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*** THE INNER SWINE ***   
Volume 3, Issue 2, September 1997   
www.innerswine.com 
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"You are free to do what we tell you."  -  Bill Hicks

CONCEPT BY Jeff Somers, Robert Gala, Ken West, Jeof Vita
COVER ART BY Jeof Vita
EDITOR: Jeffrey Somers
WEBMASTERS: Jeof Vita & Ken West
INSPIRATION: Bill Clinton, for getting away with it 
ADVICE & FREE DRINKS:  No one 
PROOFREADER EXTRAORDINAIRE: Karen Accavallo 
OVERALL OFFICIAL COOL CHICK: Lauren Strutzel

OFFICIAL PET PEEVE: Lazy morons who refuse to walk up or down escalators,
preferring to stand there like zombies while I stand behind them and pull my
hair out.

FRIENDS OF THE SWINE: Lauren "LL Cool J" Strutzel, who made the greivous mistake
of graduating from college despite my sound advice to the contrary  -congrats,
babe!; Elizabeth Augoustinatos, who is once again close to this editor in
actuality as well as spirit: good to have you back, beautiful; R.A., who is now
a mommy and no longer has time to read The Inner Swine  -shell be too busy
protecting her kid from me (but soon she will be so desperate for adult
interaction that even I will look good to her); Misty Sue Quinn, esq., for still
being willing to have a drink with me now and then and who always reads anything
I ask her to and is polite about it; Karen Accavallo, for gracing us with an
article and for not hurting me more on Memorial Day; Ken West, who still lets me
copy albums from his ridiculously large record collection even after all these
years of the  disappointment, frustration, and violence that is my friendship;
Jeof Vita, thanks for continuing to make the pretty pictures and for instigating
the drive to create a Web Page, amongst so many other things; Nic Fagan, who has
left this sweaty metropolis for the greener pastures of her old Alma Mater, the
city is lessened with her absence; Venus Zarcas, for reviewing an unknowns Zine
with such tastefully purple prose; WesHegg, who keeps the Swine on ice up north
for the not-so-innocent youth of Alberta  -Wes, many thanks!

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TABLE OF CONTENTS
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EDITORIAL: "Pig In Shit #8: Training the Baboons to Wipe Their Own Asses: The
Sham of Education" 
COMMENTARY: "The Acceptance Engine: The Evil of Jerry
Seinfeld" 
BULLSHIT: "Sex and the Single Lycra and Spandex Wearing Stilleto Heel
Fetishest: Men and the Lesbian Obsession" 
SPECIAL FEATURE: "The Official Inner Swine Readers Quiz" 
FICTION: "The Cubists" 
COMMENTARY: "American Wedding Confidential #2: Going Stag in the Age of Couplehood" 
COMMENTARY: "Rock and Roll Is Dead" 
RAVINGS: "Cheerios, Taters, and A Big Bowl of Ice: the single womans
guide to economic food shopping" 
COMMENTARY: "Take Your Base: Why Baseball is
the Greatest Sport" 
COMMENTARY: "The Simple Pleasures of Life" 
FICTION: "to wake again, remained"

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The Inner Swine Volume 3 Issue 2. 
Magazine published May, September, and January by Oinking Sow, Inc. (There is no
company, really)  Individual subscription rates: $4.00 (cheap!) per year in
U.S.; $6.00  (cheap!) per year foreign including Canada. Single Copy $1.50
(cheap!) plus $1.00 (cheap!) for postage and handling if ordered by mail,   but
stop teasing me, youre never going to order a subscription, you heartless
bastards.   Checks payable to Jeff Somers, Editor. Address submissions and
correspondence to Jeff Somers, The Inner Swine, 293 Griffith Street #9, Jersey
City, NJ 07307.  But if you send me something, make it good or I will be
angered.  All submissions or requests for Guidelines (there are no guidelines,
though) must be accompanied by S.A.S.E. The first 500 people to actually
subscribe will have their names put in a big fishbowl, and well blindfold Misty
Quinn (Left) and have her pick a name at random, and then she will personally
deliver the issues to the winners home, naked, and she will perform the "Pig
Song" every time: "Im a pink little piggy/With a curly little tail/You sent us
some money/So I bring  this in the mail". I swear this will happen.

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WHAT THE FUCK'S BEEN GOIN' ON?
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SO, I was sitting in Kens crowded and claustrophobic living room watching Jeof
and Misty play Mortal Kombat and saying: well, another July 4th debacle has come
and gone and I present the question: isnt it time we stopped kidding ourselves
that were the sons and daughters of the goddamn revolution and admit that were
living in a corporate-suck country in which taxation without representation is
the norm? Christ, most of us werent even in the collective gene pool of this
country in 1776 and yet we all go out and wave our flags as if we had something
to do with the goddamn leftist military coup we call the American Revolution.
While I for one welcome every excuse to cook slabs of dead animals and drink
beer, not to mention blow up some stuff, it seems kinda ridiculous that we
celebrate the very sentiments that will eventually get Tim McVeigh killed.

Then I realized no one was listening to me, which used to make me angry but now
I just keep talking.

Im not saying Tim McVeigh shouldnt be punished, Im saying maybe its time we gave
up this perception of ourselves, Americans as Mavericks and Revolutionaries. It
just doesnt wash any more, were a big, fat, oppressive capitalist nightmare and
Thomas Jefferson would puke in his wig if he were brought here by Bill and Ted
or someone.

Im saying, Lets embrace our narrow-minded violence and be happy with who we are:
thugs. Thugs with bad taste. Thugs who shoot people for honking at us on the
road and then flock to see Batman movies.

Exhausted, I stopped talking, but they were still searching for the Fatalities
and I would have murdered them all except: there was beer, and also I was still
recovering from the grave bodily injury inflicted on me by Karen Accavallo. I
may sue.

But lets not talk of litigation, lets talk about The International Power of The
Inner Swine:

Back in June I stumbled home one night after a few too many fruit smoothies at
the local watering hole, only to find a package in my mailbox addressed to The
Inner Swine. It was a promotional mailing from Polygram Discos South America,
and it contained a video and 3 CDs by an Argentinian ska band named Los Calzones
Rotos. Apparently, without my knowledge, I AM HUGE IN ARGENTINA. It was only a
matter of time, really. I am so HUGE IN ARGENTINA that they send me their
promising ska bands in hopes that I will lend my incredible media muscle to
their cause.

Weve been wallowing in the past recently, piggies, smearing Nostalgia all over
the place. Why? We have no idea. Maybe its just another seven year cycle thing
(the theory being that every seven years or so, give or take a year or two, you
go through a major change both physically and emotionally; think about it: 7,
14, 21, 28, 35, 42  -those are typically the ages that people go through
personality fugue) or maybe weve been eating too much sugar. I have been trying
to cut caffeine out of my diet, and that has been known to cause hallucinations.

But, the writing continues. As does the boozing, the skirt-chasing, and the bad
poetry, not to mention the brawling (see: Karen Accavallo), the low-rent
philosphizing, and the ongoing struggle to pry some dried out meaning from the
dessicated corpse of this existence amidst the maelstrom of infomercials,
gangsta rap, and terrorism, while watching in horror as Pauly Shore drains you
of your dignity and will to live. Oh yeah, and the Twinkie eating. That
definitely continues.

So: in all its greasy-buttocked splendor, issue 3(2). Enjoy!

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MY DISGUSTINGLY INFLATED EGO
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Most Zines review other Zines; I only print other Zines reviews of The Inner
Swine. Dont like it? Screw off and eat smog.

Heres a review that our new friend Venus Zarcas wrote about issue 3(1), piggies.
The review can be found at both the Disquieting Muses site at
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Lofts/8380 (which you ought to check out; the
brave and preternaturally curious Ken West did so and heartily encourages us)
and in next months issue of Excalibur newspaper: "The innards of this swollen
sixty  paged pig are stuffed with witty, creative and opinionated slop. Its
neatly typed characters and smart lay out are an ironic twist to the slimy
snouted fiction and commentaries it contains. Into the gut of the grime staggers
the scholarly written story, Naked Came A Guy Named Lee; weird fiction rippled
with cocaine consciousness and the sinister stench of a sweaty limp cock. This
tale infects the inner swine with the bloody, delusional travails of a big-win
lottery loser who wastes life riding around drunk, drugged and naked, in search
of "Tula," his garlic breathed, pock marked porn queen. According to zinester
Jeff Somers in article Lemmings Never Fear this zine is not designed to shock
but to "get you to think, a little." Well Jeff, the thought of "Lee" covered in
"blood and mucus" sits rather nicely in my tummy after a midnight meal of
skewered tofu and veggies dipped in tomato sauce and cheese. Bon appetite!"
Congratulations to the Gus Pustule Literati, youre fucking famous.

Some guy named George wrote in Subway Posters #2: "Ah a lit zine. Not too often
I come across one of these living in punkland as I do. The Inner Swine has
something that most lit zines lack, good writing?, well no but it has attitude.
Bitter violent, drunk, "Fuck you, pay me!" attitude. Despite what one could read
into my personality by me saying this Im going to state it anyway: I liked it."
Awwww.....fuck you (either no one knows good writing when it bites them on the
ass or I am not as good a writer as I always thought....you be the jduge)! No
really, this little zine was pretty interesting: I must meet Fern of E.M.P.T.Y.
Fanzine some day, she likes the Descendants. If youre into that Punk-as-fuck
attitude, drop Georgie a line at: POB 523, Stn.M, Calgary AB, T2P2J2, Canada. Go
ahead.

And then theres Losers Are Cool, Robert W. Howington did not actually review us
in his Zine (big mistake, Bob), and thats probably because this self-proclaimed
Loser has his head so far up his own ass other people only exist as "irritants"
or as audience members. You think Im bad? For sheer arrogance and useless
hubris, you cant beat The Loser, He never shuts the fuck up. I always thought I
had too much confidence in the warped muse whispering in my ear. Bob writes
everything about himself: there are no issues, except the ones which exist for
The Loser.

Which is not to say that The Loser is untalented. While his unbroken diatribes
(which sit on the page like cement blocks of prose) can be numbing, he does have
the right attitude, and can be funny when he stops cursing long enough to
actually write something. He certainly shares the Swine basics, although I find
myself doubting his versions of events.  I heartily suggest you get yourself a
copy of his Zine: theloser@earthlink.net, or send 2 stamps to: Loser Are Cool,
c/o Robert W. Howington, 4405 Bellaire Drive South #220, Fort Worth TX
76109-5103.

We also heard from Wes Hegg, who runs Melodiya Records up in Calgary. Wes has
been a great Friend of the Swine for many years now, and writes: "Hello You fine
folks at The Inner Swine, Just thought Id let you know that your Inner Swine is
a very big hit up here. I keep forcing it onto the kids that come out to the all
ages shows as well as the nice people that frequent Melodiya Records. I hope
that you keep it up because Id much rather waste my time reading something
interresting opposed to wasting away up here in this cold arctic climate. Please
let me know when the next issue is due out so that I can schedule another ALL
AGES show." Words like that make even our piggish hearts, clogged and sluggish,
beat fast. Were especially happy that Wes recognizes that The Inner Swine IS a
waste of time, no matter how cool we are.

Well, our mailbag is empty. Thanks to all those who sent stuff, and remember
that we welcome any mail that focusses attention primarily on US. Just remember:
no one puts out a Zine unless theyre really impressed with themselves, right?
You bunch of full-of-yourselves bastards.

========================================
*** EDITORIAL *** 
Pig in Shit #8:
Training the Baboons to Wipe Their Own Asses: The Sham of Education
by Jeff
Somers 
========================================

"Unfortunately, large numbers of people all over the world have been
specifically taught in childhood not to think, because thinking would lead to
questioning the certainties of the elders, and this has not been allowed in most
cultures." - Brock Chisholm

MY friend and confidant Jeof Vita was born in the jungles of the far east and
raised by maternally-inclined Wildebeasts until the age of twenty-three, when he
was captured in the wild by scientists investigating the legend of the
Spiky-Haired Demon that the locals feared so much. At this point in his life he
knew no spoken or written language, had never tasted beer, and had experienced
sexual relations with only himself and the rather rough and tumble female
Wildebeasts of his herd. He had let his hair grow long and the concentration of
dirt and sweat over the years had acted as a natural hairspray, "spiking" his
hair up straight. He had also pasted clumps of animal hair to the rest of his
lithe body in an attempt to look more like a Wildebeast. In short, he was a
brutal, dumb animal with no concept of civilized society or modern beer-brewing
techniques. There was some talk of touring him in a cage as some sort of Freak
Attraction, but his torrid bathroom habits and violent temper convinced wiser
heads to tame the boy.

As a result, less than seven years later Jeof is an urbane, witty, beer-guzzling
American citizen who exhibits a talent for art and graphic design and whose only
intellectual failure is an inability to truly appreciate the sport of baseball.
While he still displays many a "throwback" to his beastly ways (the sound of the
phone ringing or the doorbell often sends him into chest-beating hysterics) he
easily debates complex philosophies (If Batman were to battle Superman in the
vacuum of space, who would win?), charms the local women right out from under
the nose of your Editor here, and writes eloquently (he coined the comeback
phrase of 1992: I don't know, your Mom?). In fact, Jeof is now the very model of
a modern metro denizen.


And how was this transformation effected? Education, of course. Because,
contrary to popular belief, the American Education System's charter is not to
create independent, creative individuals who make their own destinies, but
rather to brainwash the teeming masses into happy workers and compliant tax
payers. Every one of us, including yours truly, has been brainwashed to some
extent to accept society's rules and conventions without comment or rebellion.
Except, of course, that term usually used is not brainwashed, but rather
graduated.

I do not, however, contend that this is a BAD THING. We are all just shaved
monkeys, after all, and I for one am a big supporter of anything that keeps the
bigger monkeys from beating the living shit out of me on a daily basis. A little
brainwashing doesn't harm anybody, in my opinion, and since anarchy isn't true
freedom we all need some rules embedded in our subconscious. School is basically
a training ground for the workers of tomorrow: we're taught to a) respect
authority, b) obey the rules, c) tolerate bureaucracy, d) perform dull and
repetitive tasks without complaint, e) to take pride in artificial
accomplishments, and f) respect and desire empty titles. All these skills
prepare us for our bland little lives sitting in cubicals pushing papers.

Well, someone's got to push the fucking papers, baby, and it might as well be me
or you. If writing my spelling words 15 times when I was in third grade is
keeping me from going insane as I sit at work for 8 hours a day, then where's
the harm. Since it is usually the lesser lights or the criminally philanthropic
who become teachers, setting an example of crushed hopes and low pay for
generation after generation, we have a virtually foolproof system in this
country which will guarentee a large supply of custodians, low-level office
workers, fast-food attendants, and Production Editors for thousands of years to
come.

What I have a problem with (and you knew I had a problem with something, right?)
is the simple fact that no one seems to acknowledge the fact that the American
Education system is designed to train us all to play within the invisible and
complex rules of society, not to empower us to make our own paths. It's this
hooey we have to endure every election year that annoys me: we do not send our
kids to grammar school so they will emerge free-thinkers. Free-thinkers are the
people that we fear and make fun of, the hippies and slackers and the
oh-so-popular intellectual elite. We do not force Timmy to go to high school so
that he will emerge to the beat of his own drum. Rather, High school is where we
beat that drum out of Timmy's and all the other delinquents' hands, and outline
the sad fates of those who do not conform. And we certainly don't send the brat
off to college so that they'll return a rebel. By that point the selfish idiots
are supposed to go out and get jobs.

And there it is, the overall purpose of all this rote memorization and random
punishment: employment, otherwise known as being a constructive member of
society.

It doesn't matter what your goals were when attending any level of education;
what you wanted to get out of it probably wasn't what you got and if you did
manage to absorb some wisdom and fashion sense from the experience you probably
ended up right where you were supposed to anyway. Human beings aren't robots,
and even the best system of brainwashing leaves some room for creativity and
original thought. You can't help it. And, after all, you need some imagination
to get you through the long boring periods after your job ends and before
prime-time begins.

Let's look at what gets accomplished at each level of schooling, want to?

1. Grammar school (ages 5-13): Maybe this includes Junior High for you, it
doesn't really matter. My school system didn't have a Junior High, so we'll
ignore it for now. At these tender ages the kids are taught the basics of
behaving themselves properly. This is where they learn the basic rules of life:
a) if you break the rules you will be punished, b) obey authority, c)  believe
everything we tell you. Kids in Kindergarten or the First Grade tend to be
rambunctious: they cry, carry on, disrupt class, run around, piss on everything
like bitter dogs, and eat things. By the time these same kids are in second or
third grade, they've learned to sit quietly and raise their hands to be
recognized. Is this maturity, or training? One wonders. The concept of behaving
yourself is probably the most foreign to a wild living being like us, it goes
against our natural inclination to express our state of mind, and must be
taught.

Think back to your own tender school days: how much energy is put  into
discipline? You write punishments, you have to clean the blackboards, they sit
you in a corner or send you to the Principal's office. They might sandwich some
actual learning in-between punishments, but the main goal of Grammar School is
to teach you to behave yourself. If you stood in the graduation ceremony with
some goofy cloak on, sang The Greatest Love of All as instructed, and remained
quiet until your name was called, they obviously succeeded.

2. High School (ages 14-17): High School is often painted as the first tender
shoots of rebellion and independent thought, and while a lot of us do suffer a
flashback or two to our less-disciplined years, let's face it: most of us are
well in hand by the time we hit homeroom. High School ceratinly reinforces and
completes our conformity training (is there any environment harsher towards
individual expression than High School? Hell, I went to a private Jesuit-run
High School where you weren't even allowed to wear blue jeans, for christ's sake
-don't tell me they weren't trying to break my spirit) but it also has higher
goals. High School is when they start to actively prepare you to work for a
living.

Now, it is true that as this world gets more advanced and more complex the value
of a High School education decreases, but a High School diploma is still the
minimum required to get most of the really sucky jobs in this world, because it
shows you have the basics. What's taught to you in High School: they make sure
you have the basic tools to perform tasks (reading, math) that you have enough
background info to understand your culture (history, literature), and they make
sure you're in good enough shape to handle the physical aspects of jobs (gym).
Oh, there's more, of course; depending on the budget your High School enjoys
there are all sorts of other classes, but the main thrust of it is to make sure
that you could get a job after graduation. You're taught to manage a tight
schedule handed to you by People in Authority (thus your packed class schedule,
with three minutes to move from class to class), to manage your workload, and to
bring work home with you, pounding in the concept of nobility in work, a
mouthful of horseshit we've been getting for thousands of years. If we take a
day off without a good excuse we're punished, we're taught the concept of the
sick day early on, and we're actively invited to take part in leadership roles,
to advance and gain noteriety within our little fishbowl.

I remember that in my High School our last class usually ended at 2:18pm. School
officials were constantly remarking sarcastically on those of us who chose to
book for the bus at that point and get on with our lives, suggesting that we
shouldn't waste our High School experience by going home so early, that we ought
to take part in more activities  -they derisively termed us the 2:18 Club. I did
not understand then why anyone would be moved by this appeal. I mean, if you
have an interest and you join a club or something, that's all well and fine. But
why would I want to spend any more time in my High School than was absolutely
necessary? I got the hell out of there and I'm glad I did -but I hear echoes of
these grumblings in my job today: they always want me to join commitees and to
work overtime, and the seeds of that are embedded in the Theater Club and
homework, back in high school.

3. College/Higher Ed (ages 18-??): Your standard undergraduate program is the
most relaxed of the three stages of education, and some people interpret this as
the most free and the most rebellious of all your educational experiences. In
one sense this is true: you are pretty much free to drink, screw, and generally
enjoy yourself. People who had adhered strictly to dress codes loosen up. You
get to make your own schedule, choose your career path, or, in some cases, just
have the best seven or eight years of your life.

College is, however, merely a refinement of everything you've been force-fed so
far. Since it's usually assumed that people going off to college are pursuing
professional and more complex careers, the crude disciplines imposed upon us in
the first thirteen years or so of our education have to be refined and made more
flexible. You no longer have to adhere to a strict schedule created for you by
authority figures, you have to prove that you can create and maintain your own
schedule to the satisfaction of these authorities. You no longer face instant
reprisal if you break the rules or fail to observe the proprieties, you're
expected to discipline yourself. This is the ultimate in monkey training: moving
us past the point where we obey the rules because we fear punishment to the
point where we impose the rules upon ourselves. And that is what college teaches
us. George Orwell called this Self-Policing. Corporate America does not want
robots, after all.

Oh, there's more, I know. Nothing is quite the Orwellian nightmare we alarmist
writers would like. You certainly can learn a lot of non-brainwashing stuff in
school, and I would like to repeat, for the record, that I am in no way
proposing that education in this country is evil or should be discontinued for
some paranoid reason. I fully support brainwashing my cow-like fellow humans. I
just wish we would all admit that that's exactly what we're doing: training
ourselves to be well-behaved monkeys, who clean up our own cage.

Yah yah yah, you've heard it all before. By the time my cold, stiff fingers are
pried away from this keyboard and the last issue of the greatest magazine in
America that nobody reads has been junkmailed to the universe, I will probably
have deconstructed everything down to its molecules. Can it all be true? Can
life really be a meaningless existential hell filled with undeserved punishments
and random rewards? Can I really ride my own melt?

Of course it can. Perhaps you are uncomfortable with this theory because it
pretty much means that we're all zombies, including: you. None of us like to
think that we goose-stepped in time to the beat back in our wonder years.
Revisionist Histories always include a smattering of rebellion, but I'm telling
you that it really doesn't matter how wild and crazy you were in school, if
you're applying those skills and social rules to your everyday life (in other
words, if you work for a living or in any way interact politely with your fellow
human beings) you were housebroken in school, and very professionally, too. If
you live in the town dump and shoot all other living things, if you speak a
private language and run naked and free, then.....maybe you escaped the
meat-grinder. If you're reading this, probably not.

Ah, but there certainly are free-thinkers and rebels who are products of our
supposedly conforming school system, right? For every Yuppie spat out of some
suburban high school and state college there is an artist who, if he accepts
some social rules in order to accomplish what he wishes (realizing that anarchy
is self-defeating), consciously chooses which ones to obey and which to flaunt,
right? Well: yes and no. As I previously stated, the human mind is tricky and
complex and far from perfect, and thus it's hard to predict it with 100%
accuracy. People slip through the cracks. The artists in our world very often
reflect upon troubled and painful childhoods, and I suspect a great deal of that
trouble and pain can be directly traced to their inability to "get with the
program". By lucky chance, the freaks who do not fit into the carefully
constructed brainwashing of school become our most original thinkers, simply
because they have to find their own way. The way everyone else is being taught
to embrace in High School just doesn't fit them.

The result is an unexpected treat: art. When we're housebreaking the little
kinders in school we're not encouraging such weirdo behavior, we're often
oppressing it and encouraging the weird kid to clean up his act and get into
more acceptable past-times. But like I said, this is not an evil conspiracy
designed to make us all zombies, it's a social necessity. The term "brainwash"
should not be taken to mean "programmed", it merely refers to an unconscious
acceptance of society's rules and traditions. The people who, for some reason,
have trouble accepting this imprint on their young minds have trouble fading
into the crowd, and so end up "finding their own way"  -which is often
unintentionally creative, sometimes breathtakingly so. Scratch an artist, pigs,
and you will uncover a troubled youth. The rest of us were just too
well-adjusted. We learned the rules too easily, and never had any reason to be
different. Let's face it, pigs: creativity and unconventionality are accidents.

Loving the Suck

Oh, well, no one cares much anyway. All this really proves is how  successful
this program of social conformity is, and thank god. If our school system
weren't so darn good at brainwashing all of us, who would be asking me if I
wanted fries with that? Let's face it, while those of us who managed to go
through the advanced brainwashing course and get a cushy job in, oh, let's say
publishing wherein we do nothing, get paid a handsome pittance, and get nice
medical coverage, most people still make it through high school and no further
and end up working a really bad job that quickly snuffs out their hopes, dreams,
and sense of humor. I assume their sense of humor is snuffed out, since the kids
working at the McDonald's across the street certainly are not amused by me, and
I have certification that I am one hell of a funny guy. Ask yourself, though,
who would want to spend their time working a job like that? I think that if
slinging burgers were my best hope of an income on the light side of the law, I
would much prefer to start mugging people.

You see, I know that real crime is beyond my tender sensibilities. I cry every
time I watch Schindler's List, so I know that I cannot abide true violence. But
I think I might be capable of mugging people, especially little old ladies
marching to the bank with their pension monies  - and I think I could make quite
a living off of their pension monies, at least as much as I would make earning
minimum wage for some Burger Fascist. Now, if a tender soul such as myself
considers petty crime a better alternative to minimum-wage hell, why wouldn't
anybody else? Maybe because they're trained not to? Mabye because, by the time
they make it through all those years of drudgery in school, the idea of standing
in front of a register, wearing a goofy uniform, and asking thousands of people
every day "Do you want fries with that?" is no longer such a bad idea? As I
mentioned once before in this rag, maybe our Suck-o-Meters are so out of whack
once we make it through school we no longer recognize Suck when we encounter it.
And maybe, if our Suck-o-Meters take enough punishment by the time we're 18
years old, we even start to like the Suck.

All right, enough. Education: we canonize its practitioners and gild its rough
edges, telling ourselves and our kids that its the key to independence and free
thought and all that happy horse hockey our hippie forefathers poured into the
culture. I know that's bullshit. Education is mass crowd control with some nice
extras thrown in. No one, not even I, doubt the sincerity of those trying to
educate our kids. They believe they are opening up the doors to independence,
when in reality they are merely training us monkeys to behave. And I for one
don't mind so much, because the lab monkeys, at least, don't have to tear ech
other apart for food every day.

But ask yourself: Have I come to love The Suck?

========================================
*** COMMENTARY *** 
THE ACCEPTANCE ENGINE
The Evil of Jerry Seinfeld: Through Absurdity, Truth
by Jeff Somers    
======================================== 

HERE is something I dont really believe, but what the fuck:

We all know that TV is evil, that it sedates us into unthinking acceptance of
our miserable lives while at the same time filling us with rageful envy of all
the lives we'll never lead. Thus, we spend our energy working like dogs to
achieve some weird level of wealth, fame, and social acceptance but at the same
time we accept our failures with stoic control and a stiff cocktail  -the
perfect Orwellian society. Ha! We thrive on our own poisons, piglets, but it s
not all that bad. As far as social engines go watching ER and striving to be
George Clooney ain't as bad as it could be. They could be putting little
transistors in our brains.     

But of all the dark prophets heralding our eventual surrender to the Wal-Mart
society, I submit that one towers over the rest because of his skill, his
subtlety, his camaflouging humor. In short, Jerry Seinfeld might very well be
doing more to brainwash the TV viewing public than any other force on the
airwaves, including MTV. Compared to our little Sauron on NBC other performers
might as well be stage hypnotists.     

Of course, my audience is divided into three basic parts: those who don t
believe TV is a destructive force, those who don t care, and those who don t
watch TV. These three parts all fall under the umbrella heading of people who
never let me say anything without arguing about it. I could say that the sky is
blue in this rag and some of the smart-asses on my mailing list would argue with
me. So, I offer: evidence. Logic. An argument in several parts. Seinfeld
operates on many levels:     

1. Conformists/Freaks.

Every character on Seinfeld falls into one or the other of these two groups.
While there is room for grey areas and some shading, basically everyone falls
into these two groups, with Jerry clearly the chief representative of the
Conformists and Kramer the chief of the Freaks. Conformists are people who
follow the rules of society, who accept life as it is taught to them and do
their best to fit in, to play by the rules. Freaks are the minority among us who
for one reason or another eschew the rules society hands us, and make up our
own. In all fairness we all have a bit of the freak in us, and all freaks
conform in some ways. But Conformists hide their occasional freakish foibles,
and Freaks often try to appear as normal as possible in an effort to get away
from their less outrageous tendencies. Kramer, who dresses idiosyncratically and
supports himself through a series of unconventional schemes, is clearly a Freak.
Jerry, who has been steadily employed since the first episode and who dresses in
the completely normal ensemble of jeans, sneakers, and T-shirts, resides
comfortably in the daylit world of the status quo.     

The rest of the characters fall into one group or another, albeit not perfectly
(since nothing in life is perfect). George and Elaine, despite their admittedly
quirky characterizations, are part of the Conformists even if they occasionally
fail to attain that title. They dress  normally  and seek normal  day jobs ,
they are concerned with how others perceive them. Newman might at first appear
to fall into the Conformist group but a closer look reveals that despite his
normal job as a postal worker, Newman is clearly a Freak, explaining how he can
be Jerry s natural enemy. Newman is marked as a Freak simply due to his physical
presence: right ot not, obesity is viewed by a large portion of Conformist
society not only as a deformity of sorts, but as a voluntary deformity, marking
those who allow it in their existence as Freaks. Newman s closest friend is
Kramer, chief of the freaks, and his daily existence is far from normal: he has
as many off-the-wall passions as Kramer and just as few friends.     

Other characters can be identified simply by asking which character(s) they have
most closely associated with by episode's end. Seinfeld is a popular show and
this popularity can be assumed to be in part due to a certain amount of
identification with the characters. We as viewers unconsciously identify with
one of these characters, and as such choose a side: Freak or Conformist. And
then the evil Seinfeld has us where he wants us.     

Once you see the show divided like this into two opposing social schools, we
come to our second point:     

2. The Acceptance Engine.

The basic point of Seinfeld is simple and subtle: conform to society's demands,
rules, and expectations or reap the whirlwind.     

Over and over again a theme emerges in these episodes: Jerry or one of the other
Conformists perceives a dis-satisfaction with an aspect of their lives. As long
as they say nothing and accept this dis-satisfaction their lives remain placid
and comfortable. Once they express that dis-satisfaction, however, they are
punished.     

Consider this recent plotline: Jerry is having a new kitchen put in his
apartment by an indecisive if capable carpenter. Jerry becomes increasingly
dis-satisfied with the carpenter's inability to make even the simplest decisions
on his own. As long as Jerry swallows his ire, the kitchen proceeds accoridng to
plan. Finally, however, he cannot take it any more and he complains. He berates
the carpenter and demands that he make simple decisions himself. When Jerry
returns, his kitchen is done, but it is bizarre and uncomfortable, ruining the
space. Jerry's fellow Conformists cannot stand the new space and leave Jerry
alone to contemplate his sins. Jerry must crawl back to the carpenter and
apologize, begging him to fix the kitchen.     

The moment Jerry complains, he is punished. Conformist society demands that we
take what it hands us and do not complain about it. Complaining is a form of
individual expression, and cannot be tolerated. When Jerry expresses that
individuality, he is punished and must then humiliate himself to be allowed back
into Conformist society.     

Or, consider the story arc when Jerry and George pitched a script idea to NBC.
The network executives expect a dumb, sitcom-style plot pitch. Jerry instead
offers his unique "show about nothing"  pitch  -and instantly can feel the room
slipping away from him. Sensing he is about to be punished for being freakish,
Jerry quickly switches gears and offers George's simplistic butler concept. Back
on track with conformity, Jerry is applauded by the executives and a deal is
soon struck. That the idea came from George, a character whose desire to conform
often reaches desperate levels, merely underscores the message: buck the system
and you will be punished for it.     

The Sad Lives of the Freaks. Punished how? Well, let's look at the chief freak
and his sidekick: Kramer and Newman. While they appear, on the surface, to be
happy with their lives, you have to remember that the real evil in these shows
is under the surface and that the characters are puppets, and can look happy no
matter how miserable they are. Newman, portly postal worker, lives alone and
displays no other relationships than with his neighbors: Kramer and Jerry, one
of whom is his sworn enemy. He is often depicted sitting alone in his crowded,
grubby apartment, sleeping by the phone. When his phone does ring, he is
inevitably shocked by the occurence. His schemes take on the ugly shade of
desperation, and always end in failure, leaving him once again alone in his
apartment and his prized possesions, one of which is the mailbag used by Son of
Sam.     

Kramer seems happier; he certainly is confident in his outlook and opinions, and
takes a greater outward joy in life than Jerry or the other Conformists. But
Kramer also lacks any cohesive social group; he knows George and Elaine through
Jerry. Jerry, the commited Confirmist, and is allowed to have friends (cold and
unreliable as they may be) but Kramer, like Newman, seems to have no close
personal relationships. Even those who he might consider friends of a sort have
a low opinion of him in their hearts: he is the "hipster doofus" Elaine looks
down on. His schemes also crash and burn, and his moments of self-percieved
triumph are bizarre and inexplicable to Jerry and the other Conformists (such as
appearing as a Calvin Klein model, or explaining his "levels" theory of
apartment living). The one time Kramer appeared destined for acceptance in the
Conformist Arena without compromising his freakish nature, it seemed his Coffee
Table Book about Coffee Tables was going to be something of a hit.....until
Kramer proved himself a Freak on national television. And the one time Kramer
was treated as a popular center of attention, he had been mistaken for a
retarded man and pitied, assumed to be a freak who couldnt help being a freak.

Intolerance of the Strange. But what of all those mini-freaks, minor characters
who appear on the show briefly? A great many of them are Jerry's girlfriends,
although not all by any means. The perpetually single Jerry goes through an
interesting pattern with his lovelife, once you view him as the King of the
Conformists; he invariably rejects his love interests due to some (usually)
imagined or invisible character or physical flaw. The King judges everyone on a
Conformist scale of perfection and finds everyone lacking.

Consider: he finds a tube of ointment while snooping in a cute blond's medicine
chest, and the resulting paranoia and loathing he experiences forces a split. He
dates a beautiful friend of Elaine's but cannot bear her "Man-Hands" and decides
he must break up with her simply because her hands are unattractive. A woman
unknowingly uses a toothbrush that has fallen into a clean toilet and his
resulting disgust is so strong the relationship fizzles. Woman after woman is
found lacking by the King, judged as conformists and rejected for some small
hint of freakishness. Lord only knows what happens to the rejected Seinfeld
loves; they are rarely seen again. Jerry, of course, goes on blithely to the
next, rewarded for his unsullied conformity.

SO, in the Seinfeld milieu Conformists are rewarded with, if nothing else, a
modicum of success and the trappings of a materialistically successful life. The
Freaks are lonely and bizarre, and never win. And the only thing separating the
two groups is The Acceptance Engine. If Jerry were to suddenly start agitating
for fair play  -if he were to start to "freak out", as one episode termed it- he
would very quickly find himself ruined in one sense: no longer accepted by
Conformist society, doomed to loneliness, isolation, and failure. The episode in
which the "freak-out" comment is made is a perfect example: Jerry has a one-day
gig in a distant city and has arranged to fly back the same night in order to
meet a woman in the Ambassador's lounge of the airport. He has the whole meeting
timed perfectly, and the only fly in the ointment is the woman organizing the
event, who believes that since Jerry is a celebrity he must be annoyingly
coddled through every decision.

As long as Jerry tolerates this annoying behavior, his day proceeds normally and
on schedule. But the tension finally breaks him and he explodes, berating the
woman. She immediately turns bitter at this "star" treatment and Jerry, having
complained and expressed dis-satisfaction, watches his carefully planned
rendevous fall apart bit by bit, finally ending up in a bizarre car accident
involving a pool, after which he wanders off into the bushes in stunned
disarray. Of course, because Jerry is, after all, the King of the Conformists he
makes his peace with his demons and is rewarded by being allowed to still meet
his model girlfriend for a quick rendevous in the deserted Ambassador's Lounge.
Because Jerry embraces Conformity so warmly, however, he is King of the Seinfeld
universe: he rarely loses, he has a full social life, a succesful career, and
often gets to remark sarcastically on his pals trials and tribulations.     

3. You Have the Right to Do What We Tell You.

It is important, of course, to note that Seinfeld is a show which is often
praised for its creativity and especially for the colorful characterizations it
generates. After all, how can a show supposedly helping to brainwash us into
accepting our lot in life for fear that agitation will result in punishment then
turn around and offer us these quirky characters who promote individual
expression? Easy, sisters. Sit back and grab a snack, its fucking story time.  


The Acceptance Engine has nothing to do with your individual expression.
Individual rights is one of the most brilliant con games ever worked on the
greedy, lazy, ignorant rabble I will term for the purposes of argument the
American public. We are so concerned with our individual rights to music,
clothing, haircuts, and fast cars that we are blinded to the fact that true
freedom has nothing to do with being allowed to wear baggy jeans while driving a
Mazda Miata booming Marilyn Manson on the deck, with the words FUCK THA POLICE
shaved into our hair. The Acceptance Engine doesnt care how you express that
delicately meaningless theory known as your soul, as long as you do it on your
time  -and as long as you accept  what society hands you.     

Acceptance, not individual expression, is the key. You can dye your hair blue
and wear black leather and join the Dead Poets Society ("T.S. Eliot was stringy,
but deee-licious!") and The Acceptance Engine doesnt notice unless you agitate.
This is what stops people from speaking up, this irrational fear that if we draw
attention to ourselves by complaining, well be punished.     

A personal anecdote that now occurs to me, in retrospect, as The Engine in
effect: The year was 1992 and I was a college junior living somewhere on the
east coast in a town that had its own issues between the kids and the police. I
was walking down the street on friday night when this kid comes stumbling out of
a house  -a sad state, completely pissed out of his mind, making a nuisance,
half dressed. A few friends of his, nowhere near his condition, emerged and
tried to convince him to come back into the house and stop grabbing innocent
strangers (without asking the strangers if a) they were innocent and if b) they
might be enjoying his attentions). From out of nowhere what seemed like a
thousand cops pulled up and took the young man into hand, using something beyond
what I would term necessary force on both the D&D and his friends.     

We innocent strangers stood there, watching, as one cop, a burly bald guy with a
foul mouth and sweat stains under his arms, started beating the poor kids head
into the ground. Now, the prick was totally fucked up and needed to be taken off
the streets, but he was not exactly Charles Manson and the use of force seemed
excessive. We stood there, in silence, and watched, and slowly a few of us
started to move on. The police were here, after all. I stood, watching, and the
bald cop looked up at me.     

"What are you doing?" he asked.     

"Watching." I said. Not one of my more brilliant moments, I admit.     

"Keep watching." the cop said, standing up with wipe his hands. The D&D moaned
on the sidewalk beneath him. "And youll end up in jail too."

And now that I look back on it, The Acceptance Engines gears were churning all
around me in that moment, and the threat was implicit and clear: quit
complaining, kid, or get punished.     

So I quit complaining.

======================================== 
Another Tiny Article 
By Jeff Somers
========================================

Why do we suppose that  our President should be or even could be some sort of
uber-moral guy? We certainly arenty moral crowd, are we? We cheat on our taxes,
we cheat on our spouses, we lie on loan applications and we steal office
supplies. So why should Billy Clinton be any different? I dont get ibut then, Im
slow.

To prove Im slow, I was watching this new crappy TV show called The Practice the
other night because I had nothing to do and no more beer in the fridge. On this
show, the attractive protagonist Bobby the Lawyer is struggling to keep his
practice going because he is a good guy  and is making a difference in the world
by fighting the good fight. So, the story goes, he swings a shady loan from his
old chum at the bank to the tune of $70,000 on a fake office expansion ploy. He
keeps his doors open a few more months, and the good fight is still fought. You
see? He gains monies for his own use through illegal and unethical means, but
hes a hero, because hes presented to us that way. Bill Clinton probably did the
same thing, but hes a villain. Why? Beats me. Maybe one of you should write a
tiny article to explain it. I dare you.

========================================
*** BULLSHIT ***
Sex & the Single Lycra and Spandex Wearing Stilleto Heel Fetishest. 
Men and the Lesbian Obsession 
By Jeff Somers
========================================

NEW YORK - If you haven't had this conversation, you will:

FEMALE: (Smirking, because she already has her own infallable opinion about
this) Why do men like lesbians so much?

ME: (Unsure if revealing knowledge of subject will result in physical harm)
Uhh.....what are "lesbians"?

I suppose it can't be argued, men in general seem to be obsessed with female
homosexuality. And, trust me, the more you protest your disinterest the more
your girl friends will give you that what a lying prick look that women learn at
such an early age. It isn't an easy argument to win, after all, when Howard
Stern and his minions are out there farting out their lesbian fantasies on a
daily basis, and the video stores are filled with x-rated evidence of the
lesbian cache. My own tender and innocent self aside, it is a bona-fide
phenomenon amongst men: women loving women.

Okay, so the phenomenon is established. If you're a man reading this, you've
probably experienced this first-hand (no pun intended). If you're a woman,
you've probably watched some boyfriend go limp and panting with lust at the
sight (or thought) of lesbians. We know it's out there, the only question is
why? Naturally, I'm pretty sure I have the answer. And it has absolutely nothing
to do with true female homosexuality, which we will refer to as the Dyke Factor.
Men actively fear true lesbians, so what they fantasize about are not trues
lesbians, but rather a male construct based on the meager bits of information
men have about that lifestyle.

What the male lesbian fantasy is about is power and domination and control. Not
of lesbians, but of their own heterosexual counterparts. The participants in the
male lesbian fantasy are heterosexual women who are painted as so overcome with
lust that they'll screw anything, even each other  -but the picture of the
wanton and adventurous woman is not tainted by envisioning her with other males,
which would be a threat (what if that guy's dick is bigger than mine?), but
rather is kept in the non-penetrating and thusly unthreatening (within the
fantasy) realm of the lesbian. So, the standard male lesbian fantasy is actually
a whacked out (no pun intended) heterosexual fantasy. Weird, huh?


All Men like to think they are the Sultans of their neighborhood, attracting
multiple partners by their mere scent, an erotic blend of danger, strength, and
good msucle tone. The fact that men are genetically programmed to seek multiple
partners while women seek to hold on to one solitary male protector (I will
await the flame letters with relish on this one) is a pretty well-traveled fact
of life. Of course, everything in this world is designed to thwart our attempts
to found harems, and we men are doomed to lives of quiet disappointment, not to
mention monogamy.

But we'd like to think, of course, that one whiff of our manly phermones would
send any woman into hormone overdrive, and thence the lesbian fantasy. Two facts
to consider:

1. The women in these fantasies are NOT lesbians. If you wanted to be fancy
about it, you might more accurately say they were bisexual, but at the core I
don't think that's true, either. These fantasy women are just regular hetero
chicks who have been so overwhelmed with macho vibes that they immediately jump
the nearest living thing. That's the implication, and that's why they are so
immensely attractive to men: if you walk in on two chicks in lycra miniskirts
Doing It on the couch, chances are they would even deign to screw you, they're
so turned on. Consider: at least three-fourths of the time, these lesbian
fantasies end in a more conventional heterosexual meeting of the uglies, and are
often presented simply as a variation of the Group Sex Goings On, a break from
the hard-on tedium of straight sex.

2. Real lesbians give heterosexual men the screaming heebie-jeebies. Whether
we're talking buzz-cut butches or lipsticked lesbians in tight skirts, straight
men take one look at the pall of complete disinterest these women emit (not to
mention possible hostility) and feel themselves shriveling. The point is, I
suppose, that real lesbians do not wish to have sex with men, and therefore
would not appear in male fantasies. Men, as a rule, do not fantasize about
anything that they could never have sex with. You can call us a lot of names,
but we're pretty sensible about that. If you call fantasizing about Cows and
Dogs sensible.

Editor's note: this should in no way be taken as a wimpy admittance of male
inferiority, otherwise known as Alan Alda Syndrome. I firmly believe women to be
as lame as men, if, perhaps, in different ways, and do not buy into this "battle
of the sexes" bullshit. We all need each other to get through this meaningless
existential hell called life, why bother arguing whose got the better biology,
instincts, or ability? Just jump in the pool and start the ballet, kids, and
quit whining about having better choreography.

========================================
*** SPECIAL FEATURE ***
The Official Inner Swine Readers Quiz 
What kind of Pig are You?
========================================

From time to time we at The Inner Swine like to pretend to be interested in our
readers, and the betterment thereof. Usually the results of these forays into
the great unwashed hordes of our readers are greatly amusing and give us grist
for sarcasm for years to come. In the past our various programs (The Inner Swine
Forced-Breeding Program, The Inner Swine Eye-Clip Experiment USA, et cetera)
have been a bit too ambitious, not to mention variously illegal, and so this
year were toning it all down. Behold, The Official Inner Swine Readers Quiz! Now
you can discover what kind of Pig you really are, and possibly win great prizes!
(Not really).

Please answer the following questions honestly, and keep track of your points
total. NO CHEATING, or Ken West will find you and beat you up.

1. You are eating Fritos at home in front of the Television, watching CBS. You
are wearing a sombrero, a colorful floral shirt, cut off sweatpants, and no
underwear. It is sixty five degrees in your apartment, which is the temperature
of the flat beer you are drinking. It is six-oh-three in the evening. Your
neighbor next door is having sex with someone (or something) and every
thirty-one seconds shouts out "Deep-fry me, baby! Just dip me in!" If one of
your fritos falls on the floor at your feet, do you a) ignore it until it has
molded into a new, higher life form, (4 points)  b) retrieve it and consume it
without a second thought, (6 points)  c) kick it under the couch and hope it
does not return for revenge, (2 points)  d) burst into tears, shouting "Why?
Why?!" (2 points)

2. You are dancing naked in your living room to throbbing disco music. Your
building catches fire when the superintendent dozes off in the oily rag
receptacle in the basement with a lit cigarette. Since your building was built
before 1955 and is constructed of dry-rotted wood and flammable paints, it will
be consumed in flames within one hour. Because you live on the third floor and
have removed the batteries from your smoke detectors, it will be forty-eight
minutes before your sluggish brain realizes the danger. Taking into
consideration the rate of rust working on your fire-escape and your weight at
the time, the burn-rate of the lumber used in construction in USA pre-1955, and
the climbing speed of a naked human being in bad shape, does Disco a) suck, (6
points) b) rule, (0 points)  c) have a "few good songs",  (2 points) d) have an
unreasoning hold on your soul, causing you to dance madly whenever its sinister
animal rhythms massage your ears (8 points)

3. While walking through New York City listening to Too Much Joy on your
walkman, a criminal rushes up and murders you for the $4.33 you have in your
pockets. What happens now? a) angels appear and guide you to a better place
where you are reunited with lost loves and made happy at last, ( 2 points) b)
demons appear and drag you down to hell, where you are tortured endlessly for
your obvious sins, (2 points) c) you are reborn as an infant in Argentina and
for a few brief seconds you remember your past life and mold your new psyche to
improve upon it,  (2 points) d) everything goes black and you stop thinking,
because life is a biological accident and a meaningless existential hell (6
points)

4.You wake up in a bar on Eighth Avenue called The Grim Reaper, feeling as
though you have been swallowed and digested by a large mammal, excreted onto the
unclean floor of the establishment. Naturally the enzymes of this animal hve
dissolved all your money and valuables. Standing over you is a hideous parody of
a woman, with clown-like makeup caked on her face and a screeching laugh she
demonstrates for you over and over and over again. Do you a) flee the scene and
attempt to make penance for your sins,  (2 points) b) collect yourself and
demand angrily that your possesions be returned,  (4 points) c) vomit on the
spot,  (4 points) d) shrug and go home, since this is your everyday cycle of
shame (4 points)

5. You are at work and suddenly realize that not only have you made an
eggregious error which will cost your company many thousands of dollars, but
that you have been making the same mistake consistently over your entire 3 year
employment. An unwanted internal calculation tells you that you have probably
cost the firm in excess of a million american dollars due to your incompetence.
Since the error is basic and would not have been made by someone with even a
shred of intellect or dedication to their work, do you a) say nothing and
perform future projects correctly,  (2 points) b) say nothing and continue to
make the error in a defiant attempt at striking back at "the man",  (4 points)
c) admit your mistake and hope that honesty counts for something in this grim
world,  (2 points) d) quietly pack all your personal items and leave forever (6
points)

6. You are called for jury-duty in your home county. Upon arrival at the
courthouse, you are selected for a jury and interviewed by the judge and
lawyers. When the judge asks you "Are you willing to accept my interpretation of
the laws as law in this case?" do you a) start shouting "GUILTY!" over and over
again (4 points), b) stare vapidly until you are excused (2 points), c) reply
that you have your own in-depth interpretation of the laws of this state and
dont like being told how to think by some glorified civil-servant in a black
nightgown, thank you very much (10 points), d) vomit in nervous anxiety (6
points)

7. You have been asked by the saintly editor of a Zine to write a short article
because he, for some reason, respects your style, intellect, and opinion. You
have nothing by way of a social life or any other time-consuming activity, and
thus have plenty of time to work on a quality article. Do you a) wait until the
day after the issue has been published to complain that you "didnt have enough
time" (2 points), b) wait until the day after the issue is published to admit
you were "never going to write anything, really" (2 points), c) throw something
together the night before and pretend that it is "high-concept farce" (2
points), d) get angry when approached and spit at the editor like some sort of
Mole-Girl (2 points)

Scoring

62-45   You are a pig
44-29   You are a weak pig
28-14   You are a poor excuse for a pig
13-0    You obviously cannot follow simple instructions, and are a big
idiot-pig.

========================================
*** FICTION ***
The Cubists
by Jeff Somers
========================================

There was a certain amount of anxiety within the Team as the train hurtled
towards the corporate headquarters, focussing on the disturbing question of:
lunch. I felt it, our boss, Barry, quivered nervously from its real weight and
girth, the whole Team was tense with the question: what were we going to do
about lunch?

Barry was making me nervous, too. He was making a large, delicate origami
elephant from loose leaf paper, and I found myself staring at his nimble, sweaty
hands in awed fascination. Barry made origami animals when he was nervous. At
the last Annual Meeting he'd littered the floor with cocktail-napkin Cranes, and
when he'd been forced to fire Mel last June his office had overflowed with
memo-pad Manta Rays all week.

The elephant was a poor omen.

Behind me, I could hear Sharon's pen scratching the first of who knew how many
memo pads. She took notes about everything, nonstop. It was a dry sound, and
raised my hackles mercilessly, and for the hundredth time I wanted to turn
around, tear the pad from her obsessive hands, and inform her gently that she
would never need to refer to her notes of our train ride. I refrained, however.
I think assaulting a fellow employee would be grounds for termination. It was
why Mel had been fired, after all.

Besides, a simple, pure act of violence like that would crack the tension and
send the Team into hysteria. We would tear ourselves apart.

I stood up and tapped Makem on the shoulder. Makem was half black and half irish
and had not seen a sober day in the three years I'd worked with him on the Team.
I startled him out of a doze.

"Club Car, matey," I said with a wink, "It's two hours until Philadelphia."

Halfway to the Club Car we encountered a tremendously fat woman in the narrow
aisle, walking towards us. We faced her down with threats and forced her to back
up the four cars to the Club Car. The Team had been trained to be aggressive and
cold-blooded.

In the Club Car I bought Makem a beer and we took up five seats between us,
forcing a family of grinning oriental persuasion to crwod into one booth. I
started eating peanuts with gusto.

"This trip is totally fucked from the beginning, Makem. Look at the Team, man.
We're on edge, we're close to tearing each other apart!"

Makem agreed, but wisely said nothing.

It was true. Vickie the Computer Temp who'd been a solid, humming blanket of
calm on the Team for eight years now had bitten her nails to bloody stumps and
had snapped viciously at me as recently as this morning. The other passengers
could feel it, the thrumming violence bordering on hallucinogenic homicide
wherein we were all imagining killing ourselves and each other in little
strobe-like flashes. All the other passengers inched away from us with big cow
eyes, shielding the children.

"Is it worth it?" I asked Makem, not really expecting an answer and not getting
one. "A couple dozen grand a year for this kind of life-shortening pressure? An
endless litany of bagels and coffee and alarm clocks and health insurance. I
walk in every day chewing my lips raw with nerves and I drink myself stupid
every night. Look at you  -a bright young black irish lad, such as yourself,
reduced to the unspeaking shell of quiet rage I see before me. We've all got
ulcers and I haven't slept in weeks. For what?" I snorted. "Health insurance and
a nameplate."

Makem grinned slackly and indicated that he wanted another beer.

People were leaving the Club Car, a steady migration stealing looks at Makem and
me through our veiled threat of sudden and inexplicable violence. I glided up to
the bar and indicated to the wide-eyed and palsied bartender that I wanted two
more of the dusty and forgotten green bottles of brew we'd been drinking. He
wanted to run, but didn't dare.

We finished our beers and I led Makem down the aisle back to the rest of the
Team. The floor was covered in scraps of paper and a parade of elephants,
marching in line with tails held daintily in their trunks, now decorated, now
decorated Barry's seat. Sharon crouched in the aisle by them, studying their
folds and creases, noting their accuracy and originality. I resisted an urge to
smack her in the head, taking my seat instead, crushing several elephants in the
process.

Barry stared, aghast, and then set about tearing the Commuter News magazines
into strips.

I settled back in the contoured aroma-therapy chair, programmed it for melted
chocolate, and fell into an uneasy doze. I was dreaming of my Ancestral Home in
Flemington, New jersey, surrounded by electrified fence and guarded by a half
dozen Doberman's which had been beaten savagely every day of their lives. They
hated every human they met. If they ever caught me or my family they would tear
us into pieces  -I hadn't seen the place in years, and experts told me that the
dogs might live for years more on a diet of squirrels and postal workers.

I hoped someday to move out of the motel, find the wife and kids, and re-claim
my home.

Until then, though, there was work to be done  -Barry was shaking me awake
roughly; we'd arrived in Philadelphia.

Grimly, the Team gathered up our bags and gear: notebook computers, files, a
change of clothes in case things got messy. Barry kept saying, over and over in
a low voice, "They won't cut our fucking budget, I can tell you that."

In the station Barry arranged transportation while Makem and I secured donuts
for all of us. It was going to be a long morning, we would all need our strength
and the instant energy the donuts would give us. Sharon wasn't hungry and didn't
want any, and precious moments were lost making sure she ate her ration of
cream-filled and jelly donuts. When we joined Barry at the taxi station we were
all covered in powdered sugar. Makem made quite a scene licking it off of
himself obscenely.

The entire Team squeezed into one cab to show our willingness to the save the
company dime. Six of us crammed against each other in sweating tension-filled
discomfort. The driver complained bitterly until Barry smacked him smartly on
the head. To make up for that I kicked an extra buck into the tip.

We stood on the sidewalk outside the corporate headquarters, grim, and let it
rain on us for a while. Barry had ordered us to absorb as much negative energy
as possible and to be in the worst possible mood when we entered into the fray.
"From unhappiness comes strength." Barry pronounced. This seemed wise to me.
Makem, slipping towards hungover, had an advantage over all of us and I decided
to hitch my caboose to his engine in the event of violence.

They met us in the lobby and before we could react they'd affixed
brightly-colored HELLO, MY NAME IS stickers to our lapels. The Team, already on
a hair trigger and ready to snap, hummed with high tension that made the air
vibrate around us. The sticker troops departed into mechanical doors which
opened and closed automatically. From a stairway at the far end, behind the
unmanned reception desk, stepped our President, our leader and
Commander-in-Chief.

I fought an urge to leap at him.

The misery and hatred of the Team was focussed on his Grecian-Formulaed and
double-breasted form and I thought for a shimmering moment that he might burst
into flame like an ant under a magnifying glass, but he hadn't gotten to his
rarefied position by being flammable  -he bounced the hate back at us with
practiced ease and we swallowed it down. The lobby filled with the sound of
grinding teeth.

He greeted us and thanked us for coming, using our first names. Sharon took
notes furiously, and when he thought the President wasn't looking, Barry fiddled
nervously with memo-pad rhinoceri, dropping them inconspicuously into his jacket
pockets as the President droned on. I concentrated on holding Makem up; he was
unconscious on his feet.

The speech was, as far as I could tell, meant to encourage us to be honest and
unsuspicious in our dealings with the high-up muckety-mucks. This did little but
strengthen our assumption that this trip to corporate headquarters was nothing
more than a witch-hunt. I put a restraining hand on Barry's shoulder, pulling
him back to the Team before he could do something we'd all regret. I willed the
President to concentrate on someone besides our boss and leader.

Luckily, he did. As he spoke, he moved towards Sharon with the balletic grace of
a dancer, reached out and with blinding speed snatched her legal pad (in which
she had been transcribing his every word) and pen, breaking each into several
pieces and discarding them with imperial disdain.

Our CEO went on, but my attention was now on Sharon, who stood quivering,
staring at her empty hands with vacant rage on her face. I didn't dare let Barry
go and Makem was not up to anything more demanding than standing, so there was
nothing to do but watch her. As I did, she pulled a felt tip pen from somewhere
in her hair and began to write on her hand, fine, tiny crib notes.

The President took one look, shrugged, and ignored her. By the time he was done
with his loquacious speech, she had covered both her arms in the tight script,
and I was afraid she might begin removing clothing. As we were led into the
bowels of the building, I handed her a legal pad to prevent nudity. The
Corporation had a strict dress code, and rules prevented anarchy, and I really
didn't want to see Sharon nude.

The Team was led down corridors and split up, the President shaking our hands
jovially and wishing us luck as we were whisked away  -or dragged, in Makem's
case.

I was interviewed in a cream-colored room the size of a gas-station bathroom.
There was an ancient metal desk and two uncomfortable chairs.

My interviewer was a short, balding man who possessed so many nervous tics that
I was momentarily blinded by his fluttering and fidgeting, and even after I'd
gotten settled and stared at him steadily I couldn't see him, he blurred and
danced as if he was sitting behind a fan.

He had a voluminous accordion file, from which he endlessly pulled papers as he
spoke. I tried to listen. The room had bad acoustics and he sounded far away.

"I'm Assistant Traveling Vice President Morrow," he said, pushing his glasses up
his nose and slicking his hair back, "and as you know we're always looking to be
more competitive, and your budget is being reviewed."

I nodded as he tugged at an ear, cleared his throat, and chewed his thumbnail.

"The other members of your Team are also being interviewed by Assistant
Traveling Vice Presidents. These interviews are not being recorded and it will
be your word against mine."

I opened my mouth to reply but thought better of it as he adjusted his tie,
drummed his fingers and picked his nose. He pulled a pile of several hundred
pages from his accordian file and let them fall on the desk with a hollow thump.

"We just have a few questions." he said, and shifted in his seat, cracked his
knuckles, and dug into one care with his finger.

I leaned forward. "Of course. I am fully prepared to cooperate in the spirit of
corporate downsizing. I have been asked by my supervisor to be completely open
and to answer all questions  -to even anticipate questions and answer them
before they are asked, and I fully intend to comply." I smiled.

He sucked his pen. "Well, that's grand."

We stared at each other for a while. he stood up and adjusted his jacket, blew
his nose, and knelt down to quickly shine his shoes with one cuff. I watched it
all, bemused, and when he leapt up with one hand extended I took it and shook
warmly.

"Well, I'll put all that into the report, you can rest assured." he said
quickly. "I think I've got all I need here."

I made fists and bit my cheek: it was the brush-off, the high-hat, all formality
and red tape and bullshit bullshit bullshit. I swallowed down the abuse this
little prick had coming and took a deep breath.

"What," I asked with all the menace I could muster, "about lunch?"

He brightened. "There's quite a nice spread waiting for us, actually." he said
cheerfully, cracking his knuckles and slicking back his hair. "We catered in."

I still wanted to hit him, but I decided it could wait until after they fed us.

The Team was reunited in the Executive Conference Room amidst back-slapping and
handshakes. Lunch was already laid out for us, and set to with cheerful gusto,
watched over by smiling security men we chose to ignore. We relived our
adventures with various Assistant traveling Vice Presidents, chortling over
their failures and defects. Barry retold his confrontation by creating origami
versions of himself, his interviewer, a pride of lions, and a flock of vultures,
all from cocktail napkins. Sharon had quotes to share, and reconstructed her
entire interview for us in hilarious detail. Makem had been enjoying a liquid
lunch and was unable to speak when it was his turn.

Gorged on catered foods, our hearts pounding in self-defense, we slumped in the
soft and contoured seats of the board room, and were quickly joined by our
President again, this time accompanied by the Assistant Traveling Vice
Presidents and without his characteristic good cheer.

"I'm afraid, gentlemen  -and lady-  that our decision is final." he said.

The Team leapt into action. I have never been prouder to have been a part of it
than I was in that moment, that terrible, awesome moment when the stupid bastard
fired us, and freed us to vent our anger.

Years later, on Death Row, I was visited by Makem (who'd characteristically
slept through the carnage) and we laughed about our war stories. When they came
for me, I was still laughing.

========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***
American Wedding Confidential #2:
Going Stag In the Age of Couplehood   
========================================

Editor's note: This is the second in a series of articles about that peculiar
western tradition, the wedding. All the names have been changed to avoid getting
beaten up by girls.

All I can say is, never attend a wedding as a freewheeling bachelor. Never never
never. Families abhor bachelors, and the rutting-fevered atmosphere of the pagan
marriage ceremony brings this sentiment out in spades. It gets ugly.

My friend Madge was getting married and had scheduled her wedding very
inconveniently for my rent-a-date purposes; every woman who owed me a favor or
who might conceivably enjoy dressing up and drinking watery drinks with me for
several hours was otherwise engaged, usually with a sudden vacation to some
exotic port. If I'd been a less secure individual it might have seemed like all
my friends were avoiding my wedding invite, but of course, that couldn't be. So,
in a moment of whimsical affection for my friend Madge I doomed myself by
deciding that what the hell, I'll go alone.

I don't know what, exactly, I imagined the wedding reception would be like. I
guess I had some disco-fueled sex fantasy involving available and drunkenly
wanton bridesmaids (forgetting in my fever that Madge had no friends who could
accurately be described as drunkenly wanton) and me ending up the evening like
Sammy Davis Jr. with the band, tie undone, microphone and cocktail in hand,
calling everybody "baby" and singing  Barbara Streisand's People Who Need People
while the bride and groom slow danced. This was never, ever going to happen, not
even for a second. If you believe in alternate universes, there was never even
an alternate universe where that was a slight possibility. Frankly, I didn't
take a lot of different things into consideration: a) the awesome instinct to
match-make in the modern catholic female, b) the sheer horror uncoupled
bachelors inspire in the hearts of catholic matrons, c) how uncomfortable suits
make me (so binding).

Still, for whatever reason I somehow convinced myself that attending Madge's
union ceremony as Solamente Jeff  was a good idea. I even went out and bought a
new suit for the occasion, because I was feeling lucky. Under the
fascist-shopping guidance of the infamous and gorgeous Elizabeth Augoustinatos,
I picked out a dignified dark-green number that artfully accentuated my beer gut
and brought out the somber color of the bags under my eyes. In a shopping mood,
I also went in search of an odd and unique wedding gift. I didn't want to give
in to conformist tradition and buy Madge something she actually wanted; I'm an
artist, after all, and had to find something symbolic and beautiful but patently
useless.

I won't tell you what I bought, though I will say that I succeeded. While Madge
will protest her undying affection for my gift because it came from me (and thus
will likely be worth money some day), I doubt it has ever seen light of her
living room. I should also mention that my choice of gift was ungainly and
large, and I packed into an even larger box, wrapped it garishly, and brought it
with me to the wedding, I suppose so I could set it on the seat next to me and
not feel so lonely.

The wedding itself was normal: the groom had the glassy-eyed stare of muscle
relaxants, Madge was a vision in white and guarded by security professionals so
no one would have opportunity to smudge her makeup. In the middle of the
ceremony, she put the ring on the wrong finger, couldn't get it off to fix the
mistake, and dissolved into giggles while the groom, completely numb from
sedatives, stared at her in mute horror. Or something like that; my memory gets
a little fuzzy these days. I lurked in the background trying not to absorb any
of the holiness going on around me. The two families could sense that I was a
wolf among the flock and they steered clear, leaving empty seats around me for a
two pew radius.

At the reception, I lugged my absolutely huge present around with me like the
Ancient Mariner with his pet albatross until a very italian woman took pity on
me and told me where I could put it down safely. She then had me sit with her
family, introducing me to her beautiful daughters with a degree of pity that
instantly made me bitter and resentful. I spent a great deal of the cocktail
hour smoking cigarettes, muttering to myself.

When we were all seated for the ridiculously intricate introduction and bridal
Awards Ceremony, I spent a few quality moments trying to figure out the
demographics of my table. Wedding veterans will tell you: every table tells a
story, baby. There's always the Single Friends table, the Obligatory Co-Workers
table, the Never-Talked-To Childhood Friends table. I was none of those, and I
slowly came to realize, to my horror, that I was seated at that nightmare
scenario known as the Dateless table.

Without warning, I'd been bitten by the despised monster and been transformed
into one of The Dateless.

I had also been carefully placed next to Madge's colorful cousin who had a sunny
personality, a bountiful bosom, and a complete lack of attraction either to or
for yours truly. I'm not saying that Madge was trying to match us up, but I am
saying that she figured she'd seat us together and see what happens, because, as
I was learning, nature abhors a bachelor and the wise women of our tribes will
always try and find you the sort of happiness they have found, the sort of
happiness which results in a 113% divorce rate in this country. The sunny and
bountiful cousin, however, also had something akin to a attention deficit
disorder, resulting in her dashing around the reception like a lemur spooked
from the brush, which was doing nothing to attract me.

Defeated, I left the reception at the appropriate time. The bride and groom were
liquored up and weary and had no energy to pity me as I exited alone, determined
to never attend another wedding dateless. Or to wear that suit ever again. watch
for future installments of this award-winning series of investigative pieces in
coming issues of The Inner Swine.

========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***
ROCK AND ROLL Is Dead: 
Oasis and the End of Fun 
by Jeff Somers
========================================

Let's look at Rock Music in the 90's, want to? Okay:

Oasis is the self-described "greatest band in England", soon, no doubt, to be
the greatest band in the whole world. You know who they are: those two bratty
british brothers who mimick the Beatles (and everybody else) and spit on
everyone else. You know, the Wonderwall kids, the catchiest tune on the radio in
years. Oasis has style, they have flash, they have that superstar look that
makes them seem better than they really are, manipulating perception through
sheer fashion sense. As a matter of fact, Oasis is so damned good looking, so
damned cocky and drunk with their own arrogance, so damned perfectly packaged,
that it is nothing if not a complete shock when you realize that they suck.

Im not talking about your run-of-the-mill suckage, either; were not talking
about sound quality (Man, this band sucks!) or songwriting ability (Man, these
lyrics suck!) or live showmanship (Man, that front man sucks!). No, Oasis is a
band that on the surface has all the talent in the world and then some. And then
you suddenly realize that a) every song of theirs is ripped off rather
blatantly, and b) they are more an intellectual concept of a rock band than an
actual, breathing unit of music. In Oasis we have the arrogant last swan dive of
traditional Rock n Roll, kids, we see the whole thing regurgitated and thrown up
at our feet as luke warm sentiment and bank statements, not a lick of
rebelliousness of originality in it. I can handle a lack of rebelliousness as
long as the songs are good. I can handle ripoff songs as long as theres some
passion there. But when Oasis comes along and hands me commercial jingles as a
hit single and then just stands there and stares at me arrogantly, counting
royalties, I get sick.

Id like to buy the world a coke: I was at the Oasis show on 3/13/96, at the
theatre formerly known as the Paramount. In the middle of "Shakermaker", Misty
turned to me and shouted something. I stared at her and shrugged, I couldnt hear
a damned thing. She repeated herself, pointing to her soda. "The coke song!" she
screamed, permenantly damaging my ear. Shes right, of course (applause);
"Shakermaker" is a pleasantly unimposing ditty about nothing much at all until
you realize that you can sing "Id like to buy the world a coke" to it. In a rare
moment of serendipity, Liam Gallagher proceeded to sing just that, right there
on stage, making fun of his own lack of originality (or, perhaps, mocking the
body-surfing crowd that probably didnt even know it was a joke (hey, where can I
get that version?)). Misty and I looked at each other and laughed, and that was
that. For future reference, I know for a fact that you can also sing "All the
Young Dudes" to the tune of "Dont Look Back in Anger".

This is the best the greatest rock band in the world can do? Now, H. L. Mencken
(who would have been a swine if hed lived long enough) once said that there was
nothing new under the sun, and in rock and roll thats so true its embarrassing.
After all, every artist steals something sometime. This magazine itself is 63%
regurgitated material, so what? But we, of course, dont claim to be the greatest
magazine in the world. The best tasting, perhaps, but certainly not the greatest
in general. I dont expect even Oasis to have startlingly new and different
meoldies all the time, even if they were capable of such creative achievements.
I do sort of expect them to at least attempt to be original. If they cant find
the energy to attempt to be original, perhaps then they could put aside the
insulting display of arrogance they have based their careers on and just play
the fucking music and leave us out of their little ego trip.

This is where Rock and Roll is headed, kiddies: a cipher existence leading us to
the altar of false idols, bands that cant write songs, bands that cant write
original songs, bands that cant play. On the one hand you have Oasis, which is
quickly becoming a big act due mostly to attitude, and on the other you have
Pearl Jam and its spinoffs, which are quietly deconstructing music until
anything with a beat and some words is called a song. I am sorry if I offend all
of you flannel-wearing geeks who think Eddie Vedder is some sort of Lord; there
are good Pearl Jam songs, I admit that. Its just that they are mostly trapped
inside bad Pearl Jam songs. Oasis spits out these little melodic jems with tight
structure and the sort of attention to syntax and syllables you dont see much
these days, but they are ripoffs. Pearl Jammers spit out these earnest songs
that are completely original, mostly because they do not bother to create a
melody to go with the beat and the angry guitar riffs. Both bands, or groups of
bands, or types of bands, are building a following based more on a philosophy,
an attitude, or a concept than on music.

So where does that leave your peaceful editor? Filled with rage and listening to
his Descendents tapes until his ears bleed. Let's face it, rock and roll was
never meant to mean anything, was it? Let's go out and buy some Hanson CDs if
you doubt me -MmmmBop!

========================================
*** RAVINGS ***
Cheerios, Taters, and A Big Bowl of Ice 
The Single Womans Guide to Economic Food Shopping 
by Karen Accavallo, Authority
========================================

You know, its amazing.  Yesterday I was chatting with a friend of mine, and he
mentioned he wanted to come over and see my apartment. Now Ive know Jeff too
long, I know what he means by "see your apartment."  Obviously he wanted sex. I
decided to play along:

"OK," I said, "But dont expect me to offer you anything to eat or drink." 

"Huh," Jeff answered, which is normal for him anyway, but I knew he was really
confused this time. 

"Yeah, dont expect anything to eat or drink, cause I aint got nothing," I said.
(Actually youve probably guessed this is a lie.  Everyone knows that a grammar
nazi like myself would probably have said something like, "I cannot provide for
your sustenance within my living quarters, young friend." But you get the idea.)


Before I moved out of my parents house, I sat down with my mother and tried to
figure out a budget for myself.  I could divvy up my paltry publishing paycheck
(!) between rent, the phone bill, the electric bill, therapy, "medicine" from
High Spirits Discount Liquors, and 1200 clams a year for a car that is six years
old and has been recalled twice by Ford .  That left me with about $10 a month
for "miscellaneous."

"And what do you expect to do about food?" my mother asked.  "You have no money
left for food.  I think you need to rethink this.  You dont make enough money to
live on your own."

I thought for a moment, pondering, sweating, clenching.  "Ill steal food," I
told her.  She laughed.  I didnt.

Im totally paranoid that my roommate from college is going to ask me to be in
her wedding.  Now it would probably be fun and all, but all I can picture is
some apologetic bridal shop clerk who in a very polite manner basically tells me
that there is not enough material on this earth that will go around my wide ass.
I figure a lot of women have this problem, so Ive gone and done something so
groundbreaking, Im considering quitting my job and touring with:

**** THE SINGLE WOMANS COOKBOOK **** 
**** staying alive on $10 a month. ****

Its ridiculous and unnecessary to spend a lot of money on food.  All you need is
some creative planning and a good imagination.  Heres a typical days menu:

------------------------------
BREAKFAST

Big Glass of Tap Water: if you concentrate hard enough, you can convince
yourself its o.j. 1 Slice of Bread. After the first week, youll believe that
youre munching on a big, sloppy egg, bacon and cheese sandwich.

LUNCH

You dont need lunch, because you should be concentrating on your job.  If you
must indulge, Skittles only cost 65 cents a bag and they are most filling.  But
dont make it a habit.

DINNER

Heres the fun part!   Big glass of Tap Water (or is that champagne!!!!!) Rice
Cheez-its

DESSERT

Mmmm!  If youre feeling particularly naughty that day, a big bowl of ice usually
hits the spot.
------------------------------

Lets add up our food expense for today:

Tap Water :FREE Bread slice: about 5 cents Skittles: 65 cents Rice: convince
your mother to buy you a 10lb. Bag, and thats free too! Cheez-its: about 1 cent
a piece.  You are allowed three.

See there!  Weve spent under one dollar on food today.  Whats that, you say? 
Even one dollar a day adds up to 30 DOLLARS a month!  Not if you only eat
Tuesday through Thursday like I do!!!

The key here is prioritizing your life.  Now, with a little discipline you can
convince yourself that youre chowing down on filet mignon instead of one lone
pop-tart.  You can either fritter your money away on food, or you can save that
money for shoes.  Gotta have shoes to walk around in, but ya aint gotta fill
your belly just to ward off temporary dizziness.  Its all about control.

I know what youre thinking.  You want to eat healthy.  OK, heres another days
menu:

------------------------------
BREAKFAST

Two Big Glasses of Tap Water Banana (25 cents from the guy on the street;
cheaper if you buy a bunch from Grand Union)

LUNCH

Now what did I tell you about lunch?

DINNER

Big Bowl of Corn Three Enormous Glasses of Free Delicious Tap Water
------------------------------

Grand Union Frozen Corn costs oh...I dont know...say, 2 dollars a bag.  Do you
know how many meals you can make of this?  I dont know why the world hasnt
caught on sooner.   

If frozen corn isnt your scene, a bag of microwave popcorn also makes a hearty
meal.

Another fantastic value is Cheerios.  When you do need to shop, be sure only to
shop in bulk.  But dont be silly enough to buy your own membership to BJs, or
Price Club, or what have you, leech on to a friend that has one.  I bought a
massive box of Cheerios in January, and Im still enjoying them. 

Potatoes are another great choice.  A bag of Idahos can last weeks.   Just
thinking about a potato and a gallon of tap water waiting for me when I get home
is enough to get me through a hard day at work.

Woo..I can feel the oxygen leaving my brain.  What was I talking about?  Oh yes,
its all about control. Get a hold of yourself .  Soon your bodys comalike state
will make you forget all about shelling out some $15 a week or some crazy figure
like that. Start saving!!

Ed. Note. Karen is obviously under a great deal of stress.

========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***
TAKE YOUR BASE Why Baseball Is the Greatest Sport
by Jeff Somers
========================================

IT is no longer 1935 and baseball is no longer the uncontested National
Past-time. Thats too bad, really, because while most of the sports which have
come into prominence in recent decades match the modern era in speed, brutality,
and simplicity of execution, I for one dont consider that very much of an
achievement. The fact that basketball matches our pathetic and shrinking
attention spans is not something I would boast of proudly.

However, we as Americans are taught from the crib that our opinions are holy and
important, and while that is a large and unwieldy crock of shit it directly
results in the Loud American Syndrome, which I define as a bunch of half-baked,
undereducated patriots all convinced that their point of view is important
enough to warrant public expression simply because they went through the trouble
of being born. As a result, we all have an opinion about everything  -and if we
happen to get caught with our mental pants down and lacking an opinion, we are
masters at making one up on the spot, and defending it to our death, at which
point we will usually blink dumbly and say "what was I thinking?". We have
opinions on our politics, our art, our front lawns  -and, of course, our sports.
Everyone has an opinion, and were all dying to share it with you.

Well, you made the mistake of picking this rag up and reading this far, so I
feel slightly justified in forcing my own ravings on you. Were speaking of
sports, and I for one take the position that baseball is the greatest sport weve
ever devised or played. Its not the only sport, of course, but its the best
sport, in my opinion.

Now, before you run away let me assert that I am not one of the Priests of the
Church of Baseball who will calmly find all manner of truths and parable in the
game. I dont hold ballplayers in any kind of awe. Barry Bonds, I understand, is
quite an asshole. I believe it. Hes also hit a lot of home runs, which is all
that matters to me. He can go home and set his family on fire, kill nuns and boy
scouts, rent porno movies, as long as he makes it to the park 162 times a year.
Or 120 times at the very least. No, I dont turn baseball into some sort of
religion like a lot of the gentle, white intellectuals (maybe thats because Im
not very gentle). I like baseball better for several concrete reasons that you
either agree with or disagree with, I dont much care.

Tradition: baseball has been around for a long, long time. And though this by
itself isnt really much of a reccomendation (democracy itself has been around
for thousands of years and I think its reputation is greatly exaggerated), its
more the use baseball makes of its past that distinguishes the game. In
football, I believe the average memory goes back about 5 years or to the last
Superbowl appearance. Football is like a war: two groups of people fight over a
useless piece of territory, utilization strategy and tactics centered on an
executive chain of command, all in order to effect a series of small gains
adding up to a larger victory. Sounds fun, huh? Uh, no. In basketball, its even
less, although with certain stars memory extends back to their college days.
Basketball is like an urban riot: a lot of oddly dressed people running around,
throwing things at glass and ignoring the authorities (I believe that if someone
started shooting during a basketball game and the players all ran for cover, no
one watching at home would be able to tell the difference for up to a minute).
In hockey, no one even remembers the last game. Hockey is like one long
ultraviolent hyperkinetic nightmare, on ice. Its like going out drinking with a
bunch of ugly brutes who skate: you wake up and cant remember what happened,
where, who won or how. All you know is youve got some ugly bruises and the
bastards are going to pay.

In baseball, at least, there is an amazing continuity. The performance of todays
stars is constantly being compared to the stars of the past. When Mark McGwire
hit 52 homes runs last year, he was compared to Ruth, Maris, Gehrig, etc. all of
whom are dead, all of whom played their last game decades ago. Baseball is
populated by ghosts, and it makes the game grand.

Pace: People who enjoy and champion Basketball actually seem to believe that
games decided in the last two seconds of the game are the good ones. Now, a good
bottom-of-the-ninth home run takes about two seconds to make it from Albert
Belle's bat to the left-field porch and can often win a game in baseball, and
usually it causes much excitement and pandemonium....for one side, at least. For
the opposing team it just causes tantrums and tears. But such last-second
reprieves are pretty rare in baseball, and most games are won over a three/four
hour period by slow increments. In 1986 when the New York Mets won Game 6 of the
World Series, it was a slow scoring drive that lasted almost twenty minutes, as
the tension and the excitement built and built, finally exploding in a ball
rolling between Bill Buckner's legs for the win. Sure, it was won in the final
seconds, but those final seconds took almost half an hour. When Mike Jordan wins
a game with 2 seconds left, it changes from a loss to a win just like that,
without warning, without poetry, without grace.

The other problem with basketball, and hockey as well, is the fact that the
entire game is spent watching a group of men  move back and forth at high speed.
Any sport that major television networks think require a visual aide in order to
follow along with (Hockey's ever-brilliant computer-tracked puck, glowing softly
on your screen so you don't get confused) is either badly planned or badly
played, take your pick. And Basketball actually added a shot clock to make the
game go faster. While I am sure a lot of skill goes into the various scoring in
Hockey or Basketball, it is still a lot of running back and forth, and if I'm
the only one who finds that dull to the extreme than that is a sad statement on
the attention spans of my fellow Americans.

What Baseball (and also Football, to be fair) offers is a leisurely game that
requires sudden bursts of incredible speed. You get to catch your breath in
baseball. You get to study the game. You get to reflect on each pitch, catch, or
hit. You get to look up the game's history in-between pitches and predict what
might happen. Every step of the game requires something more than the brute
dexderity and animal grace of basketball or Hockey; it requires evaluation and
consideration. If Anfernee Hardaway were to pause a moment to consider his next
move, most likely he'd get whiplash from all the people stampeding past him. If
you believe that the fact that baseball players get to stay in one place for
some time during the game makes them lesser athletes, well, all I can say is
Michael Jordan tried to play baseball and he sucked at it. I think he got dizzy
standing in one place all that time.

Normality.  To put it bluntly, there are no freaks in baseball. You do not have
to be six-foot-seven with arms that hang down to your knees. You do not have to
be a three-hundred pound genetic accident who has to special-order his clothes.
Anybody can play baseball  -if not well. Fans of Basketball and Football look at
Baseball players and snort in derision, noting that many of them don't even
appear to be very atheletic. Cecil Fielder is a big tub of chub, after all, and
the only thing louder than the shuddering of the ground when he runs the bases
is the ragged panting of his breathing. I don't consider that to be a bad thing,
though, because that truly makes it our sport. Baseball requires as much talent,
focus, and skill as any of the other sports (I don't have to mention Mr.
Jordan's failure again, do I? Or ask you if you believe Troy Aikman could hit
.200 in the majors?) but it does not require that you have any special
attributes. Big men, little men, fast men, slow men, they all play the game
their own way and in their own style.

Baseball, like Basketball, also requires almost no protective equipment. Sure,
they wear batting helmets (you would too if Randy Johnson was throwing at you)
and use gloves (you would too if Larry Walker was hitting liners right at you)
but they don't have to strap on some ridiculous stormtrooper getup like in
Hockey and Football. When Baseball players slide into a base, they do so at
their own risk. And while the catcher wears a bit of equipment it's not like
we're talking about shoulder pads, after all. With Baseball players what you see
is what you get. Peel a football player, and you might be surprised.

Peculiarities.  What a weird game baseball is. It is the only one of these
majors American sports in which the defense has the ball. It shares with Hockey
the down-to-earth belief that one score is worth one point  -is seven fucking
points really necessary? It shares with Football the need for several successful
offensive efforts before scoring. It has two leagues that play under different
rules, with different styles, and yet meet once a year to decide a champion. It
does not indulge in Football's need for the two greatest evils of a bureaucratic
society: task specialization and endless committee meetings; a Baseball player
is expected to be able to do everything: hit, run, field, maybe even pitch, and
if the fielding team tries to have a committee meeting that lasts longer than
ten seconds, the umpire will come out and break it up. It does not require
people with mops to get the sweat off the court (yuck). Most importantly, to me,
it has no set time limit; the games go on as long as they need to go on, and
that is a beautiful thing.

Of course, I am mostly alone in this attitude. Most of my fellow Americans treat
"sports" like a single mass of games, just one aspect of entertainment to pay
attention to, making little distinction between one season and the next. Either
that, or they find baseball too slow and deliberate, they get bored waiting
those twenty seconds between pitches ("Jesus, I forgot who was playing and what
the score was in the time it took him to throw the next pitch! At least in
Basketball the score changes every two seconds, so I never have to memorize
it.") and prefer the cacophony of Hockey or Basketball. Or maybe the lack of
violence bores them, and so they prefer Football, where you have a good chance
at seeing some bloodshed (in most Football games if there is no grievous bodily
injury they re-run the video of Joe Theisman getting his leg broken in order to
pacify the fans). So, I don't claim to be right. I don't say that if you
disagree with me you're a big dummy. I'm implying that, sure, but that's
different.

So: dig your own sports. I crawl into a cave after the World Series and don't
come out until Pitcher and Catchers, I stop buying the paper and I quit watching
the news. The people who run baseball are doing their best to Hockey-ize the
sport: more teams, more playoffs, all this interleague bullshit. In five years,
there will be 172 teams in baseball and the playoff season will last 16 months 
-they're fucking up the game in their frenzy to save it, and I'm appalled. But
if baseball goes the way of the NBA, I'd rather just not watch anything at all.

========================================
*** COMMENTARY ***
The Simple Pleasures of Life 
by Jeff Somers
========================================

"Only fools find comfort in extremity, for extremity is insulated by obscurity."

I have noticed a terrifying trend running through the media like a bad virus
these days. Let's call it Extreme Bullshit.

Extreme Bullshit .1

I am twenty-six years old (chronologically; for those of you who wish to argue
my emotional or intellectual age, please get in line with all the other
smart-assed bastards), which puts me right smack in the middle of the most
desirable demographic in the world right now. Lord knows why, since I can barely
afford beer, and if you can't afford one of the staple necessities of life I
don't see how they're gonna get me to buy some consumer-suck product like, I
don't know, a Dodge Neon or whatever. It also makes me a member of Generation X
or whatever you want to call it, you know, the kids who sit on the couch all
day, wear bad seventies clothes, and listen to Pearl Jam. Let's not tear into
the fact that Generation X  is a media absurdity that absolutely no one
identifies with, since that is too obvious and too easy.

(I'm reminded here of a scene from The Beatles' 1964 classic film A Hard Days
Night, wherein Geroge Harrison is brought in as a "typical teenager" to give his
opinion on some new fashions. When he honestly doesn't care for them, the
middle-aged business man is apoplectic with rage and derision: "In a year your
whole self-worth will depend on owning one of these grotty shirts!" he spits at
the Quiet One)

No, what I want to bitch about right now is the apparent belief by those fat old
men on Madison Avenue that all of us kids are suicidal, or at the very least
suicidally stupid. Not to mention exhausted, since they seem to believe that our
idea of a good time is strapping on some protective clothing, screaming like
Mum-Ra the Ever Living, and, oh, say jumping out of a plane, sky-diving to a
perfect landing on Mount Everest where you cut the cords and snow board down the
slope until you careem off a cliff, where you pull the second parachute which
floats you gently to the ground. Where you pop a mountain dew or whatever and
feel the rush. Apparently my fellow twenty-somethings aren't happy just riding
their bikes around the park anymore; now they want to ride their bikes in
extreme conditions. As a matter of fact, my fellow slackers apparently don't
want to do anything unless the word extreme has been attached to it. What's
next? You'll shit your Joe Boxers and feel the rush with MTV Sports' EXTREME
NEEDLEPOINT!

Ah, MTV Sports.....I blame them. I blame them for making "extreme" the most
overused fucking adjective/adverb since, well, fucking. I blame them for taking
dull and possibly pain-filled activities (that's right, activities. Calling
snowboarding a sport is like calling Golf a sport, and you DO NOT want to get me
started on that subject, natch.) and turning them into stutter-shot music videos
in which idiot surfer-dude poster-boys drawl about the "rush" while looking like
they drink beer for breakfast and don't care. MTV is something of a trendsetter,
after all, at least to the extent that some dim bulb advertiser saw an episode
of MTV Sports and decided that this sort of testosterone-charged
peacock-strutting would sell anything.

And Mountain Dew listened. How many times much I watch those Gen-X caricatures
look on with slightly bored expressions while lesser dudes engage in extreme
stuff. "Been there, done that." they say as lesser dude #3 crashes into a
boulder and explodes into a million molecules of dude, which gets only a nod
from the Dew Dudes. In another commercial, women roller-blade across rofftops
while attached to helicopters so they can jump from roof to roof. While
screaming. Why? YOU'VE GOT ME! I will never deny a woman's right to strap
herself to a harness, put on roller blades, and be airlifted to rooftops so she
can jump from building to building. Go ahead. I only wonder why? And, assuming
that there IS a woman out there who thinks that might be fun, I can only wonder
why, then, is this supposed to sell soda to my generation.

Extreme Bullshit .2

There is another commerical which expands this concept of the extreme. This one
is for that mountain of nutrition and family values, Doritos. As far as I know,
the number one recommendation for Doritos snacks is that it is the number one
choice of midnight snack food amongst PMSing women, as far as I can tell. I have
seen tiny women consume bags and bags of this stuff when approaching their
periods. Aside from that, I have no clue why we're supposed to like Doritos more
than, say, our lives.

In this Doritos commercial, a really bad grunge knock-off song sings "You're
allowed to be LOUD!" while Gen-Xers eat Doritos and experience what can only be
orgasms by the way they contort and grin. Or maybe it's internal bleeding and
those grins are ricti of pain. Who knows? The whole idea is that the taste of
Doritos is so Extreme that it'll change your life in some way.

Now, I think we all know that no product will ever improve our lives if we have
not laid the groundwork for a productive and satisfying life. (We do all know
that, right?) What I wonder about is this sudden infusion of extremity into our
culture. Where exactly did the idea that only by pushing the envelope can we
enjoy ourselves? Now, I admit right here and now that these questions are being
posed by a man who considers walking to the local Blimpies all the excercise he
needs, whose concept of Extreme Living is eating Devil Dogs in my underwear
while watching Saturday Morning cartoons. I believe in the simple pleasures of
life: a cigarette late at night after a long day, that first beer after work,
the way a girl's face lights up when you give her a present she patently doesn't
deserve. Why does life suddenly have to be so much work?

Maybe this reminds me of Huxley's Brave New World, wherein all the citizens were
exhorted to be busy all the time, their lives filled with mindless pursuits
which exhausted them. No new games were considered unless they increased the
number of rules and pieces already existing in the old games. But, of course,
that was (fictionally) governmental design, social engineering, which I doubt is
going on here. No, this is tapping into some sort of perception about the 18-36
generation today, and while it is patently ridiculous it does, I think,
represent something real: we have come to fear the MOR zombies so much, we're
running for the fringes. At least metaphorically.

After all, in a world where the social environment is increasingly paranoid,
divisive, and constrictive, the urge to lash out and break the rules becomes
very attractive, even to people who are long past their high school hero days 
-or maybe especially to people who are past that. In this day and age we have
the Moral Police ousting political figures due to what seem to me minor or
incomprehensible infractions of some vague moral code (Bill Clinton), the
Language Police telling us what we can and cannot say without getting punished
(Ebonics, Fuzzy Zoeller), and the forces of intolerance suing the pants off of
anybody they can serve papers on. Take, for example, the woman suing New Jersey
Transit over an advertisement she claims made fun of fat people. Herself a
burnin' hunk of love, she felt embarrassed and offended by the ad, so she's
suing. Her opinion, her bovine and small-minded opinion, suddenly becomes more
important than anybody elses, and the realm of what you can do, say, or write
gets smaller. The end result of this kind of aggressive editing is a blander,
less defined culture  -a soft culture which more easily accepts so many
different opinions and viewpoints into itself (where a rigid holding onto of
tradition and standards might shatter and crack under the weight of so many
"alternative" visions) but which leaves many of us feeling like we're shopping
the biggest fucking Wal-Mart in the universe, listening to those new KISS muzak
versions as we push the carts.

So, penned in by the middle-of-the-road, maybe we long for....the extreme.

Extreme Bullshit .3

We all like to think that we're different, right? We all like to think that our
sense of style, our opinions, our fashion, our whatever is distinctive and
unshared, that we shine like a singular candle amidst lesser balls of wax. This
is, of course, complete and total delusion. Every thought you have was had by
someone else. Every decision you make was made by someone else. You are one of
many, and if you do manage to rise above your brood-mates you're lucky, baby.
Nothing else. Pretty much we're the Borg Collective without all the tubes and
crap running in and out of us, unless you're really old.

Stuck in the middlebrow cauldron of intolerance that is the United States today,
advertisers want to tap into that paniky feeling of oppression we've been coated
in. But they have to be careful. While I would buy truckloads of Burn-the-Flag
Cola, no product wants to be associated with actual extremity, or revolution.
So, they give us these ridiculous "sports" and bullshit attitude: I don't think
they actually expect anyone to fly off to the Everglades to wrestle crocks while
water-skiing nude, but they want us to, on some level, identify with that desire
to just go outside, scream like Mum-Ra, and raise some hell.


The ideal solution, of course, is to raise a little hell and quit getting sucked
in by rebel-yell come ons. If you don't have a rebellious bone in your body, you
probably don't care. You also probably let Oprah Winfrey tell you what to read.
But if you at all feel constrained by a society that charges kissing-bandit
five-year-olds with sexual harassment, that allows idiot women to sue companies
over coffee they spilled on themsleves, that lynches public figures for the
supposed sins of indulging in a racial epithet or screwing around on their wives
(I can feel the mail sacks bulging, and it comforts me)  -then my suggestion is
simple. Find a way to vent that anger and resentment, find a way to express your
outraged vision of the universe. Don't just sit there and feel that
under-the-skin hum of potential violence so many of us live with.

HOW TO REBEL WITH STYLE

Here are my top five suggestions for getting a little freedom in today's
Orwell-Lite atmosphere:

1. Burn the flag. Or, wear it as an inappropriate item of clothing. 2. Use some
racial epithets. But be fair: if you're going to say something about a group of
humans, make sure you do it to their face. Preferably after you've all had a few
drinks. After the embroglio you can all swap dates. 3. In the words of Too Much
Joy, who are the greatest band ever recorded, "Take a lot of drugs." Why not?
We're all going to die anyway, and in the mean time it'll piss off all the
bluenoses. Of course, we're all going to die anyway, but we don't necessarily
have to choke on our own vomit, so maybe there is a down side to it all. 4.
Create something startling and thought-provoking, and fight the fucking ennui
with mental energy. 5. Quit your job. Make a big speech about freedom and say
nice things about everyone you worked with. Leave your office and spend the day
in the park, talking to strangers. Go home and settle your financial matters.
Pay as many bills as you can, and the ones you can't write polite letters to
explaining your lack of funds. Grab your clothes and a few treasured possesions
and hop in the car. Take $50 to a guy named Long Leo at a jewelry booth in St.
Mark's Place and buy a fake ID. Drive to Mexico, finish your days writing poetry
and drinking tequila.

THE WRONG WAYS TO REBEL

Here's my list of the worst ways to prove how bad and un-brainwashed you are:

1. Spend more money on your stereo than on your car, drive around blasting music
so loud your back windsheild explodes. 2. Wear sunglasses all the time. Even on
cloudy days. Even inside. Even at night. 3. Only listen to bands no one has ever
heard of. Stop listening when they start getting played on the radio. 4. Get
yourself pierced or copiously drawn on, because you're so damned unconventional.
5. Publish your own Zine and spend pages and pages complaining.

Oh well, none of this matters much, I suppose. Once again the lords of
advertising have, I hope, tremendously underestimated the American public. We
won't be Generation X forever, of course; eventually no one will care what we
think and we'll be too tired to boogie-board after jumping from a plane
and......hell, you get the idea. Until then, just don't let the bastards wear
you down.

========================================
*** FICTION ***
to wake again, remained
by Jeff Somers
========================================

'church never held any fascination for me, and I'll tell you why: there isn't a
god and even if there was a god, church isn't about god anyway it's about fear
and blame and I don't fear my mortality I won't cling to silly dreams of
immortality and salvation things live and then die and that's the beauty of it
all  -I got my chance to do whatever I'm capable of because someone died to make
room for me'

Carolyn was kicking me out of her apartment, but she was taking her time about
it, so I lit one of her cigarettes and checked my watch. I could have talked her
out of it, I always could, but I found myself without enthusiasm for the job. As
she talked, my eyes roamed the living room, searching for the red tie, my good
red tie, my power tie.

"I mean, you never give me money for rent, you eat my food, you're never fucking
home -"

"Which is why I never pay rent." I said conversationally.

"- you're always  -what? What?"

I rolled my eyes up. "Nothing."

She stared at me for a moment. When I'd first met her two months ago, I hadn't
noticed that her reddish hair was dyed, I hadn't noticed the way she wore jeans
a size too tight, her stomach hanging over the waist just slightly, I hadn't
realized she had hair on her toes, dark and curly. I can't recall seeing the way
her ears stuck out from her neck like horrible wings, great flaps of skin waving
gently in the breezes. She stood before me pale and bloated in her cheesy
flannel bathrobe, one hand on her head like she had a headache and one hand on
her hip as if to say I was the cause of it.

I smoked, and listened, and kept an eye on my watch.

"You're always out, you're a fucking slob...." suddenly, she lost steam. "Tom,
I'm asking you to move out."

"Move out? Just like that, I'm supposed to move out. Christ, Carolyn, if
something was bothering you, why didn't you say something?" I said quietly.

She looked away. She wasn't the sort to look you in the eye. She was the sort to
stare at her feet and steal glances at you until you were gone. I knew why she
was kicking me out, I didn't need to hear all the reasons. She was kicking me
out because I stayed out late and didn't call, because my friends called me at
all hours, because I made her suck me off and then rolled over and went to
sleep, because she suspected, rightly, that I was screwing around on her.

I knew all this, I didn't need to hear it. I checked my watch and let her talk,
but I didn't listen much.

"And why the fuck do you keep checking your watch, goddammit?!"

I snuffed out the smoke. "I've got a lunch appointment."

She swelled up, veins bursting in her neck with sudden pressure. I had never
seen her so huge, so sure of herself. Usually she puttered around, avoiding
things, it was what made her so easy. But all of a sudden, she noticed I didn't
give a shit, and the undoubtedly pathetic fantasy she'd had about me being sad
or repenetent or even surprised wasn't happening, and she was getting pissed
off.

"Get the fuck out, you asshole. You hear me? I'm kicking you out, you got better
things to do than deal with me, you lousy fuck -"

Her Bronx was showing - "you gawt bettah things ta do" - and I sighed. There was
no chance of having a cup of coffee and another of her cigarettes before lunch,
as I'd hoped, so I stood up and shrugged. "Okay. Let me get my stuff."

"I'll get your fucking stuff, asshole." she griped, suddenly defensive about her
place. She disappeared into the bedroom and I picked up her half-full pack of
Merits and stuck them in my pocket.

She came back with my aged duffel bag stuffed with everything I owned, which
wasn't much, and a sweet expression on her face. "Goodbye." she said, real slow
and mean. "You were the crummiest lay I ever had."

It was supposed to hurt. "I know." I said, smiling as I took my bag.

Just like that and I needed some place to sleep that night. I had the hundred
and sixty-one bucks Carolyn had kept in a coffee can by the kitchen sink, her
"mad money" as she used to say with that annoying wheezy laugh. I had her credit
cards, and I had a copy of the keys to her apartment I'd made a few days ago.
She probably didn't have much left on her credit limit, but maybe a new pair of
good shoes or a cash advance could be coaxed out of it. Her keys, which she
certainly didn't suspect I had (having slyly sneaked the originals out of my
pockets while I showered this morning) I could sell for fifty bucks to a friend
of mine. It made robbing places easier if you had the keys. Normally I could
snag an extra twenty five by telling him where the hidden valuables were, but
Carolyn didn't have any hidden valuables, so that was that.

Her cards she would notice soon enough, but I didn't plan to have them for very
long, anyway, so that was all right. It might take her weeks to realize her
fucking "mad money" was missing, and with luck her keys would not be noticed
until her place had been ransacked. All in all, I figured I had at most about
two hundred dollars as a going away present. I'd done worse, I'd done better.

I weighed the options and decided to meet Terry for lunch before trying my luck
with Carolyn's cards. What the hell, it didn't matter all that much. I went to
O'Malley's and sat down, ordered a whiskey and soda and smoked three more of
Carolyn's cigarettes waiting for Terry, contemplating my next move carefully. I
didn't have anything on the line, and I didn't want to just pick up another
stupid broad with her own place, take it easy again. I needed something
different for tonight; I could find some stupid broad tomorrow. I hoped maybe
Terry might have an idea or two, he usually did.

The bar was full of suckers, passing along careful money and feeling good about
themselves. I watched the money on the bar for a while, getting a feel for the
flow of cash. Every place had different flows, depending on the employees, the
customers, a million details you could never list, only notice and be aware of.
This place had a happy-go-lucky sort of feel; the money stayed on the tables and
counters for a long time, the employees acted as if it would be rude to take
note of the cash. Most of the customers were suits escaping work, getting a
little loaded  before going home and blowing off work for good.

The guy next to me was chatting up his secretary, and neither noticed when I
snagged a ten from his pile. Grinning in triumph, I ordered a double whiskey on
him.

"You got a cigarette, man?"

I looked at Terry with smoke in my lungs, thought of the five sickly-looking
butts in Carolyn's pack, and shook my head. "Last one, man." I said with smoke.
He eyed the fag burning in my hand for a moment, then looked away.

Terry didn't look prosperous. Not busted, yet, but his clothes were worn and he
was thin and sallow. I didn't trust him, not like that. Terry had a harder time
than me and when things got bad for him he resented me, because when he lost a
mark he was poor and desperate, couldn't even afford cigarettes, whereas I sat
there with some cash in my pocket and tangible, if small, opportunities in my
future. Terry got to hating me, just because I had one thing he lacked: charm.

Terry just naturally looked shifty, with his unshaven cheeks and careful, tiny
eyes  -people watched him. People counted their change around him, they checked
their wallets and they made sure he wasn't following them when they left places.
Terry looked like he was going to rob you, so he had a rough time, sometimes. I
didn't really care, as long as he didn't try to score off me.

Just as I thought it, he tried.

"Listen, man," he said, leaning in with that fucking leer that passed for a
grin. "I've got something you're gonna want to be in on."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, and I just stared at him, the smoke from my
cigarette curling up between us. If he'd been smarter, he'd have known my stare
meant I didn't feel like being suckered that day. Terry wasn't always smart,
though. He sometimes thought he could sucker you by sheer willpower. "Oh, yeah?"

"Man, this deal is sweet. I can double your money, man. I've got a deal set up
-"

I let him talk, partly to keep him happy, because I had small intention of
buying lunch, and partly because I made good habit of listening to even the
biggest morons. In every pile of shit there was a shiny pearl of value,
something learned or unforseen. It was difficult, most times, to plow through
the crap without making yourself sick from the fumes these assholes gave off,
but I forced myself. Good habits were never easy.

He explained it all to me in his loud salesman's way, too cheerful, too glad to
be alive. He was well practiced in not letting on that he knew how shabby he
looked, with his worn suit and long hair. Terry was the sort  who could sit
across from you naked, scratching at sores, and still flash that hundred watt
grin. His plan sounded weird, it was without doubt the weirdest plan I had ever
heard. The moment it was out of his mouth, I wanted to hear it again, it was so
weird.

Terry had a few connected friends from his drug days  -the good old days he
thought very fondly of, when he'd been rich and popular. He had a deal with one
of them in which the guy would sell Terry the info on people who had put the
word out for a hit man. For one grand a name, he would tell Terry who had asked
around for a hit, and forget about it for a few days. Then Terry planned to
contact the marks, pretend to set up a hit, demand cash up front and make a
quick fortune.

"We could even drop a dime on some of 'em, keep 'em out of our hair, you know,
if we felt we needed to." He was grinning like a clown at that point, happy as a
pig in shit.

It was weird, but I hadn't bought it yet. Terry had never believed in silent
partners. "So where do I come in?" I asked, still watching him blankly.

He was still feeding me that aw-shucks-isn't-this-fantastic grin. "Well, number
one I need someone to play Killer." he said brightly. "No one would ever buy me
as a hard ass." He laughed. "Huh? You on the other hand, look like you've killed
a few people in your time, chum."

"Hell, I run away from barfights, Ter."

"Yeah, but you look like a fucking killer, man." he countered. "And that's all
we need. We're not gonna actually kill anyone."

I was still waiting. "Okay, so I play hard ass and demand cash up front. What
else?"

Now he looked ashamed, the old I'm-a-prick-to-ask-but look I'd seen often
enough. "Well, we'll need about fifteen grand to cash in on this, man."

I laughed. "Jesus fucking christ, Terry, what in God's hell makes you think I've
got that much cash?"

"You could get it."

I could. I still had a favor or two, a debt here and there. I could weasle
fifteen grand if I had to, and then I'd just have to pay it all back. Which
meant that suddenly it was my ass on the line for Terry's scheme. I didn't like
that, because I couldn't trust Terry.

"No." I said, as clearly and distinctly as I could. I sipped my beer, finally.

A wave of comical shock broke over his face. I couldn't tell if he was honestly
surprised or if he'd expected it completely and just wanted me to feel in
charge. It didn't matter, the point was I wasn't going to be taken in by the
basic tricks we all knew. I was a lot smarter than that.

"Tom, are you fucking kidding me? Are you feeling okay? I mean, if you were
fucking fevered or something, I could understand, okay, but if not then what are
you saying? You don't want to make money? A ton of money?"

"Oh, cut the gosh-gee-whiz shit!" I hissed. "You want me to mortgage my ass on
this crap, well you've got to give me more than a warm smile."

"Come on, Tom, it ain't like that, okay? There's money to be made here, but it
takes some to make some." He leaned back in his chair. "Simple as that."

And maybe it was. I watched his face for careful movements, the slight tics that
could give away a lie. I don't know if I was hoping to find any or not: I didn't
trust Terry, but it did sound like easy money. I can forgive a lot for easy
money. I can even be friends with creep like Terry for easy money.

"What's the deal, then?" I asked, consciously taking out Carolyn's pack of
cigarettes and ignoring the flat stare he offered me.

After a moment, he sat forward again. "With fifteen grand we buy fifteen names.
We present you as a contractor and tell the chumps we charge ten grand a hit,
five up and five after. We take five from each and hit the road, the easiest
seventy-five grand in the world."

"I get my fifteen plus half the overall take." I said immediately. "That's
fifty-three grand for me."

"Fifty-three!" he almost shouted. "What kind of fucking bullshit is that? I
thought of this scheme, Tommy. You get forty-five. Your fifteen back plus half
the profits. That's fair."

"Fuck fair, Terry." I said reasonably. "I get fifty-three or you can fish for
someone else to back you, okay?"

"Jesus christ." he spat. "I guess I got no choice, huh? Fine, fucking
fifty-three to you." He shook his head, staring at my cigarette. "Fucking
creep."

A single sheet of typewritten addresses and phone numbers was all we got for
fifteen thousand dollars of other people's money. It was wrinkled and folded,
like it had been in some wop's pocket for a year, it was grimy and sweaty, as if
the wop worried a lot. Terry handed it to me proudly, like it was something he'd
worked hard for. I looked at it and then back at him.

"Now what?"

"Now we call 'em up and set up meets." he replied sunnily. "We tell 'em to make
sure they've got the money with them, and we go pick it up, give 'em a good act,
and be on our way."

I was staying in the YMCA nearby, and no one knew that. If things went wrong,
the people I suddenly owed money to would come looking for me. I was ready to
bolt at any moment, and leave them Terry's name to boot.

I had also gotten a gun, on loan, as part of my favors pulled, a sleek german
model with a muffler and a few clips, just for show, to point around at
non-believers. I didn't tell Terry that, because I didn't trust him. He took it
all in with small eyes and quick thinking and held it until needed. I think he
had stuff under his hat from years ago, just waiting for the right time to use
it.

"Where are we meeting them?" I asked.

"The Rose Blade, a biker bar down on 42nd. I know the guy there, he'