textfiles/magazines/MISC/db10.txt

Friends...

I have to admit--although I probably shouldn't--that putting this
e-zine together sure can be trying. I just don't have the electricity,
the energy, to bounce this month's dreamboy! to the four corners of the
globe. But that's what happens--you have good months and bad months.

Let's see. The three winners of last month's contest should have
received their books in the mail. But two of them haven't said anything
one way or another, so I'm assuming no news is good news. Right?

I also did something potentially unethical this past month. I lifted
another e-zine's long subscription list and sent everyone on that list
(except for the owner!) a copy of dreamboy! I correctly identified it as
"the one and only unsolicited copy" of dreamboy! they'll ever
receive...to get more they had to subscribe. Thankfully, about 10
intelligent individuals decided to join the group. On the flip side, I
received about 4 or 5 letters of extreme disapproval. Many demanded I
tell them where I got their name from, but there's no chance of that.
I'm sneaky...not stupid. The best reprimand, by far, was "keep your
fucking ego to yourself!"

What else? As you'll all remember, I asked you ALL to answer my brief
questionairre. Are you male or female? How old are you? Where are
you from? Almost half of you answered, which surprised me in all
honesty, so I didn't bitch and moan after the slackers as promised. I
figured I'd quit while ahead (besides, two people dropped themselves
from the list after receiving that retarded Newt Gingrich post).

The results are interesting. I received 50 responses. 82% male, 18%
female. I'm actually surprised there are that many girls reading
dreamboy! The more the merrier, I say, but ever since I can remember,
I've been criticized for, um, catering to male tastes in my work...to put
it nicely.

Of the men in the group, the ages range from two, count 'em, two 15
year old gentlemen (one in British Columbia and the other in Maine) to
54. The average male dreamboy! reader is a thick 29 years of age. Two
of my male readers decided to notify me of their "alternative"
proclivities.

The women are more closely aged, ranging from 18 to 28. The average
female reader is a healthy 25, and most live in the city (3 Los Angeles,
1 New York City, San Francisco, Minneapolis, Cambridge). None said
they where lesbians.

In general, you readers live around the periphery of the United States.
Aside from two Kentucky fellows and Smurfboy, the rest of you live in
states bordering either a large body of water, or Canada (does Idaho
reach all the way up to Canada? I should check a map). None of you live
in Nebraska, as far as I can tell.  The international clientele makes up
20% of those responding. Most are from somewhere in Ontario, but
dreamboy! finds its way to far off lands, like Ireland, Sweden,
Portugal, Malaysia, Tokyo, and--up until recently--Australia. (And as a
matter of fact, someone from Belgium subscribed just minutes ago...
everyone give a warm welcome to Bart. Bart from Belgium).

The most surprising reply was from a guy who says he's been
following my writing since my schooling at the Art Center College of
Design, in Pasadena. I used to hand out newsletters on a weekly basis,
featuring surreal, abrasive, and scatalogical prose. (What do you
expect!) I wrote him a note, asking him more about himself, but he
never replied...a mystery!

Some of you wanted to know my "stats," as if they matter. Here goes:
I'm a white, male, heterosexual. I'm currently 26 years old, I live in
Los Angeles, and I could stand to lose a few pounds (but not THAT
many). I like to play hockey, John Woo films, Nick Cave, Archie Comics,
and ravioli. Any questions?

$10. Buy my book.

Oh, I understand some of you may be posting dreamboy! on your private
BBS's. That's fine, but please let me know. There are a couple of rules,
and I like to keep track of dreamboy!'s whereabouts.

Chris

**********
dreamboy! currently has 115 loyal readers.
**********

March 1, 1995

I'm at a concert, or I'm watching it on television. I'm probably there,
because the angle is more intimate than television. I must be in the
front row.

cub is playing. Lisa Marr looks a little different in person than I
imagined, and Robynn isn't quite as cute as I'd like her to be, but she'll
do. Peggy says there's a new drummer, but I can't make out her face.

The stage is dark.

$          $          $

I exit the elevator at work and Sharon points to two people--a
couple--leaving the office. She tells me I should date the woman, even
though the man she's with is her husband. She says the woman asked
about me, though I have no idea who she is.

Sharon jokes about the couple. She says the man has the smallest
penis in the world, although she has no evidence to back it up. She says
he has an obvious small-penis-complex, which immediately makes me
think of Steve Wright. The way that fat guy talks about his Lexus, I bet
he's got an itty-bitty.

March 3, 1995

I'm driving along and I hear something. I feel it. My tires are reacting
oddly and I realize I must have multiple flat tires, but how I suddenly
got them is a mystery. The noises convince me to pull over.

Shit.

I'm standing, looking down at my tires. Someone popped holes in three
of them. Perfect circles, in the exact same place on each tire. It must
have been a woman. I can picture just who she might've been, although
how is still unknown.

What am I going to do? I look up and, hey, lucky me! I'm in the
showroom of Just Tires, the discount tires store. I get a salesman--an
old, Archie Bunker-type character--to come over and assist me. We
talk and bullshit and I somehow make him feel guilty for my situation.
Maybe I'll get a deal?

March 5, 1995

Linda and I are leaving somewhere, walking back to my truck. I'm
parked at the far end of a crowded lot--crowded with both cars and
people--and at first, I have no idea where my car is. It's dark and
somewhat confusing.

I press the button to deactivate my alarm, and my truck tweets twice.
"Oh," I say, "there it is."

Linda and I walk over. There's a gang of uglies hanging around my truck
and I don't like them. Not one bit. One of them approaches and says,
"Make sure you give me a computer printout, listing everything."

What?

I look at my truck and notice it's all dented. The door's rippled and the
front end is banged up pretty bad. What the fuck?!? I look inside and
notice everything is missing. The car has been completely gutted,
except for the driver's seat and The Club.

Horrified, I start wailing like a pussy.

$          $          $

I'm producing a show in my parent's garage. I've sent out
announcements, and tons of people have come to hear the bands play.
Too many people, infact. People are sitting all over my parent's cars,
denting them. I can't stand for that, so I make them all get down.

I'm playing police officer.

They all listen, which is nice. Two of them, though, go into the house. I
run in and grab them--no one can go inside. I look at them and they
seem a little older, but that's no excuse. My mother walks by and I ask,
"Do you know these two?"

She smiles and hugs one of them. They're old friends, I guess, so I let
them go. I forgot that my mother is having a party, too. I go back
outside.

Between sets, I pull out some tools and work on projects. I look over
and see Linda talking with Adrienne Doherty. Adrienne's ratty looking,
but cute. Just a little cuter, and she'd be Chanin Floyd, of Spell.

Jenny Groener shows up and says, "Guess who else is here..."

I have a pretty good idea, if Adrienne is here, but I won't look over.
Ignorance is blissful, indeed.

My mother appears and says, "That girl looks just like Joanna."

"Yeah," I unhappily groan, "she's here."

Linda and I leave, brandishing weapons and screaming at the tops of
our lungs.

March 6, 1995

Eddy Van Halen has AIDS.

I didn't know it at first, but now it totally makes sense. I heard Van
Halen was having their last concert ever, and I wondered why.

They just released an album of cover-songs. I guess Eddy's too week to
write original material. Or maybe he's too depressed. They say he can't
play like he used to.

There's a follow up story about the people he associates with. They're all
afraid of eating around him, supposedly. They're afraid he'll
spontaneously explode and spurt infected blood everywhere.

March 9, 1995

My aunt has hairy ears. I can see it--long, dark strands are sticking out,
pouring out.

"How often do you clean them?" I ask.

"Never," she says.

Yuck.

I can easily imagine forty years worth of compacted wax--dark
yellow-orange--hard and crusty, and flaking. It's solid, wrapped around
each and every follicle for dear life. The goop is skinned over and
splitting, like the waterless, desert floor. But underneath, deep within
the cheese, it's soft and damp and it stinks something awful.

March 11, 1995

I'm in a class, being taught by a Japanese computer animator. He
doesn't speak a word of english, and there are no subtitles. Everyone's
asking questions hapharzardly. The room's loud and unruly.

The animator is showing some of his work on the monitor, and I ask,
"How much did you get paid for that animation?"

The room becomes quiet.

I ask him again, because he doesn't understand. Everyone in the room
wants to know, so they all start asking him. Eventually, he gets the
idea and tries to explain. He starts writing yen numbers down, and
then equations with lots of multipliers. I notice the number "28"
keeps showing up on the chalkboard.

Then I figure it out. He's converting yen to dollars, and the "28" stands
for February.

March 12, 1995

Fuzz has AIDS. Cat AIDS, and I wonder if she's going to give it to Yeti
via her saliva. Cat's can probably do that, I think.

Or what about people? Can she lick me and give me AIDS?

That would be very bad.

March 13, 1995

I'm at the office, in the back room. I'm on all fours, in the
doggy-position on a desk. Marit is sitting below me, on a chair, leaning
back. We're talking, I think.

I grab a grease pencil and pull up her shirt. For an over-weight girl,
she sure has a tight stomach. I'm impressed by her ripped upper and
lower abdomen. Her skin's milk white, and covered with something
shiny, but I don't know what. With the pencil, I write "Chris was
here," in huge letters. I start just under her breasts and finish right at
the top of her pubic hair. I dot my period really hard, and laugh, saying,
"Explain that one to your fiance."

March 15, 1995

I'm a Kung Fu master.

I'm sparring with a blonde woman, and I easily take her out. I throw
her down to the mat and start Greco-Roman wrestling. I have her
pinned--she's on her back and I'm holding her knees up around the sides
of her head.

She smiles, and says, "My butt smells like Pop Rocks."

$          $          $

I'm driving around Edison, New Jersey with Jinko. We're in her green
BMW, so I'm the passenger. We pass my old house and I quickly point it
out. It's really strange looking.

I ask her to drive by CFA, too, because I don't know where it is.

"All right," she says. We drive off.

We start talking about Ed, and the way he drove all the way downtown
before coming to the west side of Los Angeles.

**********
Copyright(c)1995 by Christopher Dante Romano. All Rights Reserved.
Settle down, dreams are fiction.