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