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Crank Issue 1
>From crank@aol.com Mon Apr 18 09:24:51 1994
CRANK
16 pages of poorly-funded self-indulgence.
Spreading my opinions like a Singapore whore spreads AIDS
1. Fuck The Suburbs. Period.
2. My Favorite Asshole
3. Envy Me
4. My Favorite Cunt
4. Obligatory Reviews
5. The Millennium is coming and we ain't all gonna make it.
7. Drive Drunk With Us
8. The Merchandise
9. A Tip Sheet for New Stalkers
11. The Glory That Is STILL Vinyl
12. CRANK-E: Crank@aol.com
13. Mr. AIDS Takes a Little off the Top
************************************
1.
A by-product of JEFF
CRANK will be published in the future under three conditions. 1: I have the
cash. 2: I have the energy. 3: I have the words. Feel free to drop a line and
ask how the next issue is coming along. I'm very friendly through the mail.
Writing submissions are by invitation only, unless you're so fucking cool
that I just can't pass. Send words. No queries. Trust me. And don't send me
any fucking poetry.
Portions of Crank may be used and reproduced however the fuck you want--just
give the credit due. Almost all of the photos and artwork in Crank have
appeared somewhere else before here, but I didn't pay anybody shit for
rights, so don't push it. Moire patterns free of charge. The only things not
stolen are the Crank logo and the accompanying icons, but they're cheap shit
anyway.
I'm ready to sell out. Buy an ad so I can go offset next time. Write for
sizes, prices & standards. Advertising barters will be considered with undue
skepticism. But go ahead and ask. You never know.
Do not make checks or money orders out to Crank. I'd prefer that you just
send well-hidden cash. But if you won't, either make everything out to "cash"
or Jeff Koyen. Thanks a bunch, pal.
My most vitriolic apologies--in advance--to all those I alienate with this
rag.
PO Box 1646 Philadelphia PA 19105-1646
or Crank@aol.com
Crank, v.1.1 c1994 Jeff Koyen
Fuck Your Suburbs
--------------------------
It's not a hate, really. Not the passionate, well-calculated outcry against
humanity that you'll see in every little rag and underground "zine." No, it's
not that at all. It's a lot more intelligent. And a lot more sincere.
You see, I've been thinking about the suburbs, and how much they disgust me.
And how much you disgust me, because 99% of you live in the American Wetdream
that is the suburbs. But I don't hate you. And I don't despise you. But you
do disgust me; I resent you. And that's significantly different than common,
page-deep hate.
If I hated you, I'd avoid contact with you. I'd scream in agony every time I
saw you, every time I went to the mall for a pair of shoes. Every time I ate
at a McDonald's. Every time I drove through the highbrow neighborhoods to get
to the lowbrow track. I might even run over your dog one night. But I don't.
But you do disgust me. And I do resent you. I resent breathing the same air.
I resent paying ridiculous car insurance payments because of you litigious
assholes. I resent your tunnel-vision dreams of mutual funds and IRA's. I
resent the fact that I was raised in the suburbs and I can't do shit to
change it. Am I bitter? Sure I am. And with good reason.
It's the kids. The parents. The dogs and cats. The cars. The fucking MTV
PSA's to save the Earth by separating your newspapers. Know what? I throw my
bottles, cans and newspapers in with my fucking trash. And that's just the
beginning, baby. I'm ending the world. Here and now. I'm ushering in the
apocalypse with my garbage can and I could give a fuck which suburb is the
first to go.
You spend 18 years trying to get out of your home town. You grow up with a
few good friends. The lot of you sit around, get drunk, talk about how
different things are gonna be when you grow up. Time to empower the
teenagers. Time to respect the kids. Yeh, well, there's a reason that
teenagers get no respect: They Don't Fucking Deserve It. Bunch of spineless,
pathetic rats in a pack. Turn on MTV for the latest news and fashion advice.
Read Sassy for what music to listen to. "C'mon, Mom, everyone's got Doc
Martens."
So you sit around in corporate parking lots, hiding from the cops,
experimenting with Mad Dog and malt liquor. Get a little high and talk about
how you'll rise above as soon as you get the chance. Rise above what? Your
parents' disillusion? Your suburban boredom? The petty dreams of adulthood?
Well, you've got your chance, pal, and you're blowing it.
**Case Study**
I grew up with 5 close friends. 5 people to fight the depression and
repression that only teenagers know. They're 25 years old now, and you know
what? Three of them are still living in their parents' homes in the same
fucking town we grew up in. Makes me sad to see the regularity of a paycheck
break their backs with complacency. It disgusts me because I know that they
now sit at the same bars we snuck into with fake i.d.'s. In essence, they're
the people we made fun of--the assholes who inspired us to break out and
above when we were seventeen.
Let me tell you about them: you might recognize yourself. Al and Greg became
volunteer firemen because they're so bored in their shit hometown. Al and Jim
got jobs as phone salesmen through Jim's mother at a construction supply
company. Greg got a temp job and immediately bought a new car. (Fuck that.
I'd rather make rent for my own apartment than make car payments from your
mommy's house) Greg then got a corporate job through his father. Al's brother
got out of law school, moved straight back home (making $60,000) and spent
$30,000 on the cheapest BMW he could find, just to have a BMW. Greg's sister
got out of school, moved home, and waited for her boyfriend to propose; it
took 20 months, during which time she worked as a temp. If I were a betting
man (which I am) I'd say that Jim and Al will be a cops within 2 years, Al's
brother will be married to a Jersey hair-chick, Greg will still be home, and
Greg's brother will have 2 nice, Christian children and a husband who watches
sports all weekend.
It gets me fucking angry. And it happens in every stinkin' suburban shit town
I've ever seen, lived in, read about or visited. If you don't see it, then
you don't deserve the goddamn eyes in your head.
I've got a decent job now because I kept a shit job for 15 months. But I'm
still broke. After my transmission got rebuilt for $1100, after my muffler
was patched with chimney flashing, after the car stereo was stolen, then the
u-joints and suspension went. Fuck it. So I got a loan and bought a new car.
Whoopee! So now my insurance is through the fucking roof and I'm more broke
then ever. But I'm still paying all my own bills, without a penny from
anyone. So get off your ass. Move off your mommy's tit. Get out and find a
some self-respect.
I don't give a fuck if you don't like it. Truth hurts, jerk-off. But I still
don't hate you. I just resent you for being so happy in your ignorance.
Understand? Sitting in your fucking suburbs--worrying about the next Mets
game, strapping on your Rollerblades, cooking your low-fat meals, watching
your asshole sons grow up to date rape your asshole neighbors' daughters,
cheering for the LAPD, and sucking down the antidepressants for the
holidays--you disgust me. And once in a rare while, you'll step outside and
realize that something isn't right. Something bugs you about the air, and you
figure it's the acid rain, or the pollution, or your hay fever. Well, it's
not.
It's your last shred of dignity telling you to forget your family and leave
town. Or, more like it, kill your wretched little kids, then your spouse,
then a neighbor or two, and finally yourself, in a surprising move of
integrity.
But you won't. Because you're happy with your small pond and the power you
have over your children, or the satisfaction you get from raising the little
brats in
a nice house. You fuck your spouse once a week, but masturbate every day. And
you're happy. How can you be so happy? I don't know, but I envy you; I wish
someone would come along and cut out a portion of my brain--maybe the part
that gets me so pissed off--and set me down with a secure job, a wife and a
Lexus. Instead, I get sick every day watching your decisions. Because when
you get that unsettled feeling in your belly, the feeling that tells you
something is inherently wrong with your town, you go back inside, take an
antihistamine, turn on CNN and lament the end of the civilized world. And you
can blame everyone else. Because you live in the suburbs, where the American
Dream endures.
************************************
2.
My Favorite Asshole
---------------------------
Date: 94-01-06 23:16:12 EST
From: (withheld, because I'm a nice fucking guy)
Subj: Being 20something
To: Crank
Dear C, Just read your post on the GenX board. While you renounce the
existence of a "GenX," I wonder what your anger stems from. I'm 24 and I
have OFTEN found myself angry at the world: the inability to find a mate,
the inability to fit into a satisfying job, the shrinking social base. I am
turning to my computer to find some peace of mind. Maybe networking OL will
help. I'd be interested to hear more about your point of view. You are so
bitter, why? Just thought you might like to vent and find someone who can
empathize.
--Golly, thanks. Just knowing you're out there makes a world of difference.
************************************
3.
Some of the Best Crap that I Own
----------------------------------------------
I've been accumulating shit for just about 10 years. It comes and goes, you
know? It gets broken, gets lost or gets sold. Some things, though, you hold
onto--or keep collecting--because you never get bored with it. Here are 4
examples of what I mean.
1. "Serenades for Sex Kittens"-- Carlton Record Corporation, no year
An entire album of smarmy, lady-killer instrumental tunes performed by Dante
& His Orchestra, this album defines an era of koo-koo girlies runnin' wild
with the boys. Estimated production date of 1963, "Serenades for Sex Kittens"
features the following back cover copy (photo):
"SEX KITTENS"...modern myrrh and mischief...flat-tummied, twin-turreted
gamins...moist pouted underlips...amoral pixies and confused carnivores;
stuffed animals...jazz and racing cars...lazy, lithe child wastrels...sic
transit GINA and MARILYN swiftly now, cross over the BRIGITTE. Lush the sex
kittens; lush their serenades...zee melodies Americaine burst like grapeseeds
from Paris terraces... sweeping strings, tres hi fi, society
brisk...whirring, purring... gay, cyclical Sartrian strains...hers all
hers...her manner, her madness...HER MUSIC. --jay arcy"
To have lived the life of these liner notes! Where have all the chickies
gone? To be so swank, so debonair! Note: the ellipses are the author's
originals. There are no typographical errors. If Jay Arcy is still alive,
please have him call me so we can talk about this twin-turreted thing. You
won't find this album in the "Glory That is Vinyl" article (page 11) because
it's too fucking good to be mocked. Mint Condition, $1.00, some Center City
book store, Philadelphia.
2. "The Muddler" (aka "Nite Club")--1953, Ade-O-Matic Company, Chic., Il.
Described on it's cardboard tube/package as "an ingenious, easy-to-use
multi-purpose opener," this multi-talented utensil can open just about
anything: beer bottles, food jars, juice cans, buckets of paint,
what-have-you. But, that's not all! Also advertised as a "muddler," this is
the object you should use to "muddle," or crush, your fruits and garnishes
prior to mixing your favorite cocktails. Hence, it's common name. In our
service, The Muddler has recently been used to hammer nails, remove nails,
pry apart two boards, brain a mouse and scare two brats down the block. God
help the thief unfortunate enough to meet me and The Muddler; I'll open up
his fucking skull. Purchased UN-FUCKING-USED at The Morris Mission,
Morristown, NJ -- $1.00
3. "The Holy Hologram"-- Origin unknown. Production year unknown.
The crowning jewel of my apartment, this back-lit, glass hologram of The Last
Supper never fails to elicit compliments and cash offers. With a 100 Watt
display bulb that threatens to burn a hole through the faux-gold frame, this
ain't no Cracker Jack turn back-and-forth hologram. Mix yourself a Rob Roy,
turn down the lights, slap on "Serenades for Sex Kittens," and let a
soon-to-die Jesus light up the room. It is a truly amazing piece--you've seen
the painting, but with The Holy Hologram, it's like being there. Good
Condition, $4.00 (bargained from $5.00), Garage Sale, Central New Jersey.
4. 17 copies, Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass "Whipped Cream & Other Delights"--
A&M Records.
Sure, the album is good. Shit. With timeless classics like "A Taste of Honey"
and a horrendous cover of "Love Potion No. 9," every home should have a copy.
And every home could, I think, judging from the number of copies that I've
seen at thrift stores & rummage sales. So now, every time I see a copy for
50c or less, I buy it. Once, some guy at a flea market wanted a buck for a
copy. I offered 25c and he just gave it to me. Obviously, he failed to see
it's value. In the last 4 years, I've probably been through 30 or 35 copies.
But they get used. With duct tape & a razor blade, the jackets are perfect
shipping boxes. The vinyl is fun to throw across the room when you're drunk &
bored. I've given a dozen copies out as gifts. I go through a lot, but
there's always more.
Various conditions, 0c-50c, Garage Sales, Flea Markets, Used Book Stores,
nationwide.
************************************
4.
My Favorite Cunt
-----------------------
I moved into her 3 bedroom apartment in January, 1990. It was her and another
woman. We hit it off famously. Became good friends for the next 2 years.
Then, one day, she turned into a fucking lunatic. A raging, spiteful, bitter
crackpot. One day, she was an interesting, intelligent, rational person. The
next day, a cunt-full of screwed-up, unstable hormones.
You're welcome to call me a misogynist--I don't care. She was a cunt. Pure
and simple. She screwed me for $250 in utilities. She stole 2 dozen records,
including my "Chrome, Smoke & Fire." She tried to keep my security deposit. I
never got my records or money. but I did slash her tires and break 2 car
windows.
Two months after I moved out, she alienated the new tenant & her last 2
friends, then moved back to her mommy's house in South Jersey. I hear she's
gotten real fat. Good. I hope she gets the AIDS and dies a long, drawn-out,
painful death.
These are excerpts from the notes she littered around my room. She fancied
herself a tortured artist. I'm sure you know a cunt just like her. They're
everywhere.
I'd love to publish a photo of the filthy bitch but I never took a single
one.
(excerpts of hand written notes included. sorry. e-mail readers. tough
darts.)
Miscellaneous, Outdated Pop Culture
--------------------------------------------------
(Nothing too current, or too COOL, so stay off my fucking back. All my money
is in this rag.)
Sitting at some shit basement bar in West Philadelphia, the bands were so
fucking bad, the people were such ridiculous caricatures, that we pumped 2
bucks into the jukebox and played "Puss" (JESUS LIZARD, Liar, Touch&Go) 8
times. Needless to say, it was the best half hour of the night. Of course, we
came half a step away from scrapping it with 3 of the meatball regulars, but
we left at just the right time. Two weeks ago, I picked up the "Fly on the
Wall/White Hole" single. I can't put my finger on what IT is, but that Jesus
Lizard SOMETHING is missing from these cuts. It's the SOMETHING that
"Glamorous" perfected; the SOMETHING that Liar carried through a full-length
production. Shit, "Fly" is a fine song--worth your $3--but I'm still waiting
for that SOMETHING on their next album. Oh, and "White Hole" is a catchy bit
of noise.
SUPERCHUNK will not stop. "Mower/On the Mouth" (Merge) is worth twice the
cash. "On the Mouth" is perfect. Fucking perfect. And "Mower" is right there
with it. I plan to buy the new album, but, well, it's a matter of money.
ROYAL TRUX ("Cleveland/Back to School", Drag City) Hey, who the hell are YOU?
And what have you done with the REAL Royal Trux? What the fuck? Am I missing
something? Haven't I seen you at the Khyber Pass a couple times, and haven't
you left my ears ringing? My toes a'tapping? What's this? An inside joke?
Widened horizons? I won't be buying the album--sorry--but I will still go out
to see you play.
Saw CELL at the Khyber Pass, here in town, a couple weeks ago. It was a
Monday night, sure. It was getting late, I guess. But only 7 people in the
place? The last album was great. This album is great (Living Room, DGC).
They're loud, they're catchy, they're a great live band. This show was a
local stop before heading to Europe. Maybe the album will break while they're
in Europe. You'll regret not seeing them, I tell you. You will regret it.
LATIMER Seen them twice. Philadelphia band. They've got a single out (Baby
Breath=label) on sale around town and probably available through some
distributor or another. Recording quality is so-so, but still worth buying.
GREEN DAY album is as good as their first couple, so fuck you music assholes.
Course of Empire's "Infested" re-mix uses a swingin' Goodman song; the radio
mix sucks. ARCHERS OF LOAF comes recommended by a friend. Try it.
I've got first pressings of NIRVANA's "Bleach" and "Sliver/Dive" for sale.
Price just went up. Any takers?
************************************
5.
Corpse-Watch 2000: Who's Gonna Make It? Who's Already Gone?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(fun fun fun artwork in the print version)
Celebrity Death--favorite topic of lunchroom conversation--holds a particular
fascination for me. So, in this section, I provide a rather haphazard list of
people for whom I: 1) predict an imminent death, 2) wish a particular
longevity, or 3) remember with an offhand respect.
Follow this key:
In the Morgue Soon ---- XXXX
Likely Corpse ---- XXX
Could Die ---- XX
Ain't Going Nowhere ---- X
Dead & Buried ---- BYE
Place Your Bets! Only 6 Years to Go!
Mohammed Ali XXXX
(b. 1942)
"Float like a butterfly, Sting like a bee."
Sink into the ground like a big, dead, paralyzed ex-punching bag. Lucky for
him, he'll die soon.
Brat Pack, The XXXX
(b. 1985-release of "St. Elmo's Fire")
And I don't care which one. Take any of them. Emilio. Rob. Tom. Ally. Demi.
Andrew. Judd. And you can throw in Molly Ringwald and Charlie Sheen, just to
be thorough. On gut instinct alone, I'm saying that at least one of them will
die in an auto crash in the next 6 years. Personally, I hope that Emilio,
Charlie and Tom are together when it happens. Oh, and did I mention the
sooner the better?
James Brown XXX
(b. 5-3-1934; or 5-3-33, or 6-17-39)
JB's got a new dime bag, baby, and you know what's in it? PCP. Fucking PCP.
Who the fuck does PCP any more? James Brown, that's who--in 1988, at least.
Clean now--says him. Judging from his past performances with guns and cars,
I'm not sure how he's more likely to die: vehicular suicide, police shooting,
or a chemical breakdown. He's likely to go, though. Hee-yeah.
Charles Bukowski BYE
(b. 1919)
With enough living under his belt for 20 of you soft-bellied,
Heineken-drinking pussies, Hank could suck down 3 bottles of red & write 5
poems that'd put your Hallmark rhymes to shame. Sure, Sept. Stew (1990)
sucked, but Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992) was perfect. When my
grandfather died a year ago, they held his wake across the street from his
favorite bar. I sure hope they did the same for Hank.
George Burns XXXX
(b. 1-20-1896)
At press time, the old codger is still kicking. They say he's got his100th
birthday booked. That's 3 long, tired, medicated years away. I hope they
didn't give him an advance. Say Goodnight, Gracie. Goodnight, George. Whoops.
Sammy Davis, Jr. BYE
(b. 12-8-25)
Word is that Sammy weighed less than his age, which was 64, at the time of
his death. No shit. Only the oldest, skinniest corpses can pull that off. The
heaviest part of his body was probably his glass eye, which I hope some
mortician's assistant had the good sense to remove as a keepsake. It'd be a
waste to bury it.
Jerry Garcia XXX
(b. 1942)
Longtime figurehead for a dope smoking, blotter sucking, dance-in-the-aisles
sold-out hippie culture, Jerry is now paying for the finest doctors &
prescription drugs with the cash you spent on a stadium seat in '72, or '79,
or '84, or '92. Don't tell me how incomparably communal you felt after that
mesc; I dropped a tab, watched the "Mary Tyler Moore Show" and felt the same
way. All for the cost of a cheap tab, not marked up by some 40 year old
hippie fuck in a Saab.
Magic Johnson XXX
(b. 1959)
A hero. Hero? Are you out of your fucking mind? This big, dumb, ignorant
asshole indiscriminately spreads AIDS to countless women, but because he had
the "courage" to tell everyone--including the legion of women he's sentenced
to death--on national tv--you now tell your kids that he's a fucking hero?
The only bad thing about his imminent demise is the inevitable escalation of
his idolatry. In exchange, I wish upon him a slow, lingering, hospitalized
death. I just hope he lasts a few years after the AIDS kicks in. Wasting
away, continually sick; just like everyone else with the disease. He ain't
special, kids. He's just famous. And stupid. That's all.
Tom Jones XX
(b. 6-7-1940)
What's new, Pussycat? With luck, the turned dirt of your grave, Tom. The
worst example of the Dean Martin inheritors, Tom Jones continues to live on 2
hits. Ugly as sin, struggling to convince the world that he's still a sex
symbol, Tom recently did the talk show circuit and had a couple sitcom
cameos. Forget it, Tom. Go join your career in the morgue.
Peggy Lee XXX
(b. 5-526-1920)
Ah, Peggy, I'd love to see you live forever. But, from the looks of you at
the NYC Hilton engagement 2 summers ago, you ain't gonna be crooning me into
the 21st Century. Is that all there is? The 20th Century? Afraid so, Peg.
Rush Limbaugh XX
(birthdate withheld)
The misinformation mouthpiece for racist, reactionary, conservative
Americans, Rush Limbaugh can go fuck himself with a rusty pick axe. While I
ain't no radical left-winger, Rush sure as fuck ain't my spokesman.
Fortunately, it's a race to see which'll crap out first: his heart, or his
career. Personally, I'd like to see the big fat bastard hit rock bottom,
supporting himself doing supermarket appearances, then die in a
government-subsidized hospital.
Ross Perot XXX
(b. 6-27-1930)
Little fascist bastard. If he'd been running the Post Office, he'd've long
ago been the target of a disgruntled worker. This man will not live into the
21st century; someone is bound to kill him just to shut him the fuck up.
Maybe they'll bomb the Larry King Show and give us that little bonus.
Iggy Pop X
(b. 1947)
The Hank Bukowski of the punk rock community, this man should have died
decades ago. But, on the straight & narrow, Iggy seems to have many more
years ahead of him. Many more dreary years of watery college-rock hits and
duets with boring alternative-pop singers. Suck it up, kids.
Nancy Reagan XXX
(b. 7-6-1923)
Actual quote: "I wanted to do something until I found the man I wanted to
marry." I find Nancy Reagan utterly reprehensible. With luck, she'll have
been the last of the white, upper class, self-righteous First Ladies. Take a
look at yourself, Nancy. You're a morally bankrupt, hypocritical,
close-minded old goat. Your death will be my holiday, you bitch.
Keanu Reeves X
(b. 9-2-1964)
And I don't care what cool garage band you've formed, Keanu. After "Point
Break," "Dracula" and whatever other embarassment will be out by press time,
death'd be a good career move. Would've been a better career move right after
"River's Edge," but you made 2 common errors: mistaking good writing for good
acting, and attributing a film's success to an actor's (alleged) talent.
Satan X
(b. 1969-release of "Black Sabbath")
Satan the Heavy Metal icon, that is. Satan, as the origin of that bad word
"satanic." Satan, the Devil, as an over-wrought, "I'm so evil because I
worship Satan" caricature. If we could kill the Devil personae, then maybe
there'd be less annoying teenagers & self-idolizing rebels out there.
Frank Sinatra XXX
(b. 12-12-1915)
Sure, he's falling over himself onstage. Sure, he can't remember his lyrics.
Sure, he's almost 80. But I suspect The Chairman of the Board will be warm
well past the advent of the Millennium. Why? There's just too many
middle-aged Italian men praying to their other God for Frank's good health.
And I hope he does make it. Maybe by then I'll have saved enough money to buy
a ticket to one of his shows.
Frank Zappa BYE
(b. 12-21-1940)
Good riddance.
**Must Mentions**
Natalie Merchant
Just please shut the fuck up. Just keep quiet. Your voice grates me.
Laurie Anderson
You and Tim Leary. Brave New Artists of BlabberSpace. Go do something useful.
Courtney Love
Boo Hoo. "Double suicide" mean anything to you?
Liz Taylor
Growing old is tough, eh? You old hag. Dead by 2000. Easy.
Hillary Clinton
Finally a good role model for women of all ages, and the fucking men in this
country need to rip her apart. Now, I don't want her dead (Did you hear that
mein gov't? NOT A THREAT!) but I'm afraid some backwoods hick motherfucker
will shoot her because he's too insecure to face the reality of women's
equality. Slim chance of it happening, BUT you heard it here first.
Olsen Twins
Wishful: Twin cases of bone marrow cancer. Before they start making Movies of
the Week.
Rikki Rachtman
Pretend you're that prick who used to host 120 Minutes: get a big head, quit
MTV and fall into obscurity on some late-night, shit video show. Then kill
yourself like the rock star you want to be.
Bob Dole
Will someone in their right mind please martyr themselves and kill this
fucker?
(Hmm...now THAT might be a threat. Not directly. I'M not going to try to kill
him...
but I am asking someone else to...can the FBI take away my passport for
this?)
Pearl Jam
You're about as punk rock as The Go Go's were: you might have started out
that way, but you sure didn't stay there when the record deals started
walking down your street. I want the band to break up and Eddie to die.
Sorry, kids.
************************************
7.
The Lost Art of the Drunken Drive
---------------------------------------------
Tough topic, eh? Pet taboo for the PTA, favorite faux pas for every suburban
parent in this rotting country. Drunk Driving. Man oh man--what to say.
Let's say you've been drinking hard in your living room, alone, for the last
six nights. Some new faces would do you good, some strangers to look at, some
unfamiliar humanity to disgust you, remind you of your own superiority. But
how're you going to get there, drink your fill, and get home? How can you get
drunk and successfully drive home? Take these tips from me, cause I got the
experience, baby. Plenty of it.
1. Get the Fuck Out of the Suburbs
Move to the city. It's the simplest solution to your drunk driving problems.
DWI Checkpoints and idle policeman inhabit the suburbs. City cops have plenty
else to do besides worry about some drunk driving across town 10 blocks to go
home. Of course, if you go tearing down Broadway at 4 in the morning, you're
fucked. But, then, you'd also be stupid.
Face it--the suburbs breed angry, arrogant police. Town cops were teenage
losers, kids too stupid and insecure to break out of the hometown. Suburban
cops will put a flashlight in your face while you're kissing your date
goodnight. Suburban cops will pull you over because a turn signal bulb is
broken. Fucking suburban cops will proudly bust your ass for DWI. It gets the
Sheriff re-elected and gets their pathetic hides closer to that promotion.
City cops, though, they've got bigger problems. If you live in a city, then
drink and drive home in the city. Keep it calm and you'll make it home to
drink more.
2. Know Your Car
Aside from the Check-Points, how do drunk drivers get caught? By hitting
something. Hitting someone. Driving too fast. Or driving erratically. Yes.
Driving erratically, swerving down residential roads, weaving in and out of
traffic, wobbling down the road in front of that cop on your tail. But this
can be prevented, no matter how drunk you get. As long as you know how to
drive your car.
It doesn't really matter you're driving. Each car has its quirks and its
subtle tricks for smooth driving. For example: a 1989 Volkswagen Fox (and
every other Fox, I figure, since they're all identical) has a push-switch
headlight control on the left of the dash, a finger's distance away from the
steering wheel. On straight roads, you put 2 fingers of your left hand along
the "On" portion of the switch and use this makeshift anchor to keep the
wheel straight.
Similarly, a 1984 Nissan Sentra has a ledge along the driver's side window
which is the perfect place to secure your elbow, locking your arm in place
and keeping the wheel straight.
But there's more. You need to shift without stalling. You need to drive in
the rain without slipping. You need to keep your windshield defrosted at all
times. You need to drive well consistently--drunk and sober. Period.
3. Do Not Drive Other Drunks Home
Never. Absolutely never. Let them take a fucking cab.
Why? Because people are assholes. And drunk people are bigger assholes. They
will jump around in the car, they will yell out the window and harass girls,
they will drink while you drive, like it or not. Drunk passengers attract
cops like evangelists attract Southerners. Flies to shit, baby.
Being a nice guy is a one-way ticket to DWI, complete with a night in jail,
an expensive lawyer, and insurance surcharges so far up your asshole you'll
need a second mortgage to get them out. Use your brain, fuck the other guy.
That's why the government gave us public transit. Make them use it.
4. Breath Mints--No Gum
If I were a cop pulling someone over 15 minutes after last call, and he or
she was frantically chewing on a pack of Wrigley's, I'd throw Miranda down
the sewer and haul that asshole into jail just for being so stupid.
The same thing with cigarettes: If you smoke, then smoke. But don't light up
as soon as you're being pulled over. It's just too obvious, eh?
Tic Tacs. BreathMints. Whatever. Shove a handful in your mouth as soon as you
start the car. If you get pulled over, swallow them or chew them up. Don't
spit them out. Don't scramble for more. Just take it easy, pal. Nice 'n
Easy.
5. Crack the Window
Because you stink. Like a bar. Fortunately, bars smell like smoke, which
isn't against the law. With the mints from #4 and an open window, you're
cooking with gas and making it home.
6. Stay Off the Backroads
Sure, it seemed like a good idea at the time: Let's cut through that
neighborhood, less cops around. But it's not a good idea. It's a stupid idea,
if you think about it. More cars drive the main roads at 3 a.m. than drive
the back roads. If there's more cars, and you're following these tips, then
someone else is bound to look far more drunk than you. And that person will
get pulled over and arrested.
In most towns, it looks suspicious to drive a backroad when a perfectly fine
2-laner is available. That's why towns build roads--for people to drive on.
If you're not driving on it, then you're avoiding it. And if you're avoiding
it, then you're either drunk or you've got a body in the trunk. Either way,
you're fucked.
7. Listen to me.
As long as you play the odds, you're fine. Odds are that someone is worse off
than you. Someone always is. Let them get fucked. They'd do it to you.
************************************
8.
The Merchandise
-----------------------
Crank Drug I.D. Guide
A complete array of drug samples and their correct names.
Novice drug user? Teenager just starting out? Education is the key to
understanding. Looking to expand your horizons, but are afraid to ask your
friends what your mom's Xanex will do for you? We'll teach you. The Crank
Drug I.D. Guide includes a full array of stimulants, depressants,
hallucinogens, inhalants, and run-of-the-mill narcotics, plus a special
display of favorite household choices, including Magic Markersr, White Outr,
and WD-40r. Hey, everyone else knows their drugs, why shouldn't you?
Item No. V-198-A93. $449.99 + s&h.
(you're missing the graphic, pal.)
Crank Catheter Kit For Education...and Fun!
The Nation is growing older. People are living longer, dying later, and
falling apart more thoroughly. With the Crank Catheter Kit, you and your
spouse--or just a close friend--can avoid costly trips to the hospital by
taking care of business at home. Teach yourself how use a catheter, without
damaging your genitals during the process! Comes complete with practice
tubing and enough cleaner for ten urethras! Item No. G-203-A93. $395.99 +
s&h. Specify M or F.
(you're missing another graphic)
Crank Sticker
Cheap Vandalism=Free Publicity
It's an ornament. It's a publicity device. It's the means by which you can
demonstrate your good taste. It's something to put on the bathroom wall of
your favorite bohemian hangout. It's a sticker. Straight from the laser
printer onto Crack'n'Peel & laminated with packing tape. Ah, shit, it's only
a buck. Postpaid. What the fuck, eh? 2 for $1.00, postpaid. Cash is
fine--hide it well. PO Box 1646 - Phil. PA 19105-1646. Actual Size: 6" x
1-1/2"
************************************
9.
Stalking: Tips for Beginners
-------------------------------------
It really started on July 26, 1989, with the California murder of the
relatively unknown actress, Rebecca Schaeffer, the cute sister on "My Sister
Sam." Shot to death by Robert John Bardo, an aptly described "obsessed fan,"
Becky's murder gave America its newest catch-phrase criminal... The Stalker.
Stalkers have been around forever, I'd imagine. But with the advent of
mega-stardom, the last few generations have been treated to a whole bunch of
entertaining Stalking crimes. The Sal Mineo Murder, the Kidnapping and Rape
of Connie Francis, John Lennon's Killing, the Attempt on Ron Reagan...
Long since a saturated media topic, Stalking is already considered passe by
some. Well, I could give a fuck. Cause I've got the tips, tricks and
suggestions for the amateur Stalker in all of us.
1. Learn the Statistics
The statistics are your best friend for avoiding arrest and/or conviction.
-- In 1990, according to the FBI, 30% of female murder victims were slain by
current or ex-husbands or boyfriends.
-- Stalking experts estimate that 75-80% stalkings are domestic in nature.
Together, these statistics tell you one very important fact about your
impending hobby: too many assholes have given Stalking a bad name. In some
states, spouse-beaters are now technically stalkers; an ex-boyfriend who
makes a threatening phone call is now a stalker. So, use this knowledge to
your advantage: Don't stalk someone you know. No ex-lovers. No
ex-girlfriends, ex-wives. Because as soon as something happens to her,
whether or not you did it, you're the prime suspect. So, find a fresh face.
Maybe that woman on the train. Maybe that new temp in the Accounting
Department. Maybe that lady on Page 1
of the Lifestyle section of your local paper.
2. Be Creative, yet Prudent
You're in this for fun. Remember that.
-- John Boyer, described as "such a nice person" and "the kind of guy who
walks grandmothers across the street," stalked Amy Ralph, of Springfield,
Mass, for 2 years. John took advantage of the Postal Service to meet his
needs. After a dead rat didn't win Amy's affection, he sent her coat hangers
for DIY abortions. Then, still pining, he wrote her alumni magazine and told
them she'd died of AIDS. But Amy still kept her distance.
John is currently serving time for violating probation on an attempted murder
conviction--not Amy, a different woman. He could not be prosecuted under the
new MA Stalking Law because he never made a direct threat.
John Boyer is, I'm sure, an asshole. An insecure, violent, misogynist
asshole--but you've got to love that hanger trick.
3. Learn from History
Stalkers are not judicial favorites.
-- Atlanta, GA. November 12, 1993. After stalking his estranged wife, Troy,
for a number of months, Joseph Anderson snapped and stabbed her four times
with a butcher knife. He plead guilty to battery & simple assault and
negotiated a deal for a few years in prison, which would put him behind bars
for a year or two. Not bad, for an attempted murder. But Fulton County
Superior Court Judge Frank M. Hull rejected the deal and gave Joseph 15 solid
years in prison. Fifteen years, pal. That's a long time, considering Joseph
could've gone to trial and maybe gotten an acquittal.
So, learn, my friends. Make a deal, get fucked by the Man. See you in 2008,
Joe, you dumb asshole.
4. Set Your Goals
-- Face it, you loser. She's never going to sleep with you. She's never going
to love you, or marry you. You've got to lower your expectations. My advice?
Transparent Observation. In other words, don't affect her. Don't disrupt her.
Don't beat, rape or kill her. Just observe her. Stalking, in it's essence, is
a testosterone-based hunter/hunted thrill. Get to know her. Learn her
routine, watch her friends. Take the train home with her, sitting in the next
car. Watch her get the mail. Maybe catch a glimpse of her getting undressed.
That, my friend, is Stalking.
But, if you need the satisfaction of a final culmination, then why not opt
for a nice case of Post-Traumatic Shock Syndrome? A mild case can mean loss
of job, maybe some therapy. But severe cases lead to relocation, name changes
and destructive emotional imbalance, leaving her useless to any other man...
for the rest of her life.
5. Know the Law
Stalking laws are everywhere.
-- As of press, 29 states have implemented Stalking Laws. The laws were set
according to guidelines set forth by the National Institute of Justice,
empowered by Congress, signed into action by George Bush.
-- The new laws all essentially define Stalking as "willful, malicious and
repeated following and harassing of another person, where there is a credible
threat of violence against the victim or members of the victim's family."
6. Be Careful
I figure that a good portion of Stalking is resolved the old-fashioned
way--violently. Brothers, fathers or boyfriends, solving problems with a
baseball bat. So don't be surprised when your affections are unfavorably
received.
Oh, and keep your health plan up to date. Enjoy.
(Missing a couple swell pieces of art. Send me your $2.)
States to Avoid When Stalking:
Alabama, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Idaho,
Illinois, Iowa, Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Michigan, Mississippi,
Nebraska, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oklahoma, Rhode Island,
South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Utah, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin
Stuck for a victim? Here are a few suggestions--clip & keep in your wallet!
Top National Choices
1. Chick from Superchunk. Oh boy.
2. Winona Ryder. Check out her house in Arch. Digest
3. Nicole Eggert. Though I preferred her smaller boobs.
4. Chelsea Clinton. Hey, that wasn't a threat, ok? OK?
Top Local Choices
1. Supermarket Clerk
2. Bank/Fast Food Teller
3. High School Head Cheerleader
4. Any Self-Righteous Christian Mom
************************************
11.
The Glory that Remains Vinyl
---------------------------------------
Ah, the late 50's/early 60's. The swankest time in this country's history.
Plenty of disposable income. Plenty of jobs. Plenty of suave young men and
naive young women. Dinner parties. Martinis at lunch. Rob Roys before dinner.
Call your favorite girl and take her out on the town. Maybe go dancing to a
little Latin swing. Stay out all night, wake up, go to a friend's house and
have a few Mimosas before lunch. Sounds great, eh? Sure does. And it's
immortalized on shit vinyl piled in used record bins across the country.
Fuck compact discs. Fuck digital cassettes or whatever the fuck is the
latest. Give me slabs of scratchy vinyl for 50c a pop. Give me Cha-Cha's.
Give me Limbo's. Give me that crazy, kooky music that gets everyone dancing!
Stranded on a desert island. You want "Warehouse Songs and Stories?" I want
"Will Success Spoil Mrs. Miller." You want "Atomizer?" I want "Happy Music
for Happy People." Just let me have these 15 albums and a needle that'll last
forever, and I'll sit on that island, grinning ear-to-ear every fucking day.
Whenever possible, I have indicated the release date and which MODERN
recording technique is responsible for the superior quality. I am, of course,
willing to part with any and all of these albums for the right amount of
cash. Make an offer.
(You're missing all the BEAUTIFUL ART (album covers) by not buying a printed
copy)
Happy Music for Happy People featuring Bobby Roberts and his orchestra
"Shuffle Rhythms For Continuous Dancing"
A Hi-Fonic, DECCA Long Play Microgroove Record
Classical Music for People Who Don't Know Anything About Classical Music
1957--An RCA Victor New Orthophonic
High Fidelity Recording
Music for Dining
The Melachrino Strings and Orchestra
Part of the Moods in Music series, which includes "Music for Relaxation,"
"Music for Reading," "Music to Help You Sleep," and more (I imagine).
1958--RCA Victor Living Stereo High Fidelity
Primitiva
the EXOTIC sounds of MARTIN DENNY
Recorded in the Liberty Studios in Hollywood, "the WORLD'S ONLY
TRANSISTORIZED RECORDING STUDIO." Featuring a man named August Colon playing
bongos, congos AND making BIRD CALLS throughout the album. Fucking beautiful.
Will Success Spoil Mrs. Miller?!
Elva Miller nabbed a record deal because she's such a bad fucking singer. She
was a regular on Jack Parr, et. al. This is, simply put, the fucking epitome
of bad vinyl. And this is her SECOND lp. I love her.
"This monophonic microgroove cannot become obsolete. It will continue to be a
source of outstanding sound reproduction." Amen.
Opera Without Words: A Program of Favorite Arias with 101 Strings
This stereophonic 331/3 R.P.M. long play record has been mastered employing
the Westrex cutter head system drive by a Sculley lathe.
Cal Tjader's Mas Ritmo Caliente
1957--Fantasy Records High Fidelity
An absurd album cover (flamenco dancer on a very large bongo) from a man
considered a fine jazz musician by those people who actually like jazz.
Gypsy Campfires: The Emotion of 101 Strings
"Only the emotional depth of "101 Strings" can capture the contrasts of
tender emotion and fiery crescendos of a night at Gypsy Campfires. "
Whatever, I guess.
Polka Polka Polka Polka with Paul Potski and his Pumpernickels
Nobody is complete without at least 1 Polka album. This features "Strip
Polka," "Too Fat Polka," and "Wood Choppers Polka."
Coronet Stereophophonic (YES: "phophonic") cut on a Scully Lathe.
Mood Music for Beer and Pretzels
The Honky-tonk piano of Lou Stein and his Bar-Room Boys
(Not part of the far more classy "Moods in Music" series)
1957--Masterseal High Fidelity
Music to Break a Lease!
Produced by Sid Feller and Don Costa.
No singers or musicians listed.
This record is so bad it's not even fun. I also own the follow-up: Music to
Break a Sub-Lease, which is even more pathetic.
1956--ABC-Paramount Full Color Fidelity
Music to Suffer By
Leona Anderson
Produced in the same spirit as the Mrs. Miller albums, Leona Anderson is no
Mrs. Miller. But she is pretty funny.
1958--Diamond-True Hi-Fi Sound
These last 3 albums are not from the same time period, but they warrant
inclusion for being so ridiculous.
The Ethel Merman Disco Album
**NOT JUST RE-MIXED HITS**
She got her fat ass into a studio and actually re-recorded her big hits as
disco. Includes "There's No Business Like Show Business," "Everything's
Coming Up Roses," etc.
Beats per Minute listed on the label, for all you d.j.'s out there who need
to mix this into your regular dance program.
1979--Pretty late in the disco craze, don't you think?
Joe DeCosta's Ten Dog Commandments
"Thou shalt not shit on the rug?" "Thou shalt not hump the couch when company
is over?" No. Actually, a double-album of doggie discipline aimed at turning
your pooch into an honest-to-God Security Dog. 1973
Special Music for Special People
Accompaniment for Adapted Dance/Exercise with Directions for Geriatric and
Disabled Populations
Albums like this get me out of bed on Saturday mornings and inspire me to dig
through piles of shitty vinyl.
************************************
12.
Crank-E: Crank@aol.com
----------------------------------
Reach me at "crank@aol.com." If I had more money or if I were a fucking
student, I'd have a more prestigious e-mail address, like Mindvox or The Well
or an ".edu". Tough titties. Don't bother me with prattle.
Many of you are already reading this in e-mail. If you're not, then you can.
Write me as above and I will write back with the text-only version of this
here document. If you are currently reading this as text, then why not cough
up $2 for a printed copy? It's full of ZANY clip art, original art and WACKY
photos. Not to mention the CRANK icons--fine work in themselves. It's
Certainly worth your two bills, postpaid. Find the address at the start of
this document and send well-hidden cash. Trust me.
Crank is also available as a DOCmaker file for AOL Mac users. E-mail to
"CRANK" on AOL--SPECIFYING THAT YOU WANT THE MAC VERSION--and I'll attach it
to my response. It'll be a self-extracting Compact Pro document.
If you find me online, don't expect anything. I might be in a good mood. I
might not be. And don't antagonize me. I don't have the energy.
************************************
13.
Trimming Down the World: My Friend AIDS
---------------------------------------------------------
God Bless AIDS.
Do you know how many people are on this stinking planet? Too many--that's how
many.
Now, some asshole Fundamentalist Christians might tell you that God gave us
AIDS to kill off all those pesky queers and blacks and jews and
what-have-you. Could be. Some Conspiracists might tell you that The Man
slipped AIDS out of a beaker in order to kill off the ______ (fill in the
blank: Black Man, Gays, etc.) Could be. Some downright stupid people--like my
80 year-old grandmother--might tell you that the ______ ("coloreds," from my
grandmother) "brought it over with them and spread it when they started
sleeping with our white women." Could be.
I don't know how it got here, and I don't care. It's here. And it's here to
stay. And it's about time.
I don't have AIDS. And unless I get a bad transfusion, or someone bleeds on
me in a barfight, I won't be getting AIDS. My girlfriend is clean. I'm clean.
We don't fuck anyone else. Period. I can talk like this because I'm not
really at risk. Maybe I'll somehow catch AIDS down the line, as a kind of
poetic justice. Could be. Then you can laugh all you want. But I won't be
around to hear it. I will have shot myself well before the pneumonia sets in.
Enough. Let's say there's 4 billion people on the planet. 4,000,000,000.
There's about 250 million Americans. 250,000,000. But with all these people,
I only care about 2 dozen or so. 24. And most of these people I COULD live
without, if had to. Sorry, but it's true--you'd do the same to me. So there
are, really, only 4 or 5 people I'd mourn more than a day or two.
So what about the other 4 billion? LET THEM DIE.
I don't care if you're straight or queer. Black or white, etc. I don't care
what you do for a living. I don't care about your socio-economic background.
You're going to die because you're stupid. And that, for my money, is the
best modern proof of evolution.
Only those strong enough will survive, right? Well, maybe in our cerebral
modernism, we can change that to: Only those smart enough to stop fucking
whores and strangers at bars will survive. You got AIDS from a blood
transfusion? Sorry, but yer dead. Your wife got AIDS from her dentist and
unwittingly gave it to you? Yeh, sure she did. SHE'S A FUCKING WHORE, PAL.
SHE WAS PROBABLY FUCKING YOUR BEST FRIEND WHO WAS FUCKING WHORES ON BUSINESS
TRIPS AND IT'S TOUGH SHIT. Got me? TOUGH FUCKING SHIT.
It's a shame so many gay guys got AIDS. They didn't deserve it. They just got
it first. Sorry, guys. But you should be smart enough now, right? Stop
fucking through glory holes? Stop sucking cocks in bathrooms? Good. You don't
deserve any more dying than the straights.
It's about time to even out the playing field. It's time for the straights to
start dropping. All the straights who figured the gays got it. All the
suburban white motherfuckers who thought it was a City problem. All those
fucking Catholics who listened to the Pope and didn't cover their cocks, but
kept fucking strangers every other night. All those stupid fucking CATHOLICS
who were STUPID ENOUGH TO LISTEN TO THAT FUCKING POPE. Yeh, that's right. The
FUCKING POPE who gets his orders from JESUS FUCKING CHRIST HIMSELF. Too far?
Fuck you. The Pope tells people "no rubbers." Good. Listen to him. That's
evolution, baby. Anyone STUPID enough to listen to the fucking POPE and
catches AIDS as a result SHOULD NOT SHARE THIS PLANET WITH THE REST OF US. Go
die. And then give me call from Heaven. Call me collect. I dare you.
Face it. Stupid people, male and female, deserve to catch AIDS. The stupid
fucking people who go out, get drunk and either put their bare cocks into
cunts, or take bare cocks into their cunts. Am I advocating Safe Sex? No. I
couldn't give a fuck. Go ahead and spread it around. More real estate for me.
More room for me to live in. Less stupid people driving at rush hour. Less
bad music. Less bad fiction. Less bad poetry. Evolution at work.
Desaturation.
There is one flaw though: slow death. The agony of a lingering death is fine,
but the cost is for shit. In 5 or 10 years, every fucking hospital in this
country is gonna be packed with people dying of AIDS. Nice suburban
heterosexuals, dropping off like gays in '88. And these lily-white
motherfuckers better have good health insurance, because it's a long,
expensive trip to the morgue when Mr. AIDS is pushing the cart. Don't expect
me pay your way. I refuse.
I'm not looking to exterminate anybody in particular. No Master Race. No
selective breeding or selective killing. I'm not picky. If we could eliminate
a proportioned amount of people from EVERY ETHNICITY, EVERY RELIGION (well,
actually, let the Catholics go en masse) and EVERY WALK OF LIFE, then I'll be
happy. I don't want an all-white world. Or an all-anything world. I just want
LESS PEOPLE. It's like that fucked up pair of scissors at the barbers: one
half has an edge, the other has a comb. It thins out your hair. AIDS is that
comb, thinning out the population.
I'm not heartless. It is a shame that people have to die, ON AN INDIVIDUAL
LEVEL. I know some people will read this and be angry with me. Maybe more
upset than angry. Sure, you lost a friend, a lover, a brother or sister. And
I'm sorry you were hurt. But, well, that's it. Tough shit. Don't write me.
Don't do anything. Just don't catch it, eh? I'm sure to lose some people I
care about in the next 10 or 20 years. Shit, I'll be sorry to see them go.
But, if they were fucking around, or stupid enough to fuck someone who was
fucking around, then tough shit. Good bye. You saw the news, didn't you? You
knew it was going around, didn't you? Sure you did, asshole. Put me in your
will.
So that's that. The gays should be free and clear once everyone already
infected dies. The i.v. drug users should be gone soon too. Then the fun
starts: Family Men, Trusting Wives, Stupid Teenagers, Self-Righteous
Christians, Politicians, ad nauseam.
And me and my girl will be waiting. 250 million stinkin' Americans. We're
gonna lose 50 million, easy, before it's all over. And worldwide? Shit. We
might make it back down to 3.5 billion. That would be nice. That would give
us a little breathing room. A little more space to live, and maybe raise some
kids. Some smart kids. Bye bye.
"Oh? You got AIDS? Because the Pope said birth control is a sin? Gee, tough
fuck." (Underneath artwork of Jesus)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
You're helpless and you couldn't care less.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
THE END
CRANK v.1.1. PO Box 1646. Phil PA 19105-1646
Crank logo, icons and contents, copyright 1994 Jeff Koyen
