Your Square Life #8 by Lee Post

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YOU

BUTTER,

I HARDLY KNEW YOU

remember in the first year of college seeing my roommate clason sitting on the couch of our dorm room eating. He was nervously anticipating going into the National Guard, which he had signed up for during the previous week. The realization of what he had done was driven home by the shaved head he received that afternoon. The National Guard was not his first choice, but when you fail out of your classes because you spend all your time playing Magic and bootlegged, clapanese-versions of Final Fantasy, working to get the sixbh best ending, and failing your classes for the second

and third times, your choices become more limited.

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clason was in the process of finishing a full half-gallon of "Mexican Chocolate Ice" cream he had begun just a half-hour before. I, not being the ice cream connoisseur,

examined the lid that was hastily cast off onio the floor near his feet. I was curious as to what made Mexican ice cream different than our fine American, normal version of chocolate ice cream. It seems that the "Mexican" variety is made with full cream, egg yokes, and exbra sugar. It did not seem like a dessert for the faint of hearl or the overweight. As he licked the spoon clean, he reached down to the mack of the couch and

pulled out a king-sized Hershey's Special Dark Bar, and without any hesitation, began to consume it. Feeling a moral obligation, I asked clason if he felt he really needed more chocolate. He grunted and continued on.

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An hour later, I found clason, siting in a dazed stupor with a small brown ring around his I asked him how he felt. He slowly turned his head and whispered, as if trying to escape divine judgement, "Lee . . . I know . . . I know what a stick of butter feels likel' To this day, I belive that last bit of refined cocoa had driven him over the edge. My roommate had become one with a dairyproduct and he was never the same again. I ansume the visions ofterror induced bywhatover he saw in that chocolate induced stupor had changed him in ways n0 mortal can understand. mouth, muttering incoherently.

{i :@ your Squrre Llfe

1s en lnd.epenclent publlcetlon of lque Fortls Deslgn, created by Lee Pogt.

Pleese contcct Lae rlth your commsnts, questlons, 8nc[ to obtaln ritctltlonel coples et qurre I1 f eoho tna 1 l- . c om .yours Leo

r11I deslgn your custon tetoos cncl t-shlrts naklng you the envy of 8I1 your frlencls. (But rere they your frlends to begln rlth?)

All ertrork encl some of the t61I thought out prose 1s property of Lee Post enil ls not to be reprlntsd or used ln eny lay rlthout the express lrltten I

permlsslon of ,Lee "SICK, tR0U0' lilD I,OVI}|G IT"i'Pogt.

Recently an interviewer from Your Square life prepared an interview for Mr. Mike Gorder, a local Alaskan musician and legendary street tough. Mike Gorder fancies himself an accomplished sin$erlsonggrriter, which is ok with the rest of us, because he is. Please purchase his last album, "The Alcohol Theory". However, Mr. Mike Gorder was unwilling to provide Your Square Life with an interview. More accurately, Mr. Gorder roughed up the interviewer in the back alley of the local Bennitrana, caJling him a freak as he kicked him repeatedly in the back. As Mr. Gorder stepped on the interviewer's neck, our intrepid interviewer was told to stop making hang-up calls to Mr. Gorder's mother and to return the trash stolen from outside his house. After ru-rrning away from Mr. Gorder's speedin6f truck as he circled back to the alley to run our interviewer dovrm when our interviewer made an unsubsbantiated allegation regarding Mr. Gorder's sister, our interviewer made it back to his apartment to spit out teeth and transcribe the following unanswered interview questions. So go see Mr. Gorder Thursdays at Bennitrana's and watch out, for }ris left hook. He fights dirty.

In your show,I notice you have forgone some of the classic trappings of the funk era, i.e. elaborate costumes rump shaking bass, a large choreogfaphed horn section, etc. Do you attribute this to the fact that you are in fact not a funk musician, 0r is there another, better reason?

8) In my last interview, with Indy Rockwell, he desmibed the pressures of being Loverman #i. How do you deal with Indy Roclcvvell's pressures of being Loverman #I? 5) Sometimes when I get scared to go out in public, I starb shaking, curl up in a ball in my neighbors' bathtub, wet myself, and cwse Ttlal-Mart for all my ills. This lasts for about 48 hours, every fewweeks. How do you deal with your fears as a performer?

4) Sometimes when I'm not payrng attention or off my medications, your lyrics seem to be about telting everyone to kill me. How do you come up with your lyrics? 5) IVithout using the words, unuden, nmoneyn, .sezual healingn, urump-shaking" or ntittie', what are three words that wonld entice me to come to one of your shows?

your music ffr morose, melancholy, or depressing. Some also say your songs have a sad quality. How do you place your music amongst these varied styles? Some categorize

Dear teadar, how otten hee thls quesffion atossed. your Ttnag Beet talow, used motot oll, eolor sale bleaah, oE aom_ mon, household' sand'? What shorild you use to aleanse your ha:a, so you aan be beautdfril, sueceistrtl, and m.od.erate\r weII Aked., Moteove4 when should. these ptoducts be used? Il thege are quesfJlons that plague your levered anil ilistvrbed. mtn4, please read on. - Edltors of Yottl, Sguare We

When should you shompoo? IheHondbookof Noturol BeoutybyVirginioCostlemon

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1975 How ofien to shampoo is a greatpoint of contention, but it is strictly in indiuidual lnltten Gennal$ speahing, the better your heahh, the less fequent$ a shampoo is needed. For hygienic reasont, remoual ofair pollutants, general comfon and feedom fom anpleasant scalp odors, once a uteeh is indicated. The timaable uaries, of course, according to ltour particular tTpe of hair. Is it oi$ or dry? Fmgile or snrdy? Are you aposed to industrial air city trffic, or do you liue in the cornltaratiue cleanliness ofcounay

::/rr** Many temagers sharrytoo too ofien because of ounly actiue Attmtion should befrst giue to A correctiue diet to clear up to auoid acessiue shampooing that u.,ill damage the

hain

sebaceous glands. this

Ifyu

problern, and can see comb

marhs in your hair afier combing, thals one sign you need shampoo! But donl rely on this alone.

For those utith dry hair, fequent shampoos can be darnaging. On the other hand, oily hair calls for more fequent shampoos if it is to be rnanageable. Hair that is extrernely dry, or mcessiue[t oily, and the scalp that quichfi' dnelops an unpleasant odor - these conditions all seern to stem fom nutriional defciencies. Until the internal requiremmts Ale met, there are bound to be dfficulties in clearing up problems. At the sAme f,ime, srupulousll clean hair and an odor-fee scaQ can be achined by judicious use of shampoos uthose fequency is dictated by the need rather than the rule.

If yur dia is balanced and includes lots offesh fuits and uegaables and protein, and ifyou ltaue no trouble elirninating body uastes, thm you should uarnine tlte manner in which yu shampoo your hair, ifyou are mperimcing problems.

A quick soaping and rinsing is neuer

adequate for heahfu hair, and in time, suclt short-cut mahods can lead to heauy dandrufi scalp odor and clogged pores. It is far better to adopt a relaxed attitade about shampooing and learn not to depmd on quich soaping and rinsing under the shotuer to bring about a heahhy scalp condition.

A major

selling point for many of the commercial daergent sbamltoos is their "squeahy clean." The sort of aduertising that prornotes

ability to get hair

squeahl clean as a desirable hair condition is misleading. W'e donl uant oar hair to squeah, an! more than ue lihe to a door hinge make this sound. Both conditions suggest a needfor oil, or in the case of haia a defnite loss of oil. Hair should be supple, sofi, and silent uthen it is in good condition. Detergent shampoos will indeed mahe your hair squeah, but at the cott of stripping the hair of all its oils. Chech

yur

sure lour not ounloading on the wrongfoods. Then or rnahe one, that is cleansing but not destrctiue.

diet to malze

choose a sltampoo,

There lvas a time I could have had any man with just a look. edicated to mike gorder and paradise

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I don't mink my daughter will be afforded the same brea,ks I was.

where are my barrettes?

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$t ...and then Bobby grabbed his food and stuck it up Carl's nose. Ihe bubbles

started shooting

I lost track of her father ages ago. I don't much miss him

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I'm not.rrrhrpf,y *irh -y My daughter brings me boundless joy. so then teacher found his underwear on the hamster. We found Ns sock in the . . .

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I don't tell my daughter much about my past.

At her age, she can't put it in perspective. She can't see the path f was on.

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| 'right choices'. If I did,

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Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

Everyone's life settles. ugh.. . just

I gotta finish

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fllr0rlr{I fT0Iu ff t0y{ tOfT Ib begin with firll disclosure, my love life continually

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surreal. It seems time aad time again, I a,m seduced into affairs with ihe socially mala4lusted and insane. If I do happen onto a subj ectively normal individual, the events ofmylife conspire to drive themto be sociallymaladjusted or insane within several weeks. I do not know why women who

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chooseto date me swiftlyloose all selFesteem, develop symptoms of psyche

lo$cal despondency and start making bizarre death threats toward me upon the completion ofthe relationship.

During my first year of college I met a grl, Joanne, who was in several of my core classes, like mat[ biolory,and beginning psycholog. She was in at least two to three of my classes each quarter of myfirst year. She was a nice girl. Close cropped hair, nice smile. We had a lot in common. Her dad worked on an oil

field in Saudi Arabia, where she gew up. My father

worked on the North Slope most of my life . I was studying premedicine. She wanted to be an en$neer. Tfe soon were spending more and more time together, quasi dating but never cossing that threshold, as is tnre for meny of mynon-insane relationships. Ihe dating/friendship continued into the next year of my studies. Ihen that cursed turkey bacon ruined any chance

I had for love. For those unaware, turkey bacon is some tyBe of unnatural amalgam of chopped turkey industrial dyes, and asbestos, formiag a rough ap proximation of bacon, with none of the fat, pork flavor, texture, or appearance of real banon, that makes bacon one ofthe most enjoya,ble, non-kosher brealfast foorls around. I\rkey banon was developed to stealthe lucrative, multi-billion dollar market previously occupied solely by "Sizzlean." If you have partaken in turkey bacon, you know a few pieces go a long way Aay more than two . . . well, tlnt's the punch line to my story, so let me continue,

IYell, one day my roommate Dan was cooking up (rather nimowavin$ up a package of turkey bacon. He consuned the daily recommended serving of two slices and offered me the rest, which amounted to about four or five wrinkly, rlry pieces. I had not eaten that afternoon, as I was not feeling well, and, as i had not experienced the wrath of turkey bacon,I foolhardilyate allthat was left, Within seconds,I realized tbat this was a terrible mistake. I felt like I had eaten a pound of lead shot. i turned a little green and retired to the floor of my room, t0 hold my stomach and gtoan, cursing Dan and his da,mn tukey bacon.

Then a moment of clarity hit me like a boot to the neck. the last sentience I remember hearing was, " .. .and I thinkl real$ Iike youl' Imxoediately my eyes opened to the size of saucers and my previously limited

abilityto speak came to an abrupt balt. Mymouth opened agape, withjust a pathetic wheeze f or ur. Tears welled in my eyes, as I quiokly realized this situation required tact and conpsure and, because ofthat, I was impotent to it right then, Following the shock of Joanne's disclosure, the only heard sound was t'he gurgle of the infa,mous turkey bacon as it continued its my digestive systen. Afull minute of tense silence passed as we assault on deal wibh

stared at each other. I, mute with dietary malaise. She mute with the breathless, desperate anticipation ofteenage love. I hasten to guess what myface muet bave looked like, probably a mir of shockan<l pain.

0n cue, Joanne stopped by my apartment unannounced. I must notâ&#x201A;Ź that, of course, this was the first time ehe had come by without calling first. Surprised by tloanne visit, I moaned for Dan to send her bank to my bedroom, as i slowly righted myself up from the fetal position I was cowering in. Dear readers, I must preface this bysaying that I remember litt'le of the conversation I had with.Ioarure. The turkey bacon was turning sunmersaults in my stomach, which combined with my alreadyweakened state, put me into a gemi-ethereal state of consciousness. Ihe focus of my beingwas centered on keeping the contents my stomach within my stomach and maintahing my composure, which at that point, was defined as keeping my eyes open and

notpassing out. AllI do remember is sitting down on the floor withher wit^tr her eyes firmlyfocused on me and her mouth openingand closingagain and again. I don't remember any of the words she produced.lhey nay or may not have been in En$ish. My ability to speak was reduced to sta,mmering back with "uh huh" and " yeah" repeatedly at the appropriate intervals.

Inevitably the moment passed. qloanne looked away and began to cry She said, 'qthat's all right,you don'thave to sayanythingl understandl' She got up and ran out of my room, brushin$ past Dan, and out of my apartment into the dark, hostile streets of Seattle. As she rushed out, I meekly raised my arm, and rnuttered, " w&rt. " But it was too late. i again collapsed into the fetal position in t'he nidrlle of my apartment, stayin$ like that for several hours, until the tu-rkey bacon lost its evil hold over me. Joanne stopped speakingto me for severalweels, andthat night was conspicuously never brou$ht up a$ain. Soon, she began failing out of her classes andwas forced to forsake her dream of beingan engineer due to low gades and set on a career of accountancy I saw her briefly one dqy on the Quad. We exchanged pleasantries and I never saw her again.

Damnyou, turkeybacon!

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