Dissin’ on the Groove was a column I wrote during my last semester at Columba College Chicago. The Chronicle sponsored a column-writing contest. A right-leaning dude and I both won. I guess we were supposed to provide a counterbalance to each other. Our columns ran every other week. He got a lot of angry letters. I didn’t get letters of any kind. That either means that the student body leaned left (likely) or nobody read my column (possible).
It should be mentioned that in 1993 I was somewhat of a grumpy 23-year-old Gen Xer who read a lot of Hunter S. Thompson.
BTW, you can read some more writing I did as a student at Columbia in my zine Gray Flag.
From the Columbia Chronicle
Dissin’ on the Groove, February 15, 1993
DON’T STOP THINKING ABOUT TOMORROW
Has anyone ever dissed on your groove? Stepped on your buzz? Really pissed you off? Welcome to ’93; Era of Bill Clinton and the Baby Boomers, and the next generation called Generation X, pulling themselves up by their combat bootstraps.
The old reich has pardoned itself out of office and the new Reich has apologized, in advance, for any number of things that it won’t be able to accomplish in a limited, four year term.
But they say that this is the dawning of a new age for America. Age of Aquarius? Possible. First time in this country that a president has been elected who was born after World War II (big deal, it had to happen sooner or later.)
Youthful idealism, Rock the Vote. They say that today’s kids don’t care, but we watch MTV News, we know what’s really going on, as it applies to our lives, Gun’n’Roses and Madonna. At any rate, it was the young vote that helped change the election, that, and a lot of promises. Are our hopes too high? Maybe everyone’s just a little too excited? Just take a look at Clinton’s Inaugural Balls, man, what were they all about? Old Boy George would never have gotten that kind of welcome-to-the-highest-office-in-the-land party. Fleetwood Mac?! Who would have dreamt that a vote for Clinton was a vote for a Fleetwood Mac reunion? Not this young optimist, that’s for sure.
The honeymoon will be over soon though. Soon we can all go back to bitching about how dishonest politicians are, how things really don’t seem to be that much better, another drive by, another Air Raid, another Amy Fisher shoots her lover’s wife movie. Another Bud Bowl come and gone, and your team didn’t win… again.
So what are you afraid of? Total Lightosity, viscosity, thermo-nuclear breakdown, minoxidil, Acquired Immune Deficiency? Family value deterioration, ozone depletion? Crooked cops, crack, Crystal Pepsi, Green Peace Activist, White Supremacists, Black Militants, conservatives, liberals, radicals, Rush Limbaugh? Limp-wristed fighter pilots, booty videos, ball breakers, rump shakers, grunge fashion? Things you can’t qualify? People who can’t compromise? Kevin Costner?
You can’t hide under the funky hypnotic love table forever. Pop a Mentos, relax. This is it and that’s that. It doesn’t get any better than this.
You’ve borrowed thousands of dollars for the knowledge in your head and all the cynicism that goes with it, and to think you could have learned it all from a beer commercial, but why ask why? Just drink, right?
Wrong. Open your eyes, your underwear is burning and there’s not enough Evian in the whole world to put out this fire, ’cause it’s not your underwear, it’s your brain, that other retainer of undigested glop that looked a whole lot better in the commercial but damn it if your Quilted White Cloud doesn’t feel like a very fine grade of sandpaper.
So hit the fast forward button on your remote control, obtain infinite wisdom, do onto others, do so now. No matter what the future holds, holding onto the past gets you nowhere fast.
Don’t “just do it,” think about it first, you’re not a tennis shoe, are you? And hey, “don’t stop thinking about tomorrow…”
Gem of the Day: True conservationists don’t waste their time recycling.
From the Columbia Chronicle
Dissin’ on the Groove, March 1, 1993
I appreciate this opportunity to spew out, onto paper, the garbage that clutters my brain. A steady diet of bologna sandwiches and black coffee can create some very nasty thoughts in that big juicy organ and unless vented into the proper channels, these thoughts can be very destructive. I experienced the unpleasant sensation of having my brain explode one November afternoon several years ago, and it wasn’t pretty. Certain rules must be laid down and adhered to, but I’m not going to get into that right now.
Right now, I’ve noticed that there’s been a lot of bitching and moaning from certain people, we’ll call them Republicans, about how the Clinton Administration hasn’t done a damn thing yet and how Clinton’s deficit reduction plan is going to suck the bone marrow out of every hard-working American from Portland to Pennsylvania. I’ve also noticed that on the opposite end of the spectrum, you’ve got a bunch of ass-coverers and excuse-makers saying that no president in history has been under this much scrutiny in his first weeks of office. This defense will soon be extended to first months in office, years, terms and then it’s over. “He’s doing too much,” “Not enough,” “Tastes great,” “Less filling.” Lighten up already. It took the Republicans twelve years t screw up this country. Damn it, I say the Democrats can do it in four. (Hysterical applause) Thank you.
So what’s my point and where do you fit into all of this craziness? I’ll tell yah. Recently, as of noon today, I have been trying to think of what purpose I serve on this planet. Then the realization hit me that, as of noon today, my life has served no purpose. Sure, the guy who owns the liquor store on the corner appreciates me, but other than that, nada. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m not so sure that your life has served that much of a purpose in benefiting humankind either.
I think we can help each other with this, so check it out. Despite the election of the new, supposedly hip, President Bill, I don’t think that politics is quite hip enough, yah dig? Not hip like you and me. So what I was sort of thinking of doing is forming a new political party, and you’re invited. In ’96 you, me, and some select hip friends will take our party, the Grunge Faction (or some such topical name), and run for office. Not Alderman, not Mayorship, screw it, President of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA (smile when you read those words, darn you, Commie).
When elected I’m going to appoint a cabinet of long-haired freaks (freaks being a non-gender, non-race-specific term), with bad-ass tattoos and even badder attitudes. There’s going to be a Secretary of Balls Out Rock’n’Roll, Secretary of Def Jams and Booty Shakin’, and Secretary of Ass Kickin’ (formerly the Sec. of Defense). There’s going to be the Homo Faction, in charge of deterring homophobic infractions. Ice Cube’s gonna head up the Posse for Peace in the Nation. Political Correctness will be adhered to in actions, not in labels and terms. Of course, the rich will be eaten. Headline News will be replaced with Sec. of Information, Dennis Leary and the MTV News. The State of the Union Address will be given during the intermission of five-hour rock’n’roll shows, headlined by my favorite bands. Vegetarians will be forced to eat at least one hot dog per day.
It’s gonna be fantastic. Disneyland’s gonna be a missile base, if I chose not to blow that whole thing up, God hates Disneyland. Religious madmen, like Ben Hinn and Pat Robertson, are going to be sent straight to hell, God doesn’t like them either.
Kevin Costner, Rush Limbaugh, Vanilla Ice—jail with no hope of parole.
Now if you think this is going to be another Hippy Freak ticket from the flower power generation, you’d better check your head, right now. No acid and bean sprouts in my cabinet.
And if you think that my plan isn’t going to work, then you are probably right. But if it doesn’t work it will only because you didn’t help me enough. I’m disillusioned with the whole thing already. I’m gonna pull a Perot right now and back out while I still have some integrity intact and before I have to lie to you, my supporters. But at least I tried, at least I thought about it for a couple of depraved minutes. Thank you!
Gem of the day: A penny saved is a penny earned, but a penny earned ain’t worth much.
From the Columbia Chronicle
Dissin’ on the Groove, March 15, 1993
Come discover the world of financial insecurity. Feel the massive weight of impending debt. Experience the joy of cold calls from crabby bill collectors. Here’s a game you can play, try and detect the underlying tone of intimidation in the voice of the bill collector of your choice. C’mon, it’s easy:
“Ve vould appreciate it very much, Mr. Auman, if you would come down to one of our offices and pay your debt us… in person.”
“Sure.”
“Vich of our offices vill you be coming to, Mr. Auman?”
“The post office, you bloodsucker! I ain’t comin’ within ten miles of you!”
Nazis is what they are.
This is what gets me about credit card companies and the tremendously huge balls they must have. They have the nerve to peddle their plastic to poverty-stricken kids, like you and me, on our college campuses, a place of supposed refuge from the savagery of the “REAL WORLD”. These companies stick their applications for seemingly free and easy money in the grossly overpriced textbooks we are required to buy. These heartless swine send us pre-approved credit cards in the mail.
Free if you never use the damn things.
“Here is instant access to anything you could possibly want, up to, but not exceeding, the ridiculous amount of $1000. You won’t touch it, will you? You won’t be so immature and irresponsible as to abuse our trust in you, would you?”
They’re banking on it.
Your own school, after it has sucked you dry, won’t even protect you from these wolves. No, no, no, my little lambs. You may have noticed that inserted in every copy of the Chronicle two weeks ago was a big ol’ brightly colored, two-page flyer for the Discover Card, complete with an application that has about three questions on it: What is your name? Where do you live? Do you have any physical handicaps that would prevent you from writing us checks or money orders? They don’t ask questions like, do you have a job? Have you ever done time? Are you a gun-toting, crack-addicted, compulsive-gambling schizo who signs contracts with no intention of honoring them?
They don’t care.
It says on the Discover Card flyers that there is “No Annual Fee” and that they are offering “New Low Rates,” what a wonderful (big bold letters) OPPORTUNITY. What is the occasion for these new low rates and the absence of an annual fee? No special reason, they just understand how financially difficult college can be and they want to offer you the opportunity to completely destroy your credit rating before some other company gets the chance.
But wait, there are a bunch of pesky asterisks tacked onto a couple of these groovy new terms. No Annual Fee means that if you let the card sit in your underwear drawer for five years, then hey, they pick up the tab. New Low Rates means the interest on your purchases is only 8.9% (aww, hell let’s just call it 9%) to start, but unless you charge over 1,0000 bucks in a 12 month period, it jumps up but doesn’t go down.
But wait, they even offer you a Cashback (it’s a word they just invented) Bonus Award. An award for me? Just for using my credit card? Could this be true? Sure, because: “The more you use your Discover Card, the more money you can earn. An award just for using my credit card? Could this be true? Sure, because: “The more you use your Discover Card, the more money you earn.” Damn, I’m quitting my jobs tomorrow.
So what do you do for a living, Mr. Auman?”
“I charge things on my Discover card.”
“Wow, you make a living doing that?”
“Well, let me just say this, the more I spend, the more I make (wink).”
Ordinarily, I would say this makes no sense whatsoever, but if there’s money involved, I trust it completely.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re sitting out there somewhere reading this right now and you’ve got so much plastic in your back pocket that there are gangs of Environmental Nazis out there hunting you down, ready to club you to death with their Birkenstocks. You ain’t alone. I say we melt down all our plastic into guns and hole up somewhere in Montana, and if they’ve still got balls big enough to come after us…. well, we’ll charge those bastards for a change.
Dissin’ on the Groove, April 1st, 1993 (April Fool’s Issue)
The regularly featured columnist, Christopher P. Auman, is on vacation in Joliet. Substituting for him this week is Columbia senior and freelance caption writer, Joey Germ.
I did not get much sleep last night. Regrettably, two diametrically opposed forces of evil were in collaboration in an all-out effort to deprive me of my rest. Consequently, these twin demons had to be locked in the closet for the duration of the night, but this did little to settle them, in fact, it made them a bit crabby. Used to dealing with such things in a responsible manner, I drank a bottle of NyQuil and had a dreamless three-hour slumber. And now this afternoon, after three 24 oz cups of black coffee, I am awake and a little bit crabby myself. Nevertheless, a small Pacific Northwest sapling has been brutally clubbed to death to provide you the paper you are now reading, so the least I can do is make it worth your while, and so here it goes:
I have always admired the concept of higher education and as I embark on this, the eighth week of my fourth and last semester as a senior, I look back on the last five years as a memorable experience, but with many reservations. This is of course assuming that I do graduate. I still have seven weeks to go and in the immortal words of Roger “Butterfingers” Anderson of the ’73 Mets, “It is never too late in the game to completely f*ck up,” and he would know if you recall the ’73 World Series.
But let us assume for the few remaining minutes we have in each other’s company that I will indeed graduate. It is then only fitting that I use this time for reflection. Fellow graduating students, graduated students, and students who have been students for a really long time, I know you will be able to relate to this, so please feel free to applaud or throw in an ‘amen’ or two as the mood suits you:
Ah, college! Remember the good times and the bad times, the good grades, and the bad grades, the really intense hangovers? I bet you do. Remember the incompletes you got for, not just poor attendance, but non-attendance to class, then being scolded by your peers; “Yes, I know I wasted my time and money O’Scholastically Responsible One, but thank you for pointing that out” Remember the hours you spent doodling what you considered to be art but what you close-minded classmates considered to be nothing more than pornography?
And daydreaming, yet never fully being able to escape the droning monotone of half-baked, high-minded professors who felt the need to single you out in class just because you made a couple sexist remarks. “Excuse me, I stand politically corrected!” Teachers who think that rudeness and arrogance are all part of a bad-ass academic rep? Instructors who won’t let you smoke even in the less populated area of the classroom? I actually had a teacher last semester who had the balls to ask me to dump out my rum and Coke. 8:30 in the morning and I can’t have my caffeine? Please! I’m sorry but that just ain’t what I had in mind when I decided to come to this backasswards school.
And speaking of class, remember those one or two people to every one of your classes that asked countless, endless, meaningless questions that made you wonder if they decided to have a Stupid Question Contest these people would have many entries to submit and a good chance of winning with any on them.
And how many mornings have you gotten up and cursed God (yours and mine) and all that is holy for making you get out of your warm, loving bed to face the cold January air on an empty stomach, only to come home to dinners of rice and beans, mac and cheese, and your old friends, ramen noodles, on stale wheat bread?
There is no way for you to know this, but there is a small tear rolling slowly down my cheek as I write this and please don’t feel embarrassed to admit that there’s a salty tear welling up in your eyeball too. Come on, friend, let it go.
Think back to when you had to live in that small cramped two-bedroom apartment with six other people (most of whose names were Snake) who thought that the whole concept of housekeeping was something that Alice did on the Brady Bunch because she enjoyed it; “Alice got paid, man? No way, I thought she was just really into the Bradys.” Apartments so dirty that even your parents would politely refuse to enter, having been there once before and having heard about people like your friends on the local news.
Remember those wild parties you used to throw where people you barely know came and did serious damage to walls, windows, and furniture? And the cops, man, the cops would always make the hookers leave early, but they sure knew where the keg line was.
In retrospect, I must admit that there were some good times and a whole lotta bad times, but most of the time it sucked. In a little more than two months, however, it will all be over for me. I can see myself two months from now looking boldly into the future, a young man, “twenty-something” standing tall, proud, unafraid, ready for the world and whatever it might throw up on me. I can see myself standing there slightly drunk, holding my diploma in one hand and a can of Old Style in the other, facing the rising sun and the opportunity I know it will bring because I, like the sun, am ascending. I’m glad we had this special time together for reflection.
Have a Merry Spring.
D.O.G., April 26, 1993
The scriptwriters at all three major networks and, of course, Fox, have been waiting impatiently I’m sure, to write the final scenes of the David Koresh/Branch Davidian made-for-TV movie. As much as we all love Joey Buttafuoco and Amy Fisher, the magic they created for us, and the void they filled in our otherwise empty lives, it is time to move on and the holocaust at the Koresh compound came just in time to satisfy the craving we all get for the real-life drama driven by an all-out media blitz.
Drew Barrymore’s phone has probably been ringing off the hook. Michael Gross has probably been rehearsing his David Koresh lines for weeks. The deal is done, production has begun and we were all lucky enough to get a true American-style ending; a bloody confrontation, guns, violence, and apocalyptic nightmare come true, God came to David Koresh in a 20-ton tank.
This is not the end of the story. As far as the networks are concerned it is’ beginning-middle-end, drama, climax, dénouement, even a little hanky panky goin’ on with Koresh and a couple dozen female followers, but for FBI Director, William Sessions, for Attorney General, Janet Reno, and quite possibly for President Clinton, it ain’t over yet.
Why? Because the plan backfired, people died, children died and someone must be blamed. It is April 20, as I write this, one day after the fact, and nobody has decided who is at fault, but everybody involved in the handling of the Koresh Situation is under much scrutiny and heavy criticism, except of course for the press. I never really sympathized with those, more conservative than I, who cursed the god awful “liberal press” until I watched the Sessions new conference on TV this morning. The man was asked in probably six or seven differently worded questions, did he feel responsible for the deaths of 86 people, 25 of them children, and if not, why weren’t there more fire trucks on the scene?
The answer never varied. The mass suicide was not expected and was certainly not the only means available to the cultists to commit mass suicide, in any case, even if every available firefight in the Southwest had been available, the FBI was not going to let them get anywhere near the compound which was known to be armed with .50 caliber machine guns with a shooting range of 3,000 yards.
It has become clear the somebody must accept responsibility to set the public at ease, but who is responsible for a suicide? By definition, the responsibility lies ultimately on the individual. In a mass suicide, the responsibility would lie with the group as a whole. Why can’t we just blame the whole damned thing on the twisted psychology and cult logic of David Koresh and his followers? Why can’t the blame rest on David Koresh’s shoulders?
Where there are children involved things get a little hairy, that and the responsibility that maybe not everyone in the compound was 110% behind the idea of setting themselves on fire, at least not after the first flames started flickering. In the end, 25 kids died in that fire and that sucks, so for right now both sides, Koresh’s lawyers and the Federal Government will accuse and defend back and forth until the shock has worn off and the hype has worn down. Maybe then it will be accepted that there are certain people, like David Koresh, who are going to think that they are the Lamb of God occasionally and who maybe have that rare ability to control people’s minds and lives.
Like Hitler, Manson, and Jim Jones before him, Koresh had a sick talent for making people come to him, kill for him and even die for him. Placing the blame on the FBI, the Attorney General or even the President will not prevent this from happening again. It was simply a highly volatile situation that literally exploded. It’s time now to let the credits roll on this one and wait for the Home Alone: For Real, made-for-TV movie to be aired on one of your favorite networks.
Dissin’ on the Groove, May 10, 1993
AN OPEN LETTER TO GENERATION X
Dear X,
Unless you read Newsweek or U.S. News and World Report or watch the news on television, there is probably a lot about yourselves that you did not know. You have been labeled, categorized, psychoanalyzed, and talked about quite a bit recently You are a new buzzword (buzzword is a new buzzword), you are “twenty-somethings,” “baby busters.” People want to know all about you, in fact, they already know all about you and they’re more than willing to tell you about you.
You are the first generation of Americans who will not make more money than their parents (a lifelong goal shattered?). In fact, if you are 25 or under, your average yearly income has dropped a bunch of percentage points over the last 20 years. You will have to pay more social security tax than any other generation of Americans in the history of the program (which isn’t really that old). You face the bleakest job market for college grads in the entire history of job markets and college grads. But do not despair “Nintendo Generation,” even though you are fed up with the “system,” you fight for change within the “system.” Not like those fools in the 60s who sought to fight the “system” from the outside. Baby Boomers are your nemesis, look at the mess they left for you to clean up.
You can take pride in the fact that you are politically aware and far more sensitive to environmental and racial issues that a lot of other generations that we could name right now, but won’t (they know who they are). You are the most culturally and ethnically diverse, hell you might even be a minority. Betcha’ didn’t know that. It is the job of the media to tell you these things. How else would you know about yourselves?
Here are some more things you probably didn’t know about yourselves, unless of course you’ve seen Amy Scott on Fox News; you wear funny looking hats on your head. You may have long hair, or short. You probably have a fuzzy little goatee on your chin. You pierce yourselves in odd places, don’t you? You like flannel shirts, not new ones, old ones, used, second hand. If you’re a white kid you listen to grunge music. If you’re black you like raps music and baggy, loose-fitting clothes. If you are neither black nor white, you have a choice, grungy or baggy. You’re hip. You’re hip hop. You’re young and angry and probably drunk.
You are not an idealist. You are a realist. You are also very pragmatic and I looked that word up in the dictionary and it’s true, you are very pragmatic, as well as rebellious and cynical, and you watch too much TV. You have spent too many of your formative years in the 70s and have that working against you. You live in a world that George Bush single-handedly saved from the Cold War and total nuclear annihilation by evil bloodthirsty commies, but if you have sex it could kill you. But you are the “Repair Generation.” It is your job to fix the things that were already broken when you got here. Your generation was unprepared for college.
Your generation has been liberally educated; you know a little about a lot of things, but you don’t know much about anything. Your generation thinks they deserve more than they were getting because that’s what they were told. You, of course, resent your parents because you won’t enjoy their success. Your generation is very easy to label, yet so hard to understand. Your lives read like a fortune cookie.
But fear not you unsatisfied generation of twenty-somethings. You poor and weary Baby Bustin’, MTV, Hip Hop, X Generation, with your disposable incomes, your Ren and Stimpy cartoons, and your 90210, you have a president who cares about you because you rocked his vote. You may have seen the birth of the personal computer, the evolution of the home entertainment system from Atari to Genesis. You have seen the death of vinyl and you have survived. What’s a little exploitation gonna hurt? Let the magazines, the newspapers, the filler news segments have their fun. They like trying to figure out what the kids are up to these days and they feel good when they’ve completely missed the point, so keep ’em guessing.
Gem of the day: Expect nothing and get it. (I did. I got it. I’m gone. Thank you, goodbye.)
D.O.G., May 24, 1993
SPOTTED OWL INDICTED IN LIBERAL PLOT TO STOP HUMAN PROGRESS
This is it, my friends, my last column. After spending the last 36 hours in a valium induced come that manage to sap most of my strength and most of my brain cells, I am prepared to write my epitaph on a college career that spanned five years, crossed an entire city, and saw a decade come and go with a tearful eye.
I am thankful for the opportunity I have had in writing this column and encourage all frustrated writers at this school to enter the Chronicle Column Contest for the fall semester. Take it from me, you do not have to be very bright or articulate to scratch 400 dictionary words onto a piece of paper and then tie them together with a bunch of prepositions and conjunctions.
Before I go I would just like to comment on the letters section of last week’s Chronicle. Krista Nabhani suggests in her letter that the Chronicle sucks, not only does she think that the Chronicle sucks, but apparently there are many who agree with her. I personally don’t think the Chronicle sucks. Maybe Krista’s writing sucks, I don’t know because I have never seen her writing and because the Chronicle sucks I may never get the chance. I would say that if this paper truly does suck then it is only because of the apathetic non-contribution of the student body.
Krista questions the purpose of a school paper, whether it should: “provide a practice forum for journalism students?” Well, yeah it should. The Chronicle may be a ‘Big Toy’ of the journalism department, as she suggests, but it is one that the Chronicle staff has continuously encouraged its readers to play with. If the paper seems like it is trying to run like a “real newspaper” it is not because it is obsessed with that goal, it merely aspires to it and there ain’t nothing wrong with that.
Enough ass-kissin’, I just want to say that I dug Columbia in the last three years that I have been here. There are those in the Academic world that may praise the school for our creative spirit and hands-on approach to education, but behind all that I’ve heard a lot of students from fine Universities around the city talk a lot of shit about a school they know little about.
I’m gone from this page and from Columbia and I wish you all luck here and beyond and I want to encourage everybody out there to utilize your summer vacations and if you’re graduating, utilize the rest of your lives by reading and expanding your mind, don’t let that head organ get flabby, keep it juicy and firm. Here are some suggested books from my own private library, just to offer you a different perspective on things:
Act Your Gender! This book (written by a celibate priest) seeks to remind young men and women that even though it might be fun to disregard social norms and live an “alternative” lifestyle, in terms of their sexual relationships, it not only displease the author of this book but God as well.
The Real Ollie North. This is a provocative account of how sometimes a man must stand up, take an oath before God and lie to the people of his government in order to protect them against the fact that their government lies to them.
The Sting of the Wasp. This book explains how many oppressive white men are overcoming the barriers that come with their color and their convictions by helping them blend in a little better with the melting pot now that Bill Clinton is in the White House.
Gem of the day: Peace.