1723 lines
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1723 lines
78 KiB
Plaintext
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I recommend displaying/printing this document in a monospaced font such as
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Courier. Your choice, though.
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CRANK #3
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Do you like to laugh? Well, sure you do!
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Who doesn't like to laugh?!
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(*indicates omission from text-only version)
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CONTENTS
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1. Teenage Misfit Revisionism
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* 2. Mein Krank
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3. Incoming Mail -and- *Tidbits for Modem Nerds
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4. Outgoing Mail
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* 5. Useless Mail
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* 6. Screw Blacks, Part 1
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7. Interview with a Killer #2
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* 9. Crusading Christians, Online
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*10. Two Easy Ways to Fuck With the Religious Right
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*11. Clip Art Christ -and-
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Just buy the fucking shirt already
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*12. Cheap Vinyl Feature #1: The Bossa Fucking Nova
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*15. CRANK Body Double
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*16. Screw Blacks, Part 2
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17. To Hell & Back: Potato City, PA
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*21. Last Issue's Contest Winner
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22. A Recommendation for Lawyers
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*24. Cheap Vinyl Feature #2:
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Swank Vinyl for You and Your Lover
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*26. Finally, the Definitive Death to All Reviews!
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*31. The Great Zine CIRCLE JERK
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*32. What sort of man reads CRANK?
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33. An Equipment List for Surviving the Low-Life
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35. True Confessions
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36. NEW CONTEST!!
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CRANK is a production of Jeff Koyen, Philadelphia, PA. No clever company
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name.
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The articles in Crank #3 may be used and reproduced for any reasons you deem
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appropriate, so long as you credit the source.
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There is now an official BBS for Crank. Burn This Flag (408-363-9766) houses
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the complete text of all issues of Crank. You can download the Macintosh
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version from here as well. For more information--direct from the horse's
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mouth--see the advertisement on the inside back cover. I can still be reached
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at CRANK@AOL.COM.
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My continued thanks: Amy Nathanson; Tom Bielavitz; Stef; Blake; Dennis;
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Steve; Shyamala; the Mauls; distributors generous enough to sell CRANK for a
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paltry buck profit; whoever filled my box with something interesting; and you
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(for your cash more than anything else).
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Super thanks to Vinnie Jordan (Interview with a Killer #2, p. 7) and Tom
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Bielavitz (Time to Kill, p. 22).
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Reach me at PO Box 1646 . Philadelphia PA 19105-1646; or Crank@aol.com.
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Crank (issn 1076-9102) c 1994 Jeff Koyen, except contributions by the above
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authors.
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Self-mockery is the foundation of an unconquerable ego. And don't you forget
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it.
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</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
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1.
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Fuck Your Big, Bad Selves:
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Teenage Misfit Revisionism
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It's funny. No one ever says they WANTED to fit in when they were in high
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school, do they? No one ever says they had some good friends, dressed like
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everyone else, and kept their odd tastes hidden, DO THEY? No. Everyone you
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talk with about their adolescence was terribly misunderstood for one reason
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or another. Everyone wore their fucking hearts on their sleeves and had a
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miserable time because of it.
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If I hear one more of you insecure fucks talk about how much of a loner you
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were in high school, I'm going to figure out a way to go back in time and
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kill your parents before they have the chance to meet and spawn your
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miserable bones. All your talk about troubled youth is obvious
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over-compensation for a lackluster adulthood punctuated by small-minded
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artistic conquests; small conquests like having your etchings on display at
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that coffeehouse your boyfriend's uncle owns.
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But take comfort that you're not alone (or does that defeat your originality
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goal?). Everyone's doing it. Revisionism, that is. It's the latest
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intellectual buzzword. Holocaust Revisionism. Disney's America Revisionism.
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And if people aren't discussing modern Revisionist platforms, they're trying
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to set the record straight from past revisionism (Indian rights, accurate
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accounts of slavery, etc.) Welp, I don't fucking care-they can battle it out
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on Crossfire.
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It's the other, more commonplace Revisionism that drives me fucking insane.
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And SO MANY of you participate that EVERYONE turns a blind eye. It's what I
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call Teenage MISFIT Revisionism.
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I'm willing to admit it. Growing up, I was a plain-Jane prick who wanted
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nothing more than to find the cool party every weekend, talk with pretty
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girls, drink Busch from a warm keg, and try to get laid. Of course, I never
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got laid, rarely found the party, and usually sat in someone's living room
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watching bad horror movies. Conformity? Fuck yes. Bring it on, baby. Call it
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what you want-I don't care. At least I'm honest-and unashamed-about my
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history.
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I didn't dress in black. I didn't look like a freak. People didn't think I
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was strange, or crazy, or angry, or rebellious, or queer, or anything else
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that's fashionable to have been. I wasn't a loner, and I wasn't trying to be
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different-I was trying to be the same. I desperately wanted to fuck a pretty
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girl and not be ignored. Period.
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I wasn't beat up for being the loser. I wasn't laughed at, or ridiculed, or
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held up as the object of mockery.
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I wasn't escaping through my poetry. I wasn't dreaming of living on the road
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with Kerouac. I wasn't shut up in my bedroom boo-hoo'ing because I had no
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friends.
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I was, quite frankly, nothing special.
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There are 2 archetypes of you fucks out there: the LONER and the LOSER. I'm
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equally sick of both of you.
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The loner portrays him or herself as having suffered because of being so
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different than the mainstream. "They used to laugh at me because I wore all
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black!" I overhear at a bar. "Jeez, now people look at you weird if you wear
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bright colors!" Your friend agrees-you were BOTH desperate teenage fuckheads.
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And so it goesxtoo cool for the timexahead of your daysxmature beyond your
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yearsxtoo subversive for your own good.
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To the former teenage loner oddballs: I implore you to cut out your tongue
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and shove it up the deepest hole on your body. You didn't like Bauhaus in
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'83-you like Bon Jovi. And you didn't read Anais Nin at 14-you read V.C.
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Andrews. So stop lying to yourself and everyone around you-your friends are
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embarrassed to be humoring you so much.
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On the other hand, the LOSER silently begs for sympathy by putting himself
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down. It's the same tactic as the guy who talks about having a small dick
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when he's got at least the average amount of cock. "Because I didn't play
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sports," he says, "and didn't want to date rape cheerleaders, everyone
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thought I was a faggot. If it wasn't for my poetry, I never would've made it
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through being a teenager." This asshole already knows that the LONERS are
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full of shit, so he takes the opposite angle.
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To the former teenage LOSER PUNCHING BAGS: you're STILL full of shit. You
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were an everyday pussy playing Dungeons & Dragons when you were 13. You
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didn't get beat up any more than every other person who has a big brother or
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a drinking father. Your escape was called "college," buster, where you
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re-created your life with that extra dash of tragedy.
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Why can't everyone just admit it? In 1985, at the age of 16, I liked Rush,
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King Crimson and Tangerine Dream. In fact, I LOVED Rush, and hearing an old
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Rush song on the radio still gets my toe tapping. Ditto for the occasional
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Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd song (Waters, only, please.) And if my memory
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wasn't shot, I'd recall favorite TV shows and movies for you. They weren't,
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and still aren't, PBS & Fellini. Rather, more like Moonlighting & Indiana
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Jones. Sound like someone you know? Perhaps your big, bad,
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punk-rock-and-proud self?
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But sometime around 1985, I aIso got my first Replacements tape, along with
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Big Black, Agent Orange, and Bauhaus. Can you guess who knew that my friends
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and I were listening to that crazy music? NO ONE. We didn't liberty spike our
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hair; we didn't even dye our hair. We didn't put safety pins in our boots, or
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paint our jackets with Anarchy symbols. We just weren't punk fucking rockers.
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We were basic teenagers who LOOKED and ACTED like basic dumb teenagers. We
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didn't have MTV to compel us to join the Alternative Nation. We didn't have
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Details to tell us how to make our mall clothing look hip.
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I didn't want to be different then, and I don't need to be different now. To
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see me on the street, you wouldn't look twice (well, except for the
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occasional "wow, that guy is Super Macho!" that I hear whispered behind my
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back) and you wouldn't look twice at me sitting at the bar. Secure in my
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paradigm of superiority, I walk amongst you desperate fucks unnoticed. Good
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for me.
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SO, WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP NOW? Stop telling me about your
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misunderstood youth? We all did it, friends, and it sucked. But it was
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unremarkable in EVERY way, even in its unremarkableness. Got it? Just stop
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trying to be special through re-invention. We all know that you're absolutely
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and positively full of shit.
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Welcome to CRANK #3 This is just the beginning...
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</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
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3.
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To: Crank@aol.com
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[Regarding the trepaning article in the last issue,] may I recommend that you
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use a stopping device of some sort? After all, if you're trepanning yourself,
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you'll probably only want a hole in your head, not a lobotomy! So, attach
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something to the drill that will prevent the bit from going in TOO far!
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Something like a piece of 1/2" cold-rolled steel bolted into that hole on the
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side should do the trick nicely. Put a rubber foot on the end of it, and make
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sure that the bit only extends 1" beyond the rubber foot. After all, we just
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want to open a hole in the head, not destroy the brain.. Haven't you ever
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been drilling something and had the drill suddenly BURST THROUGH the
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material? It's not a laughing matter when you've got a 1/2" wood-bit sticking
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3" into your brains...
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Also, the page 23 illustration of the plain one-man trepan... Is COMPLETELY
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unrealistic, unless you're a bodybuilder. When you try to drill into the top
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of your head in that fashion, you have to use your triceps more than the
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other muscles in your arm. Triceps are usually the weakest arm muscles
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because people usually don't use them that much. Now imagine that not only do
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you have to hold your arms in that position, but you also have to prove a lot
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of pressure so that the drill will cut into skull... UNREALISTIC. You'd have
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to be a bodybuilder. That's why I recommend drilling through the fore-head.
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After all, if you drill a hole in your fore-head you'll be able to sleep on
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your back without cerebrospinal fluid dripping out while you sleep...
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For the one-man WELL-EQUIPPED trepan, I recommend using a pulley centered
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above your head, and then giving the rope ONE-TURN around the spindle in the
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direction of rotation. This will ensure that even if the drive handle should
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slip backwards, you'll still be pulling it in the RIGHT direction when you
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re-apply pressure.
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Also, please use a clove-hitch for the knot holding the handle, as all of
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those wrappings illustrated are unnecessary and will probably help the knot
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capsize. Have fun, and let me know how black-and-decker replies to your
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letter!
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Rev. Mrzlak Nyzamot! (mrzlak@nevada.edu)
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To: Rev. Mrzlak Nyzamot!
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It is my firm conviction that a single individual would indeed be capable of
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drilling a hole in the top of his or her head, as illustrated on page 23 of
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Crank, Issue #2. My Single Trepan Theory needs no "magic muscles" and no
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extraordinary dexterity to accomplish the task at hand. In fact, in a series
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of carefully observed "dry runs," a number of individuals were able to
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simulate the procedure well within the given parameters.
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In regards to your other suggestions, you may rest assured that they have
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been forwarded to the appropriate departments for consideration.
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</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
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4.
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The following publications were listed in Factsheet 5, saying that they WOULD
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trade their publication for another publication.
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I sent them a copy of either #1 or #2, and have yet to receive anything--not
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even a short note--in response. (If you don't want to trade, just say so [see
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page 31 for Crank's new policy on trading.]) I guess you got too popular to
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bother with upstarts like myself, eh? So a big Fuck You to:
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Fugitive Pope
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Asylum for Shut-Ins
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Duplex Planet
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Fish Balls & Coffee
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The following people have not yet responded to my letters. I did not expect
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responses to being with, but fuck them anyway.
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Black & Decker
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Joey Mellen and Amanda Fielding (the British Trepaners from Issue #2)
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Dave & Buster's
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</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
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7.
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Interview with a Killer #2
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From Vinnie Jordan (vinniej@sco.com)
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The following is an interview with former Sergeant Patrick Kelly of the 8th
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precinct in New York City, accused of murder in the abduction and death by
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extreme trauma to alleged child molester Dallas Orton. As is always the case
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in these interviews, the questions and comments of the interrogators have
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been omitted, leaving a monologue with the suspect.
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============================
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"My name is Patrick Kelly, and I give this statement of my free will."
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"You know, I've taken so many of these statements. I never thought I'd be
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giving one. I've been on this force for nearly 12 years. My record until now
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has been spotless. I'll bet you guys are wondering why I threw it all away
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for one bad idea. But you don't know what led up to the end result."
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"This Orton, he was a bad seed, a sexual predator. He was especially fond of
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boys under the age of 10. The first time I busted him, I had caught him in
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the act of raping a 9 year old boy he had abducted from out of his yard.
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Orton grabbed him and dragged him around the alleyway and had him pinned to
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the ground. He had his hand over the kid's mouth, so no one could hear him
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scream, and he was slamming away at that poor kid's asshole so hard that
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blood was dripping down the back of the kid's thighs. I was in my first week
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of walking a beat in that neighborhood. I had requested a ground pounding
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beat. I thought it would be good therapy for me, to help me forget about
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losing my partner."
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(Kelly's partner, Herbie Koenig, was killed in an aborted holdup attempt at a
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deli where he had stopped for lunch. Two men who were robbing the store
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opened fire. Koenig was wearing a bulletproof vest, to no avail. They blew
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his head nearly off with two blasts of a shotgun. The suspects escaped out
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the back, and were never caught. Kelly felt responsible.)
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"Anyways, I hear these muffled screams coming out of this alley on Lofton. I
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turn the corner on the scene I just described, and I just went apeshit. I
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have a son about the same age, and I thought of scum like him prowling the
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streets, looking for boys like my son. He didn't even see me coming, he was
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so engrossed in ravaging this poor kid. I snatched him up by the hair. His
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dick slipped out with a slurping sound. The cries of the kid as the hand
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around his mouth loosened and the yelling of that animal who was indignant
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at having lost a handful of hair mingled, the noise was horrible. So I kneed
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Orton as hard as I could in the groin. At least he shut up. I left the kid to
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scream himself out. He had a right."
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"I held Orton down with one foot. It wasn't a problem. The knee took any
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mickey out of him that he might have had, and I let the kid's screams subside
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to cries and then to moans. I asked him if he was able to talk, and he shook
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his head yes, but the look was so pitiful I didn't have the heart to ask him
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anything, except to pull his pants up. Blood was drying on his legs. I told
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him we'd get him cleaned up down at the precinct house."
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"On the way back to the station, I could hear Orton starting to whisper. I
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thought that he was trying to catch his wind. I turned around, and noticed
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that he was trying to get the boy's attention. I slammed on the brakes, went
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around to his side of the car, and opened it. Orton tried to kick me, and I
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grabbed his leg and pulled him from the vehicle. His face struck the
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pavement. I rolled him over, looked him in the eye, and swore if he said
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another word to the boy, I'd kill him."
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"I pushed him back into the rear of the vehicle. I was seeing red by this
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time, and Orton, who had recovered from the kneeing to the groin, was
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screaming shit at me. I just wanted to stick my pistol in his mouth and empty
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it. The scum kept saying that I couldn't make anything stick. Fuck. I had him
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dead to rights. I had the boy. I had the bloody pants. I had an airtight
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case."
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"Well, you know how the case turned out. They let him go on that damned
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technicality. They said I violated Miranda. That's bullshit!! Every cop is
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trained to read these scum their rights, even when being popped for violating
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the rights of others. The boy stood in front of the court, and stated that he
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hadn't heard me read this asshole his rights, even though he was right there.
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Orton was released. On the way out of the courtroom, he looked at me and
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smiled. I think the seed of the idea of what I would end up doing to him was
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planted right then."
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"I talked to the boy afterward. He had received a phone call, and I have to
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presume it was Orton. He told the kid if he didn't tell the judge that I
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hadn't read him his rights, he would kill his daddy. I tried everything I
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could think of to persuade him to testify, and that we'd bury the guy so deep
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he'd be a threat to no one. But the kid was beyond fear. He was terrified,
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and wouldn't go for it. I had to finally give up. I thought Orton had gotten
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off scot-free, and it was a drag."
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"A few months later, Orton was a suspect in another case. I asked Drayton
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[Chief of Investigation--ed.] if I could have the case. Drayton knew my
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involvement in the Orton affair, and refused at first. But I kept hounding
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him and finally he let me have it, with the admonition that he would suspend
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me if I fucked up another bust with my temper. I swore to myself that
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wouldn't happen."
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"It didn't take a lot of police work to finger Orton's involvement in the
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case. This kid was abducted and forced into a van which fit the description
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of Orton's. He was forced to orally copulate the bastard, then raped him and
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left him a couple of miles with no pants on. His jeans were found a half mile
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from where the kid said he was forced out of the suspect's van. I asked if
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the underwear had been found. As far as anyone knew, they hadn't."
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"So, I went over to talk to Orton. I promised myself that I wasn't going to
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lose my cool, I wasn't going to blow it. I knocked on the door. Orton opened
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it, but didn't seem all that surprised when he saw that I was on the other
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side. He was a cool customer, the bastard. I at least wanted a chance to
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shock him. If someone who'd rammed his knee into your privates suddenly came
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knocking on your door, wouldn't the memory at least make you flinch? This
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bastard showed nothing."
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"Anyway, I start asking him his whereabouts on the night in question. His
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alibi was pretty vague and almost surely a lie. I tried to take his story and
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trip him up with no luck. I asked if he any corroborating witnesses as to his
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whereabouts. He had none. I asked if I could look inside his van. He got a
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little irate at that, and would have refused until I started getting the
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cuffs ready for a field trip downtown. He relented, though I wish he hadn't."
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"My search of the vehicle turned up what I had hoped. There was a pair of
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boys' underwear under the back seat with the victim's name sewn on a tag in
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the waistband. I had the son of a bitch this time. I was none too gentle when
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applying the cuffs, but nothing out of line. I was too close to fuck up now."
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"The trial was a farce. The defense moved that my search constituted illegal
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search and seizure. We countered that we had probable cause, due to the
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previous case. The defense explained that since we were unable to obtain a
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conviction, Orton was not considered to have any record of sexual deviancy.
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The judge let him walk again!! Can you fucking believe that? I was
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incredulous!!"
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(The record shows that Sergeant Kelly was a bit more than just incredulous.
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He stormed the bench, shouting at the judge and pointing his finger. He was
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warned that he was going to be jailed for contempt of court. His last words
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to the bench were, "Might be your kid next time, you fucking idiot.")
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"It wasn't right at that moment, but later on that evening, that I stopped
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being a cop. My world view had been shattered, and I had the feeling that
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everything I had done for my whole career had been a sham, and I was crushed.
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Anything like that ever happen to you guys? Aah, I guess you wouldn't tell me
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if it had. It's the lowest I've ever been, and I felt I had to do something.
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If I couldn't get what I wanted from the courts, I would get my satisfaction
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another way."
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"I had that cabin north of the city, you know, the one that burned down the
|
|
night I killed Orton. The place was chock full of tools. The place was a
|
|
trash can when I bought it, and I spent a lot of my weekends up there fixing
|
|
it up. It was the perfect therapy, after a week of chasing bad guys and
|
|
watching them get off with slaps on the hand. I'd reached the point, with
|
|
this Orton thing eating away at me, where hammering nails by the hundreds and
|
|
tearing down old wood and slamming up new was therapeutic. I began to imagine
|
|
Orton's face on the nailhead."
|
|
|
|
"I knew I was starting to crack. I knew I was going to make Orton pay for
|
|
what he'd done to those boys, and the ones I didn't even know about yet. I
|
|
was trying to talk myself out of it, but not very hard."
|
|
|
|
"Anyway, there was just about every tool you could imagine at that cabin. I
|
|
grabbed a roll of duct tape and threw it in the back of my car. Then I drove
|
|
over to Orton's house to wait. I had his schedule figured out, as I had been
|
|
unconsciously casing him ever since he got off that first time, and I began
|
|
to know his routine pretty well. He was coming out of his door about 15
|
|
minutes later, and I crossed the street. He and I arrived at his van at the
|
|
same moment. He hadn't heard me coming up on him, the smug cocksucker. So,
|
|
when he opened the driver's side door, I grabbed him by the hair and smacked
|
|
it against the doorframe hard. He slumped, and I slid him over into the
|
|
passenger seat. I liberated his car keys, and started the engine. I figured
|
|
I'd come back for my car later."
|
|
|
|
"He was bleeding a bit from the blow to the forehead. You guys know how head
|
|
cuts are. But he wasn't in any danger. Possibly a concussion, but as you
|
|
know, he'd wish that was all that happened to him. His wish would not be
|
|
granted. He was scum, and if we couldn't get him off the streets by the book,
|
|
I was going to have to break the rules."
|
|
|
|
"I drove back to the cabin, and he was still out, but his breathing was even,
|
|
and he was OK. I wanted him to wake up with a clear head, because I wanted
|
|
him to remember everything I had to say to him before I ended his existence
|
|
in a painful way."
|
|
|
|
"Don't look at me that way!! In my heart, I'm still a cop. Sometimes, you
|
|
just can't do the right thing, because it really isn't right. I doubt if you
|
|
catch my meaning."
|
|
|
|
"I stripped him naked, so he wouldn't try to run off. He'd have never found
|
|
his way off of that hill. Shit, it was 35 degrees out there. He'd have died
|
|
of exposure. He was going to die anyway, but he didn't know that. Then I tied
|
|
his arms behind his back, and his legs to the legs of a workbench I had
|
|
there. I slipped a handmade noose around his neck and secured it around a
|
|
bench leg on the other end. I had the bastard right where I wanted him;
|
|
immobile, naked and flat on his back."
|
|
|
|
"He started waking up then. He looked around as if to orient himself, but he
|
|
was in a strange place and his brains were probably scrambled from the blow
|
|
to the head I knocked him out with. Finally, his eyes fell on me. He looked
|
|
as if he was pissed off or something. He was one smug bastard. He mumbled
|
|
something through the duct tape. I walked over and yanked it off none too
|
|
gently. He sputtered and spit, then he made a mistake. He said 'You know I'm
|
|
going to have your badge for this.' I said, 'No. You're not. You're not going
|
|
to leave this place alive.'"
|
|
|
|
"That's when he knew he was in deep shit. You could see it in his eyes, and I
|
|
was damned glad. I'd tried to get that look on his face ever since I'd first
|
|
met him. He was still all bluster, but it wasn't convincing. As I stood over
|
|
him, I debated where I was going to start. I decided to bury my fist in his
|
|
stomach. The wind was knocked out of him, but the way he was tied didn't
|
|
allow him to curl up in the fetal position. The pain in his eyes was visible.
|
|
I spit in his face. Then, I told him, 'When I decide to let you die, you'll
|
|
be grateful.'"
|
|
|
|
"He was crying then. I'd scared him to death, nearly. Then, I gave him the
|
|
speech I'd made for this occasion. I said, 'Orton, you are scum. You hurt
|
|
kids and feel no remorse. You don't deserve to live, and you won't. I'm going
|
|
to kill you, but I want you to know why. You are a monster, and I can't stop
|
|
you by legal means, so I'm taking the law into my hands. You have been
|
|
sentenced to die, but I'm going to hurt you first. There will be no appeal.
|
|
There will be no mercy. And, for me, there will be no remorse.'"
|
|
|
|
"He was begging now. He said he'd give me money. I wished I hadn't taken the
|
|
tape off of his mouth now, not because I was afraid someone would hear him.
|
|
Shit, that cabin was a mile from any traveled road. I just didn't want to
|
|
listen to him snivel. He went on pleading and crying, and I went over to the
|
|
wall and took down the sledge."
|
|
|
|
"The fucker thought I was going to cave his head in. But that was too good
|
|
for him. I brought the sledge up, and brought it down in the meaty part of
|
|
his thigh. It was a heavy sledge. The skin just sort of burst and the bone
|
|
snapped with a cracking sound, like a .22 pistol shot. Orton let out a scream
|
|
that liked to split my eardrums before he passed out. I wanted to finish him
|
|
off now, but I wanted him conscious. So, I did the other leg, figuring that
|
|
if I waited until he came to, he'd just pass out again when I smashed the
|
|
second leg."
|
|
|
|
"He lay there with both legs laid open and blood flowing freely. I hoped he
|
|
wouldn't die before I was ready for him to. I went outside and took a pull
|
|
off the whiskey bottle that I kept there. I lit a cigarette and waited for
|
|
Orton to wake up. Went through 3 cigarettes and a half a pint of soothing
|
|
whiskey, when I heard him whimpering and crying in what must have been
|
|
excruciating pain."
|
|
|
|
"I walked over to him and looked at his eyes. They were pleading, though I
|
|
wasn't sure if he wanted me to help him or put him out of his misery. I then
|
|
walked over to the paint cabinet and removed the drum and began pouring the
|
|
stuff in a circle around the bench to which he was secured. I said, "I'm
|
|
going to cremate you alive." He whimpered again, but there was little
|
|
conviction. I poured some of the paint thinner into the open wounds on his
|
|
legs, which got one loud scream out of him."
|
|
|
|
"Then, I simply dropped a match and walked out. The place went up in no time.
|
|
I waited until I heard him shrieking, the signal that he was now on fire. I
|
|
walked further down the road. After his screams stopped, I heard the drum of
|
|
flammable chemicals explode with a "WHUMMFF" noise, so I drove back into town
|
|
and called you guys."
|
|
|
|
============================
|
|
|
|
There was little left to identify the body of Dallas Orton by the time the
|
|
authorities got to the Kelly cabin. Due to the grisly nature of the crime,
|
|
Kelly was sent to the mental unit of the jail, where he was deemed sane at
|
|
the time of the crime. He was tried for murder, convicted and sentenced to
|
|
life in prison, in the Protective Custody wing.
|
|
|
|
Nevertheless, he was killed in a freak accident in the kitchen area when he
|
|
fell into a vat of boiling water used to prepare food for the inmate
|
|
population. After a short investigation, it was officially deemed an
|
|
accident, the fourth time in recent years that a former law officer had died
|
|
at the facility under like circumstances.
|
|
|
|
|
|
</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
|
|
STRAY BONUS
|
|
|
|
Words You Will Not Find in the Bible
|
|
|
|
dick
|
|
scrub
|
|
felch
|
|
fisting
|
|
toenail
|
|
crank
|
|
slick 50
|
|
winona
|
|
hemi
|
|
MC5
|
|
abortion is murder
|
|
meat is murder
|
|
christ was a chump
|
|
xian
|
|
sassy
|
|
suckle
|
|
squeal
|
|
grrrls
|
|
pie hole
|
|
the virgin mary wasn't one
|
|
blowjob
|
|
smashing pumpkins
|
|
disney(TM)
|
|
jeff koyen
|
|
slurp
|
|
aardvark
|
|
godzilla
|
|
bossa nova
|
|
|
|
Words You Will Find in the Bible
|
|
|
|
creep [leviticus 11, psalms 104, ezekiel 38, II timothy 3]
|
|
crumb [matthew 15, mark 7, luke 16]
|
|
god zilla [genesis 4: god + "zilla" as part of the name "Zillah"--color me
|
|
fucking surprised.]
|
|
|
|
|
|
</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
|
|
12.
|
|
|
|
A Short & Sweet Tribute to the Lambada of the Americana 60's: The Bossa
|
|
Fucking Nova
|
|
|
|
Subtitle: This man finally gets to dance.
|
|
|
|
It started at places like the Palladium and the Apollo, pre-WW2. Cuban jazz.
|
|
Today, of course, it's nothing special. Hell, every metropolitan area has AT
|
|
LEAST one FM station that mixes in top-40 dance music with latino beats, not
|
|
to mention a slew of Spanish AM stations that stick to more traditional
|
|
music.
|
|
|
|
But this was 19-THIRTYsomething. White big band leaders were Top Dog across
|
|
America. Billie Holiday was still referred to as "that nigger wench" in the
|
|
very clubs she was selling out [source: some NPR show--maybe "Morning
|
|
Edition." I ain't too sure, bub.]. And the up-and-coming craze was Cuban
|
|
Jazz.
|
|
|
|
It's no surprise. Cuba wasn't an enemy--wouldn't be for quite a few years.
|
|
Havana was still the biggest gambling spot in the Western World; all the
|
|
money-men flocked there to play with their fortunes...and whores. In a
|
|
nutshell, South American culture was exotic, not...well, not low-class.
|
|
|
|
By the time World War II was over, a handful of Cuban musicians had made
|
|
names for themselves in New York City. Again, consider: America's latest
|
|
enemy had been European and Asian; our Southern friends were just that:
|
|
friends. No talk of closing the border; no problem with Mexican immigrants.
|
|
Joe America hated those troublesome Nazis, Nips and Niggers; not them
|
|
friggin' Wetbacks. Not yet, anyway.
|
|
|
|
So people like Buddy Rich and Charlie Parker wanted to record with these
|
|
upstart Cuban band leaders, and musicians like Dizzy Gillespie did record
|
|
with them. Overnight, Cuban jazz was ALL THE RAGE.
|
|
|
|
Ever hear of Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass? OF COURSE YOU HAVE. Well, Herb
|
|
and the boys owe it all to these hombres. It was the cuban jazz band leaders
|
|
of the 30's & 40's who opened up the door for the Latino music craze of the
|
|
50's & early-60's.
|
|
|
|
So what does this have to do with me being able to dance? Everything. If it
|
|
weren't for these guys, I never would've found my first Bossa Nova LP. And
|
|
without the Bossa Nova, I can't dance. Just read on.
|
|
|
|
Rather than having me try and explain the Bossa Nova, I'll let the albums
|
|
speak for themselves.
|
|
|
|
From the back of "The Big Bossa Nova," by Bob Freedman and his Group (shown):
|
|
|
|
"Literally translated the name Bossa Nova means
|
|
"new wrinkle" or "new flair." Still another
|
|
translation into English could be "New beat";
|
|
which is exactly what the Bossa Nova is: a new
|
|
style of lyric and rhythm."
|
|
|
|
"Bossa Nova, to put it simply, is a "new dance."
|
|
A wedding of the samba and Rhumba harmonies on
|
|
guitars and saxophones with a syncopated harmony
|
|
of clavas, cabasos and bead-filled gourds."
|
|
|
|
"Bossa Nova is a dance of great relaxation, with
|
|
an attitude of freedom; a sound which moves body
|
|
and spirit to ask: "So who wants to work
|
|
anyway?""
|
|
|
|
AMEN, BOB! Who the fuck DOES want to work, anyway?!? Not me, kiddo. Not
|
|
fucking me.
|
|
|
|
From "BOSSA NOVA, The New Swinging Samba" by the Stan Field Sextet (shown):
|
|
|
|
Bossa Nova...has taken the nation by storm. The
|
|
"new beat" is a variation of the twist--with a
|
|
Latin approach...If you have not already become a
|
|
fan of this new dance beat, we guarantee that
|
|
this album will make you do the BOSSA NOVA.
|
|
|
|
How true. How true. Let me tell you about it.
|
|
|
|
MY OWN PRIVATE BOSSA NOVA: THE FIRST PURCHASE
|
|
|
|
Well, Christ, of course I'd HEARD of the Bossa Nova. I'd seen an album or two
|
|
kicking around the vinyl bins. But you know what? They never appealed to me;
|
|
I always passed them by. Perhaps I wasn't ready. Perhaps something was
|
|
keeping me from the Bossa Nova until my naturally-poor rhythm was ready to
|
|
accept it. Or, perhaps I was being a fool.
|
|
|
|
One Saturday afternoon, late in the day, flipping through the stacks,
|
|
bitterly cursing the popularity of used vinyl (but cursing myself more for
|
|
hitting the bin so late in the day) I came across the two albums pictured
|
|
above. Much like the first time I decided to waste my money on a Jerry Vale
|
|
record, I decided that IT WAS TIME. Time to buy the Bossa Nova. Time to drop
|
|
the big dollar. Of course, Jerry Vale has NEVER been worth a dime I spent,
|
|
but the above two records are another story.
|
|
|
|
They hit the turntable with the customary pop and crackle. Almost
|
|
immediately, the rhythm lifted me off my feet; a light, playful Latin beat.
|
|
Now, don't get me wrong--I wouldn't know a fucking samba from a conga from a
|
|
kook-a-fucking-racha, but I know what I like. And I liked this watered-down,
|
|
Americana Latino beat nonsense. It seemed such easy dancing. But how?? HOW
|
|
does a clod like me dance to it??
|
|
|
|
Hopeful, I grabbed the record sleeves and found the fucking Rosetta Stone of
|
|
Bossa Nova's--a step-by-step guide to Dancing the Bossa Nova, in simple
|
|
Ingles, on the back of the Bob Freedman Record (reprinted below). Imagine!
|
|
Those crazy Latinos had actually GIVEN US THE SECRET OF THE BOSSA NOVA!!
|
|
|
|
And IT WAS SO EASY TO DANCE TO! With full instructions in hand, I followed
|
|
the steps. Slowly, at first. And just then, growing confident that I was a
|
|
natural at the BOSSA NOVA, I threw the album down, grabbed my bottle of
|
|
Schmidts, and DANCED THE BOSSA NOVA without the aid of the INSTRUCTIONS! It
|
|
was pure epiphany for this man whose previous experiences of rhythm were
|
|
slow-dancing with a hard-on to Journey at the Junior Prom, and, over the same
|
|
weekend, discovering the unexpected pleasure of jumping around at a Naked
|
|
Raygun show in '86. I was a man who could not dance. Period.
|
|
|
|
BOSSA NOVA AND ME
|
|
|
|
Enthralled, I craved the Bossa Nova every waking hour for a week straight. I
|
|
fell asleep to the Bossa Nova. I drank to the Bossa Nova. I danced to the
|
|
Bossa Nova. I drank and I danced to the Bossa Nova. Oh, how I danced.
|
|
|
|
I even convinced Amy to dance the Bossa Nova...in the privacy of my bedroom
|
|
with the shades drawn. (No need to make the neighbors even more curious.) And
|
|
she admitted, after the particularly thrilling "Devil" Bossa Nova (Hal
|
|
Freedman once AGAIN!), that the BN was, indeed, a pretty fucking cool dance.
|
|
|
|
I decided that research was is order. But I didn't conduct research like YOU
|
|
might conduct research. I didn't go to the library or anything. Christ, no! I
|
|
just bought more vinyl, and drew my own conclusions.
|
|
|
|
Piecing together various liner notes, we discover that the Bossa Nova began
|
|
in Rio in a "little club called DRINK, and caught on faster than you could
|
|
stir a scotch and soda with your finger."(1) Beginning in 1958, the Bossa
|
|
Nova spread across the city of Rio de Janeiro, culminating in two open-air
|
|
Bossa Nova concerts in 1960.(2) In late 1962, the Bossa Nova "washed up on
|
|
Yankee shores" and "almost succeeded in flooding the music marts before it
|
|
began to 'settle in.'"(3)
|
|
|
|
"Settle in," indeed. Not only did the Bossa Nova settle in, but it managed to
|
|
infiltrate every aspect of pop music culture that America had to offer.
|
|
Forget the shmucks like Bob Freedman and Stan Fields--they needed whatever
|
|
angle they could find to sell albums in the competitive world of
|
|
pop-jazz-orchestra music. Let's look at guys like Dave Brubeck--an otherwise
|
|
respected jazz composer whose albums litter the collectible racks in old
|
|
men's record shops across the country.
|
|
|
|
In 1963, the Dave Brubeck Quartet released "Bossa Nova USA," a collection of
|
|
songs that were either re-arranged specifically as Bossa Novas, or new songs
|
|
that were written as half-assed Bossa Novas. The album blows, even by Bossa
|
|
Nova standards--an obvious attempt to hop on the latest craze. And doesn't
|
|
their album cover (shown) just STINK of the Beach Boys? It's pure crap.
|
|
|
|
Even more sinister is the blatant Revisionism that occurred--unnoticed--in
|
|
the short-lived era of the Bossa Nova. Take a look at Joao Gilberto's album,
|
|
"Pops in Portuguese." Like Dave Brubeck, Joao was a respected musician; he
|
|
played with all the greats. The album in question (shown) was released BEFORE
|
|
the Bossa Nova "washed up on Yankee shores" in 1962, but was later adorned
|
|
with a sticker that read:
|
|
|
|
"THE ORIGINAL BOSSA NOVA SOUND! PERFORMED BY JOAO GILBERTO"
|
|
|
|
Sound like a CASH-IN to you? It does to me. This album is traditional
|
|
Brazilian jazz guitar compositions. Do you really think that Joao Gilberto
|
|
knew the Bossa Nova from a Jitterbug? I doubt it. And I doubt he even knew
|
|
that Capitol Records was trying to tout him as the "original Bossa Nova
|
|
sound."
|
|
|
|
But the Bossa Nova didn't stop there. Oh, no. It got worse. Take a look at
|
|
the album released by The Bossa Nova Pops, Joe Harnell, His Piano, and
|
|
Orchestra (shown). Any of these song titles ring a bell? "Fly Me to the
|
|
Moon"? "I Left My Heart in San Francisco"? "Cry Me a River" (popularized of
|
|
late by none other than those swankster-come-latelies, Combustible Edison).
|
|
Oh, yeh, baby, it was an album of COVER SONGS a la BOSSA NOVA. Ack! What a
|
|
fucking can of worms I opened up! It was too much.
|
|
|
|
THE BOSSA NOVA MOB
|
|
|
|
Feeling like a UFO buff who uncovered too much, got scared and packed up the
|
|
tent, letting the government have its way, I have since retired all but my
|
|
first 2 BN records: Bob Freedman and Stan Fields. There the others sit, on my
|
|
shelf, next to other shit records I haven't touched in months. Bob and Stan's
|
|
slabs, however, remain in regular play on my turntable, especially after a
|
|
few drinks and a good meal, and prior to a good roll on the sheets with Amy.
|
|
|
|
Did I tell you that the Bossa Nova is a wonderful rhythm for two people about
|
|
to fuck? Well, it is. Much better than the Lambada ever became, which was
|
|
obviously fashioned after the Bossa Nova's success thirty years prior. But
|
|
that's for another issue. An issue in 5 or 10 years, when the 80's suddenly
|
|
become RETRO and we have to re-live that fucking decade over again.
|
|
|
|
Until then, good luck, enjoy, and (of course) adios.
|
|
|
|
Sources:
|
|
1) The Big Bossa Nova (Hal Freedman);
|
|
Coronet Records.
|
|
2) Fly Me to the Moon (Bossa Nova Pops);
|
|
KAPP Records.
|
|
3) Bossa Nova USA (Dave Brubeck Quartet);
|
|
Columbia Records.
|
|
|
|
Once again, from the back of "The Big Bossa Nova," by Bob Freedman and his
|
|
Group:
|
|
|
|
HOW TO DANCE THE BOSSA NOVA
|
|
|
|
"Gentle swaying of the hips while the body remains straight and almost
|
|
motionless is the Bossa Nova. Knees bend with each step, weight must remain
|
|
evenly balanced on balls of each foot.
|
|
|
|
"The degree of hip motion for example is up to each dancer. Partners can
|
|
dance near to each other or at some distance apart as they choose. And
|
|
remember the Bossa Nova is essentially a rhythm dance; that is, the dancers
|
|
accent each step to the distinct beat of the music.
|
|
|
|
"Start with feet together.
|
|
|
|
"Man steps forward on left foot, close right foot to left foot without
|
|
transferring weight. Right foot back, close left foot to right foot without
|
|
transferring weight. The woman makes all her steps in the opposite
|
|
directions, as follows: feet close together back right foot--close left to
|
|
right foot without transferring weight. Forward left foot. Close right foot
|
|
to left foot without transferring weight.
|
|
|
|
"The partners' next step is to reverse steps--each taking the other's.
|
|
|
|
"Remember, the basic element required is the bending of the knees on each
|
|
step followed by swaying of the body. The knees bend and the body sways
|
|
slightly forward on the backward steps, while on the forward steps the body
|
|
sway is slightly backward. The rhythm in each movement is the Bossa Nova's
|
|
secret.
|
|
|
|
"Many variations of the basic step are possible. The dancers are apart from
|
|
each other holding hands. The man takes four steps to the left, bringing
|
|
right foot behind left each time. Then the man takes four steps to the right
|
|
reversing feet movement. Remember, the essential is to take these steps with
|
|
bent knees and a rhythmic swaying of the hips.
|
|
|
|
"Strange to say, the Bossa Nova is so flexible that even a waltz step can be
|
|
adapted to it. When trying this step, remember that because of the knee bend
|
|
and the rock and sway movement the steps must be shorter. Also try the
|
|
fox-trot side step to the Bossa Nova. Slide the feet when you try this step.
|
|
|
|
"The fun in dancing the Bossa Nova is that the partners are not restricted to
|
|
a set of rigidly patterned steps. Partners are free to let their own
|
|
interpretations flow gracefully with the music."
|
|
|
|
|
|
</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
|
|
17.
|
|
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To Hell & Back...Potato City, PA
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THE HISTORY
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Every year in Philadelphia, as you might well imagine, there is a spectacular
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fireworks display for Independence Day. Last year (1993) Amy and I saw it
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from perfect seats--the Vine Street Expressway. See, we'd been at a bar on
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the east side, and I live on the west side. Unfortunately, it was my first
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summer in this city and no one told me about the residents' long-standing
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tradition to sit on their cars along the Vine Street Expressway (THE major
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road that passes through town) in order to watch the fireworks at the Art
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Museum. It is--I must admit--a perfect view.
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As I was saying, Amy and I were across town at a bar and decided to go home.
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We had to get across town, eh? The logical choice is the Expressway--a 10
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minute hop. But it was July 4th. The fireworks had just begun. We got ON just
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far enough to have no way OFF when we were suddenly faced with 300 cars
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stopped dead--the owners were watching the pretty boom-booms.
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So between sitting there for the display and trying to get home when everyone
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cleared out, we got fucked. We got fucked for 6 hours. I vowed to never be in
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Philadelphia for July 4th for the duration of my meager life.
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THE IMPETUS
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Tom and I were both particularly broke. We'd both been surviving on a diet of
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potatoes, rice and pasta for a couple weeks.
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One night, watching tv, we came upon a PBS program about Roadside Attractions
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in Pennsylvania. There were the regulars--restored dining cars across the
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state, the Melrose Diner here in the city, etc. But one feature made us laugh
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out loud: Potato City, PA. What the fuck? POTATO CITY? Yeh, Potato Fucking
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City. Sounded like our own personal Meccas, considering that we were each
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eating 10 lbs of potatoes a week.
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A motor lodge located in Coudersport, Pa, Potato City's claim-to-fame is
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having been founded by Richard Nixon's uncle as a meeting place for the
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potato industry. Now, Potato City survives as a Motor Lodge and Roadside
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non-Attraction in North Central PA.
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According to the PBS program, the house specialty is a dish called "Potatoes
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Fiesta," a mish-mash of potatoes, 3 cheeses, onions, peppers, and secret
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ingredients.
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Oh, how we laughed and laughed.
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THE "VACATION"
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I get no time off at my job. Sure, I guess I'm entitled to 2 weeks of
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vacation, but I just can't take a week off, you know what I mean? There's too
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much shit to do.
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Back in February, I told my boss that instead of a full week of vacation--a
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week inevitably interrupted by calls from the boss and incompetent
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co-workers--I'd decided to extend the three 3-day summer weekends: Memorial
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Day, July 4th, Labor Day. Everyone was happy with my idea.
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Well, wouldn't you know it? Memorial Day became nothing more than an extra
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day to drink late. Then June rolled around, and July 4th was approaching like
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an abusive trick approaches a cheap whore. I had to get out of Philadelphia,
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I knew, or face a miserable FOUR-DAY weekend, one-third of my summer
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vacation.
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"Want to drive down to DC?" Amy asked me. "Or maybe even get a room down the
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shore?" / "No," I say. "How about Potato City?" Mustering up courage, I tell
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her about my great idea for the weekend.
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Amy was sold. And don't let her tell you any different--she was excited by
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the idea. She may joke that I owe her a trip to somewhere SHE wants to go on
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our NEXT "vacation," but fuck that--we went in this together.
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I called the Motor Lodge and got more information. The fellow there faxed me
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a flyer about Potato City, which explained the connection to Tricky Dick, and
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described the "most beautiful potato fields in Pennsylvania."
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Fuck, who knew Pennsylvania even grew potatoes?
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I made reservations for Saturday the 2nd. PLENTY of rooms, the fellow says.
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That, my friends, should have been taken as a warning.
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THE DRIVE
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Coudersport, PA, is located dead center along the north border of
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Pennsylvania. I figured on a 6-hour drive from Philadelphia, maybe 7 from
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Amy's place in Central Jersey. We decided to leave early Saturday morning,
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stay in Potato City that night, leave from there Sunday late morning, drive
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aimlessly, then find somewhere to stay along the way back on Sunday the 3rd.
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We'd make it back to her place sometime on the 4th and I'd stay there that
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night.
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"No matter what, I refuse to be in Philadelphia on the 4th."
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NEW JERSEY
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We packed some food and hit the road at 9am. We chose to take Amy's 4-door
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Honda Civic, a comfortable and gas-wise car. But mainly, it has a
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stereo--mine doesn't. We took 287N to 80W, which I planned to take straight
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into the heartland of Pennsylvania.
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There is, simply, nothing of interest in New Jersey, so let's skip right to
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PA, which was FAR more exciting.
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ROUTE 80: PENNSYLVANIA
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Our first stop was to empty our bladders. The Holiday Inn at Exit 45 was very
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clean and well-kept. I took a picture in the parking lot, but my finger was
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over the lens. Photography has never been among my strengths.
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We'd already clocked 112 miles.
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From there, we continued for another hour before stopping for lunch at the
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Columbia County Roadside Rest Area, 170 miles into the trip. There, we at
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turkey sandwiches on--appropriately enough--potato bread which we had bought
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at the onset of the journey. Of the 20 cars in the rest area, at least 15 had
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NJ plates. Of these 15, at least 10 were filled with fat people. Not just
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large people; large people don't draw my attention. I'm talking people
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weighing in at least 250 on 5-foot-4 frames. Whole fucking families of them,
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rushing the candy machines, while Amy and I chewed on dry turkey sandwiches.
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I believe that New Jersey, among all the states, is filled with the largest
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population of disgusting and distasteful people.
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I should know. I lived there for 23 years.
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WILLIAMSPORT
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When I was planning the trip, I checked the map for attractions between NJ
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and Potato City, figuring on a little sight-seeing to laugh at locals. The
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best I found were Williamsport, a supposedly pleasant, "antiquey" town, and
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the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania. Well, we passed right through
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Williamsport--never considered stopping; it's a hole. As for the Grand
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Canyon, it was 10 miles off the main road, and from what I'd been told by a
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friend of a friend, it's also a hole. Literally. Just a big fucking hole.
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Nothing to see.
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WELLSBORO
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We took 80W to 180N (through Williamsport) to 15N to 6W, where we came upon
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Wellsboro, a small town that thrives on the hunting and fishing trade.
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Wellsboro consists of one long road littered with motor lodges and diners.
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Every single lodge advertised a discount for AAA card holders. Amy is a AAA
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card holder. I guess a lot of hunters and fishermen are AAA card holders,
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too.
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It seemed to me that if you want to make a living in Wellsboro, you do one of
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3 things: lodge hunters & fishers; feed hunters & fishers; or sell junk to
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hunters & fishers & the people who lodge/feed hunters & fishers. I have never
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in my life seen so many fucking roadside junk sales that were selling true
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junk. Five dozen "yard sales" and they all sucked ass, with one exception:
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Stefanko's, a small house turned junk shop. Here, for 25c, I bought a 16-oz
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glass tumbler with drink recipes etched on the side. And as an added bonus,
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owner Joe Stefanko was a real jokester. One of those "Hot enough for ya?"
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jerks; an old man trapped in a 35-year old body. Inside that coffin they
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called home, it sure was hot enough for me. And Amy. And Joe's wife, Ellen.
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Fuck the heat--I think JOE was enough for Ellen.
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When Joe pulled his "You want that glass in a SMALL bag?" [holding a hammer
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menacingly] routine for what must've been the 100th time that day, I thought
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Ellen was going to grab the hammer out of his hands and smash in his goddamn
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chucklehead skull.
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Still, for 25c, it was a worthwhile stop.
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Further up the road, we hit the Wellsboro Exxon. For those of you who have
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never bought gas in the Keystone State, we pump our own gas here; it's the
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law. And in Philadelphia, you pay BEFORE you pump; you have no choice--the
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pumps are controlled from inside. So naturally, that's what I did in
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Wellsboro; I went inside, told the young woman my pump number, and slid $7
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across the counter. A confused look came across her face when she rang up the
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purchase. "Oh, you haven't pumped the gas yet?" she asked.
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"You let people pump the gas FIRST?" I must've looked like a real rube.
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"Of course. This is the boonies, mister." Daisy Duke chirped.
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I spat out, "Man, you're a bunch of suckers." (I must work on that restraint
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thing). Daisy smiled condescendingly, like a priest to a repentant lad. "Ring
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me up for a bag of ice while you're at it," I added, sliding over a buck and
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a half.
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Outside, I grabbed 2 bags of ice from the freezer, threw them in the cooler,
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pumped $10 worth of gas into the Honda, and hit the road.
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Suckers.
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POTATO CITY PROPER
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The Potato City Motor Inn lies atop Denton Hill, elevation 2424 feet,
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towering high above Potter County, also known as God's Country, according to
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the local literature. I sure hope God likes to hunt, fish and sell junk to
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backwater hicks, because that's all there is to do in Potter County.
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Potato City, unlike most of its neighbors across the fucking county, does not
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offer a discount for AAA card holders.
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We hit Potato City at 3 o'clock. Not surprisingly, it was a dump--a step
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above the average fuck-me motel, a step below the average Motel 6, with worse
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furnishings. And everything about the room itself was average--the bed, the
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tv, the bathroom, the view. Hell, who the fuck am I kidding? There was no
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fucking view.
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But, still in optimistic spirits, we had sex, showered and went to the dining
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room that had been so predominantly featured in the PBS special that suckered
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us there in the first place.
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We were hungry, and boy, was I looking forward to trying those Potatoes
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Fiesta! Si! Si!
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Potato City is owned and operated by Joe and Kay Bohn, a husband-wife team
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who bought the place a few years ago. Joe was a nice enough guy, but, right
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off the bat, Kay was a real cunt. Kay Bohn, if I ever meet you again, I'm
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going to spit on your shoes. You were a patronizing, typical, small town,
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close-minded fuck. Although we were about to plunk down $40 for one of your
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shitty rooms, drop another $40 at dinner and $20 at the bar, you still looked
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at my boots with a sneer, and at Amy like she was a dumb bitch for being with
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a jerk like me. Fuck you, you damn whore.
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Let's cut to it: dinner sucked.
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The menu was almost entirely fish. (I hate fish. Pull it out of the fucking
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ground, or feed it something FROM the ground, or I won't eat it. Nothing with
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scales, thank you.) We were expecting Potatoes Everything! Baked Potatoes!
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Mashed Potatoes! French Fried Potatoes! Fucking BROILED Potatoes, for
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christ's sake! Nope. We got a menu full of fish.
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"And there's a buffet, for $14.95." Sold.
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The $15 buffet was: a salad bar of lettuce, cucumbers and a dozen mayo-based
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dishes; a table-full of bread; a terrible teriyaki-style chicken; frog legs
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swimming in butter; more fish dishes; undercooked, white trash wedding-style
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prime rib; and, lordy, there were the infamous Potatoes Fiesta! Mary Mother,
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I was saved! Whooee! I piled 'em high--$15 bucks' worth--alongside the stack
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of lettuce and cucumbers which were my main course.
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Needless to say, the Potatoes Fiesta did NOT make the trip worthwhile. A
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hybrid of mashed and au grautin with peppers and onions thrown in, Potatoes
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Fiesta aren't even worth a 2 mile drive to Pathmark. During dinner, we
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overheard an obese gentleman at the next table whisper to his companion, "the
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secret behind the fiesta potatoes is feta cheese." Oh, christ, big fucking
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secret. Now it's out! Better close up the joint--now everyone knows! THERE'S
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FETA CHEESE IN THE POTATOES!!
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After dinner, we drove to the local hotspots: the PA Lumber Museum (see
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photo; ho-hum) and a Deer Petting Zoo that houses the mangiest,
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saddest-looking baby deer. If I were 6 years old, I'd've bawled my eyes out,
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because Bambi looked like she'd been through her own little Deer Holocaust.
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We took some pictures, bought a six-pack, and decided to hide out in our
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room. So the big evening was "Operation Petticoat" and the best sex we'd had
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in weeks; we were obviously over-compensating.
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THE DEPARTURE
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Bright and early, we were so anxious to flee that we did not indulge in the
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complimentary coffee. Instead, we bought some merchandise (4 coffee mugs (2
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for ourselves; 2 for gifts), a crappy t-shirt for Amy, and a baseball cap
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which I wore right out the door without actually purchasing) and got on the
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road.
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The trip back was uneventful, with the exception of a Truck Stop along Route
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80, about 50 miles from the Jersey Border, where that I saw the foulest candy
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made by man: bubblegum fudge. Rather than chocolate, they use marshmallow;
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and rather than nuts, they use pieces of gum. This slab of tooth decay is
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then coated with confectionary sugar. I imagine that before you can buy it,
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you need to produce proof of pick-up truck ownership, a barefoot child in
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winter, and a pet rotweiller. Of course, if you drive a semi, I'm sure it's
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free with the purchase of a cup of coffee.
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GRAND TOTAL
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We drove 708 miles. We took 24 pictures.
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Ironically, the most potatoes we ate on the whole trip were in the loaf of
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potato bread we'd bought in the Grand Union in Jersey for $1.39.
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WE DIDN'T SEE ONE SINGLE FUCKING POTATO FIELD.
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I did, however, avoid the Fourth of July in Philadelphia.
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EPILOGUE
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Just the other day, Amy called for information on "The Corn Palace," located
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in Mitchell, South Dakota. Originally constructed in 1892, The Corn Palace
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grew so popular that they had to add another structure in 1921...
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I think we've found our next vacation spot. And I bet they've got cheap
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flights out of Potato City International. (e-readers: insert photo of Potato
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City airport here)
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Our Thanks to the Following for Getting Us There & Back:
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The AP Network News at the top of the hour
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on some backwoods family radio station
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Archers of Loaf
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Combustible Edison
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Crunt
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Drive Like Jehu
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Green Day
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Guided By Voices
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Hazel
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Honda Air Conditioning
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The Muffs
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Pegboy
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Picasso Trigger [Amy]
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small 23
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Shades Apart [Me]
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Stanford Prison Experiment
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Superchunk
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Texaco & Exxon Gasoline
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That Dog
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Yuengling Lager
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</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
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21.
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Winners Read! Readers Win!
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TEXT-ONLY READERS: The contest was visual, so I won't bother giving you the
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answer, since you didn't see the clue anyway. I will, however, reproduce the
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list of crap I sent the winner, if only to tease you into entering the new
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contest, as found on "page" 36.
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Rick (the winner) was sent the following items:
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VINYL: Martinis, Music & Memories, Jackie Gleason; Boys, Boys, Boys, Leslie
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Gore; The Mirror, Spooky Tooth; Bulletin Board, The Partridge Family; Live,
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Barry Manilow*; Bay City Rollers*; More Twistin' in High Society, Lester
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Lanin; Gold, Neil Diamond; Whipped Cream & Other Delights, Herb Alpert...;
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The Living End, Jandek (sorry it couldn't be HD's Living End); Foster Brooks
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"Sings"; Crack Attack 12", Big Stick; Little White Lies/A Cottage for Sale
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7", Mel Torme.
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CDs: Mono, Fury in the Slaughterhouse; the marble index, Nico.
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BOOKS: SIGNED EDITION of Sometimes God Has a Kid's Face, Bruce Ritter (of
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Covenant House, NYC, fame--charged with child molestation); SIGNED EDITION of
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Marriott, The J. Willard Marriott Story, Robert O'Brien; SIGNED EDITION of
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Everything to Gain, Making the Most of the Rest of Your Life, Jimmy and
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Rosalyn Carter; SIGNED EDITION of The Irish Potato Famine, World Disaster
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series, Lucent Books.
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MISC: 1- 15 oz. can of Orleans Jack Mackerel* ("ingredients: Jack Mackerel,
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Water, and Salt"); 1 - 3/4-full 375 ml. bottle Hawaiian Blue MD 20/20*; 1 -
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1/2-full .4 oz. tube of Johnson & Johnson K-Y jelly*, for the lucky lady
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sharing the MD with Rick; 2 tablets of Imodium A-D, for the morning after the
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Mad Dog; Cremation Options, an informative pamphlet by The Oliver H. Bair
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Company, Philadelphia PA, for the day MD does him in once and for all.
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As you can well see, Rick made a killing, just for knowing his cheap booze.
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Ironically, the postage to send out this package was far more than the worth
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of the contents. (* indicates a donation by Tom Bielavitz of page 22 fame;
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I'm sure Rick thanks you, Tom, especially for the K-Y.)
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Be a winner, too! See page 36 for the new contest!
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</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
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**ADVERTISMENT**
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Factsheet Five: The journal of independent media and free thought.
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$6 sample / $20 sub to
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Factsheet Five,
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PO Box 170099,
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San Francisco, CA 94117
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</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
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22.
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Time to Kill (lawyers, that is)
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By Tom Bielavitz (jitbagger@aol.com)
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We all hate lawyers, everybody from Rush Limbaugh to Howard Stern bitches
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about them; suit-happy sharks, and who pays for it all? We do, of course. Old
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story. Boring Story.
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A friend graduated law school about five years ago, and his first year out he
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had a civil case pending vs. BMW; a design flaw in the anti-lock braking
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system threatened his safety. His REAL motive? The profit from a winning case
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will afford him a more expensive BMW, or maybe a Mercedes. One with a better
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anti-lock braking system, of course. I don't know what the outcome was, but
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if it made it to court, I do know my that you and I paid for the time of the
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judge, bailiffs, stenographers, etc., to hear that greedy prick whine about
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his brakes. Fuck that. He's making $60,000, and I was driving a truck
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delivering cheese.
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The kind fact-checker at the Philadelphia office of the Pennsylvania Bar
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Association informed me that approximately 4600 people took the Bar Exam this
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past July. They expect that 80% will pass it on their first try. (3700 people
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can do it in one shot, but John-John took how long?) This is just
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Pennsylvania.
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Clearly, we have enough lawyers in this country.
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Recently an opportunity came my way to force back the tide. I don't propose
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as aggressive a plan as murder--very few people are successful at it in any
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quantity to make a difference. However, like weeds, lawyers can be removed
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one at a time. And I have pulled my first would-be lawyer. Please follow
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suit.
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MY METHOD
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Another friend of mine--I'll call her Alexis--graduated from law school this
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past Spring. Of course, she immediately applied to be accepted into the Bar.
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For most states, a number of personal references are required, in addition to
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the Bar Examination itself. And since we've been close for nearly a dozen
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years, I was a natural--if not safe--choice.
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You see, the Bar Association sent me a form to complete, which I did. It is
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reprinted on the next page for your amusement. I lied--made up stories to
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make her appear, to put it lightly, UNWORTHY. In short, I fucked her.
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Soon, Alexis will be hawking uniforms at the Gap, and I'm to blame. As they
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say--not your Mom, but some of those radical types--"Revolution begins in the
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home," and so I figured I couldn't pass up this opportunity. My social circle
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is not large; I won't get another chance to eliminate a potential lawyer; all
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my other friends are lucky to have warehouse jobs.
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I'll never tell Alexis. She wouldn't admire my conviction and adherence to
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principles. No, this is the type of thing that can kill a friendship, and
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though I'm the guy that would shoot a lame dog, tell you when your shirt
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makes you look fat, or frankly inform you that your ass stinks, I am
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sensitive to the gravity of my actions. Coolly and logically, I knew what had
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to be done--what type of model would I be if I suggested such an action, yet
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did not take it? I'm a man of action!!
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In the hopes that even one reader will follow my lead, I am providing the
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following tips. Please take them, make them your own, and run with it:
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1. Tone is all- important.
|
|
Make it look as if you feel obligated to give a recommendation, but really
|
|
don't have anything nice to say.
|
|
|
|
2. Find out how long the applicant claims to have known you.
|
|
He says 6 years? You say, oh, 2 years. But be careful! You may rend yourself
|
|
an "unacceptable reference" if the length of time you state is less than the
|
|
required minimum. Your best bet is to check with the victim in a roundabout
|
|
way.
|
|
|
|
3. Acts of instability make one appear...well, unstable.
|
|
|
|
4. Use ambiguous verbs such as "seemed."
|
|
For example: "Carl seemed like he had a lot of integrity." Such a statement
|
|
implies the author can say for sure that Carl has integrity; lawyers
|
|
reviewing this statement can't miss a sly statement like this. Hell, they eat
|
|
this shit up.
|
|
|
|
5. Drug use looks bad.
|
|
|
|
6. Most law students are meticulous about their resumes. In fact, they are
|
|
often specific down to the exact days of when and where they worked. It is,
|
|
therefore, tough to make them look truly transient. Instead, a hint of a
|
|
transient lifestyle here and there is a good measure. Perhaps use something
|
|
such as "Although I knew John well for two years, he was always evasive about
|
|
his home life. Sometimes he did not appear to have showered for a week or
|
|
more. However, these are inconsequential facts in determining whether or not
|
|
he'd be a good lawyer. John certainly seemed like a smart guy. I'm sure he
|
|
would make a great public defendant."
|
|
|
|
7. "You can judge a man by the company he keeps." Make yourself look like an
|
|
idiot.
|
|
|
|
All in all, it's not hard to make someone look bad.
|
|
|
|
(REPRODUCED TEXT OF THE) Reference Letter
|
|
|
|
1. How long have you known the applicant?
|
|
|
|
2 Years.
|
|
|
|
2. In what capacity or under what circumstances have you known the
|
|
applicant? Describe any opportunities you have had to observe the applicant
|
|
(for example, as a coworker, employer, or neighboy).
|
|
|
|
XXXXXX and I became friends about two years ago. Our relationhip started as
|
|
merchant-customer (I tend bar in town), but soon became friendly in that
|
|
manner that people who spend a lot of time together will. XXXXXX has always
|
|
been a good egg, in my eyes.
|
|
|
|
3. Has the applicant to your knowledge been involved in any incident which
|
|
might reflect unfavorably on his or her character? If so, please describe the
|
|
incident.
|
|
|
|
The most unfavorably reflective incident occured just before closing on a
|
|
weekday. XXXXXX and her sister had been arguing about who was going home with
|
|
a man they had both been talking to. XXXXXX reached over the bar and grabbed
|
|
the scissors I had been using to cut coupons, and then tries to stab her
|
|
sister in the back! She really wasn't injured, but I called the ambulance
|
|
anyway. And being sisters, she didn't press charges. I feel I should add that
|
|
up to that point, XXXXXX was arguing excellently and I'm sure I'd want her on
|
|
my side in a courtroom. That girl has spunk!
|
|
|
|
4. Do you reccomend that the applicant be admitted to the Bar based on what
|
|
you know of the applicant's conduct, general moral character and standards,
|
|
legal ability, honesty, integrity, and fitness?
|
|
|
|
NO. In general, in knowing XXXXXX as I do, I'd choose another lawyer before
|
|
her.
|
|
|
|
[EDITOR'S NOTE: This is the real thing, kids. I saw the stamp go on the
|
|
envelope, and the envelope go into the box. Shit, she ain't my fucking
|
|
friend. -Jeff.]
|
|
|
|
|
|
</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
|
|
**ADVERTISEMENT**
|
|
|
|
HIGHBALL MAGAZINE
|
|
From the editors of "Die Evan Dando, Die" and "Crank"
|
|
|
|
The Definitive Guide to Booze, Cars and Girls.
|
|
|
|
Available at your more daring stores and stands or c/o CRANK, POB 1646,
|
|
Philadelphia, PA 19105-1646.
|
|
|
|
Single issue price $4.00 postpaid.
|
|
|
|
32 pages . Full color cover . Glossy stock
|
|
This ain't just another zine.
|
|
|
|
|
|
</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
|
|
26.
|
|
|
|
Hot damn! No more fucking reviews!
|
|
|
|
(TEXT READERS: BY NOT READING THE PRINTED VERSION OF CRANK, YOU LOSE OUT ON 5
|
|
PAGES OF SWELL LITTLE ICONS THAT I PREDICT WILL SPELL THE END OF THE
|
|
RIDICULOUS REVIEW SECTIONS THAT FILL JUST ABOUT EVERY ZINE ON MARKET. $2 AND
|
|
IT'S YOURS...)
|
|
|
|
|
|
</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
|
|
31.
|
|
|
|
Grab the Nearest dick, quick!
|
|
It's the Great Zine Circle Jerk!
|
|
|
|
(TEXT-READERS: ONCE AGAIN, AS A TEXT-ONLY READER, YOU'RE MISSING OUT ON A
|
|
COUPLE OF THINGS. WHILE YOU WOULD CERTAINLY UNDERSTAND THIS ARTICLE, IT IS
|
|
IRRELEVANT TO THE COMMUNITY OF E-ZINES. IT'S AIMED SPECIFICALLY AT THE WORLD
|
|
OF PRINTED ZINES. IT IS, THEREFORE, OMITTED.)
|
|
|
|
|
|
</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
|
|
33.
|
|
|
|
Surviving The Low-Life:
|
|
-or- Better Living Through Crank
|
|
|
|
Lots o' kids dream of living that crazy, downtrodden lifestyle that all the
|
|
great ones lived. Sure, baby: wake up at noon, slug down a couple pints to
|
|
settle that stomach, shower, shit, and hit the nearest bar by two. Well, you
|
|
know what? I've been there, friends, and it ain't that easy. It works well
|
|
for a few weeks. In fact, it's very refreshing to binge for a month or two
|
|
when your job has you in a deep rut. But then you find that extra 20 pounds
|
|
hanging on your pasty, fat face; your boss is walking the line between pity
|
|
and anger; and one evening you realize that a lot of things in your apartment
|
|
are broken...things like all the lightbulbs, more than half the dishes, and
|
|
your intestines. You need a fixin' up, pal. And you SWEAR that next time,
|
|
you'll be ready for that glass all over the floor that keeps sticking in your
|
|
feet when you try to walk to the fucking bathroom. But you know what? You
|
|
won't be ready, because you'll just pluck out the glass, empty your bladder
|
|
and go back to bed, drunk and happy.
|
|
|
|
Believe me when I tell you that I've hit lower than most of you. No, no, I've
|
|
never killed anyone, or beaten up my girl in a drunken rage; none of those
|
|
bullshit stories. You want a true anecdote from one man's bottoming out? Ok,
|
|
one Thursday morning, sitting with my boots up on my desk at work, I noticed
|
|
what looked like splotches of white paint on the tops of my shoes. Huh? I
|
|
took a closer look and wracked my brain for an explanation. Had I painted
|
|
recently? Spackled? Walked through cement? Nope. Aaahh, it finally hit me:
|
|
the last time I'd worn those boots, I'd gotten so drunk I wound up vomiting
|
|
in the gutter outside my apartment. The white spots were the last of the
|
|
turkey sandwich I'd eaten earlier that evening. At least it didn't smell--not
|
|
that I could notice, anyway. That was a turning point--I knew I had to start
|
|
being a tad more responsible in this ridiculous life I was leading. Even if
|
|
it only meant washing my boots before I was sober enough to be ashamed.
|
|
|
|
So, for all you guys and girls stuck in the same sinking, stinking boat, it's
|
|
time to take the rational approach to this overly-rewarding lifestyle. The
|
|
MBA phrase-boys call it "Proactivity." I call it "Living Smart."
|
|
|
|
Here are the things you should own if you plan to live the low-life:
|
|
|
|
Some are intended for cleaning up the inevitable damage; Some are intended as
|
|
diversion against the boredom that inevitably leads to violent, drunken
|
|
binges; Some are just meant to make your life seem more respectable, which
|
|
(if you believe the 12-step programs) is important to keeping your impulses
|
|
under control.
|
|
|
|
As with all things CRANK, I take no responsibility for YOUR actions, but,
|
|
please, do send photos of the damage, especially if it involves flesh.
|
|
|
|
|
|
1. Wet/Dry Shop-Vacuum
|
|
|
|
Though it's primarily viewed as a masculine toy, a good shop-vac can serve
|
|
both sexes equally. Much like a pair of ViceGrips, a wet/dry shop-vac can do
|
|
anything and everything your clumsy little hearts desire.
|
|
|
|
The vac' that saves our apartment just about every weekend is a SEARS
|
|
Craftsman, 6.0 gallon, 2.0 horsepower powerhouse. (I would have looked for a
|
|
Black and Decker, if those motherfuckers had even TRIED to respond to my
|
|
trepanation letter from Crank #2.) This particular model cost $40, which
|
|
seems a little steep, but you've got to understand--it was NECESSARY after a
|
|
bad night of cheap beer and mad dog. The glass was 2 inches deep, no shit,
|
|
and our new friend chewed it up without choking.
|
|
|
|
But let's forget the OBVIOUS industrial applications for a moment. We also
|
|
have a recurring problem with mice. And the runt cat that Tom picked up--much
|
|
to our surprise--has turned into a formidable mouser. Now, a mouse hunt is
|
|
fun to watch in your living room, but when that last bit of squealing life is
|
|
squeezed from Mickey's head, it's your job to dispose of the remains. Should
|
|
you scoop 'em up in a wad of paper towel? Wrap 'em in the morning paper?
|
|
Fuck, no. Get your shop-vac out and suck little Jerry straight up to mousy
|
|
heaven. Come to think of it, I think those three little mice corpses are
|
|
still rotting in the bottom of the vac. I wouldn't lie to you.
|
|
|
|
|
|
2. Cheap Binoculars
|
|
|
|
Just like Zsa Zsa, I love city life.
|
|
|
|
I'll grant that Philadelphia ain't THAT much of a city, but we've got all the
|
|
trappings of a major city: hostility, crime, violence, theft, dirt, and
|
|
plenty of bars. Oh, and I suppose there's a bunch of museums and probably a
|
|
big library somewhere, too.
|
|
|
|
Really, though, I love the absolute saturation of people that is unique to
|
|
city life. When you put too many people too close to each other, crazy things
|
|
happen. CLOSE PROXIMITY is THE source of crime.
|
|
|
|
If you live in the city (or anywhere else where a few neighbors' houses are
|
|
in view), buy a pair of binoculars. They ain't for spying titty, kids, so you
|
|
don't need a goddamn telescope (and if you can even afford a telescope,
|
|
you're reading the wrong fucking magazine). No, the binoculars are for
|
|
watching the people, not their parts.
|
|
|
|
So far, with my trusty 8X glasses stolen from a church thrift store for $5, I
|
|
have seen the woman in the apartment across the back alley beat her
|
|
7-year-old daughter on five different occasions with a wooden spoon. I have
|
|
seen a drunk man pull a steak knife on another drunk man (no bloodshed,
|
|
though--the other guy bolted out). I have seen countless arguments between
|
|
presumed husband-and-wives. And yes, indeed, I have even seen two people
|
|
fuck, but it was over before I finished my drink.
|
|
|
|
It might sound...pathetic? Is that the word? Yeh, I think that's the word.
|
|
But it's not pathetic--it's diversion. When I sit in front of the TV, I am
|
|
liable to go through a fifth of gin in a night. If I sit in my room and read
|
|
or write, I'll only drink a couple beers. If I don't feel like reading or
|
|
writing, I'll get out the binoculars and do my liver a favor.
|
|
|
|
And it is better than TV. Hands-down.
|
|
|
|
|
|
3. Electric Heater & Microwave &
|
|
Toaster Oven & a TV w/Antenna
|
|
|
|
Months ago, in one of the local newspapers, I read an excerpt from the latest
|
|
"GenX" handbook. The excerpt concerned the multi-colored envelopes from
|
|
utility companies stamped URGENT that pile up on the author's coffee table; a
|
|
relentless stream of unpaid bills marking her Generation X lifestyle. It
|
|
angered me to near-violence.
|
|
|
|
What an obnoxious load of self-glorifying bullshit. What a stupid fuck that
|
|
author must be. Who the fuck glorifies unpaid bills? Who the fuck wants
|
|
unpaid bills? Unpaid bills have left my credit rating so bad that I can't get
|
|
a fucking gas card. I can only DREAM of a Sears charge card. I'd probably
|
|
have to get a fucking co-signer to borrow 10 bucks from a friend.
|
|
|
|
I do have trouble paying my bills on time. But I can only speak for myself: I
|
|
never have enough money to cover all my bills every month. So, every month, I
|
|
pay one bill's balance from the previous month. Maybe when that NEA grant
|
|
comes through with a few grand, I'll pay everyone off. In the meantime, I
|
|
DON'T LIKE HAVING MY FUCKING UTILITIES SHUT OFF BECAUSE OF UNPAID BILLS. And
|
|
I'm sure as fuck not going to use my unpaid bills as a badge of honor for
|
|
induction into the Generation X Club.
|
|
|
|
Right now, there is no heat and no cooking gas in the apartment.
|
|
Surprisingly, this time it's not our fault--it's our cocksucker landlords,
|
|
who accrued a $6000 bill with the gas company and then stopped paying the
|
|
mortgage on the property. So the bank foreclosed and doesn't want to pay the
|
|
$6000 to get everything turned back on. THIS IS TRUE. And it's decidedly NOT
|
|
hip and GenX. It's cold, just plain fucking cold.
|
|
|
|
I cook everything in the microwave now that the stove and oven are useless. I
|
|
WISH I had a toaster oven; if the gas isn't turned on yet, then I'm looking
|
|
for a used one this weekend. I have a space heater next to my bed for the
|
|
4:00 a.m. chill that tears through the paper-thin window panes. The cable is
|
|
still on, because I consider that bill a priority. (I can't seem to live
|
|
without the Food Network, which is odd, considering I didn't cook that much
|
|
even when the gas was on.) Still, the TV antenna is in easy reach.
|
|
|
|
Get these items if you're planning to fuck up your bills because you're
|
|
either too much of an asshole to pay them on time and/or you're too broke.
|
|
You'll be happy you own them, believe me.
|
|
|
|
|
|
4. Good Bottle of Red
|
|
Good Bottle of White
|
|
|
|
It doesn't matter which you prefer. Just go out and blow 20 bucks on a couple
|
|
decent bottles of wine. Oh, just shut the fuck up--I know that $10 ain't
|
|
gonna buy you something you can serve the President, but we're down at my
|
|
standards, ok? Don't know shit about wine? Neither do I, so do what I
|
|
do--Mondavi. It looks nice on a cheap wine rack, and makes a great gift if
|
|
you get roped into a dinner or something at the last minute.
|
|
|
|
Most importantly, though, it's always nice to have another bottle of
|
|
something to come home to when the bars are closed, your fridge is empty, and
|
|
you've got another few hours to go. (Ok, so maybe this entry shouldn't have
|
|
been accompanied with the icon for "respectability," but I had to use that
|
|
graphic somewhere.)
|
|
|
|
|
|
5. Spackle
|
|
|
|
And a spackling knife, trough and wall-repair patches (for small jobs, they
|
|
work wonders).
|
|
|
|
So, yes, we've put some holes in our walls. (Fuck you, it's better than
|
|
picking barfights. Boys will be boys, right?) We found that you should also
|
|
know the location of the nearest hardware store, naturally, for those things
|
|
you never think you'll need, like tile grout.
|
|
|
|
|
|
6. Ice Pops
|
|
|
|
My secret for surviving particularly nasty mornings. Better than drinking
|
|
water, because they've got some sugar to get your belly into shape. They're
|
|
not too solid, so that you can still keep them down (or IN, if your bowels
|
|
are the problem).
|
|
|
|
Ice pops are also fine treats to give to neighborhood kids (so long as you
|
|
don't look the type to stick razors in apples). They, in turn, will put in a
|
|
good word with the folks who, in turn, will give you one last chance to turn
|
|
down that Big Black before calling in the law at 3 am.
|
|
|
|
|
|
7. A Good Sense of Humor
|
|
|
|
Because you're either going to laugh at your shitty life, or do yourself in
|
|
as soon as one bad month comes to a spirit-crushing end. If you choose the
|
|
latter, I'm sure there are at least 3 dozen little zines out there with kooky
|
|
advice for potential suicides. Go consult them.
|
|
|
|
No suicide tips here, kids. I advocate squeezing every drop of indulgent
|
|
experience out of this mundane life some people call "sacred."
|
|
|
|
I'd like to think that I've helped you achieve that goal.
|
|
|
|
THE END
|
|
|
|
|
|
</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
|
|
35.
|
|
|
|
True Confessions
|
|
|
|
I am intrigued by the idea of two obese people having sex. I'm talking OBESE.
|
|
FAT, baby.
|
|
|
|
I enjoy looking at young women, 15 to 18 years old.
|
|
|
|
I might wax my back when it becomes very hairy, at the age of 40 or so.
|
|
I was a late bloomer.
|
|
|
|
I sincerely believe that people are, on the whole, useless.
|
|
It appalls me that the average woman would have sex with the average man.
|
|
I am the above average man.
|
|
I also sincerely believe that if you go to a community pool and spend one
|
|
single hour looking at people, you will share my disgust for humanity.
|
|
|
|
Some of Bukowski's fuck stories have excited me.
|
|
Bukowski's story of a guy raping a five-year old girl did not excite me,
|
|
thank heavens.
|
|
Cooper's Frisk, though an enjoyable book, did not excite me, thank heavens
|
|
even more.
|
|
Jokes aside, I really don't care where you put your cock. Or cunt.
|
|
|
|
I have never paid a woman for sex, outside the conventional dinner and
|
|
drinks.
|
|
|
|
I enjoy getting drunk from jugs of cheap wine. E&J Gallo's Pink Rose is among
|
|
my favorites.
|
|
|
|
I am, undoubtedly, one of the most paranoid persons you will ever meet, when
|
|
it comes to intellectual property.
|
|
I don't exactly own 80 acres of intellectual property, if you know what I
|
|
mean.
|
|
More like a 1/4-acre plot in Bayonne.
|
|
|
|
|
|
</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
|
|
36.
|
|
|
|
Win Big with CRANK!
|
|
|
|
You think you know your beer? Well, you just might. But do you know your old
|
|
man's beer? That's right--get yer pappy on the phone and ask him to recall
|
|
the beer advertisements that drove him to drink.
|
|
|
|
Below are five slogans and/or pitches that were used as recently as 25 years
|
|
ago to sell four different brands of beer that--with the possible exception
|
|
of one of 'em--are still sold in just about every liquor store that has a
|
|
half-decent beer selection. All you've got to do is match the name with the
|
|
blanks (to make it tricky, there are more names than blanks, eh?) The person
|
|
who identifies the most outdated beer pitches gets a package of crap in their
|
|
mailbox. (See page 21 for the manifest of garbage I sent last issue's
|
|
winner.) Ties will be broken in some biased way.
|
|
|
|
The Brands to choose from:
|
|
Amstel Light
|
|
Bass
|
|
Blatz
|
|
Budweiser
|
|
Busch
|
|
Colt 45
|
|
Coors
|
|
Country Club
|
|
Falstaff
|
|
Fosters
|
|
Guinness
|
|
Heineken
|
|
Michelob
|
|
Miller
|
|
Molson
|
|
Old English 800
|
|
Pabst Blue Ribbon
|
|
Rolling Rock
|
|
Schlitz
|
|
Schmidts
|
|
Steigmeir
|
|
Straub
|
|
Stroh's
|
|
|
|
|
|
1.
|
|
"When you're out of ___________, you're out of beer."
|
|
|
|
2.
|
|
"The Thirst Slaker! __________"
|
|
|
|
3.
|
|
"Next time you feel like a couple of beers, have a _____________."
|
|
|
|
4 & 5.
|
|
(Two different clues for the same brand)
|
|
"Great on the rocks...with a lemon peel. It's also great in a tumbler. A mug.
|
|
Straight from the can. Or sipped through a straw. However, we recommend you
|
|
drink it like a beer, so long as you don't mistake it for one. A completely
|
|
unique experience!" ___________________
|
|
|
|
"A secretary writes: Getting dates used to be a problem till I switched to
|
|
___________. It succeeded where sexy perfumes failed. A completely unique
|
|
experience!"
|
|
|
|
|
|
Send your answers on whatever to POB 1646, Phil PA 19105-1646, or to
|
|
CRANK@AOL.COM. Issue #4 is due in January, so you've got until sometime in
|
|
December to get off your ass and send me your stupid guesses. My thanks to
|
|
Tom for such a wonderful contest idea. Oh, yeh, I almost forgot--if anyone
|
|
actually gets all of these right, I'll be really fucking impressed ...by your
|
|
dad's collection of old Playboys and such.
|
|
|
|
|
|
</><\></><\></><\></><\></><\>
|
|
**ADVERTISEMENT**
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|
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|
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meet other people that are as fucked-up as you are? Tired of being the only
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|
|
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|
|
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|
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more information. You've established a demented lifestyle, we'd like to see
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it stays that way.
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THE END
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CRANK #3. PO Box 1646. Phil PA 19105-1646
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Crank logo, icons and contents, copyright 1994 Jeff Koyen
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As always, correspondence is welcomed, if not always appreciated.
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Regards,
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Jeff Koyen
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