Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
anti-press ezine 2003 01 25
<=============================>
< >
< ANTI-PRESS EZINE #35 >
< >
<=============================>
"We're Positive About The Negative"
This E-dition filed 1/25/03.
(C) Copyright 2003 Anti-Press
=============================================================
* Asstute Hall Of Fame: Frostbitten Logic *
Gruesomely cold.
For the last few days vampire coldness has been trying to suck the heat
and life out of yours truly. Of course, living so close to the Canadian
border, we enjoy Arctic blasts that come down from the North, Absolute
Zero versus warm-blooded humanity.
The other night the mercury contracted to nineteen degrees below zero on
the Fahrenheit scale. During the daytime the temps barely rise above
zero, staying in the single digits.
We immeasurably hate winter. To quote M.C. Escher, winter is "cold
white misery."
But don't say that to the Siberian Goth Girl who works at the Cubbyhole
Cafe. We walked in one afternoon, bundled from head to foot in
life-saving layers, and she smiled. She knows that we prefer the
blazing heaven of summer to the freezing hell of winter. Goth Girl
doesn't like heat or light.
Of course, this means that she doesn't pass on the opportunity to point
out how the lower end of the thermometer scale is better (for her) than
the higher end. She considers summer as hot blinding misery.
We got a cup of steaming coffee. As part of our warm-up routine, we
sipped the Brewed Nectar of the Gods and engaged in a heated argument
with Goth Girl about winter or summer, which season was preferable. She
chided us for being too sensitive about the frosty air burning our
lungs, biting our nose, ears, fingers, any flesh that was briefly
unprotected. To her the cold wasn't that bad at all; no problem.
Then, without missing a beat, Siberian Goth Girl asked us -- after we
had finally restored our body core to a normal temp - to do her a favor.
"My shift is over in five minutes. Could you go outside and warm up my
car?"ÊÊ
* Dissing Disco *
Maurice Gibbs is dead but disco lives on.
We regret when a formerly-popular pop artist dies. It means that we
have to suffer through the rediscovery of his work. Every TeeVee and
radio outlet has to dig out and dust off the old tunes and then flood
the airwaves, reminding us how much we hated the alleged works of art
the first time around. And such outpouring of nostalgic nitwitism is
not limited to TeeVee and radio.ÊÊ
Trying to warm up with another cup of joe at the Cubbyhole Cafe. And
one of the employees has rediscovered the great works of the Bee Gees,
the group that Maurice Gibb founded with his brothers. (The ancient
ones say that Bee Gees was short for the Brothers Gibb. How glib be
thee Gibb!) The cafe's stereo system keeps repeating, ad nauseam ultra,
all those tunes from the comedy film, "Saturday Night Fever." The harpy
voices of the Bee Gees are falsetto dental drills piercing our
defenseless eardrums. What is worse: the simple-minded music or the
simple-minded lyrics? What causes the most distress from this force-fed
flop: the turkey or its Gibblets?
Disco: behold thy evil. During the peak of its popularity during the
1970s single people fell under its insidious spell. The eternal quest:
trying to find a lifetime partner - or at least a temporary one for
loveless sex to top off the evening. Men followed the pattern, wore the
disco uniform. If you walked into a disco, all the men sitting at the
bar wore gaudy polyester shirts, unbuttoned in a perfect vee to reveal
their (hopefully) manly chests, topped off with cheap gold chains
hanging around their necks, symbolic yokes of conformity. Even their
small talk was programmed when meeting the ladies, the lowest common
denominator being an interest in astrology (or at least a feigned
interest in it). "What is your sign?" Ram The Horn was hoping to meet
Yield The Virgin. Pop culture robots.
Thanks to all of those grotesque polyester shirts, made from oil, there
was a gas shortage during the 1970s. Unwanted children were spawned,
venereal disease was spread. To quote the Bee Gees: "Tragedy!"
We have nothing personally against any of the Bee Gees. Maurice and his
brothers are most likely fine people. Unsuspecting dupes of Evil, yes,
but probably OK guys. We separate the artist from his art, the person
from his creation. A bad person can produce good work. And the
opposite of that holds true, i.e. good person - bad work. Whatever the
case may be, we can't overlook the bad for any good.
According to the news reports Maurice Gibb died from a twisted bowel.
Apparently the poor man strained his body too much from long hours of
producing all that "music."
Don't let evil disco knot you up.
* Now That's Odd *
President George W. Bush never talks about the military honors awarded
to him for his heroic actions in the bloody jungles of the Vietnam War.
We know how humble he is about his bravery under fire, but shouldn't he
inspire all the young men and women he wants to throw into combat by
mentioning how he survived against great odds?
Maybe someone should help him overcome his humility by printing up a
bunch of T-shirts and bumper stickers that say:
HEY, G.W. - SHOW US YOUR PURPLE HEART!
* It Smells To High Heaven *
So one of the shuttle astronauts now in orbit was born in Plattsburgh.
Ho-hum.
We're more impressed with Plattsburgh's connection with Clonaid, the
company that has claimed to have cloned three human babies so far.
Clonaid is associated with the fringe religious group called the
Raelians whose leader says he has been in personal contact with
technically-advanced beings from outer space.Ê
Did you notice the spokesperson for Clonaid? Her image has appeared in
various magazines, newspapers and on TeeVee. She has big bad hair and
big bad teeth. Apparently the aliens in contact with the Raelians don't
possess advanced beautician technology. If a woman ever needed cosmic
cosmetology... [Rimshot]
Seriously, folks, Brigitte Boisselier, Raelain bishop, lived here in the
Plattsburgh area for a while. No, she didn't preach Raelogy. She
taught at that prestigious institution of high - we mean higher -
learning, Plattsburgh University. In press releases PU has touted its
"excellence", as in "maintaining standards of excellence" or "achieving
new levels of excellence." Of course, all universities blather on about
excellence, so some must be more excellent than others, right?
Anyway, that most excellent institution, PU, employed Boisselier for a
while. As a visiting professor she taught a couple of chemistry courses
- or were they alchemy courses?
Sorry, we don't find the Raelians to be that scientific. Rael, founder
of the Raelians, used to be a French auto racing writer until one day he
went around the bend too fast and encountered aliens during a hike in
the dish of an extinct volcano. Rael has claimed the aliens took him to
another world where he met VIPs like Jesus and Buddha. Also, a robot
fabricated some space babes for Rael to frolic with in a tub. (We
wonder if any of those space babes had big hair and big teeth.)
Of course, we only have his word for his experiences. That means no
tangible evidence, the kind of proof required by science. (For more
details, read "Kooks" by Donna Kossy.)
In a local newspaper article a PU dean said that Boisselier was a fine
teacher.
And maybe she was, compared to some of the teachers that have passed
through the halls of PU. Like the criminology instructor who would get
drunk and call up the city police department to verbally harass the
cops.
That never made the "news" but that doesn't mean that PU hasn't been
subjected to dubious mentions in the media. Years ago PU was mentioned
in "Playboy" magazine as a top party college to visit during St.
Patrick's Day. It's common knowledge that "partying" is a key aspect of
academic life, making one a well-rounded individual ready to take his
place in the world.
Then there's the made-for-TeeVee movie called "High Price of Passion,"
based on the non-fiction book of the same name. Richard Crenna starred
as the middle-aged science professor who carried on a self-destructive
relationship with a young prostitute. At one point in the movie the
professor, a PU graduate, is being interviewed for a teaching position
and he passes off his hooker girlfriend as an assistant. He tells her
there's nothing to worry about, she's easily fooled the yokels at
Plattsburgh University.
But the "yokels" passed on the prof - even though he was a product of
their excellence - when his name made the news, linked to a missing
girl. While employed at Tufts University, another excellent
institution, he ended up killing his hooker girlfriend after spending
thousand$ on the little ingrate. Some of her financial support had been
misappropriated from research grants. Gee, all that excellence and
someone like that professor slips through. How can this be?
So it looks like Tufts and PU are on the same level when it comes to the
"quality of excellence" they extol. Such quality wafts high. Maybe
that Plattsburgh-born shuttle astronaut can even smell it even up there.
* Ghost Mail *
Hey, we're getting tired of our own voice. Email us some comments.
Last e-dition we talked about Election Day and why we don't bother
participating in the "democratic" process (AKA the plutocratic con).
One reader wrote in and told us to get off our "high horse."
Neigh, we say. Neigh! (So how do you like those road apples?)
Then someone named Boxboy sent us this message in regards to our
apolitical activism:
<it's time for doublethink!
the price of success is failure!
ugliness is beautiful . . .
ignorants are bush's strength.
stupidity is a smart approach these days.
use your freedom of speech - and lose your freedom from incarceration
a rolling stone is the devil's workshop!
the void that LIES between the promise and the truth (TM) is - - -
vaporland!>
The preceding indicates that Boxboy suffered from fetal brain damage due
to his mother's exposure to disco "music." Those pounding bass notes
radiated into the womb, twisting developing brain cells. And let's not
overlook Boxboy's father. That disco-dancing dad probably absorbed
dangerous contaminants into his body from his sweaty polyester shirt and
cheap imitation-gold chain that in turn tainted his sperm. Will the
evil that is disco ever end?
Thanks for backing up our thesis, Boxboy.
=============================================================
NOTICE: Unless indicated otherwise, all articles by Anti-Press.
Articles submitted by others do not necessarily express or reflect the
opinions or beliefs of Anti-Press.
WHERE WE'RE AT: Anti-Press Ezine radiates from our Precision Reality
Center. We're presently entrapped in the alleged city of Plattsburgh,
northeastern New York State (NENYland), USA. (A Brother Gibb: "More
Than A Woman"?)
EMAIL: Antipress1@aol.com
NEW POLICY: WE DO NOT ACCEPT ANY UNSOLICITED ARTICLES. We will accept a
letter of comment (LOC) on any topic raised in our ezine. **Maximum
Length: 300 words.** Plain text format. If you don't want your email
printed, please tell us. To avoid being deleted as spam: Put LOC in the
subject heading.
E-DITIONS ONLINE: Anti-Press Ezine and its sporadically published issues
are available at:
http://www.disobey.com/text/
Copyright 1998-2002 Anti-Press
Publication by Disobey.
http://www.disobey.com/
TO SUBSCRIBE: majordomo@disobey.com BODY: Subscribe APE
TO UNSUBSCRIBE: majordomo@disobey.com BODY: Unsubscribe APE
-50-
