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Stevens Point (and neighbors) Calendar of Events. Art

Through March 2 Jeff Morin: Recent Work. Gallery Q. Through March 10 Dennis Nechvatal: A New Direction. Carlsten Art Gallery. Through March 16 Emerging Artists. Riverfront Arts Center. Through March 22 Ina Kaur. De-Code En-Code. Reception: March 22, 6:00-8:00 p.m. Scarabocchio Art Museum. March 1-2 NowHere Design Conference. UWSP Noel Fine Arts Center. March 5-April 30 Pauline Pray & Lora Hagen. Gallery Q. March 17-April 14 Diana Black - Connecting to Place: Lake Michigan Song. Carlsten Art Gallery. March 23-April 5 Peeps Art Show. Riverfront Arts Center. March 28-May 9 Marie App. Scarabocchio Art Museum.


March 9 MREA Solar Speakeasy. 8:00 p.m. 12:00 a.m. Bernard’s Country Inn. March 12 Breakfast for Dinner Monthly Potluck. 6:30 p.m. The Greenhouse Project.



Anytime, Online Introduction to Renewable Energy Online. Midwest Renewable Energy Association. Call 592-6595 or visit to register. Anytime, Online Working with Electricity Online. Midwest Renewable Energy Association. Call 592-6595 or visit to register. March 5 Central Wisconsin Social Media Conference. 9:00 a.m. - 4:00 p.m. UWSP DUC. March 5 Backyard Chickens Workshop. 6:008:00 p.m. The Greenhouse Project. for info. March 8-10 Artha Meditation and Yoga Retreat. Fri 5:30 p.m. - Sun 4:00 p.m. Artha Sustainable Living Center. Amherst. for info.

March 21 Organic Farming - Pastured Poultry Profits. 9:30 a.m. - 5:30 p.m. The Greenhouse Project. for info. March 22 Organic Farming - Salad Bar Beef. 9:30 a.m. - 5:30 p.m. The Greenhouse Project. for info. March 22 Raising Rabbits for Meat. 12:00 4:00 p.m. The Greenhouse Project. for info.


March 15-16 Point Dance Ensemble’s Annual Spring Performance. 7:30 p.m. Theater @1800.


Mondays Sing That Tune Karaoke. 9:30 p.m. Partners Pub.

March 9 Beekeeping Workshop. 9:00 a.m. 1:00 p.m. The Greenhouse Project. for info.

Wednesdays Acoustic Open Mic with the Sloppy Joe Band. 8:00 - 11:00 p.m. Northland Sports Bar and Grill.

March 14 Growing Season: Garden Planning Workshop. 6:00 p.m. The Greenhouse Project. for info.

March 1 UWSP Percussion Student Recital - Andrew Cameron. 7:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP.

March 20 Organic Farming - You Can Farm. 9:30 a.m. - 5:30 p.m. The Greenhouse Project. for info.

March 3 Brent Turney Faculty Trumpet Recital. 5:00 p.m. Michaelson Hall, UWSP. March 3 UWSP Violin Student Recital Brittany Musumeci. 7:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP.

Calendar of Events (con’t), freedom heindl. March 5 UWSP Campus and Concert Band Concert. 7:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP.

March 17 UWSP Joint Student Voice Recital Risa Tetzlaff and David Schoonover. 3:00 p.m. NFAC 221, UWSP.

March 7 Brendan Caldwell and Friends Faculty Recital. 7:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP.

March 18 Trio Canna Recital. 7:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP.

March 8 Keller Williams Acoustic/Jam/Funk. 7:30 p.m. DUC, UWSP. March 8 UWSP Wind Ensemble Concert. 7:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP. March 12 UWSP Jazz Band/Jazz Ensemble Concert. 7:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP. March 13 Joint Student Recital - Horn and Saxophone. 7:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP.

March 19 UWSP Choirs Concert. 7:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP. March 21 Guest Recital: Dr. Douglas Detrick’s Anywhere Ensemble. 7:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP.


March 7-9 Big Love. (Not recommended for young audiences). 7:30 p.m. Jenkins Theater, UWSP. March 7-9 The Romance of Scarlett Gulch. Fri and Sat 7:30 p.m., Sun 2:00 p.m. Theater @1800.

If you would like to see your event in The Bitchin’ Kitsch next month, please email the details to


March 2 Point Bock Run. 12:00 p.m. Stevens Point Brewery.

March 14 UWSP Student Piano Recital Robert Doerr. 7:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP. March 15 UWSP Voice Area Recital. 12:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP. March 16 UWSP Student Piano Recital - Andrea Zinkgraf. 2:30 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP. March 16 UWSP Student Saxophone Recital - Kathryn Del Giacco. 4:00 p.m. Michelson Hall, UWSP. March 16 Mustard’s Retreat Concert. 7:30 p.m. Jensen Community Center. Amherst.

dust sank douglas somers oil painting 3

the bitchin’ kitsch content march 2013 Scientific Screen Print - Riley Furmanek


Writer’s Block - Doug Draime


How not to raise douches in ‘Murica - Chris Talbot-Heindl



Calendar of Events

Jacob Zurawski - pg. 7

Alexander Landerman - pg. 15


Trending Now - Ron Reikki


dust pin-up fire eyes - Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE The Contagion - Franz Wilde


Your Waitress or Waiter is Probably Smarter Than You - Ben Zoltak


Skylark Lark - Colin Dodds



Homebody Larvae - Jacob Zurawski


Wordless Truth - Tendai R. Mwanaka

Monthly Mission Submission pg. 16

Scientific Screen Print Riley Furmanek Screenprint

on the inside back cover:


Marilyn, Kansas - Mike Cluff

on the front cover:



Monthly Mission Submission


The Footsteps Overhead - Holly Day #52 - Dan Hedges


Jelly Helly - LM & XY


Her Song - Jason Ford


Betty Friedan - Kenneth Abraham


After the Last Written Word, There is a Flyleaf - Zachary Frisch


Avidity - Jameson Stewart


Slow and Stead and You Still Get Hammered - Jacob Zurawski Moon - Mandal Bijoy Beg


A wintry fever - Dawnell Harrison


Sports Centre - Marc Carver


Diamonds and Bloody Marys Danielle Dragona


the happiest moment - robert pino


21 22

Fetink - Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE


Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Ink on paper

The Lost City on the Hill - Jan Haskell The Whispering Leaf - Afzal Moolla

Check out this month’s “issue” link of video and music at or


Shoes - Josh Sapan

Minor Mirror

the bitchin’ kitsch video and music issue:

Ed Smith - Alexander Landerman

Afterthought - Chapter 1 Andrew Peterson


dust sank - douglas somers

dorathy - Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE

23 24 25 26

Donors and Index


Minor Mirror - Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE


douglas somers. about b’k:

the bitchin’ kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. it exists for the purpose of open creativity. if you have something you want to share, please email it to are you a video or music artist? submit your youtube link or original file to all submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue.


have a seriously bitchin’ idea that could make the bitchin’ kitsch that much better? we want to hear from you. email with your ideas.

community copies:

sit down and read the bitchin’ kitsch at our community locations: zest, the smith scarabocchio art museum, epic studios tattooing and piercing, the coffee studio, and noel fine arts center. want to house a community copy? email chris@


the bitchin’ kitsch is offering crazy low rates of $5 for a fourth-page ad, $10 for a half-page ad, and $20 for a full page ad. book yours today by emailing


we love our donors. If you would like to become a donor, email and make your pledge.

dust pin-up fire eyes Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Digital illustration


franz wilde, colin dodds. The Contagion By: Franz Wilde

This disease is contagious Self-hatred and alienation Turning the nation secretly coprophagous Aroint with carnality Neurotic psychotic behavior unleashed in reality Frigging spews out self-loathing and brutality Sexuality treated as an abnormality This pornographic doctrine churned out as morality Turning its hosts into mechanical cannibals Hatred of the fag A side effect of the plague Genuflecting now infecting In front of an icon of torture and morbidity Trying to be something while told our genesis was in turbidity An etymology in virology Now a multi-billion dollar popular theology With the virgin’s fertility dearth She felt the Holy Ghost’s all knowing girth On this night of bloody, hymen breaking birth Just melt down the cross and inject it intravenous Coprophagous It’s contagious


Skylark Lark for Joe

By: Colin Dodds Peru, Mass., Saturday, January 12, 2002 3:55 a.m. Two motorists, hours from home, nearly drove off a bridge. If questioned, they would have told the apprehending officer about a drug he had never heard of. Upon further questioning, they would have giggled themselves into a frenzy, and hallucinated obscenely all over the officer and his car. Officers ignored the car and stayed where they were. Officer, overlook us, for we are responsible drunks. Welcome us to the broad family of your inattention. Despite all we done and all we thunk, Please, let us pass without your mind’s mention. We were wildly high and it was deeply dark When we started up the Buick Skylark. Resenting the worry of age and disease, We risked our lives, limbs and liberties. It was foolish, but we had to try it, If only to arm ourselves against the quiet, Finding a cure for the ever-thickening inevitable In the act that’s exclusively regrettable. The next day, we are still Giggling with the disregard that kills The many deaths that come up from the lowest star, Over the many wheels, over the wheel of the car.

jacob zurawski, mike cluff, doug draime. Writer’s Block

By: Doug Draime

A self imposed spell is broken. The ceiling cracks like walnuts. Windows shake from the shattered sound barrier. Someone has set all the pigeons free in Baltimore. The dog laughs hysterically at the lopsided, cross-eyed cat. And reflected on the wall of my mind, are images of a 1930’s Hemingway, and Celine, and the delicate movement of Carson McCullers feeling her way through a dark and empty house. Hesitations of creative movement drowned in the sound of locomotion, ancient whistles and bells, reverberating through my body, like new blood, or a train with golden and endless tracks. Homebody Larvae Jacob Zurawski Ink and marker on paper

Marilyn, Kansas By: Mike Cluff

The day never came we held the dam back by a willpower God envys in his or her stronger moments.

And Cleo delinates robes are better than prim roses in a dusk of sunflowers sinking in the shade of a scuppernong kuzued tree.

Felix waits the panthers growl in a small cage.


How not to raise douches in ‘Murica

chris talbot-heindl.

By: Chris Talbot-Heindl

But I digress.

WARNING: If you were expecting something warm and fuzzy, turn away! While this is somewhat satirical, it is also my truth, and you may not like it.

To rationally summarize my belabored point – the people in your life who have not bothered to reproduce are the BEST people to be giving parental advice. Their opinions are not marred by first-hand experience (therefore they will tell you the BEST course of action; not one that may be easier due to circumstance) and the most unbiased opinion around. Also, we have to sit and watch as more and more of our friends and family pop out these goobers and start immediately fucking it up. I’ve had 13 years to sit back and judge without bias; what you got?

At the risk of losing all of my adult friends, who no doubt have all heard the call of the biological clock and have begun to pop out little hellions faster than a fruit fly, I felt it was my duty to write this article to educate all of you proud parents about how to not raise a douche. I know this is risky business. The most common phrase in the world someone like me hears from someone like you is “You don’t know! You’re not a parent!” Hell, all you have to do to see the most gruesome verbal carnage imaginable is watch two parents argue about the “proper” way to raise and/or care for a hellion on the Internets. There ain’t nothing better than saying what’s on your mind without having to watch another person’s reaction face-to-face. Basically, they each tear each other a new asshole, while those of us who still maintain rational minds (because nothing emerged from our groins) sit back and watch. Side note: recently I watched this form of carnage unfold on Facebook on the subject of “vaccination.” This one is a particularly fun topic to watch, as both sides will insist that the other is so woefully ignorant that they are killing their child. Both sides will claim it and go straight for the jugular. It’s ridiculous to watch normally rational adults have this conversation. As someone whose biggest kick is an epic fail, I was genuinely shocked and dismayed with the disrespect I was witnessing.

To vaccinate or not to vaccinate. That is the all-out parental brawl. Photo credit: 8

That being said, let’s move to the first genius idea I had about how your little hellion can grow up not to be a gigantic douche canoe: 1. Don’t reproduce if you or the baby daddy/ baby mama is a gigantic douche canoe

Guess what kids and kittens? If you or your reproduction partner is a gigantic douche canoe, chances are your child has zero chance of turning out normal. The whole nature versus nurture argument might still be up for grabs in the scientific community, but as someone who has watched hellion rearing, I can safely say that it is mostly nurture. What is my proof, you ask? Broken families, I answer. I’d say half of my extensive research (aka observation) of parenting would be in broken families. Here’s a true story: So, let’s say Little James John lives with his mother. He has trouble paying attention to anything for longer than ten seconds, he is doing horribly in school, he really is a little bastard sometimes (still a little sweetheart at others), and he has had no experience and therefore no ability to relate to others. His mother calls his father to come pick him up… permanently. Within a month of living with his father, he starts doing well in school, his personality morphs into a little mature man, he can hold a meaningful conversation on difficult topics, and shows signs of being a wunderkind instead of a dud. The difference is entirely the nurturing – mommy has issues, doesn’t have time to “deal” with her son’s problems, and makes that quite clear; daddy has issues, puts his son’s needs first, and spends the time to really learn Little James John’s miniature-person mind and nurtures that mind. The point of this anecdote – if your partner is a douche

chris talbot-heindl (con’t).

Photo credit:

canoe, chances are you’ll either have to gain 100% custody to assure that your hellion won’t turn into a douche canoe, or you will have to refrain from reproducing with this mother licker. Chances are, the latter is the best choice so that you are not forever tied to this person. If you are a douche canoe, for the love of sweet baby jeebus, wrap it before you tap it.

your sister.” This starts a shit fit and Little Johnny Boy yells to me, “You’re not my mother!” and then yells to Father, “She said I can’t throw rocks!” To which, Father replies, “Of course you can.” And gives me the look that amounts to “back off bitch, these are my cubs.” Two seconds later, Father runs up and takes the next rock out of Little Johnny Boy’s hands as the last one would have hit Little Marie Lou if she had not bent down to pick up something shiny.

2. It takes a community to raise a child who will be useful in a community…DERP!

The funniest thing to me is a parent who gets all butt hurt when another adult says something to their hellion. I’ve experienced this to the point that I think the next parent who chews my ass will receive a response very much like, “Do you think I’d risk my proverbial life telling your kid anything if I didn’t find it absolutely necessary?!” Here’s a true story: So, let’s say Little Johnny Boy and his sister Little Marie Lou are visiting their father and he brings them out into the world. It’s Father’s first opportunity of the day to talk to someone who can string more than five words into a sentence, so he takes full advantage and is entirely engaged in conversation leaving Little Johnny Boy and Little Marie Lou to play in the yard of the business. They immediately go for the pond, as hellions are likely to do, and start throwing the pebbles and rocks that line the pond into the pond with much delight. After some time goes by it becomes apparent to me, as the bystander, that Little Johnny Boy has begun a new game – namely, how close he can throw a stone toward his sister’s head without hitting her while appearing to still be throwing it into the pond (he even checks Father’s reactions once in a while to make sure he is convincing). At this point, I panic, and step in against my better judgment. It would take me a good five minutes to run up and tell Father what is transpiring, and two seconds to nip this shit in the bud before someone gets brained. So I politely suggest to Little Johnny Boy, “you might not want to throw rocks like that, you might hurt

This next one’s for you, mother fucker! Photo credit:

The point of this anecdote – all non-parents know how fucking obsessed parents are to be the only influential person in their hellions lives. You have your genes in one miniature package and you want them to grow up in such a way, which is well and fine and your prerogative. Would any rational mind step in on that bond unless it was absolutely necessary? The issue is, parenting like that will ruin your child for society and might make them into a gigantic douche canoe as an adult. Here’s why: The anecdote specifically went over the case of Father can’t be in two places at one time and sometimes someone else has to be entrusted with the care and safety of your child. DEAL WITH IT! They may not step in and do things the same way you would have, but this is a good thing. The larger society is made up entirely of people who are not you. A child who learns early on to listen to authority figures will fit better into society later in life. (I am of course referring to authority figures who are approved by the parents – I cringe when I see children taught to respect


chris talbot-heindl (con’t). and listen to their “elders.” Do you know who some of these so-called “elders” are? The Pope, your elected representatives, and pedophiles. Your child should not listen to these people.) This is not to say, you should be teaching them to listen to adult figures to the point that it will make them automatons. Anyone who knows me knows that isn’t the goal. But until they can be trusted to make their own decisions, they should realize that “you are not my mom!” is not a meaningful or acceptable response to “don’t brain your sister.” Another reason that a child should be raised in a community is that your skills are limited, your time is finite, and your child will be the rain man if you don’t. Let’s say that, as a parent, your one and only marketable skill is baking. Great! Your child will be able to grow up and make me any sort of desert I desire and will likely have diabetes. Let’s say that your brother is a wiz kid with computers, and your other brother is a wiz kid with tools. Even better! Now your kid will bake pies, play Diablo, know how to fix a flat, and have diabetes. He now has more opportunities to make his way in the world.

are to become douche bags. All the douche-bags I know have been raised by one or two parents exclusively and probably heard, “that’s mine” in reference to themselves and a lot of other things as well. When your child truly emerges into the society at large, they will, more or less, be forced to be somewhat malleable to different scenarios. If you start them off at an early age, they will have an easier time adapting. Here’s a true story: All of my nieces and nephews know that when they are in my presence, and especially my house, they must obey my house rules. There aren’t many: don’t pull the cats’ tails; if Uncle Dana or Auntie Chris wants their seats back, you give them up; no hitting Uncle Dana’s junk or face while sparring; and no derogatory statements or jokes. The latter is always the hardest, but all nieces and nephews know that they have to abide it if they want to remain indoors. I’ve made it clear that I don’t care if mommy says “gypped” or “oriental” or “gay,” if you want to stay in my presence, the house, or yard of my residence, you do not use pejorative terms. And I have no problem going into a tirade about white, straight, able-bodied privilege if I need to drive the point home.

The road to diabetes is paved in fun! Photo credit:

In the same way that skills are diverse in a community, so are ideas. Your child, while having a play date with Uncle Bob, learning how to make a birdhouse, will also pick up other things from Uncle Bob. Perhaps he’ll learn how to say, “fuck” when Uncle Bob drives his thumb instead of the nail with one of the hammer swings. Perhaps he’ll learn a different disposition other than your neurotic panicking. Maybe Uncle Bob is calm and collected, even when he says, “fuck,” and Little Rick Roll learns a little Zen while in Uncle’s Bob’s care. The point is that the more well rounded and community-cared for your child is, the less likely they 10

Cocky bastards who can’t follow the house rules have a special place reserved in the backyard. Photo credit: www.

I’d like to believe that a little bit of my wisdom is rubbing off on them and they choose not to use those terms outside of my presence, house, and yard as well. But even if they do use those terms, they have learned a valuable lesson of new situation, new rules. And those of you, who bred specifically as a vanity project, don’t fret. Two hours with Uncle Bob’s Zen attitude won’t undo years of your neuroses. It will simply add a little experience into the mix.

chris talbot-heindl (con’t). 3. A moderate and escalating form of discipline is key

In my 13 years of active observation, and 30 years of being alive, I’ve noticed the gambit of discipline and have come to the conclusion that there are two key things that are missing from most people’s discipline – moderation and escalation.

Here’s a true story: Little Susie Sunshine and her brother Little Chucky D were in my and another adult’s care (let’s call her Jeanie Jean) for a brief amount of time. Jeanie Jean did what most adults do in that situation (and if I had known it was an option, I probably would have) which is plead with the children to behave. Jeanie Jean used the bribery form, saying that if the little hellions were good, we would go for a swim in the hotel pool. Almost immediately, Little Susie Sunshine was not good, she was very, very bad. Her transgression – she attempted to shut the hotel door on her brother’s hand on purpose! Anyone who’s used a keycard door knows that shit doesn’t open if something is stuck in it. Luckily I caught her and I growled something at her and she was sufficiently scared by my visual anger to cease all dangerous behavior. Toward the end of our day, Little Susie Sunshine called in the bribe, to which Jeanie Jean said, “yes, of course.” I piped up and said “absolutely not,” and “you know what you did.” There was no argument, there were no tears or tantrums, and she just pleasantly asked what she could do instead. The point of this anecdote is that hellions are not incompetent unless you make them that way. Little Susie Sunshine knew what she did, she knew I knew, she knew the consequences of not being good, she knew that I have follow through, and she accepted those terms when presented to her. Later, I was told that Little Susie Sunshine is almost never faced with her actions. The bribe is always cashed in no matter what happened, as the parents are too tired to deal with the meltdown if the bribe is not cashed in full. I was a little appalled at the idea that Little Susie Sunshine would receive a bribe for purposely attempting to slam her little brother’s hand in a hotel door, but that’s the way of things these days. This is not an isolated incident. Back to the point: There are mostly two things I see – parents who always deliver the bribe and don’t discipline their children for fear of the meltdown; and

parents who discipline the same way if their kid is going to eat grass or run out into oncoming traffic. Parents need to get it into their heads that especially if they are going to ignore action #2 and be an island unto themselves, they need to discipline their kids and it can’t be with idle threats. I can’t tell you how many times I was taken out into the car at restaurants or shopping centers as a child. That was not an idle threat in my household, and it shouldn’t be. You’ll also be doing the rest of the world a favor because nobody in the fucking universe wants to hear your child being an asshole in a public space. Leave that shit for home.

Kindly take your devil spawn elsewhere. Photo credit: www.

The second part of discipline is escalation. I’ve seen parents who are so frazzled that they just yell “NO!” as a means of discipline no matter what the situation. Your child isn’t a dog. Your child needs to understand the severity of each transgression they make. Yelling “NO!” indiscriminately makes it seem like they can’t do anything, not that there is a reason they should stop what they are currently doing. Here’s a true story: I was at a picnic with some people; I’m pretty sure the count was about 3 adults, 9 adultsized children (adults who haven’t matured properly – myself included), and about 15 hellions. One of the adult-sized children would discipline her hellion by screaming “NO!” so loudly that people across the park would look at who had endangered their life to that degree. This was in response to him attempting to eat a bug, jumping on a picnic table, saying he was going to jump in the river, and actually running into the parking lot unsupervised. That child will never make a distinction between those different problems until she 11

chris talbot-heindl (con’t). does. To him, because of the reaction, eating a bug was now on par with almost dying in traffic. Most things your child does probably just deserves a “what are the consequences of your actions” type response (if you are a descent human being, chances are your child is too and this should be all that is necessary to “discipline” them in most cases). From there, you escalate, as the transgression deserves. Pitching a fit in public? “Stop, or you’ll have to sit in the car.” If they don’t stop – fucking sit with them in the car! Seriously, you already gave up 18 years of your life to bring a hellion into the world, what’s five minutes in a car to make them stop misbehaving. Running out into traffic, you fucking yell “NO!” Chances are, if you don’t do it often, that will stop them in their tracks. Then explain to them what the consequences of that action would be.

fist fights, stealing, abusing animals, misbehaving – for ridiculous reasons such as the administration wasn’t going to do anything about the taunting the other kid did, they deserve more, they don’t know any better, blah, blah, blah. Whose fucking fault is it, parents? Yours! Get on that shit. If your child is getting into fights, you don’t excuse his or her behavior, blame the adult figures, congratulate and/or encourage your child. Ask your child why they instigated or engaged in the fight. Ask your child what a better course of action may have been. Ask your child what the consequences of the action they chose are and make them pay those fucking consequences.

If they hear a hysterical yell in respect to eating a fucking bug or all the small transgressions they will of course make, they’ll probably ignore it one of these days. It’ll be like background noise, and then you’ll have a real tragedy on your hands. 4. Take fucking responsibility as a parent

Two of the worst new developments I’ve seen recently are parents that excuse their child’s behavior and parents who claim amnesty for themselves! These are completely fucking stupid and will guarantee that your child will turn into a douche canoe. I’ve read all the bullshit rhetoric about how positive reinforcement will help your child have the selfesteem he/she deserves, blah, blah, blah. Positive reinforcement is something that should be earned and well deserved, not simply doled out. Negative reinforcement is a necessary evil to prevent sociopathic tendencies. Self-esteem is earned as well. Your child is entitled to nothing! Not from you, and certainly not from society at large. Get over it. And now, I can see you mouthing, “But, Mr. Rogers taught me…” yeah, Mr. Rogers had his place – he was intended for latch key kids in the 80s and 90s. You people have taken it too far. You are one in a million for sure. Don’t fuck it up and become one in a sea of douche canoes. Moving swiftly along. I’ve seen parents excuse their child from getting into 12

That better be intended for a fist bump, kid. Photo credit:

In a world without any rules, you may have wanted them to do the action they chose, but in a society that has strict guidelines and consequences to actions, your child needs to learn how to play ball before they end up learning some other “skills” in a prison cell later in life. There’s that popular meme going out with the Arthur Schopenhauer quote that says “Compassion for animals is intimately connected with goodness of character; and it may be confidently asserted that he who is cruel to animals cannot be a good man.” You know why it’s popular? Because it’s fucking true. If your hellion is abusing animals, don’t claim, “They don’t know any

chris talbot-heindl (con’t), ron reikki. better.” Make them know better. Otherwise, the goal to not have a douche canoe on your hands is already lost. Even worse than excusing your child for every horrible thing they do, is a parent who excuses every horrible thing they do. I’ve seen parents who excuse their lack of parenting on the basis that “I never wanted to be a parent/a parent this early.” Tough fucking shit! You didn’t use proper prophylactics or planning. This is the consequence to your actions, deal with it. Your penance lasts at least 18 years, and everything they will become and have the opportunity to do rests on you doing a not shit job. And that is the crux of it – everything you do, EVERYTHING, will determine if your hellion will become a well-mannered, compassionate individual who has things to offer the outside world, or if your hellion will become a complete and utter waste-of-space douche canoe. That little person’s entire future rests in your hands. So, I would suggest that instead of killing the messenger because “She doesn’t know! She doesn’t have children!” or because “There’s a lot of swearing in here. I don’t like that shit!” take a good look at what I just said. Really, reread the thing. Can you honestly disagree with any of it? No, I didn’t think so.

Trending Now By: Ron Reikki

Trending now: Clippers-Magic new Marilyn Monroe postage stamp boy scouts India gang rape Chris Brown priest abuse Not trending: Raptors-Hornets new Marilyn Manson postage stamp joining the boy scouts Wisconsin celibacy Charlie Brown joining the priesthood Trending in the future: Robots-Jetfighters new Charles Manson postage stamp people scouts India gang rape Baby Gaga atheist abuse Trending in the past: Bullets-Stags the Pony Express camping without hierarchical organization India gang rape abolitionist John Brown the Inquisition


ben zoltak. Your Waitress or Waiter is Probably Smarter Than You By: Ben Zoltak

Waiters and waitresses are oftentimes brilliant learners and secretly, they think you’re pretty dumb Waitresses and waiters are often students of academia and always students of life. They get to see all sides of the public. They witness hubris on a scale not seen by someone who works in a more private setting. When you order a heaping helping of panna cotta and pronounce it pain-a coat-a they laugh at you when you are not looking. They deserve to laugh too. Not because you are dumb. After all, you and I both know you are the smartest thing since a funny bone on a kitchen counter right! No no no, servers get to laugh at some of us, because some of us believe we are better than they are. In much of the world, waiters and waitresses are held in high esteem, a position to be revered for it’s skill in public affability and mental gymnastics, what with all the rote memorization and constantly changing orders. But here in the United States, much of the public looks at Servers as though they are beneath them. They are not after all, members of the Very Important People’s Club. They are not Presidents of corporations nor are they Doctors of medicine or Hollywood actors who don’t wear underwear in public, mostly. They are what some Americans deem as serfs in what is supposed to be a serf-less society. So what if many of them are studying to be lawyers and teachers. So what if they were able to memorize forty different items on a menu each with three words in Italian that you can not pronounce proficiently but that rolls off of their tongue as though it were velvety truffle oil. They are merely the lowly waiters and waitresses. When you are ready to wind down for the day, having mostly kept to yourself juggling numbers at work and only having to call your stock analyst twice to check on your mutual funds, these people are gearing up to baby you. Why? For the bread mon frere for the bread. They will tell you how great you look and you will concur. They will laugh at your pun, “Ha ha, you’re right sir plate of food? More like Plato food! You are funny!”


Sure that plate maybe approaching four hundred and fifty degrees Fahrenheit but never mind moving your napkin over an eighth of an inch, they will endure second degree burns so you might enjoy a heaping hot plate of Chianti braised ribs. Enjoy! Maybe they come back to check on your meal and you’re upset that they’ve come back already! “Why won’t that waiter leave us in peace!” Maybe they wait a little longer and you’re upset you weren’t attended to sooner, “Where is that damn waitress, whadda day think we have all night, this isn’t rocket science.” Oh but it is, it is rocket science. In their laughter and quiet resolve a server is intricately calculating your next move, deciding either on their own or commiserating with an equally abused server what bone headed notion you will spout off next. Perhaps you would like to argue why Champagne is most certainly from Australia? Maybe you would like to explain why you are 100% positive that all great fillet mignons are served well done. You are the boss after all, you are the paying customer. What does a lousy waiter know anyway? You might be surprised if you would spend a week or two in their shoes. But you never will because you are such a resounding success in all your endeavors. You will never be laid off. You will never be cornered into a job you don’t care for. You will never have to stoop to physical labor, because you are so damned brilliant. Maybe you should think twice about this human being who is carrying your food to the front of your smug and sanctimonious mug. Perhaps you should think twice about the person who is trying to make sure you have a great experience relaxing and eating out away from home for a night. What if, just what if they are playing you like a flute? What if you are the Emperor who wears no clothes in the restaurant tonight? Maybe you should shelter your ego in some magnanimity and savor the flavor of this wonderful, bright man or woman who cared enough to treat you with sincere service.

tendai r. mwanaka, alexander landerman. Wordless Truth By: Tendai R. Mwanaka if i write a word with this pen like i have done. is it wordless wordless truth? if i say a word with my mouth like i have done. do i remain silent? is it wordless wordless truth? if i am silent but still talk to the person inside me. is it wordless wordless truth? if i can speak but remain silent to the person outside. is it wordless wordless truth? if i remain silent never talking always mute dead to thought. is it wordless wordless truth? if i can cry and weep for i feel like it. would the cry remove the truth inside? is it wordless wordless truth? if i sing a song a song of my heart. is it about the roses and about the truth? is it wordless wordless truth?

Ed Smith Alexander Landerman Charcoal, conte, & graphite on Rives BFK paper


monthly mission submission. monthly mission submission

Every month, artists indicate that they would like to submit to The Bitchin’ Kitsch but don’t know what to draw. Now, you don’t have to! Every month, there will be proposed phrase to play around with. This month’s phrase is “for the love of baby jeebus” submitted by The Oh Christ!. Next month’s phrases will be “Wherever you go, there you are.” submitted by John Pearson and “The American Government, 42 Years of Fighting a War Against Americans.” submitted by Peter Thomas. If you would like to suggest a phrase for the month of May, simply submit it on Facebook. The suggestions that receive the most likes will be the phrases for May.

The Oh Christ! and mcfishenburger Animation still (Check out the video/music edition for the full animation -


holly day, dan hedges, lm & xy. The Footsteps Overhead By: Holly Day

at night the thud of the dishwasher upstairs sounds like voices. I crank the baby monitor way up, listen for monsters in my daughter’s room. sometimes I hear something on the back porch behind my head can almost see the deranged face pressed up against the glass hands ready to smash through I won’t turn around.


Jelly Helly

{all this writing is just nervous strength gone to seed}

Having spent enough time in the ocean

By: Dan Hedges

By: LM & XY

not seeing any nightmare and rare scares------We happened upon, the jelly from helly And his tentacle could put hell fire on you----skin and soul


jason ford, kenneth abraham, zachary frisch. Her Song

By: Jason Ford Her song returns to me within my dreams each time my chambers of thought try to learn why an inner psyche sometimes evolves into streams of melody which rise unto a status high. Within the deepest depths of inner thought, the song immerses me with strength as I am caught inside a net of purest light which never fails as a type of sweetness in the song prevails. Although I still remain within a dream of hope So far removed from the world and what it holds, The dream allows a song to expand in widest scope As uniqueness within each melody unfolds. Her song is gently passing through chambers deep Within a sleepy mind which desires to keep Itself within the grasp of beauty’s noble voice As emotions I consider to be mine rejoice.

Betty Friedan

By: Kenneth Abraham It is the 50th anniversary of “uppity” women, thanks to Betty Friedan, Frustrated, not quite sure why, she wrote her book, making woman equal with man, The Feminist Mystique, published in 1963, really was the first shot in the fight, To give “the better half,” women, equal opportunities and rights, The author’s legacy is solid in that organization she founded: NOW, That organization excoriating the “barefoot in the bedroom” sexist sacred cow, Gloria Steinem and all who followed, Betty Ford…. you name the “Dame,” Execs, academic leaders, Ms. Sotomayor, all owe their success to Betty, who changed the ballgame, So I am thrilled to say what you won’t hear from many an insecure man, God Bless that visionary, Betty Friedan.


After The Last Written Word, There Is A Flyleaf By: Zachary Frisch

It comes then; those black wings beating and that wicked thing breathing hard like a bloated child in a fog; Like a ballooning bullfrog in a thicket slowly, in and out. Not as loud as death ought to be, I thought but then again, in moonlight everything seems like velvet vines; like a lover’s skinny fingers growing out of the ground soft, careful, and low. The wretch will name me then aloud from a book bound with paper skin, and in it’s time will weigh my sin; and I will wonder if my dreams are added up against that weight or if the rest of me ever meant anything at all. Eventually, It will raise my head to a gold sky, and on the course I raise and pass heavenly eyes that know my time is up; the ticking of my clock has resigned. deo volente consummatum est It is finished. Among that blessed harmony God’s hands I abandon; remove a testament to prowess, take the burden we all journey towards since we stepped out the Garden’s gate. Upon a cloud in paradise, I attest “I am Lazarus. My soul upon the pedestal, without form or holy grace, I am him who returns and brings light upon the dark and empty; my fate is my own and my will is my destiny.”

jameson stewart, jacob zurawski, mandal bijoy beg. Avidity

By: Jameson Stewart My first thoughts at dinner Are of undressing you Exposing the appetizer Your crème of almond skin The straps of your blue dress Picasso blue Sliding over your glazed shoulders Falling toward the table Spilling the water The violinist walks by He doesn’t notice Preoccupied with Shastakovich’s Gadfly And I am preoccupied with my next course You stand The dress falls I reach toward your feet Your feet of arched steel Freeing them of their armament The waiter refills the water I loosen my tie The salad arrives Streetlight green Using my fork and knife I liberate your breasts Indulging your al dente nipples A starving man Maddened with hunger Under the table You cross your legs Between them burn coals Buried under the ashes Of a dead forest Waiting for open air Consumption I motion the waiter No need for the main course He clears the table At last, desert A diaphanous sorbet Topped with shavings of your Crushed pomegranate heart

Slow and Steady and You Still Get Hammered Jacob Zurawski Ink and marker on paper


By: Mandal Bijoy Beg O Moon ! come down before Me And stretch your silver arms. Come, Let’s embrace and kiss, Come.

The owl makes a swift fly With A bird in its lethal claws. Come, I will tell you about my pain, Come, You the queen of solace, O Moon !


dawnell harrison, marc carver. A wintry fever

Sports Centre

I feel the chill of winter In the white marrow of my bones –

I got out of the house as soon as I could ended up at the sports centre I walked up to the young woman And she started to look strangely at me then I realized all my flies were open and things were sticking through I gave her my card. ‘This is a card for an eleven year old child.’ I gave her another one and then we had a bit of an misunderstanding about the money but she sorted me out. I went in with my pants in a plastic bag but she still looked very worried about me but then again most people are.

By: Dawnell Harrison

A wintry fever. The cold winds steers through ice Like an ax to wood. I lay on the bed, My pallor as bleached as death – No respite from the long, wide Cold of the night. The love’s run dry but the moon Cradles me like a great white Madonna.


By: Marc Carver

danielle dragona, robert pino. Diamonds and Bloody Marys

the happiest moment

I thought you were perfect. I may have felt that way because of something I ate last night that didn’t agree with me. I became delusional, seeing things that weren’t really there. We met at the corner of Twenty Third Street and Sixth Avenue. You trotted toward me with fervent expectancy as I emerged from the underground darkness of rattling subways, and the harried steps of those who would rather be somewhere else. Your arms enveloped me like serpents. The sun was warm on my face.

last night i dreamed that you kissed me again and i found myself lying in bed all afternoon trying to fall back asleep

By: Danielle Dragona

We wandered the avenue, words dissipating into space like morning dew drops lurking on tired street corners, gazing into faces that weren’t mine. We talked about our issues, and what saddens us about the art of living, of only trying to be human. We arrived at the diner, our feet treading inside with a slight hesitation. All the tables were occupied, so we sat at the black counter that was polished to perfection with such precision, it had a brilliant reflective quality. I thought I could see a face that was mine staring back at me.

By: robert pino

it was like kissing you but it wasn’t it was your face and your lips and for the first time in a long time i was dreaming in vibrant color you said that it was strange to be kissing me in a brown shirt, the same brown shirt i had flown in why had i flown in a brown shirt? and why was it your skin over her body? you were taller than me, that part was right and my acquiescence, that was right, too i immediately went downstairs, or rather, was downstairs, and changed despite it all for that moment, in that tangent space, that was the happiest i’ve been

The waiter took our order. I ordered my identity on a soft roll while you asked for clarity in a Bloody Mary. You recounted the events of the week, your brow furrowing faintly, eyes searching, remembering, flashes of memory like fresh paint strewn across a canvas, bursting like fireworks in a vibrant blur of color. You were tired, burnt out from living your life. I revealed to you that I, too, was drained, and that we should have met another day. You replied, “No you are the saving grace of this week for me.” I replied, “Even with my clothes on?” You smiled wide and child-like. I felt you undressing me with passion in your eyes. I was naked in a public place and felt no desire to clothe myself out of awkwardness. I was at ease in a place only you could see. Your hands never moved, only your eyes, a private moment for only us to share while the rest of the world was oblivious. The waiter reappeared suddenly, dismantling our fantasy into pieces, and placed the check in front of us with a polite smile. I asked if you wanted me to pick up the tab. You replied, “No, I already saw diamonds.


josh sapan, andrew peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE. Shoes

By: Josh Sapan The shoes in my closet slope down for easy inspection. Mostly black, a little buckled in front but shiny when polished. Most are slip on for ease of detection. The brown ones have held up well. Their lines know that when a man grows older his back pain and decreased desire for lovemaking are not reasons to panic. Aimless white sneakers streaked with grey on the top shelf have lost some will to play. They judge me casually but poorly for lack of ambition.

of a well fitted tan cotton suit. It is worn with a blue checked shirt outside the trousers, allowing for some one night stand that leaves no despair. Tied on a stranger’s feet comfortably they walk out of the air conditioned store in the summer heat without a bead of sweat, replacing the worn brown wing tips deposited by him in the large grey garbage receptacle without a glance back. I buy two pairs of replacement black loafers keeping the receipt and shoe box in case the new bubble technology stitched into the soles fails to lift me from the pavement for at least a short trip away from home.

Behind shimmering windows on Madison Avenue the black suede wing tips with triple cushion pink soles invite a gentle rub against the grain like the fresh crew cut of a blonde 10 year old boy. Each shoe arched fetchingly with wide white linen puffs between them provokes the notion of a kiss from a barefoot woman poolside. In the shade of her umbrella casual streaks of blonde in her brown hair fall without care to her shoulders. She unwraps her floor length sundress to reveal a modest triangular tattoo descending into the back of her bikini bottom. Her delicate wrists and fingers adjust passion tinted sunglasses. But the swing of her aqua earrings, the purse of her lips and enhanced posture on 4 inch roman sandals are out of reach. The brown suede boots in the window have travelled from a hillside factory in Milan overlooking the sea. The pair believe in god but live each day unafraid to be at the bottom 22

Fetink Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Ink on paper

andrew peterson. Afterthought - Chapter 1 By: Andrew Peterson

I remember being the laughing stock of the neighborhood. I’d come home from my postal carrier job and I’d go straight to work on my bomb shelter. My neighbors thought I was a nut-job. They said I scared their kids; they damn well should’ve been scared. The goddamn apocalypse was upon us; they should have been scared shitless. Nothing could beat the look on their faces as our world went to hell in a mere mater of hours and they were unprepared for what was to come. The world has changed so much. I can’t remember the last time I’d watched TV and all radio is a constant droning on of static. Trying to conserve my batteries, I went from checking the stations from once a week to once a month. I even tried today, still nothing. When you’re hit on all sides with EMPs followed by nukes, it’s a pretty good bet you’re going to take some damage. I heard stories of it being an “inside job” or one of those home grown terrorist sects bringing us back to days of shitting in the woods and killing our dinner. Looking back, I cannot help but laugh. I wonder what all those yuppies are up to now they can’t buy a ridiculously expensive StarBros. coffee or surf the net on their fruit tablets. I started digging my bomb shelter in the winter of 2011. My neighbors thought I spent too much time being paranoid, pretending I was prepping for some sort of doomsday event. I bought enough C-rations and canned food to last me for three years if I needed it, and some less desirable dried food and emergency food. Most of it tasted like saltines without the salt flavor, just mushy paste taste. Mmmmm. I stocked up and finished the shelter in the summer of 2013. It was three months later they hit us where it hurt, giving us a one-way ticket to the third world in warp speed. I remember looking out of the homemade air tight periscope I designed using a few mirrors and some wood glue, and seeing it snow, or what appeared to be snow. It is amazing to think that hours before we were hit, politicians were discussing gay marriage, stricter gun laws, and legalizing marijuana. In the next few hours they didn’t discuss a thing, they just tried to survive. The

entire government fell in a matter of hours. The Army was never called in, nothing happened. Snow happened. I spent two years in my shelter, reading survival books and trying to entertain myself the best I could, mostly by doing badly reenactments of scenes from my favorite movies. “Are you not entertained?” echoed from the one room that made up my living space. I ate dried rations and drank one of my many bottles of water. Too much in fact. I started running low on water after those long years underground. I mustered up the courage to dawn the hazmat suit I bought at a garage sale and venture outside into the nuclear winter. Armed with my AR-15 rifle and a Geiger I walked by a number of what seemed to be houses, still empty but standing. I knew the danger other survivors could be. I didn’t know if I was going to be shooting at aliens, enemy soldiers, or an army of 3-eyed mutants. What I did know was I wanted the ability to do so. I made a small spy camp in the park across the street from my house and surveyed the area for others. After six hours I found nothing and decided to search the houses for items that may still be of use. Never in my life have I seen people more ill-prepared for this situation: mac & cheese, a few cans of green beans, no feast by any means, but if I did find something it’d be better than eating what I had been eating for the last 25 months. I would kill for some canned pineapple or some pear slices. Then I seen it, a sign from God. A sign that meant from here on out things were going to be ok, a large can of fruit cocktail. I took my readings of the food outside my shelter to avoid contamination. Everything was surprisingly low. What did I expect? It’s a sign of the times I guess. All I know is I’m going to eat me some fruit cocktail. It was the end of the world and I found joy in a 32 oz. can of fruit cocktail, with extra cherries no less. “I am the king of the new world!” I joked. The funny thing is how wrong I really was. There were many who thought themselves to be kings of this new world, and this is my story.


jan haskell. The Lost City on the Hill

By: Jan Haskell

Once upon a time, there was talk of a great City that shown like a golden beacon atop a rolling hill. The talk was that the light of this City would shine around the world, calling forth all to come to it. Stories of this great City would circulate every so often, but its location was always a mystery. At first, the City was said to be one of love, where those living there, not by want or need, were given love as a gift. The citizens of the City flourished with this love reflected through them, which gave the City its golden light. After centuries, the stories of the City shifted. It was then said that the City was about strength - economic, political, and military. Its beacon came from that strength. The people were drawn to the City out of want and need, while others sought to destroy it for what were perceived as hedonistic values. Millions - hundred of millions - searched for the City. Few were seeking the promise of love, while others sought it out for the power and riches they believed lay behind the City’s walls. The harder the search for the wants of the City, the further the City on the Hill fell into myth, like that of Troy or Atlantis. The question needed for America to ask itself is, which City does it wish to find? For me, the question is a one of spirit. Maybe even soul. It rests on which choice, which direction America wishes to go. See, as I grew up, America meant something strong, romantic. Maybe one could say I saw America as the true Anti-Hero. A rebel always rooting, supporting, fighting for the underdog. Fighting not for power, or money, or land. No. America fought because it was the right thing to do. When the fight was true, those in America who could have said, “This isn’t our war. Why should we die for those who wish to keep me down, or would kill me on the street if they wanted to?” stood and fought; fought for a truth. Some could say my image of America as the AntiHero was naive - innocent even - and maybe it was my environment that made me a romantic, optimistic idealist. On the latter, I would have to agree. My pride in America came because I believed these values represented the City’s goals. The strive to be and do better; the hope that we could be better. The ideals we 24

set forth, were not just for us, but for all people. We would risk the greatest measure to fight for the peoples who found themselves captives of tyrants. We were optimistic to believe that all people would follow the examples we placed so high, and finally put an end to all tyrants. That we find these truths to be self-evident, that no king or prince or a church has power to grant or give freedom, liberty, or life. Yet, somehow, somewhere in the last 50-60 years, that image was lost. America became the police state of the world, the super power. This new image began to represent the City. America became drunk as wealth and power flowed. Fear replaced respect, and many peoples began to see the corrupt cop who lends its protection to those who can afford it. America’s greatness became its military and economic power. The image of the City became something we had all seen before: Sumeria, Athens, Rome, Aztecs etc. And as we know, with each of these examples as with many others, once ideals are replaced by power, hope with despair, the Cities fell and were reclaimed by the earth. Like many in America, I want her to be strong, but I also want her to be just. A City built with the goals of power and conquest will always be crushed by its own weight. First, from within as its society collapses due to corruption and vice. Then from the outside as those who have felt the boot of injustice strike back. However, a City that is seen as the Anti-Hero, whose strength is seen with out needing to be flexed; a City where people seek justice not at as a price but because it is seen as a value; a City that offers hope to a world of oppressed is a City worth living and giving the full measure of what is asked. This City on the Hill could shine as a bright star for ten x ten millennia. Is this not a City worth finding?

afzal moolla. The Whispering Leaf. By: Afzal Moolla

Infinite tendrils, weave exquisite patterns, forming an immaculate, delicate sheaf,


while morning’s dew whispers, tales of forgotten woes, left scribbled on every leaf. Murmurs float gently, across solitary trees, to distant forests deep and dense, teasing the waving grasses, while coquettishly inflaming every sense. Listen! For the murmurs whisper to us all, listen carefully, as the whispers recall, the crushed memories of the lovers’ call. Listen! For the whispering leaf shares, a story that may travel, to you, to me, if we still our minds, and, gaze upon each leaf, and quietly marvel.



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The Bitchin' Kitsch March 2013 Issue  

The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open...

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