
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

                             snorkle

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

issue electronique numero uno
a sixo publication
october 31, 1995
editors: ren alvarez and suzan coln
write him: snorkle60@aol.com

_______________________
CONTENTS
_______________________
editors letter
Bedwetter.
the Russian
One night Stand patrol
unTitled
MoM wE Kan Reed- book reviews
k a r m a
sixo journal
the Van Gogh- music reviews


You are now the proud recipient of snorkle's first electronic
manifestation! Yes, we continue to put out the old printed rag, 
but in our effort towards world domination this seems to be our 
next step. In here you'll find stuff from issues #1 & #2, no art 
and little diversions from actual text. So please sit back and 
enjoy. If there is anything I can do for you, or you have any 
questions about what's going on, please pretend I don't exist. 
Don't write me, don't call me, and especially don't invoke my
name in questionable religious rituals. Well, go ahead and 
partake of the fruit of our labor. We'll be talking soon.











+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+
Bed wetter.
+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+

I was in bed.

Awake.

Awake with my eyes closed and waiting to get up. But I was tired, 
and things outside were tiresome, and I was in no mood to be 
bothered. I felt strange. My small, dark room was a comfort, but 
I was restless. Anxious. About nothing.

 It's narrow, my room, with one small window on its east end, 
latched. My bed straight across from it. This was my true home. 
In bed, hours passed like dinosaurs, thoughts camped out in my 
head until the fires petered out, outdoorsy-like. Things around 
me were of my own creation, sweet and obliging. Life was whatever 
I wanted it to be. I loved my bed. And it loved me.

 I was making a list, "Reasons to Get Up," and finding it very 
hard to come up with number one. Really, I play these games with
myself all the time and never once in my illustrious career as a 
sleeper did I find such obstacles to my inquiries. It was as if, 
and please don't judge me too harshly as to say I've lost my mind, 
as if someone didn't want me to. It's ridiculous, I know, but I 
can't help feeling scared every time I think about leaving my bed. 
There isn't any rational explanation that governs my fear, but a 
voice behind a voice, behind a voice. A me so twisted back in my 
head that it's a me I hardly recognize.

 Even now, comfortable in the belly of my bed, it whispers in my 
ear, though consciously I cannot hear. The floor looks cold. My 
dresser crouches violently under the window, unbelievably far from 
the foot of my bed. The door is evil, grinning, like a monkey.

 Games are being played. Games are played by opponents. What do 
you do if your antagonist is you, a you, you thought fell away like 
a leper's dick many years ago. How disappointing, to realize that 
one never changes. You can only layer on top of the disgusting 
animal we really are, the shriveled soul of our ancestors being 
our absolute definition. I've neatly piled my excretions on the 
floor by my nightstand and switched the pillows to the foot of the 
bed to avoid some of the smell. I sleep better.

 You don't want to listen to the ugly parts of my condition. I'm 
sorry, but when you haven't spoken to anyone as long as I have 
every fart becomes a tabloid event. My apologies, forgive. Let me 
tell you a story. Just yesterday I saw a little mouse trot across 
the floor. It was the cutest little thing and I could have stared 
at it all night long (God knows I had the time) but that was not 
to be. You see, it was a curious little mouse and at first it 
watched me from behind a leg of the dresser. Once it ascertained 
that I was not leaving the creature comforts of my bed, he or she 
(gender remains a mystery; I've been told it's not easy to tell) 
moved halfway between the footboard and the dresser with a kittenish 
prance.

 There it was, nose twitching and eyes blinking, staring straight 
into my face. Adorable. I had a piece of cheese that fell out of a 
sandwich I ate two days ago that I was saving for a special occasion, 
and I placed it right at the foot of the bed without touching the 
floor of course, brave little mouse. The mouse became quite excited
(yes it's true, one of the few reliable bits of information that you 
can glean from nursery rhymes is that London bridge did fall down 
and that mice can't resist a good hunk of cheese). It inched its way 
toward the sexy piece of cheese, keeping an eye on me and the cheese 
all the while, always forward, one darling little paw after another 
till it was just about to get a bellyful of succulent cheese. At 
that moment, and not a moment before, I grabbed the cute little 
thing and shoved it in my mouth.

 It was the first time I had ever done something like that. I was 
chewing and I was grossed out, and at the same time proud of my chic 
little feat. When I was done swallowing I coughed up some fur and 
picked up the piece of cheese from the floor. I was hungry but I 
didn't eat it. I saved it.

 You don't need to tell me that I'm sick. But what real harm am 
I doing? The poor little mouse? I can't be blamed for being at the 
top of the food chain. To others? Fortunately mine is a solitary 
diversion and so far I haven't developed a taste for human beings. 
To myself? Ah...so kind of you to be concerned but I do believe 
this life belongs to me and I can spend it any which way I please 
thankyouverymuch. Sick is a point of view, like spoon feeding a 
cow through its anus because it's the only part of a cow you're 
familiar with. Maybe you're not judging me from the right angle.

 Irrelevant. The fact is when compared to what other people do 
with their lives my life seems a bit odd. I don't go out, I won't 
even leave my bed, not even to you-know-what. I feel a tiny bit 
threatened (change that to a lot threatened) by the floor and 
furniture. I won't talk to anyone; granted that's because I won't 
get up to answer the phone or open the door. It's that nasty little 
monster that causes my sweet eccentricities, no doubt, and the more 
I think about that cringing, hump-backed arthritic child, the more 
I want to give it up.

 But how can you rid yourself of you? That freak of nature is as 
much a part of me as the me speaking to you right now. Without him 
(me) I would no longer be me. So I have no choice but to become a 
passenger aboard this fear train from hell, this manic carrot, this 
rogue planet. You say I'm not trying hard enough, indeed because 
much of me is opposed to change until it is fully expressed. I am on 
a journey with no reward but its end.

 Thank you for listening. The discourse of a so-called madman can 
be a bit taxing a times so thank you for your attention. Perhaps 
someday you and I can meet when both of our selves are on equal 
footing. One day when I find the nerve to walk on the floor, dress, 
and jump through the door. It's not too far-fetched an idea.

                             #  #  #


The Russian
_+_+_+_+_+_+

My feet are so wide and flat
That
When I was five, my mother
Had to bring me, indignant and scuffling,
To Stuart's Stride Rite, that musky place, to buy
"Extra Wide Corrective Shoes for Boys"

Dull, Chalky, Brown,
Painfully out of style,
I clodded along  to   school     in          them.
While

My sister casually kicked off her
Gleamingly feminine black
Fucking patent-leather Mary Janes
(The same ones Rachel had)
On the smooth kitchen linoleum,

She trotted off on slim ankles to gnaw
On a grated carrot in the Florida room.

My sister
Wanted to be a tomboy.

I wanted
The silver, beaded moccasins
At Stuart's Stride Rite because
I wanted to be    magic Pocahontas
Moon princess.

Trying one of them on made the sides of my mouth
Droop, because it dangled,
Shining, taunting
From the wide, flat plain of my five-year old foot.

I was not  Magic Pocahontas or Cinderella,

But my mother, stooped down and said:
"You come from good, Russian peasant stock,
And those wide feet will
Hold you strong all your life
Where the dainty ones break."

When I got home,
I wrapped tin foil carefully around each foot,
Enjoying the fragile silverness as I
Imagined I was a queen in Russia,
Marching around the living room barking orders until
Holes wore through my aluminum slippers,
My sister

Runs barefoot,
She is a slim-ankled tomboy but
You, my love, say I am
The Magic Pocahontas Moon Princess

 And I will hold you strong all your life
 Where the dainty ones break.

Amanda Green
                             
                             #  #  #


One Night Stand Patrol,
   report transcribed by Luisa Coln
_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+


 It was 1:15 am. We spotted them walking down Hill Street and 
followed on foot unobtrusively. My partner Dunne and I put on 
a charade of conversation as the two suspects reached their 
destination: an apartment complex. They entered.
 
 Dunne lit a cigarette as we stood outside. The streets were damp 
from a recent rain, the air humid. I decided to have a cigarette 
myself. My name's Johnnie Deare, and at the moment (1:19 am) I was 
a woman whose only thought was to do her job.
 
 I checked my watch. Five minutes had gone by. I looked at Dunne 
and nodded. He flicked his cigarette into the dark, unfortunately 
on a cat that was making its way through an alley. I've never really 
liked cats.  

 We took the stairs and stood by apartment 3B, listening. It was 
almost 1:26am. We positioned ourselves, took out our guns, and I 
broke down the door.
 
 The woman let out a shriek. She was sitting on the bed, shoes 
off, blouse unbuttoned. The man stood beside her. Luckily his fly 
was open, otherwise there might not have been sufficient evidence 
to make a case against him. I made a mental note to myself to wait 
longer next time.
 
 "What - this is an outrage - what are you doing? There's no law - 
this is my girlfriend!" sputtered the man. He was tall, stocky, 
with a ridiculous haircut ridged in the front like a tiny wave 
reaching its crest.
 
 "That's right, I'm his girlfriend. You've got the wrong people - " 
began the woman.
 
 Dunne said, "We have two witnesses who saw you being introduced 
at Toasty's Bar and Grill - this evening."
 
 The man started to sweat, and the woman bit her lip.
 
 "Uh - it was love at first sight," countered the woman after a 
pause. "We've been, um, looking for each other all our lives."
 
 Her response rankled me. Not only was she a lousy liar, but 
something in her tone suggested chronic snottiness. I'd had enough.
 
 "Okay, Tony and Maria," I said. "Stand up and face away from each 
other."
 
 They did as they were told. "You," I said to the man. "What's this 
young lady's full name?"
 
 A long silence ensued. The woman closed her eyes, and I could see 
her thinking she'd made a bad choice at Toasty's.
 
 "Uh - Lisa - Lisa - " He didn't finish.
 
 Dunne had fished out the woman's I.D.
 
 "Nice try," said Dunne, smirking. "It's Alyssa Johnson.*"
 
 "Ohhhh," said the man, like a game show contestant who'd just lost 
fifteen thousand dollars.
 
 I took out two pairs of cuffs.
 
 "I'm placing you both under arrest for violating Article 247, 
section 8: contributing to the concept of sex as a meaningless, 
loveless act," I began. "You have the right to remain silent..."

*suspect's names have been changed

                             #  #  #

U n t i t l e d
_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_

 Usually the hookers look at me like I'm a two-bit runner, which 
usually I am. But today the big man has sent for me especially, so 
today I'm better than that. I put on my best suit, got my shoes 
shined, and I feel good. And before I see the big man, I leave 
enough time to see this pretty girl I know named Geena.
 
 She's a working girl, but I never think of her as a hooker or a 
whore because of the way she treats me. When the whores are looking 
at me like I'm less than the gum stuck to the bottom of their cheap 
high heels, Geena always looks at me like I'm something more, like 
I'm a man.
 
 Her name's not really Geena. I think it's something like Ellen, 
but she loves that actress Geena Davis so much that she dyed her 
hair red and started calling herself Geena. She talks about how 
she's going to get out of this racket and become an actress. They 
all talk that way, but I could really see her doing something big, 
something important. I like to think that way, anyway.

 I go looking for her, but she's not around--too early for her to 
be standing outside working, and none of those bitches in the house 
know where she is. They look down on me when I ask for her and say 
why you wanna know? You can't afford her ass anyway. When they say 
shit like that I'd like to knock a few more of their teeth out, but 
hitting a woman is a low thing to do, and I'm lucky I'm not in charge 
of keeping these bitches in line. So I go on my way to see what the 
big man wants.

 "Paulie, you're a good man," he says to me, a classy cigar between 
his fingers.
 
 "You're loyal to me, you ain't strung out like some of my other
employees"--here he looks at Rollo, who looks down--"and so for 
you I got a special job because I know you can handle it."
 
 I smile. I'm trying not to look too excited, but I can't help but 
smile as I sit in the one chair in front of the big man's desk. "You 
bet, sir, anything you got, I can handle it."
 
 The big man smiles at me, and it's a little scary. Even though I 
know I'm in good right now, I wonder if I've done something wrong. 
"Paulie, you heard about that unfortunate incident we had last week 
with the exchange on 23rd Street."
 
 "Yessir, I heard about that."
 
 "And you know the shipment was never...recovered."
 
 "Yessir."
 
 "Bad enough losing a few good men in that mess, but losing the 
shipment too, that put us in bad with our associates uptown. Very 
messy. I didn't like that at all. Made us look stupid." He taps the 
cigar into the ashtray. It's so quiet in here I can hear the ash fall 
into the tin bowl. He watches the smoke curl up towards the only 
light in the room.
 
 "I don't like to look stupid, Paulie."
 
 If someone came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder, I swear 
I would shit my pants.
 
 Suddenly, the big man smiles. "Fortunately, we found the person 
who took off with the shipment, we've contacted our friends uptown, 
and all we need to do is exchange like we were supposed to the first 
time. Only this time I need it done right. And that's where you come 
in, Paulie. I want you to go make the exchange for me."
 
 I smile big now because I can't help it. "You can count on me, sir," 
I say. "Just say when and where."
 
 "Tomorrow night you'll go uptown. Mickey will take you where 
you're gonna go...you don't need to know right now." Smart, very 
smart. "Meantime, Rollo here will be taking care of the person who 
snatched our shipment."
 
 I'm feeling so good now I'm running off at the mouth. "Sir, I 
gotta say, I'm glad I ain't that guy, whoever he is."
 
 "Frankly, Paulie, I don't think you'd look too good with long 
red hair and a skirt, so that's another reason to be glad."
 
 I had pneumonia once when I was little. My mother said I had it 
for a week, but my fever was so high I couldn't remember hardly 
anything. All I remember was the way I felt so cold, and at the same 
time a sweat would break out all over me like a river. And that's 
the way I feel right now.
 
 The big man excuses me and tells Rollo to sit down, in the chair 
where I'd just been feeling so good. I go outside. My hands are 
shaking so bad it takes me five minutes to light a cigarette.

 I don't know how someone could be stupid enough to think they could 
take a suitcase full of smack away from a man like that. She had to 
know they were gonna find out. She had to know what they would do to 
her. Then I think that maybe if you're desperate enough, you'll do 
anything. Even something stupid.

 Outside, I have a word with Rollo, who is very strung out. The 
people from uptown will not notice if a little junk is missing. Then 
I go looking for this pretty girl I know named Geena.

 "Hi Paulie," she says. "You look so handsome today." She has big 
cherry red lips that stretch into a smile a mile wide. I've heard 
her say almost exactly the same words to the johns who cruise her, 
but when she says it to them her face is dead.
 
 I smile and hand her a dozen red roses. She screams. "Omigod, 
Paulie! What's this for?"
 
 "For you, 'cause you're the prettiest girl I know," I say. She 
blushes, and it's nice to see that she still can. "You busy right 
now?"
 
 "Not yet," she says, looking up and down the street. "They're all 
having dinner with their wives. They come out for dessert later."
 
 I take her hand. "Come with me."
 
 "Paulie, where we going? I can't leave! Richie'll kill me!"
 
 "You leave Richie to me," I say. "I'm taking you out to dinner. 
We're gonna go on a little date."

 I take her for Chinese at Lucky's. I tell her she can order 
anything she wants. I tell the waiter to give her extra fortune 
cookies. She tells me the entire plot of a Geena Davis movie. Her 
eyes are so blue I can't hear a word she says.

 "Where we going now, Paulie?" She's like a little kid, smiling, 
hugging her roses to her chest. It's getting late. "I thought we 
could go up to my place," I say.
 
 I take her up to my apartment, which ain't exactly Trump Tower--one 
room above an Irish bar on Lexington Avenue--but I keep it clean and 
it's warm.
 
 I turn on the radio to one of those stations that plays old songs 
from the '50s. Geena sits down on my bed and I ask her if she wants 
something to drink. "I don't have much, just whiskey, or a beer," I 
say. She says whiskey, with kind of a sad look on her face, and when 
I come back with her drink she's unbuttoning her shirt.
 
 "No, no," I say, taking her hands. "I didn't bring you up here for 
that." She looks confused, then hurt again.
 
 "But I thought...You don't want me?" she says.
 
 "No, it's--it's not like I don't want you, Geena, it's not that at 
all," I say. "But I got respect for you." Her face lights up. "I 
know you're a nice girl, and I think you're a beautiful woman...the 
most beautiful woman I know," I say, and her face looks like a flower 
when it's blooming so hard you think it's gonna explode.
 
 "I always knew you weren't like any other guy, Paulie," she says. 
"You're the nicest guy in the world."
 
 I kiss her on the cheek and pull her up, close to me. "Dance with 
me, Geena," I say. She smiles and puts her arms around my neck. An 
old doo-wop number comes on the radio. We dance slow. I put my cheek 
against her smooth red hair. Her body is warm and small. She's 
wearing so much perfume.
 
 Does it have to be now? Can I stay like this for just one more 
minute?
 
 I can't, I know. This is the perfect moment. We are both so happy 
right now. This must be what love is.
 
 I reach as slow as I can for the gun in my jacket. I cocked it 
before so she wouldn't even hear the click.
 
 I close my eyes.

                             #  #  #

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
                       MoM wE Kan Reed!!
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>


The Acid House
Irvine Welsh
W W Norton & Co.

 A collection of short stories by some Scottish malcontent that 
has pierced me through the temple. Documenting the seedier parts 
of Scottish life through fiction, Welsh surprised me with the 
compassion that lives within his nihilistic backdrops.

 Stories like The Shooter, Eurotrash, and A Smart Cunt: a novella, 
bring it out of you from places you didn't know existed. Utilizing 
dialect and unlikable characters, he shows us a world of unavoidable 
loneliness that is totally lacking in heroes, but populated with 
people who have a fleeting dream to know it differently.

The Ages of Lulu
Almudena Grandes
Grove Press

We come into this world unafraid and questioning, and somewhere 
along the line our culture kills our powers of exploration. For most 
of us the dark side of our natures are virgin territories, unblemished 
by real acts. Lulu never had any problems going over to the dark side 
so long as Pablo was there to bring her back safely. This is about 
such sexual awakenings, the vague line between morality and pleasure, 
and how scared we all are of being alone. Extremely erotic and 
intensely focused, this is a good primer for the edge.

Let's Party! Your Guide to Fun in Europe
Sam E. Kehdr, Mark J Maxim, Jessica Fernandes, and Kim Soenen
Vagabond Publishing

I had to write about this simply because it's the first book anyone 
has actually sent us to review. And we are quite proud and happy 
that it was sent to us. This helpful little guide is a comprehensive 
listing of good places to get sloshed in the European continent. No 
museums, scenic locations or penny tours of traditional Dutch 
architecture, just the best places to pass out from excessive trips 
into the well of depravity. Revolutionary.

It coaches you on how to survive in Europe cheaply, a listing of 
festivals, bars, and clubs, and a "party passport" full of money-
saving coupons for practically every city mentioned. It's only 
$12.95, my friends. Get your own copy by calling them at 
1-800-746-2926 or just e-Mail them a kind letter at Vagabond@aol.com

Voodoo Dreams
Jewell Parker Rhodes
Picador USA

Otherwise known as Voodoo Women, Foolish Choices. Stitching 
together the few known facts about Marie Laveau, the Voodoo queen 
of New Orleans, Prof. Rhodes weaves the story of three generations 
of Voudon women--Marie, her deceased mother, and her Grandmre--who 
all fall for the same charismatic lout. Feeding Marie's belief in 
her powers while simultaneously exploiting them, John has Marie's 
destiny in a head lock--until he pushes her too far. Prof. Rhodes' 
extensive research yields a thick painting of a heady city in the 
early 19th century, where African gods dance uneasily with 
Christianity and white men won't hang a young black woman for murder 
because she's got them scared shitless. One critique: the book begins 
with a powerful chapter called The Middle, which, after reading The 
Beginning (which comes after The Middle) would have been better as 
The End. Switch it around the next few times you read this entrancing 
tome.


The Alienist
Caleb Carr
Bantam Books

Ah, the good old days of turn-of-the-century New York--angry, 
impoverished immigrants, corrupt lawmen and the flashy mobsters they 
lunch with, and a killer who slices, dices and juliennes male child 
prostitutes. On his trail are a team of clever, terribly human 
characters, including our narrator, John Moore (please let it be 
Ralph Fiennes in the movie), eminent alienist (psychiatrist) Dr. 
Laszlo Kriezler, early feminist Sara Howard, and Chief Commissioner 
Theodore Roosevelt. Historian Carr vividly portrays the time period 
without making the team's ancient crime fighting techniques seem
inferior, even though he's writing about a day when fingerprints 
weren't considered useful evidence. At a time when we've got serial 
killer baseball cards, Carr manages to make the concept freshly 
horrific.


                             #  #  #

#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@
                          k a  r  m a
   w h a t   c o m e s   a r o u n d   g o e s   a r o u n d . . .
                       f o r    r e a l
#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@#@

  karma is an ancient concept which dictates that your actions, be 
they good or bad, will affect your luck in another lifetime. the 
only problem was, it could take a while. in the old days, after 
being shit upon by some jerk, one could only plaintively cry, "a pox 
on your children's children!" and seek solace in the knowledge that 
the jerk's future generations would be stricken (you hoped) with 
beri-beri. too bad you wouldn't be around to see it happen.

now, in these times of fast food and liposuction, everyone wants 
everything now--including their karma. being in the people business, 
karma has responded to our accelerated culture by producing results 
within one's lifetime. not exactly "instant karma," but close.

save your patronizing chuckles of disbelief for the next episode of 
melrose place! i have a true tale of modern karma from the pages of 
my very own life.

when i was a young slip of an angst-ridden teenager, the cutest guy 
in school smiled at me during lunch period one day. he had long brown 
hair and wore platform shoes. he was a senior. he was of a much higher 
caste than my punk-wanna be sophomore self. being the confident girl 
i was not, i looked behind me to see who he was smiling at. but, like 
something out of 16 candles, he mouthed the words "yeah, you!"

he asked me out on a date. we made out in his room while listening 
to blondie's "you look good in blue." he was my first cool boyfriend. 
as much ego-chow it was just to have a boyfriend, going out with the 
cutest guy in school was quite the status booster.

but it wouldn't be a karma story if all went well. i waited for him 
after school one day, but he never showed. i kept waiting. a few days 
later, i saw him wearing a much cooler-than-me senior girl like a 
tight dress. dumped! i returned to my group, humbled. they'd thought 
me touched by the gods, but behold: i bled like a mere human.

thank goodness for that new, improved karma! just a few years later, 
i was at the old ritz (now webster hall), a drink in one hand and a 
cigarette in the other. the sweet but definitely-a-fixer-upper girl 
of high school was no more--i had a slick new cropped 'do, i was 
swathed in black, and my eyelids drooped from the weight of my 
eyeliner. suddenly, this scruffy geek dared approach me. "you don't 
remember me, do you?" of course not, i thought, i'd never associate 
with anyone like oh my GOD! it was him. but his beautiful long hair 
was gone; he had some kind of in-between-y buster brown crown. his 
platform shoes had been replaced with brown slip-on horrors. he 
asked me what i was doing. i had the distinct pleasure of telling 
him that i interviewed rock stars for a living. i asked him what he
was doing. he was trying to break into the film industry, but he 
waited tables to support himself.

as if that wasn't enough, karma was having a two-for-one special 
that night. he who had so cruelly dumped me in high school said,  
"gee, uh...maybe we could go out some time!" and wrote his phone 
number on a damp cocktail napkin. "uh...i don't think so," i said. 
i wasn't mean. i didn't throw away his phone number until i got home. 
i didn't have to. karma had seen to everything.

so remember my little story. tomorrow, say good morning to your 
bus driver. when you're stuffed, give those leftover pierogis to a 
homeless person. when dumping someone, be kind and say, "it's not 
your fault. i'm fucked up." because karma, like big brother, 
is always watching.

                             #  #  #



()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
sixo journal - oct 31st , 1995
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()


 Welcome to yet another entry, detailing the ongoing saga of sixo! 
First off, sixo has been completed, behold the three new brothers; 
Walter on guitar, Joe on drums, and Phil on the bass. Our baptismal 
show was at the Pyramid (NYC), on August 15th.
 
 The sixo web page is almost out of the design stage. The inaugural
incarnation will have a band bio and contact information, dates of 
shows, and short stories from the snorkle pages. Later versions will 
have photos, art gallery, and sound bites. You will be kept posted on 
it's debut before the dawning of december. Make sure we have your 
address, e-mail or residence.
 
 We've decided to push recording back a few months to let the band
coalesce, and eventually want to kill each other, in order to create 
the proper environment for recording. sixo has over 20 new songs, 
sick fairy tales of love, violence, and abandon. We have high hopes 
for this one.
 
 Other important information;
 1. new e-Mail address, exclusively sixo: dearsixo@aol.com
 2. same numbers, in NYC 212.532.0916 and in Miami 305.534.3518
 3. same snail address: ren 480 Second Ave 20B NY, NY 10016

  Thanks.

                                               sixo

                             #  #  #
                                               
Do you need sixo stuff?
cd's are only 10 bucks, t-shirts are 10 bucks, 
5 when you buy a cd. call us or e-mail us with 
your god-damned order. free stickers with every purchase!

Upcoming Dates: 

 oct 31st tue @ the pyramid club,  11pm  Ave A between 
 6 &7th st New York, NY
 
 nov 11th sat @ the lions den, 12 pm sullivan off bleeker       
 New York, NY
                    
 nov 20th mon @ cbgb's,  10pm  bleeker & bowery (3rd ave)   
 New York, NY
                    
 dec 2nd  sat @ the new music cafe, 10pm west broadway & canal st   
 New York, NY
                     
 dec 12 tue   @ the spiral houston off ave A          
 New York, NY
                     
 dec 23rd sat  @ AKA   11pm    west broadway & houston   
 New York, NY

                             #  #  #
                             
%*%*%*%*%*%*%*%*
the Van Gogh
*%*%*%*%*%*%*%*%


Papas Fritas
A&M

I hate writing reviews. I'm only invading this page because I love 
the Fritas' album. I lost the bio so I can't tell you their names or 
where they're from. I can only tell you that their band name means 
"French fries" and that the childhood portions of their brains drive 
their musical direction. They can go from the slick jingle-bell laced 
new wave of "Wildlife" to the lazy, sing-songy "TV Movies" (which 
includes the unforgettable chorus "TV movies/made for TV") to a few 
melodic notes on a piano for "My Revolution." The best thing about 
the Fritas is that they sound like they're learning how to play their 
instruments as they record their songs, which have this great 
childlike innocence about them. Okay, that's it--no more reviews from 
me.

The Falling Wallendas
IMI Records

This is bad. It was painful to listen to and probably damaged 
important cognitive areas of my furry mind. Given the choice to 
listen to it again or have my dog run over by a car, I'd throw 
Rocky into a busy intersection myself. Fuck Rocky. It isn't just 
that it sucks, it's pretentious, pretending to reveal emotional 
angst in its "clever" lyrics, forcing the most sacrilegious rhymes 
("She sprayed Chanel on her dia.......PHRAGM! That night in hell 
they built a .......DAM!") and recording some of the weakest songs 
I've ever had the displeasure of hearing. The band is from Chicago,
they get good press from their area, and one of these losers used 
to date someone from Veruca Salt. Sounds like adult-oriented schlock 
watered down, they're rock, they're funky, and they're not very good. 
Contact IMI Records, 541 North Fairbanks Court, Chicago IL 60611. 
(312) 245-9334.

Urchins
Yummy
Alleycat Music

I listened to this album twice. Why, you ask? Because at first 
listen, I felt I had missed something. The work is not entirely 
original-- parts of it are bad, actually, and there is much to be 
forgiven, but I don't know. I can't say it sucks. This album has 
some good songs, like the homicidal ballad "I'd like to see you" and 
the somewhat surfish "Take Me Away." Plus they cover "I Woke Up In 
Love This Morning" by the Partridge Family, which always gets my toes 
a-tappin'. This is a good rock band teetering between punk and pop in 
the spirit of bands like the Pretenders and Blondie. A pleasant 
experience, the band is a four-piece from New Brunswick, NJ. Contact 
Diane Rhodes at Aim Marketing, 105 White Oak Lane, Old Bridge, NJ
08857. (1800) 275-0091.

Diane Ward
Mirrors
Thip Records

If you've ever seen Diane Ward live, you wouldn't need me to tell 
you what an amazing woman she is. Her story tellings of love and 
redemption are powerfully exposed by a window of vulnerability that 
is just big enough to swallow entire audiences alive. Her new CD is 
all that. Songs like "Goodbye Mary Jo," "I Will Wait For You," "Here 
It Comes" and "When I'm Needing Someone" are...well, they're my 
favorites! You will find a good mixture of rock and balladry and an 
excellent sense of what Ms. Ward is all about. Contact Thip Records, 
P.O.Box 5758, Miami Lakes, FL 33014-1758. Or e-mail dw1212@aol.com.

_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
   #  #  #   _
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_
_


                            that's it.


