Don't Piss Where You Drink

So they say. My problem is, I drink wherever I go.

I am moving out. Moving on. Movin' on up. Making tracks. Hauling ass. Becoming scarce. I am, simply, getting the fuck out of Philadelphia.

In March, Amy, Crank and I are moving to Sin City, NYC. By the time most of you read this, I will have had the motherfucker of all garage sales, my car will be sold, and rent will be giving me an ulcer. But it's time. Time to get out of this would-be city.

The problem with Philadelphia: Small-town scene, big-town assholes. Everyone knows the owners. Everyone's on the Guest List. You're either in a band, or the person you fuck is. Everywhere I go, everyone's got something to say about What's Cool, and it invariably gets me angry.

You know what, kids? Philadelphia isn't big enough to foster all of your egos. Philadelphia is a rest-stop for bands on their way to New York. Philadelphia is smaller than most malls in Jersey. Philadelphia is nothing more than another place for has-been's and would-be's to spend time deluding themselves about their usefulness in this life.

(Oh, of course New York won't be any less infuriating, but at least it's a change of pace. Ok, friend?)

I have a tendency to move early, move often. And when I move, I lose touch with most everyone behind me. This time, though, few will miss me. I've got more readers in the fucking state of Idaho than I do friends in this city. (And this issue will do little to change that, I suppose.)

See, I try to keep to myself. I've got 3 friends, a printer who works cheap, and a job that pays my bills. It's not a bad life, so long as you're willing to swallow your aspirations each day on your 1/2-hour lunch break.

Unfortunately, I can't seem to keep to myself, which throws my otherwise even-keeled demeanor a little off-kilter.

Anonymous living suits me very well. I don't want recognition in public. See, it wasn't until the Philadelphia Inquirer ran a story about Crank--complete with a crappy photo of me at my desk--that anyone in town knew me as the person who publishes Crank. Ironically, that article ran just two weeks after my decision to leave town. "Local boy does good" and then hits the fucking tarmac without telling anyone.

So, just when Crank is gaining a little momentum in town, I decide to pull up stakes and start over somewhere else. Self-defeating? Perhaps. Local success has never been a priority.

Only in the last 6 months, really, have the small-town dopes been getting on my last nerve. Why do all you scenesters need to advertise yourselves to anyone who will listen? Why do you insist on being just so fucking connected? Is it to get work? Is it to get laid? Is it to get respect? Well, you've never had mine, because you have no humility, no self-awareness. And the lack of self-awareness is one character flaw I do not tolerate.

I should fucking know better than to get angry about these people. I SHOULD know better, but, somehow, you still disrupt my life. So I am making like a tree, like a banana. Outta here like Vladimir. Riding off into the sunset with my bitch in tow. I am, simply, getting the fuck out of Philadelphia. And, with the exception of my 3 friends, I won't miss any of you.

Goodbye.

Crank is still a by-product of no one but Jeff Koyen (NY, NY)
As always: the articles in Crank #4 may be used and reproduced for the purpose of spreading The Word, so long as you credit the source. This does not include the artwork, logos or photos herein--don't you fucking dare, because when I catch you, I will find a way to punish you.

Thanks to everyone who deserves it. I hope you know who you are.
As of April 1st, Crank will have a new PO Box in NYC. Unfortunately, I am unable to publish it in this issue, due to print deadlines and postal restrictions (something silly about maintaining a residence before getting the box. I suppose if I had more friends, I could've worked something out...ah well.) In any case, expect delays when corresponding with me.

ISSN 1076-9102
(c) 1995 Jeff Koyen