Skip to main content

Full text of "Processed World"

See other formats 


kUDHLD 

,  urn 


^'v,fl.  \ 


^  '  ^ 


;v 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2010 


http://www.archive.org/details/processedworld2627proc 


Morales 


lO 

II 

14 


NENU 

War  Heads 

Introduction  and  editorials  by  Med-o,  Bean,  Zoe  Noe,  Prinnitivo 

Arsumince  &  Fax 

From  our  readers 

Not  OUI"  Owns  Demystifying  Goals  and 
Methods  of  "Progressive  Work" 

Analytical  Tale  of  Toil  by  Steven  Colatrella 

Progressive  Pretensions 

Tale  of  Toil  by  Kwazee  Wabbitt 

Aaah!  HIP  Capitalists! 

fiction  by  Chris  Carlsson 

Ambivalent  Nemories  of 
Virtual  Community 

Analytical  Tale  of  Toil  by  G.S.  Williamson 

There  Goes  The 
Neishborhoodt It 

Tale  of  Toil  by  Glenn  Caley  Bachmann 

Beatnik  Nanagersy  Tye-Dye 

Bureaucrats,  and  Corporate 
All-Purpose  Tofu  Paste 16 

Tale  of  Toil  by  Robert  Ovetz 

Iff  I  Die  Beffore 
I  Wake 19 

Fiction  by  Jim  Lough 

Poetry 40 

Bergamino,  Conant,  Harter,  King, 
Lazzara,  Michele  C,  Miller,  West 


Adventures  In  The 
Huck-lt  Research 
Game 41 

"Fiction"  by  Art  Tinnitus 

A  Trade  Reporter's 
Report 46 

Tale  of  Toil  by  Frank  Wilde 

Post-Nodern  Pensees 49 

Poetry  by  Paula  Orlando 

Kelly  Girrs  Good  Job 50 


Tale  of  Toil  by  Kelly  Girl 


DOWNTINE9. 


51 


VDT  update,  Disney  Revolution?,  Poll  Tax  Revolt,  &  More! 

Lessons  In  Democracy SS 

Poetry  by  Adam  Cornford 

From  The  Grey  Ranks: 
Graffiti  in  War  &  Peace  in  Poland 56 

Interview  with  Tomasz  Sikorski  by  D.S.  Black 

Art  &  Chaos  in  Brazil 61 


Interview  with  Ze  Carratu 


Harvey  Pekar 

Article  by  klipschutz 

Reviews < 

Frog,  Morales,  Black,  Carlsson 

Texas:  Penury  off  Plenty. 

Tale  of  Texan  Toil  by  Salvador  Ferret 


.65 
.70 
.75 


Front  Cover  by  Angela  Bocage 
Back  Cover  by  Trixie  T-Square 

Processed  World  is  a  project  of  the  Bay  Area 
Center  for  Art  &  Technology,  a  California  non- 
profit, tax-exempt  corporation.  BACAT  can  be 
written  to  at  1095  Market  Street,  Suite  209,  San 
Francisco.  CA  94103,  USA  or  phoned  at  (415) 
626-2979,  or  faxed  at  (415)  626-2685.  or  E-mailed 
at  pwmag^well.sf.ca.usa 


CONTRIBUTORS/Writers: 

Michael  Botkin,  Frog,  Bean,  Glenn 
Caley  Bachmann,  Chris  Carlsson, 
D.S.  Black,  Ellen  K.,  Louis  Michael- 
son,  Primitive  Morales,  Nell  Miller, 
Denim  Dada,  Salvador  Ferret, 
klipschutz,  Med-o,  Rachel  D.  Chaz 
Bufe,  Jay  Stone 

Graphics:  Trixie  T-Square,  J.R.S., 
V.T.  Voss,  Chris  Carlsson,  Angela 
Bocage,  Zoe  Know-lt-AII,  Louis 
Michaelson.  Paula  Pieretty, 
Joven.  Rachel  J.  Rick  Gerhar- 
harter.  Kit  Miller,  Chaz  Bufe, 
Tom  Tomorrow,  James 
Carman,  IB.  Nelson.  E. 
Tumbaie.  Doug  Minkler, 
and  many  others.  .  . 


The  contents  of  this  magazine 
■eflect  the  ideas  and  fantasies  of 
the  specific  authors  and  artists,  and 
lot  necessarily  other  contributors, 
editors,  or  BACAT. 


PROCESSED  WORLD  10/17 


Summer  1991 

ISSN  0735-9381 

41  Sutter  Street  #1829 

San  Francisco  .  CA  94104.  USA 


Processed  World  is  collectively 
produced  &  edited:  only  the  printer 
and  the  post  office  get  paid. 


War  Heads 


This  special  double  issue  marks  Processed  World's 
10th  anniversary,  a  milestone  nobody  envisioned 
at  the  beginning,  or  even  halfway  along!  This 
issue,  which  we've  been  working  on  for  more  than  six 
months,  happens  to  be  our  first  during  the  Persian  Gulf 
War,  which,  contrary  to  reports,  is  only  just  beginning. 
This  is  reflected  in  the  gallery  of  oppositional  creativity 
throughout  the  magazine,  and  in  the  continuation  of  this 
opening  editorial  by  our  friends  Med-o,  Primitive  Morales, 
Bean,  and  Zoe  Noe. 


The  main  theme  of  this  issue— "The 
Good  Job" — serves  as  a  rejoinder  to 
the  most  common  criticism  of  Processed 
World's  bad  work  attitude:  "If  you 
don't  like  your  job,  why  don't  you 
find  one  you  do  like?"  As  it  turns  out, 
by  virtue  of  our  class,  race,  education, 
predispositions,  talent  and  owing  to  the 
peculiar  U.S.  history  of  Work 
during  the  past  decade,  Processed 
Worlders  have  often  managed  to  escape 
the  blatant  misery  of  working  in  dead- 
end jobs  directly  for  Corporate 
America.  We  have  found  jobs  with 
"progressive"  organizations,  started  our 
own  businesses,  found  academic  jobs, 
well-paid  freelance  work.  Otherwise,  we 
continue  to  work  for  low  wages  but 
part-time  in  self-managed  or 
"alternative"  businesses,  sometimes 
cooperatively  or  collectively  owned. 
And  for  some  of  us,  the  Good  Job  is  a 
well-paid,  low-hassle  niche  in  a  techni- 
cal writing,  programming,  or  such  like 
department  in  a  larger  institution. 

So,  are  these  jobs  better?  Are  they 
changed  by  our  involvement  in  them? 
Or  are  we  changed  by  our  jobs?  Or 
both?  Does  our  willing  participation 
diminish  the  alienating  qualities  inevi- 
tably present  in  any  job,  "progressive," 
"alternative,"  or  otherwise?  What  is 
the  relationship  between  the  specific 
purpose  and  content  of  a  job  and  its 
categorization  as  good  or  bad?  What  if 
it  still  consists  of  stuffing  envelopes  or 
processing  mailing  lists?  And  what  role 
is  played  by  the  relationships  estab- 
lished with  co-workers?  What  are  the 
criteria  of  good  jobs?  Meaning? 
Pleasure?  Money?  Creative  challenge? 
Social    benefit?    Freedom    from    super- 


vision? These  are  the  questions  this 
issue  of  Processed  World  sets  out  to 
address  in  more  than  a  half  dozen 
pieces  from  a  variety  of  people  dis- 
cussing a  multiplicity  of  jobs. 

In  finding  good,  or  at  least  better, 
accommodation  to  the  status  quo, 
what  have  we  gained  or  lost?  In  some 
cases  we  gain  a  greater  sense  of  mean- 
ing, the  sense  that  our  work  is  con- 
tributing to  a  better  life.  In  other 
cases,  our  work  may  not  be  intrinsi- 
cally meaningful,  but  autonomy  on  the 
job  allows  us  to  pursue  what  we  do 
consider  meaningful,  or  leaves  us  more 
energy  after  work  to  do  what  we  want. 
Most  common,  perhaps,  is  a  confused 
and  contradictory  search  for  meaning 
and  autonomy,  responsibility  and 
respect,  and  of  course  financial  security. 
Because  this  society  is  remarkably 
retarded  in  examining  worklife,  our 
rationalizations  and  explanations  tend 
to  jump  around  from  reason  to  reason, 
and  each  of  us  is  finally  forced  into 
unpleasant  compromises. 

For  some,  a  sixty-hour  week  in  a 
community  organization  with  a  low 
salary  and  "comp  time"  is  justified  by 
the  feeling  that  at  least  one  is  helping 
people.  Genuine  help  and  service  is 
often  paid  by  the  relief  and  gratitude 
of  the  served;  the  social  contact  can, 
at  times,  take  on  the  qualities  of  a 
"perk."  Another  person's  forty-hour 
week  is  accepted  on  the  grounds  of  a 
good  medical  insurance  plan,  a  lenient 
boss  and  a  light  workload— plenty  of 
time  for  personal  phone  calls,  writing 
projects,  and  so  forth.  The  qualities  of 
a  job  that  we  call  "good"  are  highly 
varied.    In    identifying    them    we    can 


begin  to  flesh  out  something  of  what 
we're  fighting  for. 

On  the  other  hand,  good  jobs  also 
satisfy  needs  of  the  ruling  order.  Often 
they  "buy  off'  the  most  creative,  moti- 
vated, and  potentially  subversive  indi- 
viduals. When  we  find  ourselves  in  a 
"good"  niche,  our  organizing,  agitation, 
and  politically  dissident  energies  tend 
to  migrate  away  from  our  own  imme- 
diate circumstances,  reinforcing  a 
broader  political  disengagement  from 
workplace  politics  in  general.  If  we 
consider  our  own  "deal"  to  be  a 
relatively  good  one,  we  are  not  so 
compelled  to  embrace  a  radical, 
directly  democratic  movement  that 
recognizes  the  workplace  as  the  locus 
of  social  power. 

One  big  question,  then,  that  arises 
from  this  issue's  theme  (and  also  from 
the  historic  impasse  of  all  workers' 
movements),  is  what  kind  of  new 
methods,  formal  or  not,  can  we 
develop  to  make  practical  our  gen- 
eralized opposition  to  this  society, 
while  retaining  and  expanding  the 
good  qualities  of  our  current  worklives? 
How  can  we  reject  Work  as  a  social 
institution,  and  reclaim  our  right  to  a 
useful,  meaningful,  enjoyable,  autono- 
mous, and  democratic  engagement 
with  the  activities  we  decide  we  really 
want. 

What  exactly  do  we  want  from 
Work?  Processed  World  has  advocated  a 
Bad  Attitude  toward  Work,  even  the 
abolition  of  Work  as  such.  But  what 
does  this  mean  in  the  real  world  of 
contrived  scarcity,  massive  poverty  and 
deprivation,  ecological  holocaust,  and 
pandemic  apathy  and  cynicism  about 
the  prospects  for  a  better  life?  Don't 
our  jobs,  even  our  "good"  jobs,  contri- 
bute directly  and  indirectly  to  propping 
up  this  insane  way  of  life?  But  what 
about  all  the  things  we  do  as  part  of 
our  society's  aggregate  workload  that 
are  useful,  do  provide  pleasure — for  us 
as  workers  and  for  those  we  care 
about?  How  can  we  develop  a  language 
that  appreciates  the  various  impulses 
that  go  into  Work? 

Anyway,  our  personal  feelings  and 
needs  are  by  no  means  the  only  con- 
cern about  Work.  Our  most  public 
secret,  in  fact,  may  be  the  practical 
unconsciousness  most  of  us  bring  to  our 
participation  in  this  complex,  highly 
socialized  aspect  of  human  existence. 
Completely  absent  from  most  current 
discussions  of  freedom  and  democracy 
is   any  concern  for  the  missing  social 


Page  2 


PROCESSED  WORLD  126/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


PENTAGON  PRODUCTIONS  presents 

with  the  cooperation  of  all  TV  networks 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  3 


GEORGE!! 


"We  never  expected  they  would 
take  all  of  Kuwait." 
—former  U.S.  Ambassador  to  Iraq, 
April  Glaspie,  quoted  in  post-invasion 
u  report  in  NY  Times. 

t  Barbarism,  Unlimited 

A  Transnational  Partnership  of  War  Criminals 

process  that  would  allow  democratic 
participation  and  control  over  what  we 
as  a  society  decide  is  worth  doing. 
And  once  this  is  decided,  what  would 
be  a  sensible,  healthy  way  to  realize  a 
specific  social  desire?  In  other  words, 
who  wants  what,  and  who  is  willing  to 
do  what,  to  achieve  it?  And  can  it  be 


done  in  an  ecologically  sound  way? 

The  Economy,  Growth,  the  Nation, 
and  Money/Debt  are  all  popular 
myths  (fictions)  about  the  proper  cate- 
gories for  analyzing  life.  They  are  also 
globally  enforced  institutions  that 
compel  routine  mass  murder,  from 
industrial  accidents,  by  way  of  toxic 
spills,  to  mass  starvation.  The  Work 
we  seek  to  abolish  is  the  10-50%  of 
every  job  and  the  100%  of  millions  of 
jobs  whose  sole  function  is  the  creation 
or  manipulation  of  financial/property 
data  (especially  banking,  real  estate,  in- 
surance, and  speculative  markets),  or 
anything  to  do  with  the  war-making 
capabilities  of  modern  nation  states.  It 
also  includes  the  massive  reproduction 
of  shoddy,  planned-obsolescent  goods, 
the  vast  production  of  toxic  or  simply 
wasteful  waste,  the  endless  record-keep- 
ing that  begins  at  birth  and  follows  us 
into  the  grave,  and  so  on.  With  the 
elimination  of  70%  of  all  the  Work 
done  in  our  society,  we  could  all  work 
far  less,  have  what  we  need  and  want, 
and  live  a  great  deal  better! 

The  basic  human  impulse  to  alter 
the  physical  conditions  of  life  is  a 
healthy  one.  The  desire  for  material 
comfort  is  a  natural  and  healthy  need 
too,  albeit  a  socially  constructed  and 
culturally  defined  one.  Starting  from 
this,  it  should  be  possible  for  people  to 
match  themselves  with  the  things  they 
like  to  do,  that  also  produce  the  things 
we  want,  and  to  do  it  in  the  most 
ecologically  sensible  way.  These,  rather 
than  worrying  about  the  health  of  an 
abstraction  called  "The  Economy," 
should  be  the  basic  concerns  of 
modern  life. 

We  seek  the  abolition  of  Work  as  a 
separate  sphere,  the  end  of  a  society  in 
which  "real  life"  begins  after  work.  A 
perverse  society  indeed,  whose  people 
voluntarily  (even  eagerly)  enslave  them- 
selves to  an  agenda  over  which  they 
have  no  control,  in  exchange  for 
money  to  purchase  commodities — and, 
increasingly,  experiences. 

Our  society  is  lapsing  into  barbarism 
on  every  side,  yet  few  feel  passionate 
enough  to  imagine,  much  less  act 
toward,  social  revolution.  Isn't  it  about 
time  that  the  bleak  fears  of  late  capi- 
talism are  determinedly  pushed  aside 
for  good?  Are  we  capable  of  popu- 
larizing a  new  language  for  our  daily 
activities,  a  new  engagement  with  the 
existential  challenges  of  our  lives,  a 
definitive  break  with  the  logic  of 
buying  and  selling?  Isn't  it  about  time 
we  became  serious  about  a  pleasurable 


Ufe? 

In  this  issue  we  provide  the  reflec- 
tions of  a  seasoned  veteran  of  union 
and  left  organization  jobs  around  the 
East  in  hlot  Our  Own;  a  disgruntled  ex- 
food  co-op  worker  in  Austin,  Texas,  in 
Beatnik  Managers,  Tye-Dye  Bureaucrats;  a 
jaded  programmer  at  the  progressive 
Community  Memory  Project  of  Berkeley, 
Ambivalent  Memories  of  Virtual  Community; 
a  hemmed-in  investigative  journalist  at  a 
large  product-oriented  computer  publica- 
tion, A  Trade  Reporter's  Report;  the  re- 
turn of  Kelly  Girl,  now  a  freelance  writer; 
an  itinerant  white-collar  hobo  down  on 
his  luck  in  Texas,  Penury  of  Plenty;  a  refu- 
gee of  both  a  trotskyist  sect  and  a  progres- 
sive greeting  card  company,  Progressive 
Pretensions;  a  veteran  of  focus-group 
marketing  scams.  Adventures  in  the  Muck- 
it  Research.  Game;  and  a  thoughtful  in- 
sider's critique  of  an  S.F.  neighborhood 
recycling  center,  There  Goes  The  Neigh- 
borhood! This  theme  really  struck  a  nerve. 
We  also  present  interviews  with  two 
graffiti  artists  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
world— Tomasz  Sikorski  in  Warsaw 
Poland,  and  Ze  Carratu  in  Sao  Paulo 
Brazil,  along  with  samples  of  local 
work  in  the  medium.  Bringing  the  two 
themes  together  is  klipschutz's  article 
on  comic  book  writer  Harvey  Pekar  of 
American  Splendor  fame. 

Angela  Bocage  found  time  to  do  this 
issue's  front  cover  and  have  a  baby 
(with  Green  Fuschia.  .  . Wow!  Super- 
Mom  storms  Processed  World!)  A  bunch 
of  good  poetry,  letters  and  graphics 
are  also  included,  as  always,  along  with 
the  resuscitation  of  our  DOWNTIME! 
section,  highlighting  a  different  look  at 
the  recently  passed  VDT  legislation  in 
San  Francisco.  We  are  initiating  with 
this  issue  a  review  section,  which  will 
feature  both  long  and  short  reviews  of 
books,  magazines,  movies,  theater,  and 
whatever  else  strikes  our  collective  fancy. 

As  always  we  depend  on  you,  our 
readers,  for  everything.  Without  your 
comments  and  letters  we  get  depressed 
and  sometimes  bored.  Without  your 
creative  submissions,  we  don't  have 
enough  material.  Without  your  money 
we  can't  afford  our  printing  and 
mailing  bills.  So  you  know  what  to  do! 


Processed  World 

41  Sutter  St.  #1829,  S.F.,  CA  94104.  USA 
.     tel.  415-626-2979  /  fax  415-626-2685 
E-Mail:  pwmag@well.sf.ca.us 


Page  4 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


M 


•^^^i 


o; 


THOSE  WHO  FAIL  TO 
UNDERSTAND  HISTORY 
WILL  BE  HELD  BACK 
Am  FORCED  TO  TRY 
AGAIN  NEXT  YEAR  I 


BE  ALL  YOU  CAN  BE! 

I  like  the  slogan  "Bring  the  Troops 
Home  Alive!"  For  me  it  carries  broad 
philosophical  dimensions.  I  want  them 
to  return  ALIVE— not  merely  in  the 
sense  of  not  needing  to  be  carried 
back,  but  ALIVE  in  every  sense  of  the 
word;  as  thinking,  feeling  beings  ready 
to  challenge  the  present  regime  of 
brutality  and  senseless  slaughter;  read 
to  fight  for  a  new  world  that  we  would 
all  want  to  be  ALIVE  in! 

It's  important  to  acknowledge  the 
degrees  to  which  most,  if  not  all,  of  us 
are  complicit  in  society's  war  machine, 
even  if  we're  not  the  ones  in  uniform. 
It's  obvious  that  the  "volunteer  army" 
is  rarely  voluntary  in  terms  of  actually 
making  free  choices.  Often  mentioned 
is  the  reality  of  the  so-called  "poverty 
draft,"  in  which  joining  the  military 
seems  to  be  the  only  escape  from 
severe  scarcity,  unemployment  and 
starvation.  Another  type  of  de  facto 
"draft"  could  be  labeled  a  "boredom 
draft."  In  a  Generican  society  which 
offers  so  little  in  the  way  of  real  ad- 
venture, the  armed  forces  might  seem 


fulfilling  by  comparison— even  if  you 
are  living  someone  else's  adventure.  In 
a  society  that  accumulates  pent-up 
anger  and  bitterness  while  offering  no 
constructive  ways  to  release  it,  one 
might  be  enticed  to  sign  up  for  a  "rage 
draft."  It's  not  listed  on  the  recruiting 
posters,  but  the  military  is  one  of  the 
only  officially  sanctioned  avenues  that 
promises  an  outlet  for  one's  accumu- 
lated aggression.  One  might  also  want 
to  consider  the  "alienation  draft."  In 
an  atomized  society  that  manufactures 
loneliness,  the  military  can  appear  to 
offer  a  much-craved  sense  of  identity, 
community,  and  security. 

While  it's  important  to  understand 
each  person's  particular  set  of  circum- 
stances, that  still  doesn't  justify  being 
part  of  a  killing  machine.  The  most 
important  question  remains:  What  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it?  I  believe  that 
when  significant  opposition  to  war  and 
its  machinery  do  emerge,  some  of  the 
most  important  leadership  will  arise 
from  those  who  are  now  in  the  war  or 
say  they  support  it.  Those  in  uniform 
are   in   a   unique  position   to   see  first- 


hand the  horrors  of  war,  and  are  in  a 
unique  position  to  be  able  to  challenge 
it!  — Zee  Noe 

WAR  RANT 

Eh .  .  .  Amigos ...  let  me  tell  you 
about  these  pinche  yanquis  and  their 
war  machine. 

A  friend  of  mine  (one  Salvador 
Ferret)  said  that  Americans  are  dromo- 
maniacs — a  $25  word  that  means 
"sleepwalkers."  They  endlessly  do 
things  and  then  are  horrified  at  the 
consequences;  they  live  in  a  world  of 
continual  surprise,  a  world  of  their 
own  making. 

They  value  convenience  over  all  else; 
inconvenience  is  the  true  social  crime 
here.  And  they  will  do  anything  to  get 
more  money,  to  "get  ahead,"  as  they 
call  it.  Join  the  military  to  go  to 
college ...  but  if  they  aren't  smart 
enough  to  see  the  consequences  of  the 
military  career,  are  they  smart  enough 
to  benefit  from  college?  Or  run  the 
high-tech  equipment  needed  for 
modern  war? 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Pages 


A  resident  of  Santo  Domingo,  after 
the  U.S.  invaded  to  get  rid  of  an 
elected  president,  asked  a  black  U.S. 
Marine  why  he  didn't  go  back  home 
and  fight  to  liberate  his  people.  The 
reply— "You  going  to  pay  me  more?"— 
sums  up,  in  a  nutshell,  the  American 
consciousness. 

And  the  Yanquis  seem  to  be  unaware 
of  their  military— one  of  the  most  for- 
midable machines  in  history.  .  .paid  for 
by  all  of  them  for  all  of  their  lives 
(well,  since  WWII).  .  .and  they  pretend 
that  it  does  NOTHING,  especially 
when  it  is  in  the  barracks  at  home. 
They  ignore  (willfully?  out  of 
stupidity?)  the  military's  enormous 
influence,  domestically  and  interna- 
tionally. The  bastards  have  been 
bombing  around  the  world,  mining 
harbors,  doing  shit  for  decades,  but 
these  brain-dead  humanists  only  wake 
up  when  it  looks  as  if  Americans  might 
get  killed.  Nothing  else  matters. 

South  Africa's  invasion  of  Angola? 
Indonesia's  invasion  of  East  Timor? 
The  terrible  bloodshed  of  Guatemala, 
the  executions  in  El  Salvador  by  injec- 
tion of  sulfuric  acid? .  .  .  But  they  re- 
main silent  (well .  .  .  there  are  some 
who  aren't  total  vendidos). 

And  their  leaders  are  so  honest,  so 
smart,  so  wise.  .  .you  can  see  the  joy  in 

people's  faces  every  day .  .  .  nightmare 
poverty  and  discrimination,  boredom 
and  sanitized  bullshit  everywhere. 

The  fuckers  will  kill  anybody, 
destroy  anything,  in  pursuit  of  their 
comfort  and  convenience.  And  they 
will  never  take  responsibility  for  their 
own  actions .  .  .  never. 

The  technological  prowess  and 
bloodless  (for  the  Americans)  victories, 
along  with  the  need  to  divert  attention 
from  ever-mounting  domestic  problems, 
will  guarantee  more  wars  in  the  future. 
Let  their  enemies  kill  as  many  of  them 
as  possible .  .  .  Let  them  realize  that  war 
is  no  game,  that  their  privileges  are 
bought  at  terrible  cost,  their  lives  up- 
holstered and  comfortable  and  unreal. 
Maybe  they  will  learn,  but  probably 
not,  for  they  have  all  taken  of  that 
good  old  "milk  of  amnesia."  They  are 
all  good  Germans. 

i  jodidosl  "Peace!"  they  cry,  but  there 
is  no  peace;  nor  should  there  be  until 
there  is  justice  for  all  of  us.  Their 
"peace"  is  war  on  all  the  rest  of  us .  .  . 
at  least  when  they're  all  romping  in 
the  Middle  East  they  are  not  as 
capable  of  inflicting  murder  in  the  rest 
of    the    world.    Me?    I'm    learning    to 


goose-step— a  useful  skill  in  the  "new" 
world  order.  —Primitive  Morales 

WAR  BRAIN  SPLURTS 

"What  will  become  of  men  who  have  lost 
the  habit  of  thinking  with  faith  about  the 
meaning  and  scope  of  their  actions?  The 
best  of  them,  the  ones  whom  l^ature 
anoints  with  a  sacred  desire  for  the  future, 
will  lose,  in  a  painful  and  unheeded 
annihilation,  all  incentive  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  life's  sordid  aspects;  and  the 
masses,  the  common  people,  the  materially- 
minded,  the  average  man,  will  unright- 
eously beget  a  race  of  empty-headed 
children,  will  raise  to  the  level  of  es- 
sentials the  faculties  intended  to  be 
nothing  more  than  instruments,  and  will 
perplex  the  incurable  torments  of  the  soul, 
which  delight  only  in  the  beautiful  and 
grand,  with  the  bustle  of  an  ever  incom- 
plete prosperity."  —]ose  Marti 

Speak  to  someone  at  least  once  a 
day  about  the  war.  Think  about  it  at 
least  once  a  day.  Even  if  it's  officially 
over  when  you  read  this.  Skip  TV. 
Other  media-heads.  Just  think  about  it. 

Freedom  is  not  free  will.  Free  will 
implies  personal  debate  when  making 
decisions.  Question  what  you 
read — even  this! 

For  close  to  four  years,  I  waitressed 
and  tended  bar  in  Norfolk,  Virginia 
while  I  was  a  student  at  Old  Dominion 
University.  Norfolk  has  one  of  the 
largest  naval  bases  in  the  country.  The 
city  is  made  up  of  local  people  from 
everywhere  else.  Most  of  my  clientele, 
besides  local  fishermen  and  crabbers, 
were  college  students,  railroad  workers 
from  Ohio  waiting  to  be  transferred 
home,  and  those  we  labeled  "Squids," 
the  mostly  male  sailors.  Sometimes 
they  would  be  out  to  sea  and  there 
would  be  a  slight  decrease  in  business. 
But  when  they  docked  they  docked 
loudly.  At  one  point  in  a  year,  the 
head  waitress  found  out  the  ship's 
schedule  beforehand  and  phoned  to 
warn  the  staff. 

When  I  was  bartending,  I  managed 
to  get  over  the  "gender  thing"  because, 
if  anything  at  all,  we  became  parental 
figures  for  them,  or  better  yet,  thera- 
pists. We  learned  to  do  a  lot  of  listen- 
ing, mostly  about  trying  to  maintain 
various  relationships  through  the  mail. 
I  became  friends  with  some  of  them, 
although  the  military  has  always  been 
a  hot  spot  in  my  own  ideological 
schema,  as  the  quintessence  of  a  pat- 
riarchal   society.    Nevertheless,    I    have 


attempted,  with  tattered  patience,  to 
change  them  somehow,  through  con- 
versation. Now,  after  all  those  conver- 
sations, I  believe  they  honestly  thought 
they  had  no  other  alternative  to  mili- 
tary service  .  Just  as  I  am  in  debt  with 
government  loans,  and  will  probably 
have  to  bartend  again  someday;  like 
them,  I  feel  I  had  no  other  alternative. 

I  tried  to  challenge  my  military 
friends'  belief  systems  using  their  own 
arguments:  "Thou  shalt  not  worship 
false  idols" — a  country,  a  president,  a 
flag;  "Thou  shalt  not  kill"-WAR.  I 
don't  know  if  it  ever  worked.  I  do 
know  they  listened.  We  were  around 
the  same  ages,  born  somewhere 
between  1962  and  1967.  Popular 
culture,  music,  film,  TV,  was  easy 
enough  to  talk  about.  But  politics  and 
intellectual  discourse,  like  most  intel- 
ligent dialogue,  was  tense  and  blocked 
by  our  various  attitudes  toward  lan- 
guage. Their 's  was  rational,  moral,  and 
technical.  Mine  was  abstract, 
emotional,  based  in  the  creative  arts. 
Our  main  similarity,  though,  was  our 
desire  for  knowledge.  Knowledge  that 
would  secure  a  comfortable  position 
within  a  capitalist  society  is  what 
brought  us  all  to  Norfolk. 

The  armed  forces  is  another  univer- 
sity dividing  individual  interests  into 
parts  of  the  military  nucleus.  This  hap- 
pens in  most  formal  institutions.  The 
success  of  a  capitalistic  society  is  to 
insure  each  stroke  of  the  engine  yields 
proper  supply  while  simultaneously 
demanding  it.  This  is  learned  behavior. 

We  who  are  fortunate  enough  to 
have  learned  the  skills  and  knowledge 
required  for  particular  jobs,  we  who 
choose  to  sacrifice  some  part  of  our 
existence  somehow  grin  and  "bare"  it. 
We  may  slave  somewhere  to  pay  back 
loans  or  possibly  commit  murder,  even 
if  our  moral  code  condemns  such  a 
thing.  We,  the  educated,  pervertedly 
become  the  "fortunate"  ones.  Or  may- 
be one  day  we  wake  up  and  really  it's 
a  big  ol'  game  of  Monopoly,  and  we're 
the  little  silver  dog  or  thimble  or  iron, 
going  around  in  circles  until  we  fall  off 
the  board.  Or  maybe  not!  The  Ameri- 
can ideology  offers  a  path  to  false 
security,  the  "Good  Job."  That's  what 
people  in  the  military  are  victims  of, 
and  so  are  most  college  students,  and 
workers  of  various  collar  colors. 

As  Americans,  we're  prone  to  create 
a  Demonology  of  the  Other,  those 
who  don't  have  this  great  American 
chance.  Bush  is  doing  it  with  Hussein 


Page  6 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


>  !U  rv  N.  ■«< 


'»as  occufret*  »^    e^ 
tWeGuif.  con^*"^ 


:i 


omm\ 


CEHSOREO  NEWS? 

AMERICA]  ,. 

GULF  WARl 
liJUTLOQii 

5rporate  WSi 
I  HIGH... 

EMSOFTHOUS/WffiS 
DIE 


•«.  •    ,  rf  A 


.^ 


00 


UNITE 


/* 


/\GAI  NST 


%1 


TwsIsO\l?0 , 
THiSiSVoa^. 


»0D 


laikinc 


«MB^M«^ 


rti^ 


I   ( 


IS    LI  ke: 

FUCKI 


VIR6 


^S' 


'M^ 


ui^uy^ 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27 


Page? 


as  is  Hussein,  in  George's  game,  with 
Bush.  For  me,  the  Other  is  a  concept 
constructed  from  greed.  Greed  is  ex- 
cessive desire  willing  to  sacrifice 
someone  else'  loss. 

Personally,  I  think  we  should  send 
all  the  professional  athletes  in  America 
to  fight  it  out  for  Bush  since  athletics 


were  formed  in  ancient  Rome  to  train 
the  men  as  warriors.  But  that's  a  bit 
sexist  of  me,  isn't  it?  Well,  send  the 
cheerleaders  too!! 

Racism,  poverty,  hunger,  disease, 
and  now  War,  are  all  realities.  War 
sacrifices  all  life  for  ideals.  Someone 
else's  ideals. 

Remind  yourself  to  think  about  war 
because  thinking  for  ourselves  is  true 
freedom,  and  true  education.  That's 
what  military  personnel  have  ceased  to 
do.  Many  are  probably  in  the  process 
of  changing  their  minds  and  they  have 
my  support.  But  I'm  concerned  here 
with  those  who  haven't  or  never  will. 
Remember  to  question  everything  you 
want  until  no  one  is  affected  but  your- 
self. Including  this! 

— Bean 

PM  JUST  DOIN'  MY 
GOOD  (sic)  JOB 

It  is  a  psychic  tranquilizer.  It's  a  drug 
we  are  given  as  children.  As  adults 
most  of  us  stay  heavily  addicted.  A 
few,  very  few,  are  "in  recovery." 

Actually  it  is  more  than  a  drug:  it's 
a  way  of  life,  an  identity.  It  is  often 
the  ultimate  justification  for  a  most 
common,  self-destructive  daily  ritual. 
As  a  covert,  widespread  tool  of  social 
control  it's  as  strong  as  nationalism  and 
institutional  religion.  It  is  the  belief,  the 
faith,  in  "the  good  job." 

Nowhere  is  this  more  striking  than 
for  those  who  get  paid  to  inflict  and 
receive  violence.  This  is  the  soldier's 
job.  What  convoluted  inner  deceptions 
would  allow  you  to  justify  such  self- 
destructive  behavior?  There  are  many 
familiar  explanations  that  seem  valid: 
escape  from  a  bleak  future  of  poverty, 
camaraderie  as  part  of  a  larger  mission, 
thrills  from  the  prospect  of  glory  and 
adventure,  human  bonds  formed  in  a 
group  struggle  to  survive.  But  there  is 
another  explanation  never  put  forth. 
A  big  part  of  accepting  war-work  is  the 
misleading  quest  for  the  "good  job." 
Nowhere  else  is  there  such  a  com- 
pelling need  to  ignore  the  downside 
and  dwell  on  the  comparative  advan- 
tages. Talk  about  an  unsafe  workplace! 
You  can  be  sure  the  half-million  U.S. 
war-workers  in  the  Persian  Gulf  are 
not  protected  by  OSHA.  In  fact,  a 
recent  court  decision  subjects  them  to 
experimental  drugs  without  consent!  Is 
there  any  other  vocation  millions  of 
men  (and  now  women)  would  be  con- 
sciously willing  to  risk  their  lives  for? 

This    must    be    the    ultimate    "good 


job"— something  you  believe  in  enough 
to  die  for.  TTiere  is  no  mucking  around 
about  job  performance  here:  produc- 
tivity literally  means  survival.  There  is 
no  question  about  the  self-interest  in  a 
job  well  done.  It's  understandable... 
and  totally  unacceptable. 

During  the  many  large  street  protests 
in  San  Francisco  against  the  US  war 
to  control  the  Middle  East  there  has 
been  a  compassionate  but  awfully 
wrong-headed  line  from  anti-war 
protesters  to  "Bring  Our  Troops 
Home."  WTiat  a  cruel  absurdity— they're 
definitely  not  my  nor  any  of  my  friends' 
troops;  we  don't  want  them  in  the 
Middle  East,  Europe,  Korea,  or  here. 
All  this  lamebrained  leftist  cringing 
about  the  economic  and  racist  draft, 
while  factually  true,  doesn't  give 
anyone  license  to  work  the  killing 
fields.  The  same  rationale  could  excuse 
the  Nazis  just  doing  their  job  in  Hitler's 
original  call  for  a  "new  world  order." 
There  is  no  justification  for  taking  a 
job  that  potentially  involves  killing 
people.  This  misguided  compassion  for 
"our"  troops  also  denies  the  dignified, 
human  choice  made  by  all  those  who 
suffer  from  the  same  (or  worse) 
multiple  oppressions  and  don't  line  up 
in  the  military  chow  line. 

Those  are  the  people  I  support,  those 
are  the  people  with  whom  I  want  to  be 
in  solidarity.  If  you  are  willing  to 
accept  being  paid  to  kill  people  and 
you  don't  take  any  responsibility  to 
think  about  it  or  challenge  your  initial 
naivete — we  are  in  fundamental  oppo- 
sition. 

Though  not  as  graphically,  the  rest 
of  us  face  the  same  predicament.  My 
experience  is  that  almost  every  working 
person  in  the  US  has  an  inner  psycho- 
logical "justifier"  that  cleverly  makes 
their  job  "the  good  job."  For  a  tiny 
minority  this  is  a  conscious,  rational 
understanding  based  on  objective 
conditions.  For  a  much  larger  minority, 
it  is  a  conscious  but  false  projection 
blatantly  contradicted  by  their  actual 
work  conditions:  the  hard-working 
redneck  proudly  boasting  he  dug  a 
ditch  the  fastest  and  best  and  the 
driven  middle  manager  strutting  how 
smoothly  she  finished  a  complicated 
project,  both  exemplars  of  stereotypical 
"good  attitudes"  which  produce  the 
delusion  of  the  "good  job." 

But  it  is  a  third  kind  of  inner 
justifier  that  afflicts  the  vast  majority 
of  us.  We  live  under  a  powerful 
cultural  ethic  that  the  work  we  do  for 


Pages 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


money  should  be  the  basis  of  our 
personal  identity.  At  the  same  time, 
we're  forced  to  earn  money  or  be  vic- 
timized by  poverty.  So,  we  have  to 
form  some  kind  of  "armed  truce"  with 
our  psyche  to  make  our  job  OK,  or 
better,  or  best  of  all,  good.  Perhaps  the 
most  common  and  binding  truce  is  the 
belief  that  "at  least  in  my  job  I'm  bet- 
ter off  than  the  poor  sot  over  there!" 
The  feeling  of  comparative  advantage 
can  be  based  on  more  money,  shorter 
hours,  perks,  relative  autonomy,  close 
bonds  with  co-workers,  or  innumerable 
other  subjective  feelings.  Everyone  I've 
met  affirms  comparative  advantages  in 
one  way  or  another. 

And  why  not?  After  all,  if  we  are 
forced  to  work  to  escape  poverty— we 
may  not  like  it— but  we  can  at  least  get 
the  best  shake  possible.  This  is 
survival,  basic  self-interest.  But  it 
shouldn't  be  considered  the  only  route. 

The  internal  construction  of  the 
good  (actually,  comparatively  better) 
job  is  the  result  of  the  normal 
trajectory  in  most  people's  work 
history.  Often  as  teenagers  we  begin 
working  in  low-paying,  low-status  jobs 
and  "work  our  way  up."  We  would  be 
chumps  not  to  advance  into  better 
jobs — however  we  may  personally 
define  them.  But  this  process  usually 
gets  confused  with  an  insidious  career- 
ist ideology,  particularly  after  we  hit 
thirty.  The  prevailing  notion  is 
someone  working  a  "bad"  job  is  at 
fault  and  therefore  inadequate.  In  this 
twisted  way  we  blame  ourselves  for  a 
perverse  social  system,  since  self-blame 
negates  the  facts  of  class,  race,  and 
gender  oppression,  as  well  as  that 
elusive  luck  factor. 

Coping  with  the  social  expectation 
that  "good  people  end  up  in  good 
jobs"  is  hardest  for  those  whose  jobs 
don't  improve.  Some  capitulate  and 
accept  their  depressing  plight.  More 
often,  denial  and  self-deception 
internally  enhance  what  is  externally 
awful.  But  equally  deceived  are  the 
millions  of  people  like  me  who 
experience  some  objective  improvement 
but  tend  to  magnify  this  far  beyond  its 
broader  content.  It's  just  too  painful  to 
face  the  fact  that  although  my  work 
life  has  improved,  there  is  nothing 
really  good  about  it,  and  I  have  no 
hope  this  will  change  in  my  lifetime.  It 
is  much  more  satisfying  to  dwell  on 
the  feeling  that  I've  got  it  good  work- 
wise  as  a  highly-paid,  self-employed 
electrician  and  scam-artist,  who  enjoys 


THIS  M*»fctH  W«IL» 


by  TOM  TOMORROW 


IN  THE  PlSTAHTPASr,  -r>4E  POBUC'S  JCNOWLEDOE  CF  CURHZNT 
AFFAIRS  WAS  OFftN  SXercHV  AND  VA6UE;  PEPENDCNT   tAR6£l.Y  ON 
RVmo/a  AND  Wo/ifiOfMOVTH.  TODAY,  riO\NEveie,  THANKS  TO  Trie 
mRkCLt  OF  MASS  awWUNlCATWNi.  ClT)2£RJ  Al?£"  ABUE"  TO  CARE' 
fUUX  STUDY  AND  CONTeMTLATE    COMPLEX   NAnOKjAL    AND 
(Slj^BAL  \55UE5-|N  rne  privacy  of  THElfi  OMiH  HOMES/ 


9^9BP 


l€Tt  LISTEN  TO  THE  WlEU.- /REASONED  AMD   )N5l(5HTFOt- 
(JP1MI0N5   oF    A    FevJ    RAKJDOMLY-CHOSEM,  TVPl^ALLy    WELU- 
iMFoff/VkED   AIOl>£RN  CITlZEAJS.. 


V^e  JHUST  IC££P  rONDlNfr 
-me  STEALTH  BoMSeii  SE- 
CAy^E  IT  PdBH'T  5*>Vf) 
OPoN  /?APAR  AND  THIS 
IS  A  iZft:i  6P£«rr  mil- 
itary ADVAATTA^E  \f 
WE  APE  ATTACKED  FV 

Hostile  ENEMiesi 


PPUOS  ARE 

SEE.   IF  -fOOR. 
BfiAiN  WAS  AN 

^66,  IT  vy<?ou> 

BE  PROPPED 
/NTD  A    FRV- 


PREiiPENT  BUSH 
PIDNT  KNOW  Mi- 
THIM6  ABOUT  AMY 
Of  THfKT   IRAN- 
fCMTf?A  STUFT 
0e.cAOSe  HE  WAS 
CVTM  A  loop/ 


lots  of  free  time  and  independent 
scheduling.  There  is  a  truth  here  but 
one  that  pales  before  a  much  larger 
truth. 

Nothing  1  have  done  for  money 
makes  me  feel  good.  Sometimes,  when 
what  I've  done  is  clearly  beneficial  to 
another,  I  temporarily  feel  good  in  spite 
of  the  cash  yoke  tied  to  the  experi- 
ence. Indeed,  all  the  meaningful  things 
I  want  to  do  are  degraded  when  linked 
to  the  desperate  and  deceiving  system 
of  money.  The  activities  that  give  me 
meaning  necessarily  involve  my  friends 
and  other  working  people.  How  could 
I  feel  good  about  charging  them  to 
participate  in  something  I  find  intrin- 
sically valuable?  Conversely,  how  could 
I  not  feel  alienated  about  making 
money  dong  something  meaningful 
with  people  with  whom  I  share  no 
affinity,  or  worse,  actually  gain  money 


by  exploiting  others?  Although  I  wish 
it  was  otherwise,  it  is  a  deadly  No  Exit. 

This  dilemma,  and  the  fact  that  the 
most  socially  useful  activities  (childcare, 
healthcare,  education,  etc.)  are  usually 
the  lowest  paid,  closes  off  any  illusions 
I  have  about  the  "good  job."  Even  if  I 
get  a  relatively  better  shake,  how  can  I 
participate  happily  in  an  overall  system 
that  pays  investment  bankers  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  dollars  a  year  for 
doing  absolutely  nothing  socially  useful, 
while  a  childcare  worker  makes 
minimum  wage?  Averting  my  eyes  to 
this  doesn't  allow  me  to  withdraw 
from  the  forced  stupidity  of  buying 
and  selling  my  and  others'  time. 
Ultimately  it's  a  bad  deal— we  simply 
get  to  pick  our  poison. 

Here  is  where  many  get  confused 
about     Processed     World's     politics     of 


continued  bottom  page  1 0 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  9 


ARGUMINCE  &  FAX 


GUIDEBOOK  GROUPIES 

Dear  PW: 

I  just  got  #25.  The  theme— vacation- 
inspired  me  to  write.  Maybe  other  readers  will 
be  interested  to  hear  about  my  vacation.  A 
while  ago  I  decided  to  quit  my  programming 
job  and  go  for  a  long  trip  in  an  exotic  place. 
I'm  back  now.  The  trip  was  a  year  long,  and  I 
traveled  around  Southeast  Asia,  India  and 
China. 

Is  such  a  vacation  the  "answer"?  Can  it 
justify  years  of  "toil"  and  a  cruddy  job  to  save 
up  the  money?  Is  coming  back  to  the  West 
such  a  big  letdown  that  it's  worse  than  never 
leaving  in  the  first  place?  What  about  my 
"career?" 

Beats  me.  But  I'll  tell  you  that  anyone  could 
do  it.  The  year  cost  about  $5000  (that 
includes  airfare,  hotels  and  everything  else). 
Many  North  Americans  could  save  that  much 
by  doing  without  a  car  for  a  while.  If  you're  in 
the  fast-paced  hi-tech  world  of  computers, 
you  don't  have  to  worry  about  being  obsolete 
after  a  year's  absence .  .  .  nothing  really 
changes.  I  got  a  new  job  in  2  weeks.  "Did  you 
find  your  travels  mind  expanding?"  asked  one 
boss-to-be  in  a  job  interview.  Who  disagrees 
in  a  job  interview? 

Don't  think  that  as  soon  as  you  get  off  a 
plane  in  an  Asian  city  that  you'll  be  "away 
from  it  all."  You'll  probably  end  up  staying  in  a 
hostel  or  guest  house  filled  with  Europeans 
and  Americans.  Maybe  you'll  order  that 
exotic  Asian  dish— the  club  sandwich  from  the 
menu  that's  printed  in  English.  The  next 
day .  .  .  let's  go  visit  that  temple  which  that 
Australian  woman  mentioned  last  night  at 
dinner.  Gee,  there's  a  lot  of  white-skinned 
people  at  this  temple— I  wonder  why.  Just  like 
when  you're  at  home,  you  have  to  look  for 
"alternative"  things  to  do  if  you  want  to  find 
them.  If  you  are  a  couch  potato  at  home, 
you'll  be  a  guidebook  groupie  when  you're 


abroad. 

Bon  voyage, 

—DM,  Toronto,  Canada 

REVIVAL  OF  HISTORY 

Dear  PW: 

Suddenly  we  are  at  the  end  of  history.  So  a 
neo-Hegelian  Washington  functionary,  Francis 
Fukuyama,  proclaimed  not  long  ago,  crowing 
that  the  worldwide  collapse  of  Communism 
nullifies  the  historical  dialectic— and  thus, 
presto,  kills  off  history  itself. 

It's  a  neat  equation.  I  wonder,  however, 
what  a  resident  of,  say,  Bucharest  or  Luanda 
or  Hanoi  might  have  to  say,  for  there  are  still 
a  few  historically  minded  Communists  left  in 
such  places  as  Havana  and  the  Heavenly  City. 
Whether  we  are  indeed  at  the  end  of  this 
third-rate  science-fiction  novel  called  history 
remains  to  be  seen;  greed,  ambition,  and 
good,  old-fashioned  hatred  offer  at  least  the 
promise  of  a  spectacular  denouement. History 
appears  to  have  an  ample  store  of  tricks  up  its 
sleeve,  enough  that  for  millennia  to  come 
we'll  be  obliged  to  climb  the  dialectical  ladder 
toward  what  passes  for  a  German  logician's 
heaven. 

History  clearly  endures.  But,  as  the  Rolling 
Stones  warned,  we're  just  as  clearly  out  of 
time. 

These  days  everyone  seems  to  be  in  a  hurry. 
We  rush  between  relationships,  shedding 
mates  like  skins;  we  dash  from  one  job  to  the 
next;  we  hurtle  from  one  city  to  another, 
from  coast  to  coast,  rootless,  alienated.  The 
average  American  is  likely  to  meet  more 
people  in  a  year  than  his  or  her  grandfather  did 
in  a  lifetime.  Small  wonder,  given  the  demands 
of  all  these  new  pals,  that  our  hours  should  fall 
into  a  black  hole  and  be  lost  to  us. 

A  quarter  of  all  full-time  workers  now 
spend  more  than  fifty  hours  a  week  on  the 
job.  The  rest  clock  a  mere  forty-seven  hours  a 


from  page  9 
work,  since  we  make  a  complete  break 
with  the  pro-jobs  bias  of  leftist  analy- 
sis. Workers  that  never  question  the 
social  contract  oppressing  them  are  not 
"our"  comrades.  We  may  identify  with 
and  have  compassion  for  them.  We 
certainly  encourage  them  to  become 
more  critical  and  organized.  But  we 
don't  see  class  oppression  as  a  blanket 
excuse  for  a  continual  pattern  of  ig- 
norance and  passivity.  At  best  (worst.'), 
every  worker  is  a  victim  stuck  in  her/ 
his  role,  or,  better,  a  ghastly  hybrid  of 
victim  and  collaborator.  To  be  sure, 
we  are  an  oppressed  class  oc- 
cupying a  unique  position  because  "the 
system"  can't  ■  function  without  our 
labor.  We  possess  further  leverage:  if 
we  democratically  organized  and  con- 
trolled     our      productive      capacities, 


society  would  be  freed  for  unprece- 
dented beneficial,  creative  and  pleasur- 
able purposes. 

Despite  all  this  there  is  no  glory  in 
work  or  being  a  worker — and  this  is 
where  both  leftists  and  rightists  can't 
fathom  Processed  World.  My  patriotic 
superhero  is  the  anti-worker  who,  even 
though  s/he  may  strive  for  the  best 
work  compromise,  refuses  to  internalize 
the  ethics  of  the  good  job.  My  four- 
star  Bad  Attitudinist  realizes  that  even 
creating  a  niche  where  you  get  paid  to 
do  what  you  intrinsically  love  doing 
doesn't  make  it  feel  good  to  be  a  cog  in 
the  planetary  work/war  machine.  I 
salute,  shower  medals  upon,  even 
promise  a  parade  for  all  those  strug- 
gling against  just  doin'  the  good  job. 
Here's  hoping  to  hear  from  you. 

— Med-o 


week  at  the  workplace.  For  business  execu- 
tives and  managers,  seventy  to  eighty  hours  of 
desk  jockeying  is  common.  In  1 967,  a  Senate 
subcommittee  declared  that  twenty  years 
hence  the  average  worker  would  spend  no 
more  than  twenty-two  hours  a  week  on  the 
job;  poor  optimists,  even  politicians  now  must 
sell  their  souls  from  dawn  to  midnight, 
weekend  included. 

A  TV  advertisement  now  in  heavy  rotation 
depicts  a  child's  Sunday  birthday  party  in  some 
sepia-toned  but  recognizable  past.  The  tele- 
phone rings,  and  the  kid's  father  is  summoned 
into  town  to  attend  to  some  business  that 
cannot  wait  until  morning.  The  kid,  having 
learned  where  his  father's  priorities  lie,  is 
crushed. 

Fast  forward  to  1 990,  when  another  tele- 
phone summons  another  adult— perhaps  our 
slighted  kid,  wrinkled  and  bowed  by  post- 
industrial  capitalism— away  from  another  Sun- 
day birthday  party.  But  now  Dad  has  a  fax 
machine,  a  modem,  and  a  bank  of  computer 
gear  in  the  den,  and  he  can  get  right  to  work; 
he  pushes  a  button  or  two,  hits  a  carriage 
return,  and— poof— in  nanoseconds  a  few 
million  dollars  are  zapped  from  Peoria  to 
Pretoria,  picking  up  interest  along  the  way. 
Dad's  still  missing  Buddy's  birthday,  but  from  a 
distance  of  yards  instead  of  miles.  (For  his 
part.  Buddy  will  likely  dispense  with  birthday 
celebrations  altogether  when  his  kids  come 
along.)  This  condition, our  advertiser  pro- 
claims, is  progress. 

With  time-saving  technologies,  our  days 
should  expand.  They  have  indeed  expanded, 
but  only  to  accommodate  still  more  labor, 
useful  or  not.  Work  now  interrupts  us  at  any 
hour  of  the  day  or  night;  an  employer's 
demands  need  have  no  respect  for  the  clock. 
Surely  this  is  not  the  first  time  Dad  has  been 
called  away  from  the  table  to  plug  in  another 
projection  into  a  spreadsheet.  Nor  will  it  be 
the  last. 

Real  progress  would  move  in  just  the 
opposite  direction.  We'd  all  unplug  our  tele- 
phones on  the  weekend,  or,  better,  agitate 
for  strict  laws  to  prevent  bosses  from  invading 
our  privacy  in  the  first  place— anything  to 
safeguard  our  scant  allotment  of  hours  as  they 
flash  past,  quick-marched  by  relativity's  drill 
sergeant. 

In  the  1 920s,  Emily  Post,  the  doyenne  of 
manners,  pronounced  that  a  decent  woman 
would  mourn  her  husband's  death  for  at  least 
three  years,  garbed  in  widow's  black.  A  half- 
century  later,  her  late  colleague  Amy  Vander- 
bilt  reckoned  that  a  week  would  do.  We're  a 
busy  people,  we  Americans;  too  busy  to 
wonder,  too  busy  for  trifles  like  death,  too 
busy  for  birthdays,  too  busy  to  take  stock  of 
our  miserable  selves  on  this  suffering  planet. 
Suffering,  in  part,  because  busy  people  con- 
sume more  resources  than  the  lazy-bones 
among  us.  If  the  Japanese  wish  Banzai— "May 
you  live  ten  thousand  years!"— ever  came 
true,  a  legion  of  post-industrial  busy  beavers 
would  scrape  the  planet  clean  before  we 
cleared  adolescence. 

"Thought's  the  slave  of  life,  and  life  time's 
fool,"  said  William  Shakespeare,  writing  in  a 
world  where  the  very  notion  of  measurable 


Page  10 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


BAGHDAD  BY  THE  BAY 


A 

r. 

..^m^^^^ 

Sk^ 

^v^ 

n  ^ 

^^^^^SkH 

i  \ 

>nR 

nr- 1  f[ll  " 

=f 

ll  3R — 

^\^j 

rti  ■{jgnjpl 

:jr".^KnaAftcA&efi 

jfc.  coN, 

£t  I^Silh 

^^HS^^ 

1-1 

^§^ 

tin® 

1^ 

r 

fO^ixMSmift 

|i! 

^M 

HI  3 

^ 

« 

"^ 

^ 

r'i   ■ 

PAciHs^   Br  jS? 

lil 

i|P 

Hwnff 

k 

MiIm 

^ 

t 

fffe 

^ifl 

i 

^^^H 

^iS 

time  was  new,  where  the  clock  was  a  recent 
by-product  of  the  alchemists'  quest  for  per- 
petual motion.  They  found  it,  too:  one  has 
only  to  consider  the  Long  Island  Expressway 
at  eight  in  the  morning  or  the  Santa  Monica 
Freeway  at  dusk  to  know  that  medieval 
magicians  still  exercise  a  dark  power  over  this 
age  of  smart  machines  and  brainless  citizens. 

Elsewhere  Shakespeare  wrote,  "I  were 
better  to  be  eaten  away  with  rust  than  to  be 
scoured  to  nothing  with  perpetual  motion."  I 
second  that.  The  end  of  time— of  time 
available  to  us,  of  time  under  our  control,  of 
free  time— wears  us  all  away,  planes  off  those 
little  burrs  of  individuality,  smoothes  us  into 
perfectly  functioning  ball  bearings  in  the  great 
racecup  of  the  State. 

Any  destiny  but  such  erosion,  please.  Resist 
it.  Take  the  day  off,  and  tell  your  employer 
that  you  demand  more  hours  for  yourself.  If 
the  whistle  blows  at  eight,  do  what  pleases 
you  until  nine,  then  go  home  early.  Call  in  sick 
on  the  anniversary  of  the  Haymarket  riots. 
Give  the  planet  a  break  by  staying  in  bed. 
Spurn  alchemy,  revive  history,  commit  acts  of 
temporal  revolution. 

Take  your  time. 

—Gregory  McNamee,  Tucson,  AZ 


THE' 


16  WHEEL 


Dear  PW: 

I  work  as  a  radio  newscaster  for  one  of  the 
three  big  networks— one  of  the  last  great 
union  gigs  on  Earth.  The  pay  is  generous, 
though  likely  soon  to  be  reduced;  but  for  me 
and  at  least  some  of  my  colleagues,  it's  a 
spiritually  corrosive  job.  We  work  in  a 
straitjacket.  Many  of  PW's  "tales  of  toil" 
therefore  seem  disturbingly  familiar.  My  wife 
and  I  are  saving  money  as  carefully  as  we  can  in 
order  to  finance  an  early  escape  from  our 


respective  corporate  hamster  wheels.  This  is 
not  easy  even  for  relatively  lucky  workers  like 
us.  I  think  I'd  go  bonkers  if  I  had  to  keep  at  it 
until  "retirement"  age  (I'm  46).  I  stand  in  awe 
of  those  who  cannot  escape  the  master 
wheel,  yet  somehow  manage  to  stay  human. 
But  no  one  should  have  to  pass  the  test.  My 
wife's  grandfather  correctly  told  her  that  if 
work  were  so  terrific,  the  rich  would  have 
kept  it  for  themselves. 
—A  Reader,  New  York 

COMEDY  ISN'T  PRETTY 

Dear  PW: 

I  basically  agree  with  your  premise  that 
corporate  employment  is  degrading,  mentally 
insulting,  meaninglessly  hierarchical,  etc.  It 
seems  that  your  response  to  the  working 
world  was  just  as  meaningless  and  personally 
degrading;  you  have  to  be  part  of  the  business 
world,  so  your  only  response  is  to  give  a 
half-assed  effort  and  sabotage  the  workplace. 
Is  this  your  view?  Or  is  this  just  using  comedy 
to  get  people  to  think  about  their  working 
lives?  If  it's  comedy,  do  y'all  have  a  rational 
alternative  to  the  corporate  world? 

-GC.  Albany,  CA 

BOLO*BOLO, 
HUBBA*HWBBA 

[Last  spring  ( 1 990),  three  PWers  (Chris 
Carlsson,  Med-O,  and  D.S.  Black)  were 
sponsored  by  the  Anti-Economy  League  of 
S.F.  to  travel  to  Eastern  Europe  as  corporate 
insultants.  Armed  with  anti-business  cards, 
indefatigable  hedonism,  and  the  humble  desire 
to  destroy  the  entire  western  financial  sys- 
tem, we  made  friends  with  many  radicals  in 
Poland,  Prague  and  East  Berlin.  Below  are 
excerpts  of  2  letters  from  a  sharp  couple  we 


CoMiNq  Soon  to  a 

Home  Front  Near  YouI 


stayed  with  in  Wroclaw,  Poland.] 

Dear  people. 

We  have  been  reading  Processed  World 

on  our  vacations,  and  now  I  guess  I  understand 
more  of  your  mission.  There  are  two  things 
that  seem  to  me  to  be  the  obstacle  in  the 
communication  between  you  and  the  people 
of  Eastern  Europe.  First,  sometimes  the 
language  you  use  automatically  brings  about 
unpleasant  associations  since  it  does  not  avoid 
the  expressions  we  have  been  offered  by  the 
communist  propaganda  for  the  last  40 
years.  . :  [e.g.,  the  term  "collective"  while 
connoting  voluntary,  decentralized  group  col- 
laboration and  democratic  decision  making 
here,  was  a  horrific  doublespeak  application 
by  the  state  to  force  unwilling  people  into 
groups  that  had  no  power  or  internal  demo- 
cracy—Ed.) 

Second,  quite  a  lot  of  the  problems  you  deal 
with  are  very  local,  very  American  or  at  least 
caused  by  the  level  of  civilization  which  is  at 
present  beyond  our  reach.  We  are  many  years 
backwards  (though  we  did  have  "Mr.  Ed"), 
and  computers  are  a  new  thing  here.  I  realize  I 
live  among  the  "social  margin"  people,  but  I 
do  not  know  anybody  (not  a  single  person!) 
who  would  go  everyday  to  work  in  an  office, 
would  have  to  dress  nicely  and  smile,  and  be  a 
good  clerk—  indeed,  life  here  is  quite  different 
than  in  S.F. 

The  problem  with  most  people  I  know  is 
what  to  do  with  the  potential  they  have,  all 
the  energy  they  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
because  there  are  still  so  few  areas  of  possible 
social  activity,  and  even  if  there  is  somebody 
who  attempts  to  create  a  new  one,  he  or  she 
has  to  be  a  real  strong  personality  to 
overcome  people's  frustration  and  passivity. 

I  learned  a  lot  from  you  [during  Med-o  & 
Chris'  visit  in  June,  '90],  and  most  important 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  1 1 


was  for  me  the  discovery  that  dreams  are  not 
necessarily  doomed  to  failure  only  because  of 
their  "dreamy"  nature .  .  .  We  are  products 
of  this  reality.  We  complain  a  lot.  You  do  a 
lot.  There  are  serious  differences— we  have 
learned  to  be  active  first. 

We  have  had  also  some  troubles  recently, 
also  concerning  our  plans  of  spreading  the 
good  Bolo'bolo  news.  [Bolo'bolo  is  a  Swiss 
author's  practical  Utopian  analysis  to  trans- 
form the  "existing  planetary  work  machine" 
into  non-monetary,  decentralized,  globally 
connected  collective  bolo's— Ed.] 

So  we  are  not  able  to  do  as  we  hoped— to 
translate  and  publish  Bolo'bolo  in  parts— it  is 
a  very  good  time  for  it  now,  everything  being 
in  a  state  of  complete  chaos.  Unfortunately, 
now  we  are  back  to  step  one:  finances  and 
organizing  the  technical  background. 

Some  weeks  ago  Julita  and  Plotr  visited 
P.M.,  the  author  of  Bolo'bolo  in  Zurich.  The 
conversation  was  short  but  meaningful; 

Piotr:  So  what  have  you  been  doing  all  this 
time?  You  haven't  yet  introduced  the 
Bolo'bolo  system  in  Switzerland .  .  . 

P.M.  (apologetically):  Oh,  Switzerland  now- 
adays is  not  a  good  time  and  place  for 
Bolo'bolo.  .  . 

Julita  and  Piotr  (enthusiastic  laughter):  But 
Poland  nowadays  is  absolutely  a  gorgeous 
place  for  Bolo'bolo! 

My  best  wishes  of  a  Great  Bolo'bolo  all 
around  the  world. 

Hah! 

— Hanka,  Wroclaw,  Poland 

FOR  LIFE 

Dear  PW: 

Believe  it  or  not,  a  tiny  minority  of 
students  here  at  Oxford  University  are  totally 
refusing  to  make  use  of  the  "privileges"  we 
are  handed  on  silver  plates,  but  there  is  no 
serious,  organized  alternative  to  the  boring, 
dodgy,  retro,  liberal,  pseudo-political  orcryp- 
to-artistic  groupings  which  are  self- 
perpetuating  and  DOOMED  TO  DIE. 

Attempts  to  collectivize,  mobilize,  even 
have  good  parties,  fail  again  and  again.  They 
call  us  "hippies,"  "anarchists,"  "boat- 
rockers,"  or  that  most  impotence-inducing 
label  of  all:  "guilt-ridden  middle  class  chil- 
dren." But  we  know  what  we  believe,  and 
what  we've  lived  through  ( I  I  years  of 
Thatcher). 

I'm  trying  the  best  that  I  can  to  use  the  time 
here,  which  I  am  very  privileged  to  be 
experiencing,  to  read  the  original  texts,  the 
ones  which  have  questioned  the  bases  of  The 
Centralized  Power,  since  "English  literature" 
began:  whether  that's  20th  century  literary 
theory,  studies  of  other  people's  studies  of 
"culture, "deconstruction,  medieval  mystical 
texts,  the  nineteenth  century  novel,  industrial 
revolution,  or  whatever.  It's  a  hard  thing  to 
justify,  because  it  is  totally  unjustifiable. 
"Student  life"  would  be  obsolete  in  Utopia. 

It's  getting  late.  My  generation  is  utterly 
despairing  and  desperate,  and  doesn't  realize  it 
yet. 

Yours  for  life, 

—Lilah,  Oxford,  U.K. 

THIS  PHONE'S  FOR  HIRE 

Dear  PW: 

The  day  before  the  war  to  liberate  Kuwait 


TWISTED  IMAGE 

by   Ace  Backwords  ®wi 


'^viacmi  to  "TUB  WAR^ 
SHOW"  -  THE  First  m/ar 
eRoocHr  Tb  'kO  UMi  iVirH 
SfJAZZV  LD&>S  Mt>  REflUV 
rejU-lV  cool  TH£M£  MOSKA' 


First  we  have  some  real 

C60U,"pEJJTB60N-flfPfi0VED" 
FOOTflGE  TB  GET  VbU  \ti  THE 
MOOD  R)R  Wfl(?."  1^0  MESJV, 
AGomzifJC  SH0I3  Of  peowE 
8EJM&  etOWhiTT  BITS -JUST 
NICE.aEANSHorSOfAMERI- 
CftN  PUNES  AND  HEKOIC  PltoTs! 


WAIT/.'  WE  INTERROf>T  THIS 
WAR  50  WE  CAN  SHOW  VoW 
A  GOV  IN  fl  NICE,  aWi  SU\r 
SAVING  MAMV  IMfoRTMJrTWWftS 


VES/.'   WE  HAVE  A  REAUY  ^ 
Bl&wAR  For  vou."  WE'it  sr 

RIGHT  BACK  WITH  MORE        ■< 
CARNAGE  RIGHT  AfTtR  THIS  in 

<^      OMINOUS        „ 
TMtl^E  music!' 


was  launched  by  the  U.S. -led  coalition  forces, 
I  smashed  my  Geo  Metro  car,  and  was  forced 
to  take  a  night  job  to  pay  for  the  damages.  My 
background  is  in  political  fundraising,  and  so  it 
seemed  natural  for  me  to  do  this  again. 

This  job,  ironically  enough,  was  in  direct 
response  to  the  war.  It  was  fundraising  over 
the  telephone  for  Citizen  to  Citizen,  a  client 
of  Gargantua  Campaigns.  Gargantua  exists  to 
raise  money  for  itself  and  others.  It  is  a 
professional  fundraising  machine,  employing 
over  fifty  telemarketers  who  work  in  several 
staggered  four-hour  shifts.  For  the  last  several 
months.  Citizen  to  Citizen  had  been  working 
to  call  attention  to  the  U.S. -funded  war 
against  El  Salvador.  Evidently  the  political 
concern  of  the  constituent  donor  base  was 
drifting  towards  the  Persian  Gulf,  so  Citizen 
to  Citizen  decided  to  launch  a  thirty-day  push 
to  prevent  the  war. 

Citizen  to  Citizen,  C2C  for  short,  uses 
mainstream  political  organizing  to  pressure 
Congresspersons  whose  votes  are  deemed  to 
be  politically  essential.  C2C  will  work  in 
coalition  but  it  also  fights  the  good  fight 
alone, and  has  a  D.C.  based  lobbying  arm.  One 
of  the  most  important  selling  points  of  C2C  is 
their  ability  to  train  organizers  who— money 
permitting— organize  demonstrations,  pick- 
ets, letters,  personal  visits  to  opinion  leaders, 
and  TV  and  radio  spots.  C2C  has  a  PAC  and 
has  cultivated  foundation  money,  and  a  few 
well-heeled  individuals. 

Imagine  a  phone  call  five  minutes  before  the 
war  begins:  "Mister  Bardamu,  my  name  is 
John  Reed,  and  I'm  calling  for  Citizen  to 
Citizen.  We're  organizing  in  7  states  to 
pressure  Congress  to  restrain  the  President 
from  launching  a  war.  You're  against  going  to 
war  with  Iraq,  right?" 

This  phonebank  is  high  tech.  We  have 
computer  screens  which  have  been  shielded, 
and  a  computer  which  is  our  telephone.  On 
the  screen  a  small  donor  profile  appears:  I 
know  that  my  telephone  call  has  been  an- 
swered. The  information  I  have  is  a  name, 
address,  and  telephone  number.  Only  rarely 
do  I  have  a  monetary  profile.  I  speak  into  a 
mike  attached  to  the  headphones.  I  sit  in  a 


cubicle  and  stare  at  my  screen.  Sometimes  it 
takes  as  long  as  two  minutes  between  calls. 
The  computer  does  the  dialing  and  I  do  the 
talking. 

"Mr.  Bardamu,  I'm  very  happy  to  hear  that 
you  are  against  the  war.  I'm  sure  you  know 
how  important  it  is  that  C2C  continue  to 
lobby  Congress  for  a  cease  fire  in  the  Gulf 
with  respectable  demonstrations.  Will  you 
help  us  with  a  gift  of  $100?" 

My  objective  is  placing  this  sum  on  a  credit 
card  so  my  company  has  the  donation  as  soon 
as  possible,  and  so  I  get  my  1 0  percent  bonus 
in  cash  at  the  end  of  the  night.  Checks  take 
time  and  sometimes  other  things  come  up,  and 
that  means  the  money  doesn't  always  come. 

Once  the  bombs  began  to  drop,  the  pitch  to 
the  donor  base  changed  from  30  days  to 
prevent  war,  to  a  more  pro-active  stand 
against  the  war.  Imagine  the  telemarketers 
ringing  phones  across  the  United  States  as 
CNN  broadcast  the  first  rushes  of  war. 

It  is  an  upside  down  political  world.  We  can 
save  the  Amazon  by  eating  ice  cream;  stop  a 
war  anywhere  in  the  world  on  our  Working 
Assets  Visa  card  (which  gives  you  the  oppor- 
tunity to  have  a  percentage  of  your  credit 
card  fees  go  to  a  PC  group  chosen  by 
Working  Assets),  and  change  faces  in  Con- 
gress by  buying  into  a  political  commodity 
which  will  do  it  for  us.  Citizen  to  Citizen  is  in 
the  business  of  good  causes.  Groups  like 
Citizen  to  Citizen  are  businesses  interested  in 
being  players  in  the  big  game.  Like  most 
businesses,  they  require  techniques  of  persua- 
sion to  build  a  customer  base.  My  job  is 
persuading  you  to  buy  the  product.  Salvation 
on  the  installment  plan. 

As  long  as  citizens  remain  pliant  and  passive 
and  don't  inquire  too  deeply  into  the  necessi- 
ty for  the  modern  political  action  package, 
donors  will  continue  to  create  a  new  class  of 
activists  who  have  more  in  common  with 
corporate  thinking  than  ideological  struggle. 
For  instance,  if  you  contribute  money  to  pay  a 
lobbyist  in  Washington  to  chat  up  politicians 
and  monitor  the  issues  for  you,  then  you  are 
also  buying  into  the  thinking  that  incremental 
change  is  a  feasible  solution.  It  is  not. 

Each  of  us  must  act  as  individuals  and 
radically  alter  our  way  of  existence;  radically 
alter  our  relationship  to  commodity  culture 
and  the  toxics  that  come  with  it.  No 
government  can  make  you  free  and  no 
lobbyist  can  effectively  represent  your  au- 
thentic interests  if  these  run  counter  to  the 
organizational  line. 

Readers,  we  are  being  disempowered  by 
groups  that  swallow  our  money  and  give  back 
to  us  a  product  called  politics.  Unless  we  hold 
our  elected  representatives  accountable, 
without  the  help  of  the  priest  cum  lobbyist, 
we  will  continue  to  be  sold  down  the  river  by 
our  friends.  Capitalism  is  the  problem,  con- 
sumerism the  symptom. 

In  a  consumer  world,  everything  that  is 
political  is  reduced  to  a  TV  spot,  a  direct  mail 
piece,  a  phone  call,  or  ice  cream.  We  must  use 
our  own  imaginations  in  a  revolutionary 
way — we  must  organize  to  abolish  the  middle 
-class  pretensions  of  our  hired  political  help. 
We  must  live  out  the  alternative  to  consum- 
erism individually  by  building  a  community 
rooted  in  political  struggle. 

In  short,  we  must  embrace  the  anti- 
economy.  STEAL  THIS  MAGAZINE!!! 
—John  Reed,  San  Francisco,  CA 


Page  1 2 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Not  Our  Own: 

Demystifying  Goals  and  Methods 
of  "Progressive"  Work 


"Transform  the  world  by  labor?  But  the  world  is  being  transformed  by 
labor,  which  is  why  it  is  being  transformed  so  badly." 

— Raoul  Vaneigem 

"Anything  built  on  sacrifice  and  self-renunciation  only  demands  more 
sacrifice  and  renunciation."  — bolo'bolo 

I'm  30  years  old  and  I  have  an  MA  degree  in  political 
science,  which  is  not  enough  to  get  any  kind  of  good 
job,  but  enough  to  exclude  you  from  any  unskilled 
or  semi-st  .ed  jobs  because  employers  know  you'll  never 
last.  I've  worked  a  lot  of  jobs— cab  driver,  landscaper, 
even  ad  clerk  at  The  New  York  Times,  but  I  quickly  left 
them  out  of  boredom,  frustration,  or  low  pay. 

What  1  learned  from  all  of  them  is  that  the  only  thing 
that  makes  them  bearable  for  five  minutes  is  the  social 
interaction.  What  made  them  all  eventually  unbearable 
was  the  utter  uselessness  and  meaninglessness  of  the  work 

itself.  I  usually  found  myself  growing  despondent, 
listless,  and  suicidal  after  just  a  few  days.  So  for 
the  past  several  years  I've  made  a  living  trying  to 
do  something  useful,  fun  and  that  I  do  well- 
political  organizing.  For  the  average  leftist,  who 
chants  whatever  the  Workers  World  thugs  tell  him 
to  and  dutifully  ponders  this  week's  media  issue, 
it  can  be  a  great  solution.  If  you  fit  this  descrip- 
tion, stop  reading  and  look  in  the  help  wanted 
section  of  Community  Jobs,  In  These  Times  or  The 
Nation.  But  if  your  faculty  for  critical  thinking 
and  communal  and  libertarian  vision  lingers 
despite  your  best  efforts  to  drown  it  in  careerism, 
it  can  be  a  bumpy  ride.  That's  especially  true  if 
you  refuse  to  believe  any  single  organization  is 
worth  dedicating  your  whole  life  to. 
I've  worked  for  a  spectrum  of  U.S.  leftist  groups. 


PuJbiJc  interest  groups 

spread  information,  but 

foster  ignorance  —  about 

how  the  electoral  system 

works,  aJbout  what 

constitutes  political 

activity.  Suddenly,  the 

"politically  correct"  thing 

to  do  is  to  write  your 

congressperson! 


I  was  campaign  coordinator  for  a  Citizens'  Party 
State  Senate  race,  I  raised  funds  for  the  New 
National  Emergency  Civil  Liberties  Committee 
and  the  New  Jersey  ACLU  (no  pay,  commission 
only,  zero  money),  I  canvassed  for  New  Jersey 
Citizen  Action,  sorted  mail  at  the  Guardian,  and 
stacked  groceries  at  Texas'  biggest  food  co-op.  By 
early  '88,  I  had  just  about  given  up  on  this 
method  of  making  a  living  when  a  strange  ex- 
perience led  to  slightly  improved  working 
conditions  and  a  bit  more  "status." 

A  friend  told  me  that  the  National  Lawyers 
Guild  was  hiring.  (Incidentally,  I  got  most  of 
these  political  jobs  by  knowing  people  who  knew 
people  at  the  group  in  question.  I'm  not  sure 
whether  this  is  a  leftist  version  of  "it's  who  you 
know"  or  a  sign  of  "community"  winning  out  over 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  1 3 


abstract  "merit"  in  the  hiring  game.)  I 
called  the  Guild,  and  the  person  on 
the  other  end  of  the  line  insisted  I 
come  in  immediately  for  an  interview 
despite  my  protests  that  I  was  in  blue 
jeans  and  sneakers  and  unprepared.  I 
didn't  even  know  what  the  job  was. 

I  was  hired  immediately  to  recruit 
students  at  law  schools  and  form  new 
chapters  of  the  Guild  across  the  country. 
I  had  done  Civil  Liberties  work — which 
involved  very  little  actual  knowledge, 
ability,  or  organizing  experience — and 
had  dropped  out  of  law  school  after  one 
year.  Also,  as  a  student  1  had  been  a 
member  of  the  Guild.  They  figured, 
probably  correctly,  that  I'd  be  able  to 
relate  to  left-wing  law  students.  For 
reasons  I  will  describe  below,  I  left  after  a 
year. 

Most  left-wing  groups  pay  very  poorly: 
My  National  Civil  Liberties  pay  started 
at  $5  an  hour,  and  was  $7  when  I  left; 
the  Guardian  pay  was  unmentionably 
low.  But  the  Guild  paid  $20,000  a  year, 
which  seemed  like  a  lot  to  me,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life  offered  health 
benefits  and  overtime  pay. 

Also,  with  the  Guild  on  my  resume,  I 
could  apply  for  union  jobs,  which  usual- 
ly pay  in  the  mid-'20s  with  benefits  and 
often  a  car.  But  when  I  eventually 
looked  into  working  for  a  union,  the 
only  one  interested  in  hiring  me  was  the 
white  collar  division  of  the  International 
Ladies'  Garment  Workers  Union  (IL- 
GWU),  PACE,  which  offered  me  a  job 
at  their  one-person  Vermont  state  office. 
They  paid  slightly  less  than  the  Guild, 
but  did  provide  me  with  a  car  and 
expenses. 

My  most  recent  sojourn  into  employ- 
ment was  a  temporary  organizing  posi- 
tion with  the  Committee  of  Interns  and 
Residents  (CIR),  which  I  took  after  being 
transferred  back  to  New  York  with 
PACE  at  my  own  request.  CIR  is  a 
NY-based  union  of  medical  residents, 
people  who  regularly  work  80-130  hours 
per  week  right  out  of  medical  school. 
The  job  paid  $15,000  for  six  months, 
more  than  I  had  ever  made  before.  This 
enabled  me  to  get  a  larger  unemploy- 
ment check  when  I  left. 

For  the  past  six  years,  I've  been  part  of 
the  Midnight  hlotes  publishing  collective. 
This  journal  gives  me  something  that  no 
job  ever  has — the  chance  to  be  part  of  a 
genuine  collective  based  on  a  common 
project  and  a  common  understanding  of 
the  world.  It's  a  place  where  I  can  express 
my  own  "maximum"  views  instead  those 
of    the    lowest    common    denominator 


THAMiS  m  WONDER  DRUG  I  M  1  \R\IM, 

Till-  RI^I'K  I  111  \n  IllVlllRMRS  Wll 
HMIKVBII-  MiriS  l\  \n  HIT  IIMI  TO 
MUM  ll\  1(1  \  sm  IMfORTAST  ( Al SE! 


coalition    politics   that   predominate   at 
most  leftist  organizations. 

I  started  with  this  long,  detailed  list  of 
jobs  and  wages  because  such  factors 
shape  the  world  views  and  political 
analyses  of  even  the  most  abstract 
radical  thinkers.  Also,  it  makes  it  clear 
that  the  analysis  that  follows  is  based  on 
extensive  experience. 

Institutional  Ambivalence 

I  don't  think  any  single  organization 
can  represent  a  whole  movement  or 
class.  The  experience  of  collective  and 
individual  self-transformation,  which  is 
the  basis  of  all  genuine  radical  social 
struggles  and  what  attracts  people  to 
them  in  the  first  place,  can  never  be 
totally  encompassed  by  the  work  of  the 
organizations  that  partially  represent 
that  movement. 

At  best,  institutions  mobilize  people  at 
a  crucial  moment  in  history,  or  champi- 
on the  needs  of  some  of  the  exploited.  At 
worst,  institutions  project  the  interests  of 
those  social  sectors  from  which  they 
recruit  onto  a  whole  class  or  movement. 
This  process  accounts  for  the  bureaucra- 
tization of  unions,  parties  and  other 
groups,  and  explains  how  they  become 
detached  from  and  hostile  to  criticisms, 
suggestions,  and  initiatives  from  below. 

At  the  lowest  level  of  "degeneration," 
these  institutions  can  consciously  play  a 
crucial  role  in  siphoning  off  political 
energies  by  providing  an  alternative  job 
market  for  people  who  hate  capitalist 
institutions  and  refuse  to  work  for 
corporate  profits.   We  get   to   work   on 


political  issues,  but  not  the  issues  that  we 
would  work  on,  or  in  the  way  we  would 
work  if  it  weren't  a  job.  The  possibilities 
for  creating  communal  places  to  live, 
produce,  consume,  and  create  close  off 
to  you  when  you're  stuffing  envelopes  to 
save  a  rainforest,  or  lobbying  some 
legislators.  Meanwhile,  even  if  you 
would  prefer  the  former  course,  members 
of  your  potential  alternative  network  are 
also  working  either  at  straight  jobs  or  for 
the  left. 

Only  reasonably  well-funded  organi- 
zations can  provide  a  living  wage,  but 
the  well-funded-employer  market  is  de- 
termined by  funders.  By  default  these 
become  the  left.  That  they  have  offices 
and  people  in  charge  means  that  they  are 
available  to  cooperate  with  the  media, 
the  Democratic  Party,  and  other  institu- 
tions as  a  responsible,  respectable,  for- 
mal opposition.  If  an  alternative  view  is 
presented  on  TV,  it  belongs  to  the 
chairperson  of  a  recognizable  national 
organization,  or  a  left  lawyer. 

Although  these  individuals  advocate 
an  alternative,  they  keep  working  people 
and  less  formal  activists  like  squatters, 
ACT  UP,  and  local  groups  from  pre- 
senting their  views  and  being  recognized. 
So  while  we  keep  body,  soul,  and  sanity 
together  by  working  at  non-profits,  we 
are  helping  to  prevent  the  formation  of  a 
real  movement. 

What's  more,  because  these  organiza- 
tions need  funding  to  operate  this  way, 
preserving  their  financial  base  becomes 
Priority  No.  1.  Increasingly  structured 
around  their  budget,  they  consider  their 


Page  14 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


members  as  nothing  more  than  a  fund- 
ing source.  Yet  this  thwarts  the  ostensi- 
ble purpose  of  political  organizations  in 
the  first  place— strengthening  and  en- 
hancing a  struggle  or  movement. 

It's  no  surprise,  then,  that  people 
usually  avoid  formal  organizations  when 
the  need  for  action  arises — witness  the 
proliferation  of  antiwar  groups  amid  the 
chaos  of  the  divided  formal  groups.  Yet 
when  no  autonomous  mass  upheavals 
exist,  these  labor,  civil  liberties,  and 
other  groups  do  mitigate  political  repres- 
sion and  occasionally  help  push  through 
a  useful  reform.  More  importantly,  they 
sometimes  provide  a  space  for  activists  to 
meet,  gain  political  experience,  do  some 
of  their  "own"  political  work,  and  sur- 
vive without  being  ground  up  in  the 
wheels  of  capital. 


BODY  BAGS  BY  HEFTY 


The  official  bag  of  Operation  Desert  Shield 

A  Mobil  Chemical  Company  product. 


Pursuing  Your  Own  Agenda 

The  question  is:  How  can  people 
whose  vision  of  life  is  communal  and 
egalitarian  and  who  work  at  leftist 
organizations  1)  advance  exploited  peo- 
ple's own  initiatives;  and  2)  develop 
some  fun,  collective  project  that  builds 
community? 

The  short  answer  is  that  you  cannot 
do  your  own  political  work  while  work- 
ing for  the  left  anywhere  I've  been  if  you 
have  my  priorities.  The  long  answer  is 
that  you  can  do  some  of  it  if  you:  1)  go 
around  the  organization  while  using  its 
contacts/networks  and  resources;  2) 
make  it  your  top  priority  to  facilitate 
self-organization,  not  just  recruit  for 
your  employer;  3)  develop  horizontal 
networks  among  those  involved  in  the 
group's  campaigns;  and  4)  don't  care 
very  much  about  getting  fired. 


Historically,  this  is  a  very  strange  way 
to  make  a  living.  The  only  other  leftists 
who  did  so  were  the  generation  of 
communists  who  became  union  organiz- 
ers and  officials  in  the  '30s  and  '40s.  This 
precedent  is  not  a  comforting  one, 
because  both  the  role  these  men  played 
and  the  way  unions  turned  out  are  a 
mixed  bag  at  best. 

The  institutions  that  today's  radicals 
work  for  fall  into  three  categories.  The 
first  are  organizations  run  as  unpaid 
collectives  or  communes  20  years  ago. 
The  second  are  those  which  arose  after 
the  '60s  movement  faded.  The  third  are 
those  already  seen  as  corrupt  when  the 
New  Left  was  new,  but  which  have 
acquired  a  new  attractiveness  because 
other,  better  alternatives  are  lacking. 

In  the  first  category,  I  put  the  Guardian 
and  the  National  Lawyers  Guild— which 
the  New  Left  literally  rejuvenated 
through  collective  volunteer  work.  A 
number  of  New  Left  groups,  forged  in 
the  heat  of  battle  with  60s  communalist 
enthusiasm,  continue  to  function,  but  as 
formal  organizations  with  paid  staff  and 
a  clear  division  of  labor  between  manag- 
ers and  workers.  During  my  stay  at  the 
Guardian  and  the  Guild,  I  found  people 
more  "consciously"  or  consistently  radi- 
cal than  at  Citizen  Action.  It  is  always 
nice  to  work  underneath  a  poster  of  Che 
Guevara  or  Malcolm  X.  But  the  unsavo- 
ry religious  flavor  generated  when  ideo- 
logical orthodoxy  is  enforced  on  top  of 
regular  work  discipline  left  a  bad  taste  in 
my  mouth. 

The  Guardian  claimed  to  be  a  collective, 
and  a  "Leninist"  one  at  that.  But  a 
subtle  hierarchy  existed.  I  was  not  the 
only  one  told  that  before  I  could  obtain 
full  membership  with  policy  voting 
rights  I  would  have  to  "clarify  my  views 
on  the  Soviet  Union." 

Organizing  the  Organizers 

The  job  at  the  National  Lawyers  Guild 
was  one  of  the  best  I  ever  had.  There  was 
a  union,  something  I  longed  for  at 
Citizens  Action,  although  when  my 
position  needed  new  funding,  its  func- 
tion left  something  to  be  desired.  A  staff 
union  testified  to  the  Guild's  sincerity 
about  living  up  to  its  ideals.  But  it  also 
raised  the  question  of  why  we  should 
need  union  representation  at  our  "own" 
organization. 

There  is  no  question  that  employees  at 
many  "progressive"  organizations  need 
unions  to  get  treated  with  some  respect 
and  gain  the  benefits  that  even  some 
small,  mainstream  companies  afford 
their  employees.  Also,  a  union  provides 


a  way  to  share  thoughts  with  fellow 
employees,  who  are  invariably  activists 
too. 

In  theory,  the  officials  in  charge  are 
also  activists,  even  fellow  members  of  the 
working  class.  But  the  creation  of  organ- 
izations designed  to  gain  employer  con- 
cessions acknowledges  that  antagonistic 
relations  and  class  differences  exist  with- 
in the  workplace.  Whether  or  not  we 
focus  on  the  power  of  only  some  to  hire 
and  fire,  or  the  difference  between 
formulating  policy  and  carrying  it  out, 
recognizing  that  class  divisions  separate 
most  workers  in  leftist  groups  from  their 
"professional"  executive  directors  can 
revive  true  alternative  politics  in  this 
country. 

On  a  national  scale,  the  rank  and  file 
caucuses  that  appeared  in  many  unions 
in  the  '70s,  such  as  Teamsters  for  a 
Democratic  Union,  reflect  this  division. 
However,  as  with  Miners  for  Democra- 
cy's capture  of  the  United  Mine  Workers 
Union,  once  such  groups  gain  power  the 
relationship  between  leadership  and 
members  remains  fundamentally  un- 
changed. 

The  most  dramatic  example  of  this  is 
the  rise  of  Solidarnosc.  The  strikes  that 
created  it  in  1980  (and  not  the  other  way 
around)  clearly  demonstrated  that  the 
Communist  Party  was  not  the  workers' 
party.  The  union's  formation  meant  that 
class  conflict  existed  between  the  workers 
and  the  state.  But  once  in  power, 
Solidarnosc  started  representing  class 
interests  other  than  those  of  the  work- 
ers, and  rank  and  file  control  gave  way 
to  a  new  bureaucratic  professionalism. 

The  Issue  of  Class 

Through  the  Guild  I  saw  a  lot  of  the 
United  States,  met  hundreds  of  radical 
young  people,  and  probably  encouraged 
somebody  to  consider  alternatives  to 
corporate  law.  But  I  was  organizing 
lawyers.  Nothing's  wrong  with  this,  but  I 
was  sometimes  aware  that  I  was  lower  in 
the  social  pecking  order  than  my  "cli- 
ents," leftists  or  not. 

What's  more,  the  projects  I  worked  on 
had  to  enable  lawyers  or  law  students  to 
play  a  role.  The  issues  themselves — 
racism,  sexism,  Palestine — were  often 
good.  But  radical  forms  of  organization 
should  not  only  be  internally  democratic 
and  non-  hierarchical,  which  the  Guild 
was  not,  but  should  also  allow  the 
exploited  to  interact  in  ways  that  break 
down  the  social  hierarchy. 

Organizations  based  upon  professional 
affiliations  pose  problems — they're  not 
bad,  but  limited.  In  theory,  legal  workers 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  I  S 


and  jailhouse  lawyers  can  be  members. 
But  the  jailhouse  lawyers  are  treated  as 
charity  cases,  and  the  legal  workers, 
including  the  Guild  staff,  are  clearly  a 
low  priority.  In  addition,  legal  workers 
have  very  little  decision-making  power. 
This  is  mostly  because  of  a  lack  of 
resources,  but  also  because  funding  pri- 
orities require  a  focus  on  paying  mem- 
bers. 

The  inclusion  of  non-professionals  and 
students  was  forced  on  the  old  left 
movement  by  the  struggles  of  students, 
prisoners  and  women  in  the  early  '70s. 
Thus,  changing  the  social  relations 
within  the  legal  union  are  part  of  the 
movement  outside  the  organization, 
which  determines  relations  within. 

The  increasing  moderation  of  old 
"New  Leftists"  and  the  continued  pres- 
ence of  old  "old  leftists,"  who  always 
counsel  working  within  established 
structures  like  liberal  city  governments 
and  avoiding  controversial  subjects  like 
Palestine,  made  my  stay  at  the  Guild 
uneasy.  Old  CP'ers  had  never  reconciled 
themselves  to  the  inclusion  of  law  stu- 
dents, as  it  would  make  the  Guild  seem 
less  serious-minded  compared  to  the 
American  Bar  Association — to  which  it 
is  supposed  to  be  an  alternative. 

As  a  result,  my  position  came  under 
fire.  A  new  president  of  the  Guild,  as 
always  chosen  before  the  national  con- 
vention, planned  to  forego  recruiting 
new  members  in  favor  of  making  the 
Guild  a  clearinghouse  for  high-profile, 
media-oriented  cases  handled  by  a  na- 
tional staff  of  lawyers.  This  hasn't  hap- 
pened yet,  but  the  political  atmosphere 
got  uncomfortable  and  increasingly  ca- 
reerist. Some  Guild  members  were  de- 
fending the  police  in  brutality  and  civil 
rights  cases  for  city  administrations  like 
Chicago  Mayor  Harold  Washington's, 
which  were  perceived  as  grassroots- 
oriented.  Others  were  defending  the 
victims. 

I  took  the  liberty  of  expressing  my 
views  on  these  and  other  subjects.  Soon 
the  national  office  was  getting  enough 
complaints  about  me  that  I  decided  to 
politely  bow  out.  This  blew  my  chances 
for  a  good  reference  despite  having  set  up 
their  whole  law  student  recruitment 
structure  from  scratch  and  adding  many 
new  chapters. 

Working  for  these  formerly  volunteer 
groups  makes  you  more  likely  to  meet 
some  genuine  radicals  with  whom  you 
may  work  in  the  future.  You'll  also  learn 
a  lot  of  useful  information.  But  it's  an 
uphill  climb  for  someone  whose  goal  is  to 


overcome  class  divisions  and  create  an 
ideologically  unconstrained  movement. 
Luckily,  such  groups  are  still  quite 
marginal  because  they  are  explicitly 
anti-capitalist  in  theory  if  not  always  in 
practice.  Mostly  they  lack  a  sense  of 
humor,  but  they  do  allow  some  diversity 
of  views. 


'^^ 


'18? 


Citizen  InAction, 
Public  Disinterest 


More  insidiously  typical,  and  more 
cynical  and  prevalent,  are  "category 
two"  jobs  at  Citizen  Action  and  similar 
"community  organizations"  and  "public 
interest"  groups.  If  the  New  Left  groups 
were  born  of  '60s  rebellion,  and  became 
tamer  and  more  conventional  with  the 
movement's  collapse,  the  defeat  of  these 
revolutionary  aspirations  in  the  mid-'70s 
laid  the  groundwork  for  Massachusetts 
Fair  Share  (now  defunct),  the  California 
Public  Interest  Research  Group  (Cal- 
PIRG),  the  United  Neighborhood  Or- 
ganization, and  their  ilk. 

These  groups  appeal  strongly  to  white 
suburban  liberals  and  leftists  who  have 
little  or  no  experience  of  real  social 
movements  or  direct  action.  They  push 
specific  pieces  of  legislation,  which  are 
usually  OK  as  far  as  they  go,  but  they 
organize  in  the  most  conventional  man- 
ner possible.  They  parody  the  camara- 
derie of  real  collectives  by  going  out  to 
canvass  in  teams,  ringing  doorbells  and 
making  you  work  endless  hours  for  low 
pay  out  of  "idealism."  You  go  drinking 
at  the  end  of  the  night  with  your  team 
because  you  work  so  much  that  you 
never  see  anyone  else. 


Public  interest  groups  spread  informa- 
tion but  foster  ignorance — about  how 
the  electoral  system  works,  about  what 
constitutes  political  activity.  Suddenly, 
the  "politically  correct"  thing  to  do  is  to 
write  your  congressperson! 

But  if  their  strategy  is  absurd,  even 
reactionary,  their  tactics  could  be  revolu- 
tionary. They  are  among  the  only  groups 
that  go  to  people's  homes  to  talk  to  them 
about  politics  (only  in  the  last  few  years 
have  some  labor  unions  tried  this  tactic). 
The  problem  is  that  the  canvasser  gets 
an  empty  petition  signed,  a  letter  written 
to  a  Senator,  and  maybe  a  new  subscrip- 
tion to  the  group's  magazine — period. 
People  are  never  broken  out  of  the 
isolation  in  which  the  organizer  finds 
them. 

I  saw  this  problem  most  clearly  when 
we  canvassed  Belleville,  New  Jersey, 
mere  weeks  after  the  racially  mixed, 
blue-collar  town  had  discovered  the 
largest-ever  dump  of  dioxin,  the  chemi- 
cal base  of  Agent  Orange.  Citizen  Ac- 
tion was  pushing  a  Right  To  Know  Bill 
on  Toxics  (which  eventually  passed  the 
legislature  only  after  farm  workers  were 
explicitly  excluded  from  protection  un- 
der the  bill). 

The  bill  was  of  course  too  late  to  help 
Belleville,  but  was  not  irrelevant  to  their 
problem.  Unlike  wealthier  towns,  every- 
one gave  me  some  money  towards  my 
"quota"  in  the  piecework  wage  system 
and  wrote  a  letter.  But  they  all  asked, 
"Which  group  is  it  this  time?"  Every 
ecological  group  in  the  world  had  been 
at  their  front  door  in  the  past  month, 
but  the  residents  were  still  in  the  same 
boat.  Worse  yet,  despite  their  anger  and 
militancy,  they  remained  as  isolated  and 
felt  as  helpless  as  before. 

The  New  Left  at  its  best  saw  breaking 
through  people's  isolation  as  the  purpose 
of  radical  politics.  They  recognized  that 
in  groups,  people's  consciousness,  abili- 
ties and  commitments  are  radically  dif- 
ferent than  when  they  act  as  individual 
citizens  or  consumers. 

But  in  contrast,  citizen-based  organiz- 
ing depends  on  that  isolation.  No  one 
had  called  a  group  meeting  where  Bel- 
leville residents  could  talk  among  them- 
selves, relying  on  their  own  knowledge 
and  resources  as  well  as  the  expertise  of 
helpful  activists.  No  one  organized  direct 
action  to  punish  the  companies  respon- 
sible. 

Public  interest  and  citizen  groups  (in- 
cluding many  mainstream  environmen- 
tal organizations)  also  depend  on  a 
steady  supply  of  cheap,  willing  labor  in 


Page  1 6 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


the  form  of  idealistic  college  students 
and  recent  graduates  desperate  for  non- 
corporate work.  A  successful  revival  of 
demands  for  "wages  for  students"  in  the 
form  of  lower  tuition,  higher  scholar- 
ships, and  more  grants  instead  of  loans 
might  eliminate  these  organizations 
overnight! 

The  old  left  joined  mass  organizations 
to  win  members  to  their  own  party. 
Today  radicals  can  play  a  positive  role  in 
such  groups  only  by  subverting  the 
"public  interest"  strategy  by  fostering 
rank  and  file  personal  contacts  to  discuss 
needs  met  only  outside  the  organiza- 
tions' limits.  Some  tenant  organizers  1 
know  bring  tenants  together  to  form  fuel 
co-ops,  discuss  problems,  and  pressure 
the  very  groups  for  which  the  organizers 
work  for  more  resources  and  decision- 
making power.  It  is  rarely  possible  to 
carry  out  this  kind  of  agitation,  but  the 
human  contacts  are  very  rich  at  some  of 
these  jobs— people  would  often  have  me 
in  for  coffee,  dinner,  long  conversations. 

The  Union  Staffer 

Unions  of  course  fall  into  "category 
three"— groups  already  discredited  as 
sources  of  social  transformation.  They 
are  also  the  most  stable  and  best  paying 
— plus,  union  organizing  leads  to  much 
more  intensive  contact  with  working 
people. 

But  the  level  of  cynicism  one  finds 
among  union  people  is  astounding.  The 
white-collar  division  of  the  ILGWU  for 
which  I  worked  was  ostensibly  created 
because,  with  garment  workers  declining 
in  numbers,  the  union  hoped  (along 
with  many  other  unions)  to  latch  onto 
the  growth  in  office  workers.  But  no  one 
has  successfully  organized  large  numbers 
of  U.S.  office  workers.  This  suggests  a 
need  for  innovation,  experimentation, 
and  concern  for  issues  like  abortion, 
sexual  harassment,  and  child  care. 

No  innovation  was  allowed  at  PACE. 
The  hierarchy  knew  that  an  organizer 
has  tremendous  potential  to  facilitate 
contact  among  workers — in  short,  to 
subvert  the  union  in  favor  of  rank  and 
file  power.  So  they  put  real  pressure  on 
us  all. 

Years  ago  the  ILGWU  crushed  a 
unionization  attempt  by  the  organizing 
staff.  We  were  prevented  from  working 
with  feminist  groups,  and  I  was  banned 
from  meeting  with  radical  church  activ- 
ists. The  height  of  cynicism  was  reached 
when  companies  were  told  that  if  they 
allowed  their  garment  workers  to  join 
the  ILGWU  without  a  fight,  we  could 
leave  their  office  workers  alone.   Con- 


"WORK  IS  HELL... 
LET'S  GO  TO  WAR!" 


Looking  For  Mr.  Smartwar? 

Would  you  like  to  beat  Saddam  by  mid -May 

(in  time  for  the    instant  replay  on  Memorial  Day)? 

You  can,  and  keep  your  Iraqnophobic  hands  clean! 

"A  thousand  points  of  light"  is  answered  in  the  Middle  Kast  by  1001  Nights. 

America's  New  World  Ordnance  would  rather  light  than  fight  this  benighted  region.  Now,  in 
this  time  of  budgctar>'  distention,  wc  would  like  to  think  we're  waging  a  cheaper,  neater  wax. 
What's  more,  we're  looking  at  onlv 

120  DAYS  OF  SADDAM 

ma.\!     Call  1-800USA-PAXX! 

Let  Your  Fingers  Do  the  Fighting! 

Fight  the  "smart"  fight. ..as  a  tclewarrior  with  split  screen — 

RESER-VISION® 

Whether  it's  dropping  a  load  on  Baghdad,  or  deployed  as  a  "working  stiff"  couch  warrior 
— armed  with  random  access  cluster  media — your  greatest  potential  danger  is  (shhh!) 
Media  Tunnel  Syndrome  (aka  CNNS). 

Don't  worry:    wc  have  you  covered  against  liability  for  any  "collaicral  ciamages"  that  might 
accrue  in  the  discharge  of  your  duties.    For  good  measure,  we'll  throw  another  log  on  the  friendly 
fire. 


Act  now,  while  this  offer  is  still  optional. 


—  Arch  D.  Bunker  Madvertisin^  Co. 


versely,  we  were  ordered  out  of  some 
offices  because  the  garment  organizers 
were  interested  in  the  shops.  I  stayed  as 
long  as  I  could  find  new  ways  to  meet 
workers. 
I  knew  PACE  would  not  be  the  im- 


petus to  mass  office  worker  insurgency, 
but  I  thought  that  anything  that  fostered 
struggle,  militancy,  and  collective  inter- 
action would  seed  future  movements. 
However,  soon  there  were  no  avenues 
toward  this  goal  left,  and  virtually  the 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  1 7 


JmI"*"! * 


'iiiinMiiiiliii|iiil..iiyit  km 


^*  «»m  «  ii. 


Photo  D  S.  Slack 


whole  staff  quit. 

This  job  reminds  me  about  one  of  the 
biggest  problems  with  all  existing  organ- 
izations: radicals  gain  experience  at  such 
places  and  bring  analyses  and  knowledge 
to  them,  but  the  organizations  impede 
political  movements  by  preventing  us 
from  using  all  that  we  know.  Their 
whole  basis  for  existence  is  the  fragmen- 
tation of  political  needs,  issues,  and 
identities.  In  this  they  are  reactionary. 

Was  I  supposed  to  talk  about  nuclear 
power  or  the  death  penalty  when  people 
wanted  to  discuss  these  problems?  Or 
was  I  supposed  to  tell  them  that  I  was 
sorry,  but  our  organization  didn't  talk 
about  those  issues?  Once,  at  a  union  staff 
meeting,  I  was  told  that  our  goal  was  to 
get  a  majority  of  pro-union  people,  even 
if  that  meant  a  white  majority  over  a 
black  minority.  Fighting  racism  was  a 
fine  thing,  said  my  boss,  but  not  what  we 
did.  When  I  argued  that  overcoming 
racial  divisions  within  the  working  class 
would  make  our  job  easier  in  the  long 
run,  discussion  ended.  We  organized  one 
workplace  at  a  time,  period. 

This  fragmentation  of  experiences, 
goals,  knowledge,  ideals,  and  energies 
means  that  we  spend  40  or  more  hours 
per  week  in  ways  that  prevent  us  from 
fully  using  our  talents.  All  of  the  various 
kinds  of  "intelligence"  we've  accumu- 
lated suffer  from  disuse  because  they 
promote  more  threatening,  multidimen- 
sional struggles.  Controlling  radicals  and 
shutting  off  uncontrollable  avenues  of 
resistance  have  been  capitalism's  major 
projects  ever  since  the  1960s. 

In  fairness,  working  for  the  Committee 
of  Interns  and  Residents  (CIR)  was  a 
much  better  experience.  I  worked  on  a 
successful  strike  campaign  at  Bronx- 
Lebanon  Hospital  in  the  South  Bronx. 
The  majority  of  doctors  were  "Third 
World"  Puerto  Rican,  Indian,  Pakistani, 
Arab.  We  had  picket  signs  in  Hindi, 
Spanish,  and.  Arabic,  and  protest  songs 
in  five  languages.  The  residents  there 
were  likely  to  work  for  wages  their  whole 
lives  and  were  ruled  by  threats  from 
superiors.  Nurses  and  other  community 
people  led  them  on  picket  lines,  breaking 
down  the  hierarchy  of  doctor/nurse/pa- 
tient. We  even  won  the  strike! 

However,  I  discovered  that  when  doc- 


tors struggle  with  other  workers,  the 
union  undoubtedly  represents  the  pro- 
fessionals' specific  interests.  These  are 
not  always  antagonistic  to  those  of  other 
exploited  people — CIR  supports  a  na- 
tional health  plan,  for  instance.  But  they 
are  different. 

In  a  contract  dispute  in  a  state-owned 
New  Jersey  hospital  where  most  resi- 
dents were  white  middle  class  males,  the 
issues  seemed  more  narrow  and  parochi- 
al. Contempt  for  lower  echelons  of 
workers  lay  just  beneath  the  surface  in 
many,  though  not  most  doctors.  What's 
more,  though  CIR  is  superior  to  most 
unions  in  its  recognition  of  members' 
needs  and  demands,  even  "far  left"  CIR 
organizers  were  sometimes  suspicious  of 
rank  and  file  initiatives. 

When  previous  structures  carry  over 
or  reflect  parallel  corporate  or  state 
hierarchies,  the  "professional"  role  the 
activist  plays  separates  him  from  the  very 
people  he  came  from  or  "represents." 
Obviously,  some  "professionals"  are 
more  "sensitive"  to  this  problem  than 
others.  But  for  the  most  part  it  is  not 
subjective. 

At  CIR,  three  organizers— myself,  and 
two  other  "anti-authoritarians" — would 
sometimes  suspect  a  member  who  put 
out  a  leaflet  on  his  own,  organized  for 
other  than  previously  agreed-upon  de- 
mands, or  who  called  his  own  meeting. 

We  weren't  necessarily  "wrong"  in 
thinking  such  efforts  divisive,  incompet- 
ent, or  even  the  result  of  bad  intentions. 
But  it's  impossible  to  tell  whether  you're 
in  and  of  the  organization  when  you 
aren't  the  one  working  80  hours  a  week 
or  living  on  a  dioxin  dump.  It  isn't  that 
members  are  always  right,  but  that  their 
outlook,  interests,  and  experiences  are 
very  different  from  the  organizers'. 
What's  more,  they  have  a  different  class 
perspective  from  the  leadership,  who 
become  focused  on  remaining  in  inter- 
esting jobs  where  they  can  control 
institutional  policy. 

"Portals  to  Radicalism" 
or  Just  "Good  Jobs?" 

I'm  tired  of  "progressive"  jobs,  but  I've 
learned  that  their  use  value  is  what's 
most  important — along  with  the  wage.  If 
you  can  use  your  job  to  get  experience  or 
create  some  space  for  your  own  political 
priorities  and  it  pays  a  living  wage,  it  can 
be  bearable  for  a  while— even  positive. 
But  if  you  feel  like  you're  being  ripped 
off,  you'll  resent  every  limitation  and 
restriction  that  much  more. 

Now  I'm  hoping  to  get  a  Ph.D.  and 


teach  for  a  living.  I  don't  see  a  qualitative 
difference  between  this  and  many  of  my 
previous  jobs:  part  of  the  work  is 
interesting  and  fulfilling  to  me,  part  of  it 
is  not  because  it's  organized  as  a  job.  Pay 
is  low,  but  the  exploitation  less  severe 
than  in  corporations.  The  human  rela- 
tions can  be  fun— getting  through  to 
students,  enjoying  room  for  activism, 
meeting  other  faculty  with  common 
concerns— but  the  hierarchy  and  career- 
ism  are  stultifying. 

I've  never  kidded  myself  that  I  was 
making  revolutionary  changes  when  I 
worked  for  unions,  except  when  I  tried 
to  go  beyond  the  job's  limitations.  I  have 
the  same  attitude  towards  academia, 
except  there  the  job  security  and  even- 
tual wages  are  a  bit  higher. 

The  careerist  New  Leftists  who  flocked 
to  teaching  positions  in  the  '70s,  but 
who  are  politically  quiescent  today  (ex- 
cept for  their  mostly  unread  books), 
made  the  mistake  of  assuming  that 
teaching  per  se  could  be  radical  activity 
— as  though  capital  can't  turn  anyone 
into  a  commodity. 

The  "long  march  through  the  institu- 
tions" usually  leads  only  to  empty  insti- 
tutional victories.  But  any  time  people 
can  find  collective  space  to  struggle 
against  power,  or  can  work  mainly  to 
reproduce  themselves  and  friends  in- 
stead of  profits,  a  foundation  for  ex- 
panding the  struggle  exists. 

We  have  to  first  demystify  the  alterna- 
tive labor  market.  Marxist  professor- 
ships, civil  rights  attorneys,  union  jobs 
for  left-wingers,  canvassing  positions— all 
exist  today  because  our  extra- 
institutional  struggles  created  new  needs 
and  wants  and  transformed  "the  mar- 
ket." The  question  is  how  we  can  move 
on  from  these  accomplishments  and  use 
our  proven  capacity  to  transform  the 
labor  market  to  abolish  the  labor  market! 
— Steven  Colatrella 


Page  18 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Progressive 
Pretensions 


I  spent  most  of  my  young  adulthood  avoiding  formal 
"work."  The  thought  of  the  soul-killing  routine  that 
makes  up  the  bulk  of  most  careers  horrified  me.  Un- 
fortunately, I  had  no  clear  notion  of  what  I  wanted  to 
do,  only  a  strong  aversion  to  boring  and  routine  tasks. 
As  much  as  possible,  I  arranged  my  life  so  that  I  could 
lay  around  and  read  with  no  obligation  to  do  anything 
else. 

College  provided  an  obvious  and  easy  refuge  for  the 
lifestyle  I  desired.  By  reading  the  textbooks  the  week  be- 
fore exams  I  picked  up  enough  to  pass  most  courses  with- 
out wasting  too  much  time  on  academics.  The  luxuriant 
student  financial  aid  of  the  mid  70s  easily  paid  the  token 
tuition  at  the  city  university  with  plenty  left  over  to  sub- 
sidize my  leisure. 

When  I  finally  left  home  (at  age  20),  the  student  dole 
ceased  to  be  enough  to  get  by  on,  and  I  was  compelled  to 

seek  part  time  work.  I  couldn't  hack  more  than 
two  months  as  an  evening  phone  surveyor  for 
"Snears";  I  only  lasted  six  weeks  as  a  file  clerk  at 
the  library.  Finally,  1  found  a  nice,  over-paid, 
federally  subsidized  "work-study"  job  reading 
journal  articles  for  an  absent-minded  professor  of 
epidemiology. 

My  academic  status  justified  my  existence  to  my 
parents.  I  satisfied  my  own  existential  needs  by 
other  means.  Coming  out  as  gay,  and  the  asso- 
ciated sexual  exploration,  occupied  my  twenty-first 
and  twenty-second  years  pretty  fully. 

The  Movement,  as  personified  by  my  lover  Joe 
the  Professional  Revolutionary,  anchored  my 
world  for  the  next  two  years.  It  had  the  additional 
benefits  of  aggravating  my  mother  and  enshrining 
my    aversion    to    "alienated"    work    as    political 


Recycled  Paper  Products 

looked  like  the  perfect 

refuge. .  .At  first  I 

approached  it  as  a 

relatively  non-toxic  work 

environment.  Soon, 

encouraged  by  success,  I 

began  to  contemplate 

it  as  a  Career. 


correctness,    rather    than    mere    laziness    and/or 
whining.  I  coasted,  happily,  a  little  longer. 

THE  PARTY 


After  several  years  of  aimless  academic  browsing 
I  dropped  out  of  school  (a  24-year-old  junior)  in 
the  summer  of  '81,  and  so  lost  the  shelter  of 
financial  aid  and  cushy  work-study  jobs.  After  a 
last  six  months  of  leisurely  hanging  out  on  my 
unemployment  checks,  I  was  faced  with  the  task 
of  getting  a  "real"  job.  And  it  might  as  well  be 
one  that  would  justify  my  existence  at  the  same 
time,  for  I  was  being  purged  from  The  Party. 

Joe's  group,  the  now-defunct  Revolutionary 
Socialist  League,  was  kind  of  a  humanist  Sparti- 
cist  League,  dedicated  to  a  Proletarian  Revolution. 
Come  the  Revolution,  we  would  run  things.  Until 


PROCESSED  WORLD  126/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  19 


then,  the  rank  and  file  worked  (ideally) 
in  heavy  industry,  which  provided  con- 
tact with  Real  Workers  and  large  dues 
for  the  Central  Office  (about  50%  of  the 
wages  and  everything  over  $20,000). 
This  work,  despite  appearances  to  the 
contrary,  was  not  "alienated"  because  it 
was  an  part  of  being  a  Professional 
Revolutionary. 

The  middle  management  (branch 
honchos)  were  allowed  cushy,  middle 
class  jobs  like  teacher  or  social  worker. 
The  top  hochos  were  paid  a  bohemian 
pittance  by  the  Party,  which  they  fur- 
tively supplemented  with  many  from 
their  parents.  Instead  of  holding  down 
outside  jobs  they  put  out  the  paper  from 
New  York  City,  and  spent  a  lot  of  time 
Thinking  and  writing  "documents" 
about  how  to  build  a  Leninist  revolu- 
tionary "party." 

Just  before  we  met,  Joe  had  won  a 
hard-fought  battle  for  leadership  of  the 
Chicago  branch,  in  one  of  the  very  rare 
successful  challenges  of  the  Central  Of- 
fice authority.  He  defeated  the  offical 
slate  by  seducing  the  local  rank-and-file 
with  his  apppeals  to  hedonism,  and  by 
recognizing  of  the  need  for  occasional 
breaks  from  hawking  our  unreadable 
cult  rag.  He  justified  his  suspiciously 
enjoyable  and  unproletarian  "interven- 
tions" in  academia  and  the  gay  commu- 
nity by  producing  real  live  recruits  (a 
rarity)— like  me. 

To  be  a  candidate  member  in  good 
standing,  I  should  have  quit  school  and 
applied  for  a  job  in  the  steel  mills  or 
something.  But  the  rules  were  not  strict- 
ly enforced  as  I  was  the  Organizer's 
boyfriend.  For  similar  reasons  Sally,  the 
Big  Cheese's  ex-girlfriend,  could  ignore  a 
technically  binding  order  (from  the  Or- 
ganizer before  Joe)  to  get  an  abortion  in 
order  to  avoid  "wasted"  time. 

The  CO.  never  resigned  itself  to  Joe's 
liberal  regime.  Refusing  to  read  the 
writing  on  the  wall,  they  considered  his 
election  an  anomaly  made  possible  by 
temporary  rank  and  file  disgruntlement.  A 
year's  worth  of  persistent  covert  infight- 
ing toppled  him,  and  I  was  caught  up  in 
the  long  postponed  house-cleaning.  The 


"The  rank-and-file  stood 

on  frigid  street  corners 

waving  The  Paper  at 

disinterested  proletarians." 


technical  charges  against  me  were  "petty 
bourgeois"  (read:  gay)  tendencies  and 
anarchism.  In  view  of  this  latter  charge, 
it  amuses  me  to  see  that  the  remnants  of 
the  RSL  have  retro-fitted  as  "anarchists" 
in  a  no  doubt  futile  attempt  to  find  a 
viable  milieu. 

In  retrospect,  I  have  to  acknowledge 
that  I  was  guilty  on  both  counts,  and 
should  never  have  joined  that  chicken- 
shit  outfit.  My  attempts  to  rally  opposi- 
tion to  the  CO.  were  brushed  aside,  but 
I  at  least  tried.  Joe,  my  mentor  and  lover, 
didn't  even  defend  himself,  instead  fall- 
ing into  a  months-long  depression  when 
"criticized"   personally   by   Ron  Tabor, 


the  Big  Cheese.  I  was  kicked  out  after  a 
brutal  trial  before  a  kangaroo  court, 
while  Joe  was  allowed  to  resign  from 
office  and  go  "on  leave"  from  Party 
duties. 

Our  relationship  had  been  on  the 
rocks  for  most  of  its  three  years.  Still,  I 
was  hurt  and  surprised  that  he  dumped 
me  as  soon  I  was  purged.  Joe  later 
patched  up  his  difficulties  with  the  CO 
for  another  few  years.  The  RSL  was 
more  important  to  him  than  I  was, 
something  I  hadn't  wanted  to  discover. 

I  was  out  of  school,  out  of  work  (out  of 
benefits,  even),  out  of  the  movement, 


Page  20 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


and  didn't  even  have  a  boyfriend  any- 
more. For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  a 
Career  began  to  look  good  to  me. 

THE COMPANY 

My  Career  would,  ideally,  be  mean- 
ingful, instead  of  a  mere  auctioning  of 
my  precious  time  for  a  paycheck.  It  had 
to  be  Socially  Responsible,  if  not  actively 
Politically  Correct.  It  couldn't  be  too 
mainstream,  because  I  just  couldn't  pass 
as  a  standard  drone.  In  fact  I  couldn't 
even  get  a  position  as  a  bank  teller  (a 
standard  job  for  young  three-piece-suit 
queens). 

At  first  I  scraped  by  on  a  variety  of 
casual  jobs,  ones  that  didn't  require 
much  interaction  with  mainstream  work 
culture.  A  combination  of  part-time 
non-legal  pursuits  offered  short  hours 
but  required  unsavory  company.  House- 
cleaning  for  "Brooms  Hilda"  provided 
good  browsing  opportunities  but  little 
existential  gratification.  Working  as  a 
clerk  at  a  used  book  store  came  close  to 
being  ideal;  then  the  creepy  proto-fascist 
owner  tried  to  get  in  my  pants.  I  quit. 

A  guy  I  was  dating  at  the  time 
suggested  I  apply  at  Recycled  Paper 
Products.  His  best  friend's  lover  was  "an 
executive"  there,  and  with  her  recom- 
mendation and  my  native  talents,  I  got  a 
job. 

RPP  had  just  reached  the  peak  of  its 
growth.  Started  in  a  garage  in  the  early 
'70s  by  founders  Mike  and  Steve,  RPP 
printed  off-beat  greeting  cards  on  100% 
recycled  paper,  a  novelty  back  then. 
They  offered  a  cute  but  not  cutesey 
alternative  to  the  smarmy  quatrains 
favored  at  that  time  by  the  two  greeting 
card  giants— Hallmark  and  American. 
Their  recycled  paper  shtick  got  them  a 
lot  of  good  initial  media  coverage,  and 
their  cards  sold  well. 

They  began  to  edge  into  the  main- 
stream when  one  of  their  properties 
really  caught  on.  Sandra  Boynton's  cute 
kitten  cards  sold  in  the  millions.  RPP 
doubled  and  doubled  again,  year  after 
year.  By  1982,  when  I  started  work  there, 
it  was  the  fourth  largest  greeting  card 
company  in  the  U.S..  It  employed 
hundreds  of  salespersons  in  the  field, 
and  a  hundred  more  people  at  its 
warehouse  in  Chicago's  south  suburbs. 
The  central  office  in  Chicago's  New- 
town, where  I  worked,  had  grown  from 
Mike  and  Steve  and  their  secretary  to  a 
staff  of  almost  two  hundred. 

Newtown  is  Chicago's  youth/hip/gay 
neighborhood,  a  developing  zone  be- 
tween thoroughly  gentrified  Lakeview  to 


the  south  and  sleazy  Uptown  to  the 
north.  RPP,  with  its  hip,  laid-back 
reputation,  fit  right  in.  The  office  staff 
included  lots  of  feminist  women  and  gay 
men  from  the  area.  Flex  time  in  the 
summer  allowed  the  staff  to  stroll  over  to 
Wrigley  Field,  2  blocks  to  the  west,  for 
afternoon  baseball  games. 

RPP  looked  like  the  perfect  refuge. 
They  proclaimed  their  determination  to 
promote  ecology,  and  played  up  their 
belief  that  the  company  should  be  a  big, 
happy  family.  At  first,  I  approached  it  as 
a  relatively  non-toxic  work  environ- 
ment. Soon,  encouraged  by  success,  I 
began  to  contemplate  it  as  a  Career. 

I  started  as  a  packing  slip  clerk, 
graduated  in  six  weeks  to  commissions 
clerk,  and  within  six  months  was  assist- 
ant manager  of  my  department  at  double 
my  original  pay.  This  was  the  largest 
salary  I'd  ever  earned  ($12,000  a  year, 
even  then  no  big  deal),  and  unlike  my 
friends  I  didn't  have  to  dress  up  in 
establishment  drag  to  go  to  work.  De- 
spite my  official  cynicism  I  wondered  if 
the  American  Dream  might  not  be  true. 
I  wondered  if  I  were  selling  out,  or  if  it 
were  OK  to  be  a  capitalist  as  long  as  you 
worked  for  a  progressive  outfit,  and 
examined  RPP  from  my  new  vantage 
point  in  the  lowest  branches  of  Manage- 
ment. 

THE  PRODUCT 

Some  years  before  I  arrived,  RPP  had 
had  some  sort  of  falling  out  with  Boyn- 
ton,  their  biggest  star,  the  woman  who 
did  the  cute  cats.  However,  their  associ- 
ation was  too  profitable  for  either  party 
to  break  off.  Bound  by  iron  clad  con- 
tracts monitored  by  squads  of  lawyers 
from  either  side,  she  produced  X 
hundreds  of  designs  per  year.  There  was 
no  direct  communication  between  her 
and  RPP.  In  addition  Mike  and  Steve 
had  recently  gobbled  up  the  Dales,  a 
husband-and-wife  team  that  had  tried  to 
be  an  independent  card  company  and 
failed.  They  specialized  in  cards  that  had 
smarmy  openers  on  the  front  and  dirty 
punchlines  inside,  using  words  like 
"fuck"  and  "shit";  they  were  very  popu- 
lar. 

But  dark  times  were  looming  for  RPP. 
Lots  of  people  used  recycled  paper  now. 
Hallmark  began  to  produce  a  line  of 
"lite"  cards  that  were  a  frank  rip-off  of 
Boynton's  designs — and  the  gullible 
public,  unable  to  distinguish  these  from 
genuine  RPP  cards,  were  buying  them. 
Several  previously  "underground"  card 
companies  were  just  going  mainstream, 
and  their  slick  stuff  was  far  dirtier — and 


TWtSTED  IMAGE 

by   Ace  Backwords  ©«m 


X   hLv^MS  THouaHT   CORPO- 

ftftWKe  *»/«S  rJoT(4iNfi  Bur  fl 
COLP,  IMPERSONftU  CoiPofKTitH^ 
TMAT  CARET)  ftBoUT  K/OTHIMS 
BIT  THEIR  PPoFITS    Mb  THEN 
ONE  •DAY  r  SftW  rUtit.  TV- 


SHE  5ftW  THf  ADWHESEWC 
WE  SOIt>  C(>«ft>-BhMK(5  WAS, 
INl  FftCT,  A  WftRM.CftRlNS 
SRoUP  OF  HUMANITARIANS  WMO 
WISH  TO  SERVE  -rWE  pusuc 
IN  ftNV  W/)V  W£  CAM  /.' 


NKDLESS  TO  SflV,  X  WAS 
tiAPRtSSED  THAT  CORfD- 
B^NKe  CARED  EtJoUGH  T» 
PflV  AN  ftCTDR  TB  SAV  T}WT.' 


therefore  more  popular— than  anything 
we  produced. 

RPP  was  no  longer  unique,  and  its  fast 
growth  period  was  over.  For  the  first 
time,  in  1982,  RPP  failed  to  double  in 
size;  it  hardly  grew  at  all.  In  1983  it 
would  suffer  its  first  year  of  net  loss. 
Mike  and  Steve,  shocked  at  this  sudden 
downturn  after  10  years  of  uninterupted 
success,  looked  for  ways  to  cut  costs.  The 
facade  of  Family,  so  long  supported  by 
seemingly  endless  growth,  faltered. 

THE  FIELD 

My  department.  Payments  and  Re- 
cords, was  responsible  for  calculating  the 
pay  of  everyone  who  worked  in  "the 
Field":  anyone  outside  Chicago.  Offi- 
cially these  were  all  "contractors,"  so 
that  no  one  got  benefits  of  any  sort.  In 
addition  to  salepersons,  who  got  com- 
missions, there  were  "service"  people, 
mostly  retired  women  who  stocked  cards 
at  their  local  stores  at  piece-work  rates. 
My  job,  in  addition  to  supervising  the 
six-person  staff,  included  resolving  the 
complaints  of  any  sales  and  service 
personnel  who  claimed  they  were  not 
being  paid  even  the  sub-minimum  wage 
they  were  entitled  to. 

As  part  of  the  austerity  effort  my  boss 
instructed  me  to  deny  all  such  claims 
wherever  feasible  regardless  of  ostensible 
merit.  This  was  actually  fun  to  do, 
particularly  as  most  of  the  salespeople 
were  pushy  and  obnoxious.  Some  of  the 
field  personnel,  put  out  at  being  ripped 
off  by  a  snotty  clerk  (me)  appealed  to 
their  regional  managers. 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  2 1 


If  their  regional  manager  was  one  of 
the  original  five  salesmen  who  signed  on 
with  Mike  and  Steve  at  the  very  begin- 
ning, they  always  won  their  appeal. 
Otherwise  not.  The  field  operation  was 
strictly  a  feudal-style  hierarchy,  and  no 
one  even  bothered  with  progressive 
jargon  to  cover  it,  as  we  did  at  the 
central  office. 

THE  WAREHOUSE 

When  RPP  began,  its  cards  were 
packed  and  mailed  by  blind  and  disabled 
people  contracted  via  federal  and  city 
agencies.  This  was  PR'd  as  charitable 
employment,  but  in  fact  after  federal 
subsidies  and  tax  breaks,  RPP  ended  up 
paying  them  about  $1.50  an  hour  (and 
no  benefits);  some  would  call  this  exploi- 
tation of  the  disabled. 

When  the  company  grew  too  big  for 
this,  it  founded  a  warehouse  in  a  distant 
south  suburb,  a  white  working  class 
area.  The  office  staff,  Newtown  liberals 
and  gays,  only  saw  the  warehouse  staff  at 
the  annual  Christmas  party  and  we 
never  felt  comfortable  around  these  loud 
red-neck  types.  We  heard  vague  rumors 
about  tyrannical  foremen,  low  wages, 
and  double-shifts  with  no  overtime. 

Shortly  after  I  got  there,  the  ware- 
house staff  tried  to  unionize.  Mike  and 
Steve,  progressiveness  notwithstanding, 
hired  a  famous  union-busting  law  firm 
and  threatened  to  move  the  warehouse 
to  Tennesee,  a  "right-to-work"  state. 
The  union  lost  the  vote,  the  "ringlead- 
ers" were  fired  while  a  small  raise  was 
given  to  everyone  else,  and  peace  re- 
turned to  the  warehouse  operation. 


"Barbara  was  a  loud,  fat,  upfront  bull-dyke 
whose  very  existence  aggravated  Eileen's 
Lipstick  Lesbian/Career  Woman  sensibilities." 

I  learned  most  of  this  by  reading 
confidential  memos  on  my  boss's  desk 
while  she  was  doing  power  lunch.  Few 
people  at  the  central  office  knew  any- 
thing about  the  affair. 

THE  OFFICE 

In  fact,  as  far  as  I  could  tell  all  my  boss 
Eileen  did  was  Power  Lunch.  I  moni- 
tored and  assigned  work  in  the  office, 
resolved  disputes,  prepared  reports  and 
gave  them  to  her  to  sign.  She  did  lunch 
and  attended  meetings,  held  frequent 
morale  boosting  sessions  where  she 
urged  us  to  work  harder  in  New  Age 
jargon,  and  lobbied  for  a  larger  staff 
while  trying  to  stay  on  Mike  and  Steve's 
good  side. 

For  some  reason  I  could  never  figure 
out,    virtually    all    of    the    department 


heads,  like  Eileen,  were  lesbians.  Perhaps 
Mike  and  Steve  felt  less  threatened  by 
them  than  they  would  have  by  men  in 
the  same  spots;  maybe  it  was  simply  that 
their  willingness  to  tolerate  these  wom- 
en's sexual  orientation  allowed  them  to 
pay  a  good  30%  less  than  comparable 
positions  earned  at  most  other  offices. 

Soon  after  I  became  assistant  office 
manager,  Mike  and  Steve  hired  an  "effi- 
ciency consultant"  famed  for  ruthlessly 
reducing  oversize  staffs.  His  advice  was 
to  almost  totally  eliminate  an  entire  level 
of  management — the  lesbian  department 
heads,  as  it  turned  out.  This  was  actually 
a  pretty  shrewd  call,  for  as  I'd  guessed 
this  crowd  did  little  real  work  except  to 
stroke  the  bosses'  egos  and  spy  on  the 
workers  and  each  other. 

To  my  bitter  disappointment,  for  I 
hoped  to  replace  Eileen  as  many  (much 
lower  paid)  assistant  managers  were 
doing  for  their  ex-department  heads,  she 
was  one  of  the  very  few  to  weather  the 
storm.  Mike  and  Steve  got  a  real  kick 
out  of  her  sassy,  hip  style  and  new  age 
vocabulary. 

ANIMAL  FARM 

At  this  point  I  was  totally  disillu- 
sioned about  RPP  being  progressive  in 
any  real  way,  and  also  realized  that  now 
that  "fast  growth"  had  ended,  so  did  my 
prospects  for  rising  into  junior  manage- 
ment. 

I  began  to  notice  parallels  between 
RPP  and  the  RSL,  despite  their  ideologi- 
cal differences.  In  both  organizations  the 
rank  and  file  did  shit  work,  the  simple, 
boring,  meaningless  tasks  that  comprise 
most  jobs.  The  progressive  claims  of  our 
bosses  were  supposed  to  transform  this 
drudgery  into  something  exalted,  instead 
of  the  "alienated"  work  we  could  be 
doing  elsewhere  for  more  money. 

The  middle  management  got  better, 
more  interesting,  and  easier  work,  as 
well  as  power  over  the  peons  and  a 
chance  to  hob  nob  with  the  honchos.  In 
return  for  this  supposed  burden  of 
responsibility,  we  got  vastly  higher  wag- 
es. While  my  co-workers  at  RPP  added 
columns  of  figures,  filed  forms,  and 
stuffed  envelopes,  I  wrote  evaluations  of 
them  and  performed  fairly  interesting 
and  challenging  (if,  ultimately,  just  as 
meaningless)  tasks.  Just  so,  in  the  RSL, 
Joe  attended  steering  committee  meet- 
ings of  this  or  that  progressive  cause 
while  the  rank  &  file  stood  on  frigid 
street-corners  waving  The  Paper  at  dis- 
interested proletarians. 

The  Top  Honchos  in  both  outfits  did 
nothing    but    sit    around    and    Think, 


Page  22 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


assign  blame,  get  their  asses  kissed,  and 
feud  with  each  other.  Mike  and  Steve  of 
RPP  ruminated  over  their  stagnant  sales 
figures;  Ron  Tabor,  the  Big  Cheese  of 
the  RSL,  agonized  over  the  dwindling 
subscriptions  to  The  Paper.  Mike  and 
Steve  spent  months  on  the  Annual 
Report;  Ron  endlessly  wrote  The  Book 
(on  Trotskyism  during  World  War  II— a 
topic  as  pressing  and  interesting  then  as 
it  is  now).  Both  organizations,  when  a 
scape-goat  was  needed,  purged  their  gay 
caucuses. 

In  short,  the  progressive  pretensions  of 
both  outfits  were  a  scam,  with  obvious 
financial  and  personal  payoffs  for  the 
honchos.  Clearly  a  good  deal  for  them; 
equally  clearly  a  raw  deal  for  the  peons. 
But  what  about  the  middle  managers? 

ESCAPE 

The  real  job  of  the  middle  manager  is 
Fink.  Kissing  ass  is  rarely  enough  (unless 
you're  doing  it  physically,  that  is,  putting 
out  sexually),  you  also  have  to  keep  the 
peons  in  line.  This,  ultimately,  was 
where  Joe  had  let  the  CO.  down.  This 
was  Eileen's  real  job,  which  she  passed 
along  to  me.  I'd  reluctantly  accepted  it 
when  I  was  On  My  Way  Up.  Now, 
stripped  of  my  illusions,  I  balked.  I  lost 
my  interest  in  screwing  the  field  person- 
nel out  of  their  commissions,  or  in 
whipping  on  the  office.  Firing  a  worker 
was  contrary  to  RPP  procedure— if  you 
fire  someone  you  have  to  pay  a  share  of 
their  unemployment  benefits.  Instead, 
you  hazed  the  worker  until  they  quit. 
You  would  take  away  whatever  mildly 
interesting  task  they  had  cornered  and 
give  it  to  someone  else,  replacing  it  with 
inventory  duty  (the  most  boring  task 
available).  At  the  same  time  you 
watched  them  like  a  hawk,  noting  and 
writing  up  every  late  arrival  or  long 
lunch.  An  impressive  paper  trail  could 
be  used  to  deny  a  raise  at  their  annual 
review— assuming  they  lasted  that  long. 

Most  likely,  you  have  experienced  or 
at  least  observed  this  universal  and 
highly  successful  management  tech- 
nique. The  victims  are  usually  perpetrat- 
ors of  Bad  Attitude.  My  first  designated 
purgee  was  Barbara,  a  loud,  fat,  upfront 
bull-dyke  whose  very  existence  aggra- 
vated Eileen's  Lipstick  Lesbian/Career 
woman  sensibilities.  She  was  also  the 
unofficial  leader  of  the  department  rank 
and  file,  organizing  the  after-work  bar 
socializing  and  generally  slowing  the 
pace  of  work  down  to  human  speed 
despite  Eileen's  pep  talks. 

To  my  great  relief,  she  quit  as  soon  as 
it  became  obvious  that  Eileen  had  it  in 


for  her,  and  I  was  spared  the  unwelcome 
task  of  persecuting  her  in  detail  and  at 
length.  My  reprieve  was  temporary,  for 
inevitably  a  new  worker  with  Bad  Atti- 
tude rose  to  the  top  of  Eileen's  shit  list. 

I  was  fed  up.  I'd  been  doing  Real  Work 
for  almost  two  years,  and  began  to 
dream  of  escape.  I  dreaded  going  to  work 
every  morning,  hated  every  moment  I 
was  there,  and  began  to  get  stoned  at 
lunch  every  day.  Finally,  I  decided  to  go 
back  to  school,  at  least  part  time. 

Despite  my  checkered  transcript,  I 
found  that  I  could  get  a  degree  with  only 
a  year's  more  work- IF  I  could  take  some 
key  classes  offered  only  in  the  mornings. 
This  meant  working  less  than  full  time 
and  abdicating  as  assistant  manager,  a 
double  relief.  Eileen  accepted  my  resig- 
nation with  tight-lipped  anger,  clearly 
scenting  Bad  Attitude. 

To  my  surprise,  school  was  now  a 
breeze.  I  aced  my  courses,  and  began  to 
suspect  that  there  were  ways  to  become  a 
Professional  without  kissing  Eileen's  ass. 
I  applied  for  graduate  school  (four  more 
years  of  prolonged  adolescence!)  and  was 
accepted  on  the  strength  of  my  pheno- 
menal test  stores — the  result  of  several 
years  compulsive  reading. 

Meanwhile,  Eileen  had  replaced  me 
with  a  new  assistant  office  manager,  a 
cute  (if  not  terribly  bright)  young  lesbian 
Eileen  had  the  galloping  hots  for.  Pam's 
first  assignment  as  Assistant  Manager 
was  to  haze  ME  into  quitting. 

My  old  co-workers,  who  had  written 
me  off  when  I  became  Eileen's  protege, 
welcomed  me  back  to  the  ranks.  They 
told  me  how  Pam  snooped  at  my  desk 
when  I  went  to  work,  looking  for 
something  incriminating.  I  began  fishing 
for  a  student  loan,  so  that  I  could  attend 


my  last  quarter  of  college  as  a  full-time 
student.  When  my  safety  net  was  in 
place,  I  left  a  note  buried  in  my  "in"  file 
which  read:  "Hi  Pam— snooping  again?" 

Pam  found  it  as  soon  as  I  went  to 
lunch  (my  co-workers  later  gleefully 
reported),  and  ran  into  Eileen's  office, 
where  they  talked  in  angry  whispers  for 
an  hour.  When  I  got  back,  a  simmering 
Eileen  called  me  into  her  office  to 
reprimand  me,  but  I  cut  her  off  and  gave 
her  two  weeks  notice  and  walked  out- 
one  of  my  finest  moments  and  fondest 
memories. 

Needless  to  say,  I  did  no  real  work  my 
last  2  weeks  on  the  job.  Despite  Eileen's 
ban,  my  co-workers  threw  me  a  farewell 
party.  For  a  year  after  my  departure 
Eileen  and  Pam  attributed  every  mis- 
placed file  to  sabotage  on  my  part — not 
entirely  without  justification.  But  it  was 
pretty  clearly  Pam's  profound  incompe- 
tence, and  Eileen's  infatuated  defense  of 
her,  which  eventually  got  them  both 
fired. 

Since  then  I  have  been  remarkably 
successful  at  avoiding  Real  Work,  "pro- 
gressive" or  otherwise.  Graduate  school 
turned  out  to  be  an  excellent  playground 
and  I  highly  recommend  it  to  the 
professional  readers  of  the  world. 

I  have  encountered  numerous  "Pro- 
gressive" operations  since  I  left  the  RSL 
and  RPP.  All  insisted  that  their  Cause 
would  transform  routine  labor  into  non- 
alienated  work,  and  also  that  eventually 
there  would  be  a  concrete  payoff  of 
money  and/or  power,  come  Dividends 
day  or  the  Revolution,  as  the  case  may 
be. 

Some  were  sincere.  Most  were  sleazy 
scamsters.  None  delivered  the  goods. 

— Kivazee  Wabbit 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  23 


Aaaah!    H/P  Capitalists! 


1. 


That  forlorn,  plaintive  look.  The  aura  of  poverty.  Soiled  blue 

jacket  and  dun  slacks.  Walking  through  the  front  door. 
Hurry! 

She  darted  out  from  behind  her  counter  to  intercept. 
"Hi!  Can  I  help  you?" 

fully  expecting  a  series  of  unintelligible  mumbles,  but.  .  . 
"I'll  sweep  your  sidewalk  for  a  sandwich  and  a  bowl  of  soup" 
.  .  .was  an  incontestable  declaration. 
She  knew  when  to  settle. 
"Fine,  I'll  get  you  a  broom." 

2. 

"Nope,  no  pesticides  whatsoever!" 

In  their  designer  veggie  patches,  only  Himalayan  bottled  water 

from  above  9,000  feet  would  do. 
Marta  and  Jorge  only  worked  part-time  for  them  and  they  paid 

them  $8.50  an  hour  with  2  sick  days  a  month. 
What  could  be  fairer? 
Marta  had  four  children  and  also  worked  part-time  at  the 

electronics  factory  in  the  mornings. 
Rushing  from  one  job  to  the  next,  the  residues  of  industrial 

solvents  rushed  with  her. 
Drops  of  toxic  sweat  are  hidden  flavor  enhancers. 


3. 


In  the  morning  fog  he  runs  through  eucalyptus-laden  hills. 
His  Personal  Atmosphere  Program  fills  his  house  with  designer 

coffee  aroma. 
After  his  Daily  Pause,  his  mind  is  clear,  anxiety  is  reduced  to  a 

creatively  useful  minimum. 
Phone  in  ear  on  bridge.  Numbers  begin  to  fill  the  void,  clarity 

gradually  muddies. 
Sun-brightened  brick  walls  feel  like  a  workplace,  sort  of. 
"Stan,  I'll  be  out  for  a  couple  of  hours  at  lunch  today." 
"OK,  no  problem"  but  why  does  she  think  I'm  paying  her  $15 

an  hour? 
Not  to  go  shopping,  that's  for  damn  sure! 
Returning  calls. 

Most  are  out,  an  occasional  nibble. 
"But  it  takes  so  long  to  pay  for  itself!" 
Think  of  the  bigger  picture  and  then  give  me  the  sale! 
The  market  is  up,  but  not  hi-tech. 
Should  he  sell  his  last  options? 
Damn,  who  was  that?  Didja  see  her?!! 

Open  convertible,  she's  in  tight  leather,  cruising  back  roads. 
Phone. 

"Pick  up  Elmer?" 

Vet  closes  early  on  Wednesday — golf  day. 
Damn  dog,  let  'im  stay  over  another  night! 
"Staaan,  puh-leeze!" 


d    a 


4. 

Hey,  steal  from  us 

and  you're  ripping 

off  the  community! 

Fuck  you! 


We're  a  collective,  not  profiteers. 

75  for  a  tube  o'  toothpaste! 
Tomatoes,  89  cents  a  pound! 
$1 .69  an  avocado! 
Who's  rippin '  whom? 

Look  pal,  the  wages  here  are  low— we  only  pay 
ourselves  $7  an  hour. 

Well,  who's  rippin  whom? 


Page  24 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


5. 

Clattering  printer  cranking  out  personal  pitches '". 

Dear  Mr/Ms  [Last  Name], 

You  are  invited  to  explore  socially  responsible  investing. 

High  returns  assured  (albeit  uninsured). 

Financial  Services  —  Money  Massage  —  Interpreting  Circum- 

ambulatory  Precious  Metals  Markets. 
Animating  inanimate  resources. 
Profiting  from  dead  labor. 

Capital  growth  through  strategic  mirror  positioning. 
You've  earned  it. 
1.800-lAM-SOLD 

7. 

We  started  a  boom,  a  new  renaissance. 

We've  created  47  jobs  just  in  our  small  business  in  the  past 

year. 
Since  we  started  up,  14  other  businesses  have  opened  up  in  the 

area. 
Honesty,  confidence,  tenacity,  community  awareness,  that's 

our  edge. 
Meeting  the  needs  of  consumers  best  and  first. 
Caring  through  aggressive  market  research. 
Acting  through  hiring  the  homeless. 
Serving  through  blanket  distribution  to  every  home. 
Earning  Trust  by  telling  the  Truth. 
Profiting  by  sharing  our  overhead  with  government  programs, 

and  knowing  who  to  know. 


8. 

It  pisses  me  off  when  you  treat  me  like  a  manager. 

Raised  eyebrows. 

Look,  we  operate  by  the  same  rules,  we  get  the  same  deal  don't 

we? 
A  look  aside. 

You're  not  working  for  me  you  know! 
. .  .1  don't  like  it  any  more  than  you  do,  but  let's  face  it,  this  is 

our  bread  and  butter. 
Yeah,  I  guess  so. 
I  hate  this  shit. 

9. 

Hi,  I'm  from  Better  Citizens  for  an  Environment.  Have  you 

ever  heard  of  acid  rain? 
No?  Did  you  hear  about  the  cancer  rate  just  a  few  miles  from 

here? 
Yeah,  it's  really  awful  isn't  it? 
Our  organization  is  pursuing  a  lawsuit  against  this  company 

for  its  chronic  violations  of  pollution  law. 
Mmmm. 
We're  here  today  to  ask  for  your  support  and  a  donation  to 

help  us  continue. 
Mmmmmm. 

The  local  playground  is — 
OK,  here's  a  five-spot. 
Thanks,  keep  up  the  fight! 
...  At  week's  end,  payday! 
Averages: 

Canvassers:  $169.42  and  brow—  uh.  .  er .  .  greenie  points. 
Staff  lawyers  and  scientists:  $824.17 
Environment:  [-$1,435,887,906,277] 


6. 

Welcome  aboard! 

It's  a  real  team  effort  here. 
We  sink  or  swim  together. 
We  strive  for  a  supportive 

work  environment. 
We  respect  you  as  an 

individual. 
We  care  about  you  and 

want  you  to  feel  free  to 

talk  openly  with  us  at 

any  time. 
We  offer  flextime  flexibenes 

flexduty  and  flexmood 

management. 
We  expect  an  average  of  20 

hours  a  week  unpaid 

overtime  for  the  first 

three  years. 
Then  it'll  slack  off. 


We  need  to  recruit  new  board  members. 

We  need  to  develop  more  projects. 

We  need  to  keep  better  records. 

We  need  to  stop  working  at  our  jobs  so  we  can  do  some  work 

on  what  we  want  to  do. 
We  need  a  grant. 
We  need  a  sugar  donor. 
We  need  to  be  a  less  needy  organization! 
I  need  some  aspirin. 
Pass  that  joint,  would'ja? 
Next  meeting? 

11. 

Thanks  a  lot!  Really! 

Oh .  .  .  Don't  thank  me.  Thank  you! 

See  ya  next  time. 

OK,  bye. 

Phone. 

Can  I  come  over? 

Sure. 

Later. 

Hey,  check  this  out! 

Aalll  RIGHT!  Finally,  some  decent  bud! 

This  is  going  incredibly  fast. 

I'm  sure. 

How  much? 

$4500. 

Shit!  What  an  outrage! 

Remember  the  $10  lid? 

The  '90s:  $20  grams  of  sinsemilla. 

Name  the  three  companies,  on  contract  to  the  same  federal 

agency,  that  secretly  control  the  market. 
Rumor  monger. 

— Chris  Carlsson 


PROCESSED  WORLD  §26117  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  25 


Ambivalent 

Memories  of 
Virtual  Community 


Ir  ve  got  a  GREAT  job.  I  can  walk  to  work  through 
a  pretty  neighborhood  to  work  with  intelligent 
people  on  a  project  which  is  both  personally 
creative  and  socially  useful.  The  job  has  many  different 
facets  and  the  twenty-four  week  is  flexible— leaving  free 
time  for  my  own  pursuits.  All  this  and  more,  for  a  thou- 
sand dollars  a  month.  I'm  a  computer  programmer  with  a 
small  nonprofit  called  Community  Memory  (CM)  which 
has  created  a  public  access  electronic  bulletin  board  in 
Berkeley,  California. 

For  more  than  ten  years  (with  some  time  off  for  good 
behavior)  I've  worked  as  a  programmer.  My  formal  edu- 
cation— undergraduate  psychology — proved  useless  in  the 
job  market.  After  a  couple  of  years  washing  dishes  and 
being  a  courier,  1  got  a  few  low-paying  jobs  programming 
microcomputers  for  small  companies.  I  was  able  to  use 
this  experience  to  get  a  real  job  at  Structured  Systems 
Group  in  Oakland  where  I  spent  the  next  two- 
and-a-half  years  ('80-'83)  writing  instructions  for 
microcomputers  (in  BASIC  for  early  microcom- 
puters) to  help  business  people  count  their  money 
accurately  and  rapidly.  The  pay  was  good  by  my 
standards,  the  job  relatively  unstressful  (and  sa/e), 
the  co-workers  mostly  amiable.  As  a  programmer 
I  had  a  lot  of  control  over  not  only  the  pace  of 
the  job,  but  over  its  direction.  I  learned  a  lot, 
developed  some  bad  habits  and  read  a  lot  of  good 
books  while  looking  busy. 

A  year-long  vacation  was  followed  by  work  as  a 
contract  programmer  for  various   individuals   and 
companies,  and  then  a  year-and-a-half  at  a 


The  net  resuif:  we 

reinforce  the  image  of 

institutions,  rather  than 

individuals,  as  providers 

of  information;  some  clerk 

in  the  city  government 
has  yet  another  task:  and 

the  city  government— 

which  already  has  ample 

ways  to  disseminate 

information  —  continues 

to  set  the  agenda. 


sma 


consulting  company  in  San  Mateo.  I  wrote  and 
supported  BASIC  programs  for  minicomputers 
(MAI  Basic   Four)   for   clients   that   were   country 


clubs  or  in  the  food  industry  (processors,  distri- 
butors, brokers).  My  co-workers  were  a  genial  lot, 
and  the  work  was  challenging  as  I  grasped  the 
essentials  of  a  new  type  of  computer  and  a  new 
business.  On  the  down  side,  I  had  a  long  com- 
mute from  Berkeley  by  public  transit,  customer 
support  was  a  drag,  and  the  poor  business  climate 
led  to  greater  demands  on  staff. 

I  was  laid  off  in  autumn  of  1987:  a  bitter 
experience,  for  even  with  a  certain  distance  from 
the  work  I  was  still  involved.  There  is  an  aspect  of 
creativity — albeit  within  narrow  constraints — to 
most  programming.  That  aspect  is  much  greater 
when  one  is  given  responsibility  for  design  and 
support,  rather  than  just  coding  one  little  piece 
without  knowing  its  role  in  the  larger  scheme  of 
things. 


Page  26 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


I  heard  about  a  "position"  at  Com- 
munity Memory  from  a  friend  who 
worked  there.  I  had  used  their  ter- 
minals in  a  grocery  store,  which  were 
part  of  a  free,  publicly-accessible  data- 
base. It  contained  a  swarm  of  messages 
—some  on  political  issues,  some  ad- 
vertisements, some  raving  about  the 
Grateful  Dead.  I  was  intrigued  and 
arranged  an  interview. 

I  got  the  job;  the  meager  $700  a 
month  was  a  step  down,  but  I  was 
living  in  a  rent-controlled  apartment 
and  could  squeak  by.  The  work  con- 
ditions also  were  worse:  instead  of  my 
quiet  office  with  a  view  of  the  coastal 
mountains  I  had  a  desk  in  a  large 
room,  with  no  secretary  to  answer  the 
telephone.  On  the  other  hand,  I  was 
learning  a  new  language  (C)  and  a  new 
operating  system  (UNIX)  which  held 
great  promise  for  the  future:  no  longer 
would  I  be  stuck  in  the  double  ghetto 
of  being  a  BASIC  (usually  said  with  a 
sneer)  applications  programmer.  No 
longer  was  I  counting  money  or  con- 
signing some  clerk  to  the  unemploy- 
ment line,  or  a  secretary  to  a  finger- 
numbing  and  brain-deadening  job!  I 
could  show  curious  friends  what  I  did  for 
a  living,  and  my  "shop-talk"  might  have 
a  chance  of  being  interesting  to  a 
non-technician. 

CM  has  its  origins  in  the  public  service 
telephone  switchboards  of  the  late  '60s 
and  early  '70s.  There  was  a  continuous 
turnover  in  both  people  and  groups 
which  led  to  a  perpetual  reinventing  of 
the  wheel,  as  each  new  person  or  group 
duplicated  the  efforts  of  others.  "Aha! 
Why  not  a  common  storage  for  ALL  of 
these  diverse  groups?"  asked  some.  After 
soliciting  various  switchboards  in  San 
Francisco,  a  group  of  computer  people 
who  had  left  the  University  of  California 
at  Berkeley  at  the  time  of  the  Cambodia 
invasion  launched  "Resource  One."  By 
the  time  the  technological  problems  were 
solved,  however,  the  project  was  all 
dressed  up  with  no  place  to  go:  the 
personnel  turnover  meant  that  nobody 
at  the  switchboards  had  ever  heard  of 
the  project. 

Terminals  were  then  set  up  in  public 
places  to  see  how  people  would  use  a 
public  bulletin  board.  Tom  Athanasiou' 
described  it:  "A  small  three-terminal 
Community  Memory  System  [was]  kept 
up  for  about  fourteen  months.  Uses 
reflected  the  locations  of  the  terminals. 
One  was  in  a  music  store  and  collected 
information  about  gigs,  bands  and  the 
like.  Another,  at  a  hippie  hardware  store. 


specialized  in  Alternative  Technology 
and  barter.  The  third,  located  in  a  public 
library  in  the  Mission  District,  a  poor 
area  of  San  Francisco,  was  little  more 
than  a  high-tech  graffiti  board."  The 
system  proved  to  be  much  more  diverse 
in  its  uses  than  any  of  the  organizers  had 
expected. 

Funding  never  materialized,  and  it  was 
several  years  until  the  system  was  started 
again.  Several  people  decided  to  develop 
an  improved  public-access  bulletin  board 
system  which  would  use  the  latest  avail- 
able minicomputers.  In  1977,  after  unex- 
pected delays,  and  with  aid  from  hard- 
ware designer  Lee  Felsenstein's  success  in 
the  newborn  personal  computer  indus- 
try. The  Community  Memory  Project 
was  incorporated.  A  key  idea  was  repli- 
cability:  other  areas  or  non-geographical 
groups,  including  organizers,  could  start 
their  own  CM  "nodes." 

Creating  software  is  a  long  and  costly 
affair,  and  funding  such  a  venture  has 
driven  more  than  one  company  out  of 
business.  The  group  decided  to  develop 
software  in  such  a  way  as  to  allow 
commercial  spinoffs.  Predictably  this 
lead  to  other  problems  associated  with 
business.  Says  Athanasiou:  "The  story 
of  Community  Memory  is  really  two 
stories,  reflecting  our  history  as  a  politi- 
cal/technical collective  that  took  a  long, 
unplanned,  and  largely  unpleasant  trip 
through  the  computer  industry."  There 
were  disputes  that  reflected  the  hier- 
archy of  the  programmers  over  other 
workers,  and  which  pitted  the  money 
suppliers  against  the  programmers. 
There  were  also  fierce  debates  over  sales 
policy:  a  South  African  company  want- 
ed to  buy  "X.Dot,"  a  communication 
protocol  for  linking  computers  together, 
and  the  U.S.  Naval  Surface  Weapons 
Laboratory  wanted  to  buy  a  database 
product  ("Sequitur").  Additional  ten- 
sions developed  around  the  "profession- 
alization"  of  the  operation^. 

Eventually  the  software  company 
folded,  but  there  were  enough  royalties 
from  sales  of  old  products  to  allow 
Community  Memory  to  survive,  and  in 
September  of  1984  a  new  system  with 
four  locations  in  Berkeley  was  started.  It 
was  driven  by  a  central  minicomputer 
with  "dumb  terminals"  (i.e.,  the  central 
machine  controlled  every  keystroke  and 
every  character  on  the  screen).  The 
terminals  were  located  in  several  mem- 
ber-owned grocery  stores,  a  Latino  cul- 
tural center  and  a  "hip  capitalist"  de- 
partment store. 

They    were    free,    easy    to    use,    and 


proved  to  be  popular.  Many  uses  that 
had  been  expected  did  materialize,  and 
several  that  hadn't  been  foreseen  sprang 
up,  including  a  sort  of  "electronic  thera- 
py" in  which  people  would  describe  a 
problem  in  their  lives  and  others  would 
respond  with  advice  and  support.  The 
system  was  terminated  in  the  summer  of 
1988  when  the  financial  collapse  of  the 
grocery  stores  closed  half  the  sites,  and 
the  hip  capitalists  became  offended  at 
some  message  and  claimed  "liability" 
problems,  as  well  as  the  need  for  more 
sales  space. 

By  that  time  CM  was  hard  at  work  on 
yet  another  version,  considerably  more 
sophisticated  than  the  previous  one.  In 
the  summer  of  1989  public  terminals 
running  the  new  system  were  set  up. 
Currently  there  are  ten  public  terminals 
located  in  libraries,  24-hour  laundro- 
mats, student  housing,  a  senior  center 
and  various  non-profits.  Because  the 
local  terminals  are  microcomputers, 
which  handle  the  user's  input,  screen 
display,  various  timing  operations,  and 
store  copies  of  messages,  the  overall 
operation  of  the  main  computer  is  much 
more  efficient  and  more  people  can  be 
served.  As  in  the  earlier  versions,  people 
may  use  any  "name"  they  please,  and 
reading  messages  is  free. 

Unlike  previous  versions,  however, 
messages  are  grouped  together  in  "for- 
ums," which  allow  more  messages  to  be 
handled  with  less  wasted  time.  (Of 
course,  this  adds  another  "layer"  the 
user  must  negotiate  to  get  to  read 
messages.)  Another  change  is  in  the  con- 
tent: CM  provides  a  lot  of  material  in 
the  form  of  listings  of  community  agen- 
cies, phone  numbers  and  calendars. 


GRAFFITI 

A  MANDATORY  FORM  OF  EXPRESSION 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  27 


Unlike  earlier  versions  it  costs  money 
— a  quarter — to  leave  a  message.  The 
quarter  isn't  intended  as  a  funding 
source  for  CM  (even  the  busiest  site 
barely  pays  for  the  phone  line,  let  alone 
the  cost  of  a  terminal),  but  rather  to 
reduce  the  "Fuck  You"  messages,  as  well 
as  gibberish  and  random  typing.  It 
undoubtedly  also  discourages  some  us- 
ers, and  certainly  is  a  disincentive  to 
multiple  use  (we  are  now  implementing  a 
system  that  allows  us  to  credit  prolific 
authors  with  free  messages).  The  soft- 
ware is  still  being  refined;  although  the 
process  is  orderly,  the  need  for  improve- 
ments is  potentially  never-ending. 
The  Seeds  Of  Discontent 

In  many  ways,  I've  got  a  really  SHIT- 
TY job.  The  equipment  is  inadequate 
and  poorly  positioned  and  my  "office"  is 
little  more  than  a  cubicle  made  of  book 
shelves  that  does  nothing  to  keep  out 
street  and  office  noise.  I'm  interrupted  by 
the  phone  when  I'm  trying  to  concen- 
trate, assuming  that  somebody  isn't 
using  my  desk  when  I  arrive,  and  the 
work  can  be  monotonous.  The  pay  is 
low  for  a  person  with  ten  years'  experi- 
ence, and  the  insurance  plan  is  inade- 
quate. Until  very  recently  we  were  paid 
monthly,  and  even  then  not  necessarily 
on  time.  My  good  name  [sarcastic  smile] 
is  sometimes  associated  with  people  and 
projects  that  I  do  not  support.  And  1 
have  come  to  some  unpleasant  conclu- 
sions about  socially  innovative  applica- 
tions of  technology. 

My  discontent  springs  from  many 
sources— long-nagging  problems  that 
have  become  major  irritants,  a  hyper- 
sensitivity to  political  issues  and  my 
changing  view  of  the  world  (and  my  role 
in  it),  and  the  changing  nature  of  the 
organization  itself. 


"Those  that  do  good  should  not 
expect  to  do  well"  might  well  be  embla- 
zoned over  the  doors  of  "nonprofits" 
and  service  companies.  The  continuous 
parade  of  broken-down  machines  and 
inadequate  furniture  only  emphasizes 
the  message  that  goes  with  the  small 
paycheck  (a  message  implicit  in  "profes- 
sionalized service  systems"  in  general): 
(I)  You  are  deficient;  (2)  you  have  a 
problem;  (3)  you  have  many  problems. 

The  overt  justification  for  poor  condi- 
tions and  pay  is  that  money  is  scarce, 
which  it  is,  compared  with  the  sloshing 
waste  of  funds  at  Visa  or  Bank  of 
America.  But  this  explanation  wears 
thin  after  a  while;  the  priority  always 
seems  to  be  something  other  than  the 
workers.  The  situation  is  exacerbated  by 
differential  pay  scales.  When  I  first 
started  at  CM  in  the  spring  of  1988, 
everybody  was  paid  ten  dollars  an  hour 
(the  same  wage  as  in  1981!);  a  bit  more 
for  those  who  had  worked  there  for  long 
enough  to  get  the  (small)  annual  raises. 
This  changed  in  1989  when  the  first 
grant  money  was  applied  for.  The  pro- 
posal called  for  two  positions  to  be 
funded  at  something  closer  to  $15  an 
hour;  lo!  it  came  to  pass.  The  justifica- 
tion was  that  you  have  to  pay  more  to 
get  good  people ...  an  idea  I  take  heated 
exception  to.  It  was  six  months  before 
the  new  pay  scale  was  extended  to  the 
programming  staff.  Interest  was  also 
expressed  in  hiring  students  at  a  local 
business  school  at  $5  an  hour,  the  rate 
the  school  paid  its  student  workers. 
Ironically,  higher  pay  was  accompanied 
on  my  part  by  greater  disaffection.  My 
identity  became  more  clearly  articulated 
as  that  of  a  mercenary  doing  a  paid  task: 
this  is  a  job,  not  a  calling. 

Along  with  a  differentiation  in  wages 


'■-••  \      M 

■■«rirfi«|-ii  ml*""    ■    ■  --     itiiiiifii    -Ini^iiTi 


came  a  greater  division  of  labor.  There 
has  been  an  increase  in  maintenance 
labor,  both  of  the  hardware  and  of  the 
information  on  the  system,  and  this  has 
not  been  shared  equally.  The  judgment 
of  the  relative  worth  of  various  tasks  can 
summed  up  by:  "It's  really  important, 
but  I  have  more  important  things  to  do, 
so  someone  else  should  do  it,"  a  senti- 
ment less  common  when  I  started  work 
there. 

In  earlier  days  the  primacy  of  the 
technical  staff  caused  conflict,  and  more 
recently  has  led  to  comments  such  as: 
"For  too  long  CM  has  been  guided  by 
technical  needs.  Now  we  must  get  out  of 
the  test-tube  and  into  the  community." 
This  argument  has  been  propelled  by  the 
availability  of  funds  from  large  donors 
oriented  toward  specific  uses  and  pro- 
jects, rather  than  support  for  software 
development. 

Another  source  of  my  discontent  has 
been  the  creeping  institutionalization  of 
the  project.  Part  of  this  is  reflected  in  the 
information  providers.  While  there  is 
healthy  participation  by  individuals,  a 
great  deal  of  effort  has  been  spent 
providing  existing  institutions,  which 
already  have  access  to  various  media 
outlets,  with  a  presence  on  the  system. 
Try  as  I  may  I  cannot  see  how  this  serves 
to  "empower"  (to  use  one  of  those  fuzzy 
buzz-words  so  beloved  by  progressives) 
individuals.  Many  of  these  institutions 
are  part  of  a  network  of  "professional 
helpers"  that  make  a  feathered  nest  out 
of  the  alleged  problems  and  deficiencies 
of  large  numbers  of  people.  While  most 
of  these  are  innocuous,  there  are  some 
that  are  not.  Although  innocently  en- 
tered into,  CM's  appearance  on  a  "May- 
or's Advisory  Panel  on  Drug  Abuse" 
drew  my  ire.  Such  panels  are  rarely 
anything  but  populist  window-dressing 
for  the  establishment's  jihad  against 
drugs;  I  was  appalled  that  CM's  name 
would  be  used  without  other  collective 
members  knowing  about  it. 

At  least  some  of  the  material  on  the 
system,  and  some  of  the  ties  to  other 
organizations,  seem  aimed  at  accumulat- 
ing a  laundry  list  of  politically  correct 
items  to  please  potential  donors.  This 
includes  forums  such  as  "Current  Agen- 
da," which  has  the  agenda  for  upcoming 
City  Council  meetings;  a  whole  series  of 
messages  targeting  the  hapless  homeless, 
such  as  soup  kitchens  ("prayer  service 
required");  city  services;  and,  always, 
drug  and  alcohol  programs. 

And,  inevitably,  there  have  been  criti- 
cisms of  internal  make-up.  The  group 


Page  28 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


has  been  overwhelmingly  white;  hence 
we  can't  claim  to  represent  the  "Black 
Community"  or  the  "Asian  Communi- 
ty." True,  but  then  I,  at  least,  never 
claimed  to  be  representing  people,  just 
trying  to  provide  a  technical  means  for 
them  to  speak  for  themselves. 

The  quest  for  money  has  generated  a 
creeping  respectability.  Following  the 
predilections  of  donors,  CM  has  created 
more  rigid  job  descriptions,  and  has 
made  efforts  to  appear  "a  part  of  the 
community."  But  Berkeley  is  a  diverse 
city,  and  the  "community"  of  users  is 
ambiguous.  As  a  result,  there  have  been 
attempts  to  enlist  putative  representa- 
tives of  "communities"  in  both  the 
direction  and  implementation  of  CM. 
Of  course,  this  almost  always  boils  down 
to  "community"  institutions,  usually  with 
professional  staff— and,  of  course,  their 
own  agendas  and  requirements.  They 
also  tend  to  be  underfunded  and  over- 
worked, so  taking  part  in  CM  often  is 
more  work  for  their  staffs;  alternatively, 
we  have  to  do  the  work.  In  the  case  of 
the  City  Council  agenda,  a  program 
(written  by  an  unpaid  volunteer)  con- 
verts the  material  from  one  electronic 
form  to  another;  then  a  person— usually 
a  programmer — adds  index  words  and 
minor  edits,  and  loads  the  few  dozen 
messages.  The  net  result:  perhaps  one 
person  a  month  reads  some  of  the 
messages;  we  reinforce  the  image  of 
institutions,  rather  than  individuals,  as 
providers  of  information;  some  clerk  in 
the  city  government  has  yet  another 
task;  and  the  city  government— which 
already  has  ample  ways  to  disseminate 
information — continues  to  set  the  agen- 
da. 

This  desire  to  appear  "proper"  has  also 
led  to  the  creation  of  "advisory  panels" 
that  contain  people  of  dubious  political 
character  but  with  loads  of  respectabili- 
ty. One  such  person— a  head  of  the  city 
library  system— demonstrated  her  com- 
mitment to  free  speech  when  she  an- 
nounced that  she  had  "referred  to  the 
District  Attorney"  a  "problem"  that  had 
arisen.  Somebody  had  published  a  "So- 
cial Decoder"  pamphlet  in  which,  for 
instance,  CISPES  stands  not  for  "Com- 
mittee In  Solidarity  with  the  People  of  El 
Salvador,"  but  rather  for  "Committee 
for  Improved  State  Power  In  El  Salva- 
dor." This  pamphlet,  which  claimed  to 
be  published  by  the  Berkeley  Public 
Library,  in  fact  gave  a  name  and  a  PO 
Box,  and  was  not  likely  to  be  confused 
with  a  real  library  publication.  Love  me, 
love  me,  I'm  a  liberal  librarian. 


CM  has  changed  its  internal  structure 
from  a  (theoretically)  membership  con- 
trolled organization  to  (as  of  January 
1991)  a  group  controlled  by  a  board  of 
directors  and  a  paid  staff.  In  theory, 
volunteers  still  have  a  place,  but  the 
inability  of  the  group  to  attract  new 
(unpaid)  people  reflects  both  the  ambi- 
guity of  the  project  and  its  somewhat 
manipulative  view  of  volunteers. 

Although  the  earlier  days  were  char- 
acterized, at  times,  by  obstructionism 
and  personal  antagonism,  CM  at  least 
gave  people  a  sense  of  participation, 
sometimes  even  the  reality  of  it.  While 
not  everything  was  subject  to  group 
approval,  and  not  every  decision  was 
sensible,  the  process  was  generally  agree- 
able. Sometimes  minor  points  would 
take  on  major  importance  precisely  be- 
cause of  personalities  and/or  political 
differences,  but  the  process  at  least 
allowed  some  form  of  discussion  and 
even  appeal.  On  the  flip  side,  having 
every  decision  subject  to  possible  rene- 
gotiation was  vastly  frustrating  for  peo- 
ple whose  job  it  was  to  carry  out  those 
decisions. 

Given  these  problems  I've  been  forced 
to  look  ever  more  closely  at  the  ideologi- 
cal foundations  of  the  project.  There  are 
two  intertwined  aspects:  the  primacy  of 
information,  and  the  importance  of 
community. 

Langdon  Winner  in  his  "Mythinfor- 
mation"^  says:  "The  political  arguments 
of  computer  romantics  draw  upon  four 
key  assumptions:  1)  people  are  bereft  of 
information;  2)  information  is  know- 
ledge; 3)  knowledge  is  power;  and  4) 
increased  access  to  information  enhanc- 


es democracy  and  equalizes  social  pow- 
er." 

Certainly  Berkeley  can't  be  considered 
information-poor;  indeed,  many  people 
seem  to  feel  overwhelmed  by  what  passes 
for  information.  I  would  venture  that 
most  peoples'  lives  contain,  within  their 
own  experiences,  the  information  most 
crucial  to  reshaping  those  lives. 

The  bland  treatment  of  "informa- 
tion"— for  CM  this  roughly  equates  to 
"messages  read"  and  "messages  writ- 
ten"—has  little  significance.  The  utility 
to  the  reader  is  ignored  for  a  time- 
honored  reason:  it's  hard  to  quantify. 
We  screen  out  a  great  deal  of  garbage  by 
requiring  a  quarter,  but  we  still  have  a 
fair  number  of  messages  that  are  gibber- 
ish, wild  rants,  obscene  retorts  and  the 
like. 

The  equating  of  knowledge  and  power 
is  laughable:  for  instance,  one  may  know 
where  an  enemy  is  and  what  he  intends, 
and  yet  be  powerless  to  stop  him. 
Alternatively,  you  can  know  that  you 
are  being  exploited  and  be  no  closer  to 
ending  that  exploitation.  It's  doubtful 
that  the  abundant  advertisements  placed 
on  CM,  or  the  play-lists  of  past  Grateful 
Dead  concerts,  or  the  musings  on  magic, 
have  anything  to  do  with  power.  Con- 
fusing some  abstract  form  of  knowledge 
with  actual  power  is  a  convenient  trick, 
particularly  for  those  with  an  interest  in 
maintaining  existing  forms  of  "democra- 
cy." Indeed,  it  is  rare  for  the  proponents 
of  such  "radical"  change  to  actually 
examine  the  structures  of  power;  often 
the  claims  of  the  apologists  are  taken  at 
face  value.  And  as  Winner  points  out, 
having  a  personal  computer  no  more  sets 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  29 


aSURER  FRIENDLY 


Q       the   innerface   of  capital's   interface 

you  up  to  compete  with  the  National 
Security  Agency  than  having  a  hang- 
glider  equips  you  to  compete  with  the 
U.S.  Air  Force.  The  proponents  of  the 
computer  have  argued  that  the  spread  of 
(relatively)  low-cost  machines  has  al- 
lowed popular  movements  to  "catch  up" 
with  the  government.  This  is  a  some- 
what ingenuous  argument:  while  some 
people  may  have  a  nifty  machine — 
indeed,  a  machine  of  extraordinary  ca- 
pabilities by  the  standards  of  1965 — the 
government/business  sector  not  only 
has  such  machines  and  their  big  brothers 
(which  are  also  exponentially  more  pow- 
erful than  their  ancestors)  but  also  the 
ability  to  connect  them  together. 

Access  to  some  types  of  information 
might  enhance  democracy,  but  continu- 
ing to  reinforce  a  "one-speaking-to- 
many"  system,  does  not,  just  as  access  to 
jokes  or  lists  of  phone  numbers  doesn't 
equalize  social  power. 

The  second  ideology  is  that  of  "com- 
munity." Admittedly,  CM  has  never 
argued  that  electronic  communication 
should  replace  face-to-face  xontact— only 
that  it  could  be  used  to  meet  a  wider 
spectrum  of  people.  But  beneath  the 
appeal  of  "community"  (another  pro- 
gressive buzz-word)  lie  unasked  ques- 
tions. Is  community  a  reactionary  desire? 
Is  it  simply  a  matter  of  shared  interests? 
Is  there  some  meaningful  aspect  beyond 
the  simplistic  sense?  Or  does  the  word 
conceal  an  agenda  as  well  as  an  ideology? 

As  Bedford  Fenwick'*  says:  "In  terms  of 
control,  the  State  is  finding  the  ideology 
of  the  community  a  far  more  effective 
means  of  maintaining  good  order  than 
the  threat  of  confinement.  [ .  .  .  ]  The 
traditional  community  represents  the 
most  effective  Panopticon  of  all— control 
through  mutual  surveillance.  Capitalism 
destroyed  this.  [.  .  .]  The  present  age  is 


attempting  a  resuscitation.  Just  as  the 
traditional  community  policed  itself  be- 
cause it  gave  consent  to  the  ruling 
ideology,  because  people  considered 
their  own  interests  were  connected  to 
the  interests  of  their  masters  in  a 
significant  and  truthful  way,  so  present 
day  power  is  seeking  an  imaginary 
identification  with  the  interests  of  every- 
body. Only  today  that  identification  is 
hard  to  achieve  and  power  must  ransack 
the  ideologies  and  rhetorics  of  previously 
popular  movements  to  gain  a  footing." 
In  a  passage  relevant  to  projects  like  CM, 
he  says  "Our  society  seems  to  torment 
itself  with  the  loss  of  community.  Radi- 
cal projects  define  themselves  as  a  dis- 
covery of  community,  like  the  gay 
community,  or  the  national  community. 
[...The  State's]  assertion  of  benevo- 
lence serves  to  demoralize  society  both 
by  denying  the  unbearable  reality  of 
present  society,  and  by  undermining 
society's  belief  in  itself,  independent 
from  expertise,  as  a  responsible  and 
reasonable  substance.  The  State  not 
only  wants  our  obedience,  but  like  other 
contemporary  corporations,  it  demands 
our  love.  The  ideology  of  community  is 
one  way  it  seeks  to  achieve  this." 

Given  that  many  Americans  no  longer 
feel  an  identity  with  neighborhood  or 
job,  it  is  not  surprising  to  see  such 
attempts  to  create  a  more  nebulous  (and 
less  demanding)  "community"  by  elec- 
tronic means. 

CM's  work,  of  course,  does  not  occur 
in  a  vacuum:  there  has  been  an  enor- 
mous change  in  both  the  public  view 
and  the  actual  implementation  of  com- 
puter technology. 

When  the  antecedents  of  CM  were 
conceived,  the  nature — and  the  popular 
perception — of  computers  was  very  dif- 
ferent. Even  the  cheapest  of  machines 
cost  tens  of  thousands  of  dollars  and 
required  a  host  of  experts  to  operate. 
Heavily  concentrated  in  the  government 
and  large  corporations,  they  calculated 
the  money  needs  of  the  economic  mon- 
sters, aided  the  physicists  in  their  quest 
for  knowledge  (and  weaponry),  and 
helped  the  state  track  both  benefits  and 
punishments.  There  was  little  doubt  in 
the  popular  mind  that  the  computers 
were  on  the  side  of  Big  Brother  and  his 
faceless  minions.  Indeed,  much  of  the 
discourse  on  privacy  and  personal  liberty 
was  couched  in  terms  of  these  machines 
and  their  potentials. 

The  need  to  train  technicians  means 
exposing  a  growing  number  of  students 
to  computers,  however,  and  not  all  of 


the  trainees  are  devotees  of  totalitarian 
dreams.  For  the  libertarian  aficionados, 
the  early  days  were  characterized  by  a 
heady  excitement  about  the  potentials  of 
the  machine — a  potential  often  ignored 
or  delayed  by  the  accountant-minded 
administrators.  Indeed,  these  admini- 
strators and  SYSOPs  (SYStem  OPera- 
tors)  were  the  nemesis  of  these  libertari- 
ans, later  to  be  known  as  hackers.  The 
attempt  to  develop  "democratic"  com- 
puters had  two  major  thrusts:  one 
towards  a  more  popular  use  of  the  large 
machines,  the  other  towards  smaller  and 
cheaper  machines.  In  the  first  category 
were  attempts  to  create  or  increase  access 
to  the  machines  (e.g.  Resource  One, 
CM's  ancestor),  often  by  time-sharing  or 
else  by  wider  public  access  to  the 
information  derived  from  the  machines. 
The  Homebrew  Computer  Club  in  the 
San  Francisco  Bay  Area,  which  nurtured 
many  of  the  early  pioneers  of  the 
micro-computer  (and  Community 
Memory),  falls  in  the  second  category. 

The  diminution  of  the  Big  Brother 
image  is  only  partly  due  to  the  actual  use 
of  such  machines — it  has  far  more  to  do 
with  the  utility  of  a  benign  appearance 
for  the  technology.  Part  of  this  change 
has  been  wrought  by  the  promises — and 
occasionally  the  practice— of  alternativ- 
ist  projects. 

David  Noble  has  said  that  "the  fight 
for  alternatives .  .  .  diverts  attention  from 
the  realities  of  power  and  technological 
development,  holds  out  facile  and  false 
promises,  and  reinforces  the  cultural 
fetish  for  technological  transcendence." 
By  contrast,  Athanasiou  argues  for  a 
movement  that  does  not  simply  oppose 
technology.  He  cites  the  woman's  move- 
ment as  an  example  of  a  social  move- 
ment seeking  the  implementation  and 
improvement  of  technology  (contracep- 
tion and  abortion).  Such  alternativist 
attempts  as  CM  help  focus  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  technological  fascination 
that  many  people  feel.  But  given  the 
difficulties  of  actually  implementing  any 
large  project,  I  am  skeptical  about  this 
use  of  people  and  time.  CM  has  tried 
both  the  corporate  approach  (as  Pacific 
Software)  and  the  non-profit/donor 
route:  neither  is  very  successful,  both 
absorb  serious  amounts  of  time  and 
energy,  and  both  have  built-in  traps; 
indeed,  such  efforts  clearly  delineate  the 
enormous  obstacles  to  humanist  proj- 
ects, even  if  such  projects  succeed  in 
their  own  terms,  computerization  con- 
tinues to  deepen  the  division  of  labor:  a 
few    (relatively)    well    paid    and    highly 


Page  30 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


skilled  jobs  (the  programmers  and  "so- 
cial" experts)  versus  a  much  larger 
number  of  people  with  few  skills  who 
are  poorly,  if  at  all. 

At  this  point,  CM  has  probably 
guaranteed  its  institutional  survival,  but 
its  vision  seems  clouded,  at  best.  Perhaps 
it  is  to  the  project's  credit,  however,  that 
it  has  more  imagination  than  capability: 
certainly  the  opposite  is  more  dangerous. 
I've  learned  that  using  a  system  like  CM 
in  the  service  of  greater  democracy  is 
very  difficult;  it  requires  both  passion 
and  perspective.  Success  might  be  more 
likely  in  an  area  with  fewer  possibilities 
for  popular  participation,  or  in  an  area 
less  saturated  with  communications 
channels.  Nor  would  a  group  contem- 
plating such  a  thing  today  have  to  design 
the  system  from  scratch — much  of  the 
needed  software  is  commonly  available, 
and  the  hardware  costs  are  far  lower.  But 
the  steady  flow  of  requests  for  us  to 
provide  information  also  tells  me  that 
the  system  encourages  a  dangerous  pas- 
sivity in  its  current  form. 

The  ultimate  meaning  of  projects  like 
CM  may  well  be  that  they  are  a  soft  sell 
for  a  hard  technology  that  provides  a 
career  ladder  for  ambitious  social  profes- 


sionals. The  technology,  despite  CM's 
hopes  for  it,  promotes  passivity:  very  few 
people  think  of  themselves  as  sources  of 
information.  CM  can't  overcome  illiter- 
acy and  self-doubt;  nor  can  it  create 
community  where  there  is  none.  Mod- 
ern management  techniques  and  the 
emphasis  both  on  "community"  and 
"the  information  economy"  find  a  pre- 
cise reflection  in  oppositional  politics 
when  they  become  obsessed  with  com- 
munication and  technique.  Consciously 
we  can  provide  a  human  face  for  a 
devastating  technology.  Possibilities  of 
computer  use  within  a  truly  free  society 
are  barely  shadows  flitting  across  our 
screens  as  we  mechanically  maintain  the 
edifice   of  legitimacy   for   this   barbaric 

social  order. 

— O.  o.  Williamson 

1)  Tom  Athanasiou,  "High-Tech  Alternativism: 
The  Case  for  the  Community  Memory  Project," 
Radical  Science  #17 

2)  Lucius  Cabins,  "Making  of  a  Bad  Attitude," 
PW  ifn,  pages  8-10  on  Pacific  Software. 

3)  Langdon  Winner,  "Mythinformation,"  Whole 
Earth  Rei'ieu',  January  1985,  pg  22 

4)  Bedford  Fenwick,  "The  Institutionalization  of 
the  Community,"  Here  &  h^ow  #10,  1990,  pg  7. 
Here  &  Now  c/o  Transmission  Gallery,  28  King 
St.,  Glasgow,  Gl  5QP  Scotland  or  PO  Box  1109, 
Leeds,  LS5  3AA,  England 


COMMUNITY 

Alight 

rain,  the  drops 

streak  the  windows. 

When  the  trolley  waits 
they  point  one  way. 
When  the  trolley  moves 
they  point  another, 
cross-hatched  like  people 
going  to  work. 

I  want  to  run 
through  the  aisles. 
I  want  to  touch 
everyone  on  the  shoulder. 

Look!  I  will  say 

the  rain  is  making 

wonderful  designs! 

Each  window  is  different 

beautiful 

&  m  eaningless  ! 

But  I  stay  in  my  seat 
&  do  nothing. 
I  am  one  of  them. 

—  William  Talcott 


THIS  M^PfctU  W«tL» 


by  TOM  TOMORROW 


MOW  THE  liews  WOKKS...  STEP 
ONE;  SPOKtSMAM  PfADS  OfT  PfE" 
PARH)  SIATEAOPNT  DEfAIUNfr  (NfoR- 
/(rtAflON   (iOVERNAIfNT  WiSHfS  PUBUC 
-To  flELlEVE ... 


Yoo  SEE,  -THE  PnesiDem  is 

MORE  R)W«FUL  ffJAN  A 
lOCOMOfiVf  AND  ABi£  TO 
l£AP  tALL  BUILDINGS  AT  A 
SlNOLE  80UND... 


STEp-rnttE.  NEWSPAPfRS  AND  1JLEyi5»M 

mmie  (joveun/kent  wess  reuase 

TO  6IVE  ILiUilOU  OF  ACTUAL  Rif^HT- 
A6E  AND-fHEM  DIJSE«/1|NATE  iHfoi- 
WAT;oN... 


STEPfOUR:  PUBLIC  AccPPTS  fiOVEeN- 
MENT   PRESS  RELEASE  AS   VCTlFlfD 
FACTS    UNCOVERED  BY  A  DILIGENT 
PRESS... 


J  ITS  HARD  TO  ffELIEVEf. 
|TMArTri£PRE3IWNr 
iHAS  S0CHA/MVH6 
PflWERS.' 


WEU.THEV 
WOULONT 
PAIfJT  n 
IF  IT 
WAiNT 
TRUE 


THIS  M^Pfclll  W«IL» 


by  TOM  TOMORROW 


ITS  Time  for  AHOTHER  iNSTAUMfNT 

or  HOW  rne news  woUKSr  this 


STEP  ONE.  COMMENTATdRS  FOCUS 
AHENTioM  OU  THE  »A06T  SUPER- 
riCJAL  AtPEa  OF  A    COMPte* 

NEWS  sro^i... 


--AND  or  LOU«SE  TWC  QurjTioiJ  OlJ 
EVESfoMEi  Mind  i«,  do€s  THE 
eEUMificATioN  or  ciimhMi  MfArJ 
TMAT  /tUIS  WILL  TAKE  OUCR 
THE  WO/tlD/? 


STEP  three;  CITIZENS   AfCEfT  TME 
INANITIES  UTTERE*  AS  PROBLEMS 
WITM  WHICH  THCY  NEED  6E  fflNCERNEP, 
AND  JIHtULTANEoUSLV  CONfifiATOUITi 
THEmSCLVEJ  fbRTHEiR  iCBEfJ  INSKMT 
INTO  CURgEi^  EVENTS ■•■ 


STEP  two:  self- styled  EXPERTS 
SPEND  HOURS   ON  TELEVISION  NEWS 
P(?06RA(ttS  PlSCUJ*IN6  EVERY 
POiSI0LE  RAMlFlCATiAN  OF  SAlO 
SOPERFICIAL  kifta... 


$TEP  Four.  WORtDtEVENTi  ARE 
COMPLETELY  yWA(T£cT£t>  »Y  THE 
OPIHIONJ    OF   COWMENTAToAS   AnB 
UHfJi  ■   h»toTMER  Htlli  ftORr 
CAPTURES  fVERYONtS    ATTENTieH 
ANC  TME  ENTIRE  PROCESS  is 
REPEATED. .. 


--»UT  15    A    f»N«riTi/H0MAl- 
AWEAlDMEirr  lIlMtiH  TO 
FdOTEcT  THE  Ft><?PaWAfi 
WE    MED  T»  AfteLI^I  THE 


M.M-|.|J.!.M.'if...'B!S; 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  lOth  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  3 1 


There  Goes 
The  Neighborhood! 


I  work  at  a  neighborhood  recycling  center  in  the 
Haight-Ashbury.  At  the  moment  I  feel  pretty  grateful 
toward  my  job.  It  lets  me  do  certain  things  I  wouldn't 
be  able  to  do  at  other  jobs:  I  can  hang  massive  anti-war 
banners  around  the  recycling  yard;  or,  the  other  night,  I 
borrowed  the  flatbed  truck  to  use  as  a  traveling  sound 
stage  during  a  demonstration  roving  through  the  city.  No 
one  complained  when  1  decided  to  honor  the  General 
Strike  the  day  after  the  air  invasion  of  Iraq  began. 

Thanks  to  another  part-time  job,  I  work  only  two  days 
a  week  at  the  recycling  center.  On  Thursdays  we  go  into 
the  Financial  District  to  get  paper  out  of  offices.  I  quit  a 
Financial  District  job  a  few  years  ago  to  take  this  recy- 
cling job,  and  now,  ironically,  recycling  has  me  working 
downtown  again.  I'm  usually  not  stuck  in  any  one  office 
for  more  than  about  5  minutes,  and  contact  with  the  of- 
fice workers  is  usually  pleasant — they  seem  to  regard  me 


Instead  of  being  a 

mcaginal  dumping  ground 

for  the  community,  I 

envision  the  recycling 

center  as  being  central 

to  the  "economy"  of  the 

neighborhood,  being  a 

trading  hub  as  well  as 

an  important  resource  in 

ecology  information. 


with  at  least  a  notch  or  two  more  dignity  than 
when  I  was  a  bike  messenger. 

On  Saturdays  I  go  around  the  neighborhood 
with  a  partner,  getting  the  recyclables  out  of  cafes 
and  the  basements  of  peoples'  homes.  The  work  is 
physically  demanding,  and  I  don't  always  enjoy 
having  to  work  Saturdays,  but  it  is  often  an 
enjoyable  way  of  having  contact  with  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

I  worked  in  recycling  before,  managing  a  tiny 
buy-back  center  in  a  Safeway  parking  lot,  patron- 
ized largely  by  annoying  suburbanites  who  were 
only  doing  it  for  the  money.  The  experience  for- 
tunately didn't  dampen  my  enthusiasm  for  recyc- 
ling, but  did  leave  a  bad  taste  in  my  mouth.  I 
had  always  been  fond  of  the  Haight-Ashbury 
center,  and  when  a  friend  working  there  said  they 


needed  people,  1  decided  to  try  recycling  work 
again.  The  director  of  the  center  had  recently 
quit  due  to  burnout,  and  my  friend  told  me  that 
the  center  was  now  being  run  as  a  collective, 
which  appealed  to  me. 

It  soon  became  clear  how  little  of  a  collective  it 
really  was.  The  non-profit  center  was  under  the 
jurisdiction  of  a  local  neighborhood  council 
board,  which  tended  to  be  pretty  out  of  touch 
with  the  daily  realities  of  the  recycling  center. 
However,  they  certainly  didn't  mind  deciding 
which  groups  would  get  small  grants  from  the 
money  that  we  made. 

Apparently,  at  the  same  time  that  the  board 
authorized  the  collective,  they  also  hired  a  certain 
individual  with  the  understanding  that  he  was  to 
be  manager.  They  never  drew  any  clear  lines  oi 


Page  32 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


authority  between  the  two,  naively 
trusting  that  it  would  work  itself  out 
somehow.  Of  course  it  didn't. 

The  collective  was  split  into  two 
factions:  those  who  tried  to  make  the 
collective  succeed,  and  those  who  didn't 
want  it  to  be  a  collective  at  all.  The 
pro-management  faction  was  only  two 
people.  One  was  a  guy  whose  father  had 
started  the  center  back  in  the  mid-70's 
and  had  grown  up  with  the  place.  He'd 
naturally  expected  to  be  tapped  as 
director  when  the  last  one  quit,  and  was 
disappointed  when  it  didn't  happen.  He 
didn't  really  recognize  the  collective,  but 
he  continued  to  participate  in  the  cha- 
rade of  collective  meetings.  People  often 
accused  him  (fairly  or  unfairly)  of  sabo- 
taging the  collective  process.  The  other 
was  the  manager  designee,  an  "old  boy" 
recycler  who,  rumor  had  it  had  been 
fired  from  just  about  every  recycling 
center  in  the  city.  Somehow  he  sweet- 
talked  the  board  into  hiring  him,  and 
regularly  told  them  what  they  wanted  to 
hear.  He  was  "our  representative  to  the 
board,"  but  in  reality  he  was  more  like 
the  board's  representative  to  us.  Collec- 
tive decisions  had  a  mysterious  way  of 
not  being  carried  out. 

Pay  equity  was  an  issue.  The  starting 
wage  was  $5.00/hour,  and  most  of  us 
were  still  making  that,  even  after  work- 
ing there  over  a  year.  A  couple  of  the 
drivers  got  $5.50,  and  a  few  people  got 
$6.00,  including  the  two  guys  mentioned 
above.  We  repeatedly  sought  pay  raises 
to  make  it  equal,  the  vote  usually  always 
going  something  like  8  to  2  (guess  which 
2?),  and  wondered  why  the  board  was 
always  so  slow  to  act  on  what  we'd 
decided.  It  turned  out  that  our  "repre- 
sentative" never  even  told  the  board 
about  the  votes  at  all! 

Things  got  worse  and  more  surreal: 
grueling  5  hour  collective  meetings,  an- 
grily abandoned  by  many.  A  "personnel 
committee,"  formed  to  handle  disciplin- 
ary procedures,  turned  into  a  kangaroo 
court,  accusing  individuals  of  "anti- 
collective  behavior."  A  scandal  involv- 
ing the  Christmas  bonus:  some  people 
got  less  than  $50,  some  got  as  much  as 
$600,  with  nobody  confessing  who  made 
the  decisions  or  what  criterion  was  used. 
We  later  learned  that  the  decision  was 
made  by  our  supposed  representative  (in 
consultation  with  an  unnamable  third 
party),  and  further  investigation  re- 
vealed that  our  "representative"  had 
gotten  $1600! 

The  board  got  tired  of  the  "collective" 
experiment,    and    began    convening    a 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Sppci?l  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue 


"Management  Restructuring  Commit- 
tee" ostensibly  to  study  the  present 
formation.  I  had  become  somewhat 
active  in  trying  to  bring  some  peace 
between  the  different  factions,  which  led 
to  my  being  elected,  along  with  my 
friend  Debbie,  as  collective  representa- 
tives on  the  Management  Restructuring 
Committee.  Our  "representative"  was 
asked  to  leave  the  center,  in  a  dignified 
way  so  that  it  looked  like  he  quit. 
(Subsequently  he  became  manager  of  a 
failing  nearby  recycling  center.) 

Our  center  would  have  a  three-person 
interim  management  team  for  the  next  3 
months,  at  the  end  of  which  the  board 
would  decide  on  a  management  struc- 
ture for  the  center.  The  interim  team  was 
comprised  of  me,  Debbie,  and  a  man- 
agement consultant.  Debbie  and  I  were 
demanding  strict  pay  equity — everybody 
working  at  the  center  should  make 
$6.00/hour.  The  consultant  said  that 
the  rock-bottom  lowest  she  would  work 
for  was  $12.00.  She  proposed  we  should 
all  three  get  $12.00,  which  sounded  good 
to  us,  except  that  out  of  principle  we 
didn't  want  to  be  making  more  than 
other  people  at  the  center.  We  finally 
compromised  and  decided  to  receive  the 
$12.00/hour  for  our  management  hours, 
$6.00  of  which  we  kept,  and  the  other 
$6.00  of  which  we  divided  among  all  the 
workers  who  were  still  making  $5.00/ 
hour.  It  was  a  bookkeeper's  nightmare, 
but  it  was  the  closest  our  collective  ever 
got  to  pay  equity. 

I  couldn't  wait  for  the  three-month 
period  to  end.  We  did  actually  manage 
to  draft  a  rather  agile  and  sophisticated 
proposal  for  collective  management  of 
the  center,  which  addressed  many  of  the 
shortcomings  we  had  experienced  previ- 


ously, but  it  wasn't  taken  seriously,  and 
we  knew  it  wouldn't  be.  There  was  some 
talk  among  us  of  going  on  strike  if  the 
board  voted  against  us,  but  it  felt 
half-hearted,  and  I  was  extremely  burned 
out  from  the  whole  interim  management 
ordeal  anyway,  and  very  uninterested  in 
gearing  up  for  what  was  certain  to  be 
another  losing  battle.  And  for  what!? 
Were  we  really  that  much  of  a  collective 
anyway??? 

P.C.  Recycling  (Post-Collective) 

I  appreciate  not  having  to  deal  with 
the  board  anymore.  Most,  if  not  all  of 
them  consider  themselves  pretty  pro- 
gressive (One  of  them  once  described  the 
board  as  "radical").  They're  actually 
representative  of  the  general  political 
character  of  the  Haight-Ashbury  these 
days:  professional  people  with  a  consci- 
ence, especially  compared  to  most  of 
their  co-workers.  But  they  are  blind 
when  it  comes  to  understanding  things 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  people  who 
work  for  them. 

I  often  complained  about  the  conde- 
scending way  we  were  treated.  They 
would  listen  to  the  management  con- 
sultant and  think  of  her  as  the  manager, 
while  mostly  feeling  uncomfortable 
around  me  and  Debbie.  They  treated  us 
like  kids,  something  especially  apparent 
when  we  would  ask  for  raises.  They 
looked  down  on  us  because  we  made  so 
much  less  than  they  did.  They  didn't 
believe  we  deserved  to  make  any  more, 
so  they  didn't  give  us  any  more — another 
bitter  Catch-22. 

The  board  ended  the  experiment  with 
"collectivity"  and  opted  instead  for  a 
"manager  with  an  egalitarian  style."  The 
whole  interim  period  was  designed  to 


Page  33 


give  an  appearance  of  objectivity  to  what 
they  had  been  planning  all  along.  They 
already  had  their  handpicked  candidate. 

Now  he  has  a  good  job;  lives  a  half 
block  away,  and  gets  paid  $12/hour  to 
go  home  and  babysit  his  3-year-old 
daughter.  Well,  that's  not  all  he  does;  he 
also  gets  paid  to  deal  with  the  board,  and 
with  the  city  and  the  Parks  Dept.  (they 
own  the  land),  and  I  guess  he  must  be 
getting  some  stuff  done;  we  haven't  been 
shut  down  yet.  When  he  feels  like  it,  he 
can  even  decide  once  in  a  while  to  join 
us  and  do  some  work.  I  don't  feel  bad 
about  him  having  such  a  good  job:  I 
wish  we  all  could  have  jobs  as  good. 

He's  cooler  than  a  lot  of  other  manag- 
ers would  be,  is  open  minded,  and  even 
appreciates  Processed  World  material 
from  time  to  time.  He's  easygoing  and 
tolerant  of  frivolity,  which  certainly 
makes  any  job  more  sane.  I  think  he's 
basically  a  nice  fellow,  happy  to  have  a 
good  job.  But  he  doesn't  seem  to  be 


much  of  a  manager,  and  seems  to  have 
abdicated  much  of  that  responsibility 
anyway.  We  don't  even  see  him  very 
much,  and  wonder  what  he  does  with 
his  time— it  takes  an  awfully  long  time  to 
get  things  we  need.  If  we  want  safety 
equipment,  we're  much  better  off  getting 
it  ourselves  rather  than  waiting  for  him. 

Recycling  Boom 

Reflecting  the  ecology  boom  of  the  last 
few  years,  the  center  has  quickly  grown 
from  a  funky  little  drop-off  center  into  a 
fairly  bustling  business,  with  tonnage 
figures  and  all  that.  Management  be- 
came more  of  an  issue  simply  because 
there  was  that  much  more  to  be  man- 
aged. More  income  led  to  more  problems 
owing  to  more  disagreements  over  what 
to  do  with  the  money.  It  caused  an 
identity  problem  for  the  center  (and  for 
us)  to  have  it  grow  so  quickly.  The  Parks 
Dept.  stopped  donating  the  site  and 
started  charging  us  rent.  We  were  no 
longer  just  a  drop-off  center:  a  lot  more 
people  came  in  to  get  redemption  value 
on  their  bottles  and  cans,  especially 
people  living  on  the  street.  The  reces- 
sionary mood  crept  in  and  added  an 
increased  air  of  desperation  to  the  mood 
of  the  center. 

Since  the  management  restructuring 
period  there  has  been  more  emphasis  on 
"efficiency"  at  the  center:  controlling  the 
number  of  person-hours  spent  at  the 
yard;  and  less  joyriding  in  the  truck  (no 
more  rides  to  the  beach,  or  stopping  in 
Golden  Gate  Park  to  feed  the  "duckie- 
wuckies").  We  had  to  prepare  for  compe- 
tition from  the  city's  curbside  recycling 
program,  which  was  being  implemented 
already  in  other  corners  of  the  city. 

Curbside  recycling  can  be  a  good 
thing,  but  we  were  starting  to  worry 
about  our  survival,  and  were  scandalized 
when  the  local  garbage  company.  Sunset 
Scavenger,  was  awarded  the  contract 
with  no  competitive  bidding.  Our  re- 
peated petitions  to  City  Hall  to  have  our 
neighborhood  exempted  from  the  city- 
wide  curbside  program  because  we  were 
already  doing  it  were  ignored.  Assuranc- 
es that  we  would  be  reimbursed  by  the 
city  for  any  money  lost  because  of  the 
curbside  program  also  turned  out  to  be 
bogus. 

The  curbside  program  hit  our  neigh- 
borhood about  a  half  a  year  ago  now, 
and  the  effect  has  been  dramatic.  We 
creatively  try  to  cut  our  losses  (our 
unofficial  advertising  slogan:  "Just  Say 
'Fuck  It'  To  The  Blue  Buckets!"),  but 
volume  has  still  dropped  as  much  as  50%. 


We've  succeeded  in  winning  some  cus- 
tomers back.  (We  have  some  very  loyal 
customers.  One  woman  actually  UPS's 
her  junk  paper  to  us  all  the  way  from 
Santa  Fe!)  Many  people  like  what  we  do 
but  have  been  confused.  Some  thought 
the  blue  buckets  were  our  service,  and 
that  they  were  supporting  us  all  this 
time,  and  are  surprised  to  find  out 
they're  not.  No  one  is  happy  to  find  out 
that  Sunset  charges  $1 /month  for  their 
service  (whether  you  use  it  or  not!), 
something  that  is  not  advertised  as  being 
part  of  the  deal. 

Still,  it's  hard  to  compete  with  a 
service  that  offers  convenience  like  that. 
When  people  can  just  put  their  recycla- 
bles  on  the  curb,  why  should  they  spend 
their  gas  money  and  "free"  time  and  gas 
to  deliver  it  to  us— isn't  that  wasteful?  So 
we're  coping. 

The  effort  spent  expanding  our  own 
pickup  program  pays  off— the  program 
continues  to  grow  (We  need  a  2nd 
truck!),  and  our  downtown  office  paper 
program  is  also  expanding  rapidly.  But 
the  formerly  bustling  yard  now  seems 
often  like  a  ghost  town— it's  even  sparse 
on  weekends.  Our  staff  hours  have  been 
cut  way  back,  with  no  cutbacks  in 
management  hours,  naturally.  (In  fact, 
management  had  the  nerve  to  suggest  we 
put  in  some  volunteer  time!)  The  yard 
uses  more  free  help,  like  pre-trial  diver- 
sion people.  Decision-making  is  more 
concentrated  among  the  two  de-facto 
managers,  staff  meetings  are  almost  a 
thing  of  the  past,  and  the  proposal  for  a 
staff  group  health  plan,  which  we  were 
seriously  discussing  before  the  curbside 
program  hit,  has  now  been  all  but 
forgotten .  .  . 

If  I'm  so  critical  and  dissatisfied,  one 
might  be  tempted  to  ask,  why  do  I 
continue  to  work  there?  I  ask  that 
myself.  In  what  way  is  it  the  good  job?  I 
rationalize  it  this  way:  As  much  as  I 


Page  34 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


dislike  a  job  sometimes,  I  hate  the 
thought  of  job  hunting  even  more.  My  job 
pays  more  now  than  it  used  to  and  offers 
plenty  of  other  flexibilities  (and  fringe 
benefits).  Although  staff  cutbacks  asso- 
ciated with  curbside  damaged  the  social 
fabric  of  the  center,  it  is  still  a  fairly 
closeknit  group.  Whatever  might  be  said 
for  collective  management,  I  actually 
find  lately  that  my  worklife  is  considera- 
bly more  tolerable  and  I  feel  freer  if  I 
don't  waste  time  thinking  about  work 
politics  at  all.  I  have  no  illusions  about 
"saving  the  world,"  but  I  enjoy  the 
comparative  luxury  of  knowing  that 
recycling  doesn't  seem  to  make  things 
worse.  1  don't  have  to  ponder  what  sort 
of  atrocities  my  energies  may  ultimately 
lend  themselves  to. 

Recycle  Your  Troubles  Away? 

Many  well-meaning  people  feel  good 
about  "saving  the  planet"  when  they  put 
something  into  a  recycling  receptacle 
instead  of  into  a  trash  can.  However, 
whatever  happens  to  that  material  after 
it  leaves  their  sight  may  or  may  not  do 
any  good  at  all.  Placing  all  the  emphasis 
on  what  to  do  with  the  stuff  at  the  end  of 
the  consumption  cycle  (instead  of  ad- 
dressing production)  makes  it  impossible 
to  do  more  than  cosmetic  cleanup.  If  it 
helps  people  justify  obscene  consump- 
tion habits,  you  could  even  say  it  does 
some  harm.  No  matter  how  many 
progressive  or  well-meaning  little  opera- 
tions are  involved  in  recycling  collection, 
they  still  have  to  sell  it  to  somebody  else. 
The  recycling  market  is  completely  con- 
trolled by  large  companies  whose  only 
concern  is  making  a  profit,  not  trying  to 
conserve  resources  or  protect  the  envi- 
ronment. Many  of  the  same  companies 
getting  in  on  recycling  are  the  nation's 
biggest  polluters  (3M,  BFl,  WML)  Inves- 
tigations so  far  are  inconclusive,  but 
many  speculate  that  collected  recyclables 


are  ending  up  in  landfills  anyway.  It  may 
sound  outrageous,  but  it  is  not  far- 
fetched as  long  as  it  is  still  more 
profitable  to  bury  stuff  than  it  is  to 
recycle  it.  Tax  breaks  to  corporations 
that  use  untapped,  unrenewable  re- 
sources like  oil,  aluminum  ore,  etc. 
("depletion  allowances")  are  further  road- 
blocks to  an  ecologically  sane  solution. 

Plastic  recycling  programs  are  a  scam, 
marketing  hype  to  make  people  feel 
better  about  using  plastic.  It  doesn't 
actually  get  recycled,  but  is  at  best  made 
into  something  else  that  will  get  thrown 
away— and  often  doesn't  even  make  it 
that  far,  but  gets  routed  to  the  landfill. 
Ditto  for  the  much-trumpeted  styrofoam 
recycling— very  little  of  it  actually  goes  to 
the  "recycling"  plant.  One  person  who'd 
visited  the  high-tech  styrofoam  "recy- 
cling" plant  in  Fremont  was  appalled  to 
find  that  the  workers  wore  no  protective 
breathing  equipment  in  a  factory  filled 
with  a  thick,  toxic  cloud. 

Recycling  under  the  present  system 
has  to  adapt  to  the  logic  of  the  market- 
place. Small,  community-based  recycling 
operations  cannot  compete  with  bigger 
companies.  Big  recycling  companies  can 
stockpile  materials  and  wait  for  a  favora- 
ble moment  in  the  marketplace.  Small 
centers  don't  have  that  kind  of  flexibili- 
ty, and  have  to  curtail  collection  of 
materials  that  aren't  profitable.  When 
the  market  is  glutted,  sellers  can't  find 
buyers  and  the  price  plunges,  threaten- 
ing the  very  existence  of  many  small 
centers.  Last  year  the  market  for  news- 
paper got  so  glutted  and  the  price 
dropped  so  low  that  many  centers  on  the 
East  Coast  actually  had  to  pay  to  have 
their  newspapers  hauled  away!  It's  still 
cheaper  to  buy  and  produce  non- 
recycled  paper,  and  most  mills  are  still 
reluctant  to  invest  in  the  de-inking 
equipment  necessary  to  produce  recycled 
paper.  Things  are  a  little  better  on  the 
West  Coast,  but  most  of  the  paper 
collected  for  recycling  gets  sold  to  mar- 
kets in  Asia;  very  little  of  it  gets  recycled 
here  in  the  United  States. 


Curbside  recycling  is  convenient,  but 
attacks  the  problem  from  the  wrong  end 
by  focusing  on  end  results  rather  than 
how  and  why  things  are  produced  in  the 
first  place.  It  also  takes  resources  out  of 
the  community.  Neighborhood  centers 
like  the  one  in  Haight-Ashbury  attempt 
to  keep  resources  in  the  community,  but 
that's  mostly  limited  to  "recycling"  small 
amounts  of  money.  One  of  Haight- 
Ashbury  Recycling's  most  useful  and 
popular  features,  the  "free  table,"  is  in 
danger  now  because  Park  &.  Rec  consid- 
ers it  an  eyesore,  attracting  the  wrong 
kind  of  people  to  the  center,  i.e.,  the 
indigent  and  homeless  (though  in  reality 
all  kinds  of  people  are  attracted  to  the 
free  table). 

There  needs  to  be  more  neighborhood 
recycling  centers,  not  less.  Instead  of  being 
a  marginal  dumping  ground  for  the 
community,  I  envision  the  recycling 
center  as  being  central  to  the  "economy" 
of  the  neighborhood:  taking  up  several 
buildings  as  well  as  a  lot,  and  being  a 
trading  hub  as  well  as  an  important 
resource  in  ecology  information.  It  could 
also  have  facilities  for  all  kinds  of 
hitherto  unprofitable  kinds  of  recycling, 
such  as  composting.  Basic  recycling  of 
familiar  materials  like  paper  and  bever- 
age containers  could  have  a  much  more 
visible  presence  throughout  the  commu- 
nity, like  the  streetcorner  recycling  ki- 
osks that  are  commonplace  in  many 
European  cities.  Production  needs  to  be 
wholly  re-examined.  Mandate  that,  as 
much  as  possible,  paper  be  composed  of 
recycled  fiber,  and  use  hemp  fiber  for  the 
rest.  Promote  a  culture  of  "repair  and 
re-use"  instead  of  "throw  away  and  buy 
another."  Make  bottles  more  durable 
and  returnable.  Examine  the  role  of 
plastic.  It's  an  amazing,  versatile  and 
revolutionary  substance,  but  is  way 
overproduced.  For  which  functions  is  it 
appropriate,  and  for  which  other  func- 
tions is  it  simply  wasteful? 

To  really  look  at  recycling  means 
looking  at  just  about  every  aspect  of  the 
society  we  live  in— and  the  society  we  could 
be  living  in! 


— Glenn  Caley  Bachmann 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  35 


Beatnik  Managers, 
Tye-Dye  Bureaucrats, 

and  Corporate  All-Purpose 

Tofu  Paste 


When  I  decided  I  wanted  to  work  at  Wheatsville 
Food  Co-op  I  got  very  puzzled  reactions  from 
two  friends  who  already  worked  there. 
Diane,  my  partner  at  the  time  and  a  member  of  the  Board  of 
Directors  thought  it  was  great,  since  to  her  it  wasn't  a 
job,  but  "fun."  My  other  friend  just  looked  at  me  in  his 
customary  disbelieving  manner  and  asked,  "Why  do  you 
want  to  do  that?"  I  would  soon  understand  what  he  meant. 
When  I  got  the  job  I  gave  up  an  easy  cashier  position 
at  a  Chinese/Vietnamese  restaurant.  I  was  exchanging  a 
job  where  I  read  half  the  time,  daily  consumed  food 
worth  as  much  as  my  wage  and  talked  to  people  from  all 
over  the  world  for  what  I  thought  would  be  an  even 
more  "workless"  job.  What  I  found  was  a  refuge  of  hippie 
capitalism  mystified  by  Politically  Correct  commodities, 
"avant-guard"    management    and    five    kinds    of    tofu,    a 


Stocking  became  a 
favorite  chore  among 
cashiers  since  it  could  be 
stretched  out  for  hours 
while  avoiding  one's 
register.  It  was  also  easy 
to  subvert  the  efficiency 
and  speed  tracking  by 
hitting  the  total  key  after 
every  item  to  stop 
the  clock. 


facade  perpetuated  with  the  assistance  of  the  most 
"respectable"  elements  of  the  Austin  left. 
HARSH  REALITIES 

The  Coop  was  formed  innocently  enough  during 
the  late  1970s  by  a  group  of  people  who  wanted  to 
get  access  to  good,  cheap  food.  It  offered  no-frills 
food  organized  by  volunteers  with  all  the  profits 
directed  back  into  maintaining  cheap  prices  and  a 
basic  selection. 

By  the  mid  '80s  this  concept  faced  the  harsh 
realities  of  rising  rent,  paying  wages,  limited  de- 
mand, and  a  local  economy  ravaged  by  the  collapse 
of  the  oil  boom.  The  Co-op  relocated  to  a  larger  spot 
and  expanded  its  inventory  beyond  staples,  hoping 
to  expand  its  pool  of  shoppers.  Despite  this,  it  went 
deep  into  the  red,  and  increasingly  turned  to  worker 


austerity  as  a  means  to  boost  profits. 

Austerity  "saved"  the  Co-op.  When  I  arrived,  wages 
had  been  frozen  for  over  a  year,  paid  sick  leave 
eliminated  for  part-time  workers  (defined  at  an 
impossible  30  hours  per  week),  discounts  for 
staff  reduced  five  percent  for  full-timers  and  entirely 
for  part-timers,  and  member  dividend  refunds 
eliminated.  This  was  in  addition  to  the  implementa- 
tion of  numerous  efficiency  enhancement  programs 
such  as  constant  busy -work  activity,  notifying 
management  when  going  to  the  bathroom,  elec- 
tronic monitoring  of  cashier  speed  and  efficiency, 
periodic  performance  reviews  and  other  prog- 
grams  that  earned  a  heap  of  praise  from  the 
HEB  supermarket  conglomerate  and  the  Austin 
Chamber      of      Commerce      on      the      Co-op's 


Page  36 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


tenth  birthday. 

This  class  war  was  not  one-sided. 
While  the  workers  didn't  have  any, 
officially  recognized  organizations,  we 
had  lots  of  everyday  forms  of  resistance. 

Cashiers  had  an  unspoken  program  of 
extended  bathroom  breaks,  with  one  or 
more  of  us  off  at  a  time  during  both  lulls 
and  high  points  in  business,  visiting 
friends  who  were  shopping  or  working, 
snacking  in  the  deli,  changing  the  music 
selection,  making  phone  calls,  and 
sometimes  even  actually  going  to  the 
bathroom.  Sometimes  we  just  sat  down 
on  the  register  and  read  the  paper, 
listened  to  the  music,  talked  or  relaxed. 
Cheated  on  official  breaks,  we  quietly 
created  our  own.  That  this  grew  to  crisis 
proportions  for  management  could  be 
seen  in  the  frequent  exhortations  by 
buttkissers  and  bureaucrats  in  the  cash- 
ier logbook  to  "always  notify  the  shift 
manager  that  you  want  to  leave  your 
register  and  to  not  leave  until  allowed  to 
do  so."  We  turned  the  busywork  of 
stocking  the  soda  cooler  or  the  bags  into 


an  extended  trip  around  the  store.  In 
fact,  stocking  became  a  favorite  chore 
among  cashiers  since  it  could  be 
stretched  out  for  hours  while  avoiding 
one's  register.  It  was  also  easy  to  subvert 
the  efficiency  and  speed  tracking  by 
hitting  the  total  key  after  every  item  to 
stop  the  clock. 

We  also  made  "friendly  mistakes,"  like 
giving  the  item  to  the  customer  at  a 
lower  price,  or  neglecting  to  charge  the 
7%  added  fee  for  non-members,  or  giving 
staff  discounts  to  almost  anybody.  And 
let's  not  forget  the  long,  friendly  conver- 
sations that  would  erupt  between  a 
customer  and  cashier  during  transac- 
tions. The  best  thing  about  working 
there  was  that  many  of  us  used  its  aura 
of  being  a  laid-back,  hippie  coop  to  avoid 
having  to  work  hard  or  at  all.  Consider- 
ing that  many  of  us  led  full  lives  as 
musicians,  students,  or  just  people,  and 
work  never  became  a  priority  among 
most,  this  relaxed  atmosphere  was  quite 
attractive.  We  could  get  away  with  a  lot, 
since  we  were  required  to  make  Wheats- 
ville  a  relaxed,  friendly  place  to  shop. 
Whereas  on  one  hand  we  were  selling 
our  smile,  on  the  other  we  were  saving 
up  our  energy  for  other  activities  besides 
work. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END 

I  suspect  that  the  largest  impetus  for 
installing  automatic  scanners  was  not  so 
much  speeding  us  up  as  it  was  to  cut 
back  on  "friendly  mistakes"  and  staff 
reappropriation.  Since  the  staff  knew  so 
many  of  the  customers,  it  is  likely  that 
massive  self-reduction  in  prices  was  oc- 
curring that  was  impossible  to  stop.  All 
you  had  to  do  was  have  a  friend  come 
through  the  line  with  tons  of  groceries 
(for  example,  mountains  of  $5  bottles  of 
"organic,  we  don't  test  on  animals" 
shampoo)  and  give  up  to  80%  discounts. 
There  was  no  sacker,  and  the  manager 
was  always  occupied  with  stocking  or 
checking — so  we  were  free  to  do  as  we 
pleased.  Some  friends  of  staff  built  up 
awesome  wine  collections  with  these 
connections.  This  was  some  compensa- 
tion for  being  cheated  on  salaries  and 
benefits.  Why  should  we  sell  thousands 
of  dollars  of  the  best  food  on  the  market 
in  return  for  twenty  or  thirty  bucks  a 
day— a  rate  which  would  prohibit  us 
from  enjoying  any  of  it?  This  was  only 
partially  so,  since  some  were  adept  at 
having  another  cashier  undercharge  for 
food  that  was  eaten,  only  a  fraction  of 
which  was  admitted  to. 


I  learned  about  the  plan  to  install  the 
scanners  from  Diane,  my  partner  who 
was  on  the  board  of  directors.  Austerity 
had  already  revitalized  profits:  the 
$100,000  debt  had  almost  been  retired 
and  gross  annual  sales  would  soon  top 
$1  million.  They  figured  they  could 
replace  the  five  existing  registers  for 
$80,000  and  eliminate  long  lines  and  the 
need  for  inventory,  in  addition  to  stran- 
gling worker  reappropriation.  They  nei- 
ther asked  for  cashiers'  input  nor  even 
notified  us  of  their  plan,  despite  being  a 
"democratic,  member-run  co-op."  In  fact, 
I  was  rebuffed  by  the  cashier  team  head 
for  using  this  label.  "Wheatsville  is  a 
business."  I  was  told.  "It  doesn't  matter 
what  the  staff  thinks." 

This  event  was  the  beginning  of  the 
end  for  me  at  Wheatsville.   I  put  out 


^gflS    aa  Individual.    S^S 

flyers  to  the  staff  warning  them  of  this 
plan,  concluding  that  this  was  an  at- 
tempt to  make  us  work  harder  and  faster 
and  destroy  what  remained  of  the 
Co-op's  laid-back  atmosphere.  I  also 
suggested  that  the  money  instead  be 
used  to  make  up  for  real  losses  in  wages 
over  the  last  few  years.  Since  the  Co-op 
would  have  to  borrow  in  order  to  afford 
this  new  technology,  it  would  only 
continue  the  process  by  which  the  staff 
paid  off  debt  through  further  austerity 
and  price  increases. 

But  I  couldn't  arouse  any  active  staff 
interest.  I  called  a  very  unsuccessful 
meeting  at  my  house  at  which  only  two 
people  showed — both  of  them  manage- 
ment bureaucrats.  It  became  clear  that 
no  one  really  cared  since  it  was  only 
another  dead-end  job.  I  went  to  the 
board  meeting  alone— by  now  my  rela- 
tionship with  Diane  was  quickly  erod- 
ing—and confronted  the  manager  about 
the  scanners,  asking  why  they'd  only 
accepted  one  bid  (I  wonder  who  was 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  37 


grafting  off  that  one?)  and  why  it  was 
needed  at  all  since  we  rarely  used  the 
fifth  register  (which  sat  idle  as  a  soda 
shelO-  They  ignored  me. 

HIPSTERS  OF 
THE  VANGUARD 
UNDERGROUND 

Without  staff  response,  I  turned  to  the 
consumers.  Over  the  next  few  weeks  I 
quietly  dropped  a  small  flyer  in  the 
groceries  of  every  customer  that  I 
checked  out,  informing  them  of  what 
was  happening.  I  also  sent  a  letter 
detailing  the  events  to  four  local  alterna- 
tive newspapers,  two  of  which  carried 
Co-op  advertising.  Giving  out  the  ffyers 
stirred  some  members  to  action.  Within 
a  few  days,  numerous  pissed -off  members 
called  the  store,  angry  that  their  favorite 
laid  back  shopping  oasis  would  be  defiled 
by  automation.  Then  two  of  the  papers 
published  the  letter  and  a  third,  a 
popular  weekly  with  a  circulation  of 
40,000,  was  about  to  when  it  called  the 
manager  to  alert  him  to  his  impending 
publicity  catastrophe.  He  then  called  me 
to  negotiate  the  withdrawal  of  the 
remaining  letters  in  return  for  a  mem- 
bership vote  on  the  scanners  and  one- 
year  moratorium  on  buying  them  (which 
now  included  competitive  bidding)  if  he 
won.  1  agreed  and  required  that  he 
inform  the  entire  staff. 

But  few  of  the  members  gave  a  damn 
about  the  Co-op's  inner  workings;  "mem- 
bership," like  the  rest  of  the  Politically 
Correct  facade,  was  a  sham.  Voting  for 
directors  and  boycotts  (another  "proof 
of  the  Co-op's  Political  Correctness)  often 
took  six  months  to  get  a  few  hundred 


votes,  and  it  was  a  rare  fool  who  actually 
agreed  to  unwaged  "volunteer"  labor. 
Most  of  the  customers  think  it's  a  great 
place  to  shop  but  wouldn't  dream  of 
working  there.  It  turned  out  that  most 
members  were  oblivious  to  and/or  thor- 
oughly uninterested  in  hearing  about 
employee  troubles.  While  I  found  a  few 
members  who  saw  through  this  fraud 
most  constantly  remind  us  that  "it  is  a 
great  place  to  work."  After  all,  our  low 
salaries  supplemented  their  cheap  con- 
sumption. In  fact,  Wheatsville  was  a  club 
for  well-paid  workers  and  yuppie  capital- 
ists, mostly  white  who  lived  on  the  west 
side  of  this  segregated  city.  It  was  a  place 
to  be  seen  and  consume  while  remaining 
politically  correct.  On  any  given  day  the 
store  would  be  inundated  with  radical 
National  Lawyers  Guild  and  ACLU 
lawyers,  intellectuals,  and  all  the  other 
hipsters  of  the  vanguard  underground 
hotfooting  it  through  aisles  of  tofu, 
canola  oil  and  organic  fufu.  They  would 
cheerfully  dance  to  the  tune  of  some 
underpaid  local  musicians  offering  live 
Musak  to  calm  their  daily  frustrations. 
A  MODEL  OF  SOCIALIST 
STATE  CAPITALISM 

Imagine  my  surprise  a  few  months 
later  when  I  realized  that  a  vote  was 
already  weeks  in  progress  and  that  none 
of  the  staff,  who  are  required  to  be 
members,  had  been  sent  ballots.  By  that 
time  I  had  left  for  a  winter  break  and 
couldn't  raise  hell.  When  I  returned  I 
found  that  I'd  been  summarily  purged— 
removed  from  the  schedule  and  refused 
both  permanent  and  substitute  shifts. 

After  my  forced  departure,  reorganiza- 


Page  38 


tion  continued  uninterrupted.  As  with 
any  good  business,  the  profits  are  fun- 
neled  right  back  into  expanding  opera- 
tions and  keeping  people  at  work. 
They've  added  a  new  deli  counter,  a 
fresh  flower  cooler,  a  huge  awning,  more 
tables  in  front,  a  wooden  display  case  for 
bulk  oil  and  nut  butters,  and  such 
healthy  necessities  as  blank  tapes  to  the 
inventory.  No  doubt  rats  continue  to  die 
in  the  storeroom  and  inside  the  walls, 
the  toilets  still  back  up,  and  the  staff  still 
doesn't  have  a  breakroom  and  instead 
eat  among  beer  and  soda  boxes.  Staff 
breaks  remain  at  five  minutes  per  hour 
(below  the  federal  minimum),  and  it  is 
required  that  one  work  30  hours  or  be 
demoted  to  substitute  status.  A  worker 
was  fired  for  talking  to  customers  while 
stocking,  and  bounties  are  being  offered 
for  the  arrest  of  shoplifters. 

The  Co-op  shrouds  itself  in  the  cliches 
of  left  political  causes:  "peace,"  "vegetar- 
ianism," "environmentalism."  The 
manager — once  described  to  me  as  an 
"anarchist" — dresses  like  a  beat  and 
wears  his  black  motorcycle  gloves  and 
beret  as  he  stocks  [see  photo].  All  kinds 
of  causes  get  to  post  their  flyers  and 
Co-op  ads  even  show  up  in  underground 
publications.  Yet  inside  it  is  business  as 
usual,  with  Profits,  Work,  Political  Re- 
pression, and  Austerity  waiting  to  be 
ferreted  out,  analyzed  and  attacked. 

In  the  year  that  I  worked  there  I  saw 
the  Co-op  as  a  model  of  existing  "social- 
ism" that  is  actually  socialized  state 
capitalism,  fully  managed  by  the  state 
under  the  aegis  of  some  left  party,  as  in 
the  USSR,  China,  Cuba,  etc.  Although 
Co-op  ownership  is  legally  socialized 
among  the  10,000  or  so  members,  the 
actual  control  is  in  the  hands  of  a 
management  that  operates  like  any  other 
good  capitalist  business,  seeking  to 
generate  profits  they  can  reinvest  in  the 
store  to  keep  its  employees  at  work 
producing  ever-greater  profits.  I  drew  an 
analogy  between  the  Co-op  and  socialist 
state  capitalism,  under  which  ownership 
is  supposedly  socialized  by  the  state,  but 
the  reality  is  the  same— subordination  of 
all  of  life  to  work  for  the  accumulation  of 
profit. 

Maybe  I  expected  too  much  from  a 
political  community  dominated  by  an 
illegitimate  and  authoritarian  left  dedi- 
cated to  putting  us  to  work  under  their 
revolutionary  leadership.  Currently,  I 
spit  up  every  time  I  hear  about  food 
"co-ops. 

—Robert  Ovetz, 

with  help  from  Ross  A.  Dreyer 

PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


If  I  Die  Before  I  Wake 

The  resolute  thud  of  a  car  door. 

The  unquestioned  authority  of  a  stopUght. 

The  simple,  curved  grace  of  a  nuclear  reactor  along  the 

interstate. 
The  reassuring  chatter  of  a  morning  talk-show  radio  co-host. 

The  urgent  flutter  of  air  through  a  window  opened  one 

half  inch. 
The  elegant  glass  panels  of  the  familiar  building,  reflecting 

the  enormous  parking  lot. 

The  pride  of  belonging  when  showing  a  laminated 
identification  card. 

The  light,  syncopated  heelclicks  in  the  enormous  parking 

lot. 

The  fluorescent  sheen  of  buffed  hallway  floors. 
The  family  portrait  pinned  to  the  fabric  cubicle  wall  surface. 
The  familiar  buzz  of  the  computer  booting  up. 
The  satisfaction  of  the  illuminated  monitor's  amber  screen. 
The  eager  apprehension  as  an  LCD  wristwatch  displays 
9:50. 

The  quiet  jubilance  of  breaktime;  powdered  coffee,  raisin 
danish  packaged  in  cellophane. 

The  mild  dread  at  10:10,  in  anticipation  of  returning  to 

the  cubicle. 
The  recalcitrant  self-congratulation  in  making  a  personal 

phone  call. 

The  relief  as  LCD  watchface  reads  11:55. 

The  sunbleached  sidewalk,  and  background  swishing  of 
cars  on  the  interstate. 

The  distant  chatter  of  lawn  sprinklers. 

The  patient  gurgle  of  the  concrete-lined,  atmosphere 
enhancing  fountain. 

The  slick,  hard  surface  of  the  fiberglass  bench. 

The  gentle  crackle  of  a  plastic  sandwich  bag. 

The  vague  panic  at  how  to  fill  the  remaining  forty  minutes 
of  lunchbreak. 

The  sudden  waking  up  from  having  been  staring  into  the 
monitor  without  intent. 

The  exasperating  patience  of  the  LCD  display  consulted 
every  twelve  minutes,  every  ten. 

The  weary  relief  of  2:56. 

The  irritating  thin  walls  of  a  paper  coffee  cup,  burning 
fingers. 

The  breathy  hum  of  the  microwave  in  the  breakroom,  the 
violent  boiling  of  contents  in  a  green,  resealable 
plastic  bowl. 

The  exasperating  chewing  sounds  of  an  ingenuous 
co-worker. 

The  clouded  suspicion  of  an  existence  discarded  well 
prior  to  expiration  date. 

The  faint  craving  for  the  calves  beneath  the  white  hose 
passing  the  cubicle. 


4t^ 


The  idle  figuring  of  wages  on  an  adding  machine: 

26,000  ^   12  months.  2166  ^  4  weeks.  542  ^  5  days. 
108.40  -  8  hours.  13.55  ^  60  minutes.  .22  ^  60 
seconds.  .004  cents  per  second. 

The  anxious  4:00  craving  for  a  cup  of  coffee. 

The  renewed  hope  of  4:45. 

The  stylish  liberation  of  a  loosened  necktie. 

The  light,  syncopated  heelclicks  in  the  enormous  parking 
lot. 

The  thoughtful  chatter  of  the  radio  talk  show  host. 

The  harsh  buzz  of  the  apartment's  security  door. 

The  sighing  of  shoes  on  the  nylon  carpet  in  the  hallway. 

The  comforting  chime  of  ice  in  a  cocktail. 

The  reassuring  chatter  of  the  nightly  news. 

The  crisp  bedsheets  and  the  mercy  of  sleep. 

— Jim  Lough 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  39 


REDEMPTION 

Everybody  died. 

I  missed  the  funeral.  I  didn't  know 

it  was  in  my  backyard. 
I  slept  late  that  day  imagining 
The  cock-eyed  undertow  of  continental 

drift,  washed  my  hair  with  beer, 
And  cleansed  the  house  with  white  sage. 
Nothing  helped. 

I  realized  long  ago  there  had  been 
A  certain  silent  war  going  on  for  years, 
So  I  felt  guilty. 

Everybody  in  the  world  died. 
I  still  made  Cream  of  Wheat  for  breakfast. 
Everybody  in  the  world  died 

so  I  showered  without  soap.  Everybody 
In  the  world  died  except  for  me 
And  West,  the  neighborhood  street  man. 

Everybody  in  the  world  died  and  West 

didn't  understand.  He  raided  my  door, 
Pushed  into  my  hallway,  stole  the  bottles 
Of  perfume  I've  received  for  years  never 

opening.  Everybody  in  the  world  died 
And  West  sat  on  my  stoop  drinking  Love's 
Baby  Soft  and  Chanel  -5.  When  the  perfume 

emptied  I  passed  him  Lysol,  dish  detergent, 
Flea  powder.  Witch  Hazel.  He  was  indestructible. 
Everybody  in  the  world 
Died  except  for  me  and  West.  We  figured  out 

how  to  extract  alcohol  from  bread  crumbs 
By  soaking  them  mushed  in  banana  peels  and  water. 
Everybody  in  the  world  died,  and  West  and  I 

ran  out  of  ideas.  Everybody  in  the  world 
Died  and  West  sobered,  gradually,  like  a  child 
On  the  verge  of  understanding  the  hand's  tiny 

pores  extract  blossoms. 

— Marina  Lazzara 


ODE  TO  THE  CHELSEA  HOTEL 


it  was  a  typical  legal 

secretary's  hectic  afternoon 

it  cost  one  client 

a  thousand  bucks 

to  file  those  papers 

before  the  court  closed 

and  they  were  truly  screwed  up 

we  did  them  so  fast 

I  knew  he'd  call  the  next  day  and  scream 

the  fact  that  I'd  sweated  blood 

to  type  them  on  time,  at  the  last  minute 

like  these  guys  always  do  things 

didn't  matter  a  bit 

because  once  they've  done  their  work 

they  assume  it's  all  taken  care  of 

it's  just  like  a  blow  job 

they're  flushed  &  triumphant 

all  these  messengers  and  clerks  going  crazy 

it  makes  them  feel  important 

who  cares  where  the  semen  goes 

they  came  that's  what  they  paid  for 


my  hands  were  shaking  but  I  didn't 

say  much  I  went  for  a  walk 

I  was  trying  to  quit  smoking 

&  having  other  problems  too 

none  of  them  mattered 

I  just  walked  real  slow 

to  the  hot  dog  stand  where  the  old 

Chinese  couple  sold  cigarettes 

one  at  a  time,  they  cost  15  cents 

they  were  worth  every  penny 

I  walked  back  to  the  office 
feeling  dizzy  and  weird 
when  an  old  guy  said  buddy 
can  you  spare  a  dime? 
I  got  out  a  quarter  I  was 
shaking  so  bad  I  dropped  it 
and  had  to  pick  it  up 
I  told  the  guy  good  luck 
he  said  listen  jack 
you  need  the  luck 
I'll  take  the  quarter 


I  hung  out  by  what's  left 

of  the  Chelsea  hotel 

the  owners  tried  to  tear  it  down  last  year 

the  old  guys  who  lived  there 

took  the  owners  to  court 

and  won  for  a  while 

but  the  stay  was  lifting 

the  wheels  of  justice  ground  on 

the  owners  were  starting 

to  renovate  the  place 

as  the  workmen  came  and  went 
the  old  guys  sat  in  the  lobby 
watching  TV  looking  tired 
and  sour  daring  anyone 
to  kick  them  out 

the  ringleader  of  the  bunch 

a  white  haired,  warty  guy 

was  sitting  in  the  lobby 

looking  right  through  me 

his  hands  were  steady  as  a  rock 

on  his  cane  and  I  looked 

at  my  hands  and  I  looked 

at  his  hands  and  thought 

I  gotta  quit 

this  business 

soon  —David  West 


Page  40 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


GRAFFITI  BOYS  SPRAYPAINT  THROUGH  SUBWAY 


neon  squiggles  through  signpost 
across  trash  cans,  posters  &  sidewalk 
whatever  they  pass  gets  their  mark 
indian  calls  echo  through  stairwells 
running  faster  than  trains 
they  flash  by  like  lightning 

— Gina  Bergamino 


BANANA  WHISTLE 

"Lester  Bowie  was  playing  his  ass  off" 

What  what? 

When  a  leaf  is  overturned  is  overturned 

an  overture  understands  its  intensive  destruction. 

Dictum:  if  an  insurrectionist  attitude  belies  denials 

everyday  vocabulary  falters  fades 


flowers, 

in  the  rough 

take  a  testimony,  a  nightingale 

testimony 

the  weariness,  the  fever  and  the  fret 

When  a  dog  wets  a  garden  flower 
its  ambition  enacts. 
Cool  it,  dog. 

Surrounding,  the  glow  of  ground 
slows  down,  wound, 
a  terrific  posse  glides  intractably 
mute,  impossible. 

It  is  a  social  thing 

a  fever,  delivered  with  good  graces. 

Penny  arcades  suck  a  person  dry 

action  becomes  ambit  — 
shun  succumbing  daily 

— Jeff  Conant 


SMASHING  THE  BANK 

My  knees  are 

stained  with  grass. 

My  father  says 

I  can  ignore  my  neighbor. 

I  will  fill  three  buckets 

with  acorns.  If  I'm  good 

my  grandmother  will  take 

out  her  teeth.  Woody 

Woodpecker  lives  on  the  patio. 

How  many  ways  can  I  spend 

seven  dollars. 

— Gina  Bergamino 


THE  AMAZED  PEDESTRIAN 

They  ride  around 

and  cover  ground 

they  spring  full  fledged  at  dawn 

predictable  as  a  reflex. 

They  do  not  cease  at  noon 

After  sunset  they're  still  riding 

at  least  until  eleven 

the  next  day  — 

they  ride  around  again. 

The  earth  give  up  her  metals 
the  ground  give  up  his  sauce 
so  they  con  ride  around  and  round 
and  be  the  boss  of  us. 

— Janice  King 


everyone's  fighting  in  this  city 

people  reduced  to  shouted  curses 

stacked  over  broken  bottles 

women  and  fags  are  bashed 

on  any  corner 

and  the  pervading  stink 

is  of  ignorance 

this  is  no  city  of  love 

what  causes  this  narrowing  hardness 

in  the  city  i  craved 

all  kinds  of  hardness 

brick,  concrete,  asphalt,  glass 

blades,  fists  and  metal  claws 

the  environment  becomes  enemy 

even  while  the  environment 

provides  defense 

— Michele  C. 


FROM  NOW  ON 

We'll  leave  it  to  chance 

not  even  calling  home 

to  the  Home  Office 

in  Rhode  Island  or  North  Carolina 

they'll  only  rubber  stamp  it  anyway 

two-by-two  their  engineers  of  gravity 

slumping  down  that  long  hollow  corridor 

of  stone  containers  and  paper  proof 

of  time's  whirling  blue  machines 

millions  of  dollars  will  lay  on  the  table 

ions  of  weeping  with  no  appreciation 

just  the  ivory  palace  fermenting 

in  a  heaving  sea 

of  Spanish  moss 

and  bald  green  flies  euphoric. 

— Errol  Miller 


POEM 

Because  I  didn't  have  a  job, 

I  walked  over  a  little  hill 

in  spring,  the  leaves  weren't  out  yet. 

The  trees  were  tall  and  silent  strangers, 
the  brown  leaves  rustled  on  the  ground, 
the  sun  in  the  blue,  cloudless  sky. 

Over  the  hill  there  was  a  road 

that  led  to  nowhere  I  could  see. 

I  just  stood  and  listened  to  the  silence  there. 

Because  I  didn't  have  a  job,  I  stood 

between  a  road  that  led  to  nowhere  I  could  see 

and  a  hill  of  brown  leaves  and  tall,  silent  trees. 

— Gene  Harter 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  4 1 


Adventures  In  The 
Muck-It  Research 
Game 


I  am  any  man.  I  make  purchasing  decisions  that  have 
far-reaching  effects.  Whether  it's  raking  muck  or 
throwing  it,  I'm  ready  to  pitch  in  or  haul  ass  with 
the  best  of  them.  And,  most  important,  I  like  to  talk  shop 
— for  a  price. 

Roundup  the  usual  suspects.  When  Casablanca  Field  Re- 
search calls,  I  stand  up  to  be  counted.  A  black  Mariah  is 
dispatched  to  my  rickety  address  in  the  Mission  District. 
The  interviewer  doesn't  ask  how  I  am,  or  what  I'm  doing; 
we  put  such  pleasantries  behind  us  years  ago.  Instead, 
with  a  blurting  maniacal  laugh,  he  launches  into  my  new 
profile: 

"You  are  one  of  the  friends  of  Monsieur  Rick,  yes?  You 
must  be  the  Vice  in  charge  of  security  and  facilities  main- 
tenance for  a  major  West  Coast  pro-apartheid  bank  head- 
quartered in  the  Financial  District.  You  pull  in  60K  a  year, 
several  of  which  go  up  your  nose;  you  wear  pinstripes  and 


suspenders,  live  in  Gnoe  Valley,  drive  Basic 
Marin  Wheels ...  two-faced  and  heartless,  you'll 
do  fine." 

Ordinarily  I  would  resent  this  rude  identikit, 
my  eyes  would  narrow,  lips  compress  at  his  fiber 
optic  effrontery.  But  coming  from  my  friend 
Fudge,  who  is  a  telephone  pimp  for  a  large 
market  research  firm,  I  listen  intently  to  this 
malignant  portrait  of  a  stranger— I  try  the  suit  on 
for  size.  While  it's  a  life  I  despise,  I  can  hack  it 
for  a  whiff  of  the  quick  money  that  seems  to  stalk 
these  BMW-driving  executive  types.  Do  they 
really  get  paid  for  every  breath  they  take? 

A  case  of  do  or  die.  See,  I  can't  afford  to  hang 
up.  After  another  flea-bitten  day  moping  around 
my  squalid  Mission  apartment  in  Duboce  Fucking 

Page  42 


Triangle,  waiting  in  vain  for  an  evasive  and  inef- 
fectual temp  agency  to  call,  I'll  snap  at  just  about 
anything.  Especially  an  invitation  to  scam,  to 
make  some  quick  moolah,  a  bit  of  cutter,  the 
pretty  poUy  that  will  help  me  pay  my  three-digit 
phone  bill,  grotesquely  inflated  since  I  moved  to 
California. 

"Sure,  Fudge,"  I  say,  after  a  pause  to  savor  the 
New  Me.  "I'll  bite.  Sign  me  up  to  play  this  slime- 
mold.  Just  say  when  and  where." 

Fudge  can  barely  conceal  his  glee— he's  got 
another  friend  of  Rick's  on  board  for  a  "focus 
group."  For  two  hours,  I  will  sit  through  the  fuck- 
us  group  discussion  with  a  dozen  other  "decision- 
maker" corporate  managers,  shooting  the  breeze 
about  the  latest  Star  Wars-spinoff  widget,  or  shar- 

PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


ing  our  gag  reactions  to  the  latest  slogan- 
eering tablets  miraculously  dragged 
down  from  Mount  Sinai  to  flog  a  new 
lifestyle. 

Here's  looking  at  you,  kid.  I  will  sit 
unflinching  under  video  and  audio  sur- 
veillance, one  of  them,  make  all  the  right 
moves,  the  noises  that  signify  assent  and 
sound  convincing.  For  me,  it's  a  ques- 
tion of  survival— and  the  perverse  pleas- 
ure of  subtly  feeding  them  my  own  line, 
a  little  counter-drivel.  The  unsuspecting 
host— Thieving  Electronics,  Perturba- 
tion Research,  or  whichever  client  re- 
tains Casablanca  Field  Research  for  this 
opinion  pap  smear — is  subject  to  the 
woof  and  warp  of  my  skewed  views,  and 
any  other  friends  of  Rick's  who  get 
packed  into  this  group.  The  beauty  of  it 
is,  the  client  will  most  likely  never  figure 
out  they've  been  had. 

To  be  sure,  there  are  signs  of  our 
deceit — the  images  we  construct  flake  a 
bit  around  the  edges,  like  dandruff  on 
the  collar.  Not  all  of  us  have  quite  the 
right  threads;  sometimes  getting  outfit- 
ted requires  a  bit  of  hustling.  Even  so,  I 
see  the  wrinkled  noses  of  the  genuine 
"respondoids"  sitting  near  us,  appalled 
by  the  stench  of  the  street  that  sticks  to 
us  like  freshly-poured  tar. 

I  can  usually  bluff  my  way  through  any 
oral  presentation,  but  a  written  ques- 
tionnaire, often  handed  out  with  the 
croissants,  tempts  the  devil  in  me.  I  spike 
my  answers  with  weird  indirection,  and 
surreal  suggestions — Q:  Have  you  any 
additional  ideas  on  how  this  product  could 
be  improved?  A:  A  submersible  model  of  this 
laptop  would  be  desirable,  for  both  the 
bathtub  and,  say,  a  press  conference  on  the 
Titanic. 

Fudge  once  explained  to  me  about 
these  focus  groups.  It  wasn't  "focus"  in 
the  New  Age  sense,  as  human  potential 
types  might  think — it  was  even  more 
manipulative  than  one  of  their  inner 
development  scams— 

"Our  client  has  either  been  requested 
to  discover  something  about  the  world, 
or  our  client  had  purported  something 
about  the  world  to  his  client.  The  focus 
group  is  conducted  in  order  either  to 
verify  the  delusions  of  the  client,  or  the 
delusions  of  the  moderator,  as  the  case 
may  be. 

"Seeing  as  we  at  Casablanca  Field 
Research  are  one  of  the  best,"  here 
Fudge  giggled,  "one  of  the  best  delusion 
verification  companies  in  the  world,  you 
can  see  how  your  role  of  multiple 
personalities— the  ever-flexible  'friend  of 
Rick's' — becomes  crucial  to  satisfying  the 


f 


m 


reality  needs  of  the  situation." 

My  first  meeting  with  Fudge  is  limned 
in  a  strobe-mist  of  dry  ice,  on  one  of  my 
first  visits  to  San  Francisco.  It  was  his 
birthday,  and  he  was  tripping.  As  I  later 
learned,  there  was  little  difference  be- 
tween Fudge  straight,  and  Fudge  on 
psychedelics. 

I  am  one  of  his  more  "normal"  (or 
conventional-appearing)  friends,  not  be- 
ing a  stripper,  a  leather  lesbian,  or  a 
professional  space  program  booster.  The 
phone-call  "screeners"  that  Fudge  and 
his  colleagues  in  market  research  use  to 
recruit  focus  group  participants  serve  as 
yet  another  vehicle  for  us  to  joyride 
while  Fudge  discharges  his  duties  for 
Casablanca.  It  gives  him  private  pleasure 
to  infiltrate  these  market  research  groups 
with  friends,  or  any  convincing  fuck-off 
who  can  cynically  act  a  part,  take  the 
money,  and  run. 

"For  your  time.  Mister  Tinnitus,  you 
will  be  reimbursed  with  an  honorarium 
of  a  startling  one  hundred  dollars— did  I 
say  dollars?  I  meant  one  hundred  Vichy 
French  Reichmarks — or  whatever  we  pay 
you  scurvaceous  people  with. 

"Refreshments,  a  light  supper  of  soggy 
croissant  sandwiches  and  soft  drinks, 
will  be  served  if  you  arrive  early  for  your 
six  o'clock  group. 

"Please  be  punctual.  If  you  happen  to 
recognize  anyone  in  the  group,  any 
other  friends  of  Rick's,  you  may  ex- 
change secret  handshakes  in  the  elevator 
afterwards,  but  for  my  sake  in  this  job,  if 
we  are  to  continue  our  mutually  lucra- 
tive arrangement,  please  do  not  divulge 
your  prior  acquaintance,  or  personal 
connection  with  me.  It  is  not  in  our 
interest  for  my  employer,  Casablanca 
Field  Research,  or  its  clients,  to  recognize 
that  you  or  any  others  are  on  my  list  of 
'usual  suspects.'  Thank  you,  sir,  and  be 
sure  to  have  yourself  one  hell  of  a  nice 
day." 

Oh,  Victor,  please  don't  go  to  the 
underground  meeting  tonight.  The  address 
at  which  we  are  to  meet  is  the  thirty- 
something  floor  of  the  Flubb  Building 


on  Market  Street. 

I  have  a  copy  of  MlS-lnfoWorld  under 
the  arm  of  my  London  Frog  trench  coat. 
The  only  thing  that  sets  me  off  from 
those  strangely  suited  creatures  of  the 
Embarcadero,  or  the  management/ 
slash/procurement  types  from  Star  Wars 
suck-up  firms  in  SilValley,  is  my  Big 
Country  bolo  tie,  and  the  scuffed-up 
black  Reeboks  I  wear  in  place  of  more 
laid-back  Birkenstocks,  or  the  new  pow- 
er footware  with  Italian  toes. 

I  arrive  late,  knowing  that  on  those 
few  occasions  when  everybody  they  need 
to  fill  a  group  shows  up,  they  have  to 
turn  the  last  ones  away  with  pay, 
rewarding  tardiness  for  a  change. 

No  such  luck  as  the  five  o'clock 
shadows  lengthen  towards  six.  It  is 
raining;  I  sense  relief  in  the  receptionist, 
as  my  arrival  brings  them  up  to  a  desired 
quorum.  These  are  the  days  my  frierub,  yes 
these  are  the  days  my  friends  intones  a 
Philip  Glass  opera  in  my  head,  as  we  file 
into  the  conference  room  with  mirror 
walls. 

My  paper  plate  is  loaded  with  the 
promised  soggy  croissant  sandwiches, 
stuffed  with  sauteed  scorpion.  A  couple 
of  bottles  of  Calistoga  water  clink  in  the 
pocket  of  my  thriftshop  pinstripes.  I 
have  reached  a  new  plateau  with  this 
group:  a  hundred  gaudy  greenbacks  for 
my  precious  time!  I  am  ready  to  start 
celebrating  even  before  it  begins,  but  all  I 
have  in  front  of  me  is  a  plastic  glass  with 
Diet  Coke  and  not  enough  ice. 

We  start  with  the  usual  round  robin  of 
introductions.  For  the  purposes  of  today, 
my  title  is  Public  Debt  and  Securities 
ossifer  at  Krugerrand  Savings  and  Loan. 
Other  people  in  the  group  admit  to 
being  in  Mergers  &.  Execrations,  Con- 
sumption Modulation,  and  Honesty 
Verification.  Buncha  sharks — unless 
there's  another  friend  of  Rick's  in  this 
group,  with  a  solid  cover. 

For  the  convenience  of  the  client,  we 
are  being  monitored  through  one-way 
glass,  recorded  for  both  voice  and  pic- 
ture. We're  a  suave  ad  hoc  committee, 
nodding  nonchalance,  but  then  surveil- 
lance is  in  our  job  description. 

The  facilitator,  a  fourth  Stooge  for  the 
yet  unnamed,  and  possibly  unnamable 
client,  faces  us  from  between  the  tines  of 
the  U-shaped  table,  simulating  relaxa- 
tion. He  genially  introduces  us  to  the 
format  for  tonight's  discussion,  assuming 
we're  all  virgins.  He  will  channel  our 
comments,  and  exhorts  us  to  be  com- 
pletely candid  in  our  reactions.  "There's 
no  such  thing  as  a  wrong  answer  here," 


PROCESSED  WORLD  (i'26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  43 


he  assures  us. 

I've  heard  this  spiel  so  many  times,  I 
sometimes  worry  that  the  non-Fudge 
staff  at  Casablanca  will  recognize  me  as  a 
little  more  of  a  "regular"  than  the  strict 
canons  of  market  research  would  ordi- 
narily allow.  But  Fudge  is  a  meticulous 
scam-artist — he  protects  the  friends  of 
Rick's  from  embarrassment  and  appre- 
hension. He  is,  after  all,  a  professional. 

Tonight  we  are  to  be  introduced  to 
something  new  that  is  in  the  develop- 
ment stage.  This  (blankety  blank)  com- 
pany would  like  Stooge  to  find  out  what 
we  think  about  the  product's  viability- 
will  it  be  attractive  to  business? 

It  is  not  clear  just  what  the  product  is, 
for  he  then  leads  us  into  a  very  general 
and  inconclusive  discussion  of  the  mod- 
ern corporation,  the  way  its  physical 
organization  can  be  modeled  as  an 
organism.  All  right,  the  elevators  and 
corridors  are — 

"Alimentary,  dear  Watson,'  Stooge 
looks  up  from  his  script,  then  frowns  as 
if  we've  missed  our  cue  on  the  laugh- 
track. 

The  phones  and  computers  are  nerv- 
ous bundles,  relaying  masses  of  informa- 
tion, commands  to  the  corpuscular  per- 
sonnel. Everyone  winces  when  I  suggest, 
as  security  officers,  we  are  the  white 
phagocytes  of  the  system — that  phuh 
word  sounds  strange,  even  if  it  is 
accurate.  Management  is  presumably 
berthed  in  the  seat  of  intelligence,  the 
company  boardroom. 

"What  about  the  plumbing?  The  water 
fountains,  the  sinks,  the  toilets?" 

What  about  them? 

"Wouldn't  they  be  for  intake  and 
excretion?"  asks  Consumption  Modula- 
tion. 

"It's  the  circulatory  system,"  chips  in 
Mergers  and  Execrations.  "With  filters 
for  the  poisons." 

"We  all  know  that  water  is  the  very 
basis  of  life,"  Stooge  says  knowingly. 
"And  waste  often  reveals  what  cannot 
be  said." 

"Garbage  in,  garbage  out,"  I  opine. 

"Precisely.  Now  what  would  you  say  if 
a  means  existed  for  a  safe  and  discrete 
analysis  of  that  garbage?  And  better  still, 
for  correlating  this  information  with  the 
specific  individuals  who  introduce  this 
garbage  into  the  system?  Asking  the 
employee  for  a  waste  specimen  does  not 
usually  engender  the  most  agreeable 
exchange,  and  by  showing  your  hand, 
gives  the  employee  a  chance  to  mess  with 
the  process." 

"Are  you  talking  about  controlled  sub- 


stances?" 

"We're  talking  about  this,"  Stooge 
points  to  the  flip  chart.  "Quality."  In  our 
opening  discussion,  we'd  thrown  some 
words  around  which  he  had  written  in 
big  letters  with  a  felt  tip  pen.  "And  what 
about  this:  Control.  Quality.  .  .Control. 
A  company  is  only  as  good  as  its  human 
resources." 

I've  been  in  some  pretty  far-out  focus 
groups  before,  like  the  one  involving 
cosmetic  surgery  for  animals — in  which 
everything  from  vaginoplasty,  liposuc- 
tion, nose-piercing,  fur  dyes,  tattoos,  and 
contact  lenses  was  discussed  in  all  seri- 
ousness for  house  pets.  If  people  were 
prepared  to  shell  out  monster  bucks  to 
buy  their  pooches  and  pussies  a  burial 
plot,  then  why  not  go  the  full  yard  for 
penis-implanted  tarantulas?  Me,  I'm  a 
low-tech  kinda  guy  who's  content  just  to 
kick  the  cat  now  and  then. 

Every  day  I  see  the  postmodern  neo- 
primitives  in  business  suits  swinging 
from  pillar  to  post  on  the  glassine  vines 
of  the  Financial  District.  What  they  do 
with  (hopefully)  consenting  animals  in 
private  is  something  I'm  prepared  to 
ignore,  even  if  it  does  disgust  me.  Only  in 
San  Francisco.  .  .  we  accept  this  kind  of 
everyday  surrealism. 

But  it's  gotten  so  nothing  in  the  SoMa 
demimonde  can  match  the  Jekyll  and 
Hyde  machinations  of  Corporate  Amer- 
ica for  nightmare  logic.  This  bilgewater 
about  the  purity  and  essence  of  the 
employee's  precious  bodily  fluids  makes 
me  ill.  I  rise. 

"Speaking  of  plumbing,  is  it  permitted 
to  go  visit  the  great  god  Porcelain?"  I  ask 
Stooge. 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  I  step 
out  into  the  hall,  and  dash  down 
towards  the  men's  room.  I  am  tempted 
to  grab  an  elevator  back  into  the  maw  of 
the  city  once  again.  Only  I  would  not 
pass  GO,  would  not  collect  a  hundred 
dollars. 

I  gotta  pee,  but  after  hearing  the  turn 
the  focus  group  was  taking,  do  not  dare 
empty  my  bladder  anywhere  in  this 
building.  Casablanca's  client  this  time 
has  to  be  among  the  slimiest  of  copro- 
phages — although  they  haven't  named 
the  party,  I  can  pretty  much  guess  that 
it's  Sin-Tech.  Let's  hope  they  aren't 
trying  out  the  product  here. 

It's  after  seven;  this  part  of  the  hallway 
is  darkened  —no  Casablanca  staff  are  in 
sight.  The  client  is  in  the  observation 
room,  possibly  humping  away  with  one 
of  the  market  research  execs,  while  on 
the  other  side  of  the  one-way  glass,  the 


focus  group  weighs  the  virtues  and 
cost-effectiveness  of  excretion  analysis. 

I  slip  out  my  garden  hose,  and  quietly, 
unobtrusively  I  hope,  spray  one  of  the 
potted  plants  by  an  accountant's  desk. 
Poor  thing,  wilting  in  this  fluorescent 
fun-house.  I'll  bet  they're  asleep  all  over 
America.  At  least  I'll  make  its  secret  life  a 
bit  more  interesting — it  can  dream  of 
ammonia  seas  and  gas-giant  planets. 

After  molesting  the  plants  for  a  few 
more  minutes,  my  nose  buried  among 
the  leaves,  I  slouch  back  into  the  light. 
Before  reentering  the  conference  room,  I 
square  my  shoulders,  securing  what  I 
hope  is  my  determined,  earlier  facade, 
before  the  horror  set  in. 

The  focus  group  has  changed  in  char- 
acter while  I've  been  gone.  Most  are  now 
pencilling  answers  on  a  questionnaire. 
Honesty  Verification  turns  his  pages  face 
down,  making  short  work  of  it  with  a 
ready  round  of  rubber  stamp  platitudes. 

I  feel  like  a  student  late  for  class  as  I 
take  my  seat  near  the  door.  More  time 
has  passed  in  this  room  than  I  can 
account  for  with  my  quick  micturation. 
The  minutes  so  easily  become  distended 
in  Casablanca.  Stooge  looks  at  me  with 
officious  disapproval.  I  glare  him  down 
with  my  filed-teeth  look,  honed  from 
riding  the  El.  Don't  fuck  vuith  me.  Mister. 

The  questions  have  to  do  with  the 
"flexible  response"  option  for  manage- 
ment to  deal  with  the  ever-weakening 
code  of  conduct,  and  employee  attitude. 
Q:  If  a  security  management  system  facili- 
tates total  access  to  the  encoded  use  charac- 
teristics of  your  workforce,  hou>  much  more 
effectively  would  you  be  able  to  husband 
your  human  resources?  A:  Sodomy  is  a  good 
start,  but  for  real  exploitation,  let's  fit  them 
each  with  a  wire,  and  a  bit  between  the 
teeth.  Q:  How  much  would  you  be  prepared 
to  pay  for  such  a  system,  on  a  per-employee 
basis?  A:  Rather  than  dirty  our  hands  with 
cash,  filthy  lucre,  1  would  seek  barter  in 
kind.  How  many  pints  of  blood,  how  many 
sperm  samples,  placentas,  corneas,  or  organs 
from  our  body  bank  would  you  accept  in 
exchange  for  the  swift  installation  of  your 
product? 

I  scribble  my  flexible  responses  using 
my  own  pen,  which  has  a  special 
acid-based  ink  that  will,  over  the  course 
of  the  next  few  days,  eat  through  the 
stack  of  uncoded,  unkeyed,  unevaluated 
questionnaires.  Would  that  I  could  do 
the  same  to  the  image  on  the  video  tape, 
introduce  a  wavering  moire  cloud,  as  if 
we  were  all  clad  in  scramble  suits, 
effacing  our  features  into  expressionistic 
blurs,  our  bland  words  melting  into  gobs 


Page  44 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


of  meaningless  verbiage  on  the  carpet 
squares. 

Stooge  mechanically  thanks  us  for  our 
participation.  "You've  all  been  very 
helpful,  and  you  can  be  sure  what  you've 
said  tonight  will  be  reflected  in  the 
packaging  of  this  new  service.  Until  it  is 
actually  released,  I'd  like  to  remind  you 
of  the  nondisclosure  agreement  you've 
signed— this  product  is  still  in  a  develop- 
ment stage,  and  may  not  be  available  for 
some  time  to  come."  Stooge  consults  his 
watch.  "And  thank  you  for  taking  the 
time  from  your  evening  to  come  to 
Casablanca.  It's  a  few  minutes  before 
eight,  but  we're  going  to  let  you  go  early. 
Outside  is  another  focus  group  sched- 
uled for  eight— please  don't  say  anything 
about  what  we've  discussed  here  as  you 
exit." 

The  air  out  in  the  waiting  room 
crackles,  as  we  file  past  the  paymistress 
doling  out  our  centuries.  A  fresh  batch 
of  respondoids  sit  slumped  where  we 
were  not  two  hours  ago.  They're  fading 
already— it's  way  past  the  time  they 
usually  shuck  their  suits.  For  the  next 
two  hours,  they  too  will  get  to  rap  about 
this  or  that  divine  invention,  whether 
it's  from  Sin-Tech,  Fourth  Reich  Re- 
search, Thieving  Electronics,  whatever. 

"Your  name,  sir?"  She  fans  the  stack  of 
envelopes. 

I  scratch  my  head.  Who  am  I  this  time? 
The  fundnmental  things  apply. 

For  a  moment  I'm  distracted  by  a 
familiar  face,  an  odor  I  know  coming  in 
the  door.  A  woman  with  demure  attire 
but  severe  earrings  walks  past  me  into 
the  waiting  room.  She  has  a  cocky  stride, 
a  sly  wink  as  she  takes  her  place  and 
immediately  starts  to  fill  her  plate. 

I  point  to  an  envelope.  "There  I  am. 
That's  me."  I  sign  by  the  x. 

Your  nvinnings,  sir. 

—Art  Tinnitus 

Afterword:  I  recently  spoke  with 
Fudge,  who  left  Casablanca  a  few  years 
ago,  and  has  since  moved  out  of  state. 

Fudge  recalled  this  about  his  career  in 
muck-it  research: 

"All  too  frequently,  the  depressing  fact 
of  life  when  you  do  general  population 
interviewing,  is  that  people  have  so  very 
little  happening  between  their  ears,  that 
you  can  see  why  we  get  the  governments 
that  we  get,  and  many  of  the  products 
that  we  get,  and  many  of  the  TV  shows 
that  we  get.  It's  these  shit-for-brains 
types  that  make  it  possible." 

The  type  of  research  Fudge  most 
reviled  is  political  surveying.  "  We  were 


RELOCATING? 

Consider 

Corporate-O^rned  Hot-Air  Balloons! 

'  Cellular  Fax,  Phone,  and  full  2S"  TV  included! 
'  Completely  SAFE,  your  Corporate-Owned  Hot- 
Air  Balloon  is  always  tethered  to  the  ground  by  its, 

iteievision  cable! 

Get  your  PERSONAL  airspace  TODAYf 
Quadrants  are  going  fast.' 


'i:3' 


?a;\ 


Ui 


J.t^: 


BALLOON  CONDO  SERVICES: 

•  Unlimited  govt,  surplus  cheese  and 
powdered  milk  for  low-income  residents! 

•  light-weight  attachable  septic  tanks* 

•  guaranteed  firesh  water  shipments  weekly* 

•  Annual  ground  visit  and  Big  Balloon 

>^ash!        CaU  TOLL  FREE 
800-222-0250 


AU^V 


^^^i 


*Th«  Hot-Air 
Experts** 


:!)  /^ 


I0ORPORATE 

HOT-AIR  BALLOONS  of  AMERICA 

A  Multinational  Capital  Consortium  Filling  Space 


very  careful  to  aim  these  calls  at  voting 
blocs  which  were  thought  to  be  switch- 
able,  or  changeable— their  voting  history 
had  been  volatile— it  could  be  switched 
from  one  persuasion  to  another  by 
which  way  the  wind  was  blowing.  It  was 
propagandizing  in  the  worst  case.  You 
would  get  questions  like:  if  you  kneuj 
that  ujorthy  opponent  candidate  X  routinely 
ate  human  brains,  would  you  still  vote  for 
this  person! 

Fudge  had  his  own  fanciful  example  of 
political  surveying,  prepared  for  a  poten- 
tial client— "Lebensraum  Research." 

We're  calling  French  people  tonight.  We 
have  here  a  short  one-minute  survey  of  French 
soldiers  on  the  Maginot  line,  whose  pay- 
checks are  one  tenth  what  they  should  be. 
Does  that  describe  you? 

It  does  describe  you.  You  believe  your  pay- 
check is  one  tenth  what  is  should  be?  We'll 
get  your  name,  rank  arui  bunker  location  later. 

Please  tell  me  if  you  agree  or  disagree  with 
any  of  the  following  statements: 

I  enjoy  trench  foot,  gangrene,  lice,  maggots, 
and  the  satanic  nightmare  of  certain  rruingled 
doom.  Would  you  agree  or  disagree? 

Germany,  the  land  of  beer,  Beethoven, 
Bach,  and  boobs,  is  composed  of  unrealized 


geniuses  just  like  yourself.  Would  you  agree 
or  disagree? 

France  is  the  most  civilized  country  in 
Europe,  and  therefore  the  universe.  You 
would  agree  with  that,  I'm  sure. 

In  a  rational  universe,  civilized  countries 
would  not  need  armies  whose  soldiers  are 
paid  shit,  merde,  or  scheiss  while  fat  coward- 
ly stupid,  i.e.  unFrench  officers  wallow  in 
looted,  gilded  sloth?  Would  you  agree  with 
that?  I  assume  that  you  do. 

Those  who  can  goosestep,  do.  Those  who 
can't,  drink  chablis.  Would  you  agree  or 
disagree? 

France,  the  most  civilized  etc.,  is  surrounded 
by  the  scum  of  the  Earth.  I'm  sure  you  would 
agree. 

Scum  of  the  Earth— Untermenschen,  is  the 
German  term— plot  constantly  to  loot  and 
rape  France  of  its  sacred,  virginal  honor. 

France,  the  most  etc.,  needs  protection 
from  the  rest  of  the  world  as  described.  The 
Third  Reich  has  the  largest  army  in  Europe, 
and  therefore  the  universe. 

And  finally,  in  France,  a  really  precocious 
feisty  Chardonnay  is  best  appreciated  by 
those  who  are  still  living.  I'm  sure  you  would 
agree. 

Do  you  agree  or  disagree  that  life  is  good, 
and  that  your  death  would  be  wrong? 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  45 


A  Trade  Reporter's 

Report 


Zapped  by  your  VDT?  No  one  really  knows  if  the 
radiation  it  puts  out— along  with  hair  dryers,  elec- 
tric blankets  and  power  lines— is  dangerous.  But 
studies  show  that  it  might  be. 

The  Environmental  Protection  Agency  came  to  exactly 
that  point  in  a  report  that  was  to  be  out  in  late  Novem- 
ber. That  would  be  news  in  itself,  a  good  story  to  cover 
for  my  high-tech  newspaper.  But  even  more  interesting  is 
that  the  White  House  was  sitting  on  the  report  because  it 
would  scare  people— a  better  story  to  cover  for  my  high- 
tech  newspaper. 

More  exciting  for  me  as  a  journalist  was  the  fact  that  I 
was  the  only  one  on  to  the  story— an  unusual  chance  for 
a  scoop  in  an  industry  that  usually  cares  more  about  new 
mainframes  than  how  computers  affect  lives.  This  is  what 
keeps  me  on  the  job. 

Except,  the  story  got  held.  By  the  time  my  piece  came 


Apparently  flaks  don't 

think  that  executives  of 

fhejr  companies  are  to  be 

trusted  to  say  the  "right" 

words.  They're  scared  to 

death  that  someone  will 

actually  reveal  NEWS. 


out,  other  journalists  broke  it  on  network  news.  I 
could  console  myself  that  I  had  information  no 
one  else  had.  For  instance,  the  reason  studies 
were  so  inconclusive  is  that  the  non-ionizing  ra- 
diation (electromagnetic  fields)  from  our  appliances 
don't  behave  like  toxic  chemicals:  there  is  no 
dose/response  relationship,  and  the  outcome  of 
experiments  depends  on  where  they  are  carried 
out  in  relation  to  the  earth's  own  electromagnetic 
field.  Except  that  when  the  story  did  finally  ap- 
pear, it  was  not  on  the  front  page— and  with  a 
trade  paper,  if  it  ain't  on  the  front  page  it  might 
as  well  be  in  Siberia. 

Now,  if  that  story  had  been  about  a  new  main- 
frame from  IBM,  it  would  have  played  lead  story, 
with  graphs  and  charts  and  a  sidebar  for  every 
state  in  the  union. 


I  try  not  to  write  those  mainframe  stories,  but 
that's  how  to  get  on  the  front  page  and  get  a 
bonus.  Money  and  a  byline.  A  few  free  lunches. 
It's  not  awful  in  the  scheme  of  things. 

At  the  first  paycheck,  I  knew  nothing  about 
computers,  except  how  to  run  Wordstar.  Three 
years  later,  I  know  way  too  much  about  them  in 
terms  of  abstract  or  virtual  knowledge.  In  real 
terms,  I  now  know  how  to  use  both  Wordstar 
and  Xywrite. 

Trade  reporters  can  move  among  different  trade 
publications,  but  those  dozens  of  publications  are 
controlled  mainly  by  two  owners  (Ziff-Davis  and 
International  Data  Group).  They  only  seem  to 
differ  in  the  narrowness  of  their  focus  (like  on  a 
particular  vendor,  such  as  MacWorld,  for  Apple 
Computers)   and   in   the   degree   of  fawning   copy 


Page  46 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


devoted  to  companies  that  advertise  in 
their  pages. 

I  have  never  been  asked  to  write 
stories  favorable  to  the  companies  that 
advertise  in  my  paper,  but  people 
working  at  other  publications  say  that 
pressure  comes  with  the  well-paid  job. 
In  at  least  one  case,  IBM  reads  and  ap- 
proves the  editorial  copy  before  it  goes 
to  press.  Instead,  the  pressure  is  to  do 
stories  on  the  endless  stream  of  new 
products  emanating  from  the  zillions  of 
computer  companies  out  there.  You  use 
acronyms  like  commas.  Acronyms  like 
RISC,  MIPS,  and  EDI  take  on  as  much 
meaning  as  IBM.  But  my  mother  and 
most  friends  cannot  decipher  my  work. 
For  them,  the  word  "Eunuchs"  is  used  to 
signify  short  fat  castrated  men  guarding 
harems.  Now  it's  Unix,  an  operating 
system. 

For  three  years  I've  been  stuffing  my 
head  with  all  this  relatively  useless  in- 
formation when  I  could  use  my  research 
and  writing  skills  to  inform  on  more 
pressing  matters.  I  still  have  no  interest 
in  how  the  industry  works,  or  care  for 
its  products  (only  the  reliability  of  word 
processing  software). 

Not  only  do  I  now  speak  a  different 
language,  covering  the  computer 
industry  takes  a  whole  different 
technique  than  being  a  general  interest 
or  even  a  general  business  reporter. 

For  one,  it  breeds  flaks  like  flies.  After 
being  a  reporter,  even  a  business  re- 
porter, for  ten  years,  I  found  the  clouds 
of  computer  flaks  (or  public  relations 
people,  as  they  prefer  to  be  called) 
astonishing.  Apparently  flaks  don't 
think  that  executives  of  their  companies 
are  to  be  trusted  to  say  the  "right" 
words.  They're  scared  to  death  that 
someone  will  actually  reveal  NEWS. 
Most  stupidly,  they're  afraid  that  an 
"unannounced  product"  will  be  re- 
vealed. In  the  computer  biz,  products 
(like  the  latest  Macintosh)  are  not 
talked  about  before  there  is  an  official 
"roll-out,"  when  all  the  information  hits 
at  once.  My  job,  of  course,  is  to  find 
out  just  what  the  products  are  before 
the  official  time  comes.  Then  I  attend 
the  roll-out,  which  often  resembles  a 
rock  concert  complete  with  dry  ice, 
blaring  music  and  background  videos. 
Only  instead  of  Jon  Bon  Jovi  appearing 
through  the  haze,  you  see  some  plastic 
encased  box  with  a  screen  in  front  and 
an  announcer  with  a  receding  hairline. 

All  roll-outs  have  some  weirdness  to 
them.  The  worst,  so  far,  was  in  1988 
when   Steve   lobs    rolled   out    the   first 


Next  computer.  He  rented  Davies  Sym- 
phony Hall  in  San  Francisco.  Invita- 
tions were  so  hard  to  come  by  that 
some  people  were  scalping  them  at  the 
door  (they  were  free).  Jobs  appeared  in 
the  spotlight  like  Macbeth.  The  music 
swelled,  and  there  was  a  collective  oral 
orgasm  from  the  crowd  when  he 
removed  the  black  sheath  surrounding 
the  model  computer  on  the  stage.  The 
press  was  then  herded  into  a  separate 
conference  room  where  company  flaks 
guarded  press  kits  like  gold  bullion.  It 
was  a  press  conference  and  they 
wouldn't  give  out  the  damn  press  kits. 
Of  course  we  diverted  them  and  stole 
them  anyway— big  thrill— along  with 
the  vegetarian  sandwiches  and  Calistoga. 

You    can't    get    a    press    kit    without 
them,   you   can't   get   a   drink   without 


'em.  And  you  can't  talk  to  anyone  with- 
out flaks.  If  it's  a  phone  interview,  they 
quietly  listen  and  take  notes  on  a  con- 
ference line.  If  it's  a  live  interview,  they 
sit  next  to  you  and  take  their  own 
notes  or  tape  recorder.  They've  even 
followed  me  into  the  bathroom  to  make 
sure  I  don't  stray  into  off-limits  territory 
on  my  way  in  and  out. 

Not  surprisingly,  they  lie.  "I  hear  the 
company's  not  doing  too  well  and  that 
there  may  be  layoffs  soon."  "No,  we're 
doing  fine."  Next  day  300  people  are 
out  of  a  job.  I  have  to  add  that  some 
are  helpful— usually  the  ex-reporters 
who've  gone  over  to  the  other  side 
where  they  can  make  twice  the  money. 
But  after  a  few  years,  the  corporateness 
tends  to  creep  in  and  take  them  over 
too. 


UMIra  a  \l, 


PAPA'S  GOT 
A  BRAND 

NEW  BAG 


Rldiui 
RtinTi 
RMn 


PROCESSED  WORLD  26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  47 


You  do  get  free  lunches  out  of  them, 
if  that's  the  way  you  want  to  spend  a 
lunch  hour.  At  my  office,  we  count 
good  weeks  in  terms  of  how  many 
lunches  we  can  scam.  They  also  send  us 
things.  Often  they're  just  stupid  pro- 
motional devices  like  corporate  calen- 
dars, or  a  microchip  embedded  in 
plastic.  But  lately  they've  been  getting 
better.  At  Xmas  we  got  chemistry  sets 
with  different  colored  liquids  and  in- 
structions to  make  the  combinations 
fizz  or  turn  into  a  gluey  substance.  With 
real  gifts,  like  leather-bound  filofaxes, 
we  try  to  scrape  off  the  corporate  logo 
and  regive  them  to  friends.  For  this  faux 
generosity  (I  plaster  my  cubicle  with 
Xmas  cards  from  companies  and 
humans  I've  never  heard  of)  the  trade 
reporter  is  expected  at  least  to  take  the 
flak's  phone  calls,  which  are  never 
ending. 

Phone  calls  from  flaks  trying  to  get 
some  ink  for  products  or  marketing 
scams,  which  move  me  about  as  much  as 
Perry  Como,  I  greet  with  an  honest, 
"1  don't  care,  sorry."  This  moves  some 
of  them  near  tears,  pleading  to  speak  to 
my  boss  about  this  terrible  injustice  I've 
just  meted  out  to  them.  And  it  is  true- 
no  ink  in  the  newspaper  means  they 
remain  in  obscurity  that  much  longer. 
So,  send  me  good  gifts! 

The  gifts  keep  coming  despite  the 
recession,  and  despite  the  fact  that  the 
recession  hit  the  computer  industry 
early  on.  It  had  grown  way  too  big,  way 
too  fast,  and  a  little  economic  pin 
pricked  its  balloon. 

But  when  it  hit,  there  were  some  omi- 
nous editorial  signs.  All  of  a  sudden, 
editors  were  demanding  more  stories  on 
"products."  Forget  the  interesting  stuff 
about  how  technology  affects  lives  in 
say,  the  Middle  East,  or  how  pollution 
from    the    manufacturing    process    has 


NEW 
WORLI> 


S.^^ 


OI>OR 


Graphic:  Arch  D.  Bunker  &  Trixie  T-Square 

made  Silicon  Valley  groundwater  toxic. 
PRODUCT  STORIES,  the  bane  of  the 
trade  reporter's  existence,  were  all  of  a 
sudden  in  high  demand. 

My  publication  and  others  retracted 
the  tentacles  they  had  slithered  out  into 
the  real  world  and  tried  to  rely  on  the 
old  method  of  trade  journalism.  Not 
much  different  than  writing  for  the 
Macy's  insert  in  the  Sunday  paper.  To 
weather  the  recession,  their  first  tactic 
was    to    go    back    to    pretending    that 


computers  were  still  just  a  small  part  of 
the  world  and  refusing  to  recognize  that 
high  tech  and  life  in  the  1990s  had  be- 
come inextricable. 

We  had  seen  it  coming — at  least  those 
of  us  on  the  bottom  looking  out.  Com- 
puters were  developing  so  fast — doubling 
in  speed  every  year — that  consumers  did 
not  care  to  keep  up  with  them.  Rocket 
scientists  can  use  these  machines,  but 
that  is  not  a  big  market. 

While  the  industry  was  expanding  in 
the  late  1980s,  when  consumers  could 
keep  up,  computer  companies  grew  into 
their  wingtips.  The  status  symbol  be- 
came a  new  suburban  building  with 
fountains — the  more  fountains,  the  bet- 
ter one's  success.  Executives  were 
leasing  Ferraris,  and  the  expansion 
seemed  unlimited. 

And  so  it  was,  in  technology  terms, 
but  that  wouldn't  translate  into  buying 
and  selling,  even  without  a  recession. 
Human  beings  were  not  about  to  keep 
up  with  the  changing  technology— 
there's  a  basic  resistance  to  things  new. 
Humans  don't  want  to  learn  a  new 
word-processing  application,  much  less 
a  new  method  of  logic  underneath  it 
(the  operating  system)  if  they  don't 
have  to.  It  doesn't  matter  whether  the 
hardware  is  cheaper  for  the  employers 
in  the  long  run;  few  workers  are  going 
to  buy  it. 

So  I  watch  the  high-tech  world  go  by. 
While  many  magazines  such  as  mine 
will  go  under  in  the  recession— or  have 
already  gone — mine  will  still  be  around. 
I'll  probably  spend  the  rest  of  my  days 
on  the  phone  with  managers  of  cor- 
porate information  systems  trying  to 
divine  the  next  greatest  mainframe, 
while  my  VDT  slowly  cooks  my  brain. 
—Frank  Wilde 


TWISTED  IMAGE  t.y  Ace  Oackwords  en« 


Page  48 


PROCESSED  WORLD  126/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Post-Modern  Pensees 


MODERN  PRIMITIVES  STOOP  TO  FIND  THEMSELVES. 

THE  RITES  OF  PIERCING  AND  SCARIFICATION 
REPLACE  THE  RITES  OF  SILENCE,  THE 
RITES  OF  SPRING. 

TECHNOLOGY  HAS  TOOLED  LIVES  INTO  PRECISION 
MACHINES  LACKING  MYTH  AND  FEELING. 

TELEVISION  EDUCATES  CHILDREN  ON  THE  FINE 
POINTS  OF  ADDICTION,  CONSUMER,  SEXUAL 
AND  OTHERWISE. 

TELEVISION  PREPARES  WHITE  CHILDREN  FOR 
WHITE  SLAVERY  IN  THE  MARKETPLACE. 

TELEVISION  PREPARES  BLACK  CHILDREN  FOR  THE 
CRACK  HOUSES. 

THE  CRACK  HOUSES  ARE  THE  NERVE  ENDINGS  ON 
THE  FINGERTIPS  ON  THE  HAND  ON  THE  ARM  OF 
THE  STATE. 

COMPUTER  TECHNOLOGY  IS  USED  TO  LIMIT 
POWER  TO  AN  EDUCATED  ELITE. 

COMPUTER  TECHNOLOGY  IS  USED  TO  DISSEMINATE 
PERSONAL  INFORMATION  ABOUT  INDIVIDUALS  TO 
THE  ELITE  WHO  HAVE  THE  POWER  AND  KNOWLEDGE 
TO  ACCESS  THAT  INFORMATION. 

THE  RIGHT  TO  PRIVACY  IS  NONEXISTENT. 

THE  MASS  MEDIA  SIMULTANEOUSLY  CREATES  AND 
RECORDS  HISTORY. 

THE  SPEED  AND  EASE  OF  DISSEMINATION  OF 
INFORMATION  HAS  RESULTED  IN  A  DESENSITIZED 
POPULATION. 

NEWS  OF  TRAGEDY  REMAINS  IN  THE  CONSCIOUS- 
NESS ONLY  A  FEW  DAYS  BEFORE  IT  IS  REPLACED 
BY  NEWS  THAT  PROVIDES  FRESH  PSYCHOLOGICAL 
STIMULATION. 

THE  PROMISE  OF  TECHNOLOGY  TO  MAKE  CULTURE 
MORE  WIDELY  AVAILABLE  TO  THE  POPULATION 
HAS  HAD  THE  OPPOSITE  EFFECT. 

RAP  MUSIC  IS  THE  NEW  FOLK  MUSIC. 

RAP  MUSIC  FRIGHTENS  MIDDLE  AMERICA  BECAUSE 
IT  USES  EXTREME  LANGUAGE  WHICH  IS  NOT 
TOLERATED. 

RAP  MUSIC  FRIGHTENS  MIDDLE  AMERICA  BECAUSE 
IT  IS  ONE  EXAMPLE  OF  AN  OPPRESSED  GROUP 
USING  TECHNOLOGY  TO  THEIR  BENEFIT. 

PSYCHOTHERAPISTS  HAVE  BECOME  AS  COMMON 
AS  SHOE  SALESMEN. 

PSYCHOTHERAPISTS  ARE  NOT  THE  RITUAL  HEALERS 
INTENDED  BY  FREUD. 

ANALYSIS  SMACKS  OF  RITUAL,  IS  AN  INITIATION. 


-^.  =  ^H  o  f 


Af.^^(/"  '8*^ 


MODERN  PSYCHOTHERAPY  IS  "SAFE  PASSAGE,"  IN 
MUCH  THE  SAME  WAY  THAT  TELEVISION  IS  THE 
"COOL  FIRE." 

THE  MECHANIZATION  OF  WAR  HAS  CREATED  AN 
INDUSTRY  THAT  ECONOMICALLY  DEPENDS  UPON 
WAR  FOR  ITS  SURVIVAL. 

WORLD  GOVERNMENTS  HAVE  A  SYMBIOTIC 
RELATIONSHIP  WITH  THIS  INDUSTRY. 

WORLD  PEACE  WITHIN  THIS  STRUCTURE  IS 
IMPOSSIBLE. 

NEW  AGE  MYTHOLOGY  IS  AN  ATTEMPT  TO 
SYNTHESIZE  VARIOUS  MYSTICISMS  AND  ANCIENT 
PHILOSOPHIES  IN  A  WAY  THAT  SUBVERTS  THE 
POWER  OF  EACH. 

ADVERTISING  IS  THE  MOST  WIDELY  AND 
ENTHUSIASTICALLY  PRACTICED  ART  FORM. 

KITSCH  IS  THE  PRODUCT  OF  AN  IMAGE-OBSESSED 
CULTURE. 

EROTIC  FEMALE  IMAGERY  IS  REPRODUCED 
REPETITIVELY  IN  A  WAY  THAT  TRIVIALIZES 
FEMALE  SEXUALITY. 

GOVERNMENT    RESPONDS  PRIMARILY  TO  THE 
NEEDS  OF  CORPORATE  INDUSTRY. 

NEGATIVITY  AND  CYNICISM  ARE  FASHIONABLE 
REACTIONS  TO  LIBERAL  APATHY. 

NIHILISM  IS  A  REACTION  TO  ALIENATION. 

ANARCHY  IS  A  REACTION  TO  DESPAIR. 

— Paula  Orlando 


PROCESSED  WORLD  26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  49 


Kelly  Girl's  Good  Job 


When  I  was  a  sophomore  in  college  I  found  a 
good  summer  internship  in  Washington,  D.C., 
working  under  the  Jimmy  Carter  administra- 
tion (the  last  administration,  I  believe,  to  take  special 
notice  of  women).  It  paid,  it  sounded  important,  and  I 
hoped  (OK,  I  was  19)  that  it  might  make  me  and  the  rest 
of  the  world  better  feminists. 

The  job  consisted  of  doing  research  for  a  report  to  the 
President  on  the  status  of  women.  We  wrote  abstracts 
from  testimony  by  hundreds  of  women  about  welfare, 
child  care,  sexual  abuse,  harassment,  and  other  types  of 
discrimination.  Those  women  and  the  ones  conducting 
the  hearings,  believed  their  efforts  might  make  a 
difference.  But  I  realized  one  day  that  the  report  wouldn't 
even  be  finished  until  approximately  one  week  before 
Carter  would  be  out  of  office  for  good.  All  that  work  was 
for  show. 

The  all-woman  office  was  entirely  bureaucratic 
and  hierarchical:  the  worst  example  of  women  in 
power  imitating  men.  I  started  keeping  a  journal 
to  ease  my  frustrations,  writing  reflections  about 
how  the  best  way  to  be  a  bureaucrat  was  to  be 
stupid,  how  unfeminist  this  "feminist"  office  was, 
and  how  committee  chair  Lynda  Johnson  Robb 
(of  pink  and  patent-leather  TV  wedding  fame) 
seemed  as  if  she'd  be  much  more  comfortable 
back  home  barking  at  the  servants.  I  also  wrote 
personal  things  about  whom  I'd  slept  with  and 
how  my  eating  disorder  was  going. 

Then  one  day  I  was  called  into  the  Executive 
Director's  office,  where  my  journal  was  sitting  on 
the  middle  of  a  big,  clean  desk.  I  was  told  my 
journal  was  government  property  now.  It  was 
done  on  government  time,  on  a  government  type- 


I  don't  have  to  wake  up 
to  an  alarm  clock,  angry 

as  the  day  begins, 

confined  in  stockings  and 

pumps  and  busses  and 

cubicles,  I  don't  have  to 

pretend  to  be  nice  to 

anyone,  or  play  office 

politics  and  sicken  myself 

at  how  good  I  can  be  at 

those  games . . . 


writer,  so  it  belonged  to  the  government.  They 
threatened  to  fire  me  (I  later  found  out  they 
couldn't,  because  their  action  was  in  fact  what  I 
felt  it  was,  an  invasion  of  privacy). 

The  upshot  was  that  I  could  keep  the  job,  but 
as  punishment  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  work  on  the 
special  White  House  event,  or  anything  else. 

My  second  internship  was  much  more  hip.  I 
worked  at  Rolling  Stone  on  Fifth  Avenue  in  Man- 
hattan. I  wanted  to  work  there  because  eventually 
I  wanted  to  write  raucous,  political,  point-of-view 
journalism,  like  they  had  in  RS's  good  old  days. 

But  the  new  days  at  Rolling  Stone  were  different. 
It  was  a  tense  hushed  atmosphere,  where  only  es- 
tablished old  buddies  ever  wrote  anything.  As  an 
intern  my  job  was  to  photocopy  for  the  profes- 


Page  50 


PROCESSED  WORLD  126/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


sionally  hip.  For  this,  I  was  paid 
nothing,  but  offered  occasional  free 
tickets  to  bad  concerts  and  opportuni- 
ties to  go  out  with  record  reviewers 
twice  my  age.  I  kept  suggesting  ideas 
and  offering  to  do  research,  and  I  kept 
being  told  I  looked  great  in  that  color 
and  would  you  get  me  some  coffee, 
and,  once,  don't  you  realize  you 
should  never  sleep  with  anyone  you 
work  with? 
My  friends  envied  my  great  job. 


Eventually  I  moved  to  San  Francisco 
to  become  a  writer.  I  wrote  a  lot  of 
stories  in  exchange  for  very  little 
money.  I  would  spend  maybe  a  month 
doing  original  research  and,  if  lucky, 
get  paid  $50  or  $150  for  an  article. 
Usually  I  tried  to  write  in  the  style  and 
voice  of  the  publication  (not  my  own) 
and  include  just  what  they  wanted  me 
to  include.  I  was  young  and 
inexperienced.  They  got  off  cheap. 

To  support  myself,  I  worked  as  a 
temp.  My  idea  of  a  good  temp  job  was 
one  where  there  wasn't  much  to  do  all 
day  (particularly  no  charts  to  word 
process)  and  nobody  bothered  me.  It 
was  an  especially  good  temp  job  if 
there  was  free  juice,  easy  access  to  the 
xerox  machine,  lots  of  good  stuff  to 
take  home,  and  a  WATS  line. 

Those  good  temp  jobs  were  few,  and 
didn't  last. 


These  days  I  work  for  myself.  I've 
freelanced  for  several  years,  and 
gradually  I've  been  able  to  do  at  least 
as  much  work  I  want  to  do  as  work  I 
have  to  do  to  pay  the  rent.  I  mostly 
write  about  things  I'm  interested  in, 
and  I  get  paid  pretty  well  for  doing  it 
(relatively  speaking,  of  course). 

But  it  isn't  perfect.  For  instance,  I 
know  that  over  the  years  I've  interna- 
lized many  of  the  requirements  for 
being  a  successful  freelance  writer,  and 
that  my  "voice"  in  magazine  articles  is 
not  always  so  much  my  own  as  it  is  the 
one  I  instinctively  know  will  work.  I 
may  not  have  as  much  freedom  as  I 
think  I  have.  And  I  don't  really  know 
how  my  voice  would  be  different  in  a 
different  kind  of  system,  where  I  didn't 
have  to  write  anything  to  pay  the  rent, 
to  please  the  editors. 

But  I  try  to  be  a  good  boss.  For  one 
thing,  I  don't  make  myself  work  very 
hard.  Friends  of  mine  (mostly  from 
New  York)  who  are  very  time-achieve- 
ment-money oriented  tease  me,   some- 


what jealously,  somewhat  seriously, 
about  being  lazy.  They  can't  understand 
why,  when  they  come  to  visit  on  a  Mon- 
day, I  take  the  day  off  to  go  to  the  beach 
to  be  with  them.  They  don't  know  how  I 
can  be  out  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
when  they  call.  They  think  this  free- 
lancing is  kind  of  cute  but  not  really  that 
important,  and  certainly  not  very  powerful. 
One  of  the  legacies  of  my 
involvement  with  the  Processed  World 
collective  is  that  I've  also  internalized 
the  Why  Work?  ethic.  I  only  work  as 
much  as  I  have  to,  or  want  to.  It 
makes  perfect  sense  to  me  to  take  a 
bicycle  ride  at  3:00  p.m.,  when  most 
people  are  experiencing  that  mid-after- 
noon slump  that  not  even  caffeine  will 
fix.  It  also  makes  sense  to  spend  a  day, 
like  today,  working  on  something  for 
fun,  which  won't  pay  anything  but 
satisfaction. 

But  this  good  job,  as  I  mentioned,  is 
not  without  its  problems.  For  one 
thing,  I  don't  have  a  community  of 
people  to  work  with,  to  conspire,  col- 
laborate, and  create  with.  Working 
alone  I  get  to  feeling  dull.  I've  tried  to 
create  community  by  spending  time 
with  other  freelancers,  having  lunch, 
chatting  about  projects,  and  playing 
hooky  for  whole  weeks  at  the  film 
festival.  I  also  log  in  to  a  virtual  com- 
munity every  day,  talking  with  people 
on  the  WELL,  the  Bay  Area's  Whole 
Earth  'Lectronic  Link.  There  the  con- 
versations are  more  or  less  as  interest- 
ing as  those  you'd  find  at  a  water 
cooler,  but  it's  at  least  interaction. 

There's  also  a  problem  of  feeling  as  if 
I  have  to  recreate  myself  every  day.  I 
can't  simply  push  the  time  clock  and 
do  what's  expected  of  me.  In  some 
ways,  that's  more  difficult.  I  have  to 
pace  myself,  hustle  up  work,  and 
wonder  what  I'll  do  next  month  or 
next  year.  I  panic  that  I'll  run  out  of 
ideas  and  assignments,  that  all  my 
outlets  will  dry  up,  that  I'll  never 
figure  out  the  bigger  project  I  can't 
quite  grasp  right  now. 

But  I  don't  have  to  wake  up  to  an 
alarm  clock,  angry  as  the  day  begins, 
confined  in  stockings  and  pumps  and 
busses  and  cubicles.  I  don't  have  to 
pretend  to  be  nice  to  anyone,  or  play 
office  politics  and  sicken  myself  at  how 
good  I  can  be  at  those  games.  No 
one's  my  boss  except  the  Big  Boss,  the 
economy  that  keeps  me  writing  articles 
that  end  up  wedged  between  glossy  ads 
for  dreams,  articles  that  are  accepted 
because  they  will  appeal  to  people  who 


THE  Pf?£SlPENT'5   COMPUHHG  STATE- 
N\e.K7S   UPME  AOI/SSD  mi  MATICM... 


>NHt,fMIS  SADDAM  HE  S  WORSE  THAN 
nAI>  Vff  fMPAUR .' HtS  WORSE 
THAN  BIACKB£AIU>  TME  PlMT£f 


UNDEFINED  VET  IWfoRTANr  PRiNCiPLfS 
ARE  ATSTAKE-AND  mu$r  BE  DEfEUDCDl 


A  THREAT  TO  A 
MONARCHICAL 
DICTATORSHIP 
IS  A  THREAT 
to  DEMOCKACf' 


YES.' AGGRESSION 
CANNOT  BE  TOIER- 
AfED.  AT  LEAST  IN 
THIS  ONE  PARTI- 
CULAR INSTANCE 


EVERYONES  PITCHING  IN   ANP  POIMG 
THeiR  PARr-eyJEH  FAMOUS  MOYIE 
STARS/ 


I  AM  PLANNING 
TO  60  DOWN  TrtfRE 
*IORKOurVf/|Tri 
THE  TROOPS,  SHOW 
TMEN\  SOME  EKER- 
CISES,  AMD  IMSPIRE 
TriFM  TO  STAY 
W SHAPE J* 


#ftXTUW-  aoOT£--ARMOL[>    SCHV*ARTZtNt66Eft 


YES.ThERE'S  NOTHING  LIKE  A  t¥AR  1© 
HELP  A  NATION  ^tX  XXi  fVllORiniS! 


ACCORDING  To  NEW/  tiX\N\Kres,rt\£ 
SU  BAILOUT  WILL  COST  AAAER\CANS 
f\fri  TRILLION  OOUARS  ^CM- 


IN  ^AOft,E  IHPORTAMT  NEWS, THE  PRES- 
IDENT toOAS  DECLARED  SADDAM  HUS" 
SElN  MORE  EVIL  THAN  A«i?W  VADER! 


buy    dreams.    But    in    that    tiny    filler 
space  I  do  what  I  can. 

And  in  the  long  stretches  of  my 
working  days,  my  good  job  has  a  lot 
more  possibilities. 

-Kelly  Girl 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  5 1 


OOVUNriMl! 


SF  VDT  Legislation: 
A  Great  Idea  Corrupted 

San  Francisco's  by  now  infamous 
Video  Display  Terminal  (VDT)  legisla- 
tion started  out  amazingly  well.  But  by 
the  time  it  was  signed  by  the  mayor, 
most  of  the  protections  had  been  re- 
moved or  watered  down  so  that  workers 
may  only  be  safeguarded  from  the  most 
egregious  examples  of  poorly  designed 
workstations. 

Originally  the  ordinance  would  have: 

•  Affected  workers  who  spend  more  than 
half  their  work  day  at  terminals. 

•  Applied  to  all  businesses  with  15  or 
more  employees  who  work  at  VDTs. 

•  Mandated  adjustable  chairs  and 
desks,  and  set  a  minimum  standard 
for  the  thickness  of  chair  upholstery. 

•  Required  anti-glare  screens  for  em- 
ployees who  request  such  items. 

•  Necessitated  15-minute  work  breaks 
every  two  hours. 

•  Specified  non-glare  lighting  and  light 
intensity. 

•  Mandated  non-VDT  work  during 
pregnancy  when  requested. 

•  Provided  for  employer-sponsored 
vision  exams  and  mitigation. 

•  Minimized  noise  from  impact  printers. 

•  Required  a  minimum  space  of  five 
feet  between  a  worker  and  the  back 
of  a  terminal  to  minimize  exposure  to 
magnetic  fields. 

•  Asked  the  Director  of  Public  Health 
to  report  to  the  county  on  studies  of 
health  effects  from  electromagnetic 
radiation. 

At  the  end  of  the  process,  only  the 
first  five  and  the  last  requirement  were 
left  intact.  The  most  important  one 
that  remained— adjustable  chairs  and 
desks  to  prevent  repetitive  strain 
injuries — was  substantially  weakened  by 
the  business  community. 

VDT  legislation  began  rolling  in  San 
Francisco  after  labor  was  struck  by 
four  ominous  precedents,  according  to 
Barbara  Kellogg,  Oakland-based 
organizer  for  the  Service  Employees  In- 
ternational Union  Local  790. 

In  1988,  a  similar  ordinance  was 
struck  down  in  Suffolk  County,  NY, 
which  is  now  on  appeal.  The  same 
year.  Kaiser  Permanente  came  out  with 
a    study    indicating    that    women    who 


spend  more  than  20  hours  a  week  at  a 
terminal,  and  also  have  higher-stress 
jobs  are  more  likely  to  experience  re- 
productive health  problems,  including 
miscarriages. 

In  1989,  CalOSHA  refused  to  set 
ergonomic,  vision,  and  stress  standards 
for  California  workers,  despite  recom- 
mendations to  do  so  from  their  own 
ad  hoc  committee. 

Finally,  in  mid- 1990,  then-Governor 
Deukmejian  vetoed  a  symbolic  VDT  bill 
that  had  been  watered  down  to  only 
say  that  computer  equipment  makers 
should  meet  their  own  recommended 
ergonomic  standards. 


First  off,  San  Francisco  city  lawyers 
looked  at  the  proposed  legislation  and 
nixed  the  parts  requiring  vision  exams 
and  alternative  work  for  pregnant 
women — since  those  two  areas  are,  or 
may  be  governed  by  the  state  and  fede- 
ral government.  Then,  in  a  misplaced 
spirit  of  cooperation  with  the  "business 
community,"  the  supervisors  spent 
several  months  meeting  with  the  very 
same  business  people  who  have  forced 
workers  to  remain  at  terminals  long 
after  signs  of  stress  injuries  had 
appeared. 

In  one  case,  at  Pacific  Bell,  an  opera- 
tor with  splints  running  from  her 
knuckles  to  her  elbows,  was  forced  to 
remain  at  the  keyboard  or  lose  her  job. 
About  a  month  before  the  ordinance 
was  made  public,  Pac  Bell  announced 
new  plans  for  ergonomic  redesign  of  its 
offices.  However,  Pac  Bell  managers  had 
no  idea  about  such  a  program  and  a 


spokeswoman  said  that  it  was  an- 
nounced before  details  were  worked 
out.  The  San  Francisco  Examiner,  in 
another  case  of  inhumanity,  sent  its 
suffering  workers  home. 

Since  the  supervisors  allowed  these 
meetings,  the  business  community  used 
the  opportunity  to  weaken  nearly  every 
point  in  the  ordinance,  compromising 
safety  further  by  weakening  require- 
ments for  pregnant  workers  to  be  al- 
lowed non-VDT  work  if  requested  and 
indirect  lighting  to  ease  eye  strain. 

Next  to  go  was  the  requirement  that 
a  worker  be  placed  no  closer  than  five 
feet  from  the  back  or  sides  of  a  VDT. 
This  was  put  in  because  electromagnetic 
radiation,  which  the  EPA  says  may  be 
linked  to  cancer,  envelopes  a  terminal 
on  all  sides.  It  was  whittled  down  to 
three  feet  and  then  tossed  completely. 

Even  after  the  bill  was  signed  into  law 
in  late  December,  corporate  interests 
continued  to  tinker  with  it.  Through 
amendments,  they  were  able  to  limit 
the  amount  they  would  have  to  invest 
in  retrofitting  workstations  to  a 
maximum  of  $250  and  to  have  four 
years  to  complete  the  work.  They  were 
also  able  to  extend  non-retrofits,  or  new 
furniture  purchases  for  workstations  up 
to  four  years  after  the  legislation  goes 
into  effect. 

By  negotiating  with  business  leaders 
the  city  helped  shift  the  discussion  from 
the  health  of  workers  to  the  health  of 
the  business  climate,  one  always  coming 
at  the  expense  of  the  other.  Of  course, 
business  once  again  threatened  to  leave 
San  Francisco  due  to  "interference"  by 
city  government. 

There  were  projections  of  enormous 
costs  to  both  the  city  and  business— be- 
tween $73  million  and  $120  million.  But 
no  one  spoke  about  the  cost  of  future 
decades  of  workers'  compensation 
claims. 

To  retrofit  a  cubicle  with  an  adjust- 
able chair  and  desk  and  a  detachable 
keyboard  costs  between  $1,200  and 
$2,000,  testified  one  doctor.  If  someone 
gets  a  repetitive  stress  injury,  workers' 
compensation  for  lost  work  time, 
reduced  output,  increased  premiums, 
administration,  etc.,  easily  tops  all  that. 

But  corporations  see  workers'  comp  as 
a  cost  of  doing  business.  Workers'  comp 


Page  52 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


is  no-fault  insurance,  a  system  which 
prevents  employees  from  filing  for 
punitive  damages.  Companies  which 
knowingly  put  workers  in  a  hazardous 
situation  only  have  to  pay  for  actual 
hospitalization  or  doctor  bills.  Lawyers 
say  it's  a  disincentive  for  protection  (not 
to  mention  bad  for  their  business!). 

Despite  the  massive  concessions, 
many  on  the  corporate  side  came  away 
from  the  process  with  a  sour  taste. 
Some  vowed  to  sue  the  city.  Some 
vowed  resistance.  The  woman  at  Pac 
Bell  with  the  splints  up  to  her  elbows 
couldn't  come  to  the  final  Board  of 
Supervisors  meeting  to  watch  the  vote. 
She  couldn't  take  any  more  time  off 
from  work  at  her  VDT  for  fear  of  losing 
her  job. 

—Frank  Wilde 


SOLIDARITY  WITH  BRITISH 
"POLL  TAX"  RESISTERS! 

The  Poll  Tax 

The  British  government  is  trying  to 
enforce  the  "Poll  Tax" — a  flat  rate  tax 
on  every  adult.  The  Poll  Tax  is  unjust 
and  many  cannot  afford  to  pay  (espe- 
cially women,  young  people  and 
Britain's  black  and  ethnic  minority 
communities).  It  will  also  devastate 
local  democracy  and  welfare  services. 

The  last  time  a  British  government 
tried  to  impose  such  a  tax— in 
1381!— there  was  an  armed  uprising 
and  government  ministers  were  set 
upon  and  killed.  No  other  country  in 
the  world  has  successfully  imposed 
such  a  tax.  Papua  New  Guinea 
scrapped  theirs  12  years  ago  because  it 
was  unworkable.  A  plan  to  implement 
a  Poll  Tax  in  New  South  Wales,  Aus- 
tralia was  abandoned  last  year 
following  the  mass  opposition  in  the 
UK. 
The  Opposition 

Over  12  million  adults  in  Britain 
have  so  far  refused  to  pay  the  tax, 
despite  government  threats  of  court 
action,  seizure  of  property,  wages  etc., 
and  ultimately  prison.  There  are  over 
2,000  local  anti-Poll  Tax  groups  and 
regional  federations  working  to 
encourage  and  support  non-payers,  in 
order  to  make  the  tax  unworkable.  It 
is  a  diverse  and  dynamic  self-organized 
movement  of  class  and  community 
solidarity. 
Trafalgar  Square 

March  31st  was  the  eve  of  the  imple- 
mentation of  the  tax  in  England  and 


Wales  (it  had  been  introduced  in  Scot- 
land the  year  before).  Following  a  wave 
of  angry  local  protests  all  over  the 
country,  a  national  demonstration  was 
called,  ending  in  a  rally  in  Trafalgar 
Square.  Nearly  250,000  people 
attended,  making  it  one  of  the  largest 
demonstrations  in  20th  century  British 
history.  The  police— increasingly  notor- 
ious for  their  role  in  smashing  strikes 
and  other  working  class  actions 
attempted  to  break  up  the  rally  by 
cavalry-charging  a  sit  down  protest 
outside  the  Prime  Minister's  Downing 
Street  residence.  Instead  they  provoked 
a  six-hour  long  battle,  in  which 
protesters  defended  themselves  against 
police  and  did  millions  of  dollars 
damage  to  capitalist  property  in 
London's  lush  West  End.  Predictably, 
the  British  press  and  state  used  the 
police  violence  as  an  occasion  to  attack 
the  anti-Poll  Tax  movement,  and  to 
label  anyone  arrested  as  "Thugs, 
Rioters  or  Hooligans."  The  police 
launched  an  immediate  campaign  of 
harassment  against  the  movement, 
arresting  activists  and  raiding  their 
homes.  Altogether,  over  520  people 
have  been  arrested,  and  are  receiving 
heavy  fines  and  long  prison  sentences 
after  political  show  trials. 


The  Trafalgar  Square  Defendants 
Campaign 

Building  on  the  long  tradition  of 
community  self  defense  by  British 
black  people,  a  campaign  was  formed 
to  support  those  arrested,  coordinate 
legal  defense  (over  200  different  lawyers 
are  acting  for  the  various  defendants), 
and  raise  money  for  defendants'  legal 
and  welfare  costs  (our  target  is  $75,000). 
We  want  to  tell  the  truth  about  what 
happened  in  Trafalgar  Square  that  day 
and  since,  against  the  hysteria  and  lies 
of  the  media  and  the  authorities. 
Above  all,  we  need  to  ensure  the  anti- 


Poll  Tax  movement  is  not  intimidated 
by  these  attacks,  and  fights  for  the 
right  to  oppose  this  hated  tax  and 
demonstrate  freely. 

The  campaign  has  already  organized 
pickets  of  courts  where  show  trials  are 
in  progress,  and  prisons  where 
protesters  are  being  held.  We  have 
successfully  tracked  down  witnesses  to 
illegal  arrests  and  violence  by  police 
officers,  and  have  arranged  lawyers  for 
defendants  who  were  unrepresented. 
We  have  raised  thousands  of  dollars 
for  publicity  and  defendants'  costs,  and 
have  received  support  from  hundreds 
of  anti-Poll  Tax  groups  and  federations 
all  over  the  country. 

We  are  calling  for  the  dropping  of  all 
charges  against  protesters  from  March 
31st  and  October  20th. 
What  You  Can  Do: 

•  Organize  a  protest  and  send  us  a 
report  and  photograph. 

•  Become  a  contact  for  distributing 
information  about  our  activities  in 
your  country. 

•  Publicize  our  situation. 

•  Send  messages  of  solidarity  to 
those  in  prison. 

•  Let  us  know  of  similar  struggles  in 
which  you  are  involved. 

FOR  A  WORLD  WITHOUT  EXPLOI- 
TATION, OPPRESSlOl^  OR 
BORDERS!!! 

The  Trafalgar  Square 

Defendants  Campaign 

(they  can  be  reached  through  Processed  World) 


"COMPANY  MEN" 
REBELLING  IN  JAPAN 

A  new  singing  group,  the  Shines,  is 
spreading  the  notion  that  it's  OK  to 
have  a  life  outside  of  work.  They  are 
striking  a  chord  among  young  Japanese 
within  the  rigid  corporate  structures, 
providing  a  voice  to  express  vague  frus- 
trations. 

"From  early  in  the  morning 
M}!  battle  starts 
I  run  up  the  station  stairs 
Turn  around,  turn  around 
A  cog  in  a  wheel 
Work  hard,  work  hard, 
Japanese  salaryman" 

The  Shines  draw  on  traditions  of 
Japanese  sentimental  ballads  and  com- 
pany picnic  cheers.  "We  sing  a  capella 
because  we  don't  have  instruments, 
and  anyway,  the  message  is  more 
important  than  the  music,"  says  Taro 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  53 


Sugimura,  26.  "The  message  is,  'Let's 
find  another  interest  outside  the 
company.  Let's  enjoy  our  life!" 

Rika  Muranaka,  27,  who  quit  her 
job  at  Esquire  Japan  to  become  a 
freelance  event  promoter,  said,  "It's  no 
longer  enough  to  be  just  a  company 
person.  People  are  beginning  to  see 
that  a  well-rounded,  talented  person 
has  more  than  just  a  company  life." 

More  young  people  in  prestigious 
companies  are  questioning  the  system 
that  got  them  there,  particularly  the 
"examination  hell  that  rewards  their 
ability  to  memorize  and  cultivates  the 
kind  of  diligence  that  companies 
demand."  They  are  questioning  values 
seen  as  integral  to  the  Japanese. 

Recently  there  has  been  a  prolifera- 
tion of  young  people's  groups  called 
"networks,"  which  cut  across  usual 
company  or  university  classmate  lines; 
consisting  instead  of  "side-by-side  rela- 
tionships," without  seniority  systems  or 
vertical  structures  (unlike  traditional 
groups  in  Japan). 

The  new  horizontal  networks  are 
also  unusual  because  they  include 
women.  With  few  exceptions,  women 
are  hired  as  "OLs"  ("office  ladies"), 
pouring  tea,  making  copies  and  doing 
other  trivial  chores.  These  days,  OLs 
are  shown  in  TV  commercials  laughing 
together  at  their  bosses.  The  majority 
of  Shines'  fans  are  OLs.  S.F.  Examiner 


The  Disney  Revolution? 

Disney  employees  were  presumably 
responsible  for  crafting  this  fake  memo 
mocking       the        style        of       Jeffrey 


INTERTWINING  WORKERS 
OF  THE  WORLD,  UNITE! 

(You  have  nothing  to  lose .  .  .but  your  briefs!) 

WANTED!  WANTED!  WANTED! 

Hedonists .  .  Saboteurs .  .  Erotopreneurs .  . 
Pleasurecrats.  .Working  'Stiffs"  for  per- 
sonal stories  of  Sex  on  the  Job,  to  be 
included  in  Fucking  Off  on  the  Job: 
Tales  celebrating  the  erotic  spirit  sapping 
the  strength  of  the  planetary  work 
machine.  A  book  and  serialized  radio 
show  of  first-person  accounts  by 
workers  telling  how  they  mixed 
business  and  pleasure  in  ways  never 
told  before. 

Cultivating  the  erotic  sphere  on  the 
job  takes  many  shapes,  many  hues, 
many  complications.  For  some  it  is 
planned  and  quite  straightforward;  for 
others  it  may  be  a  mutually  consenting 
spontaneous  "accident"— perhaps  re- 
warding,   perhaps    not.    Unfortunately, 


unwanted  sexual  advances  are  an  all- 
too-common  experience.  This  project  is 
NOT  about  that.  Rather,  it  is  about 
consensual  erotic  adventures  in  a 
situation  where  you  have  been  at  work. 

To  contribute  to  this  project,  your 
sexual  forays  do  not  necessarily  have 
to  have  occurred  at  your  job.  It  could 
be  at  a  partner's.  It  could  be  at  the 
workplace  but  "after  hours."  It's  even 
possible  to  exclude  both  the  workplace 
and  hours— one  friend's  story  involved 
him  "stealing"  the  company  truck  after 
work,  picking  up  his  lover  (at  work!) 
and  then  sneaking  the  truck  back  by  6 
a.m.— Whew!  Just  as  there  is  no  set 
definition  of  where  sex  starts  or  stops, 
being  sexual  on  the  job  is  equally  slip- 
pery. So  use  your  imagination.  What  is 
essential  is  that  you  enjoyed  a  charged 
erotic  experience  somehow  linked  to 
the  world  of  work.  Masturbation 
stories  are  perhaps  the  most  common, 
group  sex  the  least,  but  all  tales, 
whatever  their  configuration,  are 
welcome.  You  can  send  a  typed,  first- 
person  narrative,  a  tape  recording,  or  I 
can  interview/record  you  by  telephone 
(or  in  person!)  Call  or  write  us!!  We 
want  your  story!!  Michael  Medo 

Center  for  Full  Empleasurement 

1668  Page  Street,  SF  CA  94117  USA 
(415)  864-1013 


Katzenberg,  chairman  of  Disney 
Studios.  Disney  has  a  reputation  as  the 
most  penny-pinching  of  Hollywood's 
major  studios.  The  satire  was  produced 
and  then  faxed  to  friends  at  other 
companies. 


Another  "True"  Fake 


mm 

This  country  faces  some  of  ttie  worst  economic  and  political  conditions  imag- 
inable. Our  streets  are  filled  with  the  homeless,  the  uneducated:  our  troops 
face  the  constant  threat  of  chemical  weapons,  Scud  missiles  and  repeated 
shell  fire;  and  attendance  at  our  parks  is  down,  way  down. 

That's  the  bad  news.  Now  the  good  news.  We  intend  to  save  money  by 
paying  our  employees  even  less. 

Our  great  and  noble  leader,  Michael  Eisner  himself,  took  home  a  paltry  $1 1 
million  in  stock  and  salary  this  year,  down  from  last  year's  haul  of  over  $50 
million.  ThaVs  an  88  percent  sacrifice! 

All  I'm  asking  is  that  each  of  you  make  the  same  sacrifice  that  Michael 
Eisner  has  made.  By  reducing  employees'  salaries  by  88%  we  will  establish  a 
platform  to  launch  the  next  round  of  good  times. 

Greed  is  the  only  word  that  can  explain  how  we  can  force  employees  to 
work  60-hour  weeks  at  the  studio,  paying  them  the  lowest  salaries  of  any 
major  studio,  while  taking  home  incredible  salaries  ourselves. 


Renegade  sign  maker  Christopher  True 
has  caused  a  stir  in  the  Boston  area  by 
posting  very  official  looking  signs 
bearing  unorthodox  messages. 


Page  54 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Lessons  in  Democracy 

Listen,  you  poor  unemployed  managers  of  State  Utopia 
there  in  grey  Prague,  Sofia  and  drizzling  Warsaw, 

ex-comrades 
with  your  sad  jowls,  wondering  if  you  can  keep  the 

Mercedes — 
here's  what  we  learned  in  Central  America. 
To  stay  on  top  indefinitely  it's  not  enough 
to  split  the  language  into  Above  and  Below 
so  that  dissenters'  words  dissolve  like  salt  under  their 

tongues 
and  make  their  mouths  wither. 

Not  enough 
to  tap  their  phones,  inject  them  with  migraine 
or  vertigo  in  locked  wards,  not  enough  even 
to  pound  their  faces  pulpy  and  toothless 
in  Security  cellars,  abandon  them 
shaky  with  malnutrition  in  some  remote  village. 
You  never  understood  that  fear 

has  to  reach  all  the  way  down 
through  the  body.  The  heart  must  pucker  shut 
like  a  sea  anemone  poked  with  a  stick,  the  fingers 
must  cling  to  the  hand,  the  eyes  to  the  face,  the  lips 
to  the  teeth,  imagining  the  surgical  tray  with  its  silvery  verbs 
laid  out  in  rows,  the  grammar  of  the  Recording  Angel. 
The  fear  must  travel  like  pale  threadworms  in  milk 
from  mother's  nipple  to  child's  mouth. 

Because  somewhere 
your  bodies  still  believed  in  the  body,  in  keeping 
the  promises  you  made  it:  promises 
with  the  warm  savor  of  bread  an  hour  from  the  oven, 
the  bright  primaries  of  a  child's  toy. 
Your  zodiac  still  held  a  vague  sunrise  silhouette, 
woman  or  man  in  Vitruvian  reach 
toward  the  four  corners  of  Heaven. 

That's  why 
in  the  end  it  cracked  from  one  side  to  the  other. 
Peace,  Justice,  Progress,  the  Power  of  the  Workers — 
these  words  that  were  your  only  justification 
soaked  through  your  skins  like  red  dye  and  poisoned 

you  all. 
That's  why  finally  even  your  professionals 
weren't  able  to  keep  it  up, 

whether  cool  surgeon's  gaze  or  sniggering  erection 
when  they  put  out  cigarettes  in  a  prisoner's  wrinkled  openings, 
when  she  bounced  and  wailed  under  the  electrodes. 
You  couldn't  even  trust  your  soldiers  to  open  fire.  In  the  end 
you  were  just  petty  bullies,  knocking  intellectuals'  glasses 

off, 
making  them  take  jobs  cleaning  toilets. 
That's  why  now 

you  hunch  away  crabwise  from  your  teak  desks 
like  bad-tempered  bookkeepers  caught  with  their  hands 

in  the  till, 
whining,  blustering,  promising  to  change.  You  feared  the 

market 
even  as  you  loved  what  it  brought  you. 

PROCESSED  WORLD  126/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


We 
don't  have  these  difficulties.  We  need  only  say:  Subversion. 

We  need  only  show  Them  a  swatted  helicopter,  say, 

some  weapons 
we  captured  inexpensively  from  a  dealer  in  Lima 
and  the  money  comes  down,  pure  as  Their  Columbia  River. 
This  cold  clean  flow  drives  the  turbines 
They  have  given  us,  the  friendly  computers  with  webs 
of  suspect  names  woven  across  the  screen,  the  arc  lights 
around  the  strategic  village  compound,  the  projectors 
in  the  theaters  that  show  Their  movies  about  wild  dogs 
eating  women,  huge  warriors  armored  in 
muscle  pissing  petroleum  fire  into  the  jungle. 
With  this  voltage 

we  wire  up  a  captured  rebel,  scrawny  marionette 
hanging  from  his  own  ganglia,  to  lip-synch  some  atrocity 

script. 
Right  away  new  assault  rifles  appear  in  our  hands, 

blessing  us 
with  fragrant  oil. 

You  see,  we  still  get  the  joke 
when  prisoners'  mouths  make  those  absurd  rubbery  shapes, 
when  they  apologize  for  crimes  they've  never  committed 

and  beg 
to  kiss  our  fingers.  We  understand,  as  you  never  did, 

that  ignorance 
is  a  velvety  dark  bloom  that  must  be  watered  and  pruned. 
We  understand  that  an  army  is  a  business,  like  planting 

coffee 
or  bringing  the  Bible  to  the  brown  mongrels  in  the  barrios. 
We  understand  above  all  that  the  axis  the  planet  spirals 
around  like  a  bluebottle  fly,  buzzing  and  licking, 
is  a  great  column  of  blood  spouting  between  eternities. 

Too  bad 
your  father  Stalin  couldn't  pass  himself  on  to  his  pasty  sons. 
You  see,  our  Father  is  the  Father  of  television.  He  shows  us 
pearl-colored  sedans  cornering  silkily  under  a  swollen  moon, 
gringas  with  tight  hips  and  slow  cataracts  of  hair, 
and  we  reach  into  the  screen's  cool  water 
and  take  them. 

That  is  His  promise.  That's  what  it  means 
to  be  even  the  smallest  organ  of  this  immense  body — 
to  be  rooted,  humbly,  in  the  continent  of  democracy. 

— Adam  Cornford 

Page  55 


'(E%:\From  The  Grey  Ranks 


graphic:  Tomasz  Stepien 

Elves  and  Mermaids: 

Polish  Graffiti  in  War  and  Peace 


Warsaw,   1944:  Graffiti  made  by  Resistance  movement  in  occupied 
Warsaw.  Photo  by  Zaturski  &  Szeliga 


If  on  a  summer's  night  a  traveler.  .  . 

i  met  Tomasz  Sikorski  by  showing  up  on  the  doorstep  of  his 
Warsaw  apartment  late  one  June  afternoon.  I  was  given  his  name  by 
an  artist  designer  friend  in  Wroclaw,  who  told  me  Tomasz  was  putting 
together  a  gallery  show  on  graffiti. 

The  train  to  Warsaw  passed  through  Lodz,  Poland's  second  largest 
city.  I  had  heard  Lodz  was  a  heavy  factory  town,  and  was  surprised  to 
see  what  I  thought  was  the  sun  setting  through  haze,  until  I  realized 
that  fire  was  actually  a  flame  jet  at  the  top  of  a  stack,  not  solar. 

I  happened  upon  Tomasz's  address  by  chance,  as  I  was  wandering 
around  Warsaw's  "Old  Town"  (like  much  of  Warsaw,  this  area  was 
levelled  during  the  war,  and  exists  today  as  a  modern  replica  of  the 
old). 

His  building  was  enclosed  by  a  scaffolding — the  exact  nature  of  the 
renovation,  the  work  was  not  clear ...  it  must  have  been  a  long-term 
project,  whatever  it  was.  Near  the  entrance  I  saw  a  man's  face 
stencilled  on  the  wall,  somewhat  concealed  by  the  scaffolding.  This 
had  to  be  the  place. 

After  explaining  myself  to  the  building's  intercom,  which  greeted  me 
in  English,  Tomasz  said  "Yes,  you'd  better  come  up."  He  was  indeed 
the  man  stencilled  outside. 

Tomasz  invited  me  to  the  opening  of  an  exhibition  at  Centrum 
Sztuka  the  next  evening  on  "The  Lost  Paradise."  It  was  a  retrospective 
of  two  diametrically  opposed  but  complementary  styles  in  Polish  art. 
A  number  of  works  were  drawn  from  the  social  realist  period,  1949-55, 
when  the  state's  cultural  agenda  held  sway,  with  humanizing  portraits 
of  ghouls  like  Stalin  and  the  Polish  commissar  "Bloody  Felix" 
Dzierzynski,  boy-meets-bulldozer  scenes  of  pastoral  patriotism,  and 
apparatchiks  addressing  Party  congresses.  Also  featured  was  opposi- 
tional art  of  the  1980s,  following  the  banning  of  Solidarity  and  the 
imposition  of  martial  law. 

The  next  day,  Tomasz  was  going  to  be  showing  slides  of  Polish 
graffiti  in  another  wing  of  this  gallery,  which  like  so  much  in  Poland 
was  also  undergoing  renovation.  Although  a  long-time  fan  and 
international  collector  of  graffiti,  I  was  unable  to  attend  this  show — for 
I  had  to  fly  to  London  the  next  day  for  the  Attitude  Adjustment 
Seminar  that  Chris  Carlsson,  Mark  Leger,  Melinda  Gebbie,  Linda 
Wiens  and  I  were  to  inflict  on  the  public  to  herald  the  publication  of 
Bad  Attitude,  the  Processed  World  anthology. 

All  Tomasz  and  I  had  time  for  was  talking  about  graffiti  late  into  the 
night.  When  it  began  to  get  dark,  around  10:30,  we  repaired  to  the 
train  station  cafeteria  for  some  cold  soup.  My  flight  was  early  the  next 
morning,  so  I  hastened  back  to  my  hostel  by  the  1 1  p.m  curfew, 
wishing  there  was  time  to  read  more  of  this  Polish  milieu  through  its 
markings,  and  the  people  who  made  them. 

-U.S.  Black 

PW:  Your  father  used  graffiti  in  the  Resistance? 

Tomasz  Sikorski:  Yes,  during  the  Second  World  War,  here  in 
Warsaw,  beginning  from  1941.  My  father  belonged  to  Szare  Szeregi 
(Grey  Ranks),  an  underground  resistance  organization,  derived  from 
the  Polish  Scouts,  incorporated  later  in  1944  into  the  so-called 
National  Army.  During  the  years  1940-44,  one  of  the  forms  of  active 
resistance  was  counter-propaganda:  underground  radio,  press,  and  the 


Page  56 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


most  spectacular,  writing  and  painting  on  the  walls.  One  of  the  duties 
of  my  teenage  father  (he  was  15  when  he  joined  the  Szare  Szeregi),  was 
to  write  slogans  on  the  walls  to  manifest  the  resistance  against  Nazis, 
to  build  up  a  confidence  in  Polish  people  that  Germans  will  fail, 
sooner  or  later. 

German  signs  were  being  changed  back  into  Polish;  signs  of 
RGHTING  POLAND  (the  two  letters  P  and  W  form  an  anchor,  the 
symbol  of  hope),  signs  of  resistance  organizations  and  slogans  in  Polish 
and  German  were  written  on  the  walls. 

Germans  used  their  propaganda;  for  instance,  there  appeared  huge 
inscriptions  which  read:  DEUTSCHLAND  SIEGT  AN  ALLEN 
FRONTEN  (Germans  Win  on  Every  Frontline).  By  altering  just  one 
letter,  this  was  quickly  transformed  into  DEUTSCHLAND  LIEGT 
AN  ALLEN  FRONTEN  (Germans  Lie  on  Every  Frontline).  Or  the 
name  of  Hitler  would  be  turned  into  "Hycler,"  which  sounds  similar 
to  the  Polish  word  for  "dogcatcher." 

Writing  on  walls  is  a  very  quick  and  direct  way  of  communication.  It 
catches  you  by  surprise  whether  you  want  it  or  not.  Everybody  is  a 
potential  receiver.  Therefore  it  was  used  as  one  of  the  weapons  of 
psychological  war. 

You  see,  after  long  years  of  occupation,  some  weaker  souls  may  lose 
their  faith  and  hope,  and  may  try  to  adapt  themselves  to  the  new,  for 
others  unacceptable  situation.  It  was  so  very  important  therefore  to 
maintain  that  faith.  During  the  years  of  occupation  one  strong  sign  of 
resistance  worked  like  a  spark  in  deep  darkness. 

With  the  outbreak  of  the  Warsaw  Uprising  on  the  1st  of  August, 
1944,  writing  on  the  walls  subsided.  Nazis  were  pushed  out  from  the 
central  districts  of  Warsaw,  and  graffiti  was  replaced  by  posters  and 
printed  news-sheets  displayed  on  the  walls.  Now,  not  brush  and  paint 
were  used,  but  guns  and  bullets. 

Then  the  Stalinist  times  came,  a  new  wave  of  terror,  cold  war.  As  far 
as  I  know,  there  was  no  other  form  of  street  propaganda  then,  other 
than  official  monumentalism.  My  father  does  not  recall  any  examples 
of  graffiti,  neither  then  nor  in  the  following  years,  although  it  is  quite 
probable  that  it  appeared  around  protests  and  demonstrations  in 
1956,  1968, and  1970. 

The  first  form  of  graffiti  that  I  have  witnessed  was  the  striking  series 
of  human  silhouettes  that  suddenly  appeared  somewhere  about  1973 
in  Warsaw.  In  one  particular  area,  there  were  grouped  outlines  of 
human  bodies,  in  natural  size,  painted  with  a  wide  brush  with  either 
white  or  black  paint  in  places  where,  according  to  rumor,  civilians 
were  killed  by  the  Nazis.  It  is  supposed  that  someone  had  witnessed 
those  acts  and  then,  thirty  years  later,  reconstructed  them  in  the  exact 
places — for  instance,  while  leaning  against  a  wall  with  their  hands  up, 
or  caught  while  jumping  over  a  fence,  probably  in  an  attempt  to 
escape .  .  . 

PW:  Reminds  me  of  Chicago  in  1981  or  '82.  Suddenly  on  the 
sidewalks  of  Hyde  Park  appeared  the  words,  at  various  strategic 
points,  "A  Woman  Was  Raped  Here."  You'd  be  walking  along,  and 
without  warning  find  yourself  faced  with  a  shocking  flashback.  Also, 
there  are  the  shadows  that  appear  on  the  sidewalks  in  August  to 
commemorate  Hiroshima  and  Nagasaki. 

TS:  And  strikingly  similar  to  the  figures  of  the  so-called  desapareci- 
dos  in  Argentina  and  perhaps  in  other  parts  of  Latin  America.  It  was 
the  first  graffiti  that  I  saw,  and  the  first  one  that  I  took  pictures  of. 

With  the  rise  of  the  Solidarity  movement  in  1980,  it  brought  a  whole 
new  wave  of  iconography.  In  1980,  this  was  used  mainly  for  political 
statements  and  slogans,  signs  and  symbols  of  the  forces  of  opposition. 
Later,  when  Solidarity  grew  into  an  all-nation  movement,  it  adopted 
the  symbols  that  traditionally  denoted  the  nation's  ideals  and  its 


-„#- 

-%?^' .> 

f~i  '  -'ill 

Hi; 

Ik^^ 

1* -;,* 

J^ 

,'    k 

'■^?^ 

mLu 

-■*«>f5       ■■     ": 

0 

if              '  1 

f-  -?& 

l- 

i^ 

■   '   IP 

7 

i 

E 

0 

•i .  1 

|i 

1 

\ 

b 
o 
a. 

■«v|:,^.^  ,. 

:% 

1 

-    V    -r- , 

■  ~ .  is 

i 

", 

iSi 

■^m 

•,>,.■?-■ '  "^ . 

i 

■    -  M: 

■:- 

f::      , 

PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  57 


Lodz  (pronounced  Woodge),  Poland's  2nd  largest  city. 


"The  time  we  live  in  must  be  filled  up  with  struggle  and 
hard,  arduous  work,"  —General   W.  Jaruzelski 

Photo:  Tonnasz  Sikorski,   1990 


Struggle  for  freedom.  Two  colors  were  dominating:  white  and  red,  the 
national  colors  of  Poland. 

Under  the  terror  of  martial  law  in  Poland  (1981-1983),  political 
graffiti  and  underground  press  were  extremely  important.  A  very 
interesting  phenomenon  was  the  reappearance  of  the  anchor-like 
symbol  of  the  Underground,  Fighting  Poland.  Their  message  was 
clear:  Poland  is  occupied  again,  and  again  we  will  fight  the  enemy. 

Very  few  things  were  legal  then,  and  the  absurdity  of  martial  law 
was  beautifully  pinpointed  and  ridiculed  by  the  Pomaranczowa 
Alternaty wa  (Orange  Alternative)  movement  led  by  Wladyslaw 
"Major"  Frydrich.  In  1982,  he  and  his  friends  started  to  paint  colorful 
elves  on  the  walls  of  Wroclaw.  In  1983,  elves  appeared  in  Warsaw. 
They  were  smiling,  innocent,  some  of  them  holding  flowers  in  their 
tiny  hands,  but  they  were  all  illegal!  Imagine,  illegal  elves!  The 
authorities  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  them.  They  couldn't  leave 
them  because  they  were  illegal,  but  neither  could  they  wipe  them  off 
without  making  a  laughingstock  of  themselves. 

Major's  favorite  places  for  painting  elves  were  the  fragments  of  walls 
where  previously  there  had  been  illegal  inscriptions.  Special  crews 
painted  over  this  graffiti;  their  job  was  to  blur  messages  before  they 
could  reach  the  public.  The  crews  used  paint  of  a  particularly  ugly  grey 
color.  Those  stains  of  grey  were  perfect,  prime  spots  to  put  new  signs 
on. 

Everything  painted  and  drawn  on  the  walls  was  being  systematically 
destroyed  during  martial  law,  and  in  the  following  years,  until  the  fall 
of  communism  in  1989. 

I  took  real  pleasure  in  photographing  those  little  elves,  and  that's 
how  my  slide  collection  of  graffiti  began.  Then  in  1984  my  life  brought 
me  to  New  York  City,  and  I  was  truly  overwhelmed  by  the  polyphony 
and  the  power  of  graffiti  there.  I  took  pictures  of  everything  that  I 
could.  Left  some  stencil  prints  on  the  walls  and  sidewalks  of  SoHo  and 
the  East  Village.  I  came  back  to  Warsaw  in  the  Fall  of  1985,  and 
immediately  started  to  spread  my  stencilled  works  on  the  walls  over 
here. 

I  brought  home  quite  a  big  collection  of  slides  of  New  York  graffiti. 
My  intention  was  to  spread  around  and  spur  graffiti  in  Poland  in  order 
to  fight  the  rigidity,  the  uniformity  and  the  hypocrisy  of  the 
socio-political  system  here.  I  travelled  to  various  cities  with  a  show  of 
about  300  slides  which  were  synchronized  with  an  audio  tape.  On  the 
tape  there  were  sounds  recorded  in  the  places  where  I  took  pictures, 
bits  of  various  music  and  other  sounds  of  Manhattan.  Sometime  in 
1986,  to  my  uttermost  delight,  some  friends  of  mine  started  doing  their 
own  graffiti.  From  the  very  beginning,  stencil  was  the  most  popular 
technique.  Because  of  problems  with  finding  spray  paint  (the  cunning 
authorities  made  it  unavailable  for  long  years),  the  paint  was  applied 
with  a  sponge  wad. 

It  is  perhaps  worth  mentioning  here  that  those  who  were  first  to  do 
graffiti  in  Poland  were  either  art  students  or  graduates.  Nowadays 
there  is  a  whole  avalanche  of  graffiti  makers:  teenagers,  kids,  organized 
groups,  recognizable  individuals. 

Most  graffiti  in  postwar  Poland,  if  not  all  of  it,  was  political;  its 
source  was  disagreement.  Besides  strikes,  demonstrations,  and 
underground  press,  wall  writings  were  the  true  evidence  of  this 
disagreement.  The  communist  propaganda,  on  the  other  hand,  used 
its  boring  messages  everywhere.  There  were,  for  instance,  huge 
monumental,  pseudo-patriotic  slogans  painted  on  factory  walls 
addressed  to  the  workers,  large-scale  poster-like  billboards  in  a  terrible 
style,  attempting  to  make  them  work  more  and  more  for  the  country's 
better  future  and  international  peace.  These  were  made  with  steel  and 
concrete  to  last  forever.  The  opposition  scribbled  on  the  walls  with 
haste.  The  two  aesthetics  differed  greatly,  one  legal  and  untrue,  the 


Page  58 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


other  illegal  and  true. 

All  of  political  graffiti  was  generally  against  something,  against  the 
occupant,  against  the  system,  against  the  government.  Only  in  the 
late  eighties  there  appeared  graffiti  which  brought  messages  that  were 
not  against  something,  but  rather  for  something,  let's  say  for  normal, 
real  and  joyful  life,  without  hypocrisy  and  pretence.  I  think  that  most 
of  art  can  be  seen  as  an  endeavor  towards  the  wholeness  of  human 
life. 

It  is  necessary  to  make  a  distinction  here  between  graffiti  as  a 
political  weapon,  and  graffiti  as  a  form  of  art.  It  is  an  extensive  topic, 
but  briefly  speaking  one  could  say  that  art— or  any  other  form  of 
individual  expression  that  comes  from  a  totalitarian  system — weakens 
that  system.  All  forms  of  art  are  valid  in  this  respect,  but  graffiti  art  is 
perhaps  the  most  perfect  because  it  can  be  done  by  anyone,  and 
because  it  can  reach  anyone,  without  any  mediators  or  interpreters. 
And  besides — artworks  placed  on  street  walls  come  as  a  surprise,  and 
are  perceived  unexpectedly.  Their  power  is  different  than  that  of 
artworks  exhibited  in  art  galleries.  Graffiti  lives  in  the  context  of  the 
real  environment,  it  originates  from  it,  is  a  part  of  it,  and  transforms 
it.  It  does  not  need  any  special,  abstracted  space. 

The  thing  that  I  find  most  interesting  in  graffiti  art  is  the  desire  to 
transform  the  environment,  the  striving  to  turn  a  place  you  live  in  to  a 
place  you  feel  like  belonging  to.  It  is  like  putting  a  charm  on  something 
in  order  to  make  it  alive  and  more  humane. 

That  is  what  I  experienced  in  New  York:  I  saw  that  most  of  those 
dead  buildings  with  burned-out  windows  and  other  abandoned, 
strange  looking  places  were  painted,  marked  and  drawn  all  over.  There 
were  many  graffiti  signs  that  were  very  tiny,  you  had  to  look  around 
very  carefully,  come  very  close,  sometimes  squat  down  or  lean  over  a 
fence.  Some  of  those  little  arrangements  were  done  with  evident  love 
or  passion,  and  looked  like  sanctuaries.  Very  powerful,  although 
modest  and  silent! 

I  think  that  the  same  impulse  drove  the  unknown  souls  in  the 
desolate  areas  of  Manhattan  and  in  the  grim  cities  of  Poland  under 
martial  law. 

Under  martial  law,  most  artists — I'm  thinking  about  visual 
artists— were  boycotting  official  places  to  show  their  work.  Classical 
forms  of  art  couldn't  do  much.  But  when  one  door  is  closed,  another 
one  is  open.  For  instance,  for  me  one  of  the  ways  to  show  my  work,  to 
continue  my  activity,  was  to  do  something  in  places  which  weren't 
belonging  to  anybody  in  particular,  to  any  organization  or  institution. 
Street  walls,  telephone  booths  were  perfect  places  to  use. 

PW:  What  has  changed  about  graffiti  since  Solidarity  came  to 
power? 

TS:  Sometimes  it  is  hard  to  believe  how  much  and  how  quickly  the 
things  have  changed  over  here,  from  one  extreme  to  another.  After 
years  of  total  control,  suppression,  censorship  bans,  and  such— we 
jumped  into  the  vast  waters  of  freedom.  And  look,  now  we  have  a 
show  of  graffiti  which  is  going  to  open  tomorrow  evening  right  here,  at 
the  Center  of  Contemporary  Art  (Centrum  Sztuki  Wspolczesnej).  It 
will  be  the  first  show  of  its  kind  in  the  country.  This  show,  which  I  am 
curating,  will  take  place  on  the  second  floor  of  this  seventeenth 
century  castle.  You  see,  some  few  years  ago  I  did  my  first  graffiti  prints 
here  in  the  dark  of  the  night,  frozen  with  fear  of  being  arrested. 
Today,  the  same  works  are  being  shown  just  a  few  steps  away  from 
their  original  location,  this  time  openly,  one  of  the  most  official  places, 
sponsored  by  the  Ministry  of  Culture.  Everything  changes,  and  all  is 
possible.  .  . 

Graffiti  in  Poland  is  on  the  rise  now,  it  is  growing  very  quickly 
and  now  you  can  see  it  even  in  the  small,  remote  towns. 


RED  CULTURE 

Warsaw,  1990 


IMPRISON  POLITICALS 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  59 


I«isk»i 


«^2t 


ACETYLENOWY 
Pn2ER/iT()R    1 

KiELIiASiANO   i 
lUILTUI^JWY J 


ACETONE 

ETHER 
SAUSAGE 
CULTURE 


It  is  also  losing  its  combative  spirit.  It  becomes  lighter,  more 
entertaining,  more  decorative,  more  elaborate,  more  related  to  young 
subcultures,  to  music .  .  .  Since  graffiti  is  not  so  bound  to  politics  now, 
many  really  young  kids  joined  in  with  their  own  iconography.  You 
can  notice  now  certain  schools  or  groups.  There  is  an  air  of  growing 
competitiveness  and  showing  off.  And  obviously,  it  is  much  more 
diversified  now,  since  more  and  more  people  do  it. 

The  common  enemy  has  died.  That's  a  strange  moment:  for  some, 
especially  for  the  beginners,  it  is  very  activating.  For  some  others,  on 
the  other  hand,  though,  it  is  quite  demobilizing.  You  see,  if  you  no 
longer  have  this  enemy,  this  all-too-obvious  target  or  point  of 
reference— you  have  to  think  what  to  do  now. 

[But]  I  think  there  will  always  be  something  which  you  would  feel 
like  opposing.  Youngsters,  for  instance,  have  different  problems  than 
those  who  are  30  or  40  years  old.  I  am  not  doing  graffiti  anymore 
because  I'm  concerned  with  other  things  now,  primarily  with 
painting,  but  for  younger  or  beginning  artists,  graffiti  is  a  good  way  to 
manifest  themselves  and  to  join  the  culture. 

Youngsters  want  to  be  seen.  They  go  the  fast  way,  they  do  not  want 
to  wait  for  some  remote  tomorrow.  I  know  committed  graffiti-makers 
who  are  15  years  old  or  younger,  and  of  course  it  doesn't  mean  that 
they  will  do  only  graffiti  in  their  lives.  I  don't  know  anybody  who  does 
just  that.  Imagine  someone  who  is  sixty,  and  still  goes  around  with  a 
spray  can. 

Graffiti  may  just  be  a  certain  stage  in  someone's  development,  or  a 
certain  episode.  Therefore,  attempts  to  fight  graffiti  are  unwise  and 
unrealistic. 

And,  obviously,  graffiti-making  may  be  a  passage  to  the  art  world. 
You  could  have  noticed  it  in  America.  After  the  big  boom  in  1983-84, 
people  like  Keith  Haring,  who  started  with  graffiti,  quickly  became 
famous.  There  were  many  followers,  whole  organized  gangs  from  New 
Jerseys  and  Bronxes,  who  would  dream  of  making  quick  careers,  not 
necessarily  financial,  so  they  would  come  over  to  Manhattan,  paint 
huge  walls,  remembering  to  leave  a  legible  signature.  I  have  met  young 
graffiti  artists  in  Poland  who  are  now  trying  to  enroll  in  academies  of 
fine  arts.They  feel  like  being  artists,  they  are  artists,  beginning  artists 
who  started  off  and  expressed  themselves  primarily  through  graffiti. 

PW:  What  do  you  see  as  the  future  of  graffiti  art  in  Poland? 

TS:  I  don't  know.  I  think  this  is  perhaps  the  most  interesting  part  of 
it.  It  is  a  kind  of  art  form  that  is  very  strongly  connected  to  the  present 
problems  of  the  times,  to  the  political,  cultural,  and  social  situations. 

Graffiti  will  always  be  there  until  everybody  will  be  satisfied.  But  it  is 
quite  inconceivable  that  everybody  will  be  happy,  and  I  suppose  that 
in  our  times,  in  places  like  Warsaw,  New  York,  and  other  big  cities, 
there  will  always  be  problems  for  at  least  certain  groups  of  people,  and 
that  they  will  always  feel  the  urge  to  articulate  their  position. 

But  beyond  socio-politically  engaged  graffiti,  there  is  something  that 
is  especially  interesting  to  me,  which  is  graffiti  that  transcends  the 
prosaic  aspects  of  life  and  is  more  spiritually  oriented. 

For  instance,  there  was  a  guy  called  Larmee.  In  1984/85  1  saw  many 
of  his  paintings  on  the  walls  of  Manhattan.  He  would  make  his 
paintings  at  home  on  paper,  and  then  he  would  glue  the  ready  works 
on  the  walls  in  various  places  in  Lower  Manhattan.  His  works  were 
not  politically  oriented,  not  at  all.  They  instead  expressed  loneliness, 
the  solitude  of  a  person  in  a  big  city,  something  that  was  particularly 
striking  in  crowded  places,  like  on  Broadway  in  rush  hour.  Just 
imagine  seeing  suddenly  a  beautiful,  detached,  and  somehow 
sorrowful  face  in  a  dehumanized  place:  something  very  tender,  very 
human,  something  that  suddenly  shifts  your  attention  onto  a  higher 
level. 


Page  60 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Another  example:  a  stencil  print,  small  delicate,  almost  unnotice- 
able,  faded  face  of  a  young,  pensive  boy  with  an  inscription  below, 
"THERE  IS  A  NEW  KID  IN  TOWN."  Very  simple  and  very 
touching.  I  still  remember  that  face,  it  looked  so  much  more  humane 
than  the  faces  of  the  rushing  phantoms  around. 

My  own  graffiti  works,  my  first  stencils  and  chalk  drawings,  were 
also  not  politically  oriented,  and  it  was  curious  to  observe  that  these 
special  crews  of  graffiti  exterminators  would  sometimes  leave  my 
works  intact.  Some  of  them  survived  the  long  years,  and  are  still  there. 
They  were  for  everybody,  you  see,  for  the  right  and  the  left,  for 
communists  and  non-communists,  for  atheists  and  for  the  believers, 
they  were  just  for  men  and  women,  regardless  of  their  external  guises. 

At  that  time,  in  1985, 1  didn't  use  any  distinct  political  messages 
except  for  one  thing:  I  made  a  stencil  with  the  emblem  of  the  city  of 
Warsaw,  which  is  a  mermaid.  The  emblem  is  strange  and  alien  to  me, 
because  the  mermaid  holds  a  shield  and  sword.  So  I  made  a  new 
image:  the  mermaid  joyfully  throwing  the  shield  and  the  sword  away, 
freeing  herself  finally  from  that  burden.  The  message  was  clear:  change 
is  coming,  end  of  playing  war,  no  more  creating  enemies,  no  need  for 
armament.  And  also:  down  with  the  army,  with  the  military. 

PW:  What  are  the  risks  involved  in  making  graffiti  in  Poland? 

TS:  I  used  to  do  it  at  night,  because  one  couldn't  foresee  the 
consequences;  anything  could  have  happened.  My  father  would  be 
shot  dead  if  caught  doing  it  in  1942.  If  I  were  caught  doing  it  in  1985, 1 
would  be  arrested. 

Now  I  hear  from  a  graffiti  kid  that  there  is  no  written  law  that  bans 
graffiti.  It  is  not  illegal,  it  must  be  legal.  I  never  heard  about  a  trial,  or 
sentence,  or  a  fine  for  making  graffiti  here. 

It  is  not  dangerous  anymore.  Maybe  it's  one  of  the  reason  that  I  quit 
doing  it.  It  is  not  exciting  anymore.  Resistance  is  a  natural  and  very 
strong  energy  in  the  human  psyche. 

PW:  To  summarize? 

TS:  Some  words  about  the  future,  perhaps. 

I  think  there  are  two  directions.  The  first  is  the  obvious  voice  of 
those  who  feel  like  expressing  their  unfavorable  situation  or  political 
opinions.  I  suppose  that  in  Poland  more  and  more  individuals  will  fall 
into  very  difficult  positions.  This  first  kind  of  graffiti  could  be  called 
political,  combative,  or  contentious. 

The  other  kind  is  artistically  oriented.  Among  meaningless 
scribblings,  there  are  true  artworks  painted  on  the  street  walls  instead 
of  on  canvas  and  shown  in  interiors  accessible  to  few.  This  is  very 
important.  I  think  that  this  is,  in  today's  free  Poland,  the  real  test.  The 
external  enemy  is  gone;  now  is  the  time  to  drive  away  the  internal 
enemy— ignorance,  mental  stiffness,  prejudice,  superfluousness,  lazi- 
ness, and  so  on. 

I  remember  what  Keith  Haring  said  in  one  of  the  interviews  about 
his  graffiti.  He  said  that  even  when  he  started  to  show  in  galleries,  he 
still  wanted  to  use  the  more  immediate  way  of  communication, 
without  any  mediators.  It  is  really  wonderful,  because  you  do  it  for 
other  people,  engage  yourself  into  something  that  transcends  your  own 
particular  case,  and  you  do  it  selflessly. 

You  paint  something  on  a  wall,  and  it  hits  the  people  right  away. 
There's  no  time  in  between  the  execution  of  the  work  and  the  act  of 
showing  it.  You  do  it,  and  it's  already  there,  in  action! 


# 


Graphic;  Tomasz  Sikorski,  Warsaw  1985 


DANKER 

MONEY ! 


-4  A -A 


Graphic;  Tomasz  Stepien,  Wroclaw 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  lOih  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  6 1 


Art  &  Chaos  in  Brazil /^l 


i  spent  five  weeks  in  and  around  Sao  Paulo,  Brazil  during  the  southern 
hemispheric  summer  1 988-89.  Fortunately  I  was  with  my  long-time  m 

companion  Caitlin  Manning,  whose  talent  at  learning  new  languages,         I 
together  with  our  good  luck  in  finding  fascinating  interview  sub}ects,made  it 
possible  to  produce  a  one-hour  video  documentary  called  Brazilian  Dreams: 
Visiting  Points  of  Resistance.  One  of  the  most  intriguing  eTu:ounters  we  had 
was  with  Ze  Carratu,  a  very  active  graffiti  artist  in  Sao  Paulo's  explosive 
street  art  scene.  What  follows  are  excerpts  from  the  interview  Caitlin 
conducted  in  a  concrete  shell  of  an  abandoned  building  on  the  University  of 
Sao  Paulo  campus,  which  was  originally  to  be  a  cultural  center.  The 
basement  is  submerged  in  four  feet  of  water,  and  the  building  has  become  an 
eerie  gallery  of  graffiti  art.  The  editing  and  translation  are  mine. 

—Chris  Carlsson 


Page  62 


ZE  CARRATU:  The  Rio  de  Janeiro— Sao  Paulo  axis  represents 
the  two  most  effervescent  cities  in  Brazil,  where  people  really  have  a 
vision  of  modernity  and  information  about  First  World  cultural 
developments.  I  make  a  living  from  plastic  art.  Some  works  I've  made 
are  commercialized.  I  paint  murals.  I  am  recognized,  Pve  done  lots  of 
paintings.  I  live  pretty  hard,  but  I  come  from  a  family  of  immigrants, 
Italians,  and  they  have  a  certain  power.  They  developed  a  business  in 
Brazil  and  managed  things.  I,  for  example,  am  a  person  with  the 
opportunity  to  travel,  to  leave  the  country.  I  can  go  and  return.  Thus, 
I'm  the  only  one  who  does  culture  in  a  family  of  three  hundred! 

I  am  from  a  family  of  Italian  anarchists.  I'm  sort  of  an  anarchist,  I 
don't  know,  I  just  think  there's  going  to  be  a  tremendous  chaos,  total 
chaos,  and  afterward  we  are  going  to  have  to  build  a  new  society,  sort 
of  like  what  happens  in  a  country  after  a  big  war .  .  . 

PW:  And  the  role  of  the  artist  in  this? 

ZC:  The  artist  has  to  help  establish  chaos.  I  think  that  s/he  has  to 
be  critical  and  work  on  the  chaos,  appropriate  the  chaos— and  that's 
what  I  do.  I  work  on  the  garbage,  the  rubble  of  the  city,  this  is  a  way  of 
elevating  chaos. 

I  eat  the  culture  that  was  given  to  me.  I  was  born  with  the  ability  to 
have  culture,  to  learn  things  and  understand  society.  So  I  swallow 
these  things  that  I  learn.  This  is  "anthropophagy,"  I  eat  my  literature. 
We  had  anthropophagists  here  in  Brazil,  the  Indians  that  ate  people. 
The  Portugese  were  good  to  eat!  Today  I  eat  the  culture  in  a  certain 
way.  It's  chaos,  we  mix  everything  together.  I  can't  forget  that  I  do  art 
in  Brazil.  The  images  that  I  make  have  everything  to  do  with  this 
culture  and  this  society.  They  are  almost  all  fragments. 

Since  I  work  in  the  city,  here  inside,  I  am  using  the  city  as  a  support, 
a  context.  I  think  it's  pretty  natural,  probably  the  same  in  any  part  of 
the  world,  that  people  try  to  understand  each  other  in  the  street. 
From  the  moment  I  am  in  the  street,  I  am  mixing  with  society.  When  I 
am  in  my  workshop,  I  am  far  from  society,  things  are  totally  abstract. 
But  on  the  streets  I  must  make  myself  clear  sociologically,  anthropolo- 
gically because  I  am  in  the  middle  of  everyday  life. 

PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


1 


Graffiti  has  very  interesting  characteristics.  People  have  an  artistic 
way  when  they  are  working  with  graffiti.  Joao,  Kenny  Schaffley,  Keith 
Haring  and  these  people  have  artistic  training,  so  their  graffiti  is  a  true 
work  of  art.  Here  in  Brazil  we  have  much  to  learn  from  our  own  Third 
World  situation.  We  are  at  a  distance,  not  just  because  of  the  ocean, 
but  because  of  the  type  of  news  that  we've  had  available  during  this 
time. 

I  began  working  in  the  street  in  1978. 1  didn't  begin  with  graffiti,  but 
with  performance  works,  theater,  and  environmental  installations.  In 
1982,  a  guy  from  New  York  started  doing  graffiti  here.  May  1968  in 
Paris  was  a  powerful  message,  and  as  I  was  already  working  in  the 
streets,  I  saw  that  the  street  was  a  very  important  space.  The  poverty 
of  the  people,  the  necessity  of  bringing  information  to  them, 
motivated  us  to  begin  doing  graffiti.  Our  graffiti  began  inside  the  city, 
on  walls,  on  the  sides  of  buildings. 

Sao  Paulo  is  a  city  with  a  big  speculation  problem.  Real  estate 
speculation  in  this  city  devalues  one  space  and  raises  the  value  of 
another,  which  they  understand  how  to  manipulate  very  well.  For 
instance  the  government  put  the  river  into  an  underground  sewer, 
built  a  big  avenue  on  it,  with  huge  walls  on  either  side,  and  people  in 
the  surrounding  neighborhoods  moved  away.  It  became  a  slum.  Then 
the  speculators  came  in  and  bought  up  the  place  at  a  very  low  price, 
and  it  soon  increased  in  value.  So  we  began  to  work  on  top  of  these 
speculators.  They  speculate  a  place,  tear  it  down.  Chaos  is  established 
and  there  we  go  to  work,  always. 

This  space  [an  abandoned  cultural  center  building  on  the  University 
of  Sao  Paulo  campus]  is  typical,  because  it  was  constructed  in  1976 
more  or  less.  In  a  place  so  short  of  technical  resources  and  cultural 
information  that  people  need,  a  space  like  this  with  thousands  of 
square  meters  was  never  used  for  anything.  So  we  decided  to  occupy 
it.  Now  we  are  trying  to  rescue  it  as  a  cultural  space  and  bring  its 
existence  to  people's  attention.  We  are  going  to  hold  an  event  with 
people  from  cinema  and  other  art  forms  and  hold  a  great  cultural 
marathon  to  rescue  this  place.  It's  an  alert  that  there's  something  to 
do,  to  come  and  see  that  it's  possible  for  something  to  happen  here. 
Because  nobody  even  knows  that  it  exists,  neither  the  local 
community  nor  the  students  on  campus.  No  one  ever  comes  here,  it's 
never  used,  in  fact,  never  finished!  So  we've  painted  here,  we're  still 
painting,  working  all  the  time. 

When  we  first  came  here  1 1  years  ago  we  found  names  and  dates 
inscribed  on  the  walls,  like  "Severino,  1976."  Severino  was  probably 
an  immigrant  from  Brazil's  northeast,  where  it  is  a  common  name, 
and  he  was  probably  working  here  as  manual  labor.  Many  people  were 
working  here  for  a  time,  but  for  nothing,  and  this  is  quite  common 
here  in  Brazil. 

Now  some  people  are  living  here,  poor  people,  also  some  punks,  and 
we've  hung  out  with  them.  Here  is  a  mirror  of  water,  which  underlines 
the  sadness  one  feels  when  you  realize  that  a  space  of  this  size  is  here 
for  nothing,  it's  such  an  absurdity,  a  waste,  so  much  money,  the 
speculation!  They  built  a  building  under  water!  Of  course  it  could  be 
fixed,  but  this  was  a  work  of  pure  speculation,  squandering  money 
with  no  thought  whatsoever.  They  said  this  would  be  a  cultural 
center,  but  such  a  thing  interests  no  one  in  Brazil  because  people  here 
don't  care  about  culture.  In  the  time  of  this  construction,  the 
mid-1970s,  the  political  situation  was  very  complicated.  There  was  an 
ideological  hunt  going  on,  really  a  persecution  of  thought.  So  those 
people  who  were  really  articulating  something,  they  had  no  power  to 
do  anything  at  that  time. 


(Marijuana  leaf  X'ed  out  on  Can) 
NOW  IN  CANS! 


BRAZILIAN  DREAMS:  Visting  Points  of  Resisunce".  available  from  BACAT,  1095  Markec  St  .  1209,  S  F  ,  CA  94103 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  63 


DON'T  VOTE  FOR  A  PHOTO 


There  are  many  works,  many  places  that  we  develop  in  the  city.  The 
only  places  that  really  bear  our  work  well  are  these  immense  places 
that  have  never  been  used  for  anything.  Our  presence  immediately 
improves  them. 

I  think  there  is  going  to  be  a  great  chaos  and  that  will  be  really  good 
for  making  art. 

PW:  But  for  life? 

ZC:  I  think  not  for  life,  but  for  the  artist  it  is  very  inspiring.  It's 
already  a  chaotic  city  in  a  certain  way.  On  one  side  you  have  beauty, 
on  the  other  barbarism,  extreme  poverty.  You  can  go  to  the  southern 
area  of  Sao  Paulo  and  it  is  beautiful,  marvelous,  like  a  Beverly  Hills.  If 
you  go  to  the  eastern  zone  or  the  north  you  will  see  incredible  poverty, 
serious  suffering. 

Brazil  is  a  country  of  speculation,  of  grand  industries  built  on 
speculation.  We  have  20  brands  of  powdered  soap,  30,  40  brands  of 
detergent,  200  of  canned  sausage,  everything.  Only  people  can  see  it 
but  they  cannot  buy  it.  You  go  to  the  eastern  zone  where  they  have 
four  supermarkets  in  a  very  poor  neighborhood,  with  immense 
displays  of  merchandise,  with  the  same  advertising  as  here.  You  have 
a  culture  shock,  a  social  shock  because  the  people  can  see  but  cannot 
have.  So  what  do  they  do?  They  steal.  It  is  perfectly  natural  that  this 
occurs,  considering  the  shocking  divergence  between  what  is  seen  and 
what  can  be  had. 

We  see  that  in  our  city  all  the  art  galleries  and  cultural  spaces  are 
here  for  a  very  specific  part  of  the  public.  People  that  patronize  such 
spaces  are  very  select,  and  very  selected.  The  galleries  are  constructed 
in  a  certain  way,  there  is  always  a  guard  at  the  door,  there's  no  access 
for  handicapped,  and  so  on.  The  Brazilian  people  are  deprived  of 
information  and  culture.  Not  everyone  has  a  chance  to  study  and 
learn  things.  Those  that  do,  uphold  a  system  very  alienated  at  the 
level  of  cultural  information. 

Some  years  ago  I  had  an  exhibit  in  a  museum,  but  many  of  our 
invited  guests  couldn't  even  find  the  place.  This  reality  has  everything 
to  do  with  the  media.  We  know  that  the  media  is  a  strong  force, 
whether  a  newspaper  or  a  TV  station.  The  power  to  act  in  the  street, 
to  occupy  the  walls,  abandoned  buildings  and  locations  with  weird 
architecture,  is  also  a  force.  We  extend  the  street,  really. 

It's  a  very  weird  situation  and  I  think  that  with  today's  media, 
people  are  learning  to  see  images,  to  read  images,  so  when  we  work  in 
the  street,  our  work  provides  a  different  perspective.  We  don't  sell 
anything,  and  don't  even  offer  a  product. 

PW:  It's  an  anti-commercial? 

ZC:  Yes,  it's  totally  anti-commercial. 


Page  64 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Harvey  Pekar 


".  .  .children's  games,  comic  books,  bubble  gum, 
the  weirdness  of  television  and  advertising" 
—from  What  You  Should  Know  To  Be  A  Poet  by  Gary  Snyder 


Most  of  us  left  comic  books  behind  somewhere 
around  puberty,  the  oxy  moronic  phrase 
"adult  comics"  notwithstanding.  And  yet, 
perfectly  intelligent  people  were  reading  Mr.  Natural  and 
the  Fabulous  Furry  Freak  Brothers  throughout  my  post- 
adolescence.  During  the  '80s,  I  began  seeing  stores  selling 
nothing  but  comics  nestled  among  the  third-hand 
boutiques,  recycled  CD  outlets  and  cookie  emporiums. 

Enter  Harvey  Pekar.  You  may  have  read  him;  more 
likely  you've  never  heard  of  him,  or  know  of  him  only 
through  his  guest  shots  turned  verbal  sparring  matches 
with  David  Letterman. 

Harvey  Pekar  writes  comic  books — that  is,  he  provides 
the  story-line  and  words.  He  collaborates  with  a  number 
of  illustrators  who  work  from  his  stick  figure  storyboards, 
usually  through  the  mail.  One  of  Pekar 's  good  friends  and 
illustrators  is  alternative  comics  legend  R.  Crumb. 


You  get  the  world 

according  to  Harvey. . . 

Maybe  a  world  you  want 

to  visit,  maybe  a  world 

you  want  to  live  in, 

maybe  one  you  want  to 

avoid  —  nonetheless  a 

world,  to  be 

reckoned  with. 


Since  1975,  Pekar,  who  is  51  years  old,  has  put 
out  a  60  page  comic  book  every  summer,  self- 
funded  and  published  under  the  series  title 
American  Splendor— From  Off  The  Streets  of  Cleve- 
land. (As  of  1985  he  was  still  losing  money,  if  he's 
making  any  by  now,  it's  not  much.)  There  is  not 
one  super-hero  or  dragon  in  these  books.  Instead, 
there  is  Harvey  Pekar,  his  wives,  friends,  co- 
workers, and  a  cast  of  characters — mostly  Cleve- 
landers — including  old  Jewish  ladies  in  line,  a 
pitch  lady  at  a  supermarket,  Ozzie  Nelson,  bus 
drivers  and  old  cars  in  winter. 

Anyone  who  has  read  most  or  all  of  the  15 
issues  will  know  a  lot  about  Harvey;  where  his 
parents  came  from  and  what  his  father  did  for  a 


living  (both  parents  were  immigrants  from  Poland, 
his  father  ran  a  small  grocery  store,  routinely 
working  95  hour  weeks);  why  he  doesn't  mind  his 
job;  how  and  why  he  puts  out  his  books;  his 
ruminations;  politics  (non-dogmatic  leftist);  literary 
tastes,  dreams,  obsessive  compulsions  and 
enthusiasms — a  short  list  includes  world  history, 
popular  culture,  jazz,  record  and  book  collecting, 
trash  picking,  Katherine  Mansfield's  short  stories, 
Russian  fiction.  You  will  also  meet  each  of  his 
three  wives,  and  his  co-workers,  notably  Toby, 
who  through  his  appearances  in  Harvey's  books 
has  been  written  up  in  newspapers,  and  been  on 
MTV  and  at  grand  openings  of  White  Castle 
hamburger   stands. 


PROCESSED  world  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  65 


ToMlfeHT,  MAN,  I  AIN'T 
WAITIN'  nU-THE  END 
-I'M  HAVIN'  Mr  SAY. 
THESE  UfeMTweiSMT  TV 
A$e>MOLe$  AIN'T  TEUUN' 
ME  WHAT  I  CAH  OR  CAM'T 
TALK.  ABOUT, 
AS  UONe  A*:. 
J'M  TEULIN' 
THE  TRUTH  . 


UETTERMAN, 
HE  MAVtee 
CRACKS 
ABOUT  (r.e. 
BUT  THEY'RE 
PERSONAL 
CRAa<:6  A- 
BOUT  WHAT 
A  JERK 
ROBERT 
WRI6HT 
le.OR. 

THeee 
joKse 

ABOUT 

Twe 
QUALITY  OF 
THE\R 
UKSHT 
B0U86... 
THAT  6T0FF 
C066U'T 
HOBT  &fi"., 
SOME 
peoPLE 
PROBABLY 
THIMK 
THEY'RE 
NICE  GUYS 
TO  EVEN 
LET  PAVE 
rrAWAY 
WITH 
THAT. 


I  MEAN, 
-■  ,gi^ 

>,H.   HE 
POESN'T 
EVEN  HAVE 
SAY  WHAT 
HE  POE6-  PLO^, 
Y'KNOW  HE'S  ON 
RECORD  A6>  SUP- 
PORT! N<=.  NAeer 

Ae:>A\Wr>T  NBC-'. 
BUT  I  PONT  KNOW 
IF  THE  6UY  16  REALLY 
INTERESTED  IN  POU- 
ITIC6,  IF  HE  KNOWS  A- 
BO0T6TUFF  UKETMIS 
NOCLEAR  REACTOR. 
CASE,  WHICH 

IS  THE 
WNPA  STUFF 

REALLY 
WANTS 

TO 

KEEP 

QUIET, 


In  other  words,  you  get  the  world 
according  to  Harvey.  Which  is  one 
working  definition  of  a  genuine  artist — 
he  or  she  creates  a  world.  Maybe  a  world 
you  want  to  visit,  maybe  a  world  you 
want  to  live  in,  maybe  one  you  want  to 
avoid — nonetheless  a  world,  to  be  reck- 
oned with. 

Harvey's  approach  is  unabashedly  re- 
a\issxTn.o,  down  to  the  artwork — the 
characters  look  like  real  people,  not 
caricatures  or  versions  of  soap  opera 
stars.  (Some  illustrators  study  photo- 
graphs of  Cleveland  neighborhoods, 
from  the  '20s  to  the  present,  to  capture 
the  milieu.)  His  deadpan  this-is-my-life- 
take-it-or-leave-it  monologues  and  char- 
acterizations range  from  one  to  over  20 
pages.  Refracted  through  the  unlikely 
vehicle  of  comic  books,  they  are,  in  the 
words  of  R.  Crumb,  "so  staggeringly 
mundane  [they]  verge  on  the  exotic." 

In  Harvey's  own  words,  "everyday 
experience  has  a  huge  effect  on  people 
— the  accumulation  of  everyday  experi- 
ence ...  I  didn't  want  to  write  about 
generic  experiences ...  I  wanted  to  write 
about  particular  experiences ..."  (Jhe. 
Situation  As  Of  9-20-85  (AS  #1 1).)  If  a  tag 
can  catch  the  flavor  of  Pekar's  "school," 
I  humbly  offer  up  "Schlemiel  Realism" 
(though  Harvey  himself  is  a  struggling 
mensch). 

An  issue  of  American  Splendor  may 
contain  anecdotes,  rants,  gags  and  char- 
acter studies  from  the  previous  year,  or 
flashbacks  from  Harvey's  childhood  and 
early  adulthood. 


Harvey  is  himself  usually  involved, 
sometimes  as  an  observer,  in  the  stories, 
which  are  mainly  set  at  work  or  at  home. 
In  the  sense  that  he  is  writing  his  own 
autobiography  in  progress,  the  approach 
has  sympathies  with  Henry  Miller,  Erica 
Jong,  Philip  Roth  and  Frederick  Exley, 
though  Pekar  is  as  unlike  these  writers  as 
they  are  unlike  each  other.  As  with  the 
above-named  writers,  recurrent  motifs 
are  in  evidence— in  this  case,  cheapness, 
donuts,  obsessive-compulsive  behavior 
and  workplace  vignettes. 

One  significant  difference  is  that  Pekar 
doesn't  seem  interested  in  the  post- 
modern game  of  masks — on  the  con- 
trary, he  strives  for  realistic  depictions  of 
himself  and  others. 

Also,  there  are  plentiful  sketches  and 
snapshots  of  situations  observed  (such  as 
Local  Sculptor,  Old  Goat),  and  occasional 
stories  about  Cleveland  history,  usually 
involving  Jewish  immigrants.  In  these 
"oral  histories"  Harvey  is  shown  writing 
on  a  pad  while  an  elderly  man  tells  him 
the  story;  then  we  are  thrust  into  the 
narrative  itself. 

To  make  a  point,  I  hope,  about 
creativity  and  work,  and  the  very  tricky 
relationship  between  them,  I  will  now 
identify  myself  and  my  milieu. 

I  am  a  poet  (mea  culpa).  Living  in  San 
Francisco,  I  know  writers,  musicians, 
artists  galore  as  well  as  many  politically 
motivated  people,  and  all  permutations 
of  the  two.  For  most  of  us,  economic 
survival  looms  large,  constantly  threat- 
ening the  continuance  of  creative  pur- 


suits. A  lot  of  us  spend  a  lot  of  time 
complaining  that  [/  we  worked  less  hours 
or  none,  ['/  we  had  the  money  to  finance 
our  ideas  and  projects,  if,  if,  if .  .  . 

Harvey  Pekar  spends  a  lot  of  time 
complaining  too,  if  his  comics  are  any 
indication.  But  he  seems  never  to  have 
expected  a  break,  and  has  proceeded  on 
the  basis  of  the  old  open  mike  M.C.  jab, 
"Don't  quit  your  day  job."  In  a  time 
when  "having  it  all"  is  pursued  by  some 
artists  as  avidly  as  by  entrepreneurs,  the 
quote  "I  gave  up  life  for  the  sake  of 
representing  life"  (Anthony  Burgess)  is 
sobering.  I  choose  to  write  poetry:  it  is 
my  responsibility;  what  you  do  or  want 
to,  from  ice  sculpture  to  narrative  origa- 
mi, to  more  or  less  respected  activities,  is 
yours.  These  decisions  come  with  conse- 
quences. 

In  Harvey  Pekar's  case,  this  has  meant 
giving  up  outside  activities  which  he 
doesn't  much  miss  in  order  to  write.  He 
never  expected  to  make  anything  ap- 
proaching a  living  from  it.  Still,  like  all 
artists,  he  wants  "praise  and  recogni- 
tion," which  means  an  audience,  and  a 
perceptive  one  at  that.  He  also  says, 
apropos  the  nobility  of  wage  slavery,  "I 
should  point  out  that  I  don't  consider  it 
ennobling  to  be  a  flunky."  (Interview  in 
The  Comix  journal.  No.  97.) 

American  Splendor  contains  more  than 
one  story  mentioning  the  series  of  dead- 
end menial  jobs  Pekar  worked  after 
completing  high  school.  "I  even  tried  the 
Navy  but  I  got  kicked  out  because, 
believe  it  or  not,  I  couldn't  pass  inspec- 
tions." (A  Matter  of  Life  And...,  AS 
#11).  In  1965,  he  landed  a  civil  service 
job  as  a  file  clerk  in  a  VA  hospital.  After 
eight  years  of  hit  and  miss  work  without 
a  saleable  skill,  he  settled  into  the  job 
and  a  few  years  later  set  his  sights  on 
sticking  it  out  for  the  retirement  pen- 
sion, at  age  55. 

Pekar's  argument,  stated  in  many 
ways  in  American  Splendor,  that  Life  isn't 
fair,  is  tough  to  disagree  with.  But  his 
concentration  is  on  life,  with  a  lower 
case  1.  Put  another  way,  independent  of 
ongoing  effort  and  desire,  whether  to 
lose  weight  or  to  restructure  society, 
there  is  the  zero  point,  day-to-day  exist- 
ence. For  25  years,  Pekar  has  worked  40 
hours  a  week;  he  can  appreciate  the 
hours  to  the  extent  that  compared  to  his 
father's  they  can  be  livable,  given  the 
right  attitude  and  manner  of  living. 
(And  the  right  working  situation— his 
seems  to  be  low  on  stress  with  the 
built-in  job  security  of  working  for  the 
government.)  He  has  to  be  at  work  by 


Page  66 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


8:00,  goes  to  bed  early,  does  not  frequent 
bars  nor  socialize  overmuch. 

In  addition  to  his  comics,  he  has 
written  criticism  for  Doujnbeat  (from 
1962  to  1971)  and  other  jazz  magazines, 
and  many  articles  on  subjects  ranging 
from  Bob  &.  Ray  to  African  history  to  a 
planned  economy  to  Middle  Eastern 
politics.  He  also  does  book  reviews— 
recently  he  reviewed  Thomas  Pynchon's 
Vineland.  In  other  words,  he  leads  the 
life  of  a  committed  focused  individual 
with  time  constraints— the  open  slots 
being  nights  and  weekends.  An  autodi- 
dact,  he  continually  pursues  self-devised 
courses  of  study  in  areas  including 
literature,  history,  politics  and  anthro- 
pology. 

It  should  be  noted  that  Pekar's  life  is 
one  of  voluntary  simplicity,  without 
extravagant  material  wants.  In  American 
Splendor,  he  does  not  preach,  but 
simply  presents  his  outlook.  He  enjoys 
Cleveland  in  spite  of  unpleasant  effects 
of  urban  blight;  he  has  lived  in  rough 
neighborhoods,  and  been  the  victim  of 
violent  crime.  His  job  suits  him  largely 
because  it  provides  security  and  because 
he  has  been  willing  to  make  necessary 
accomodations.  For  instance,  he  has 
gone  years  without  a  car,  shows  no 
interest  in  owning  a  home  and  his  main 
"vices"  appear  to  be  compulsive  book 
and  record  collecting. 

The  risks  for  artists  working  with 
serious  intent  in  "pop"  forms  are  so 
depressing,  why  go  into  them?  Among 
the  advantages  are  the  chance  to  pick  up 
an  audience  from  unprecedented  quar- 
ters, to  create  an  audience.  Pekar  is  wildly 
popular  with  a  small,  diverse  and  dedi- 
cated audience.  In  antagonizing  David 
Letterman  he  knowingly  rejected  an 
opportunity  for  national  exposure  that 
may  have  increased  his  audience  many- 
fold.  (More  on  Letterman  later.) 

Pekar  has  received  media  attention; 
more  than  25  articles  on  him  have 
appeared  in  publications  ranging  from 
the  Los  Angeles  Herald  Examiner  to  The 
Village  Voice  to  skin  magazines.  In  1986 
and  '87,  Doubleday  put  out  two  large- 
format  paperback  anthologies  of  his 
work.  His  comics  have  also  appeared  in 
The  Village  Voice  and  he  has  been  the 
subject  of  scholarly  articles  and  a  bibli- 
ography (through  1985)  indexing  and 
cross-indexing  the  stories  and  characters 
appearing  in  them.  If  a  book-length 
dissertation  or  popular  audience  work 
on  him  has  not  been  published,  more 
than  one  is  probably  being  written.  So 
he  is  not  without  honor  in  his  home- 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


THAT'S  WHAT  I  PIP  INTHE 
AFZ/AV.  I  VOi-UNT^PRgP,  V  'KNOYyJ 
fCH4(Z  YEAR'S*  ANP  THPgg /WNTTKS 
I  WAS  (N.VOmCANVOU^NTEEJ^ 
IN,  PUT  V'CA(S'T  VOLWhm^^  OUT 


YPAM 


Art:  Gerry  Shamray 


land.  What  he  suffers  from  is  the  subtle 
and  intelligent  character  of  his  work,  as 
comic  books — the  frequent  complaint  be- 
ing, "Where's  the  punchline?"  He  has 
called  them  "avant  garde  comic  books" 
—as  a  joke  I  think — but  realistic  comic 
books  do  qualify  as  avant-garde. 

I've  haunted  various  comic  book  stores 
in  researching  this  article.  I  also  consult- 
ed my  1 1  year  old  nephew— he  reads  The 
Punisher,  Captain  America,  Batman,  Flash 
Gordon,  and  Dick  Tracy.  ("I  don't  read 
Superman- he's  too  old.")  When  I  told 
him  about  Pekar's  books,  he  shook  his 
head  and  told  me  he  couldn't  see  reading 
that  kind  of  material.  He  explained  why 
he  reads  superhero  comics:  "It  gives  me 
the  daily  resources  of  energy  I  need  to 
survive." 

One  thing  a  surface  encounter  with 
the  comics  scene  teaches  quickly  is  that 
this  is  a  huge  genre,  with  all  kinds  of 
subgenres.  "Underground"  comics  is  just 
one  of  them.  It  began  as  an  outgrowth  of 
the  '60s.  Like  the  Left  and  the  rest  of  our 
culture,  these  comics  were  dominated  by 
straight  white  men  and  the  male  per- 
spective, both  in  social  commentary  and 
humor.  Now,  there  are  women's  comics, 
gay  comics,  ethnic  comics,  and  that's  a 
very  general  and  incomplete  list. 

The  major  figure  in  the  '60s  under- 
ground comics  was  R.  Crumb,  famous 
both  for  his  Mr.  Natural  strips  and  his 
autobiographical  commentaries  and  sex- 
ual (mis)adventures.  In  the  early  sixties, 
Crumb  lived  in  Cleveland,  and  had  a 
friend  named  Harvey  Pekar.  Both  were 
fanatic  record  collectors. 

Pekar  comes  from  working  class  East- 
ern European  Jewish  stock,  and  is  a 
Cleveland  native.  He  is  a  child  of  the 
'50s,  a  young  adult  of  the  '60s,  and  a 
self-described  depressive  fighting  an  up- 
hill battle  with  pessimism.  He  sees  things 
through  class-conscious  eyes  to  a  degree 
rarely  in  evidence  in  American  litera- 
ture. 

A  comics  fan  from  about  the  ages  of  6 
to  11 ,  through  Crumb  and  others  Pekar 
became  interested  in  the  possibilities  of 
dealing  with  politics,  social  commentary 
and  "real  life"  through  the  form.  After 
Pekar  visited  Crumb  in  Haight  Ashbury, 
Crumb  agreed  to  illustrate  some  of  his 
stories.  Pekar  decided  to  publish  them 
himself  and  American  Splendor  was  born. 

Pekar  is  a  cross-over  in  that  fans  can  be 
found  among  readers  of  "serious"  fiction 
and  poetry  as  well  as  among  comics 
aficionados.  In  one  sense,  comics  can  be 
seen  as  the  perfect  way  to  reach  the 
post-literate,  those  without  the  attention 

Page  67 


Tom/irmKi.. 

STORY   BY  W4RKEY  VIY.A?.      ART  BX   JOE  lAHL  CO  ©/985   RY  W/lRVEY  ?iKf\R 


I    SAID  IHAT   JUST  BECAUSE    DOCTORS    ARE 
IN  A    (HIGHER     SOCIAL    CLASS    THAN  ME, 
AH'  MAKE    A   LOT   OF  MONEY,     IT  DOESH'T 
GIVE  ME    THE  RI6HT 
TO  BE  JEALOUS    AN> 
TREAT    'EM  BAP 


Page  68 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


span  to  read— but  Pekar  turns  that  on  its 
head.  His  stories  are  full  of  his  world, 
and  prominent  in  that  world  are  books 
and  his  thoughts  about  them  and  their 
authors. 

According  to  Eric  Gilbert  of  Last  Gasp 
Comics,  when  Harvey  started  in  1975, 
there  were  "maybe  two  distributors  for 
comics" — this  was  when  underground 
comics  were  truly  underground,  sold 
mainly  through  head  shops,  amidst  the 
headbands,  waterpipes,  posters  and 
black  lights.  Today,  there  are  somewhere 
between  six  and  ten  distributors,  as  well 
as  a  national  network  of  comic  book 
stores.  Harvey's  work  is  currently  distri- 
buted through  some  of  these,  though  he 
still  has  thousands  of  copies  of  American 
Splendor  in  his  basement  and  in  storage. 

Gilbert  on  Pekar:  "He  started  the 
whole  thing... he  was  the  only  one 
doing  a  very  literary  comic  book.  [Of 
course  there  was  Crumb]  but  Crumb 
was  more  into  sexual  fantasies. .  .What 
people  expect  from  comic  books  are 
people  in  tights  beating  up  each 
other .  . .  What  Harvey's  doing  is  not 
commercially  viable,  it's  an  elite  com- 
modity for  a  select  readership." 

I  have  previously  alluded  to  Pekar's 
brush  with  network  television  notoriety. 
As  the  proprietor  of  an  S.F.  comic  book 
store  put  it,  "If  he'd  kept  his  mouth  shut, 
Harvey'd  still  be  on  TV." 

In  late  1986,  after  publishing  II  comic 
books  and  becoming  something  of  a  cult 
figure,  he  was  asked  onto  the  David 
Letterman  Show.  Over  the  next  three 
years,  he  returned  to  the  show  four 
times.  (The  first,  fourth  and  fifth  ap- 
pearances are  chronicled  in  American 
Splendor  #'s  12,  13  and  14.)' 

Pekar,  who  put  in  some  time  as  a 
streetcorner  comedian  many  years  ago, 
by  all  accounts  displayed  "presence"  on 
the  show.  But  apparently  the  veneer  of 
pleasant,  if  pungent,  repartee  wore  thin; 
what  the  viewer  saw  was  a  pissed-off 
quick-witted  comic  book  writer  with 
strong  political  convictions  and  deep 
roots  in  the  working  class  clashing  with 
a  misfit  post-preppie  exemplar  of  the 
who-cares  anything-for-a-laugh  success- 
is-an-end-in-itself  '80s.  Whatever  the 
chemistry  was,  it  worked  well  enough  for 
Harvey  to  be  asked  back. 

In  his  fourth  appearance,  Harvey  tried 
to  bring  up  the  role  of  General  Electric, 
owner  of  NBC,  in  various  matters 
involving  lack  of  corporate  responsibili- 
ty, including  the  safety  record  of  its 
nuclear  reactors.  He  subsequently  wrote 
about  the  episode  in  AS  #13. 

The   "David   Letterman   Exploitation 


Issue"  (#14)  recounts  the  final  shoot-out 
between  Pekar  and  Letterman.  On  the 
cover,  Letterman,  cigar  in  hand,  ad- 
dresses   Harvey    during    a    commercial 

break:  "You  f d  up  a  great  thing." 

Harvey  is  pictured  standing  before  him, 
wearing  a  t-shirt,  hands  in  pockets  and 
smirking. 

The  "Grand  Finale"  appearance  had 
gotten  off  to  a  rocky  start;  it  blew  up 
when  Letterman  leafed  through  AS  #13 
during  a  commercial  break,  seeing  him- 
self presented  as  basically  a  shill  for  G.E., 
either  lacking  convictions  or  without  the 
courage  to  use  his  position  to  express 
them. 

I  saw  the  end  of  this  segment.  I 
remember  Harvey  putting  his  feet  up  on 
Dave's  desk,  grabbing  Dave's  pencil  out 
of  his  hand,  and  telling  him  something 
like,  "Look  Dave,  I'm  sorry  I  can't  be  as 
witty  as  you.  You've  got  lots  of  writers, 
Dave,  and  I've  just  got  me."  The  episode 
ends  with  Dave  flexing  his  network 
muscles,  telling  Harvey  that  he  has  given 
him  "many,  many  chances... to  pro- 
mote your  little  Mickey  Mouse  maga- 
,zine,  your  little  weekly  reader.  .  .You're 
a  dork  Harvey."  In  American  Splendor 
both  are  portrayed  as  telling  each  other 
"You're  fulla  shit."  These  character 
analyses  were  bleeped  out. 

Pekar  has  turned  down  seemingly 
attractive  offers  to  do  his  own  TV  show. 
He  presents  himself  as  not  having  seri- 
ously considered  such  offers  for  reasons 
ranging  from  creative  control  to  the 
vehicles  presented  to  him.  On  why  he 
turned  down  a  talk  show  offer:  "First  of 
all  you  get  co-opted,  you  can't  do 
anything  serious,  it's  a  drag  to  go  on 
night  after  night  doing  simple-minded 
bullshit."  {AS  #13,  in  response  to  a 
question  from  David  Letterman.)  He  has 
also  been  approached  by  a  number  of 
Hollywood  movie  types — mega-mega 
talk  with  no  follow-through.  The  two 
Doubleday  anthologies  are  the  most 
concrete  results  of  interest  in  "main- 
streaming"  Harvey's  appeal. 

Assuming  you  are  among  those  who 
have  not  heard  of  Pekar,  the  reason  is  no 
mystery.  In  any  market,  from  local  to 
international,  media  "saturation  bomb- 
ing"— a  combination  of  advertising  and 
press — is  what  gets  a  name  on  lips  and  in 
heads.  To  have  had  over  25  articles 
written  about  you,  to  have  appeared  on 
a  national  talk  show  with  hip  demogra- 
phics ain't  bad,  but  obviously  isn't 
enough.  Pekar's  predicament  is,  as  he 
has  stated,  that  most  people  who  might 
like  what  he  does  have  not  been  exposed 
to  his  work.  He  can't  afford  to  advertise. 


and  word-of-mouth  is  as  hard  a  dollar 
for  an  artist  as  for  a  business. 

Interview  magazine  has  not  yet,  and 
may  not,  assimilate  all  the  currently 
significant  artists,  entertainers  and  cul- 
tural workers  of  our  age.  It  is  a  worthy 
goal  that  artists  be  recognized  early  on  in 
their  careers,  as  have  such  immortal 
talents  as  Bret  Easton  Ellis  and  Tama 
Janowitz.  We  have  seen  very  talented 
people  achieve  well-deserved  success 
thanks  to  the  fame  machine;  for  in- 
stance, certain  musicians  live  like  kings 
and  queens. 

Harvey  Pekar  still  lives  in  Cleveland 
Heights,  and  works  a  day  job,  at  51.  It  is 
doubtful  that  fame  and  fortune  will 
descend  on  him  in  a  flash  as  it  did  on 
Charles  Bukowski  at  roughly  the  same 
age.  Nonetheless,  he  is  a  true  American 
original,  variously  an  entertainer,  a 
poignant  clown,  a  philosopher  of  the 
everyday.  His  stories  can  be  re-read  with 
increased  interest. 

No  less  than  Henry  Miller,  he  has 
suffered  for  and  lived  his  art.  Like  Henry 
David  Thoreau,  he  has  travelled  far  and 
wide,  mainly  through  reading  and 
thinking.  If  you  read  Harvey  Pekar,  and 
like  what  you  read,  pass  it  on,  tell  a 
friend.  —klipschutz 

Thanks  to  Eric  Gilbert  of  Last  Gasp,  Krystine 
Kryttre  and  Barbara  Deuel.  1  am  also  indebted 
to  the  following  pieces:  "Approaching  Harvey 
Pekar"  by  Doruxld  Phelps,  "The  Life  and  Work 
of  Harvey  Pekar"  by  Donald  M.  Fiene,  and  a 
lengthy  interview  with  Pekar  conducted  by  Gary 
Groth,  all  appearing  in  The  Comics  Journal, 
No.  97.  April,  1985. 

American  Splendor  #'s  6  through  15  can  be 
ordered  from  Harvey  Pekar,  P.O.  Box  18471, 
Cleveland  Heights,  Ohio  44118  (price  range: 
$2.25-$3.50  plus  postage);  recent  issues  are 
available  at  some  comic  book  stores.  The 
Doubleday  anthologies  are  carried  by  book- 
stores and  comic  book  stores,  though  they 
may  be  out  of  print. 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  69 


/*^X 


photo  courtesy  Climate  Theatre 


HAIKU  TUNNEL 

Josh  Kornbluth  performance 

One  person  on  stage— a  storyteller, 
raconteur,  soloist  performer— the  lone 
entertainer  has  made  quite  a  comeback 
of  late.  The  popularity  of  performance 
artists  runs  the  gamut  of  Stephen 
Wade's  Banjo  Dancing,  Spalding 
Gray's  Swimming  to  Cambodia,  Karen 
Finley's  We  Keep  Our  Victims  Ready, 
and  now  Josh  Kornbluth. 

Josh  premiered  Haiku  Tunnel  in  the 
Fall  of  1990  at  San  Francisco's  Solo 
Mio  Festival,  and  has  since  taken  it  to 
the  Marsh,  Climate  Theatre,  and  other 
Bay  Area  venues. 

San  Francisco  is  a  big  lawyer  town. 
The  "king  of  torts"  Melvin  Belli  is 
based  here,  in  a  French  bordello-style 
building  in  North  Beach — one  is  re- 
minded of  Dickens'  line  "the  law  is  an 
ass."  But  looking  beyond  this  imme- 
diate concentration  of  earthquake 
fodder,  just  about  everyone  knows 
someone  who  is  connected  with  the 
practice  (if  not  outright  violation)  of 
law. 

Subtitled  "the  adventures  of  a  male 
secretary,"  Haiku  Tunnel  documents 
the  interior  monologue  of  a  legal 
secretary,  employed  by  "Schuyler  6*. 
Mitchell,  an  enormous  downtown  law 
firm  with  an  unfortunate  acronym." 
From  the  start,  this  job  does  not  look 


Reviews 


good  to  Josh,  recently  moved  to 
California  from  New  York.  On  his  first 
day  at  S&M,  he  is  assigned  a  "room," 
or  more  accurately,  a  desk  in  the  hall- 
way with  the  euphemistic  plaque 
"Room  1525a." 

His  first  task  is  inventorying  his 
"room"  for  office  supplies  he  might 
find,  um,  useful.  Unfortunately,  the 
previous  occupant  practiced  a  "scorched 
desk  policy,"  removing  everything  of 
value  from  it.  The  only  sign  of  the 
previous  occupant  is  a  letter  addressed 
to  her  from  the  boss,  who 
inauspiciously  composed  it  at  11  p.m.. 
New  Year's  Eve:  "As  the  New  Year 
rapidly  approaches,  I  thought  I  would 
outline  for  you  your  duties  as  my  new 
secretary"  followed  by  11 '/z  single 
spaced  pages  of  explicit  instructions.  Its 
anal  author.  Bob  Shelby,  is  the  Tax 
Group  lawyer  of  S&I.M  Josh  has  been 
assigned  to. 

After  one  week  as  an  exemplary 
temp  employee.  Josh  agrees  to  go 
"perm"  when  S&lM  offers  to  foot  his 
psychotherapy  bill.  For  an  ex -New 
Yorker,  this  fringe  is  not  to  be  passed 
up. 

Josh's  productivity  as  perm  predict- 
ably plummets.  Each  day  he  comes  to 
work  a  little  later,  confessing  at  embar- 
rassing length  to  the  head  secretary's 
voice  mail  about  his  "vague  personal 
problems"  that  have  again  delayed 
him.  Then,  he  works  on  his  novel  on 
the  company  mainframe,  masturbates 
his  transcription  machine,  and  other- 
wise does  what  he  can  to  keep  the  job 
and  its  idiot  demands  firmly  at  bay. 

Amid  many  agreeable  onstage  con- 
tortions. Josh  tells  how  he  endlessly 
procrastinates  mailing  some  85  letters 
for  his  boss  marked  personal  and 
confidential. 

"Now  take  these  letters.  Eighty-five 
communications  I'm  supposed  to  mail 
out  to  eighty-five  people  I've  never 
even  met?  Fuck  it." 

While  the  dread  of  discovery  hangs 
over  his  head,  the  letters'  true  worth- 
lessness  (and,  by  extension,  the  job  in 
general)  is  amply  demonstrated  by 
their  never  being  missed  by  either  Bob 
Shelby  or  the  85  intended  recipients. 


***** 


The  Haiku  Tunnel  of  the  title  is  a 
project  Josh  worked  on  (in  flashback) 


at  an  engineering  firm.  It  was  the 
closest  thing  to  "a  good  job"  Josh 
seems  to  have  had  (apart,  one  hopes, 
from  the  role  of  performer).  Showing 
flexibility  that  is  practically  anti-cor- 
porate in  its  decency,  his  supervisor 
blesses  his  wearing  a  walkman  at  work; 
she  even  tells  him  to  work  a  couple 
hours  each  day  on  his  novel,  if  it's  so 
important.  When  he  is  so  disposed,  his 
assignment  is  to  type  specs  for  the 
Haiku  Tunnel  project.  Because  it  re- 
mains work,  even  despite  all  the  slack 
they  cut  him.  Josh  is  depressed ...  for 
he  remains  a  man  entombed  in  Haiku 
Tunnel. 

Haiku  Tunnel,  the  show,  should  not 
be  missed.  If  nothing  else,  the  existence 
of  Josh  and  his  ilk  should  inspire 
others  to  take  their  private  acts  of 
protest  and  sabotage  beyond  the  re- 
hearsal stage,  to  perform  where-  and 
whenei^er. 

-D.S.  Black 


FELLOW  PRISONER  OF  THE 
NINETIES 

Living  in  Canada  has,  alas,  kept  the 
work  of  one  of  my  favorite  writers, 
Crad  Kilodney,  a  well-kept  secret. 
Crad  has  the  dubious  benefit  of  meet- 
ing a  number  of  his  readers  on  the 
street.  For  on  most  days,  he  can  be 
found  selling  his  books  on  Yonge  or 
Bloor  Streets,  in  downtown  Toronto. 

This  exposure  has,  predictably,  given 
Crad  a  fairly  low  opinion  of  most 
passersby,  who  prefer  to  ignore  a  man 
with  titles  like  Lightning  Struck  My  Dick 
and  Excrement.  Perhaps  they  are  put  off 
by  the  signs  he  wears  around  his  neck, 
DULL  STORIES  FOR  AVERAGE 
CANADIANS  or  SLIMY  DEGENE- 
RATE LITERATURE.  Maybe  they 
don't  want  to  be  shook  from  holo- 
inspired  reveries  of  credit  card  balances 
when  confronted  by  Crad's  reflective, 
living  deadpan. 

Aside  from  being  a  lonely,  literate 
foot-soldier  in  the  Canadian  street 
theatre,  Crad  Kilodney  has  an  acerbic 
wit  to  rival  Bierce,  and  a  no  bullshit- 
biliousness  that  beats  Bukowski.  In  his 
new  book.  Girl  on  the  Subway,  he 
skewers  such  modern  monstrosities  as 
the  enclosed  environment  super-shop- 
ping malls  (which,  over  the  last  few 
decades,  have  honeycombed  consumer 


I 


I 


Page  70 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


playgrounds  everywhere  from  Toronto 
to  Pretoria). 

In  "No  Chekhov  at  Yorkdale,"  the 
quest  for  a  collection  of  stories  by  the 
great  nineteenth  Russian  writer,  leads 
to  such  comments  as  "You  mean  the 
fellow  on  Star  TrekV  After  several 
pages  of  decription  of  all  the  worthless, 
overpriced  junk  that  can  be  had  at 
Yorkdale  by  any  "Fellow  Prisoner  of 
the  Nineties,"  "It's  back  to  the 
subway  via  the  enclosed  walkway 
without  Anton  Chekhov.  The  rain  is 
still  coming  down.  The  city  is 
becoming  more  and  more  enclosed.  If 
one  is  sufficiently  clever  and  well  off,  it 
is  already  possible  to  get  about  from 
home  to  work  to  shopping  without 
ever  actually  being  out  of  doors.  In  the 
future,  only  the  lowest  class  of  city 
dwellers  will  need  overcoats,  umbrellas, 
and  boots.  The  future  belongs  to  brave 
boys  and  girls  who,  in  the  words  of 
the  prophet,  'aren't  afraid  to  live  in 
tubes  and  push  buttons.'" 

For  a  few  months  I  kept  Crad's  1988 
collection  Malignant  Humors  (from 
Black  Moss  Press  of  Windsor,  Ontario) 
by  my  bed,  and  I  would  chuckle  myself 
to  sleep  over  stories  like  "Filling  Orders 
in  Albania"  and  "The  Hard-Working 
Garbage  Men  of  Cleveland."  Elsewhere 
in  this  section,  we  reprint  one  of  the 
"Office  Worker's  Dreams"  from  this 
collection. 

Other  titles  of  interest  by  Crad 
include:  Blood-Sucking  Monkeys  from 
North  Torutivanda,  The  First  Chamel 
House  Anthology  of  Bad  Poetry,  and 
]unior  Brain  Tumors  in  Action. 

Crad  has  also  produced  two 
entertaining  cassette  tapes,  which 
include  strange  things  people  say  to 
him  on  the  street,  answering  machine 
messages,  stories  from  his  early  (out  of 
print)  collections,  including  his 
program  for  "The  Peoples'  Revolution- 
ary Committee  Against  Indiscipline." 

Write  to  him  at  his  press  for  more 
info:  Chamel  House,  PO  Box  281, 
Station  S,  Toronto,  Ont.  Canada 
M5M  4L7. 

-D.S.  Black 

OFFICE  WORKER'S  DREAMS 

Modem  Facilities 

When  I  ask  in  the  office  where  the 
men's  room  is,  the  middle-aged  secretary 
tells  me  it's  upstairs  "under  the  sign, 
almost  directly  overhead."  I  go  upstairs 
and  find  the  second  floor  to  be  an  empty 
framework  of  wooden  beams,  like  a 
house  under  construction.  In  the  corner 


OdifREEfl 
eiOKK[[H 
KSillf[fll 


Suppose  there  is  a  war, 
and  nobody  is  looking . . 


^" 


DEIVIONSTRATE 

BLOCKADE 

DESERT 


I  see  a  sign:  "MEN."  There  is  nothing 
under  it.  No  toilet.  No  door.  Nothing.  I 
am  greatly  disturbed  but  must  relieve 
myself  immediately.  I  look  around.  Am  I 
to  do  it  here?  Is  this  what  is  done  in  this 
company?  I've  never  seen  such  a  thing 
before.  I  look  at  the  floor  and  see  that  it 
is  wet.  There  is  a  smell  of  urine. 
Apparently,  this  is  where  men  relieve 
themselves!  Astonishing!  What  if  also 
astonishing  is  that  there  are  cracks 
between  the  floor  boards.  I  can  see  the 
office  where  I  was  a  minute  ago.  The 
women  are  at  their  desks  right  below  me. 
The  secretary  who  directed  me  is  smok- 
ing a  cigarette  and  coding  orders.  I  can 
wait  no  longer!  I  unzip  myself  and  after  a 
moment  of  self-consciousness,  I  begin  to 
release  a  strong,  healthy  stream  of  piss.  It 
spatters  warmly  on  the  floor.  Then  I 
hear  a  voice  scream,  "Jesus  Christ! 
There's  piss  coming  down  through  the 
ceiling!"  An  uproar  spreads  through  the 


office,  but  I  can't  stop.  The  piss  goes  on 
and  on  and  on!  I  hear  footsteps  from 
across  the  floor.  It  is  the  president  of  the 
company,  leading  a  prospective  client  by 
the  arm.  I  hear  him  say,  "I  want  to 
assure  you  we  have  the  most  modern 
facilities.' 

—Crad  Kilodney 


CITY  OF  QUARTZ:  Excavating  the 
Future  in  Los  Angeles  by  Mike  Davis 
(Verso:  London/New  York  1990)  440 
pp.  $25  hardbound. 

I  have  lived  in  the  San  Francisco  Bay 
Area  since  1967,  so  I've  developed  the 
snobbish  disdain  for  all  things  south- 
ern Californian  characteristic  of  we  en- 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  7 1 


lightened  northerners.  Sure  I've  visited 
LA— went  to  Disneyland  as  a  kid;  later 
I  hung  out  in  Encino  and  Studio  City, 
Westwood  and  Santa  Monica  for  a  few 
days  each  in  the  mid-'70s.  I  marvelled 
at  the  pleasantness  and  beauty  of  the 
area,  but  I  also  had  my  native  disdain 
reinforced  by  the  emtpy  car-and-shop- 
ping  culture  which  I  simplistically  as- 
sumed filled  the  lives  of  my  friends  and 
their  families.  I  remember,  too,  feeling 
an  odd  vibration  which  I  attributed  to 
being  near  the  center  of  the  global  en- 
tertainment industry— somehow,  in 
spite  of  the  apparent  emptiness  all 
around  me,  this  city  was  producing  the 
images,  icons,  and  aspirations  which 
were  increasingly  holding  the  rest  of 
the  world  in  thrall. 

Subject  of  much  angry  investigative 
journalism,  even  then,  the  LA  Police 
Department  was  already  ingrained  in 
my  mind  as  the  quintessential  Gestapo/ 
storm  troopers  of  the  U.S.,  and  pro- 
bably the  center  of  a  vast  conspiracy 
instigated  by  Nixon  and  his  Law  En- 
forcement Assistance  Administration 
to  turn  local  police  into  a  nationally- 
coordinated  network  of  crack  counter- 
insurgency  troops. 

Now  a  book  has  been  published 
which  illuminates  the  shadows  and 
lays  bare  the  power  structures,  politics 
and  history  of  that  most  bizarre  of 
modern  megalopolises,  Los  Angeles. 
Mike  Davis,  who  edits  Verso's  Hay- 
market  Series,  displays  his  own  deft 
analysis  and  occasional  acerbic  wit  in 
City  of  Quartz,  the  latest  contribution 
to  the  series. 

I  particularly  like  the  way  this  book 
is  organized,  with  chapters  devoted  to 
specific    narratives   of  power,    its    accu- 


REVOLUTION    IS  1 

^fflj 

^Tj 

^mI 

-m 
■  '"1 

B^^^B 

%<<% 

.,„,  .J^::^^.3. 

^B^m^^. 

,;,iS:^ii^.i»i^i*^ 

t.  TUMftAue'  9  87 


mulation,  dissipation,  and  final  meta- 
morphosis into  new  configurations.  A 
charming  prologue  introduces  us  to  the 
crumbling  ruins  of  Llano  del  Rio,  a 
socialist  Utopia  which  lived  and  died  in 
the  Mojave  Desert  90  miles  north  of 
downtown  LA  in  the  years  1914-I9I8. 
Davis  gives  us  a  concise  history  of 
radicalism  and  political  opposition  in 
LA,  along  with  the  stories  of  the 
powers-that-be. 

He  relies  on  various  earlier  critics  of 
Los  Angeles  to  flesh  out  the  dynamics 
of  past  eras,  as  when  he  recounts  the 
"debunking"  analysis  of  Louis  Adamic 
(Dynamite:  The  Story  of  Class  Violence 
in  America,  1931)  and  Carey  Mc Wil- 
liams who  went  on  to  edit  The  Nation. 
Davis  stitches  together  a  first  chapter 
"Sunshine  or  Noir?",  out  of  a  variety 
of  intellectuals,  writers,  artists, 
academics  and  developers  for  whom 
LA  was  both  home  and  raw  material, 
and  shows  how  their  various 
reflections  in  turn  fed  back  into  the 
larger  collective  mythology. 

Davis's  look  at  the  Noir  genre 
situates  it  on  a  similar  experiential 
plane  to  Processed  World's  own: 

"Collectively  the  declasse  middle 
strata  of  these  novels  (Double  Indemnity, 
The  Day  of  the  Locust,  They  Shoot 
Horses  Don't  They?)  are  without 
ideological  coherence  or  capacity  to 
act .  .  .  individually  their  petit-bourgeois 
anti-heroes  become  a  conduit  for  the 
resentments  of  writers  in  the  velvet 
trap  of  the  studio  system.  Tod 
Hackett,  in  Day  of  the  Locust,  is  por- 
trayed   in    a    situation    like    Nathaniel 


West's  own:  brought  to  the  Coast  by  a 
talent  scout  for  the  studios  and  forced 
to  live  'the  dilemma  of  reconciling  his 
creative  work  with  his  commercial 
labors.'" 

A  fascinating  chapter  is  devoted 
largely  to  the  genesis,  history,  growth 
and  current  politics  of  Homeowners' 
Associations,  the  organized  might  of 
the  property-owning  and  historically 
very  racist  middle  classes.  He  recounts 
the  role  played  by  restrictive  deeds  and 
how  developers  often  set  up  the  Asso- 
ciations and  enrolled  every  home  buyer 
automatically.  The  Associations'  role 
in  enforcing  a  form  of  apartheid  with  a 
"White  Wall"  throughout  much  of  the 
LA  area  was  undermined  by  the  U.S. 
Supreme  Court's  1948  decision  on 
housing  discrimination. 

Benefiting  from  the  extraordinary 
real  estate  inflation  of  the  '70s,  Home- 
owners' Associations  were  the  back- 
bone of  the  Proposition  13  taxpayer 
revolt  in  California,  rolling  back  assess- 
ments that  tried  to  keep  pace  with 
inflation,  leading  to  a  decade  of 
contracting  services  and  crumbling 
infrastructure,  even  in  the  "paradise" 
of  California.  Davis  is  far  more  de- 
tailed and  nuanced  than  anything  I 
can  show  you  in  a  short  review.  It's 
like  looking  at  a  clear  x-ray  and  seeing 
a  lot  you've  never  seen  before. 

In  the  1980's,  Homeowners'  Associa- 
tions have  often  become  proponents  of 
slow-growth  policies.  They  are  fighting 
to  roll  back  apartment  housing,  restrict 
development  to  1-acre  lots,  and 
provide  more  recreational  land,  but 
Davis  shows  how  this  is  consistent 
with  their  historic  mission  to  preserve 
and  increase  property  values  at  all 
costs. 

"The  tap-root  of  slow  growth  [in 
Southern  California],  however,  is  an 
exceptionalistic  local  history  of  middle- 
class  interest  formation  around  home 
ownership .  .  .  [Slow  growth  in  Califor- 
nia] is  merely  the  latest  incarnation  of 
a  middle-class  political  subjectivity  that 
fitfully  constitutes  and  reconstitutes 
itself  every  few  years  around  the 
defense  of  household  equity  and 
residential  privilege." 

Elsewhere  he  discusses  the  rise  of  the 
"barricaded  community,"  the  freely 
chosen  kind  where  the  frightened  rich 
and  middle  class  congregate,  as  well  as 
the  "Narcotics  Enforcement  Areas" 
which  have  been  repeatedly  imposed 
on  Black  and  Hispanic  neighborhoods 
by    the    LAPD    (barricades    seal    off   a 


Page  72 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


multi-block  area  and  only  residents 
with  ID  are  allowed  to  pass  in  or  out). 

He  situates  the  LAPD  in  a  social 
context  of  rising  paranoia,  bunker  and 
enclave  architecture,  racial  tension, 
gang  warfare,  and  so  on,  sketches  out 
its  special  history  of  ultra-right 
militarism,  and  makes  it  clear  that  the 
department  is  but  one  prong  in  a 
many-pronged  strategy  to  manage  the 
Third  World-ization  of  a  major  city. 
On  the  1950s  LAPD:  "Dragnet's  Sgt. 
Friday  precisely  captured  the  [then 
Chief]  Parkerized  LAPD's  quality  of 
prudish  alienation  from  a  citizenry 
composed  of  fools,  degenerates  and 
psychopaths."  But  in  the  high-tech 
'90s:  "As  part  of  its  'Astra'  program, 
the  LAPD  maintains  an  average  19- 
hours-a-day  vigil  over  'high  crime 
areas,'  tactically  coordinated  to  patrol 
cars  and  exceeding  even  the  British 
Army's  aerial  surveillance  of  Belfast 
[Northern  Ireland],  only  8  hours  a 
day." 

An  equally  important  prong,  rarely 
acknowledged  or  discussed,  but 
admirably  done  here,  is  the  elimination 
of  public  space.  In  a  chapter  called 
"Fortress  L.A."  Davis  gives  a  critical 
architectural  tour  of  LA's  new 
buildings:  a  mall  topped  by  a  small 
branch  library,  which  is  in  turn  topped 
by  a  substation  of  the  LAPD,  with  full 
video  surveillance  of  the  mall  below, 
especially  the  three  critical  chokepoints 
of  entry  and  exit.  There  is  another 
library  built  to  resemble  the  U.S. 
Embassy  in  Beirut,  while  soaring  office 
complexes  complete  with  roof  gardens 
and  walkways  preclude  contact  with 
the  street  below  and  enforce  the  separation 
that  is  already  imposed  by  the  physical 
layout  of  the  plant. 

"Ultimately,  the  aims  of  contempo- 
rary architecture  and  the  police 
converge  most  strikingly  around  the 
problem  of  crowd  control.  As  we  have 
seen,  the  designers  of  malls  and 
pseudo-public  space  attack  the  crowd 
by  homogenizing  it.  They  set  up 
architectural  and  semiotic  barriers  to 
filter  out  'undesirables.'  They  enclose 
the  mass  that  remains,  directing  its 
circulation  with  behaviorist  ferocity.  It 
is  lured  by  visual  stimuli  of  all  kinds, 
dulled  by  muzak,  sometimes  even 
scented  by  invisible  aromatizers.  This 
Skinnerian  orchestration,  if  well 
conducted,  produces  a  veritable  com- 
mercial symphony  of  swarming, 
consuming  monads  moving  from  one 
cashpoint  to  another." 


This  is  a  great  book.  It's  also  a  very 
beautifully  done  book,  with  regard  to 
paper,  layout,  and  printing.  Verso  has 
been  producing  some  physically 
wonderful  books^viz  the  beautiful 
hardback  edition  of  Cockburn  and 
Hecht's  Fate  of  the  Forest.  Now  if  only 
they  were  priced  more  affordably  {City 
of  Quartz  is  a  painful  $25)  many  more 
people  would  probably  read  it. 

—Chris  Carlsson 


"How  did  our  oil  get  over  there  in  the 
first  place,  anyway?!!" 
—protest   sign   at   Port   Chicago   muni- 
tions depot  gate,  autumn  1990 

With  a  buildup  rivaling  that  of  the 
Super  Bowl  (and  perhaps  pre-empting 
interest  in  it,  as  the  '89  Earthquake  did 
to  the  World  Series),  the  Persian  Gulf 
War  became  one  of  the  most  antici- 
pated events  in  memory.  During  the 
buildup  some  voices  tried  to  offer  a 
different,  but  not  widely  available 
analysis.  Two  are: 

When  Crusaders  And  Assassins 
Unite,   Let   the   People    Beware   was 

written  by  the  Midnight  Notes  collec- 
tive and  published  in  November  1990. 
They  situate  themselves  within  the 
growing  anti-war  movement,  but  dis- 
agree with  the  theoretical  and  strategic 
premises  framing  it  as  "another  Viet- 
nam." They  offer  a  detailed  history 
both  longer-term  and  recent,  and  see 
the  current  crisis  in  terms  of  an  attack 
on  the  international  oil  producing  pro- 
letariat (broadly  defined  to  include  the 
working  classes  of  all  oil  producing 
countries,  both  native  and  "imported"). 


They  call  for  not  only  withdrawal  from 
the  Middle  East,  but  complete  military 
demobilization.  It's  a  provocative  read, 
even  though  it  was  rendered  wrong  by 
the  bombing  of  Baghdad.  It  never- 
theless provides  a  clearer  class  analysis 
of  the  underlying  world  oil  economy 
than  any  other  view.  They  advocate 
fighting  for  lower  fuel  prices  in  the 
U.S.  as  basic  strategy  for  the  anti-war 
movement. 

A  later  pamphlet,  after  the  onset  of 
war,  entitled  The  Spy  and  the 
Assassin,  recasts  the  analysis  in  light 
of  later  developments. 
Midnight  Notes,  Box  204,  Jamaica 
Plain,  MA  02130  USA 

All    Quiet    On    the    Eastern    Front, 

signed  by  nine  people  and  published 
last  October,  departs  from  the  hypo- 
thetical, somewhat  ironic  chance  that 
"it  all  goes  perfectly— the  sanctions 
eventually  bite,  the  admonitory  air 
strikes  take  out,  say,  ten  percent  of 
their  intended  targets,  and  there  turns 
out  to  be  no  secret  weapon,  or  none 
the  Iraqi  field  commanders  agree  to 
use.  .  ."  and  so  on  until  the  U.S.  has 
installed  its  own  "democratic"  general. 
Then  what?  An  analysis  follows  that  I 
found  dry  and  somewhat  disjointed 
during  my  first  two  readings  back  in 
October,  but  reading  it  the  January 
evening  of  Congress's  "Declaration  of 
War,"  it  was  much  more  focused. 
Much  more  literary  in  style  than 
Midnight  hlotes,  its  authors  eschew 
tactical  advice  in  favor  of  the  declara- 
tion: "It  will  be  opposition  to  capi- 
talism as  a  world  system  or  it  will  be 
nothing." 

Available  from:  P.O.  Box  9699, 
Berkeley,  CA  94709  USA 

—Chris  Carlsson 


USA 

Keeping  Democracy  in  the  Right  Hands. 


PROCESSED  WORLD  126/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  73 


In  the  old  "good  news-bad  news"  tra- 
dition, I  bring  you  the  bad  news:  The 
Mill  Hunk  Herald  is,  alas,  dead 
(1979-1989).  But  the  good  news  is  that 
they  have  an  anthology— Overtime— 
which  gives  a  more  permanent  form  to 
their  work.  For  those  who  haven't 
heard  of  them.  The  MHH  was  the 
doppelganger  of  Processed  World:  it 
dealt  with  issues  of  work,  both  with 
analysis  and  with  workers'  stories,  from 
(for  the  most  part)  the  industrial  world 
of  production.  With  poems,  graphics, 
fiction  and  articles  they  covered  issues 
ranging  from  history  to  the  changing 
face  of  industrial  America.  The 
anthology  has  two  pieces  on  the  his- 
tory and  financing  of  the  MHH,  and 
an  excellent  selection  of  the  'zine. 
Those  who  enjoyed  it  when  it  was 
alive  will  get  a  kick  out  of  seeing  the 
material  together  in  one  large  volume 
(8'/2xll,  more  than  200  pages);  those 
who  haven't  seen  it  will  be  in  for  a 
real  treat.  Hey— just  a  thought— pair  it 
with  the  PW  anthology  Bad  Attitude, 
and  you'd  almost  have  a  classroom- 
worthy  snapshot  of  North  American 
work.  Overtime  is  overdue:  You  gotta 
read  this  book!  It's  available  for 
$12.95;  it's  published  by  West  End 
Press  and  Piece  of  the  Hunk  Publishers, 
Inc.  (1990).  The  ISBN  is  0-9311212-55-4. 
—Primitivo  Morales 


There's  a  tabloid  out  of  France,  name 
of  MORDICUS,  that  you  may  want 
to  take  a  look  at  (given,  of  course,  that 
you  can  read  some  French).  The 
premiere  issue  included  a  "10  Step" 
program  for  stopping  work  (which 
advice  for  elementary  hygiene  was 
transmitted  to  them  after  circulating  in 
the  e-mail  boxes  of  La  Defense— a 
white  collar  hive  in  Paris),  the 
difficulty  of  being  insulting,  material 
on  the  war  in  the  Middle  East,  and 
various  other  diabolic  pieces. 

Just  before  "the  war"  started,  Mordi- 
cus  papered  the  city  of  Paris  with  a 
poster  offering  some  17  outrageous  sug- 
gestions on  the  subject  of  "What  to  do 
when  war  breaks  out."  These  range 
from  burning  McDonalds  to  seducing 
soldiers'  wives  and  husbands,  scalping 
journalists,  sending  insulting  letters  to 
the  front,  and  breaking  your  TV. 
"War's  infamy  is  perpetuated  by  our 
passivity"  they  say  (in  French).  Stay 
active  or  regret  it  deeply  some  day 
soon. 

The  latest  from  Mordicus:  "Open 
season  on  wild  ducks."  Thirteen 
people,  including  several  editors  from 
the  Mordicus  collective,  were  arrested 
on  January  23rd  and  the  films 
necessary  to  the  publication  of 
Mordicus  #2  were  confiscated  by  the 
French  police.  As  they  put  it:  "At  the 
time  of  the  sacred  unity,  they  want  to 
silence  the  rare  voices  raised  against 
the  consensus.  If  we  are  already  under 
a  state  of  emergency,  let  it  be  pro- 
claimed." The  same  tactics  of  preven- 
tive arrests  and  confiscations  were  used 
in  the  1968  era  (repression  went  on  for 
several  more  years).  It  led  to  the 
demise  of  Charlie  Hebdo,  my  personal 
fave  of  that  period,  as  well  as  the 
boring  Maoist  rag  La  Cause  du  Peuple, 
the  sale  of  which  could  land  you  in  jail 
for  a  firm  18  months.  The  French 
police  state  is  as  alive  and  well  under 
Mitterrand  as  it  was  under  d'Estaing  or 
Pompidou.  Don't  let  labels  ("socialism?!!") 
fool  you. 

—Frog 

In  a  very  different  vein  is  the  French 
magazine  TERMINAL:  INFORMA- 
TIQUE,  CULTURE,  SOCIETE,  a 

progressive  French  mag  dedicated  to 
the  study  of  the  information  age.  PW 


Graphic;  Doo  Daa  Florida 

shares  some  of  the  ideas  contained  in 
it  (see  translated  piece  in  PW  #10, 
"Clodo  Speaks").  The  language  in  this 
magazine  makes  it  more  challenging 
than  Mordicus,  and  the  material  is  very 
different.  Terminal  includes  a  wide 
variety  of  material  on  computers  and 
the  world  of  telecommunications,  as 
well  as  social  issues.  A  recent  issue  in- 
cluded an  article  "Limits  of  Production 
&.  Union  Realignment,"  which  had 
material  closely  paralleling  ideas  in  PW 
#25  about  the  waste  of  human  effort 
while  "at  work,"  and  the  ecological 
implications  of  how  we  structure  our 
lives. 

In  one  passage  they  comment:  "The 
unions  are  no  longer  on  top  of  a  situa- 
tion where  divisions,  segmentations 
and  contradictory  interests  are  dictated 
by  the  State  and  Capital:  Workers  of 
the  North  against  Workers  of  the 
South,  full  timers  vs.  "precarious" 
temps  against  the  unemployed .  .  .  This 
leads  to  a  unionist  rationalization  of 
work,  not  in  view  of  its  usefulness  but 
by  virtue  of  how  many  jobs  they 
procure.  In  this  manner,  productivism 
reigns  supreme,  the  view  that  the 
salaried  modality  is  essential  to  the  re- 
distribution of  collective  wealth  is  rein- 
forced .  .  .  An  ecology-minded  reorien- 
tation of  the  economy,  at  the  service 
of  its  peoples  and  social  creativity  can 
only  be  led  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
abolition  of  unemployment.  We  have 
to  do  away  with  the  forced  producti- 
vism implied  by  salaried  work." 

People  who  are  interested  may 
contact  them  at  C.LLL/Terminal, 
18  rue  de  Chatillon,  14th  Arrori' 
dissement,  Paris,  France. 

—Frog 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Graphic:  IB  Nelson 


Texas: 

Penury  of  Plenty 


My  friend  and  1  arrived  in  Austin,  Texas,  in 
an  old  car  jammed  with  what  we  could  sal- 
vage from  a  dead  woman's  Santa  Fe,  New 
Mexico  estate.  My  friend — we'll  call  her  Babs,  because  she 
is  from  the  Midwest  and  evinces  the  kind  of  all-American 
wholesomeness  the  name  implies,  which  is  exactly  the 
kind  of  wholesomeness  that  lands  such  jobs  as  live-in 
companion  to  the  elderly — had  hung  in  with  the  old 
woman  until  the  latter 's  nicotine-stained,  sherry-spattered 
end,  and  seen  her  to  her  grave  in  the  plaster  of  the  living 
room  wall  alongside  her  husband,  whose  ashes  had  been 
similarly  spackled  many  years  ago.  A  colorful  family,  that, 
but  the  furnishings  bequeathed  to  Babs  were  disappoint- 
ingly mundane:  the  flattest  of  flatware,  a  hideous  artdeco 
standing  lamp,  a  dozen  dull  white  plates  from  which  the 
old  one  had  been  caught  senilely  feasting  one  evening  on 
a  meal  of  candles  al  jereZy  and  which  still  bore  the  tawny 


Despite  her  obvious 

loathing  of  me,  she 

engaged  me  in  the  kind 

of  hypocTitically  unctuous 

conversation  conservative 

Texas  women  are  trained 

in  from  an  early  age . . . 

Texas,  she  replied 

daintily,  was  going 

through  an  economic 

"disappointment. " 


scorchmarks  from  her  beloved  and  overlong 
cigarettes. 

But  scavengers  can't  be  choosers  (though  on 
second  thought,  they  are  in  fact  the  best  of 
choosers;  what  eye  is  more  discriminating,  more 
curatorial,  than  that  of  a  professional  pepenador  in 
the  dumps  of  Mexico  City  or  of  an  untouchable 
in  the  middens  of  Bombay?);  so  we  loaded  up  all 
this  domestic  impedimenta  into  the  old  car  and 
set  out  for  the  Lone  Star  State. 

Many  friends  questioned  the  wisdom  of  our 
move  to  Texas.  The  state  was  in  an  economic 
nosedive,  they  reminded  us,  and  we  hadn't  so 
much  as  a  friend  there  to  hang  on  to  and  scream 
with  as  we  all  plummeted. 

Texas'  economic  drop  had  begun  in  the  mid- 
1980s,    and    no    one    could    say    when    its    course 


might  at  least  become  horizontal,  much  less 
regain  its  former  heady  altitude.  The  Texas 
economy  was  a  craft  that  had  run  out  of  fuel;  or 
rather,  that  fuel,  which  was  nothing  more  than 
crude  petroleum,  had  become,  in  mid-flight,  no 
longer  sufficient  to  keep  it  aloft.  It  seemed  the 
Saudis  and  the  other  swarthies  of  OPEC  had,  in 
their  cunning  Oriental  fashion,  divested  that  dark 
liquid  of  its  power  to  keep  going  the  impressive 
machinery  of  our  soon-to-be-adopted  state. 

Our  friends  recommended  that  we  at  least 
consult  the  latest  forecasts  from  the  economists, 
our  culture's  seers  and  the  official  interpreters  of 
the  Market  and  its  complex  mythologies.  Although 
we  knew  the  economy,  the  Market  system,  de- 
rived from  social  relations  was  not  externally  im- 
posed on  society,  we  could  not  be  sure  the  good 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  75 


folk  of  Texas,  who  are  notorious  for 
believing  in  an  ideology  that  teaches 
just  the  opposite,  would  ever  help  us 
out  if  we  found  ourselves  unemployed 
or  otherwise  in  a  financial  pickle. 
Mightn't  they,  rather,  allow  us  to  suc- 
cumb to  Market  circumstances  deemed 
by  them  natural,  eternal,  and,  strangest 
of  all,  the  essence  of  our  "freedom?" 

And  though  we  knew  economists  to 
be  little  more  than  modern-day  shamans 
(shamans  so  intoxicated  on  their  mathe- 
matics and  their  "models"  that  they 
declare  themselves  "scientists"),  we  also 
knew  that  the  world  was  highly  mysti- 
fied. Mightn't  they,  after  all,  speak  some 
truth  about  this  world?  We  agreed  to 
listen  to  what  they  knew. 

They  left  aside,  for  the  moment,  their 
monitoring  of  the  cosmic  struggle  be- 
tween the  Bears  and  the  Bulls  and  the 
other  larger  epic  wars  being  waged  across 
the  Universe  of  Commodities  ("where 
things  live  human  lives  and  humans  live 
thingish  lives"),  and  bore  down,  as  per 
our  request,  on  the  more  specific  ques- 
tion of  the  employment  situation  in 
Texas.  They  showed  us  their  charts  and 
figures,  which  in  their  conjunction 
looked  to  us  something  like  a  board 
game,  full  of  ups  and  downs  and  crises 
and  miracles,  rather  like  Chutes  and 
Ladders.  Now,  they  said,  we  know  that 
an  unfortunate  roll  of  the  Market  dice 
(dice  loaded,  we  all  suspect,  by  those 
OPEC  ministers  cited  above)  landed 
Texas  in  the  Tar  Pit  where  the  Skeezix  of 
Recession  dwells.  Now  to  get  out  of  the 
Pit,  relatively  low  rolls  on  the  Unemp- 


loyment dice  had  to  obtain,  a  good  deal 
lower  than  the  near-double-digit  figure 
that  was  still  coming  up.  Of  course,  it 
didn't  want  to  keep  getting  low  rolls  on 
the  Unemployment  dice  either,  at  least 
not  on  a  national  scale,  or  interest  rates 
would  rise  and  the  whole  game  could 
overheat,  sending  all  players  to  Inflation 
Inferno. 

This  game  was  a  bit  too  byzantine  for 
us  to  grasp.  It  seemed  remote  from  our 
possibilities  as  individual  actors  in  every- 
day life.  Maybe  we  were  being  too 
ruggedly  individualistic,  but  it  seemed  to 
us  that,  no  matter  how  airtight  the 
ideology  might  attempt  to  be,  there  was 
still  an  opportunity  for  individual  hu- 
man agency  to  knock  breathing  holes  in 
that  armor.  In  other  words,  we  would 
find  a  way.  In  any  case,  we  found  that 
the  "science"  of  economics  described  a 
universe  an  order  of  magnitude  larger 
than  our  own  lives.  If  it  described  a 
relativistic  universe,  ours  was  still  a 
Newtonian  one;  what  did  it  matter  to  us 
if  the  universe  was  in  truth  curved,  if  all 
we  really  had  to  deal  with,  in  our  world, 
were  straight  lines? 

And  for  us,  for  now,  the  first  such  line 
was  a  highway  leading  straight  across 
New  Mexico  and  West  Texas  to 
Austin .  . . 

Less  than  a  week  prior  to  our  depar- 
ture from  Santa  Fe  I  got  an  opportunity 
to  gather  intelligence  on  the  Texas 
economy  directly  from  the  kind  of 
creature  the  ideology  most  works  mater- 
ially to  serve:  a  rich  person.  But  this 
person  was  not  just  any  rich  person,  this 


was  a  Texan  rich  person,  and  this  was 
my  chance  to  determine  to  what  extent 
an  ideology  might  turn  on  its  own 
masters.  Had  the  collapse  of  the  Market 
in  Texas  brought  down  the  swells  with 
it? 

My  meeting  with  this  person  came  by 
virtue  of  a  scheduling  faux  pas— or  was  it 
somebody's  idea  of  a  joke?— on  a  bibu- 
lous bon  vivant's  guest  list:  I  was  invited 
to  attend  a  gathering  of  Texan  fatfish  at 
her  quaint  adobe  settled  venerably  into 
the  mud  of  Canyon  Road.  (Contrary  to 
popular  belief,  the  most  valuable  real 
estate  in  this  most  contrivedly  fashiona- 
ble of  towns  is  not  that  which  affords  a 
dramatic  view  from  the  mountains,  but  a 
humble,  low  location,  preferably  a  war- 
ren-like arrangement  along  a  narrow, 
unpaved  road  in  the  "historic"  section  of 
town.  Property  values  are  exorbitant 
here,  and  these  have  become  enclaves 
for  the  wealthy,  mostly  Texans,  who  act 
out  their  fantasy  of  Pueblo  Indian, 
calling  on  one  another  in  their  faux- 
kivas  to  swap  posole  recipes  and  share 
intelligence  on  the  relative  wampum 
values  of  Hopi  jewelry  and  Navajo  rugs). 

At  this  swank  gathering  I  was  intro- 
duced to  said  rich  person,  a  young, 
wasp-waisted  woman  from  Dallas,  who 
gave  my  sartorially  despicable  figure  a 
scornful  once-over.  She  herself  was  re- 
splendently  outfitted  in  Neiman  Marcus 
threads,  which  despite  their  Navajo 
motifs  were  so  hallucinatorily  rich  that 
they  more  resembled  the  weavings  of  a 
peyote-peaking  Huichol.  Despite  her  ob- 
vious loathing  of  me,  she  engaged  me  in 
the  kind  of  hypocritically  unctuous  con- 
versation conservative  Texan  women  are 
trained  in  from  an  early  age,  and  that 
was  when  I  took  the  opportunity  to 
inquire  into  her  thoughts  about  the 
economy  of  the  Lone  Star  State. 

Texas,  she  replied  daintily,  was  going 
through  an  economic  "disappointment." 

By  the  time  I  left  the  party,  I  had  filed 
this  irridescent  damsel's  delicate  term 
away  in  that  obscure  part  of  the  lobe 
reserved  for  Texan  forms  of  expression, 
both  the  manly  crude  and  the  womanly 
euphemistic.  But  driving  through  Texas 
a  few  days  later,  it  resurfaced.  I  realized 
immediately  that  her  description  was 
quite  accurate:  for  the  rich,  the  collapse 
and  stagnation  of  the  Texas  economy 
was  but  a  disappointment,  a  vision 
vanished  rather  than  a  nightmare  lived. 
Their  dreams  of  unheard-of  wealth  had 
evaporated,  and  they  had  awakened  to 
the  harsh  and  dreary  reality  of  their 
concrete  assets  alone:  the  Mercedeses, 


Page  76 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


the  furs,  the  ostentatious  homes  and 
sumptuous  ranches  with  their  exotic 
game  animals  ("homesteads,"  which  by 
state  law  can  be  touched  by  virtually  no 
creditor).  And  to  the  same  old  oil  wells, 
which,  because  the  black  gold  they 
pumped  was  now  worth  only  half  of 
what  it  was  at  the  peak  of  the  boom  in 
the  early  80's,  only  brought  in  enough 
income  to  replace  and  maintain  all  those 
things.  (Mexican  President  Lopez  Portil- 
lo,  who  with  his  corrupt  sidekicks  had 
shared  the  same  dream  in  the  early 
1980's,  had  advised  Mexicans  to  "pre- 
pare themselves  for  prosperity."  The 
Texan  version  of  this  might  have  been, 
because  Texas  was  already  so  rich,  to 
prepare  for  sheer  obscenity.) 

The  hope  then  had  been  that  the  price 
of  oil  would  keep  going  up,  possibly  to 
$100  a  barrel.  But  it  only  got  up  to  $32 
by  the  end  of  1983  when  the  bust  set  in. 
From  there  it  plummeted  to  about  $14. 
(At  the  time  of  this  writing  the  price, 
thanks  to  the  sabre-rattling  over  Kuwait, 
is  back  up  to  around  $35  for  most  Texas 
crude).  Texans,  banking  greedily  on 
visions  of  ever-upward-spiralling  oil  pric- 
es, had  already  grossly  overinvested  in 
things  such  as  real  estate.  Driving  into 
Austin,  we  saw  that  practically  every 
other  office  building  was  empty  and  for 
lease,  and  we  soon  learned  that  the  city 
indeed  had  the  most  overbuilt  office 
space  in  the  country.  Greed  had  led  to 
overproduction  had  led  to  unemploy- 
ment: this  was  the  "rationality"  of  the 
Market  system. 

Austin  seemed  pretty  prosperous 
nonetheless,  at  least  on  the  swank  side  of 
town.  The  "disappointment"  seemed 
only  slight  there.  Debutant  balls  took 
place  as  always  on  those  west-side  hills, 
though  on  a  scale  slightly  less  grand  than 
before;  some  exclusive  clothing  outlets 
were  said  to  have  closed,  but  plenty 
remained;  gourmet  dog  biscuits,  at  $5.00 
a  pound,  were  still  an  item  in  demand  at 
your  finer  victualers. 

The  poor,  well,  they'll  always  be  with 
us,  says  the  eternalizing  ideology,  and  in 
Austin  this  means  mostly  on  the  east 
side  of  town.  Over  twenty  percent  of  the 
residents  of  Travis  County,  of  which 
Austin  is  county  seat,  live  under  the 
official  poverty  line  of  $11, 400  a  year  for 
a  family  of  four. 

We  found  the  poor  in  the  laundromat, 
one  of  our  first  stops  after  our  road  trip. 
They  were  sprawled  uncomfortably  on 
the  hard  yellow  plastic  seats.  Why  do  the 
homeless  like  laundromats  so?  Because 
it's  warm  and  roofed  and  they're  not 


immediately  evicted  from  it,  I  suppose. 
It's  surely  not  for  the  homey  atmos- 
phere. Dully  watching  the  clothes  roll 
round  in  the  drier,  I  reflected  on  how 
Western  instrumental  rationality  has 
robbed  clothes-washing  of  its  traditional 
communal  quality.  This  rationality,  be- 
lieving it  could  reduce  the  "drudgery"  of 
everyday  life  to  a  nullity  through  tech- 
nology, has  instead  succeeded  in  elimi- 
nating the  human  from  the  everyday, 
thus  turning  everyday  activities  into  true 
drudgery.  I  was  reminded  of  a  missionary 
couple  I  once  knew  who  brought  their 
African  maid  back  with  them  to  the 
U.S.  This  African  could  not  get  over  the 
fact  that  no  one  in  America  washed 
their  clothes  in  rivers:  every  time  they 
drove  over  a  bridge  she  would  remark  on 
the  absence  of  gossipy  scrubbers  below. 
What  was  she  talking  about?  thought 
the  missionaries.  She  knew  what  a 
washing  machine  is,  she  used  one  every 
week!  The  missionaries  failed  utterly  to 
see  the  subtext  of  her  remark,  which  I 
imagine  referred  to  the  acute  absence 
ot  communality  in  America,  the  intense 
loneliness  of  everyday  tasks  here. 
I  wondered,  too,  if  those  missionaries, 


having  lived  in  West  Africa,  understood 
how  the  word  "zombie"  was  used  among 
the  Bakweri  of  West  Cameroon.  "Zom- 
bie," according  to  Michael  Taussig's 
book  The  Devil  and  Commodity  Fetishism, 
was  the  word  applied  to  fellow  Bakweri 
and  others  who  drove  trucks  and  did 
certain  other  kinds  of  work  in  the  British 
and  German  banana  plantations.  The 
"zombies"  worked  far  beyond  what  was 
required  to  satisfy  their  needs.  They 
couldn't  seem  to  stop,  they  were  the 
living  dead.  Their  "lives"  had  become 
abstracted  into  the  commodity  of  labor- 
time,  and  consequently  they  weighed 
like  a  nightmare  on  the  brains  of  the 
living. 

Across  the  street  from  the  laundro- 
mat, in  the  morning  drizzle,  a  ragged 
man  hunted  for  food  in  a  dumpster.  He 
found  a  soggy  crust  of  pizza,  which  he 
gobbled  and  washed  down  with  a  swal- 
low of  Thunderbird.  A  block  further 
down  sat  the  drab  brown  brick  Austin 
Plasma  Center.  Perhaps  after  his  meal 
he'd  go  there  to  sell  his  blood.  According 
to  an  ad  on  the  laundromat  bulletin 
board,  you  can  make  two  donations  to 
the  Center  a  week,  at  $10  a  pop.  On 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  77 


Fridays  there  is  some  sort  of  $25  "bonus 
drawing"  which  I  don't  quite  under- 
stand. 

It  pleased  me  to  think  that  this  ragged 
man's  diet  of  dumpster  pizza  and  Thun- 
derbird  was  convertible  to  good  human 
plasma;  plasma  just  as  good  as,  maybe 
better  than,  that  obtainable  from  King 
George's  blue  blood.  There  was  some- 
thing satisfyingly  egalitarian  about  this 
notion;  but  beyond  that,  there  was  an 
even  more  essential  comfort  in  the 
thought  of  rotten  crusts  and  cheap  wine 
being  converted  to  blood.  It  was  some- 
thing that  seemed  to  give  the  lie  to  that 
part  of  capitalist  and  socialist  and  exis- 
tentialist ideology  that  insists  on  scarcity 
as  the  metaphysical  grounding  of  life.  It 
reminds  me  that  scarcity  exists  only  as  a 
social  concept,  not  a  biological  one.  We 
aren't  aliens  in  hostile  territory.  We 
evolved  here.  It's  our  planet,  and  our 
bodies  are  RIGHT  for  it. 

The  myth  of  scarcity  is  championed  by 
those  systems  hung  up  on  production- 
capitalist  as  well  as  "actually-existing 
socialist."  This  myth  is  the  touchstone  of 
their  terror,  and  is  what  keeps  everybody 
in  line  without  too  much  overt  coercion. 
"He's  (she's)  a  survivor"— I  don't  know 
how  many  times  I  was  to  hear  this 
admiring  phrase  from  the  lips  of  Texans. 
Mere  survival  the  goal?  I  realize  they  said 
it  in  the  context  of  the  economic  slump, 
and  they  generally  meant  survival  in  the 
manner  in  which  one  was  normally 
accustomed,  but  it  nevertheless  always 
struck  me  as  an  awfully  low  setting  of 
one's  sights,  especially  for  such  an  out- 
wardly arrogant  people  as  Texans.  The 
odd  corollary  to  it  is  the  belief,  in 
defiance  of  common  sense  and  of  the 
most  elementary  statistics,  that  one  will 
be  the  exception  who  will  "make  it"  over 
all  the  other  "losers."  One  of  the  results 
of  this  belief,  of  course,  is  a  contempt  for 
"welfare"  and  the  state's  notoriously  low 
ranking  in  social  services. 

The  fear  of  scarcity  leads  not  just  to 
production,  but  to  the  astounding  over- 
production that  is  the  hallmark  of  "late" 
capitalism.  The  basic  absurdity  of  capi- 
talist ideology  rests  on  the  idea  that 
putting  the  accumulated  wealth  to  so- 
cially-useful ends  is  anathema  to  the 
system  overall.  In  other  words,  the 
system's  fear  is  that  satisfaction  of  hu- 
man needs  will  reduce  or  eliminate  the 
human  fear  that  is  the  engine  of  accum- 
ulation and  overproduction.  It's  a  bit 
like  working  to  put  money  in  the  bank, 
but  under  the  condition  that  if  you  make 
any  withdrawals  the  bank  will  collapse 


Graphic  IB.  Nelson 

and  you'll  lose  it  all.  Of  course,  the  State 
employs  calculated  ways  of  siphoning  off 
some  of  this  overproduction,  primarily 
military  spending,  which,  while  it  waste- 
fully  relieves  some  of  the  bloating,  serves 
to  feed  the  fear  on  another  plane:  fear  of 
the  enemy  Other  bent  on  stealing  the 
whole  bank. 

Never  mind,  then,  that  we  are  well 
into  one  of  the  longest  periods  of  eco- 
nomic expansion  in  U.S.  history,  with 
over  $35  trillion  in  goods  and  services 
produced.  We're  not  to  think  about 
this  social  surplus,  and  we're  certainly 
not  to  ask  that  any  of  it  be  used  to 
ameliorate  our  fear  of  not  "surviving." 
On  the  contrary,  the  system  seems  to 
require  more  fear,  more  poverty  and 
homelessness,  while  the  rich  get  a 
capital-gains  tax  cut.  In  any  case,  in 
Texas  and  the  world  over,  we're  a  long 
ways  from  Felix  Guattari's  and  Toni 
Negri's  vision  in  We  Communists:  "Hu- 
man goals  and  the  values  of  desire 
must  from  this  point  on  orient  and 
characterize  production.  Not  the 
reverse." 

The  Plasma  Center  ad  stated  that 
donors  are  required  to  show  proof  of 
Austin  residence.  How  would  the  home- 
less manage  that?  Babs  and  I  wondered. 
In  any  case,  we  were  reminded  that  we 
needed  to  find  a  place  to  live  right  away. 
We  investigated  a  tiny  garage  apartment 
a  block  north  of  the  laundromat  and 
decided  we  could  afford  it,  at  least  for  the 
moment.  But  we  would  have  to  get  jobs 
soon. 

The  landlords  were  a  middle-aged 
couple  who  carried  on  a  preternaturally 
perfect  middle-class  existence  in  the  big 
house  next  door.  Projecting  onto  us  their 
vision  of  Utopia,  they  assumed  our  goal 
in  life  was  to  work  our  way  up  to  their 
status,  someday  to  become  just  like 
them,  landlords  in  the  manor  behind 
twin  magnolia  trees.  For  now,  of  course, 
we  would  have  to  pay  our  dues,  which 


meant  sign  a  6-month  lease  for  the  little 
place,  along  with  a  stipulation  allowing 
them  to  run  a  credit  check  on  us— at  our 
expense.  Lease,  leash,  leech— the  word 
itself  was  revolting  to  me,  and  I  doubted 
the  credit  check  would  reveal  us  in  too 
favorable  a  light,  though  if  we  did  pass 
it,  I  knew  we  were  supposed  to  get  a 
warm  feeling  all  over  of  legitimacy  and 
belonging.  Instead  I  got  a  sour  feeling 
thinking  about  all  those  uncreditworthy 
souls  our  acts  of  submission  to  these 
kinds  of  investigations  only  help  to 
further  delegitimize.  I  felt  a  traitor  to 
them.  The  process  of  "belonging"  always 
involves  treason. 


Born  play  pla/  p1«y  play  Play  pia 

raad  taat  r.ad  t.at  raad  -ork  pia 

raad  taat  read  taat  raad  "ork  pia 

work  work  work  work  work  buy  pay 

work  work  work  work  work  buy  pay 

work  work  work  work  work  buy  pay 

work  work  work  work  work  buy  pai 

work  work  work  work  work  buy  pai 

-nrk  work  work  work  work  buy  pai 


But  the  credit  check  apparently  was 
never  carried  out,  and  we  moved  into 
the  tiny  apartment.  Babs  got  a  job 
cleaning  real  estate— houses  that  weren't 
moving,  which  meant  they  had  to  be 
maintained  especially  spic  and  span  to 
entice  what  few  prospective  buyers  there 
were.  It  was  one  of  those  ironic  jobs 
spawned  of  economic  busts— ironic  like 
the  record  homelessness  in  the  midst  of 
this  vast  square  footage  of  empty  shelter. 
Not  that  it  was  a  good  job;  like  pizza 
delivery,  it  required  so  much  driving 
around  in  one's  own  vehicle  that  half 
one's  paycheck  goes  into  the  car.  Never- 
theless, it  was  something. 

I  was  not  quite  so  lucky.  I  scanned  the 
want  ads  every  day,  especially  those 
listed  under  "General,"  since  I've  had 
the  audacity  in  life  not  to  have  special- 
ized in  any  particular  field.  The  listings 
are  alphabetical,  usually  beginning  with 
A  for  "Aggressive."  Aggressive  this 
wanted,  aggressive  that.  It's  not  a  word  I 


Page  78 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  —  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


particularly  like.  After  a  few  weeks  of 
seeing  it  there,  it  really  begins  to  irritate 
me,  and  I  think,  well  goddamn,  the  day 
I'm  compelled  to  be  "aggressive"  for 
money  I  guess  I'll  do  it  right,  with  the 
snubby  nose  of  my  .38  poking  the  ribs  of 
some  gulping  fatfish. 

There  are  curious  ads,  such  as  the  one 
that  reads,  "Have  you  ever  lied  to  get  a 
job?  If  so,  your  story  may  be  worth 
$100."  But  how  would  the  folks  doing 
this  study  know  my  story  was  not  a  lie, 
just  to  get  my  hands  on  the  $100?  Or 
would  that  in  itself  constitute  the  lie  they 
were  looking  for?  The  Liar's  Paradox  is 
lurking  here  somewhere  and  I  don't  like 
the  smell  of  it. 

Pharmaco,  I  notice,  advertises  a  lot  for 
research  subjects:  "up  to  $375  for  anyone 
with  resistant  genital  warts  to  participate 
in  a  study  testing  a  new  antiviral  drug." 
(What  do  they  mean,  "up  to?"  Are  some 
people's  genital  warts  more  valuable 
than  others'?)  In  any  case,  I'm  not  about 
to  go  out  and  contract  resistant  genital 
warts  just  to  get  my  hands  on  a  lousy 
$375. 

A  sperm  bank  is  looking  for  donors. 
This  would  be  a  more  exhilirating  dona- 
tion than  plasma,  to  be  sure.  But  again, 
the  question:  how  much  a  pop?  It 
doesn't  say.  And  how  many  donations 
can  you  make?  At  half  a  billion  or  so 
sperms  per,  I  imagine  it's  probably  just  a 
one-night  stand,  so  to  speak. 

So  much  for  the  classifieds.  I  try  the 
Texas  Employment  Commission,  but 
quickly  discover  that  instead  of  helping 
you  find  a  job,  it  seems  primarily 
designed  to  discourage  you  from  seeking 

f 

No.112018 


DEDUCTIONS  &  ALLOTMENT  INFORMATION 


■^ 

w^i 

IL. 

^ 

GPOSS  PAY 

,dQ 

TOTAL 

OEDUCTICNS 

74. 

55 

NET  PAY 

280. 

33 

J 

one.  The  functionary  at  the  end  of  an 
interminable  line  informs  me  proudly 
that  the  TEC  in  Austin  has  so  many 
applicants — over  20,000— that  the  on- 
line files  are  no  longer  available  for 
perusal  by  job-seekers.  Strange  reason- 
ing: the  greater  the  numbers  of  unem- 
ployed, the  less  access  they  get  to  the  job 
listings.  We'll  look  FOR  you,  he  says, 
pen  poised  above  the  application,  eager 
to  strike  out  each  category  for  which  I 
don't  claim  enormous  experience.  A 
bureaucrat's  favorite  word  is  "no."  I 
never  hear  from  the  TEC. 

I  check  out  every  shit-on-a-shingle 
restaurant  in  the  neighborhood,  the 
kind  of  places  that  serve  dyed  margaritas 
("pink  killer  'ritas")  and  have  names  like 
Silverado;  surely  one  doesn't  need  great 
restaurant  experience  to  serve  THEIR 
kind  of  slop.  Wrong  again. 

I  try  canvassing  for  a  progressive 
organization,  but  find  it  too  weird  trying 
to  sell  "peace  and  justice"  as  a  commodi- 
ty. Is  nothing  sacred?  Must  even  this  be 
subservient  to  the  money  economy?  My 
field  captain  thinks  I'm  naive  and  have 
an  attitude  to  boot;  he's  glad  to  see  me 
go. 

I  learn  to  interpret  the  penultimate 
words  from  a  job  interviewer,  the  ones 
that  precede  the  handshake  and  the 
we'11-let-you-knows,  things  like  "sorry 
you  had  to  come  out  in  the  rain,"  which 
means,  "gee,  sorry  you  had  to  waste  your 
time  and  ours  AND  get  wet." 

I  check  out  the  temp  agencies,  places 
with  vaguely  salacious  names  like  Man- 
power (the  overtly  wanton-sounding 
Kelly  Girl  has  been  changed  to  the  more 
sober  Kelly  Services,  I  notice).  I  get 
nowhere  there,  but  am  led  to  discover  a 
few  things  about  the  temps.  I  learn  that 
large-scale  hiring  of  temps  is  a  recent 
phenomenon;  that  the  electronics  and 
defense  industries  do  a  lot  of  it,  and  that 
the  federal  government  employs  some 
300,000  temps.  Temps  receive  virtually 
no  benefits,  and  are  the  first  to  be  laid  off 
when  a  slump  or  recession  hits,  while 
core  employees,  if  they're  lucky,  get  to 
stay.  When  the  next  nationwide  reces- 
sion arrives,  up  to  3  million  temps  can 
expect  to  lose  their  jobs.  As  it  is,  the 
Labor  Department's  Bureau  of  Labor 
Statistics  counts  anyone  working  one 
hour  or  more  a  week  as  "fully  em- 
ployed"; this  accounts  for  the  exaggerat- 
edly low  official  unemployment  rate.  But 
at  least  the  BLS  factors  into  its  monthly 
report  those  "discouraged  workers"  who 
have  given  up  looking  for  work  alto- 
gether. 


I  feel  myself  gradually  becoming  one  of 
those  "discouraged  workers."  I  begin  to 
investigate  what  it  would  be  like  to  live 
in  the  streets.  One  of  the  first  things  that 
strikes  me  about  such  a  life  is  its  relative 
rigor,  in  terms  of  planning,  scheduling, 
and  so  forth.  Required  to  abandon  the 
Salvation  Army  premises  by  6  a.m.,  you 
must  seek  warmth  elsewhere— the  Capi- 
tol building,  for  instance— until  the  Car- 
itas  or  other  soupline  opens.  If  you're 
sick,  you've  got  to  keep  in  mind  that  the 
Caritas  clinic  is  only  open  Tuesday  and 
Thursday  evenings.  You've  got  to  keep 
your  eye  on  the  spots  under  the  bridges 
for  possible  vacancies,  and  be  quick  to 
stake  your  claim  when  one  arises.  You've 
got  to  be  mindful  of  police  routes  and 
schedules,  and  keep  track  of  your  plasma 
donations.  If  after  all  this  stress  you  need 
to  get  drunk,  remember  the  Showdown's 
"Happy  Minutes,"  with  25-cent  drafts, 
are  from  3:00-3:15  p.m.  A  lot  of  the 
homeless  guys  I  talk  to  have  all  the  bus 
schedules  memorized. 

When  depressed,  go  to  a  demonstra- 
tion. It  quickens  the  blood  and  gets  your 
mind  on  something  larger  than  yourself. 
The  one  I  went  to,  described  in  the  next 
day's  American  Statesman  (Austin's 
only  daily,  better  known  in  our  circles  as 
the  American  Reai  Estatesman)  as  "spir- 
ited," was  over  El  Salvador.  We  defied 
pig  orders  and  took  the  streets.  One 
zealous  porker  could  put  up  with  it  no 
more  and  collared  one  of  our  guys,  a 
lanky  Quaker  with  a  Thoreau  beard. 
The  crowd  turned  ugly.  The  Quaker,  a 
wry  smile  on  his  19th-century  face, 
pleaded  for  calm  while  pointing  out  to 
the  cop  the  advisability  of  letting  him  go. 
The  cop  decided  he  was  right,  and 
sprung  the  handcuffs. 

I  told  Babs  about  the  incident  and 
how  I  admired  the  Quaker's  cool  and 
humorous  resistance.  She  said,  sure, 
those  folks  believe  so  little  in  authority 
that  they  can  never  take  it  seriously.  By 
the  way,  she  said,  the  Quakers  are  fixing 
up  their  Hill  Country  retreat  next  week- 
end, and  needed  volunteers,  if  I  cared  to 
go. 

So  we  went.  But  there  I  learn  that  even 
the  Friends  are  not  immune  to  the 
ideology  of  desireless  production.  While 
washing  Quaker  windows  and  railing 
about  the  absurd  hoops  you  have  to 
jump  through  to  get  a  lousy  $4-an-hour 
job  in  the  University  of  Texas  library 
system  (though  I  proudly  report  that  I 
passed,  at  45  wpm,  the  typing  test,  using 
my  version  of  caffeinated  hunt-and- 
peck),  a  middle-aged  Quaker  listening  to 


PROCESSED  WORLD  #26/27  -  Special  1 0th  Anniversary  Double  Issue! 


Page  79 


me  announces  that  she  works  in  library 
personnel  and  would  probably  be  the 
one  to  interview  me  if  my  application 
were  to  get  that  far.  To  my  astonish- 
ment, this  woman  turns  out  to  be  a 
champion  of  taylorized  work  efficiency 
and  seems  to  know  every  angle  on  the 
scientific  organization  and  bureaucratic 
management  of  white-collar  labor.  She 
actually  uses,  in  a  personal  context, 
terms  like  "private  sector"  ("my  husband 
works  in  the  private  sector")  and  refers 
to  students  meeting  their  "educational 
consumer  needs."  What  SHE  doesn't 
need  on  the  other  hand,  is  "defiance": 
"Can  you  imagine  if  every  time  I  told 
someone  to  do  something  they  asked 
why?"  In  the  end,  what  she  is  looking 
for,  as  an  interviewer,  is  "grown  up" 
people.  I  take  this  to  mean  people  so 
burdened  with  responsibilities  and/or 
fears  that  they  would  never  ask  their 
boss  "why?"  I  get  the  distinct  feeling  I 
have  already  blown  the  interview. 

And  then,  the  miracle.  A  few  weeks 
later,  just  as  Babs  and  I  hit  rock 
bottom — she  was  by  then  a  volunteer  for 
the  United  Farm  Workers,  who  pay  only 
for  her  barest  subsistence— I  was  able  to 
land  some  free-lance  translating  jobs. 
English  to  Spanish,  Spanish  to  English, 


I'll  translate  anything.  More  work  comes 
my  way,  and  soon  we  are  receiving 
almost  a  lower-middle  class  income. 
Combined  with  the  fact  that  we  live 
frugally,  it's  O.K. 

But  after  a  year  or  so  of  this,  a  malaise 
begins  to  set  into  our  household.  We 
begin  to  feel  trapped  in  routine.  The 
adventure  seems  over.  We  begin  to 
suspect  it's  not  enough  just  to  live 
frugally;  we  begin  to  suspect  that  this 
"simple"  lifestyle  of  growing  our  own 
and  of  consuming  little,  though  ostensi- 
bly subversive,  might  actually  be  com- 
plicitous  with  the  movement  of  capital 
from  an  industrial  to  an  informational 
mode.  After  all,  wasn't  it  the  big  corpo- 
rations who  sponsored  the  last  Earth 
Day  celebration  in  Austin?  There's 
something  fishy  here ...  By  "living  sim- 
ply" instead  of  DEMANDING  the  social 
surplus— those  trillions  mentioned 
above— weren't  we  acquiescing  to  this 
obvious  corporate  redirection  of  capital? 
But  where  was  such  a  movement  to 
demand  that  surplus?  Not  in  Austin, 
certainly.  Most  progressives  there  were 
like  we  had  been,  believing  that  frugality 
was  subversion.  Still  believing,  in  other 
words,  in  the  myth  of  scarcity. 

Suddenly  we  want  out .  .  .    "Archeo- 


logists  have  led  us  to  conceive  of  this 
nomadism  not  as  a  primary  state,  but  as 
an  adventure  suddenly  embarked  upon 
by  sedentary  groups  impelled  by  the 
attraction  of  movement,  by  what  lies 
outside.  .  .  an  extrinsic  nomadic  unit  as 
opposed  to  an  intrinsic  despotic  unit." 
(Gilles  Deleuze).  We  give  the  car  and  a 
lot  of  the  other  shit  to  CISPES,  and  Babs 
makes  the  first  go,  choosing  to  move  to 
downtown  Detroit,  the  cutting  edge  of 
urban  American  decay.  I  opt  for  Mana- 
gua, where  a  similar  raw  confrontation 
between  the  haves  and  the  have-nots 
continues  to  openly  fester.  It  seems  that 
in  order  to  restore  our  sense  of  reality  we 
are  impelled  to  go  to  places  where  the 
myth  of  scarcity  has  taken  a  real  toll. 

Meanwhile,  back  in  Texas,  the 
700,000  individuals  to  whom  oil  royalty 
checks  roll  in  every  month,  as  regularly 
and  eternally  as  the  tides  of  Galveston, 
have  seen  a  pleasant  doubling  of  their 
income,  owing  to  the  "Gulf  crisis."  One 
can  only  suppose  that  the  old  Texas 
arrogance— arrogance  based  on  nothing 
other  than  the  good  fortune  of  having 
stumbled  upon  the  land  under  which  lay 
dissolved  bodies  of  dinosaurs— will  soon 
be  making  a  florid  comeback. 

— Salvador  Ferret 


JOBS  ARE  TAILS! 


(4  issues) 

$    15  Regular 

$   18  Libraries 

$  25  Out  of  US  Surface 

$  35  Out  of  US  Air/Libraries 

$150  Lifetime  Subscription 

$250  Corps.  &  Gov't  Agencies 

$      5  Back  Issues  (each) 

Checks  payable  to  "Processed  World" 
U.S.  dollars  only  please! 


Subscribe  to  the  magazine  that  does  care .  .  . 

PROCESSED  WORLD 


Name 

Address . 

City    

State  

Zip 


Country 

Start  w/PW  # 

Send  bac 


PROCESSED  WORLD,  41  Sutter  Street  #1829.  San  Francisco,  CA  94104.  USA 


GET  THE  BEST  OF  PROCESSED  WORLD'S 
FIRST  20  ISSUES  ALL  IN  ONE  BOOK! 


"One  of  our  favorite  books  of  1990!" 

—  Village  Voice  Literary  Supplement 

''Processed  World  is  the  subversive  flip 
side  to  12-hour  day  propaganda  mags  Uke 
Working  Woman .  .  .  the  blackly  humorous 
graphics  have  the  baddest  attitude .  .  .  ex- 
pos[ing]  the  nonsensical  quality  of  all  the 
instructions  received  "from  above." 

—Heather  Mackey,  S.F.  Bay  Guardian 


"Bad  Attitude  is  strongly  recommended  for 
virtually  everyone  from  precocious  teen- 
agers to  embattled  workers  to  stodgy  CEOs. 
PW's  insistence  on  freshness  and  open- 
mindedness  and  radical  objectivity  turns 
up  dozens  of  dizzying  new  perspectives." 

—John  Shirley.  Mondo  2000 


"Innoculation  from  other  bits  of  the  Ameri- 
can left  means  Processed  World  has  re- 
tained a  vital  conviction  in  the  power  of 
human  beings  to  act  and  change  the  world. 
The  spirit  of  '68  stalks  on." 

—Sheila  Rowbatham,  New  Statesman 


Also  available  from  the  Bay  Area  Center  for  Art  &  Technology: 


VIDEOTAPES 

D  Brazilian  Dreams:  Visiting 
Points  of  Resistance 

VHS,  54  mins. 

D  Across  From  City  Hall 

VHS,  30  mins. 
This  half-hour  video  documents  the  extra- 
ordinarily articulate  residents  of  "Camp 
Agnos,"  a  homeless  camp-in  in  SF's  Civic 
Center  Plaza,  1988-89. 


D  Gulf  Crisis  TV  Project  Part  I 
VHS,  2  hours  (4  y2-hour  shows) 

D  Gulf  Crisis  TV  Project,  Part  II 
VHS,  1  hour  (2  Va-hour  shows) 

D  Gulf  Crisis  TV  Project,  Part  III 
VHS,  1  hour  (2  ^A-hour  shows) 

D  Gulf  Crisis  TV  Project,  Part  IV 

VHS,  1  hour  (2  Va-hour  shows) 
AU  Gulf  Crisis  TV  Project  shows  are  pro- 
duced by  the  Deep  Dish  TV  Network,  an 
alternative  satellite  network  of  public-access 
independent  video  producers.  They  can  be 
contacted  through  Processed  World. 


POETRY  CHAPBOOKS 

from  End  of  the  Century  Books 

D  Things  I  Don't  Remember 

6^  Barbara  Schaffer 

U  Calling  In  Sick 
by  William  Talcott 

D  The  Good  Neighbor  PoUcy 

by  klipschutz 


PROCESSED  WORLD  lO/l  J  =  $0.00 


Stayfree®  Desert  Shields  —  Protection  Like  Nothing  Else 


Flow-Thru  Cover 

•  Camouflage  outer  layer  rapidly 
draws  fire  inside  a  shroud  of 
censorship,  away  from  eyes  of 
CNN  reporters. 

•  Helps  keep  George  high  and  dry 

•  Cottony-soft 


Odor-Absorbing  Policies 

•  Policies  deep  inside  red  tape 
absorb  lawsuits  safely 
and  naturally. 

•  Helps  George  feel  cleaner  and 
fresher. 

•  i  00%  liability-free. 


Longer  and  Thicker 

•  Longer  and  thicker  than  other 
world  leaders'  penises  for  better 
wielding. 


To  Use:  Peel  off  oil  Conglonnerate  backing  and  press  firmly  into  the  American  Public's  face.    Non-Flushable. 
The  Stayfree®  Line  . . .  Protection  Like  Nothing  Else.  Try  our  entire  family  of  euphemisms: 


SORTIE 


SURGICAL 
STRIKE 


REGIO 
CONFL 


For  light  attacks. 

More  specific 

For  days  with 

Marine  t>ack-up. 

attacks  on  military 

moderate  offensive 

and  in-between 

bases  bordering 

maneuvering. 

peace  ta/ks. 

residential  areas. 

POLICE 
ACTION 

CAMPAIGN 

LIBERATION 

Safe,  selective 
bombing  of  inner- 
city  governmental 
seats. 

F 
c 
c 

; 

^or  overnight 
arpet-bombing 
^f  suburban 
andscapes. 

War. 

Comments?  Write  to  your  local  Congresspersons  or  President  George  Bush,  The  White  House,  Washington  DC. 

Manujaciured  by  world  Oil  Companies  and  Madison  Avenue  Executives.