I knew it would be like teaching calculus to the retard class, but I decided to experiment anyway. I still haven't got much of a reaction, but I'll tell you what I did. My last column used a writing technique called "cut-up." It was invented by this guy named Brion Gysin and made famous by another guy named William Burroughs. It works something like splices in a movie. You take pieces from one part of the story and cut them up and match them (generally at random) with pieces from another part of the story.

The idea is to see how chance creates new images. It's also a way of folding time. You can have the past, present and future all run into each other. You probably thought it was a mistake. Maybe it was.

Now, on to other things. Since it is often the case that shorter is better, this column will have that quality. You already know that New York is the greatest, most exciting city in the world. Not even Bob Z (or whoever did the NYC report) could cover everything. New York is so exhilarating that I often wonder how people can live anywhere else. I mean, what do you guys do when it's 11:30 at night and you want to buy a record? How can you stand it?

CBs Saturday matinees have been constantly A-number-one shows with Z-number-zero audiences. Other great shows, like HONOR ROLL, also seem to suffer from audience paucity. Last week, pure scum ruled with, THE SLUGLORDS, THE SHAVED PIGS and

ROADKILL. Chris, the latter band's singer, looks like a heterosexual Joan Jet. Kind of makes it hard to sit down. . . kind of makes it hard, period.

In other news, our old buddies LETCH PATROL got their own show cancelled at The Limelight. The Limelight is a nasty yupscale disco in an old church. They have a tough, over 21 only policy. Sometimes they won't let you in if you have holes in your sneakers or if you're fat. The bands never get paid. The sound system bites. They treat all the non-polyester folks who don't buy their dates $5 beers like cum scraped from a peep show floor. Among the bands who've played at this wondrous venue, are THE FALSE PROPHETS and A.P.P.L.E.

Somehow, the Letch boys weasled a show from the yups. Suddenly it was cancelled. There are conflicting stories as to why. The one I like best is that Harris, the derelict singer, stormed into the place demanding more money. Then came a series of harassing phone calls and visits by the same bearded bumgod. More demands: more free passes, free drinks, "the big stage," and other benefits. The camel's back breaker was the request for a complete deli platter. The booking lady shrieked in horror and bade them all never again to darken her alter. Yet, like a bad case of athletes foot, Letch Patrol came back. They did a

substitute show on Houston street, near The Bowery. More fitting than a church for these boys.

Also popping here in the city that never sleeps, was MDC live at Tin Pan Alley. It was hot and crowded.

THE BLACK ORCHIDS, a great scumgroup opened for them. Then a feminist poet talked about how she didn't like her father very much. Finally came the Texas-San Fran politicos. Singer Dave was in drag. He tried to introduce a song about skinheads. Some black skinheads in the crowd kept shouting over him..

"Don't put us down until you talk to us." they said. There was some other stuff I didn't hear.

Dave seemed a bit surprised at the racial mix of the New York skinheads. If he had been at the BAD BRAINS show a week earlier, he might also have been surprised to see leaflets from SHARP (Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice). He wouldn't have been surprised at the violence, though-- unless he knew where it came from. Here's what happened.

A car quietly creeps up around the corner from The Ritz, where THE BAD BRAINS are playing. Six tough guys get out. It's like a scene from "The Untouchables." They wade into the of the crowd, standing out like Aunt Jemima at a klan rally. A big dark suited man grabs a young looking skinhead. The other cigar smokers surround the two of them. Someone from the crowd pushes through and pulls the kid free. The other FBI-looking guys grab him back. It's a moment of human tug-o-war. They win and hustle the boy toward the big black car. A crowd of skins follows, trying, unsuccessfully to pull the kid away from the adults.

The middle aged tough guys stuff the lone skin into their car and try to leave. The shaved headed crowd stands by their bro.

They surround the car. Blacks and whites, bigs and littles, smash in the windows, the windshield, the headlights, everything they can smash. The car pushes forward, threatening to run over any bald head that stands in its way. Still they fight. The car finally scrapes away the last fighter and speeds off into the night. Yes, they took their quarry, but the fight was hard.

A week or so before that, my pal Mark brings this kid to my door.

"He just escaped from a concentration camp," Mark tells me, "his folks put him in there."

The kid's name is Mike. Still rubbing his freshly shaven head, he tells me that he's seventeen and his parents sent him to this "rehab center" two and a half years ago. He speaks like a speed freak, non-stop, so filled with stories that they pile one on top of the other spilling out in a word jumble.

"They jump on you and beat you if you don't do everything they say." He tells me. "For the first months, they don't let go of you. They follow you around everywhere, holding on to your belt loops. Even when I went to visit my parents, they sent somebody with me to hold on to my belt loop."

Suddenly a strange look of lust crossed his face. "You got any pornography?" he asked. "I haven't seen a girl in that whole time! More than two years! We have to tell them whenever we jerk off. They made fun of us."

I gave him my best double insertion stuff and he went off to the bathroom. In twenty minutes or so he came out with a satisfied look on his face. He started talking again.

One horror story followed another. He was beaten, humiliated, forced to sit alone in a corner for hours on end. I asked him about the drugs that got him committed in the first place. After all, he was only 14 then. Maybe his parents were desperate to keep him from turning into a junkie.

"Drugs?" he asked, "What drugs? I'm straight edge. I've always been like that. I don't need drugs. I never even need beer. I got sent there for being a skinhead. That's it. My father is Irish. He got beat up by some skinheads in Ireland once. That's what did it."

"You mean you're being rehabilitated from a haircut?" I asked.

He nodded.

Mike wanted to move in with me. I told him I felt sorry for him, but that I was not willing to take the risk of harboring a runaway minor. He was disappointed, but understood. I saw him the next day. He told me he met Raybies from WARZONE. Ray helped him find some fellow skins who in turn helped him find a place to stay and a group to be part of. They had more courage than I did.

That was the last I heard from Mike, until that day at THE BAD BRAINS show where his parents' goons came and got him. I was in awe at the willingness of his new pals to fight for an almost stranger who had befriended them. I wondered how many peace punks would've done the same.

Okay, that's my story, draw what moral you want. That's all I've got to say right now except. . . Here's the results of the crossword puzzle. One person, Mark Hale got it right, but I lost his address. If he sends it to me, I'll send him his prize.