Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine Volume VII, Issue 1, AD MMII Wednesday, January 16, 2002 ISSN 1482-0471 ------------------------------------------- My New Year starts thusly: I come home to see my apartment has been flooded from above. By trying to clean up the mess with paper towels I clog the toilet and also discover my freezer stopped working and everything inside has melted. -- Konrad the Bold ------------------------------------------- [17:32] Here's the article. Mel's Boyfriend's Grandmother, Is Dying by Jeff Wright [17:32] She's bi-sexual, and had an affair with her nephew. Fucked up! [17:32] The end! ------------------------------------------- 1. Editorial 2. More Than Meets the Eye 3. The End of My First Cyberlove 4. CoN at the Movies 5. Made bagel sandwiches ------------------------------------------- This week's Golden Testicle award: http://www.usc.edu/student-affairs/deanshalls/wtf/wtf%2003.htm Yatta! ------------------------------------------- 1. Editorial By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro Some people know fine wines and can tell you what type it is, where it comes from and from what year it is. Me, I love mustard. Just like Jack's fridge in Fight Club, mine is filled with various brands of it. Both the granulated and non-types from Dijon. The classic hot-dog version. Honey-Mustard from Russia. I could go on. Nothing gives me more pleasure than savouring a good slice of dark bread with a thin but evenly spread of the mustard I am keen at the moment to taste. But it wasn't always like this. Sadly, there was a time in my life where I couldn't look at mustard and not smell shit. This was a time when my parents decided to give me a sister, and somehow delegated me as diaper-boy before she went to bed at night. I'm not sure how their logic worked in this, really. Their perspective was that, she was my sister and I had a part in her raising and upbringing. I hadn't asked for one, didn't take part in making her and most of all, just could not understand how diaper- changing would dramatically change her world for the better. Changing diapers is an extremely difficult and near-impossible task. The action per se, mind you, is pretty straightforward. Take baby, put him or her on changing station, undress him or her, remove diaper, dispose of diaper, baby-wipe the naughty bits, apply oil and talcum powder, insert new diaper, close and re-dress baby. Of course, babies are pretty active little buggers. Unless they are high on cough syrup, actually getting them to stay still on the changing station is as easy as making a live salmon stay on top of your kitchen counter. All of this of course is mind-boggling. The average baby can hardly move and yet, when on the changing station, is capable of hauling itself off of it and fall to the ground. Maximum attention is therefore required if you do not want a retarded sibling. Learn from my mistakes. At this point, with one hand holding the squirming little bugger, you carefully remove the tiny sticky straps that hold the diaper closed. While it is always a marvel to see how two pieces of tape can hold a diaper ready to explode together, this is not the right moment to marvel at such engineering simplicity. You open the diaper and you are greeted by the atrocious smell of liquefied feces. The worse part, for me, is that it had the same colour and texture of mustard. It has always amazed me how an intestine that could be defined as virgin can produce the sort of thing you'd expect in yours after eating at McDonalds. At this point, you are tempted to let go of everything and dunk your face in the toilet to release your dinner, raise your eyes to the lord and scream, "WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME!" Unfortunately, you have to somehow do the following: hold the baby, prevent baby's feet from splashing into the diaper causing a wave effect that will land all over you, remove the diaper, avoid vomiting all over the creature. The only way to remove the diaper safely is to grab the baby's feet and hold him up like a chicken. You will easily slide the diaper off and find yourself with your baby-chicken in one and a bomb in the other that makes Anthrax look like the common cold. While it is tempting to open a window and throw the chemical explosive out of it, you can't risk leaving the child alone. It will successfully fall off the changing station and land with a smashing sound to the ground. If this happens, your thoughts get around the fact that the creature is screaming like a siren and won't it please shut the fuck up more than the fact that your sibling will suffer eternal brain damage. Brain damage is easy to spot once your sibling grows up by dressing weird, saying incomprehensible things, has TV commercials memorized and generally wreaking havoc on anything that happens to be your property. You quickly put the child back on the changing station, lift the legs, pretend nothing happened and proceed in cleaning out the naughty bits with baby-wipes. Unfortunately actually getting a baby-wipe out with one hand is not a task for the tame. The best way of doing it is to grab the baby-wipe, which will be followed immediately by the container. Then give the wipe a good yank. You'll be left with a handful of them. You can find out where the container landed later. Done that, it's time to put some oil. You'll have to master opening the oil with your teeth since the other hand is being used in keeping the baby still. Apply a few drops, most of which will slide past your wrist and disappear down to your underwear. Now it's time for the talcum powder. Be advised that if you use the teeth technique to open the darned thing and you're squeezing it too hard, talcum powder has a pretty nasty taste. You'll pretty much forget about applying it after that. You're almost done. Now you realize you didn't grab the new diaper from the package, so with the aid of your foot, you get it close enough so you can reach for one. Unwrapping one is not as difficult as when it comes to closing it. With two hands and the baby staying still, this is a joke. Placing the little sticky tabs with one hand (the other holding your squirming sibling) has the same straining effects as forty kilometre marathon. On average, it takes about six tries to get the right tightness. Here is a quick way to determine if the diaper is on incorrectly: if the baby's legs turn purple, it's on too tight. If the diaper suffers leakage, it's on too loose. You're done! At this point, for having suffered through this deed and having done it almost correctly, you'll feel like the Good Samaritan. Peace will envelop you; however, a dark slice of bread with a thin but evenly spread layer of mustard won't taste the same for a long, long while. Captain America writes in regards of the fine art of Stove Fucking: I like the stove fucking story, but you forgot the best part. "When finished fucking your stove, if, by mistake, design, or accident, you find a bun in the oven, you can pull it out, eat it, and no one will try to stop you, unlike if you performed a similar action at an abortion clinic." Enjoy this issue. ------------------------------------------- 2. More Than Meets the Eye (A Strong Argument for Internet Shopping) By Dan Foster Movie projects require props, and for the next day's shooting I needed two ski masks. Since it was already after eleven at night, I decided to try Wal-Mart; that fantastic marketplace for all that is wrong with American society. I found the ski masks fairly quickly. For those curious, they're located at the back end of the men's department. I should say I found a ski mask-only one hung on the gondola (yes, that's what it's called), and it lacked a price tag. I searched a small bin of discount winter clothes and found two more ski masks. Fortunately, one of these small masks had a price tag. Unfortunately, the one with the tag was unraveling. Judging by the size, these last two masks were obviously for children. It'd be tight, but an adult head would fit if enough force was used. I dug through assorted matching hats and mittens for another minute, but found nothing else I could use. Seeing I had no other options but to buy two of these, I took all three masks with me. I wandered the store for a while, probably appearing suspicious to the security cameras concealed in black domes hanging overhead. I enjoy looking suspicious in department stores. I like to think it gives security something to do. In the Food Department, I bought two boxes of Ritz Bits (cheese and the new S'mores) and a case of Dr. Pepper. There was a sale on cans of Pringles: two cans for a buck-eighty-eight. The two cans were connected by pretty, Pringley plastic wrap, making it easier to carry. I was sold. In Automotive, I bought a Performance Pedal for my car. I've been wanting to get a replacement pedal for my car for months. I don't know much about engines, so instead of buying stuff to make the car faster, I buy accessories for the interior to make the car more suitable for my long-trip driving needs. I have a leather cover for the steering wheel, a compass on the dashboard, a map light, convenience and trash bags hanging to the backs of the driver and passenger seats, and, to eliminate blind spots, small, curved mirrors attached to each side-view mirror and a Lane-Changer for the rear-view mirror (they help. Really, they do). The Performance Pedal may not actually help, but it looks like it will, and that's what matters. Besides, it was on sale. Coolest of all, in the Toy department I found fantastic new Transformers. I've loved Transformers since I was a little kid, and these new Transformers look even more intricate than the old ones. I spent over fifteen minutes looking at the packaging of each figure, finally deciding to get two for myself. The nice thing about being an adult is that, if I wanted, I could buy them all at once. But doing that wouldn't be fun. The limits that parents impose on children are what make collecting toys such an enjoyable activity. What's the point of collecting if your entire collection is complete on the first day? Of all the Transformers available, I chose the characters Side Burn and X-Brawn. Besides the appeal to my collector instincts that there was only one of each left in stock, I thought both the automobile and the robot forms of each one looked cool. Side Burn is a sleek blue sports car, while X-Brawn is an SUV. I'd never seen an SUV Transformer. I thought about getting Galvatron or Megatron, the leaders of the evil Predicons, because they can transform into multiple forms. Megatron has six transformations, while Galvatron has TEN! How cool is that? But I decided against them. Megatron and Galvatron have many different forms, sure, but they're all weird-looking dragons or similar creatures. I was set on getting two realistic-looking cars. I always thought those Second Generation Transformers weren't as much fun because instead of changing from a robot into a tank or fire engine or even a dinosaur, they changed from robots into bubble ships. Bubble ships aren't fun. It's like that toy in the movie "Big" that changes from a robot into a building. As Tom Hank's character said, "I don't get it." I like to ponder things (I'm really not an impulse buyer), so I decided to wander around the store to debate buying these toys (action figures). There's always a risk that someone else will buy what I want while I'm thinking, but risks only makes gains more rewarding. It's sort of like poker, without the huge money loss. I made my way to the Hardware Department to pick out some new bolts to hold together my car camera mount. I'm very impressed with myself for putting together a rig that'll hold a camera steady on top of my car while going down a road up to forty miles an hour. Professional car camera mounts cost over a thousand dollars. I made mine for twenty bucks in assorted parts from Lowe's hardware store. Wal-Mart was out of the bolts I needed. They only had flat screws and I HATE using flat screws. I'm not so good at screwing, you see. I milled about Hardware for a while longer, looking at very big hammers (Impressive!) before remembering I needed deodorant. I walked over to the Health & Beauty Department to check out the sales. I couldn't decide which to go with, so I got both Speed Stick and Gillette. I made sure that they were both Deodorants AND Anti-Perspirants, because if you're going to put the gooey junk under your arms, you should make sure you're covered in both areas. Because I hadn't planned on buying many items, I didn't bring a cart with me. Being a guy, I couldn't do the smart thing and walk to the front of the store to get a cart. No, I had to stack my merchandise awkwardly in my arms in an attempt to make it easier to carry. On the bottom, because it's the heaviest, I held the case of Dr. Pepper. I stacked the Ritz Bits on the case, giving me three nice boxes all in a column. I added the two wrapped cans of Pringles, onto which I placed the Performance Pedal. The pedal was enclosed in a bubble package, so I put the three ski masks on top of it to act as a cushion for the two deodorant sticks, hoping to prevent them from sliding off. After walking only a few steps down the isle, the top box of Ritz shifted, sending the deodorant, Pringles, and Performance Pedal crashing to the floor. A store clerk who had been stocking the shelves turned to find the cause of the disturbance. . He made no attempt to hide his laughter as the remaining items (except the case of Dr. Pepper, luckily) hit the floor. I waved at the stock guy, smiled, restacked my stuff, and left the Health and Beauty Department. Having made my selection, I came to the moment of decision: either go check out and leave, or go back for the Transformers. It's always good to weigh the pros and cons of any decision. Cons: I have a lot to do what with work and the movie, and really don't have time for toys. Pros: There's always time for toys. So I rescued X-Brawn and Side Burn from the toy department. I say rescued because there's a good chance they'd be bought by some bastard toy collector who would have stuck them in a closet for years unopened, hoping they'd one day become that all-important thing: a Collectable; suitable for resale and hopefully profit. With the toys stacked on top of the ski masks next to the deodorant, I carefully and happily made my way to the check out lanes. At this time of night (it was now approaching midnight) there weren't that many lanes open. Two are generally sufficient for the needs of the late night shoppers. I guess the bad weather had brought out a few extra shoppers, because each lane was backed up by at least three people. I looked at each line, making a quick estimate of how many items stood between the cashier and me. One lane had three people in line, but each person had a shopping cart filled with merchandise. The other lane had four, but three of those people were only carrying a few items. I chose this lane, but as I walked toward it, a cashier opened another lane. A blond woman with a shopping cart beat me by only a few seconds, so I got in line behind her. In her cart, she had an Open Box Buy printer, a few ink cartridges, and at least five pairs of jeans. She put the clothes and ink cartridges on the conveyor belt, leaving the printer in the cart. She gave a quick, emotionless glance at me, and turned back to the cashier. Being the judgmental bastard I am, I immediately had a low opinion of her. A polite person, seeing all this crap precariously balanced in my arms, would have made room for my stuff on the conveyor belt and put down the separator bar. This would allow me arrange my items to make them easier for the cashier to scan. The blond woman was much too involved with herself. Fine. I had held my items this long, I could hold them a while longer. The cashier, a very nice young woman, held the first pair of jeans up to her scanner. She could not find the tag. After a moment's inspection, she saw that it had no tag at all. The woman gave a disgusted sigh, as though it was the cashier's fault there was no tag. The cashier picked up the phone to call the Women's Department. I was a cashier at that sadly now-departed retail store Venture for many years. Even though registers today are more advanced than the ones I used, and credit card machines have taken the place of those stupid slide machines to imprint cards, some irritations about cashiering have never changed. One such annoyance is the horrible wait for price checks. It works like this: a customer brings up an item without a tag. The cashier calls back to the department. There's usually one person in each department. That one person is using the toilet, or on the phone, or smoking, or hiding in the stockroom because good GOD does this job suck. He hears hear the cashier's page. That means the department guy has to run up to the front of the store, look at the piece of merchandise, go back to the department, find the shelf it was on, look up not only the price but the merchandise number, then call back to the front with the numbers so the cashier can enter them into the cash register. A note to all you crappy shoppers out there: it does no good to say "On, that was $19.99." The cashier needs the merchandise number. And "It's on sale" is very much a worthless comment. And the cashier really doesn't care. I guess the blond woman knew how the system worked, because she interrupted the cashier. "I know where it was. I'll go back and get another one." And off she went. The cashier-being what I considered very efficient-said to me, "I can take you now." Yes, it's odd language, but everyone knows what it means. Sort of like how when a waiter says, "You all set?" it really means "Are you ready to pay and leave?" I handed the cashier my Transformers, deodorants, Pringles, Performance Pedal, Ritz Bitz, and Dr. Pepper. She scanned and bagged each item before I could hand her the next one. I'm sure her Productivity Rating was very high. All that remained in my hands were the three ski masks. As I mentioned earlier, I only needed two, but only one had a tag, and that one was unravelling. I handed the two good ones to the cashier and told her I wanted those, but they were missing tags. I handed her the torn one and said, "But this one has a price tag, so you can scan it." She thanked me for being considerate enough to bring a tag with me, and scanned the tag twice. That being the last item, she gave me the total. I pulled out my credit card and slid it through the reader. Just then, the blond woman came back with the second pair of jeans. Her formerly blank expression now looked irritated. I got a good look at her this time. She was the very essence of a Wal-Mart Shopper: tired and easily angered. Her blond hair-dirty blond, I could now tell-was greasy. She had attempted to feather it, which gave her the appearance of a biker chick. Adding to that effect, she wore an old leather jacket with tassels hanging off the arms. Her jeans were old and torn. Her face had the lived in look that comes from smoking too many cigarettes and drinking too many free beers, bought for her by dubious men in dark bars. I've never been a fan of Phrenology-the study of a person's skull to reveal personality traits, but I believe you can tell a lot about a person from the lines on her face. This woman did not have laugh lines. Her lines came from a lifetime of disappointment, frustration, jealousy, envy, and disgust. Men had used her, only slightly more than she used them. She was not pleasant to look at. Had she lived a different life, she could have been quite attractive. As she was, she was not. She avoided looking at me. She tossed the jeans on the conveyor and said to the cashier in a voice of accusation and annoyance, "Y'know, you could've been ringing this stuff up." I can't capture in print her voice. The way she said the words. "Y'no. y'coulduv bin ringin' this stuffup" is the closest I can get. She sounded dumb. Not mentally retarded. Just stupid and mean. The cashier handed me the credit card slip to sign. She turned quickly to the woman and said, "Oh, I'm sorry." No other comments came from either of them. I looked at the cashier and smiled as I signed my name. I said, "Thank you. Very much," a little louder than usual, to know that she had been appreciated. I turned to the blond woman, smiled, and nodded. There was nothing I could say. Nothing that would matter. I know I looked at her a moment longer than was comfortable or socially acceptable. Not because her tragic anger was attractive to me, but because I couldn't help but wonder why she was buying a printer. I took my bags and walked out of the store. I really don't like Wal-Mart. But boy do I like Transformers. (And for you Collectors out there, when I got home I ripped both Transformers out of the packages and played with them for hours. Great fun. I suggest you try playing with your own toys sometimes.) --- "Dan Foster is currently shooting a movie about a briefcase of cocaine (Some people say it doesn't totally suck). In Theatres this Summer." ------------------------------------------- 3. The End of My First Cyberlove: Why I (Justabout) Broke Things Off With AOL By Cliff Yankovich "They say that breakin' up is hard to do.." Yup, it's over between us - almost. Our relationship began at work over two years ago, then we took it home and I pretty much figured it was going to be me and AOL forever. You don't know me and have no reason to believe me, but my intention was always to have a permanent, long term thing. I'm not one of those guys out hopping from ISP to ISP looking for instant internet gratification. All lasting relationships are about give and take. Well, things reached the point where I kept giving every month and I just couldn't take it any more. That is NOT the give and take one has in mind for any relationship. (Soothing background music swells slightly and continues throughout.) When I finally called to terminate service, as I sat in front of my screen obediently following the phone prompts, I did my best to find the exact "moment" when things began to slide. (To demonstrate how hard this was for me, I actually had another connection up and running with an AT&T cable modem before I could make the call.) In retrospect, the breakdown would have to coincide with the introduction of version 7.0. We had been through upgrades together before - lots of them, but this one was different. As mentioned above, I was in for the long haul. Plus I kept buying the story that these upgrades were "improvements" designed to make our relationship stronger. Hah! Version 7.0 promised me what every Net user wants: Better, faster, and more possibilities than ever before. It was with a certain amount of joy and anticipation that the new version was loaded into my trusty tower. But within a couple of days it was obvious things weren't right. Occasional computer freezes when clicking about online or in Microsoft Works programs were becoming unbearable. We had experienced some of this with version 6.0, but the problems escalated. Then my modem refused to co-operate from time to time - once it happened in the midst of a flurry of e-mails to an AOL techie who was helping me with the freezing. Then, no hook-up at all. Hmmm, should a modem slightly over 2 years old bite the dust all of the sudden? No huge deal, a nominal amount of money combined with 10 minutes effort and a new modem was installed. The connection was made and happiness appeared to return to our life together. One day later it happened again - couldn't even get a dial tone. I had AOL technical help on speed dial and called them pronto. As my heart ached with disappointment, they told me it wasn't their fault and suggested the manufacturer of the modem should be contacted. (Don't you just love those deals, like when the tire guy blames the manufacturer of the rim who blames the supplier who has you call the tire store?) My expectations were for some serious Blame Ping-Pong when I called the help line listed in the modem handbook. What a surprise when the Man From New Jersey was a great help. When I described the incidents leading up to my call, he had me open the tower and simply click the modem in and out of its spot. (Made sense to me - how many software glitches have been repaired with the old re-boot fix?) The MFNJ even stayed on the phone to see if his fix fixed it. As we waited for the machine to re-boot, we chatted a bit. He put the blame all over AOL's new software and planted a big seed about getting myself hooked up with a cable modem. "No dial up time. Way faster than AOL," he said. His conviction strengthened when everything worked fine after his simple solution. The MFNJ even suggested there was nothing wrong with the old modem and he was proved right in this as well. The damage was done - I felt betrayed... hurt... used. His analysis of events and the placing of blame on AOL would not have been palatable for me if not for the foundation laid with the freezing incidents. When cracks appear in a relationship, words, ideas and concepts that would have been instantly rejected before now gain toe holds. For you see, the AOL tech told me that there were problems with AOL's software not working well with "some Microsoft products". Remember we were in the middle of addressing THAT when the modem migraine commenced. Can you imagine the software of the company that owns the biggest portion of ISP business NOT playing nice with the software of the mega-goliath Microsoft? My question at this point is who are the AOL. In all those previous revisions shouldn't compatibility problems with Microsoft have been addressed? So now my relationship with AOL needed to be addressed - things were strained to the Nth degree. It just didn't feel the same to log on anymore. There was no rush of excitement upon hearing, "Welcome. You've got mail", from my disembodied buddy at AOL. Up until this point I had been willing to overlook the hypocrisy of a company that would do anything to prevent me from "spamming" anyone with an unsolicited e-mail while at the same time hitting me with unsolicited ads every time I logged on. I could live with the static ads on the Welcome page - shoot, I used to sell radio advertising and I know what it takes to make the world go round. It is a different matter when one is forced to click one's way to a clear path before even checking the mailbox! I was paying them monthly for the service. That would be akin to hearing an advertisement before I could dial out every time I picked up the phone. "Good Morning Cliff, the new Titanium Visa is the answer to your life problems. Stay on the phone to learn more. If you want to actually make a call on the line you pay us every month to use, then press 9 now." Who would put up with that? Not me. With a new found determination I decided it was all over. (Sorry to vent, I had no idea the bitterness ran so deep.) AOL was almost as shocked as a couple of my ex-wives when I called to end it all. The lady on the other end sounded truly saddened, (a paid professional, no doubt). She asked me to explain why I was terminating service after all this time. After all that was done to me and I have to explain??? How typical. To make matters even worse, I started feeling guilty about breaking up! Did I blast her with my real feelings about the obnoxious pop-up ads? Did I empty my spleen with a blow by blow recounting of the hassles of the past few weeks? Did I bring to her attention the modem I bought for no- good-reason other than AOL won't own up to software problems? Did I raise my voice and pound the desk with righteous indignation? Nope - I lost my nerve. "Well, uhhhm," I mumbled, "I decided to get a cable modem installed." Then she made me confess about my relationship with AT&T. I spilled my guts about how we had been connecting for a couple of weeks. All stops were pulled at this point. She, on behalf of the Big Corporate She, did what she could to keep me hanging on to a relationship gone bad. Was it my imagination or did her voice drop an octave and become more breathy as she asked me to keep my cable modem, but to stay involved with both AOL and AT&T for a reduced monthly fee? "Excuse me, but I am NOT that kind of man", I said, "No dice". When I passed on that "opportunity", her voice got even more broken- hearted sounding and she offered to let me keep access to my AOL e- mail account free for 3 more months. I broke down. I caved. My friends, a combination of manipulation, feminine wiles and the awesome power of FREE has kept this tangled Web intact for the time being. (Admittedly aided by my lack of a spine.) Okay, so I'm a weak-kneed sucker. A pushover. However, with the strength I am receiving from friends, family and a Tuesday evening support group, I am going to end this painful, destructive, expensive relationship in 90 days. Really... I mean it this time. "Hello everybody, my name is Cliff and I am an ISP slut." --- ps - Cliff lives and works in a fetid home office, secluded from the normal members of the family, in Ada, MI. (Just outside Grand Rapids and kinda near Canada.) Personally, he doesn't have anything against Canadians. Often he is overheard saying, "That Neil Young sure can play his guitar with verve and excitement, can't he?" ------------------------------------------- 4. CoN at the Movies w/ Jeff Wright Happy New Year bitches! I haven't been watching that many movies lately for some reason. Dunno. Here's 5 good ones, anyways. Movie # 1 you should see: THE ROYAL TENENBAUMS I already covered this in last issue, I know. However, I don't think you've all seen it. Why? Are you-all retarded??!?!? Am I going to have this hard a time getting you all to go see RUN RONNIE RUN, when it comes out? Movie #2 you should see: CURE Directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa (who may be the best director working in Japan), this is a strange and captivating film about a string of murders which seem to be connected only by an 'X' mark carved in the victims' throats. Let the creepy investigation begin! Look for the film to be released on video sometime within the year. It's been touring around North America for the last year or two now. Movie #3 you should see: THE STUNT MAN This flic is a odd, but a lot of fun. It's about a convict on the run from the law, who stumbles upon a movie shoot and is hired by its director to become a stunt man as a way to hide from the law. The film director is played by Peter O'Toole, and his performance simply rocks. His camera crane rocks even harder! If you're still not convinced to rent the movie. Within the first 5 seconds, we're treated to a close up of a dog licking its balls. That's movie making folks!!!!! Movie #4 you should see: BROTHERHOOD OF THE WOLF I saw this at the Toronto Film Fest back in September, and now it's opening all over North America. Go see it! It's a mishmash of genres, but it's great fun. If you like big action flics, this'll make ya happy. Movie #5 you should see: CABIN BOY Just rent it. It's $3 for Chrysler's sake. Rent it! That's it for this week kiddies. Peace out. Don't let your bi- sexual grandmothers slip you the tongue, and I'll catch ya'll next issue. --- Jeff wants everyone to go out and get themselves a copy of IS THIS IT? by The Strokes. He says it rawks! ------------------------------------------- 5. Made bagel sandwiches By REVSCRJ For all the shit I give hippies, truth is: I really like them more than most of the cliques Humans have coagulated into; but GOD FORBID that I should ever have to work with that many of them again! GOD FORBID I should ever have to listen to SO MANY GODDAMN HOURS of Grateful Dead, collectively, for the rest of my life. On any given especially sunny day SOMEONE would be "too sick to come in", or "had their car break down in Big Sur" (the amount of times that cars mysteriously broke down in Big Sur was just surreal...) and- come 'harvest' season- everyone would slow wayyyyyyy down. Hippies-god bless'em. The job itself was non-stop drudgery, y'know: basic shlepping bagels to one person after another in an endless stream all day long. I'd come home smelling like hot mayonnaise with poppy seeds in the most inexplicable locations. At least I had no problem scoring dope. I could eat for nearly nothing. Life was good. Speaking of dope, often I'd get pretty ripped during my breaks then come back in to start making sandwiches again. This one time a guy orders: garlic bagel- toasted- with mayo, hot mustard, egg, salmon and herb cream cheese. I stand there for like 5 long seconds and he's looking at me as blankly as I was likely looking at him and then I come out with: "Damn man, that sounds REALLY good, I mean REALLY! I'm gonna have THAT for lunch! Wow, egg and salmon- talk about 'rich'! Have you had it before or is this something that just came to you, coz no one's ever ordered that from me before- it sounds REALLY good!" He looks at me in a way that makes him appear to be stepping back slowly and says "Uhhm... yeah, it's good... can you make it?" I jolt a little, because I was imagining the flavor pretty intensely, laugh, roll my eyes stupidly, and make it for him. He would never order from me after that. Straight edge weirdo. So, anyway, I'd been there for like 6 months or so and this one day I feel particularly beat down by the High School lunch rush so I go out front in an ebb and lay down on some warm bricks to bake in the sun for a moment. I love times like that, where for a moment your body just forgets itself to the heat and you drift through a series of disconnected yet sometimes amazingly potent thoughts. This one passes through "God... I know this place like the back of my hand..." A minute or two later I sit up and stretch with that break's-almost- over resignation and in the midst of it I look down at my hands and realize that their backs are TOTALLY unfamiliar to me. Scars I can't place, colors that are wrong... new hair! "My GOD" I think "I don't know the backs of my hands!" I simultaneously laugh and feel like an utter idiot (an ability that has made my life a lot more tolerable). So I sit there staring at them trying to ingrain the image into my skull. It's odd, I can still remember what they looked like then (ask me what I did yesterday, however, and I'd have to strain). I went inside and mentioned to the guy I was working with whose reaction is: "Uh-heh! Thas'a trip Rev!" and he started looking at his own hands... the palms... --- REVSCRJ is a writer/musician living in Monterey, California. Constantly on the verge of homelessness, he hopes that you enjoy his work or else his life has been in vain. Contact REVSCRJ at revscrj@cloudfactory.org to lodge complaints, notify of lawsuits, or receive spiritual advice. ------------------------------------------- CoN would not be possible without the great help of Scriba Org. CoN: "I can't really imagine waiting until 1997 to see all nine parts of the Star Wars series." - azure!randals (8 Jun 1982) Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine "media you can abuse" In memory of Father Ross "Padre" Legere Published every second Monday (or when we get around it) Disclaimer: unintentionally offensive Comments, queries and submissions are welcome http://www.capnasty.org ISSN 1482-0471 A bi-weekly electronic journal. Subscriptions available at no cost electronically. Available on Usenet newsgroups alt.zines and alt.ezines. This mailing is sent exclusively to those poor souls who chose to subscribe to the Capital of Nasty mailing list. Spread the word! If you have friends who would like to receive CoN, ask them to send email to join@capnasty.org. If you'd like to unsubscribe because such email aggravates your bisexual, dyeing grandmother intolerance, simply send an empty message to leave@capnasty.org. Brought to you by C.C.C.P. (Collective Communist Computing Proletariat) Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro Colin Barrett ZimID 708EC8D1 1994/09/14 EC B0 97 59 1D FE 7C 32 7E 04 2C 66 47 41 FB 7D