Free Word Press Volume One - Issue Three
THE FREE WORD PRESS
Volume One - Issue Three
August 1999
fwp@freewordpress.com / http://www.freewordpress.com
Also available in www and pdf flavors
PROEM!
I went to a casino once. It might have been in Baton Rouge, but I can't be sure. It was huge, of course. It was glittering, surely. It was tempting, most definitely. I was underage, undeniably - thanks to nature's great sense of humor. But I was inside anyway. Of course it was daytime and very, very empty. All I remember was this huge American flag on one wall. At the time I thought it was to remind everyone who was profiting from the whole gambling scene. It must have been comforting to know, I reasoned, that by gambling you were being a good American.
So how does the casino take all your money? Because everything goes in streaks. You win some, you lose a lot in a row. But just before you leave in disgust, you win one. Two. Three in a row! Then you lost a bunch again. the casinos make sure your losing streaks are longer than your winning streaks, of course.
My grandmother wasn't a big gambler or anything, but she used to tell me how she did win $20 in the lottery once, and how she won $100 in the slots one fateful night in Mississippi. Her boyfriend had to drag her out before the threw it all away.
My grandmother wasn't much for passing down little anecdotes and proverbs like I thought grandmothers should. But I didn't think grandmothers should have green hair, wear skin tight leather, have a nose ring and listen do The Donnas either. But on the day she got pissing drunk, crashed her car and hitchhiked home only to find half her house on fire because she left the toaster oven on, she did curse around a bit and mutter about how 'things go to hell in threes.' The other time she said it was when she told be about how she blew the $100, and $200 more, the night after her big jackpot. That always stuck with me though: "things go to hell in threes."
Whew! That took FAR too long to get to my point.
Hello ladies and gentlemen, I present to you The Free Word Press, issue three.
"Look grandma! Look where I'm going!"
This issue ...
THE UNBOUND - A monthly proclamation of the life of the übermensch in all of us. This month - The Temptation
Confessions of a Pseudo-Intellectual: I am the anti-poet
What happens when your intrepid columnist runs afoul of the medical profession? If you've ever been amazed at a doctor's arrogance, waited far beyond your appointment time or otherwise been victimized by the medical practitioners we're supposed to trust, you won't want to miss this!
Kommunist Korner - Yet another passionate petition by Noame "Defender of Liberty/Champion of the Proletariat" Ghregardus.
L'INFAME - A poem by Bryan Shultz
GAINSAY - The American Pastime
The Verdict - The Misfits, Poe, Jeff Beck, Stabbing Westward, Benten Kozo.
The Miracle, or "Ain't God Wonderful" by Elliot Cole.
Literary Regurgitations - Huxley's Brave New World
and this month's award for "Family Values"
The FWP Are:
- Amanda B. Rekondwith
- Amon Fredrick
- Michael Hugen
- your father
- Markus
- Job
- Bryan Shultz
- Noame Ghregardus
- Renan McFarland
- Elliot Cole
Editor, photographer, layout designer, secretary: Elliot Cole
Web design: Renan McFarland
Cover photo entitled: "Three Food Groups"
THE UNBOUND
by Amanda B. Rekondwith
I awoke that morning, sunlight streaming down on my face, and felt a great longing: to be alone. So I went into the desert where I wandered aimlessly as the wind, and my heart was clear. After six days and nights, my solitude was complete. Then, the seventh day brought forth a demon clad in white; at first I mistook him for an angel. This he said to me that day: "You who wander, where do you travel to? You who fast, what do you hope to gain from your hunger? Are you tired of the race of men? Or do you simply despise of your own body that you hurt yourself so? Go back to the marketplace where you belong! What do you know about divinity that you would seek it here?"
Then he asked, for he wished to trap me in my hypocrisy, "If divinity is your goal, and you had three wishes, what would they be?" to which I replied:
"I wish to walk silent and slow amid madness. Such is the essence of divinity. My world is a festering sphere of fiery distraction. Involvement can only lead a man to be the same. To hold my head up high, maybe even a smile - even I can lie, just for a while - and to breathe in the earth, green and damp, is what lifts me to divinity. I used to want to fight for it, to lift it up in victory, to drink glory from its depths. But vindication turns sour, and glory only overshadows the future. Instead, divinity now lies before me on the floor, clean, fresh and illuminated by the sun.
"I wish to find the edge of this world, or at least the top, and leap off, so that I may see it from the outside while floating in the bliss of indifference. Such is the essence of divinity. My body would need nothing, no nourishment, no direction, and my mind would be free to do anything, yet content to do nothing. The moment of my birth I should have fallen from this edge, instead I was caught too soon: I now must walk like everyone else. All mankind spends its life searching for the edge it can step from and fall, weightless, smiling in mind and body, breath and lung, beat and heart.
"I wish to ride upon the wings of my great gray bird, just released from its cage. Such is the essence of divinity. Ever upward and outward. The wax will not melt, nor will this Icarus fall: thus my will commands it. My great gray bird has talons, bloodied, and the blood is mine, for it has gripped my scalp often, a crown of thorns in my not-so-holy head. She has long begged me to release her. 'Come,' she says, 'ride with me. We will create great things, you and I.' Long have I agonized over breaking down the stones that cage her, long have I toiled. Now I wish them gone.'
Full of consternation at not hearing the wish for wealth or power or recognition or some other condemning wish, the demon stepped aside and let me continue my journey.
Confessions of a Pseudo Intellectual
By Job, as in "Get one."
I've been writing poetry for about a year now. The topics started off suitable to my age and generation: death, pain, immortality, love, darkness, etc. ad nauseum. I think I was trying to write NIN songs. Poorly written, trite rhymes, banal metaphors, tepid illustrations, and crippled-man-running rhythms. I made a mockery of the language, and an absolute ass of myself - on paper, for the record. Artistic murder. All highly embarrassing. But I loved to do it. I'd write pages and pages every night and read everything I'd written. I can even recite some. I posed a poet. I still love writing it - its gotten better - but I'm not on the same nightly schedule. And, yes, I even love what I've written in the past.
I hate other poetry. I hate other poets. I try to read it, sometimes, though I have neither the stomach nor the patience. All I can do is smirk. What an imbecile. What a posturing, pretentious lecher we have here. And what weak words. "A poem is a meteor" Wallace Stevens declared. Yes, a poem is a meteor. Most of them burn up in the atmosphere. I know I'm supposed to like poems. I know I'm supposed to like poets. People recommend poets to me all the time, but I just can't seem to like them. Am I not a cultured, sophisticated person if I don't like poetry? I overheard a woman recently standing outside her mobile home shouting inside, presumably to her daughter, "Is Shakespeare dead? Good. I like him then. But stop asking me about college." Is that all I amount to? At least I do something poetic - I mock it. More poignant stuff than the poetry itself, I assure you. An insult is a meteor.
GAINSAY: The American Pastime
Amon Fredrick
It all began with number forty-four. His actions inspired a great rumbling regurgitation in my soul, one I have not felt since my days in the meat packing industry. I had been walking down the street when a multitude poured out of parking buildings nearby. I was swept up by their sheer numbers and found myself inside the Arlingtonus Templus Maximus. The multitude filled the flat fold down chairs that surrounded the holy diamond, and I found a seat as well. I glanced upwards at the electric shrine to the Idol, who immediately prompted me to buy bottled holy water costing more per ounce than crude oil. No one seemed to mind.
Then on the shrine a man appeared, and proceeded to methodically exhibit his tight, white pants to the crowd. The pants had deep religious significance in the eyes of these people. They were a staple of the religious garb of that season, with stripes down the side to show the faction to which the priest belonged. And it was these stripes that swayed back and forth, rotating in a circular motion, that appeared on the face of the Idol. I looked back at the green below, and there he sat before me. The powers of the Idol included that of biexistantsizeattenuation, I deduced. Forty-four. Suddenly the Shrine glowed and the Idol flashed. An invisible orchestra accompanied a fat man as he sang a mutilated version of an 18th century British drinking song. I looked around me, hoping to see what he was singing to. The irritating hum of an airplane drew my eyes upward. "City Garage Sale" it said on a sign that trailed behind it. Ah, this must be the Star Spangled Banner everyone was saluting. It was good to know these people have a sense of pride.
The giant speakers on the Shrine announced the names of the priests, strangely called "Rangers" in the native tongue, as the crowd screamed their appreciation. They truly loved their God. And the modesty of the priests! It is quite endearing, really.
My ears began to ring with the sound of an outdated organ, something out of nostalgia, I believe. Duh nuh nuh nuh - da nah! da da bom. I felt my blood pounding in my veins as the ecstasy of the crowd consumed me. So this is what it means to be alive! I heard one voice distinctly above the rest, and it sounded like the Idol Himself was calling to me. That voice! Where was it coming from? What was it saying? I strained to make out the words...
"- and beer, hoddogs and beer, getcher hoddogs, gecher beer."
Slightly disappointed, and then guilty for being disappointed, and then angry with myself for feeling guilty, then more guilt, I bought one. "I'd like one hoddogandbeer, please." The strange word tasted bitter in my mouth. I found it slightly scandalous to purchase something as barbaric as an indulgence, but, as Caesar himself said, "When in Mesopotamia, do as the Mesopotamians do." I knew the money was going to a good cause.
Number forty-four, and the rest of the Clergy all in the same white pants, I mean identical pants, of course, ran out onto the diamond, and began to spit with a fervor unmatched by even that whole safari tour of African pigmies. I think they were trying to cleanse themselves of evil spirits. Another group of priests from the neighboring village, of the Oriole faction, also took the diamond, but did not commence to cleanse themselves of evil spirits to the same degree the Ranger faction did. Perhaps that phenomenon owes itself to the geographical location from which the two groups reside, and the amount of evil spirits in that area. The hot air mass over the land of Texas probably breeds them in startling numbers. There's one right now! No, its only a cloud. Moving pretty quickly, though. Quite a nice cloud, actually. Almost picturesque proportions. The sunset light is quite nice on its belly, but on the top its almost blue. Isn't it funny how things in the sky can be blue sometimes? You wouldn't think they would be. I had a very nice blue rock once, but its not the same...hey! snap out of it! I'm missing the ceremony!
The priests were repeating a dance, steeped in symbolism, over and over. There was enough creative variation, however, in the events that took place to deserve my observance. One person would take a long piece of wood, symbolic of the Tree from which their Idol had been hung. Then one of the priests from the other faction (what a beautiful co-operation of opposing views!) would hurl a white sphere towards him with a strength that must have been inspired by the Idol. The sphere was white from a distance, but from close you could tell it had been destroyed and crudely sewn up again. This symbolized the perceived purity of the Anti-Idol, yet how, in truth, it is horrible and hollow. The Tree wielding priest would then swing his tool and try to knock the sphere as far from himself as possible, in a gesture of his rejection of all things evil. Each man would get his turn, this society had not yet come around to the idea of civil rights and equality of the sexes and so forth, each man would get his turn to display his holiness, sanctity and biceps. Unfortunately for some, not everyone could not hit the sphere. Those who could not were sent away, presumably because they were not pure enough to be a part of the oh-so-holy priesthood. I think they got shot.
After each round a short burst of popular music would play out of the Idol's mouth. This was done to try to make the Idol appear more friendly and in touch with Pop Culture, because Pop Culture is the only culture the people seemed to have. Then the Idol made me want more water. I did oil prices a favor and bought one.
The artificial suns that surrounded the field looked so much like watching eyes that I felt uncomfortable as soon as the sun had left the sky. It felt unnatural that they should try to counterfeit the sun with such profanity. But the ceremony must go on.
Finally, after 18 repetitions of the dance (18 being a very important number judging from the rituals carried out on the 18 holed pastures) the event was over. The idol declared that the Ranger clergy was the most holy, as they repelled more spheres. It must be all that spitting.
I glanced back up to the Shrine as it directed the crowd in the closing rites. The all rose in unison, and sang the processional hymn as the filed out - "root, root root for the home team, if they don't win its a shame - cuz its 1, 2, 3 strikes you're out at the old ball game."
L'INFAME - Bryan Shultz
it's unbribable, meaner
than stalin on pcp,
and sometimes
called the
"babysitter".
it only comes
out to punish
rich americans
who have
been especially
naughty.
its body bag collection
is stored in an
underground facility
twice the size
of texas.
The Spider's Web
by Michael Hugen
Copyright 1999 Michael Hugen
Recently, I had to visit a doctor or three over a hand problem. Those who worship our medical practitioners may want to stop reading right now.
I got a physical. When I sign in, I notice two other people are scheduled to see the same guy I am. The *doctor* is nowhere on the schedule. Interesting. My appointment was at 12:30 p.m. The Physician's Assistant (Certified) finally walked through the door at 2:10 p.m. He didn't like my attitude. How dare I suggest waiting over 90 minutes might be a bit excessive?
I'm sent to get an X-ray of the hand. Of course, the place he sent me no longer accepts my insurance plan. It's taken two weeks to get an appointment with the specialist and now I have to reschedule. The oh-so-knowledgeable office staff sends me to another place because "that's who does it now."
You guessed it. They don't take it either. Finally, I get a referral to the correct place to do an X-ray. It's now been about a month since I first saw the doctor and my frustration level has risen considerably.
My appointment with the specialist is 2:30 p.m. I get there early to fill out the paperwork. I make it into a waiting room about 2:35 p.m. Not unusual or excessive. I have a book, as always. I finish the novel, read a magazine and *still* haven't had anyone pop in to say that the doc's running late, went on vacation or dropped dead.
Finally, at 3:45 p.m., I've had it. I walk out and tell the clerk I want to re-schedule to a time the doctor can actually make. She pages someone. They tell me there were "a few" emergencies and promise they'll send him in to me next. What a favor! He pops in, sits down and starts to chat. I'm not in the mood. He wants to schedule surgery without checking my X-rays. I hand them to him. He glances at them and continues on with setting up the surgery. Elapsed time is about three minutes, tops. He starts to head out the door when I stop him and unload the pent-up anger. He mumbles and splits.
I get to schedule my surgery with someone else. I just spent 25 minutes giving the same information. He's too busy to look it up? I head out, and now they want my co-payment. I tell her that I'll pay it, but I'll be billing their office for an hour of my time. She gets a smile which infuriates me and says "I've never heard of anyone doing that." She doesn't know if it'll get paid.
My turn to smile. "That's what small claims court is for, sweetcheeks."
I walk. Upon returning to my office, I immediately generated an invoice for one hour of my time, and stick it in the mail. Stay tuned to see if I beat the system (my co-pay is less than my hourly rate, so I'll actually make a profit) or get shot down in flames.
My question is simple: is there *anything* in the universe more arrogant than a doctor who thinks their time is more important than the patient's?
If you ask (I have), they'll tell you so many people don't show, or cancel without notice, that they have to do it to stay in business. If I do that to the doc, he's welcome to bill me for wasting his time. But he's gonna catch hell every single time I have to wait more than what I consider an acceptable amount of time past my appointment. I have arbitrarily decided 20 minutes will now be my mark. If they haven't seen me by then, even if it's just to pop in and say "I'm running a few minutes late," I walk. My primary care physician and my insurance company have been put on notice.
Imagine how we could mess up the doctor's income if we all made *them* responsible for not wasting *our* time. We have to show up early to fill out all their forms, why not take in one of our own? A statement that the doctor agrees to see the patient in a reasonable period of time, quantified as 20 minutes, or agrees to waive payment for that visit, or agrees to pay one hour or any portion thereof of the patient's time.
Public outcry made the cable industry start meeting their appointment times. Airlines are not allowed to overbook a flight in the same egregious manner they once employed. Carpet cleaners show up on time, movers show up on time (usually), and salespeople show up on time. They're all hustling for a buck, just like the doctor.
So why do we allow the doctor to get away with it? Because of his many years of study? Because he has to make a profit to pay back his student loans? Maybe it's because we still think the doctor is a healer first and businessman second.
Wake up, folks. The doctor will continue to waste your time as long as you allow it. Get on the bandwagon. Demand to be seen within a reasonable period of time. If they're too busy to discuss your case with you, tell them you're too busy to waste your time and go see another doctor. Yes, we need them. But they need us too. Where would they be without the inflated prices they can charge our medical insurance providers? If you complain to your insurance provider, the doc can lose the business of that insurance provider. Do they want that to happen? Nope. They just want you to be good little sheep, do what they say, and don't bleat too loudly.
C'mon, people. If you have three different tax preparers do your return, you'll wind up with three different answers. You've only saved money.
By making a doctor toe the line, you might just save your life.
Kommunist Korner
by Noame Ghregardus
You avoid hunger? So do we!
You believe in civil rights? So do we!
You want a raise? So do we!
You hate fascists? So do we!
You want justice? So do we!
You want what we have!
Join us!
REVOLT!!!!!
The Verdict
By various contributors
The Mistfits
Plan 9
Decidedly punk, yet startling. There's something refreshing about a poor recording of 4 guys with made up names ("Glen Danzig, Doyle Wolfgang von Frankenstein") and even scarier haircuts singing almost humorous songs about a wide range of horror show themes from aliens: (Teenagers from Mars, and the Westside Story like I Turned into a Martian) to serial killers: (Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight?, She) The vocals are delightfully full and rich, even if this is an old, homemade recording. It gets a 6.
POE
Hello
Seductive jazzy lounge music. Surprisingly addictive. Maybe I'm just getting old. Or maybe not: Fingertips could just be the most seductive song I've heard in my entire life. 7
Stabbing Westward
Darkest Days
For some reason rock stars get all the bad luck. These guys have seen the worst. They've been used, taken advantage of, hurt, insulted and discouraged from day 1, or so it seems. The music is catchy and the melodies obsessive, but it gets old - fast. Oh wait, that's because the attitude was invented 40 years ago. If it weren't for the slightly redeeming "Thing I Hate" I'd write them off as pretentious posers. Oh well, that's what I'll do anyway. 4
Jeff Beck
WHO ELSE?
Jeff is back with another amazing album. I saw him perform at the SXSW music festival in Austin last spring - absolutely amazing. I'll tell you about it someday. For those of you who don't know: Jeff can play the electric guitar like Lizst could play the piano. The album is a rich mix between metal and blues and (my favorite) eastern Egyptian sounding stuff. Unfortunately, Jeff never could develop a song, so each track is just kind of riffing all over the place. Which is ok - Jeff can do that. He's still dangerously creative though - try tapping your foot to "Blast from the East." 8
Benten Kozo
at the Bat Theater
Take the traditional minimalist Japanese street theater (equivalent: Vaudeville), slap the characters with American stereotypes, and have them shout a lot. Well, it worked. I found it refreshingly intimidating to be in a tiny theater where the cast outnumbers the audience, where they run screaming across a catwalk above your head. It was extremely delightful. I even bought a poster. I hate to do this: 10
+++++++++
FWP T SHIRTS!
Are now available. They feature any one of several FWP slogans, quotes and/or inspirational text. Any size. White. $10. Custom orders available. Not for profit. Inquire within.
The Miracle, or, Ain't God Wonderful?
by Elliot Cole
The first morning they had woken up, as usual, prepared for their day, as usual, and expected everything to go as usual, as usual. Mother was the first to notice their error as she made her normal morning rounds washing windows.
"Walter...Walter come here. There are some people outside."
Due to a botched larynx operation when he was a child, he could only manage gutturals in the morning. "Ungh. Errr...." They called him "ape boy" at school. He got up, slowly, went to the window, squinted a bit and shrugged.
"Here." She offered him his glasses.
"Ugg."
"What are they here for?"
"Unhuh," he stated, matter of factly.
She opened the door, gasped and shut it again. "They're outside our house! Could they be from the IRS? There's so many.."
"Who is who is!!?" Beth shrieked, running down the hall.
"I told you they'd be here," Thomas said calmly, wandering in. Why didn't they ever listen? "Open it, mother."
At the door was a withered old man, dressed ridiculously in a religious garb fit for the Pope, smoking a cigarette. Startled, he tossed the cigarette, crushed it, and fell to his knees.
"Oh please, good father - mother -" he began, already on the wrong foot. Shaken, "allow God's servants and His children to see the Miracle He Himself hath wrought? Seventy years have I waited for this moment - would you deny the very touch of God?" He saw blank faces, and continued unfazed, wringing his hands. "No then? Then in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I demand that you allow me to see the miracle! Or may Archangel Gabriel strike you down where you stand!" He was frothing now. "A pox! A pox be upon the house because they deny God's children the divine right to see His miracle! Get thee behind me, Satan!"
"No, no. You misunderstand." Thomas, to the rescue. "Come on in."
"Er, sorry, I got a little carried away," the preacher explained, smiling humbly.
"Perfectly understandable. Mother, we have house guests, will you go make some more coffee?"
His mother was overjoyed - it was so rare to entertain guests - so she rushed back inside. "Praise be to this woman, surely God's own instrument," the priest called after her.
"Right this way," Thomas motioned.
"Unhuhhh?"
***
"My names Pope. Alexander Pope. The Boys just call me Pope daddy," he was explaining to Thomas as he was led to the kitchen.
"You're the Pope?" The kid was wide eyed. "I mean, there's only one pope, right?"
"Naw, just a priest. Hey, your folks don't mind if I smoke, do they? Good. Hey kid, you want to make a deal? I can get you money, I can get you power, I can get you women, I can get you followers, worshippers and slaves. Ever thought about going to seminary. How old are you now? Ten? Can't hurt to start thinking early." He lit a cigarette. "Where is it, the miracle?"
"Right over here, in the peanut butter jar."
"Wow...its Mary all right. So, kid -"
"Thomas."
"Right, Thomas. So, Thomas, you want to go into business? $5 admission at the door. I take three you take two. You get all reproduction royalties. You can write the book, I'll take the mini-series. If we get on 'Time' we split the cover. Deal?"
"$6 admission, 50-50. You write the book, I get the mini-series. And the endorsements and commercials."
"That's crazy. You expect me to take that?"
"And, when this is all over, you keep the peanut butter jar for your altar. You'll be set for life! Deal?"
"Deal."
***
"The face of the Virgin Mary! A message from God! $6 to see the face of Mary, Holy Mother of God! Only $6 today! Prices will go up, so get in now! The Holy Mother T-shirts, mugs and keychains now available! Prove to your friends that you were touched by God! Plus if you act now, this free mouse pad..."
***
They already had a line of five hundred people outside. Most of them were parishioners of Fr. Pope's church who got the first word. Fr. Pope had dragged a bird bath over to the front steps, and instructed everyone to purify themselves with holy water, "or be struck down by Mary Herself." Next the pilgrims passed the table of merchandise: shirts, caps, candles, crucifixes, key chains, mouse pads. Behind the table sat a happy Ms. Jones, Thomas's mother - happy because Thomas had given into request for a portion of the proceeds - "2.5% sounds fair to me" he assured her. Eventually the Salvation Army sent in a Santa Claus to get donations - "we'll give you 10%, don't worry" Thomas had assured them.
Then each pilgrim stepped up to the Holy Stool, upon which sat Fr. Pope, as dignified as he could be. Behind him hung a sign:
- Blessings$4.99
- Communion$4.99
- Baptisms$9.99
- Confirmations$19.99
- Weddings$29.99
- Funerals$49.99
"Just doing what I do best." And he did it well. He blessed 2,211 pilgrims, offered Holy Eucharist to 1,539, baptized 17 babies born in the line, confirmed 470 teenagers, married 57 couples and performed the funeral service for each of the 24 people who died while waiting. "Best prices around" he'd say with a grin.
Next the pilgrims had to buy their ticket and was finally allowed to see the peanut butter, the miracle itself. Then they were hurried along and sent on their way.
While Fr. Pope wouldn't allow himself to be interviewed - on account of his somber spiritual duties, he insisted - Thomas was easily accessible, and quite talented in answering the difficult questions the reporters asked. "Is this your house?"
"Yes."
"Is that your peanut butter?"
"Yes."
"Is that really the face of the Virgin Mary?"
"Yes."
"Do you prefer Supreme motor oil over the competition?"
"Yes."
"Will you sign my breasts?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure God drew that? It looks like some child did it with a knife..."
"Yes. Quite sure."
The Christian Science Monitor hailed it as "The Next Big Thing."
Fr. Pope jumped up on the Stool with a megaphone: "God wants me to tell you that you're all forgiven of your sins!"
The crowd went wild.
***
"We're making a killing," Fr. Pope whispered happily to Thomas.
***
Most people took the news rather well. God Himself sending a sign if his existence just wasn't as shocking as it should have been. But some people took sides. America ruptured, and the pieces fought each other. Some took it as a sign. "Jesus is among us!" The Weekly World News blared on its surprise Thursday issue. Evangelists attacked the skeptics, the skeptics would not be shaken. Evangelists attacked the professors, the professors would not listen. Evangelists attacked the cynics, but the cynics didn't care. Then the skeptics, cynics and professors launched a counter attack, which only made them feel better. One group, the Knights of Truth, and Druids to boot, was calling upon the UN to establish its New World Order headquarters on the spot where the face appeared. Another, more sizable minority, wanted the peanut butter sent to be tested for traces of extraterrestrial life. Still others, the most sensible ones, wanted to be left alone. "Bury the damn thing or something." Its only the face of God.
The battle raged for months. People were condemned, converted, short, abducted and harassed by other people. All because of peanut butter. They argued for hours on day time talk shows. All because of peanut butter. They wrote books. They rioted. They tried to escape to the moon.
***
It took nearly a year for the frenzy to recede, but no one ever really recovered.
"Hey Pope-daddy. Want to come have a sandwich at my place? We have our next venture to discuss."
"Sure man, what's cookin'?"
"PB&J. Ain't God wonderful?"
Literary Regurgitations: Brave New World
Is there something wrong with me if I don't find "Brave New World" as horrifying as intended? Brilliant as he was, Huxley didn't do a great job making the negative-utopia unappealing. In the year 632 A.F. (after Ford) the world is finally at peace. Alcohol and Christianity, what Nietzsche called "the two great European narcotics," had been replaced by a super drug - somma - that produced the temporary opiate qualities of the two without the adverse side effects. Though open, wanton sex is encouraged from early childhood ('erotic play') and indeed "everyone belongs to everybody else," marriage and childbearing are strictly prohibited, and both are extremely smutty concepts. Instead, people were manufactured in batches of up to 96 identical babies each. Each was conditioned to the job they were to perform from the start, and each was placed in the caste system of Alphas, world controllers, to Epsilons, the semi-morons who were taught to be content to do the menial labor. Children were brainwashed by a hypnopaedic process of playing lesson tapes in their sleep. The government did everything to predestine the child's future. Everyone was happy, at last.
However, there were still some areas of the world that had not been deemed profitable enough to civilize. One man of such an area, an Indian reservation in New Mexico, comes to London to see the world. To the bewilderment of every hypnopaedically prejudiced person, this Savage has some very novel and highly heretical views on wisdom, truth, beauty, art, honor, the ascetic life, and quotes Shakespeare prolifically. He ends up like every other Harrison Bergeron, much to the relief of society.
Yes, I'm rooting for a Brave New World, under one condition: that I am world controller. Sure I have the same heretical views as the savage, but I have too dim a view of the rest of humanity - and they can't be trusted with the freedom they have. In a Brave New World all would be peaceful, everyone would be harmless and happy, at last, and I'd be an Alpha Plus, happily sitting in my office reading Othello.
No, not really. I understand ennoblement through degeneration, the benefits of war, the requirement of unhappiness for the progress of humanity, justice and humane treatment and all that. Still...
Markus
Closing notes
A shoutout, I think, is in order for a dandy little rag called the TriCityNews. While on my sabbatical in Red Bank, New Jersey (no questions, please) I came across this little conversation piece in more than one coffee bar I found myself in (such as the one I am in as I write this.) A nice antithesis of the Press, I think, a bad example and threat that shouts: "Watch out, or this is what the Press will become." If I didn't know otherwise, I would imagine it run by my 6th grade bully: childishly sadistic, childishly written, a fool. The current issue quite seriously attacks the local political plan to revitalize the downtown as being another Republican plot to bring the nation into an era of state sponsored socialism. Justification? "We're Democrats here at TriCityNews."
In their attempt to be the political 'bad boys' of the region, they have, quite openly, declared war on two other local papers, including the Asbury Park Press, which is doing a much better job of actually being a NEWS paper, instead of just a childish bully. They say the APP are cowards, sissies, everything my bully beat me up for, for running out on Asbury Park. I would, too.
Their antics are not excusable, but they are explainable. The towns they represent leave much news material to be desired, so they have gotten bored and restless, kicking sand from the sandbox into everyone's face with the self righteousness of a crusader. "We're not afraid to attack government officials. In fact, we slam them in the most sarcastic tones around." English teachers beware.
60% of the paper is advertising and the paper is only, I believe, 10-20 pages long max. We fill 10-20 pages full. They look at the remaining 5-10 pages they need to fill with *gasp* actual writing just like I did back in 6th grade. WHAT? FIVE PAGES?? So they double space and write in 14 point print and use lots and lots of page breaks and white space.
So the TriCityNews is a prime example of what happens when you run out of ideas, pride and tact. I'm sure you all know a paper like it. The fools who write it are obviously egomaniacs, boosted by the feeling of having an audience, who would rather force us to read about their own petty conflicts than actually give us something worth the brain power we invest. But, what's the difference when the advertisers pay up, right, Democrats?
So here I swear to you, the audience. We won't force tripe down your throats. We won't stuff advertising in your mailboxes. We will examine our own motives of news worthiness before printing them. And if we ever run out of things to say and stories to tell, we'll admit it to you and take a break, because I think you want quality before regularity. But to avoid this, help us out. Send us your material. Write down whatever you are thinking about and send it to us. We're not some big corporation, we don't have advertisers or consumers to please, and the only limits we have are the limits I have, personally, to write and edit and manage etc. The more you help me, the less the Press will resemble the TriCityNews.
+++++++++
Copyright 1999 SunSetSouth
Some submissions copyright the author
All rights reserved
Advertise in the Free Word Press for next to nothing - contact us at fwp@freewordpress.com for more info.
EDITORIAL SERVICES FOR WRITERS
30 + years experience in fiction and non-fiction. Award-winning writer/editor can fine-tune YOUR manuscript for less than most reading fees.
michaelhugen@worldnet.att.net for quotes.*
*This is a business e-mail address; please address all mail referencing my column to The Free Word Press.
++++++++++
The "Family Values" award is hereby awarded to Robert E. Bell Jr., head psychiatrist of the Florida prison system, who was arrested in May and charged with breaking into his former girlfriend's home and threatening to stab her to death if she did not return the chocolate syrup, tuna fish and cigarettes he thought she had stolen from him.
