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           C  H  I  P  ' S    C  L  O  S  E  T     C  L  E  A  N  E  R

               Humor  *  Trivia  *  Pop Culture  *  Fun

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                                       I S S U E   N O.  8

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         All contents (c) copyright Chip Rowe or individual authors. 
         E-mail: chip@playboy.com

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                CHIP'S CLOSET CLEANER NO. 11 NOW AVAILABLE!

         The latest issue of CHIP'S CLOSET CLEANER -- 28 pages of 
         humor, trivia, pop culture and fun -- is now available for 
         $3 plus $1 postage from Chip Rowe, 175 North Harbor Dr.,
           Chicago, IL 60601-7358. 

                  Unseen Spinal Tap! 
                     Zine and Book Reviews 
                        Why I Love Swear Words
                            My Girlfriend Wears My Favorite T-Shirts 
                                Catalog from Hell
                                   50 Ways To Say You Masturbate 
                                        and Much More!

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                  CHIP'S CLOSET CLEANER NO. 10 NOW AVAILABLE!
 
             Normal People Who Collect Odd Stuff
                    Dentists on Film
                         Weekly World News Index
                              World's Largest Musical Fountain
                                   TV Mantras
                                       Zine Reviews
                                          Walter Cronkite's Favorite Color 
                                                $2 plus $1 postage

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    contents CONTENTS contents CONTENTS contents CONTENTS 
    +
    +                    My Gay Housemate Speaks!
    +                    Matt Goes to War
    +                    Bad Music for Bad People
    +                    Our Divided System: A Quiz
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 



                  NO, CHIP, I DON'T THINK YOU'RE CUTE


                In his first interview since coming out three 
                years ago, Chandler Burr discusses his 
                homosexuality with the Closet Cleaner. 
                Besides an Atlantic Monthly article that 
                discusses the science behind the nature 
                versus nurture debate about homosexuality's 
                origins, Chandler has also written a play 
                nominated for a Helen Hayes award and is 
                working on a book with playwright David 
                Henry Hwang ("M. Butterfly") about American 
                economic ideology. We share a bathroom 
                which he always leaves for me to clean, 
                the bastard.


                CC: In college, you slept with women. Were 
                you trying to be "normal"?

                CB: Normal in the sense of "with the 
                majority." I never really entertained
                any delusions that I was not gay. I can 
                get an erection with a woman, but there's 
                no passion involved.

                CC: When did you lose your virginity?

                CB: When I started playing around with 
                a neighbor who was straight. We were 
                12 or 13. We had sex for about three 
                years, until he got interested in girls. 
                That happens a lot. I have a straight 
                friend who had sex with a gay man for 
                two years.

                CC: How'd that work?

                CB: It's not necessarily homosexuality -- 
                some straight people have the capacity for 
                same-sex sex. For instance, sleeping with 
                a woman gave me pleasure; I ejaculated. 
                But I would never, ever fall in love with 
                a woman. I never wanted to wake up next 
                to a woman, or hold a woman in my arms, or 
                walk in a rainstorm holding hands.

                CC: What do you find attractive about 
                a man?

                CB: I like men who are handsome, with 
                big chests, huuuuge cocks [laughs]. No
                really, I like men who are intelligent, 
                who are interested in me, who have spark, 
                guys who are on time, who pick up the 
                check once in a while.

                CC: Many people don't understand why 
                sexuality is so important that a gay
                person needs to shout it on the streets. 
                Is there something besides the sex that 
                makes you gay?

                CB: Gay men have different sensibilities. 
                There's an interesting theory of sexual 
                orientation development that involves 
                pre-natal hormonal masculization and 
                feminization. For example, you probably 
                didn't know this, but you have a vagina 
                inside of you. Each infant is born with 
                a full set of internal male and female 
                sexual organs plus the genetic equipment 
                to create the glands that create the 
                hormones that determine the outer 
                genitals. With the creation of a male, 
                you have to have testosterone, of course, 
                to create your organs and other 
                characteristics. But you also need MIH, 
                a hormone that prevents the female organs 
                from developing. 
                
                The theory is that gay men not only masculize,
                they also feminize, so you have a person 
                with both male and female psychosexual 
                characteristics. With gay males, for 
                instance, we get the outer sexual organs, 
                but MIH doesn't quite kick in. So you have 
                males born with male genitals but with 
                brains that have strong female components. 
                The female components in your brain have 
                been wiped out; maybe mine have not. And 
                what's more, for every 100 female 
                conceptions, there are 150 male conceptions --
                yet males and females are born at the same 
                rate. So it appears males are more vulnerable 
                to variations in development.

                CC: So all that explains your attraction 
                to men.

                CB: And also that gay men often have a 
                female sensibility, although that's tricky 
                to define. Is it being more caring, is it 
                putting on nail polish?

                CC: What about bisexuality?

                CB: A bisexual is someone who is 100 percent 
                attracted to both genders. I've never met 
                anyone like that, and I don't believe they 
                exist. As I said, my friend who had sex with 
                this gay man, he enjoys the guy's company 
                and the sex in a physical way, but he's 
                straight. He doesn't look at men when he 
                walks down the street, or wait by the phone 
                for his lover to call. He doesn't wonder 
                what his favorite color is.

                CC: Are there more gay people now?

                CB: We've always been about 10 percent 
                of the population, just like 12 percent 
                has always been left-handed.

                CC: Why are so many gay men effeminate?

                CB: Some straight men are effeminate, some 
                aren't. Some men play sports, some don't. 
                There are all kinds of gay people. In my 
                running club for example, Bill is really 
                masculine and muscular. Rick is a queen, 
                a fairy. He's got this little squeaky voice. 
                So they're opposites, but they're both 
                gay.

                CC: So what determines, since they're both 
                gay, the differences?

                CB: What determines the difference between 
                your behavior and that of another straight 
                man? Personality is also biochemically 
                determined. I have a straight friend who's 
                like Rick. And God, my friend Donna, she 
                is a dyke who looks likes Attila the Hun. 
                But this other lesbian I know, she's drop-
                dead gorgeous and very feminine.

                CC: Can you introduce us? She might change.

                CB: Yeah, sure she would, for you.

                CC: Tell me about when you first told your 
                parents you were gay.

                CB: When I got my period.

                CC: Funny. Did they suspect you were different?

                CB: No. First of all, they had been taught 
                that homosexuals were perverts, and monsters, 
                and deviants and sickos and weirdos. In other 
                words, not like their son.

                CC: How'd you break it to them?

                CB: I cornered my mother one morning. She went 
                through all the typical reactions: "It's just 
                a phase." "You'll grow out of it." "You just 
                want another political cause to march under." 
                "It's my fault." "Who did this to you?" My 
                father understands better.

                CC: When you hear people like Pat Buchanan 
                attack gays, or someone expressing their 
                aversion to homosexuality, do you sympathize 
                in any way?

                CB: In the way you sympathize with anyone 
                who's ignorant. When I was in Japan at age 
                22, I had a Japanese friend who called once 
                and said she couldn't go out because she 
                had to cook dinner for her father and brother. 
                I said, Why don't I just come over? And she 
                about had a heart attack. No, no!, my father 
                doesn't like white people because they're 
                dirty and ugly and so forth. [Shrugs.] How 
                was I supposed to feel about that?

                CC: In a former life, I was told that the Bible 
                says homosexuality is a sin.

                CB: It also says we shouldn't eat pork. It 
                also says that women should not speak in public. 
                If you believe that the Bible is the word of 
                God, the conversation ends there.

                CC: I'm curious about why gay men have 
                this reputation for being promiscuous.

                CB: This is an argument that obviously 
                has been used against us, but it has a
                biological explanation. There's a story 
                about President Coolidge, that he was
                visiting a farm when a rooster came out 
                and jumped on top of a hen. The First
                Lady asked, "Does he do that every day?" 
                And the farmer said, "Sometimes three or 
                four times." So she said pointedly, "Tell 
                that to the President." And then Coolidge 
                asked, "Does he always do it with the same 
                hen?" And the farmer said, "Nope." And he 
                said, "Tell that to the First Lady." 

                The expression of the sex drive in males 
                is to have sex more often with a greater 
                number of partners. Women want less sex 
                with a single partner over a longer period. 
                Gay men could be said to be lucky, in 
                that sense, because we're interested in 
                someone with the same sex drive.

                CC: That must be great. So you don't have 
                any desire to be straight?

                CB: If I were straight, do you know how 
                much I would not understand, having gone 
                through all the pain I have?

                CC: Let's end with this thought. If bigots 
                want to get rid of gays, shouldn't they 
                create an environment where gays feel 
                comfortable, form non-reproductive relation-
                ships and doom themselves?

                CB: Yeah, Chip, sure.

                CC: Thanks a million, Chandler.

               -----------------------------------------------


                         HOW I SPENT THE WAR 
                                -OR- 
               I FOUGHT SADDAM HUSSEIN AND SAVED A BUNDLE!

                       by Lt. Matthew Wolka
                        U.S. Navy (retired)

                The best thing about the Persian Gulf War 
                was that there was no waiting for a draft 
                notice, and no agonizing over who would 
                be sent. To the U.S. military, Operation 
                Desert Storm was little more (and much 
                less complicated) than a training exercise.

                When the war started in January 1991, 
                I was at a huge NASA and Navy facility
                that occupies thousands of acres of prime 
                marshlands in Virginia. Like anyone else 
                would have done, I went to the American 
                Legion to watch CNN. When that got 
                tiresome, I shot pool or played table 
                shuffleboard while quaffing 75-cent drafts. 
                My classes at the complex ended in March 
                and every indication pointed to the war 
                ending long before that. Still, I was 
                torn. If the war ended, I would miss out 
                on all the cool ribbons and medals that 
                I knew would be handed out like penny 
                candy at a state fair. Besides, the 
                status of being a Bona Fide War Hero 
                looks good if you're running for Congress, 
                etc. On the other hand, I would be spared 
                the chance of being maimed or killed. 
                Tough call.

                As it ended up, I had it both ways. The 
                coalition forces stopped bombing the 
                bejesus out of Saddam Hussein on February 
                28, three weeks before I was scheduled 
                to ship overseas. Desert Storm was still 
                going on, but nothing was happening. My 
                participation hung in the balance until 
                March 14, when I received a ticket to fly 
                to my ship in the war zone.

                I was on my way! I drove home to Ohio for 
                a few days, then traveled to Washington 
                to say good-bye to my girlfriend before 
                I shipped out. We went to a club and 
                watched white people dancing to reggae. 
                We met some Notre Dame graduates who 
                were awed that I was a Soon-to-be Bona 
                Fide War Hero. As the evening progressed, 
                everyone became more and more impressed. 
                Soon I had become a Soon-to-be Bona Fide 
                John F. Kennedy War Hero. We were in 
                high spirits. Then the suggestion sprang 
                for a "Statue of Liberty Sendoff," which 
                consists of dipping two fingers in a shot 
                of Rumpleminz, lighting them, and holding 
                them high in the air while drinking the 
                shot. All agreed it must be so and we 
                called the waitress. The bar had no 
                Rumpleminz. The mood soured: What other
                liquor would be flammable enough? 
                Unfortunately, you cannot get flammable
                vodka in the States.

                The next morning, I wore my white uniform 
                on the train to Philadelphia. Children 
                stared at me and old ladies smiled at me. 
                It was a beautiful day. I checked the paper. 
                The war was still on. In Philadelphia, the 
                airport was full of sailors. I went to the 
                snack bar and ate a slice of pizza and 
                drank four beers. I would have paid but 
                everyone kept buying them for me.

                The Military Airlift Command chartered an 
                airline called World Airways to take 
                everyone to the Naval Air Station at 
                Sigonella, Sicily. World Airways is
                perhaps best known for their appearance 
                in any film where a generic airlines
                is needed. The stewardesses, usually 
                the most beautiful women you've seen
                outside a magazine, had obviously not 
                made the cut on the "real" airlines. 
                The only one who couldn't speak English 
                made the safety announcements. After 
                we were airborne, the pilot announced, 
                "I think we have enough fuel to make 
                it to Sigonella, but we may have to stop," 
                as if he were driving the interstate 
                instead of over the Atlantic.

                The air terminal in Sicily looks like most 
                Greyhound bus stations; three ticket 
                windows, two rows of chairs, and a small 
                baggage claim area. Now add 300 arriving 
                World Airways passengers and another 200 
                departing. An announcer then listed a few 
                Navy ships and said, "You are going back 
                to the United States. Your ships are on 
                their way home." About 200 people got back 
                on the plane. My ship was not called. I 
                asked an agent about it. He flipped through
                some papers and handed me a ticket. "You 
                are going to Hurghada." Where? I'd find 
                out soon enough. I got a room at the Naval 
                Base, showered, and went to sleep.

                Early the next morning, I returned to 
                the airport, where they announced, "Now
                boarding to Hurghada," and 27 of us walked 
                to a DC-9 with U.S. Navy printed over 
                the windows. The plane took off and headed 
                southeast. When I woke up, I looked outside 
                and saw only desert. Where the hell was 
                Hurghada? Half an hour later, we descended. 
                I saw bunkers and then a runway and 
                aircraft. Russian built MiGs. Old ones. 
                Must be Egypt. And it was. 

                We walked half a mile through sand to a 
                tent like I'd seen on CNN. They were sending 
                us to helicopters to fly to our ships. But 
                my name wasn't called.

                "Oh," said the man who had the list, "your 
                ship won't be in until tomorrow. Until then, 
                you have a room at the Jasmine Palace." We 
                took a bus to the hotel. Buildings along 
                the road looked like they had been freshly 
                bombed, but I later realized that most 
                buildings in poor Arab countries look that 
                way. I got a room and slept. That evening, 
                I drank beer (plentiful and cheap in Egypt) 
                and played table tennis.

                Wednesday, I felt rested and clean. I went 
                to meet my ship and arrived just as it came 
                into port. I hitched a boat ride out and 
                tried to check in, but this was its first 
                "liberty" port and everyone was anxious to 
                get ashore. No stranger to fun, I tagged 
                along with some of the Bona Fide War Heroes 
                with whom I'd soon be working. We went 
                straight to a hotel bar. These were the
                crew's first beers in nearly three months 
                and everyone was drunk by 4 p.m. I was a 
                little surprised these proven warriors were 
                not able to party longer.

                Friday was my 24th birthday and my third day 
                in the war zone. It rained, so I stayed on 
                the ship. I didn't talk to anyone.

                Saturday, we set sail for Jeddah, Saudi 
                Arabia. We arrived Monday and went to the 
                pier compound. Each spring, Arabs observe 
                Ramadan, during which from sunrise to sunset 
                no one eats, drinks, smokes, has sex, or 
                listens to loud music. To prevent the 
                Americans from desecrating the holiday, 
                the Saudis built a compound in Jeddah 
                using empty shipping containers. The rules: 
                No American could leave the compound 
                except to use the phone or get on special 
                buses at 9 p.m. for a three-hour trip 
                to the mall. We stayed in Jeddah for 
                five days. The highlights:

                1. The mall. Most Arab countries boast 
                excellent shopping. Except for the Saudis 
                in gowns, the mall could have been from 
                Woodbridge, New Jersey. Best buys; sandals 
                and water pipes. 

                2. Playing basketball in the compound. 
                The Navy set up enough hoops so even an 
                uncoordinated white guy like myself 
                could get into a game. One of the other
                officers broke his ankle and was sent 
                to a hospital in Germany. He smiled as
                he left, a Bona Fide Injured War Hero. 
                I jammed my finger a little. 

                3. Getting a cavity filled when a Navy 
                tender was in port with a dentist on board.

                4. Lunch with the French. One of their 
                destroyers was in Jeddah and we arranged 
                an exchange of officers. I didn't make 
                the cut and ended up exchanging pleasantries 
                aboard our ship over some really bad onion 
                soup, sloppy Joes and French fries.

                5. Leaving. We were supposed to leave 
                Jeddah after ten days, but on Friday we
                pulled the lines. That's war, never in 
                port on weekends. But why had we left
                early? Some urgent war task? Hardly. 
                We steamed in circles off the coast for
                three days. No one knew where we were 
                supposed to go. Several Admirals in 
                Washington, Europe and Saudi Arabia 
                fought over where we should be sent and
                what we should do. Finally, on April 2, 
                they told us to go ... home.

                I was returning from the war! God Bless 
                America! I felt lucky to make it out
                alive.

                Nineteen days later, Staten Island loomed 
                in the fog and cold driving rain. A high 
                school band played. The New York City 
                police bagpipe band played. Families 
                rushed the ship. The New York Times 
                recorded tearful reunions. David Dinkins, 
                the mayor of New York, sent a letter 
                with a lame excuse for not being there. 
                I knew no one would meet me; no one knew 
                I was back. I spent the night on the ship. 
                Three black limos pulled up about 5 p.m. 
                and delivered enough gourmet Italian food 
                for the entire crew; it was leftover from 
                the funeral of mobster John Gotti's driver, 
                which took place earlier that day.

                The next two months were a happy 
                confusion of freebies and heroic posturing.
                As war heroes, the Veterans of Foreign Wars 
                offered us free membership, the State 
                University of New York at Stony Brook invited 
                us to a Welcome Back ceremony (dinner and a 
                bonus ice cream sundae at Friendly's), bar 
                owners gave us drinks and meals, as well as 
                two games of bowling and a ribfest, and we
                marched in no fewer than three Memorial 
                Day parades, all of which included 
                refreshments and the possibility of meeting 
                people who would buy you stuff.

                The all-girl band "Skin Tight" picked up 
                several of us one night for free rock 'n 
                roll as well as a chance at the microphone. 
                Better yet, consider this exchange that 
                happened at one of the local miniature 
                golf courses:

                Me: "How much is golf?"
                
                Owner: "Five dollars."
                
                Me:  "Even if you're a Bona Fide Desert 
                Storm Veteran?"

                Owner: "Here's two free passes."

                Not everything worked that way. The tolls 
                for the bridges into New York range are 
                $4 to $5. One sailor tried this: 

                Sailor: "The mayor said Navy people 
                could use this bridge for free."

                Toll collector: "The mayor doesn't own 
                this bridge."

                For my efforts fighting Saddam, the 
                Navy awarded me the Southwest Asian 
                Service Medal with one bronze star. 
                Everyone who entered the war zone got 
                one. Those there during Desert Shield 
                got two bronze stars. I missed out on 
                the February 28 cut-off for the Kuwaiti 
                Liberation Medal, which looks like a 
                pimp's hood ornament, as well as the 
                Navy Unit Commendation ribbon everyone
                else on the ship received.

                Postscript:  I ended up spending four 
                months in the Persian Gulf. When I came 
                home after my second tour, I got another 
                bronze star but practically nothing free.

            ------------------------------------------------


                          THOUGHTS AND COMMENTS

                "There's a lot of underlying philosophy to 
                the characters on 'Gilligan's Island.... 
                They're really a metaphor for the nations 
                of the world, and their purpose was to show 
                how the nations of the world have to get 
                along together or cease to exist." --Sherwood 
                Schwartz, who created the show [How about 
                this? Gilligan, U.S.; Skipper, Eastern 
                Europe; Professor, Asia; Ginger, Western 
                Europe; Mary Ann, neutral countries; Mr. 
                Howell, oil nations; Mrs. Howell, Central 
                America.]

                "The biblical God is a macho male warrior. 
                Though he said, 'Thou shalt not kill,' he 
                ordered death for all opposition. He 
                punishes offspring to the fourth generation; 
                ordered pregnant women and children ripped 
                up; is partial to one race of people; spread 
                dung on people's faces; sent bears to devour 
                42 children who teased a prophet; punishes 
                people with snakes, dogs, dragons, swords, 
                axes, fire, famine and infanticide; and said 
                fathers should eat their sons. Is that nice? 
                Would you want to live next door to such a 
                person?" -- from a pamphlet distributed by 
                the Freedom From Religion Foundation

                "The Zephyr reports that several parents have 
                complained about sexism in an alphabet-
                teaching program in which the letters are 
                characters: all the consonants are male, 
                and only the five vowels are female." 
                -- Chicago Reader [But you need a vowel in 
                every word, don't you?]

                "You should leave your bedroom window wide 
                open at night in the winter, so you aren't 
                poisoned by fumes inside your house."
                -- my second-grade teacher, circa 1974

              ------------------------------------------------

                             FIVE-LINE REVIEWS
                          for the '90s Movie Fan

                               by Matt Wolka

                Since I am unemployed and Mary Kay works 
                for peanuts, we can't afford to see movies 
                at the theater. I reviewed these from a 
                video rental place:

                Lifeboat (1943): Hitchcock does Steinbeck. 
                Nazis portrayed as the scum they truly were. 
                Mary Kay: "All I remember was a lady in a 
                lifeboat and then I fell asleep."

                Tampopo (1985):  Japanese w/subtitles that 
                are hard to read against white backdrops. 
                John Wayne wanna-be saves noodle restaurant. 
                MK took offense to kissing scene with 13-year-
                old girl. 
 
                Thelma and Louise (1991):  Woman kills man 
                attempting to rape her friend, the women 
                bungle their escape in a high-vis car and 
                kill themselves. All men are total jerks. 
                MK liked it.

                Queen of Outer Space (1957): Zsa Zsa Gabor 
                leads a pack of Venusian rebel women on a 
                quest for men and motherhood when an Air 
                Force rocket lands on their planet. MK didn't 
                watch.

                Truth or Dare (1990): Self-indulgent Madonna 
                documentary with assorted freaks who hang out 
                with her. Watch it naked. MK and I did...aaahhhh....
                and enjoyed it.

                ---------------------------------------------

                           BAD MUSIC FOR BAD PEOPLE

                          by the Rev. Tom Willadsen

                [Now tending to his congregation of good people 
                in Mankato, Minnesota, the Rev. Willadsen is 
                one of the founders of the grassroots "Bad 
                Music 4 Bad People" movement (before you laugh, 
                note that Kansas City radio station KCUR-FM
                recently started a "Bad Music Hour.")  As a 
                senior rooming with me during my freshman year 
                of college, he used to turn the country music 
                station up regardless of what I was doing or 
                listening to. And yet he was lovable.]


                Well, Chip, you came to right person to find 
                out about the movement. I was there from the 
                beginning. Hey, youngster, fetch the old alum 
                some bourbon, and listen up.

                On a gloomy night in January 1983, a group 
                of Chapinos [residents of Chapin Hall] gathered 
                to pass a typical Friday evening. We played 
                funny-bones, marveled at Reagan's cluelessness 
                and watched the sleet fall that would lock
                our windows to their frames until May. At 
                some point, "Abba's Greatest Hits" was slapped 
                onto the turntable -- it got all of us 
                laughing. Soon people were dashing to their 
                rooms to bring dusty 45s that had been packed 
                into Daddy's Ford wagon months before, just 
                because they were part of our record collection, 
                but none of which had felt a needle scrape 
                across them since we were in the fifth grade. 
                Helen Reddy's "Angie Baby," and of course 
                "Billy, Don't Be a Hero," by Britain's 
                forerunners to the Bay City Rollers, Bo
                Donaldson and the Heywoods, were played 
                repeatedly. And in the same way that
                you and your best friend in third grade 
                stumbled onto a game spontaneously by
                throwing a golf ball into the garage 
                rafters, we found ourselves having fun.

                In March 1984, the first "Bad Music 4 Bad 
                People" took place. We borrowed the name from 
                an album by the Cramps. The highlights of 
                our first gathering were a recording of 
                "The Bear Necessities" sung in German, Neil 
                Sedaka's Greatest Hits, and a scratched 
                version of "Who Loves You," the Four Seasons' 
                next-to-last top ten chart hit. A version of 
                The Sweet's "Fox on the Run" played that
                night that was taped off an eight-track 
                machine still holds the Illinois record for 
                distortion. At least three subsequent Bad 
                Music parties were funded, generously, by 
                dorm money.

                The philosophy of the Bad Music 4 Bad People 
                Foundation, of which I am curator, is that 
                people will carry the songs they love as 
                7-year-olds all their lives. They can deny 
                or cherish this, but they know deep-down 
                that they can never, ever get the words 
                of Bobby Sherman's "Julie, Do Ya Love Me?" 
                out of their heads. Case in point, this 
                woman who is several years older than me
                said the other day, "I don't know a thing 
                about the U.S. Constitution, but I still 
                know all the words to 'Love Potion Number 
                9.' " In a society that is increasingly 
                oriented toward the visual, the stuff most 
                of us have in aural memory are pop songs, 
                commercial jingles and, if you're over 26, 
                the theme from "Zoom." (Quick, name a zip 
                code besides your own. Was the first thing
                that popped to mind 0-2-1-3-4?) Sure, it 
                bothers me that I can't summarize Madame 
                Bovary or find the area under a curve anymore 
                while somewhere in my brain rests every 
                verse of "Like a Virgin," but what can I do? 
                Certainly not read another French novel.

                The wild success of BM4BP (parties in Evanston, 
                Brooklyn and Chicago) is simple. Many people 
                are reluctant to attend parties because 
                they don't know whether they'll have a good 
                time. At a BM4BP, everyone is guaranteed to 
                hear hours of nauseating, banal pop music, 
                none of which has been played on any radio 
                station since Ford administration -- in other 
                words, you're guaranteed a rotten time. With 
                that out of the way, most people arrive, 
                immediately howl along the first strains of 
                "The Night Chicago Died," and eat themselves 
                sick on all the bad food.

                Ah, the food. You know why college is 
                different from life? For the first time, you 
                can buy all the food that Mom refused to drop 
                into the shopping cart. Circus peanuts, 
                Smurfberry Crunch cereal, marshmallow whip, 
                licorice, Yoo-Hoo, sour creme and bacon chip 
                dip, Blatz beer -- they're all available in 
                abundance at BM4BP parties. Also any products 
                that use the word "Cheez" or "Cheesy" or
                contain suspected carcinogens are welcome. 
                Hey, you only live once. Bad music lives forever.

                ---------------------------------------------

                                 --end--

