ANTI-PRESS EZINE #12 "We're Positive About The Negative" A February E-dition (C) Copyright 2000 Anti-Press All Rights Reserved Unless indicated otherwise, all articles by Anti-Press. Articles submitted by others do not necessarily express or reflect the opinions or beliefs of Anti-Press. Anti-Press Ezine radiates from our Reality Center. We're presently entrapped in the alleged city of Plattsburgh, northeastern New York State, USA. ("Mommy, I see boobies in that picture..." "Shut up, you f---ing brat and don't look at that f---ing filth!") ============================================================= THIS E-DITION: "SORRY -- CENSORED" / THIS ARTICLE ONLY WASTES ONE MINUTE / WOULD STEVE ALLEN READ THIS OUT LOUD? / Viki Reed Trashes TeeVee Times Two: GAME SHOWS OF THE LIVING DEAD & SHAME: THE UNPLEASANT WAY * * * "SORRY -- CENSORED" They laughed. The two people, most likely husband and wife, appeared to be honest country folk, a hard-working couple who ran their own farm. Maybe they were visiting the city to take care of some business at the county building, had just left the Department of Motor Vehicles after renewing a license. Whatever their business had been, it didn't matter for the moment because they were looking at the artwork on display in the main lobby showcase. And they laughed. The man wore a plaid wool jacket, typical attire for someone who lived in the rural northeastern corner of New York State. Probably had a hunting tag hanging from the back of his wool coat when it was open season. The woman wore conservative clothing, nothing that would make her stand out in the crowd. Both were well-dressed, average Americans in the rustic Clinton County mold. At a glance you could easily assume that their politics probably matched their clothing: conservative. You could also assume they were church-going people who took the matter of morals seriously. There's a lot of conservative Republicans in this part of the state. Even the Democrats have to run as conservative Democrats to draw in enough votes. So what did this couple find so amusing in the display case? Among the drawings, watercolors, and photographs by local artists, twenty-two pieces all neatly arrayed behind protective glass, they had noticed item #18. It had been turned around, facing the wall, so no one could see the image. On the listing sheet below #18 someone had marked in black pen: "Sorry -- Censored". Maybe the couple didn't realize who they were really laughing at. Later someone clarified the note with three additional words: "Sorry -- Censored By the Legislators". All that could be seen of item #18 was its plain brown paper backing. It reminded us of the jokes about pornography in a plain brown wrapper. We wondered how shocked this middle-aged farm couple would be if the drawing was revealed to them. We had seen the art before the orders came down from upstairs to unface item #18. It was a black and white sketch, classic pose, of a nude woman, very tastefully done. But the county legislators didn't want any nudity, any controversy. Apparently they were elected by the public to decide what the public could see. They were the guardians of decency, out to protect the public from itself. But most people could view worse on their teevees or on the Internet. The majority of them would be surprised that such an innocent work would be made to face the wall like a problem child who was feared could corrupt the other kids. We had watched the dedicated artists hang their display. We had glanced at the nude sketch, all the other works, and then walked away. We didn't give item #18 a second thought until we came back later and saw it had been turned around after the artists had left. Then we had more than just second thoughts. Did the legislators think that the nude sketch was pornographic? Did it arouse a shameful reaction in one of them? If so, that was their pathetic bone of contention for censoring such a work. After all, this is the year 2000 C.E. The city of Plattsburgh had just elected an openly-gay mayor. The drawing was of a nude woman; the artist was a woman. Were the county legislators shocked by the gay mayor and were afraid a female nude by a female would smack of lesbianism? Who knows what the legislators "think". We could wildly speculate some more on why it happened but in the end it doesn't matter. The fact remains that free expression has been squelched, no matter how "noble" the intentions. This overt act of censorship indicates a pismire mentality, i.e. the pismire would rather keep its tiny eyes down on the ground, looking for any filth lying about, never looking up to comprehend the vast beauty of the sky. The offending item couldn't even stay in the display case with its back to the viewers. It was eventually taken upstairs, out of sight, out of mind. And the note about who censored the work? That was also turned away from view, folded down so the statement was hidden from the vulnerable public. The censors even censored the mention of their censorship. There would be no troublesome controversy, no derisive laughter. No one else would know why the space for item #18 was empty. Except us. And you. * * * THIS ARTICLE ONLY WASTES ONE MINUTE OF YOUR TIME The other afternoon we were standing in line at the local post office. This was over a week after the Xmas package frenzy but people had all sorts of items to be mailed. Us, we just needed an aerogramme to write to a friend in England. Anyway, while standing in line, we noticed one of those signs that use patterns of LEDs (Light Emiting Diodes) to show messages across a long display board, three or four words at a time. We watched the message flash line by line like a modern version of Burma Shave road signs. WE KNOW THAT TIME IS IMPORTANT TO YOU. IF YOU ARE WAITING IN LINE FOR MORE THAN FIVE MINUTES PLEASE TELL THE CLERK. Seven minutes later it was our turn to walk up and do business with a clerk. We inquired about the sign, telling her that we had been in line longer than five minutes and we wondering about the purpose of the message. The Postal Employee said that the sign meant that a customer should inform a clerk if he had waited longer than five minutes in line. OK. We waited for a moment but there was nothing else. No free stamp. Not even a lolly pop. Nothing to lick at all. We got zip (and we don't mean a free ZIP code). So what is the purpose of that sign flashing that message? Didn't anyone think that a customer would see that message, then ask the clerk about it and in the process of that inquiry CAUSE MORE FREAKIN' DELAY FOR THE PEOPLE BEHIND HIM!? By the way, we read in the paper than the Postal (dis)Service wants to raise its rates next year. Yep, we want them to send more money on flashy LCD signs that promote inefficiency. AAAAAARRRRRRGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! * * * WOULD STEVE ALLEN READ THIS OUT LOUD? Flipping thru the channels on the teevee the other day and came across a PBS special honoring comedian and writer Steve Allen. He was the top teevee show host in this time. Nowadays you can tune in someone like David Letterman and his ilk and you'll see them perform crazy stunts or ask silly man-in-the-street questions. But Letterman & Co. didn't originate these bits. Who did? Yep, ol' "Steverino". One of Allen's bits was reading angry letters-to-the-editor from various newspapers. There is humor to be found sometimes in those letters from outraged citizens. Even the local Plattsburgh (news)Paper can even generate a chuckle on occasion. On the other hand, there are letters that make us apprehensive about certain people co-existing in our community (but not necessarily co-existing in the same plane of reality). Take this letter to the editor by a regular contributor who is always thumping his Catholic bible on his Right-To-Life soapbox. "To the Editor: Every now and then someone in this paper writes an article about the boy in Plattsburgh that was arrested for killing the neighbor's boy by stabbing him with a pen-knife. This always brings up a question on my mind. When he was stabbing that boy, was he, in his own mind, stabbing his abortionist father? Did anyone ever ask him that?" Ahem. But then that letter shows some sort of logic as compared to this next excerpt from another angry citizen. It appeared just after the Xmas celebration, that time of year where people festoon their homes with gawdawful lights and other tacky decorations. Apparently this writer has a problem with a certain type of light, the "icicle" kind. In addressing the Editor, the writer says he sees these lights on every house in the area and we should wonder about the waste of electricity with such showy displays. Then he states he is alarmed about how these lights could create a power shortage and therefore exacerbate a Y2K event. He slams our society for being wasteful; people don't have common sense and concern for their fellow man. This is far as we can sensibly paraphrase the letter. We'll let the rest of this meandering missive speak for itself: "There are higher powers watching our erroneous ways, laughing at our folly. They can turn the tide at any moment, seizing our lives and shaking some sense into mere mortals. Whether Y2K or beyond, should we tempt fate with something as silly as icicle lights? I think not. There are other powers as well, alignments of celestial bodies, portents and magnetism too powerful for mere humans to even comprehend the existence of, much less the purpose. People are laughing, celebrating, hanging their icicle lights, oblivious to the unseen dangers of our time. It is a separate reality we must face, and that reality may arrive on the heels of the millennium." As Steve Allen might quip: "Hey, pal, lay off the X-Files reruns for a while." * * * Game Shows of the Living Dead: GOOD ANSWER! GOOD ANSWER! By Viki Reed In the 1990s some Hollywood Player decided to remake all 1970s game-shows. What comes out of your TV is thirty minutes of contestants and hosts sporting zombie-eyes. The New Family Feud stars Louie Anderson as hostage, more than host. He walks spongy Minnesotans through exchanges like: "Name something you'd find in a mall.... you need 200 right answers to win, which means you must match at least 148 people on this last question...you only have 4 seconds on the clock...things you'd find in a mall?" Don't forget what made Family Feud great in the first place: the usually soused Richard Dawson snaking his tongue down a housewife's throat while her whole family claps to Hee-Haw music. Extreme Gong, the spawn of Chuck Barris's anarchic Gong Show, is a stroke of extreme emptiness. A migraine with an audience; emceed with faked-enjoyment by goateed-stud George Gray, who flaps-around like a new sail on an old crab-trawler. Actors perform stupid people tricks on a level of self-awareness so acute that you can feel them mentally adding Extreme Gong to their resumes. Going back in a time is much saucier: recall Jaye P. Morgan flashing her old but lovely cans at The Unknown Comic. Those were the days. As for the malodorous New Hollywood Squares, you'd expect a Greenwich Village performance-artist like Whoopi Goldberg to find a better showcase for the word "fart". Undeniably, Hollywood Squares money is not to be passed, like so much gas. Whoopi is no Paul Lynde (the queeny, schunk-drunk center-square legend). Also missing is vice: you don't see many squares smoking or drinking scotch anymore. But there, for His Grace is Brazilian actor Antonio Banderas, mercifully banished to a corner in no-square land, where he's unburdened from having to quip in phonetic English. The New Match Game is a death after life experience. Who else but lascivious, skull-faced Gene Rayburn could've humped spontaneity into what is essentially live Mad Libs? Where's a relaxed (tipsy) Charles Nelson Reilly tugging on a pipe? Where's Brett Sommers and Richard Dawson leering at Joyce Bufont? Okay, we don't miss Nipsy Russell's stinky poems, but a sugary-pastry, like host Michael Burger, can't lift a show that still thinks "boobies", "potty", and "whoopie" are risque. Just turn the zombies around and march them backwards into the biggest Hollywood Boulevard sinkhole-and don't even think about remaking The $1.98 Beauty Pageant with or without Rip Taylor * * * Shame, The Unpleasant Way By Viki Reed If you live in Los Angeles, and you can see a skirt of brown clouds just hanging over the city...that's not smog, that's shame. It's the collective mist left by all celebrities and wanna-be's in LA. I don t know if anyone else noticed, but the day after Eddie Murphy was arrested for picking up a male transvestite prostitute, there was a "STAY INDOORS - SMOG ALERT" in the Southland. My chest has felt tight since The Martin Short Show began, for example. If I could hold Short's hands to his sides for just a minute, I would tell him: If you emulate a TV host, try to pick someone other than Mike Douglas. A nice man, but without a select talent. On the Martin Short Show I get to see: Martin wearing prosthetic make-up devices in the name of sketch comedy that take longer to apply than they're worth seeing; numerous snapshots of Young Martin in between segments; and I get to count the number of times Short goes from open-kneed to cross-legged positions in what must be the most regrettably comfortless Host Chair in all of television. His vapor of a sidekick is so clearly joyless he might as well be wearing a McDonald's uniform. Somewhere around night two of his show, Martin adopted the Amos- and Andy-ish phrase, "Right CHEE-awh!" as in: "We have Kelly Preston for you tonight, right-CHEE-AHW!" Some blame global warming on the smog. I know it's Martin Short. The good thing about a big star's comeback is that they have to go away again soon after. Laying low and being sucky has supported Cher for a long time. Recently showbiz-en-masse hosted a welcome back to Cher that began with her lip-synching her own version of the National Anthem and culminated with an HBO Special Concert. As if Cirque Du Soliel was bred with with an impromptu film festival: Real 'Lipo-Face-Lift Cher' performed a three-decade-long medley of gold records while, 'Young-Thin-Cher' Lookalikes (Wearing song-and-era-appropriate period Bob Mackie Rhinestone Pizza Gowns) paraded behind her. Because Real Cher's own corset changes are so lengthy, a giant movie screen plays a montage of her finest filmed moments. I think in this case, that crowd was responsible for all of the shame; they made her that way. WARNING: TO DICK CLARK: stop making variety shows. Burn the Star Search/Chevy Chase Theater to the ground, give the dancer's outfits to The American Way, lose the disco ball, the pyrotechnics and let it go, man. Let it GO, please. "Your Big Break!" is the new DC Productions entity. Entity is the right word for it. The terror in my heart clutched at my being from beginning to end of this new talent-contest-karaoke-show . The host is the most anemic black man in the history of entertainment; he talks as fast as his pupils zip and unzip. What happens next is the result of Dick Clark's army of evil scouring karaoke clubs and bars all over...Southern California. Not the world, not the land, not the country. Just So-Cal. People who do regular day jobs because they're not talented enough to sing professionally. The illusion is supposedly complete when they dress the contestants to look like their music idol. Wow! An ordinary man can be turned into Joe Cocker? How'd you get the same beer-gut? There should be a word for the phenom of a played-out song, rendered off-key by a surf-board salesman, or a karaoke-barfly. By the time the house-painter did a full Mick Jagger, kissing a fake Keith Richards (who doesn't even sing) , I was high and disabled. Yes, you should all be ashamed. All of you who guested on Magic Johnson and told him how kickin' the show was. All of you who buy Humm-Vees because Arnold did. The Road Rangers too. The cell phones and Gilligan's Island remakes. Don't forget the Circus of the Stars or Battle of the Network Stars...we should all be ashamed of ourselves. I personally work on shame I hold because I cheered Gabriel Kaplan's marathon dead-heat defeat of macho Robert Conrad on the most memorable Battle of the Network Stars. But you made me that way. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Submitted works must be ready for publication (edited and proofread). Word Limit: 1000 words. No sci-fi, poetry, sci-fi poetry, poetic sci-fi, etc. Do some research and read a couple of issues to find what we want. Submissions and readers' comments should be sent to Antipress1@aol.com. 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