The Monthly Rag

The time period was Christmas or so, 1992. The debut issue of our paper had been distributed, read, seized, and made into contraband in the period of a week, and my jail time was done at home. Andrew, Jason, and I discussed our ideas about a followup edition. Unfortunately, dearest Jay would be taking off for a life of something other than potboiler journalism, due to what I assume at the time were his losses over our maiden voyage.

Andrew and I had relatively nothing to lose, however, seeing as his plan was to take the proficiency test and go on to a kick ass job of computer work because he was smart and could. Mine plan was looking very likely to be involved with ritual and running water, and since my grades were in about as good of shape as my teeth I figured what the hell anyway.

Writing issue two was a whole different affair altogether. Done in shifts during class on school computers the first round, faculty wasn’t even going to let us NEAR equipment that might potentially print something out. It was funny, the way there was always kind of a nervous eye on us anytime we approached terminals or laserwriters. Rather than bend more rules around to build our little warship in secrecy, we opted for an entirely different method for Monthly Rag part deux.

That method, of course, was College of the Redwoods. Indeed, good ol C/R–where you take Desktop Publishing or Computers I and then actually work on your taxes in your free time instead. All you had to do was sign in. My aunt was taking courses there, so on her dime, I went in, Andrew in tow, and we stamped in as guests and quickly typed in things we’d been writing out on paper. Out came some pages, in came some staples, and Issue 2 was now more than a just a growing boy’s wet dream.

Master print then in hand, off we went to a copier, and pumped about twice as many out as we had before (giving us a grand total of about 50 issues–still at 4 pages in length). I took them home that night, tucked them into my duffle bag, and slept excited, much like Santa Claus in knowing that tomorrow my big red sleigh would land on Fort Bragg high and have a whole new batch of gifts to give away to all the bleary eyed little children.

And what fun it was, handing them out, coasting on the controversy the first issue had generated. “Is that the underground paper?!” Whispers filled the shadows, fingers pointed, people approached like they were buying dope. “Dude..can I..have one?” Of course you can! Share it with a friend, man, share it with everyone. Take it home, have  the family glance it over, line your bird cage with it, wipe your ass…whatever, just make sure our logo’s rightside up.

Reprimand came swifter upon our sophomore effort, and the first of what would be a familiar sign of a successful release chewed its way into existence. Sitting in the quad, having a laugh with a few friends, I watched our dear Dr. Lydick come storming out of his room in the 100 building, stride with clenched fists and anus right down the open hall to the 200 building, and then disappear like a gust of dying flame. Clutched in his hand, you can probably guess, was a shimmering copy of our latest and greatest.

Ground control, mission accomplished. Teacher enraged.

After what I can only imagine was his absolute manic shitstorm of a fit in the teacher’s lounge, big useless Lou sent me down another pink slip. I reported to the office, as I had several weeks before, and sat in the ever comfortable guest seat. Again, I took responsibility, and again I was given some sick leave.

Graduation was getting further and further away from me, I could sense, but I couldn’t have been happier. They say that high school is the greatest time of your life, which we all know is an absolute outright lie, but at that time and moment in mine I just might have actually believed it.

To our utmost surprise, the second issue saw more students, generated more buzz, and started opening doors we had never imagined accessible. A friend of our inside writer approached me in the hallway one day, with a sketch pad and a humble expression about his face.

“Hey, saw your paper–fuckin’ funny. I was wondering if you’d like to have some artwork in it.” Naturally interested, I watched as he flipped the pages of his modest portfolio and a most insane and violent comic went flashing by. Impressed and smiling, I was already about to say yes when he added “the Howl wouldn’t take me” to his resume, which sealed the deal done in blood.

So we now had a comics section, and that would mean expansion. At a newly proposed six pages, the beginning 1993 staff were as follows: myself (under the names Taso Stavrakis, Joe Spinell, Sullivan Bluth, and sharing the entity known as GUN), Andrew (writing as Frank Drebin, Del Griffith, Jimmy Page, Neal Page, as well as the other half of GUN), our double agent Matthew (hadn’t assumed a name yet, but was busy helping us type articles up–on his shift in the Howl room no less, right under their noses), and Summer (going as himself) on back page graphics. The Rag was forming quickly into the underground journalist equivalent of a teenage rock band.

All was set in place to start up production, and it was decided that the college would remain our headquarters. Andrew and I arrived on the C/R campus with a batch of newly scrawled notes and columns, and took a seat in what was (at the time–haven’t been in there for years so it may have changed greatly) a giant lab sectioned into halves by a glass wall. A friendly professor named Glenn, one who would become an integral part of screwing up our plan completely, was teaching his class in one half as Andrew and I booted up PC’s and got word documents up on screen in the other. It took a whole five minutes or less for him to come knocking.

“Excuse me–who are you?”

We gave a synchronized “we signed in” and went back to our task.

“Are you both enrolled here?”

Now, I become a sort bullshitting con-artist when this kind of thing arises, talking out of my ass, trying to sound like I’m in some position of authority to intimidate the opposition. It’s an age old tactic; look confident and sound sure and you can get away with murder. Andrew, usually, says the most inappropriate thing that gets us worse into the muck, but is funnier than fucking fuck in the process.

“My aunt is enrolled here…we’re her guests.”

Glenn furrowed his brow, making his bright red nose even shinier against his pressing glasses.

“You can’t use these machines unless you are enrolled in our classes.”

We both stopped and looked up.

“Oh.” Honestly, no one had told us this previously, even though it was a pretty easy assumption to arrive at. But hey, we rely heavily on the “no word means okay” motto here at our unorthodox operation.

With a few choice comments from Andrew about his fashion sense, Glenn kindly saw us to the door and locked it. What could we do? We had to go enroll in some classes.

And we did. Well, I did, anyway. I think if you were enrolled you were allowed one guest, so I put myself into a desktop publishing class and figured I’d just smuggle Andrew in on my free pass. It was a lame course, really, but it did teach you some things about page layout and you were asked to work on a personal endeavor for a final. We were fit game for that, so things appeared perfect. I bought disks and books and attended to the best of my OCD, playing the game how I was told to play it by their rules.

My instructor cleared the outline of The Rag as my project, and then over the short span of a weekend, quickly retracted his initial blessing.

“I’m sorry, you can’t work on that here.”

“Really?” Now I was truly dumbfounded. “May I ask why not?”

He gave that uncomfortable look of one who has been put into a corner and given explicit instructions not to tattle on that hands that bind.

“We can’t accept that as your final.”

I blinked a few times, studying. “You can’t accept a newspaper as a final in a desktop publishing class?”

This went on for a bit, and in fairness, this guy was at least nice to me, merely trying to do what he was ordered. After a few more inquiries, he finally told me, with the whispered hush of the “off the record” voice, that “he was told not to allow construction of that paper here.”

I see. The plague had spread, then. Friends of friends in high places had made a few deals, and that yucky newspaper was being dealt with accordingly.

It was almost flattering in a way, knowing that this little handmade thing of ours had stuffed such an uncomfortable phallus down someone’s throat. Anger was quick to have me again, however, and I couldn’t concentrate much on the subtle shades of philosophical winnings.

Let them call for backup…we still had adolescent reckless abandon in our court. How hard could it be to go the distance with these crusty old naysayers?

If the following toil of making issue three was any indication, it was starting to appear damn neigh impossible.

CONTINUE TO PART 5