Editorial
 I was listening to the radio the other night - talk radio (it keeps me awake when I have to drive a long distance during the night). It keeps me awake, usually because there’s enough there to get me so angry that I actually want to yell back at the radio.
Honestly, I actually once heard someone call in and say it was their constitutional right to food, that the government had to give them food if they didn’t get it themselves (tell me where in the Constitution does it say that citizens of the United States of America have the inalienable right to “life, liberty and blocks of cheese”). Last time I checked, The Pursuit of Happiness meant that you have the ability to do what you need to in order to acquire the things you need, such as food, not that the government has a responsibility to feed you.
So anyway, I was listening to the radio, and the discussion on this particular evening was about child molestors. Doctors and other experts has pretty much agreed that they are incurable, that castration doesn’t stop their urges to hurt children, because it is a power struggle more than a sexual venting. So the question arose: should people living within a community where a child molestor is going to move into be notified that this person was convicted of molesting children?
A similar story arose after a convicted rapist abducted and killed a neighborhood child after he was released from prison and “started anew.” The neighborhood was in an outrage; if they knew this man was a rapist, they said, they would have been more protective of their children.
So the question going over the air waves on this particular night was whether or not it was right to notify people of the acts you’ve been convicted of in the past.
People were talking about the heinousness of these crimes, how these child molestors should be killed, etc. - some also brought up the fact that the information about these people is already on public record - the only thing this law would be doing is informing people about the child-molesting history of such-and-such, instead of making individuals search out this information for themselves, which they would undoubtedly never get around to.
But first of all, it is not the role of our government to intervene with every aspect of our lives. The government is not supposed to protect “society.” As the closest thing to a capitalist society on this planet, “society” is made up a a group if individuals, and the government should work for the individual. Currently, any individual has the right to find out information about a person (this kind of falls into that “pursuit of happiness” thing), but we should not expect the government to hand it to us on a silver platter.
If a potential law does not apply in all situations, it is not a good law. So let’s apply this idea to other crimes: if you move into a new neighborhood, should all you new neighbors know that you shoplifted when you were nineteen? I don’t think so - all it will produce are negative effects.
People should be more responsible for themselves instead of asking the government to help them out more, then get angry when the gvernment gets out of control and continually hies your taxes to support the massive network of laws created on whims such as this one.
Furthermore, If this law went into effect for molestors already in prison, they aould be in essence receiving two separate sentences at two separte times for a crime they were tried for once. That goes against everything this country was founded on. If they need a greater sentence, give it to them when they are sentenced.
Humor
Lawyer Jokes
So there’s these three guys, a priest, a doctor, and a lawyer, stranded on an island, and there is no food to be had. They can see another island in the distance, one with food and hope of rescue. Unfortunately, the water between the two islands is infested with ferocious sharks. After a few days the priest is so hungry, he prays, and then heads in to the water, swimming furiously. The sharks plunge on him, and drive him back to the island after brutalizing him. The next day, the doctor tries, determined to swim fast enough. Again the sharks tear off a leg, and barely alive, he crawls back onto the island. Finally, the lawyer proceeds, and all of the sharks move out of his way, except for one, which gives him a ride to the other island. “That’s amazing,” the two men said, “why are they doing that for you?” The lawyer replied, “What else? Professional courtesy.”
What’s brown and black and looks good on a lawyer ? A doberman.
Why did New Jersey get all the toxic dumps and California get all the lawyers? New Jersey had first choice!
How would you describe one hundred lawyers going over a cliff in a bus? A good start!
What’s the similarity between spermatozoid and lawyers? Out of a billion of each, at least one will turn out to be a human being.
Why do they bury lawyers 25’-0” into the ground?
Because everybody knows, that deep down, they are good people.
I was once a criminal lawyer, but I got out before they caught me.
I tried to get into law school and become a lawyer, but they wouldn’t let me in - I passed the Ethics Test.
What’s the difference between a dead skunk in the road, and a dead lawyer in the road? There are skid marks in front of the skunk!
The Devil went to the office of Ms. Lawyer with a proposition. Neatly folding his tail under him, he sat down, leaned forward, and smiled wickedly at Ms. Lawyer. “I’d like you to sell me your soul,” he said.
“And what are you prepared to offer?” Ms. Lawyer replied, drumming her fingers on her desk.
“In exchange for your soul, I’ll give you all the money you want, plus fame, power, and respect.”
Ms. Lawyer paused, ran a hand through her hair, and then frowned. “I don’t get it,’ she said, confused. “What’s the catch?”
The wise and learned judge peered down at the disheveled man. “I must charge you for murder,” she said.
“All right,” he said, brightly. “What do I owe you?”
Despite the best efforts of Ms. Lawyer, the defendant was convicted of murder and sentenced to the electric chair. On the night before his execution, he called Ms. Lawyer, seeking some final words of advice.
Ms. Lawyer replied promptly: “Don’t sit down.”
What does a lawyer use for birth control? His personality.A lawyer and a doctor became involved in an auto accident. Neither one of them was sure who was at fault so they agreed to let the police officer make the determination. The doctor was very nervous so the lawyer pulled out a flask of burbon and offered it to him. The doctor took a long swig and thanked him, saying it helped. He noticed that the lawyer put the flask away.
“aren’t you going to have some too?” asked the doctor.
“Yes,” said the lawyer, “right after the police officer gets here..........
At a party, an accountant, an engineer and a lawyer got into a heated argument about whose dog was the smartest. To settle it, each went home and brought his dog back to the party. The accountant threw half a box of dog biscuits onto the floor and said “Ledger, what is four times two? With one paw, Ledger promply counted out eight biscuits. The engineer called to his dog “Slide rule, build a bridge.” Using his mouth and paws, Slide rule built a crude but unmistakable bridge.
The lawyer smirked and yelled at his dog “Get ‘em loophole”! where upon the lawyer’s dog promptly ate all the dog biscuits and screwed the other two dogs.
Whats the difference between a porcupine and two lawyers in a Mercedes? With a porcupine the pricks are on the outside.
Okay, this guy walks into an old shop in Chinatown, and sees a nice bronze rat. “How much for the rat?” The storekeeper says, “12 dollars for the statue, and a thousand for its story.” “I’ll tak the rat; you can keep the story.”
So the guy takes the rat, pays, and leaves. As he passes a sewer drain, two rats jump out and follow him. Whenever he passed a drain, empty lot, or old house, more and more rats would pop out and follow him. Having walked only a hundred feet, a line of rats two blocks long is following him.
He runs without purpose, ending up by the docks, with a hundred-block long ten feet wide line of rats. He throwed the statue into the ocean, and the rats all dove in and died.
The man, very shaken, went back to the store. “So, you have returned for the story, eh?”
The man shook his head. “No, I was wondering if you had a bronze lawyer...”
Old Bill had amassed a fair fortune before he learned his time on Earth was limited, and he was determined not to meet his maker empty handed. He called together his doctor, his minister, and his lawyer and gave each of them a sealed envelope, saying, “I heard you can’t take it with you, but I’m gonna try. There’s twenty-five thousand in each of these envelopes, and I want you to promise that you’ll slip them in my coffin just before they seal it.”
After some thought, each of his friends made the promise, pocketed an envelope, and walked sorrowfully away. Well, time did its worst, and two months later the three men met at Bill’s funeral, where they each approached the casket and slipped something white under the corpse. The undertaker closed the box and all three men followed it to the graveyard, where they watched it lowered and covered before adjourning to a nearby tavern.
After a number of drinks, the doctor suddenly cried, “I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve got a confession to make. My friends, I just couldn’t stand to see all that money go to waste, so I donated it to research. There was nothing in my envelope but paper!”
The minister looked at him with sympathy and said, “I, too, have a confession. Bill was always a good church-goer, and I know in my heart he wouldn’t have wanted his money wasted, so I invested it in a new roof for the church. My envelope also contained nothing but newspaper.”
The lawyer looked at his companions with sorrow and contempt. “I’m ashamed of both of you,” he said. “A man’s last wish deserves to be honored, and I’ll have you know that my envelope contained my personal check for every dime of that money!”
How can you tell when a lawyer is lying? His lips move.
What would you do if you only had enough money to send half of the lawyers to Siberia? Send ALL the lawyers HALFWAY to Siberia!
What’s the difference between a mafioso and a lawyer? The mafioso makes you an offer you can’t refuse. The lawyer makes you an offer that you can’t understand.
What’s the difference between a lawyer and a snake in the middle of the road??? You try not to hit the snake!
The pope dies and goes to heaven. He recieves a 10 room house with barn and guest house. He is happy.
He was walking through heaven and sees a 1000 room mansion with manacured gardens front and back. Between the ornate columns at the entry porch, sat a man in a 3 piece suit, puffing away on big cigars.
The pope locates Saint Peter and asks,” I am not complaining about my accomadations, but I saw that man sitting there in that mansion. You know that I had a direct line to God during life, and I was wondering why I did not have something as that man had.”
Saint peter said, “You must look at it from our point of view sir. We have 350 popes up here, and only one lawyer.”
What do you say to a depressed lawyer? Who cares.
What do you call a real shame? A busload of lawyers going off a cliff with four empty seats.
You’re surrounded by a Lion, a tiger and a Lawyer. You have a gun with only two bullets, what would you do? Shoot the lawyer twice.
These two tigers are walking through the jungle when the first one suddenly stops. “Hey!” he says, “Did you just lick my ass?”
The other tiger is embarrased as hell. “Uh, yeah, I did.”
“Well, what the heck for?”
“I just ate a lawyer and I had to get the taste out of my mouth...”
An old farmer discovered oil on his property and suddenly became very wealthy. He cashed a large check and went to town to pay off the debts he had accrued over the years. His first stop was at the office of the attorney who had handled different matters for him. He explained the purpose of his visit and, to the lawyer’s surprise, unzipped the front pocket in his bib overalls and pulled out a $1,000 bill. The farmer handed it to the attorney, thanking him profusely for the extension of credit.
The attorney had never seen a $1,000 bill before, so he examined it carefully, rubbing it between his fingers. The bill separated, and turned out to be two $1,000 bills stuck together. The lawyer rubbed his jaw in consternation-he had a severe ethical problem on his hands now. Did he split the extra $1,000 with his partners, or keep it for himself?
It was such a cold day, the lawyer kept his hands in his own pockets.
What’s the difference between a rooster and a lawyer? The rooster clucks defiance.
What do you call 100 lawyers up to their necks in sand? Not enough sand.
What is the difference between a lawyer and a catfish? One is a scum-sucking bottom dweller, and the other is just a fish.
What do you get when you cross a lawyer with a pig? Nothing, there are some things a pig will not do!
The College president was interviewing for a new administrator. There were three applicants: a philosophy professor, a mathematics professor, and a lawyer.
The last question of the interview was “What is two plus two?”
When asked, the philosophy prof said, “I can’t answer such a vague question, as it’s all relative. Metaphysically speaking, does two really exist, or is it only a concept of man, in which we might surmise without man’s mind the universe might not have two, and therefore any answer is dubious.”
The Mathematics prof answered. “Two plus two? That’s a tough one. In what base? In binary it doesn’t exist, in trinary the answer is one-one, in base-four it’s one-zero. Of course. If you want a simple answer, in base ten it’s four.”
The lawyer, when asked, said nothing but ran and closed the door, then closed the blinds, took the phone off the hook, approached the president and whispered, “What do you want it to be?”
A cup cake sat between the Easter bunny, Santa Clause, the Tooth fairy and an honest lawyer, who would get to it first? No one, there’s no such thing as the Easter bunny, Santa Clause, tooth fariy or an honest Lawyer!
I heard they recently started doing laboratory tests on lawyers instead of mice, for two reasons: 1. the researchers get less attached to the lawyers, and 2. There are some things even mice won’t do!!
A rabbi, a priest & a lawyer are visiting an orphanage, when it suddenly catches fire!
“Quick, save the children” yells the rabbi.
The lawyer, climbing out of a window, says “Ahh, screw the brats.”
The priest:”Do you think we have time?”
Jokes
A Farmer and His Pigs
A farmer was worried that none of his pigs were getting pregnant. He called a vet and asked what he should do if he wanted more pigs. The vet told him he should try artificial insemination. The farmer, not wanting to appear stupid, answered okay and hung up the phone.
Unclear on what the vet meant by artificial insemination, the farmer decided it must mean he had to impregnate the pigs himself, so he loaded all the pigs in his pickup and drove down to the woods and shagged them all. The next day he called the vet again, and asked how would he know if the pigs were pregnant. The vet told him they would be lying down rolling in the mud, but when he looked out the window not even one was lying down.
So, he loaded them up in his pickup again and drove them to the woods and shagged them all again. To his dismay they were all standing the next morning. So, again he loads the pigs in his truck drives them to the woods and shags them for the third time.
By the next morning the farmer is beat, so he asks his wife to hop out of bed and look out the window to see what the pigs are doing. She says, “Hmmm - that’s weird, they are all in the truck and one of them is blowing the horn.”
A man’s best friend
This guy goes into a bar looking real depressed, and orders a drink. As soon as it hits the bar, the man shoots it down and orders another. The sympathetic bartender asks, “Any thing you want to talk about?”
The depressed man replies, “Well for the last couple months, I suspected my wife was cheating on me. So today, I took the day off work to follow her. When I came home for lunch, I caught her screwing my best friend.”
“Wow,” replied the bartender. “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you say to your best friend in that situation?” The man replied, “Well I looked him right in the eye, and I yelled, BAD DOG!!!”
The Wide World of Sports
Pep talk by former Houston Oiler and Florida State Coach Bill Peterson: “Men, I want you just thinking of one word all season. One word and one word only: Super Bowl.”
David Coleman, BBC sports commentator, on air during the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona: “It’s a great advantage to be able to hurdle with both legs.”
Don Shula, answering a question on a pre-Super Bowl practice injury to receiver Paul Warfield: “Reporter: Which leg did Paul Warfield hurt? Shula: I don’t know. It’s one of the two.”
Mark Snow, forward for the Mexico Aztecas basketball team: “Strength is my biggest weakness.”
Duane Thomas, Dallas Cowboys halfback, responding to a question on whether he has an IQ: “Sure I’ve got one. It’s a perfect twenty-twenty.”
Vlade Divac, of the Los Angeles Lakers: “We all get heavier as we get older because there’s a lot more information in our heads.”
Ralph Kiner, broadcasting for the Mets: “All of the Mets’ road wins against Los Angeles this year have been at Dodger Stadium.”
Doug Collins, basketball commentator: “Any time Detroit scores more than 100 points and holds the other team below 100 points, they almost always win.”
Mark Eaton, Utah Jazz center: “I think Jesus would have been a great basketball player. He would have been one of the most tenacious guys out there. I think he’d really get in your face. Nothing dirty, but he’d play to win.”
Luis Polonia, former New York Yankees outfielder: “There is only one thing wrong with this team, and I don’t know what that is.”
New York, New York
Before going to Europe on business, a man drove his Rolls-Royce to a downtown NY City bank and went in to ask for an immediate loan of $5,000. The loan officer, taken aback, requested collateral. “Well, then, here are the keys to my Rolls-Royce”, the man said. The loan officer promptly had the car driven into the bank’s underground parking for safe keeping, and gave him $5,000.
Two weeks later, the man walked through the bank’s doors, and asked to settle up his loan and get his car back. “That will be $5,000 in principal, and $15.40 in interest”, the loan officer said. The man wrote out a check and started to walk away.
“Wait sir,” the loan officer said, “while you were gone, I found out you are a millionaire. Why in the world would you need to borrow $5,000?”
The man smiled. “Where else could I park my Rolls-Royce in Manhattan for two weeks and pay only $15.40?”
The Best Son
These four gents go out to play golf one sunny morning. One is detained in the clubhouse, and the other three are discussing their children while walking to the first tee. “My son,” says one, “has made quite a name for himself in the home-building industry. He began as a carpenter, but now owns his own design and construction firm. He’s so successful in fact, in the last year he was able to give a good friend a brand new home as a gift.”
The second man, not to be outdone, allows how his son began his career as a car salesman, but now owns a multi-line dealership. “He’s so successful, in fact, in the last six months he gave a friend two brand new cars as a gift.”
The third man’s son has worked his way up through a stock brokerage and in the last few weeks has given a good friend a large stock portfolio as a gift.
As the fourth man arrives at the tee box, another tells him that they have been discussing their progeny and asks what line his son is in.
“To tell the truth, I’m not very pleased with how my son has turned out,” he replies. “For fifteen years, he’s been a hairdresser, and I’ve just recently discovered he’s a practicing homosexual. But, on the bright side, he must be good at what he does because his last three boyfriends have given him a brand new house, two cars, and a big pile of stock certificates.”
The Retiring Mailman
It was George the Mailman’s last day on the job after 35 years of carrying the mail through all kinds of weather to the same neighborhood. When he arrived at the first house on his route he was greeted by the whole family there, who roundly and soundly congratulated him and sent him on his way with a tidy gift envelope. At the second house they presented him with a box of fine cigars. The folks at the third house handed him a selection of terrific fishing lures.
At the fourth house he was met at the door by a strikingly beautiful woman in a revealing negligee. She took him by the hand, gently led him through the door (which she closed behind him), and led him up the stairs to the bedroom where she blew his mind with the most passionate love he had ever experienced. When he had had enough they went downstairs, where she fixed him a giant breakfast: eggs, potatoes, ham, sausage, blueberry waffles, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. When he was truly satisfied she poured him a cup of steaming coffee. As she was pouring, he noticed a dollar bill sticking out from under the cup’s bottom edge.
“All this was just too wonderful for words,” he said, “but what’s the dollar for?”
“Well,” she said, “last night, I told my husband that today would be your last day, and that we should do something special for you. asked him what to give you. He said, ‘Fuck him. Give him a dollar.’ The breakfast was my idea.”
Translation errors to look for . . .
When Braniff translated a slogan touting its upholstery, “Fly in leather” it came out in Spanish as “Fly naked”.
Coors put its slogan, “Turn it loose,” in Spanish, where it was read as “Suffer from diarrhea.”
Chicken magnate Frnak Perdue’s line, “It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken,” sounds much more interesting in Spanish: “It takes a sexually stimulated man to make a chicken affectionate.”
When Vicks first introduced its cough drops on the german market, they were chagrined to learn that the german pronunciation of “v” is “f” which in german is the gutteral equivalent of “sexual penetration.”
Not to be outdone, Puffs tissues tried later to introduce its product, only to learn that “Puff” in german is a colloquial term for a whorehouse. The English weren’t too fond of the name either, as it’s highly derogatory term for a non-heterosexual.
The Chevy Nova never sold well in Spanish speaking countries. “No va” means “it doesn’t go” in Spanish.
When Pepsi started marketing its products in China a few years back, they translated their slogan, “Pepsi brings you back to life” pretty literally. The slogan in Chinese really meant, “Pepsi brings your Ancestors back from the grave”.
When Gerber first started selling baby food in Africa, they used the same packaging as here in the US - with the cute little baby on the label. Later they found out that in Africa companies routinely put pictures on the label of what’s inside since most people can’t read.
News Stories
For a complete version of Children, Churches and Daddies, please email ccandd96@aol.com.
Back to School, by Ryan Bradley
Bracing against the December wind, Mark Debuse stiffly trudged through an unfamiliar part of the campus, while reliving the memory of his new boss’s voice, “Debuse, I see from your record that you’ve been here twenty years, the last six in charge of department four. I also see that you’ve turned a reasonable annual profit. Because of your record, I’ve decided to keep you. But you’ll have to get a degree, and that means going back to college or I’m sending you down.”
Through watering eyes, Mark looked up at the large, chiseled-in-stone words, Thackery Hall, above the old brick building’s main entrance. Then thinking to himself, I suppose the classroom is on the top floor - where else, Mark pulled the folded, blue paper from his pocket and reread the inept mimeographed note.
From: Mrs. Wheelman (Creative Writing)
To: Students of Creative Writing Class 101
Mr. Holmes, the Science Fiction Writing Class Instructor, has announced that the science fiction authoress, Katherine Meese, will be giving a lecture to his students in his room which is number 412. The date when the lecture will be held will be December 9, at 10 a. m. Mr. Holmes’s old classroom used to be just down the hall and across the hall, but now it’s completely at the other end of the campus in an old building called Thackery Hall. Mrs. Meese will have a question and answer session just for all of you after her lecture. She will also have a reading just for all of you from her very first published book. (A space opera - how exciting!) Your attendance, please.
Mark slowly climbed the steep cement stairs toward the building’s doorway his mind focused on the shooting pain coming from stiff and swollen knees. Once inside, he paused and stared at a large blue paper arrow pointin up the stairway. Thiking only Wheelman - only an ex-gradeschool teach could have made that, Mark walked toward it. He found Creative Writing Students 101: Follow arrows to room 412, printed along its bottom edge. Mark muttered, “It had to be.” Again focusing on painful knees, he started up to the fourth floor.
After passing the last blue arrow, he found the number 412 on an already opened door and entered a dim classroom where faded green walls, disorganized desks, and a scarred, discolored lectern produced an air of indifference. Mark flipped on the lights, carefully judged the angle from the lectern to his left ear, and chose a desk, the first one in the row, just inside the door. Muttereing, “Damned ear - twenty minutes early jsut to be sure of hearing,” he then carefully eased into the small writing desk.
Patiently waiting, he began to drum his fingers on the desk top while reliving repeating memories: the sudden vacuity of deafness. Struggling to understand the army corpsman’s soundless moving lips, “You’ve been hit - lie still.” Long monts of pain-racked total silence. The disbelief of suddenlty awakening to sound. The old army doctor’s raspy voice, “Debuse, how, I don’t know, but your left ear had regained about three-fourths of its function. That won’t happen to your right. Your legs, especially your keens, will always have a stiff arthritic condition - a lot of metal . . .”
Heavy clomping preceded a student with long, greasy hair and a motorcycle jacket. Mark smiled at the sudden memory of having been expelled from high school for having hair too long. He then sat silently watching as students began to file into the room. Jocks clad in sweat suits and sneakers, young girls in short skirts and designer jeans, older women in long skirts and tweed suits passed before his eyes.
Mr. Holmes, the salt and pepper haired science fiction writing class instructor, walked briskly into the room. Mark noted how Holmes’ cocksure stride and Cheshire cat’s grin not only told who he was but also displayed his satisfaction. Procuring a published science fiction author to speak had obviously made his day.
Mrs. Wheelman entered the room and slid her short, pudgy body into the seat across from Mark, fluffed her dark brown hair, smiled, then busied herself preparing to take notes.
Mark sat looking at Mrs. Wheelman wondering how he could have found himself in a creative writing class with a professor who could barely write a functioning note - a professor who repeatedly reminded her students that she had begun her career as a third grade teacher - a professor who still put big, blue arrows on the wall.
Mark watched Mr. Holmes’ back stiffen as the authoress, Mrs. Meese, who was tall, big-boned, but attractive in her symmetry and choice of light brown colors, walked into the room. After a stumbling introduction by Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Meese moved to the lectern and began her speech.
Surprised by her practiced, fluent presentation, Mark sat listenting until he noticed her shaking hands which she tried to conceal behind her back. He then turned to look at the faces behind him and wondered if anyone else had bothered to read her book, but suddenly knew they hadn’t - wondered how someone who spoke so fluently could have written in a slow, awkward, meandering style - wondered how many times he would have to listen to Mrs. Wheelman reading from her quickly taken notes - notes which would be read with absolute authority.
Mrs. Meese completed her presentation, and a question and answer session began. After listening to the answers to: Why do you write? How long have you been writing? How did you get published? Mark abruptly asked, “Why did you come here today?” Mrs. Meese’s forthright answer, “Because I was paid,” brought a smile to his face.
The question, “What will you do when you get home?” came from a young girl whose very voice carried her fantasies of a writer’s life.
Mark noted how Mrs. Meese’s voice changed from speaker to parent as she answered, “I have a mountain of laundry to do and a three and a five-year-old to take care of.” He then watched the young girl’s eyes rapidly blinking, as her romantic fantasies were suddenly swept away.
Mr. Holmes suddenly spoke out, “I’m sorry - but our hour has raced by. I’d like to personally thank Mrs. Meese for coming.”
Mrs. Wheelman’s shrill voice rose above the clamor of students leaving the classroom. “Students of Creative Writing Class 101, Mrs. Meese will be giving a reading just for your in this same room in one hour. Your attendance please.”
Mark tapped Mrs. Wheelman’s shoulder, “Psych II in fourty-five minutes.”
“I’ll take notes for you.”
“I thought you might, Mrs. Wheelman, I thought you might.”
Mark slowly descended the stairs thinking to himself, five more classes, a final, and I’ll never see old ‘Psych’ Linboff again. Thursday? He’ll have on his dark gray suit. He’ll walk into the room, lay his briefcase on the desk, glance around, then square the briefcase’s edges with his desk’s right-hand corner. His beginning words will be the same dry, “This course is required”.
Again bracing against the wind, Mark’s pace quickened; and his thoughts returned to Limboff: Tenure? How long ago had his students become a group of non-distinct faces? How many people had sat and watched his glazed eyes staring into empty space?
Mark opened the heavy wooden door and viewed another empty classroom. After flipping on the light, he walked across the room and chose a desk by the window - a desk where he could watch the almost constant comings and goings of students - a desk where his right ear would be pointed toward the speaker.
Gary’s Gig, by carole oglesby
The jam session was going great when what’s-her-name stormed in, eyes hard, painted lips mashed in a thin grim line. Without a word she marched over to Gary, tore the bass from his hands and hauled him out of the garage by the skin of his upper arm. The last chord Gary had played echoed feebly off the concrete walls. The sound of their voices, his pleading, hers harsh and unyielding, drifted in from outside.
‘Did you catch that embouchure on her?’ I asked Dave, my voice dripping sarcasm.
‘Yeah.’ Dave rolled his eyes and blew a single derisive note on his sax.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Fish, our drummer, hated to feel left out.
I set down my trumpet. ‘It’s a horn thing - basically how your lips pucker on a mouthpiece.’
‘Great pucker on her, all right.’ Fish got up, looking dangerous. He works out, and his biceps bulged under a black T-shirt. He stomped over to where the washer and dryer had been pushed into one corner. Our equipment took up most of the space in the garage.
‘So much for England and Ireland,’ he said, punctuating the sentence with a kick. The kick dented the washer and toppled a box of fabric softener, which spilled in a pale blue mess onto the floor. Powder hung loosely in the air, trapped by bits of light entering the garage around the felt taped over the windows. Dave and I said nothing. The washer belonged to Fish, and already had several dents. The volume of the argument outside rose.
‘I told Gary he was stupid to tell her in a letter,’ I muttered angrily. Dave was keeping his cool, but I was mad as all get-out. ‘Dear Petunia, me and the guys are going to Europe for a month to play some gigs,’ I added in a bad imitation of Gary’s voice.
‘It’s Penelope,’ Gary stood in the doorway, head hanging sheepishly.
‘She gone?’ I asked, peering out the door.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, blinking in the dimness of the garage after the bright mid-afternoon sun.
‘So, are we going or what?’ Fish got right in Gary’s face. ‘Dave here already has five gigs lined up, and - how many more you working on, Dave?’
Dave searched his jeans pockets and pulled out a battered piece of paper. He unfolded and pored over it, wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. ‘At least five or six,’ he replied, pushing the glasses back up in a characteristic gesture. ‘We’re almost in at the Undertow in Bristol. They should call today.’
Fish stood in Gary’s space with his big arms folded and jaw tight. ‘Do we count you in, or what?’
Gary scuttled backwards, eyes darting among the three of us. ‘Year, I’m in,’ he said, circling carefully around Fish to pick up his bass. He walked back to the door.
‘I’m in. She’ll come around, you’ll see. I’m goin’ home now and smooth things out, O.K.?’
‘You do that,’ Fish said, and spit on the floor. Gary almost ran for his truck.
‘I’ll bet a dollar he’s not going straight home,’ I said.
‘Bet you ten he’s going to the Pew’n Brew,’ Fish replied with a scowl. Gary’s drinking was another think that pissed Fish off.
‘Twenty says he doesn’t ‘smooth things out’,’ Dave added.
‘Think she’s home yet? I’m going to call her,’ Fish said. His eyes shone with malicious intent. I glanced at Dave, who shrugged.
‘What are you, insane?’ I asked. ‘Why would she want to talk to you? She hates you.’
‘Exactly. I’ll get her so damned made that she’ll give him an ultimatum. Then either he stops pretending he even has a choice, or he says ‘screw you’ and kicks her out for good. I’ll be doing him a big favor.’
‘What if he goes with option number one?’ Dave asked.
‘Then we get a new guitarist. But we have to know soon,’ Fish said. I knew where he was coming from. We’d planned this trip for months, and had dreamed of ‘touring Europe’ together for years. That was the catch, though. Touring Europe together.
‘I don’t know.’ We’re a group,’ I said, imagining Gary’s reaction if he were replaced.
‘Fish has a point,’ Dave said calmly. ‘If we leave it to Gary, he’ll bail on us the day of the flight. I love Gary like a brother, but over the last year he hasn’t been a real asset to the band.’
If Dave was in, I was in. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
We opened the door to the dark stairway, and climbed up toward the phone.
a (fe)male behind bars
January 29, production room, Seattle Magazine
 For only two weeks she had been preparing for this interview. She struggled to get it approved at the magazine she worked for. See, Chris Hodgkins was a flash from the past, there was no current interest, no timeliness in doing an article on her. In fact, she knew from people who have checked on her whereabouts that she was just living in an apartment on her own, occasionally working, usually not in politics or her usual seminars. The public forget about her anyway - no one wanted to hear what she had to say anymore. Not that she had fallen out of favor with the American public - in fact, she was loved by most women when she decided to leave the public eye. If anything, the American public had fallen out of favor with her.
But Melanie wanted to write about her, find out why she left, why she really left. The editors knew Chris didn’t grant a single interview since she decided to leave her work in the women’s rights movement. Besides, even if she got the interview, Chris knew how to deal with the media, with audiences, and she would probably manipulate Melanie into asking only what she wanted asked.
But the writer said she was sure there was something more, she could feel it in her bones, and the editors always told her to follow that feeling, so please let her do it now. So the editors and the higher-ups told her to try to get the interview, and get back to them with her progress at that task.
They expected to never hear about the matter again.
Bet she came back to them not one week later, saying one phone call was all it took. She called Chris directly, and not only did this elusive leader grant her an interview, but in Chris’ own home. Editors were a bit stunned. They let her go ahead with the interview, told her to focus on the “where are they now,” “why did she leave” angles, and they’ll put together a long piece for a future issue. A long fluff-piece, they thought, but they had to let her go ahead with it, after having no faith in her ability to get an interview.
Maybe it was just because no one tried to get an interview with her anymore, the writer thought. Maybe the editors were right, that there’s no story here, at least not anymore. But now, even after feeling this fear which began to grow into a dread, she had to go through with it. She had to research this woman, inside and out, and talk to her. See what makes her tick. What made her decide to give it all up.
And the more she looked, the more questions she had. Maybe is was the journalist inside her, to question everything put in front of you, but she couldn’t get those questions out of her head.
writer’s cassette tape diary entry, February 11
I didn’t know what I was getting into when I decided to interview her, Chris Hodgkins, feminist leader. I did all the research I could, but for some reason I still don’t know where to start, and I have to walk into her apartment tonight.
The more I studied her, the more I was interested. She became a prominent figure in the women’s movement when she wrote her first book, A Woman Behind Bars. The theory was that all women in our society were behind bars, in a sense, that they were forced into a role of looking beautiful, into the role of mother for children, servant for husband, employee for boss, sexual object for single (well, probably all) men.
The chapter that interested me the most was the one on how women adorn themselves in our society in order to please men. Women put on make-up, they grow long hair and long nails, both difficult to work with. They shave their legs, they shave their armpits. They tweeze their eyebrows - they pull hair out of their face from the follicle. Perfume behind the knees, at the ankles, at the chest and neck, in the hair. The list goes on.
But that’s not even the point of all of this. The thing is, a few years ago she managed to pull together the majority of twenty- and thirty-something women out there into her cause. Everyone loved her, in a strange sort of way. She had a great command over audiences. She would hold rallies in New York, then San Francisco, then Chicago, and before you knew it, everyone was talking about her, she was running seminars all around the country, she was appearing on morning talk shows. She was the first real leader in the feminist movement, a movement which for years was felt in everyone but laid dormant because it had no Hitler.
Did I say Hitler? I just meant he was a good leader. I didn’t mean she was Hitler, not at all, she’s not like that, she’s not even calling anyone into action, she’s just telling people to educate themselves. She’s not even telling people to change, because she figures that if she can educate them, they would want to change anyway. And usually more radical feminists and lesbians are leery of that, they want more action - and she doesn’t do that, and they still support her. A movement needs a strong leader, and she was it.
Chris is an interesting looking woman. You’d think she was a lesbian by her appearance - she was tall, somewhat built, but not to look tough, just big. She had chin-length hair, which seems a little long for her, but it looks like she has just forgotten to cut it in a while, and not like she wants to look sexy with it. She almost looks like a little boy. Sharp bones in her face, and big, round eyes.
That was all I knew before I started doing research on her. I started looking into her childhood first, found out that her parents were killed in a robbery when she was fourteen, so she started high school in a small town where her aunt and uncle lived. Her aunt died a year later, and she lived with her uncle until she moved out and went to college. Her uncle died a year before she began to gain fame. In essence, there was no family of hers that I could talk to, to find out from if she played with Barbie Dolls with her best friend in her bedroom or played in the ravine in the back yard with the other boys from all over the neighborhood. To see if her theories were right - even on her. All of that was lost to me.
She took honors classes in high school, kept to herself socially. In fact, most of her classmates didn’t know whether or not she was a girl, she looked so boyish. Even the other girls in her gym class didn’t know sometimes, I mean, they knew she was a girl because she was in gym class with them, but she never even changed in front of them. She wouldn’t take a shower and she would change in a bathroom stall.
So I started hearing things like this, little things from old classmates, but as soon as they started telling me how they really felt about her, how they thought she was strange, they would then clam up. But it was in my head then; I started wondering what happened in her early childhood that made her so introverted in high school. Maybe the deaths of her parents did it to her, made her become so anti-social. Maybe the loss of her aunt, the only other maternal figure in her life, made her become so masculine. It was a theory that began to make more and more sense to me, but how was I supposed to ask her such a question? How was I supposed to ask her if her parents molested her before they died, and that’s why she’s got this anger inside of her that comes out seminar after seminar?
the interview, Friday, February 11
The apartment building was relatively small, on the fringes of some rough neighborhoods. Not to say that she couldn’t take care of herself, she had proven that she could years ago. The interviewer followed the directions explicitly to get to the apartment, and Chris’ door was on the side. She knocked on the door.
Snap one, that was the chain. Click one, that was the first dead bolt. Another click, and the door was free. With a quick jerk the door was pulled open half-way by a strong, toned forearm. Chris stood there, waiting for the interviewer to make the official introduction.
“Hi, I’m Melanie, from Seattle Magazine,” she blurted out, as she tried to kick the snow off her boots and held out her hand. Chris nudged her head toward the inside and told her to come in. The interviewer followed.
She followed Chris down the stairs, looking for clues to her psyche in her clothes, in her form. Grey pants. Baggy. Very baggy. Button-down shirt. White. Sleeves rolled up, make a note of that. Not very thin, but not fat - just kind of there, without much form. Doc Maartens. She had big feet. She was tall, too - maybe five feet, ten inches. But her feet looked huge. The interviewer stared at her feet as they walked down the dark hall. I’ll bet no one has looked at her feet before, she thought.
Chris lived in one of the basement apartments, so they walked past the laundry room, the boiler room, and then reached a stream of tan doors. Hers was the third. Chris opened the door, the interviewer followed.
She looked around. A comfortable easy chair, rust colored, worn. Walls - covered with bookshelves. Books on Marx, Kafka, Rand. History Books. Science books. No photos. No pictures. A small t.v. in the corner on a table, the cord hanging down, unplugged. Blankets on the floor. Keep looking, the interviewer thought. A standing lamp by the chair. The room was yellow in the light. Where were the windows? Oh, she forgot for a moment, they’re in the basement. Sink, half full.
“May I use the washroom?” she asked, and without saying a word, Chris pointed it out to her.
Check the bathroom, the interviewer thought. No make-up. Makes sense. Generic soap, organic shampoo. Razor. Toothbrush. Colgate bottle. Hairbrush. Rubber band, barrette. Yeah, Chris usually sometimes her hair back, at least from what the interviewer can remember from the photographs.
“Wanna beer?” Chris yells from the refrigerator to the bathroom. “No, thanks,” the interviewer says. She turns on the water.
She wants to look through the trash, see what she can find. No, that’s too much, she thought, besides, what’s going to be in the trash in the washroom that would surprise her so? Nothing, she was sure of it, and from then on she made a point of avoiding even looking in the direction of the trash can.
This was getting out of hand, she thought. There was no story here. Nothing out of the ordinary, other than the fact that Chris decided to give up her cause, and now she’s living life in this tiny, dark basement apartment.
The interviewer walked out into the yellow living room. Chris was stretched out in a chair, legs apart, drinking a beer with no label.
“I really appreciate you offering me this time to talk to you.”
“No problem.”
The interviewer sat there, suddenly so confused. Chris was terse. She didn’t want to talk, yet she accepted the interview and offered her home as the meeting place. They sat in silence for a moment, a long moment.
“What kind of beer are you drinking?”
“My own.” Chris sat for a moment, almost waiting for the interviewer to ask what she meant. “You see, the landlord gave me some keys for a storage room on this floor, so I converted it into a sort of micro-brewery. I’ve come up with this one -” she held the bottle to the interviewer - “and another one, a pretty sweet dark beer. I call this one ‘Ocean Lager.’”
The interviewer felt she had to take the bottle. “Ocean Lager, that’s a nice name,” and she took a small sip and passed the bottle back to Chris.
“Yeah, I used to be a photographer, back when I was in high school and college, and I loved working in the dark, timing things, and I loved the stench of the chemicals. I’ve given up on the photography years ago, so I thought that this would be a hobby like that. You know, it smells, it’s dark, you have to add things the right way and wait the right amount of time. I like it. And it’s cheaper, too,” she said, and with that she took another swig. “Cheaper than photography as well as buying beer from the store.”
The interviewer tried to listen to her voice. It was raspy, feminine, almost sexy, but it was very low; she didn’t know if she’d ever heard a woman’s voice this low before.
“Looking over your career,” the interviewer finally started, “I didn’t know why you just decided one day to quit. You had everything going right for you. People listened to you. What happened?”
She thought she had dropped a bomb.
No one ever got a straight answer for that question.
“Well, it was my time to go. I couldn’t take the spotlight anymore. I wanted to become who I really was, not what the world wanted me to be, not what the world perceived me as. I still haven’t done that. I haven’t become myself yet.”
“When were you yourself? Or were you ever?”
“I suppose I was, when I was little, but by the time I got to high school, I started hiding from everyone, because no one seemed to want to know who I really was. I didn’t fit in as who I really was. So then I started with my seminars, started trying to work my way to success, and people started to like me. But in all of that time that I was working on women’s rights, I wasn’t who I really am deep down inside. Not that I didn’t believe in the cause, but I was doing it because it seemed like the best route to success. And when I reached the top, people still wanted more out of me, more that I wasn’t ready to give. I wanted to take some of myself back.”
“Have you gotten any of yourself back since you’ve left the spotlight?”
“Some.” Chris paused. “I can sit at home by myself and act the way I want to, without having to project a certain image for everyone else. People have begun to leave me alone.” She paused, then looked at the interviewer. “Not that I consider you and interruption; I wouldn’t have accepted the interview if I didn’t want you here. If fact, I think I really wanted to be able to tell someone how I feel, what I’ve gone through. I don’t talk to many people nowadays. This is like a confessional.”
Melanie wondered for a moment what Chris was planning to confess.
Chris paused, swirled her beer in her bottle, then looked up. “Sometimes I think of getting a pet. I’d get a cat, but then I think of this stereotypical image of an old woman in an apartment alone with forty cats, where she keeps picking a different one up and asking, ‘you love me, don’t you?’ I don’t want to be like that. Maybe a dog. But a pet requires too much care, and I think I’d end up depending on it more than I should. I should have another human being in my life, not an animal. But I’m so afraid I’ll be alone.”
“Why do you think you’ll be alone?”
“I carry this baggage around with me everywhere. People know me as Chris Hodgkins, and that’s not who I am. I don’t want anyone liking me because I’m Chris Hodgkins. That’s not real. Chris isn’t real, not the Chris everyone knows. The only way I could escape her is to go off to another country in a few years, maybe, and start life all over again.”
“Isn’t that a scary thought, though? I mean, you could ride on your fame for a while longer, make more money, be more secure. You wouldn’t have to work as hard at anything. And people respect you.”
“People respect a person that I’m not. Okay, maybe that person is a part of me, but it’s not all of me. The world doesn’t know the whole story.”
“What is the whole story?” the interviewer asked. By this time she put her pen and paper down and wasn’t writing a word. She was lost in the conversation, like the many people who had heard her speak before. Suddenly she felt she was thrown into the middle of a philosophical conversation, and she was completely enthralled. “Can anyone know the whole story about another person?” she asked.
“Do you really want to know my story?” Chris asked.
“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t.”
“You realize that if I tell you, it goes off the record. Besides, you won’t be able to substantiate anything I say. More than that no one would believe it, especially not your editors.”
At this point, she didn’t even care about the interview. “Off the record. Fine.”
the confession, February 11, 10:35 p.m.
Chris sat there for a minute, legs apart, elbows on her knees, beer hanging down between her legs. She kept swirling the liquid in the glass. She took the last two gulps, then put the bottle on the ground between her feet.
“I wanna take a bath,” she said, and with that she got up and walked toward the bathroom. Halfway there she stopped, turned around, and walked to the refrigerator. It creaked open, she pulled out another beer, let the door close while she twisted the cap off. She walked into the bathroom.
The interviewer could hear the water running in the bathtub. She didn’t know what to do. Was she supposed to sit there? Leave?
Chris popped her head out of the bathroom. “I hope you don’t mind, but I really need to relax. Besides, it’s cold in here. Sorry if the cold is bothering you. We can continue the interview in the bathroom, if you want,” and she threw her head back into the bathroom.
Melanie didn’t know what to think. She edged her way to the bathroom door. When she looked in, she was Chris with her hair pulled back, lighting one candle. “The curtain will be closed. Is this okay with you?” Chris asked.
Melanie paused. “Sure,” she said. She sounded confused.
“Okay, then just wait outside until I’m in the bathtub. I’ll yell through the door when you can come in.” And Chris closed the door, and the interviewer leaned against the door frame. Her note pad and pen sat in the living room.
A few minutes passed, or maybe it was a few hours. The water finally silenced. She could hear the curtain close. “You can come in now.”
The interviewer opened the door. The curtain to the bathtub was closed. There was one candle lit on the counter next to the sink, and one glowing from the other side of the curtain. The mirror was fogged with steam. Chris’ clothes were sitting in a pile on the floor. There was no where to sit. The interviewer shut both seats from the toilet and sat down.
“Okay, I’m here,” the interviewer said, as if she wanted Chris to recognize what an effort she went through. “Tell me your story.” She almost felt as if she deserved to hear Chris’ story at this point, that Chris had made her feel so awkward that she at least deserved her curiosity satisfied. She could hear little splashes from the tub.
“You still haven’t asked me about my childhood. You’re not a very good reporter, you know,” Chris said, as if she wanted the interviewer to know that it didn’t have to come down to this. “You could have found out a lot more about me before now.”
They both sat there, each silent.
“It must have hurt when your parents died.”
“I suppose. I didn’t know how to take it.”
“What was the effect of both of your parents dying at such an early age in your life on you?”
“I was stunned, I guess. What I remember most was that my mother was strong, but she followed dad blindly. And dad, he had his views - he was a political scientist - but no one took him seriously because he didn’t have the background. He wasn’t in the right circles. I just remember dad saying to mom, ‘if only I had a different start, things would be different.’ In essence, he wanted to be someone he wasn’t. He failed because he wasn’t who he needed to be.”
“Did it hurt you to see your father think of himself as a failure?”
“He had the choice. He knew what he wanted to do all of his life. He knew the conventional routes to achieving what he wanted - he knew what he needed to do. But he chose to take a different route, and people thought he didn’t have the training he needed, that he didn’t know what he was talking about. But he made that choice to take that different route. He could have become what he needed to in order to get what he wanted. But he didn’t, and in the end, he never got anything.”
“But you, you got what you wanted in your life, right?”
“Yes, but that was because I made the conscious choice to change into what I had to be in order to succeed. If I didn’t make those changes, no one would have accepted my theories on human relations and no one would have listened to my speeches on women’s rights.”
“How did you have to change?”
The interviewer finally hit the nail on the head.
“I’m not ready to answer that question yet. Ask me later.”
The interviewer paused, then continued.
“Okay, so your parents died and you had to move in with your aunt and uncle. How well did you know them?”
“Not at all. In fact, they didn’t even know I existed. You see, my father had no family in the States, he moved here from England, and he lost contact with all of his family. Mom’s family didn’t want her marrying dad, I still don’t know why, so they disowned her when she married him. She never spoke to any of them. In fact, my mother’s sister didn’t even know my parents died until the state had to research my family’s history to see who I should be pushed off on to. When my aunt and uncle took me in, it was the first time they ever saw me. It was the first time the even knew I existed.”
The interviewer could hear the water moving behind the curtain, and then Chris continued.
“My parents were in New Jersey, and my aunt and uncle were in Montana. It was a complete life change for me.”
“How did you get along with other kids from school?”
“Before my parents died, fine. Once I changed schools, I didn’t fit in. I didn’t know how to fit in. I thought it would be too fake if I tried to act like all the other girls, even the ones who were like me, who didn’t fit in. I just didn’t know how to be a girl. I wanted to, and I tried, but it was so hard.
“I just wanted to be looked at as a girl. I didn’t want anyone to question it.”
“Why would they?”
“I looked so boyish. I didn’t go on dates. Because I was so anti-social.”
“Do you think that has something to do with the fact that your mother died, then a year later your aunt died? They were your maternal figures, and you lost them both at a crucial age.”
“Yes. But my aunt didn’t know how to deal with me. She never had children. She left me alone most of the time. She knew that was what I wanted. I remember once she asked me if I had gotten my period yet in my life. I didn’t, but I didn’t want her to think that, so I said yes, so the next day she bought me pads. I didn’t know what to do with them. The day after that I told her that I would buy them myself from now on, so she didn’t have to, but I thanked her anyway. That way I knew she would think that I was still buying them, even if that box in my closet was the same box that she bought me.
“Relations with her were strange. And when she died, I only had classmates and my uncle to take cues from. I wanted to be like the girls in school, so I tried not to take cues from my uncle. I tried to avoid being like my uncle. But sometimes I couldn’t help it.”
“Why did you want so hard to be a girl? Did you want to fit in? Or do you think it had more to do with your mom?”
“No, it wasn’t that at all. There wasn’t a part of me that said I needed to be feminine. But at that age I knew what I wanted to do with my life, and that was work in political science and sociology - specifically, in women’s rights. I knew I wanted that, and I knew that I’d have a better chance of succeeding in that field if I was - well, if I was a girl.”
“But you were a girl, no matter how much you didn’t fit in.”
And that was when Chris decided to drop the bomb.
“But that’s exactly it, Melanie - I’m - well - I’m not a woman.”
“There are sometimes when I don’t feel feminine - when I want to go out and drink beer, I know what you -”
“No, you’re not listening to me,” Chris cut in. “I’m not a woman. I’m a man. My name is Chris, not Christine. I am a man, I have a penis, I’ve got testosterone running through my body. Just not a lot.”
“You don’t really expect me to -”
“Look, when my parents died, I knew what I wanted to do with my life - I knew before they died. But I also knew that I wouldn’t be taken seriously in the field unless I was a woman. So at fourteen, when they died, I had a clean slate. I told everyone I was a girl. I was given to my aunt and uncle as a girl. I went to my new school as a girl.
“And I went to gym classes and I didn’t have breasts, and I had to hide from all the other girls. Although I was boyish-looking, I wasn’t manly, so I got away with it. I shaved only occasionally, only when I had to. And once I got out of high school, acting like a girl was easier. No one questioned who I said I was. People accepted me as a woman.
“Then I started doing the work I did, and people loved me. I got a lot more fame for it than I ever anticipated. I was succeeding. It was wonderful.
“But then it hit me - I’m all alone, and I can tell no one about who I really am. I’ve been doing this all my life, and people would look at me like I was a freak if I went out and told them the truth now. I’m a man, and I like women, I’m not gay, and I could never tell any women that exists that has ever heard of me the truth, because then they will no longer trust me or anything I have ever said regarding women’s rights. I would take the whole movement backwards if I told the world who I really was.”
“That you were a man.”
“You still don’t believe me, do you? I’m telling you because you wanted to know, and because I needed to tell someone. But I can’t destroy women’s chances of being treated with respect in this country by telling everyone.”
“So what you’re telling me is that at age fourteen you decided to become a woman so you could do the work you wanted to do in your life.”
“Yes.”
“But that’s a lot to do to yourself, especially at fourteen. What made you decide to do it?”
“My mother’s strength, but her submission to my father, made me want to go into the field. My father’s desire to do what he wanted, but his failure to achieve it because he wasn’t what the world wanted, made me decide to become a woman. I realized then that I could never succeed in this field if I wasn’t one.
“And look at the success I’ve had! Look at all of the people I managed to bring together! I was famous, people were reading my books, people wanted my opinions. I was succeeding.
“But even with all my success, people still expected a messenger for the welfare of women all over the world to be a woman - even the other women expected this. No one would have listened to me for a second if I was a man.”
“And so you stopped because -”
“Because there’s a price you pay by becoming what the world wants you to be. My father knew that, and he didn’t want to pay that price. He didn’t, and he failed at what he wanted to do. I was willing to pay the price, I made the sacrifices, and I actually beat the odds and succeeded. But then I realized that I lost myself in the process. I’m a man, and look at me. People think I’m a woman. I wear fake breasts in public. I have no close relationships. I have nothing to call my own other than my success. Well, after a while, that wasn’t enough. So this is part of my long road to becoming myself again.
“I’m going to have to change my identity and move to another country, I’m going to have to start all over again, I’m going to have to more completely separate myself from working on women’s rights, but it’s the only way I can do it. I’ll know I did what I wanted, even if it cost a lot. The next few years will now have to be me correcting all that I changed in myself in order to succeed. Correcting all my mistakes.
“I want to have a family someday. How am I supposed to be a father? There are so many things I have to change. I couldn’t go on telling the world I was a woman any more. But I couldn’t tell them I wasn’t one, so I just had to fade away, until I didn’t matter anymore.”
The interviewer sat there in silence.
“Do you have any other questions?” Chris asked.
The interviewer sat there, confused, not knowing if she should believe Chris or not. She could rip the curtain open and see for herself, she thought, but either way they would both be embarrassed.
“No.”
“Then you can go,” Chris said. “I want to get out of this bath.”
Melanie walked out of the bathroom, closed the door. Then she started thinking of all the little things, not changing with the other girls in school, looking so boyish, the low voice, the way she sat, her feet, the razor, the toilet seats. Could she be telling the truth? Could he be telling the truth, the interviewer thought, is Chris a she or a he? She didn’t know anymore. But it seemed to make sense. Her birth certificate would be the only thing that would prove it to anyone, unless she somehow got it changed.
She could have had her birth certificate changed, the interviewer thought, and therefore there would be no real proof that Chris was lying, other than looking at her naked. It was such a preposterous story, yet it seemed so possible that she tended to believe it. It didn’t matter anyway, because she couldn’t write about it, proof or not, she offered this information off the record. She grabbed her pencil and note pad from the living room and walked to the door.
Just as she was about to leave, Chris walked out from the bathroom. She walked over to the front door to open it for the interviewer. Melanie walked through the doorway, without saying a word, as Chris said, “Good story, wasn’t it?”
The interviewer turned around once more, but didn’t get to see Chris’ face before the door was shut. Once again, she was left with her doubts. She walked down the hall.
- note: this work is fiction. Any correlations between any part of this story and events that have taken place in real life are purely coincidental.
The Play, B. Benedict Braddock
Lazer swept past my door and ran full force toward the end of the hallway. He passed by nympho Alexis’s room without even a quick glance, almost slamming into suicide Tony who was innocently moving to the lunch room for a snack. Probably an apple or peanut butter on crackers.
He crashed into the wall just as I got to my door frame to watch, splitting his head on the block like a rotten log, sending fragments of skin and spurts of blood all over the bleached walls. It made me hurt. Someone hit the alarm.
Alexis came out into the hallway, naked save for her hot pink panties, rubbing her thigh with one hand and pretending to cover her breasts with the other. Suicide Tony stared at her open mouthed, completely forgetting about the crackers or whatever his food fantasy was for the afternoon.
The white coats made their way down the hall like a special olympics event, tripping over themselves and gasping for air like small dogs in water. Some of the others came to their doors and watched, looking at me as though I magically knew more than they. Which, of course, I did.
Lazer kicked and screamed from the floor, catching the head white coat straight in the jaw and loosening teeth from the gums. I eyed Alexis and thought about doing her right there in the hallway, knowing the white coats were too busy to notice or at least to stop it on time. She smiled at me as if she could read my mind.
Someone called for a lockdown over the speaker, and the goody two shoes all went back into their rooms. I saw my opportunity and made it into Alexis’ room just before the door slammed and locked shut. She looked at me with those dark beautiful eyes and then turned away as if she had something better to do. I put my ear to the door and listened.
“You fucking scum bags!” Lazer screamed. It made me laugh ‘cause it was true.
“Take off you underwear,” I called back to Alexis.
“Fuck you,” she mumbled.
I put my ear back to the door. “Damb right fuck me.”
More footsteps pounded down the hallway and I tried to make out the source of the sounds I heard. I knew they were kicking the shit out of him. It wasn’t like they had any choice in the matter.
“Take off your underwear,” I told her again.
“Make me.”
I ran for her and pulled her hair back. Then I tore them off of her. I began to suck on her neck just as Lazer screamed.
“My man . . . my man, where you at homeboy?”
I turned toward the door for one moment and that’s all it took. Alexis drove her knee up into my balls, dropping me like a coin into the collection basket. I howled for Lazer as he screamed for me.
We needed to break out, that’s all. To take somebody’s Chevy station wagon and fill it with beer and rip down the highway until we saw God.
I watched Alexis walk to her dresser and take out a new pair of panties. She slipped them on and smiled at me. “Try again, asshole?”
I crawled to the door and heard Lazer. He was giving them a hell of a time, and I was cheering for him like a blonde haired, horny teenage girl in a short skirt and lettered sweater.
“Fuck you, morons!” he screamed and I repeated the cheer. It was as good as any I could come up with. I remembered Alexis and turned back to face her. It was never a good idea to turn your back on that crazy bitch for too long. She was sitting on the end of the bed now, twirling her hair and smiling like a drunken sailor. She started playing with her tits and I ran for her again, catching her off guard and landing fully on top of her on the bed. I had my belt undone and my fly loose when she reached back for the lamp and caught me full force over the head.
I rolled off onto the floor and tasted my own blood as it rolled down my face and into my mouth. It wasn’t that bad really, not bad at all. Better than stale crackers and fucking peanut butter.
I crawled back to the door. “Lazer!” I shouted. No reply. “They shut your freak friend up for good this time,” Alexis said.
“Shut your mouth,” I told her.
“Make me.” I knew better now than to try.
Then I heard his sobbing through the door. The white coats were dragging him up the hall. That meant the needle. I’d never see him again. I began to cry too.
I was down there for a few minutes, I can’t say how long, tasting blood and ignoring the throbbing in my head and balls.
“Hey,” Alexis called to me softly.
I turned and she pulled down her panties, lying back on the bed and spreading her legs with beauty like I’d never seen. “What the hell,” she said, “do it quickly.”
It was as if there was no pain at all. I was on my feet and standing at the end of her bed. I pulled out my penis and waited. Nothing. Alexis pulled herself up and tried to help, touching me softly and saying she loved me.
Then I heard the white coats. “Where the hell is number six?”
Alexis pulled me harder. “They’re looking for you, baby. Hurry up.”
I tried and tried, and then . . . I was a gladiator, poised and ready and hungry as hell. Alexis lied back and I opened her again, just as the door popped.
The white coats were on me before I could get on her. They dragged me into the hallway, past all of Lazer’s blood and suicide Tony who was munching on a banana near the lunch room. Down the hallway and into the elevator to the needle room.
They stuck my ass with the needle and tossed me roughly into the padded room to sleep. I heard soft sobbing from the corner.
“Lazer?”
“Yeah?”
“Didn’t work.”
“No?”
“No.”
I rubbed my balls. I felt it now. It was all right, though, I’d be asleep soon.
“Homeboy?” Lazer said.
“Yeah?”
“Next time you run interference and I’ll make the play.”
paint a suicide picture, by Janet Kuypers
to the family of Jocelyn Burn
I found these letters, you see, and I didn’t know what else to do with them. I just moved into an apartment on the lower east side, and there was a box of belongings left in a storage space in the back of my pantry. There was mostly old pots and pans in there, so I didn’t think anything of it, but then I came across these letters. I assume they are from your sister, because I liked her music (I even saw a show of hers in Phoenix), and the date of the last letter corresponds with the day she passed away.
I didn’t know what to do with these letters. They weren’t in envelopes, so there was no address, and my landlord refuses to tell me who used to live here. Security purposes, he tells me. They haven’t tried to get their belongings back, and I waited a while for them in case they did. I almost wanted to keep them for myself, they just seemed to say so much, I felt like I had almost felt these things. I didn’t want to give them up. But I know your family would have wanted to read them. They belong to you.
Let me just tell you to prepare yourself for these letters. They are from the last month of her life. She was going a few shows... I don’t know why she felt the way she did. Her band was starting to make it. The radios gave her air play in the last two months. These letters are sad to read.
I don’t know who the letters are addressed to. Maybe you do. I wish I did. I suppose it doesn’t matter now, though i would like to see the mystery revealed. I’m sure you feel more strongly about this than I do, but I would like to know why.
The fame and love she looked for she received partly because of her death. She is now revered. If only she could feel it.
I hope these letters answer some questions for you, or possibly bring you some peace. They are strong letters. I am sorry for your loss.
Joe Pagliano
New York, New York
September 23
i hate everyone and everything. why can’t i find someone that cares about me? even a best friend? even someone who claims to want to spend the rest of their life with me? even if i can’t stand them? why do i feel so worthless? why do people stab me in the back? i hate you all. i really hate the fact that you hurt me so much.
i really want to not exist for a while. i’m tired of people hurting me. i’m tired of people.
there are some times when i feel so lonely and unwanted that i want to die. i want it all to end. i just hate having to deal with the people in life that make life difficult.
when i start in this cycle i just know that i fall farther and farther down. who do i blame for this? i want to blame someone, so i can think it isn’t my fault. that i don’t have a terrible fault that brings all this pain on me.
i really need to get away from here. i need to find someone that cares.
i think i care about myself, but god, i want to know that i am not the only one. i feel so lonely, so betrayed. i have no friends.
everyone is so fucking fake. why can’t i count on anyone? why can’t i find someone to lean on, just once? Every time i try, every time i start to feel confident about myself, someone has to come along and shatter it all.
i hate feeling like this. i wish i had people i could count on, for once in my life. i hate crying. i hate feeling this way about myself. i hate it.
it’s over
October 1
i keep getting screwed over. i’m supposed to do this show. i make plans for it. then i find out though the grapevine that i’m not going. my managers couldn’t even tell me. i have to ask and pester and bother in order to find out what i’m doing.
then i’m not going. then four days before the show i find out that i am going, it’s back on. how am i supposed to prepare for this?
October 3
i really don’t like tom. he doesn’t understand that i just want a little attention. he thinks i really like him. i couldn’t like that. no, i just want an ego boost if i can’t have someone real.
October 4
i just want to feel like i’m alive again. i don’t feel that way now, and i don’t know how to get that feeling back anymore. i was sitting in the hot tub yesterday evening, and it put me in the best mood ever. i was in a good mood all night, until i realized that i wasn’t going to be going out, then i just went to sleep.
I like doing the shows, i guess. i like going to different towns for shows. it was nice for a few hours to be in another city, high up in the air in my hotel room, half dressed, thinking that i owned something. myself, maybe, or maybe just some ideas. for a little while i felt alive. i miss that. i want to feel alive all the time. i want to feel alive.
October 11
i hate feeling lonely. i hate feeling alone. i can’t believe a one of the managers wanted to sleep with me last night. a part of me still doesn’t want to have to deal with it. i wouldn’t want to date him if he was single because not only do i work with him, but i also know what a woman watcher he is. it’s not as if i should think it was because i was special, though. i think it was pretty much because i have breasts. what a joke. always me.
i didn’t wait for tom to call me back yesterday, and he didn’t. i thought at least he would try to screw me. i didn’t even get that effort.
and i’m sure todd won’t ever want to call me back. i’m just sure of it.
and i’m sure jeff looks like a horror movie creature.
where is my soul mate?
maybe i have no soul. that’s why i can find no one.
i think i should just start fucking everything that moves again. at least then i had an ounce of physical satisfaction.
god, and i know my life is a self-fulfilling prophecy. the more depressed i get, the more people don’t want to be with me and then the more depressed i get.
why do i have
October 16
all of my true goals are destroyed by other people. i want someone to lean on. i want someone who doesn’t make me feel like shit. i want to achieve my goals. i want to be successful. i want to be famous. i want to be rich. i want to make everyone jealous and feel like they are worthless compared to me. i want to feel like i am above everyone else.
everyone hates me. i am so worthless. i hate everyone. i am so worthless. everyone hates me. i am so worthless. i hate everyone. i am so worthless. everyone hates me. i am so worthless. i hate everyone. i am so worthless. everyone hates me. i am so worthless. i hate everyone. i am so worthless. everyone hates me. i am so worthless. i hate everyone. i am so worthless. everyone hates me. i am so worthless. i hate everyone. i am so worthless. everyone hates me. i am so worthless. i hate everyone. i am so worthless. everyone hates me. i am so worthless. i hate everyone. i am so worthless.
people are such liars. i hate them all. why did i let myself get like this? why did i let people do this to me? i’ve just destroyed my future musically and it was all because of someone else. some one i thought i could count on. someone i thought loved me. some who i thought would always love me.
i was wrong. i was terribly wrong. no one loves me. no one loves me at all. i am not important. i am not important at all. i am worthless. i mean nothing to no one. i am worthless. i could just drop off the face of the earth and it would only matter to the people who had to prepare my remains for the funeral. and to them it would only be another client in their day.
why do i have to be so alone? why do people have to be so fake? aren’t i talented? aren’t i successful? aren’t i funny? aren’t i important?
if you’re so funny... why are you on your own tonight?
i can’t do anything. i can’t sing. i can’t perform. i’m useless. i’m worthless. i’m nothing. i wish i could be something, but i am only nothing, and i will always be nothing.
i wish i could count on someone. i can count on no one. everyone i thought was important to me, well, i was not important to them. i hate being nothing.
even the people i thought would always love me, well, i should know better, they don’t care about me either. every single person i thought was a part of my life, well, i was wrong, they aren’t. i mean nothing to them. i always thought i did things to improve myself because i care about myself. i was wrong. i still do things because i care about how other people think of me.
and i have failed.
i have no one. i have no talent. i have nothing - even in myself - to count on. i have no one.
i feel so alone and i feel so incompetent. and i feel as if no one cares.
no one does.
October 18
life is so interesting sometimes. it’s amazing how one conversation can change my whole outlook on life. i need to be reminded sometimes of what i am doing, of who i am, of what is deep down inside me. i have to be tested.
i don’t know if i will ever get to sing - and be appreciated for it.
i don’t know who i want to spend the rest of my life with. who they will be, when it will be, anything.
it is almost nice.
here i am, in another country, sitting once again in some lounge with absolutely no soul, drinking something. i figured i have $27 canadian, oh, probably $30 with my dollar coins, that i won’t be able to spend in the states. i could go window shopping, but that would require motion, besides, david might be trying to get a hold of me, and i don’t know whether or not i should wait for him.
never have enough time. when i do, i do the same things - drink, and think too much.
amaretto stone sours are particularly good.
and then i will get on the plane and... uh... mark will pick me up (yes, it really did take me that long to think of his name).
david was laughing at how i throw men around. well, none of them are good enough for me to keep.
show went okay tonight. i do like the travel. it makes me feel better for some reason to be alone in another city than in my home town.
October 20
why am i that worthless to you? am i that worthless to you? i guess i am, since you treat me the way that you do.
i came here hoping to get out of my depression. you only succeeded in sinking me deeper. i want to die.
you succeeded in your mission. i hope you’re happy. now i know that everyone hates me.
i can’t do anything tonight. tonight was supposed to be the beginning of the rest of my life. i was supposed to start anew. you’ve destroyed that for me.
you’ve used me, that’s all you’ve done. you’ve succeeded in making me feel even more worthless than i already did. are you happy? were you looking to destroy me? probably not, you were probably not even thinking about me, giving my a single thought in your head. that’s how little i mean to people, and i know it.
don’t worry, i guess you’re not the only one, but i think you were the straw that broke the camel’s back. i wanted to hear it from you because no one else would tell it to me. but you didn’t either, and now i know the truth about myself and what people think about me. i guess i should almost thank you, for showing me the light. it is a painful light, but it is the truth nonetheless.
i’ve always said i wanted the truth out of people, and now i guess i’ve got it. no one cares for me. i am useless in this world. maybe i’ll be more useful in the next. what a fucking joke. if there were a next world.
when i die, i don’t want any ceremonies done. i don’t want to be filled with any chemicals so my body can be displayed for people who claim to mourn, i don’t want to be a part of that modern-day ritual. i want to die, and i want body to decompose that way it normally would so that maybe at least my remains may benefit nature somehow.
i feel like kurt cobain, except i’ve done nothing that would make me revered. i’ve done nothing. no one appreciates what i’ve done in my life. i’ve overcome so much, and it still isn’t enough.
nothing ever works out for me. ever. i’m alone
October 22
my dreams are always just that, dreams. if i ever achieve anything, it is in a half-ass way that proves that i really can’t achieve my goals after all. i feel so lonely. lonely even when i am in a crowded room. alone.
i want someone to know me and appreciate me for my talent. i want someone to feel as if they can follow me just because of the work that i do. i want to be accepted and appreciated in that realm. when that doesn’t happen, i look for someone that appreciates me in a physical sense. then i find them and i realize that it is only temporary, that no one has any respect for me, that i have still lost. that no one really cares about me. that i am nothing. that i am worthless.
i wanted to think that you would always care for me. i should have known better. i should have known you were just like all of the others, even after all we have been through.
gone through? what the hell have we gone through? you followed me like a puppy dog. you have a small penis. i don’t know, i guess other than the harassment i felt from you after we broke up, after the bout with arthritis after dating you again, you haven’t brought me much. i want to think that i have happy memories in my life, but i can’t think of any. with you or with anyone.
life will go on without me. i just wish a lot of the time that it would end for me sooner than later.
i’ve always said that i know that i will always lead a long life because i know that with my luck, i’ll be forced to live this miserable life for the longest time possible. what i’ve never said is that that notion really depresses me. there are a lot of times when i just want to die. i just want to disappear and never have to deal with anything - never even have to live - again.
sometimes even breathing seems like a chore.
i wish i could feel alive
writing used to help me, but it doesn’t seem to anymore.
i don’t even feel like getting drunk now. usually that is my answer for anything. i don’t have the answers anymore.
October 23
when someone reads this, i will be gone. i want to die. no one loves me. i am worthless. every time i tried to reach out to someone they always failed me. i’m tired of being there for people when they are never there for me. i’m tired of being strained, i’m tired of being pushed around, i’m tired. don’t you understand? i’m tired of crying. i’m tired of hating myself anymore.
i’m never going to make anything of myself. no one will let me. let me die.
i haven’t felt like this since my father beat me. now i should be stronger, but i can’t fight the whole world.
fuck my dreams. i can’t achieve them. fuck the causes. fuck them all. i can’t beat everything in this whole world. i give up.
give me some pills.
wait. i have some.
soon it will be over for me. don’t let the world remember me. i want to die without a trace, the way i lived. i never found the answers.
why couldn’t anyone love me? was i that difficult? why did everyone destroy me? i can’t fight you.
why aren’t these pills working? i’m so tired.
by the time someone reads this, i will be dead. i will die crying. i will die knowing no one cared.i wish someone could have loved me, once.
Poetry
1ST POEM, NEW APARTMENT
c ra mcguirt
my tv & my vcr are here,
but i don’t live here yet.
the lights, the gas
& the phone are on,
but i don’t live here yet.
the cable is connected.
there’s a hand towel
by the bathroom sink,
& a cutting board
on the kitchen wall,
but i don’t live here yet.
my dope & my pornography
are here. king james
is on the shelf
beside the satanic bible
& several hundred
other books
there’s beer & milk
in the frigidaire,
but i don’t live here yet.
i’m writing at the kitchen table
until my desk arrives.
my old place will be empty
by this time tomorrow
i’ll be living here
by the time i end
this sentence.
C RA’S TIPS FOR OPEN MIC EMCEES
#1: Our First Poet
c ra mcguirt
i’ve been pretending to run this gathering of poets
for going on six years,
& one of the hundreds of hardest parts
is choosing the first poet.
you don’t want an old & honored hand, because
old & honored readers should be saved.
you don’t want someone you personally like or dislike
because if you like them
they’re sure to be pissed that you made them go first,
&, if you don’t like them,
they’ll assume that you made them go first
because you don’t.
virgins are inappropriate:
if they’ve never seen anyone do it,
how can i expect THEM to do it?
& no, i can’t go first:
i have to save my energy
to keep on saying
different things about old hands
& new things about virgins
while somehow trying to rip out my soul
& show it before it dies
when it comes my time to read,
& keep on introducing until the end.
but someone has to go first,
or no one gets to go, so...
welcome to open mic poetry night at the Windows.
the aisleway by which you entered is a clear exit
in the event of emergency, & so are the windows themselves.
our first poet tonight is not a virgin,
nor is he an old hand here, nor do i personally
like or dislike him, nor is he me.
since he’s never read here before,
& isn’t likely to be here again except by accident,
i ask that you listen very closely.
it doesn’t really matter that he’s famous-
that isn’t the reason i’m giving him
11 minutes 41 seconds. he gets that for going first.
i would imagine that some of you are mad at him by now
& maybe mad at me
for giving this celebrity
2 times & more the time i’m giving you.
but someone has to go first, & he went first.
he went first a long time ago
to the place where you are going
after this reading
or maybe even before it’s done.
so please welcome the Lizard King:
ladies & gentleman, this is called
The End.
THE 1ST WORD WAR
c ra mcguirt
i came in 3rd with a 21
in the last round of the first
nashville poetry slam. i wasn’t disappointed
much. to tell the ugly honest truth,
i was pretty goddam mad
at myself.
after all, the month before
i’d been on fire, & beat the scores
of 3 good poets in a row
with never less than 24.
maybe i was lame, i thought,
or maybe the judges were bored.
in a day or 2, i got a call
from beatlick joe, who’d been involved
in setting up the slam:
that one judge didn’t like you, man.
he said you were TOO LOUD!
he said you were TOO WEIRD!
he gave you a ONE!
huh.
well, i’ll be damned...
a ONE, you said? a half point each
for content AND delivery?
because i was TOO LOUD?
because i was TOO WEIRD?
thanks for calling
to tell me i won.
everyone keep winning.
ONE WEEK BEFORE 33
c ra mcguirt
no wife.
no live-in lover.
no roommate.
no tv.
i hocked it today
with my VCR
for typewriter ribbon
cassettes & groceries.
no dog.
no cat.
no telephone.
now i’m alone
with me
& my fish
& my stereo
my books
my tapes
my typewriter
my art
& the art of others
my mostly empty bedroom
& beer beer beer beer beer because
there’s no weed at any price
i could afford if i found it
in the state of tennessee
unless you have a joint on you?
i didn’t think so.
this all will take
some getting
used to.
My motherMy motherMy mother
by Janet Kuypers
We went to see my mother this weekend. You see,
my mother has cancer, and we decided to go
across the country for a weekend to surprise her
and see how she was doing. it was breast cancer,
so it really was the best case scenario, i suppose,
so i managed to put it out of my mind until we actually
had to fly there
The night before i couldn’t bring myself to pack. it was
two in the morning when i finallly pulled my suitcase out
from the pantry shelf.
i kept telling people at work, “well, you see, I have to go
visit my mother because she has cancer, so I have to
miss a few days of work,” but I was always able to
say it so matter-of-factly until I had to actually
visit her
In fact, when my sister told me the diagnosis, it
was right around Christmas time, and there was so much
work to do and I still had presents to wrap and a
meal to prepare and Christmas was supposed to be a
happy time
that I managed to postpone even thinking about it until
we all decided to surprise her for a visit. And then I
had to pack. To decide what to take, what to leave
behind, put my life into a little black box with a handle
and wheels, and go
It shouldn’t be this way, and I knew that, I knew that I
shouldn’t be visiting my mother under these circumstances
and I knew how she never wants to think about bad things
because they always make her cry and this would make her
want to cry and cry because the only reason why we’re
there is because things are bad
But I wasn’t supposed to think that way, things would be
just fine.
So I finished packing at four in the morning and the next
thing I remember is I was on the plane with my sisters,
cracking jokes as we picked up the rental car. and then we
got to mom and dad’s house
and everyone was so happy to see each other, it was
one big family reunion and we were laughing and talking
and trying to figure out where we were all going
to sleep
and the sisters and dad walked into the front room to
see if the couches were good enough to sleep on or if we
would have to get out an air mattress and I was alone
in the den with mom
so I suddenly became serious and sat down next to her
and asked her how she was really doing. And that is when
she started to cry, saying that the cancer spread, but
what she was most concerned with was the fact that she
didn’t want to spoil the time that we came to visit her.
But what I don’t think she understood was that we could’nt
have come at a better time, and nothing she could do would
spoil our trip.
After the Fight with Wanda
Mary Winters
If a thing’s worth doing
it’s worth doing badly.
Take driving.
If you’re a crash dummy
you’re supposed to drive
like a drunken maniac.
Fun as hell ‘til you hit the wall.
Imagine the cops jumping from copters.
Searching for the wreck
at the bottom of the canyon
Child #1 strangled in her seat belt.
Adult Male with his brains
stuck on a pinyon pine.
Burial is eyeballs and elbows
carted off by the squirrels.P>
Party ‘Til We Drop
Mary Winters
New Years non-stop
trapping us like Midas
Cheers! we shriek
bobbing up and down
plastic goony birds
hundreds around us yelling their jokes
their life stories
our cheeks sore from the humor
somebody’s wish-come-true
a permanent party
pointy black shoes killing our toes
the roar of champagne stoppers
the screams of the revelers hit in the eye
“there’s more where that came from!”
our hostess is shouting
ONE NIGHT
c ra mcguirt
all i wanted was another quart of beer, so i waited until the commercial
left without locking the door, & took off to the store about a minute away
in my dead grandad’s car. behind the local convenience glass, 2 men
were polishing the floor with some sort of cybernetic apparatus,
& they gestured that the place was closed, so i headed down to the other
store on the corner. it was brightly lighted, but when i tried, their door
was locked as well. a frightened-looking young black girl (i mean, african-
american young woman) motioned to the airlock (you know, the sliding thing
they have like at the bank to keep from getting shot). ‘i need a quart of
busch, please ma’am,’ i said, putting 2 bucks in the tray. ‘damn, are ya’ll
locked up already? you know, it’s not even ten o’clock...’ the young woman
rolled her eyes & said: ‘people who wanna rob you don’t care what time it is.’
she went off & rummaged in the cooler as a middle-aged white lady in a nice
white coat came from her nice car to buy some gas. ‘how you tonight, ma’am?’
i asked of her, perfectly aware just how much i look like a serial killer
even after the haircut. i was tempted to say something jaunty, like:
‘isn’t it funny that they’ve figured out how to quit getting killed by us,
but they still haven’t found a way to keep us from killing each other
in the parking lot?’ instead, i asked: ‘heard any more about snow?’
the young black woman came back to tell me they were out of busch.
i said i’d take a quart of bud. the nice white lady said:
‘no, but you know how THEY are...’ ‘oh yeah,’ i said, & we both laughed
entirely at the expense of all the he expensive meterologists. we talked
a bit & said that snow was overdue, & a little might be nice,
like maybe the dusting we got on christmas day in ‘89. ‘anything but ice!’
she prayed, & i echoed her prayer as i finally got my beer
& drove cautiously back through the weirdly warm
january rain.
i came through the unlocked door & was immediately attacked
trinity of poems
jonathan
levant
1) my susan voice
equal pay for equal perversions
let out of his strong cage
pushed into a weak freedom of whim
jack kevorkian is key to this decade
2) getting the sunday funnies & a toy stove that day
my son is there I take a shower shoving up the
opaque glass to keep an eye on my son
I call out ot my wife “is travis still
in the backyard?” she’s in the kitchen
with a window out to the back; then “oh
I see him” I say and rinse when
I look out next he’s gone and the wife
has moved with our nine month old daughter
into a room that can’t see the back yard
I pull on my trunks and go to the play-
ground two busy streets away
and there’s travis on a slide I
take him by the hand and talk to him
about telling people where one will be
I phone and tell ginger we’ll be
at the playgournd; i’m proud & troubled
3) distressed & delighted//epilog
noah the author’s wife wonder should she
go to the party at hillary’s
it conflicts with the poetry
evening at her husband’s
which she has never attended
she doesn’t want to give
her gas money to hillary
she wants me to install
her air conditioner (for her
not for the baby/ies) I
won’t
4) diary may 15th 1995
the only thing I gave up for travis was my diary
and it was time for that to die anyways
it may have been coincidence
travis and I have mailed stuff off to twenty magazines
this month and one ltter to one real person
which was almost exactly like a submission
the submissionary position the easy jokes
and yet his repeated genuine delight at
asking why the chicken crossed the road
on the day my son planted a garden of 4-o’clocks
and I held the two babies (at bay) for an hour
phone calls from brian tolle
Janet Kuypers
JKuypers@scars.tv
I came home the other day to find three messages on my answering machine, each nearly two minutes long. They were all from my friend Brian Tolle, who lives in Indiana and is working on a film. Now, Brian is a friend of mine from high school, in fact, I asked him to go to prom with me as friends, but he turned me down, saying he wanted to save the experience of prom for someone he was dating. But that was eight years ago, I went to prom anyway, without him, but I still think it would have been more fun if he was my date and not Kevin Farrar.
Well I got home the other night and had these messages on my machine and they were all from Brian Tolle, and I listen to the first one:
and he says “I’m sorry I haven’t called you in so long, and I hope you don’t hate me because I love you, and I’ve moved, and that’s my roommate you hear in the background, I don’t think you met him before but he knows who you are and he hears your voice on my answering machine and he thinks you have a sexy vioce”
and then he says “oh, I really hope you don’t hate me because I didn’t mean to not call, there’s just a lot going on, and oh, I have a new email address so write to me, and I love you and I hope you’re not mad and I might be coming up to visit in Chicago. Well, anyway, call me if you don’t hate me, I love you”
and that was one of the messages, and then I listen to the second one:
and he says “hi, it’s me again, I forgot to give you my new phone number, since I just moved, so here it is, and did I tell you I’m making a film? I’m finally doing it, I’ve scraped enough money together so I’m doing that in the beginning of March and did you get my note? You said you didn’t before but I wanted to make sure. Well, call me”
and that was the second message, and then I listen to the last one:
and he says “hi, it’s me again, and I just wanted to get back to you and tell you that yes, I’d love to go to prom with you. I’ll wear a tux and get a tie and cumberbund that matches your dress. Yes, I’ll go to prom with you. Well, I guess that’s about all. I hope you’re not mad at me, because I love you, I really do, don’t hate me, I’ll talk to you soon”
And so I called him back and I told him, no, I don’t hate you, I love you too, and we all have busy lives and I understand why you haven’t called, I haven’t called, either, so don’t worry. Tell me about your film, I ask, and he says that he borrowed some money and saved some money from his last job and is borrowing equipment so he can do the filming.
“I have the production costs taken care of, but I have no idea where the post-production money is coming from.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Idon’t know, maybe get some credit cards.”
“Maybe there are some companies that could use a tax deduction and would be willing to help finance your film.”
So we talk a bit more and I tell him that I wish I could help him out more, and he says that I have because I validate him and what he does in everything I say and that although he had no money he felt like finally he had control over his life. And that now he knows that no matter what he chooses to do with his life, and no matter what happens to him, that he has control over his life and he can handle anything. And I told him I was so glad he felt that way, because I think most people never get to feel that way once in their life. I was proud of him.
And then he asks if he could use a song of mine in his film, and I told him I would be honored, and he said, no, he’d be honored.
I guess it’s just nice to know that I will be a part of such an important film.
AT THE BOTTOM OF AN EMPTY GLASS
r. l. nichols
once adorned of
sweetly colored
wine, a memory,
i find of one
that dances on
empty glass . . .
after th’ sweet
ness of wine has
touched lonely
lips to remind
one of th’ sweet
warmness of time
spent kissing the
one tha’ dances
at the bottom
of an empty glass
SINATRA,
SUMMER WINDS & SWIMMIN’ IN GIN . . .
r. l. nichols
the perfect honeymoon
for “what-might-have-
been” in another time
& place; in a more-is-
better-world. that o-
so-perfect-vicki-val-
e-world . . . w/out the
gritty gothams, jokers
& batmans manlyfolk
figure into a non-
violent world of prop
guns & machine-gun-
sperm succeeding many
generations; inspirin
nnn many, many, sons
& daughters, whose
only worry is: a blue
sinatira; th’ summer
wind & where ta get
moree goddamn gin . . .
basic training
ray heinrich
ray@vais.net
exhausted
we finish another hike
in the desert around Fort Bliss, El Paso
laughing
at fatigues made white under our arms
from the salt left from our sweat
bullshitting
in the large, open barracks showers
my friend George says
“basic training is like a REALLY long gym class”
“but you get to carry real weapons”
i say
“but they’re not loaded”
says george
“do you REALLY want Wilkins (another friend of ours)
walking behind YOU with a loaded weapon?”
“NOOOOOOO!” we both shout.
(but guess who ends up in Viet Nam)
on that cue
about six more guys walk into the showers
i can’t help noticing
their cute little dorks
bouncing
on top of their balls as they walk
followed obediently by their
tight little asses
and the muscles of their legs
are pumped and distinct
from the miles of walking
i immediately start zen meditation
filling my head
with the sound of one hand clapping
because
in basic training
it is considered rude
especially in the shower
to get a hard-on
from watching your fellow soldiers
then i’m saved
as George motions we should leave
you see
George doesn’t like the open showers
he can’t stand the thought
that some queer
might be watching him
don’t worry George
i say
your butt is way too ugly
he laughs
we laugh together
Estabr2_Laur@Bentley.edu
(for Laura), by michael estabrook
Even though you’re only down the road I still miss you like you were 300
miles away. We really like the weekends and having you around, you’re
growing into such a beautiful young lady. I’m sorry you’re having adjustment
troubles at college, although what you’re going through is perfectly normal.
I mean going away from home for the first time is not easy, but you’ll get
through it OK I know you will. Everybody leaves home at some time, some go
far away and never come back, while others move next-door. Obviously Mom and
I want you to be near-by always, but if life takes you further from us, well,
we’ll just have to come and visit a whole bunch of times. Anyway, just want
you to know that I feel for your pain at being away and trying to find
yourself. Bentley may not be the place for you, but probably it is too soon
to determine that for certain. The thing to keep in mind is that things
change so quickly; you may feel uncomfortable now but who knows what could
change that completely at any moment. So, I guess the Dad lecture would be
to hang-in there and let the Fates have at it. We don’t want your college
experience to be an unhappy one; if at the end of your first semester things
are still yukky, well, we’ll weigh our options and set another course. So,
don’t worry about anything, just study hard, I mean that’s why you’re there
you know to study, all the other stuff - roommates, cafeteria food,
uncomfortable beds - are nothing compared to learning; learning is the most
critical thing you can do; bury yourself in your learning, it’ll help you
cope, it’ll help the time pass, it’ll make you stronger, trust me. We are
waiting for you to realize that you are your own special unique and very
valuable person, that you have likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses,
ups and downs; you need to have confidence in your own mind and judgments
(like we do), you’re smart and honest and have integrity, loyalty, courage
and interest in life; you need to recognize these qualities and have faith in
yourself; if you don’t want to go to a dance or pledge a sorority, well
don’t; you don’t have to, and you don’t need to explain why or why not to
anyone else, not even to us; the only person you have to please is yourself.
Well, anyway, hang-in there, and for pity’s sake, don’t take it all so
seriously, try to have a little fun with it. Love as always, Dad.
Devouring Love
Paul Glaze
Devouring Love Was Her Illness
To Her There Was No Escape.
Her Body Loathed Sexual Stillness.
Men Were Her Slaves To Take.
Her Love Force Was Insatiable
Seducing All Within Her Glance.
With Love Fires Inescapable,
Placing Men In Her Trance.
Men Were Seductive Captures
Fulfilling Her Amorous Desires
She Enjoyed Constant Raptures
Never Enough For Her Requires.
The Men She Was Seducing
Their Life Force Soon Diminished
Her Lovers Lives Were Reducing.
They Died Before She’d Finished.
Men, She Did Constantly Crave.
Their Body’s Complete With Soul.
She Released Them Into The Grave.
Once She Attained Control.
Her Men Soon Begin To Realize
Their Lives Were In Mortal Danger.
To Her They Were A Sexual Prize
As She Took Each Male Stranger.
She Moved From City To City
Never Staying To Long.
She Took Men With Out Pity
Lusting For Young And Strong.
A Night Of Loving Glamorous,
Taking A Strong Man’s Disposition.
For He Was Equally Amorous
As Both Locked Into Position.
Each Processed Identical Power
With Numerous Body Spasms
Hour After Brutal Hour,
Enduring Dual Orgasms.
The Night Winds Howled
Two Body’s Locked In Bed.
Their Hot Flesh Growled,
As They Constantly Fed.
Two Souls Sexually Bled.
Mornings Light Came,
It Was Not The Same.
Their Game Was At An End.
Limp Bodies In Beauty’s Blend
Quietly, Reclining In Bed
On Each They Brutally Bred
Bound in Physical Wed,
Locked Together, Dead!
THE DIET
By Paul L. Glaze
Losing Weight Is A Horrible Fate.
You Eat To Much Then Diet To Late.
In Secret You Step On The Bathroom Scale
It Screams Mercy, You’re Heavy As Hell !
You Stare At Fat, What A Horrible Sight.
You Swear To Stop Eating This Very Night.
As You Ease In The Kitchen For One Last Bite.
You Know You Are In For A Hell Of A Fight.
The Diet Begins And It Starts Out Great.
You Are Eating Less, Early And Late.
The Pounds Are Fading, You Are In Control.
The Suddenly You Are Placed On Hold.
The Raging Battle Takes Its Hold!
Your Strong Will Power Begins To Fold.
The Diet Grows Weak, Its Almost Dead.
Your Stomach Is Screaming, I Must Be Fed.!
Your Diet Has Lost And It Will Lose Again
Food Tastes So Good, It Should Be Made A Sin !
DIRTY OLD MAN
By Paul l. Glaze
Every Man Is A Dirty Old Man
As He Always Does What He Can.
He Lives His Life In Many Stages.
But This Varies With His Ages.
With The Passing Of Youthful Years,
He Sheds All Of His Childhood Fears.
Becoming Outward, Strong, And Bold.
He Gains A Studs Complete Control.
His Twenties Are His Greatest Age.
Women Endure His Ruthless Rampage.
He Issues Countless Fond Caresses.
Of Many Triumphs, He Now Confesses.
His Thirties Are Also Very Strong.
He Cares Not From Right And Wrong
Love Is Always For Him To Make
Women Are Merely His Slaves To Take
His Forties Bring A Different Story
He Is Now Losing His Greatest Glory.
His Body Is Showing Its Wear And Tear.
There Is Little Left Now To Compare.
The Fifties Bring On Sins Of Sadness
Sorrows Now Replace His Gladness
His Glory Is Now A Dream Of The Past
He Is Slipping, Slowing, And Fading Fast.
The Sixties Are A Pathetic Shame
He Played Until The En Of The Game
His Superman’s Life , Now Is Over
Youth Is Lost Beneath Limpid Clover
His Seventies Are Severely Bland
For This Once Proud, Dirty Old Man
It Is Now Even Hard To Remember
The Months Of January And December.
His Life Has Come To Its Bitter End.
His Tombstone Writing Does Harshly Blend.
To Heaven Or Hell, We Now Gladly Send,
This Soul Of A Flirty, Dirty, Old Man.
DISTANT STARS
Paul Glaze
I See A Dim Cluster Of Stars,
Deep Within Outer Space.
They Seem Like Diamond Bars.
As Off To Nowhere They Race.
My Mind Begins To Wonder,
Just How Old They Are.
It Would Be A Blunder,
To Stage The Age Of A Star.
Why Are They There?
And What Made Them So?
As I Can Only Stare,
At Their Swirling Flow.
When I Go To Spirit Again.
I Will Travel Out Their Way.
Then Send My Mystic Blend,
And With The Stars, I’ll Play.
My Soul Will Quickly Enter.
Seeking its White Hot Core.
As I Fly through Its Center,
I’ll Explore, Then Soar For More
With Bars Of Stars, I’ll Play.
For Who Can Ever Say?
I May Even Want To Stay,
And Make My Own Someday!
(C)1995 Paul L. Glaze
Poetaster@aol.com
DOG AT THE TOP OF THE CHAIR
By Paul L. Glaze
The Dog On Top Of The Chair
Wrapped Around His Masters Ear.
So Very Calm And Sincere,
Giving Its Love Without Fear.
His Master Is Tired And Old,
The Little Dog Doesn’t Care.
Bringing Warmth From The Cold
For His Master To Share.
Full Of Love And Adoration,
With Master Thru Thick And Thin.
A Gift Of Gods Creation.
His Stay, From Beginning To End.
God Gives Us These Little Creatures
To Comfort Our Way Thru Life.
They Come With Sizes And Features
To Lighten Our Load Of Strife.
If You Have Never Owned One,
You Don’t Know What You Are Missing.
Full Of Friendship And Playful Fun.
Not To Mention The Licking And Kissing.
black pussy
by Virgil Hervey
virgo@panix.com
this ride on the 3 a.m.
uptown #6 local was swift
becoming worth the price
of admission as the six foot
five inch Watusi chick
with four foot long legs
protruding from a tight white
miniskirt started nodding off
crossing her legs in the seat
opposite me, first one-way
then the other, each time
seemingly giving me a glimpse
of her dark tightly held secret
and as the skirt rode up
higher and higher
I started telling myself
don’t you dare doze now
you’re about to see some
black pussy. but wait!
it gets better....
she fell into something
resembling a deep coma
and the legs, no longer
crossed were starting to spread
wider and wider forcing
the hemline closer
to the waistline
and I prayed
thank you Oh Lord
for that which we
are about to see.
suddenly the train lurched
at a sharp turn in the tunnel
just before 14th Street.
that was all the push
she needed and so
it happened, not quite
what I expected
the tightly held secret
was not a pink
moist African Oyster
but instead an ebony
eel that seemed to have
a mind of its own
as it snaked its way
out of its lair
stuck its head up
and looked around the car.
“What a waste of a perfectly good
piece of meat”, the woman
next to me exclaimed.
Weed Seed
by Hans Ebner
I am poor
but that is good
Ive had money
and it only distracted me
from my calling
What monks we be
in orange robes
our food bowls
our only property
chanting songs
no one understands
We are the congregation
of our church
and gather together
in the oddest of places
taking vows
to never be at peace
We live everywhere
in secret
and silent
we look so normal
no one knows
we are the underbelly
of beauty
michael estabrook
MEstabr815@aol.com
I suppose extinction
is a collaboration of sorts
I’m heading to Schenectady, New York,
to visit Alan Catlin so we can discuss
our next collaborative book effort,
and I stop off in Albany to wander
through the New York State Museum,
a huge collage of Natural History
(Adirondack Wilderness) and Man-made
History (New York Metropolis). And I
notice that both of these histories
converge, collaboratively if you will,
in the Wilderness in Transition
Exhibit where elaborate dioramas
depict mammals in reconstructed
wildlife habitats. Out in front of
each is a little sign, all with the
same drearily similar crypt-like ring,
a hollow dank ringing that stays
with me and stays with me and stays
with me: The Timber Wolf no longer
inhabits New York State. The
Wolverine no longer inhabits New York
State. The Mountain Lion no longer
inhabits New York State. The Moose no
longer inhabits New York State . . .
michael estabrook
MEstabr815@aol.com
Gravestone
Grandmother’s unmarked grave
a barren battlefield.
not good
remaining for eternity
as a casualty buried
in an unmarked battlefield,
simply
because you’re a suicide.
Mother and her sisters
say “couldn’t afford no headstone”
back then.
But what about now,
retired, living
off the fat of the land,
playing golf,
sunning themselves like
aging lizards on a rock.
adultery
ray heinrich
ray@vais.net
your breasts were just the right size
just the right brown
for the light
one window away
balanced between
the two parts of a day
our love
innocent
but only to us
and they
could always be waiting outside
but not in this room
where two months rent
was more than enough
for eternal love
for your breasts
the right size of my hands
your breasts
that sucked firm in my mouth
and the constant surprise
of your thin sweet milk
as his baby
slept quietly beside usP>
down by the river
ray heinrich
ray@vais.net
the body
smooth and white
is waiting no longer
and the stab wound
washed by the water
looks like a scratch
but admits your finger
like a small mouth
David Hunter
dhunter@inforamp.net
The rain gushes down
& all is mist outside the windows.
The ceiling is as high as my hopes
& has triangular lights
Like electric pyramids.
I think with a sufficient amount of sweets
I could be persuaded to while away the day
Here amidst the periodical stacks.
Indexing my thoughts,
reflecting on words I will not read
& people I will not meet.
She is wearing a melon sweater &
her finger pokes her pudgy cheek
As she sits glowing before the terminal.
Is she tapping out a story of the man
Appraising her? The poet at large capturing her?
Or perhaps an essay on the impact of NAFTA
On immigrant women textile workers in Montreal
All is quiet except for a cough and a sneeze.
An old man in a tweed cap, oversized on his grey head,
Crouches like a century over his notes
Scrawled on scraps of paper,
Planning great revisions for society.
He blows his nose and unfolds the kleenex looking for portents,
Like reading tea leaves in a cup.
TWO WOMEN
mthwld1@nc5.infi.net
One night.
Sitting at the bar
over drinks
we discussed...
Two Women.
One night.
In the bathroom
of a club
we kissed...
Two Women.
That night.
After the kiss
we found
our desire...to be
Two Women.
One night.
After work
over drinks
we planned
the encounter.....of our seduction
Two Women.
One night.
Our seduction
after drinks
we tasted the sweetness
caressed the euphoria
lapped the tides of ecstasy....from our desire
Two Women.
That night.
We parted
taking the taste
lingering in the smell
of each other
home.....
to share
the passion and pleasure
of
Two Women.
With
two men
Each day.
At work
in our minds
we share
the moments of the encounter
of
Two Women.
Each day.
In silent discussion
words on the screen
expressing our need
to taste
again
the tides of ecstasy
Two Women.
Each day.
In the shelter of
closed doors..
the Elevator’s, the Bathroom’s the car’s
Alone
tongues touch...
heart’s beat
sensual teasing...
the tide rolls into waves
of desire
Two Women.
One night.
Another encounter
no fear..only
need
no drinks..only
the water from the shower, dripping off of our soft wet bodies
into the mouths of the lovers...
Two Women.Breast to breast
tongue to tongue
riding together into the fire of
orgasmic freedom...
Caressing the feeling
Two Women.
That night.
In a room full of needles
dancing with color
our bodies are branded
forever
with a symbol of
our time together
Two Women.
One day.
Alone in my mind
One woman
knows...with pain and longing
that there will not be
Two Women again...
for
two men
have expressed the desire to
join in...
and morality pulls...
at her guilt within...the fear of damnation
One woman...
cannot succumb to
being
Two Women
Again....
Unless...
in the darkness, hidden from sight
away from God’s eternal eyes...
and the knowledge of the men...
they can become
Two Women
Lovers & Friends.
Omnivore
Jon Powell
In line at the Canal Villere,
I watch the woman in front of me
unload her cart. Unload her needs
on an endless belt. The checker scans
each item past a beam of light & seems
only to listen for the acquiescent
bing. A box of elbows and cheese, crunchy
cereal, some quick grits, a six-pack.
Not to different from my own needs a few
years
back. More lettuce now. Yellow & red
peppers. Now, fish-food flakes
for the pond. Cat litter. In the dark parking
lot I off-load the cart into the trunk.
Cheap steaks. Celery. Squash.
Take care with the six bright bottles
of Beaujolais nouveau - all my spare cash
for the rest of November. The car won’t crank.
What are my needs? I don’t know anymore.
A month ago a man was killed in front
of me. Shot through his forehead from a parked
car that shot off leaving ribbons of tire tracks,
curling ribbons of exhaust. It was over
in an instant. I don’t even know
what color the car was. I left before
the cops arrived. Before the gunsmoke’s
dissipation.
What were his needs? His wants? That
night in front of the bar, a gunshot
left him with a dot in his forehead.
A third eye to take in what in his last
nanosecond?
Over 400 killed
this year in Orleans Parish. Most, men
about the age of my sons. Most, black.
Young men I don’t know. Wouldn’t known
cacooned as I am in this
part of town. A white guy free
to go shopping late at night.
In the parking lot a woman comes up to me.
I am not startled. Is this your
car? she asks. Yes. She points to the bumper
stickers on the rear window, & asks
if I work at WWOZ, New Orleans’ community
station. Her brother does.
No, I tell her. Only listen.
Can you give me a jump?
At home on the patio, even though
it is November, & dark, even though
the grill is stubborn, I want to barbeque
the meat. A perfect meal. An innocent
consummation. The glistening fat spattering.
This past spring as I sat on the patio
late one morning, a tiny spider
rappelled down on a gossamer wire
from a branch of the Japanese Plum. She
hit the patio in a run, furtive in her
spidery way. A wasp not much larger
that the spider pounced on the spider,
stung the spider. Like TV cartoon characters
in a swirling squabble, the battle raged
& ended in seconds. The wasp grappled
the spider, splayed legs jerking,
zigzagged to a crack between the flagstones.
Why I remember the spider now, jostling
briquettes, cajoling fire, sipping the voodoo
of the first vintage, I don’t know.
letter to a troubled friend
Alexandria Rand
AlexRand@scars.tv
I’ve never been able to tell you how I feel, because you never let me. When I try to say something, and believe me, I try to do it in the most tactful way possible and I only begin to scrape the surface, you react in one of the following ways:
1) You cut me off, get defensive, say you never do these things.
2) You go through denial, and say I’m overreacting, because your behavior is normal.
3) You apologize, but the behavior never changes.
No one wants to deal with a sour reaction, especially when you’re trying to tell them something is wrong. I’ve pussy-footed around you through subjects such as your work, your family, the men in your life and the men in mine, your surgery - you name it, and all because I can never tell you when there is something wrong. I’ve wanted to confront you, but you make it impossible. I really feel like I have gone above and beyond the call of duty when it comes to maintaining a friendship with you. In fact, I think that a lot of the time the work I have put into it has been very uneven in comparison to what you have done. But I was willing to do it; I cared about you as a friend.
I’ve noticed a change in you in the past few years. When you were in college, you were still being supported by your parents, you had the love of your life with you. Since you have been on your own, you have no direction and no one to share your life with. From what I can gather, this behavior now relates to your feeling insecure about yourself and seeking positive reinforcement in men. They can be men with whom you have no future with, men that are gay and you have no chance with, men you have no interest in, or men who are abusive at best. You’ve gone after men that fit all of these examples. They can even be men I’ve expressed interest in, or men I’m dating - and then they would be an additional boost to you because someone would like you more than me.
I have seen this self-destructive behavior in you and I have known that for the most part there was nothing I could do or say about it, because you never listen to me. You don’t want to hear it from me. You get angry when I try to tell you what I see. You call me a therapist. And I don’t want to get the third degree when I’m trying to help you.
If you think you really need other people to boost your ego, maybe you should realize that the only person that can make you feel good is you. All this work you are doing in manipulating other men only makes you feel worse inside - because it is costing you yourself. You have to start working on what the real underlying problems in your life are and finally face them head-on. Until then you are only going to lose more friends, be used by more men, and feel like you have gone nowhere in life.
I have overlooked many double-standards in our friendship. If I talk to my boyfriend more than you in a single conversation, you pout and get mad, but as long as you have another friend with you, you can ignore me for literally hours in a social setting, then ditch me, and I’m not supposed to be angry. Yes, this has happened before. My boyfriend putting his arm around me in front of you would remind you of your ex and depress you, but when you make out with a friend of mine - after he flies across the country to visit me for only a short time - I’m not allowed to react. You expect me to take all of my savings and my only weeks vacation and spend it alone with you when I could be with the man I planned to marry, but if you were still going out with your ex, I would never see you, much less have the chance to think about spending a vacation with you. In fact, if I ever suggested a vacation where your boyfriend wasn’t allowed (and yes, you flat-out said my boyfriend wasn’t allowed with us), you’d scream at how inconsiderate I was. You can call me every swear word in the book, but I can say one wrong word - call you child for acting like one, for instance - and you’ll instantly be set off into another mood swing.
I flew across the country and entertained you for a weekend because I wanted you to be happy. It’s not as if I’ve ever had anything but your interests in mind. Only now have I realized how much it has cost me. How much you have hurt me.
I’ve tried telling you over and over again when something is wrong, and your reaction is usually denial or defensiveness. Especially last time. A guy I’ve gone on two dates with doesn’t matter to me. You do. And that’s why it hurt more than most anything any other friend has done to me. I saw your behavior. You were drunk, and paying every ounce of your attention to him. If you weren’t planning anything, you wouldn’t have waited outside my apartment after I said good-bye to you in order to see him. You did it secretly, behind my back, because you didn’t want me to know what you were doing. You say you don’t remember our discussion (if that’s how drunk you were), but in my bedroom, I told you about me and him, that we had gone on dates, that I was somewhat interested in him, because I noticed your behavior earlier in the evening, and it was hurting me even then. Your response was, “Oh, Janet, I would never do anything like that.” Then that’s exactly what you did. You threw any trust I had for you in my face. You really showed me in one evening how little you cared for me. You can’t tell me otherwise.
If this is another example of how you seem to need attention from men, then realize that you were willing to jeopardize what you called your best friend for it, and that you have a problem. If you don’t remember anything from the evening, then you may have a drinking problem. Either way, there are issues there that you have to address, and I don’t think I am strong enough to carry your problems quietly for you anymore when you are unwilling to face those problems yourself.
I almost didn’t write this letter. I’ve asked friends what I should do.
One person, who didn’t know you, said I should give you another chance. They were the only one that said that.
One said that you didn’t care enough about me, that I tried as hard, or harder, than was ever expected of me, and nothing will change with you, so I should just let it go.
One said it was about time I ended our friendship, because all I have been doing was complaining and struggling to keep you happy.
One said they can’t see me as a difficult person to be friends with, because I’m forgiving and don’t ask for much. That these problems in our friendship don’t stem from a lack of my trying, and don’t even stem from me.
One person, after seeing you at the party, was very disturbed with your behavior in general. They said they would swear you were on drugs, and I couldn’t tell them if they were right or not. They said you looked like you have seen something the rest of the world doesn’t know about, and that it had made you very depressed, like you were over the edge, like there was absolutely no hope, and that you just didn’t seem to care about yourself anymore.
I can’t fight that. I can’t fight feelings like that.
If you feel like you hate yourself, then there is nothing I can do for you. If you really think nothing matters, that you can’t feel anything anymore, if you’re not willing to help yourself, then I can’t help either, and I never could. Trying to help you was then pointless. Trying to please you was pointless.
In all the times I’ve tried to tell you how I feel, I usually got defensiveness or denial from you. Never once were you concerned about how I felt. I told you over the phone that last time that you hurt me more than you ever had - more than probably any friend ever had. You didn’t care about that, though. I don’t think you ever did.
And that is what also hurts. I don’t think you do care, and I don’t think you know how to care.
I don’t know what to do anymore, and I don’t know that there is anything that I can do. Or should do. The ball is not in my court, as you have put it in the past, but it is in yours. It always has. It is up to you to make yourself better. To help yourself. This is not a healthy friendship. You have to make yourself whole first.
I’ve seen you degenerate over the past few years. It was one thing when we were still growing up to not know what you wanted to do with your life. It was even normal to feel so confused that you’d go through mood swings. But it has gotten worse. Mood swings become event where you have to tip-toe around, be careful of everything you say. Sometimes knowing that there’s nothing you can say.
I don’t know what to say anymore. You don’t let me say anything. You don’t listen. You need attention, but I can’t give you enough. I don’t think anyone can.
I’m not writing this letter in an effort to save our friendship. I’ve received no indication that you want to change, to help yourself. Even your last letter to me was only an effort to clear your name, to make you look better, to make sure someone knew what you thought. You didn’t write that letter for me; I’ve seen you go through this with some of your men, wanting to write them letters to get the last word in. You wrote it for you, to make yourself feel like you’ve had your say. It wasn’t out of concern for me. It never is.
You are the one that did this to yourself, and only you can change you. Remember that: you are the one that did this, to you, to me, to what friendship we had. All of this is because of you. There is nothing I can do about it anymore, and I’m not going to sit back and take your behavior anymore. I shouldn’t have to.
You’ve been in therapy for years. You’ve spent a lot of time and money talking to a person every week for years. What has it shown you? What have you learned? You’ve told me that you sometimes won’t tell her things solely because you don’t feel like talking about something, or because you don’t think she should know it. If you’re not willing to share there things, how is she supposed to help you? She doesn’t see a full picture of who you are. Are you just going to her for the attention?
I hope you actually read this letter, not read it and then throw it away because it’s not what you want to hear, but read it, and listen to what I’m telling you. Show it to your therapist. Let her see a different side of the story. Listen for yourself to a different side of the story. You’ve never thought of how other people perceive you, at least not realistically.
Figure out what it takes to make you like yourself again. Or for the first time. I can’t make you do that. No one can. Not your family, friends, not your therapist, not your current abusive man. Most of those people are out for themselves as well, and might hurt you in the process. Find yourself. I don’t know where your hope lies, or if you could ever still have hope. I just know that if you don’t change, and I’ve seen no reason to believe you will, and if I still remain your friend, you’ll only keep hurting me, having no regard for me. A friend shouldn’t make me feel this way. I have to let go. You hurting me is doing neither of us any good. I’ve been a crutch to you; you’ve been a burden to me. I can’t take that burden anymore, and you shouldn’t have the crutch. Do something for yourself. I can’t be your friend if you keep falling the way you have been. I don’t want you to fall, but I can’t pick you up anymore. Only you can help you.
>Dated Tomorrow
By Peter Scott
I needn’t move fast
You are my eternal lover
Destined long ago
The eyes in your head bring me to believe
Fate is real
Oh there are songs
Spouting from your visage
Fables of your lover
The joy he brings
But there lies no jealousy
For once I am secure
Those around us trust it
And your own mouth won’t deny
We are meant together
Until we die.
Dances on Perfection Brook
By Peter Scott
The flickering of a spark
Rekindled by the pond
I look on
Past the quiet waters muddied
Perceive a rolling shadow
Traveling by this bay
Releasing smoke in tune
We pause & stare
Noticing the air is not alone
Casting form to the formless
Company in reflection
Minor deviation
Yearning to start anew
Our eyes watch the one
On the other side of the horizon
Without touching
Contact is made
In belief
Creations construct themselves
Images form of that not seen
Folds lap over abruptly
Tugging at the portrait
Others have come to wade in the water
Alone no more
A perfect reflection
Spreads too perfect
Drifting only where it may dwell
Jealous I grow
Fermented by a new sight
The young colt
Drinking its liquid
At ease near the fire
So without any start
Nor a depart
I shift my attention elsewhere
Yet still
Gaze afar
Somewhere
Out there
Waiting for the morn’.
Demon’s Drop
By Peter Scott
Happiness to sadness
He waited to plunge
From a battle
Bruised with marks of mixed results
Clinging to one idea one concept
Nearly touched
Through pragmatic reality
In front was evidence
Around was further realization
Cold his heart felt
Jaw clenched around loneliness absolute
Isolation in the medial of a family
His family
Baitingly he revived a dream
Sweet his lips pursed
Mettle tested
Over a fire in time too magnetic
To win or lose
Yet lose he did
Lost at everything
Patterns to be avoided
Mangled over the knee
Supported at that exact stretch
It died
Graves in such numbers
Friends of the epoch all
What was to live for
But the fall?
Mighty and swift
Thunder from above
Symbolizing trees
Shadows
Roses
Ideals
Wonder
Befuddlement
The shame of nearly hurting her
More than could be repaired
He yearns to be in a black room
Alone but to himself
Smashed with hammer
Gone from even there now
Pleasingly the mass is gone
Separate from himself
In a pool of replication
Then strapped in a chair
To fall and fall
And fall and fall
And live and die in two seconds of the common man.
Depression with love, my dear
By Peter Scott
I’ve read the books
I am near happiness
That is when
My lollipop grabs me
pulls me back down
I’m in the house every single day
Yet my candy
Sweet, full of juice that I adore
Turns on me
What brings me happiness is also
The harbinger of depression
All internal madness
Little things bother me
‘Jealous to the bone’ I fear
My loves are true
For the most part
I hang myself on pretty little candy
The slightest hint of them being human I despair
Get all eaten up
Not by the pretty candy
By my own workings
I am guilty
Guilty of merry suicide
Genocide to my joys
Not on purpose mind you
I love life
Girls too
I ponder, conjure
Waste my mind away for nothing
I dream, beam
Write nauseatingly
Lover riddled letters
Commitments aren’t permanent though
Shallow promises on the one side
A chess set and broken hearts on the other
Playing the game stinks
But I am enticed by the candy
I play for keeps
But everyone knows
Candy doesn’t last forever.
Distant Girl
By Peter Scott
Enter a skull
Consumed with expression
Trapped in himself
On a cold isle of desolation
Deep in the woods of hate
The child loves people
Seeks constant acceptance
Going about it badly
He is led astray
Given false principles
Basing future success
Inaccurately
Observe the young one floundering
Caked in grease
Rancid in stench
Watch his lips curse
Body decay
Containing too much to bear
In himself
Notice the sad passage of time
Life carrying on
Forever unhindered.
ONCE UPON
A TIME
r. l. nichols
peter pan was a woman
& tony curtis pursued marilyn in drag.
once upon a time
laurence olivier attempted to seduce a young tony curtis
on the cutting room floor, w/rome at their celluloid feet
. . . once upon a time
ginsberg & kerouac were best friends;
warhol & lou reed hung out together in new york.
once upon a time
newman & brando were repressed homosexuals on film
& mr. rod steiger was THE SARGEANT.
once upon a time
genevieve bujold made love to a woman on film
& warhol had his LONESOME BOYS.
once upon a time
there were THE BOYS IN THE BAND
& FORTUNE IN MEN’S EYES.
once upon a time
john & yoko were nude at your local record store;
morrison & mick seduced/sexed/cursed/pissed on crowds.
once upon a time
james fox had his xxxposed buttocks beat blood-red
& malcolm mcdowell killed the cat-lady w/a penis.
once upon a time
richard roundtree was a sexy john shaft - new york
dick - & black moses won the oscar for best song.
once upon a time
truman capote & mickey spillane were icons;
gene hackman & his popeye doyle was oscar worthy.
once upon a time
THE EXORCIST scared millions of americans - was
nominated for best picture - & linda fucked jesus.
once upon a time
brando had an “X” rated LAST TANGO IN PARIS
& w/an X, MIDNIGHT COWBOY was best picture of ‘69.
once upon a time
ozzy’s black sabbath ruled w/THEIR iron man
& elvis still outfaced - won over - the moralists.
. . . once upon a time
GODSPELL & JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR were “G” rated fun
& mel’s BLAZING SADDLES was farting, loudly, in ‘74.
once upon a time
nixon & linda lovelace were, both known for DEEP
THROAT & linda blair was raped, w/a broom handle, on TV.
yeah, once upon a time
movies/music/novels/plays/poetry/television/warhol
got along a-okay, man. dig that.P>
stronger than dirt
cheryl townsend
I scrubbed my kitchen floor
with Clorox trying to find
the white the ex-wife hid during
her five years before me I was
tired when I did it My eyes were
watering from the fumes In my
13 years of number two there have
been a lot of messes for me to
clean up But I handled them all
A house A yard Four kids and an
emotionally deprived husband who
withdrew into a distant lover Now
my life is perfect Even the ex-wife
and I are friends Everyone os content
Everyone is friendly But right now
I have a headache from the bleachP>
the boy in the plane seat
in front of me has gas
cheryl townsend
His mother is applying her make-
up ambivalent to the turbulence
we are experiencing. I am trying
to write a poem and marvel at
how well here eyeliner id going
on while my pen skates across
this page. She pulls cosmetics
from a white plastic bag, looking
into a small compact mirror.
Earlier on this flight, that same
boy spewed an earlier consumption.
His mother had no make-up on then.
Maybe there’s a correlation? We have
25 minutes before we land. They are
handing out hot towels that are
overly scented and creating a
headache as they mesh with a
perfume I highly detest and the
boy in the plane seat in front of
me has gas and 25 minutes is
lasting forever.
PARENTS
cheryl townsend
18 years of belt
buckles closed fists and
words other than love
nights of sleepless fear
of whatever rage would
walk through the front door
in the face of a father my
mother deaf dumb and blind
to the bruises and blood as
long as she made it to bingo
for the early bird specials
leaving nothing behind but
the overpowering smell of
her perfume and a need for
a little moreP>
PROGRESSION
cheryl townsend
Young stuff looks at my
body as age he just ain’t
interested in seeing the
years it has already shared
with even younger when it
was too now the wiggle in
my hips is in my thighsP>
SHE SOOTHES HIM
cheryl townsend
with some days that he
dreams of believing as
he fills her desires like
Christmas stockings
that she takes home
and hides from
husband
Diversions
opus23
Waiting for them
impatiently
drinking cheap beer
from a glass
banging out words
on a typewriter
whos letters fade
like the memory of her
then they finally come
knocking on my door
I let them in
and watch as they walk by
moist with thick thighs
great goddess thighs
some in stockings and skirts
or tough girls in jeans
with holes in the knees
we switch to wine
then sit on the couch
and talk for an hour or so
they ask about my writing
I lie
finally we slip
into my room
kissing and touching
making slow sex
not love
nothing serious
only a diversion
STAYING
AFTER SCHOOL
for kathy
c ra mcguirt
i was reading the editorial page
behind half a cup of coffee,
& at first i thought it was a column
by someone like ellen goodman about
this handsome intelligent entertaining bastard
who lied to her about using condoms
with the high-risk woman who came before her,
& the hell this bastard put her through
while she waited for her test results,
(which fortunately were negative).
then i took another sip of coffee,
& there was your byline
& your face...
i immediately called to congratulate you
on writing an excellent article
& share the laughter of relief:
you weren’t mad at my carelessness,
(especially after i told you that
it only happened maybe twice,
not the 89 times you’d thought)
& i wasn’t angry at having been
spanked in public. i deserved it,
& after all, considering our former roles
in those kinky games we used to play,
the turnabout was more than fair,
the irony appropriate.
you didn’t deserve the crap you caught
from various quarters for cautioning
the public to be careful in its passion,
while no one said a word to me
for being such a stupid lying bastard.
you were brave. your words were good,
& the assholes punished the innocent party.
i can’t fix that, but think of this poem
as my way of writing
I WILL NOT PRACTICE UNSAFE SEX AGAIN
one hundred times.
Dream Lover
paul glaze
I Ponder Thru Each Dismal Day.
As I Travel Life’s Lonely Way.
I Wander Alone, In Solitude
To Where Others Can’t Intrude.
I’ll Comfort And Rest Myself.
Test My Quest of Dreamy Wealth,
Hidden From Our Daily Storm.
Great Miracles, I Can Perform!
Another Day Has Met Its End.
Relaxing Deep In Comforts Blend.
Resting Sleep For Weary Eyes.
Then My Dream Scene Amplifies!
Sleep, Is Its Slumbering Shove.
Now Delivers Me To My Love.
The Night Has Spread Its Cover.
Dreams Bring, My Dream Lover!
Dream Lover, We Meet Again,
Now Begin Your Angel Blend.
Drown Me With Magic Charms
Surround Me With Mystic Arms.
Dream Lover, Converge In Me
Gleam Sweet Reams Of Ecstasy.
Send Your Blend Of Fashion Thrills.
Beam The Dreams, Our Passion Fills.
Dream Lover, Your Love I’ll Take.
You Make Me Hate, To Be Awake!
For I Know, You’ll Then Be Gone.
The Best Love, I’ve Ever Known!
Dream Lover, Love Hot,
You’ve Shown!
We’ve Loved A Lot,
As Our Love As Grown.
Having Placed Me
On A Lover’s Throne
You Have Graced Me,
Like I’ve Never Known.
You’ve Etched Our Love
In Clouds Of Stone.
Through Hot Dreams,
Your Passion Has Flown.
So I Won’t Ever Have
..........To Dream Alone!
(C)1995 Paul L. Glaze
Poetaster@aol.comP>
DREAM
WALKER
Paul L. Glaze
Beyond The Bond Of Endless Night
Within My Mind, A Time Of Flight
As Our Milky Way Unraveled
In Spiritual Form I Traveled.
We Travel Afar Oh Spirit Of Mine,
Travels Afar Of The Astral Kind.
Thru Bars Of Stars And More
Into This Universe We Adore
Paragons Of Timeless Perfection
Demanding This Souls Affection.
Brilliant, Startling Stars And More.
To Many To Score Or Explore
In A Spirit That Flies Thru Infinite Skies.
I Glanced At Galaxies With Spiritual Eyes.
In The Midst Of My Ethereal Peers,
A Convergence Of Billions Of Years.
We Sing Our Song Of Faith In Rapture.
The Rhapsody Of Celestial Capture.
A Vibrant Melody Spirits Implore
Thru Out This Universe We Adore.
This Sight So Bright Of Eternal Night.
A Beautiful Light In Spiritual Sight.
A Cosmic Embrace Near Heavens Door.
In The Celestial Night Of Forever More.
This Stand So Grand, God Made For Man.
We Should Never Ask For More.
We Have Our Illustrious Souls Galore,
To Live In This Universe We Adore !
|
Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on “Children, Churches and Daddies,” April 1997)
Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the “dirty underwear” of politics.
One piece in this issue is “Crazy,” an interview Kuypers conducted with “Madeline,” a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia’s Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn’t go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef’s knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover’s remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline’s monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali’s surrealism and Kafka-like craziness.
|
Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada
I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.
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Ed Hamilton, writer
#85 (of Children, Churches and Daddies) turned out well. I really enjoyed the humor section, especially the test score answers. And, the cup-holder story is hilarious. I’m not a big fan of poetry - since much of it is so hard to decipher - but I was impressed by the work here, which tends toward the straightforward and unpretentious.
As for the fiction, the piece by Anderson is quite perceptive: I liked the way the self-deluding situation of the character is gradually, subtly revealed. (Kuypers’) story is good too: the way it switches narrative perspective via the letter device is a nice touch.
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Children, Churches and Daddies.
It speaks for itself.
Write to Scars Publications to submit poetry, prose and artwork to Children, Churches and Daddies literary magazine, or to inquire about having your own chapbook, and maybe a few reviews like these.
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Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet
I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they?
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what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.
why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.
so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.
A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.
vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444
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C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies)
cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.
I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem.
I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.
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Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv
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Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.
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MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)
functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen
We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.
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Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site)
I just checked out the site. It looks great.
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Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.
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John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs)
Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool.
(on “Hope Chest in the Attic”)
Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces.
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C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review: cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.
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Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies)
The new cc&d looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!
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Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.
Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.
You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us.
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Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)
I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.
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The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061
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Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)
I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.
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Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
“Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.
want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.
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Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)
Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!
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The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright �
through
Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.
Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!
Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”,
which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...
Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.
Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.
You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call...
Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.
Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.
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Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.
Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.
Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.
Children, Churches and Daddies
the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine
Scars Publications and Design
ccandd96@scars.tv
http://scars.tv
Publishers/Designers Of
Children, Churches and Daddies magazine
cc+d Ezines
The Burning mini poem books
God Eyes mini poem books
The Poetry Wall Calendar
The Poetry Box
The Poetry Sampler
Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters
Reverberate Music Magazine
Down In The Dirt magazine
Freedom and Strength Press forum
plus assorted chapbooks and books
music, poery compact discs
live performances of songs and readings
Sponsors Of
past editions:
Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest
Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest
Poetry Calendar Contest
current editions:
Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites)
Collection Volumes
Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993)
has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey.
Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry,
and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information,
education and entertainment.
Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design. Contact us via e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates
or prices for annual collection books.
To contributors:
No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio.
Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of
Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden.
Children, Churches and Daddies copyright
through
Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual
pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission. |
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