NetNews Usenet Archive 1993 #3

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Newsgroups: alt.zines Path: sparky!uunet!mcsun!fuug!anon From: an2844@anon.penet.fi Subject: The Undiscovered Country, Issue 1 Message-ID: <1993Jan24.051409.3483@fuug.fi> Sender: anon@fuug.fi (The Anon Administrator) Organization: Anonymous contact service X-Anonymously-To: alt.zines Date: Sun, 24 Jan 1993 04:59:41 GMT Lines: 542 &~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~% % & & T H E U N D I S C O V E R E D C O U N T R Y % % & & Published by SDI, Inc. Submissions to: % % 07NOV92 cblanc@pomona.claremont.edu & & After The End of History rm09216@swtexas.bitnet % % & & % % "Hell is other people." - Sartre & & % % PARENTAL WARNING: Even though you are most probably one of the majority, & & a single-parent household leader with little responsibility, we feel the % % need to warn you so that in case you decide to supervise your delinquent & & brats, you will know that we, conservative Christian moralist freaks, have % % determined with our infinite mental powers that the material in this & & netzine is not only obscene, lewd, lascivious, provocative, ambitious, % % cynical, destructive, stimulating, and creative, but it is also (we have & & real proof somewhere) obviously a missive straight from Satan, commanding % % Amerika's youth to turn to communism, sodomy, Satanism, and, of course, & & drugs and voting Libertarian. % % & ~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~ 1. Greetings from the Editors Greetings! This is what our previous publication (which is now a section of this one) started out doing, and now we've just expanded the concept enough to be somewhat interesting to a wider range of people, spread more information, and possibly get something done, although I wouldn't bet on that, as we're dangerous slackers. Enjoy. La Bete Noire S.R. Prozak 2. Facing The Cradle This work It lags behind the others Yet is ahead of the rest It seems dead to the touch But the life is underneath It feels pain and regret Yet it knows no emotions Save for one I deface it for its repulsiveness I enter the scars onto its surface I can not penetrate beyond that They can not be touched But they are constantly in sight It tries to continue this glass facade Where is the reality in it? Its reality is lost, alone and empty I despise it for existing I despise it for being created I despise those that created it I despise it for being alive I despise it for haunting my dreams Despite all of this I still love it -- La Bete Noire 3. Procrastination Song, vols. I-II I. White and fluffy, warm and deep, Wish I had another sheep. Cloven hooves and beady eyes, I'd like to be between their thighs. Tripped out on testosterone, I'll find a sheep to call my own, They pant and gasp and buck in fear, When I ram it in their rear. I woo them and then tie them down, Then check to see who is around, My blood runs hot at this juncture, Fresh sheep anus, ripe for puncture, To some this poem may seem quite rude, I wrote it for our good friend Jude, 'Cause during work, when we are bored, We talk about the sheep we've scored. - Manfred, Lord Genital II. From "The Memoirs of Ronald Reagan," page 72: as the daylight begins to fade, I'm looking for a flock to raid, finding ewes well in their prime, what a delightful hobby, mine! grabbing each delighful creature, to sample pleasures they must feature, the zipper opens up this scene, before entering caverns so serene, that I must lubricate before I dive, and hope the sheep remains alive, because there's nothing better for me, than warm sheep flesh around my peewee, so every night as life slows down, check out a pasture, I'm around. - Samuel Taylor Cholera (But honestly, why shouldn't there be more sheep dating? You go to a bar, you pick up some member of your target sex, take them back to your/their apartment, fuck, and then depart...meaning? value? Pomona College dating seems to be this find-fellatio-fuck-forget system, which is pretty valueless beyond the simple sensual pleasure...but this is to be expected in a country where most families are shattered. So what's that different about doing a sheep? Remember, all sheep are inherently consenting - Ed.) 4. Now it's the time for responsibility for repose for regress beckoning in futility no emotions no regret i'll still cry my tears to make the pain disappear again it's not there yet you dance so close too close to touch i misunderstood and thought i knew complexity of our interactions i dare not say that word again to curse myself but why not? let us dance again into the fire so we both may burn i can't turn my back on all i've learned and forget what it meant at one pleasant time so i may find the hope to try again one more time before i sleep - La Bete Noire 5. The Moralistic Conundrum: Problems of an Unethical Moral Society From: POMONA::CBLANC "Spinoza Ray Prozak, HAQR/SDI" 29-OCT-1992 01:58:26.66 To: HCAULFIELD CC: CBLANC Subj: your note Okay, I had the following on my door: "What's a moral? What is an ethic? Have you either, and if so what are they? Should I have some? Please do not reply while under the influence of drugs." The difference between moral and ethic is shaky to me, but as I understand it moral is part of some greater system, usually religious or societal. Ethics are simply a code for acting correctly, however that may be defined. Is this making sense? I have no morals, but I have my own code of ethics I developed at about age 12. How would I explain it? It basically relies on not hurting anyone or doing anything incorrect. It states that I should gratify the wishes of my animal soul and treat people like people instead of the way I have been treated by too many for my fucking years. Grounded in self control, it is basically opposed to violence without cause (cause is pretty fucking narrow, also) either verbal or physical. It's doing the right thing as I see it, acting correctly. I can give you examples, but I can't explain it, because it is a product of my animal soul, and only that and my logic can judge each instance...I don't fuck casually not only because I don't like it but also because it objectifies humans too much...something like that. I have no problem doing drugs, but would never subject someone to them without consent. I have no problem with my own death, but would not kill unless inevitable because of threatening behavior toward people I care about or (less so, now) myself. Is this making any sense? Should you have one...if you so choose. What a cop-out answer! Yeah, but this is the only way you can deal with it. If you feel it within yourself -- if you feel a need to act correctly and at least loosely codify what is correct, then do it. I would recommend an ethical code as opposed to a moral one, whatever the definitions are. I haven't gotten into the ethics/morals bullshit far enough in philosophy to be super knowledgeable about this. Some derive morals from logical constructs, but I derive it from the presence of an active animal intuitive center of realization within myself that wishes to do right because wrong hurts. Simply. I hope this helps. Before I read your note, I had one beer, and I've had two sips from the open one on the desk. This sobriety thing is kind of a drag. take care, S.R. Prozak 6. Stoner Adventures, vol. III Calm springs days unnerve me, giving me this feel of restlessness, this sense that all is not as quiet as it seems in Nietzsche's raging universe. Such was this day, southern California cool, as I sat on the small porch some distance from my room, hoping no one would recognize the super-fat jay I'd rolled with two pieces of zigzag. I knew I shouldn't smoke the whole thing myself, but as I had no obligations and needed to kill that horrible restlessness, that searching feeling which has brought me despondent to many sealed doors, I sucked the whole thing down, finishing with the aid of my keys, which served as a faithful roach clip. I got up, leaving my copy of Zarathustra on the seat. Back into my now-incredibly-dark room, I staggered around the piles of paper and cigarette butts, finally groping to my screen. I stared at it for some time, wondering what I should be doing. I was pretty well stoned, as that jay must have had five grams of dope in it, good home-grown Berkeley Turbo Zonk, but my tolerance betrayed me, and so when Spike came in the door with a huge box and a wide grin, I was receptive. "Hey, man...look what came in the mail." "Is this the 'art project' you were telling me about?" "Yeah, check it out. Took quite a bit in shipping and all, but now it's here, and I just bought a bag, so let's break it in." "Agreed." (enthusiastically; I refuse to use the ! on a routine basis & especially not in situations such as that, as it is overused as hell by most of this country, especially teenaged girls, who can't seem to convey anything of any importance at all without at least six ! trailing their sentence like a vicious tracer) Spike pulled open the top of the box and lifted out the object inside with some difficulty. I couldn't believe my eyes, as he appeared to be pulling out the most unlikely object ever to be bongified, something that appeared to be a large explosive device. With the usual slender tapered shape of a dangerous weapon, it sloped not into fins but the large mouth of some form of bottle, transplanted. Spike propped it against the wall and pulled out a small stand designed to fit under the detonator end and then rested the bomg (for such was it to be called) in it. The bowl was literally huge -- he must have found some oddball place to do this work -- and the entire thing seemed to be sealed tight as a drum. "Spike...what?...how?...who?" "My brother works on a five-silo site in North Dakota, and since they're stationed way up there and some local growers produce prime dope, they smoke a lot. He gets stoned more than I do, and he will even more now, since they've coopted the mess department, who've promised to requisition more funds for 'morale-boosting holiday dinners' and munchies. I think they sold some equipment or something, because they're not living off of their salaries -- anyway, he found one of these lying around, and converted it into a bong with some help from the machine department they have as part of their post-nuclear survival plan." "What was it?" "A Mk62 nuclear device, with option for cluster munitions, nerve gas and herbicidal devices." "Oh." As he said this, Spike was busily loading the bowl from the fattest, greenest bag of dope I've seen in some time. "I got this from my brother, too -- they apparently got rid of a missile or something, because they have a whole silo now to grow dope in. I think the radioactive residue helps or something. Here, take this--" It was a brilliant hit. More subtle than Camus, more potent than Sartre, more brainshocking than Nietzsche...brilliant. As I sort of wobbled in the corner, Spike took another. "Damn, there almost is a gOD," he said when finally able. So here I was, restless, sort of ambling for something more in a giant intellectual space I had no control over. It's not the restlessness itself that's so bad, I guess, but the feel of the reason behind the restlessness, that maybe it's all foolish and damnable and I might as well go smoke a giant fat one because there isn't much point in anything else -- all about the same, which transforms this into the kind of positive thought that weed sometimes helps slip into your mind. Or maybe it is the restlessness. While Spike loaded the bowl again, I was itching to go, but I wasn't that sure that I could move. Nevertheless another bomg hit did me well, I think. Once again on the street. Spike and I dodged cars, spoke to strangers and fed fifty pennies into a Coke machine (it spat them all out). We walked past a man preaching from his sidewalk can about the world ending & the value of money to him, helping save souls, but we didn't give him our fifty pennies. We came to a fountain. Spike was pretty much nonfunctional, having whipped out a similar joint to mine and smoked it with me, putting him well "under the influence." I was holding a handful of useless pennies, shiny, bright things that reminded me of spring days in childhood, innocent foolish thoughts of how pretty they were & better than gold. I threw them into the fountain, where they engendered a brief & lasting (on the backs of my eyes) rainfall. Spike asked me why I did that & I replied that it was for good luck, although it never had brought it to me, and he asked me why I did it then, & I said it was a product of hope, 'cuz otherwise it was too cold to see. Seven men spoke to us about politics, but I don't think I heard much of what they were saying; we went back our way, skipping rocks down the gutter. 7. A Tribute To Yog Sothoth even in the tranquil dark beyond the thumbd visages of the day and their complaints of no demise: safety eludes, now, from that which plagues me (now only) remembrances of past freedom & delight desire under love's command lurking thoughts of beauty drifting like the wind. showing my flattened cheeks & widely eyes two flames stretch to fill the room smaller & larger, they brightly dance for a future, on shades of wax. nothing could save this moment from my mournful sacred eyes, caught in both and catching all too much to forget -- when what you want is gone, can we want anything? enchanted solitude & memory and forests of placid dreams cherished by another, younger standing next to me. when I once fell from a plastic bike and then returned to find it gone my eyes turned inward, bitter shield something not the first. fucking. time. i'd ever lurk in there, living in a hairshirt. sometime in a spring like this the fakest spring of fading fall i fell in love & learned that bliss covers not vengeful withal. when digging for my veins of gold they asked me what I thought of this if it were me, if I were sane, my reply could only be that simple thoughts refreshing once had formed me in another way that path destroyed, that countenance leads me to another sense that somehow here in this great land pits of time and death do dwell leaving forgotten our enchanted hopes something to sustain us, nothing more second stage brings sordid thoughts cynical complaints, and hatless wanderings then we come to this great door and left beyond in only minds bereft we stagger to the frame, and seek our solitude inside. - S.R. Prozak 8. Adrenalin & Serotonin DRI! These letters stood for the band that would wander onstage during the early eighties, shout 1-2-3-4 and suddenly become an entirely separate entity from the rest of the universe, with Spike Cassidy flailing away like a recently released demon on his large guitar, Kurt Brecht shouting out vocals like a drill sergeant on PCP, and two anonymous guys (usually changing with every album) pounding on bass and drums at high speed. One of the genre's first, DRI helped define what thrash was to be: hardcore punk crossed over with metal, played at high speed, top volume, and full rage. Taking the simplicity and rage of hardcore and the heaviness and intellectual approach of metal, thrash produced short and fast songs with the stopping power of a .45 hollowpoint. Their first album clocked in at 23 minutes with 28 songs on it. DRI's second wasn't much different, having the same half- minute-kill approach to many of the album's classic cuts. Shortly after this, DRI slowed down. Whether it was the times, age, or an impulse for popularity, we'll never know. I think it was confusion, born of popularity, the demise of thrash, and experimentation. Three more albums passed that way, and then DRI all but disappeared. Having been absent for a while, DRI have come back in with more fanfare for their sixth album, produced through their own Rotten Records label, located in Montclair. Coming up to this album, DRI had several options. They could opt for their former sound, continue the slower, near-speed metalish path they were following, or try something unprecedented. Their newest album, "Definition," waffles. The essential character is the continuation of the style of their last album, with some improvements that appear to be mainly the result of personnel changes and experience. The music to "Definition" most resembles the style of their album "Crossover," which was a slowed but vicious guitar shadowed by bass and synchronized to incessant full-on drumming. In this effort the smoother tempo changes and bridges learned in later albums come to demonstrate greater musical prowess, something thrash never aspired to. Unlike Suicidal Tendencies and Cryptic Slaughter and Corrosion of Conformity, thrash bands which changed fairly drastically and became light speed metal acts without much distinctiveness or any of their former emotional or lyrical brilliance, DRI changed but did so without falling out of character. Their new music was as caustic as their earlier stuff, only on a less-intense, more cynical basis. New aspects of the music and lyrics come with this release. Rob Rampy IV takes over the chore of drumming, and adds more of a metallic touch, including double bass drumming and harder, more driving drum patterns. Bass guitar, supplied by John Menor, has taken the route followed by much of hardcore, with more interesting fills and interludes, although the basic riff-following tendency remains. Spike Cassidy's powerful guitar takes to somewhat more complicated riffs and bridges but still retains its power with minimalistic but authentic riffs. This album isn't as messy as earlier efforts, which makes for a slicker listening experience but often detracts from this genre. "Definition" takes the new DRI sound and does respectably with it, given all factors. There are changes like a non-distorted lead-in to a song, more of a reliance on repetitive, chanted choruses, and a general slickness, but I wouldn't class this album with the efforts of so many bands to earn money. Call it aging, call it changing opinions, call it a change for the worse but call it authentic - there doesn't seem to be any hypocrisy in this, any commercial drive. It's not their best by far, but for a 1992 album, it's much better than average. And expected: nothing that energetic could last forever. 9. The Coming of The Apocalypse Amerika, land of many useless things, most of which float about like those plastic statuette of liberty tokens that people bought in flocks some years ago. Amerika's future remains uncertain, but with a new president, there's at least some false optimism floating around and influencing the rest of us to idiotic levels; hope can be a dreadful thing, especially when used as a pair of blinders, much as Amerikans use it. But there's something to be said for Amerikans as survivors in an empty way of life; the meaning, whatever could once have been gleaned from this existence, has been totally excluded, and we now survive with brave hearts & faces in a land of opportunity squandered. Relationships, shattered -- we're left objectivizing each other, chasing after poon or penis, or, in the case of some suppressed minorities such as the gay community, fucking in fear & dodging the nigh-impossible longterm relationship. Too much permissiveness on one end, too much reluctance on another. Jobs are things we swap when bosses rage or companies fail, searching in almost total futility for a comfortable place to work, shifting ourselves into functional yet unenlightening careers -- what is there in our personal spaces, what we call our lives, beyond the illusory? Some fill this void with religion, others drugs, others causes with the intellectual nutrition of white bread but the conviction of desperation. We see the abortion issue going from the fundamentalist podium to the streets in anger; is it really worth this much to these people, or is this the desolation of loneliness & emptiness at work, driving them toward something -- even a something hollow like a desert bone -- to hold on to and defend more than life? Is this what we seek when life becomes an echo, the something worth more at least temporally to us? Moscow's celebrated problem with the collection of frozen corpses of passed-out vodka escapees mirrors only our own. Reality in the sixties was something to be obliterated to reach out from, but in the eighties (and continuing into the nineties) reality is something to be obliterated so that we may survive in it. So we can blame it all on Nietzsche, and strive for what's next. If solutions are to be found it is doubtful they will be within the pages of this essay. Like the rest of life, this is essentially a useless activity: lamenting the givens of our existence. Or perhaps it is just procrastination on the part of the author, something to keep him from falling into the same pit he describes. More likely this is just another futile & dangerous attempt on the part of SDI, Inc. to foster thought, no matter how depressing, dangerous or seductive it may be. Or maybe Nietzsche is correct, and this is just another step toward the time of silence, that dubiously mythical time of the last human being. - S.R. Prozak 10. How To Access All of Our Neat Stuff SDI, Inc. has a pseudo-ftp site set up for anyone at all to peruse, ramble, explore and enjoy. Access is easy: I. If you're at Pomona college, type: $ set def po_1995:[cblanc.angst] and you should be in a directory from which you can read and copy files. II. If you're elsewhere, FTP to POMONA.CLAREMONT.EDU type: POMONA.CLAREMONT.EDU>login anonymous <here type in your address> POMONA.CLAREMONT.EDU>cd po_1995:[cblanc.angst] We have back issues, interesting tidbits, conspiracy theories, and other publications as well as a large collection of ouphiliac paraphrenalia. If there is something you wish to have kept at this site, please email "cblanc@pomona.claremont.edu." 11. This Is The End Thus we come to an end to this, our first issue. Please distribute this & contribute anything you have that you feel is valuable; we have minimal editorial requirements, and almost no topical or linguistic ones. Let the struggle continue... -_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- \ / / Self - Destructive Initiative, Inc. \ \ November, 1992 / / \ -_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- ------------------------------------------------------------------------- To find out more about the anon service, send mail to help@anon.penet.fi. Due to the double-blind system, any replies to this message will be anonymized, and an anonymous id will be allocated automatically. You have been warned.