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_____________________________________Summer97
"A Journal of Substance, Wit, and Dangerous Masturbatory
Habits"

See Ooze in Full-Color Splendor at http://www.io.com/~ooze/

OOZE #10: A Salute to Science Fiction & Fantasy: Swords,
Spaceships, and Six-Armed Women

in this issue:
STAR WARS PROTEST!
WHY HOT CHICKS DON'T DIG GUYS WHO LIKE SCI-FI
INFILTRATING THE RENAISSANCE FAIRE
HUNTER S. THOMPSON: EXPOSED
PEEPSHOW MADNESS in THE ASSMAN COMETH...AGAIN!
MORE REJECTED BEN & JERRY'S FLAVORS
SITCOM CONVENTIONS...and more!

plus, check out OOZEYWOOD, our new Hollywood section,
w/RANDOM CELEBRITY SIGHTINGS and a look at WILLIAM
SHATNER'S NON-TREK FILM CAREER.

--------------------------
A MESSAGE FROM OUR EDITOR: 

Hear Me Mortal!

I, Jorg Mamanhammar, third son of Kracknor, High Priest of
Thunder and Disposable Paper Products, am now Editor of the
Mighty Ooze. The wizened publishers of this esteemed tome
have bestowed leadership upon my unworthy head in order to
increase their vaunted circulation.

Although I am a warrior and a barbarian, naytheless I am
knowledgeable in the arts of letters, and will cleave the
head of anyone who says otherwise. Old men of MAD: bow your
soft, corpulent bodies down before me and kiss the earth I
trod upon. He-Women of SPY: kneel at my feet and suckle my
prodigious offspring. Publishers of all electronic humor
publications: You are but maggots feeding on the rotting
corpse of a civilization doomed to stink its own offal. Fie
upon all who dare to stand before me!

This tenth edition of Ooze may be the "Science Fiction and
Fantasy" issue, but those deeds which you puny nerdlings
identify as 'imagined' are, in fact, my chosen reality. Who
among you have slain the many-headed Hydra and battled the
Orcish Hordes of Pittsburg with no more than a sharpened
paper clip and a cracked salt shaker enchanted by the
one-eyed wizard, Kimtor, who wears the eldrich glass eye of
Sammy Davis Jr.? In the space of an hour, I have bedded the
2005 vestal virgins of the sacred covenant of Abe Vigoda
and they borne me 897 sons named "George". Do not defame my
world as mere "fantasy"! My stare alone could crush your
near-sighted, carpal tunnel syndrome ridden frames,
rendering your very manhood no more rigid than the spine of
a career politician.

This task is easy even for a simple barbarian like myself.
Tonight, as I down a tankard of ale and lie down with an
elfish whoremistress I will write the entire issue you hold
before yourself. No read it, or face the wrath of my...
wrath!

Jorg Mamanhammar
In the blood soaked fields of the Guann Valley  1024 A.C.

-----------------
STAFF-O-RAMA

Staff: Matt Patterson (drbubonic@aol.com) Ed Schmidt
(Caligua@aol.com) M.J. Loheed (Spoot1@aol.com) Zak Weisfeld
(Zakkkk@aol.com) Nubba the Quintuple Editor (Nubba@aol.com)
Gabe Wardell (whereabouts unknown) Big Jim O'Donnell
(jimmod@earthlink.net) Shirl Spawn (shirlspawn@aol.com) Ian Smith
(freeverse@aol.com) Chana Willeford (spike@slack.net) Nate
Nichols (Nate_Nichols@newline.com) Timothy Kahn
(tmk4840@sru.edu) Mike Jelks (KB5QL@aol.com) 'Pegasus'
(Mazatron@aol.com) Stephanie Hubbard
(huranghu@earthlink.net) Steve Benaquist (Can't figure out
how to hook up his modem) Joe Wagner (doesn't own a
computer) Miguel Senisse (miguel@oasistech.com)

Ooze is copyright 1997 by Matt Patterson. Individual
articles are copyrighted by their respective authors. We
reserve the right to edit any correspondence sent to us.
Don't steal text or art and claim it as your own. Contact
me BEFORE you rip us off. Everyone and everything mentioned
in this issue is not real. Ooze has a circulation of
11,402,408,204. It is free. Pass it along, upload it to
your favorite BBS, print up full-color hard copies and give
them to the homeless, just give us a significant cut of the
profits. If you post individual articles to other
newsgroups and stuff, mention it's from Ooze, and post the
sacred e-mail address (drbubonic@aol.com) and/or URL
(http://www.io.com/~ooze). Ads are available (surprise!)
for any edition of Ooze (WWW, text, or application
versions) at reasonable prices. We Sell Out To The Man For
Cheap!

See the end of this document for more details on
subscribing and making contributions. E-mail
drbubonic@aol.com for more details, hate mail,
subscriptions, and foreign dignitaries. 
--------
OOZE STRIKES BACK
Mortimer and Luke Fontaine (ooze@io.com)

It started with a simple message, 'The Force is a Tool of
Satan', and ended with a flood of angry e-mail from irate
satanic Star Wars fans across the known universe. The
evening of February 21, 1997 saw the opening of the second
chapter in the foul travesty known as the Star Wars
trilogy. Twenty years after the fact, Christians were
returning to the fictional power of the 'Force' and turning
their backs on the true spirit of Jesus. Brother Luke and I
determined that we couldn't let another of these foul
movies open without some sort of protest to bring these
issues to light. For once we considered ourselves lucky to
live in the Sodom of the America's Evil-tainment Industry,
Los Angeles. Soon, we were off to the infamous Mann's
Chinese Theatre to make our presence felt. Praise the Lord!

People do not ignore two good Christians holding signs
reading, "Star Wars or Your SOUL" and "Jesus is the Force"
in front of the nation's premier movie palace. From the
moment we whipped out our signs, we were besieged by
heathen and Christian alike quizzing us about the dangers
of the Force. To that end, we handed them thoughtfully
prepared fliers (available at
http://www.io.com/~ooze/ooze10/force.pdf) adorned with the
main characters in their true demonic guises.

The flier read as follows:

****
These have one mind and shall give their power and strength
unto the beast! -Revelations 17:13

Many people think that STAR WARS is a good movie. It may be
entertaining but in reality it is EVIL. Why, you ask, is a
movie loved by millions a tool of SATAN? The answer is THE
FORCE.

Throughout all three movies people always say May The Force
Be With You. But what is the Force? The "angelic" Obi-Wann
Karboi says, "It's the thing inside all living creatures."
But isn't that what GOD is?

The Force makes people behave like Demons. Luke is "taught"
by the grimy, wizened, midget stand-in for God, YODA to make
things fly in the air with TELEKINESIS. That's what Demons
do! 

Darth Vader is supposed to be evil and Obi Wann good. This
isn't true. They are BOTH evil because Obi Wann wants Luke
(a blasphemous thing to name a demon-creature) to use this
extra-sensory feeling to fight for good. The Jewish George
Lucas is telling us Christians that God isn't good enough
and wants us to believe in a higher secular human force.
Tell that to Jesus, George!

R2-D2 is the mute false god Baal who children are told is
"cool". Is it so cool when God strikes you down where you
stand? I don't think so!

And when he had opened the seventh seal, there will be
silence in heaven about the space of half an hour. 
-Revelations 8:1

That seventh seal is the seventh SEQUEL to Star Wars! That
sequel will enrage the Lord, and He shall SMITE those who
worship the Force. No Ewoks will deliver you then- only
JESUS.
****

Although our position is made positively clear by our
flawless flier, people still had many questions for us. We
answered them as best we could, and God willing these
people have stopped worshipping the FORCE.

Q: Are you serious?
A: A lot of people see this movie and think the force is
real. We're here to save them. Would we joke about eternal
salvation? We had a friend who died in car accident because
he wasn't wearing his seat belt. He believed that this
supposed "Force" would protect him. We don't want anyone
else to die under the influence of the FORCE.

Q: It says in your press release that the Force is Tool of
Satan. But it also says Jesus is The Force. Doesn't that
mean that Jesus is a tool of Satan?
A: No. Jesus is the Lord. It might seem like a
contradiction to you. There are a lot of things that seem
like contradictions in religion but this isn't one of them. 

Q: Isn't Jesus just like the Force? See, the Force is in
everything and so is Jesus! 
A: No they aren't. Star Wars is just a movie. The Force is
a fantasy. Jesus is reality.

Q: I'm a Christian and you make Christians look stupid.
You're ruining it for the rest of us. Do you think Jesus
would protest a movie?
A: Yes, if Jesus thought a movie was evil. This movie is. 

Q: I'm a professional graphic designer and do you think
more people would be interested in your web page (<a
href="http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/4206">The FORCE is
a TOOL of Satan</a>) if you did a little more than draw on
horns on your photos? It looks kind of stupid and
amateurish. 
A: Normally the horns and tails don't show up in photos so
we had to "draw" them to reveal their true colors.
Lucasfilm has used million dollar special effects to remove
these horns and tails!

Q: Your flier is anti-Semitic. You call George Lucas a Jew.
That's racist! Wasn't Jesus a Jew?
A: Yes. But he was also the son of God!
Q: So why is George Lucas wrong?
A: Because Jesus is right.

Q:How on Earth, Heaven, or Hell do you get a comparison
with R2-D2 to Baal? 
A: R2-Demon2 is shown as the "savior" of the rebels on a
desert world. That world is very much like the land of the
Caananites and other worshippers of Baal in ancient times.
The graven image of Baal is analogous to the cast image of
the "Princess". It is right under your nose!

Q: What ministry do you guys belong to? 
A: We have an electronic ministry. If you don't have a
computer, then we can't help you. Our URL is
http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/4206

Q: Your stupid prank is a big waste of paper. Thanks for
the ruining the rainforest. I like to breathe assholes!
A: We have no reply to this. Were we guilty of wasting
paper? May God forgive us.
*****

The next day, we started receiving e-mail from around the
country inquiring about our ministry. Apparently people
were faxing our fliers out to all their friends. We knew it
was time to act, and to that end we set ourselves up a <a
href="http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/4206">web
page<./a> with all our salient points on the free <a
href="http://www.geocities.com">geocities web server</a>. 

Thanks for helping spread the Lord's good word! Anyhow, the
page looked great, and we decided to send a press release to
about 20 different Star Wars site webmasters.

Wouldn't you know it? Those initial 20 messages bought us
hundreds of e-mails! People were hearing our message of
Love! But much to our surprise, instead of peaceably
hearing our ideas, we were deluged with hate mail.
Apparently, we hit a sore nerve. Here are a few choice bits
edited for length. For the complete text of these and many
other letters, see <a
href="http://www.io.com/~ooze/ooze10/html/star_wars_mail.html">
Star Mail</a> at our website.

****
Dear MORON:

It's jerks like you that give all Christians a bad name. By
trying to push your strange ideas on others, you only serve
to enrage and disgust them. I will be forwarding your
ridiculous letter to a Star Wars mailing list I am a proud
member of, and you can expect to receive MANY irate letters
from other Star Wars fans!

BTW-the Star Wars pictures on your horrible homepage are
COPYRIGHTED. If you don't understand what this means, and
if Jesus is not available to explain it to you (he's busy,
I know...), let me explain. Lucasfilm LTD. has ownership
rights that prohibit you from DEFILING them, or in some
cases, even SHOWING them at all on your page! Many fans
show pictures, but because these are part of TRIBUTES,
Lucasfilm takes no action. Because your page is such an
INSULT, Lucasfilm could in fact take action against you! Be
warned! Well, I just thought I'd let you know about the sin
you are committing, and that you just might burn in hell
for this. I've also informed Geocities of this problem.
Have a nice day!
ah272@lafn.org (Ben Arden)

I am a Christian and can't see the problem with Star Wars.
Now, I don't have a problem with telling people about
Jesus, but what you are doing is driving people away. You
sound like a fanatic. 

The use of the force for telekinetics is used by both sides
of the Force. The Dark side uses it to attack and harm. The
Light side uses it for knowledge and healing. The Bible
says that "All things are possible through Christ who
strengthens me." It doesn't say everything but
telekinetics. Jesus walked on water and Moses split the Red
Sea, which is much more dramatic then merely lifting objects
with the Force. 

Saying the name Luke is blasphemous is positively
ridiculous. Simply because a disciple of Jesus was named
Luke, doesn't make it a holy name. Lucas didn't name his
characters Jesus and Lucifer either. 

R2D2 is the silent god BAAL? You are simply looking for a
story in the Bible that shows something bad. There are no
similarities whatsoever! You'd be better off picking C-3PO
because at least the Ewoks worshipped him. (I didn't mean
to give you any ideas!)

If you are going to link Star Wars to the end of the world
with this seventh seal nonsense, you are more fanatical
then I give you credit for. First, there are no plans, I
repeat no plans for part 7 of the trilogy to be released. I
know you watched the fun yellow words at the beginning, have
made yourself a Star Wars expert. My suggestion is that you
get the facts straight. The new movie is a PREquil. That
means it is part 1 not 7. Blows your whole 7th seal issue
right out of the water.

So have a nice day and MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU!
vader16@ix.netcom.com(Jim C)

I too was at Mann's Chinese theatre on Feb. 21, and did not
see you there. And, strangely enough, I was there with the
college fellowship group from my church.

But instead of telling people they are going to hell, we
sat in line and talked with people--even sang a couple of
praise and worship songs. You do more to ridicule
Christianity than bring people to Christ. Jesus talked with
sinners, he listened to sinners (Zaccheus) and never
ridiculed them--the only people he ever ridiculed were the
San Hedrin and those desecrating the temple.

Star Wars is a fairy tale, like Snow White, or The
Chronicles of Narnia. That is what George Lucas said. He
has no desire to make anyone a believer in the Force--he
himself does not believe it (read the biography
"Skywalking"--he even ridiculed Francis Ford Coppola for
wanting to make a religion of it).

Find something better to do with your time, to truly
further the kingdom of God. 
thrawn@ix.netcom.com (Jonathan A. Watson)
http://www.arcpres.org

You're pathetic. And racist. George Lucas isn't Jewish and
even if he was, Jews still believe in God, you moron.
You're probably some Nazi militia member who lives in one
of the Confederate states and has 40 kids.
rizzo@nbnet.nb.ca
****

We expected some Satanic Star Wars fanatics to be upset,
but good Christians? The situation was much worse than we
had previously believed. There is a place for us in this
world, and our help is needed. The Force is something you
can't take lightly. Young people, even good Christians,
don't normally see that Luke Skywalker is a force of evil.
We may not have stopped anyone from seeing the film, but at
least we made them think! Praise Jesus!

Mortimer and Luke Fontaine both work in the fashion
industry and hold degrees from Oral Roberts University.

------------------
Sidebar: STAR WARS FANS ARE SCARIER THAN JESUS FREAKS
(observations by MJ Loheed)

As we put on our fanatical Christian costumes before
heading to the theatre, we wondered aloud if we could
really pull this off. When you do a prank, there's always a
question of how far you can push it without being obvious
and our act seemed so over-the-top that we were sure people
would quickly realize it was a farce. 

Getting out of the car by the curb, a trendy woman gave our
conservo-geek garb such a stinging look of disgust, that it
instantly cemented our believability factor. Matt and I
WERE Mortimer and Luke Fontaine. We approached the world
famous Mann's Chinese Theater, staked out our spot, held
our signs up, and started handing out fliers. 

Then, the madness began. Disdain. Anger. A few people even
threatened us. At one point, we were sure this one guy, who
was busy telling us how Jesus was a black man and we knew
nothing, was going to launch a few well placed blows to our
heads when we weren't looking. 

Suddenly, what seemed like a harmless bit of fun actually
revealed an ugly side to a movie we all know and love. We
were right. People do take Star Wars too seriously. Which
sadly means that our characters Luke and Mortimer were
right. Not only was the public upset but they felt
threatened and hurt and retaliated. The letters you read
above are only slightly more vitriolic than the response we
got in person at Mann's. The average Star Wars fanatic was
genuinely threatened by two nuts on the sidewalk with
signs...

... and hate mail is still pouring in which leads me to
conclude that you'd better be careful what you believe in.
If your ideas aren't approved by a large base of supporters
and a multimillion dollar merchandising effort, keep it to
yourself. Either that or be ridiculed, harassed, and
probably beaten and put up on a cross somewhere.

I'm glad I live in a world where science fiction and
fantasy can inspire such contempt and hatred.

M.J. still sleeps with his 8" Princess Leah doll. 

-----------------------
THE ASSMAN COMETH
shirlspawn@aol.com

The day after my article about the Ass-Light Man appears in
Ooze #9 (Shirlspawn is a stripper in San Francisco. In the
last issue, she told us about a man who visited her "booth"
and put on a show of his own, sticking fruits and lights
inside his a-hole--ed.), Mr. Butt himself comes into my
booth for the second time. If you don't remember, I work in
a strip club in San Francisco where you have to feed
quarters into a slot to see the show. Some of our patrons
are a little strange.

"Uh... you look familiar. You've been in here before,
haven't you?" I ask him. He tells me his name is Mark. He's
got the briefcase of toys with him again and this time I pay
closer attention to it. I want to figure out the details I
might have missed last time out of sheer astonishment. 

He quickly strips of his clothes and proceeds to put his
ass against the glass wall again. Although his cock is
still quite soft, he manages to get it all the way into his
ass, just like the good old days. I guess if the anal chasm
is yawning enough, it can accommodate just about anything.
He then fists himself, but that's old news to me by now.
Perhaps sensing he has to top his previous performance, he
starts in on a show that makes all those urban legends
start sounding a little more believable.

He reaches down and fishes an eggplant out of his
briefcase. Not a Chinese or Japanese eggplant, but an
honest-to-goodness big Italian eggplant. I don't know how
he does it, but he pushes it all the way down his colon,
making it disappear into his ass where it winks at me like
a bulging purple eye.

"I've masturbated with vegetables from time to time, too,"
I tell him.
"What kind?" 
"Oh, you know..." I hesitate, feeling woefully inadequate,
"carrots, zucchini, bananas..." "Bananas?" With a gleam in
his eye, he produces a banana from his bag of tricks. An
extra-ripe, pungent specimen that's used to make banana
bread with. He then hangs his ass over the edge of the
seat, and pulls over a garbage can. 

He peels the ripe banana and puts it in his ass. (That's
one.) He peels another banana and puts it in his ass.
(Two.) The smell of bananas is beginning to permeate my
almost airtight booth. I can only imagine how overpowering
the stench must be on the other side. He peels yet another
banana and puts it in his ass. (Three.) Again, he peels
another banana and puts it in his ass. (Four.) I think he
actually comes somewhere around here.(Five.) He peels
another banana and puts it in his ass. (Six.) Then like a
baby with a mouthful of food, his rectum delivers the
pureed mess, glurk glurk glurk, into the trash can.
Actually it's more like the "extrude" function on my Dad's
pasta machine.

"So do you do this stuff when you're at home?" 
"Oh, yes, it was my wife's idea, actually." 
"Does she stick this much stuff inside her, too?" 
"Oh, yes." 
"You two must be a blast at the farmer's market."
"Certainly."

Later, in the dressing room another dancer named Mirage
tells me she's not impressed. The last time she saw Mark,
he used 12 bananas. His performance was single-handedly
responsible for her subsequent inability to eat them, and
the debilitating potassium deficiency that resulted from
this. 
-----------
HOT CHICKS DON'T DIG GUYS WHO LIKE SCIENCE FICTION
drbubonic@aol.com

Stretch me out on a rack. Let rats nibble at my ears,
spikes penetrate my temples, and hot wax drip down my
privates. Maybe then I would admit to a Hot Chick that I
enjoy books with dragons on the cover, participate in
events where I pretend to be a vampire, or that I can get
excited just thinking about computers. If you're like me
and you don't want to sleep alone for the rest of your
life, you may want to broach the "fantasy subject"
carefully. Preferably after you've been married and have
five or more dependants between you.

I dare you to walk into any gaming shop, comic book nook,
or computer store and count the nubile, young, available
females leisurely perusing the shelves. I guarantee the
answer will be statistically zero. Why don't girls go for
Science Fiction? It's fun, intelligent, and makes you feel
superior to mere unenlightened normals... isn't that what
every girl looks for in a man? Perhaps there are a few
'open-minded' Hot Chicks in the world I haven't met, but
face the facts. For every babe like that there are 60,000
guys like you ramming down her door with a heavy siege
engine they made in woodshop.

Unfortunately, Hot Chicks are one of life's necessities for
a horny young man -even one whose skin sees direct sunlight
only three or four times a year. Are Chicks simply afraid
to compete with an Orcish horde for their man's attention?
Is there some gland that secretes bad pheromones into the
atmosphere when a nerdy guy is in his element? Most
importantly, what can a Sci-Fi-loving geek do to win a
woman's favor?

Probably the safest way is to hide your 'affliction'. When
you make small talk, make sure to veer the conversation
toward your few less-geeky side interests, like music or
comedy. Don't mention you think Weird Al is the greatest
rock star of all time or incessantly quote the dialogue
from Monty Python's Holy Grail. All you need is a weak
moment like that to give you away. 

If you do manage to get her back to your apartment, be
prepared to think quickly. Explain away the Boris Vallejo
posters as 'campy fun'. Lead Hobbit figures become
'valuable collectibles'. Your bookshelf of Sci-Fi
paperbacks become your 'raw material for a comprehensive
genre survey for the New York Times Book Review'. Never let
her think you are obsessed. Perhaps in due time these things
will seep into her subconscious and miraculously become
acceptable, or at least tolerable. Then maybe you can tote
her to Science Fiction convention in a form-fitting
futuristic leather get-up and be the envy of nerds
everywhere. 

But it might not work. Eventually, the cracks will show and
your true, obsessed "inner geek" will spill out, all over
your "Empire Strikes Back" bedsheets. The root of the
problem is that most chicks don't see that a love for
Science Fiction is cultivated by superior men. To them,
it's a sign of immaturity, of perpetual adolescence. They
don't realize Sci Fi nerds are pioneers who reach to the
heavens in search of higher truth and spiritual
enlightenment. They are the free thinking power brokers of
tomorrow. And, they usually have a giant income potential
-as long as they don't spend all their money on bootleg
tapes of a naked Beverly Crusher. 

Let's face it. Men of all shapes and sizes find some bit of
minutiae to fixate and obsess upon. Why are music and sports
acceptable when Sci-Fi and Fantasy are not? What could be
more immature and helpless than an overweight, drunken man
cheering on his favorite football team in front of the
television? Pathetic. Or what about a skinny,
heroin-saddled doper trying to master three chords on an
expensive, six-stringed electric penis? Absurd. Yet, these
male alternatives are socially respected by Hot Chicks
everywhere. And while women tend not to fetishize stupid
hobbies as much as men, you can't tell me that soap operas,
doll collections, or Merchant Ivory films are really any
better. 

The men whom jealous types call 'eggheads' represent should
represent all that is desirable in the male species. Of
course, if Sci-Fi Guys got outside more and hung out with
real women, maybe they'd stop referring to them as 'chicks'
and 'babes' and start seeing them as real people with
problems of their own that usually have nothing to do with
an alien hive mind infiltrating the colonists on LT-7.
Maybe they'd would even loosen up and enjoy a few things
that involved hand-eye coordination. A little mingling in
the outside world might just bridge the gender gulf of
misunderstanding. 

That's not for me, though. I don't think I'll ever be able
to convince a Hot Chick that my Sci Fi obsessions aren't
somehow frightening. Instead I've been busy creating a
synthetic 'babe' with the help of my old TRS-80, some
copper tubing, a bra, and a wire-frame model of Kelly
LeBrock.. It's much easier for me to figure out a woman's
programming when it's written in BASIC.

MATT PATTERSON lies about his nerdy habits with Hot Chicks
everywhere.

-------------------
MORE REJECTED BEN & JERRY'S FLAVORS

In Ooze #6, we presented a list of flavors that Ben &
Jerry's Ice Cream had rejected from their laboratories.
Luckily for us, an inside source e-mailed us an additional
list of flavors even more repulsive than the first. It's
hard to believe a socially responsible corporation like Ben
& Jerry's would stoop low enough to even consider flavors
like these:

John Lemmon
Mocha Ono
Facial Hair Sorbet
Rum Enema
Nutty Hobo Fudge
Wavy Rabies
Oscar Wilde's Gay Surprise
French Vagina
Chocolate Infection
Incredibly Obese Girlfriend
Pope Praline III
Hitlerberry
Creamy Midget Ripple
Hershey Highway
Chow Mein Swirl
Used Teabag
Lo-Fat Blue Toilet Water 
Head Cheesecake
Jackie Chan Pecan
Iced Tunamilk
Diarrhea Mountain
Hairy Red Testicle Crunch
Ookie-on-the-Cookie Dough
Liver Mint Chunk
Butt Pop

-----------
BABYLAND
drbubonic@aol.com

In the hinterlands of what might as well be Hazard County,
lurks an evil that exists solely to corrupt the minds of
very young children. It isn't moonshine, the local chapter
of the KKK, or even an army of pederast "Uncles". They are
known simply as the Children of the Cabbage.

Anyone who was on the North American continent during the
1982 Christmas season would remember that year's
"must-have" toys, the Cabbage Patch Kids. No two of these
puffy, steroid swollen tots was supposed be alike and each
one shipped with a unique birth certificate attesting to
that claim. Kids ate it up and parents literally came to
blows over this Holy Toy Grail. By 1985, $600 million of
the dolls were sold EACH YEAR into bondage by Corporate
America.

Why all the fuss? Kids have gone ga-ga over the not-so-fun
idea of child-rearing for millennia. What was so special
about these bloated babies that made them catch on so
quickly? Although sales of these dolls leveled off in
recent years, the latest hair-chomping Chuckie-like
incarnation still haunts toy stores everywhere.

In 1977 Xavier Roberts, a 21-year-old art student, started
to hand-stitch a few radiation-warped life-sized dolls and
sold them from an old medical clinic he dubbed 'Babyland
General Hospital'. Originally called 'Little People',
presumably after members of the midget community, the
ragamuffins were renamed 'Cabbage Patch Kids' only after
they were licensed by Coleco for mass distribution.
Fortunately for those with money to burn, Xavier still
independently manufactures his heftier hand-made versions,
signing each of their tender buttocks himself. But the only
way to 'adopt' one is to trek out to Babyland's Patch in
Cleveland.

Georgia.

Located two hours north of Atlanta, this rural town
features primo farmland, The World's Largest Afghan Store,
a County Courthouse Museum, and a rampant kudzu infestation
which appropriates abandoned buildings along the road
leading into town. This Cleveland might not Rock, but
people from around the world come here to bring a little
one home without the muss of a bun in their own ovens.

Admission to Babyland is mercifully free and worth every
penny. Part-time pseudo-nurses greet potential parents at
the door with a smile. Weaving your way toward the Patch at
the center of the nursery, you pass by a passel of little
Kids awaiting a potential parent. Arranged in dioramas,
some are at "school," others in the middle of a meal, and a
large number sport USA Olympic Team uniforms. Every tyke has
a name tag affixed to an appendage making the atmosphere
more like a morgue than an orphanage. The most disturbing
display is of the poor Preemie(tm) brand premature babies
locked inside their incubators. Nothing like a lovable low
birth weight baby to bring in the holiday cheer!

Rounding a final corner, you see a giant fake tree
surrounded by a mound of misshapen baby heads poking out of
"cabbages". A nurse announced that a new baby was due to
emerge from Mother Cabbage shortly. When pressed for an
exact time frame she told me, "When Mother Cabbage wills
it." How realistic! It turned out that Mother Cabbage wills
it whenever there's a big enough crowd, or a clever parent
pays for their kids' doll to pop out during a ceremonial
birth.

One of the nurses enters the patch and begins prepping
Mother Cabbage for her impending delivery. The nurse then
explains the intricate reproductive system of cabbage to
the assembled mass of tourists. Apparently, the ceramic
Bunny Bees suspended overhead "fertilize the cabbage heads
with magic crystals (Christmas lights), determining whether
the newborns will be boys or girls." Excuse me, but did I
miss something in my High School sex education class about
spewing love crystals, or have I been doing it wrong all
these years?

After fiddling with a bizarre assortment of medical
instruments including a large pair of forceps and a
bubbling IV unit, the nurse yanks a limp baby out of the
cabbage patch with the enthusiasm of a rural Dairy Queen
employee serving a half-melted Blizzard. Holding the white,
blonde, baby boy moppet aloft, she asks the ooh-ing crowd
for a first name. A kid in the back screams out, "Hayden!"

"All right then, Hayden is his first name," says Nursey
with her thick southern accent. "Now I need a middle name." 

Before anyone can react I blurt out, "Abdul!" 

The nurse pauses, and stares at me, cracking her gum. "O.K.
It's Hayden Abdul then." And that was that. Murmurs from the
crowd sounded shocked at the name, ("How weird!" "Who would
adopt a baby with a name like THAT?") either proving why
the Stars and Bars still fly over Georgia, or that people
just get freaked out over nothing. The nurse took Hayden
Abdul to the nursery, put him in a diaper, fastened a new
name tag to his breast, and placed him in the galley window
to await adoption. 

Adjacent to the patch are two offices decorated in a
thirties industrial style. These are the 'adoption
offices'. The nurse tells me this is where the new parents
sign the papers and take an oath entrusting the child's
care with them for life.

"Some of them just draw a big 'X' on the paper since they
can't write," she adds.

Loitering by the office, I witness a swearing-in ceremony.
It appeared as if the real parents were taking it a bit
harder than the children. When asked by the 'Adoption
Agent' what it felt like to be a new Grandmother, the
visibly shaken mother protested, "I'm no Grandma! I'm not
old enough!"

But she was $200 poorer. According to my inside source,
fantasy can be very expensive, although it costs a bit less
than an actual infant. "I'm not really a nurse either," she
adds.

What is it about adults that would make several hundred of
them stand outside a baseball stadium in Milwaukee for
hours back in 1982 -just waiting for the rare dolls to be
air-dropped to them? A mischievous radio DJ told his
listeners they could get a doll from a passing cargo jet if
they simply held their credit cards up to be photographed by
the jet's crew. Duh.

Children don't really need the extra fantastic trappings to
be satisfied. It's just that those darned, media-saturated
grown-ups do. Corporations know that by pandering to simple
adult hype and fantasy, the money will follow. Over the
internet you can even "re-adopt" a collectible CPK ensuring
it's life of plastic slavery. 

There is another Babyland over in Glendale, California. A
large black statue of a misshapen baby marks the site of an
infant burial ground in Forest Lawn Memorial Park. For a
second, you can imagine that beneath the markers rest the
remains of the 100 million or so cabbageites, finally free
from their bonds of servitude. Hayden Abdul could finally
fly with his father Bunny Bees among the stars .

But in reality they're just dead babies.

MATT PATTERSON is a part time Bunny Bee himself.

--------------
THOSE GOOD 'OLE DAYS
by "Maltshop" Joe Throneberry

Some of my all-time favorite memories are from the past.
Back then, America was a land of peace and prosperity, free
of dirty homeless people, dirty wars, and uppity minorities.
Streets were so clean you could eat off the pavement, and
often I did--getting a whole steak dinner for just a
quarter down at the local Elk's Club. But I digress. Let's
travel back in time and have a look at two of the all-time
classiest decades, for a few fads and fashions that Father
Time forgot. 

THE FIGHTIN' 1940s:

The Lindsay Shuffle: 
This popular dance craze was started by "Jumpin'" John
Lindsay, later the mayor of New York City. Steps, which
included "the pounding heart, the knocking knee, and the
forward-slump", were inspired by Lindsay's own childhood
bout with polio. The craze ended after FDR brought shame to
our nation when he accidentally goosed Stalin with his
crutch when they danced together after Yalta. In the
fracas, Stalin fell forward into a plate of ice cream, thus
beginning the Cold War. 

Fireman Fashion: 
During the summer of 1941, it became very stylish for the
women of high society to wear asbestos suits and other
fireproof gear. When you said a woman had "nice gams", that
meant that she would probably survive a burning car wreck.
This trend died quickly, though, as 1942 became the "Year
of the Domestic Servant". 

Fart Flavored Soda Pop: 
"Mister Gassy" and "Colon-Up", introduced by Coca-Cola and
Pepsi respectively, traded on America's love for
flatulence. Each drink featured a bubbly, zesty flavor akin
to cheese popcorn or smoked fish. Unfortunately, the sales
of fart flavored soda took a nosedive after well-known
comic "Fatty" Arbuckle used a "Colon-Up" bottle to forcibly
enter an underage woman's house. This scandal rocked
Hollywood, and led to the motion picture rating system we
know today. No patriotic American ever drank farts again.

Really Buff Sailors: 
These noble men, heroes after World War II, would grease
themselves up with hot sesame oil and then walk the Earth
flexing their pecs. Throughout late 1945 they marched up
and down Times Square kissing anyone they saw. Let me tell
you, my balls dropped that New Year's Eve! 

Golden Oldie Radio Programs: 
Before cable television families would gather around the
radio for a wonderful night of "theatre of the mind". Some
of my favorite programs included the suspenseful drama of
"The Low Voiced Guy", the unexplainable superhero
adventures of "Mysterious Man" and the hilarious comedy of
"Those Scheming Negros". Also popular were radio
ventriloquists like Candace Bergen & Art Garfunkel. 

THE FLASHY FIFTIES:

Doberman Skirts: 
Young ladies wore these flashy numbers in the early 1950s,
before the dawn of the music we now call "rolling rock".
Not only did the sides of these babies flare outwards like
a dog's nose, but they were fitted with teeth so you
couldn't put our hands up a girl's skirt. For that you
needed a "muzzle" which was made out of barbed wire and an
old car jack. 

Dead Sharks tied to the tops of convertibles: 
Kids in the 50s always seemed to have some new craze going,
like filling telephone booths up with stuffing. Me and my
friends liked to kill great white sharks and tie them to
the top of our car. Most expensive cars already had
shark-like fins, but having an entire dead shark flopped
over the roof of your automobile was a cool guy's way of
saying, "Don't mess with me, bucko." 

"The Magenta Menace": 
The only way for our men to stand out in the Korean Jungle
was to have some sort of flashy pattern or hue. The Nips
wore yellow, and we wore Magenta. It was our men's way of
saying, "Hello there, fella, I'm an American!" But if a
regular civilian was caught wearing magenta Stateside, he
or she would be alienated immediately. Tragically, people
lost their jobs, their wives, even their pets. In 1955
Screenwriter Dalton Trumbo had to use a "front" for his
Oscar winning script for "Johnny Got His Gun" all because
of a zesty magenta tuxedo he wore to the People's Choice
Awards back in 1953. 

Elvis Goes to Singapore: 
"Everybody shake your pants/As Elvis does his Singapore
Dance!" Or so went the hit song. Elvis Costello was one of
our great national treasures, and according to legend, he
met his legendary manager Colonel Mustard on a fencing trip
to the Far East. This meeting was later commemorated in
song, and on the television special, "Caning Ed Sullivan." 

Drive-Thru Movie Theatres:
Drive-thru movie theatres were always great for
inexpensive, quick dates. I remember seeing "The Creature
From New Jersey" AND getting a delicious burger and fries,
all for under a dollar and in sixty seconds flat. 

Alger Hiss and Friends Variety Hour:
Who could forget the finest TV variety hour of the 1954-55
season, Alger and his wacky friends, including Red the
Tap-Dancing Monkey (played by Ricky Ricardo) and Buttons
the Siamese Twin Albino (played by a young Richard Nixon),
wormed their way into the hearts of America. When he was
executed in front of a national audience by his network for
low ratings, Hiss delivered a fantastic speech that people
will always remember. I'd quote from it, but I can't recall
his exact words.

"The Internet": 
It was a little more primitive than it is nowadays, what
with all the advances in copper wire and Dixie cups, but
the essence of the internet was still the same (albeit
stickier). Even then, people had trouble connecting to
America On-Line. If you look closely at the film "The Girl
Can't Help It" and you'll see one scene where Jayne
Mansfield uses an early beta of Netscape to browse for
"lesbians, lesbians, lesbians". 

"MALTSHOP" JOE THRONEBERRY hosts a weekly radio show out of
his basement in Dritfwood, Kansas. He has a steel plate
inside his skull. 

------------
STAR TREK FAIRE OR RENAISSANCE CONVENTION?
drbubonic@aol.com

The present world must suck. In this post-modern era, it's
considered 'normal' to lose oneself within the fictional
realm of popular culture. Afterwards, most people return to
their humdrum lives feeling a little less empty. A growing
subculture however, refuses to come back to the crappy
reality the rest of us inhabit.

One weekend in March, two of the biggest "alternative
reality" events opened their gates to the nerdy public: the
annual Grand Slam Star Trek Show, which draws 30,000 rabid
Trekkies in one weekend, and the Renaissance Faire, which
draws at least as many people during its two month run.
Like any good media freak show, scores of reporters,
flashing credentials and big, expensive equipment, try to
home in on the big 'story'. What exactly makes these nerds
tick? 

Now, I don't exactly have credentials or big expensive
equipment. I had a notepad, a disposable camera, a fake
press pass that was stolen from a movie set, and a raw idea
that just might give me the scoop. I would gain the freaks'
trust (thereby winning more probing interviews) by becoming
"one of them". 

Although hastily slapped together, my costume was pretty
good. Made from a black wool cape draped over a black
dress, and topped with a black plastic, feather-studded
helmet I had around the house, I looked like Mordred in a
homosexual production of the musical Camelot. No one would
suspect I wasn't one of them.

The Pasadena Convention center seems an unlikely spot for
medieval pageantry. Although costumed characters of all
shapes and sizes paraded around the outside grounds, I saw
no tents, horses, nor glasses of hearty ale for sale. What
was going on? A band of costumed females milling around
started staring me down. Their actions were aggressive,
their costumes were meticulous, and their cleavage was
ample. Would these Amazonian goddesses talk to a regular
reporter? Never. But I thought I had an advantage.

"What the hell are you supposed to be?" asked a lusty wench
as she looked me over. Their suspicions eased as I told them
I was a warrior --and a reporter-- who would like to ask
them some questions. As they nodded in acceptance, I could
smell my future Pulitzer. I first asked if they assembled
their own costumes by hand.

"Fool! We do not conquer a hundred worlds to make our own
clothing!" one of them barked. I guess they were acting "in
character." I tried loosening them up by asking if they were
participating in the live-action chess game but was met with
blank stares. I was about to ask if they really enjoyed
drinking mead, even though it was honey-sweetened vinegar,
when my keen reporter senses noticed something weird about
them. Furrowing their brows in disapproval, each of them
sported an artificial bulbous lumpy forehead. Were they
trying to simulate victims of the bubonic plague?

"Are you some Federation spy?" a lady growled. Another
unsheathed a nasty-looking curved blade no regular knight
would dare to wield. I guess my black outfit might be
mistaken for some kind of Federation of German States spy
costume (or was that the Holy Roman Empire?), but I was
confused. I quickly complimented them on their excellent
blacksmith costumes, and their fine application of burn
make-up. My dodge didn't work. They were pissed. Hell,
their weapons might really hurt me, even if they were just
foam and plywood. Looking down at my trusty pad I fired off
a desperate question. Did they believe in magic?

They stopped, looked around, and all answered yes.
Breakthrough! It was then that Security approached me and
asked for identification. They announced that my press pass
was bogus, and I was in trouble. No kidding. Now my
prize-winning interview was ruined. Perhaps Star Trek fans
would be more amiable. I did what any good undercover
reporter should do when confronted by authority figures. I
ran away.

The Star Trek convention was pathetic. Sure, people were
dressed up, but I was the only one who looked like any of
the crew members. No Spocks, no Datas, no nothing. I even
bought one of those beeping communicator pins for fifteen
bucks so I could fit in. The only costumed characters I saw
were people dressed in weird peasant costumes selling
leather bodices from colorful tents. What was going on
here? I stopped a sharply dressed man with an enormously
frilly collar and asked him if he would mind telling me
what this what planet this event was supposed to be on.

"Uhh... Earth?" I asked what planet he was supposed to be
from, and big surprise, he claimed he was from Earth as
well. No way! Gene Roddenbury's aliens may have dressed
oddly, but the people of his Earth seemed to prefer
tight-fitting one-piece outfits. I asked if he made that
goofy costume himself, or if he ordered it from a catalog.
He told me his tailor had made it for him, and it had cost
him much gold.

I smelled a rat. Only one race of aliens used gold in Star
Trek. I asked him point blank he was supposed to be a
Ferrengi.

"I'm supposed to be Italian." With that he huffed off. The
only other person I could get to talk with me was a girl
selling brownies, and only then if I would buy one. She
balked at my inquiry as to whether her shawl was made of
Tribble fur, or if she were old enough to drink Romulan Ale
legally. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously when I asked her
if her favorite episode was when Kirk made a cannon out of
bamboo to battle the Gorn. What was wrong? Trekkies love
that episode.

"Where do you think you are?" she asked me. I shrugged.
"This is the Renaissance Faire, you idiot!" I started to
chuckle but then looked her over carefully. I detected no
insanity boiling behind her underage visage. But could she
really be right? I guess it would explain why everyone was
gnawing on turkey legs.

In the end, it didn't really matter where I was. A costume
is a costume. Freaks are freaks. Why quibble with swapping
one bogus world with another? What mattered more to me was
that if I actually paid full price for both events instead
of sneaking in I would've been out sixty American dollars.
Now, how's that for reality?

MATT PATTERSON spends too much of his time pretending to be
EDDIE SCHMIDT

----------
A VERY SPECIAL CHRISTMAS STORY

A big fire was roaring in the fireplace. A tiny Christmas
tree, greener than any real tree could be, sat blinking in
the corner. Old Grandpa was dozing off in his Barca
Lounger. Little Timmy and Tiny Susan sat on either side of
him, staring straight into the fire. They imagined they
could see all sorts of shapes in it--a lion, an astronaut,
a waterbed--because Little Timmy and Tiny Susan had good
imaginations! But, perhaps even more importantly, their
black & white TV set could only pick up the Home Shopping
Channel.

"Tell us a story, Grandpa!" shouted Timmy.

"Yeah! Tell us about Christmas!" screamed Susan.

The Old Grandpa stirred from his slumber. "You kids want to
hear about Christmas of long ago?"

"Did you know baby Jesus?" asked Susan.

"What about Napoleon?" asked Timmy. 

"I'm not that old, you little shits!" yelled Grandpa, the
saliva crystallizing at the corners of his mouth.

"Come on, Grandpa, tell us a story!" they screamed. 

"You really wanna hear about the Olden Days?" 

"YEAH!"

"I remember the olden days like it was.. uh.. never mind.
Back in the Great Depression, no one was very happy. To
ease our burden, the President, Grover Cleveland, signed
the Emancipation Proclamation."

"The Man Sips Eggs-a-lation?" The words slipped through the
holes where Timmy's front teeth used to be.

"That was what freed us to put stamps on the outside of our
letters, instead of taping coins to the envelopes."

"Oh."

"World War II had just ended, but we still lived in fear
that the British would march into town and take Big Ben
prisoner. It didn't matter to me. I was excited about the
holidays! I suppose you kids are excited enough to crap
your pants, huh?"

Susan leapt to her tiny feet and shouted, "Santa's gonna
bring us presents!"

"Who?"

"S-S-Santa comes down the chimmney in his shiny red suit
with a big bag of presents! " whistled Timmy. 

"He's big and fat and has a sled," lisped Susan. 

The Old Man, wise beyond his years, looked puzzled. "Santa
Claus? Phoo!" He made a sound that only an Old Person can
make in public. "We didn't have no Santa in our day. All we
had was a little green midget named Lenny the Dwarf, who
came around in his pickup truck and flung garbage around
the house.." 

"He just gave you G-G-GARBAGE?" stammered Timmy.

"Christ! We considered ourselves lucky when he didn't steal
all the furniture. What are you kids expectin' to get?" 

"I-I-I want a new bike," Susan squeaked.

"Oh, you'd ask for the world, huh? I was lucky to get a
sponge bath!

"What about your tree, Grandpa?" asked Timmy, "We got a
real big one with a star on top!"

"Tree? All we got was a weed my Mother, God Rest her Soul
and Curse those Grave Robbers Who Dug Her Up And Left Her
Body on the Roof of your School, plucked from the curbside.
Every Christmas morning we'd decorate it with the new
garbage Lenny the Dwarf left for us. Then we'd get ready
for the best part of the whole holiday."

"When you'd kiss Gramma under the missle-toe?"

"No, that was an indignity. I'm talking about Christmas
dinner!"

Susan rubbed her tummy. "We're having a turkey, roath beef,
and stuffing!"

"With globs of gravy on top!" slobbered Timmy.

"We never ate stuff like that, what with the plague and
all. No, our meal was different." The Old Man leaned in
close to the small children, his voice quivering with
excitement. "On Christmas eve, my father would go to the
mall and purchase the biggest bean he could find. Tying it
to his motor scooter with care, he'd race home to Momma
where she would be in the kitchen slaving away. Do you know
what special meal she was cooking up?

"Hamburgers?" guessed Susan

"Nope."

"Pizza muffins?" offered Timmy, shuffling in his seat.

"Not even close."

"Applesauce!" shouted Susan, splitting the brittle hairs
inside Grandpa's ears. 

"No, no, no. Somethin' even better."

"Fruit Stripe Gum?"

"No, no, unequivocally no." The Old Man leaned in, his
eyebrows dancing. A smile crossed his wizened lips. "She
was making us fart sandwiches!"

"WHAT?!"

"Big, juicy, FART SANDWICHES!"

"You can't eat Farts!" said Timmy, who was very wise for
his age.

"You take two pieces of bread and pass gas on one slice-"
explained the Old Man as he took a piece of bread out and
brought it to his porous anus. Just then Timmy and Susan's
negligent parents arrived to pick them up. The children ran
up to them happy as can be.

"Mommy, Daddy! Grandpa eats farts!" said Timmy excitedly. 

"Can we eat fart sand witches for Christmas too?" asked
Susan.

Timmy and Susan's father, a very stern man, looked angry
enough to use the backside of his hairbrush. "Dad, What the
hell did you tell them?"

"Oh, nothing."

Just then, the Old Man was saved from embarrassment as none
other than James Stewart himself entered through the front
door. Everyone was shocked. James ran up to the children
and scooped them into his arms.

"SUSO! DANNY! YOU'RE ALIVE! MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYBODY! TO
EACH AND EVERYONE OF YOU!" he squawked in his chicken-like,
corn-fed, Midwestern twang. 

Yuletide music materialized from nowhere and everyone sang
and sang. The Old Man passed out medicated egg nog to
everyone and fell dead asleep in his chair, never to wake
up again.

THE END.

------------
IRRITATION AND ANNOYANCE IN LOUISVILLE
(A mostly true story) 
zakkkk@aol.com

It was just after ten-thirty on a wintry Thursday night in
downtown Louisville. Ten-thirty is like some kind of
witching hour in Louisville, the time at which every decent
restaurant, and many indecent ones, must lock up their doors
and refuse to serve food or booze to a cold, bitter and
starving trio of cable television adventurers, or else put
themselves at terrible risk of attack from the evil spirits
which are known to rise like C.H.U.D. from the sewers of
Derby City.

"This is," I said to myself, "rather ironic." And not
ironic merely because we were trying to get a decent meal,
and a good buzz on, in Louisville after ten-thirty. In
truth, if drunk was what we wanted there was no shortage of
strip clubs in the surrounding blocks that would have been
more than happy to rip a hole in a few beers for us. No,
the irony was that we had come and interviewed one Hunter
Stockton Thompson and born witness to his apotheosis into
the Viking pantheon of GREAT AMERICAN WRITERS -- and we
were stone cold sober.

Sober... Jesus, this was unheard of. None of us had had so
much as a baby aspirin all day and the terrible stress of
uninebriation suddenly crashed over us like some hideous,
puritanical tsunami. Nobody screamed, there was no hair
tearing or wailing, just a sudden blankness -- the void.
We'd lost the will to fight, to even try and get screwed
up, somehow it just didn't seem worth the trouble.

What the hell was wrong with this country? Where was the
ragtop Chevy with a trunk full of mescaline and ether? What
monstrous chain of events could have led to us mewling
pathetically at the door of a gloomy German restaurant in
the deserted heart of Louisville, Kentucky like refugees
from Oliver Twist? Where, I ask you, was the Gonzo?

The answer was that he was up in his room, asleep.

Never meet your idols. There is no better cure for
admiration than contact. And especially don't meet your
idol on a bleak winter evening in Louisville, Kentucky
where he is being lauded, celebrated, eulogized and made an
honorary Kentucky Colonel on the 25th anniversary of the
publication of his magnum opus, Fear and Loathing in Las
Vegas. 

We had come up, my Accountant, the Kingpin and myself, to
try and squeeze a television interview out of the
notoriously incomprehensible Thompson -- an interview done
under some very shaky pretenses, and with no real idea of
what to do with it once we got it. 

On the surface, of course, the trip seemed like a fantastic
lark -- drive up to Louisville, do some interviews and get
crocked with the good Doctor. What could be better?

I've admired Thompson's writing since I found a tattered
copy of The Great Sharkhunt, a collection of his articles
from the 60's and 70's, sitting on the floor next to my
brother's bed. It was a revelatory experience -- his
writing was so explosive, so lucid and so fucking hilarious
that I read it without mercy, in a single sitting, laughing
throughout. 

No single volume sums up that pivotal era in this country
-- when the psychedelic glow of the 1960's faded into
sickly, paranoid, debased pallor of the 1970's, with the
brutal effectiveness of the work in The Great Sharkhunt.
Norman Mailer is a blustery, establishment hack compared to
Thompson in high gear; and even Tom Wolfe seems tepid,
eastern and cloistered in the thrashing light of Thompson's
best work. 	

But what had Thompson done lately? What was this evening
really about? I didn't have time to stop and think about
minor details like that, and neither did the men who'd
brought me along on this little joyride -- my Accountant, a
former John Birch Society economist fallen on hard times,
and The Kingpin, a man of such awesome power in his own
country that he decided to seek the kind of wretched
anonymity that can only be found producing cable television
programming in the United States. They were heavy-hitters,
both of them, and not exactly comfortable with the
half-assed preparations made for their audience with the
Doctor of Gonzo, or the good Doctor's audience with them.

The concept behind the trip was that we were to be given 90
exclusive minutes with Mr. Duke to discuss the who, what,
why, where, how and when of his life for possible use as a
biographical television show, or, failing that, as evidence
in an FBI sting operation. But that 90 minute figure was
already facing pretty long odds by the time we had unloaded
the gear. And half an hour later we had yet to find anyone
in the hotel with the faintest clue as to what was going on.

Finally, after a strange meeting in the Brown coffee shop
with the diminutive Johnny Depp (Depp is slated to play
Hunter S. in an upcoming film version of Fear and Loathing
-- Depp as Thompson! Who's idea was this? It's like...like,
Christ its hard to think of a simile to match the
unintuitiveness of that decision), we discovered that
Thompson was at the auditorium where the ceremony would be
taking place.

And there he was. In the center of the stage Warren Zevon
was playing a little number on the piano and Thompson stood
behind him, a big...surprisingly big, bald guy in
sunglasses, smoking a cigarrette in a long white cigarette
holder and clutching a fire extinguisher, with which he
blasted Warren Zevon (and you were probably wondering,
"Whatever happened to Zevon?").

No dice on the interview though, at least not yet.
"Hunter's nervous about people he doesn't know shoving
cameras in his face," said his handlers, "But don't worry,
the interview's still on...we just need to take care of a
few more things here. Hunter'll be along shortly."

From the looks of things, Thompson lurching across the
empty stage, blasting people with the fire extinguisher and
swigging alternately from a beer and a juice glass of
bourbon, it was a good thing we planned to have him sit
down for the interview.

Two hours later Thompson came bellowing into the room
holding a glass of whisky and a leather riding crop. The
current Sheriff of Aspen was at his side (for both
Hunter's, and the world's, safety), his son and assistant
were close behind and a couple of college girls and a
reporter brought up the rear. 

The interview was an abbreviated half-hour affair under too
hot lights in a sweltering hotel room. Though a diabolical
mumbler, and more than a few sheets to the wind, Thompson
was hardly a lunatic. If anything he seemed like a vaguely
Parkinsonian uncle. A cantakerous, but friendly uncle with
a predilection for strong drink and leather goods. 

Not surprisingly, the interview was useless. After sending
the tape to the National Security Administration for
transcription and decoding all I got back was this:

KP: Does it seem strange to be coming back to Louisville to
be lauded like this? A place where they locked you up?
(Thompson was arrested several times as a youth for various
crimes, mostly theft).

HST: Mrrrmphrrrm hrrrmrumppph urrmrrrhummprrrphg!...coming
home for vengeance on the bastards who fucked with me. 

After hours of computerized augmentation the names of
Truman Capote, James Agee, W.H. Auden and Tom Wolfe were
also extracted from the tape, though in what context
Thompson mentioned them is still a mystery. One of the only
other coherent bits on the tape is the following:

HST: I'm a walking, glowing monument to the American dream
in action. (HST laughs as though he's being sarcastic, but
then he stops) No, really.

And then it was time. With the aid of his friends, family
and lackeys, Thompson was hustled out of the room and
whisked away to his canonization. 

We weren't far behind, I brought the black, armored Land
Cruiser out of the garage, my Accountant and the Kingpin
leapt in, and we roared down to the auditorium for the MAIN
EVENT.

Only the 90's could have spawned as perverse a line-up as
the one which graced Fear and Loathing's 25th anniversary
celebration. The audience was made up, almost completely,
of neo-hippie college kids in Dave Mathews and Phish
shirts, and whose only knowledge of R.M. Nixon comes from
Oliver Stone movies -- and probably Hunter S. Thompson.
They were the kind of political and psychedelic dilettantes
that Thompson railed against time and again. But the
apparent contradiction between audience and host was
nothing compared to king oxymoron which started the ball
rolling.

After a brief welcome and introduction, Dr. Hunter S.
Thompson, the Duke of Gonzo was made an honorary Kentucky
Colonel. As the award was presented images of Thompson's
article, "The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved" kept
flashing through my mind. Was Thompson going to mace the Lt.
Governor, right here in front of this audience? Were there
storm troopers in jack boots, clutching the choke collars
of snarling pitbulls just outside the door?

No, the ugly truth is that Thompson appeared not only
happy, but almost proud, to be receiving this atavistic
award from a rich old redneck who twenty-five years ago
would have had him beaten with a sack of oranges and thrown
into a drainage canal. Thompson didn't even blast the guy
with the fire extinguisher. 

And that was just the beginning. The program for the event
revealed the freakish, and deeply fractured character of
our era. There were hysterical, quasi-beat poets and shrill
college kid rants, there were songs by Warren Zevon,
recollections by friends, relatives and associates, a
dramatic reading from Johnny Depp, and Harry Dean Stanton
was billed to do something (I never found out what,
exactly). All of it punctuated by the occasional blast of a
fire extinguisher or thwap of a riding crop.

After about the fifth or sixth rant-poem (when did poetry
become the histrionic reading of lists?) we couldn't take
it anymore -- we'd eaten nothing for hours except Cheese
Nips, and the desiccated ache of no booze was beginning to
leave nerve endings feeling raw and exposed. As quickly and
quietly as we could, the equipment was gathered up, armored
vehicles brought around and an escape was made into the
yawning gulf of downtown Louisville.

What did it all mean -- a convicted felon, a dangerous drug
abuser and firearm addict given one of the State of
Kentucky's highest honors? It seemed either an eloquent
statement about growth and tolerance on the part of both
parties -- or an embarrassing testament to the shameless
desire of people to be extolled, even by groups they claim
to abhor.

In his day, Thompson truly was the voice of a generation --
a man almost painfully attuned to the twisted reality of his
age. But since the passing of Nixon and the 70's his
relevance has waned dramatically. Nixon was Thompson's
Darth Vader, a representation of everything gross and
brutal in the national character. And so, when battling
Nixon, Thompson was the young lion, raging in drug induced
furor against a venal and corrupt America; without him, he
was the doddering old man, clownish in baggy pants and
cigarette holder, raging against ghosts.

The times have passed Thompson by -- and though he still
has a powerful sense for the punch and rhythm of our
language he's lost the tune, he's all baseline now, mumbled
out of lips that have had perhaps a bit too much of
everything. And, after an being made a Kentucky Colonel,
the only real question that remains is what, exactly, will
be the good Doctor's legacy?

On the one hand, he invigorated journalism and revealed,
with a frenzied humor, the dark side of our country, our
greed, thuggishness and contradictions. At the same time,
the attitude of Gonzo Journalism may have done more damage
to popular non-fiction than anything since wide-spread
literacy. 

Gonzo convinced a generation of writers that
self-indulgence, drugs and ranting are a viable literary
style. Putting the writer at the center of the story is a
high-risk game. "It's all about what you can get away
with," said Thompson. And when it's done right it can
reveal a deeper and more potent truth than a simple
recounting of the facts -- or at least tell a more
interesting lie. But, far more often it's an insipid,
self-serving exercise designed to conceal egotism, a lack
of research or sheer laziness -- or, as was the case with
this story, the lack of any real story at all.

That was the final irony, the irony the sent me scurrying
off to bed in the Brown Hotel. Nothing had been revealed by
the frenzied trip to Louisville, nothing learned in the
half-hour interview, and without resorting to drug induced
mayhem or pure fiction, nothing was going to wrap up what
was, essentially, a random series of events into anything
resembling a coherent story.

But, the machine clamors to be fed, and as the good Doctor,
and almost ambassador to Samoa once said, "We are, after
all, professionals."

ZAK WEISFELD is the King Of Knoxville, Tenn.

---------
CHILD PRODIGY OR BUDDING RETARD?
caligula@aol.com

(TO VIEW SAMPLES OF CALIGULA'S CHILDHOOD ARTWORK, GO TO
http://www.io.com/~ooze/oozeten/html/comics.html)

When I was a little kid, I didn't have any trouble
entertaining myself. Who needed G.I. Joe, an X-Wing
Fighter, or 6' realistic, inflatable love dolls? I had my
brain, a pen--maybe some crayons--and that was enough to
transport me to the exciting world of comic books. Sure, I
loved reading comics, but to draw them was even better. I
soon became the chairman, CEO, and the award-winning talent
of my own preadolescent entertainment mega-corporation. 

Being a nerd is hard work. You can't take on the mantle and
not put out, if you know what I'm saying. While I could pass
in the straight world (playing their baseball, eating their
food), I was secretly channeling my uniquely male
obsessiveness into HIGH ART. A few comic books or a finger
painting here and there; that's a dilletante. But the
knee-high stacks in my parents' attic prove I was a
prolific little bugger.

My mother always told me that my comics didn't make a whole
lot of sense. I can see now that she was 100% correct. My
leaps of logic were gargantuan: dynamite can't kill you, it
can just make you look disheveled and a punch can be so
powerful that it changes your entire personality. I made
even the most impossible gadgets available with ease. But
despite pathetic artwork and unintelligible storylines, my
early endeavors are no less entertaining than the work they
were inspired by. Okay, maybe a little less. 

Being an amateur crimefighter myself, I'd always felt an
affinity for Batman. I drew the Caped Crusader day and
night, 24-7, and under my tutelage he went in bold
directions DC Comics wouldn't touch: I killed him,
(frequently) allowed him to fly, and, inexplicably, gave
him a Hitleresque mustache. Despite Frank Miller's
pioneering work on the Dark Knight, I truly can say that my
foray into facial hair remains a first. Mysteriously,
Batman's mustache disappeared after about a year, probably
around the same time mine started to grow in.

My own original characters followed: Teenman ("the strength
of a man...in the body of a teen!"), Whirlwind (a blatant
ripoff of "The Flash", except that 1/2 his body was
literally a tornado), and Biggyman, who wasn't particularly
big, but did have the large emblem "BM", which made me laugh
since in our household, "BM" meant "bowel movement". 

In fact, my portfolio includes several examples of a
budding sense of comedy. In "Patchwork Man Funnies", the
title character stands as the world's first homeless
superhero, going around the world and begging for change.
Every time our hapless protagonist hits someone up for
cash, he is soundly rejected! Clearly, my humor has come
along way here at OOZE. 

Later, I displayed an interest in politics, drawing a crude
version of Ed Koch for my own edition of Time Magazine, and
writing a scathing editorial demanding a raise in
children's allowances for the "socially conscious" rag,
Little People's Voice: 

KID INFLATION
Kids have to live with inflation too. When
the prices of heating and homing, go up, 
kids' candy and comic books go up too.
So raise your child's allowance 20 cents,
but make them do more chores too. Candy
is now 30 cents. 5 years ago it was 20 cents.
Comic books are now 50 cents, 5 years ago
they were 20 cents. SO REMEMBER

Some of my early efforts, while innocent at the time, can
be viewed today as having somewhat of a suspicious, uh,
"subtext". Male bonding between Batman and Robin often
occurs shirtless, and all of my female characters feature
plunging bustlines sausaged into tiny, skin-tight outfits.
Perhaps it's no wonder that today I can only be sexually
excited by a woman pumping iron in a Lone Ranger mask. 

Throughout all of my work, I credited myself constantly,
even writing "hi, fans!" on a number of pages. Clearly, I
was influenced by Stan Lee, and clearly, I was totally
demented. I think I actually maintained the weird belief
that my creations were being seen by millions. 
	
While having no shortage of creativity, I never really
progressed as an artist. My good friend Dan Rhatigan, who
also drew comic books, showed me his when we were about 8
or 9 years old. Dan could actually construct proportionate
arms and legs, and he had no trouble drawing feet that
didn't stick out at a 90 degree angle. My hopes of becoming
the next Neal Adams were quickly dashed. Oh, well. Dan and I
nevertheless joined forces to sell our wares curbside, in an
urban nerd's version of the classic lemonade stand. I think
the pinnacle of my career came when Mr. Duffy, across the
street, stopped by our stand and paid me a quarter to draw
a picture of John Denver. 

Today, Dan is a graphic designer and I make movies. Neither
of us reads comic books anymore. 

EDDIE SCHMIDT secretly believes his drawings, exhibited in
OOZE #10, could single-handedly rescue Marvel Comics from
bankruptcy. 

------------
CONFESSIONS OF AN ON-LINE GODDESS
spike@slack.net

I have been "online" for four and a half years now, and
I've learned one thing. The penis of the American male
springs erect at the mere sight of the word "model."
Sometimes this erection is instantly lost when they realize
that someone was simply talking about model trains, but if
they're lucky enough to find an actual web site featuring
models or even find a girl online who claims to be
one...well, Mr. Pointy just keeps pointing.
 
On systems that have the wonderful "profile" or "registry"
feature, where members can fill in information about
themselves accessible to everyone else on the system, I've
had considerable problems and misgivings with the
"occupation" field. 
 
Why? Because...well, because I'm a model.
 
As soon as I wrote the word down on my profile, I got an
email. I swear. I hadn't even put the profile out yet, and
yet some guy on the other side of the country had "felt" me
type the letters "m-o-d-e-l" and dashed off a quick letter.
I felt compelled to dilute the occupation field with lots
of other stuff, like the fact that I love research, math,
music, neuroscience, and that I'm also a writer and
student. (The word "student" just slips by most older guys.
I get letters every day from 40 year-old business men with
bald spots and premature ejaculation problems. They don't
care. They found a model! (This particularly disgusts me
when I think about the fact that most of the portfolio
pictures of myself I have online right now were taken three
years ago, when I was 14 years old!) )
 
This makes me wonder...do they really think models are
beautiful all the time? Pictures are sooo deceiving.
Makeup, special lighting, and other props could even make
Chelsea Clinton seem gorgeous. Do men really think that as
I sit in front of my computer screen every day I am wearing
a skimpy little dress and white lace panties? 
 
So, for all of you guys out there that get instant images
of scantily clad girls with huge breasts when you look up a
profile and see the word "model," here's a wake-up call:
 
*** About 98% of girls that put the word "model" in their
profiles aren't really models. They actually weigh 200
pounds and haven't seen sunlight in 5 years.
*** 1.7% are models, in their own little world. They have,
in fact, only done mannequin work for their local JC
Penney's store. They are delusional. Kind of like you!
*** 0.3% are models, but let's get a few things straight.
When you send email to that beautiful model of your dreams,
try to picture her as she opens your love note. Imagine...
 
***** Greasy hair that hasn't been washed in 3 or 4 days
pulled back into a sloppy pony tail with frizzies sticking
out all over and in every imaginable direction.
***** No makeup. Lots of blackheads and a few pimples.
Contrary to popular belief, models almost inherently have
bad skin (or maybe that's just me). In order to maintain a
face that can be corrected by makeup, she is on at least 5
different prescription medications and visits a
dermatologist monthly.
***** Terrible clothes that cover almost every inch of her
body. Baggy jeans, big sweater...and they probably haven't
been washed in awhile, either. 
***** The reason for the clothing? She hasn't shaved in a
week. Stubble covers her legs and underarms. And, as much
as you'd love to believe that models have little or no
pubic hair, there is actually a bush the size of the actual
garden variety down there. And it's hidden by cotton granny
panties, no less.
***** Glasses. I'm talking geeky, Coke bottle lenses with
thick-ass frames. This model's online, remember? Nerd city!
 
So, next time you start you letter with "You're so hot you
make the plastic in my underwear melt," and attach that
"I'm trying to be sexy and cool" picture of yourself, think
about just how hot that girl really is... because models,
especially the nerdy ones online like myself, are just
disgusting humans too.
 
spike@slack.net - Spike is a grungy chick that likes to
think she's a model too. You can catch those elusive photos
of her at age 14 (that all the old guys dig) at
http://slack.net/~spike/spike/ 
She writes her own zine "Angst," which you can subscribe to
by writing to spike@slack.net. She also wants everyone to
know, "Too much Dr Pepper turns your pee brown." Thank you,
and quit loading that web page, pervert.

--------------
ANSWERING YOUR PHONE IS A SUBVERSIVE ACT!
drbubonic@aol.com

The vultures from Lincoln and Tallahassee circle above,
waiting for the moment when you are weak and feeble, unable
to recognize your immediate danger and flee. They are the
telemarketers, and they can be defeated.

Between 5:00-8:00 pm, answer your phone with a curt,
slightly confused voice. If it's a telemarketer, assume the
part of a total nimrod. No matter how idiotic you are, these
people stay on the line. They have to. It's their job.

Here are some examples of actual phone conversations I've
had:

Life Insurance Salesperson: Now, if you're killed in an
accident involving public transportation, your
beneficiaries receive One Million Dollars. If it's by
private transport, that figure is reduced to One Hundred
Thousand Dollars. And this service is free for three months!

Me: So, if I get hit by a bus--

Salesperson: That's one million dollars.

Me: What if a privately-owned plane crashes into a bus
which blows up and takes out my car?

Salesperson (pauses): One million dollars.

Me: So, if I stow away on a Conrail freight-train and fall
off drunkenly...that would pay an even 100 g's, even though
the train is run by the government?

Salesperson: Yes, if it is recognized public transportation.

Me: What if an alien spacecraft plummets to Earth, and hits
me?

Salesperson: I think that would be $100,000.

Me: But the UFO is controlled by an alien government!
That's public transportation!

Unflustered, the Salesperson actually wore me down. I
couldn't believe it. Now I have 3 months of accident
insurance. Unfortunately, my ex-girlfriend (named as the
beneficiary) is plotting to push me in front of a bus.

A week later, Pacific Bell, my local telephone company,
called and asked if I would consider using them for my
Cable TV service.

Pac Bell (going through a list of services): Does your
current cable company offer MTV?

Me (in bad, generic foreign accent): Yes, I get TV.

Pac Bell: No, do you get MTV?

Me: No, I am not a TV.

Pac Bell: No, do you receive the MTV channel?

Me: Do they have cooking shows?

Pac Bell: I'll put you down for 'no'.

Me: But I have TV!

Pac Bell: Do you get HBO?

Me: No, I don't have B.O. How dare you!

After about 10 minutes of this-

Pac Bell: The reason I am asking you these questions is
because Pacific Bell would like to know whether you'd be
willing to switch to their new cable service.

Me: Pacific Bell? The phone company?

Pac Bell: Yes.

Me: Can I talk to the TV?

Pac Bell: No. It's cable TV.

Me: I cannot call my relatives in Azjerbajan from the TV?

Pac Bell: No. You use the phone for that.

Me: Then why do I use the phone for TV? Can I talk to J.R.
Ewing? I love Dallas!

The most ubiquitous of calls are from Credit Card companies
who are willing to give a card to anyone who dares to answer
the phone.

Me: You want to give me a what?

MBNA Bank: A credit card, Mr. Patterson.

Me: Cre-Dit Kard? What does it do?

MBNA: You use it instead of cash for purchases.

Me: Free money?

MBNA: No, look: All you have to do is give me your name.

Me: Alip Shezejanulo Patterson.

MBNA: How do you spell that?

(After explaining my name doesn't translate well to
English--)

MBNA: How many people live at your residence?

Me: It's hard to say. Sometimes two, but other times six to
ten. It sepends on the refugee situation.

MBNA: And what are their nationalities?

Me: Please. let's not get into that.

MBNA: Oh no. I need to. You are--?

Me: I am from Rhodesia but it has a different name now,
Zimbabwae, but I left before that. Then I went to India
where I learned Engineering. I picked up my last name in
England though where I was adopted by the Pattersons.

MBNA: So-- you're white?

Me: Oh no! No. well- sort of. I'm not sure how to describe
it. Do you have 'other'?

MBNA: No.

Me: Try French-Indian. I think that might-- oh wait. I
forgot. My mother is from Mexico.

MBNA: So you're Hispanic?

Me: No no. She was orginally from the Northwest
Territories. Inuit.

MBNA: So you're Native American?

Me: Look, I told you I'm not from America! Are you a dummy?

(much later)

MBNA: So now I have to ask you this one final question, and
the law requires me to do so.

Me: I am not a Communist!

MBNA (startled): No. that wasn't the question.

Me: But- I was watching J. Edgar Hoover and--

MBNA: He's dead.

Me: My God! Mizak- did you hear? J. Edgar Hoover is dead!
Thank you, dear God!

MBNA: I just needed your social security number so I can
give you this credit card.

Me: Give me what?

MBNA: The credit card.

Me: Oh, no. I can't have that. They say moneylenders are
bad in the Book. To own one is very bad.

MBNA: But we've been filling out the form for the last 25
minutes!

Me: Oh, we have? I thought you were the government. Sorry.
But thank you for the news. We can finally come out of
hiding now!

The kicker came a week later when I received a letter
notifying Alip Patterson of his credit card cancellation. 

Amazing. 

MATT PATTERSON is a master of obscure dialects and
antiquated slang. 

-----------
SIT-COM CONVENTIONS: CONVENE FOR COMEDY! 
caligula@aol.com

"Star Trek" conventions are absurdly popular. Tens of
thousands of fans, united by a common mass media
experience, come together to enjoy guest speakers,
merchandise bonanzas, and the opportunity for freaky,
science fiction booty. Trek conventions are so well-known
that they've become a cultural clich--a Saturday Night Live
joke, a David Letterman 'top ten' list, a Ross Perot
infomercial. But what if devotees of other venerable TV
shows began gathering--in costume--to recite inane dialogue
from best-forgotten, half-hour TV episodes? Specifically,
what about sitcom fans? 

OOZE sheds a spotlight on the latest conventions descending
on a gymnasium near you:

BENSON-PALOOZA
October 21-23,1996- Houston Astrodome

40,000+ fans of the former Lt. Governor assembled to pay
homage to the funniest butler-cum-politician on TV. Fans
thrilled as drag queens modeled an exclusive line of 'Miss
Kraus' schnitzel shaped lingerie, and an avant-garde
theatre troupe performed the "Election Night" episode
entirely in whiteface. Later, on the right field foul line,
Rene Auberjoinis delivered his one man show, "Morphing From
Clayton to Odo and Back Again". 

Merchandise seen: Blow up "Governor" sex dolls; autographed
copies of the Cajun cookbook 'Guilliame Does Prudhomme'; and
a bootleg audio cassette of child moppet Missy Gold helping
bulimic sister Tracey cough up a chicken enchilada. 

GILLIGAN'S CONVENTION
January 23, 1997 - Professor's Crab Hut, Louisville,
Kentucky 

Those fiendish castaways never left the hearts of their
true fans. Seven lucky "Gilligan" buffs were actually
boarded on a tiny, crappy boat and shipwrecked on the
flooded Ohio River, where they were forced to live off the
land with just a bicycle and a stash of wheat germ. For
those who stayed in Louisville, though, the highlight was
the annual roasting of Alan Hale, Jr's corpse over a spit.
Elsewhere, fans enjoyed "the creator"--Sherwood
Schwartz--revealing his secrets to success in a talk
entitled "The Untalented And Their Pacts With Satan."

Big merchandise bonanzas included "The Ginger": a 10"
vibrator made entirely from coconuts; "Mrs. Howell's Pop-Up
Face-Lift Book"; and a trademark 'Gilligan' hat outfitted
with beer cans and plastic tubing for that on-the go
comedy/sports fan. 

SEINFELDCON IV
August 12, 1996 - Canter's Deli- Los Angeles, CA

What's the deal with all those people quoting Seinfeld
episodes? Why, they're here, of course! Thousands of fans
came to see Jason Alexander & Wayne Knight duel to death in
a pie-eating contest, Michael Richards demonstrate his
double, triple, and quadruple takes, and Jerry himself
deliver a talk on "How to Pick Up Underage Catholic Girls
in a Park and Get Away with it." For the grand finale,
exactly one dozen of the actresses who've played "Jerry's
Girls" were shot into space to colonize a less
model-friendly planet.

Fans went crazy for the merchandise at this show. Thousands
of Jerry's previously owned Porches went for great prices in
the 'What's The Deal With This Deal?!' clearout sale;
Michael Richards moved plenty of units of his wacky Sega
game "Kramer Vs. Kramer", and people got a little closer to
Julia Louis Dreyfus by paying $100 a pop to 'Pin The Tail On
Her Butt'. The PEZ corporation also made a splash unveiling
its new "Jerry" dispenser, featuring bitter, caustic candy. 

FRIENDS OF THE ODD COUPLE 
December 16-17,1996 - Tavern On The Green- NY, NY

What could be finer than a celebration of the messy vs. the
neat, the wimp versus the lout? This three day festival is
home to the annual "Felixes" vs. "Oscars" naked olive oil
wrestling match, and the "Repressed Homosexual Foosball
Match." Last December, conventioneers watched fan
recreations of other Odd Couples never seen on television,
like the hijinx of newly-divorced Andy Warhol & Abraham
Lincoln, and the wacky shenanigans of swinging Madame Curie
& Peggy Fleming. Roaming the convention's premises, Al
Molinaro (Murray-The Cop) performed his free cavity search
for all comers, but the true highlight was George Lucas'
thrill ride through the scars of Jack Klugman's throat
surgery. Wow!

Popular merchandise included the
"Pick-Up-The-Cigar-With-The-Umbrella" Parker Brothers game,
and a rare bootleg album in which fans made up words to the
show's instrumental theme ("There is an Odd Couple...and
they live in Manhattan...").

FACTS OF LIFE SUPPORT MACHINE
June 20-21, 1996 - Sarah Lawrence College, Bronxville, NY.

Tartan skirts and blue cardigans were all the rage as
hordes of women and even a few straight men waltzed their
way through this campus-long celebration to the prep-school
themed sitcom. Highlights included Mindy Cohn's heartfelt
anti-abortion speech, "The Facts Of Pro-Life", and excerpts
from Kim Fields' court case against IHOP for the slanderous
"Rooty Tootie Fresh And Fruity" breakfast special. Molly
Ringwald and George Clooney, two early cast members, were
conspicuously absent, but Gary Coleman made up for it by
appearing in drag with a Caesar haircut. 

The top-selling merchandise at this convention had to be
flaxen-haired Lisa Whelchel's album of Talmudic favorites,
"T'sh Abuv With Blair", but other big numbers were racked
up a leather-bound, autographed photo album featuring
sanitary napkins from all the members of the cast. 

CHEERS-OMNICON '97
March 7-14, 1997 - Grendel's Pub, Cambridge, MA. 

America's most treasured drinking establishment was
recreated for a week in the middle of Idaho. Who wouldn't
want to personally 'Sniff-the-Underpants-of-George Wendt'
with Norm himself? Fans played ultimate frisbee with Ted
Danson's toupee and competed against minor celebrities in a
game show called, "What Kind of Fish Does Shelley Long Most
Resemble?" As a bonus, reruns of the tragically ignored
"Cheers" spinoff--"The Tortellis"--were run constantly over
a urinal in the men's restroom.

Souvenirs included Gillette's new "Frasier Razor" which
gives a nice, close shave while dispensing psychological
advice; Kirstie Alley's "L'il Scientologist Playset" with
coin-operated E-Meter; and a saucy new CD-ROM entitled
"Virtual Woody". 

Writer ED SCHMIDT makes girls call him EDDIE. 

---------
...AND SHEEP THUS CREATED MAN (A Role-Playing Adventure)
drbubonic@aol.com

[MJ's note: I have included a glossary of terms at the end
of the article so those who are unfamiliar with these types
of games can get the jokes]

Role Playing Game Conventions are a haven for uptight
nerds. The kind of people who get creamy over colorful
many-sided-dice. People who think that a new list of spells
is better than Christmas. Sometimes I get the urge to ruin
their day and make them cry. This might seem cruel, but I
see myself doing these people a favor. If I don't bring
them back to planet Earth they could wind up wandering
around in a zombie-like state, spittle dangling from their
lips like Tom Hank's deranged character in the movie "Mazes
& Monsters".

A few months ago, I went to a role playing convention and
decided to play Dungeons & Dragons, a game I hadn't played
in years. When I entered the hotel room and saw the Dungeon
Master standing on a chair lecturing another player on the
overlooked importance of weapon speed factors, I knew I had
hit the geek motherlode.

I'm running an official Advanced Dungeons & Dragons game,"
he informed my fellow adventurers and I, "so this is going
to be by the book. Or should I say books." He pointed to
the huge stack of hardcover tomes before him. He had not
prepared any characters, so I snagged some pseudo-marble
dice from another player and rolled up a Cleric. An
ordinary 18 STR, 17 WIS kind of guy. Then I became
paralyzed by the medieval K-Mart that is in the Player's
Handbook when I tried to equip my character.

Let me explain: D&D caters to the anal retentive crowd.
That means the equipment list was gigantic and contained a
myriad of items I didn't think anyone would ever use. It
was too tempting. I asked the DM if there were any items we
couldn't purchase. "ANYTHING in the Player's Handbook is
official!" he said ominously, the spiritual weight of E.
Gary Gygax rested squarely on this man's shoulders.

I purchased some armor, a mace, an annoying 10' pole, and
the balance in sheep. There was a big list of livestock
that just proved too tempting, and sheep were a bargain. I
stipulated on my character sheet that the flock was the
physical manifestation of my cleric's god, Mooooo, and that
I was to defend them 'till the death. Before we started, the
DM looked over my sheet and asked if this was what I really
wanted to do. Oh yes, it was.

For some reason, everyone else was very annoyed by the
introduction of my Holy Sheep into the adventure. Sheep
don't seem to like underground passageways, and they are
pretty noisy when you try to sneak up on a band of goblins.
One ostensibly "good" character went as far as pushing an
errant sheep off a cliff. As I raised the mighty scepter of
Mooooo to slay the infidel, the Dungeon Master reminded him
he was supposed to be good and was being disruptive. Then I
smote the heretic with my mighty two-handed mace adding
injury to insult. As tempers flared, the game descended
into a free-for-all: Magic Missiles let loose, Paladins
battled Rangers, and half-orcs and elves held hands in the
moonlight. The Acolyte of Mooooo stood back, patted the
remainder of his holy sheep, and realized that they were
the best 10 gp he had ever spent.

MATT PATTERSON mostly plays games on his computer at work.

****An explanation of the above reprinted article for the
non-geeky layperson:*****

Matt's article was previously published in Shadis, a nerdy
magazine for those who follow the arcane arts of the role
playing game. In case you are unfamiliar with the genre,
Dungeons and Dragons is an example of one of these
niche-marketed games for pasty faced fatties who would
probably be good engineers if they didn't waste all their
time pretending to be elves. In D&D, players create
"characters" by assigning numerical values to a general set
of aspects like strength, wisdom, intelligence, and
charisma, and giving them a personality. A character joins
a "party" or group of characters, on a "campaign"; which is
a journey through a dungeon or adventure generated by the
Dungeon Master (aka D.M.). The DM referees the game by
playing the part of all the monsters, traps, magicians, and
other characters the party might come up against. A campaign
can take hours or days, even weeks and years to complete.
All this time could have been spent much more productively
playing computer games.

TERMS & REFERENCES:

Cleric: A priestly character. Deities may vary.

"An ordinary18 STR 17 WIS kind of guy": As mentioned
before, a player's characteristics are generated
numerically by rolling a set of 3 six sided die for the
following categories: Strength, Wisdom, Intelligence,
Constitution, Charisma and some other aspect I've wisely
forgotten.[Dexterity. Also I think there was an optional
Comeliness stat. -Matt] 18 and 17 are very high numbers, so
Matt must have been very lucky or just cheating. 

E. Gary Gygax: The guy who wrote the original manuals for
Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. These arcane, thick,
hard-bound tomes cost $20 or more and required a legal
degree to make any sense of whatsoever. In fact it's
difficult reading any of these texts to ascertain any kind
of sense of the game at all.

"One ostensibly "good" character...": One of the few
personality guidelines a character has is a moral
'alignment' that you decide on before you begin a campaign.
These range from Chaotic Evil to Lawful Good with a number
of grey areas in between. This allows the DM to keep you
from doing stuff that might go against the grain of your
character, like having your 'Defender of the People' rape
peasant women. Obviously this rule does not reflect reality.

"Then I smote the heretic with my mighty two-handed mace
adding injury to insult. As tempers flared the game
descended into a free-for-all...": Once your party has lost
its collective trust, members may turn on each other and
destroy each other's characters, ending the game
prematurely. I'm sure the DM was disappointed he couldn't
unleash Tiamat (a high level, multi-headed dragon) to crush
the party on level 20.

"...half-orcs and elves held hands...": Everyone knows
half-orcs and elves just don't get along.

gp: Gold pieces. The standard monetary unit of D&D. There
is no way to translate how much it is worth in modern
terms, since characters tended to carry enough gold to
destabilize a small European nation.

MJ LOHEED is the warlock whom the film, "WarlockII: The
Armageddon" is based upon. 

-------------
THE POWER OF COMBUSTION
-tmk4840@sru.edu (KAHN, TIMOTHY)

Think about how fun it would be if you could spontaneously
combust whenever you wanted. BOOM! Ash. Then back to
normal. Then BOOM! again. But why on Earth would I want to
immolate myself like a Vietnamese monk? Well, there are
several practical reasons for which voluntary spontaneous
combustion would be very useful. 

If I didn't want to do something that involved work, I
could just blow up, and wait until someone else did what I
was meant to do. Or, if I felt like punching someone, I
could blow off my arm, and have it hit them. That way I
wouldn't have to bother getting up and walking over to
where they were. This would probably also freak them out as
well, so I doubt that anyone would ever mess with me again.

Spontaneous combustion would be a great party trick. If
someone were to comment on how much they ate, saying, "I
feel like I'm going to explode!" I could show off just by
doing it. A little reality helps people tone down on
hyperbole. 

Spontaneous combustion would also be a good source of
income. First, I would go on all the talk shows, and
demonstrate. This would make me famous. Then, I would go to
a bank and ask for money. If they didn't give me any, I
could either blow the safe open, or take hostages. *If the
hostages were annoying, I could blow them up, too. 

Spontaneous combustion could also help me from getting
hurt. If I were getting shot at, I could blow myself up,
and then reform later after the befuddled assassins were
gone. Or if wanted to go skydiving and my parachute didn't
open, right before I hit the ground I could blow up, and
the blast would not only slow my fall, but then it wouldn't
really hurt to hit the ground.

Since I've never blown up before, I can't say it wouldn't
be without its problems. Maybe it would sting like a bitch.
But maybe if it happened fast enough, I wouldn't feel it at
all. On a practical level, I'd have to figure out just how
to reform my body, after being blown apart. This would take
mind control powers I just don't have yet. But if I work
hard enough, eat right and exercise regularly, I'd probably
be able to spontaneously combust and reform at will. Then I
would rule. 

-------------
OOZEYWOOD: OOZE'S NEW SITE DEDICATED TO THE CELLULOID CITY
OF SLEAZE!

Message from the Editor of Oozeywood

Open your feeble eyes and feast with us at the great
Hollywood orgy, rife with tortured stories, littered with
lost souls, and smellier than Lynchburg, VA. Be witness to
the incredible spectacle that is Los Angeles' inner soul,
bought and sold at cafe tables like a whore's money dance.
Feel the shakey rattle of earthquake weakened tarmac as the
titans of glitz roll over any pathetic attempt to create
quality entertainment. 
   
Read the first-hand accounts of life in the movies by the
people who really make movies, who aren't directors,
actors, or producers. Do you have any idea how great our
lives are? Do you know what kind of opportunities people
who work in the movies have? Last night I smelled Elizabeth
Hurley's pasties and modesty patch from her partial nudity
scenes in "Austin Powers" because I was at New Line's prop
warehouse. Don't you wish you were me? Well you don't have
to be me because I can capsulize the experience for you:
   
It was heaven.
   
You can look forward to this sort of high brow journalism
from Oozeywood because we care, because we're beautiful,
and because we're the future of your entertainment dollar.

Herr Loheed

-----------
OBSERVING GREATNESS: My Brief Encounters With Famous People
caligula@aol.com

When you live in Los Angeles, you have a lot of contact
with celebrities, whether you like it or not. They walk
your streets, breath your air and steal your women. They're
everywhere. But you can't really search for celebrities.
They always pop up where you least expect them, and never,
ever when you have out-of-town relatives visiting. Here,
for the first time, is my complete list of absolutely
fabulous, largely useless Hollywood star sightings:

(celebrities appear in alphabetical order)

CELEBRITY: Louie Anderson
WHERE: Greek Theatre (1992)
WHAT: On his way to a concert. 
OBSERVATIONS:	Mr. Anderson is a large man. 
PERSONAL CONTACT: I was working my very first job in LA:
trying to get people to sign up for a dubious real estate
"sweepstakes" just outside of the Greek Theatre. To relieve
boredom, I'd occasionally toss out my own ridiculous prizes.
Stuff like, "Step right up, win a big sock filled with
powder!", or "Obtain your own weight in french fries!" To
the best of my recollection, I offered Louie Anderson
"$10,000 worth of windshield wipers", and he totally
snubbed me. 

CELEBRITY: Drew Barrymore 
WHERE: Book Soup (1996)
WHAT: Buying a book. Really.  
OBSERVATIONS: As I glanced through a magazine outside, I
noticed a very petite, very hot woman with dyed black hair
standing by the counter. I decided to go inside and get a
better look. Only upon closer inspection could I see that
this dish was, in fact, Drew Barrymore.
PERSONAL CONTACT: Unfortunately, no. Although she did just
admit in "Details" that she likes "smart, nerdy,
interesting men", so I guess there's hope for me yet. 

CELEBRITY: Pierce Brosnan
WHERE: Beverly Hills bathroom (1992)
WHAT: Number one or number two, I would imagine. 
OBSERVATIONS:	Acutely aware of his own presence. 
PERSONAL CONTACT: Pierce held the bathroom door for me and
smiled his charming, dimpled smile. Naturally, my heart
melted. Then he moped it up. 

CELEBRITY: Leonardo DiCaprio
WHERE: Premiere of "The Basketball Diaries" (1995)
WHAT: Hiding in the theatre's projection booth. 
OBSERVATIONS:	Wore black overcoat; seemed very shy. 
PERSONAL CONTACT:	I ran out of the booth screaming, "HEY,
GIRLS, HE'S IN HERE!!!!" Actually, we shook hands, and I
respected his wish to remain hidden. 

(MJ says: I took a piss next to Leonardo DiCaprio at the
1996 MTV Movie Awards. Rumors of his prodigious member were
not confirmed. He also complained to an organizer that he
and his inebriated friends were stopped by security for not
having a pass. Sorry Leo, not everyone saw "Basketball
Diaries" or "Gilbert Grape")

CELEBRITY: Shannen Doherty
WHERE: Ralph's supermarket (1996)
WHAT: Shoppin' for foods. 
OBSERVATIONS:	Accompanied by a guy in a suit. 
PERSONAL CONTACT: Was completely spacing out in the frozen
foods aisle for a few solid minutes before I realized I was
blocking the path of her cart. Sorry, Brenda. 

(Matt says: We all went to her house trying to
trick-or-treat there one year. No one was home.)

CELEBRITIES:	Jeff Goldblum & Laura Dern
WHERE: AMC movie theatre (1993)
WHAT: Getting seats for the opening day of "Manhattan
Murder Mystery"
OBSERVATIONS: They're an attractive--and tall--couple.
PERSONAL CONTACT: My girlfriend at the time was trying to
locate a pair of seats and pretty much knocked right into
Jeff Goldblum. I laughed. 

CELEBRITY:	Ice-T
WHERE:		MTV Movie Awards (1995)
WHAT:		Walking down the buffet line. 
OBSERVATIONS:	Attracted TV cameras very quickly; looked
much cooler than I did. 
PERSONAL CONTACT:	Stood nearby the Ice Man as cameras
filmed. Considered walking up and telling him that the
entire Post Production office of New Line Cinema had taken
turns playing with his Rastafarian wig from "Surviving The
Game", but decided against it.

CELEBRITY:	Michael Keaton
WHERE: New Line Cinema Christmas party (1996)
WHAT: Partying. 
OBSERVATIONS: Batman cuts a rug on the dance floor. 
PERSONAL CONTACT:	When we were at the bar, I mentioned to
my friend Jeff that Michael Keaton was a few feet away. As
Keaton walked past (behind me), Jeff unexpectedly grabbed
me by the collar, pushed me backwards in his path and
screamed, "EDDIE SCHMIDT, YOU ARE SUCH AN ASSHOLE!" Keaton
looked appropriately confused.

CELEBRITY: Madonna
WHERE: Restaurant in Silver Lake (1996)
WHAT: Finishing her meal; escaping
OBSERVATIONS:	At the time, very pregnant and accompanied by
trainer/baby's father, Carlos Leon. 
PERSONAL CONTACT:	Walked right past my table. I asked the
waitress, "I know this sounds crazy, but was that Madonna?"
She said, "Yeah, she just moved to the area. Doesn't she
look good?" Well, yeah. She's Madonna. 

CELEBRITY:	Mary Stuart Masterson
WHERE:	Fotokem, film & video lab (1996)
WHAT:	Walking down hallway
OBSERVATIONS:	Very attractive, even more so than in her
movies. 
PERSONAL CONTACT:	Sustained eye contact. I looked at her
like, "Do I know you?" and she looked at me like, "Do I
know you?" The answer was no.

CELEBRITY: Lou Rawls
WHERE: Urinal next to mine (1995)
WHAT: Pissing. 
OBSERVATIONS: Wore a snazzy blue suit which he did not
taint. 
PERSONAL CONTACT: His presence and booming voice gave my
penis stage fright.

CELEBRITY: Keanu Reeves
WHERE: Indian restaurant (1993)
WHAT: Eating his dinner. 
OBSERVATIONS:	Was with another guy, but then again, so was
I.
PERSONAL CONTACT: Through glass. Friend & I were in the
middle of our vegetable nan when he said, "look to your
right" and I said, "Oh, hey, that's Keanu Reeves." Then our
tandoori chicken arrived. 

CELEBRITY: Pauly Shore
WHERE: "Dumb And Dumber" premiere party (1994)
WHAT: Chatting up the cute bartender
OBSERVATIONS:	Only slightly less annoying in life than on
the big screen. 
PERSONAL CONTACT: 	My friend kept (loudly) voicing his
desire to beat the crap out of Pauly. Sadly, beating did
not occur. 

CELEBRITY: Slash
WHERE: Sunset Blvd (1996) 
WHAT: Walking up the street toward a British-style pub
OBSERVATIONS: Still had lots of hair and wore stylin'
80s-metal outfit. 
PERSONAL CONTACT:	I was driving up Sunset with my friend
Kathy and said, 'Hey, that guy looks like Slash.' As we
turned the corner, both of us said, in	unison, "No, that IS
Slash."

CELEBRITY: Eric Stoltz
WHERE: Fotokem, film and video lab (1994)
WHAT: Entering the client lounge. 
OBSERVATIONS: Mr. Stoltz has piercing blue eyes.
PERSONAL CONTACT: Literally bumped into him in the halls of
a film lab in Burbank. Our eyes met. At the time, I had
long, red hair and little round glasses and so did he. It
was as if I was his evil doppleganger! Only I wasn't
famous, or dating Bridget Fonda, or fighting off a 40'
anaconda. Disappointed in my pitiful existence, he sighed
and went on about his business.

CELEBRITY: Oliver Stone
WHERE: Timothy Leary's post-wake party (1996)
WHAT:	Negotiating with the doorman
OBSERVATIONS: Wears a denim jacket, for what its worth. 
PERSONAL CONTACT:	My friend Alex and I were invited to the
party, but weren't actually "on the list". Stone was
heading out as we were heading in, and the doorman's
intense desire to talk to him	excused us from any further
drilling. It was the first time a big, bouncer type guy	had
ever said to me, "Go on and enjoy your evening." Thanks,
Oliver. 

CELEBRITY: Kirsty Swanson
WHERE: Cast & Crew screening, "Corrina Corrina" (1994)
WHAT: Munching post-screening foods. 
OBSERVATIONS: Wore glasses.
PERSONAL CONTACT: Had no idea I was even near her until a
friend later mentioned that pieces of cheese I was tossing
toward the wall were whizzing right past Kirsty Swanson. 

CELEBRITY:	Robin Williams
WHERE: Comic Book shop (1996)
WHAT: Browsing for comic books on a Friday night.
OBSERVATIONS:	Mr. Williams is actually smaller than you
would expect. He also looked much less intimidating. 
PERSONAL CONTACT:	None for me, although fearless OOZE
scribe MJ Loheed handed Williams an official, OOZE "baby
with a fork in its head" t-shirt. He laughed.

(MJ says: I had to chase him out onto the street and he was
already halfway down the block. Feeling self conscious, I
called, "Mr. Williams, Mr. Williams." He actually turned
around and sashayed back towards me and met me halfway. I
told him we we're big fans and handed him the shirt and
invited him to our sketch comedy show. He shook my hand
with a good firm handshake and thanked me. Mr. Williams
struck me as a good man. I noticed his eye glasses were
L.A. Eyeworks.)

CELEBRITY:	"Weird Al" Yankovic
WHERE: Billboard Music Video Awards (1993)
WHAT: Hosting (him, not me). 
OBSERVATIONS:	Al's curly locks are most definitely his own.
Premiered video of then-brand new Red Hot Chili Peppers
parody, "Bedrock Anthem"; actually did some stand-up style
jokes; made a very funny host. 
PERSONAL CONTACT:	At meet-and-greet afterwards, Al signed a
deposit slip my friend Joe gave him as "Mel Torme". Then, Al
and I compared our respective VANS.

CELEBRITY: "Weird Al" Yankovic (again)
WHERE: National Association of Songwriter's dinner (1995)
DOING WHAT:	Hobknobbin' 
OBSERVATIONS:	Was hanging out afterwards to shake hands
with Randy Newman (one of the honorees) just like me, only
Al actually KNOWS Randy Newman and I don't.
PERSONAL CONTACT:	Al gladly posed for a photo, but didn't
remember meeting me the first time. Told him that his 28
second epic, "Harvey the Wonder Hamster" was the most
popular song at summer camp when I taught music & drama
there in 1990. Neglected to mention that the kids also
dressed up like slices of meat, cheese and bread and
performed his "My Bologna" at the annual talent show.
Later, my camp boss pulled me aside and said, "You know,
Weird Al is really more for adults."

EDDIE SCHMIDT used to see a lot of celebrities when he
worked at New Line Cinema. Now he spends most of his days
in a dark room with a guy named Frank. 

M.J. LOHEED now has Eddie's old job at New Line but hates
going to large gatherings so has relegated himself to
living vicariously through Eddie. He cries in his sleep
every night and wakes up in puddles.

RAY DAVIES sings songs and was not encountered on the
streets by any member of the staff.

----------
THE NON-TREK FILMOGRAPHY OF WILLIAM SHATNER - PART 1
nate_nichols@newline.com

Shatner.

His acting defies many laws of physics and all the laws of
good taste. By far the horniest of Starship captains,
William Shatner's testosterone swollen, scenery chewing,
three-year grandstand as Kirk secured him the love of green
alien women and slide rule jockeys everywhere. But Shatner's
hubris has never been isolated to the TV space opera.
Remember: above all else, he is a serious actor. 

Does anyone remember Bill's haunting ruminations on love,
loss and lysergic acid from 1974's "Pray for the Wildcats"?
This motorcross epic finds Shatner in the company of Robert
Reed, Marjoe Gortner and Andy Griffith on a treacherous
ride through Baja to "find themselves." True, Andy
Griffith's vividly portrayed tequila crazed sex-criminal
threatens to eclipse the other players; but that's when
Shatner -his trademarked delivery replete with profound
pauses... and SUDDEN BURSTS of expostulation- takes center
stage for a monologue on self-discovery and the YEARNINGS
of the repressed office stiff. A masterpiece like this
cries out for notice. 

Keep the Dramamine handy because Oozeywood has, in its
collective altruism for fellow psychotronic sentients, seen
fit to keep you the viewer apprised of the TORTURED BLISS,
the NUANCE, the HORMONAL PEAKS AND VALLEYS of Shatner's
non-Trek film career in this Oozeywood column. Get ready to
be SHATNERED.

WHITE COMANCHE (1968)

Recalling the famous Trek episode, "Mirror, Mirror",
witness Bill's punishing exploration of frontier identity
as the Anglo-Shatner squares off against his fierce
half-brother, the remarkable "Comanche-Shatner" in 1968's
"White Comanche".

Johnnie Moon and Notah Moon are brothers. Twin brothers.
One is an innocent cowpoke, the other a sneering, shirtless
savage on the warpath. They are destined to battle TO THE
DEATH. But not before delivering some of the worst dialogue
in movie history:

"And everywhere I go he follows, with his thieving and
killing, until I cannot live in peace without being
mistaken for the Snake that is the White Comanche."

Behold Johnnie Moon's lament, delivered with all the
gravity a starship captain in western drag can bestow.
Meisner and Stanislavsky could never have coached a more
textured performance than Shatner displays here, in this,
his most electrifying of bad westerns. Shatner's conception
of the warlike half-breed is defined by three stripes of
warpaint under the eyes, buckskin breeches, lace-up
moccasin boots and a boss-man tan. Forget the braided rugs
worn atop the scalps of his faux-Comanche brethren, the
White Comanche sports a three dollar regular-guy haircut.
For you see, he is half White, half Comanche. By the way,
if you get a thrill when characters use the title of the
film in their dialogue, this flick is jam-packed with
guilty pleasure?

As Johnnie Moon, Shatner delivers his signature range of
existential angst. As Notah Moon, Shatner chokes down years
of maladjustment with fists full of hallucinogens ("Go
ahead," Johnnie goads Notah, "Eat the peyote. Dream your
dreams of hate..."), all liberally seasoned with
reprehensible movie-Indian dialogue ("Notah's brother talks
like the white man he thinks he is. He is AFRAID to be
Comanche"). Joseph Cotten, at the tail end of a 25 year
trajectory that charted him from Citizen Kane to this,
gamely makes his journeyman's rounds as the sheriff of Rio
Hondo, site of the final confrontation.

The score by Jean LeDrut includes toe-tapping skiffle beats
on the snare drum, jazzy figures on the standup bass, and
orchestral pastiches of Copeland and Morricone. It's
everything a Frenchman might imagine a western score to be,
plus some continental cheese where he just couldn't help
himself. 

BLOCKBUSTER AVAILABILITY INDEX: 0.0. Try your local store
that will research hard to search for obscure titles. If
you're a native of Lost Angeles I urge you now to don your
best body armor and make your way into lively North
Hollywood, where Eddie Brandt's Saturday Matinee will
initiate you into the guilty delights of obscure Shatnered
cinema. The address is 6310 Colfax, just south of Victory
(phone 818-506-4242). Non-Angelinos are advised to consult
their local mutant video breeding grounds.

NATE NICHOLS writes and in his spare time stalks Shatner's
ex-wives.

----------
HATE MAIL

I am an English/Spanish translator. Would you please
indicate
whether you would need such services, or to whom I should
direct my query?
sjack@zephyrbbs.com (Sue)

(We sent Sue a letter from a "fan" (i.e. us) from Spain,
and had no idea what it said. She agreed to help translate.)

Dear Matt,
This letter was not written by anyone in Spain--or even any
Hispanic AT ALL. It
would appear to have been put through a software translator
program but
there are obvious errors that even a program would not
include. This not fan
mail at all. It's hate mail:

SPANISH: Hola Ooze!  ENGLISH: Hello, Ooze!

SPANISH: Como esta usted? Tu periodical es muy fuerte y
brazo. Tan humorosa que el rey de espana. Te gusta comer
los cabezas del pollo? Yo leo en la biblioteca de carne en
Matamoros. Es un cuidad mas flaco y hermoso de Los Angeles.
Esta cuidad es un cuidad del diablo.

ENGLISH TRANSLATION: How are you? Your periodical is very
strong and arm. So humorous as the King of Spain. Do you
like to eat chicken heads? I read in the meat library of
Matamoros. It is a skinny city and more beautiful than Los
Angeles. This city is a city of the devil.

SPANISH: En realmente, no me gusta tu periodical. No me
gusta mucho. Me gusta usa el garrote en los perros. Da un
inyeccion a los gallinos grandes. Yo querio que mato todos
los hijos en el mundo. Por que Ooze me dija.

ENGLISH TRANSLATION: In reality, I don't like your
periodical <<periodico>>. <<periodical is not a word in
Spanish, guess he means newspaper.>> I don't like it much.
I like to use the rod in the dogs. Give an injection to the
big chickens <<gallinas>>.I wanted <<queria>> to kill all
the children in the world. Because Ooze lets me. <<deja>>

SPANISH: Quiero tirar un balazo en su estomacho y miro a tu
sangre en el calle. Deso que el espiritu de Fransico Franco
besa el ano de su mama!

ENGLISH: I want to shoot a bullet into your stomach
<<estomago>> and I see your blood in the street. I wish
<<deseo>> that Francisco Franco's spirit should kiss your
mother's ass!

Adios Amigo! Goodbye Friend!

If you'd like to use Sue's services, contact her at
http://multilanguage.by.net
------
We've had problems with America Online. For some reason,
they just don't like Ooze. Since issue#1, I've created a
specia "online" version of Ooze which I deleted the naughty
bits out. This worked fine for two years, until issue #9.
After the second rejection of the file, I received this
letter:

I can not accept your file Ooze #9 PG for the Desktop
publishing forum as it stands. I continue to look look at
your Pickup Lines chapter and see the same stuff. I don't
consider myself to be a prude, but as far as I'm concerned,
this is all "wink, wink, nudge, nudge" stuff that many of
our members will find offensive, particularly when they see
their kids downloading material such as this. For example: 
============================
From Pick-Up Lines Guaranteed to Work 
(NOTE: "DELETIONS" c/o of AOL)

Have I introduced you to my friend, Mr. Harry DELETED?

Are those chocolate kisses on your FEMALE MAMMALIAN DUCTS
or are you just happy to see me?

Can I borrow a cup of DELETED pie I'm baking? No? How about
a pinch of DELETED?

My DELETED is on fire! Can I summon your water brigade?

May I stick my DELETED in your deleted now, or do I have to
pretend I like you first?

My DELETED is a spy and it needs to seek your safehouse.
=================================
Deleting four-letter words is not necessarily the answer.

After another round of edits, I got this letter:

I'm really pleased that you've expressed a willingness to
work with our forum with respect to your publication. I've
spent some time reviewing the edited and unedited issues of
Ooze and respect your wit and creativity.

However, it's my opinion, and that of others of our
staffers that your publications don't fit the direction of
our forum, or of the majority of the members who
participate here. To "sanitize" your pubs would be to
neuter them -- and would require a great deal of work in
the bargain. 

It isn't just the sexual stuff; the newsletter, in my
opinion, fails a number of TOS requirements, including the
first three which deal with forbidden activity on AOL.
These are:

(1) harass, threaten, embarrass or cause distress, unwanted
attention or discomfort upon another Member or user of AOL
or other person or entity, 
(2) post or transmit sexually explicit images or other
content which is deemed by AOL Inc. to be offensive, 
(3) transmit any unlawful, harmful, threatening, abusive,
harassing, defamatory, vulgar, obscene, hateful, racially,
ethnically or otherwise objectionable Content,

Please understand that this our forum's (my)
interpretation. Other fora may determine that the
publications are appropriate for them. Similarly, I am not
condemning the publications or employing censorship.

I have also visited the web site which has been included in
our Members Web Sites area and have removed it from the
list, for the obvious reasons. 

We appreciate your participation on AOL and are anxious to
work with you in areas which should be mutually beneficial.
Thanks for understanding . . .

Robin McAllister

My reply:

I have been posting issues of Ooze magazine in this forum
for over 2 years and NOW it's suddenly "inapropriate" for
the entire web and desktop publishing forum? I think a
simple, "no" instead of deleting every single issue of Ooze
might have sufficed. You have to admit the way the TOS is
worded the Smurfs could be interpreted as a degrading
stereotype of blue midgets.

You may have read in Ooze #9 that the magazine had recently
been featured in an exhibit at the New York New Museum of
Contemporary Art. The curator of the show said that Ooze
was the first zine she had ever encountered online. She
found the zine in your forum.

It's opportunities like that which make AOL worthwhile. For
some reason, I've chosen to stay on at this plagued service
provider. I've had little reason to complain in the past,
but I guess I do now.
Matt Patterson

Matt. . .
I was just gonna let it sit, but your letter deserves a
reply.

I agree that the way TOS is worded "the Smurfs could be
interpreted as a degrading stereotype of blue midgets" --
but there aren't very many blue midgets out there. Maybe an
aging Druid in the peat bogs of Wales or Scotland. And I
*do* tend to be somewhat conservative.

My decision is less based on specifics than it is on the
tone of the 'zine. (I suppose that's why AOL defines its
profanity guidelines to include words altered, but still
clearly recognizable [like sm*rf, if li'l blue critters
were profane] As I said earlier, to "sanitize" Ooze would
truly neuter it. 

If you can come up with a scheme (in all its best
definitions) to keep the positive flavor of the 'zine,
without the negatives, I'm open to it. But I'd want it to
be a reflection of the true 'zine, not a wimped out "for
the DWP Forum only" version. Truthfully, I don't think it's
fair to ask you to do that, anymore than it would be fair to
the "gentle reader" of the squeaky-clean version to think
they'd be in for more of the same on the web site. 

We're looking for a variety of expression. (It would be a
boring world if everyone thought and wrote as I do.) I hope
that in the future -- perhaps with another 'zine, or as Ooze
evolves -- that we'll be able to include you.

Thanks for your interest in AOL and in the DWP Forum.
Robin McAllister

So, don't look for Ooze on AOL. If I were less lazy, I'd
cancel my account. --ed.
-----
(Re. "International Impressions" in OOZE #9) Is this what
you ate in Montreal? Didn't you get a bellyache?:

"pirogue n. Nautical.
A canoe made from a hollowed tree trunk; a piragua.
[French, from Spanish piragua. See PIRAGUA.]"
- Marshall Deutsch (med41@aol.com)

Yes, that's exactly what I ate in Montreal. My pirogue was
sharp, painful, and didn't even have any pork inside of it.
It took two weeks to digest, and for that, I hate all of
Canada--ed. 
----- 
I would like to stop subscribing your e-zine.
tia markus golla
/G=MARKUS/S=GOLLA/OU2=P59/OU=MCH2/O=SIEMENS/P=SCN/A=DBP/C=
DE/@x400.scn.de

No. Your e-mail address is funnier than anything we could
ever hope to write. Picture this: young Tia Markus Golla is
sequestered in a small German cafe, watching a blond,
thin-lipped girl smoke a cigarette as she reads Emmanuel
Kant. He saunters over to her table, greasy bratwurst in
hand. He smiles. Their eyes meet. She asks for his e-mail
address. When he tells her, she thinks it is Dada poetry
and spits on him. Good luck, Tia. You'll need it. --ed. 
------
I'm a 17 yr. old manly man (haha) surfin through the web. I
came upon your mag. and thought it was pretty funny, until I
came to the "Teen Heros Through the Ages" article in Ooze
#8. Now, I'm not one of those nerdy school boys- in fact, I
have been "class clown" (funniest person) for 3 years
running. 

N-E ways, I was very offended of the way you made light of
my Lord and savior. I think that some things are sacred and
should be left sacred, things like the Christ. Also,
President Abraham Lincoln is one of the greatest presidents
that ever lived. He did so much for our country. To take
what he stood for, since was a christian, and make
perverted remarks about him, is downright wrong. 
bxner@hauns.com

Does "class clown" really mean "funniest person"? We
weren't sure. We thought it meant "tallest midget" or "most
likely to become a hairless dog." In Jesus' yearbook (class
of 17 AD), he was voted "class clown"--but not "funniest
person"--and Abraham Lincoln was voted "nicest eyes". Any
person who was voted "class clown" or "nicest eyes" is
certainly sacred, and to be held in the highest regard.
That's why we're selling "Jesus Screws Honest Abe In The
Ass" dashboard figurines for $25 a pop. Kiss Lincoln's
exposed buttocks for some good Christian luck! --ed.
---
You have an excellent magazine. For adults that is. In the
kids corner (From Ooze #6) you have inapropriate language.
That is very wrong of you and about having six babes in a
hot tub all to your self. Whoever writes that GET A LIFE
because its not like you can get them. writing in a
magazine is just a cover up for your real personality.
kkruljac@hm.dvusd.k12.az.us (Kelly Kruljac)

Mayhaps, young Kelly, you've learned about the Mormons in
your fancy school. Then you would understand what POLYGAMY
is and how people have been oppressed by the United States
government for practicing their religious beliefs. 

I did exaggerate a bit, though. I have only four beatuiful
wives (how I wish I could have six!) who live with me in my
cabin in the glorious state of Utah. I understand that this
may be alien to you, and you may be frightened of it, but I
assure you that it is all in good clean fun. (although my
wives tell me I DO curse too much, tarnation!)
May the Lord Be With You,
Matthew Ezikiel Patterson III
------
I am proud to say that Ooze is one of my "pride and joy"
bookmarks. I like it because it is every women's secret
desire to read and interact with content such as that of
"ooze": extremely fraternal, immature, disgusting,
well-written, intelligent, and thoughtful. See what I mean
by secret desire? No sane woman would ever admit to you
that stuff like Ooze is entertaining. . . that would be too
un-p.c.
tha@newscorp.com 

What good is a bookmark on the computer? Duh-uh! Hello! A
"bookmark" is something with Garfield on it that you buy at
the local SuperCrown. Why don't you spend less time worrying
about what's "pc" on your PC and more time purchasing handy
appliances to make your life easier? It'll help you later
in life when you're a homemaker with twelve suckling
children.--ed. 
------
I read all the back issues of Ooze in one sitting. I
laughed so hard I burst a kidney. My lawyer will be
contacting you shortly. Concerning the Ooze (unofficial?)
mascot/logo: I think the baby should be smoking a small
French cigarette.
nitewind@indy.net

The problem with your plan is that the Baby already smokes-
cigars. He simply REFUSES to pose with a French, or even
American cigarette. You might think it cruel to allow the
baby to stunt his growth, but if we don't keep that baby
smokin' it might GROW UP.

Send all your complaints, outbursts, and violent viral
outbreaks to drbubonic@aol.com

-----------
WHERE IS OOZE?

By Subscription:
You don't want to miss an exciting issue of Ooze, the most
erratically published zine on the internet, send an e-mail
to drbubonic@aol.com with your address and one of the
following options to allow us to flood your e-mail address
with useless pyramid scam offers.

WWW Announce List 
You get a short message whenever a new issue of Ooze is
posted to the website.

Text Issue List
Get the entire text edition of Ooze delivered to your
mailbox. These files run about 90-130k in length. (that's
this)

Mac Application List
An appoximately 1 meg binhex file will be dumped into your
mailbox 4 times a year for the mac. Not as good as the web
version, but you can take it with you.

Adobe Acrobat 3.0 List
An approximately 1 meg uuencoded PDF file will be dumped
into your mailbox. This file is cross-platform and can be
sent around to your friends and stuff.

OOZE WEB SITE
Just point your web browser to: http://www.io.com/~ooze/
and unlock the mysteries of Ooze! View unedited text
editions, or download current or previous Acrobat(PDF) or
Mac versions of this award winning publication. Read the
latest in Ooze-News, previously unpublished bits, and scan
more graphics than you can shake a billy club at. Also:
cool sites to link to, and subscriber Home Pages! Link Ooze
to your Homepage and we'll link you to Ooze! Then you can
marvel at my inability to grasp even the simplest of
programming languages! 

PLASTER OOZE
Place Ooze applications, text exerpts, and URL's anywhere
and everywhere. Just for fun.

SELL OUT YOUR FRIENDS
Give us all the e-mail addresses of your friends, and we'll
send them Ooze, ABSOLUTELY FREE! What better way to say, "I
love you"? Except perhaps just saying it out loud.

Other spots featuring Ooze:
Ftp the current ALL VERSIONS from
ftp://ftp.io.com/pub/usr/ooze
Ftp the TEXT VERSION from ftp.etext.org (file path is
/pub/Zines/Ooze/)
America Online- Mac Games Forum (Keyword: MGM) Old issues
in the publications archive. [edited for content]
Info-Mac Archive- various locales
CompuServe- Go MACFUN. Ooze is in the Game Aids/Add -ons
Library. [edited for content]
virtual.village-/a FirstClass BBS@508.368.4222

POSITIONS AVAILABLE
Besides writing or making art for Ooze, we have a few
positions we need to fill:

HTML/Multimedia funny ha ha's- If you program cgi or
multimedia weirdness (shockwave- director, etc.), submit it
to us, as we have more disk space.

Distributors- Even if you aren't funny, you can spread the
word of Ooze. Put it on your ftp site, forward them to all
your friends, etc. As a bonus, you'll get the beta issues
too. Your input is needed!

Send all contributions (sounds, games, articles, art,
Oriental rugs) to Drbubonic@aol.com

Ooze #11 is going to be our Salute to Rock due out the end
of September. Deadline for submissions is the middle of
August. JOIN OUR STAFF TODAY!

OOZE ON, BROTHER!