Dead Jackie Susann Quarterly #1 (December 1992)
The Editors Speak:

Zelda Underground says:

Dead Jackie is kind of an anti-manifesto or more simply, an eccentric, schizoid
mix of Post-it notes from the absolute edge of the margins. Yes, we at "Dead
Jackie" are the self-professed lunatics of the fringe and goddamned proud of it
too! We're lesbo technomedia junkies and we just can't get enough meaningless
factoids whether mainlined from television screens or computer terminals, we're
hooked on sound bytes. We stroll on the darkside of Pop. Perverse. Demented.
Digusting. Offensive. Maybe, we can only hope. You know us--we're the crackpots
who used to spend our days writing nasty letters to OUTWEEK under pseudonymns.
Cybersluts. Slackerdykes. Butch Bikerchicks. Femme Tops. Muffdiving Channel
Surfers. Bitchy Barharlots from Hell. We're only seen at night (if at all).
Losers al, none of us can afford the $1000 fashions featured in the four color
spreads of the queer glossies. We're content to walk on the Slacker side. This
is the first issue of our humble zine and we've only just begun. We desperately
need your contributions (of art, fiction, essays, reviews, toons, etc.) to
widen our scope. Submit to us and we'll make you glad you did!

Tania '74 says:

Where can a girl go to experiment with words, ideas, bad art, and graffiti? Not
a whole lot of places. Whether its money, or editorial policy, or the need to
be taken seriously, or the assimilationist bent (or vice versa), most
publications are veering into respectable venues, presentation and stories.

"No fiction: lifestyle. No fun: there's no fun in political struggle." (yeah
right, anyway) "No problem stories: we're not budgeted for legal fees."

So. The only thing that I want to be able to say is traditional about this
is....we're printed on paper, although an electronic form of this rag will
probably be put out soon after the paper one.

I know you're out there. Writing. Drawing. Thinking. 

Send us your stuff. We don't pay money. We pay copies. 2. Mac or IBM disks, or
typed, or handwritten (just because you don't have a typewriter doesn't mean
you have nothing to say).

Send us your black and white grafix. Rant on a page or two. Tell us what you
want to see. What you need to hear. 

Revolution starts where your hand starts writing. 


Dead Jackie Susann Quarterly is brought to you by:


Zelda Underground
Tania '74


Venus Futura
Untamed Youth
Ellen James
Chastity Ohno
Carmen Miranda Rights
Woman on the vergeof a Nervous Shakedown

as channeled by Sydney and Liz

DJSQ is published (guess...)quarterly by Cyberia Publishing. For subscription
info, please write to:

61 E 8 #178
NYC 10003

Any resemblance to persons living or deade is purely coincidental. Also, all
events portrayed are ficticious. Additionally, a person's (ficticious)
appearance in this publication should not be taken to denote any information
about that (ficticious) person's sexual orientation.'nuff said.

This material is not copyrighted; please acknowledge DJSQ when quoting or
reproducing, however. 


Table of Contents

24 Hours with the Generation of Swine, or Bill and Hill and Tip and Al
Answer Woman looks at Drew Barrymore...hard
Sex, the Single Girl and the Cultural Elite
I was a teenage rebel in a "Full House"
I was an undercover witch....
Postcards from the Corporate Edge
Love, Janis: Book reviews
Lost in Cyberspace: More Book reviews
Untamed Youth
Lame Ducks in Love
Watching the Dejected, or why Shannen needs a woman
Buzzwords for the Bust


Notes from the Underbelly of an American Beast: 24 Hours with the Generation of

They sent the finest guns of their generation after them, but they came home
without the prize---PJ, Hunter, Jann, sure they made us love or hate Bill
Clinton but did they really get to know the man who will be our first truly
gonzo head honcho? We venture to say, no they did not! Our intrepid reportrix
Venus Futura went into the trenches to spend a full 24 hours with the first
president and vp to have grown up in the reverie of a rock and roll dreamland.
What she found makes the hardest hardcore soft--forget "Bob Roberts," in this
dispatch from the underbelly of the political beast lurks a vision so real, so
desperate, so beyond gonzo that it manages to capture that
last vestige of the male psyche run amok in the form of the failed rock star
turned politico. Here we find America's most pitiful tragedy as well as its
greatest triumph.

10 am, Nashville,--This is Al's backyard and, dude, he's at home so the man
takes charge of the party. Bill and Al give a few speeches, Tipper and Hillary
each decked out in tasteful suits (Hillary in blue and Tipper in red) practice
their glassy-eyed gaze that conveys to the casual observer that even though
they may be Power Women, they're still overcome with rapture by their
respective studs in bland off-the-rack suits speaking the gospel of Change. No
woman will ever be as proficient in husband gazing as Nancy R. I read somewhere
that she used valium and shit and always 'luded out so I don't think anyone
will ever gaze nearly as well as that pill-popping Wedgewood queen. She's set
the standard no lady, First or othewise, will surpass. No woman can be as good
a First Bitch as she was; if Joan Collins were First Lady, she'd be Nancy or at
least Nancy should be played by Joan Collins in the film version of The Reagan
Years. Then again, the Reagan Years were always already the film version so
maybe Joan Collins really was the first lady and Nancy R. was the actress who
played her. Does life imitate art or art imitate life? I don't know, fuck it,
politicians aren't profound enough to care that they are a vaudevillian
self-parody to keep all of us in the cheap seats from noticing that the plane
is crashing and the pilot's bailed so why should I? Enjoy the show! Rock on!

3 pm--The hopeful Future CEO of USA, Inc. ordered everyone to go to Graceland
for inspiration. He buys a SNO-GLOBE replica of Graceland to put on his desk in
the Oval Office should he have the opportunity to redecorate. What a dude!
Hillary tells Tipper that she wouldn't even know how to follow her own cookie
recipe, and that her idea of a good meal is anything that can be microwaved.
Tipper laughs so hard she bounces and tells Hillary that the only way she can
keep up is to hire a cook.

5 pm--Back at the bus, we all sit around waiting for Bill's Boy Wonder, Al the
Disappearing VP to show up. He's already mastered the art of disappearing,
which should come in hand when he has to order a break-in at the Watergate or
arms-for-hostages or some shit like that. Hillary is getting whiny cause she's
hungry, and we're all like real hungry too. Al is supposed to toake us to this
grit place that is authentic "Tennessee" for dinner but only he knows the way
so we wait. Finally, Al reappears and pretends like he was never gone, and
pretty soon he's got us all thinking he was here all along and that it's all
our problem we're running late--what charisma! Gore in 96 man! We drive the few
minutes to the restaurant and suck down some gooey grits soaked in syrup and a
bunch of other slimey greasy "authentic" cuisine items and 
then we're whisked off to the Grand Ol Oprey for a fundraising concert. 

7pm--The place is crawling with Secret Service, FBI and CIA. Even though the
CIA supposedly don't operate domestically, they're crawling all over the place
probably plotting Clinton's assassination already. I've always known we were
all just swallowing an intelligence scam. Al and Bill get one big dressing room
to themselves. They aren't going on til the end so they hang in the room with a
couple of country music celebs, Bill likes rock, so Bill lets Al be the top dog
tonight. Al schmoozes Loretta Lynn and Hillary whines some more, this time
about how she didn't mean to put down that honky-tonk trash Tammy Wynette and
she doesn't see why Tammy boycotted. A couple other country queens mill around
Al because they've decided he's real cute. Mr. "I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse
I ride" Clinton draws up a list of bands he wants to play at his inaugural
bash. Under possible headliners--the Dead (if Jerry lives), David Bowie (as
Ziggy Stardust--hey he'll do it if the Pres asks him), Neil Young, man maybe
even a Fleetwood Mac reunion, and of course Crosby, Stills and Nash, and don't
forget Kenny G. He asks his aide to see about the possibility of getting Elvis
to come out of hiding in time for the inauguration. Bozo and Ozoneman make
their last appearance for the night at the end of the concert, shake more
hands, kiss a couple more babies, and call it quits. Hillary and Tipper give
out a couple more hugs and we're all back on the bus for the drive to Atlanta.

Midnight--On the bus between Atlanta and Nashville
Everyone changes into more comfortable clothes--jeans and tees for Bill, Al,
and Hillary but Little Miss Priss, Tipper, puts on another floral dress. They
all sit around a table throwing back drinks and playin cards, asking if I wanna
play just to be polite. Since they don't know "Go Fish" I pass. Bored of cards,
Bill put the "Rumours" album on the bus stereo. Al takes out a huge stash of
pot and starts rolling a joint, Hillary joins him and rolls a blunt for
herself. Bill may not have inhaled but Hillary sure did and still does. Al and
Hillary get stoned while Tipper and Bill get drunk on Southern Comfort. The
stoners start to get stupid and fax the White House a note that says, "Surrender
George! Luv, H.Ross.

2:30 am--Tipper, ever the party girl forces the group to play strip poker.
Again I pass cause there's something so repulsive about seein what kind of
underwear the potential leaders of your country wear (BVDs all around of course). 
Ya know, I'm sure Ronnie wore Depends, but I don't want to see them! Maybe it's just
hangup of mine, I don't know. Tipper's the only one still clothed--Al's wearing
his undershirt and briefs, Bill's buck naked; he's got this kind of Pillsbury
Doughboy body but instead of being plae white it's kind of flush read, like
he's stinkin drunk and ain't got a kidney left to help him get halfway to
sober, and Hillary's got this really sexy black bra on that I would never have
guessed in a million years that she would wear. Al loses the next hand and
takes his shirt off. He's kind of beefy with rippling muscles barely visible
through the pockets of flab. Hillary is sitting on the lap of MTV newshound
Tabitha Soren and is trying to get Tabbie high but so far she's not into it.
Hillary gives up on Tabitha and goes over to Al and runs her fingers through
his ample mat of chest hair. Tipper deals the next hand compulsively her hands
shaking in a kind of frenzied mixture of dread and desire, sort of like a
junkie just before she's about to push the needle into her arm and mailine the
toxin to which her body has surrendered. I can see your problem Tip, get help!
Run to Gambler's Anonymous, now! Become dependent no more like all the rest of
your friends. Don't be a loser! So she and Bill keep playing even though
Hillary and Al are on the floor five seconds away from fucking. Bill tells
Hillary she's a nympho and should get some help. Al tells Bill to shut up and
teases him about giving Gennifer a call. The CD changer rotates to Bill's next choice,
Steely Dan! Tipper's skunked and lovin it, she's kind of swaying as rhythmically as a 
doofy white girl can to the beat and complimenting Bill on his taste in music. I
wanna scream at her--but the man actually likes Kenny G! No one likes Kenny G.
I bet Kenny Gs own mother doesn't even like Kenny G. But I can't say anything
I'm just here to observe and besides this is better than I could have ever

2:45 am--Bill starts yelling for someone to get Priscilla on the phone cause he
forgot to say goodnight to his little girl, Lisa Marie. A few seconds later,
he's pacing up and down the bus, still naked, talking into a microcassette
recorder and obsessing about whether he can get Jerry Hall to be his new
girlfriend. He never liked the Stones anyway, the Beatles were way better until
they went to visit the goddamned Maharishi. He'll show her what a prick
Mick is, he'll treat Jerry right. Makes a note to sever relations with whatever
country the Maharishi is from as punishment for corrupting the Beatles. 

3am--It's inevitable and such a stinking cliche that Tipper and Bill end up
fucking on the floor next to Hillary and Al. That's how they avoid jealousy and
envy--they just make sure no one's left out when they fuck one another. Didn't
you just know the reason Tipper and Al are so worried about obscene lyrics is
because, unlike the rest of us who have no idea what's being said, they hear
every word of it cause they're pot smoking-whiskey guzzling-swingers who are so
clued in to the rock thing that they know what the lyrics really mean. I turn
to Tabitha who's sittin next to me on the bus and say, "Can you believe this?"
I figure she looks pretty uptight and she'll be shocked, but she says, "This
way better than the time I interviewed Steven Tyler and he told me he fucked a
corpse." Thanks Tab! Then she says, "Wait until I tell Kurt he'll die, but this
is nothing compared to the Quayles and their fetish for swinging with bisexual
dwarves." I tell her as much about herself as anyone, you learn so much in life
that you're always tempted to forget the one theorem that is proven over and
over and over again, "Isn't it always the one's who look the most proper that
are the most bent?"

10am--In Atlanta, the end of my 24 hours of Bill and Al's Desperately Demented
Adventure--The Tour, comes to a close.I've always guessed that politicians were
just as freaky as you or I and now that hunch has been proven wrong--I don't
know about you, they're way more freak-like than me, I would never have
thought of any of this, but then again I'm not the first President who's a
wannabe rock star. All I want out of this is a couple of Hill's hash brownies and a
ticket to the inaugral ball cuz that's goin to be one righteous bash. 


Answer Woman (TM)

Dear Reader,

In response to the extreme demand for answers in the current time in which we
live, ANSWER WOMAN(TM) has expanded her services and is now taking questions at
her 1-800 number! Charges are all billable to your credit card, or through
electronic funds transfer. Call 1-800-INQ-UIRE. ANSWER WOMAN (TM) invites
questions on any topic. 

Remember, if ANSWER WOMAN (TM) can't answer you question, it isn't worth

Dear Answer Woman, 

I have this crush on Drew Barrymore. I can't stop thinking about her. Every
morning I get up and re-read her interview in Interview. I go to bed at night
watching my personal videotapes of "2000 Malibu Road." Do you think I have a
chance with her? I have enclosed a picture of myself for your opinion. Also
what can I do to get CBS to bring "2000 Malibu Road" back? I really don't see
why they cancelled it.They should have just fired Lisa Hartman-Black.

P.S. Oh yeah, I'm not a perv or anything. I only liked Drew since she went into
recovery and passes 16. I'm not into little girls or anything.

Dear Sir (and I'm using this loosely),

First about your pictures. I will thank you (and all other readers) NEVER to
send me nude pictures of the yourselves again. ANSWER WOMAN (TM), while havinga
brain of steel, has a stomach of Wonder Bread (TM).

That said: Drew Barrymore will never be yours.

Perhaps, I should amend that: She will never be yours unless she descends once
again into addiction and happens to meet you ona particularly savage binge. Or
you might violate her corpse. I happen to agree with you about "2000 Malibu
Road," however. Perhaps a letter writing campaign, or blackmailing Tori

Dear Answer Woman,

I'm writing to you from the dark hole of addiction--I can't seem to quench my
need for nicotine and sex. It's so awful; either I'm chainsmoking 2, maybe 3
packs of Lucky Strikes at one sitting, or else I'm fucking some girl in an
alleyway in Tribeca. Yesterday, I picked up this girl and while we were in the
throes of passion, I had to light up and I caught her on fire. This was bad
enough, but it set off the fire detector in the hotel room and well...Let's
just say that they didn't take kindly to their hotel being burned down by
sex-crazed lesbians in sterwardess uniforms.

I need help. What can I do? You're my last hope....Please!

Dear Helpless,

1. Get a nicotine patch.

2. About the alleyways: What's your problem? I see nothing wrong. Send me your
phone number; once you get this pyromania under control, we'll go out.

Dear Answer Woman,

I'm writing you because I don't know who else to tell this to but I'm so mad
about what the MTV executives have done to my daughter Tabitha Stevens (aka
Soren). Even though she's on that music channel that Darren and I don't like,
she's worked hard to bring respectability to that sex, drugs, and rock network.
Ever since she was a toddler Tabitha has always looked so nice and presentable.
I've tuned to see her cheerily appointed in tasteful pearls and a linen floral
frock. Now, at first Darren and I weren't happy when she changed her name from
Stevens to Soren for this job but we accepted it because she wanted to make it
on her own with the benefits her family name could give. Since the make over my
daughter looks like an extra from "Good Times." I'll admit that Endora and
Serena think Tabitha looks groovy but I just can't stand the sight of my
darling daughter decked out in some wardrobe assistant's visual interpretation
of the BeeGee's "Jive Talkin." Those awful floppy hats and suspenders must be
removed! No self respecting witch would wear a hat like that! And her hair,
what happened to Tabitha's beautiful Salem bob? Her shag has got to go! Her
make over is a mistake! I suggest that everybody who agrees with me write to
the President of MTV at 1515 Broadway, 23rd Floor, NY, NY 10036 or call
(212)258-8000 to complain. Free Tabitha!

In solidarity, 
Samantha Stevens

Dear Mrs. Stevens, 

Yes, we all remember your daughter. And we share your concern regarding her
recent transformation. But get a grip. I don't think they'll be hauling poor
Tabitha into the Witches' Council anytime in the near future. Besides, what
could you expect: she's half-human you know, and with a father like Derwood
(oops, Darren), who inhabited two bodies, one of which was a gay man, you had
to assume eventually this would show up somewhere.

Relax. Take a vacation. Tabitha will soon return to her frumpy self. The look
doesn't suit her at all. Eventually, people in charge will notice she looks
like a dead bean bag chair or a lava lamp leftover and let her return to her
own, unique style which we all know and love.

Well, that's all from the Answer Woman (TM).

Any questions?



If you're in a bar making small talk before the pickup and you're just not
guite sure whether to take the woman home or not, here's a quick and easy
guide to make that all important snap decision as well as assess what sort of
night might await you. 

POLITICALLY INCORRECT HAGS who deserve a second chance

Fans and admirers of the following are the type of girl most of us here at DJSQ
would most like to go home with--these types tend to be wildly unpredictable
which could mean that you'll spend part of the night strapped to a piece of
furniture with packing tape, or in an extreme caffeine delirium (or a
gin-sodden stupor depending on the particular pole your trick is visiting)
talking your head off until the sun comes up. Either way, you're in for a trip 
so wild it makes Sybil look like a kiddie ride.

Zelda Fitzgerald
Coco Chanel
Billie Holliday
Anais Nin
Tura Satana
Flannery O'Connor
Sandra Bernhard
Kathy Acker
Djuna Barnes
Janis Joplin
Amy Fisher
Fran Lebowitz
Bessie Smith
Mim Udovitch
Avital Ronell
Courtney Love
Mary Richards
Rosie Perez
Tallulah Bankhead
Judith Butler
Stevie Nicks
Betty Dodson
The Runaways (as a group,not the solo careers of Joan Jett and Lita Ford)
Jan Brady
Roseanne Arnold
Lea Deleria
Drew Barrymore
Dolly Parton
Tori Spelling

POLITICALLY INCORRECT HAGS who deserve to eat dirt

Admirers of the following tend to be grumpy, self-loathing malcontents who
though sexually adventurous will become guilty and violent should they actually
have fun and subsequently blame you for their sins in the morning.

Madonna (for Sex)
Camille Paglia
Gertrude Stein
Phyllis Schlafly
Marilyn Quayle
Martha Stewart
Anita Bryant
Irene Impllizerri
Katherine Hepburn
Sinead O'Connor (for comments about Mike Tyson)
Ali Shahrazad
Shannen Doherty

HAGS WE LOVE even though they're ultra PC

So what if they are so PC that they make your teeth hurt sometimes. Admirers of
the following are excessively passionate, and while sometimes a bit too sincere
make for excellent tricks and conversationalists.

Susan Faludi
Kim Gordon
Susie Bright
Sarah Schulman
bell hooks
gloria anzuldua
Catherine Stimpson
Faye Wattleton
Donna Haraway
Pat Califia
Sinead O'Connor (for ripping up the Pope)
Madonna (for AIDS fund raising)
Ripley in Aliens
Susan Sarandon
Gabrielle Carteris

ULTRA PC HAGS we can't stand

Admirers of the following are way too cultlike and conformist to be any fun in
bed. Not that egalitarian and vanilla are necessarily bad things, they just
lack the fire and spontaneity we crave.

Gloria Steinem
Robin Morgan
Catherine MacKinnon
Andrea Dworkin
Tracy Chapman
Indigo Girls
Donna Minkowitz
Murphy Brown
Naomi Wolf
Jan Claussen
Bonnie Zimmerman
Debbie Allen
Kate Clinton
Joan Baez
Holly Near
Meryl Streep
Susan Sontag
Celine Dion


Teenage Rebel in a "Full House"

We have uncovered startling new information that in an effort to be more real,
the producers and writers of the hit sitcom "Full House" created a character
as troubled and sarcastic as "Roseanne's" Darlene Conner. However, try as they
did, the writers and producers could not manage to persuade the character to
get along with the other characters on the show. The exact details remain
murky, but it seems that after a particularly nasty fight with DJ Tanner, the
character left the script for good. Her whereabouts are still a mystery to the
writers who are offering a reward for her capture and return. DEAD JACKIE SUSANN
QUARTERLY through a series of shady underworld contacts was able to track the
character, who requested to remain anonymous and allowed us to talk with her for
only a short bit. What follows is her statement of the circumstances
surrounding her departure from the script.

When I came home from school, I was bumming. School is such a lame scene. I
can't wait to get out of high school and out of this fucking house. I got a
ride home with my ultra cheery cousin DJ Tanner who I loathe. She's so blonde
and perfect that it makes me want to puke. What's more, she actually likes
Tommy Page! She has posters of him hanging on her wall in the room that we
share. It makes me want to buy a gun and use his little Clearasil-laced
teenybopper face for target practice. I never wanted to come and live here, but
my parents died an so it was either here or an orphanage. Everyone here is so
relentlessly perky that I can't take it anymore. So I came home from school and
went up to my room and cranked the stereo to max and blared my new L7 CD. I'm
listening to "Shitlist" when DJ comes in an starts yelling about how the stereo
is too loud and she has all these phone calls to make and she can't talk with
the stereo that loud. I tell her that she can't have anything important to say,
she's only calling her boyfriend and her best friend Kimmie who only lives next
door and she just saw them both less than a half hour ago. She makes my life
hell, so I split and hitch to the mall.

At the mall, I run into some friends from school and we play some video games
and drink beer. One of the guys has a bag of pot so we pass a joint around and
dare each other to shoplift something from the record store. The guy whose pot
it is says it's really easy to rip off a CD all you have to do is just slip the
CD out of the plastic sleeve or something. I go to the record store with him
and we decide to take a Sonic Youth CD. He starts to open the box when some
greasy-haired pimple-faced geek comes over and asks what we're doing. I figure
I'll let my friend explain cuz I don't really know or care what we're doing. 
The geek leaves and we pick up another CD to lift. We get this out
of the box, slip it into my backpack and walk out of the store. When we get back to 
the Game Palace, we pass another joint and decide nobody wants the CD so we sell it 
to some snot-nosed 7th grader in the arcade and split.

At home, my Uncle Danny's back from work and Joey's almost finished preparing
dinner. I've got the munchies but I don't want to sit around a table with all
these plastic people, so instead I fake ill and go back up to my room to nap.
Danny comes up and tells me that dinner is ready but I say I'm too sick to eat
and he promises to bring me a tray after he's finished. They're so fucking
stupid. I lay under the covers and dream about being in another sitcom like
"Roseanne." Darlene's so cool. She wouldn't be in love with Tommy Page--she's
more of a Jimmy Page type, maybe even the Dead. My life would be so much
better if my parents had been related to the Conners and not the Tanners.

DJ comes in the room with Kimmie and they start doing homework, like anyone
really does homework!! Such drips. I just want to lie there but they're too
noisy and Kimmie is driving me insane with her Sandra Bernhard in training act
so I call one of my friends from school and go to her house. We lay around her
room getting stoned and listening to the Dead. My friend takes out this giant
ginsu-like knife and asks me what she should carve into her arm. I'm totally
wasted so I say "Jeremy" and we both laugh hysterically. She makes me sit next
to her and blot the blood as she scratches my initials into the underside of
her forearm. I smoke a whole freakin joint while she carves her initials into my
arm so I barely feel a thing but the blood really grosses me out.

I sleep over and afterschool on the next day she comes home with me. We go up
to my room and she loughs at the Tommy Page posters and tells me that she
always thought DJ was shallow. She pulls out her stash and we smoke. After
about a joint or so I draw a mustache on Djs favorite poster of Tommy. We get
more and more stoned and I put on the Red Hot Chili Peppers really loud cuz I
know DJ hates them more than the Dead. We're lying on my bed totally wasted and
we start making out my friend and I. I don't know why we're doing it, but who
cares? DJ walks in and starts screaming that we're freaks. I think its because
we were kissing but she's craddling her Tommy Page photo with tears in her
eyes, and I'm like who's the fucking freak, man? I split with my friend and
never go back to that house of teflon monstrosities and so that's how my life
in a sticom family came to an end. 


I was an undercover witch for the Women of America...

I had been digging around for weeks,trying to find the women Pat Robertson had
said were looking to "leave their husbands, kill their children, practice
witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians." I suspected that the
child-killing was thrown in there for the shock value: I doubted seriously that
women seeking to accomplish all that would fail to see how important children
would be in that fight. But trying to track down pagan lesbian communists in
Iowa was harder than finding a truly straight man on Christopher St. I had been
hanging around swap meets, coffee shops, bowling alleys; I was desperate for a
sign. I was overcaffinated, ate too many corn cakes and was about to pack up
and leave when, finally, around 10 one night, I got THE CALL.

"Yeah, I heard you asking about the ERA."
"Yes, I was trying to find..."
They interrupted. "We know what you want."
Uh-oh. Big, truckdriving, rifle-toting-woman trouble. I started to worry. She
didn't sound very happy having people nosing around in this.
"We saw your shirt."
"You did? Which one? I don't remember...can you describe it?"
"I had left all of my volatile tee-shirts at home, including innocuous Madonna
shirts, just in case. There was silence on the other end. It dawned on me. The
shirt I was wearing yesterday at the laundromat. The last clean one I had
It was flannel.
"At the laundromat?"
"Is there some way I can meet with you?"
"We'll come and get you. Leave the door unlocked."
In Iowa, this is not an issue.
"I'll be waiting."

I fell asleep watching porno in my motel room--a strange phenomenon to behold
in the heartland. I don't know how long I was in Sleepyland when I woke to find
myself riding along in a pickup truck. I had been placed under a tarpaulin and
on top of a mattress. I had to remember to thank my captors for their kindness;
my accommodations could have been a lot worse.

Once I was out of the truck, they led me through a cornfield. It was too dark
to see this, but every ten steps or so I was slashed by a wayward stalk across
the legs. Maybe people here just had thicker skin. 

I got into an elevator, and traveled down into what was probably an old missle
station; although if Iowa had them, I wondered what else was being hidden from
us. After what seemed to journey into the center of the earth (how symbolic, I
chuckled), we got out and walked into a room filled with voices. They stopped
when we approached. My blindfold was removed.

I stood in the center of 300 or so women, all ages, wearing robes. The garments
had various red symbols appliqued on them. I imagined these were the same women
who kept Ronco in business--it obviously took a lot of applique to keep the
lesbian witches of America fashionably observant.

One of the older women, wearing glasses and gray hair pulled into a tight bun,
spoke to me. The others turned in reverence as she spoke. I recognized her as
the woman who had appeared saying Robertson's charges were "ridiculous." She
smiled at me.
"Hello, dear. Welcome to the Iowa Women's Movement."
"Thank you. I didn't realize it was so...underground."
"Well, you're from New York dear. Everything that's REALLY powerful in America
is underground."
"Yup. We have a network of tunnels. Remember the MX missle subway? Well, the
cold war is over, and they're so convenient."
This was interesting, but a sudden chill came over me. 
"Please don't tell me anything that would make you kill me."
"We trust you. You're a sister in the fabric."
I chuckled, but hoped she took my request to heart.
"If I may ask, what do you all do?"
"Housewives, homemakers, teachers, shop owners, farmers. The usual."
"Are any of you politically active?"
"Oh, no. That would bring suspicion on us. Betty here is the only one who is
"What about other women's groups that are around? NOW?"
"That's all well and good for them, but they don't realize that working in the
system is corrupting. Or maybe they don't care. They'll get their token
advancements, but you can't saw the branch off while you're sitting on it."
"Not that we would even harm a tree, mind you."
This came from an unbearably beautiful girl in an Iowa State University t-shirt
under her robes. I hoping she would get to take me home.
"We try and maintain a front, you know 4-H clubs, Future Homemakers of America,
that sort of thing. Then we collect intelligence and plot strategy."
"How did Robertson find out about you?"
"He didn't. He just guessed.Lucky. Of course nobody believed him, except people
so gullible to believe anything, or too smart not to."
"I would like to say," a very pregnant woman in her mid-30s interjected, "that
we do not practice infanticide."
"I figured that out.So...what are your plans for the future?"
"Getting Clinton elected was our last big project."
"Is Hillary one of...?"
"Arkansas state matriarch. She had to go into hiding during the campaign, but
we expect her to be quite helpful at the national level."
"Wow. You've managed to escape detection for so long..."
"Think about it: we have a perfect cover. Men see three or four women talking
together, what do they think? 'Oh, there go the chickens clucking again.' It
couldn't work any better if we had planned it."
"Sisters...It is time for the convocation of the new members. Ms. X, we'll have
to say good night now."
Two women, one of them the Iowa State girl, appeared at my side. She smiled at
me. My heart stopped.
"Thank you. I appreciate your seeing me."
"Anytime, dear."

I was escorted to the elevator, blindfolded again and taken back to the truck.
The tarp was pulled over me. I heard the two women discussing whether this was
a good idea or not to even hame strangers in. 

I had forgotten during all this that these gentle, amiable women has a secret
sorority which may use violence against their enemies. I hoped my escorts
didn't suddenly decide to kill me for the cause. Especially the cute one. 

We got back to the hotel, and the cute girl came up with me. She untied me and
said, "I know who you are. I like your writing."
"Thank you. I wish I could know who you were, but I like living."
"Yeah, I like living too. But I'd like you more like this..."
She kissed me hard, and wrapped her legs around one mine in that unmistakable
"do me...NOW" way that I loved so much.

I woke up in my room. My editor stood over me.
"We couldn't locate you. We worried."
"I couldn't get far on this measly expense account."
"We thought you were kidnapped."
"I was. I think."
"Was it the witches?"
Her eyes lit up. Then she stooped over and picked up a pair of black silk
"Hmmmmm. These aren't yours are they?"
The strangest thing happened. I wanted to tell her what had happened, and
nothing came out.
"No. It wasn't the witches."
"Who was it Robertson? ARE THESE HIS UNDERWEAR?"
"No, I went out for a drink or two. I must have passed out. Two women brought
me back."
"Are you sure."
"Jesus, Jane, buy a vowel."
"Get a grip. Maybe you should think about AA."
But I was thinking about a girl in an Iowa State sweatshirt, and an America
where women's victories didn't happen in abandoned missle transport system...I
said, "It's just a symptom. Trust me."



Postcards form the Corporate Edge


Specifically, other people's. Especially for its own sake. Anybody can put on a
suit and tie, or a dress (for suck-cess). I have. It doesn't make you smarter
or more deserving. It just makes you a slave. (Unless you like it. Then, it's
just a fetish.)

If you're going to tell me what to do, you'd better know what the fuck you're
talking about. If you don't, I'll catch you, and let you know. Not to your
face, but in that obnoxious, condescending way that you treat us when we steel
our self-confidence enough to ask you a question, knowing full well how it will
effect your superiority complex.

But you'll know I'm onto you. Maybe you think you did the right thing, hiring
someone smarter than yourself. Just remember, there's no such thing as a
permanent position. 


Smart enough to see that if your project is so goddamned urgent, then
interrupting me to fax a "thank you for a lovely time" note that would take
you 20 seconds, that you're probably on an extended power ride,and too dumb
to understand just how stupid that is. If you don't know enough about your high
priced executive technology to get a memo out, don't expect me to teach you how
to use it for under 40 dollars an hour. It's not in my job description, and if
you're not even vaguely contributing to the betterment of humanity, I don't
share for free.


If you are under the mistaken impression that it is an honor and privilege to
work in your company, you shouldn't use that bullshit excuse to gauge people
with penny ante salaries and mindless work that makes the rest of you feel good
about yourselves. I don't care what the poverty line is, it's not worth shit in
this naked city.

We can compensate ourselves if you won't. And by the way, we're using the
president's xeroxing code to copy our resumes.


Unless I suddenly become a police officer or something. But I'm not going to
wear a skirt and heels to make the rest of you feel better about having to wear
them, too, and solidify the feeling that you own my body. It's all I've got
left, and what little control I have will be exerted with full autonomy. Nobody
NEEDS to wear a skirt to type. You don't have to wear a tie to stuff envelopes.
Besides, you don't pay us enough to afford more than what we already had when
we started. 


Ridiculous, I know. But if I have to sit in a veal pen, that little veal pen is
MINE! If I want a stupid cartoon, or a picture of my girlfriend, YOU don't have
to look at it. I have to sit there for forty hours a week.

Time for a new game plan, losers.

It's not like we love our jobs, you know. We just don't like being homeless.


Be afraid, because we're smarter, faster, and younger than you are. We won't
perpetuate a system that needlessly controls people's energies and channels any
excess creativity or intelligence they might want for themselves into a profit
machine. We're coming up behind you, FAST, and we're taking no prisoners.

You can't protect what you don't understand. If you put all your trust in one
basket, you're vulnerable. 

Sabotage is cheap and easy.

The computers first. We'll deal with YOU later. 


Love, Janis: 
Book reviews

Pearl: The Obsessions and Passions of Janis Joplin: a Biography by Ellis
Amburn. New York: Warner Books. $21.95

Love, Janis by Laura Joplin. New York: Villard Books (Random House). $22.50.

1970: one year that cultural historians of the future will single out when
discussing the shift from hippie counter-culture to self-centered pop
culture--in this one year,the emergent rock scene lost its soul with the deaths
of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, and only months later in 1971 of Jim
Morrison. So what if this trio forms the backbone of what I hate most in life,
FM classic rock and that I'm not sorry I wasn't around for the days of album
oriented radio; Janis Joplin is something of a hero to me. I know we're
supposed to be in the midst of a war, the twenty (or less) somethings vs. the
babyboomers and Janis was every male or female boomer's wet dream but man, the
chick had balls and even if I've never taken LSD while wandering naked and
tripping through Golden Gate Park or remain uninitiated in the charms of a
Be-in, I love the only canonized chanteuse of classic rock. She's legendary,
her exploits immortalized in innumberable books like the camp classic GOING
DOWN WITH JANIS, by her sometimes female lover Peggy Caserta, whose opening
line reads, "I was stark naked, stoned out of my mind on heroin, and the girl
lying between my legs giving me head was Janis Joplin" and has even made its
way to the silver screen in movies like The Rose. With so much ink already
spilled over just one woman, (and if there's a person on the face of the earth
that doesn't know something about Janis' larger than life LIFE, you'd have a
hard time finding them) why two more bios? One simple reason, like Janis
herself, her fans and detractors alike can't get enough. Frankly neither can I,
all I want is just one more little piece of her heart. Pulp groupies recently
experienced paroxysms of joy with the concurrent release of two wildly
divergent accounts of the Joplin myth. For those who may have missed it, the
whole thing works like this, first there's the rise to megastardom but with
increasing fame comes intense emotional withdrawal that eventually leaves her
face down on a scrungy carpet in a Hollywood motel, alone and dead for several
days before her corpse was discovered.

PEARL, written by Ellis Amburn, also a collaborator on UP AND DOWN WITH THE
ROLLING STONES, a deliriously detailed description of the exploits of the
Stones, buys into the whole drugged-out wild woman trip. Amburn delivers the
dish, reconstructing Janis' life in all its vulgar and glorious technicolor
detail by telling us about the time that Janis attacked Jim Morrison with a
bottle of Wild Turkey after he supposedly hit her, the 3 foot high statue of a
penis she kept in her bedroom, her lovers' opinions on how the orgasms she
experienced with men were different from the ones she had with women, or
relating the numerous tales of all night, all day heroin driven lovemaking
sessions with her girlfriend Peggy. This is all the dirt that's fit to print
and then some! But lest you think that this is just another airheaded kiss and
tell bio, there's a serious side to all this goopy guttersnipping, Amburn gets
around to venturing a lukewarm psycho/political analysis of Joplin's difficulty
accepting her sexuality, and claims she was basically a lesbian who slept with 
men (a sister who was so far ahead of her times!). Ultimately, Amburn believes
Janis' inability to deal with or make public her preference finally forced her
to sabotage several promising and quasi-stable relationships with men (that
yes, could have saved her) or from ever having satisfying emotional
relationships with women. 

Laura Joplin, Janis' younger sister, is the author of yet another bio, this one
called simply, LOVE, JANIS. Written from a family member's unique viewpoint,
LOVE, JANIS is structured around Janis' letters to her mom and dad. Filled with
the mundane details of life: bank accounts, bills, doctors as well as obsessive
reports of the success and failures of her fledgling career like how much Big
Brother was paid for a gig to hassles with recording contracts, Janis's
dispatches from her life in the hippie fast lane seem banal in comparison to
the fabled flash of the times. Providing few clues that she was embroiled in
the mythic life that Amburn reports, her letters are disappointingly droll as
historical documents. Laura Joplin contextualizes her sister's notes by filling
in tidbits about Janis' life not reported in the letters, but her
interpretative frame seems drawn more from having read up on interviews,
articles, and other detritus than from firsthand knowledge. What makes this
otherwise tepid endeavor of interest is the extent to which we witness Janis as
the "good daughter," attempting to win her parents' approval every chance she
had. Depicting herself as a woman in control of her career, Janis' letters bear
witness to her need to hide from her family just how lost and confused she
perhaps was, and we see how it is that they could hardly begin to know "the
truth" about their daughter. In the end the world wasn't surprised that Janis
overdosed, only her family was. Being caught up in the straitjacket of a dual life, 
on the one hand pursuing the cheap thrills of heavy excess and on the other
always trying to remain daddy's little girl, certainly caused more pain and 
loneliness than conflicts over her sexuality, perhaps even driving her over the edge 
and at the risk of sounding callous, makes for a damn good read even if we all know 
how the story ends. 


Lost in Cyberspace: Book reviews from the Final Frontier

Glass Houses by Laura J. Mixon. New York: Tom Doherty Assoc.$3.99.

Ruby is a freelance construction dyke in the near, fucked up future. Her
girlfriend turns tricks and won't sleep with her. Her remote robot gets
crunched saving some guy in a hurricane. She finds a will and some jewels. She
hides the jewels, but it's the will everyone wants. The guy is rich, and famous.

Life sucks, and they you have to go Outside.

Which is where everything that you can't patch into inside your house is. The
atmosphere is screwd up, only the privileged actually get out, and you do most
everything at night since it's too hot during the day.

Laura Mixon has written what could be called the first cyberdyke novel. And
it's pretty damn good. Her vision of New York is a logical extension from what
it is now, and her portrayal of the future online service is funny and

Her real strength however, is the relationship between Ruby and Melissa. She
manages to convey it with all of the pain and longing that goes into loving a
girl who can't commit to a life of queerdom, and wants money more than you.
The resolution it, while not falling into a happy ending trap, is true. You
have to wonder whether the relationship is why Mixon's husband is mentioned her
bio, however. 

If you're into tech, you might want something a little harder (try SNOW CRASH
below). But for a good future girl read, you probably won't go too far wrong. 

Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. New York: Bantam Spectra Editions. $10.

The first time I ever ordered pizza from a chain, I noticed the clacking of
keys in the background. The next time I ordered, I found out why. The label had
all my pertinent info on there, and my last order was stored for easy
reference. The time was printed on there as well, so thirty minutes or less
could be pinpointed. 

SNOW CRASH takes pizza delivery to a new level, along with suburbia,
messengers, the US government, programming, Sumerian mythology, linguistics,
and tele-techno-evangelism. The characters we follow, Hiro Protagonist (get it?
I thought you would), Y.T. and a few others in a cast of thousands, are well
written, humorous and entirely interesting. The conception of the future net,
called the Metaverse, is a model to aspire to. 

Hiro, perhaps mirroring Ross Perot's notion of high tech being America's hope,
is a freelancer (remember that: soon I think, we'll ALL be freelancers)
specializingin "music, movies, and microcode." He gets caught up in the plot to
take over everything iwth the Infocalypse, using a drug (and computer virus)
named Snow Crash.

The book has brilliant moments of funny-haha-uh-oh-what-if-this-really-happens
stuff: a 4 page government memo on toilet paper money pools, with a guideline
as to how lon it should take a person to read it, is frightening in its satire.

While the book has moments of flash and trash, on the whole, it's a complex
work of great vision and humor, with some of that being very dense and black.
Kick back and read it. See if it all doesn't look a little different
afterwards. And keep an eye on Fido. 

Fools by Pat Cadigan. New York: Bantam Spectra Editions. $5.99

Synners, Cadigan's first book, was an impressive work centering on music; how
corporations take it over, and suck the life out of one particularly creative
young man, whose visualizations are put to a bands' work, and kill what little
free expression you can have where money (or credit) makes the world go round.
One particular aspect of Cadigan's work, the bulletin boards which keep people
outside "society" together, launched a few real boards around the country.

Actresses are not always the most stable people to begin with. Marva, our
protagonist, wouldn't strike a reader as an exception to this stereotype.
However, she's riding a couple of people's memories so confusion would be
expected. She wakes up in a club as someone else, remembers a murder, and the
chase is on.

Cadigan's device of narrating in and out of other people's consciousness is
interesting, although it takes some getting used to. You may have a sense of
deja vu while reading it: FOOLS struck me as alarmingly similar to  another
book I had read recently (The Shockwave Rider by John Brunner, recently
republished in paperback. This book has been referred to by some as the FIRST
cyberpunk novel).

But the conception of memory as mutable, controllable commodity is soemthing
which seems to occupy cyberpunk thought a great deal. BLADERUNNER (and hence
DO ANDROIDS DREAM OF ELECTRIC SHEEP?) perhasp first brought the issue up when
it came to making a replicant real: give them memories, photos, parents. Is
this what stands between human and other? And if so, when memories can be
stored, altered and shared, what will this mean to a theory of self? FOOLS
while dealing with the hows and whos, doesn't quite get us to the "what nows?" 
But since it's fiction, and not theory, FOOLS shouldn't bear the burden of
these questions. 

I liked the book, but felt nagged by soemthing missing. If you're a Cadigan
fan, by all means, dig in. If you're not as enamored, you might want to hold



I'm an outlaw and you better not screw with me. I don't wanna just hold hands,
I'm gonna fuck my girlfriend on the street where we can scare the shit out of
the horses and anyone else who wants to watch. I'm sick and fucking tired of
talkin about revolution. I'm a goddamned pussy-lickin-lesbian-American and I
can read the Bill of Rights and it don't say nothing 'bout the right to bash
me, fire me, or interfere with my pursuit of pussy, so don't tread on me
asshole. I'm part of the queer underground and anybody that tries to mess with
me can talk to my lawyer, Magnum .45. I'm a goddamned love vigilante and
baseball bats can't stop me. 

I'm fucking pissed that we haven't had a future since sometime around 1977 and
no one in this country noticed until my generation gets a chance to spin the
wheel of fortune. Sure they knew on that rotting island State of jolly old
England, but here it's different, this is AMERICA where the fun never ends and
the future never dies. The land of more motherfucking opportunity than you can
handle. But shit, it's all over now and I'm left with nothing, zippo--my
parents got a job, a house and a car and all I got was this stinkin t-shirt!
The gig is up., the game's fucking over and the baby boomers have picked up the
board and left. I'm getting stomped on by unemployment, a mind blowing deficit,
and Perkins' debt screwed me out of another plastic card. I hate collection
agents and government geeks leaving messages on my answering machine when I
never gave them my number. I hate my parents because they've screwed me out of
a future. I'm an outlaw and you better not fuck with me cause I despise anyone
over 30 who isn't trying to get by on minimum wage. 

I've always known that the decline of American civilization was imminent as
soon as the purchase of kitchen gadgets became suitable dinner conversation. I
don't care to know why yuppies throw cinder blocks off high rise condos. The
world is being overrun by these goddamned gourmet coffee achievers who used to
suck a zillion lines of coke but now just rap about cheesecake and the latest
types of espresso.

I'm fucking tired of hearing about Woodstock and how hard it is to use a
condom. The only 12 steps I'm taking are gonna lead me to a good looking chick.
I get totally wasted on things that don't make me smarter, faster, stronger. I
don't wanna be a cyborg warrior. I just wanna be stoned, stupid, and slow. I'm
an outlaw an you better not fuck with me cause I've been dazed and confused all
my life so take your stinking "just say no this is your brain on drugs" bumper
sticker and get out of my way. Put my face on a milk carton cause, dude, I've
dropped out. 

I don't give a flying fuck about family values--the only two parent family I
now belonged to Buddy Lawrence. Family means four martini lunches followed by
six martini dinners and mother's little helper and I want no part of it. The
only two words that go with home are broken and latchkey. My only bonding was
with a video game name Q*bert. He never let me down dude! At least I didn't
grow up to send a stuffed animal to a fictional character. Stick that in your
bong and smoke it mister-pot-loving, out of work and don't you dare ask for
public assistance Quayle. 

It's about fucking time that people woke up and kicked those bozos out of the
White House. What took so goddamned long? IT scares me that the only reason
Bush/Quayle didn't get re-elected is because no one has a job. I have a huge
fucking orgasm  every time I think about the party of Mr. Buchanan going down
in fucking flames. Crash and burn motherfuckers!! Where the hell was everyone
when  my right to choose was under attack? Livin it up on junk bonds and
ez-credit--nothin gonna hurt me I got piles of money--I can buy anything
including my rights, fuckers only got worried when jobs are on the line. Well
that's bullshit and dude ain't nothin changed from yesterday--same old shit as
it always was! 

I'm fucking sick of conspiracy freaks. Butthead Buchanan is afraid of them, but
I don't believe in witches, devils or commies. I don't care if Lyndon Johnson
dressed in a clown suit and shot JFK. I think it's fucked to dig up a president
whose been dead a couple hundred years to find out how he died. I'm scared of
screwballs who go to bed at night worrying that Blacks and Jews are trying to
take over the country. I'm an outlaw and you better not fuck with me Mr.
Metzger (Jr. and Sr.) because I know more about resistance than you ever will
an by the way, asshole--White and Aryan is a contradiction in terms.

I hate Madonna cause she took the fun out of being an outlaw. We don't want
money, power or multimedia corporations. If it feels good do it dude; but hey
you don't gotta worry about looking good while you're doing it. Sex isn't
pretty and sex isn't a pose--if you yell "Make-up" in a sling, there's

something worng. So until you throw some of that 26 million a the Lesbian
Avengers, you're just as real as the PTL, Tammy Faye Ciccione, take your
billion karat D and get out of my face.

I don't give a fuck if anorexic models wear flannel, pierce every part of their
body, and tattoo everything but their eyeballs. So what if Nirvana sold out,
dude? The entire world  wants to take a walk on the wild side. Crank the
guitars, hit me with that feedback, give me more distortion--we're messy and
loud and like it that way. That's right dude, we can't sing,but we can SHOUT
and SCREAM. We know that everything is fucked up that all we can do about it is
rant n rave so I think you hear us screaming and we're coming in we're gonna
trash the joint cause you didn't give us nothing else to do. I'm an outlaw and
you better not fuck with me cause I got friends and we're takin over now--the
times they are a changin so lead, get out of the way, or we're gonna walk all
over you. Haven't you always wondered why I wear steel toed shoes? Cause, it's
the only thing left for a proud pussy-licker living in this land of evaporated


Lame Ducks in Lust or
Scenes from a Rightwing Love Story

They may be lame ducks, but their 12 year reign of terror was legendary, so
here we give you, dear reader, a brief glimpse of the true horror of love
Republican style between a second lady and her NEA honcho.

Marilyn sped down the highway like a veritable bat out of heck. She navigated
the government issue Cadillac through the Metro area rush hour while adrenalin 
coursed through her veins pumpings her little god-fearing heart double time.
Her knuckles were white from the death's grip she locked on the steering wheel
and those big brown eyes narrowed into determined little slits. Tuned to her
favorite lite FM station, Neil Diamond, Bing Crosdy and her personal friend Pat
Boone crooned in seamless succession choreographing her defensive driving
techniques that her husband insisted she learn to protect against potential
kidnappers. This time it wasn't the evil Soviet empire, Iraquis, fill in the
blanks, that she was evading, it was the Secret Service that she was trying to
shake. Marilyn had a top secret rendevouz that she wanted, no one, espcially
those loose-lipped gossipy Secret Service agents to know about.

When she finally pulled into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn somewhere in
suburban Virginia, she was certain that no one could have trailed her. To make
sure that she would not be found, she took out a spare pair of license plates
stolen from a car parked outside a campaign stop in New Hampshire and placed
them over her government tags. Satisfied that this part of her mission was
wildly successful, Marilyn headed straight for the hotel piano bar to await the
arrival of her paramour.

The bar was dark but crowded. Instinctively, she ducked for a small table in
the darkest corner worried that she might be recognized. She left her scarf and
dark glasses on so as to remain incognito. After a few sips of her double
martini she loosened up, removing her disguise. In a rare moment of insight,
Marilyn realized that the piano bar patrons were too anesthetized by their own
lives to notice hers. Footloose and carefree, she tapped finger to table in
time to the Barry Manilow hit "Mandy" currently tinkling out of the piano and
thought to herself, "now this is music the way it ought to be."

Her date arrived in the bar wearing a plain beige trench coat over a tweed suit
from Brook Brother's, sensible shoes, topped with a scarf and sunglass ensemble
almost identical to Marilyn's. Spotting Marilyn in the corner, she eagerly
joined her in another martini. Staring longingly into each others' eyes, they
sat speechelessly next to one another, throwing back drink after drink. At
first they tried to fight their lust by making small talk about Washington, the
press, and art but when Ann-Imelda reached under the table and grabbed for
Marilyn's thigh, it was all over. Marilyn let out a deep seductive sigh of
approval as her demon lover carressed her leg.

Ann-Imelda whispered into Marilyn's ear, "I've checked us in, we can go to our
room anytime, baby." Coy and coquettish as ever, Marilyn whispered back,
"You're such a tiger. Tonight, I want ot take it slow. I want to romance you."

Marilyn's whispered desires sent shivers of joy down her lover's spine as her
lips grazed Ann-Imelda's earlobe when she spoke. Seeing that Ann-Imelda was
turned on, Marilyn swirled her tongue in Ann-Imelda's ear before she pulled
away. With this evening's foreplay well under way, Marilyn and Ann-Imelda stumbled
into the hotel ballroom where upwardly mobile suburban white trash couples
recklessly whirled around a dance floor in some form of movement that

resembled, yet did not exactly approximate an unhappy marriage of swing and ballroom
dance. Marilyn pulled her reluctant partner onto the floor and bathed in the
revolving white glow of a mirror ball, they shuffled through several sets
before wilting into another corner table. Giddy with lust and drunk with love
and a few too many martinis, they made out in their dark seculded corner. 

Once they were in the safety of their suburban love nest, Ann-Imelda could not
wait to ravage Marilyn. Mad with desire, she impatiently tore at Marilyn's clothes. 
First stripping and throwing her onto the kingsize bed, she covered Marilyn's body in
kisses, nibbles and bites. She licked Marilyn's cunt until she was about to
come then Ann-Imelda reached into her overnight bag and took a special treat.
Marilyn licked her lips while she watched her butch baby strap on a long, fat
brown dick. She always fantasized about being fucked by such a dick. Before
Ann-Imelda fucked her, Marilyn wanted to go down on that big cock. Even though
her cunt ached for it, Marilyn crouched on her knees and took the dildo in her
mouth, practically swallowing Ann-Imelda's huge dick while she sucked. She was
ecstatic that Ann-Imelda was so well-endowed and could not contain her
joy. When Marilyn finished sucking dick, she licked her lover's clit until
Ann-Imelda reluctantly came. Marilyn wanted to be fucked so badly, she pushed
Ann-Imelda down and straddled her cock, riding it until she dissolved in a
wild orgasmic fit.

The next morning, Ann-Imelda ordered breakfast from room service--the Denny's
Grand Slam--scrambled eggs, bacon and toast for 2. After breakfast they hung
the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door and made love into the afternoon. Before
leaving the Holiday Inn, they toured the "Starving Artist's Liquidation Sale"
where Ann-Imelda chastised a woman who painted a lushly sensual portrait of a
naked and large-busted young woman, saying that art shouldn't be about sex.
Marilyn acquired an acrylic paint-by-number landscape to hang in her study so
she would forever remember the night she had conquered her stone butch wild
woman, Ann-Imelda. 


Watching the Dejected: Joson, Tori, Aaron, Shannen and Me

Jason Priestly, basically just another giant Canadian nerd makes good in
Hollywood, right? I truly believe that we should shut our Northern border to
Canadian stars--Lorne Greene, Michael J. Fox, Alan Thick, need I say more? Not
that Canada isn't a fine country--it's just that they send their losers down
here to torment us and that's not fair...but Priestly, unlike his bland, washed
out countrymen has one saving grace--his habit of wearing a sock or two wadded
up in his crotch while affecting his stud swagger through the halls of West
Beverly High. Every episode gives just a peek at this hyperreal industrial
sized basket of goodies and it seems like it's getting progressively bigger
with time. By the time the show goes off the air, he'll be a huge troglodyte,
if he isn't one already (if you were too unroll the sock that is). Jason
reminds me of this friend of mine named Britta--Britta likes to dress up in
jeans and a leather jacket, her hair cropped in the latest bad boy style of
seemingly unstyled style and go out to straight bars and pick up babes. To
achieve the realness effect, she stuffs a huge smelly tube sock in her pants.
Looking like this super macho yet kind of sensitive slightly femme punk, all
the girls fall for it and with that bulge in her pants that makes it seem like
she's hiding this amazing tool, she couldn't keep them away if she tried. It's
always the ones who don't got it that need to pretend that what they got is so
incredible. Maybe it's only the show that matters. Girls want to believe that a
guy is willing to show himself off like that, make himself sexy and whether or
not what they got is real or not is besides the point, which is why Britta gets
so many of the girls she picks up calling her back for more. 

Then there's Tori, daughter of Aaron the Great. I believe that there's slightly
more than a coincidence that Aaron has more shows on TV now that the
twentysomethings who grew up on Charlie's various Angels and shipping out on
the "Love Boat" weekly have become a target audience. It's part of a fiendish
master plan. See, Spelling got to us early and brainwashed us. The older
generations were amused for awhile but they were pretty much immune to his
powers, but those of us who wore Farah Fawcett-Majors t-shirts at the tender
age of 6, collected beer cans and were jealous of the Captain's daughter Vicki,
were definitelly implanted with the Spelling plan. First, he makes a comeback
as soon as the initiated start clamoring for him, the he infects the
generations that are too young to have been exposed, building up a powerbase so
that he will eventualy take over the country. Someday in the not too distant
future we will be dreaming Aaron Spelling Productions dreams--of sex where no
one gets pregnant all the girls will jiggle just a little more that we would if
he weren't in charge. And Tori will be our collective cultural icon--forget the
Virgin Mary, chuck Joan of Arc--we've got all we need,TORI! TORI! TORI!

I kind of got carried away. Ther real reason I love Tori--she always looks so
good, so finished. In all those great little outfits and everything for her is
so simple, she's a sugar-coated, sees-the-world through rose-colored-glasses,
tv-generation gal. With a father who hooked the word on placid but pert Angels
with guns who knew their place and unlike Thelma and Louise were happy there--a
pop who turned promiscuous romance on a weekend cruise into sleaze without mess
that Walt Disney would have loved, what did you expect that she would grow up
to be like? Of course her passage into adulthood means that she would become a
tv character--with Aaron Spelling as your father, what else could you do but
enter TVland and live in it like this is finally the reality that you've been
waiting for? Sure Donna's overdone, but she has to because for Tori, West
Beverly is the Real World. 

That brings me to the Neo Con Heather--Shannen "I'm traditional but I'm going
to be a heavy metal slut" Doherty. Why do I like her? Because she's a
Republican scumbunny--a firstclass hypocrit with the best of them. I give Luke
Perry credit for hating her. She's the kind of self-loathing girl who has a
good time and instead of just having fun, she has to feel guilty about it and
becomes a represses Republican Traditionalist. Shannen makes me dream of
meeting her in a bar. The night goes like this--both of us get real messed up
because Republicans have to be messed up to have a good time and then one thing
leads to another and we fuck. When my tongue on her clit makes her come I want
to make her scream my name and remember that a girl made her feel like that. Of
course, she would only freak out, I know I've been through it before, but at
least I would get the satisfaction of mind fucking her as well and for a
supporter of the party of Patrick Buchanan, it's only fitting that a little
spiritual agita comes her way. 


Buzzwords for the Bust: Catchwords for the "huh?" decade...

The Decade of Denial, everybody's doin' it: The Bush-man, Congress, everyday
people, whether you're backing out of a deal, covering your ass, or denying
yourself pleasure: rest assured, you're in good company. 

With this in mind a few casual utterances which seem to capture the terror of
the times are in order. Used sparingly, they should prove useful in those
moments when words to describe the black hole of living now escape you.


1. Attempting to resuscitate a moment, relationship or career which has no hope
of returning to a healthy state. 

2. What they teach Emergency workers at Ringling Brother's & Barnum & Bailey


1. Poking around a house, place of work, or store looking for something better;
i.e. CDs, a job, a lower priced sticker to put on the overpriced can of
spaghetti with meatballs you're going to have for dinner. 

2. The practice, frequent during cavepeople times, of following fellow
dwellers, waiting until they found food, then bonking them on the head to get


The slices of one's life which tend to hold entirely too much meaning. Often
brought up during drunken depression, or when first dating, they will be played
over and over, like home movies. 


Getting a clue; the flash of lucidity that comes when finally understanding
what one was previously confused by. Often done by those who, having been given
the equivalent of several "free letters," need the vowel to turn on their
cranial light and finally "get it."


As publishing has become slack-land as far as proofing is concerned, more and
more errors show up in books. The ARCHETYPO is an error which is not only
incorrect, but changes the meaning, not only for the matter in which it appears,
but to the reader, who may think s/he has discovered an eternal truth in a
Judith Krantz novel.


The yearning for days past when TV gadgetry was sold in 30-second masterpieces;
an art whose founding genius, Ron Popiel, began Ronco and told us we need a
Pocket Fisherman, a Home Haircutting Kit and the amazing Stud-o-matic. This is
primarily felt by people who have been overexposed to Soloflex, Psychic Friends
Network, and Cher's empire of 30 minute "infomercials."


Commonly used by those born with the ability to use and understand common
household technology; a VCR, a computer, a home alarm system. For the most part
their parents have not truly understood any appliance since the stereo console
with a six-record changer and "Hi-Fi 8 track player."


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