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anti-press ezine 2000 04 06
ANTI-PRESS EZINE #13
"We're Positive About The Negative"
An April E-dition
(C) Copyright 2000 Anti-Press All Rights Reserved
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.
See the footer below for info on email, subscriptions, submissions, etc.
Anti-Press Ezine radiates from our Reality Center. We're presently
entrapped in the alleged city of Plattsburgh, northeastern New York
State, USA. (For your own good: STAY THE FUG AWAY!)
***THIS E-DITION: Health Cruise on the Plague Ship / Asstute Hall:
Writer as Stereotype / Walking Tour: Lake So Clean / Comedy Heaven or
Stand-Up Hell? by Viki Reed***
=============================================================
HEALTH CRUISE ON THE PLAGUE SHIP
By Anti-Press
You're immediately reminded that this isn't a normal hospital ward when
they confiscate your plastic bag at the nurse's station.
They don't want someone to strangle themselves.
But they do allow the books and drawing paper you brought for Gene.
He's in the pool room, shooting pool of course, hanging out with another
resident on the floor who is a compulsive talker. Gene shouldn't be
here; he's marginal, not chronic like some others on this floor. But he
had been a patient once before when it was needed, one big strike
against him that makes it easy for a concerned parent to place him back
here again.
You've never been in an unit like this even though there's been a couple
of moments in your life when you could've ended up in such a place.
Somehow you've stayed away for yourself. But for a young buddy you do
visit, even though there's a little flash of irrational fear after the
door to this ward closes and locks behind you. After all, they might
decide that you should also stay. The stuff of bad dreams.
Gene talks about his nightmares in his sun-lit room. A wide window
provides a view of the parking lot filtered through a tough metal
screen. Gene's lying on his stomach, sprawled over his bed, drawing
another demon with a charcoal pencil, a twisted monster that could have
easily fallen out of the pages of a SPAWN comic book. A few years ago,
right around Halloween, he started to suffer from a series of dark
dreams that kept intensifying each night, building to a peak around
Xmas. Then the dream sequence would fade away until next Halloween when
it would start up again, the same story of a post-Apocalyptic world
where humans are hiding from evil demons and androids.
Sounds crazy. Just like last week's episode of THE X-FILES. Or the
last bestseller by the "World's Greatest Living Horror Writer". But
Chris Carter and Stephen King ain't confined to this place. Gene is,
apparently standing in for them.
Gene reminds you of how you were at that age, a talent for writing,
creativity needing to be expressed. You mention to Gene that he should
write down those dreams, turn them into a story. But he replies he
can't stay focused on a project like that; there's too much emotional
turmoil in his life. He can only write a little bit at a time. Now you
realize he is like you, struggling with chronic writer's block. All you
can write are short nasty essays and the occasional email.
But unlike you Gene has a talent for drawing, albeit it's "creepy"
stuff. He has a more immediate means of expression, pencil on paper.
Gene also has an interest in music, says he wants to perform with a
hardcore band. He has his talents that are being held back by the flaws
in his life.
Viv shows up, the one of the few on this floor around Gene's age. She
is frenetically thin, short auburn hair, her freshman year at a
community college interrupted by her present stay. She has tremendous
energy, unfocused, more energy than you will ever have. Sometimes she
talks so fast that the words become a continuous stream of data, no
pauses for breath or periods.
She wants you to meet someone, another patient who by chance has the
same name as yours. She drags him in, a quiet, shuffling shadow who's
obviously a hit and run victim of depression. Same Name looks like
you-- that is, your inner self. A mirrored moment.
The next day when you visit you notice Viv has glassy eyes, she's much
calmer. They're trying to find the right combo of magic drugs, hoping
to force the opposing poles to work with, not against, each other. Same
Name still looks dejected, just shuffling through time.
They're also screwing around with Gene's medication. He's doing OK.
He's allowed off the floor for short periods as long as he stays on the
hospital grounds. Usually he doesn't want to leave the ward unless
someone comes to visit and they mention taking a walk.
You never hesitate to ask Gene if he wants a break from the unit. You
don't say that you need it even more than he does. Gene picks up his
shoes at the nurse's station; he wasn't allowed to have his sneakers due
to the shoestrings. He usually wears short black socks marked with
sure-grip blue strips for slippery tile floors, standard issue for this
ward.
Leaving the unit, you notice Viv on the phone. You wonder what bothers
you more: the way she was yesterday, relentlessly talking, interrupting
a conversation with Gene, or the way she appears now, placid but on the
verge of tears. Caught between the warring poles.
Downstairs in the main lobby you and Gene see another patient from the
ward who also has limited wandering privileges. This man is in for
depression, caused by too much tragedy in his life, death dogging his
family. Another marginal patient. It reminds you of the stories about
kids who get into trouble for the first time and they are thrown into
jail with hardened criminals. Not all square pegs can be rammed into
round holes. There's no disagreement from Gene and the other patient
when you mention that there should be two wards, one for marginal
patients who need the minimum of supervision, and the chronic ones who
can't have plastic bags and shoelaces.
But it all comes down to a matter of money. Just like the article you
just read in THE NEW YORK TIMES MAGAZINE by a therapist who was
denouncing the overprescription of drugs in mental institutions to
handle emotional and mental problems. She talked about a young woman
who could've benefited from therapy, one-on-one counseling. But the
administration just wanted to send the patient on her way with
convenient-to-pop pills to keep herself normal.
It's nothing new to you. The hospital saves money. The pharmaceutical
company pushes more pills. Both make more profit.
After all, health care is a business, despite the best efforts of a few
who care, who think it's more than a bottom line operation.
Somehow a marginal patient like Gene is supposed to be improved by being
square-pegged into the round hole. Every day he has group therapy, a
so-called self-help period where the self is supposedly helped by
hearing the problems of others. Gene goes along with it; maybe it does
help him but he doesn't really say. Viv, when she was riding her manic
pole, described it as "self-help shit".
Then again, each person in the group gives himself a list of goals. One
of Gene's goals is to make Same Name smile, telling a stupid joke or
whatever it takes to cheer him up. Maybe they all can help each other.
Maybe...
You return with Gene to the ward because he has to be back for the
"self-help" period. You suggest to him that maybe being in with the
chronics is supposed to build up his immunity. And he gives you the
standard reply, a tired cliche that still hits with fresh veracity:
"If I stay here any longer, I will be crazy..."
=============================================================
THE ASSTUTE HALL OF FAME
Writer As Stereotype
By Anti-Press
"So what are you going to do with that?"
It was a question posed years ago by another college student in regards
to our work towards a BA in English.
"We're concentrating in the writing track," we explained.
"Oh," said the other student. "You're a writer. Hey, ever try LSD?"
"No," we replied.
"Really. Hey man, you must smoke pot."
Negative response again from us.
The clueless student shot us an incredulous look. "Hey, you want to be
a writer and you DON'T smoke pot!?"
We do not remember his name but now he is enshrined in The Asstute Hall
of Fame for his discernment about what a writer should be.
Roll that up and smoke it.
=============================================================
A WALKING TOUR OF PLATTSBURGH
By The Lake So Serene and Clean
By Anti-Press
(An excerpt from a work in progress.)
For this part of our walking tour let's go down to the lake. After all
Plattsburgh is known as the "Lake City". We'll visit the spot where the
famous Adirondack river, the Saranac, feeds pure mountain water into
Lake Champlain.
Look, here at the mouth of the Saranac River, there's the lake so wide
and beautiful. And the city has provided some picnic tables and trash
cans, inviting us to stay awhile and drink in the scenery. It's a sunny
day but not too hot, thanks to the cool breeze coming off the water.
The lake is so blue, serene. Sailboats glide along, the Green Mountains
of Vermont in the distance. Scudding cottony clouds, so seriously
cirrus, pirouette across the supernal sky.
It's time for you and your fellow tourists to sit down at a picnic table
and experience the heavenly setting. So what do we have to feast on--
some tuna salad, a peanut butter sandwich, a few brownies for desert--
The direction of the wind changes.
Wait, what is that!? What suddenly assails your sinuses? By the way,
dear tourist, did you know that smell is akin to taste? When you smell
something, you're also tasting it. That's why you gag, especially now,
fecal miasma clogging your throat.
You turn around from the lake and now pay attention to the structures
behind you, the chain link fences and the bubbling concrete-bound pools.
What is this, right next to the picnic tables and the beautiful view?
A local is walking by. You point at the pools and ask him what lurks on
the other side of the chain link fence.
"Jeezum Crow," drawls the local, half his teeth missing, making it even
harder to understand his accent. "Don'tcha know that's the sewage
treatment plant?"
You want to reply but you're all choked up-- due to an olfactory, not
emotional, response.
Another fond memory of Plattsburgh, NY, USA.
=============================================================
COMEDY HEAVEN OR STAND-UP HELL?
By Viki Reed
Trying to describe what stand-up comedy is really like has become one
creative hang-over. All dry-heaves.
I suppose a simple way of explaining professional comedy is that it
becomes so much a part of your life that you maintain your career in
dreams and nightmares regardless of whether you're actively pursuing
stardom. Stand up comedy nightmares are second probably only to those
imminent jeopardy nightmares, like: sheer threat of murder to you or
your loved ones. After that, it's getting looked over for a big
showcase at the Comedy Club because your arch enemy has ruined your
career. If you've putzed around the comedy scene long enough to screw a
few fellow comedians, your nightmares have the additional plot points of
lovers who've dumped you and who are in cahoots with your biggest
showbiz foes.
Sometimes the nightmares feature big opportunities that turn into horror
when you can't remember a single word of your act. Because these
nightmares are actually so possible, it riddles your waking-confidence
with diseased thoughts and paranoia.
There's nothing like living in a movie of your worst day in showbiz. If
you change your career pursuits early enough, you won't have frightmares
about being 48 with varicose veins, no money to help your grown kids,
and still having to wait in line for five hours to get 3 minutes in
front of the owner of The Laugh Factory, just so a 24 year old TV exec
numb-nut with no personal conviction can decide whether you'll ever have
a shot at a career.
On the flip side, good dreams about comedy are second only to dreams
that relive sex or childbirth. It's surreal to actually slam dunk and
KILL BIG in a full house, a hot, tension-soaked comedy club, for the
owner and her star comic, after following a huge name in showbiz who
turned the audience into pure hatred with booze breath. It was more
fantastic that someone famously notorious was in the front row, and I
looked great. I riffed and I nailed all my prepared material. Better,
I did smart comedy, not simple dick/hack premises.
To relive a crowd that loves you is like sitting inside of a fireplace
with 4 duraflame logs cooking away. You could resume sleep and continue
the dream, or just get up and masturbate in the shower without any
concern about where your career stands presently or in the future--it's
that kind of aphrodisiac.
Comedy is pure high when it's working. But if you take pure art and add
something caustic like commerce, and really rank stuff like desperation,
and something (incurable in most comedians) called self-hatred, you've
got pure evil.
Here are some simple Good and Evil points of Life In Comedy:
GOOD:
Strangers adore the way you think and act.
EVIL:
Low-life, no talents will lift and otherwise usurp the way you act and
think because they can't write and don't think funny on their own
without getting a migraine.
GOOD:
Women and Men see you on-stage and want to have sex with you and be with
you in a passionate way.
EVIL:
The types of men and women who are attracted to comics are obviously low
self-esteem magnets who don't realize that their new beau sucks. If you
have the taste to date a gifted or successful comic, you'll be replaced
before their old furniture.
GOOD:
As quickly as overnight, even after years of trying, you could become
prosperous, surpassing all of your childhood mates who excelled beyond
you like a snobby fart and are now big-time home-owning professionals.
Nah-Nah-Nah-Nah!
EVIL:
The odds of being successful in a creatively and financially meaningful
way once you're over 30 are worse than those of a man giving birth
vaginally. Even if you live in Los Angeles, New York, Houston, or Canada
and do nothing but think about comedy.
GOOD:
You're going to make dozens of new friends and hang out with them and
confess all your most delicious secrets.
EVIL:
By the time you realize that your new best buddies are mostly
sociopaths, they will already be enacting revenge on you (for a
completely fictional wrong) and spreading your delicious confessions all
over the place, including on-stage ones in front of people who know you.
GOOD:
You'll get professional validation from other comics.
EVIL:
None of them will return your calls once they've assessed you as a
threat, a non-threat or as someone who can't further their career.
GOOD:
You can work your way to the top if you're truly good and persevere
forever.
EVIL:
You will see every moron, newborn, hack, thief, and nepotistic
poster-child you know get plucked out of obscurity by agents and
managers. They'll get holding deals, sitcoms, auditions, commercial
gigs.
GOOD:
If they mishandle their career, or aren't truly talented, it can all
disappear again in less time than it takes to cry over your own
misfortune.
GOOD:
You'll never want to quit.
EVIL:
You may not quit, but no one will notice.
GOOD:
To do it correctly, a comedy bit is a mechanical and artistic feat,
mastery of the moment.
EVIL:
You could do the same perfect performance an hour or a day later and go
down in sweaty, silent, flames without a clue as to why.
GOOD:
If you're doing it because you enjoy it, there's always a coffee house
or some kind of "open-mike" in just about every part of the country to
play-at.
EVIL:
If you're good, the open-mikes will eventually poison or destroy you and
the only way out is into clubs (which are near impossible to crack) or
self-produced shows and phenomenon (who are you again?)
GOOD:
Women have a better chance at standing out in stand-up comedy because of
their marketability of character types.
EVIL:
Most chick-comics don't have a loyal wife to pay the bills, clean the
house, lick the wounds, and tell them they're the best comic in town.
GOOD:
You don't need to take a class or study comedy in college to perform
on-stage.
EVIL:
Just about every yahoo who watches comedy thinks that they can do it,
too; they show up at clubs and open mikes, clogging artistic and
professional pipeline.
GOOD:
You love performing and realize it's your purpose in life.
EVIL:
You can't face the people, the bullshit, or leaving your house.
GOOD:
Comedy is a curative art-form empowering the audience and the comedian.
EVIL:
No one comes out to clubs to see new comics: they come to see Bob Saget,
Chris Rock, and Jim Carey.
* * * Viki Reed is a writer searching for a lifestyle that reconciles
relaxation with super-worship. Show biz is passe and yet totally
desirable. Viki lives in LA and writes in her sleep. * * *
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