Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
Snorkle Issue 01
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
snorkle
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
issue electronique numero uno a sixo publication
october 31, 1995
editors: rené alvarez and suzan colón
write him: snorkle60@aol.com
_______________________
CONTENTS
_______________________
editors letter
Bedwetter.
the Russian
One night Stand patrol
unTitled
MoM wE Kan Reed- book reviews
k a r m a
sixo journal
the Van Gogh- music reviews
You are now the proud recipient of snorkle's first electronic manifestation! Yes, we continue to put out the old printed rag, but in=
our effort towards world domination this seems to be our next step. In here you'll find stuff from issues #1 & #2, no art and littl=
e diversions from actual text. So please sit back and enjoy. If there is anything I can do for you, or you have any questions about =
what's going on, please pretend I don't exist. Don't write me, don't call me, and especially don't invoke my name in questionable re=
ligious rituals. Well, go ahead and partake of the fruit of our labor. We'll be talking soon.
+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+
Bed wetter.
+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+
I was in bed.
Awake.
Awake with my eyes closed and waiting to get up. But I was tired, and things outside were tiresome, and I was in no mood to be bothe=
red. I felt strange. My small, dark room was a comfort, but I was restless. Anxious. About nothing.
It¹s narrow, my room, with one small window on its east end, latched.
My bed straight across from it. This was my true home. In bed, hours passed like dinosaurs, thoughts camped out in my head until the=
fires petered out, outdoorsy-like. Things around me were of my own creation, sweet and obliging. Life was whatever I wanted it to b=
e. I loved my bed. And it loved me.
I was making a list, ³Reasons to Get Up,² and finding it very hard to come up with number one. Really, I play these games with myse=
lf all the time and never once in my illustrious career as a sleeper did I find such obstacles to my inquiries. It was as if, and pl=
ease don¹t judge me too harshly as to say I¹ve lost my mind, as if someone didn¹t want me to. It¹s ridiculous, I know, but I can¹t h=
elp feeling scared every time I think about leaving my bed. There isn¹t any rational explanation that governs my fear, but a voice b=
ehind a voice, behind a voice. A me so twisted back in my head that it¹s a me I hardly recognize.
Even now, comfortable in the belly of my bed, it whispers in my ear, though consciously I cannot hear. The floor looks cold. My dre=
sser crouches violently under the window, unbelievably far from the foot of my bed. The door is evil, grinning, like a monkey.
Games are being played. Games are played by opponents. What do you do if your antagonist is you, a you you thought fell away like a=
leper¹s dick many years ago. How disappointing, to realize that one never changes. You can only layer on top of the disgusting anim=
al we really are, the shriveled soul of our ancestors being our absolute definition. I¹ve neatly piled my excretions on the floor by=
my nightstand and switched the pillows to the foot of the bed to avoid some of the smell. I sleep better.
You don¹t want to listen to the ugly parts of my condition. I¹m sorry, but when you haven¹t spoken to anyone as long as I have ever=
y fart becomes a tabloid event. My apologies, forgive. Let me tell you a story. Just yesterday I saw a little mouse trot across the =
floor. It was the cutest little thing and I could have stared at it all night long (God knows I had the time) but that was not to be=
. You see, it was a curious little mouse and at first it watched me from behind a leg of the dresser. Once it ascertained that I was=
not leaving the creature comforts of my bed, he or she (gender remains a mystery; I¹ve been told it¹s not easy to tell) moved halfw=
ay between the footboard and the dresser with a kittenish prance.
There it was, nose twitching and eyes blinking, staring straight into my face. Adorable. I had a piece of cheese that fell out of a=
sandwich I ate two days ago that I was saving for a special occasion, and I placed it right at the foot of the bed without touching=
the floor of course, brave little mouse. The mouse became quite excited (yes it¹s true, one of the few reliable bits of information=
that you can glean from nursery rhymes is that London bridge did fall down and that mice can¹t resist a good hunk of cheese). It in=
ched its way toward the sexy piece of cheese, keeping an eye on me and the cheese all the while, always forward, one darling little =
paw after another till it was just about to get a bellyful of succulent cheese. At that moment, and not a moment before, I grabbed t=
he cute little thing and shoved it in my mouth.
It was the first time I had ever done something like that. I was chewing and I was grossed out, and at the same time proud of my ch=
ic little feat. When I was done swallowing I coughed up some fur and picked up the piece of cheese from the floor. I was hungry but =
I didn¹t eat it. I saved it.
You don¹t need to tell me that I¹m sick. But what real harm am I doing? The poor little mouse? I can¹t be blamed for being at the t=
op of the food chain. To others? Fortunately mine is a solitary diversion and so far I haven¹t developed a taste for human beings. T=
o myself? Ah...so kind of you to be concerned but I do believe this life belongs to me and I can spend it any which way I please tha=
nkyouverymuch. Sick is a point of view, like spoon feeding a cow through its anus because it¹s the only part of a cow you¹re familia=
r with. Maybe you¹re not judging me from the right angle.
Irrelevant. The fact is when compared to what other people do with their lives my life seems a bit odd. I don¹t go out, I won¹t eve=
n leave my bed, not even to you-know-what. I feel a tiny bit threatened (change that to a lot threatened) by the floor and furniture=
. I won¹t talk to anyone; granted that¹s because I won¹t get up to answer the phone or open the door. It¹s that nasty little monster=
that causes my sweet eccentricities, no doubt, and the more I think about that cringing, hump-backed arthritic child, the more I wa=
nt to give it up.
But how can you rid yourself of you? That freak of nature is as much a part of me as the me speaking to you right now. Without him =
(me) I would no longer be me. So I have no choice but to become a passenger aboard this fear train from hell, this manic carrot, thi=
s rogue planet. You say I¹m not trying hard enough, indeed because much of me is opposed to change until it is fully expressed. I am=
on a journey with no reward but its end.
Thank you for listening. The discourse of a so-called madman can be a bit taxing a times so thank you for your attention. Perhaps s=
omeday you and I can meet when both of our selves are on equal footing. One day when I find the nerve to walk on the floor, dress, a=
nd jump through the door. It¹s not too far-fetched an idea.
The Russian
My feet are so wide and flat
That
When I was five, my mother
Had to bring me, indignant and scuffling,
To Stuart¹s Stride Rite, that musky place, to buy
³Extra Wide Corrective Shoes for Boys²
Dull, Chalky, Brown,
Painfully out of style,
I clodded along to school in them.
While
My sister casually kicked off her
Gleamingly feminine black
Fucking patent-leather Mary Janes
(The same ones Rachel had)
On the smooth kitchen linoleum,
She trotted off on slim ankles to gnaw
On a grated carrot in the Florida room.
My sister
Wanted to be a tomboy.
I wanted
The silver, beaded moccasins
At Stuart¹s Stride Rite because
I wanted to be magic Pocahontas
Moon princess.
Trying one of them on made the sides of my mouth
Droop, because it dangled,
Shining, taunting
From the wide, flat plain of my five-year old foot.
I was not Magic Pocahontas or Cinderella,
But my mother, stooped down and said:
³You come from good, Russian peasant stock,
And those wide feet will
Hold you strong all your life
Where the dainty ones break.²
When I got home,
I wrapped tin foil carefully around each foot,
Enjoying the fragile silverness as I
Imagined I was a queen in Russia,
Marching around the living room barking orders until
Holes wore through my aluminum slippers,
My sister
Runs barefoot,
She is a slim-ankled tomboy but
You, my love, say I am
The Magic Pocahontas Moon Princess
And I will hold you strong all your life
Where the dainty ones break.
Amanda Green
One Night Stand Patrol
report transcribed by Luisa Colón
It was 1:15 am. We spotted them walking down Hill Street and followed on foot unobtrusively. My partner Dunne and I put on a charad=
e of conversation as the two suspects reached their destination: an apartment complex. They entered.
Dunne lit a cigarette as we stood outside. The streets were damp from a recent rain, the air humid. I decided to have a cigarette m=
yself. My name's Johnnie Deare, and at the moment (1:19 am) I was a woman whose only thought was to do her job.
I checked my watch. Five minutes had gone by. I looked at Dunne and nodded. He flicked his cigarette into the dark, unfortunately o=
n a cat that was making its way through an alley. I've never really liked cats.
We took the stairs and stood by apartment 3B, listening. It was almost 1:26am. We positioned ourselves, took out our guns, and I br=
oke down the door.
The woman let out a shriek. She was sitting on the bed, shoes off, blouse unbuttoned. The man stood beside her. Luckily his fly was=
open, otherwise there might not have been sufficient evidence to make a case against him. I made a mental note to myself to wait lo=
nger next time.
"What - this is an outrage - what are you doing? There's no law - this is my girlfriend!" sputtered the man. He was tall, stocky, w=
ith a ridiculous haircut ridged in the front like a tiny wave reaching its crest.
"That's right, I'm his girlfriend. You've got the wrong people - " began the woman.
Dunne said, "We have two witnesses who saw you being introduced at Toasty's Bar and Grill - this evening."
The man started to sweat, and the woman bit her lip.
"Uh - it was love at first sight," countered the woman after a pause. "We've been, um, looking for each other all our lives."
Her response rankled me. Not only was she a lousy liar, but something in her tone suggested chronic snottiness. I'd had enough.
"Okay, Tony and Maria," I said. "Stand up and face away from each other."
They did as they were told. "You," I said to the man. "What's this young lady's full name?"
A long silence ensued. The woman closed her eyes, and I could see her thinking she'd made a bad choice at Toasty's.
"Uh - Lisa - Lisa - " He didn't finish.
Dunne had fished out the woman's I.D.
"Nice try," said Dunne, smirking. "It's Alyssa Johnson.*"
"Ohhhh," said the man, like a game show contestant who'd just lost fifteen thousand dollars.
I took out two pairs of cuffs.
"I'm placing you both under arrest for violating Article 247, section 8: contributing to the concept of sex as a meaningless, lovel=
ess act," I began. "You have the right to remain silent..."
*suspect's names have been changed
U n t i t l e d
Usually the hookers look at me like I¹m a two-bit runner, which usually I am. But today the big man has sent for me especially, so t=
oday I¹m better than that. I put on my best suit, got my shoes shined, and I feel good. And before I see the big man, I leave enough=
time to see this pretty girl I know named Geena.
She¹s a working girl, but I never think of her as a hooker or a whore because of the way she treats me. When the whores are looking=
at me like I¹m less than the gum stuck to the bottom of their cheap high heels, Geena always looks at me like I¹m something more, l=
ike I¹m a man.
Her name¹s not really Geena. I think it¹s something like Ellen, but she loves that actress Geena Davis so much that she dyed her ha=
ir red and started calling herself Geena. She talks about how she¹s going to get out of this racket and become an actress. They all =
talk that way, but I could really see her doing something big, something important. I like to think that way, anyway.
I go looking for her, but she¹s not around--too early for her to be standing outside working, and none of those bitches in the hous=
e know where she is. They look down on me when I ask for her and say why you wanna know? You can¹t afford her ass anyway. When they =
say shit like that I¹d like to knock a few more of their teeth out, but hitting a woman is a low thing to do, and I¹m lucky I¹m not =
in charge of keeping these bitches in line. So I go on my way to see what the big man wants.
³Paulie, you¹re a good man,² he says to me, a classy cigar between his fingers.
³You¹re loyal to me, you ain¹t strung out like some of my other employees²--here he looks at Rollo, who looks down--²and so for you=
I got a special job because I know you can handle it.²
I smile. I¹m trying not to look too excited, but I can¹t help but smile as I sit in the one chair in front of the big man¹s desk. ³=
You bet, sir, anything you got, I can handle it.²
The big man smiles at me, and it¹s a little scary. Even though I know I¹m in good right now, I wonder if I¹ve done something wrong.=
³Paulie, you heard about that unfortunate incident we had last week with the exchange on 23rd Street.²
³Yessir, I heard about that.²
³And you know the shipment was never...recovered.²
³Yessir.²
³Bad enough losing a few good men in that mess, but losing the shipment too, that put us in bad with our associates uptown. Very me=
ssy. I didn¹t like that at all. Made us look stupid.² He taps the cigar into the ashtray. It¹s so quiet in here I can hear the ash f=
all into the tin bowl. He watches the smoke curl up towards the only light in the room.
³I don¹t like to look stupid, Paulie.²
If someone came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder, I swear I would shit my pants.
Suddenly, the big man smiles. ³Fortunately, we found the person who took off with the shipment, we¹ve contacted our friends uptown,=
and all we need to do is exchange like we were supposed to the first time. Only this time I need it done right. And that¹s where yo=
u come in, Paulie. I want you to go make the exchange for me.²
I smile big now because I can¹t help it. ³You can count on me, sir,² I say. ³Just say when and where.²
³Tomorrow night you¹ll go uptown. Mickey will take you where you¹re gonna go...you don¹t need to know right now.² Smart, very smart=
. ³Meantime, Rollo here will be taking care of the person who snatched our shipment.²
I¹m feeling so good now I¹m running off at the mouth. ³Sir, I gotta say, I¹m glad I ain¹t that guy, whoever he is.²
³Frankly, Paulie, I don¹t think you¹d look too good with long red hair and a skirt, so that¹s another reason to be glad.²
I had pneumonia once when I was little. My mother said I had it for a week, but my fever was so high I couldn¹t remember hardly any=
thing. All I remember was the way I felt so cold, and at the same time a sweat would break out all over me like a river. And that¹s=
the way I feel right now.
The big man excuses me and tells Rollo to sit down, in the chair where I¹d just been feeling so good. I go outside. My hands are sh=
aking so bad it takes me five minutes to light a cigarette.
I don¹t know how someone could be stupid enough to think they could take a suitcase full of smack away from a man like that. She ha=
d to know they were gonna find out. She had to know what they would do to her. Then I think that maybe if you¹re desperate enough, y=
ou¹ll do anything. Even something stupid.
Outside, I have a word with Rollo, who is very strung out. The people from uptown will not notice if a little junk is missing. Then=
I go looking for this pretty girl I know named Geena.
³Hi Paulie,² she says. ³You look so handsome today.² She has big cherry red lips that stretch into a smile a mile wide. I¹ve heard =
her say almost exactly the same words to the johns who cruise her, but when she says it to them her face is dead.
I smile and hand her a dozen red roses. She screams. ³Omigod, Paulie! What¹s this for?²
³For you, cause you¹re the prettiest girl I know,² I say. She blushes, and it¹s nice to see that she still can. ³You busy right no=
w?²
³Not yet,² she says, looking up and down the street. ³They¹re all having dinner with their wives. They come out for dessert later.²=
I take her hand. ³Come with me.²
³Paulie, where we going? I can¹t leave! Richie¹ll kill me!²
³You leave Richie to me,² I say. ³I¹m taking you out to dinner. We¹re gonna go on a little date.²
I take her for Chinese at Lucky¹s. I tell her she can order anything she wants. I tell the waiter to give her extra fortune cookies.=
She tells me the entire plot of a Geena Davis movie. Her eyes are so blue I can¹t hear a word she says.
³Where we going now, Paulie?² She¹s like a little kid, smiling, hugging her roses to her chest. It¹s getting late. ³I thought we co=
uld go up to my place,² I say.
I take her up to my apartment, which ain¹t exactly Trump Tower--one room above an Irish bar on Lexington Avenue--but I keep it clea=
n and it¹s warm.
I turn on the radio to one of those stations that plays old songs from the 50s. Geena sits down on my bed and I ask her if she wan=
ts something to drink. ³I don¹t have much, just whiskey, or a beer,² I say. She says whiskey, with kind of a sad look on her face, a=
nd when I come back with her drink she¹s unbuttoning her shirt.
³No, no,² I say, taking her hands. ³I didn¹t bring you up here for that.² She looks confused, then hurt again.
³But I thought...You don¹t want me?² she says.
³No, it¹s--it¹s not like I don¹t want you, Geena, it¹s not that at all,² I say. ³But I got respect for you.² Her face lights up. ³I=
know you¹re a nice girl, and I think you¹re a beautiful woman...the most beautiful woman I know,² I say, and her face looks like a =
flower when it¹s blooming so hard you think it¹s gonna explode.
³I always knew you weren¹t like any other guy, Paulie,² she says. ³You¹re the nicest guy in the world.²
I kiss her on the cheek and pull her up, close to me. ³Dance with me, Geena,² I say. She smiles and puts her arms around my neck. A=
n old doo-wop number comes on the radio. We dance slow. I put my cheek against her smooth red hair. Her body is warm and small. She¹=
s wearing so much perfume.
Does it have to be now? Can I stay like this for just one more minute?
I can¹t, I know. This is the perfect moment. We are both so happy right now. This must be what love is.
I reach as slow as I can for the gun in my jacket. I cocked it before so she wouldn¹t even hear the click.
I close my eyes.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
MoM wE Kan Reed!!
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
The Acid House
Irvine Welsh
W W Norton & Co.
A collection of short stories by some Scottish malcontent that has pierced me through the temple. Documenting the seedier parts of S=
cottish life through fiction, Welsh surprised me with the compassion that lives within his nihilistic backdrops.
Stories like The Shooter, Eurotrash, and A Smart Cunt: a novella, bring it out of you from places you didn¹t know existed. Utilizing=
dialect and unlikable characters, he shows us a world of unavoidable loneliness that is totally lacking in heroes, but populated wi=
th people who have a fleeting dream to know it differently.
The Ages of Lulu
Almudena Grandes
Grove Press
We come into this world unafraid and questioning, and somewhere along the line our culture kills our powers of exploration. For most=
of us the dark side of our natures are virgin territories, unblemished by real acts. Lulu never had any problems going over to the =
dark side so long as Pablo was there to bring her back safely. This is about such sexual awakenings, the vague line between morality=
and pleasure, and how scared we all are of being alone. Extremely erotic and intensely focused, this is a good primer for the edge.=
Let¹s Party! Your Guide to Fun in Europe
Sam E. Kehdr, Mark J Maxim, Jessica Fernandes, and Kim Soenen
Vagabond Publishing
I had to write about this simply because it¹s the first book anyone has actually sent us to review. And we are quite proud and happy=
that it was sent to us. This helpful little guide is a comprehensive listing of good places to get sloshed in the European continen=
t. No museums, scenic locations or penny tours of traditional Dutch architecture, just the best places to pass out from excessive tr=
ips into the well of depravity. Revolutionary.
It coaches you on how to survive in Europe cheaply, a listing of festivals, bars, and clubs, and a ³party passport² full of money-sa=
ving coupons for practically every city mentioned. It¹s only $12.95, my friends. Get your own copy by calling them at 1-800-746-2926=
or just e-Mail them a kind letter at Vagabond@aol.com
Voodoo Dreams
Jewell Parker Rhodes
Picador USA
Otherwise known as Voodoo Women, Foolish Choices. Stitching together the few known facts about Marie Laveau, the Voodoo queen of New=
Orleans, Prof. Rhodes weaves the story of three generations of Voudon women--Marie, her deceased mother, and her Grandmére--who all=
fall for the same charismatic lout. Feeding Marie¹s belief in her powers while simultaneously exploiting them, John has Marie¹s des=
tiny in a head lock--until he pushes her too far. Prof. Rhodes¹ extensive research yields a thick painting of a heady city in the ea=
rly 19th century, where African gods dance uneasily with Christianity and white men won¹t hang a young black woman for murder becaus=
e she¹s got them scared shitless. One critique: the book begins with a powerful chapter called The Middle, which, after reading The =
Beginning (which comes after The Middle) would have been better as The End. Switch it around the next few times you read this entran=
cing tome.
The Alienist
Caleb Carr
Bantam Books
Ah, the good old days of turn-of-the-century New York--angry, impoverished immigrants, corrupt lawmen and the flashy mobsters they l=
unch with, and a killer who slices, dices and juliennes male child prostitutes. On his trail are a team of clever, terribly human ch=
aracters, including our narrator, John Moore (please let it be Ralph Fiennes in the movie), eminent alienist (psychiatrist) Dr. Lasz=
lo Kriezler, early feminist Sara Howard, and Chief Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt. Historian Carr vividly portrays the time period =
without making the team¹s ancient crime fighting techniques seem inferior, even though he¹s writing about a day when fingerprints we=
ren¹t considered useful evidence. At a time when we¹ve got serial killer baseball cards, Carr manages to make the concept freshly ho=
rrific.
#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@
k a r m a
w h a t c o m e s a r o u n d g o e s a r o u n d . . .
f o r r e a l
#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@
karma is an ancient concept which dictates that your actions, be they good or bad, will affect your luck in another lifetime. the on=
ly problem was, it could take a while. in the old days, after being shit upon by some jerk, one could only plaintively cry, ³a pox o=
n your children¹s children!² and seek solace in the knowledge that the jerk¹s future generations would be stricken (you hoped) with =
beri-beri. too bad you wouldn¹t be around to see it happen.
now, in these times of fast food and liposuction, everyone wants everything now--including their karma. being in the people business=
, karma has responded to our accelerated culture by producing results within one¹s lifetime. not exactly ³instant karma,² but close=
.
save your patronizing chuckles of disbelief for the next episode of melrose place! i have a true tale of modern karma from the pages=
of my very own life.
when i was a young slip of an angst-ridden teenager, the cutest guy in school smiled at me during lunch period one day. he had long =
brown hair and wore platform shoes. he was a senior. he was of a much higher caste than my punk-wanna be sophomore self. being the c=
onfident girl i was not, i looked behind me to see who he was smiling at. but, like something out of 16 candles, he mouthed the word=
s ³yeah, you!²
he asked me out on a date. we made out in his room while listening to blondie¹s ³you look good in blue.² he was my first cool boyfri=
end. as much ego-chow it was just to have a boyfriend, going out with the cutest guy in school was quite the status booster.
but it wouldn¹t be a karma story if all went well. i waited for him after school one day, but he never showed. i kept waiting. a few=
days later, i saw him wearing a much cooler-than-me senior girl like a tight dress. dumped! i returned to my group, humbled. they¹d=
thought me touched by the gods, but behold: i bled like a mere human.
thank goodness for that new, improved karma! just a few years later, i was at the old ritz (now webster hall), a drink in one hand a=
nd a cigarette in the other. the sweet but definitely-a-fixer-upper girl of high school was no more--i had a slick new cropped do, =
i was swathed in black, and my eyelids drooped from the weight of my eyeliner. suddenly, this scruffy geek dared approach me. ³you d=
on¹t remember me, do you?² of course not, i thought, i¹d never associate with anyone like oh my GOD! it was him.
but his beautiful long hair was gone; he had some kind of in-between-y buster brown crown. his platform shoes had been replaced with=
brown slip-on horrors. he asked me what i was doing. i had the distinct pleasure of telling him that i interviewed rock stars for a=
living. i asked him what he was doing. he was trying to break into the film industry, but he waited tables to support himself.
as if that wasn¹t enough, karma was having a two-for-one special that night. he who had so cruelly dumped me in high school said, ³=
gee, uh...maybe we could go out some time!² and wrote his phone number on a damp cocktail napkin. ³uh...i don¹t think so,² i said. i=
wasn¹t mean. i didn¹t throw away his phone number until i got home. i didn¹t have to. karma had seen to everything.
so remember my little story. tomorrow, say good morning to your bus driver. when you¹re stuffed, give those leftover pierogis to a h=
omeless person. when dumping someone, be kind and say, ³it¹s not your fault. i¹m fucked up.² because karma, like big brother, is alw=
ays watching.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
sixo journal - oct 31st , 1995
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
Welcome to yet another entry, detailing the ongoing saga of sixo! First off, sixo has been completed, behold the three new brothers=
; Walter on guitar, Joe on drums, and Phil on the bass. Our baptismal show was at the Pyramid (NYC), on August 15th.
The sixo web page is almost out of the design stage. The inaugural incarnation will have a band bio and contact information, dates =
of shows, and short stories from the snorkle pages. Later versions will have photos, art gallery, and sound bites. You will be kept =
posted on it¹s debut before the dawning of december. Make sure we have your address, e-mail or residence.
We¹ve decided to push recording back a few months to let the band coalesce, and eventually want to kill each other, in order to cre=
ate the proper environment for recording. sixo has over 20 new songs, sick fairy tales of love, violence, and abandon. We have high =
hopes for this one.
Other important information;
1. new e-Mail address, exclusively sixo: dearsixo@aol.com
2. same numbers, in NYC 212.532.0916 and in Miami 305.534.3518
3. same snail address: rené 480 Second Ave 20B NY, NY 10016
Thanks.
sixo
Do you need sixo stuff?
cd¹s are only 10 bucks, t-shirts are 10 bucks, 5 when you buy a cd. call us or e-mail us with your god-damned order.
free stickers with every purchase!
Upcoming Dates: oct 31st tue @ the pyramid club 11pm
Ave A between 6 &7th st New York, NY
nov 11th sat @ the lions den 12 pm
sullivan off bleeker New York, NY
nov 20th mon @ cbgb's 10pm
bleeker & bowery (3rd ave) New York, NY
dec 2nd sat @ the new music cafe 10pm
west broadway & canal st New York, NY
dec 12 tue @ the spiral
houston off ave A New York, NY
dec 23rd sat @ AKA 11pm
west broadway & houston New York, NY
%*%*%*%*%*%*%*%*
the Van Gogh
*%*%*%*%*%*%*%*%
Papas Fritas
A&M
I hate writing reviews. I¹m only invading this page because I love the Fritas¹ album. I lost the bio so I can¹t tell you their names=
or where they¹re from. I can only tell you that their band name means ³French fries² and that the childhood portions of their brain=
s drive their musical direction. They can go from the slick jingle-bell laced new wave of ³Wildlife² to the lazy, sing-songy ³TV Mov=
ies² (which includes the unforgettable chorus ³TV movies/made for TV²) to a few melodic notes on a piano for ³My Revolution.² The b=
est thing about the Fritas is that they sound like they¹re learning how to play their instruments as they record their songs, which =
have this great childlike innocence about them. Okay, that¹s it--no more reviews from me.
The Falling Wallendas
IMI Records
This is bad. It was painful to listen to and probably damaged important cognitive areas of my furry mind. Given the choice to listen=
to it again or have my dog run over by a car, I¹d throw Rocky into a busy intersection myself. Fuck Rocky. It isn¹t just that it su=
cks, it¹s pretentious, pretending to reveal emotional angst in its ³clever² lyrics, forcing the most sacrilegious rhymes (³She spray=
ed Chanel on her dia.......PHRAGM! That night in hell they built a .......DAM!²) and recording some of the weakest songs I¹ve ever h=
ad the displeasure of hearing. The band is from Chicago, they get good press from their area, and one of these losers used to date s=
omeone from Veruca Salt. Sounds like adult-oriented schlock watered down, they¹re rock, they¹re funky, and they¹re not very good. Co=
ntact IMI Records, 541 North Fairbanks Court, Chicago IL 60611. (312) 245-9334.
Urchins
Yummy
Alleycat Music
I listened to this album twice. Why, you ask? Because at first listen, I felt I had missed something. The work is not entirely origi=
nal-- parts of it are bad, actually, and there is much to be forgiven, but I don¹t know. I can¹t say it sucks. This album has some g=
ood songs, like the homicidal ballad ³I¹d like to see you² and the somewhat surfish ³Take Me Away.² Plus they cover ³I Woke Up In Lo=
ve This Morning² by the Partridge Family, which always gets my toes a-tappin¹. This is a good rock band teetering between punk and p=
op in the spirit of bands like the Pretenders and Blondie.
A pleasant experience, the band is a four-piece from New Brunswick, NJ. Contact Diane Rhodes at Aim Marketing, 105 White Oak Lane, O=
ld Bridge, NJ 08857. (1800) 275-0091.
Diane Ward
Mirrors
Thip Records
If you¹ve ever seen Diane Ward live, you wouldn¹t need me to tell you what an amazing woman she is. Her story tellings of love and r=
edemption are powerfully exposed by a window of vulnerability that is just big enough to swallow entire audiences alive. Her new CD =
is all that. Songs like ³Goodbye Mary Jo,² ³I Will Wait For You,² ³Here It Comes² and ³When I¹m Needing Someone² are...well, they¹re=
my favorites! You will find a good mixture of rock and balladry and an excellent sense of what Ms. Ward is all about. Contact Thip =
Records, P.O.Box 5758, Miami Lakes, FL 33014-1758. Or e-mail dw1212@aol.com.
that's it.
---------------------------------65219872539--
