Vol. 2, Iss. 8
March or Die! 1997
It’s Taking the Village
Where do you want to go today?
“Plastic people, oh baby you’re such a drag.” —Frank Zappa
by Russell F. Ericson
The streets in the East Village aren’t safe.
Virus of the mind! on p. 9
Rapacious real estate predators, dol-
lars signs glowing in their eyes and visions of Rolexes dancing in their heads, are stalking the streets. Buildings are captured and eviscerated, the tenants—artists, the working poor, small businesses—discarded like offal. There’s no room for us in their vision of a brave new hood. We stand in the way of their
(p.4) ! l el H om fr CB e th . vs h g i H Coney Island
dream of turning New York into Singapore on the Hudson, Bottom Line City, the city without a soul. Where we see a neighborhood they only see $/sq.ft. Out with the creators, in with the consumers. We’re being colonized by the Thing People. They have a thing about things. Owning the right things that they’re told to desire in the thingzines they read and the thing shows they watch on thingvision. Listening to thing music, going to thing movies, thinking thing thoughts. Quoting the right things from their thingpapers at their thing parties. Dropping thing names. Things are looking good, things are looking bad, things are looking up, down, sideways. Lusting after the latest thing. Seeking the coming thing. Things are profitable! Herds of Thing People milling about their watering holes, being snapped in by the jaws of greenback crocodiles. Flocks of yesbuts and yagottas on every block. They loved the charm of the neighborhood, its ambience. It was fun to hang out here. Problem was they didn’t read the warning signs—it’s a nice place to visit but you wouldn’t want to live here. But now they are living here and yagotta quiet down. Didn’t they love to come to the clubs and hang out, listen to the music, the conversation, ... yesbut I’ve got to close this big deal tomorrow, I’ve got to be wide awake to kiss my boss’s ass tomorrow, I’ve got to make enough money to pay my exorbitant rent and buy all those absolutely essential latest things. Welcome to Greenbitch Village, ruled by the goddess Cash. The settlers are taking over and we’re being squeezed out. The open rangeland where the mind was free to soar is being parceled up and fenced in. There’s a new law in town and his name is Johnny Hubris. He’s out to enforce the Rowdy Bar Bill and the 500 foot rule. He’s backed by committees of colonists and real estate shills like the Save Avenue A Ass. This has been a “rowdy” neighborhood for more than thirty years but now that they’re here things have got to change.
of the Lower East
Gambling with the priests! (p.XXX)
How to SQUAT March 7th Slept with Duane last night. Met him at Hell 2 weeks ago amongst all the toy girls & glamour boys. —The XXX Files by Candi Keynes, debuts on p. 8 You must be able to read to read this!
Continued on next page
The New York Hangover...because sooner or later, you’ve got to wake up
Vol. 2, Issue 8
March or Die! 1997
20th mind-blowing issue!
Patron Saint James W. Eckle Starring (in order of appearance, from unkempt to slightly seedy)
Bob Falk as Ali Bubba Tim Hall as Beau Juiced Giovanna Melchiorre as Phatimah and Paula Pulvino as Isabelle Contributing Writers: Bitches of the Lower East Side, Robert Klein Engler, Ludmilla Evanova, Charles D. Gray, JB Hall, Thom Jack, Candi Keynes, WP Mavin, Penelope Presley, Martin Roberts, Lauren Scheuermann, Simon Sun, Lydia Tomkiw, Gail Worley
Contributing Artists: Tom Harlan, Dean Haspiel, Kory Kennedy, Director Lingo, Josh Neufeld, William Tyler Smith, Simon Sun, Yamaguchi
Layout: “The Kids” Kalender Konstruction: Kory Kennedy (Not affiliated in any way w/ NYWaste)
BEWARE OF CHEAP IMITATIONS The New York Hangover is published daily, except days 2-30 of months September, April, June, and November, and days 2-31 of all the rest, except February (days 2-28; 2-29 on leap years). We want your submissions. Please send copies (never originals). Mac or PC disks preferred, ascii text format, please. Submissions will not be returned unless accompanied by SASE. All rights revert to creators. NOTE: max length for stories submissions: 1,500 words. The shorter it is, the better yer chances! This month’s font-to-page ratio: 3.8125* ADVERTISING RATES/INFO: Call Paula at 212-979-5823 New York Hangover 39 E. 1st New York, NY 10003 email@example.com Cover/Illustrations Tom Harlan
©1997 The New York Hangover *(new record!)
(Cont’d from cover)
If we move into one of their neighborhoods, we’re a disturbance. Our practicing and late hours interfere with their linear lifestyles. They just don’t seem to understand that it’s the same when they move into our neighborhood. Their complaints about noise interfere with our practice, our nonlinear lives. Either way we end up losing. The creative spirit is a candidate for the endangered species list. The cross pollination of ideas is being choked out by weeds that can’t tell the difference between art and entertainment. All we’ll have left are little plaques commemorating the famous people who got their start living here, who couldn’t afford to live here now if they were just starting out. The only “artists” living here will be the hacks doing vapid variations on themes created by people too poor to live in $2000 shoeboxes. “The golden rule is that those who have the gold make the rules.”
of the neighborhood could save it. They could buy buildings and keep the rents low, they could provide low cost loans to help tenants buy their buildings and maintain them, they could keep rents low for small neighborhood businesses to prevent the spread of corporate clones. If you’ve got a better idea, another idea, any idea or information that could help save the neighborhood, write to us at the Hangover or email me at: firstname.lastname@example.org
“Dollars! All their cares, hopes, joys, affections, virtues, and associations seemed to be melted down into dollars. Whatever the chance contributions that fell into the slow cauldron of their talk, they made the gruel thick and slab with dollars. Men were weighed by their dollars, measures were gauged by their dollars; life was auctioneered, appraised, put up, and knocked down for its dollars. The next respectable thing to dollars was any venture having their attainment for its end. The more of that worthless ballast, honour and fairdealing, which any man cast overboard from the ship of his Good Nature and Good Intent, the more ample stowageroom he had for dollars. Make commerce one huge lie and mighty theft.” —Charles Dickens, from Martin Chuzzlewit
We’ve got the best government money can buy, we just don’t have the money. Mammon and the Muses are antagonists. They interfere with each other, compete for your attention, your loyalty, your time, your passion, your soul. You can’t let your mind soar and watch the clock. You don’t see help wanted ads for daydreamers. Jobs that pay real, regular money don’t allow time for spontaneous daydreaming. That’s why so many of us in the neighborhood have shit jobs with shit pay that barely cover the rent of the shit apartments that are being yuppified out from under us. We can’t afford to fight them. The predators have hired tongues who can sweet talk and bullshit for them, who know how much grease to spread on the right palms, how to schmooze the right officials, how to beflower the desks of the right secretaries, how to buy entree into the right chambers to get the right laws passed. What the hell can we do? Taking to the streets, demonstrations, vandalism, hassling people—all the spoiled, petty, childish means that the baby boomers used to get their way—won’t accomplish anything. They’re in charge A Tale of Two Villages now. They’re responsible for most of 1. the crap we’re stuck with now. Fifth street, people desperate for a place to live, buildings kept vacant Turning to the govt has already until the profit per square foot in the neighborhood goes up, like the been ruled out. Besides, everything the English aristocracy starving the Irish out of Ireland in the 19th century. govt gets involved with turns into very The image of a squatter facing the wrecking ball like the dissident in expensive toxic waste. The best way to Tiananmin Square staring down a tank. In the end, they both lost. Deng guarantee that everything will get even may be dead but Rudy lives. No big difference. 2. worse is to let them handle it. Community board subcommittee meeting. A couple waits patiently for Who can we turn to? Who can rescue their turn to present their case for the pub they hope to open on Ludlow the neighborhood? What about the suc- Street. They’ve worked hard to put together their proposal, made copies cessful alumni of the East Village? It was for all the committee members, begged for a place on the agenda. Their here for them when they needed it, they name is called from the list. A committee member complains. It’s getting can see to it that it’ll be here for their late, he doesn’t like pubs, he doesn’t want to hear them. The committee successors. Madonna’s got a gazillion votes on whether they’ll be permitted to plead their case. The vote is dollars. She makes more in one day no. The supplicants are turned away, their voices unheard. Demokracy than most of us will see in a lifetime. in action. Dylan’s living off the fat of the land. All the powerful, wealthy, successful alumni
The New York Hangover...Because anything else is just a “Waste” of time Best of the ALT DOT READER
Anyone who read at the alt.cofee open mic series (every other Thursday) last year should send their poems to gazing and grazing through cyberspace Chris Bodor for possible publication in a book. Please Cheek to Cheek Traveler’s Tails send work to: More signs and notices from around the world, written Chris Bodor A nine-year-old girl had her breath taken away, for the unintentional amusement of the English speaking c/o poetnoise amongst other things, when she used the onboard traveler, but not necessarily their comprehension! 2 Rende Drive restroom of a scheduled airline flight. Prior to dropIn an East African newspaper: A new swimming pool is Beacon, NY 12508 ping her bomb load, the nine year old had forgotten to rapidly taking shape since the contractors have thrown in e-mail: email@example.com lower the toilet seat. The dramatic consequence of her the bulk of their workers. action became apparent when the little innocent Detour sign in Kyushi, Japan: Stop. Drive victim pushed the flush; her posterior formed Sideways. Q. How many straight organists does it take to change a light bulb? an airtight seal fixing her to the toilet bowl. From a Japanese information booklet about A. Both of them. The pilot was forced to descend to a lower using a hotel air conditioner: Cooles and altitude releasing the girl’s rosy red cheeks Heates: If you want just condition of warm from the suction caused by the cabin presin your room, please control yourself. Top 10 Rejection Lines Given By Gay men sure. Latest reports suggest that the mother, In a Zurich hotel: Because of the impropri(and what they actually mean...) (Note: also suitable for straights with proper gender adjustment) nine-year-old, and toilet bowl are recuperating ety of entertaining guests of the opposite sex and are doing fine. in the bedroom, it is suggested that the lobby be 10. I think of you as a brother. used for this purpose. (You remind me of that inbred banjo-playing geek in “Deliverance.”) In an advertisement by a Hong Kong dentist: Teeth Lying Eyes and Pies 9. There’s a slight difference in our ages. (You are one Jurassic geezer.) If ever a shop window display looks too good to be true extracted by the latest Methodists. In an Acapulco hotel: The manager has personally 8. I’m not attracted to you in ‘that’ way. then first instincts may prove correct; bakery staff mis(You are the ugliest dork I’ve ever laid eyes upon.) takenly sold an unwitting customer a fake meat pie which passed all the water served here. 7. My life is too complicated right now. On the faucet in a Finnish washroom: To stop the drip, was part of a window display. The delicacy was made of (I don’t want you spending the whole night or else you may hear phone turn cock to right. real pastry but was treated with household varnish and calls from all the other guys I’m seeing.) 6. I’ve got a boyfriend filled with woodchips. A shop assistant, who was away on (who’s really my cat and a half gallon of Ben and Jerry’s). the day the window was decorated, was asked about the 5. I don’t date men where I work. pie by a customer and mistakenly sold it to him. Staff are (Hey, bud, I wouldn’t even date you if you were in the same solar sysnow trying to trace the customer in an attempt to make tem, much less the same building.) amends. 4. It’s not you, it’s me.
Scottish Zipless Code Traveling along the interstates can prove to be a challenge to your sense of geography as you pass through such seemingly far away places like Berlin, Jerusalem, and Baghdad to name but a few examples. The same problem sppears to have afflicted a U.S. company after a shipment of steel huts ended up in the wrong Aberdeen. The consignment of storage buildings, should have been dispatched from Baltimore to nearby Aberdeen, just six miles along the Maryland coast. Instead the cargo was loaded onto a ship and sent on a 4,000-mile journey across the ocean to Aberdeen in Scotland.
Tomb of the Unknown Fact #14 Mel Blanc (the voice of Bugs Bunny) was allergic to carrots
(It’s not me, it’s you.) 3. I’m concentrating on my career. (Even something as boring and unfulfilling as my job is better than dating you.) 2. I’m celibate. (I’ve sworn off men like you.) 1. Let’s be friends. (I want you to stay around so I can tell you in excruciating detail about all the other men I meet and have relationships with.)
Why do mice have such tiny balls?
Six Shots huh??
Because not many of them know how to dance!
A young man walks up and sits down at the bar. “What can I get you?” the bartender inquires. “I want 6 shots of Jagermeister,” responds the young man. “6 shots?!? Are you celebrating something?” “Yeah, my first blowjob.” “Well, in that case, let me give you a 7th on the house.” “No offense, sir. But if 6 shots won’t get rid of the taste, nothing will.”
Good Golly, Bob Marley HEY I picked up your February issue and well, my opinion is my opinion and at this point it hasn’t been totally formed yet. Except for the dreaded mistake on your calendar!! Bob Marley was born on February 6th!! It’s a huge fact. I share the same day and if you go to his house in Jamaica then you’d see it’s the 6th and if you notice there is always a celebration for him on the 6th no matter what day it falls on. Plus, in all sorts of record books, etc. So get it together and write your wrong! Thanx. I think this Sunday morning your paper has actually aggravated my hangover. - No Name
This month’s browsers: Martin, Tim, and Jon
“Attention all loser bands-Please write your name on these walls. In 5 years you’ll be pumping gas in some shithole ghetto living on your sorry ass faded dreams anyway”
Director Lingo’s Peeripheral Visions
Dear No Name, Thanks for pointing out the error. It just goes to show: never trust a place called “Random House” for information!
All quotes guaranteed overseen
“And even if we are, at least we’ll know we tried something & you’ll be bragging that you saw us when & wondering whether you could ever have done something in life”
The New York Hangover March or Die! 1997
National Guardsman, L.A. Riots, April 1992 Photo by William Tyler Smith
Coney Phone Phony Coney Island High Still A Target Despite Good Faith Efforts
The shiny new phones behind the bars at Coney up a fight that had broken out amongst members. Island High aren’t getting much use. At least, not from the one person they were installed to please.
“I tell other club owners what Board I have to deal with, and they roll their eyes and offer their
“She calls me at home now,” says sympathy.” Lindsey
“They invoked the Rowdy Bar Bill against us,”
on Anderson continues. “It was ridiculous. I went to
St. Mark’s Place. Anderson is referring to a neighbor the meeting with all the documentation of what of Coney Island High, who is leading a one-woman steps we’d taken”—including new soundproofing, crusade to shut down the club, under the city’s dra- extra security details, and cleaning crews to sweep conian “Rowdy Bar Bill.”
the street, dispatched as early as 5 a.m. “It didn’t
“She used to complain that nobody would pick up matter. This woman just jumped up and said ‘she’s the phone, so we had lines installed at every bar,” lying!’ even though I had the proof in my hand. They Anderson explains. “I asked her why she doesn’t weren’t interested.” just call the bar if she has a complaint, so they could do
Lindsey Anderson, Dana McDonald, and Curt Anderson, by the phones at Coney island High (Photo: TH)
something about it on the spot, and she said, ‘when I call you, I get results’.”
The night of the vote, the neighbor was in rare form.
“She called me at home and said, ‘Guess what we’re going to do to you tonight’.”
A flattering vote of confidence, to be sure, but one
Indeed, two Hangover editors witnessed a
their neighbor apparently does not bother to share similarly nasty scene at the Community Board
Yeah, that’s right, I’m talking to you. Think you’re immune to the sort of harrassment that a few malcontents and rent evaders are causing for clubs and bars all over the East Village? Think again: Big Business, working with the Mayor and the Police, are going to pave the streets with fool’s gold, making that Rolling Rock in your hand a $5 item, and filling that great country jukebox with whatever top-40 and classic rock crap some suburban entrepreneur can stuff it with “We’re a nice place. No trouble here.”. Maybe you want a Starbucks on every corner. Maybe you think there aren’t nearly enough McDonald’s already in this city. If, however, you happen to think, like us, that the Village must be protected from greedy speculators and interlopers, the TIME TO ACT IS NOW... So WRITE! E-MAIL! FAX! the people below. Tell them that you are a resident, friend of a resident, or patron of establishments like Coney Island High, and that you feel that they help the neighborhood far more than the few tourblemakers could ever hurt it. And if you think “well, it’s only Coney Island, and I don’t like that place anyway, it’s not going to happen to (your favorite bar here), THINK AGAIN, bucko...
with others, particularly the members of Community sub-committee meeting on February 18, when a Board 3, a board notorious in its own right. On at couple who wanted to propose a new bar in the least one occasion, the police were called in to break neighborhood were shouted down by a board member, who screamed “I don’t have the time for
WHAT YOU CAN DO: E-mail your letters of support to firstname.lastname@example.org and they will forward them to the proper authorities. Or, if you’d like to be a bit more proactive, here’s who to write to:
LETTER OF THE MONTH State Liquor Authority
Dear E d What’s itor s: allDtheisa wor k o IrhEeadrit u ao pumpi t I5wdaoyrskaowu brosu:t Rowdy ng airom e t Barbe e k5, adna nf barbe ll; oar, cf I uharivoeunsevoe v dyinsaall mwyeye lls? I ot.r I r eenrcoth eakr,saon press, unisteR fdI a sirnoipn thnatamllam t r t e e y o d r , w ya eba py, IStha a ad rowing r o y e w r l l s B i d i g r yarbe v mastnee eorefnpt u mraochwi ll bem r, voe ndey! ba e n r p c r e h i veenncao -ng rbell; bellig r u o wndt or e Stair rent ben , for that yered a m ch m mach aster, or press, a atter, a e— ine! s veRnoca n Sign kabroillyw ippy ed, d R a y lphrow Rock ing abilly Ralp h
Cc: SLA 11 Park Place NY NY Ruth Messinger 10007 Borough President Municipal Bldg. CB3 1 Center St. 59 E. 4th St. 19th Fl. NY NY 10003 10007 attn: Susan Vaughn, chairperson The other important person to get letters to is: The Honorable Senator Catherine
The New York Hangover...Because if we wanted to get bitten, we’d buy a damn dog
Notes on the Art of the Tragic
sonnet for undergraduates
I could call on my angels, terrible or not, but what would they say?
There is no silver here, there is no gold, blood is all there is, and gray.
You lucky, pissed-off kids, what would you do if everything you yell about came true? A life of run-down, poster-laden flats, the broken coffee pot, the alley rats, the roaches and assorted nameless bugs, the mismatched curtains and the random rugs, the dripping faucet and the angry tunes, the sink of yogurt scraps and pita spoons...
See how the night pours its ink into the sky. At the carnival, loudspeakers blared clarinet music into the street.
What is jazz but a degenerate species of the baroque, the junkyard of Victorian sentimentalism?
But Christopher, he is like a skyrocket going up or a shooting star going down, brilliant and lovely, yet with no guarantee of a future.
You think it’s great. We just don’t understand, who live our lives and have our lives in hand. We stab you in the back when we invest in...anything. You won’t spare your sullen rest to think or plan beyond your next soiree. The trust fund kicks in finally, anyway.
Oh, mother, help me, I love him —Jonathan Hall
The Mighty Moon A child-girl standing alone Before the mighty, mighty moon She knows, it won’t Be talking to her ever, But she’s still standing there like a fool She’s waiting, She’s waiting, She’s waiting through the night ... Until the sun rise. She believes, she’s flying through a blue sky. She believes, she’s flying like the birds are, like the winds, the clouds, like the whole world flying through the centuries in the universe.
I have to bring is a book of water. There are too many AllWhat burning all around: is that balanced with a kiss? the fire of yes and no, the fire of childhood, the fire of the What happens to those who bring the and the the fire of ears, the fire of tongues, long sadness of flesh and the joy of tears that the fire of rubies and roses and regret. subvert the world?
Look at that man I saw yesterday. He was stil young, but already his arms hung down by his side like limp fish as he walked with his girlfriend. In a time of barbarism there is much to overlook. Just now gray light fills the bedroom. I get up, square my pillows, smooth the sheets. I see the scars of childhood on my hands, rub away the sand of dreams from my eyes. Assuredly, rectangles of orange light wash the wall, then move to gold. I remember his shadow across the bed. The day assumes its burden of glory. —Robert Klein Engler
—by Ludmila Agreppina Kulagina Evanova
I GUESS HE’S FROM A FOREIGN COUNTRY The Road Kill Grill is taking a month off, while Tamsen Donner scours the Southwest for some fresh kills
His blond hair is held in a ponytail by a red and gold band. He has fine fingers, and studies The Rules of the Road as we wait in line to get our driver’s license. I am on the other side of the Aegean-blue chain that dips in waves across the room. There are gods, but we cannot get near them. —Robert Klein Engler
Zito And Zen Some The Souse Chef Gin Mai Cha Here’s one I learned to make in one of those Kyoto cathouses where drunk Japanese businessmen dress up in big diapers and get burped, spanked, and nursed by the hostesses, and pay through the pacifier for the privilege. I was just watching...honest. What you need: Gen Mai Cha (green tea w/ roasted rice) Gin A cracked tea cup hello. boil water. pour over 1 tsp. of gen mai cha in cracked tea cup. think, “who the hell would drink this stuff?” Take hit off gin bottle.
A Vague Review of the Antony Zito Art Opening at CBGB’s Gallery
By Simon Sun February 11, 1997 It was a strange moment. It was hard enough focusing on her voice as I was introduced to her through four glasses of red wine that was so dry, it virtually evaporated off your gums as you drank each gulp and the stoned haze of the weed I’d smoked outside earlier that I had been keeping in my fridge for months since I got in Hanover, PA. I’m Gwen. I’m Simon. I know...we’re neighbors! I squinted in confusion at her vaguely familiar face. You live in Brooklyn too? No... She giggles and points to the wall of portraits. I’m the one on the coffee tray! My red eyes go up and I see her face perfectly reproduced on a coffee tray hanging next to be perfectly reproduced face on a semi-
circle table. I finally get it and we both laugh at the absurdity of meeting someone in such bizarre circumstances. It was a strange moment. It had all begun with Tony, a local artist and musician I’ve known for a few years now, wanting to do a series of portraits on odd ‘canvasses’. We would choose the surface, he would paint in his own piercing style. Some took longer, but most, including my own only lasted an hour or so. And now a dozen or more familiar faces adorned the wall of CBGB’s Gallery for his joint opening with Brian Knott and Deanna Leiphart. The surfaces ranged from an ironing board to table tops, trays, anything and everything you could put acrylic paint on. Some looked ominous in their translation. Others looked charming, almost cartoon-like, picking out the most distinct trait in a person and pouring it into the face. I dragged my two workmates, funky drummer Frank and West Coast Theo, down to the opening and we drank the wine like death Continued on p. 14
The New York Hangover March or Die 1997
GAMBLING WITH THE PRIESTS by Giovanna Melchiorre
hen I woke up in the bedroom I shared with my sister, I crawled out of my bed and started jumping on hers, trying to rouse her from unnecessary sleep. “The festival is today! Wake up!,” I cried, as my chubby little body jumped up and down. I ran downstairs, to remind my parents. “The festival is today!” I yelled, about to explode. My father, who looked at me disinterestedly as he sipped his espresso, said nothing. My mother continued to do the dishes as I yelled, “We’ll miss the parade, mama!” “Giovanna, zita! La festa incomincia a mezzo giorno. Sono lo’otto di mattina!” The festival always occurred in June on the grounds—well, the city block—of our church, Our Lady of Angels. We moved to another neighborhood a few years before, but the feast always brought us, along with everyone else, back. The festival was to honor Saint Gabriel, the patron saint of Abruzzi, the province where my family came from. Saint Gabriel is also the patron saint of young adults. Years later, instead of the talks my parents were supposed t o give me about the facts of life, I’d find the Italian -written Saint Gabriel newsletter on my bed, filled with letters by teenagers in Italy asking for advice about sex. My parents figured teenagers living in the mountains of Italy and teenagers in Philadelphia were going through the same thing. The church still exists today, although the neighborhood has become a rough section of West Philadelphia, where gunshots can be heard nightly and empty crack vials on the sidewalk are as common as the autumn leaves in a suburban yard. A few old Italians still live in the area; their devotion to the church is stronger than their fear of the crackheads. A few years back, Vincenzo, the neighborhood pizza man, was butchered to death in the back room of his pizzeria for the few hundred bucks in his register. When my family finally got ready, we piled into our huge old Chrysler and cruised to the old neighborhood. Master Street was already bustling with people. The church bells were ringing--mixed with the sounds of the game wheels--signaling the start of the parade. My sisters took off to find their friends, heading for the two rides in the small playground. Uniformed men on the makeshift bandstand were shooting off rifles simultaneously, bursting my ear drums. After what seems ages, the ushers from the church brought out the statues of Saint Gabriel, the Virgin Mary and Jesus for the procession. Old men and women clamored to stick dollar bills on the statues. The statues led the band down the street, and the crowd started following: old Italian women dressed in black clutching their rosary beads, old men with canes who found the strength to walk, teenagers, members of the local motorcycle gangs, the priests of the parish. We toured the whole neighborhood, past Vincenzo’s Pizza (this was years before he was butchered), past Campagna’s store, past every corner, step and house of my young life. The saints were accumulating more and more cash as the band played on. We circled the neighborhood until we turned back onto Master Street. The afternoon sun shone bright; now that the solemn parade was over, it was time to party. I clutched on to my mom as she greeted all of her friends. “Giovanna, che bella!” the Italian women would yell, as they pinched my cheeks so hard I had to hold back the tears. I was getting antsy as my mom got into conversations about where the best price for fish was, where to find the best cuts of meat and so forth. Thinking of an escape route, I tried to find my papa, but, when I did, he was already sitting with other men, drinking wine and playing games. I wandered into the hall, which was made into the makeshift casino and had extra seating for people eating. The neighborhood wives were busy serving
spaghetti and meatballs, roast pork sandwiches, funnel cakes and roast beef. There were tables for black jack and craps, and gambling wheels, all dealt by the priests and the nuns of the church. The hall floor was littered with the strips of paper in which you had to match 3 pieces of fruit, like a slot machine. The big payoff occurs when you get three bars in a row and win 50 bucks. I went over to the church usher who was selling these to the drunken masses and followed him around. Beehived women with Virginia Slims sticking out of the sides of their mouths were buying twenty at a time. A drunken man bought a huge stack of these and slurred to me, “You ripa halva. Ifa you ween, you keepa haf da money.” I sat down and slowly peeled back the games with one eye shut. The anxiety! I got a few rows of cherries and one or two lemons. And, as sure as a boy could look u p my dress by my patent leather shoes, there they were: three bars in a row. I jumped up and down and ran up to the drunk man. “Look, I won! I won! He grabbed the ticket from me as his friends laughed at him. Cursing, he reached in his pocket and gave me twenty five dollars as Father Michele watched. With my newfound wealth, I found my mama eating a plate of pasta. I sat on mama’s lap and ate meatballs and spaghetti. I listened to the conversations around me, not understanding why everything was so funny. The crazy casino wheels were spinning and spinning and the people were getting more boisterous. I ran around greeting all the grownups I knew: Zia Regina! Zia Giannina! Zio Pasquale! Franco! Michelina! Every time I sat on someone’s lap, I would feel the cool metal of a quarter pressed into my warm palm. Wandering outside with a fistful of quarters, I came upon one of the wheel games. I put a quarter on the number 7. A woman named Rita with a beehive slowly turned the wheel. Around and around it went until I thought I was about to burst. It stopped on seven. I stared at her wide-eyed as she said, “Well, go ahead! Pick a prize!” in a thick Philadelphia accent. I looked at a Panda bear and said, “I want the Panda.” “You want the Pantha?” She pulled down a Pink Panther and threw it at me. I looked at it. Not having the nerve to tell her she
gave me the wrong stuffed animal, I grabbed Pink Panther and walked away with my head down. I held my Panther close and followed the loud crowd to the end of the block. And there she loomed in the distance. The greasepole! How fitting that my childhood festival would include a greasepole. Four men would climb on each other’s shoulders, with the last man trying to climb to the top to reach an assortment of prizes, such as a carton of Marlboros, a cut of proscuitto, a roll of provolone cheese, a bundle of money. Who says Italians don’t know how to have fun? This was the highlight of the festival, and the first teach would try to climb the pole as the sun was about to go down. The people at the festival, who were completely blitzed b y now, had enough wine and beer in their systems to yell at each team trying to grab the prizes. We all watched as the beer-bellied men with the wifebeater tshirts would slide down the pole, just short of reaching the prizes, one after the other, walking away all slathered in grease. Soon, though, all of the prizes were claimed--save the roll of provolone--and papa led us to our boat of a car away from the festivities. Cruising the narrow streets on our way home, my eyelids became heavy as I clutch my stuffed pink panther and said in a groggy voice, “When is the next festival?”
The New York Hangover. . . Once again, with feeling
MACTOTUM: Temporary Tales From The Disposable Workforce by WP Mavin
he acid was kicking in when Big Marie came
ting across from me was Diana, a skin tight Greek
out of the bathroom in a pink bath towel,
goddess, erotically ripped Levi’s showing a passion-
which around her looked more like a dish
ate knee, the wood panelling behind her malachite
Her eyes brightened.
rag. She lumbered to the bedroom and shut the
hair pulsing alive with
“Really? You mean it?”
door. There was a line already.
“Sure,” I said, “I’ll do it.”
I had been holding the guitar for a while, I was the only one who could play something. The strings were shimmering laser beams of gold
“I’ll get you beers if you’ll keep playing,” she said.
“Tell you what, Marie--why don’t I just come in and play some songs while you, uh...work?”
We went in. There was a broken down easy chair in one corner by the window. The mattress was in
After about an hour Big Marie came out and
the middle of the floor, bare, no sheets. They were
jelly, and I’d finally found a song that everybody
announced she was taking a break. The group at
the only two pieces of furniture in the room. I took
could sing along to.
the door murmured dejectedly. She went to the
We are one person, we are two alone
fridge, got a beer, and wandered in and out of rooms, nothing on but the pink towel.
The first guy went in. We didn’t hear anything.
Be on my side
When he came out a little while later he was look-
I’ll be on your side
ing like he invented it. The next one went in.
The six or so of us in the circle in the corner
We are three together
were heavy into new song when Marie came over.
we are each for other
“I thought you were gonna come have fun! You
It went on like that for a while. The door
said you and your friend were going to play cards
Marie went over to the mattress and dropped the towel. Then she laid herself out like the maja and in a stunning phone-sex voice purred: “Ready, boys.” The door opened and Seth came in. He was out of it, far past the point that I’d even know where my dick was, let alone get it hard. He was followed, timidly, by Satish. “Thought I’d take yer place at the card table,”
opened, the door closed. When it was open there
on my back.” She was talking about Satish, who was Seth slurred. Marie rolled her eyes and looked at
was nothing but inky blackness, but I could see
still a virgin.
waves of pink perfumed sex billowing out of the
“Sorry, Marie , I’m tripping. It was a joke.”
“He’s all right,” I said.
room—or the rat- stinking piss of toothless
She put on a sad face. So did Satish. Hell.
“I’m not getting sloppy seconds,” Seth bellowed,
blowjob alleys, depending on where my head
I felt kind of bad. I had been making fun of Big
was. But I was having a good time. The girl sit-
Marie earlier, calling her B.M. for short, etc.
dropping his pants and stumbling to the foot of the bed.
GIULANI UBER ALLES Yes boys and girls it seems that our fearless mayor is just some guy that got pushed around when he was a kid (look at his son). It seems as though this power freak has done a terrible misservice to us in our fair city. Our beloved mayorhas imposed his Quality of Life crap way too far. Basically ,what he has done is ruin the night life of the city that never sleeps. NEVER. I used to hang out on the street. I loved it. I never beat up an old lady. All of my friends hung on the street. We used to chill on some stoop and watch the world go past. It was always quite a show. Much better than t.v. and it was real. It inspired me in ways that I could of never of imagined. I met people I would never have met any other way. I met Allen Ginsberg sitting on a stoop on 9th st. at 3:00a.m. It was an exhilarating experince. But then Rudy wanted to bust potsmokers (Rudy himself stormed out of his motorcade and made acitizens arrest on two yuppie stock types right on wall St.). So the police started to look for potsmokers. The problem here is that ANYONE could be a potsmoker. In my high school 57% of my class mates answered a survey saying they did smoke pot—and those were the ones who answered—a crackhead or a junkie looks a little disheveled— messy and pretty wasted. But potsmokers don’t really have any recoginzable traitsother than forgetting their zip code and friends phone numbers...And you can’t go around arresting people for that can you? Well,you can’t .and they don’t,Öusually .But they can encourage people to stay off the streets.How ? Scare tactics.It happened to me recently.I was standing on a corner talking to friend that I had’nt seen in a while. The cops came over and saidî Hey! You can’t stand on this cornerÖî Natrully we asked why and they replied that it was a ìBad Cornerî ÖWhatever the fuck that means.They continued to stare at us with an intimidating glance until we movedFrom what I hear this ius going on every where..If you look like a potsmoker whatever that is. I recently read that they arrested a therapist hancuffed him to a chair and worked him over for walking his dogs.We need police for the police.At least 7 people have died at the hands of nypd in the last 5 years as a result of illegal choke holds and other fun stuff.Soon the cops are going start arresting themselves. What has this over policing of the hood done? Scare people off the streets.Especially late at night.The bar business has suffered horribly through this nightmare. The west village is now a ghostown after midnight and good old L.E.S.home of the brave is being watched like a suburban Orwell nightmare. Has anyone heard about the surveyllance cameras they want to install in time square???. I went to N.j.to visit my mom a couple of years ago and two police cars followed me thenîpulled me overîand harrassed me almost arresting me for walking. ..Think it could get worse than that?.It did..I got a ticket for standing on avenue A during broad daylight .The summose read: Blocking pedestrian trafficÖ.It scared me.I’m still scared, why you ask? Because they gave me a ticket for having an alchoholic beverage as well ..The main problem with this is that I had no drink in my hand or anywhere near me.Fucked up you say? You just might..Did you know that Amnesty International put theNYPD on their list of human rights violators for not informing people of their rights and flat out deniying the most basic of human rights? Miranda The NYPD has always been out of control but now Rudy ,that guy with the nasty Hitler combover haircut has given them some serious elbow rtoom to do what they want.This whimsical law enforcement shit has to stop. It all makes me feel like I’m back in high school and all the cops are those guido morons who want to fight you because you have long hair and think about things that they don’t understand, like understanding. Compassion.You know, that stuff that makes you a human. They also hated me because I got all the girls and all they got was a peek at the other guys in the gym locker room. They used to yell Freak!!!! The main problem is that I could just kick their ass then, now it is called assauling an OAFicer o’de Law punishable by gun shots to the forehead.And that’s the part that really sucks. THERE IS A LESSON HERE— VOTE AGANST RUDY!!!!!!!!!! —CHARLES LAMBWHISTLE
The New York Hangover March or Die 1997
loose from that rope, I don’t know how I tied it as tight as I could without having his hands turn blue, and then he grabs my shoulders and flips me on my back, one quick motion, tiny whoosh. He’s on top of me, I told you tie it tight girl, maybe next time. He gets inside of me, pumping straight up and down, while I try to get him to move with me going around and around, grinding into him. He grabs my hair and winds it around his hand twice, and pulls my head back til my back arches. Now it’s time. I pinch his nipples as hard as I can until March 7th the pounding becomes perfectly rhythmic, little Slept with Duane last night. Met him at Hell 2 arcs, and he comes. My whole body shakes in weeks ago amongst all the toy girls & glamour little spasms when he pulls out of me; I’m sensiboys. tized to him and I feel him withdraw inch by inch. March 8th Sometimes we come together, if I haven’t by that Duane called me today. He wants to do sometime already. We always finish at 1.21. It’s becomthing tonight. ing uncanny. Later- 4am March 10 I’m writing this in bed. Duane is sleeping, & I We sit at dinner, finished, in a cold hard room can just barely see by the light of the 4 night lights and we don’t talk. He reaches across the table and he has in his room. He told me a secret tonight, I touches my face and I feel a warmth course through think he thought it might shock me, but I wasn’t too my body and in between my legs. Slight shiver in my surprised. I could see he had a kink in him a mile spine, and we’re in a cab. He’s kissing my face while wide from the moment I met him. I’m usually good he tells the cabdriver “Just drive.” I kiss his neck and with people that way, I have this intuition whereby he puts his thumb in my mouth and I suck it sometimes I can just tell all about a person by like his little girl. His other hand on my thigh, looking at them. And with him, that’s what it was; thumb and forefinger fondling the fabric of that, and maybe the rope incident. my dress. I kiss him on the mouth, hand on We were laying on the bed, him on top of me, his neck, pulling him towards me. My other little kisses all over my face and he has something hand is on his chest, rubbing his nipples. He to show me. What, I say as he lays back and takes slides his hand up my dress and in between my legs, something out of the chest next to the bed. Coil of rubbing the tip of my clit til I can’t sit still anymore. rope, he says. Oh I don’t know, I’m claustrophobic The cab stops, we’re in front of his house, and I don’t I say, and he says ok, tie me then, whatever you even remember him giving the driver directions to get wish. So I think about how to do this & I’m sure there. he doesn’t mean tie him up like my Daddy used to Latertie up calves at the rodeo, all fours in front, I can’t We’re in bed, his face between my legs while I see any fun for either of us in that, so I ask. Just bite his thighs. Famous 69. My fingers are my hands, behind my back. Tie them flat on the tip of his cock, gently touching, against me good and tight. Well, I’m an ever so lightly, a slight involuntary obliging person,so I do it and I say what move towards my mouth. I lick it with now, and he says, now you go to town, the tip of my tongue, gently, and you go girl, so I do. slide it in my mouth, moving up and I straddle him and bite his nipple hard, down on him slowly , then faster and holding it between my teeth, licking it with faster. I put my finger up his ass and his the tip of my tongue. Kiss his mouth and force body jolts at the intrusion, almost like he’s my tongue inside. He only moans and his cock gets been given an electric shock. He shudders and harder; I’m excited by this so I scratch up and down gasps a little and I can tell he’s close to coming, so his chest with red fingernails, like fresh dark blood I immediately pull out and leave him there at the just pumped from the heart, drawing blood. On top edge. He turns around to look at me, unbelieving, of him I’m just pumping away, and he lays there not moving, letting it be done to him, girlish boy. He lets and I wriggle out from underneath him and almost fall off the bed. me move all over him, working him, supine, taking He catches me before I tumble, pulling at my it all in. waist with both hands, pulling me towards him. I’m I relax a little, this is easy, I was nervous I might on my hands and knees on the bed now, trying to do something wrong, oops spoke too soon. He’s squirm away, no use. He’s on top of me, biting the
back of my neck, firmly pushing my shoulders down until I’m on my elbows and knees, my ass presented perfectly to him. His hand is on my lower back, keeping me in place, as he enters me from behind, teasing, just the tip of his cock inside me, in and out, in and out. Smooth quick strokes. The tease too much, I try to push myself up on my hands, but he sees this and pulls me suddenly towards him, his whole cock now inside me and I’m knocked off balance, on my elbows again, face buried in the pillow. He moves faster now and begins to moan, one hand on my ass pushing me back and forth and the other pinching my nipple. I start to come and I take him with me, and we collapse together onto the bed. He kisses my face and says oh Candi Candi, and promises next time to take off that damn Cat Diesel Power cap.
JOURNAL OF THE DAMNED been living in this apartment with my girlfriend for over a year now. It’s a coop, she bought it but I like it just the same. And there’s this kid who screams downstairs in the apartment below and I don’t like him. I swear I’ve never heard him say a word though he tries but it all sounds like messages from the devil. Six! Six! Six!, he bellows and I run for cover and wish I still kept a Bible in the house. I’m on the front stoop now and the kid’s father just went in. We don’t say anything anymore ëcause he knows it’s me who from time to time yells back: will you shut that fucking child up shut him up have mercy and close the goddamn windows. But he tells the kid not to listen and when I turn the music on louder he opens the windows ever more. I don’t know what if anything is wrong with the kid. His eyes are kind of crossed but you figure anybody who yells like that kid does, morning into night seven days a week, something’s bound to get fucked up. And I tell you I don’t care anymore. The compassion has drained out of me like yesterday’s chicken soup. Maybe that’s what life in a city like ny or la or san fran does to you, but I’m praying that someday daddy snaps and takes out the whole family, himself included, and the kitchen sink too. Maybe one day I’ll come home from the grocery store and there they’ll be, three body bags thrown into the Brink’s armored car. And I’ll go up to my place and cook a steak and later I’ll turn to my girlfriend and say: honey I feel like dancing tonight. —Michael Passafiume October, 1994
The New York Hangover . . . Illiterati, Indede!
The Smallest Room In The House:
A Letter to the Editors
Books Of Our Hangovers Virus of the Mind by Richard Brodie (251 pp; Integral Press) I was walking down Madison Ave. last week in a real funk. My therapist had just told me I had a problem with anger, and I was pissed. I stopped to fume at the review bin of a local bookstore, and one cover caught my eye. Virus of the Mind, by Richard Brodie. Virus, I thought. Of the mind. Hm. Yes. Nice cover. Hard. Light, but rigid. It would do nicely, yes. I took the book, went in and let the clerk and American Express punch it out. Virus of the Mind is a layman’s guide to memetics, the study of memes. The word meme was coined by Oxford biologist Richard Dawkins, in his 1976 book “the Selfish Gene”. Dawkins defines a meme as “the basic unit of cultural transmission, or imitation.” “According to this definition,” Brodie elaborates, “everything we call “culture” is composed of atomlike memes, which compete with one another. These memes spread by being passed from mind to mind in the same way genes spread by being passed down through sperm and egg.” Sure...but it’s not nearly as much fun. According to this model, everything from popular songs to hemlines to, say, the sudden popular-
by Charles D. Gray
ity of white Ford Broncos in Southern California a few years back can be explained by memetics. So, with all this talk about memes, where do the viruses come in? Brodie explains on p. 36: “A virus of the mind is something out in the world that infrects people with memes. Those memes, in turn, influence the infected people’s behavior so that they help perpetuate and spread the virus.” [see sidebar, below] Can you say “Jonestown”? Can you say “if the glove don’t fit, you must acquit”? Now you’re getting it! Well, that about does it. Or, as the joke goes among us Memeticians, “Hasta la Visa, baby!”
The Sincerest Form Of Flattery, or Memetic Mutation? You Make The Call!
Study and compare the opening paragraphs below. The first appeared in the November 1996 issue of the Hangover. The second appeared in the 1/8/97 NYPress.
“Sometimes, when you’re lucky, the squall and hew quiet down long enough and you sense a great expansion in the cosmos, the lungs of your life taking a deep, slow beautiful breath. The ghosts of old loves, the spectre of unrealized dreams and ambitions, which normally loiter in the dark alleys of your mind making menacing gestures and daring you to try again, are quiet and still.” —WP Mavin, “My Soul Called Life, Pt. 1”, The New York Hangover, 11/96
“Even in the worst of lives, lives in which it seems nothing has gone as planned, everything’s just become a shambles, there are moments, crystalline moments, which, for some reason that never seems clear at the time, remain with you forever—and you know immediately that they will. Good moments when, for just an instant in the Big Mess, everything seems right.” —Jim Knipfel, “Slackjaw”, NYPress, 1/8/97
Memetic mutation, or a fan letter in disguise? YOU BE THE JUDGE!
Dear Sirs: Some time ago, my friend Emilio went insane. We were huddled around our data entry terminals (sirs, you know the place, 19 Big Government Plaza, 50th Floor), and poor Emilio rushes in with his hair afire and a wild look in his eyes, screaming, “Sweet Jesus! The bastards are bombing Washington!” Naturally, we were all quite concerned, but a quick check of the TV news informed us that Washington was quite safe from [I]external[/I] powers, just serenely consuming itself as always. We gave Emilio some coffee and tried our best to calm him down, but by closing time it became necessary to have him committed. Sirs, this sort of behavior must stop. We cannot and will not tolerate any further such deviations from the tranquil paths we have laid for ourselves. We have abdicated certain measures of domestic authority; in return we expect only that you, Big Media, grant us a modicum of truth. Think of poor Emilio, whom your headlines have driven mad. Our demands are simple: 1)An immediate cessation of open hostilities around the globe. 2)A gradual phasing-out of clandestine schemes at world domination, both international and domestic. 3)A rescinding of all contrary statements contradicting the obverse of any and all implied or openly stated diametric manifestos, regardless of historicity or public consent. 4)A drastic reduction in the price of over-the-counter nerve-calming pharmaceuticals. Failure to meet with our demands in a timely fashion will result in a stream of misinformation pouring into Big Government terminals, so thick and so precise in its untruthfulness, that the bastards, sirs, will truly be bombing Washington ere long. We trust you have the power, and will see the reason in our humble demands. For the people, Municipal Employee #XRQ119
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K arefully Kut Along Dotted Line And Proudly Post For All To Enjoy! And Remember, Never Run With Scissor s! ✁
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HEY KIDS! KEYHOLE is a hot new alternative comic by HANGOVER cartoonists Bean “Billy Dogma” Haspiel and Josh “West Town Story” Neufeld. High romance, urban fictions, reallife travel adventures--KEYHOLE’s got it all! Look for KEYHOLE at See Hear, St. Mark’s Comics or your local comics specialty shop.
This has been Keyhole Korner: Turn page for Kickin’ Kory’s Kalendar
The New York Hangover March or Die! 1997
1/23/97, Thursday evening a t, the end of the memorial tonigh
Devastated. At is now no more. Decapitated. . nightmare. Bad dream. eam scr I away at age thir ty and I Just a rose, yet still woman said these words: James Whitman Eckle passed .” re. out mo way ch in the middle of many unfin“Take a rose on your Just a rose, yet so mu miss him. As an author, I am r.” Two the . ano wife buy my Go for l? attempt to complete those “What’s the big dea I took three roses. One ished projects. I will go on and was e ros The h e. eac ros a for n e tha ros re re. I will continue to sing No, the rose was mo for my two daughters. One projects, and create many mo rose The . ing ryth eve and ing writ ever long. Later James. James, and beauty, and member of my family. my song. However short. How t/ rtis r/a tho t/au James Eckle was a poe was a symbol. -Chris Bodor on December So I call you and I give you the “hour ear ly good news.” th dea gic tra a d die who nd frie into ry sto a month, he left You say that I don’t sound too good, and I say 21, 1996. When he died last can spit out is that James s. His old ject the thir ty-second phone. All I behind many unfinished pro don’t sound okay, because t tonight at is dead and so is your rose. I roommate confirmed that fac mmate knew James died an unnecessary death, and so did your rose. the memorial. James’s old roo 7:58, Thursday eveind. I am writing these words on the everything that James left beh Grand k. The words that you just On my way home, I trudge to ning train to upstate New Yor blood, just the same. These looped read. Black ink. Not red, yet Central with those three roses ck wor k bag. words are somewhat poignant, somewhat blue. I miss you through the handles of my bla . In your death, you give me , an hour James. I learned a lot from you I arrive at Grand Central Station like mad dash to strength. You give me breath. I will not leave this Ear th ahead of schedule. I make a but p hel seconds for hed projects. I can’t you did, with all those unfinis the thir ty-second phone. Thirty t wan I th. The senseless act that bit. dea rab ry a reflect on your unnecessa twenty-five cents. Quick like that I am alive silenced your breath. to announce to you, my wife, e memorial Sasia said 7:58 train. Tonight, at the open microphon and I will arrive home on the ever at the cafe. Bump. I approach the phone. Tur n. that this was the best open mic es ros the of “Why” was my reply. Bumped into an asshole. One because every word was She said it was the best ever, real.
Random Nations: Chapter 10 Doctor Vinyl walked Eddy down a dark hallway, The doctor snaps his fingers and the corpse is ebony walls sweating pain, the stench pungent dragged away and fed to the cannibal twins in Room and yet fragrant in the perpetual midnight air. 20. He sighs. Cast iron doors every ten feet cast ominous noisAh, you have much to understand...my son. es into the tight hall. What the fuck is that gruntYou still haven’t shown me proof you’re my father. ing? Vinyl motions Door number 16. That? Why I don’t need to prove anything Edward. You know that would be Nightmare Nicholas...truly a tale of the truth. exquisite pain – mostly self-inflicted y’know. They walk into the next room of atrocities and Nicholas sits whimpering tied by his waist with Eddy is defeated for he does know the truth. On barbed wire to a leather chair. His eyebrows are the distant horizon, the sun rises and the moon shaved so sweat trickles down to his eyes. Eyes falls, the cycle of life continues regardless and in that no longer have eyelids – sliced off with razor this small part of a sick world a new life begins blades... deep in the mind of Eddy, a reluctant son. ...A long time ago. They say he hasn’t slept in ten years. Can you imagine the insanity living in a nightmare that never ends? Never to sleep, sweat stinging your eyes. Look at his arms... They were stubs: severed at the elbow. He can’t even gouge out his own eyes, poor fool. You’re a fuckin’ lunatic, Vinyl. zThe doctor laughs and sucks heavily on a cigarette, slowly exhaling the smoke into rings with a snap of his jaw. On the contrary, Edward. They...you are the lunatics. I merely...accommodate your dreams. I don’t want any part of this madness! They clear the hallway and enter a large bedroom illuminated with red light, Reluctant Son lava lamps and pornography that screams out of the multitude of TV screens that are attached to the ceiling. What is this? Edward dear boy... you already are part of this...madness. Vinyl stretches his bony fingers indicating the bed that is obscured by a curtain. It slowly unveils revealing the single figure of a skinny Indian man with his legs wrapped around his neck sucking his own engorged cock hungrily. Jesus... I have instructed him to hold back his orgasm ‘til now. It’s been about two days. The excitement is beyond expression on the man’s face as he comes. But due to his strange position, he cannot unlock his legs and the quantity of semen is horrifyingly massive. He chokes, unable to sit up and literally drowns in his own fluid. Do something!
Send in the Men Send in the men ‘cos God is on our side The enemy is plain to see They can’t use the courts to hide Send in the men The men are what we need A righteous fight, ‘cos might makes right We’ll hurt them if need be Send in the men And let God’s will be done If kill we must, we have God’s trust There’s justice in the fun Send in the men We’ll slaughter them, and kill her We know what’s right, the doctor’s in our sights We’ll kill those baby killers Send in the men We’ll put them in their graves If lives are lost, that’s just the cost of our “save a life” crusade! —Thom Jack
The New York Hangover March or Die! 1997
The Worley Gig
Music and Mayhem by Gail Worley
Cocktail Time This past weekend I was at the Continental to see Cocktaillica, my friend, Donna’s, band. Cocktaillica have been together for about a year, and their live shows get more amazing every time I see them play. Sue Horwitz, former lead singer for the Wives, plays bass and shares lead vocals with Donna, who also plays guitar. The power trio is complete with Dawn McGrath - formerly of the Sister’s Grimm - the most kick ass girl drummer on the planet. Never forgetting their innate superiority as women rockers or the importance of a keen sense of humor, Cocktaillica entertain visually as well as musically. I’ve seen them dress in evening wear and I’ve seen them perform in their pajamas. To keep you rocking-out at full throttle, Cocktaillica’s live sound merges garage punk, rockabilly and surf rock. They have style, they have class, they have songs that will knock you on your ass. My favorite Cocktaillica songs are from their 7” single; “No Yawk” and “Let’s Get Loaded.” “No Yawk” - a kind of a modern punk version of Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” - is featured on She’s a Rebel (Shanachie Records), a totally rocking compilation featuring all girl bands or bands with girls in them (i.e. The Muffs, Cake Like, Battershell). All proceeds from the sale of She’s a Rebel go to Breast Cancer research, so you know these chicks have their hearts in the right place. You should buy this record right away. If you want information on when and where Cocktaillica are playing around town, you can email me at email@example.com and I’ll give you all the skinny. They are just the best local all gal band, and you need to check out their live vibe for yourself. Gail’s Dating Tips I’ve had a pretty wild time floating around in the dating pool these past eight months. While I’ve received a brutal “crash course” education in the differences between men and women, I’ve also been graced with some mind-blowing epiphanies, which I feel compelled to share with my fellow women. Therefore, it will be my pleasure to offer Gail’s Dating Tips to you in my column each month. This month’s tip is real easy: Never date a Gemini man. The Gemini man has the gift of charm and the silver tongue, but he will eventually grow a second head, be horribly unfaithful and sleep with anything that moves. Next month: Why you should never date a rock critic. Passages When Alison Gordy called to apologize for RSVPing late to my birthday party, she had a really good excuse. Jamey Heathe, who played saxophone in Alison’s band, Blonde and Blue, for over five
years, had passed away a few days earlier, on February 7. Jamey was only 40 years old when he left the planet via a fatal dose of heroin, but he had been walking around with “tombstones in his eyes” as the song goes, for a long time. “He was trying to quit” Alison told me, “and I can’t tell you how many funerals I’ve been to for people who were trying to quit.” Alison met Jamey when the two of them toured the United States and Europe as part of Johnny Thunders band, from 1988 until the time of Thunders’ death in 1991. “He played with so many people, everybody it seems like,” she continued. From the Bangs to The Waldos, Jamie was always a part of the New York scene. He appeared regularly at jam sessions held at Kenny’s Castaways and most recently played some live shows with Elektra recording artists Hot Water Music. I’ve seen Blonde and Blue perform many times and, other than Alison’s resonant voice, Jamie’s haunting and ethereal sax was the main reason to be at one of their shows. Simply put, Jamie was brilliant. His unique style was probably owed to the fact that, unlike most sax players, Jamey didn’t come from a jazz background. “He was totally into rock and roll and never played sax for any other reason. He made an art out of what he did, he had a totally different sound. That’s why he’s so irreplaceable, because of his sound.” Jamey was also the only member of Alison’s band who was always a part of her line up. They were like family. When I remember how Jamey’s music made me feel, I know we were lucky to have him for as long as we did. To get on Alison Gordy’s mailing list or to purchase tape of her music featuring the immortal sax of Jamey Heath, call her at 3348312. This “Rowdy Bar Bill” has my panties in a bunch for sure. Great clubs like Coney Island High are being threatened by ignorant fascist whiners who just don’t know how to par ty. If you would like to help Save Coney Island High, you can write a letter stating your suppor t of the club and why it is an asset to St. Mark’s Place and the East Village in general and email it to Lindsay Anderson at firstname.lastname@example.org to get information about how you can support the scene and your neighborhood.
record contract An angry meaning dances in his eyes. He’s pierced the lies and beat the bullshit back. His hormones roar to change a stranger’s world. Uptown, the older men with flawless ties shake hands. A CD player changes track. The rebel’s manhood sleeping kitten-curled. —Jonathan Hall
(contact: 212/ 388-2278) This cassette release consists of four songs, which are both diverse, yet held together by certain elements. The first piece, “Time” is pretty much hard rock; though the guitar sounds too busy at times, the vocals of Amanda Harvey stand up to it, giving it a battle. The slower, more poppy “One Soul” is broader in its appeal, with the music underscoring Harvey’s voice, showing its range and chameleon-like ability. The funky, wah-wah-pedaled “Diamonds” has depth to it (and much to listen to) while “Owed” comes off as a lullaby-love song that’s almost folksy. The elements that hold the collection together are of a theme: moving on and starting anew, while casting away bad relationships. Also, the music (by Trevor Bowen), which complements Harvey’s voice, is mixed a little too low at times, which, while allowing Harvey’s voice to dominate the songs, is strong enough to support the vocals in a more integrated fashion. --Lydia Tomkiw
Splotch at The Cave As much as I hate to go to Brooklyn, especially on a Friday night, I found myself conveniently there - only one stop on the L train. Ok. Not so bad. As I stumble up to a garage converted into an art gallery with a 40-oz in hand, I remind myself that there has to be a damn good reason for me to go to Brooklyn. Ah-yes! Splotch. I hear the muffled sounds of the experimental noise band through the entrance, as I almost walk past the place. It’s been a year since I’ve seen these guys, and let me tell ya - I don’t want to wait that long ever again. Unfortunately, they don’t play often, so if you get the chance - don’t blow it! Splotch added a keyboard and a few samples this time around, but this hasn’t changed the music any. The band consists of Moe Fucker on drums, or should I say mom’s pots, pans, and cooking utensils. He takes command on a floor tom, bass drum, wok, high hat with a can on top, and a huge steel pipe that takes up half the stage area, with what looked like a tip bucket at the end of it. There was no actual use for the bucket to my knowledge, but my guess would’ve not been a bad idea, considering the money they made at the door was stolen. Next, you have Chicklet, playing powerful, experimental, psychedelic noise guitar, which sounds alot like my Rolling Rock guitar at 5 in the morning - except she’s a million times better. Vish kept a steady, pumping baseline throughout the show, accompanied by his trademark lit lightbulb attached to the end of the tuning keys, which, by the way, was the entire light show for their set. Last up, Tinks, the product of prozac and uppers, shouts out poetry to the music. Splotch has a song for everybody, such as My Life Is a Fax, Cher Hair Care, and my favorite, God Is A Basehead, with screaming lyrics
such as: God is a skateboard...God is a Soultrain...God is a whore...God is aids... After downing the free mixed drinks the gallery provided, the audience started joining in with their own words; God is a can opener! Ahhh...audience participation. I even found myself shouting my own lyrics back at them. The last song of the night was evident when Vish’s light bulb was turned off and we were left standing in darkness. As everyone shouted for more, Splotch returned to the stage - light bulb lit up - and right into their version of “Mississippi Queen. It was an unforgettable night; well, I did forget I was in Brooklyn. Their LP, “Have Another Temper Tantrum” is out in stores now. —Penelope Presley
The New York Hangover March or Die! 1997
(Art show continued from p. 5)
row inmates going to the chair at dawn. I’m surprised our tongues weren’t red-stained we drank so fast. One by one friends from the neighborhood skulked in all gasping at Zito’s art which all noticed had dramatically improved over the months. You could see it in the portraits as it developed to the most recent of his girlfriend and bandmate Nikki, which I heard was completed at 4am the night before in a last minute rush to make the show. Alas, I was too drunk to study Brian or Deanna’s work closely but their huge canvasses were as dramatic as they were colorful. Definitely a gross overview on my part. The schmoozing began to get tiresome and I got less tolerant of some people as I gradually got drunker, so I proposed a smoke outside. The three of us hoovered on a bowl on the Bowery as cops sat in stupid golf caddy cars around the corner on 1st street no doubt discussing the whereabouts of the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts whilst high on crack they probably confiscated off a bum they beat up for fun to alleviate their own monotonous beat. We just giggled like children and snuck back in hoping nobody noticed us leave. Where’d you go Simon? Carol squinted through mock-stoner eyes in recognition of my perpetual grin. Ah...nowhere...you still got my wine? After the wine we decided to go to beer since the vino dragged us down a bit. Grabbing seats on a particularly rickety table we sat and waited for Zito’s band “The Dull Club” to start. In the meantime we idly passed the time by commenting on all the beautiful people that seem to appear like vampires at all these kinds of functions. She looks like Edie Sedgwick from Warhol’s day..... Yeah, but without the class. That guy has to be Charles Manson’s long lost son... Watch the fuckin’ table, man, you’re spillin’ the beer! That was your foot man! Funky drummer Frank starts to check out
one of my favorite paintings that’s hanging by the bar. It’s an image of an insane cartoon clown, simply entitled ‘God”. Theo joins in with mystical context and the satirical social commentary of the piece and before long we’re all lost in stoner land where only the stoned could tolerate such bizarre conversational pieces. We get fresh beer and The Dull Club go on. They sound like a psychotic mix between the vocals of Nina Hagen and the rock sound of Jane’s Addiction. Nicki the singer with her blonde dreads, hops around insanely with a fantastic style of vibrato in her voice. She stands on fake astroturf rolled onto the stage surrounded by her own dolls and toys. It’s a pretty twisted scene, baby. Flanking her is Frank on guitar and the artist on bass. Jeremy has been told to tone down the volume of his drums and as such much is lost in the skin beating department. Apparently it was a short show but in our drunken stone, it seemed to last much longer. One particular highlight for me was their cover of “Break on Through” by the Doors, with Nikki occasionally referring to lyrics scrawled in her notebook. As the lights come back we make our departure via the girl on the coffee tray and stumble around the corner for another smoke. I look around vaguely for Bob Falk and Giovanna from the Hangover but remember
they both left early (Bob for food, Giovanna from being too inebriated too early) We hit the Mars Bar really stoned and order beers conversing, with some difficulty, with Carol and Mike and their English friend Sheila with whom I argue passionately over the better city of Glasgow over Edinburgh: a debate that will continue. The munchies hit hard and we slither down to East Houston for kebobs. I take one look at the ancient looking carcass being slowly roasted in the window and order pita bread with vegetables. With a little hot sauce for flavor... Fatal error. The evil streak in the man obviously kicks in. I don’t know, lack of sex, the graveyard shift, dealing with drunks, who knows? But he douses my food with Primo Pain Peppers. I’m like halfway through the thing, burning internally, mouth raw and snot running down my nose, we’re talking virtually bleeding from the eyes here, man, when it occurs to me that it’s not just because I’m stoned: this really is outrageously fucking hot.
My worst suspicions confirmed as Frank and Theo taste a mouthful and Frank begins hiccuping frantically and Theo starts tearing from his eyes. Jesus fucking Christ, Simon! I smile in satisfaction and continue eating in grimace and pain but proud like a jock after a 10 mile jog when I finally consume the entire thing. My mouth fiery but fine. My butt the next morning, however, well, that’s a whole other tale of depravity...
Bitches of the Lower East Side Have a question that you can’ t ask anyone? Well ask us, we’re here for you, but we might not tell you what you want to hear, the T-R-U-T-H! Let’s just say we’re the Dear Abby and Ann Landers from hell; we’ll even answer the most stupid, pathetic questions you ask us. Come on, don’t be frightened, we’ll go easy on you. So here goes, our very first question. Dear Bitches, Okay, so I slept with this guy. Not because I liked him, I just needed human contact. Long story short. “Can I crash here for tonight?” he asked. Hello!!! It’s been a week. Did I mention he was so f@#$%in’ hot in bed. Let’s say one of the top two. So how can I ask him to leave and continue having the best sex I have ever had in my life? He is a big time loser. Signed, Loser Friendly Dear Shallow Ho, Aren’t we being a little selfish? Don’t you know the saying, “you can’t have cake, it’s fattening”? Girl, it’s the 90’s, try the TRUTH, or try “It’s not you, it’s me”...”it’s moving too fast”...”can we keep seeing each other, but just not here?” And the next time you have a fling, try his place or even outside, Spring is around the corner!
Red Riding Hood is skipping down the road when she sees the Big Bad Wolf crouched down behind a log. “My what big eyes you have, Mr Wolf”, says Red Riding Hood. The wolf jumps up and runs away!!! Further down the road RRH sees the wolf again. This time he is crouched behind a tree stump. “My what big ears you have Mr Wolf”, says RRH. Again the wolf jumps up and runs away. About 2 miles down the track RRH sees the wolf again, this time crouched down behind a road sign. “My what big teeth you have Mr Wolf”, taunts RRH. With that the Big Bad Wolf jumps up and screams...”Will you fuck off, I’m trying to have a shit”.
The New York Hangover March or Die! 1997 The New York Hangover...Don’t pollute, reboot!
141 Avenue A/Corner 9th 212-979-0312
wo old ladies were waiting for a bus and one of them was smoking a cigarette. It started to rain, so the old lady reached into her purse, took out a condom, cut off the tip and slipped it over her cigarette and continued�to smoke. Her friend saw this and said, “Hey that’s a good idea! What is it that you put over your cigarette?” The other old lady said, “It’s a condom.” “A condom? Where do you get those?” The lady with the cigarette told her friend that you could purchase condoms at the pharmacy. When the two old ladies arrived downtown, the old lady with all the questions went into the pharmacy and asked the pharmacist if he sold condoms. The pharmacist said yes, but looked a little surprised that this old�woman was interested in condoms, so he asked her, “What size do you want?” The old lady thought for a minute and said, “One that will fit a Camel.”
Marz Bar This month’s show: Bulk Orphans On Black (to 3/23) Opening 3/23 Balloons, Cartoons, & Heretix
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Published on Sep 28, 2008
Another issue of the great underground newspaper; re-assembled from original files but missing some fonts and images, so viewing results wil...