_____ _ _ __ _ __ ____ | ___|(_) ___ | |_ / _| _ _ | | ___ / _| | __ ) ___ ___ ___ | |_ | |/ __|| __|| |_ | | | || | / _ \ | |_ | _ \ / _ \ / _ \/ __| | _| | |\__ \| |_ | _|| |_| || | | (_) || _| | |_) || __/| __/\__ \ |_| |_||___/ \__||_| \__,_||_| \___/ |_| |____/ \___| \___||___/ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ISSUE #5 AUGUST 2004 ***THE DEATH ISSUE*** 1. Editor's notes 2. "Tradition" By Sarah Jaffe 3. "A Cab Driver's Assesment" By John Green 4. "Interview with Andy Kaufman" By Mary Green 5. About Fistful of Bees ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Editor's Notes: So... Fistful of Bees #5. Who knew I would stay interested this long. You’ll notice it’s a little light this month, with only 3 articles. It’s all good, though. FoB6 is so far shaping up to be a big’un, but don’t let that stop you from contributing something. The theme shall be “Tips for Teens”. Interpret that as you will. I’m mainly looking for stories by/about teenagers, but anything that has to do with the horror and awkwardness of growing up is good. For those among you who are hardcore FoB fans, you can also now get a print version of FoB issues 1 through 5. The price is $2 in person, or $4 by mail. Within Canada, please send *well-concealed* cash. If you don’t want to send cash or if you live outside of The Great White North, you can pay using PayPal. The cost is $4 USD in the US; $5 USD everywhere else in the world. I also accept trades, but please email me first with what you’ve got in mind. Here’s the snail mail address where you can send stuff: Fistful of Bees Zine PO Box 173 Station A Fredericton, NB E3B 4Y9 CANA-DUH ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Tradition" By Sarah Jaffe ------------- A few years ago on the Fourth of July, some friends and I stumbled on an old graveyard in the back of Hilton Head Plantation. It's no longer an actual plantation; rather, it's a gated community, designed to let the "members" in and keep "non-members" out. But in this graveyard, full of topped, broken, badly-spelled gravestones, rest the slaves who worked the plantations that used to be here. Two of the graves belonged to people who'd been born on July 4. Jessica and I decided to make it a tradition to visit those graves on the Fourth. The next year, we baked a cake and brought it to the cemetery. Our cake was rather a failure, as was our attempt at tradition-creating – I spent the next July 4 in Ireland, and the two following it halfway across the country. But this year I returned to Joe-Joe's grave, visiting it while people nearby staked out spots to watch fireworks. I wonder if he knows I've come back, or cares. Maybe he just wishes that silly white girl would go away and stop patronising him. Maybe he doesn't mind. Maybe he's grown fond of me the same way I've grown fond of him. I don't really know what I want to accomplish – maybe just to spend some time not tabulated in accomplishments, but thinking about these people whose accomplishments are unrecorded except perhaps as a line in a history book – a private in the Navy mess corps, not allowed to hold a gun because of the colour of his skin, and whose relatives can't get in to visit his grave without having some property owner call in a pass. I used to work with a man whose relatives were buried in that cemetery. He, of course, lived outside the gate. ------------- Sarah Jaffe is a writer who lives in Hilton Head, South Carolina against her better judgment. She divides her time between getting a better and cheaper education from books than she did from college, and driving ridiculous distances to stalk Vincent Lecavalier and Brad Richards. She's saving money to move to Canada, but it would make the move easier if you'd marry her or set her up with one of the aforementioned boys. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "A Cab Driver's Assesment" By John Green ------------- One of the best times was when I got a fever between treatments and called a taxi to take me back to the hospital for an examination. Becky was at work and while many, many friends had repeatedly made it clear that I was to call them at any hour should I need anything – especially a ride – I was weary of the fuss, so I just called a cab. It was one of the first cold mornings we'd had that fall and between the fever and a newly bald head, I was all the colder. The car arrived and I climbed into the back, glad to find it well heated. The driver was a man in his 50s and of an ethnic extraction I couldn't place. "Where we goin'?" "The Cancer Agency, just down off 10th and Cambie." He put the car in gear, turned down the drive and waited for an opening into traffic. He looked at me in the mirror. "Visiting a friend?" "No, actually. I'm afraid I'm going there for myself." He turned around in his seat to appraise me directly. After a moment, his countenance twisted into a mixture of bewilderment and scorn. "You don't have cancer!" he told me. His pronouncement was such a surprise, such an affront, and such a contradiction to the weeks of coddling and sympathy I'd lately been subjected to, that I began to laugh. Slipping into the stream of traffic, he elaborated. "Don't listen to those doctors, they don't know anything. Listen to me. Not a thing in the world wrong with you." I smiled and looked out the window. No arguing with that, I thought. I liked him. "So what are they tellin' you?" "Big tumour on the side of my heart. I've just started chemo and it's not looking too good. But... we'll see." "Yeah? How'd that happen." "I found out last month. I had a cold that wouldn't go away, then it became a fever. My family doctor thought it was bronchitis at first but the antibiotics didn't do a thing, so he gave me a more thorough exam and found something wrong with my heart. They put me in the hospital and ran a series of tests... and here I am." "They curin' you?" "They’re trying. Too early to say if it's working." We drove a few blocks in silence. When I related this exchange to some friends that evening, many of them registered distaste with the man's attitude, but I found it oddly refreshing. Owing, I think, to both an inherently mild temperament and a fair measure of denial, I'd had some difficulty taking my sudden bout of dangerously bad health as serious as those around me. Friends and family had come out in legions to lend their support, and while I'll never be sufficiently grateful for the myriad of kindness I received during that dark time (I am, for the moment, healthy again), I also felt a not a little abashed by it all. Especially mystifying for me was how I'd suddenly become "courageous," "brave," "dignified" and all manner of lovely things in the eyes and words of my friends. At the risk of being ungracious, I have to report that I could never feel other than embarrassed by this. How else would I behave except how I'm behaving? I didn't understand what it was about my conduct that merited such praise since, as far as I could tell, I was just lying in a hospital bed and doing what I was told. Moreover, being as I was at the happy centre of an overwhelming outpouring of love and support from those around me (not to mention being the lucky recipient of some of the best care modern medicine has to offer), I could only count my little life as charmed once more. Still, I must confess, a profoundly infantile part of me was getting drunk on all the attention and the cabbie's sharp initial reproof – whatever its gross presumptuousness – was a welcome antidote to all the ill- gotten praise I was becoming a little too used to. Having accepted my trip to the hospital as legitimate, he tendered some medical advice: "You know what you do, you go out and buy yourself a fifth of whiskey, you go home and you drink it. Knock the cancer on its ass!" "You think so?" "Works for me," he said. "Every night I do that, get a fifth of whiskey, go home and turn on the TV and I drink the whole thing. Never more healthy in my life." Well, we all need a hobby, I thought. We'd almost reached our destination so it was only for one uneasy moment that I wondered to myself if he ever extended his nighttime pursuits in front of the television into his daytime profession behind the wheel. His driving was fine, so I don't imagine he did. We stopped at the hospital's front entrance. I paid the fare and gave him a solid tip; he gave me a thumbs-up in return and said "Good Luck." "Thanks," I replied, and went inside, thinking: I already have it. ------------- John Green was a librarian and writer who died of cancer on August 18, 1999 at his home in Vancouver. He was 29. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Interview with Andy Kaufman" By Mary Green ------------- Mary: So Andy, why did you fake your own death, only to return 20 years later? Andy: It was the only way to seal my status in history as a legendary performance artist. I want to be remembered for so much more than having played Latka on Taxi. The worst part was lying to my family and closest friends. M: How can we be sure it's really you and not some random jerk pretending to be you? A: How do you ever know anything is really what you think it is? It would take a DNA or fingerprint sample to prove that I am the real Andy Kaufman, which I'm more than willing to do if need be. I'm sure there would even be doubters if I did that. People will believe what they want to believe. I've spoken to my parents and a few old colleagues, like Bob Zmuda. You can ask them if I'm the real deal. M: Why don't you go on Saturday Night Live or CNN so everyone can see this isn't a hoax? A: What I did broke the trust of a lot of people in this country, not to mention many close friends and family members. I will never again be able to gain back that trust. Not even after public appearances or even DNA testing. Some will always have their doubts. I don't care about those people anymore. M: What have you been up to since you died? A: Once the initial part of faking my death was over, it was very easy to just "disappear." Plenty of people do this and are reported by their families as missing, only to show up weeks or months later. The trick was staying away for so long. For the stunt to be successful, I had to go away for a very, very long time. I figured twenty years was a good, round number that was long enough and would be totally legendary. I've been keeping a low profile, traveling the world, working odd jobs and practicing transcendental meditation. M: You’re the only person I can think of who died and lived to tell the tale. Have you any wisdom to impart? A: Sure. Alien Abductions are a hoax. Why would they need to abduct trashy rednecks and probe them when the aliens can blend right in with the rest of us? This is not a simulated virtual world a la The Matrix. If you are approached by a man who tells you he can "free your mind," kindly give him the finger and tell him to fuck off. If you subsequently wake up in a pod of goo and have input/output jacks all over your body, that world is actually the second construct of reality. A virtual world within a virtual world. I made it all the way to the third world that was just pure white light, when a voice came to me and told me that I must return to the first world construct and fake my own death in order to show people "the door". I am not Osama bin Laden. Ann Coulter is actually an evil twin clone of mine. We take turns playing one another, much like Tony Clifton and I did for years. Regardless of whether you believe in the devil or not, I met him down in Brazil. He showed me his credentials. Lucifer's Evil Empire has developed sophisticated holographic seals to prove that their workers really are on the side of Evil. Saddam Hussein had one, but that was obvious. Most people these days think Bush has one but it's all a big scam. Yep -- Satan confirmed that Bush is either a free agent or working for the other side. He apparently went "off the reservation" after kicking his coke and booze habit. Speaking of coke, I learned that crack cocaine is an odorless, tasteless, highless, and utterly inactive chemical compound that was introduced by the CIA into urban areas during the 1980s as an excuse to arrest young black males. I learned this the hard way after paying $150 for some crack cocaine in Baltimore in 1994. So, go ahead, smoke some crack! Just tell your mom -- "Andy Kaufman says it's okay to smoke crack!" M: What's next for you? A: I'm going to give back to my loyal fans, and tour the country appearing unexpectedly at local Starbucks and Wal-Marts. I've been working on a lot of new characters these last twenty years, which I may be disguised as: - aging comedy legend who still thinks everyone recognizes him - hippie turned yuppie guy in suit, now with bad coke habit - aging fat and bald guy who thinks he is god's gift to women - black turtleneck wearing pseudo-intellectual anti-war nerd-chic guy - and more. The tour begins TODAY! Be sure to tell your friends and alert the local media when you spot me! ------------- Andy Kaufman is a song and dance man, comedic legend, and still the undisputed World Inter-gender Wrestling Champion. He died of lung cancer on May 16, 1984. Never one to let a silly thing like death stop him from pursuing his dreams, Andy is currently visiting Wal-Mart and Starbucks locations around the US on his national tour. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ABOUT FISTFUL OF BEES SUBSCRIPTIONS: Fistful of Bees comes out at the beginning of every month, or whenever I get around to it. You can subscribe via email by sending a message to fistfulofbees@hotmail.com with "subscribe" as the subject. Similarly, if you want to be removed from the subscribers list, send an email to the same address with "remove" as the subject. You can also view individual issues of FoB at this address: http://www.geocities.com/fistfulofbees/zine.html SUBMISSIONS: I'll put just about anything in FoB -- except poetry. Save it for your English teacher. Send your submission to fistfulofbees@hotmail.com either embedded in the message or as a .txt file. Also include a little bit about yourself with your submission. You don't have to give me your name, but your a/s/l and a name or pseudonym you want me to use would be good. Just make everything up if you want, I don't care. Although each issue has a "theme", don't worry about whether or not your stuff will fit in with it. That's my job. And besides, for the most part, I take whatever content I have laying around construct a theme based on that, rather than coming up with the theme first. So if you send me something and I like it, I'll work it in one way or another. CONTACT: As you may have figured out, you can send any comments or suggestions to fistfulofbees@hotmail.com. However, be aware that any mail you send me may end up in a future issue of FoB. Especially if you're a dumbass and I want to ridicule you publicly. Dig it. Oh, and you can find me on MSN sometimes too, although the same rule applies. You guessed it: fistfulofbees@hotmail.com. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~