Page 1

(In New York City)

round g r e d n U Comix ular! Spectac

Volume 3, No. 4 Issue XXVI

October 1997

The Halloween Party by W.P. Mavin (Excerpt from Troglodyte, the forthcoming novel)


verybody came in costume. Blum and I were Snow Miser and Heat Miser, respectively. Blum painted his face blue and made a long rubber nose with wax icicles dripping off it. I spiked my hair and sprayed it red, and wore hot pink pants (as opposed to pink hot pants) and a silver jacket. We even rehearsed the song they do, it was supposed to be our big show stopper but at the last minute Blum got cold feet, which I thought was taking things a bit literally. It was a good crowd. Blum had made a lot of new friends through his bar design business, including quite a few attractive women. Several of his finds were wearing skimpy costumes. Two of them came dressed as bombshell superhero babes with v-shaped vinyl panty things and out of sight spiked pasties, long satin capes and knee-high dom boots. They were tripping on mushrooms and spent most of the night dancing to the tapes I’d made, carving arcane symbols in the air with slow-motion kung fu. I was watching them, wondering if I’d really lost my nerve for good when a guy came up to me. “Hey man.” I didn’t recognize him at first; he had a great clip-on beard, and was wearing a plastic armor breastplate. His gut hung out, like King Arthur gone to seed. Then he pulled down the beard. “Carl! God, it’s been a long time. How’ve you been?” “All right. How about you?” I told him, in as few words as possible, what had gone down that summer: the break up, break down, sweeping out the ashes. “You really quit drinking?” “For the time being.” “So what are you doing now?” “I started writing again. I got my first story published.” “Really? That’s great, man. Where?” “A new paper, called The East Village Troglodyte. Here.” I gave him a copy. Carl looked at it like it had two heads. It wasn’t exactly the reaction I’d been hoping for. “I see,” he said. Right then Carl gave me a look that would become familiar, a look I’d learn to become numb to, but at the time it felt like a knife: a look like what is this piece of shit? It cut deep. Such supreme disappointment. Like I was seeing something that wasn’t there. He flipped through it briefly, then started rolling it in his hands. “Sometimes I wonder if I have a problem. Sometimes I get home from work and just sit on the couch watching t.v. and I’ll drink six or eight beers in a night. Does that sound like about what you were doing?” “Six or eight quarts?” “Come on.” “Well, that’s exaggerating a bit. More like two forties and a few Jack and Gingers, just to get out the door to go drinking.” “That’s bad.” “Yeah.” Carl’s tone became confiding, confessional. Another thing I’d have to get used to. “I’ve been doing a lot of dope, myself.” “Smoking or snorting?” “Snorting.” “Carl, that’s really bad shit--” “I know, I know.” He sighed. “It’s just, you know, sometimes I wish I could have a breakdown. I really wish I could just bottom out.” This was the part I’d forgotten about Carl. Too much Van Gogh and Daniel Johnston. He treated madness like it was something you worked toward, like a B.A. “Carl, believe me, you don’t want to have a breakdown. You

should eat right, exercise, and get plenty of sleep. That will help your art more than anything.” Carl looked wounded, like I was trying to hog some wonderful, special experience all to myself. “Is that your girlfriend over there, the pretty one you came in with?” He nodded, stiffly. “My advice is that you go over, put your arms around her, tell her you love her, and don’t let her go.” He was looking off into space, not saying anything. Then he walked away, not to his girlfriend but to get another beer. Then he stood by himself in a corner for a few minutes. When I looked for him a little while later they had left. He hadn’t said good-bye. I found the curled issue of the Troglodyte on the kitchen counter, sitting in a pool of beer. I was pissed. I was hoping he’d share some of his dope with me.

Evan Dorkin

Dean Haspiel & Josh Neufeld


Drew Curtis/ Tim Whidden

Jennifer Gonzalez

$200 Reward For information leading to the arrest and conviction of the individual(s) responsible for vandalizing and stealing piles of the Hangover around town. We sure as hell hope you catch them at it before we do. All calls confidential. 718-349-7986

Congratulations, Nick and Judy! Hitched 9/20/97

“The New York Hangover. . . . dare[s] to wipe clean The Voice’s dirty urban peepshow window.” (Lollipop #38)

“The hangover became a part of the day as well allowed-for as the Spanish siesta.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald

The New York Hangover . . . Because you don’t need better luck, just better mirrors

Visa card. > > It will seduce your grandmother. It does not matter if she is dead, such is the power of Badtimes, it reaches out beyond the grave to sully those things we hold most dear. > > It moves your car randomly around parking lots so you can’t find it. It will kick your dog. It will leave libidinous messages on your boss’s voice mail in your voice! It is insidious and subtle. It is dangerous and terrifying to behold. It is also a rather interesting shade of mauve. > > Badtimes will give you Dutch Elm disease. It will leave the toilet seat up. It will make a batch of Methamphetamine in your bathtub and then leave bacon cooking on the stove while it goes out to chase high school kids with your new snowblower. > > These are just a few of the signs... Be very, very careful!

Jobs, Satan Announce Deal Badtimes Virus Alert! > If you receive an e-mail with a subject of “Badtimes,” delete it immediately WITHOUT reading it. This is the most dangerous Email virus yet. It will re-write your hard drive. Not only that, but it will scramble any disks that are even close to your computer. It will recalibrate your refrigerator’s coolness setting so all your ice cream gets melted. It will demagnetize the strips on all your credit cards, screw up the tracking on your VCR and use subspace field harmonics to scratch any CD’s you try to play. > > It will give your exboy/girlfriend your new phone number. It will mix antifreeze into your fishtank. It will drink all your beer and leave its socks out on the coffee table when there’s company coming over. It will put a dead kitten in the back pocket of your good suit and hide your car keys when you are late for work. > > Badtimes will make you fall in love with a penguin. It will give you nightmares about circus midgets. It will pour sugar in your gas tank and shave off both your eyebrows while dating your current boy/girlfriend behind your back and billing the dinner and hotel room to your

Ya Gotta Have A Gimmick Dept.

“The era of competition between good and evil is over,” Steve Jobs told a keynote audience at MacWorld Expo today. “We have to let go of the notion that for good to triumph, evil must perish.” In a presentation that had been anxiously awaited by the Mac community, Jobs announced a historic deal between Apple Computer and Beelzebub, Lord of Darkness and Supreme Ruler of the Empire of Evil. During his short speech to a stunned crowd, Jobs said that Satan will be purchasing $150M worth of Apple staff’s souls, at the current market price. “I have Lucifer’s word that he will not use his control over these souls to influence the direction we take in any way.” Furthermore, said Jobs, the Devil will not be able to cash in any of the immortal souls for three whole years. The Antichrist then addressed the room via a live link from the Pits of Hell, and said that the Empire of Evil is committed to developing major pestilences for the Mac (Special Note: This month’s Underground Comix Spectacular! would not have been possible without the kind cooperation of the artists whose work we are proud to show. Special thanks also to Mitch,

(photo: Phil Yarnall)

Question of the month: If a man is standing alone in a forest, and there are no women around to hear he still wrong? CMJ Musicfest Rip-Off CMJ charges up to $350 dollars for festival “badges” LITTLE OR NONE OF WHICH GOES TO THE MUSICIANS. Most bands make even less than they would at a non-festival gig because clubs reserve space and tickets for badge holders. While the CMJ festival pretends to address the problems of unsigned bands, this No-Pay policy actually makes them worse. Why? Because the REAL problem of bands signed and unsigned alike is that musicians aren’t getting a cut of the money their work generates. The Noise Action Coalition is asking musicians, fans, and music industry people to tell CMJ: WHEN MONEY IS BEING MADE, MUSICIANS MUST BE PAID: CMJ should pay each band performing, WITHOUT CHARGING APPLICATION FEES or limiting participants access to other performances. This petition is being circulated by the NOISE ACTION COALITION. For more info, or to participate in our on-line discussion, visit: The Noise Bar or call the Noise hotline: 212-592-3677. Frequently Asked Questions RE: NAC protest at CMJ MusicFest: 1. “Isn’t CMJ MusicFest really a trade convention? How much of what they make is attributable to the performances of the musicians (versus the value of other aspects of the convention.)” A: The value of the music is most of what people pay for. The festival’s own advertising begins with the words “900 Bands!” We doubt many people would show up if there were no bands. There are music festivals without seminars. Let’s try a control experiment: let’s book a seminar with no live bands and see how many people show. Amazing nobody’s done it already. Wonder why? 2. “How do you know CMJ can afford to pay musicians?” A: CMJ MusicFest own advertising claims: 7000 “music professionals” attending. “Badge” prices average $300. Assuming half the badges are given away free, that comes to over one million dollars. In addition, CMJ sells vending and exhibition space, Festival guide advertising, registration bag promotional inserts, special event sponsorships, and gets large amounts of money from endorsed hotels and airlines. Of course we’re missing crucial information- if you have any, we’d be glad to hear it. We invite CMJ to open their books and prove us wrong. 3. “ Call me a cynic or a capitalist, but isn’t paying a gaurantee giving many of these bands more than they are worth? Quite a few of them ARE unknown and wouldn’t earn much playing at CBGB’s or the Continental or the Lion’s Den or the Knot Room..” A: Many CMJ bands play for a room full of people, half of whom paid around 300 dollars for “badge” fees while the bands walk away with considerably LESS than they would have normally made. That’s wrong. This inconsistency is boring: collectivist socialist rhetoric when it’s time for musicians to MAKE money-”yeah, CMJ et al are doing so much good for the scene, they’re helping the unknown bands, they’re bringing people together...”[meaning: out of loyalty to some imaginary collective good, don’t ask for a piece of the money they’re making off YOU right now]...vs. capitalist rhetoric when musicians LOSE money: “well, they don’t draw, so why should CMJ pay them?” Dare we suggest that an appropriate solution would be for CMJ to pay the bands, and not book bands in their festival who they think suck? 4.”...what bands get from CMJ is an opportunity to be heard by lots of labels, festival organizers, promoters, writers, radio djs, publishers, other musicians —CMJ provides a service by bringing this audience to NY)...From my own experience I saw tangible results — my band got festival offers from European promoters. We wouldn’t have gotten these opportunities otherwise.” A: No one here is questioning the desirability of CMJ or any other musicfest. But all these desirable services would be even more desirable if the bands were also paid. CMJ can pay, and they should pay, for several reasons. First, paying would be good for the music: opening up these entry level opportunities to bands Continued on next page

Featured in Dork #4, by Evan Dorkin ©

Page 4

The New York Hangover Cont’d from previous page

Why? Tears falling Heart broken Head screaming No no no! Tears falling Heart broken Head screaming Why why why! Tears falling Heart broken Head screaming Never never never To see your face or hear your voice Why why why! —NJE

The Visitation He creeps in the back door, wrapped in the padded windbreaker he has worn for years, wearing the same hang-dog look, bearing the same hard-luck tale and grandiose plans I’ve heard before. The lining must have scribble-rips: particles of fleece keep floating out as he paces and gesticulates, beclouding him in wisps of white feather-tips too light to fall. They drift and curl around him, conjuring in my mind an echo-picture of the boy he was, shouting words I couldn’t understand as he flung himself full length on a sled and disappeared down a hill through veils of falling snow. When he goes, I sweep away the downy fluff that finally found the floor, the last of him for now; and wonder how long before all the padding will be gone, leaving just the frayed outer garment like a second skin, still covering, exposed and bruised, the wounded animal within. —Thomas L. Harris

The New York Hangover... New York’s slowest moving newspaper

who can’t afford the expense of an unpaid trip to NYC would increase the field (and, by the way, do more to integrate it than all the empty liberal promises in all the handwringing industry seminars ever held). Second, the tangible results your own band wanted and got are from festivals that pay money. Strange, neither is in the US- in most other places in the industrialized world the idea that you get paid when you play is considered normal (the Saalfelden festival in Austria, for example, serves a function of introducing promoters to new avantjazz groups. They pay an average of $800 to $1000 per musician plus planefare plus hotel). But what if your argument was extended? Bands playing Canadian and European festivals often get lots of press. What if these festival promoters adopted CMJ’s reasoning that bands should get nothing or less because publicity could help get a record deal? And why, for that matter, should even a major label pay musicians? Record sales establish reputation, creating concert opportunities and earning publishing royalties. And what about those publishing royalties? Why do you automatically deserve them? Think of all the cool bands record companies could sign if they didn’t have to pay those damn royalties....etc. etc. > This scenario is absurd, but unfortunately not entirely unlikely. There are a lot of bands playing CMJ whose goal is that it will lead to gigs that pay decently. But the existence of these gigs - European/ Canadian festivals, record deals on major labels, etc.- is not to be taken for granted.* If musicians want to see the light at the end of the “opportunity to be heard” tunnel, we have to take some responsibility for assuring there IS an end to the tunnel: by stopping the erosion of pay standards at all levels of the industry. Nobody’s going to do

October 1997

it for us. 5. “No-one’s forcing these bands to play...” A: To which attempt to get paid could these words not apply? (no-one’s forcing these farmworkers/coal miners/nurses etc. )This begs the question: are they being treated fairly? 6. “CMJ magazine has been very supportive of new and downtown music over the years. Isn’t this like biting the hand that feeds you?” A: We’re not biting. First, other than the fact they don’t pay musicians, we support everything they do, including their right to make a profit. But profit is what you make after you pay musicians. Secondly, we know musicians and music business people are interdependent, and the many people of conscience in the industry are very important to the well being of music and musicians. But we don’t accept the self image of some industry people as “feeding” musicians. If no musicians showed up at the musicfest, record companies would put out just as many records, A&R people, promoters and booking agents would sign artists, just as many people would buy records and go to concerts. Just as many musicians would get “fed.” The only people to be hungry would be CMJ. So who’s feeding who? In fact, the number of people providing “showcase,” “promotional” or “publicity opportunities” is at an all time high. But not since the 30’s has the slice of the industry pie going to musicians been this low. Any more of this “feeding” and we’ll starve to death. 6.”What about all the other unfair festivals, like South by Southwest? A: Right on! This action will create the possibility of dealing with other situations. *Despite what that nice A&R man said, the majors don’t budget money for musicians out of sheer good will or simply because they have it, they do it because once upon a time the union had

the power to force them to do it. As that power erodes, so too do standards of pay we’ve come to consider normal. What happens with the majors effects the whole scene, not just the unionized parts of it. It is not to be assumed that the majors will never bust the union or that record budgets with decent pay for musicians will be approved after it does. The union is constricted by labor laws the industry itself long ago learned how to circumvent. The European situation too was the product of a very specific set of conditions now in the process of changing. The one music institution not likely to change is publishing- in this area, composers are lucky to have powerful corporate allies: the same “intellectual properties” laws which protest Bell Labs ownership of its inventions also covers our publishing royalties. If a record company were to tell a band “hey, I’m not going to pay any mechanicals on this record...” the band would no doubt feel this was wrong, and fight to get them to pay. The band probably wouldn’t accept the argument that the record company management were nice guys, or had done a lot of good for the music scene, or were really broke, or needed the money for their grandmother as an excuse. In their fight they would have powerful legal tools for the reasons listed above. The point is this: neither the “right” to mechanicals nor a musicians “right” to get paid fall out of the sky: both exist because they were fought for and won. The fact publishers have corporate allies may make their fight a bit easier; it doesn’t make it any more just. “Value” doesn’t come from nature. Market forces don’t work in a vacuum. The real reason musicians should get paid is because we want to. John King

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Page 10

The New York Hangover Fiction



ips, soft and silky, caress my flesh. Ivory teeth nibble as steely hands massage. My lover’s cool wet tongue dances across my bosom. His every movement excites me and frightens me. The scars always heal, quick and clean, but my breasts remain tender and sensitive. My love grants me that which The Lord Himself has denied me and in exchange he takes so little from me. And every morning, as dim rays herald the coming of Apollo’s golden chariot, he enters me. Painfully and joyfully he thrusts himself deep inside me as tears and screams flood our bleak deserted lair. Then he will rest. He shall need his strength. Brad Vanderveer hunched over the cold, impersonal metallic desk. His pinched nose racing white lines on a mirror highway. Unblinking eyes gazed out to the red solar pillar cast by the dying sun. Brad hated working late. He should be with the office gang having dinner at T.G.I.F.’s like they do every Friday night. Brad hated working late. Pin prick pupils turned back to the cold glare of the monitor screen as pudgy fingers worked keys and mouse. Behind the gentle tap of the keyboard a soft electric bell played through the empty office. Glancing down the long hall, Brad spied the elevator doors slide open. Empty. The sterile glare of the monitor faded from his face as the office blinked into darkness. Only dull ambient street light, trickling through the window behind him, attempted to illuminate Brad’s dark office. Cursing as he spun toward the window, Brad noticed nothing wrong with the world outside his office. Lights were on, traffic was moving and people were partying. The force of a hurricane abruptly slammed shut the plastic blinds, casting the room in a sea of murky darkness. “Mr. Vanderveer. The whispering feminine voice was punctuated by the sharp sound of a slammed door. A voice familiar, but far too changed to be recognized. Instinctively, Brad wheeled on clay heels, eyes strained against black soup. Floating tall and somber, a pregnant silhouette hovered before the smoked glass of the office door. A very pregnant silhouette. “How the hell did you get in here? The office is closed for the day. You’ll have to leave. “Brave words masked a nervous mind. “Mr. Vanderveer, do you remember The Lost Playground?” Her tone was modest and despondent, like the hushed voice of a mourner. But there was another voice. One less audible. A male voice that echoed hers in stereo. A rumbled voice trembling the very foundations of Brad Vanderveer’s mind, weakening his knees and sweating his brow. “The shelter for homeless children and their parents? I remember it.” Brad also remembered it had recently been closed due to a lack of city funding. Silently slinking through shadows somber and frigid her, presence slid over Brad’s skin like slow ice descending his spine. “Listen lady,” Brad knew her tree-hugging, whalesaving, oat bran-eating kind, but couldn’t fathom the cause of his shivering dread. Something primordial and raw gnawed at the back of his skull. “This office went completely out of it’s way to relocate as many of those people as possible.” A lie. Plain and simple. The city had too many other problems to deal with than a few homeless families. Burning eyes, frozen with hatred, sliced through the darkness, branding their image deep in Brad Vanderveer’s memory. “You scattered my flock!” Mind quaking ethereal words hammered through Brad, sending his senses spiraling through the black pit of unconsciousness. Shaded images danced across Brad Vanderveer’s insensible mind, Soiled children and filth-encrusted parents huddled together against the darkness upon Samaritan beds. Rooms of lost souls with all but shattered pride. And in the darkness, against a smoke and grime stained window, stood a tall statue of a woman, long of hair and short of spirit, frozen in apathy. (Continued next page)

October 1997

Page 11 One by one the children rose, toddlers to teenagers. Eyes devoid of souls scanned the shadows searching for the object of their worship. Soft celestial voices rose in hushed silence, lethargically chanting one name, master and mantra - Malachi. Held high in the tall woman’s arms, the Demon Infant Malachi surveyed his flock of feeder-slaves with eyes of blue flame. Horror painted his face with warped rancor as, one by one, his flock was scattered to the four winds. The Hunger-Thirst swelled in his gut as vindication waxed in his heart. As the windows of his mind creaked open, Brad Vanderveer fell upon the final scene of his sycophantic life. Large and distended, the pregnant woman sat bare upon his desk. Pain and sweat beat across her darkened face as long legs spread wide. The ritual began before Brad Vanderveer could sound reason or protest from his dry and gagged maw. His dark gray Italian suit, ripped and shredded by unknown talons, had become his shackles. Bound to plush pleather by shirt and tie, pants and laces, Brad fought in vain against his fibrous fetters. ‘You bastard!” Anguished words tore through pain-

The New York Hangover ful screams striking a chord of memory deep within the web of Brad Vanderveer’s mind. Alice Osbourn. The young woman who ran the Lost Playground, that is, before its financial demise. A sweet flower turned sour weed by the grievous fangs of infertility. A lady whose sole joy in life came from helping those lost street urchins. Yes, Brad was sure this was her. Swollen womb and pain wracked face. This was Alice Osbourn. But what madness had possessed her mind and flesh? And what insane revenge was she inflicting upon him? “She is not your antagonist!” Mind inflaming thoughts struck Brad like a runaway truck. Convexing eyes widened in terror as tiny hands stretched against distended flesh, groping for egress. Quick, high screams abruptly exploded into low, long howls. A single infantile arm, bathed in blood ripped through the birth canal! Her breathing machinegunned incessantly. Brad’s cold wet body jack-hammered involuntarily, but escape was impossible. “She is but my vessel.” Brad’s head rolled back as if from some indiscernible onslaught. Guttural moans hung in the air like a patient vulture as an arm of twin gore rose from it’s dermal prison. A stagnant stench, akin to rotting vegetables and

October 1997 sun baked blood, assaulted Brad’s nose as the morbid terror assaulted his eyes. Palms pressed hard against sweat-soaked thighs braced for support. Sparse wisps of plasma-drenched hair slid free from the fleshy canal as the Demon Infant Malachi dislodged himself from his wet nurse. Eyes locked. Tormentor and tormented. ‘You have desecrated and gutted my pasture! Your blood and flesh shall sow my next Blood Farm!” A face ridden by the twisted fist of hatred gazed upon Vanderveer, greeting him with a fanged visage. In a final act of self-defense Brad’s, central nervous system shut down as all conscious thoughts fled his mind. Clouds of calm hysteria and shock settled over Brad like a wet blanket. Oblivion claimed his senses. The Demon Infant Malachi was not happy. He would not be denied this satisfaction! Reaching out with overwhelming psychic fingers, Malachi manipulated Vanderveer’s mind and re-activated consciousness. Awareness and feeling dawned upon Brad as tear-blurred eyes focused on the blood and caul smeared infant hovering above him. Malicious eye’s burned pure rage as Malachi glared down at Brad Vanderveer, not caring what his choles-

Record Review


Spinning Room Project Pollen (Mutiny)

Excellent trip-pop weedcore a la Morcheeba, but trading the latter’s bluesy guitar for Memphis horn mutations and strutting in combat high heels over sneakier pimps while taking out the garbage. Only one lame vocal (from Gene Ween, no less) and the occasional overly-earnest groove mar an otherwise brilliant, leave-the-bathroom-door-openwhile-you-listen debut. Nothing to sneeze at. (Tim Hall)

The Aspirinometer™ Stayed in bed all day. Just made my stomach upset. ...and call me in the morning, just so long as it’s after noon. Three aspirins: Got me out of the house and to the corner market for OJ and cigarettes. Four aspirins: Full recovery. Aural dim sum. Ready to do it all over again. No aspirins: One aspirin: Two aspirins:

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Page 12

The New York Hangover

October 1997 From Burger #2

Associated Pressure by Roary Girthwood Insomnia Vol. VII

It’s nearly 3am and sleep avoids me like the ex-

see the inside of his apartment. I got as far as his dark

a minimalist, alcoholic, clairvoyant who knows the real

doorway, but a six sense told me to retreat when I saw

me without ever knowing me. And hopefully she won’t

some mannequins in his living room holding martini

call either.

glasses and frozen in small talk. Brett is harmless I

Outside my bedroom window all is quiet on First

suppose, but my eyes linger a little longer then the

Avenue except for a few taxis, motorcycles, ambulanc-

average person when I come across police sketch art-

es, police cars, cats, dogs, Celtic marching bands and

istry of serial murderers.

drunkards, homeless and otherwise.

girlfriend I once stalked, yesterday. The mice in my

I check the mousetraps before giving sleep one more

kitchen have reached a new level of audacity as they

try. All present, accounted for and untouched, except

kitchen can only mean one of two things: I have caught

hold their third rave this week. I wouldn’t mind so

for one trap where the Cheese Whiz is missing and

a mouse or I lost a quarter ounce of Cheese Whiz. I

much, but they never buy e and what... still no invite?

replaced with a neatly folded dollar bill.

soon find myself both pleased and disgusted that a

(Mental note: see landlord - kick squarely in balls.) It’s during these late hours that misery comes knock-

I take a quick trip through the refrigerator, but am

A sudden “snap-crack” sound coming from my

young mouse, nearly hairless, is caught in a trap — the

unimpressed: milk, W.W.II carrots and triple-A batter-

trap that had the neatly folded dollar bill... eerie. He

ing. His name is Brett and he lives down the hall. I

ies with no corresponding appliance. I settle for a pair

looks like an eraser and is still very much not dead.

owe him twenty dollars and half an onion so he fig-

of Rolaids, a glass of sea monkey water and double

After a quick physical examination I realize his patella

ures now is a good time collect. He doesn’t need the

down on the melatonin, knowing I will be fully para-

is shattered and his condition, grave. There is only

money, or the onion, just someone to annoy until he

lyzed when my alarm goes off in a few hours.

one course of action to take when confronted with an

gets the “sleepy-sleeps”. I decline his offer to enter my

The trouble with insomnia is not so much the per-

injured, squealing, money-hungry mouse: 1. Scoop into

apartment and speak to him through a securely chained

manent state being tired, the real problem is that I

plastic bag without making physical contact. 2. Beat

door because once admitted he won’t leave until I

am awake and therefore miserable for longer periods

bag and contents against kitchen wall until squealing

threaten to call his granny. He is a bit offended by my

of time than the average person. Fortunately, I take

stops. 3. Dispose of bag in proper receptacle or toss

poor hospitality, but I appease him by complimenting

some consolation in the fact that many of the world’s

out window, whichever is closer. 4. Notify next of kin.

him on his new pajamas and matching bunny slippers.

great minds were also insomniacs. Einstein was. So

I now feel like I will sleep until Tuesday, which just

My kind words are insincere, but he is overjoyed and

were Hemingway, Thomas Jefferson, and Leonardo

happens to be in a few hours. Strange thoughts cross

breaks into a little Fred Astaire soft-shoe shuffle. He is

DaVinci. Unfortunately, I am also reminded of some

my mind as my head hits the pillow... Hell’s Angels

left cold in the darkened hallway, as I slam the door in

lesser-known insomniacs: Griffin Meatpants, Ed

playing hopscotch. “Hey! Who the fuck took the

his face. Two seconds later, on cue, he angrily pounds on my door demanding an onion or other bulbous vegetable of equal weight and flavor. I ignore him, hoping he will go away or at least be felled by an acute aneurysm.

Burger #2 is a cool collection of underground comic artists from the Williamsburg, Brooklyn area. The new issue contains work from Drew Curtis, Tim Whidden, Takeshi T., and many others. It’s available at St. Mark’s Comics, St. Mark’s Books, Kim’s Video, Art Market, Printed Matter, Tower Books, and N. 6th Video (N. 6th/Bedford, Brooklyn), and at finer meat markets everywhere. Smalls, and Brett from down the hall. It’s a dark and depressing hour in my apartment — a

potsy!? ...New idea for novel: “Of Mice and Mice”. ...Who would win in a fight? A narwhal or a unicorn?

He only stops banging when the large bearded woman

moth spars with a bare light bulb just above my head,

...a narwhal or a salamander? I guess it would depend

in 4C begins hollering. Brett hurriedly whispers,

an insolent cockroach lethargically does the backstroke

on the venue. Location is everything...

through the crack at the bottom of my door, a parting

across a filthy saucepan, the floor is stickier than a

“Up yours Roary!” and I hear him and his new bunny

ninety-nine cent movie theater. I have felt particularly

slippers scamper back to his hutch before Big Bertha

lonely the past few years. I have even considered find-

throws him in a choke hold.

ing that someone special by placing a personal ad, but

Brett and I have what you would call a love - fear

I am dreadfully afraid it will be answered by someone

relationship. He loves me and I fear him. We moved in

I know and they will find out what a failure I am, not

the building on the same day two years ago. He held

to mention possible charges of false advertising. I

the door for me when I was moving some furniture

really don’t know what to say in my personal ad. I’m

and I haven’t been able to shake him since. He visits

too honest to start making lies about myself. Single

me, or tries to, a few times a week, but I have yet to

White Wino is the best I could do. Maybe I will find

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The New York Hangover

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October 1997

What’s Coming In Hangover #27/November 1997 • • • • • •

More Pages! Too many damn new ads... More Pictures! Part 2 of our Underground Comix Spectacular.... The return of Chuck Moody! ‘Nuff said.... The return of the Bitches and Inspector General! Plus, we ask the question: Will our damn web site finally be finished? Ad reservations close: Oct 18th; camera ready art: Oct. 22nd


HAIR of the DOG

PAPER of the HAIR of the DOG

Food Fetish

Hotel Galvez

103 Avenue B / 212-358-9683 At five minutes to six on a recent evening there was already a small crowd outside the door of Hotel Galvez, and I was at the head of the line. Suzanne Slomin and Dave Hawkins are packing this cozy spot every night with specialties like Galveston chicken, a fall off the bone bird marinated in fresh lime juice and tequila, or the early bird prix fixe menu (which this cheapskate appreciates). Ten bucks will get you a soup or crisp, fresh salad (ask for the avacado scallion dressing, every bit as good as it sounds),

SUBSCRIPTION of the PAPER of the HAIR of the DOG: 1 year (12 issues) = $15 Check or M.O. to New York Hangover (39 E. 1st NY NY 10003) Name_______________________ Address_______________________________ City______________________ State_____ Zip __________ Email:__________ I certify that I am over 18 years of age (signature):__________________________

NY Hangover - October 1997 (partial)  
NY Hangover - October 1997 (partial)  

Partial rebuild of the Oct 1997 NY Hangover - for historical purposes only.