ÚÄÄúú úúÄÄ¿ ÚÄÄÍ͹ ÄÄÍÍÍÄÄ ÌÍÍÄÄ¿ : º THE º : ú º VERTiGO º ú : º VOiCE º : ÀÄÄÍ͹ ÄÍËÍÄ ÌÍÍÄÄÙ ÀÄúú º úúÄÙ º ³ ³ ³ ú ú ú iSSUE #4: THE LATE iSSUE THAT DOESN'T HAVE A WiTTY TiTLE NOVEMBER 1, 1995 ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄú STAFF úÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» ³ ³ ú ú WRiTERS (Alphabetically) Cherub Cybermage Dragon Lady Hypoxia Smurf Introvert Karen Kestrel Merbear the Mermaid Mike Heath Sheep Split Tim Trahan Victokai SPECiAL THANKS TO Jon Weiderhorn/Rolling Stone Magazine Skinny Puppy COMPiLED BY Introvert ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú CONTENTS Compiler's Notes..................................................Introvert Quote of the Month...............................................Mike Heath Sit...............................................................Cybermage Maximum Discomfort................................................Introvert The Unabomber.................................................Hypoxia Smurf A Raging Revolution..............................................Tim Trahan Temper..........................................................Dragon Lady Tormentor......................................................Skinny Puppy A Tribute To Dwayne Goettel..................................Jon Weiderhorn Untitled..............................................................Sheep Orbital Tangent...................................................Introvert On Logic...........................................................Victokai The Absolute Worst O.J. Jokes We Could Find.........................Various Momentum..........................................................Introvert The Magnetic Poetry Section.........................................Various Space Invaders................................................Hypoxia Smurf Abusing the Haiku.................................................Introvert Banana...........................................................Tim Trahan Chili: A "Trip" to Terlingua..........................................Split ú Blame Not The Institutions........................................Introvert Anywhere..........................................................Introvert Questions/Comments/Submissions/Etc................................Introvert ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Compiler's Notes Hey you, What's up? Thought I was dead didn't you? Thought that I had managed to run this zine down into the Three-Issue-Zine Graveyard, didn't you? Nope. Still alive and kicking, here with another dose of whatever it is you might call the content of this zine. Hopefully there's someone out there who's actually reading this issue. Hey! I have an idea. Why don't you help me spread the zine. Wow. What a great idea. Send to all the boards you love. And even the boards you hate. Post it ten times in a row on every single WWiVnet sub you have access to. Start a cult based on the zine and make new members memorize these first four issues, then regurgitate them back- wards in Latin. You get the idea... Well, as for the completely unexplained absence of an issue last month, all I can say is "oops". I've been busy. All the writers have been. Most of us are still caught in that sticky mire of public edification, and thus this time of year tends to be pretty hectic. But, to put it in the vernacular, we have our shit together now. It took a few visits from some big hairy Italian men all named Guido to "persuade" the writers to write more. I ran into some new and old writers this time around. Welcome Dragon Lady and Hypoxia Smurf, who is contributing from California, and welcome back ye denizens of Earth the mind-shaking, news-making, heart-breaking, breath- taking, earth-quaking, orgasm-faking, ain't-no-Ricki-Laking, conscience- waking, anti-lock-braking Return of the Son of Pig Sweat with it's abusive step-father and bastard son, Split. Well, I'm glad we're back. I think we can finally get back in the swing of things after that unfortunate hiatus. Have fun, eat your veggies, and remember it's always Howdy Doody time somewhere. -i- ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ QUOTE OF THE MONTH ³ ú ú "BLADA!" -Mike Heath- [Note: For your own safety, please do not attempt to decipher anything that Mike Heath says. It's a hopeless quest. The best guess at present is that he has some kind of bladder problem.] ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Sit by Cybermage I sit in my room. I look at the walls. I make them go away. I am free, I am free. No cage can hold me. No rules can bind me. I am free. I sit in my room. I look at myself. I make me go away. The distinctions blur, Sand castles tumult, I am awash in a sea of experience. I see it all. I sit in my room. I want to make them go away. They laughed at me. They called me names. They built me walls. They crashed them down. I sit in my room. I look at the floor. I watch it fade away. I stand on nothing. I fall through the air. I have nothing to cling to. I an consumed in fear. I sit in my room. I look at my fear. I make it go away. I see what causes me pain. I see what causes me joy. I understand myself. I sit in my room. I look at my bed. I lay down upon it and... dream. ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Maximum Discomfort by Introvert A rhythmless drone, stirs a tense mingling crowd, hides their ineptitudes. Lights drop away, blinds the horde, mixes nonchalantly with bitter smoke. The crowd screams at the top of its voice, crying for sympathy, hounding for release, and no one hears. Imagined conversations playing in the mind, and terminal confessions conceived, I meander to the outer rim. An eye that I never meant to find, churns chaotically, heartlessly, in the rippling puddle of faceless bodies. Free from gravity, I sprawl skyward in search for blacker space. A sulking simple pumping sound is all that remains of the chaos within. I want nothing, and I want it now. ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú The Unabomber by Hypoxia Smurf Note: Revolution raged throughout Europe during 1918-23 and 1968-72. Americans learned and participated in these and earlier revolutions. Western Europe's prominent players around 1970 included the Red Army Faction led by Baader and Meinhof, and the young American the FBI has called the "UnaBomber". This is part of his story. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- From the journals of FC -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- I wasn't really involved in the radiation release in Heidelberg in '70. I wasn't building bombs then, just getting bombed, staying bombed, every day eating Afghani hash and opium cookies about the size of Kenosha, so I wasn't in shape even to plant explosives, let alone make them. Not like in Paris, where I stayed pretty busy. Paris with intense, black-haired, -eyed, -hearted Rene in '69, doing 69; that was great. We'd wander around the city most of the night, from the dirty brick walls of Montmartre to the grey stone streets of Montparnasse, poking our little arson toys into obscure corners of expensive-looking or official buildings. Then we'd go back to her white rooms off the Quai de Berry and fuck like weasels until dawn. Sometime in late afternoon we'd regain consciousness, crawl out of bed, come back to life. We'd clean up, fix a meal and watch the TV news about all the fires we'd started the night before. If the pictures were especially exciting we might fuck again, but then it was time to make more toys. Arson toys are easy. Just wrap some sugar and potassium permaganate into a square of gauze, wrap that with a rag soaked in petrol, put a breakable acid ampoule at the edge, and dip the whole thing in hot wax. This makes a three inch square package; a dozen will fit in a pocket. Pinch one side to break the ampoule, toss the toy down under a building or whatever; a few minutes later the acid hits the sugar and it ignites, and the toy burns long enough to start a good fire. No problem. So we were torching Paris, and there was a revolution going on. Every day the students and unions and communists and Algerians were out in the streets fighting the cops and the army, trying to overthrow the decadent capital- ists/technocrats/militarists. There were concrete and brick and lumber barricades and burning car-tire trashheaps in the streets, and troops and tanks and police marksmen, and helicopters spraying teargas and bullets. That's when we met Maris, wary red in all her aspects. I think she was with Baader-Meinhof. Things ratcheted up then. Maris came by every few days with money and a couple kilos of C4, the rotten but effective Czech plastique, so I could make some REAL bombs. And we'd all fuck'n'suck'n'slurp the whole night through, in endless variations. Plastique day was always a lot of fun. Then I'd give Maris the few devices I'd put together since her last visit, and she'd leave for wherever, and Rene and I'd go out to watch the street-fighting. I don't know what Maris did with my creations [maybe that refinery fire in Flanders?]; but by mid-October she hadn't showed up for ten days, and I got real nervous. I sniffed around until I found that grey slime Alain, who'd connected Maris with me in the first place. He didn't want to talk about her, but after I cut off a couple toes he told me that she'd been busted in Thessaloniki with a carload of weapons. This didn't sound too promising, so Rene and I grabbed our few things, snuck around the lines of troops that were moving up from Charenton, and got a ride to her uncle's glasswares factory in Pantin. We borrowed a company Citroen and headed east, driving along canals and orchards and dairy farms, avoiding the national roads. After a couple days we were south of Strasbourg, then across the Rhine into West Germany, safely away from the fucking French cops. We drank schnapps and laughed. Only a few hours' drive north got us to Mannheim and a new car; then we hopped over to Heidelberg, where the Neckar snakes out of the hills and joins the Rheinland. This ancient university town hosts the most modern physics lab on the planet at the Max Planck Institut, and swarms of U.S. soldiers from nearby bases like Graf, and the usual mix of anus-clenched Deutchers and acid-head anarchists, and enough Turkish workers from the Mannheim factories to keep the whole region awash with opium and hash. Just my kind of place, sure. It was fall, heading into a cold wet winter. We lay low. We still had a lot of Maris' money; we rented an apartment just below the Schloss, the old ruined castle overlooking Heidelberg, that looks like vampire movies should be made there. Rene got a secretarial job at the Institut, and I sold chemicals to G.I.'s, and we stayed stoned a lot. Sometimes we'd play our fugitive games on the wrecked bridge in the upper town, or wander through the Odenwald when it was warm enough, setting little traps of twigs among the green-grey trees. This was my best of fugitive lives. But in mid-winter Hein showed up, one of Meinhof's "friends". I don't know how he traced us. He wanted me to make more bombs. I told him, "Hey, it's easy. Just set up a nitre pit (it's best if you have a wine-drinking bishop piss into the dungheap.) Then boil out the saltpetre, mix in charcoal and sulfur, and you're ready to roll." Hein wasn't too amused, and he threatened Rene, so I slit his throat. This left a bit of a mess, and we knew more Faction guys would be around, so it was time to move on again. Time to head homewards for awhile, maybe. America was wild in early '70, with all the Vietnam protests, even back home around Chicago and Milwaukee, it was in all the papers. So we drove down to Geneva, flew to Lisbon and Dakar and Trinidad and New Orleans. It was February, and quiet there, and warmer. And we were nowhere near Heidelberg when the biophysics wing of the Institut was exploded. Maybe I left a few toys behind, and maybe Meinhof's backup crew found those, and maybe they applied some pressure to the war-mongering fascist pigs, I don't know for sure. But I wasn't there; I didn't do that. (C)opyright 1995 by OTRSS All rights reserved ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú A Raging Revolution by Tim Trahan Remember the "acid rock" of the 60's? Sounds like wimpy Ozzy Ozbourne these days. The Ramones are no longer the most riotous punk band around. In a music industry with ever-changing genera and a sense of taste which changes with the month, music is becoming more destructive, because of the search for new sounds and the need to sell those sounds. What was America looking for after most teenagers had heard Elvis since the age of ten? A new sound for a new generation. Rock n' roll is about rebellion, about ditching your parent's slang, fashions, and sometimes even ideologies. Thus the Beatles were a hit. What was America looking for at Woodstock '94? Something to replace Jimi Hendrix and Joe Cocker, two of the the music leaders of the late 60's, when our parents were this country's youth. Jimi Hendrix had already belted out the ballads of "Manic Depression" and "Purple Haze". Joe Cocker is still remembered for his words "I get by with a little help from my friends/I get high with a little help from my friends." American youth were looking for something different, something that their parents did not have. They got what they wanted; Trent Reznor and Smashing Pumpkins, even Metallica, who sing of violence, hate, and self-destruction. Modern rock culture is always evolving into something it has never been before. These modern artists, such as Reznor and Metallica, are the new rock, more violent and destructive rock. New sounds sell. The strange sells. The original sells. Nobody ever sounded like Trent Reznor before he came along. Metallica's sound never existed before the musicians in the band began to play. Metallica created a small audience at first, just as every band must. Trent Reznor did the same. But perhaps the reason they were eventually accepted as major players in the music industry is because people are always on the lookout for the unusual, the new sound, the new band. Reznor's extremism then is a selling point. Nine Inch Nails produces unusually violent and destructive music. There is definitely a difference in ideologies and the extremes between modern music and the sounds our parents "grooved" to on record. This difference is due to the evolution of rock n' roll, which changes as the market for music changes. You shall see: in twenty-five years the music of Nine Inch Nails will be regarded as a fresh sound, and youths will have brand new bands to play at Woodstock 2019. ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Temper by Dragon Lady I seem a silent shadow by the wall. I am withdrawn from those around me, yet I still have claws. When deeply angered or deeply hurt, my temper flares across all barriers, returning the hurt to those who inflicted it. As soon as the flare starts to slacken, my temper still boils, seething and hot, not a thing to contend with. I calm myself. The waters of peace return. I smile to myself, as I think back over what I did. I am tranquil. ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Tormentor by Skinny Puppy Walls trapped within yellow eyes the cutters Drooling face rips apart cuts to the heart Disease shown let it out movement crosses Crimson light washes darkened corners Gently forces open wide and lingering awhile Pouring thoughts elctric fingers blinding pressure Sockets stream matter grey the nerve free fall Safely buried out behind a face. Let it out. Be careful watching living masks misshapen Tumors ripe the pressing tinted nightmare breeze Mental shock disturbed thoughts rotting Long-lasting reaction make it stop stir up the pot. Taking away means nothing. Distorted moodswing smile altered music shadow Covers melted honey bitter pie she utters Tasting quite lovely motion on towards a truthful State mincing with words align order form To multiply mental shock relentless and leaning Compiling the list alone at the top before. Before it was not like this way I thought...it did. (C)opyright 1990 Nettwerk Production Ltd. under license to Capitol Records from "Too Dark Park" by Skinny Puppy ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú A Tribute to Dwayne Goettel (1964-1995) by Jon Weiderhorn (for Rolling Stone Magazine) Dwayne Goettel, 31, keyboardist and programmer for the influential industrial band Skinny Puppy, died from an apparent heroin overdose August 23 in a bathroom at his parents' house in Edmonton, Canada. Goettel, who lived in Vancouver, Canada, had a history of drug use but only started using heroin last year, says band mate Cevin Key. According to Key, Goettel had recently taken steps to get clean, including a stay at a detox hospital in June. On August 7, after admitting to Key that he was still using heroin, Goettel returned to his parents' house to kick his habit. The heroin that caused his overdose had been sent to him in the mail shortly before his death, according to Key. Goettel's remains were cremated. Born on a farm in Alberta, Canada, Goettel played in the early industrial group Psyche before moving to Vancouver, Canada, and joining Skinny Puppy, in 1986. One of the most viceral and macabre industrial groups, Skinny Puppy blended harsh electronic beats with distorted vocals and haunting synth lines, heralding a legion of bands including Nine Inch Nails, Filter, and Nitzer Ebb. Goettel appeared with the band on its third release, _Mind: The Perpetual Intercourse_, and played on the next eight, including its swan song, _The Process_, due out early next year. In concert, Skinny Puppy pushed the envelope by combining grand-guignol- style theatrics with intense sonic cyberscapes. Their escapades included projecting scenes of atrocities on a backdrop while vocalist Nivek Ogre simulated self-dismemberment using cheap props and gallons of fake blood. "Dwayne was a very sensitive and extremely gifted keyboardist and composer," says Ogre. "In a lot of ways, he was the backbone of Skinny Puppy." "He was like the Stephen Hawking of electronic music," says Key. "He could realize things that were beyond the scope of our present imaginations. My greatest joy in life was that I had the greatest partner in the world." by Jon Wiederhorn for Rolling Stone issue 718, October 5, 1995 ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Untitled by Sheep I am the girl in the corner with the uncanny green eyes, idly twirling a lock of her hair. I am yin and yang; I am na‹ve and learned; I am outspoken and introverted, and like Kerouac, the only people for me are the mad ones. I am a firm believer in logic except when I don't feel like it, and an adherent of intuition except when it's wrong. I am a tested Christian who cannot accept that things come only in black and white, but most of all I am the watcher, pen in hand, and I write. When I cannot write, I converse; when I cannot converse, I listen; when I cannot listen, I simply absorb. I am a sponge, but I tend to leak, so I squeeze myself out in my locker at intervals to keep the synapses dry. I am a body in motion, even when I'm still. Sometimes I force my stubborn, stupid muscles to learn to dance, and I have been both a heavily made up puffball twirling to the sounds of "The Nutcracker" and a sleek black shadow writhing to the trill of a flute, but the audience seemed to like the two equally well. On the same creaky stage floorboards I have been a Jewish child with numbers inked into her skin, helping to whisper, "I never saw another butterfly." I have stared into the headlight of a train that carried away a lost six million and held my fellow cast members' hands as they cried, and I have invoked the tears of a witnessing audience. More often, though, I have built myself a life of words. I have scribbled endless essays and remembered my manners, but not the Alamo. Between the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat I see little difference, but I have been the state U.I.L. Ready Writing champion and am not much the worse for wear. Others keep reminding me that they see my picture often in the newspaper, but I've often wished they would let me forget about it. I am captain of the Academic Decathlon team, class valedictorian, English-Spanish translator for a local TV station, speaker, teacher, and philosopher, and I am altogether too visible for my own good. I have tried to be an individual but found I couldn't conform. I have sometimes spoken before my church and so been named a "cog," but I think I lack teeth. I have spent a year and a half toiling quietly in the community library and a year in tutoring struggling students, but thought that sometimes books were better company than people. In the halls of my school I have been run down by jocks, walked at the side of a cartwheeling elf-boy, and finally seen the crowd clear a path for me. I have sought respect and self-knowledge, and succeeded; I have attempted not to become arrogant, and may have failed. But in this page I have tried to show myself, and of that effort you must be the judge. ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Orbital Tangent by Introvert It's not funny. So why the hell am I laughing? Some old punchline just returned for a little revenge. I'm laughing at myself, and I'm not even funny. There she goes again. Her head's up in the clouds, floating around the thin oxygen, spying on me. My mouthful of orange pills is kicking in. Chase it down with a swallow of flat, warm soda and call it a day. I always did like sleeping with my clothes on. I was abducted by aliens once. They dissected me and stole my orange pills. I woke up bitter. I could taste it in my mouth. My bones ached. They never put me back together quite right. I always have to twitch when I hear that one word, and the noise has yet to dim even the slightest bit. I'm Joe Average. We're never the best. We're rarely the worst. So why the hell am I laughing? It's an inside joke. It's inside some dead man's coffin, waiting to be unearthed and restored to life. You may not get it, but you'll laugh anyway. You're scared, aren't you? That's why you're laughing, too. That's why you stick to the outside lane, and keep your headlights on in the daytime. No mountain of pills is going to save you from yourself. Beleive what you will, but you'll never change. Are you a puddle of chemicals? Or are you some existential blob, hovering in an astral plane, playing ventriloquist with the flesh at your hypothetical fingertips? Will you laugh when there's no more air to breathe? Then again, maybe you can blame it on me, and laugh fiendishly when I'm walking down your block, with my head bowed down. When you drive by, I'll grit my teeth, but I will never look up. I won't give you the satisfaction of knowing that I am still afraid to die. For I am still mortal. And no astral convictions will take that away from me. Don't bother figuring it out. Time is short. Memory is shorter. Throw it in gear and get the hell off of my street. Tell her I said hi. Tell her not to wait up. I'll be here a while, laughing at myself. Laughing at some joke that I don't get. ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú On Logic by Victokai Logic is an interesting game in the party of Life, much like strip poker at a regular party. First, after someone has said, "Hey, why don't we play logic?" to the couples scattered about the room, and manages to pry some of them apart (at least frontally), you choose the rules, i.e. whether the winner gets to choose which article of clothing can be removed, or there is a set pattern of clothing removal, or this statistic is a valid one, or this theory can't be used because the author was Asian, and other such stuff. Next, the facts are dealt to each player, who has to try and make the best hand s/he can. Then, the betting begins. "I'll raise you two socks." "You cant raise socks, because there is no up to raise them to." From there, the metaphor gets over-extended, so I will state it bluntly: Strip poker is a fun game to play, but it isn't the only game in town. ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú The Absolute Worst O.J. Jokes We Could Find [Well, the huge hulking beast known as the American justice system has again reared its ugly head. O.J. walked. Maybe he was innocent. Who knows. As a good, zombie of an American, I guess I should have faith in the system. Ha. But I suppose the jurors know much more than I do. I still have doubts. So in honor(?) of these proceedings, I give you the tackiest O.J. jokes I have been able to find.] Q: What's the difference between O.J. and Christopher Reeve? A: O.J.'s gonna walk. ----- Did you hear about the fishing shop Heidi Fleiss and O.J. Simpson are going to open? Heidi is going to be the hooker and O.J. is going to be the slicer. ----- Q: Why would O.J. have a better chance if the trial was in Kentucky? A: Because all of the DNA is the same. ----- During a brief encounter with a reporter after his acquittal, O.J. was asked if he thought he would ever get married again. He replied, "I may take another stab at it." ----- Q: How many LAPD Officers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? A: Two. One to plant the lightbulb in the socket, and the other to lie about it in court later. ----- With Halloween rapidly approaching, one company is recalling their O.J. costumes. The report is that none of the gloves fit. ----- Reportedly, the day before Nicole Brown's murder, one of his kids asked O.J. if he could borrow his Bronco. O.J. replied, "I don't know. Go ax your mom." ----- The 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta will feature a new event: The O.J. Simpson Triathalon, in which contestants will Slash, Dash, and Walk. ----- Rumor has it that O.J. is moving to Boston to start a trolley service. Yep, it's the best deal in town. It's always an hour early so you have an hour to kill. ----- There was a mama duck, a baby duck, a mama skunk, and a baby skunk, all walking across the road. A car comes and kills both the mamas. Both babies run to the side of the road safely. They look at each other and the baby duck gets upset saying, "What am I gonna do? I don't even know who or what I am." The baby skunk says, "Well, let's think about this. You have webbed feet and a bill...I think you're a duck." The baby duck says, "I think you're right. I'm a duck. Ok, I know what I'm gonna do." As he turns to go, the baby skunk says, "Wait! I don't know who I am." The baby duck replies, "Ok, let's see now, you're black and white and your mama's dead. You must be one of O.J.'s kids." ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ º [Note: I think that last one just got us nominated for a Pulitzer.] º ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Momentum by Introvert skinned knees carry me skyward resolute here at the pinnacle my eyes fix on the sky above these fingers, raw and numb plunge into rock, grasping a dry breeze blows within my dusted lungs, gasping higher, i cannot escape above, my lies echo on regret feels no mercy city of lights below ignores me in bliss sky mocking effort and nowhere to go staring downward clouded over me a dismal layer of oppression brutally dim suffocating tormenting squeezing pressing tighten mental grasp only for me . ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú The Magnetic Poetry Section Blue rain screams from the void. Shadow springs flood, through lakes of blood. A purple-tongued goddess whispers "never". Swimming symphony of mist, chanting "dreamtime" --Cherub Ache: Do iron a bitter vision, less time were they as wind need go. These white egg moon rust the rose sea. Some shadow will away as pine death is driving yet. Manipulate her ache, delicate beneath bare peach skin, together live as fall skies storm as summon. It: Their gone. put it in. I is a urge, sad has feet. No place but here. He watched TV like shot by the picturelight. Trudge on. Sitreadsingplay. "What is cool next?", asked I. --Cybermage Languid behind sordid, girly ship recalled, with more to boil. See why some are nearer, but still not in love. --Sheep Club his more repulsive behind. Say "Let's boil our day, and rob her will." But always take up arms. --Kestrel Leave the red dress to cry of the raw moment, when her gorgeous petals, ripped from the bed, and produced some moaning, fiddleous music. --Karen Amy will suit out our arm, but part must take sun, and elaborate wanting. So we soar up and over it, meaning to say she hit me. Sweaty lust crush boy did pound her, did shake & drool, would frantically pant, about juice and winter, under you. --Kestrel If only I could juice your delirious fluff & smooth the frantic black panting of my luscious love puppy. Worship me. Drool, shake, shine, and lust, you sweaty winter girl. Rock like a mother. Sweet crush & boy trip. --Merbear the Mermaid One black road, Diamonds into a sweet day trip Like fast, momentous, Spraying thoughts; And shining, friendly rocks. --Karen Part of the lazy suit, recalls a languid beauty, as elaborate produce felt her hair. She must be an easy woman, to moan and heave in the sun. --Kestrel Thousand mad fingers felt two enormous breasts, her essential sheness. I am weak and chained. You do want repulsive me. Think size. Stare after the lazy knife, Show him leg. Rob her gown. Lick pole. Blow. Heave. Wax butt. Cooking apparatus. Women, men, no mother. Smell those deliriously easy beats. Let his power lie for my gift. How you like to use my tiny can? Me on top. --Group effort ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Space Invaders by Hypoxia Smurf I do not fear the Space Invaders; they are our friends They teach us to co-exist within our necessities They only cull our weak & sick & lame & socialistas They are not unduly concerned with our sexual practices They feed us well and provide most excellent laxatives I do not flee the Space Invaders; they are our support They are most anxious to reanimate the flagging heart They decorate the survivors of their competitive art They do not mind from which openings our fluids spurt And they flush us with plasma and opiates by the quart I do not hate the Space Invaders; they are understanding For safety, they limit our small villages & low buildings For morale, they do not enter our sacred cave dwellings For relief, they pretend not to know what we are thinking In truth, we do not even overly resent the branding (C)opyright 1993 by OTRSS All rights reserved ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Abusing The Haiku by Introvert The lake is so pretty. I wish I could be the lake. Or maybe Jesus. Spring rain on flowers, covers the morning with dew, makes her socks real wet. Powerful mountain, reduces all who behold, even fat people. Dying rain forest, toxic waste on the beaches. So what's for supper? Cats play in the yard, pounce and fight in playful jest. I think I'll kill them. Swirls of soft snowflakes, Icy breeze of winter night, makes their nipples hard. On top of the world. Cliffs are so much fun, except I already peed. Peaceful doves of spring. So soft and without a care. They taste like chicken. Infinite cosmos, Reality bends my soul, gives me a headache. Curious puppy, sniffs the flowers as they bloom, pisses on hydrants. ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Banana by Tim Trahan Look, Ma! That Guy is a Fruit! Bananas, taken to an extreme can be a diversion from the ordinary tasks of life, taken to an unfortunate end while trying to find out how the banana plant grows, dreaming about them, how the yellow ones taste and what is the greenest one you have ever eaten, praising the brown and spotted ones as the most delicious fruit of the supermarket, but who cares? They'd simply leave you to become banana-obsessed. Maybe you will write a magazine called The Banana Review, and learn fascinating things such as, who was the real Chiquita lady? And why, at first glance, does her sticker look like a monkey without eyes? These ideas flash through your head, while standing at the produce section of your mind. ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Chili: A "Trip" To Terlingua by Split Once again, I am on the verge of the annual Terlingua Chili Cook off, the third year that I will have done this. The chili cook off is one piece of Americana that no red-blooded American should miss. Nothing but rednecks and bikers for as far as the eye can see. Lots of beer, trashy women, and of course, chili. I have yet to sample any chili at these things. Generally, we leave town at about midnight, and make it to Fort Stockton a good while later. Once in Fort Stockton, we get a room for $15.95, that's a rate for a single person, it's an additional $10.00 per extra person, but we don't tell them about all of us. The hotel is extremely run down; the bed squeaks, the shower is a borderline health risk, and all of the furniture is somehow bolted to the floors. It's the kind of place for taking a real cheap date to get some quick head. The next morning we check out, and head off for Boquillas, Mexico. It's about another 2 hours to Boquillas. Now, if you have never been to Boquillas, you probably have never heard of it either. Boquillas is a town in Mexico that is about 2 miles on the other side of the river. The population is about 150 people, no electricity, and two bars. The crossing into Boquillas is an experience in itself. You pay a man $2.00 round trip to row you across the river, then it's a 2 mile hike through the desert to the town. We spend most of the time in the bars, drinking somewhat cold Tecate and Carta Blanca while we shoot pool with the denizens of the area. Sometime during this cantina excursion, we manage to purchase some pot, tequila, and peyote. After we have stocked up, we head back to select our campsite. We spend the first night in Big Bend National Park, it's $5.00 a week per carload, so that's pretty damn cheap. After the tents are pitched, and the dinner is cooked, we proceed to smoke pot, eat peyote, drink tequila, and take any of the other pharmaceutical amusement aids that we managed to get before we left... What happens after this, I really don't know. The next morning, we come back down to earth, and this is the day of the actual cook off. We start heading west towards Terlingua, and usually stop off in an underground bar in the middle of the desert called La Kava. When I say underground, I don't mean as in for the elite only, I mean subterranean. It is literally carved out of the side of a cliff, and you enter through a mine shaft door, and proceed downward into a dark and dim cave. Most of us are still hallucinating through this and it is a very odd place to be that fucked up. We drink all day in the bar, and then head off to the actual chili cook off about 15 miles down the road. As we drive down the road, you can see the cook off for miles. It is first noticed as a big dust cloud that you notice on the horizon. It's $10.00 a head, and you can stay till the end of the weekend. There's lots of music, lots of chili, and lots of drunk people, mostly rednecks. Last year, they pushed a car off of a cliff about 100 yards from our campsite, the car caught on fire, and the fire department wouldn't put the fire out until all of the tires had exploded. Nobody got arrested, surprisingly, the cops just laughed. The cook off is a very surreal place, loud drunks, weird lights in the middle of nowhere, and lots of motorcycles. We find a spot to set up at, and then proceed to do the same weirdness that took place the night before. Mainly we listen to the music, talk to the people, and don't eat a drop of chili. Sunday, the final day. We all feel and look like shit. We clean up, try and smoke the last of our dope before we leave so they don't find it at the checkpoint, and pile in the cars to head back to Austin. I usually take Monday off just to recover once I get home. It's basically a three day "trip". Sleeping is rare, and naps are few and far between. Besides, if someone falls asleep, we generally make them wake up and take more drugs. ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Blame Not The Institutions by Introvert Sinking, disillusioned, asleep. Dusty reel, broken film, a shoddy movie plays in the mind. Eyes closed, twitching, aggravated, by the flood of congnizance. Immersion... trembling fingers, searching, scratching, tracing a red web across his forearms. he mouths along, to words he does not know. Chained to a generation. He is not a martyr. Chained to himself. he is not an idol. Gnashing teeth, twitch, thrash, awakening to bleached-white morning. Nightmares, bad memories, easily forgotten, disolved, in daylight. Back to the circadain grind. I do not place blame. ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú ú Anywhere by Introvert Her hair, matted. Her eyes, sunken. A beaten sign, begging, relentlessly, "anywhere". The drivers ignore her. They tap their fingers, beat out a catchy tune. They strike up a conversation, see right through her. She could be anything. She could be anyone. Instead, she is alone. She whispers aloud, begging, relentless, "anywhere". ú ú ³ ³ ÌÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ͹ ³ ³ ú QUESTiONS, COMMENTS, SUBMiSSiONS, ETC? ú If you want to submit to me (and you know you do), then you can probably find me at one of these nifty Austin, TX area BBS's. I'm always looking for new writers, new ideas, and general ass-kissing compliments. ..SysOp.. Cyberverse 5i2-255-5728 Cybermage Home of HSP and CoS The Return of the Son of Pig Sweat 5i2-4i9-i403 Split This Space For Rent Ringworm's Lair 5i2-255-6832 Hound Lowtech WHQ The Sprawl 5i2-485-3409 Blackthorn A Spiffy BBS THE FiNE PRiNT All works contained in this electronic magazine ("zine") are the sole property of the respective author. Reproduction is hereby authorized on the conditions that the works contained are reproduced in their original state with complete due credit given to the author and source. The works contained herein may not be used for profit. This zine is a completely non-profit venture and in no way is it intended for the financial gain of the authors or editor (Introvert). WARNING: Intentional misuse of product may result in permanent brain damage and relieves the authors of any and all liability. All works by Hypoxia Smurf are a product of OTRSS, all rights reserved. All products by Split are a product of generations of inbreeding and a lifetime of hard drug and alcohol use. This has been a Lowtech-approved joint. Lowtech: Cooler than Jesus. E-Mail Vorphlack (Lowtech #1) at Ringworm's Lair for information on Lowtech. For further reading, see the New York Metropolitan Phonebook. ú ú ³ -i- ³ ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ End of File (51,534 bytes). Now get back to procrastinating.