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CLiT #23: Secret Men's Business
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> f' /\ \ % ...Episode XXIII... <
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> ,% \ --_ --_ '% _Secret Men's Business_ <
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> - %l .%%~ -=============[ The Pleasure 'Zine ]==========- <
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"EDITORIAL" - by AlterEcho
Hey look! This is my rain dance, which makes water fall from the
sky!
And this is my chocolate chip cookie dance, which instigates the
delivery of biscuits with little chocolate bits to be fed into my mouth by a
beautiful young virgin!
And this is my plagiarism dance, which means that yes, that material
was stolen from Peanuts!
But wait! This is my All New CLiT Dance (tm) which immediately
brings into effect a BRAND SPANKING NEW ISSUE OF YOUR ALL TIME FAVOURITE
READING MATERIAL!@#
No, not Hustler, you sick puppy, although I too enjoy, uhm, reading
the letters to the editor. In fact, it is your very own Pleasure 'Zine!
Whee!
This ish features another guest star, young Pavement of aNAda
<www.anada.net> fame! Let me tell you a little bit about Pavement. Hmm,
come to think of it, I know JACK SHIT about young Pavement, so I'd better
move on to a topic which I actually know something about. Namely, the idea
of writing the most absolutely terrifyingly putrid pieces of garbage as
editorials, in order to make the rest of the issue look better. Yup, I
reckon I've got that one down pat.
Anyhoo, backing up frontman Pavement on drums and bass are two
stalwarts from the CLiT Cr00, namely ArcaneFrog and myself. But on the other
hand, who gives a shit? PAVEMENT IS IN TOWN!#
~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~
"C'EST LE TABLE DE CONTENTS"
{x} -=- "Editorial" -=- ........................................... AlterEcho
{x} -=- "You Think You Know Me" -=- ............................... AlterEcho
{x} -=- "Treacle" -=- ............................................ ArcaneFrog
{x} -=- "An American Writer in CLiT's Court" -=- ................... Pavement
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"YOU THINK YOU KNOW ME" - by AlterEcho
Shall I tell you a secret?
I bet that got your attention, didn't it? People like their little
secrets. And what's more, they love other people's secrets even more.
C'mon, you can't deny that eager little tingle that runs through your body
when someone says "Well, I promised I wouldn't tell anyone, but...". You
know it's true. And what's more, I know you know.
So...
You wanna hear mine?
Sure, I've got secrets. Don't we all? Baby, I got skeletons in my
closet that'll flip your wig and leave you with your jaw on the ground. You
think I'm just saying that, don't you? You think I'm just some conservative
middle-class mummy's boy. You've got me pegged as a goody-goody academic
freak who wouldn't say "Boo!" to a little old lady. You reckon I'm an
arrogant, race-conscious, insensitive good-for-nothing shmuck.
You think you know me, don't you?
Let me tell you something: you don't know shit. I know that must
come as a tremendous surprise to you, but that ain't no secret. I didn't
want to say anything before, in case I hurt your feelings, but you know what
they say - you've got to be cruel to be kind.
It must feel so damn good, sitting up on your little pedestal,
looking down on all those plebs who, try as they might, will never, ever
reach your levels of brilliance. Man, what a rush that must give you. You
smile your stupid oily little smile and stick your nose in the air. You're a
wonderful person. I think you're the greatest, yes I do.
I mean sweet fuck all to you. My life, my feelings - worthless. But
hey, it'd be fantastic to get some dirt on me, wouldn't it? One of little
AlterEcho's beautiful revelations. Then you could giggle and point and play
Chinese Whispers with my soul. My, but wouldn't that be fun?
I love secrets. I love it when my friends decide to trust me enough
with their deep, crazy shit. I love being able to help people. I love a
good story. I love words and feelings and laughter. I love my friends.
You want to hear my secrets? Fuck you. When you finally get over
yourself give me a call and we'll hook up for lunch. Then you can find out
about me the long way. The proper way. Just like everyone else.
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"TREACLE" - by ArcaneFrog
I don't know what is wrong with me. I have no physical ailment but
alas there is definitely something wrong with me. I wish I could say that my
problem is buried deep within my subconscious but I can't. I wish I could
say that it comes and goes but it doesn't. I wish I could say that it will
quickly pass but my whole being is terrified that it will stay with me
forever. Just the mere thought of that chills me to the bone deeper than any
other possibly could. You may sit there and say "What about the thought of
sitting in the same room as AlterEcho for 24 hours listening to him whinge
and whine about how depressed he is?" (Sorry Ed.) As scary as that seems,
it moves me not compared to what I face.
The foe I battle every day is complete and utter indifference. I am
indifferent to my past, present and my looming future. Its significance to
me is miniscule. Where does this state of mind stem from? Truly, I don't
know. I long for the truth. I do have some theories though.
I believe this "whatever" attitude comes from a fear to face reality.
It is as if I do face reality, the pain, the failure and the realisation that
I have been nothing but a fuckup for the past two years will break me like
the weak little man I am. It would be a fitting fate for someone who has
been too scared and blatantly not faced the large responsibilities that have
been placed in front of him. Why haven't I faced them? Put simply, FEAR.
Complete unadulterated terror.
A wise person once told me: "You are like me ArcaneFrog, you make a
joke of everything because you are too scared to look at life seriously."
And that is too true. I fear the harsh mistress that is life. I fear she
will take away everything I hold dear. My laughter, my love, my innocence...
all gone as time passes me by.
And here I remain, a sad and scared little man gripping tightly to the
thoughts, feelings and emotions, that I pray will never leave me.
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^Beyond repair, there is nothing to say^
^Save some fading regrets^
^Yet I can't be without this^
^I want you to be around^
-Elbow-
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"AN AMERICAN WRITER IN CLiT'S COURT" - by Pavement
My name is Evan Allen Thacker. I'm 22 years old. My 23rd birthday
is in 16 days. I'm 5'8'', 165 pounds. I'm wearing a turquoise Hawaiian
shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of white Adidas tennis shoes that have seen
better days. I'm presently sitting outside a sterile and charmless
coffeehouse, smoking a Basic Menthol, listening to Guided By Voices on my mp3
player. I'm drinking a double white chocolate mocha.
I'm here to scribble in my notebook. I want to recapture (or, it
could be argued, capture for the first time) the intimacy lacking in my
t-files. I've found that writing on a computer lacks a certain something (I
refuse to use the phrase 'je ne sais quoi'). Tapping away at a keyboard is
inferior to ink-stained fingers in so many ways. Like the coffee house I'm
at, with no soul to show for all the New Yorker magazines and Frank Sinatra
CD's money can buy, so it is with t-files written by keyboard: there's a
certain phoniness to them. I can hear the groan and see the mystified stare
on your face already, but I'm quite serious. With pen and paper, there is no
delete key, no magic button with which to bad ideas to the Purgatory of
Edit-->Undo. Whatever comes out of my pen is what will appear in this
t-file, unedited and unpolished.
Am I the first American to write for CLiT? If so, I guess that's
globalization for you. Someone starts an e-zine in Australia, and here comes
an extension of the Pavement brand, complete with McDonald's and
Star-Spangled t-files.
Anyway, here's what I know about Australia: AlterEcho and a lot of
sheep live there. Congratulations, AlterEcho: for all I know, you ARE
Australia.
It's disappointing to me that I don't know more about CLiT's country
of origin, because I was obsessed with Australia as a child. I read every
Easy Reader book I could get my hands on about the country, ran around saying
"g'day" in a horribly incorrect accent, and was a veritable wealth of
information about the country. I was determined to move to Sydney by the
time I turned 18. Sadly, my moving plans and my Australia knowledge fell by
the wayside, joining my dreams of becoming a lumberjack, a psychic, and
President of the United States. I'd probably be getting laid a lot more if
I'd gone down the Presidential path, but history waits for no one.
I have an important meeting tonight. The guy who will probably be my
next roommate wants to "find out about my character." He's a coworker of
mine, and I know almost nothing about him. Yesterday, we discussed getting
an apartment together. Everything was going just peachy, until he suddenly
and unexpectedly dropped a bombshell: he's an ordained and working minister,
and only works out in the "secular world" for spending money. I try to keep
an open mind. I'm an atheist; he's a minister and very passionate about his
religion. If he's similarly open-minded, there's no reason why we can't get
along and live together as roommates. We could even become friends.
Unfortunately, life is rarely so simple, and my character will undoubtedly be
lacking in his eyes. Not even taking my heathen godlessness into account,
he could have serious problems with my lifestyle: I drink, I smoke, I have
premarital sex (although you'd never know it, judging by my recent ineptitude
with women).
I'm probably worried about nothing. There will be no lifestyle
clashes; most likely, when I tell him about the way I live my life, he won't
want to live together at all. Then what? I've got to find a roommate in the
next 27 days. Homelessness has never looked so possible. I've lived with
nearly every friend I've got in the five years I've been on my own. Those I
haven't lived with don't have space for me.
In a completely unrelated digression, I just saw a Michigan Militia
member walk into the coffee shop. Those fuckers are crazy. Their paranoid
right-wing minds have visions of Mexicans just over the border, lying in wait
and ready to take over the US Government with American traitors. Their ideas
are straight out of Soldier of Fortune, and I wonder what could possibly lead
a person to believe such things? Uh oh, here he comes again. Time to move
on to something else.
Sixty minutes later, and I'm back at home, scrawling illegibly in my
Spiral notepad. I'm so glad I decided to write t-files, because the water
hasn't stopped since I turned on the tap. Sometimes, I feel as if a
never-ending television mini-series is being shown in my head. Most of the
episodes are poorly written and ill-conceived, but I get lucky sometimes, and
that makes it all worth it. I'll never stop writing. I don't think I COULD
stop, even if I wanted to. There's a voice in my head, and it never shuts
up.
I have to force myself to keep this t-file irony- and humor-free, and
because of this, I'm having a hell of a time dreaming up an ending to such a
direction-less t-file. I guess the most appropriate way to mark my territory
is the wholly American one:
Have a nice day.
~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~"~
..--------------------------------------------------------------------------.
:| (C) 2002 by CLiT || http://clit.freeshell.org || clit@sdf.lonestar.org |
:| Australian Owned & Made || Released 07.05.02 |
:`--------------------------------------------------------------------------'
:
: THOSE WHO STAND UNDER THE CLiT FLAG (RED AND WHITE AND BLUE) :-
:
: Pavement :- Not a bad bloke (for an American) ;
: ArcaneFrog :- Fwoggy woggy aroooooba aroooooba ;
: AlterEcho :- Little by little by little ;
: et al!
:
: BRINGING YOU QUALITY TEXTFILES SINCE THE LAST MILLENIUM.
*
