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	Nuts in the Woodwork

	Tommy Kirchhoff

	Cover illustration by Kevin Duffy
	Cover photo by Eric Holladay Courtesy of The Lanthorn Cover design by IQ Visual



	Copyright c Transcending Mundane, 1995 All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without explicit permission from Transcending Mundane TransMun@paracreative.com ISBN 0-9666422-0-1



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	1. La Villa Strangiato 2. Stopping by this dude's house on the Fourth of July 3. Beer and the 12 steps of courtship 4. The horse's mouth 5. Jabberwocky 6. Race Place 7. Ohh noo -- not more snow! 8. Why skiing isn't like sex 9. The crazy eights 10. Gen X mountainview 11. Stoner -- The lost resort 12. It gives me the creeps 13. Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Coffee 14. Shaving is an artform 15. What finesse is 16. The path of fire 17. Embarrassment in the public restroom 18. In the calm of the future with Star Trek Construction 19. The good, the bad and the sharks 20. Nobody lives in my house -- not even for fun 21. A psychoanalysis of the Brady Bunch 22. Top ten thoughts after the O.J. criminal jury decision 23. Creative license 24. Crime and punishment 25. Take my quote, please!



	26. inside hiz head 27. Pan fried fender filets 28. Only madmen laugh at death 29. Hitchhiker's guide to the ride 30. 'Ain't from around here, are you boy?' 31. Surfin' the breaks in Telluride 32. Tellurology 33. The real celebrities of Telluride 34. The (not so) real celebrities of Telluride 35. Name this thing (that's the name) 36. Talk of the town clown 37. Data, drawers and more 38. Three men and a desert 39. Infatuated cactus and indecisive lizard 40. Chambord colada 41. Island 42. Corporate marriage proposal 43. Heart awareness week 44. How I wish again I was in Michigan 45. A gift be what make it in the Florida Keys 46. The Birdwatcher 47. Wisconsin Moon 48. Gifts of Michigan 49. Desert Dessert 50. Mutiny of DNA 51. Was		63 65 68 71 74 76 79 82 85 87 90 93 95 98 101 104 105 108 111 115 117 118 119 120 122 123



	La Villa Strangiato

	Tommy Kirchhoff 041140 Three Musketeers Way Oerhither, Euphoria PNK LFN A 32-cent stamp won't get here. Come to thinch of it, coming to thinch of it is the only way to activate the postal service in Euphoria. The Moody Blues once told me that thinching is the best way to travel; so I closed my eyes, and tooch a journey to the center of my mind. On route, I passed through a few places I really enjoyed. I stopped off in Utopia for a while, but it was boring. Everything had its place, and nothing ever went wrong. It was relaxing, but to me, that's worth less than less. There was nothing there to test me, so nothing to mache me stronger. I'm considering it for a retirement home though. On the flip side of Utopia was Entropia. I liched it a lot. Everything was out of order, and nothing doesn't go wrong. It was

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	definitely a good place for the classless masses, and those that will only drinch drinchs from a glass glass. Entropia, to me, was sort of liche an amusement park. It's way out of hand, and tons of fun, but it can age you real fast. Then I visited Erotica. I'll never be the same... And then three thinchs toward from that, I came upon Dipthongia. I thought the artworch was more creative, more powerful and more spellcasting than anything i had voweled before. Writers, painters and people that enjoy playing records bachward would agree to disagree that it's "a real reality," but I'm the only one that's seen it. So after jaunting through jumps of time-space in my mind, I came upon Euphoria. Here things weren't perfect, but they were damn pleasant. The write things were in their places, and the rong things were too. Here I found enough art to stay dazed and comfortably inspired for a numb time. On the far side of Euphoria is Oeryander. It's very nice and exquisitely beautiful, but it's just too far. First you'd have to find Oerhereandthere, and then jump another astral. And Oerhereandthere is hard enough to find (for you not me). I can't even give you directions, except once you thinch you're there, you're here.



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	But it's nicer here. Oerhither is the right amount of pleasure and it's easy to find. It's right on the edge of Paradox. Once you get into Paradox from "Reality," you just escape and you're here. (Or if you're starting in Telluride, just go for a little walch) Oerhither is where I hang my cat. My mailbox is the only silhouette reminiscent of "Reality." It's a place where I don't feel liche I need a cup of coffee just to make a cup of coffee. It's sleeping in on days off, Beer'o'clock, kissing, Far Niente, RoadTrips and Rochy Mountain High. There are no buildings, no ground, no schy and no horizons. There is only play. And Loki and I spend all of our time reaping the fun and cheching the mailbox. Still no mail yet.



		Stopping by this dude's house on the Fourth of July
	Whose brews these are I think I know, His ass is in the One World though. He will not see me drink his beer, And therefore won't `til later know. My little friend will think it queer To come home drunk and have no beer. Between the milk and molding steak The drunkest evening of the year. He'll give his spinning head a shake To ask if there is some mistake —Then the cupboards with a sweep, But then again the guy's a flake. These brews are lovely, dark and deep But I have promises to keep, And beers to go before I sleep, And beers to go before I sleep.

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	Beer and the 12 steps of courtship

	He shows up at 8:00, ready to go. He feels pretty confident, dressed in an ultra-pale rollneck sweater, new jeans, and leather-and-linen demiboots. He points, winks and casts the "I'm a handsome man" smile across the bar to his awaiting date. He strolls over to the rhythm of Matthew Sweet's "Girlfriend," and smoothly motions for the bartender. As he orders the first beer, she is enchanted by his serenade of sophistication. He takes the first sip, looks at her and says, "Rolling Rock? Why are you drinking that?" She is slightly distracted, but still captivated. The first beer tastes like another, and they carry on through more courtship and glasses of beer. 9:00 comes around, and it's time to break the seal. Somewhere between the bar, the bathroom, and the bar, he's lost his beer. Just before he sits back down to order another, she notices a crepe teeshirt slightly untucked from his pants. A little more

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	distracted, but also slightly more buzzed, she smiles and touches his leg as he sits. By 10:00, they are both pretty loopy. He's joking and she's laughing, and the rest of the bar is pretty tuned out. With a big goofy smile, he lifts the glass to his mouth, takes a big quaff, and burps audibly. She says, "Isn't that my beer." "I don't know - I'm sorry." The music, now Jane's Addiction, has gotten much louder, and other bar patrons are doing some pretty stupid shit. Just after 11:00, she offers some profound advice, and leaves abruptly after his attempts to touch her shoulder, hand, and face within the prior seven minutes. Maybe telling her she looked "so beautiful sitting there in the dark" didn't do much for the relationship either. Now that she's gone, he's quite drunk and feeling insecure if he doesn't have a beer with him at all times. He goes back to the john, and tells all the guys in there what happened while dribbling on his shoes. They all have a jolly-good laugh and, having now bonded, leave the john together. By the time midnight is drawing near, "dog" is picking up the pace drinking, and dancing as he walks around. He's way off the beat to the Chili Pepper's "Warped." He gives a little shake, turns around fast and distributes most of his beer between his



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	sweater and the DKNY blouse of a very pretty girl. Although it's his eleventh faux pas of the evening, she thinks it's funny as hell. They both laugh hard for a minute, then start kissing. He needs a breath, so he stops, grabs the most adjacent beer, and slams it. The owner of the beer is not happy about it, but sees the poor bastard is beer-goggle drunk, and figures karma has served its return. 12:30 spins around, and the two are completely shitfaced. They leave the bar, stumble over to her house, and break a flower planter trying to get in. He heads immediately for the kitchen, and while fumbling through the fridge for any alcoholic beverage, she becomes much too horizontal to drink any more. With beer stains all over his clothes, and various stains on his shoes, he emerges from the kitchen with half a flat, Black Label bomber in one hand, and a cold buffalo wing in the other. He sees that his new pal is down for the count, so he decides to skip any attempts at completing the last three courtship steps. He trips on the carpet, and smashes his head on the doorjamb on the way out to find something a little stronger.



	The Horse's Mouth

		F - yew hava - dait, bet - done - no wut-ta - do, hearsafyew sugjeschuns. Tayk - a - rodetrip - too - a nuther sitty. Dresup - rilly - nyss und - goeta - micdonulds. R - jus dres-grunjee — thadts - jus - az - gud. Dew sumthing - yew- boath rilly - hait, lyk raicking leevs - r - washin- dishez. Wun - uv - mye faivret - things to - dew - iz - preetend yer maireed. Idsfun - tadew - things az - a - cupel, lyk tesdriving - karz, r - pikking owt kertans, r - furnicher. Idsrillyfun - ta - pik owt a - bed tewgethr. Waching - thde sailspersn iz - eevn - bedher. (Phonetic pun intended) Tri - go-en to - thde stoar, anhav - thde - gy - by - tamponz wyl - shee - wachez. Thden, shee byz - comdumz - wyl - hee wachez. Teleechothr - wut - yer - rilly-insecyer - abowt. Thden - teyk pichers - uv - eechothr in-a smal-bathruum. Pucher - monies - 2gethr, und spendit on - sumthin - dum. Pudon - baetheeng - soots und - taek-a - showr - width - sum rub-r-duks. R - fergit -

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	thde - soots. Bya - loderee tikit - und - tauk abowt - wut - yewd - dew - withde - munee. Eetch - uv-yew -rite - down tenthingz - thdat pissu - offf. Xchanj - thdem; thden doan taukabowt - thdem und - doant dew-um. Tri - renteeng-a boawt und - thden-dreenking-wyne undera - brij. Thde - eesyest - way-ta start iz jus width-sum fresh fruit and a knife.



	Jabberwocky

		That's what you say then you just don't know. When the slithy tove and the enyig succomb to the durn of one another's gral. And durn the diec do, yes, and fall to the hun with such gral. They lap and lur and become strun to each other. Then should the tove or the enyig lurch to distell all at once, and bren apart before they fyoon, that's Jabberwock. That's what you say when you just don't care. When a marty strump won't leave you alone. Bil call you and drive past your kune, making you hark and mavish with every try. Strumps are those that have fallen to gush. You try to be neel, and drop them small pifs. Then all at once, when you can take no more shreif, you call them up and yell, "Jabberwock!" It's what you say when you whatchamacallit sniglet. A turick day or a bonning night can leave you dev. The zens just don't come to your lips too swell. You start to gok something, and then can't remember the zen. "It's a... a, je ne se quai? Oh ya! Jabberwock! It's a Jabberwocky!"
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	Race Place

		When you're green, you're growing. When you're ripe, you rot. This is true of all things Zen, especially skiing. You see, you don't understand Zen. You do it. You go with it. You flow with it. You be. Check out Le Descente, or Downhill racing. Downhill is fast. While everyday matters are cluttered in reminiscion and anticipation, the downhill is very Zen. You don't think, you do. Instead of contemplating every move of every turn, you meditate and ski from the feet up. Up until the finish, there is no "time." There is only now. The no mind not thinks no thoughts about no things. The feet, the speed, and the "center" just do. For many, this is the essence of skiing. Leave your brain at home. Skiing is not a science. It is an artless art. It requires no cognition, only action. Go fast. Fear nothing but fear.

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	Ohhh nooo - not more snow!

	"Good mornin' Ralph." "Mornin' George." We greeted with the usual "let's go make the donuts," morning- routine hello. Both a little groggy, we headed off to work for the millionth time. It was the exact same routine as always, but we both knew we weren't going up to work. The fifth day of this cherubic, February storm would be a pleasant end to a paycheck killing week. Thirty inches of groomed powder sat silently on the race hill, with another seven on top of that. The race department followed through the 45 minutes of early morning company procedure - calling ski school, management, ski patrol, sales points, grooming and girlfriends. We battened down the hatches, then paddled down to Three and Four, trying to come up with a chairlift plan. Up Three, down to Nine, over to six? Or up Four, down to Five, over to Six? The latter seemed faster, and less populated. Two people in the line for Four

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	had fatties on, but as it turned out, they went with plan "A." We made it over to Six with no lift complications. We went up, crossing our fingers that the valley stayed clear. Half way up, a K2 5500 came chunking down Apex. We cringed a little bit, and waited to see the others. But no one came. Six dumped us off, and it was empty. We looked up at the top of Nine; it wasn't even running yet. I remember hearing harps... We buckled down, dropped under the shack, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah down Allia's solid thigh-deep dumpage. We reached the lift, covered with white clumps, to exchange head buzzes, high fives and hives. We jumped back on the lift and checked out tracks. My line, his line, his line, my line. Yes! And still no one came. We hit Allia's again - face shots, face plants and inverted landings. Two full runs in utter privacy. We headed back up the lift, and they started to come. A few hacks trickled down Apex; a couple rippers skipped down Allia's; teliers and snowboarders were squirting out of the trees all over the place. The privacy was over, but it was just as much fun to watch them party down and destroy our lines. We unloaded from Six, hung a louie and sped down that little trail toward Apex that



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	has no name. We spontaneously launched off the trail onto Sullie's and ripped, ripped, ripped, ripped, ripped. For two hours, I told my boss how this had been the best skiing I'd ever had. He was smiling beneath an icicled mustache, and telling me how letters would have to be written that night. Midwestern boys in bonding. Then after six or seven mindblowing, binding releasing runs, Gold Hill opened. We were there when they pulled the closure. A Saturday. A scheduled work day. A real bummer. I had to stop twice on the hike. While the boss was jogging in place by Electra, I was the out-of-shape jogger, standing there wincing and pinching my left lovehandle. We hiked to the Little Rose sign at 12-two, mounted up, and traversed over to the boundary. Yup, yup, yup. Right. Words could never do it justice. Both of us snorkeled down, completely drunk on Telluride champagne. You couldn't even call it face shots. Every turn submerged us, down down through heavenly clouds of angelic playland. Beats the living hell out of the Midwest.



	Why Skiing Isn't Like Sex

	Obviously, skiing is best when you're vertical... and alone. You smoke beforehand; then you put your clothes on. Next you head outside. At this point, if you play with your equipment, it honestly won't help your performance. Your bindings are to keep everything together, but they're by no means for anything kinky. Now things get tricky. Of course, there is a certain amount of phallic symbolism to a ski, but remember also that skis are meant to bend. (And, you put wax on a ski to slide, but only in one direction.) Once on the chairlift, you climb higher and higher, but the best part is coming down. The snow is a thing of soft and sensual pleasure, but it's also very, very cold. In skiing, the faster the better. You try to go all day and sleep all night. If you happen to catch air, you don't need to say excuse me. But most importantly, all out of bounds chutes will be marked.

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	And why skiing is... You begin carefully and slowly, as if to warm up and heed caution from injuries. As you ever so gradually pick up speed, cognition fades away. You drop out, turn on and tune in. You can see what's going on and feel the terrain, but thinking turns to Zen. Endless repetition of direction change is a slow-motion exhilaration that is in no way monotonous. Hot and cold; pleasure and pain; vigor and exhaustion all become one as the blood is rushing and cheeks are flushing. The physical tension of wreathing and breathing stir into the mix and add to the wish that the run would never end. Whew! I can't wait to get back up there. But honestly, outerwear is key, and knowing how to handle ice is the total difference between a novice and an expert.



	The Crazy Eights

	The scientific method begins with observation. The ski school takes a pre-season look at the new applications. They see trends in vast experience, and group those people together. Given: Group 10 - Full certs and tech tools. They see applicants with much experience, and skiing ability. Given: Group 9. Then they sort of wince as they look at what's left over. They say, "Let's see... Ah, let's just put all these racers and wreckheads together." Hypothesis: Maybe some turds will float. The instructor hiring clinic begins. On day one, the problem becomes formulated. Nine gravity fed physics students with extrapolated personalities rip the mountain up. They hoot and holler, bust every available line of powder and launch off the snow gun mounds, three at a time. Problem: are they trainable? The experimentation continues. The three clinicians conduct a veritable Chuck

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	Yeager stress test. There are some unbalanced wing rolls and some serious nose-dives, but nobody lets up. With the throttles at full, the group becomes restless and annoyed with petty discourse. Then something goes wrong. The elixir explodes into something toxic and radioactive. The clinic ends with a liquid solution. Beer. Some of the controls were inefficient and ineffective. Seven are hired; two are dismissed as bad batches. These are insignificant numbers as far as the group is concerned. It no longer feels like the Telluride guinea pig. It is Frankenstein. The day it is to be over, the monster awakens under new nomenclature. "The Crazy Eights." Night falls and so do some of the eights. One "bad batch" drinks a fifth of Tequila and punts the wooden sidewalk sign in front of One World for the extra point. The other threatens a clinician in Leimbruber's to leave now or get your ass kicked. "Goodnight folks!" was all I remember hearing. Two and a half months pass and the control is lost. The Eights are out puking on people's carpet, going to detox, and getting arrested. They go unknown to most, but live on as legends to each other. And this week, the Eights reunighted on the eve of Superbowl. The experiments



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	continued. While I opted to discover how many different alcohols I could mix, others took more liberal methodology. The youngest Eight caught 23 consecutive goldfish crackers from across the room; the oldest lobbed a three-point fork toward the sink, landing it squarely on a belligerently sober Eight's forehead. One Eight won 75 bucks on some football game, while another won 25 for a rousing game of asshole golf. So the well-dressed naked apes danced and drinked on into the night, intoxicating their brains to keep them from evolving too quickly. The scientific world progressed in leaps and hops, then came to rest allatonce. The morning's rigor mortis stenched the house as Eight carci lie strewn about. My head still hurts.



	Gen X Mountainview

	The mountain closes again another day. The last ski patrol sweeps to the bottom, and the trees begin to talk. The highest priest (and highest tree on Gold Hill), Dogwood Bark, begins the meeting. "My fellow wisewood. What have thee to offer of this brief winter day?" "Some of the stuff those skiers wear is unbelievable," remarks a spruce from the top of Lift Four. "No offense, but I think we have enough Aspen around here." "Forget the clothes? You're hanging out at the top. The next time I get bonked by a snowboarder, I'm dropping a branch," says a distraught conifer residing next to Village Bypass. "Look at my trunk! I'm a mess!" "Hey, you just get bonked. Agro's are slamming into me all the time, totally out of control!" pipes up a Chair Six tree. A sapling from just below the bridge on the chondola tries to speak but is still giggling to much to get out anything that makes sense. "Flail, ha, ha, ha; oh, aug! Hee,

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	Hee, chunk it up, ha, ha." "...hey, man." a Chair Nine tree speaks - quite stoned from the high mountain air. "I still say humans are right on, I think we can all get along." "That's easy for you to say, Spruce. I don't have any leaves!" an irate aspen protests. Dogwood raises his arms (branches, whatever) and peacefully commands order. "Seek not my children. We are the old and wise. This Western thinking..." We interrupt this Gen X Mountainview to bring you the High Noon traffic report. We go now to Eddie Eagle. "I'm just rolling off my wing tip around Mountain Village, and ain't nothin' going on but the rent. I'm coming over Coonskin Ridge, and it looks as if lift lines are moderate at the base of Seven. A large, sleeping dog seems to be holding up traffic on Pacific. Boy, I'll tell ya. After this morning's walk of shame parade, when that guy ran into that girl, and they sort of stuck together, and like, she started choking on a Lifesaver. After all, it's not really a Lifesaver if it kills ya." OK, Eddie, I think that will do. Now back to our program. "...will not lead you down your path. Not that we can walk." A very disgruntled aspen from the Jud Weibe trail shouts across the valley floor. "I'm



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	still really pissed that someone carved a heart on me that says "R + M" What the hell is r'm? I'm scarred for life!" "Brothers," Dogwood calms. "What will be will be. There are no precautions in this life. Mother Uncompahgre has blessed us with all the safety she could; but the humans need us. `The Giving Tree' is our Way. The humans will find balance between burning us, building with us and their basic need to breathe. Anyway, if we get that upset, all we have to do is hold our breath for a while. Mother knows, that's all it took to kill off those damn dinosaurs."



	Stoner - The Lost Resort

	(Commercial) Up in the Rocky Mountains on Highway 145, you can find a place called Stoner. At Stoner you can smoke `till your lungs look like a bag of Kingsford, ski unkept runs well after twilight, and crash free of charge in the lodge. But if you come, wear a really weird hat and bring your bag; because at Stoner, they don't take kindly to "normality," and they just don't take Amarijuan Disgust. Marijuana Smokers - They're everywhere you want to go. Everytime I drive past Stoner, my imagination frenzies. I'm a little twisted, but this is my image of Stoner in its days of operation... All 37 of the season passholders roll out of bed feeling like total seeds. They limber up their joints and drag themselves to the bus stop. The door swings open, exhaling a thick Jamaican cloud. "Can-a-bus get me to Stoner?" the snowbums all ask in unison. Once there, they rapidly spin up to the

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	top. The egomaniacs come burning down through the blunts, trying to smoke their buddies. The jibbers all smurf a jib in the jib park; and the Mary Janes are totally cooking down the kind snow. At lunch time, everyone heads in for the complimentary munchie bar. A waiter with bloody eyeballs might innocently ask, "Whhaat?" But lunch is finished quickly, because the good runs open in the P.M. They all toke the big chair to the top of Green Dreams and traverse across Zig Zag. They drop down Log Jam (eschewing both Bushsmoker and See Forever Blurry) and come out on the toughest bump run on the mountain: Lost Lighter. Only the dopes dare drop down Paper Chute into the Pact Bowls. People are dying down there; and worse yet, passing out. Ski School is very technical, and comprised of tie-dyed hippies. They're professional charlungs that insist there is only one right way to burn it up. Of course, my description of Stoner's heyday might be a little off. But even so, with a name like that it was meant to go out. Even though they had the sponsorship of Gladbags, Visene and Doritos, they still weren't pulling in enough green. I bet the guys at the ticket window were always saying, "Oh ya...I forgot to charge that guy."



	It gives me the creeps

	Do you own a credit card? Does it give you a nice, elated sense of reliability? That's nice. I used to have one. Loved it. And it was so easy to get. 19 years old, no checking account, no credit history, no job, no money, nothing. I just filled out the application and I had it two weeks later. I almost couldn't believe it, but it looked just like my dad's. So one day (the next day), I was thinking I really ought to christen it. I went out and bought a compact disc. Day three. I awoke and thought, "Man, that was fun." On day 20, "Sorry sir, your card was declined." (Sound familiar?) I realized then that Citibank had a great deal of information about me. They knew my social security, driver's license and every new phone number, .They knew exactly where I lived, even though I moved two to three times a year. I made monthly payments that would just about cover paperwork,

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	computer time, and evaluations of my lifestyle. They knew where I spent the money, what items I purchased, and frequency & amounts. They probably gave me ratings for payment responsibility, cooperation, spending habits and many more cross tabs that I still hadn't figured out. (Even small collection agencies use huge computers and big-time psychological analyses.) Because of that card, a "corporate enterprise" knew almost everything about me. Now, make your own guess at how many people in this country have a credit card, or numerous credit cards. People with credit cards are the majority of money makers, voters, and opinion leaders in this nation. At the same time, everyone that possesses a credit card is, in a way, under the control of their lender. This makes for an interesting concept. We hear the media saying that our economy is moving toward a credit system, as opposed to a currency, or commodity-backed currency system. In other words, no more money — just cards. Well, what if the US Government controlled all the companies like Citibank, and American Express, and had full access to the information they have obtained. They would, and could, have so much information about the money makers, voters, and opinion



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	leaders of this country entered into a supercomputer that they might just be able to manipulate them (us). If you think about the government as a self-protecting entity, in fear of being overthrown and losing its power, it would only have one nemesis - We the People. If We the People are the only ones that could dismantle the government, what would it do, hypothetically, to protect itself? As it needs our tax money to survive, it could only watch us, isolate us and manipulate us with information. Wait a minute. That kind of sounds like a book I read. What was it called? Oh, yeah. "1984." Maybe it should have been called "2004." And just maybe, the new century's monetary system will require all of us to carry one card that keeps all of our information and money— and carries a heavy penalty for going without it. Well, if you ever wondered why I don't like banks or credit cards, now you know. Big brother is watching.



		Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Coffee

	T'was the morn before working and all through its head The creature was stalling still lying in bed It clutched at the pillow and moaned at the morn - get up or lie silent? still trying but torn Then rose like a storm front to menace the land The creature creeped slowly with shaking white hands To the jest of its master (Jumbo to go, black) it turned on the water in attempt to come back But showers are nothing for a monster so fright

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	With the face of a gargoyle and eyes of the night In unstraightened clothing with vessel in grip It haunts out to worship The Black Nasty Drip Then standing in line among creatures and creeps At Starbuck's communion the monster still sleeps Then raise the dark cup to lips of fiend's hair And lap the black blood in death's trancing prayer Then off like a human, an athlete, a King Mr. Coffee can deal `cause joe's just the thing



	Shaving is an Artform

	—Hemingway I push a good glop onto my hand. Looking into the mirror and still wondering what makes a man, I rub it on. I cover my jaw, and my scarred chin. From two strokes over a tight lip, a little gets in my nose. I wipe it over my neck, thinking also of the battle to come. I reach for the razor and know it's time again. —Frost Good strips of skin it is I crop, as wide for sure as the shaving blade. With every pass, the hairs I lop fall in the sink by skin's abrade. The swipes that a life of self-control spares to sweep for the common stock— today my job outrules my soul, to clean my mug's unsightly locks. —Shakespeare Shaving sharply by the blade of shadowed chin chagrin, the razor strains to smartly gain the glow of unscathed skin. But

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	lack of edging oil makes not my blooding cheek; by blunting bladed slice of skin, so stifled not, I squeak. —King The first slash was with too much pressure. Blood creeped slowly at first, then began to run. Hands and razor held the crimson drops, reminding me of my mortality. I continued to make passes with the shining blade, trying with torturous care not to cut myself again. But again and again, the sharp metal bit me, opening my face and spilling out my life. —Dali The blood became sparrows, and I exalted them. With the sky beside me in the mirror, I pushed the blade past my lips and onto my tongue. The wind created from this motion blew away the trees and the sparrows. Denying coprophagism, I wrapped my bleeding neck in toilet tissue, and began a pleasantly mundane humming. —Picasso Y did I shav? I lik the hare on my fase. On boath sides of it I can shav at the same time lik I hav one razer in each hand and I am shaving with both of them at wonce at the same time.



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	—Robbins So I shaved myself and in a while it should stop bleeding. The wars of the planet all rest at once for a moment, as I look into the mirror and see a man beaten. The poor bastard has lost the battle with his boss and the company's goddam grooming policy. His pitiful soul falls into the chasm where shaven men, and women painted with makeup lie victim. Society has rendered them hostages for following social guidelines and obeying orders. They are slaves to the World Corporation. —Kirchhoff So whad-if-eye hadta shaev ime not neerly-is ugli whin-eye git thdat dirtilookin-crap offf mye fase eye git-ta-kepe mye job (gudy) thde-bozs gits offf mye bak, eye git-a payechek— r-ya startin-ta git mye-drif? C iss alll coz-efeck playe-thde gayme und git payd so-it feelz-lyk-chit Om deelin-width-it!



	What Finesse Is

	Finesse- Delicacy and refinement of performance, execution or workmanship. This defines the olympic skaters that have rehearsed the same maneuvers countless times. This defines the violinist whose repetitive and torturous practice has led to a holy perfection of every note. This word defines the college senior, whose trial and error, and numerous successful attempts have labeled him as such. Finesse is knowing how to make Macaroni and Cheese. Sure, just like performing neurosurgery, it looks easy. But the reality is, mac & cheese isn't just a culinary discipline; it's a philosophy and a way of life. Learning to first master temperature, time, amounts and ingredients is just the birth of the boil. There is so much more to be learned. But Rome was not cooked in a day. The first step is being able to make it without the box. Memorization of the amounts and steps is a fair but sophomoric start. You must rid yourself of your earthly gauges. Measuring cups and spoons must

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	be forgotten. You must tune in and feel the amounts. Splash in the milk. Let it be free. Implement the butter using only a knife or spatula, for someday, they may be the only things clean. You must get this "feel" for the amounts to perfect it to your own taste; not everyone enjoys the same consistancy. Only then can you progress into the creative. Specialty M&C's are nothing less than art you can eat. Entry level attempts usually begin simply. M&C Altuna- A richly prepared dish of pasta and cheeses, complimented with select cuts of fancy yellowfin. M&C Salsita- A zesty plate of pasta and cheddar, capped with a designer smoother of chunky salsa (hot or mild) M&Cheeseburger- A purely patriotic plate of tender pasta, lean ground beef and plenty of cheese. A real American treat when garnished with ketchup, mustard and relish. Although fairly typical, these dishes must too be mastered to graduate. After mastery, the fridge is the limits. Yesterday's hay is today's gourmet. Of course, not all delicacies are perfected from the word go. M&C mixed proportionally with spaghetti sauce will leave you with a rancid aroma, a caustic cleanup and a dish you wouldn't serve your dog. Equally as bad (if not much, much worse) M&C stirred up with instant mashed



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	potatoes will not only leave an impossible cleanup, but offers a taste and consistency that only compares with wet mortar. Trust me on this one, it will make you feel like you ate a bag of sand. (It seals up cracks nicely, though) Sometimes, in preparation of a breakthrough dish, I'll neglect to even use that cheese packet. It usually turns out to be spaghetti, but it opens an unusual and edible door (literally). Save that little gem for the next meal. With lockjaw and clogged veins, I give you M&C². I know, I know. It should be (2)M&C. But after you try it, you'll agree that the name should reflect an exponential cheese value. Mmmm, boy! As a friendly aficianado, I'm willing to let you in on a few of my favorites. I won't give you the directions, but rather, allow you to explore a palette of tastes by name alone.; Strawberry Smuckers M&C; Oreo's M&C; M&C Key lime; M &Three Cheese; M&C Stewed Tomatoes; Macaroni and Cheese Curls; MD M&C (to kill the Mad Dog munchies); Jay then M&C (The best you've ever had!) I can't say enough about this savory and versatile delicacy. For its cost effectiveness, packaging, flavor and nutritional value, it's the number one choice of college students nationwide. And although I hate it with all the spite and disgust of war, a meal is always just nine minutes away.



	The Path of Fire

	Each of us is on a life path. Some of us are searching for the divine truth. Others just let it happen. Others, still, choose to eat unbelievably spicy food. And let them worship, for it is their path. Your path is paved in experience. Green Chiles are a step. Blackened is a step. Jalapeños can be a hurdle. But as Confucius said, "It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop." If you've read "The Celestine Prophecy," you no doubt take notice of strange coincidences in your life. Maybe you hear the word "Zen" twice in one day and say, "Hmmm... I wonder what that's all about." Or maybe you notice that the foods you used to think were hot are now just tasty—and you want to go hotter. The word of the week is Wasabi. You know, the little pile of green toothpaste you get when you order sushi. If you get enough of that stuff in your soy, or more importantly in your mouth, you know what Zen is—

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	without knowing it. For a good four to seven seconds, "The no mind not thinks no thoughts about no things." If spicy food is your religion, the wooden platform is your shrine, and you may just have to hold onto it to keep from falling out of your chair. Now wasabi is hot, but it's also over in the blink of an eye. A friend once brought some authentic jerk sauce back from Jamaica. We slow roasted a heavily jerked chicken, then began eating. It took an hour to eat, and three more to calm down. As Jamaican Rastafarianism makes sacred the Old Testament, jerked chicken is as Revelation 9:17: "And thus I saw horses in the vision, and them that sat on them, having breastplates of fire... and out of their mouths issued fire and smoke and brimstone." I might mention that, besides the fiery sensation left on the lips and palate, by path of experience, the flavor was very good. These affections are common denominators among many religions. Spicy food, like Shamanism and worship of the Absolute, can be boiled down from most any religious sect. From food springs life. From life, we experience. This experience leads us down our path to enlightenment. But once I ate one of those crazy Szechwan peppers... just for experience. For approximately 20 minutes, I lost all track of reality and tuned in to the Absolute. It was a wasabi buzz with



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	the hang time of jerk sauce. In the first 30 seconds, I began channeling with the Pliedeans. We discussed our higher purpose of evolving to our light bodies, and creating the universal communication station from our planet. The Blue Star would soon begin to take effect. The Photon Belt will engulf us and our petty interests and preoccupations will become null. I learned that the Absolute is so much more comprehensive than I had anticipated. A "God," as termed by so many earthly cultures, is a very powerful collection of universal, seed-sowing energies. These energies are so powerful, it is vain to even consider their vastness, nature or ability. I was rapidly evolving to my light body to join this universal communication energy, and become it. I felt the common essence of every universal religion... And let me tell you, that Motha' was HOT! Which brings me to the end—the, uh, rear end. The only gospel I can preach to you as a matter of the Almighty Truth is this: All things being cyclical, reincarnated or what have you, any food with real zest will certainly be tasted twice.



	From the fires of Hell does it quicken, Comes wryly the wrath of Jerked Chicken. And oh what a plight, For much more than a bite, Burns assholes and makes them ache strickened.

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	Embarrassment in the Public Restroom

	It was a cold winter morning. I woke up as usual, one minute before the alarm went off, and headed downstairs for a shower. After hosing off the previous day's bad karma and air pollutants, I headed back upstairs to get dressed. I chose a pair of baggy jeans from the buffet of dirty clothes on the floor and hopped in. (I don't do it one leg at a time... You do the math) I headed out to school to make my 8 o'clock. I innocently sat through a lecture on muscle motor units and twitch response, with no foresight of a problem. After class, I decided it was too cold to walk around with my bladder so burdened, so I strolled over to the nearest lavatory facility. I carefully chose a hairless, non-frothing urinal and unzipped my fly. After a few seconds, I looked down to see that semester's strike of terror. (No, that was fine) I looked down to see a pair of my raspberry colored underwear hanging out of my pant leg, onto my left shoe. Not just a little, but three quarters the way, and they were being

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	held by my tapered pant leg. I blushed, flushed and quickly pulled them the rest of the way our and tucked them into my coat pocket. I remembered walking past some football players in the lobby, and giving them my always confident, "Hay." Hee-haw, hee-haw. At least I found them in the john. It's the best place to keep a man's behavior in check; there are rules you know. No talking; no looking; no hesitation; wash your hands if there are other people in there. "A man's ambitions must be small to read the writing on the shit-house wall." I think it's a mandatory boredom-fighter. And while we're there, pants off to those little toilet paper stopppers. Man, don't those piss you off? Like one sheet is going to finish any job. In microbiology they teach that it takes seven layers of toilet paper to keep anything undesirable from contaminating your hand. (I can't believe I just wrote that) I'd like to meet the guy that invented the T.P. Stopper. I bet he's one hell of a bargain shopper. He probably lives on Spam sandwiches, and uses the bread bags for winter boots. Now how about that toilet seat. In both men's and women's public rest rooms, the seat is always up. It also seams that women are just as lazy as men when it comes to



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	targeting. I understand from a reliable source that if a seat looks like a bad situation, women just "hover?" (I can't believe I wrote that either!) Then at home, women don't mess around with complaining about the seat being up. You play dirty and buy those thick padded toilet seat covers. You know that those things won't just lean against the reservoir. We have to stand there and hold them up. Or the other option is to sit down. Well, real men don't eat quiche; and real men don't pee sitting down.



	In the Calm of the Future with Star Trek Construction

	Space. The Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the contractor enterprise. Its yearly mission, to construct strange new homes, to bill out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no man has peed before. They said it was inevitable. Development would come. Homes would be built. Overpopulation would drive people CRAZY. And now look. Twenty-thousand homes right here on the Moon. Builder contracting has taken quite a turn since the birth of the Post Modern Age. Some contractors held on like a puppy to a root; but without strong code knowledge and communication channels, they didn't have a pot to pee in. Star Trek Construction has revolutionized the building industry. From the get-go, they put on their bib and tucker and erected moon housing in the fine traditions of etiquette and Frank Zappa. "You'll love it. It's a way of life," they

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	would say to owners, entertaining them until they peed their pants. A full service, full entertainment, full wet bar contracting crew. Star Trek Construction believed if you spare the rod, you'll spoil the child. Hence came the "Three-strike change order rule." They offered owners three changes during the construction of a home, then locked them behind two-inch moon glass until C.O. Because STC knew which side its bread was buttered on, the "Shut up and draw" rule was offered to architects. An egotistical architect would be cutting his own nose to spite his face if he became unruly. STC would then put him into orbit around the moon in a small Faxstation. "Just FAX, OK?" When preliminary moon development began, the nuts really started coming out of the woodwork. Every Tom, Dick and Harry wanted to work up here. Because sometimes the cure is worse than the disease, STC commissioned the Phunny Pharmaceuticals Company to produce a nonaddictive "work-happy" stimulant to increase production levels. The drug, "Catholic Girls," was a duke's mix of Prozac, caffeine and a few other goodies that you could just add water and it would make its own sauce. With sub-contractors happily working at madmen's pace, hold-ups due to weather at a minimum, and material delivery smoothed out with anti-gravity freight, the



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	only thing left to keep STC on pins and needles was bureaucracy. The epitome of this was a dark man called The Derlanor. Because he wouldn't say boo, bye or shit to contractors and common folk, many Moonurideans wouldn't spit on the best part of him. STC believed he who dances must pay the fiddler, so they played his game. Anyway, calling him a capitalist pig would be like the pot calling the kettle black. (You can stay home and not make any money.) But Start Trek Construction worked a full day - that is until a young boy discovered the secret of time travel and rifted history. Existence was eradicated and STC was not even a legend. Like they say, a stitch in time saves nine. What the hell do they mean by that?



	The Good, the Bad, and the Sharks

	Welcome to the Business School of Fish. Life under the sea is tough- but we're going to show you how to survive. Like your grandpa always said, "Ya gotta eat." At the Business School of Fish, we will show you what to eat, what not to eat, and how to keep from being eaten. The food chain is your only business. (But we also have one of the best swim teams around.) A sample curriculum could include: Feeding 101 - A fish is killed by its open mouth. Don't ever forget that. Run and Hide 122 - A vital key to surviving. The syllabus will include finer points of sprinting, camouflage, and hiding behind rocks. An "A" earned for every day you survive. Invertebrates 260 - They look inviting - but watch out. Sea urchins seem like a good eating, but you'll find out they can be REAL PRICKS. Lawyers 312 - An advanced class. After completing prerequisites Mean 280, Don't

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	Move 299 and Watch Your Ass 300, you'll learn all about Sharks. It's not to say they're bad. Sometimes when the sharks feed, everybody eats well (except you-know-who). Lots of kibbles and bits for everyone! Some meat even settles to the bottom for the eels and crabs, and Realtors and stuff. Food Chain Theory 400 - Philosophical debates on "Only dead fish swim with the current," and "Fish heads from the paper cutter." Syllabus is mostly comprised of theoretical guts that wouldn't make a difference with a sea lion chasing you. All business students are required to do extensive field work around large predators. You'll get a real feel for teeth on your ass with daily attacks by little Red Snappers and even the benevolent dolphin. After all, it may not matter how big or fast you are. Everything out there is hungry, mean and plays dirty. Barracuda may stare silently, maybe even ignore you. But they turn fast. The food chain can change directions at any time. Even little appetizers can turn around and decide they're tired of being picked on. Little fish hire sharks to beat somebody up; Hard Knock schools of piranha gang up and rip things apart. Life feeds on life - but it's just business. This holiday season, Merry Christmas from "All the Fish in the Sea."



	Nobody lives in my house-not even for fun

	I tugged down last Friday. It was a descent schwag at best that had been drying since the earth cooled. Although the quality wasn't there, it was still a good one because I hadn't seen Rob in a few months. Reunited, and it feels so good. As I glanced around, I said to myself, "Ripper... Move the furniture, loud music, BYO. Tomorrow would be good." I planned everything into an unoccupied bedroom and started working on a guest list. Ya, maybe this one's gonna need a keg. The view out the front window spellbound me as I pictured wall-to-wall people and beer spilling everywhere. The image of Bear Creek and San Jaquin overlapped with visions of half-naked pagans bouncing around my living room. Well, thinking led to thinking and thinking and thinking. In other words, I didn't get much done. Saturday came and I started moving furniture. The coffee table still held an

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	unfinished crossword puzzle from a month old paper. The house was messy and the plants had been suffering because no one really lived here. Since the landlord decided to kick us out, the fun kind of went out with the trash. My roommates were either moved out, or on their way out. Every time I came home, I was alone. This party would be a tribute to the house I fell in love with all spring. I lined up a keg and kept making calls - all the while thinking of sweet Ali napping on the couch, or Tom cooking tortillas on the open gas range. With any luck, something would break. Maybe a drunk Telluridian would fall into the wall and leave a dent. I just wanted to landlord to know I was disturbed by the whole thing. Evening came, and no one showed. Eight, nine, ten... by 10:30, five "buddies" had come. We skipped the keg and bought a twelve. Well I guess it's not the size of the party, but the caliber of the people. It was still a good time. And the jokes about having a monster bash with people packing in kept getting funnier for the entire hour they were here. So once again, another brilliant idea induced by praying to the almighty Cannibus. So what if it didn't happen. When it does happen, you're invited.



	A Psychoanalysis of the Brady Bunch

	Case #1 - Due to the stress of his impotence and his architectural career, Mike alleviates his melancholic state with alcoholism and a cocaine addiction. I have given him a prescription for Prozac and suggested that he does something physical a few times a week, like big game poaching or jai-a-lai. Case #2 - Carol spoke of a dream of mangling baby ducks with a rock rake. From this I have discovered a repression neurosis of reaction formation. She holds an unconscious hostility expressed in the form of exaggerated tenderness. I have hypnotically labeled that response to dislike sharp and bladed objects, and told her to allow the maid to carryout most of the child disciplining. Case #3 - In Greg's exaggerated attempts to seem "cool" with his peers, he displays obsessive compulsive behavior marked by chauvinism, smoking and alcohol abuse. When he claimed a girl couldn't drive

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	a car as well as a man, I just smacked him around a little. It sure made me feel better. Case #4 - I have been trying to get Marsha to cut her hair, take off the rose-colored glasses and come down a little. She's a glamour seeker. Her belief that her beauty and interpersonal skills will carry her to stardom are possible, but pompous behavior like that can only lead to rollercoaster affairs and manic depression. I want her though. Case #5 - At 13, Peter's phallic name and his pubescence have put him squarely into a disturbing Freudian Oedipus complex. His frequent "handling" of his... well... he has personal problems secondary to his will to "kill father," and bed his mother. I think it's humorous, but I told him he'd soon go blind. Ha, ha, ha. Case #6 - Jan is a freak. Neurosis Ultimas. I'm concentrating primarily on her ugly duckling complex with false compliments and "hope for the future." When Jan and I have session, I just want to pull out the .357 and do one of us! (Save the other!) Case #7 - Bobby's a "little man." He's uncoordinated, sort of goofy, and always the last to get picked for basketball. Hence, a solid Adlerian Napoleonic complex. Bobby's teen years will be difficult, but I reassure him that success is his destiny. I bought him a Playboy and told him to read it cover to cover, and ignore the pictures. That should be a



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	good start. Case #8 - Cindy is a clear case of Plavlovian classic conditioning. She lisps in unconscious attempt to receive attention. What can you tell an eight-year-old girl about her neurosis? "Stop it, dammit!" Case #9 - Alice is a vamptress, sex addict, sadomasochist. Her delusion of male, sexual prowess is materialized in a "meat guy." The dreams she spoke of were disturbing as well as exciting. I couldn't help myself but jump her on the clinic couch. Wow. Case #10 - Sam. He's pretty dumb.



		Top ten thoughts after the O.J. criminal jury decision

	10. O.J. - "I wonder what Ted Kennedy's doing for dinner." 9. The Mafia - "A little sloppy, but I think we can use him." 8. Steven King - "Now that's entertainment!" 7. Ross Perot - "You see, that's the American economy at work." 6. Lou Holtz - "That's why that scumbag played for USC and not here." 5. The Pope - "He'll be calling here tomorrow. We'll transfer it to Holtz." 4. Leslie Neilson - "Shirley you must be joking." 3. Marcia Clark - "I need a drink." 2. Charlie Manson - "Come on man, have some pride!" 1. The Killer - "I wonder what Ted Kennedy's doing for dinner."
		From the immortal works of O.J. Simpson, "Thinking is what gets you caught from behind."

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		Creative License

	1. RUNUTS2 2. ASKNUT 3. YNUT 4. 1DERNUT 5. NUTSAYN 6. KILIT 7. PNK LFN 8. 2RDFRNC 9. URN82P 10. 17NOWL 11. 2LWTHIT 12. LDZPLN 13. D2RAHED 14. KYJELE 15. SNDHOL 16. NTRSR8 17. NOVAHN 18. OVERKIL 19. INHALE 20. HIATWRK 21. WITT 22. 4TON5OO 23. NTRSR824. 24. 5LSDED 25. CLVRK9
				26. 14ONO41 27. XLER8 28. N4MER 29. FRDENT 30. XERNOFR 31. A4DUBL 32. SINDBRAD 33. HEYQT 34. XACCHNG 35. NTROP 36. SHIMPN 37. PURPNTS 38. KSLADIA 39. OPMHI 40. MSTRB8 41. I4NIC8 42. M8NCAL 43. NEBRE8 44. BL8NFOL 45. DFIC8 46. DIL8DI 47. L84D8 48. 12D8ME 49. IBCHLN 50. PZ2UBRO

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Crime and punishment