could not possibly be from this time. This ride was becoming
stranger, and my memories of before it began are distorted by memories that
did not seem to have any significance. My thoughts were being infiltrated
with experiences that I have never endured. I can remember acts of violence
that I have never committed, women I have never been with, families I have
never met, meals I have never eaten. Memories - strangely familiar memories -
filled my head. Haunted my soul. Why can I not make sense of anything?
Confused yet calm, I tried to figure it all out. Why did I get on the
bus? Where did I plan to go? My path was uncertain and my questions were
unanswered, but more understandable.
A peculiar memory flashed through my head, but it did not belong to me.
It seemed to belong to the soldier. Suddenly, my head was full of the
soldier's memories. Crisp clear anecdotes of his life filled my thoughts
with a lucid feeling of a realistic experience. It was as if I had lived his
life. I could remember his childhood experiences, which were not unlike mine,
his teenage discoveries, and the sorrow he felt when he was drafted. I began
to feel enlightened and in the dark at the same time.. How did I get here?
My head felt as if it were going to explode with the memories mysteriously
cruising into my thoughts making me feel like I have lived many lives.
_____________________
Excitement filled the delivery room. The birth of this child was nearing.
The doctor and nurses moved in a quick, yet casual manner. They have done
this all before. The procedure was coming to an end, and a new life was
nearing a beginning. The girl experiencing all this pain she never had any
idea she would feel, knew it was almost all over. She kept pushing and
breathing.
___________________
I looked around at the rest of the passengers. I felt like a puzzle was
putting itself together, and I am one of the last pieces. This quiet thought
keeps dwelling in the deepest hiding spot in my head. It keeps echoing around
but I cannot allow it to surface. Everything was coming together, but I did
not want to face my own answers. I look at all the passengers on the bus and
they all had many resemblances in common. The one resemblance which acted
like a link to answer all of my questions sent a strange sense of warmth
through my body. A warmth I could never describe. This resemblance was
like the missing chip of the hologram.
Their eyes all looked the same. Their eyes were deep and looked as if
they were all wearing eye-liner. They sunk a little back into each one of
their heads, but the way they glowed brought them closer to the surface.
They were a bright bluish-green and glowed in a wicked way that made them
noticeable. These eyes were a link causing an impossible resemblance in each
passenger. I realized that my eyes looked the same as theirs.
______________
"It's a boy!" the doctor exclaimed.
"With beautiful bluish-green eyes," one of the nurses said whispering in
awe. The baby began to cry. The mother lay in the bed, also crying. She was
afraid to look at her baby.
______________________
The echo finally got through, but I did not want to believe my own
thoughts. The bus was coming to a stop. Nobody seemed to stir. When stopped
the confusion seemed to come untied. I felt like crying. My path was almost
complete. There were only a few seats left on the bus.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
------------- E l e c t r o Z i n e ------------------------------
********************************************************************************
Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
Information Communication Supply 11/15/95 Vol.2: Issue 7-2
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU
Visit our Web Pages:
http://www.western.edu/happen/welcome.html
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
liquid philosophy
-----------------
clouds floating
in a glass of red wine
they float like passionate puffy thoughts
awaiting escape
slurring insulting honesties
as if opinion is truth
buzzing with superpowers of wit
filled with ignorance
the conversation -- rhetoric
went nowhere
Socrates would have ripped you apart
yet the group was too drunk
and saw genius
drunk - but not too drunk
tall the talk
trying to make honest sense was painful
the last cloud consumed
All was lucid with a hangover
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
persistence of presence
-----------------------
we know each other so well
the in has fallen out
ahh! her olive skin
I can still feel it
I awake and miss her scent
at times I would ache blue inside
from the presence of her beauty
I told her I would die for her
I go to town
an insomniac
hoping to find a cure to this pain
all I find is the big sister
I never had
and a memory that works like a curse
Holden haunts me in the hunt
for a cure
What destiny waits
for this soul in pain?
life is simple for the ignorant
I am no genius but I cannot forget
what is the point
when shit is still stuck to the blades of the fan
call it kharma
if you will
if that is the case
my soul may forever pay
born unwanted
sold by an agency
life a big mystery
love impossible
frivolous sex gluttonous
gluttony the American way
the travelling jones hits the broke narrator hard
death a useless solution
the changing weather affects my mood
like a gray man's arthritis
big sister
----------
A girl insecure
wallows in her self destruction
never enough attention
her shoes always too small
Autumn arrives
the attention overwhelming
the situation natural of course
Big sister stays quiet
unnoticed and strong
she fights her emotions
plays it cool
she only drools in her sleep
the girl insecure as she is
drools on her friends
how happy she is to be noticed
after thriving on her desolated town
gluttonously she handles her situation
Poor big sister
deals alone
tough throughout
Like a road kill that a funeral drives past
an endless road
no compassion
The road is a painful trail to endure
Will you smile in your epiphany?
-- Tim Halas, 1995
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
/--------------------------------------------------------------------\
|'Toon Therapy 'Toon Therapy 'Toon Therapy 'Toon Therapy 'Toon Therapy |
\--------------------------------------------------------------------/
\_____________________By Steven Peterson___________________________/
----------------------------------------------------------------
"All I Ever Really Needed to Know I Learned on Saturday Mornings"
It's one of my favorite lines: "cartoons are at least as effective
as psychotherapy . . . and they're free!" I've used it for years; it's
a stock response to getting caught with my inner child hanging out,
andI guess I still believe in it.
Life gets too serious, too fast in this strange year of 1995--take
some time to laugh, giggle, and play: get your Toon therapy while it's
hot. We've emerged from a dark era, one where program-length ads for
toys and products could masquerade as legitimate Toons. The FCC and
several parent's organizations put an end to that disgrace; now,
high-profile Hollywood figures like Steven Spielberg are leading
a renaissance in American animation.
The new Toons are hip: like Bugs Bunny and all the classic Warner
Bros. cartoons, they're created for adults as much as for children.
Dense story lines, fast action, and a blizzard of cultural references
give the new Toons a rich texture and sweetness: they're brain candy
for a tense world.
Don't get dressed on Saturday mornings . . . just grab the cereal
bowl and let your imagination run away with these clowns (check your
local listings for time and channel):
"Pinky & The Brain." (Independent) A high-dollar production from Warner
Bros. and Steven Spielberg featuring two lab mice: Brain, an evil genius
cut from the same cloth as Wile E. Coyote, and Pinky, his goofy sidekick.
In full animation, we follow Brain as he plots and schemes to "take over
the world"; Pinky plays the foil to perfection, managing to disrupt
everything with his characteristic enthusiasm. An obvious homage to
the classic Warner Bros. cartoons, even Spielberg's kids like it.
"Freakazoid." (Independent) Another Spielberg/Warner Bros.production,
Freakazoid chronicles the misadventures of a "superteen who runs around
in his underwear." The "F!" man rocks, even if he is plain old nerdly
Dexter some of the time. Transformed by an accident in cyberspace, he
can and does freak out (or morph) into his alterego and battles with
every comic-book cliche the writers can dredge up ("that was shallow,
cheap, and totally based on hormones . . . works for me!). Flashier
than Pinky & The Brain, this one's a light-hearted satire in the
Simpsons vein.
"Earthworm Jim." (Independent) Tipping the scales as the weirdest
super-hero on the air, Earthworm Jim weighs in with his two sidekicks:
Peter the Puppy (his "fuzz-buddy"), and Snot, a green blob of mute mucus.
Zipping in on his airscooter to foil his arch-nemesis, the evil cat, Jim
employs a dazzling array of ruses to outwit the bad guys and save the
universe. A Universal production, Earthworm Jim offers fun story lines,
inspired animation, and wonky characters (the megalomaniac goldfish,
Bob, is my new role model).
"Louie Anderson." (Fox) The stand-up comedian brings his acerbic wit
and style to an animated series based on tales from his warped childhood.
The most realistic of the bunch, this 'toon plays like a twisted version
of "Leave it to Beaver." Scathing yet sympathetic, Louie plays riffs on
the foibles of life with a deft touch which may be wasted on Saturday
morning fare.
"Santo Bugito." (CBS) Life along the Tex-Mex border with the residents
of Santo Bugito, a charming trash-heap villa peopled entirely with bugs.
Hang out with Clem and Bert, two redneck flies who nearly steal the show
as they compete to see who can be the most disgusting; or, watch Paco and
Carmen, the hottest couple in ToonTown since Fred and Wilma. The stories
follow the classic comedy formulas, but the premise is wacky enough to
keep them fresh (they even sneak in a few insect-anatomy lessons).
"The Twisted Tales of Felix the Cat." (CBS) They saved the best for last--
Felix is, hands down, the most visually stunning production of the bunch.
In order to update this classic character from the '20s, they took one part
M.C. Escher, added three parts Dali, poured it in a magic bag, and then dumped
it out on the screen in full technicolor glory. Portions of this 'Toon may
actually be too intense for the younger kids (hey, it warps my dreams); and,
for you older kids, a warning: do not mix Felix with psychoactive substances--
once you go surreal, you never go back.
Cartoons create a dimension where people of all ages can let go and just
play for a while. Cherish them--they may be America's greatest contribution to
world culture, and for now, they're the cheapest therapeutic service around.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------Copyright (c) 1995 by Steven Peterson-----------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
<o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o><o>
6 Different Ways of Looking at a Monk
I.
Monkeys, the skilled master of
climbing, grips the sides of the
tree. Reaching his destination,
he sits and rests.
II.
Watching you from his
cage, the monkey follows
your every move. Not turn-
ing his head, just his eyes.
III.
The little one cuddles
snug by his mother, fuzzy
and crying, hoping the
bigger ones let him survive.
IV.
Watching them eat is
like no other site. They
hog their food, huddled
in corners. Snatching
food away from each other.
It's a game to these
monkeys in their cage.
V.
The monkeys poking their
long almost human hands
outside the bars, hoping to
grab something that doesn't
exist in their reality.
VI.
They may swing from
tree to tree to entertain
and make you laugh, but
these little monkeys are
hoping that one day they
will be set free, but
little do they know it's
eternity til death.
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
TINY LITTLE BRAINS
SUCKED INTO A WORLD OF HATE.
THE GREEDINESS REFUSES TO STOP.
THE BLOOD DOES NOT STOP FLOWING
FROM THE LAND OF UNWANTEDNESS.
GROWING
NO SKILLS, JUST SORROW.
BEGINS TO SEE LIFE
THROUGH THE PARENTS' EYES AND
BEGINS TO HATE,
JUST LIKE THE REST OF THE WORLD.
THE MADNESS
DESCENDS THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE TO
SURVIVE.
WORDS ARE STRONG,
YET ACTIONS GROW
AND BECOME WORSE
THE CHILD GETS BIGGER:
SEES THE HATEFULNESS
IN THE EYES OF THE FATHER.
WANTS TO BE WITH THE FATHER.
IT WON'T STOP.
EVEN WHEN THE FATHER DIES.
THE LITTLE CHILD BECOMES HIS FATHER
AND THE CHORES OF VIOLENCE
ARE REBORN
ONCE AGAIN.
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
PATIENCE AND IGNORANCE
THE WORLD DOWN TO A
SILENT SOLITUDE
VIOLENCE AND HATRED
TIRED OF BEING LET DOWN
JUMPING THE ONLY WAY
TO REACH THE HEAVENS
INSANITY, CRAZY
THE ONLY WORD THEY
USE. SICK OF CHILDHOOD
NIGHTMARES. WANT THE
WORLD TO BOW DOWN TO
YOUR INNOCENCE. WANT
THEM TO FEEL THE PAIN
YOU HAVE FELT IN YOUR
LOST SOUL. THE BURNING
LIGHT IN YOUR EYES AS YOU
TAKE THE FINAL STEP
THE STEP OFF THE END
OF THE EARTH. THE WATER
FILLS YOUR EARS AS THE
SEAS BREATH FOR YOU. NO
LONGER ON THE BOTTOM.
-- Stacy Kuehnel, 1995
email: STU000070412@western.edu
(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Organ Donor
Have you ever seen a human brain, convoluted and
pickled until vaguely pink and inanimate
situated right underneath your nose
abandoning vapors of
formaldehyde that
undulate
their
way
in
to
your discontented sinuses?
(if you did)
you would wonder how
some poor bastard's brain
ended up as your homework.
--David Trosty, 1995
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((())))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
|----------------------------------------------------------|
| Warehouse District: Charity, Chastity, Prudence and Hope |
\ By Steven Peterson /
\--------------------------------------------------/
>> She gave her little child a name
>> A ward of welfare she became
>> And then one day she met a man
>> Digging through the trash for cans
___________________________-HART _
-------
In the glare of the sodium-arc lights, the pools of shimmering black
threw back an image of her face in grim hues of the tomb. The sleek Japanese
luxury car was an alien presence on the grimy boulevard, the shining lacquer
paint crying out like a jewel to Ali Baba's thieves.
Zoe shifted the bag of cans to her bad left hand and adjusted her rags.
"Lenny . . . looka here. Mus' be Batman, or the Sultan. See if ya can
get them hubcaps off, bet they worth somethin'."
"Jes' a second, honey . . ."
Lenny spun around after zipping up. Then, he froze--for a moment, he
felt a chill hand reach through his coats. Penetrating his bulk and the
happy fuzz of some bourbon, the flashbulb image of Zoe in front of the car
set off a weak drip of adrenaline . . .
"ZOE!! Git away from that car--ya wanna git arrested again?"
She flinched, the tone of Lenny's voice shattering her nerves.
"Uh, Lenny. You nearly set ma teeth on edge . . . relax, 'long as we
don't touch it, the alarm won't go off. C'mere, looka yerself innit."
She fell into her image again, struck mute by the easy feel it gave.
A warmth suffused through her middle; for the first time in decades, Zoe
flushed with the animal excitement she last knew as a bawdy girl. Lenny
raised a hand and broke into motion, a whirlwind of greasy fumes left in
his wake.
A gloved hand reached up from the quarter-panel, groped toward Zoe's
shoulder, then quickly withdrew and dissolved back into the shining surface
of the car. Lenny grabbed the back of her coat and yanked her off her feet;
they gracefully tumbled to the pavement, the victims of too many blows.
"Jeez, Lenny . . . whatcha do that for?"
Staggering to his feet, he whispered: "getya . . . 'jes like they got
Demetre, and Kaz, an' them others . . ."
"Who, Lenny? Who's gonna git us?"
"The man in th' moon, the dark dude, the driver of that car."
* * *
Tinkling glass, hovering waiters, a snobbish maitre d': the trendy
eatery overflowed with the late-night crowd. Wealthy young patrons with
too much money and not enough sense jostling around, trying to find a
partner for the evening. There, back in the corner booth, a dark man
licks his lips as he surveys the scene.
"Another glass of wine, sir?"
"Please, dear."
"The house burgundy . . . right?"
"Yesss."
Casting his vision around the room, he locked eyes with a tender young
lady. Caught in a reverie, she lost herself in his gaze: a warm sensation
diffused as she shifted her weight. The subtle frisson of the moment cast
a spell . . .
"Mind if I join you?"
"Oh, please do, dear. Perhaps you will have a glass of the burgundy,
yes? I've been waiting for someone, perhaps you will do."
"Oh, I'll do," dropping to a husky contralto, "and, oh, I mean I'll
have a glass of wine. Tell me, tell me a story."
"A story? Yes, well, a story. First, slide around here so I can tell
it right--so the warmth of the words falls on your ear, your neck."
Black satin on cool vinyl. His eyes glowed faintly from the shadowy
recess of the booth. Under the table, the satin skirt rode up her
thighs, caressing and accentuating a subtle rhythm. She leaned toward
him, her face flushed.
"A story of old . . . a story of a maiden and the dragon. East of
Eden, a young shepherdess, about your age, no?, liked to search the night
for her wild man. The man she dreamed of, an image like herself, yet
different--her other half, perhaps. On her nightly journeys, she wandered
farther from her flock. Out beyond the light of torches and bonfires, a
dragon waited, waited for his chance.
Wandering out, following her whimsy, the maiden felt a whirling delight
on the nightwind. Twirling in abandon, she chased the ill breeze for its
soothing effects--you see, she was feeling flushed, like yourself, no?
Teased, mesmerized by the gentle airs, the maiden wandered too far."
The cocktail waitress approached, wine in hand and eyes averted.
"Ah, my pet, a pause . . ."
"Your wine, sir."
He pulled a paper bill from his pocket and flipped it on her tray.
With a nod, the waitress withdrew; reluctantly, she pocketed the bill.
The young lady drained her glass of wine in one greedy gulp, then:
"What happened to her? The maiden, the dragon."
Squirming, leaning in, she sought the warm clasp of his voice.
"Ah, yes, the fair, flushed maiden. Dervishing away in the night
as the fever-ridden ewe runs to the ram, she happened upon the dragon.
With glowing eyes, he forced her into his lair. Trapped in his nest,
the maiden cast off her caution and fixed her captor's gaze with rage.
`Let me pass,' she cried.
Then, a smell creeped up and bit her blood; the heat flashed,
sharper than before. Shuddering, she threw herself against the flinty,
cold scales of the dragon . . . ah, pet, you shiver as well, no?
The dragon embraced the delirious maiden in his leathery wings,
like this, yes? He stifled her gyrations, oh, she was blush'd like you,
yes? And the dragon soothed his sudden hunger . . . "
They left the club, arm in arm. Dressed in black, he wove his way
in and out of the shadows, a silent motion. No keys, no hesitation, he
simply walked into the car; a black phantom astride his carriage. After
a moment spent checking her hair in the tinted glass, she joined him.
* * *
"Lenny, looka here, a buncha beer cans."
Zoe's eyes lit up, a child rushing to snatch up shards of pyrite.
Grains of gold from the lost Budweiser mine scattered over a bedrock of
post-industrial refuse. The container-class: always adrift, carrying all
they have, perpetual targets for the chaos of alien cultures.
"Honey, thas' ten bags altogether. Les' take 'em in, bet we git twelve,
mebbe thirteen bucks. 'Nuf for a hot and a cot . . . what you say, Zoe?"
"Mission's open tonight, Len."
Zoe remembered her bawdy heat from the previous night, glanced down
and whispered, "ah need some things, Len, you know?"
"Oh, O.K., lemme cash in the cans."
After a few minutes, Lenny came back from around the corner, shuffling
and rooting his way down the boulevard. Street-camouflage: the stumbling,
downcast masque of the moneyholder.
Dusk dulled the edge of a hard day; warm kitchen smells fought the
rush-hour exhaust in the daily olfactory turf war. Absently, Lenny fetched
a cigar butt from his pocket and began gnawing on the grimy stub:
"Nother cold one tonight, Zoe. Les' go git what ya need, ah'd like ta
git in on the Father's soup tonight, right?"
"C'mon, Len, it's a coupla blocks away."
With practiced ease, he slid the money into her palm.
"The Thrifty Nickel, Zoe? Ya know they don't lemme in there."
"Oh, Len, don't worry. I'll be out in a sec."
Inside, Zoe rifled through the bins and clutched an odd assortment
of icons: crosses, medallions cast from cheap metals, ceramic Buddhas,
a tarnished silver butter knife. She paid for the spiritual dross in
crumpled, sweaty bills; leaving, she stashed the dirty dull knife deep
within her waistline. Swinging her new bag of treasure, she found Lenny
huddling around a barrel-fire with his friends:
"Hey Len, here comes Zoe, you'se goin' to the mission tonight?"
"Maybe so. Hear they servin' gumbo; sets well wit' a bottle, eh?"
"Lenny . . . come 'ere. I wantcha ta wear these."
She slipped a couple medallions out of the bag and tossed them over
Lenny's head.
"ZOE! What in hell for? How much you pay for these? I look like a
hipster pilgrim, fer chris' sakes. Yo Clem, check it out . . ."
He grabbed Zoe's bag and yanked out a small pewter Buddha:
"Pennies fer Allah, Clem! Da lady will read yer karma fo' a quarter."
"Aarr, Len. Don't let the father catch ya spoofin' in front o' the
mission, he can't stand no heathen kool-aid stands."
"Oh, c'mon Zoe . . . c'mere, I'm sorry. Let's go get some gumbo.
Look, ah'll wear the medals an' all."
Leaving the weak ring of light and the thin warmth of others, Lenny
and Zoe began the long trudge to the mission:
"C'mon, Zoe, ah said I was sorry. Now how much you got left? You
know ah like a nip after gumbo. Keep the pressure down; keep out some
a dem demons."
Looking down, quietly, "Oh, Len, ain't nothin' left."
"What! Ya spent it all on this worthless junk! Zoe, why?"
"After las' night, Len, it was prudence . . . ain't no charity or
chastity on the street, we need hope around the darkness."
"Ya got me Zoe, an' if ya can't get hope outta this ol' carcass . . .
well, ah guess ya gotta believe in somethin'."
Down the street, a Stygian luxury car, black and chrome, pulled over
and took the only open parking space. Sixteen feet away, the subwoofer's
sonic waveform slammed into Len and Zoe, assaulting their senses with a
thudding tremolo. Abrupt silence; then, the rustle of litter.
"Uh, Zoe, there he is."
"Take this cross Len."
They extruded from the car: black satin, matching gold Rolex watches,
twinkling jewelry and musky scents. The perfect expression of malevolent
consumption, hand in hand, oblivious to Len and Zoe.
Grasping a crucifix in one hand and a plastic Buddha in the other,
Zoe lunged in front of the sleek pair:
"Back to perdition wit' you, fiends!"
Lenny stood for a moment, agog at Zoe's outburst. The young lady broke
the moment with an explosion of throaty laughter, then:
"Foolish hag, those are symbols." While grasping her in a lethal
embrace, "this is the real thing . . ."
The man jumped for Lenny; they rolled and tumbled to the pavement.
Lenny managed to shout, "worthless junk, Zoe, ah told ya."
While the lady struggled to peel away her rags, Zoe pulled the silver
butter knife out from her middle. In one brutal stroke, she plunged the
dull blade through the satin, under the sternum, and up into the base of
a cold, black heart. Twisting free, Zoe yanked the knife from the withering
corpse and fell on top of the man. Rolling to her knees, she arc'd the
blade up one more time and sank it between the man's shoulder blades.
Deflected by the vertebrae, the knife stuck out of the man's back at
an oblique angle; Lenny continued his struggle. Reaching over, Zoe grasped
the handle and pivoted the blade through the sinewy ventricles; the man
arched his back once, twice, then rolled away toward the car. Clutching
at the air, he dissolved, leaving a dark smudge on the cold concrete.
* * *
"Right where we began, Zoe. Les' try sixth avenue today, ah hear
there's lotsa cans in th' dumpsters."
"Ya know we gotta keep hopin' so, Len."
Down the street, a sharp dressed man found his car.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------------Copyright (c) 1995 by Steven Peterson---------------------
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
+-----------+
| Last Word \
+--------------+
Trapped in the binary ether, our frag languished a prisoner of the
ASCII demons . . . er, well, actually, our Halloween issue is just plain
late. As usual, our apologies for missing yet another, ah, dead-line______
My evil twin brother, the wretch who writes a weekly column for the
campus paper, reports an Email infiltration of the local press: they
finally posted their eddress in a few articles. If you're interested
in seeing a Web (or other) version of the "Top O' the World" drop 'em
a line to: org_top@western.edu and log a request . . .
As always, we're looking for your ideas and opinions, stories and
poems--send 'em in so we can share them with the group-mind . . .
Live Well,
--Ed. >8*)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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