The Editors Speak:

Zelda says:

I'd just like to thank all those in the alternative culture industry who deemed
us worthy of mentioning in their zines, "real" or otherwise. We're not worthy!
We're not worthy! Then again, maybe we are, who knows, whatever...why bore you
with all that? Anyway, welcome to another issue. Step into our little world of
delirum with us, won't you? Sit back, relax and let Dead Jackie take you away on
a magical trip through her demented mind. She promises to have you home by 11,
but watch your wallet!

Tania says:

To clarify one thing--we are in fact lesbians putting this zine together. I say
this because, while quite a few people know and care who Jackie was not very many
dykes seem to. So for those sisters of Sappho out there asking, "Why Jackie?" I
give the following translations into lesbianese for the title of our twisted
zine: 

Boobs-a-gogo 
Tittie City 
Cuntarama 
Clits-R-Us 
Eating Out 
Pussy

any questions?

Dead Jackie Susann Quarterly Masthead--

Editors and Publishers: 
Zelda Underground 
Tania '74 
Staff Writer: 
Venus Futura
Contributors:
Kate Boss 
Electra Complex 
Darlene Conner 
Amy Fisha 
Jody Froster
Franny Glass 
Chastity Ohno 
Carmen Miranda Rights

as channeled by Sydney and Liz

Dead Jackie Susann Quarterly 
61 E 8 #178 
NYC 10003 
(212)228-1240

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. All events portrayed
are ficticious. Any (ficticious)person's appearance here is not to be construed
as information about said person's sexual orientation, eating habits or shoe
size. This material is not copyrighted; please acknowledge DJSQ when quoting or
reproducing.

Contents

My Life as an MTV VJ 
Ode to Marisa Tomei  
Sex, the Single Girl, and the Cultural Elite, Pt.11 
Fear and Loathing the Brady Way
Stepford Queers 
Books and Stuff 
Gender Euphoria and the (LA)Law of the Land
Guncrazy: The Ms. 45 Years 
Taxi Driver  
Notes from the Sofa Track 
How to Avoid Palimony 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

My Life as an MTV VJ: The Diary

June 1, 1992: I don't know how I ended up here, but I'm at MTV for my first day
of work. Somehow, after seeing my public access show "You Bet Your Breasts,"
they thought I should audition as a "host" (or hostess; I don't think they were 
quite sure at that point).  When I went in, there were five or six other candidates
milling around, nervously rehearsing jokes and eyeing each other suspiciously. 
	I introduced myself happily to everyone, knowing full well that MTV would NEVER
hire an out lesbian with a "Sarah Gilbert Forever" tattoo permanently affixed
to my upper arm. I figured I had nothing to lose, so I unnerved them with my
casual manner just for the hell of it. 
	The audition was silly. They gave me a list of videos to introduce, and I had to 
ad-lib the in-betweens and intros. No sweat--I introduced "Erotica" by doing Sandra 
Bernhard's parody of it ( "I'm running down a hallway, pretending I'm a lesbian, 
Neurotica"); I introduced "Constant Craving" by explaining "Waiting for Godot" to an 
audience I was sure thought Sam Beckett was a country singer, and then asked if 
anyone else noticed she dressed a lot better since she came out. When Whitney 
Houston's "I'm Every Woman" came up, I began to think there was a deliberate hand in 
the playlist. I related my reaction to the original Chaka version (thinking the song 
was "Climb Every Woman, I was under the impression it was the dyke national anthem), 
and then made rude comments about Miss Pregnant thing working that baby for all it
was worth. Two more songs, and I was out of there. 
	Next day, I got the call that would change my life forever. And here I am.

June 2, 1992: Well, I've spent most of my time being introduced around. It's kind
of strange here: everyone keeps saying "Oh, you're the new lesbian VJ. How
great!" Gag on this, babe. I noticed that Duff is so much more butch than I have
ever been, and that they're fooling themselves if they think I'm the first queer
on staff. As I'm getting ready to tape my segment, I meet Kurt Loder. I really
like his work, and tell him this. "Thanks, and I loved You Bet Your Breasts."
Suitably humbled, I went in to the studio and made fun of the graphics behind me,
while forced to endure another slew of Def Leppard videos.

June 10: Things seem to have eased up a little: I'm feeling more at home; and
they've given me my own production assistant, a blonde waif named Ivy, whose
resemblance to Tori Spelling is eerie. She is ready for anything, and is under
the mistaken impression that if she sleeps with me, she can move up in the world.
Ran into Kennedy (no last name--how ORIGINAL) in the women's room. I admit it: I
had had an enormous, crushing lust for her when she first came to MTV. I would
drop everything just to watch her host in her jammies: there's something about a
cranky woman in flannel with chestnut hair that drives me wild. When I found out
she was a Republican, I banished her to the deepest recesses of my head. 
	She stared at me: motorcycle boots, 501s, white t-shirt and my skater-boy 
haircut, and said: "Aren't you in the wrong bathroom?" 
	This was humiliating, but it has happened before. I simply stared back, and 
lifted up my t-shirt. "Gee, I don't think so. What do YOU think?" 
	"I think you need to be more imaginative with your
comebacks." 
"Fuck you." 
"In your dreams" 
"Closet case." 
"Yeah, you wish. Besides, you couldn't handle it." 
"You're too scared to find out." 
"We'll see." 
	The rest of the day was a blur.

June 23: Things have settled down, but MTV keeps farming me out to the press to
talk about the importance of diversity for young people, which is great, but I
don't necessarily want to become the image upon which MTV hinges their political
correctness. Besides, a lot of the people they send are just so hostile about
popular music. "Why don't you advocate for more women's bands?" 
"Which ones? We're doing L7, and I'm working on a special about riot grrrls. . ." 
"No, I mean like Alix Dobkin, and people like that."
"Because our mission is informative entertainment, not soporific mind-numbing 
cheesiness about how important my relationship with my vulva is." 
	Suffice it to say that we may have lost an entire
three viewers from that interview. 
	Kennedy keeps launching herself into my dressing room, and verbally assaulting me.
I'm going to hit her very soon.

July 10: Finally met Tabitha, whose been putting together new outfits. You can
tell how uncomfortable she is by how often she keeps her arms crossed on MTV
News. She's shy about her breasts. How cute.  She approaches me one evening. 
"So, welcome aboard. How do you like it here?" 
"It's good." 
"You're not scared about the backlash?" 
"The general backlash, or is there something I should know about?"
"Well, the Christian Coalition and the Family Values Coalition are starting a
mail drive to get you off." 
"Trust me Tabitha, it takes a lot more than a couple of housewives to get me off." 
I smiled. 
	She ran away.

July 23: Had my first groupie show up at my house today. I have to give her
credit: it takes a lot of guts to wait in front of my apartment on Rivington
Street without fear of being accosted or worse. When I got home, she ran up the
street to meet me. 
"Hi!"
"Hi.  I'm sorry, do I. . .?" 
"No.  I just watch you all the time and think you're great." 
"Oh, thank you." (I really meant this. I was flattered.) 
"I just wanted to meet you." "Um, do you want to come up?  It's kind
of hot. . ." 
"Sure!" She said it in this overexcited little-girl voice that
alternately frightened me and excited me. She couldn't have been over sixteen.
We came in, and she sat down on my couch, under the poster of Marlon Brando in
The Wild Ones. I gave her some iced tea, and she told me about her life--high
school, coming out, going to shows. After a little while, I figured she should go
home. I was not about to get into anything with her: she was too young, she could
be a plant to uncover me as the child molester that all "homo-sexshuals" are.
"Cooper, I think you should go now.  I have to go out and do a taping at a club."
"Can I come?" 
"I'm sorry; I don't think it would be much fun for you. It's not
even a very good club. It's straight. . ." 
"I don't mind." 
"It's only plays techno." 
"Well, then I'll see you around. Thanks."
	 Somehow I knew that would do it.

August 15: Pat Robertson mentioned me in a speech today. I don't know whether to
laugh or cry, but MTV sent out press kits.

August 30: Another bomb threat. We're at the point where the crew jokes "we
should just throw her out the window and be done with it." Kurt insists on asking
me about former contestants on "You bet your breasts." Kennedy taunted me in a
pair of plaid boxer shorts. And Cooper showed up with four girls, 6 hits of
extasy and a double- ended dildo as big as the Ritz. They said I didn't have to
do anything: they just wanted me to watch. I didn't make them leave.

September 3: We're in rehearsals for the Music Awards. I met Cindy Crawford, who
had been warned away from me. We had a chat, and she seemed less fearful
afterwards. Just doing my part for lesbian liberation, I guess.

September 9: Awards Night. There were about 50 fundamentalists outside Radio
City, with signs about the Rainbow Curriculum, and my face above things like
"Homosexual Recruiter". I made a point to walk right through them, with my date,
and then stopped to kiss her as one of them shouted at me. "You're poisoning our
country!" 
"So is Dow Chemical. Go picket them, and get out of my face." 
Kennedy showed up in a sleeveless black cocktail dress. I almost passed out. I 
hate that she can do that to me: but the worst part was, she knew it too. 
"Are my seams straight?" 
"Yeah, but that's about all, babe." 
"Oh please. Why don't you go worship a goddess or something?" 
"Please, Kennedy. You know you want it." 
"Yeah, so. What are you gonna do about it?" 
I grabbed her and slammed the door to the dressing room. Backing her up against it, I 
shoved my leg between hers and kissed her, my hand wrapped in her hair. She kissed me 
back harder, and pulled my leg farther into her. 
"Be careful, you'll muss your lacy underthings." 
"Just fuck me, asshole. I'll worry about the rest." I flipped her around to face the door, and
played with her cunt. Someone started knocking furiously. 
"Jesus, Kennedy? Are you in there? You're on!" 
She yanked up her underwear, and kissed me. 
"I'll meet you after the show. And bring something big."

October 1: I was let go today. In the audience testing, I was scoring high with
the women, but the men gave mixed reactions: "I'd love to go get drunk/shoot
guns/see Guns 'N' Roses with her", but "She would steal all the girls, so we'd
have to beat her good." They insist that it wasn't homophobia, just good
business. Luckily, "You Bet Your Breasts" has gone into syndication, and I've
been asked to write for Sassy. 
Kennedy moved in last week, and has renounced her
evil Republican ways. She says that if she had known we were so good in bed, she
would have done it with Duff a long time ago.

***************

Introducing 
THE JACKIE SUSANN CARD 
for those times when nothing else will do.

"I just love it. I never leave the Valley of the Dolls without it!!!"
--Neely O'Hara, member since 1970.
              

You're a woman who is NOW--A Today Girl and wherever your globe-trotting life
takes you, you'll need the freedom of mind and financial independence the JACKIE
SUSANN CARD provides! Whether flying around the world to meet the woman of your
dreams, promoting a blockbuster book and film, or narrowly escaping death at the
hands of the Manson family, we'll be there with everything you need! The JACKIE
CARD is your pass to the jet set!

DON'T LEAVE THE COUNTRY WITHOUT US!!!

Just like Jackie, our full service card is ready for anything. Fall in love with
Ethel Merman? No problem! We'll send our shopping service out for a gift, buy a
new dress, make reservations at your favorite supper club, and then make sure
your romance is kept quiet. Because while discretion may not have been Jackie's
middle name, it IS ours!!!

Cardholder Privileges Include: 
*No "late payment" charges for you girls on the go: whether you're hobnobbing on 
"The Love Machine," or simply dropping acid with 30 of your closest friends and 
having group sex, we know how hard it is to keep track of your finances...so we 
know you might be a little every now and then, but we know you're good for it. 
*Free referrals for drug and alcohol counseling! 20% frequent detox discount!!! 
*Receive a free "Sounds of the 70s" 8 track with every application! 
Even if we turn you down, you keep it as a free gift!

Apply now 1-800-VAL-IYUM

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Ode to Marisa Tomei

O, darlin one of da hennaed head, 
straggly locks of black-brown-red, 
a different world you quickly shed, 
when toward Oscar you flukingly fled.

From Avenue L to Avenue U, 
you bid brooklyn an anxious adieu. 
You know you ain't no parvenu, 
so don't let Hollywood fuck wit you.

The failed hairdresser you do play, 
way better than Debi M., i do say, 
armed with blowdryer and hairspray, 
Robert Fiance, you scared away.

Wit silver-tongue you do tawk, 
to your side da producers flawk. 
When back to Brooklyn for your victory wauk, 
down Bay Parkway da yewts will gawk.


@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@


In the tradition of 
TWO MEN ENTER 
ONE MAN LEAVES

Girl Fights We'd Like to See

_______________________________________________

Round 1

Dolly Parton: with a Nerf Bazooka Gun, a Zippo lighter, and an industria-sized
can of Crisco.

versus

Tori Spelling: with a Tonka truck, 5 badgers of assorted sizes, and a can of
Ronco spray-on hair.

The battle takes place on the set of a Bob Hope Holiday Special

Round 2

Madonna: with Liz Rosenberg, bullwhip, sling, pack of Bubble Yum, and a copy of
Fear of Flying

versus

Kim Gordon: with Courtney Love, power drill, tourniquet, Hostess Sno-Balls, and a
copy of Helter Skelter.

The battle takes playe in the bowling alley at the Port Authority Bus Terminal
onf 42nd St.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

SEX, THE SINGLE GIRL, and THE CULTURAL ELITE, Part Deux: The DJSQ Guide to
Make-Out Music

As much a form of cultural bonding as it is foreplay, make-out music is a very
important and often overlooked part of lovemaking--the wrong song can kill just
about any amorous mood. One misplaced Joni Mitchell tune and your potential trick
might run for the door! So, in the interest of keeping you and your date in the
same bed, we offer the following guide to the top 10 or so make out songs for a
variety of different trick types. Do NOT mix and match!


Metalhead Dykes/ Biker Bimbos

1.	"Stairway to Heaven"--Led Zeppelin 
	"Sweet Child O Mine"--Guns n Roses
2.	"Free Bird"--Lynyrd Skynyrd 
3.	"Get Down, Make Love"--Queen 
	"Flesh For Fantasy"--Billy Idol 
4.	"Boys Are Back In Town"--Thin Lizzy 
5.	"Smoke on the Water--Deep Purple 
6.	"She Shook Me All Night Long"--AC/DC 
7.	"Black Magic Woman"--Santana 
8.	"Beth"--Kiss 
9.	"Hell is For Children"--Pat Benatar 
	"Fade to Black"--Metallica 
10.	"Die with Your Boots On"--Iron Maiden

Jaded Party Dykes

1.  "The Bitch is Back"--Elton John 
	"I Wanna be Sedated"--The Ramones 
2.  "Love the one You're With"--Stephen Stills 
	"Get It While You Can"--Janis Joplin 
3.  "Hot Child in the City"---Nick Gilder 
4.  "Barracuda"--Heart 
5.  "Bizarre Love Triangle"--New Order 
6.  "I Wish You Were a Beer"--Cycle Sluts from Hell 
7. 	"Give it Away"--Red Hot Chili Peppers 
8.  "Superfreak"--Rick James 
9.  "This Town"--The Go Go's 
	"19th Nervous Breakdown"--Rolling Stones 
10. "Kissability"--Sonic Youth
 	"All Tomorrow's Parties"--Velvet Underground w/Nico


Indie Rock Princess

1.  "The World's A Mess, It's in my Kiss"--X 
2.  "I Wanna Be Your Dog" (the Kim Gordon, not Iggy Pop version)--Sonic Youth 
3.  "Suck my Left One" and "Rebel Girl"--Bikini Kill 
4.  "Pretend We're Dead"--L7 
5.  "Love Will Tear Us Apart"--Joy Division 
6.  "Cunt Tease"--Pussy Galore 
7.  "Girl Germs"--Bratmobile
8.  "Manipulate"--Tribe 8 
9.  "Blind Date"--Chia Pet 
	"The One I Love"--REM 
10.	"Tainted Love"--Soft Cell 
	"How Soon is Now" --The Smiths


30-Somethings (or those who prefer to reminisce about or dwell upon the lost
glory that was the 1980's)

1. 	"Total Eclipse of the Heart"--Bonnie Tyler 
2.  "Wishing"-- A Flock of Seagulls
3.  "Bette Davis Eyes"--Kim Carnes 
4.  "Save a Prayer"--Duran Duran 
5. 	"Time After Time"--Cyndi Lauper 
6. 	"Oh Sherrie"--Steve Perry 
7. 	"Heaven is a Place on Earth"--Belinda Carlisle 
8. 	"Come Back and Stay"--Paul Young 
9.	"Don't You Forget About Me"--Simple Minds 
10.	"Crazy 4 U"--Madonna


Strip Mall Lesbians

1.	"Cherish"--The Partridge Family 
	"Dreams"--Fleetwood Mac 
2.	"Could It Be Magic"--Barry Manilow 
3.	"Sometimes When We Touch"--Dan Baker 
4.	"Love Will Keep Us Together"--Captain and Tenille 
5.	"Babe"--Styx 
6.  "We've Only Just Begun"--The Carpenters 
7.  "Always & Forever"--Heatwave
	"Loving You"--Minnie Ripperton 
8.	"Color My World"--Chicago 
9.	"Careless Whisper"--Wham! 
10. "You're So Vain"--Carly Simon (in case of break up)

Disco Kittens

1.	"Love Hangover"--Diana Ross 
2.	"Love to Love You Baby"--Donna Summer
3.	"What's Goin' On"--Marvin Gaye 
4.	"I'm Every Woman"--Chaka Khan (and ONLY Chaka Khan) 
	"Ain't Nobody"--Rufus and Chaka Khan 
5.	"Disco Inferno"--The Tramps
6.	"If I Can't Have You"--Yvonne Elliman 
7.	Nights on Broadway--Bee Gees
8.	"Shadow Dancing"--Andy Gibb 
9.	"Ah Ah Ooh Ooh (Look Out)"--Roberta Flack (The Arthur Baker Remix) 
10.	"Dr. Love"--First Choice

Old School Wimmin


1.	"I am Woman"--Helen Reddy 
2.	"Waterfall"--Chris Williamson 
3. 	"Snowin in Brooklyn"--Ferron 
4.	"I Feel the Earth Move"--Carole King 
	"You've Got A Friend"--Carole King 
5.	The Circle Game--Joni Mitchell 
6.  You've Got A Friend--James Taylor 
	Whenever I See Your Smiling Face--James Taylor
7.	"Rhiannon"--Fleetwood Mac 
8.	"Jolene"--Dolly Parton 
 	"Crazy"--Patsy Cline
9.	"Wrap the Sun around You"--Holly Near 
10.	The Jean Pierre Rampal Jazz
Albums

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

FEAR AND LOATHING THE BRADY WAY


After watching the Partridge Family episode where the skunk gets trapped in the
tour bus, Sherwood Schwartz, producer of the Brady Bunch, decided that in order
to compete with such tv genius, the Brady's would have to go on tour. So Mike and
Carol packed Alice and the kids into the station wagon and headed for Vegas, the
first stop on the Brady Kids world tour. Not unlike Greg's surfing accident in
Hawaii (which was real) the episode was taped in a cinema verite sort of manner,
the half hour show was to document a 48 hour span, but this lost episode was
canned when things went horribly wrong. After the first run through of "It's a
Sunshine Day," the bunch took off on their own--living out fear and loathing in
Vegas, the Brady way. Here's the story of the lost Brady episode #235, soon to
air on Pay Per View everywhere.

Carol skips the first rehearsal pissed she's not part of the show and heads
straight for the Black Jack tables where she spends the remaining 47 hours losing
everything including Mike's architecture firm. Mike could care less though. While
hanging around backstage, he's decided all he wants out of life is to wear a
sparkle tutu and feathers as a girl in the kick line. Alice arrives to pick up
the kids from rehearsal and while waiting for them to finish up meets a leggy
blonde burlesque dancer named Bubbles. Bubbles loves Alice and takes her home to
her dungeon. After a night of boots and paddles, Bubbles takes Alice as her love
slave and Alice never returns to the Brady family or Sam the Butcher again.


With no one to watch over them, the kids head out on the town alone. Marcia and
Greg go to a bar in one of the cheaper parts of town and down Harvey Wallbanger
after Harvey Wallbanger giddily kissing and nuzzling between sips. A traveling
Electrolux salesman offers Greg $15 for an hour with Marcia and tells him that if
she's good, he's got some friends who'd pay for a spin with her.Greg gets Marcia
drunk enough to put out for the polyester business suit set and rakes in the
bucks as her pimp.

Jan wanders around backstage at Caesars looking for Alice, Mike or Carol. She
bumps into Dusty Springfield, Liza and Peggy Lee drinking sherry with valium
chasers in Peggy's dressing room. Jan's been obsessed with Peggy for years and
nearly hyperventilates when Peggy invites her to join them in drinks and drugs.
Jan tells Peggy she loves her and would do anything for her. Peggy says prove it
and makes Jan score some coke for her, make out with a bust of Elvis in
Liberace's dressing room and then the thing that made Jan leave the family to
become Peggy's groupie-- she made Jan suck her enormous sweaty toes.

Meanwhile, Peter decides to take a walk outside. He strolls toward the center of
town collecting photos of naked woman after naked woman off the sidewalk. A guy
who looks just like Mike in a red afro wig streaks naked down the middle of the
strip and waves at Peter. At a corner, Peter meets a preacher with a microphone
and amp screaming for everyone to leave this city of sin and beg for
salvation.The preacher turns out to be Bill Barty, future star of Sid and Marty
Kroft Productions, but when Peter finds him, he's still down on his luck
screaming for everyone to leave this city of sin and beg for salvation. Peter
takes the mic and starts preaching, spouting Bible verses that he didn't even
know he knew. After a night without any converts, Peter and Billy the preacher
pack up his van to head for Times Square to hold services for pimps and
prostitutes on the sidewalk outside the Armed Forces Recruiting offices.

All evening, Bobby and Cindy play tag in the hotel lobby-- jumping off furniture
and riding baggage carts. Suddenly Cindy's cart crashes into another one driven
by an older man in aviator shades. He curses Bobby and Cindy out, then invites
them back to his room telling them to call him Uncle Hunter. Uncle Hunter feeds
the kids strawberry sundaes, crystal meth, Hershey's bars with almonds and
mescaline. Sometime around 3 am, he takes Bobby and Cindy for a drive in the
Vegas night. Together they knock over a couple convenience stores and fire
several rounds into wedding chapels as they pass. When pursued by the police,
Uncle Hunter throws the kids out of the car and speeds away. Uncle H. isn't
caught, but Bobby and Cindy are arrested and with no one left to take custody of
them are sent to a juvenile detention center. And this is where the tale ends.


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Stepford Queers

My girlfriend and I had lived in New York all our lives--together and apart.  She
grew up on the Upper West Side, and I in Queens. When we moved in together we
found a beautiful one bedroom in the West Village, and thought we had it all.

But then she lost her job.  And couldn't find another one. My sister was mugged
outside my office building. Our block became a giant sex club.  And all of the
lesbians in New York were fighting about an upcoming parade for lesbian
visibility, and whether letting men march in support made us invisible again, or
made us stronger.  More than one barroom brawl resulted from someone wearing a
t-shirt for or against the boys.

I came home one night to find Sloane nervously smiling. I set my things down
and commenced to make dinner.

"Aren't you going to ask me how my day was?" 
"Sorry honey." 
"I got a job!" She hugged me from behind, and I dropped the chicken breast I was 

rinsing onto the floor. 
"Congratulations.  Where at?"
"Lambda Tech." "Wow.  That's really great.
Isn't that a little far. . .like, in Stepford?" 
"Yes, it is.  That's why I wanted to talk to you about it." 
"Mmm-hhmm." 
"I think we should move to Stepford."
"Uh-huh." 
"It would be great for both of us. You work freelance, you could have
an office in our new house. . . think of it, less crime, less noise, good
schools. . ." 
"Whoa. Good schools?  Is there something I should know?" 
"No, but if we ever decided to. . .besides, Stepford is full of lesbians and gay men 
from Lambda Tech.  It's not like we would move to Het Hell." 
"Yeah. You're right."
"That's it?" 
"Sure. Let's go." 
"Oh, Alex, I love you so much.  This is going to be so good for us." 
				* * * * * * * * * 

I didn't want to move to Stepford.  But since it was anywhere but New York, but 
still near enough that I could run away, I felt safer than if it had been Iowa.

We bought a beautiful house, and moved two weeks later. I sublet the apartment to
some twentysomething lesbian performance artists who tried to have sex with me
while I was interviewing them. Afraid they would audiotape me or something, I
politely begged off, but told them they could move in.

The first few weeks were disorienting. I called my friends in NYC all the time,
so I didn't feel as if I had been dumped into a "homosexual" suburban hell from
which no one would emerge the same. No one would visit us, and Sloane spent
more and more time at the office, with her Techie friends. They had some sort of
afterwork social club that she felt it was important for her to be part of.
Something about "her career". She said I should really try to meet more people
here, and that maybe I should wear two earrings. . .and let my hair grow, this
wasn't New York, you know.

I stopped at the house next door the next day, figuring what the hell--this way
at least if someone tries to kill me, the neighbor will know me well enough to
actually call the police. Little did I know I lived next door to the Dyke Donna
Reed.

"Hi, we moved in next door, and I just thought I'd drop by and say hi. . ." 
"Oh please come in. I was hoping you'd stop by.  I didn't want to come over and
interrupt anything." She smiled and winked (Not fucking likely, I thought.  I
know now why people in suburbia ave no sex.) "Would you like a drink?" 
"Thanks. A soda is fine." "Are you sure? We have Coors Lite." 
"Coors?  Don't you know about the boycott? They give all their money to right-wing 
homophobic groups!" 
"You must have just moved from New York. No, I don't think a boycott is right. They
have every right to give their money to whomever they want to. Besides I like
Coors." 
Uh-oh. 
"I see.  A soda is fine." 
"So what do you do?" 
"I write freelance for a few gay publications." 
"Not those radical ones, though?" 
"What do you call radical?" 
"Well, just about all of them, really. I find it so tiresome when homosexuals have 
to go shouting about private things. It's so important that this
country's strength isn't wasted on issues of special interests?" 
I paused. "Aren't you a lesbian?" 
"I'm a gay woman, yes. But I'm also an American." 
"Let me guess. Log Cabin Republican Club, right?" 
"Of course. Everyone here is. We can't let the urban people suck us dry so they can
live off of our tax dollars."
"Mmm-hmm." 
"Trust me, you'll come to like us. You'll come to love Stepford. We're all very 
happy here.  They're talking about extending the city limits so more of us can live
here." 
"They who?" 
"The state government. They welcome us with open arms here. This way we're protected, 
and don't need to go looking for special rights." 
Jesus Christ. This wasn't a city, it was a resettlement program. I excused myself 
quickly, and jumped in my car. I drove to Lambda Tech, and ran to Sloane's
office.  When I opened the door, I found her strapped to her chair, while two men showed her 
videotapes of Dykes on Bikes, with big red "NO"s flashing in between, interspersed 
with footage of two very feminine women sleeping in twin beds, with bright blue 
"YES"es. I pushed them away from her, and looked into her eyes. 
"Sloane, baby.  What the hell is going on?" 
"Oh, hi Alex. Why are you wearing that pink triangle? It's not right for us to ask 
for rights and privileges, just because we've chosen an alternative lifestyle." 
As I looked at her, I noticed a drop of blood behind her ear. Her hair hid a computer
interface, which sure as hell hadn't been there when we met. I felt the two men
behind me move to grab me, and I punched out into their groins. They went down
hard, and I ran out and down the hall, suddenly seeing two very large men loom up
in front of me. I kicked one in the shin, and drove another guy's nose up into
his brain--at least that's what it felt like. I jumped back into the car,
squealing tires, crying because I knew it was too late for Sloane, and she
would now find love with a woman like June Cleaver, and there was nothing I could
do to help. 
I didn't stop until I hit the West Village. I rang the bell to our
old apartment, and the two girls let me up. They asked me what had happened, and
comforted me as only two girls with an extensive costume collection knew how.I
knew I was home--this was where I belonged.


###########################################

Coming soon from Diana Press

Where She Goes. . . By Clarice Nabher

A woman in Wild West falls in love with a nurse working for the Pony Express.
Discovering their true feelings, they face banishment, heat, sickness and death
together, only to find themselves, and their love for each other stronger.

My Heart Lies Fallow. . . by Katrina Trees

A woman in suburbia finds true love with a married Avon sales woman. Discovering
their sexuality in long, languid, but certainly not explicit passages, they face
her husband in a painful battle to win custody of a child, along with prejudice,
sickness and death, only to come out stronger.

Where the Stars Go. . . by Gina Torrance

A woman in space finds true love with a female alien who looks a great deal like
Barbara Stanwyck in "Walk on the Wild Side." Having come to terms with their
love, they face hostile alien forces, banishment from their planets, space
sickness and death, only to love each other more.

Queer Co-Eds in Heat by Stephanie Spindle

NOTE: This book may offend some of our readers. We caution you to use discretion,
and implore you to understand we were contractually obligated to print it.

It was only a week, but it changed their lives. . . Hot sluts in heat, and no
boys to interrupt! 200 pages of non-stop action, with a well-stocked toy chest
and boxer shorts to boot. No mushy love story here, just woman-on-woman Olympics.

Available at bookstores

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Book Reviews:

The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader, edited by Joan Nestle, Alyson Books,
$14.95.

(Yes yes, it came out a while back.) This was eagerly awaited by any number of
dykes, and didn't disappoint. Divided up into two sections: "The Persistent...
"(mostly non-fiction) and "Desire": (fiction, poetry, more current non-fiction and 

transcriptions of interviews and a roundtable held in New York), the book
gives both a historical grounding to the butch-femme phenomenon, as well as a
look at the women pioneers, rebels, and outlaws. Included are some great,
hard-to-find pieces by Leslie Feinberg (author of the new novel, Stone Butch
Blues), excerpts from novels which may or may not be seen in their full glory
(Rocky G‡mez and Chea Villanueva), and an eye-opening examination of the butch
lesbian purge of NOW during the 70s. For those with a more academic desire (is
all desire academic? Jeez, I hope not), there's a much shortened version of Liz
Kennedy's and Madeline Davis' study of the femme-butch community of the 50s (now
a book, Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold), a co-written piece by butch and
femme professors/lovers, and a reprint of the now-famous "What We're Rollin'
around in Bed With" (the lesbian sex wars start here.) There are a few
clunkers--it's an anthology, you're never going to love everything. The "Sex,
Lies and Penetration" article, which played right into the "I failed as a woman,
so now I'm a butch" hands of hetero idiots was particularly fucked-up, as well as
the "Style Wars and the New Lesbianism," which sticks out as femme-phobic as well
as stuck in the 70s. (Both of these pieces were originally published in the now
defunct OUT/LOOK.)

But these are just two. Some of it is very hot, and you'll pick up some history
while you're at it.

Distant Love by A.L Rheine 
Bad Habits by Lindsay Welsch 
Passage and other Stories by Aarona Griffin 
all published by Rosebud Books, an imprint of Masquerade Books,
all $4.95.

These little tomes have made a rather sudden appearance in queer bookstores (as
well as various homo-friendly B. Daltons). Near as can be told, Masquerade Books
publishes under a number of imprints (Rosebud for lesbians, Rhinoceros for gay
male, etc.) In the best tradition of pulp sex trash, these books are cheap, not
unattractive, and perform under pressure.

Be warned however: if you are looking for true love, deep feelings of sharing and
a lifelong committment, stick to Naiad. If you're looking to get off: go Rosebud.
Each book seems to have a particular predilection, so if you have a particular
taste, you may not find exactly what you're looking for. In an effort to
facilitate this, a brief summary of each:

Distant Love: A story collection. Strange poetry and a sci-fi story of men who
are forced to watch women do it and can't touch them. Ever. (NOTE: These are not
the only men I have come across, however it's so rare it's easily avoided. In the
tradition of "Where The Boys Aren't, it's porno with a porno aesthetic without
the boys). Otherwise, good fuck stories in a variety of genres.

Bad Habits: S/M, some a little heavy (whipping). Premise: A mistress dissatisfied
with the class of slave around starts a school to get rid of their "bad habits".
Thrown in for good measure--the tops all have sex with each other in alternating
chapters.

Passages: Blurbed by Pat Califia (nice to know that they're trying to do their
homework.) The title story is a woman is pulled by some force to a S/M dungeon
and you know the rest. The other two are the same content-wise.

Cheap thrills. What more do you need.

Also in the series: Provincetown Summer which I didn't get--the title frightened
me.

Mondo Barbie: An Anthology of Fiction and Poetry, edited by Richard Peabody &
Lucinda Ebersole, New York: St. Martin's Press, $12.95.

She's just a doll I said to myself as I poured through story after story of
Barbie abuse in this anthology of fiction and poetry about Barbie that would have
been better titled, Barbie Dearest.  But for the editors and writers included
here, she's more than a mere toy, she's "an American icon," a fantasy made in the
good ol US of A.  As with any fantastic icon, Barbie has her dark side-- oh,  she
doesn't like to talk about it much being the proper modern gal that she is, but
once you get her loose, you'll never shut her up until you've heard about
everything from how she's been decapitated, burnt, delimbed, sexually abused,
beaten, to how she's had feet eaten off and suffered mutilation in a myriad of
ways even Hannibal Lechter would find shocking.  Used to be you only had a few
Barbie choices like, Tropical Barbie, Malibu Barbie, Skipper, or Midge, but Mondo
Barbie opens up a whole new field to choose from-- Valium Barbie, 12 step Barbie,
Jack the Ripper Barbie, Dysfunctional Barbie, Breast Implant Barbie, Strung Out
Junkie Barbie, Hell's Angel Barbie, Fucked Up Barbie and of course, my favorite,
Barbie in a Dyke Bar. Then there's Barbie's impotent companion, Ken the Eunuch,
Ken the Fag, Ken with the fetish for black lace panties, Ken the transsexual, and
Ken the homewrecker, he's another story all together.  If you choose to read this
soap operatic, pink paged tome, you'll have to wade through trying recitations of
the fine points of Barbie and Ken's anatomical structuring, and a few stories and
poems as vapid as the dolls are supposed to be.  Standouts in the collection
include A.M. Homes' "A Real Doll" and John Varley's "The Barbie Murders," both
originally published elsewhere.  Now that the era of High Barbie has passed and
video games have superseded dolls, it seems so mean to kick Barbie when she's
down but somehow I doubt Mondo SuperMario  is ever going to be anywhere near as
entertaining.

LOOMPANICS 1993 Main Catalog  $5.00 Loompanics Golden Records  various
contributors, $14.95

Both available from: Loompanics Unlimited, P. O. Box 1197, Port Townsend, WA
98368

Billed as "the world's most controversial bookseller", Loompanics is a mail-order
bookstore with a catalog that is better than most mainstream press books. Need to
"disappear"? Interested in the underground economy? Revenge against some assholes
what you're hankering for? The guidebooks are all here (all sold for
informational purposes only). The selection blurs the distinction between
political agendas--it is produced with a deeply individualist ethic: "Do not let
anyone tell you what to think or do--decide for yourself." Along with the
artistry of the catalog copy, there are articles included in each catalog: not
for the squeamish or ultra P. C.. Fiction and non-fiction mix, among them topics
like drugs, censorship in cyberspace, censorship and pornography, lust, greed,
murder and a continuing feature called "Lucifer's Lexicon", which is a dictionary
for the reactionary. The articles from previous catalogs have been collected by
Loompanics into a "greatest hits" compilation, "Loompanics Golden Records", which
ranges wide and far over the American psyche. Excerpts and articles on fake i.d.,
surviving in prison, drug testing and the war against affordable housing, as well
as "Killer Fiction" (this stuff is VERY intense), an interview with Mitch Kapor
(Electronic Freedom Foundation), the wars against comic books and some revealing
looks at tabloid journalism and Jim Rose's Circus Sideshow comprise this volume.
This is the sort of book one should dip into; reading it at one sitting could
make you apoplectic. If Thomas Paine, a group of libertarian outlaws, the
situationists and rabid anarchists had gotten together, Loompanics would be the
result. (My kind of people).

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

MUSIC

What follows is a highly subjective guide to recent releases by mostly indie
label groups that contain at least one woman cause besides the obvious political
significance of such a choice,  we here at DJSQ are rock chick groupies and yes,
we wanna be with a rock and roll girl.


Huggy Bear, "Our Troubled Youth"/Bikini Kill, "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah" 
kill rock stars

Two bands, one side each of a 12", equals two feet of the best post-punk punk
around.  Both Brits Huggy Bear and the D.C. based Bikini Kill come out of the
zine scene and their loud messy songs are more like rabid enactments of zine type
rantings. On "Aqua Girl Star," Huggy Bear's beat driven fuzzy guitars and at
times almost delicately layered vocals sound eerily like a less-slick version of
the Pale Saints while other cuts like "Feb. 14" or "Nu Song" are more raw with
powerful feedback and screeching vocals that come off kind of like Poly Styrene
on lots of 'ludes. The Bikini Kill side of this EP contains girl power songs of
resistance and rebellion like "White Boy'"  where Hanna screams "I'm so sorry if
I'm alienating some of you/You're whole fucking culture alienates me." On  "Don't
Need You"  she adds,  "Don't need your dick to fuck/Does it scare you that we
don't need you?" Then there's "Rebel Girl", which contains my all-time fave line
from any song, "Rebel Girl Rebel Girl/ I think I wanna take you home/ I wanna try
on your clothes." This album makes me feel like I do when I buy a new pair of Doc
Maarten's, like I can go out and stomp anything I want. This makes sense after
you hear the record.  Also recommended, "Thurston Hearts the Who" on Bikini Kill,
Bikini Kill EP (kill rock stars).


Fifth Column, "All Women are Bitches/Donna" 
K Records

"All Women are Bitches" starts with a disarmingly blank but pleasant voice that
at an airport might be paging frequent flyers to the white courtesy telephone but
here asks "which are more dangerous men or guns?" only to be answered by a
breathy sex-laden "both are dangerous but only a man can kill you" before it
spirals into a heavy metal shout fest that mocks the suburban metalloid's
attitude toward women. "Donna" is a kind of jangling popish love song to Donna
Dresch (ex-Dinosaur Jr. and Screaming Trees) who has joined the band. So does
this mean that if I write a love sonnet about Kim Gordon she'll write for us?

Various Artists, There's A Dyke in the Pit 
Outpunk, P.O. Box 170501, SF, CA 94117

This four cut 7" contains songs by four of the best bad girl bands, Bikini
Kill("Suck My Left One"), Tribe 8("Manipulate"), Lucy Stoners("Soiled Princess"),
and 7 Year Bitch("Dead Men Don't Rape"). My favorite cut has to be the Lucy
Stoners' haunting and poetic love song about a dyke princess "pumped full of
pills." What's left to say about 7 Year Bitch's  "Dead Men Don't Rape" except,
how true.

Kitten, "Free Kitten" 
Ecstatic Peace

Allright, so what if Kim Gordon is doing Gap ads and that most people think this
EP is one giant joke. I like it.  Gordon is often quoted as saying that girls are
natural anarchists and hey, they invented punk rock.  The Kitten EP proves her
right.  Songs just kind of start and sometime later end.  Messy, informal and
unstructured, notes and sounds just kind of fly out of the amps without making
any sense whatsoever and the resulting noise is at times extreme in both its
beauty and its cruelty regardless of the fact that it is supposed to spoof all
those other boring boy noise bands of recent years.  Made up of Kim Gordon and
former Pussy Galore member Julia Cafritz, Kitten is the closest thing to an indie
rock chick supergroup I can imagine so you have to chuckle when they taunt,
"We're Kitten and we're better than you." They're probably the only two girls who
can dis everyone like that, mean it, and get away with it.

Pussy Galore, Corpse Love 
Caroline

Containing 28 cuts from the early days of Pussy Galore, this LP is a kind of
retrospective sort of thing.  In case you forgot what Pussy Galore used to sound
like, here's a quick synopsis--Noise, lots of it, feed back, screeching, more
noise, no logic.  Inside the static, are voices, sometimes exploding into
rudimentary lyrics but mostly it's just talk, some snippet of a conversation to
which we are only eavesdropping. One of the earliest cuts,"HC Rebellion" features
Cafritz reading from an issue of Maximum Rock n Roll  while showing off Pussy
Galore's wall of sound as a barrier between the band and the rest of the world.
Dwelling somewhere inside the noise, the band carves out a space making sense
only to those who live there.  Forced to hear each cut as a partial and
fragmentary world without beginning or end, we're sure that meaning exists
somewhere, but that place will always be illusive.  It's probably all one big
joke that anyone ever tried to find the meaning in all this noise, there are
times when you just have to laugh about how serious it all was.  Later when they
started to play their instruments instead of just abusing them, it got easier to
figure out which end was up,  but Pussy Galore never stopped snickering at us and
therein lies their genius.


Th Faith Healers, "Don't Jones Me and then some" 
Elektra/Too Pure

This maxi-single starts out with a remix of "Don't Jones Me" from their recent LP
Lido that is  faster and louder with a bit of jangling acoustic guitar that adds
a kind of precious topping to an edgy mix. Thrown into a world of eternal
foreplay, where guitars rise in pitch and drumming accelerates in tempo seemingly
to escape the miasma of repetition and monotony, but despite the false build up,
no one ever gets out or off.  At their best Th Faith Healers resemble the Feelies
in the sense that both groups are powered by incessant repetition, that build
inwards, not upwards, so much so that their songs never get far from the point at
which they start, there's no climax, no resolution, they just sort of move
on--always on the verge of implosion. Listening to the four songs on the single
is kind of like waiting for a mid-western freight train to cross--unwillingly
lulled into an impatient calm by the plodding thud and clanging you realize
you've stopped hurrying and learned to like the waiting.

Melvins, Lysol 
Boner Records

Ok, so like this section is supposed to be filled only with bands that have women
in them and you might be asking what the Melvins are doing here.  I have an
answer, besides saying that I love them.  The bassist for the band is usually a
girl but she was sick or something (like anyone cares) and was replaced by a guy
for awhile and he plays on this one song EP, but the girl is back and if they
play live, you'll see her.  So even though she's not on this record, she's part
of the band and if you think that's a lame excuse, don't buy the record! The
slowest band in the west, they're more true to Black Sabbath than even Black
Sabbath ever was. Their sound is so motherfucking big you could park an 18
wheeler inside.  Listened to properly, ie LOUD, they rumble, shake and stir. Be
warned that once you've heard one song all you'll want from life is to die and be
born again inside a Melvins song.

Belly, Star 
Sire

The worst thing about this album is how sad it is that the Throwing Muses broke
up.  Tanya Donnelly and Kristen Hersh aren't convincing alone, if mostly because
I can still remember how incredible they were together.  Nonetheless, Belly will
sell because it's "nice"alternative music--it doesn't bruise, bite or kill.

Grenadine, Goya 
Shimmy Disc

On the mellow tip of indie pop, Grenadine melds REM like guitar sounds to track
home kitsch.  Recorded in New Jersey, the land of a thousand crooners, Grenadine
recycle that golden age of music in their rendition of "I only have eyes for you"
and a rhyming homage to Demarest NJ as deflated yet bittersweet  tributes to the
memory of Rodgers and Hart, Mr. Entertainment, and even old Blue Eyes himself.

Various Artists, Freedom of Choice 
Caroline

Could life be any worse than having to listen to Duran Duran all over again?  Can
I just ask anyone who bought the record one thing---WHY???  It's coming, I can
feel it, that most dreaded of all monsters, 80's retro! Soon we'll be inundated
by a proliferation of skinny ties and jackets with big shoulder pads. Now's the
time to  ask, is this what we really want? Personally, I  think that if any
decade should be exempt from every coming back to life as retro style, it's the
loathsome 80's. This benefit album for Planned Parenthood features today's stars
playing yesterday's New Wave hits.  If it weren't for covers like Sonic Youth's
"Ca Plane pour Moi", the Muff's "Rock and Roll Girl", and Chia Pet's "Don't You
Want me Baby," I wouldn't think there would be any reason to ever mention this
decade again. We got the beat!

Chia Pet, "Hey Baby" 
Kokopop

The first thing to know about this band is that it is made up of Sassy  staffers,
which either makes them super-cool or super-stupid, but after listening to "Hey
Baby," a song about being oogled by annoyingly persistent men that is both angry
and humorous, it matters little that the violin is being "played" by Jane Pratt
or that vocalist Christina Kelly's dry wit is delivered in a dialect best
described as modified high Valley Girl. Yes, it's the revenge of Moon Zappa and
I'm loving it!  "Blind Date" is the most fun-- Jane plays the opening strains of
Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water" over and over while Christina raps about her
blind dates and refrains, "don't pick up the phone, pretend you're not home."  I
loved them covering Human League and this 3-song EP is even better.  Is there
anything these girls can't do?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

GENDER EUPHORIA AND THE LAW OF THE LAND: Amanda Donohoe and the Out/Law Woman

(Note: Please place tongue firmly in cheek area before reading.--The Editors.)

The female outlaw's portrayal in popular culture has been troubled by a number of
identities--sexual, gender, race, and criminal. The images of women outside of a
legal and societal conformity in the 20th century have been subject to the times
and the media in which they appear, and what they represent to an audience. The
film noir, where sex and death often met in a woman like Barbara Stanwyck in
Billy Wilder's Double Indemnity, or the wife in The Postman Always Rings Twice,
presented female freedom as something desired only by a black widow-type--killing
her mate, gaining then the freedom to join another man, and have the financial
freedom to lead her own life. In the end, the women are shown to have been
motivated by greed, love being the only tool available to them to gain the needed
"muscle"--a man with a weapon, and just enough sexual obsession confused as
violence to accomplish the needed murder. Even after having killed at least one
person, perhaps more, the men in these films still come out looking better than
the women.

With the 50s, we begin to see two genres which reflected a distinct departure
from the chained female--now we have the female in chains: not chained to any
particular person or lifestyle, now they have been shackled by society and the
long arms of its laws. What has changed in these films--the juvenile delinquent
and the women in prison films--is that the women commit their own crimes, or with
others (although the often-heard "My boyfriend made me do it" weakens this
position somewhat), or that girls have gangs and take each other out over turf.
These changes result in an evolution in the woman outlaw as one who can take care
of her self. A film like "Faster Pussycat, Kill Kill!" encompasses the fear of
these women--strong women, sexually free (at least Tura Satana), and at liberty
to move outside of the norms of society. Where many found ecstatic release in
viewing films like these, others saw the underlying continuance of bringing women
into line--the very cause of the audience's enjoyment was often the redemption
(or punishment) of coeds on the skids.

With the late 20th century coming to a close, the female outlaw has been subsumed
into the hysterical woman, creating a more goal-oriented, psychically disturbed
outlaw who does not present the same, random threat to the audience. Instead,
pleasure is derived from watching "normality" triumph--Fatal Attraction, Single
White Female, The Hand that Rocks the Cradle all give the viewer the ability to
say--"Womanhood is safe, because the real women won", and additionally reassuring
the viewer that we are still sane, since we would never confront a situation like
this in our own lives.

However, a few strongholds still exist, and notably, women directors are the ones
forging them. Drew Barrymore has excelled as a female outlaw--Poison Ivy
displaying the seductive power of a film noir with more explicit acknowledgment
of the sexual. With Guncrazy, where Anita [Barrymore] takes the initiative to
correspond with a convict, killing her abusive guardian, and taking off on a trip
to nowhere with her impotent boyfriend to his ultimate end, she never truly
elucidates her reasons--Is she so in love she will do anything with him? or is he
a convenient "out" of a town that has shown her nothing but loathing and pain?
When she is taken away at the end, stating "He made me do it". . .we're just not
sure we believe her.

Along with Barrymore is Amanda Donohoe--a woman thrown out of high schools for
thinking for herself. She is an actress who has taken on roles which have changed
the face of woman on television, and heartened many a lesbian/bisexual woman
everywhere that we were finally getting some recognition in the vast heterosexual
march of prime-time tv.

Of course, Donohoe wouldn't last. Neither did Cecil Hoffman (Zo‘ on L. A. Law).
The strongest women had to leave. The episode where they gave the seminar to
Russian lawyers had them lounging by the pool together, in their bathing suits,
wet and without the intrusion of the other, lame cast members; they were destined
somehow; following this story to its (un)natural conclusion would have had them
in a relationship by the end of the season. However, the pressure placed on
advertisers by groups like the American Family Association, along with a decline
in ratings (attributed to too many "issue" stories like Amanda's) ended with a
major restructuring of the show from which they have not recovered.

Donohoe has made some TV films: one for Lifetime Television where she defends a
rape victim in a small town. During the course of the film, she defends (and
attacks) various men, one of whom, alluding to her sexual preference, says "Yeah
but if you want to get her, you better have breasts." She promptly punches his
teeth in. The tension between the young girl and Donohoe, while probably
envisioned as maternal (the real mother having died some time before) was in fact
utterly sexual--a scene of them swimming is starkly erotic, and their wardrobes
consists entirely of flight/leather jackets, jeans, t-shirts and flannel.

Her latest work It's Nothing Personal (NBC, February) while being less
lesboerotic, certainly gave bad girls a good time. As a cop (she wears a uniform
right out of a G. B. Jones dream, with mirrored aviator shades), she leaves the
force to find her brother-in-law's killer, thus leaving behind the multi-layered
codes of behavior for one of society's defenders. At one point, drinking and
armed, a young man obviously in love with her comes in to check on her. She grabs
him, shoves her tongue down his throat, then promptly tells him to get out, she
would just be using him. He says he doesn't care--and you can't really blame him.
Donohoe wears the sexual role reversal like the black leather gloves we see her
in during the first part of the film--it is utterly hers. She joins up with a
bounty hunter, again engages in violence with the "bad guys" and gets her
man--not to walk into the sunset or anything, but to shut behind bars.

The future of female screen outlaws looks alternately bleak and bright, as does
the future of women as a whole--the election of women senators and congress
people versus the continued assault on abortion rights, the renewal of aggressive
feminism among younger women versus a debate about the military which ignores the
fact that women are still not allowed to serve fully (while many gay men and
lesbians are up in arms about "segregated" gay/lesbian service, few even mention
women already serving). However, as women directors stick their toes in the door
of film making, one has hope. Let us also hope they get to walk out with as many
as they enter with.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Guncrazy: The Ms. 45 Years


"Don't tell me you got it rough " screams Gilly Ann Haner of Calamity Jane
from the car stereo as Joy drives us through the California desert on our way to a
date with destiny and I'm like "Fuck Yeah!" to what she's singing. I've had it
man, I can't take people complaining about how bad they got it cause, shit, it's
better than what I've got. After my boyfriend, Howard, the only person I ever
really loved and who loved me was killed, I went back to live in my trailer and
wait for the birth of our baby.. Well actually it's my mom's trailer, but I
haven't seen her in years, so I guess I can call it mine.  I didn't have much but
Joy, she's my best friend, she always brought me groceries and stuff and hung out
with me so I didn't feel as alone as I actually was. Things weren't great, but I
had little Howard Jr. or Howardina to look forward to and that kept me going
everyday. Then, like, I had that miscarriage, the doctors said it was cause I was
so young and stuff. It was the last part of Howard I had and now it's gone. I
moved in with Joy's family cause I couldn't stand being in my trailer any more.
Her dad doesn't like me even though I practically saved his life. By now, he
figures we're even so he turned me in to Child Welfare and they were getting
ready to put me in a foster home when the phone call came.

One Friday afternoon, the phone rang like it always does for Joy cause she's so
popular. She passed me the receiver saying it was for me. I couldn't figure out
who the hell would be calling cause no one alive even cares about me or knows
where I am, so I'm like whatever and say hello. 
"Anita? Am I speaking with Anita?" this female voice asks. 
"Yeah, who's this?" 
"Thelma." 
"Thelma, who? I don't know any Thelma... Is this a joke? Who are you really?"
"I'm Thelma... of Thelma and Louise. Maybe you heard 'bout us?" 
"Yeah, sure! Good bye, Thelma!" and I give the phone back to Joy to hang up 
saying, "Prank!"

The phone rings again just as soon as Joy puts it down. This time I answer. It's
the same voice asking for me again. 
"You are so lame!" I scream at the voice. I get alot of pranks since Howard and I 
did all those things together. Lots of boys usually call and scream shit then hang 
up but I've never had a girl call like this. 
"Wait, listen to me. I'm really Thelma. Louise is here with me. Here
Louise, say hi to Anita." 
"Hi! We've heard about all your problems" says a different female voice. 
"Yeah, uh huh! I'm so sure! I thought you two died?" I say teasingly cause I figured
it had to be a joke. 
"No, we wanted everyone to believe we're dead, but we just went underground so as to 
better carry out our plan." 
"What plan?" 
"Well, that's what we want to talk to you about. Can you meet us?" 
"How do I know you're for real?"
"Meet us and you'll see." 
"Where?" 
"The Oasis Diner in a town called Cal-Nev-Ari along Highway 95 in Nevada. You can make
it by tomorrow evening if you leave now." 
"I'm not driving all the fucking way to some stupid town in Nevada to find out if 
this is a joke!"

I slam the receiver down and start to laugh about how ridiculous the prank is. I
could have thought of something way better than asking me to drive to some ghost
town or something to meet up with Thelma and Louise. Joy wants to know what's so
funny and I tell her the whole thing-- only she doesn't laugh. She thinks it
might be real and wants to leave right now. I love Joy but she's kind of a
princess and is always bored so anything like this excites her. She says we have
to go to that diner cause what've got to do here?  I have no answer so here I am
listening to the Calamity Jane tape in Joy's Mustang on our way to go meet
Thelma and Louise.

We pull up to the diner and it's one of those metal trailer diners from the old
days, you know the 50's or something. There's a blue Mustang just like Joy's but
in better shape parked out front so we know we're in the right place. All outlaws
drive Mustangs! When we walk in, Tammy Wynette sings, "You're good girl is gonna
go bad" from the juke box and I wonder how Hillary Clinton could have ever
accused such a honky tonk queen of staying home and baking cookies. Obviously,
Hillary's an ignorant Carpetbagger. Joy spots Thelma and Louise sitting in a
corner booth. We walk over and say excuse me cause they're too busy making out to
notice us.

"Oh sorry. Didn't see you two there. You commit so many crimes with someone you
create this really intense bond that makes it hard to remember the outside world
exists." Louise says blotting Thelma's lipstick from her face. 
"Yeah, I know." I mutter remembering how close I felt to Howard. 
"Sit down, you two must be tired driving all this way."  
Thelma scoots over patting the red vinyl seat next to her. 
"So, Anita, do you think men are shits?" Louise asks while nibbling a tuna
salad sandwich. 
"Generally, yeah." 
"Good. Thelma and I have a plan and we need you." 
"What sort of plan?"
"Well, we've heard you're an incredible shot." 
"I do ok." 
"You're so modest. See, there's this guy up in Oregon. He's a Senator, maybe
you've heard about him? He's sexually harassed some unbelievable number of women
and since he went through rehab for his alcoholism he thinks he's absolved of
responsibility for what he did to the women." 
"That's fucked." Joy screams indignantly. 
"Isn't it! So we want to teach him a lesson and for that we need your help." 
"Sure." I answer less than enthusiastically. I figure, whatever, I already came
this far.
 
Joy and I follow Thelma and Louise to their house--an incredibly huge trailer
just outside of Bullhead City. They even have a little lawn and a white picket
fence with gnomes and Pink Flamingos and it's like the coolest place I've ever
seen. When I asked them how they could live like this, so openly, they told us no
one looks at them twice cause everyone thinks Thelma and Louise are dead. It's
like they're just these two girls who look just like Thelma and Louise, but no
one actually believes that they're really Thelma and Louise. It just goes to show
ya --no one believes what they see in real life any more. Incredible. Inside the
trailer, Thelma opens this trunk she's got stored under the bed and it's filled
with guns. She tells me to pick out the one I like best and I take a nine
millimeter in memory of Howard.

At sunrise, we pack up Louise's car and head to Oregon, stopping along the way
to find secluded places for target practice. I have to teach Joy how to shoot
cause she's never fired a gun before. Joy really likes shooting but she's not
very good. I worry about her with a gun cause who knows what she'll hit. Thelma's
a real good gunwoman. She's guncrazy like me so we shoot together all the time.

When we get to Portland, we make our move after a week of stake outs.
We plan to abduct Packwood late Thursday night when he leaves his AA meeting
early. The parking lot outside the High School is empty, I don't think there's a soul 
around for miles. We're almost invisible dressed in black turtlenecks and black jeans. Louise hands
us each a mask to wear so we can hide our true identity. Thelma gets to be Bonnie
Parker, Joy's Lizzie Borden, Louise saves the Emma Peel mask for herself and
hands me Tania as bandit and I'm psyched. As we surround his car, I see him
throwing back a couple gulps from a silver flask he took from the glove
compartment. Louise drags him from the car while he screams at us that it was
just one little sip and I wonder if AA has addiction terrorists. I tell him to shut 
up or I'll shoot out his crotch cause I'm pissed he's such a despicable pig. Joy
blindfolds him while Thelma and I bind his hands and legs with electrical tape
and rope before we stuff him in the trunk.

We're renting this cabin somewhere outside Portland near Mt. Hood  and we take
him there. Inside the cabin we prepare to extract a confession from him, Thelma
ungags Packwood while Louise sets up a microcasette recorder.  I hold my gun to
his head while Louise interrogates him. 
"Admit it, you harassed all those women bringing charges against you!" 
"No, I was drunk and I didn't know what I was doing. I'm not responsible for my 
actions." 
"That's crap! You know what you did, you little shit!" 
"I don't remember anything!" 
"I bet! Do you really think you're fit for public office? You piece of trash!" 
"Of course." 
"Well, I  don't think you are and they're lots women out there who think the same." 
"Resign, pig!" I yell in his ear causing him to jump and kind of tremble. 
"Never!" 
"Can I kill him now?" I ask Louise. 
"No, not yet. We have to give him another chance." 
You crazy bitches wouldn't actually kill me?"
"Who you calling a bitch, you worthless slime?"I scream pushing the gun
barrel hard into his head.

Louise stops everything cause she thinks I'm getting too agitated. We leave him
tied and gagged on the couch while we all rest until morning. I hate him so much
I can taste his blood. I want him dead. Louise says to restrain myself cause
that's not the point of what we're doing. I lie next to Joy who can't sleep
either and think about why I can't kill that bastard. When the sun finally
rises, I'm thankful cause I'm tired of lying here with my stomach all twisted in
knots. Louise comes in and gets us out of bed handing me a cup of coffee and my
Tania mask. We drag Packwood outside and lean him up against the wall of the wood
shed. When Joy takes his blindfold off I watch his beady little eyes scrunch up.
Standing about 50 ft from him with my gun pointed at his chest, I want nothing
more than to pull the trigger. Thelma stands a few paces from him and holds her
gun on him to make sure he doesn't try anything while Joy unties him. When he's
all untied Louise asks him if he will admit he's scum and resign. He says no,
he'd rather die first. I've got his chest right in my sights and maybe he's so
stupid he doesn't know how close he is to that wish. Louise runs over to me and
tells me to shoot at him but not to hit him. I'm supposed to come as close as I
can so I just scare the shit out of him. I fire and land the bullet right above
his head --inches from his scalp. He kind of jumps and I see a huge dark spot on
the front of his pants. Christ, he's such a loser, he pissed in his pants! 
"Don't move asshole cause then you'll get hit and that will be it--you'll be
fried shit! " I caution. Then yell, "Spread your legs pig! Let's go now, spread em!" 
He doesn't do it, so I let two shots go and nail them within inches of each other just to the left of his
left shoulder and he spreads his legs.

As I aim for his crotch he gets hysterical-- begging me not to shoot. "What if
she misses?" he whines at Louise. "Agree to our demands and you won't have to
find out." "The way I see it, you can give in or I can fix it so you won't be
bothering any women ever again!" I say pointing my gun right at his dick. I
figure I'll miss the first time and then if he doesn't agree, fuck Louise, I'm
hitting the target!  Just as I'm about to pull the trigger he yells for me to put
down the gun cause he'll resign. Figures he'd rather throw in the towel than risk
his balls, he probably figures I'm some irrational girl who'll miss and then
it'll be all over for him. Little does he know, I never miss.

Back inside, he's all tied up while Louise tapes his confession and resignation
on her recorder. She wants a copy in case Packwood goes back on his promise to
hold a press conference admitting his guilt and formally announcing his
resignation. I'm glad we won, but I still hope he tries to weasel out so I can
shoot him later.

After Packwood lives up to the only promise he's ever kept while in public office
and resigns, we go back to Thelma and Louise's trailer in Arizona. Thelma and I
and talk alot. She helps me get over Howard and everything. I think I kind of
have a crush on her and I kissed her once, but I don't want to come between her
and Louise so I don't push it. One day, this woman named Foxy Brown calls looking
for Louise but she's out so I take a message that she and her friend Cleopatra
Jones want her to help them out with something. Louise calls back and afterwards
tells us about what Foxy and Cleopatra want. Later that day, we have one last
meal at the Oasis and head off for  D.C. to meet up with our sisters in armed
struggle.

We arrive at the rendezvous spot, an empty warehouse near Dulles Airport in
Virginia.Two long legged black women with huge afros each wearing hot pants and
tight tee-shirts that read "I Believe Anita Hill" strut toward us. They
congratulate us on our Packwood work and we compliment them for plaguing Shabba
Ranks for singing that sexist shit "Trailer Load of Girls" and saying gays should
be crucified. He hasn't given in yet, but Foxy and Cleopatra think they'll get
him soon. We make our plans, they hand us each an Anita Hill tee-shirt and a
cellular phone before we leave.  Staking out Clarence Thomas' office until
midnight is so boring. Just sitting in the tiny backseat eating Dunkin Donuts and
slurping coffee the color of sludge is getting to me. When we finally break from
the car, I'm like a bat out of hell. I make Louise nervous, so she tells me to
calm down or wait in the car. Inside Thomas' office, we tear through desks,
filing cabinets, and bookshelves looking for evidence to use against him. Thelma
finds a padlocked metal storage box on top of a bookcase that I shoot the lock
off. We find an unlabeled videotape, some copies of a hard-core mag called
Beaver, some sort of diary, and a deflated Roxie Roker fuck doll. We've scored
big time, so we put everything back in the box and take it with us.

The next morning we wait for Thomas to leave for work. When he's at a stoplight
in downtown, I go up to his car and pretend to panhandle him. Of course, he
ignores me and turns on his wipers when I wash his windshield. I break the car
phone antennae off his back window and he jumps out of the car screaming at me. I
pull my gun and we get back in the car. I force him to drive to the warehouse.
When we get there, Thelma, Louise, and Joy surround the car wearing their masks
and Anita Hill tee-shirts and I can tell he's scared as shit.  He doesn't
struggle or say one word as we take him inside the warehouse cause he knows he's
in for it. And he is cause the fucking Ms. 45 Underground is on his tail and we
want revenge!

Thomas is tied to a chair while Foxy and Cleopatra are showing him the things we
found in his little box. At first he refuses to look at any of us or at the stuff
that's in the box but when Foxy slaps him around a little and tells him to pay
attention to what she's saying or else, he doesn't look anywhere but at her. She
reads from the diary, it's filled with things like, "I told the receptionist I
could make her feel things no one else can yet, she still rejected me. Someday
I'm going to  call her into my office and screw her right on my desk. I know it's
what she really needs."  Cleopatra slaps him in the face a couple of times more
before she pulls the doll out of the box and laughs. 
"I bet you like to pretend you're the white guy, Tom Willis on The Jeffersons when 
you fuck this thing don't you?" 
"Look at these magazines, here, they're filled with only white women!" Foxy yells, 
shoving the magazine into his face and rubbing it around. 
"I bet you're scared of us just cause we're black!"Cleopatra screams pistol whipping
his head a couple of times while Foxy rubs his face in Beaver. Every blow sounds
awful, kind of like the dull thudding of a canteloupe landing on a linoleum block
floor. On the third strike, Cleo opens a huge gash on the left side of his head.
Thomas starts to cry and I feel sorry for him cause he's so pathetic. 
"You're not any Thurgood Marshall are you asshole?" Foxy yells. 
"You know what all this stuff means, don't you Clarence?" Cleopatra asks kind of 
coyly. "That you'll have to resign the bench because it looks to us like you lied 
under oath!"
"Wonder what the press will think of this stuff when they get hold of it?" Foxy 
chortles.
"Let's see, who should we let break the story, Starr Jones, Roz Abrams, Carol
Jenkins, Sue Simmons or maybe Roxie Roker?" Cleopatra laughs.

Foxy pulls a huge blade from her afro and holds it to Thomas' neck. He doesn't
flinch, instead he just sits there with a kind of glazed over look. I bet he
wants to die cause now that his career is ruined, he's got nothing left to live
for. They can't kill him, cause that would be sparing him the pain Anita HIll
went through, he's got to suffer like she did. I guess that's why I couldn't kill
Packwood, either. When the evidence is safely leaked to the press, we untie
Thomas but leave him in the warehouse as we drive off with his car keys. He can
find his own way back.

The six of us are shacked up at a Cloud Nine Motel along Interstate 40 somewhere
around Winston-Salem. We've been here a couple days trying to decide what to do
next. The floor of the room is covered with cards, letters, phone messages and
faxes from women who either want our help or want to join the underground. Foxy
wants to go back after Shabba but is open to other suggestions so Louise runs
down a list of possibilities, Joey Buttafuoco, Randall Terry from Operation
Rescue, springing Eileen Wuornos from jail, Rush Limbaugh, Jimmy Swaggart,
William Kennedy Smith, the list goes on and on. I fall asleep thinking it's too
much for six guncrazed girls to handle and dream of the day when all women have
guns and know how to use them.


VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

TAXI DRIVER


It' s 4am and every bar in the stinking city is about to close. My piece of junk
radio's tuned to the same single station that ever comes in clearly enough to
pass as reception and of course it's some Lite FM shit. Right now, Kiss weeps 
"Beth I hear you calling, but I can't come home right now" keeping me company
while I sail my cab down an Avenue more barren than a graveyard at high noon. I
pass bar after bar, wincing at the mere thought of drunk couples-to-be for
tonight negotiating terms with potential tricks before pouring themselves into my
backseat sloppily carrying out rudimentary foreplay on the way to wherever
oblivion lands them. I know only too well what it's like to be one of the few
strangling singles looking for the best of what's left at this dead end hour when
nothing else makes much sense but a good wailing country and western song. Lonely
nights spent in dingy bars across the country flash before me, an image so real
it awakens in me that bitter taste of exasperation that comes with the last gulp
of the final round whose only real purpose was to postpone the inevitable, since
I was already so drunk one more made a shit's difference anyway. My shift
stretches the dark side of 9 to 5 and on this last hour I hate to be so down when
I pull into the garage. If I stay this low while turning in my paperwork I may
not have the strength to fend off sleaze balls wanting to take me home. In moods
like this I inevitably end up regretting I said yes to one of those cavemen.
Thinking about the consequences, I realize my only option is to give this train
of thought up as too maudlin to entertain for very long.

Two women, one very tall and skinny, the other short and brunette, stand outside
the dyke bar on 7th Ave. South hailing a cab. I slow to pick them up. They slide
into the cab and I think they look hauntingly familiar. I watch in the rearview
mirror while they kiss in the backseat and recognize them as celebrities. It
never ends. They're going back uptown, so I swing around the block watching and
wondering which category they might fall into, negotiation or the best of what
was left. Before I can make a decision, I freeze up cause I notice the tall
redhead's staring back at me in the mirror. She pushes the small dark-haired
woman off her and whispers in her ear. The dark brown haired woman turns her head
and looks at me with this kind of weird expression and mocks, "Does it turn you
on to watch me kiss her ?" Grabbing the other woman again she continues,  "You
want a show?  That's fine with me, but you have to pay!" and kisses the woman.
She kneels on the back seat and takes the woman's head in her hands pushing it
back, so I can see her tongue lapping at the woman's huge painted lips and
occasionally darting into her mouth. 
	"What the fuck are you doing? Stop it, Veronica. I mean it!" screams the tall one
 to no avail as Veronica sucks her neck.

The short woman, Veronica, doesn't answer, she straddles the redhead's hips and
grabs at her tits all of which I watch in the mirror. 
	"Hey, excuse me! I don't like this. You're not funny anymore!" 
	"Mandy, shut UP!" 
	"Damn it, stop it now!" Mandy, the tall red one, whines at Veronica. 
	"You're always whimpering to everyone that I don't pay enough attention to you. 
So now I'm giving you my undivided attention and you're telling me to stop? Make up 
your mind!" Veronica says in a kind of sarcastic Lower East Side Yiddish shtick then 
screams, "I'm sick of you!  Shut up for once!" before going back to showing off 
Mandy's neck to me.

"Evergreen"  comes on the radio and Mandy sort of screeches along in this really
annoyingly off kilter voice, "One love that is shared by two" and on and on until
the end of the song. She turns to Veronica and says, "I'm better than Barbra,
aren't I?  God, why don't people see that? I don't understand why I'm not more
famous than she is! She looks like such a new age schmuck these days. Nothing
like the good old days of Funny Girl. Please, Prince of Tides? What an
embarrassment! I'm more fabulous than she is and no one sees it. Is everyone
blind?  I don't get it!" 
	"Mandy, get over yourself. You're famous enough." chastises Veronica 
	nonchalantly like she doesn't really care about anything Mandy's saying. 
	"That's easy for you to say. Look at yourself, every god damned
person in the world knows who you are. You're the total hypocrite, all you do
with your life is plot ways to be more famous and powerful and you're telling me
to be happy with the puny bit of fame that I have. Fuck you!" Mandy kind of talk
screams getting more and more agitated at Veronica and probably at the world in
general. 
	"Are we going to have this fight again? This fame shit is really getting
tired! Isn't there something new and different that you can complain about
tonight?"Veronica says feigning a yawn just to be obnoxious. 
	"You're so cruel!" Mandy replies while struggling to get out from underneath 
Veronica. "I told you a million times, it's not fame I'm after, I'm just trying to 
express myself. I'm an artist." whines Veronica. "I won't do just anything for fame." 
	"What're you saying, I'll do anything for fame?" 
	"You're a press whore. You know it, everyone in the business knows it, fuckin a, 
everyone in the entire world knows it!" snickers Veronica. 
	"You're jealous that's all! You know  I'm more talented and someday, after I've 
found the right vehicle, everyone will know it. You wait, when we're old and 
shriveled they'll be calling me for the remake of Whales of August. It'll be me they 
remember, not you. You'll just be some sort of mass embarrassment, but me they'll 
remember for my originality and wit." snaps Mandy.
	"Originality? You're just a cheap Streisand rip off. The only difference between
you and a drag queen on Christopher St. is a dick!"

Mandy slaps Veronica across the face and pushes her against the door. Veronica's
head thumps against the metal between the door and rear windows. She leaps on top
of Mandy yelling about how she shouldn't have done that because she knows
Veronica spends more time working out and Mandy's seen Veronica  beat the crap
out of her ex-husband so god only knows what will happen to Mandy now. Veronica'
grabs Mandy's head and gets it in a lock while she kisses her lips and neck.
Mandy's struggling pretty much in vain to get out from underneath Veronica.
	"Ooops, she squirmed and shit, I bit her!  Look at this luscious little mark on
her neck. Don't you just want to kiss it like this? Mmmm, don't you wish you
could have this smooth gleaming flesh all to your own, Ms. Cabbie?"

Veronica slides the straps of Mandy's sleeveless dress down to expose her tits to
me. Then I watch her suck and pinch at the woman's nipples for so long my own
start to get so hard they ache. 
	"Yummy, her nipples are hard like little pieces of candy just waiting to be 
licked. She's ready for you. Are you hard like her? Oh, Ms. Cabbie, I can see by 
the reflection in the window you're only steering with one hand. Where's your 
other hand you naughty girl?"

My mouth is dry as fucking sandpaper cause I'm so turned on watching them.
Veronica's relentless mouth moves down Mandy's torso and my own flesh is crawling
with desire. I can't do much to stop her but thank god as I finally spot a street
sign and mumble to them that this is their stop. I adjust my mirror to see
Veronica's mouth just inches from Mandy's crotch. Tiny sprigs of glistening pubic
hair shoot out from the edge of Mandy's mini dress that Veronica's hitched up
around Mandy's waist. Karen Carpenter croons "That is why all the girls in town
follow you all around, just like me they long to be close to you." My voice is
weak as I fight to form coherent words through all the varied sensations taking
over my body and tell them once again I've stopped the cab at their destination.
Veronica pulls herself up from the floor of the cab and screams, "Did I tell you
to stop? None of us are finished are we? Drive until I tell you its OK to stop!"

I peel out from the curb and drive to nowhere in particular, not that it matters
where I go really so long as I  keep on moving. Mandy's screaming I better stop
to let her out but Veronica yells back that if I do, she'll get out and not pay
the fare which is already in excess of $20. I'm not putting in that much of my
own money, so I keep driving because right now money means more than scruples.
	"Shut up Mandy. You love that some chick is getting off on me getting you off.
It's what you've always wanted for the whole world to see me fuck you. Why don't
you just enjoy it?" 
	"That's crap you fucking maniac! Power, that's all you want, you feed on it. 
You're a vampire sucking the life out of everyone around you."
	"Bullshit, the only reason you hang around me is to suck in some of my residual
fame. You're riding in on my wake, so I get to do what ever I want with you.
That's the price!"

Veronica puts one hand between Mandy's breasts and presses hard to hold Mandy in
place while she flicks her tongue against her hard protruding nipples. A couple
of repressed groans escape from deep inside Mandy's gut. Slowly, Veronica moves
her mouth across her body again until she is back down at her cunt. I adjust the
mirror yet another time to see Veronica spreading out Mandy's glistened maroon
cunt for me. She's totally turned on--her cunt's all shiny and covered with
juice. I slip two fingers into my own warm wet cunt while Veronica's fingers lead
me eyes on a guided tour plunging in and out of Mandy's pussy.
	
	"Are you jerking off yet?" Veronica asks. 
	"You talkin to me?" I say speaking directly to the mirror. 
	"Yeah, I'm talkin to you! Are you getting off or not?" Veronica demanded. 
	I don't answer at first, but then tell her I am. 
	"I'm about to go down on Mandy's soaking cunt. I bet you're even wetter and 
juicier than she is! You wouldn't fight me like she is, right? You'd be a good girl 
and listen to me,wouldn't you?" 
	"Yes." 
	"Then, listen to me now. Take two fingers and slide then deep into your cunt. 
While I do the same thing to Mandy."

Mandy lets out another reluctant groan when Veronica pushes into her. I want to
close my eyes and pretend Veronica's doing this to me, but I still have to drive.
	"Are you fucking yourself?" 
	"Yeah." 
	"Well, you're not doing a good enough job cause I can't hear you like you can 
	hear Mandy. Push harder, honey. I want to hear it!"

I push my fingers as hard as I can into my cunt and I surprise myself by yelping
a little at the pain which doesn't feel entirely unpleasant.

Veronica fucks Mandy and I fuck myself while I watch Veronica fuck Mandy some
more as we all careen precariously up Broadway into Washington Heights. Veronica
licks Mandy's cunt a couple of times. Mandy's stopped protesting and is kind of
writhing in about as much pleasure as a really pissed off person can. 
	"Now, take a finger and flick your clit a couple of times like this." Veronica 
	says as she puts her tongue to Mandy's clit.

Mandy kind of jumps and then arches her back pushing her pussy into Veronica's
face with every flick of the tongue. As Veronica sucks Mandy's clit, I'm jerking
off watching Mandy thrust her cunt at Veronica. I see her dark head bobbing
between Mandy's long legs and Mandy's moaning pushes me to the edge of coming.
We're at a red light and I take my other hand and kind of pinch and tweak my
nipples. I let out kind of a loud grunt as I shudder into an orgasm at the
traffic light. Veronica stops going down on Mandy and asks if I came. I say yes
and she tells me to pull over to the curb. "What about me?" Mandy whines. "Fuck
you." Veronica replies, annoyed as she throws two 100 dollar bills in my lap and
swirls her tongue in my ear before she gets out. 	
	"Just take this pain in my ass bitch home and keep the change, baby."she says 
	blowing a kiss to me as she closes the back door.



&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&


Notes from the Sofa track

Susie's Late Night SexWorld 

When I woke up this morning I finally realized that Liz Smith, no matter how much I 
may want it, is never going to be the "great lesbian of the western hemisphere." So 
with that permanent void left in my life, I had to ask myself, what is it that I as 
a lesbian-american most want from life. My answer to myself was this, "Susie's Late 
Night SexWorld."  Lifetime  gave Jane another chance, so why shouldn't NBC give 
Susie a try?  I mean what the hell is
NBC going to do with Dave's time slot? Sell it to Ronco? Not to knock Jane, I
worship her! I mean you have to love a girl who when discussing sensitive and
serious issues like sexual harassment,  finds it not inappropriate to wear an
outfit of velveteen bellbottoms and platform shoes that can only be described as
probably on loan from the Ziggy Stardust and Janis Joplin Costume Institutes.
Susie's talk show would be the greatest! It would be a kind of Letterman meets
Robin Byrd type of thing or better yet,  a liberated Sandra After Dark. "Ask
Susie Sexpert" replaces Viewer Mail and the top ten list would be something like
"Top Ten Things to do with Your Dildo when Your Parents Drop by Unexpectedly"--
Stupid Pets would be transformed into the amusing spectacular "Stupid Girls and
Their Vibrator Tricks." Finally, Paul and the boys would be replaced by Sexie
Sadie and her Bump and Grind Hurdy Gurdy Band. Just think--no more sitting
through those tired rock stars recycled nightly, the entertainment would be girl
strippers and only girl strippers in mink, feather boas, 12 inch heels, or tiny
string bikini, whatever, it doesn't really matter because it all comes off
anyway. The guests, only the best and brightest stars of the porno literati,
Dorothy Allison, Pat Califia, Artemis Oakgrove, Jennifer Blowdryer or lesbian
porn icons dropping by to hype their newest films (clips and all)! I can see the
promo now, "Tonight on Susie's Late Night SexWorld, Susie talks toys with Tori
Welles!"  I want my Susie TV!

I Hate Brenda Newsletter 

Top Ten Reasons to like Shannen Doherty by Shannen Doherty 
(as told toUs  magazine) 
1. My honesty 
2. I have a very wacky, kind of dry humor 
3. I'm the best friend a person could ever have 
4. I'm very compassionate 
5. I help people out as much possible 
6. I really care about this world and the people in it 
7. I just want what's best for everyone 
8. I take on absolutely everybody's problems and take care of everyone 
9. I'm basically a very normal, down-to-earth person 
10. I'm the person who stops and gives any homeless person any money that they want.

A Day in the Life of Tori Spelling

5 am-- Wakes up after dreaming about winning an Academy Award for playing a
teenage recovering  adult child of alcholics-anorexic-bullemic-coke
addicted-shopaholic-compulsive gambler-kleptomaniac-alcholic-incest survior who
gets abducted by aliens and is repeatedly sexually abused and made to bear alien
offspring as part of some fiendish experiment until she's finally rescued from
the mothership by
ChristianSlaterKeanuReevesRiverPhoenixBrendanFraserBradPittJohnnyDepp.

6 am--Rehearses acceptance speech while eating breakfast (1/2 a grapefruit, low
fat cottage cheese, two cups of coffee and a gram of speed) poolside on the
Promenade Deck of  the Love Boat  replica moored in the backyard.

7 am--Driven to the 90210 set by Ricardo Montalban in a white Chrysler Cordoba
where yes, she sits surrounded by acres of rich Corinthian leather.

8am--Shannen waits in dressing room with a new Gucci handbag and a box of
dietetic chocolates to make sure you talk to dad about not canning Brenda from
the show

9am--Shoots a scene where Donna decides not to sleep with  boyfriend until he
reaches puberty. Bitch about how  wardrobe sucks. Demand a bigger clothing
allowance for this shitty show and storm off to trailer (which is 18 times bigger
than anyone else's ).

1pm-- Lunch. Shannen pays for the shared watercress, mint, arugala, and goat
cheese salad with fresh sprigs of the front lawn. Picked out goat cheese because
it has too many calories and might possibly be healthy.

2-3  vomit up sprigs of grass.

3:30--Shannen drives home. Invite her over even though she runs over and
decapitates one of the two matching Tattoo lawn jockeys outside front gate when
she thinks she spots Eddie Vedder jogging by.

4:30 --Sit with Shannen and mom, Candy, sipping Long Island Ice Teas with valium
chasers by the Fantasy Island waterfall on the lower 40 acres of dad's estate.
When really blasted talk about deepest yearnings, most private desires--plastic
surgery. Candy shows off before and after pics from  scrapbook of past operations
and you share your future plans for boob surgery.

10:30--Call the Star  and the Enquirer  leaving messages that Gabrielle Carteris
is a lesbian and really 44 years old. Hope to ruin her career cause she's such a
goody-goody and way too smart for her own good.

11pm--Do a facial with Shannen  then throw some cucumbers over your eyes before
you pass out.

3am--Wake up and go out to Roxbury with Hollywood's newest neo-nazi couple-- slap
happy Shannen and punch happy Marky Mark.

The Chick who Came to Dinner

"But if all I do is shock people, then why does everybody pay attention and why
have I lasted so long? Because I've got something to say, that's why. When I
don't have anything to say, I'll shut up and go away." --Madonna quoted in Us
magazine

DJSQ to Madonna--It's so Hard to Say Goodbye. I think Not!

Bad Girls

Bad Girls are all the rage. They're everywhere! Recently, Riot Grrrls have
surfaced in style and music sections of mainstream publications (as if this is a
only a style or music revolt!) Currently, a new group of rebellious young female
artists are even shaking up the NY art scene. Rumor has it the New Museum is
planning a major exhibition of so called "Bad Girl" art and plenty of "Angry
Women" are on view at the Whitney Biennial. Just in this past year alone,  major
galleries have been occupied by Sue WIlliams' brutal sculptures and canvases that
bash back at domestic violence,  Ava Gerber's moldy cake sculptures, shredded
undergarments and Glad Bags filled with urine that short circuit the supposed
comfort of Kinder, Kuchen und Kirche;  more recent shows by Marlene McCarty
feature sexy yet violent inflammatory word canvases ("Taste My Love Fist") or
Nicole Eisenman's exhibition of drawings that execute a kind of free floating
gender terrorism so total it makes Judith Butler seem tame. We love the art but
hate the critics. In a piece called "Twisted Sisters" Voice  critic Elizabeth
Hess writes about the McCarty and Eisenman shows never mentioning the artists are
lesbians and a good part of their work is about fucking with pc dyke theory. Hess
says of Eisenman, "[She] wants to be as bad as the worst man she knows. Yet she
also wants to love women."  Lady if she wanted to love women, she'd put on
fucking "Lavender Jane Loves Lesbians!" I hope Hess doesn't really believe "Taste
My Love Fist" refers only to domestic violence. I ask you...Both artists play
with structures of masculinity, occupying them as women and turning such
typically male statements and images into a ground from which to express their
desire of women. This is a tactic not meant to parrot dominant paradigms, but to
dislodge them and to trouble utopic and silly notions of lesbian desire as
"subversive" since it falls outside of masculine frameworks. Hess can't quite
stretch her feeble mind far enough to get this and the closest she comes is her
concluding note that these works are all "in the service of the most politically
incorrect feminism to date."  

DJSQ to Elizabeth Hess--Guy Trebay knows more about
dyke culture than you! Whether you're gay or not, smash those Holly Near records
and pick up a couple issues of On Our Backs, hell, go to Clit Club or better yet,
SHUT UP!

Sara Gilbert for Prez.

Roseanne's middle child, the wisecracking Darlene (played by Sara Gilbert) has
been voted by DJSQ staffers (like there are so many) to be the new dykelet icon
of the 90's. Sara appeals to what is our most lofty ideals of what every one of
us wishes we were once like, smart, sarcastic and principled at the tender age of
16 as well as our most base desires by bringing out the chickenhawk in us all.
With such stature comes the burden of being our only amusement, which means she
gets to be the object of the most vicious gutter snipping gossip we can dish out
(which may seem like nothing compared to say Louella Parsons). One rumor making
the rounds has Ms. Gilbert taking a gal from her acting class to a big Hollywood
dyke party--among the attendees standup dyke Ellen DeGeneris (allright I know
this is gratuitous, but we worship her too). Then there are those press reports
that Sara wants to go to Yale just like her idol, Jodie Foster (wink wink!) or
the rumors (maybe collectively imagined) about Drew Barrymore and Gilbert's
supposed relationship during Poison Ivy. Fact or fiction?  You make the call! My
favorite piece of Sara dish comes from the April issue of Sassy. One intrepid
Sassyite approached Ms. Gilbert at some sort of Rock the Vote  thingy and was
rebuffed by our darling Sara. I have one thing to say--I bet Darlene and David's
comic book won't be Sassy's  "Zine of the Month" any time in the near future!

Hey! Hey! Ho! Ho! Camille Paglia's got to go!

Paglia writing in a British paper about the Amy Fisher case says this:

"[In] an astonishing display of female triumph of will...a betrayed wife has won
back her man and defeated her younger competitor...Joe Buttafuoco is just a
puppet manoeuvred by a maternal dominatrix, who has pulled him back into the
domestic orbit as the third of her children. Her head wound is the battle scar of
a total victory.The bullet in Mary Jo Buttafuoco's head is testament to her power
over her man, Joey."

DJSQ to Camille: Knock! Knock! Anybody home?

While you're at it....

Take that steroid swallowing pinhead of a post up boy, Marky Mark with you. Marky
Mark was interviewed at the MTV Inaugural Ball where he said he wasn't down with
Clinton's pro-choice stance. Oh yeah, real nice! He's marketed  as some sex god,
photographed with half naked women in showers, stands around in only underwear,
dedicates his book to his dick, but god forbid he actually stand up for the
sexual freedom of the women he exploits!

DJSQ to Marky Mark--Your 15 minutes are up!

///////////////////////////////////

How to Avoid Palimony (for People who haven't earned enough money to think about
it)

1. 	Pass up all those promotions and perks you've been offered by large firms.
An increase in salary is just a magnet for chicks looking for some fast money.
(This way you don't have to make major lifestyle changes--Mac and Cheese,
newspaper in your shoes, the refreshing silence of a disconnected phone. . .) 
2. 	Keep all your assets liquid. Roles of pennies stashed behind the refrigerator are
good--and can easily be used to defend yourself. (You can also avoid those pesky
IRS people trying to nose around your outrageously huge bank accounts.) 
3. 	Keep investments (Lotto tickets, OTB stubs, numbers slips) in a safe place, 
away from prying eyes (taped to the back of the toilet.)
4. 	Keep dwelling repairs to a minimum. While making your abode more hospitable, 
upping the value (e. g. replacing the blown out wall, repairing the shower rod
dangling from the bathroom wall), they will certainly result in your being 
overassessed by your ex-gal's lawyer. 
5. 	If faced with an impending lawsuit, consider a large donation to
your local larcenists. Leave your door open and go out for a while. No one can
blame you for being robbed; besides, you could really find any more 8-track
cassettes, could you? 
6. 	When making large purchases (Ronco, Home Shopping Club Recession Specials), 
always use an assumed name. 
7. 	Avoid high-priced food items when entertaining--everybody loves tripe on a 
biscuit. Also avoid keeping good alcohol in the house. Drink your St. Ides 
before someone decides it's from a vintage crop. 
8. 	When looking for large-ticket items, buy American. Preferably used American. 
9. 	Avoid long-term commitment. 
10.	See 9.


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