o$$$$$$o o$o o$$o db "$$$$$$" $$ $$$$ $$ $$$ $$ $o o$$o $$$$ $$ o$$o o$$o $$$ $$$$$$ $$$$$b $$ $$ $$ d$$$$b d$$$$$. $$$ $$' $$ d$$ $$ $$ '$$ $$ d$$ $$ $$$ `$b $$P $$ $$ $$$$$$P $$ $$$$ $$$$$$P $$' ,$$ $$$ $$ $$ $$ `$$. ,$ $$ $$$ `$$. ,$ `$$$$P $P $$ $P `$$$P' $$ $$$ `$$$P' `$$P o$o. $$$ d$$$$$$o $P d d$$' `$$$ o$$o o$$o o$o o$o d$ o$$o $$. o$o $$$ d$$$$$. d$$$$$$$$$$b $$ $$$$$$b d$$$$ d$$$$b $$$$$b $$$$$$b $$$ $$$ `$b $$' $$' $$ $$ $$' `$$ $$$P d$$ $$ $$ $$ $$' $$ $$$. ,$$ $$. ,$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$$$$$P $$ $ $$ $$ o$$$$$P `$$$$P $$ $$ ,$$ $$ $$ ,$$ $$.$$`$$. ,$ $$ $$ ,$$ $$$P `$$P $P $P $$P $P $P $$P `$$P `$$$P' $P $$ $$P The Neo-Comintern Electronic Magazine -- Installment Number 219 .... .. . . . . . . . . . . . . .. .... `""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' Subversive Literature for Subverted People Date: July 27th, 2003 Editor: BMC Writers: Anomie Eidetic gir Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro Jobe ada Melatonin Heckat Gnarly Wayne BMC d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b. ;P Featured in this installment: .b $ $ $ The Summer before She Married She Went to Nice - Anomie $ $ Pointillist Dinner - Eidetic $ $ Rhyme Travel Adventure - gir $ $ Time Travel Made Easy - Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro $ $ The Canadian Dream - Jobe $ $ 88 Miles Per Hour - ada $ $ Sherman Minus Seven - Melatonin $ $ Sub-Sonic Distortion - Heckat $ $ Timephase - Gnarly Wayne $ $ Tempus Fugit - BMC $ `q p' `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn' EDITOR'S NOTE (please do not read the following) TIME AND TIME TRAVEL ISSUE THIS ISSUE IS LOST IN TIME WE CANNOT FIND IT ANYWHERE YOU ARE HERE WHERE ARE YOU INSIDE OF THIS INSIDE TIME ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' The Summer Before She Married She Went to Nice ,$$ $$: by Anomie ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' "What is, has always been going to be." "What is, will always have been." "Whatever follows from what always has been, always has been." "Whatever always follows from what always will be, always will be." - The axioms of Minimal Tense Logic Kt, a system of temporal logic developed by Arthur Prior Marit has been wearing a bikini for three weeks straight; alternates between the brown-and-beige striped and the red. Bikinis, she wears like track suits. Reeks of can't-be-bothered. Social lethargy. The hostel with its four bunks per room; daily walk to pebbled beach; waking sun-drowsy with rain nudging her skin and blurring the symbols on her paper pad. Brian calls in the evening and tells her that he bought four mangoes in Kensington market and that two of them were rotten before he had a chance to eat them. What is, has always been going to be. He doesn't ask about her thesis, about the piles of scribbled-on graph paper, about her quantifiers, existential (E) and universal (X), and whether her closed system is finally closing everything in. He doesn't ask about the coolness of the ocean, but about the price of wine, whether salade Niçoise is better there. She talks about the woman in the next bed who has nightmares, who shrieks in Italian nightly. He says, I'll marry you if you like, I mean it. Suddenly and without a doubt, she knows that he has been sleeping with someone else. What is, will always have been. It is only sex, but. The next afternoon, a man with sun-bleached hair and leather sandals is watching his friend swim in the sea. He is walking up and down the beach; he pauses and nods at Marit, who is red-bikinied, pen in hand. Perhaps they have eaten together on a patio on College Street and maybe someone who knows Marit walked by. They have likely woken in the night, parched, and drunk water in long gulps from the cooler with the loose tap. What difference, what difference: he will erase all traces with meticulous patience; he has surely said, I should tell you that I am in love with someone else, and when she returns from France I will forget about you. Whatever follows from what always has been, always has been. She has bought a low folding chair so that she doesn't wake up with the beach impressioned on her slowly beigeing back. The sandaled man calls to his friend, allons-y, his sea-accustomed legs close enough to touch. Imagine him saying, Marit you must know that I plan to marry someone else, this is only for the moment. The releasingly erroneous smart of being denied existence, of making no difference. Brian says, Come back, Marit. Some other woman knows about the way he moves his foot while he is sleeping. Those nervous toes in their unwitting warm-up for a never-to-be ballet. Point flex point flex like a tic. Whatever follows from what always will be, always will be. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Pointillist Dinner ,$$ $$: by Eidetic ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' Note: visualize amoebas My ancillary member was in the middle of the room when I slid in, hunched over a caricature of a rocket. Its ancient style cloyed at our nerves as its pieces relented to her dissection. Crossing her numerous, decidedly overkill, legs she unscrewed its cap. Air chortled out, laughing molecules that had not been released since before the local sun distended into a scalded ovule. I watched the liberated grain fly from stasis with an upsurge of ash that eddied and landed in a ring around us. Human remains, as grey dust, spread as if wiped by fractions of passing iota; gray matter from millions of concise finger-prints placed by children whose hands reached for this silver crepuscule: the fragile metal container which held the gnosis of a time capsule She pulled a little ruddy shoe from the ashes left within and turned it around. The person's name, davybidhh---~, dayvidh, or davijkd, (my language translation fails when reading ink), became intimate, brushing its foreign letters across our cilia as it breezed into the ventilation ducts of our hands. The scent of this being's desire to be found in distant space stirred me. The scent of wishing to be discovered after time avows their lifespan's vacancy reanimated in my pores, facilitating the unequal partitioning of my matter to cleavage a portion of me into the form of this being. Facilitating the opening of closed time-paths, reconstructing the linear animation of this "davybidhh---~" character, at a point disconnected from his origin and cessation. Bringing davybidhh---~ here, now. "grah, uugly!!" The beautiful thing cried, flinching pale hands over his face, while maternally, I collected the pointillist soul in my cupped hands. Lovingly, and slightly hungry, I admired my child, the time-traveling pseudo pod danger to causality, and ate him. I am the reason time travel is impossible. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Rhyme Travel Adventure ,$$ $$: by gir ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' "That man can rhyme car and pizza and make it work." "Yeah, well I heard he was a time traveler and that he's been through space a bagillion zillion times!" "I hear he's been sitting at the window seat since before we were born. It's like his lab. He has all these books and is trying to figure out how to get back home." "My dad says he's just a crazy geezer. They would lock him up but he hasn't broken any laws." "But he can rhyme car and pizza?" We had been learning about rhymes in school for the past couple of days. It was my class' poetry unit for the year and I was really excited because since before I was old enough to write, I liked having rhymes read to me. They fall out of your mouth all funny and make your ears smile if they're really good rhymes. My older brother reads me some of his rhymes sometimes. He's into writing and music. When my parents aren't around, he lets me listen to his rhymes in some of his music. I get the feeling I'm not supposed to listen to these rhymes, but they make him smile and they make my ears smile so I don't see why it's bad. Of course, being eleven years old, I don't see why a lot of things are bad. I especially don't see what's wrong with a man trying to figure out if he can get back home through time. Maybe there are people in his home that have ears that miss his rhymes. I know I would miss a rhyme like "car and pizza." But before I went to talk to the time traveler himself, I'd ask my brother about it. "Is it possible to rhyme car and pizza?" "Heh, what?" "Is it possible to rhyme car and pizza?" "I... I think it's possible." He didn't sound sure of himself. "Ok. Is it possible to travel through time?" "Just as possible as it is to rhyme car and pizza. What's all this about? It's the guy in the library, isn't it? You wanna talk to him?" "Yeah." "Are you sure? What if he tells you something you don't like? Maybe he'll rhyme car and pizza and you won't like the way it sounds." "They don't sound the same, but the ideas of cars and pizza. I like both of them so why wouldn't I like to hear them rhyme?" He smiled this odd smile at me and let out a little laugh. It wasn't a "big brother thinks little brother is stupid" laugh, it was a "good answer" laugh. "You know, I talked to him once." "What'd he say?" "He told me not to tell anyone what we talked about." "And you haven't?" "Nope." "Not even Cat?" That was this girl he was always hanging out with. "Not even Cat. And it really makes her mad because she wants to know what he said. But like he told me if someone wants to know that bad, they'd ask. Once you've made the decision that you want to talk to him, you have to figure out what you wanna say." I thought about that. It was a lot for me to take it but I was used to it by now. My family wasn't your average sort. We talked a lot more than other families and about different things. It was fun. But this was a lot, even for normal conversation. "Tell you what though. Cat wants to run up to the library and get a couple of art books and since Mom and Dad aren't home, you get to come with us! I'll keep her busy and you can go talk to the time traveler." The library was a 15 minute drive from our house, I had to start thinking of what I'd ask the time traveler now. --- "You seem really excited for a trip the library, did they find a book of rhymes you hadn't read yet?" "He's meeting someone there." "Oh wow. Is this someone a girl? Are you old enough to like girls?" "NO! IT'S NOT A GIRL!" Cat always teased me about liking girls. Not that I hate girls, I don't pay may attention to them at all. Cat's not too bad, my brother seems to like her. Sometimes she can bug me though. "Well who is it then?" "He's going to talk to someone. No one you'd be interested in talking to." "We're taking your brother to talk to that weird old guy who thinks he's a time traveler?" "Yup." "You're crazy! How could you want your little brother talking to that weird old guy?" It seemed like Cat didn't think the time traveler was nice. "You're just mad because a eleven year old is going to talk to someone you're afraid to talk to." "You think that's it? You know what it is? The fact that you never told me what he told you. Regardless of our feelings for one another, no less!" They were fighting like most adults do. It wasn't often that Cat and my brother fought, but when they did it was bad. I figured if I interrupted, the fighting would stop. "But he can rhyme car and pizza!" "He can do what? Did you tell your brother about the time traveler telling you all those rhymes?" "NO! I knew about time traveler before. I was talking with my friends about him. They told me he can rhyme car and pizza." Even if Cat didn't like the time traveler or the idea that I was going to talk to him, the idea that he could rhyme car and pizza shut her up. I think that's the thing -- no matter what, the idea of rhyming car and pizza just shuts everyone up. --- "Excuse me, I don't mean to bother you, but what's it like when you rhyme car and pizza?" An aged face looked up from a notebook. He was tired looking, kind of in between my dad and his dad. He was probably much older than the both of them. "It's kind of like time travel..." He began to take a deep breath, as if this might take a while. "I know you're a time traveler, but I'm not interested in that. I'm interested in how you rhyme car with pizza. What's it sound like? Do a lot of people like it?" "It's like time travel..." "No. It's not. It's rhyming. Rhyming and time travel don't go together." "What about cars and pizza?" "That's different." "Is it? What if I didn't like cars, only pizza? Why would I have to rhyme them together?" "Because I know you can. Someone said so." "And who would this someone be?" "You don't know him. He just told me that he heard you could rhyme car and pizza and make it sound good. I like rhymes and thought if you could do that then I would like to hear you rhyme." "I understand. But you won't let me explain time travel to you" "I DON'T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT TIME TRAVEL!" "Why not?" "BECAUSE IT DOESN'T INTEREST ME!" "Not one bit?" "NO!" "But you like cars and pizza?" "They are two of my favorite things." "Would you say they are your most favorite things?" "Yes." "Well that's neat, you see, because they are similar to my two favorite things." "What's that?" "Time travel and rhymes. While cars transport you from place to place, I travel by time and when you are hungry you probably hear pizza; I dine on rhymes." "I don't get it." "You don't have to. In fact, you can rhyme car and pizza just as well as I can, but you don't know it yet. Just like you can time travel as well as me, but don't know it yet. This may seem a bit much for your eleven year old mind, but you'll come around. Just give it time." He laughed and waited for me to do the same. I was in shock. I just wanted to hear the rhyme. I was mad and hated this time traveler and hated my brother for ever talking me into talking to him. I wanted to leave, so I found my brother and Cat. My brother could tell things didn't go well. In the car, Cat turned around to ask me how things went but my brother stopped her. "Just let him enjoy the car ride." He said quietly, hoping I wouldn't hear. That's why I liked my brother. He knew what I liked and let me enjoy it. To cheer me up, he surprised me by picking up a pizza. He even let me eat it in his car. By the time we got home, I had forgotten about my argument with the time traveler. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Time Travel Made Easy ,$$ $$: by Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' Time Travel Made Easy or How I Digress a Lot and Stopped Worrying About It Time travel is easier than you think if you just twist the definition of travelling through time. As you're reading this, you are already travelling through time, albeit only forward. Travelling backwards is a bit of a trick. Time is something that, if you smoke some reefer, you realize is nothing moer than an abstract concept we, human beings, have made up. The fact that we have night and day sort of helps figuring out that things change and give us a sense of stability. But imagine if you lived somewhere like in the northern parts of Norway where they have one night, six months of dawn, one day, immediately followed by six months of twilight. People get so freaked out by this they have to walk around with light bubls on their heads. With that said, here is my reasoning why you can't travel back in time: because time does not exist and hence, you can't go somewhere which wasn't there in the first place. If you think about it, yesterday and today are the same place. Tomorrow will be the same place as you are in today, except that it has yet to happen according to us. To the universe and all revolving around us it makes absolutely no difference. That's how travelling through time is so easy, since you really can't travel through something that fails to exist. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' The Canadian Dream ,$$ $$: by Jobe ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' After spending much of 2001 in New York City, I was somewhat disillusioned for several months upon returning to my native Canada. Federal taxes remained extremely high, Jean Chretien proved that it was possible to serve three consecutive terms as Prime Minister while relying exclusively on the magic eight-ball for all of his policy decisions. Granted about 2,800 less Canadians died on September 11 than Americans, yet in my mind, Canada still didn't seem to possess the thrill or cachet of its southern neighbour. I had all but resolved to pack up my belongings and return to the U.S. in the late summer with the intention of arriving in time to take advantage of another deer hunting season and taking up a more permanent residence. However, a most extraordinary incident occurred this past Canada Day, which may have irrevocably altered my decision. I was checking out the stock market quotes when an apparition suddenly appeared before me. In a booming voice, which revealed a fairly strong French accent, the apparition declared, "I am the ghost of Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day future." "Uhh, Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day was last week and, to be perfectly honest, very few Canadians even celebrate Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day. Don't you mean the ghost of Canada Day future?" I asked in some confusion. "Yes, I am mistaken," he replied with a sneer, then corrected himself, "I am the ghost of Canada Day future. I have come here to show you a glimpse of Canada in the year 2017, in order to show you the error of your ways." I had a brief conversation with him to ensure that such a scenario wouldn't be breaching any copyright laws, and permitted him to transport me 15 years into the future. We resurfaced in Ottawa on Parliament Hill, where crowds gathered and banners fluttered everywhere, heralding Canada's sesquicentennial anniversary. A group of revelers danced directly in front of me, waving a huge Canadian flag and taking frequent swigs from beer bottles that rested on the ground in front of them. One of them unzipped his pants and began urinating on a poster that featured David Duke, Jeb Bush, Pat Buchanan and assorted others dressed in red, white and blue, sporting a shaved head and a swastika branded on their foreheads. This act was succeeded by a series of hollers and cheers, while people raised their bottles and guzzled generous quantities of beer in response. "Shortly after Canada signed its trade agreement with Mexico, it began to emulate a number of its policies," the apparition explained. For instance, the minimum drinking age is now 16 in every Canadian province except Quebec, where the minimum drinking age is now 11. In addition, Canada has now made it legal to consume alcohol in public, while all drinking establishments can serve alcohol until 6 am." "Wow!" I exclaimed, as my eyes lit up. "But why do we have a trade agreement with Mexico?" "This will all become clear soon enough." A gangly young man with long hair and sunglasses was carrying around a book entitled Crack in the Mortar, which was touted as being on the New York Times bestseller list for 46 weeks. The apparition pointed towards him and said, "You see that man, he is one of many American youths who embarked on a mass migration into Canada during George W. Bush's second term of office. He introduced conscription legislation that would have forced young Americans to go into battle against all the European countries who didn't support a U.S. war against the so-called 'Foes of Freedom', which included Iraq, North Korea, Palestine, Indonesia, Pakistan, and the states of Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and Illinois, all of which failed to elect Republican governors in both 2000 and 2004. In protest, thousands of Americans fled the U.S. and found immunity in Canada, among other countries." "That's hilarious. So George W. Bush essentially alienated himself from his own citizens," I said after succumbing to a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "What a moron. I bet he didn't like that very much." "Not at all. In fact, he increased tariffs on products that the U.S. exported to Canada in retaliation to this situation. Since Canada was already frustrated with the way the U.S. economy had been dragging down its own economy during Bush's presidency, Canada responded by substantially reducing its trade in oil and lumber with the U.S. "This is incredible. I can't believe all this happened within an eight-year period." I looked around me in utter astonishment. The crowd on Parliament Hill did look larger, more diverse and more high-spirited than I had been accustomed to when I celebrated Canada Day here during the 1990's. "You see that Iranian family having a picnic to your right? They too immigrated here from the U.S. during Bush's notorious second term. They became fed up with the discrimination and persecution they experienced in their neighbourhood. Mohsen was jailed twice after being wrongly convicted of drug trafficking and threatened with deportation. His daughters Samira and Nafas complained about the deteriorating quality of their schooling in the U.S. after Bush started diverting funds from education into defense. So the whole family picked up and moved to Ottawa. And they're not alone." Suddenly, a loud roar arose from the crowd, and they began chanting, "Ca-na-da, Ca-na-da." I looked up towards the podium that had been set up a couple hundred metres away. "Hey, it's Gord Downie," I said, delighted to see that he was still performing and continued to be a big draw even into his fifties. "Actually, it's Prime Minister Gord Downie now. Shhh, you'll want to hear this." Once the applause and raucous shouting subsided, Gord Downie cleared his throat and took some cue cards out of his jeans pocket. "Fellow Canadians, it is an honour to be able to wish this great land of ours a Happy Birthday this afternoon. While this in itself is grounds for celebration, today is more than just our 150th anniversary party. As you all know, our southern neighbours, the United States of America, have been seeking our economic assistance for several years now due to the unforeseen and unfortunate dissidence between a number of states in the union. Our nation has proposed a solution, and it is my great privilege to be able to announce today Canada's intention to annex the U.S.A. and convert it into our 11th province. This is a proud and historic day for all Canadians." This speech was accompanied by more whistles, cheers and applause, while most of the people on Parliament Hill drank a toast to the newest addition to the country. Downie held up his hands to silence the crowd and continued. "At this time, the only thing left to do is rename our newest province, which will be put to an official vote sometime next week. Canadians all across the country are free to vote, and will have the option to name the province either Ignorance, Gonorrhea or Pungok, the Inuit word for bitch. Thank you for your time and enjoy the rest of the day." I heard a final round of applause when I suddenly realized I was back in my own kitchen. "Remember what you have seen here today," a voice echoed through the hallway and the apparition had vanished. I walked about my kitchen deep in thought, then reached into my pocket and pulled out my U.S. work visa. I stared at it for a few moments, ripped it in half, then reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' 88 Miles Per Hour ,$$ $$: by ada ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' It was a typical monday morning in Saskatoon but I wasn't on my way to school, I was on a mission. I walked to the doc's house with very clear intentions. When I got there he wasn't there, and Freud was gone, although his dog food was sitting uneaten for what looked like days. The doc seems to have a fetish for electronic equipment. I knew what I was after that morning. Slowly I turned the dial on every amp, raised the volume and set up the mike. I was going to do a reading. I brought with me a poem I had written that morning and stepped up to the mike. I opened my mouth and felt the hum of the speakers. I began. "TODAY-" suddenly I was flying backwards into the huge shelf behind me that the doc kept all his psychological evaluations on. The whole thing came crashing down on me and I was buried in a mound of papers. The phone rang and I managed to grab it. "Adrienne, I'm glad I caught you!" It was the doc and he sounded out of breath and in a panic. "Doc, what's going on, where are you?" "No time for that now. I need you to meet me tonight at Single Spruce Mall. I made an important discovery that I must show you." "What is it? What are you freaking out about?" "I can't tell you now, just meet me tonight and I'll explain-" suddenly a hundred clocks that stood in the room (I'm not exactly sure why) started chiming, ringing, and beeping. "Jesus Christ." I said. "Dammit! I'm late for class" I shouted into the phone. I ran out onto the street, my feet pounding on the pavement, 'that's the power of love' flooding in my ears. Why is that fucking song stuck in my head, I thought. Must be an omen... stop smoking crack at nights. * * * After supper with my two roommates, I headed out (on foot again, although I hate walking) to Single Spruce Mall to see what all the commotion was about. I got there and no one was in sight. Then I realized that it was only eight o'clock; the doc wanted me to meet him at 1:30 right? Actually, come to think of it, I don't think the doc actually gave me a time. Was that what this was all about, was that what he wanted to talk to me about... time?? "Nah," I said to the bushes. "He probably just wants to talk to me about the ego and the id, or about a new type of schizophrenia he's discovered." Suddenly there was the screeching of tires and lights flooded the parking lot behind me. I whirled around and there was a car coming towards me. I screamed and hurled myself to the side. The car squealed to a stop and the doc opened his door and rushed over to me. "Oh God, are you okay???" I turned over to face him feeling a bruise forming on my shoulder. I looked at my hands, they were all scratched up. "Doc, what the hell?" I scrambled to get up. Freud jumped out of the car and ran straight to me, jumping up, licking my scraped hands. "I'm sorry Adrienne, but I just had to show you my latest invention!" He grabbed my arm and started pulling me to the car. "Invention? But doc, you've never invented anything in your life! You're my psychology professor. You're my mentor and supporting me while I try to finish my poetry manuscript-" Doc was still pulling me to the car. "I know I know, but look at this! Last night I was hanging a picture and I fell and hit my head on something other than the sink and when I came to I had a vision, a revelation in my head, a picture... of THIS." He held up a picture of some strange tubes. "This," He grinned, "is the Vacillation Device. It's how I was able to build this time machine you see before me... er... you. C'mon, I'll show you how it works!" The doc showed me how the system worked, how to set the clock for different times, dates and years. He showed me how the doors opened up instead of sideways. I much enjoyed this part. Suddenly I heard a car approaching. "Oh my God they've found me. I don't know how, but they found me. Run for it Adrienne!" I started after him, "Who?" "Who do you think. The Lesbians!" The Van squealed into the parking lot and I could see one of them grabbing a gun. They started shooting at the doc and I jumped into the car and slammed my foot to the floor. "C'mon time machine delorian... MOVE" With my right hand I changed the time (or it changed me) to October 15, 1955. I could hear gun fire behind me as I switched gears. I feel the car climbing to 88 miles per hour. This excited me because 8 is my favorite number, and to have two 8's side by side must be a good omen right?? Commercial Break Are you a writer? Do you enjoy reading? Are you literate? Do you like cats with opposable thumbs? Have you ever inspired to be a story book character? Have you ever been inside a refrigerator? Are you a hat thief? Do you have confessions as a hat thief? Have you every danced angrily? Do you have any variations on any recent burials that you'd care to share? If you do... Have you heard of Backyard Ashes, a literary zine for all you emerging writers out there? In an interview with editors Brecken Hancock and Adrienne Gruber, Backyard Ashes was stated as, "the most promising literary zine of our time" and a review of the first issue by Broken Pencil declared the zine "to be of very high quality and to possess definite creative talent.' This zine is chock full of poetry, prose and artwork to knock your socks off at the low low price of three dollars an issue. Contact our editors at backyard_ashes@hotmail.com for more information and submission guidelines. And now, back to our feature presentation... Wow, where am I, I think to myself. I seem to be in a town I have never seen. Oh wait, I did see it once when my dad took me to universal studios when I was ten. I saw this street and the clock tower... and I saw the old café where Marty Mcfly is talking to his father... WHAT??? Hmmm, I seem to be caught in a vortex of sorts. I have to find the doc, I have to get back to the year 1985... er... 2003. Hey, weren't we promised flying cars? It takes me all day to find the doc's house. In the meantime I think Marty might be having some problems... I think his mother's trying to get him to sleep with her. Strange family. Doc doesn't believe who I am and how I got there when I show up. He gives me a polygraph. Then I show him the video I took of him talking about the time machine. "But this is impossible!" He declares with his head in his hands. "How could I invent this? I just take a couple of psychology classes and drink beer with my friends at the local pub. I still live with my parents... how is it possible i could have created a time machine??" Well, I can see that the doc is going to be no help. But I know I must get back to the year 2003. I left a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, my roommates are gonna kill me. Well, if I can just get the stupid time machine to work I can be home in no time... haHAhaHaha. * * * I went back to take a look at it that night. When I got there, the doc was already there. He stood in his pajamas staring at it as though it were an alien space craft. I went up to him and touched his shoulder. "I need your help doc, you're the only one who can get me back to my own time" The doc turned to me and stared hard. "Well if this really happened, I guess we have to find a way to get the time machine working again" He cocked his head to one side. "What about using a train to push it?" "No that doesn't happen until the third part of the trilogy." I reached into my pocket and found... nothing. "Well, maybe I can't get home..." I trailed off as doc stared at me his face growing with excitement. "I know, I can't believe I didn't think of this sooner!!!" "What?" "Why don't we fix it so it can fly? Then we don't need the road to get up to 88 miles per hour!" "Um, that won't happen until later either... doc, why don't we just use the bolt of lightening that's coming up in the storm later this week?" The doc nodded thoughtfully. "Yes yes yes yes yes YES... that would probably work too. Now you need to keep yourself hidden until that night. Any contact with the world right now could drastically alter both our futures!" So I stayed away all that week... I hung out around doc's house. His parents weren't there very often so I just played Nintendo and watched movies, it was awesome, I loved 1955. Until I tried to put a video in the VCR and realized there was no VCR... no TV... no Nintendo. 1955 fucking sucks, I thought to myself. So I spent the whole week reading. That's where the doc found me two days before the storm. "We have a problem, you need to come with me." "But where are we going, I thought I wasn't supposed to leave the house." "I'll explain when we get there." We arrived at the local high school during class so the halls were deserted. The doc was having a fit. "We need to get them together... they need to have the chance to fall in love..." Doc mumbled and paced up and down the hall. Suddenly he stopped and stared. "That's perfect!" The doc leaped up and pointed to the poster on the wall. "The Gratification Under the Ocean dance!" "Doc you're a genius, that's where they kiss for the very first time, on the dance floor!" I grabbed his arm excitedly. "Who?" Doc looked puzzled. "You know, my parents!" "Um, okay, Adrienne?" "No it'll work perfectly... We'll get them together and then I can drive the delorian home that night!" And now, a word from our sponsor... The N-Com Pizzeria has been making gooey delicious pizzas for as long as we've all been eating. But did you ever think they would let go of the one thing that makes their entire operation possible? Yes, the N-Com Pizzeria is being sued by Oven for 'intentional infliction of emotional distress' says n(ews)-com reporter ada. The BMC, who's been running the pizzeria for years has declared the oven an out of date dinosaur and was overheard saying, 'If I'd gotten the chance, I'd have fired the bastard years ago. He drank on the job, and was always demanding a raise.' Oven's response was quite different as he filed for the complaint, as stated in his letter and at the recent press conference: "I feel that I'm not respected at our place of business and although my role is a crucial one, I don't feel that my ideas are taken seriously in regards to the development of the pizzas. I may be an inanimate object but that does not mean my life exists solely to serve others. It's harder when you aren't human because humans tend to think that we inanimate objects are simply here to provide benefits to their everyday lives... I've been talking with the cheese and black olives and they agree with me, but they're too scared to speak out. They're afraid of losing their jobs, and being replaced the way the mushrooms were when they asked for a pay increase. We have to work for you because we're in this kitchen, and all you do is take advantage of us." ada has attempted to interview the cheese and the black olives but both are refusing to talk. She believes they are afraid of losing their jobs and being subject to more harassment from the BMC and his N-Com regime. The mushrooms are currently living under an assumed name for fear of publicity. We will tune you in as the story grows... Thanks N-Com for all those great pizzas!! And now, back to 88 Miles Per Hour... That night was windy and there was electricity in the air. I left the house around eight thirty. I just had to make sure my parents got together after all. I snuck out of the house and made it to the school just in time to see my dad punch out Biff. Pretty fucking sweet. "Hey you, get your damn hands off her..." I heard him say. I walked away whistling, convinced that the night would go smoothly. Suddenly the doc came running up to me. "C'mon, you have to play guitar! You have to get them to kiss!" "I don't play guitar-" I protested, but the doc was already pushing me to the stage. The band was beginning to pack up their equipment. I approached the stage tentatively. "So, um, are you guys finished already?" I asked. The drummer turned around. "Yeah man. Marv can't play with his hand like that." He pointed to the man next to him with a bandage around his hand. "And we can't play without him. The dance is over... unless you know somebody who can play the guitar." "Nope, sorry, I don't-OW!" The doc kicked me in the shin. "Play you idiot!" He hissed at me. "Um, I guess I can play with you guys" "Right on sistah! Hey Marv, we got a guitar playing sistah over here!" Suddenly there I am, on stage playing Earth Angel and there's a picture of me and my two roommates between the guitar strings... we seem to be fading... and suddenly I can't play (not that I could play worth shit to begin with). I hold up my hand and I can see right through it. "Hey, you okay girl?" The piano player looks concerned. I lean against the speaker... "Kiss her George, c'mon, kiss her... George" Then I can see him cup her face in his hands and give her the sweetest most romantic kiss I've ever seen. And I can play again (or go back to playing like complete shit). After it's over, I hand the guitar to Marty and say "It's all yours". He goes right into Johnny Be Good, and I am out the door, on my way home. * * * The car's waiting for me when I arrive, and the doc is finishing connecting cables. "Everything go okay?" He asks "Yup, everything's fine. Although I forgot to tell them not to get too upset when their first born son sets fire to the living room rug." "Next time." The doc smiles at me. "Ready?" "All set," I grin, and head over to the car. The alarm clock is set on the dash ready. It will ring seven minutes before the lightening strikes. I'm poised, I'm alert, and I'm ready. The car won't start. Sorry, what? The fucking car won't start. "JESUS CHRIST!" I scream and pound the steering wheel. "C"MON YOU FUCKING BITCH, START!!!" I try and try, turn the key over and over in the ignition, nothing. Finally in frustration, I slam my head on the horn and the car roars into life and we're off! I'm flying down the street at 45, no 58, no 76 miles per hour. Then I notice the doc rushing to fix the wiring. "Oh God Doc!" I gasp and shut my eyes... Nothing Black redyellowbluegreenrainbowsstarscometscannonballsdragonscloudsshrapnalcold Black Nothing Flash Of Light The tires squeal onto the pavement and I can't find the brake, can't find the brake where the fuck is it... I crash into the movie theatre. Slowly I pull out onto the street, my heart racing, skin crawling with electricity. I'm surprised my hair hasn't smoldered. I get out of the car and stumble down the street. "I'm back," I whisper to myself. "I can't believe I'm back." There is a screech of tires behind me. Even with my back to them, I know who it is. "The Lesbians..." Knowing the car, I take off running and make it to Single Spruce Mall in record time. Panting I can see it, the face off between The Lesbians and the doc. And me diving into the delorian and speeding away. The doc is down, he's been shot... AW FUCK, I forgot to write him a note! How's he gonna know to wear the bullet proof vest? He's dead, and if it weren't for me, he'd still be alive. I throw myself down the hill, and rush over to where his still body lies. "Doc! DOC! Speak to me!" I slap his face and scream his name, but I know it's no use. I turn away and start crying. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's the doc, grinning up at me. "Gotcha!!" "Doc you idiot" I laugh and hug him. "Oww, not so hard!" I let go, and see the blood. "Oh my god, doc are you okay?" "Sure, I'm just not dead!" He grinned, and painfully got to his feet. "but how could you not be dead, they shot you, like, fifty times??" "Well," He said and smiled at me, "I figured... what the hell!" Epilogue I'm sitting on the porch enjoying a smoke when suddenly out of nowhere a car barrels around the corner and drives right up on my lawn. It squeals to a stop and the doc jumps up. He rushes over to me and grabs me by the shoulders. "Adrienne you've got to come back with me!" I touched his face, I'm confused, I just got back. "Where?" "Well, I'm starving so I figured we could go grab a bit to eat... BACK to the FUTURE, you IDIOT!" The End (Or The Beginning?) To Be Continued... ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Sherman Minus Seven ,$$ $$: by Melatonin ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' Sherman puts the key to his time machine in his left coat pocket and I fish it out seven years later. It is Sunday afternoon, Thanksgiving, and I am digging through the laundry room looking for my old comic book collection when I come across it: Sherman's infamous overcoat, neatly folded in a milk crate beside the dryer. Awash in nostalgia I take the coat in my hands and hold it before me, its bottom unfurling to the ground. It is exactly as I remember it: thick and coffee-coloured, the insides lined in lamb's wool, the elbows perpetually damp, the base still stinking of mud and horse manure. Slowly, memories of Sherman's death begin to overtake me. Out of the darkness I see his skinny grey face asleep in the coffin. I hear the whispers, the tears, the soft patter of feet moving through the funeral hall. And I see myself, a lonely adolescent thinking of Farrah down the block as I lean forward and bring my warm lips to Sherman's cold ones. Then I am younger. Then I am hiding. Outside, bones smash, crack. I clutch my knees and picture the black hair on my father's knuckles. Under my breath I whisper over and over again, "There's a baseball bat in the closet, there's a baseball bat in the closet, there's a baseball bat in the closet." When I open my eyes, Mom is in the doorway, flour streaked across her shirt. She eyeballs me, suspicious. "What are you doing down here?" she buzzes. "Why are you wearing Sherman's coat?" "I'm not doing anything," I snap. "Leave me alone. I'm trying to find my Spider-Hams." "Are you coming up for dinner?" "Maybe." "I'm making apple pie. No butter." "Leave me alone." She leaves. I close the door behind her and wedge it shut with an old broom handle. Then I return to Sherman's coat. I wrap my arms around myself, pulling the coat closer. It's mine now; I own it. Sherman's overcoat. *The* Sherman's overcoat. It emanates warmth. (There's a baseball bat in the closet, Sherman.) I slide my hand into the left coat pocket and find the key to the attic. My heart trembles. Just then Mom calls me from upstairs, tells me dinner is ready. I unwedge the door and step outside. * I wear Sherman's coat to the dinner table and finish my meal in less than ten minutes. People keep sneaking nervous glances at me. I avoid eye contact entirely. Eventually Dad pipes up and says, "I don't want you wearing that coat under this roof. Go take it off." "I'm eating," I say. "Finish your taters, then go take it off," he says. "But I like this coat," I say. "Finish your taters." I force myself to finish a few more bites, then throw my fork down in frustration and storm upstairs. As I pass, I hear Rory apologize to his girlfriend for my behaviour. She titters an awkward response. * Upstairs, I unlock the door to the attic and climb into Sherman's old bedroom. Nothing has changed. I walk around, sliding my hand over the relics of my brother's past: the movie posters from Halloween and The Fog (The Fog being especially creased), the Bic pens welded to the red lava lamp, the dirty magazines under the floorboard in the corner, the plastic drapes with little soccer balls on them, the bed with the pink moth-eaten sheets, the narrow wall covered in comic book advertisements. I stop at the window. A cool breeze hisses through a crack in the wall, tickling my wrist. Downstairs, the family plays a board game in the living room. They are laughing hysterically; their voices carry through the vents. It is dark and musty up here and the turkey in my belly is making me sleepy. I move over to Sherman's bed and curl up in a ball, pulling the overcoat over my feet. I close my eyes and meditate on Sherman. I see him stumbling through the kitchen with a bloody nose. His glasses are on the floor, broken. When he goes to school the next day, he will have to tape them together. He is worried that everyone will laugh, but in the end, no one notices. After school he brings me upstairs and we index his baseball cards on the floor. Sometimes it looks like he is crying. "Sherman," I say. "What?" "There's a baseball bat in the closet." He doesn't respond. I am not sure if he heard me. I don't mention it again, and in five minutes I am sitting on the basement floor, watching him play Atari. It is dark and musty up here and soon I am asleep. I dream of Sherman, standing over my parents' bed, baseball bat in hand, smiling. One of his teeth is missing. When I wake up a few hours later, the people downstairs are calling out my name. No one knows where I am. They are worried. I pull Sherman's coat over my head and listen to them stumble about in confusion. I can hear Dad getting angry; he keeps swearing at Mom and banging his fist against the wall. Sometimes he calls me "Sherman" by accident and I smile diabolically. I am become Sherman, I think, and drift back into sleep. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Sub-Sonic Distortion ,$$ $$: by Heckat ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' September 14, 2003 Evan's girlfriend was going to have a baby? Genevieve didn't know why this revelation had hit her so hard. She didn't even know the guy. Still, he seemed so young and he didn't look like the kind of guy who would have a girlfriend at all, let alone a pregnant girlfriend. Now that pregnant girlfriend was in the hospital delivering and Evan hadn't even bothered to mention the upcoming event until it was almost over. 4 months earlier Genevieve is at a conference and she's having sex with some fat guy with a ponytail because he flirted with her at the bar and she was horny. She's thinking of a paper that was delivered earlier by some guy named Evan. It was about sub-sonic wavelengths and their possible responsibility for the way earthworms come out of the ground when it rains. Genevieve fell asleep then, but looking back on it now, in the not-so-passionate throws of Vince's pre-orgasm, it seems romantic somehow. 2 hours later Evan is standing near the piano with some nuclear physicist who recently made a documentary for IMAX. Evan is thinking of how he never wants to have children. With one on the way already, though, what can he do? He supposes he'll send out e-mail cigars. He supposes he'll give his girlfriend a kiss when it's all over and tell her he's happy. He supposes he'll hold the little slime ball and grin. 2,000 years in the past It's raining and all the earthworms are coming up for air. The sub-sonic screech of their under-ground watermill has nothing to do with it. 1998 Genevieve is on a trip down to Mexico with her best friend from highschool. On their way through South Dakota they see a little road-side Mexican joint and stop for a bite. They pass a big plastic cactus on their way through the parking lot. Inside the restaurant, a Chinese family is serving chicken balls and fried rice to Dennis Hopper. He shouts a complaint over the sound track from Phantom of the Opera but nobody can hear him so he spits in the food and storms out. February 2003 Nuclear physicist guy is at the movies with his family. Well, to be more precise, he's at HIS movie. He brought a blanket to cover his lap so that he can fondle himself when the simulated mushroom cloud appears in 3-D. The lights go out and the announcer begins: "The IMAX experience is thrilling, stupendous, wonderful beyond belief. But it can be too much for some viewers. If you feel yourself getting dizzy, nauseous, or disoriented, you have a natural defense mechanism to prevent danger to yourself and to others. What is this mechanism you ask? Why, your eyelids of course! You can close them just like any mortal! I assure you ladies and gentlemen, if you use your eyelids responsibly, you need not fear those bad, dangerous, and uncomfortable feelings that we all sometimes experience." September 16, 2003 Genevieve tells her dream to a friend on the car ride to Regina: "Evan and I were riding a two-person bicycle and his son was in a basket on the back. I asked him why he hadn't told me he was going to have a baby when we met four months ago at the conference. He started to cry and we had to pull the bike over to the side of the road. We happened to be in front of this road-side Mexican joint with a fake cactus in front. I told him we should go inside and get something to eat so that he could calm down. When I reached over to lift his son from his seat, I noticed that the little guy was wearing a sombrero that covered his head so that I couldn't tell what he looked like. Inside the restaurant, Dennis Hopper was serving hotdogs off a barbeque that looked like a football. All the seats were filled by giant earthworms wearing bright yellow rain gear. Suddenly I knew Evan wasn't the baby's father." 500 years in the future The IMAX theatre is the only monument to humanity the earthworms have let stand. That, and the fatherless test-tube baby named neo-Evan that they keep in formaldehyde underground. The worms settle in for a movie. Their new prosthetic eyelids flutter as the lights go out. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Timephase ,$$ $$: by Gnarly Wayne ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' My grrlfriend was over at my pad again. We basically lived together. Either I was at her house or she was at mine. I always have phases where I am totally into something and it has to be something stupid. This time it was time. I had been listening to "Good Times" by Chic and "Grand Verbalizer, What Time Is It?" by X-Clan over and over again, not to mention all the Three Times Dope songs. She was getting fairly upset and asked me to stop playing time-related music all the time. She just didn't understand how great time was and why we should celebrate it continually. It didn't help when I replied "It's 1999 and I'm all about the time." "*sigh* Can you please stop talking about time for one second?", she said. "Do I ask you to stop eating? To stop breathing? To stop LIVING?!!??", I said playfully. "Okay, Mr. Overactor.", she giggled. Her giggling drives me wild and she knows it. I put time aside for the time being and instead locked her eyes into mine. I quickly followed up with an furious barrage of well placed tickles. We both landed on the couch together and I held her in silence for just a few seconds. The only sound we could hear were the sharp and shallow breaths each of us took. It was very close to pure bliss until all the clocks in the house stuck noon in unison. As every harrowing echo reverberated through my heart, I could feel her getting more and more upset. You might think she was overreacting or something, but keep in mind, I have over seventy six clocks in my house and almost all of them make some kind of noise. Not just a nice gong sound that perhaps would sound nice when all done in harmony. I have beepers and buzzers. I have ringers and ruzzers. I have bangers and crashers and flim flam flun duzzlers! She threw one of my many grandfather clocks at me and shouted something or other at me as she left the house in a furious rage. I watched her from the window as she pulled out of the driveway and squealed her tires just to make sure I knew she was ticked. Once out of eyesight, I let a little grin dance across my lower face and whispered "Time heals all wounds." She phoned later on and broke up with me. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Tempus Fugit ,$$ $$: by BMC ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' Scientists in the Neo-Comintern labratories have recently discovered that time is indeed linear, but flows backward as well as forward. This means that the actions we commit in the present may affect not only the future, but the past as well. "We must be very careful," says Dr. Y.H. Gabriel, "not to commit any acts that are too drastic, or we may change or erase incidents that occured in the past." Gabriel adds, "The very knowledge of the bidirectional flow of time may be enough to have already disrupted the events of the past beyond repair. In order to limit the potential negative effects of reverse cause and effect, knowledge of the bidirectional time flow should be limited to those who already know about it and should spread no further on pain of the erasure of time itself. But nobody is listening to Dr. Gabriel. In fact, steps are currently being taken to spread word of time's duality throughout the entire world via electronic magazine. Gabriel's nemesis, Dr. Eli Proteus, insists that the recent findings on time are nothing to worry about. "Who gives a shit about the past anyway?" says he. "We only live in the present anyway, so what's the big deal?" Proteus adds that we should be concerned with the future too, since we theoretically will be experiencing that era at some point. A third unnamed doctor added the following argument to Proteus' case: there is no proof of the future either, since current scientific instruments can only measure that which is in the present. The unnamed doctor reported, "We live one moment in the present, and when that moment has passed we are still in the present. Fancy that! Not the future, but the present. Therefore, time doesn't exist." In response, Dr. Proteus pulled out the jammy and silenced the nerd. After Proteus was confined, Dr. Gabriel stepped back up to the podium and insisted that there are beings who travel through time in an arch of contralinearity. Our actions that affect the past seem to influence their future. The contralinear beings cannot be approached for comment because they are only able to answer questions before they are asked, and even then, it is hard to understand what they are saying without recording their voice and playing it backward. All in all, it is a very difficult situation. His wisdom may save the people of our timeline. He is a wise man, and so I oblige. Dr. Gabriel humbly requests all contralinear beings not to read this article. .d&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&b. The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions. Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or anti-capitalist nature are wanted. Contributors are encouraged to submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings into Philosophy, Flights of Fancy, Freefall Selections, and Tales of General Mirth. The more creative and astray from the norm, the better. For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at . Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is approximately 200-1000 words. Send submissions via email attachment to , or through ICQ to #29981964. Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern Magazine. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - ___________________________________________________ |THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | TWILIGHT ZONE (905) 432-7667 | | BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 | | CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 | | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 | |___________________________________________________| | Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com | | Questions? Comments? Submissions? | | Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com | |___________________________________________________| | The Current Text Scene : http://www.textscene.com | |___________________________________________________| - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - copyright 2002 by #219-07/27/03 the neo-comintern All content is property of The Neo-Comintern. You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the content must not be altered or modified in any way. Unauthorized use of any part of this document is prohibited. All rights reserved. Made in Canada.