KOOL MAN: The Amazing Story of Robert Dupree

[Kool Man]

Loving father. Supportive husband. Born Again Christian. "A very public
publisher/editor." A writer, cartoonist, and artist. A pathological liar. A
sleazy ex-hippie suffering from delusions of grandeur. Robert "Super" DuPree is
all these things and more. Last summer, he began posing as his own imaginary
best friend and lover, "Jordan," in a bizarre effort to get laid. When the truth
began to leak out, he embarked on a campaign of disinformation and threats,
trying to maintain control of an evolving disaster. In his role as publisher of
several zines, Robert has an equally sordid history of exploiting independent
artists and fellow publishers in a shameless quest for credibility and success.

The following is the introduction from the zine "KOOL Man: The Amazing Story of
Robert DuPree, the King of Oral Love. "The King of Oral Love" is one of the
terms Robert has applied to himself several times. Many of you are already
familiar with the zine and its subject. This posting marks the beginning of the
eruption of Mt. DuPree. The miserable bastard is going to have a very shitty
summer, I’m afraid. To those of you unfamiliar with the SuperDuPree Project,
this introduction comprises the first twelve pages of the 112 page zine that
came out in the first days of June. A third of the rest of the pages are
comprised of DuPree’s letters to various individuals, businesses, and zines.
Another third of Robert’s letters posing as various fictional characters. The
final third features various accounts and responses to his aggression and
dishonesty.
In addition to this introduction, this posting includes the first-hand accounts
of two Portland women whom DuPree targeted last summer during his rush to get
laid. Their stories haven’t been told before, due mainly to Robert’s threats of
legal action to silence his critics.

I do not pretend to speak for anyone but myself. My views do not necessarily
represent those of the contributors. The zine is the result of about a year of
collecting Robert’s letters and doing elementary detective work. Past, less
dramatic efforts to confront him on virtually any issue have resulted in evasive
and threatening ploys. Enough is enough. This publication serves as equal parts
frontier justice and public service, providing a stunning and disturbingly clear
record of Robert’s history, methods, and current schemes. This is a concerted
effort to crush him, once and for all, beneath the weight of his own bullshit.
The entire zine can be purchased by sending $5 to Sean Tejaratchi, PO Box 40373,
Portland, OR, 97240-0373. If you want it, send away for it quickly. This is not
a marketing ploy. It’s necessary because DuPree will immediately use lawyers to
try and stop me from distributing. Please include a SASE so I can return your
money if I am unable to fill your order. My fax number is (503) 222-6933.

************ By the way, a great big hello goes out to Frank Wallis! Robert
DuPree has about three friends in this world, and probably the most useful has
been cybertoad Wallis, (ex?)publisher of MANZINE. He’s currently functioning as
a self-appointed NetCop, deciding just what’s appropriate and what’s not. Mr.
Wallis (and possibly others) have kept DuPree apprised of the mounting waves of
criticism in recent months. Frank will soon be reading this sentence, wondering
just what the hell is going on. Frank, remember those immense gobs of bullshit
you helped DuPree hurl up into the air a few months ago? Try to imagine the
collected bulk of it hurtling back down to earth. Hang around if you want,
chump. You’re already in its shadow. Leave this alone. Don’t touch it. Instead,
read it and take a look at the kind of person you kept standing up for. You
popped up like the proverbial weasel to defend him and send him hard copies of
postings. I’ve never liked you, Frank, ever since I got your DuPree-like press
kit and ready-to-run ads in the mail. At least I’d experienced the KOOL Man by
then, and learned enough to recognize the similarity and steer clear of you.
Blecch. You’re icky, Frank. Like dooky. **************

"So the thought of being my friend for decades sends shivers down your spine,
eh? Gee, I’d like to trace the path of that with my tongue and gentle lips..."
"He’ll make you come over and over and over and over again until you crawl away
in exhausted ecstasy, panting God, no more, no more!!!"
"My own family (wife and daughter) would just SHIT if I got in trouble or in the
papers or something because of my involvement in a sex-magazine..."

***** INTRODUCTION *****

This is all about a man named Robert DuPree. Over the past year, Mr. DuPree has
fucked with a staggering number of people. The zine from which this introduction
was taken contains dozens of Robert’s letters and faxes to various businesses,
zine publishers, and private individuals, all of whom either hate him, fear him,
or simply wish he would vanish forever. Many of their replies are also included,
as well as elements of Robert’s background and samples of his creative efforts.
The letters quoted in this introduction are genuine. Nothing has been fabricated
or misrepresented.
Robert is under the impression that he’s untouchable. Attempts to confront him
in a public forum have met with evasion, stonewalling, and legal threats. He’ll
do or say anything he thinks he can get away with. The beauty of this thing is
that it’s not my word against his. The events and chronology described here are
written, dated, and signed by Robert himself, and included in the back of the
zine. I am not making money from this. The cost of this zine covers printing and
postage only. There is a copyright on this finished collection, but reproduction
and dissemination is WHOLEHEARTEDLY ENCOURAGED under the condition that it is
not sold for profit.
My name is Sean Tejaratchi. I live in Portland, Oregon, and for the past year
I’ve been collecting Robert DuPree’s letters. Last May, Robert accused me of
stealing an image from his magazine. The accusation was groundless, but when I
published an account in my zine, I began hearing from other DuPree "victims."
Needless to say, it’s been a long year. I now have over one hundred and sixty
pages of DuPree letters. It’s often difficult to keep up; his recent activities
have resulted in a near-constant stream of material. As I write this, I’ve
received new DuPree pages each of the past ten days. The gap between Robert
creating a letter and my receiving a copy has decreased to 24 hours.
DuPree is about forty-five years old. He sports a beard and a ponytail. He says
he’s six foot four, and recent photographs suggest a giant football with arms.
DuPree is also a Born Again Christian. This enviable state of grace has yet to
interfere with his enthusiastic sinning and quicksilver morals. He’s a poor
liar, although he does it with such passion and exuberance that it’s difficult
not to feel a certain amount of admiration. He indulges in adultery with
well-documented abandon, and would crawl naked for miles on a carpet of dogshit
and roofing tacks to reach a baggie of free pot. He claims his more rigidly
Christian wife doesn’t put out, "I’ve married my best friend!" being his
recurring boast. They have a daughter, thirteen years old this year. The DuPree
family lives in Vancouver, WA, just outside Portland.
Some background: In 1994, DuPree began publishing a nationally-distributed
magazine called SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS. ST focused on music, film, and popular
culture, with special attention paid to alternative comics. It also featured
Robert’s optimistic editorials and sunny pep talks on the joys of being
positive, with his hedonistic Christian wisdom thrown in for good measure. ST’s
eighth and final issue was published in February.
In 1995, Robert launched RUDE, a rougher zine of sixteen xeroxed pages stapled
together along one edge. Issue #5 is due out soon. RUDE was supposed to be the
work of four young, hip, bisexuals, Dirk, Alice, Kerry, and Jordan, sharing each
other’s beds and writing explicitly about their sexual habits. The "Rudeniks"
also discuss the media and a variety of social ills. They share the equipment
and mailbox of "local zine celebrity" DuPree.
Robert has since admitted he writes almost all of RUDE. He uses the four
characters to express his more outrageously stupid opinions as well as provide
an outlet for his creative writing, such as his throbbing two-part description
of twelve year-old boys humping each other in a backyard pup tent.

As pitiful as this sounds, things would still be fine if it ended there. But it
doesn’t. Last summer, Robert was writing to women posing as Jordan. Once contact
was established, Jordan immediately began recommending his best friend Robert as
a masterful lover, wonderful human being, mystic guru, etc. DuPree was using his
pseudonym in an effort to get laid. He was not entirely unsuccessful.
In May, 1995, Jordan sent a review copy of RUDE #1 to Kathy Molloy, publisher of
the Portland zine SNIPEHUNT. She recognized it as Robert’s handiwork, and
exposed it in her summer issue. A copy of her editorial was sent to FACTSHEET
FIVE. I made copies of the letters Robert/Jordan had sent to Kathy, and watched
in fascination as the RUDE controversy slowly slipped out of his control.
Krissy, one of the women Jordan had targeted, wrote to describe DuPree’s scams
to Bill Brent of the San Francisco sexzine BLACK SHEETS. When Robert realized
his behavior was becoming a topic of discussion, he began issuing increasingly
vehement public denials, and eventually used threats of legal action to silence
his most vocal critics.
It was too late. People began to compare notes. I saved each new DuPree
declaration, and began following up on leads. Ironically, I learned of many
other DuPree enemies from his own increasingly detailed conspiracy lists. Robert
wished so hard for a "Cabal" that one actually formed.
In November of 1995, I met Krissy and her husband Keith. They showed me their
horrifying pile of Robert/Jordan letters, and were enthusiastic about exposing
him. This spring, I met with Amy, another Portland woman who’d experienced a
nearly identical series of DuPree letters.
I talked to other publishers and artists afflicted with DuPree’s correspondence.
They shared the residue of his past attentions. In early April, I mailed comic
artist Robert Crumb copies of my DuPree pages. He sent copies of his, further
detailing DuPree’s adventures in alternative comics. I wonder how much else is
out there. Maybe Robert’s strongest feeling when he sees this will be the
profound relief that I missed his dirtiest secret.
Like any good horror movie villain, DuPree is almost supernaturally persistent.
He is currently reinventing himself as a "Riot Grrrl" in order to meet sexy
young female artists. Many of the women he’s targeted live in Portland. Their
assistance has led to the discovery that Robert sends RUDE to minors, as well as
four lovely snapshots of the elusive KOOL Man in his native habitat. A year and
six days after his first letter, I had my first glimpse of "Mr. Fuck." I was not
disappointed. He was an exquisite specimen.
This is obviously not an unbiased project. I will cheerfully admit I’m
personally wrapped up in it. Of course I hate Robert. Who else would have reason
to endure a year documenting his wretched existence? One of his three friends? I
think pacifism is stupid. The fact that Robert fucked with me and many people I
like and respect was a very significant part of my decision to take this on.
This is partially my own chance to set the record straight.
DuPree probably won’t be locked up or featured on the cover of NEWSWEEK. The
amount of effort I’ve invested in this doesn’t mean he’s anything more than a
pathetic, bloated parasite. It simply means that his luck has run out, and I’m
the first one to feel enough was enough. I had the time, the resources, the
stomach, and, thanks to him, the inclination to take this project on.
Considering his vast paper trail and awesome history of dishonesty and
aggression, I am
surprised this didn’t happen earlier.
Many people have expressed pity for Robert, wincing when they imagine his
current and future life. I’ve occasionally winced, too. But after a year of
following his rampage, I can honestly say I no longer give a fuck what’s going
on inside his head. I’m not interested in hearing whatever tragic childhood
tales Robert might tell to excuse his behavior. I’m interested in stopping him.
Remember that Robert is hardly defenseless. He’d be the first to remind us that
he’s a major player, a very public magazine publisher with billions of loyal
readers and worldwide distribution. Although he consistently refuses to answer
direct questions, he uses his zines as soapboxes from which to shout the
"truth," secure in the knowledge that people will eventually just give up and
leave him alone.
The DuPree letters that didn’t make it in here contained either low-priority
background material or lengthy redundant passages (the result of Robert sending
the same faux-personal message to different people). A few noted letters were
edited for the same reasons. None of the omissions were helpful to Robert’s
case. Also left out were hearsay and rumors I heard during interviews. As you
can imagine, most of it was pretty horrifying. Considering the games Robert
himself plays with the truth, he should feel like the luckiest man in the world.

A few people I talked with and met had typically disgusting and/or damning
DuPree experiences to relate, but didn’t want their letters and stories included
in this publication. They were afraid I had a personal stake in it. What can I
say? They were right. I have respected their wishes and kept them out of this.
My feelings about this project have alternated mainly between anger and
fascination--when one faded the other kept me going. Robert is the clichéd slow
motion car crash, only the film is looped-- he never ends. I’ve felt disgust and
pity for him as this document became increasingly damning. This spring, as he
attempted to reinvent himself as a four hundred pound bearded Christian Riot
Grrrl, I became freshly amazed and infuriated. Most recently, I’ve felt simple
exasperation and petty resentment, since his habit of out-sleazing himself means
that I can’t wrap this up yet.
Before Robert, I would never have believed that anyone could embody so much of
what I find repulsive about humanity. I hate bullies and those who randomly fuck
with others. I’ve always hated Christianity, and I’m angry with myself because I
although I knew he was Christian, I ignored my instincts and treated him with
respect and decency. I was laboring under the idea that every time I met a
Christian I was obliged to reset my prejudices and discount experience. Perhaps
this one was different, I told myself. So I complimented him and wished him
luck. He wrote back and accused me of stealing from him. I’ve learned that this
is a pattern; people have treated DuPree amazingly well, giving him assistance,
friendship, and the benefit of the doubt. In return, they were attacked,
insulted, or, if they were useful, simply exploited.
Even more than I hate Robert as a person, I hate the idea of Robert. I hate that
someone like him could live so long without being killed outright in a violent
moment of street-level Social Darwinism. This is not a collection of his rookie
mistakes; this is the result of years of practice. I’m angered by the energy and
time myself and others have spent just dealing with the shit Robert instigates.
I hate people wasting their time believing he actually cares about their work. I
hate knowing his mentality is common, from his Mr. Positive good-guy veneer, to
his classic Christian hypocrisy, to his sexual predation and shameless
exploitation of other people’s trust. I hate knowing that someone would actually
marry a man like Robert DuPree, and then go on to perpetuate his genes with a
child. I’m disgusted by the layers of denial that must surround Robert’s wife. I
hate fearing for the daughter of a man I hate.
I’ve learned that I don’t ever want to do this again. One KOOL Man per lifetime
is enough. I’m sick of his existence and its consequences. I am tired of seeing
his letterhead and reading his writing. I want him to go away forever. However,
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get little shivers when I imagine his fury upon
discovering this project. I hate to say it, but there might actually be more, an
epilogue documenting the spectacular eruption of Mt. DuPree. Honestly, though, I
hope not. Somebody else should do it.
I have another confession. This experience certainly hasn’t been all bad. I’ve
met a lot of very nice people during the past year. Myself and many others have
spent hours gaping in fascination and horror at the grotesque pageant unfolding
before us. I’ve learned that nothing brings friends together like a stinky fresh
missive from the Desk of the KOOL Man. Certain amazing coincidences have made me
realize that if there is indeed a God, He hates Robert DuPree as much as the
rest of us. What could only be described as divine intervention led to some
amazing leads. Perhaps He’s embarrassed. It’s okay, God. We all make mistakes.
Welcome to the Cabal. Here, let me show you the secret handshake...

"Better do your homework a bit better, next time, chief. We’re not a local zine,
we’re a highly-visible national magazine -- and please: check us out if you
don’t believe me."

******** ROBERT AND CRAP HOUND ***********

My year of DuPree began in May, 1995, when he subscribed for four issues of my
zine, CRAP HOUND. I sent both Issue #2 and Issue #1, (which had officially sold
out) and a short thank you note, because I was grateful for anyone who
subscribed sight unseen. Robert would later imply that I was familiar with
SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS and sent free CRAP HOUNDS because I thought he was such a
fantastic human being. He neglected to mention he received the issues because he
had subscribed.(1)

"A year or so back, Sean had written a kissy-kissy fan letter to me and ST, and
had enclosed an issue of his zine... I was friendly, and wrote him a nice note
back..."
--"Don’t Follow Leaders" 1b

Five days later, Robert sent thanks, along with two free ST issues. He asked for
some clip art, and encouraged me to spread the word about ST. I copied a few
pictures for him, made notes regarding their origin, wished him luck, and
apparently offered to trade subscriptions. I stand embarrassed.
On May 18, 1995, things went bad. Robert accused me of stealing "his" Tinkerbell
image. I read his letter with disbelief and growing anger. One day I was doing
him favors, and next I was reading a bullying, quasi-professional note.

"Dear Sean-- Thanks for the kind words about ST, Barker, etc; glad you enjoyed
it. ...NOW: know what else you could do for me-- and maybe yourself, very soon?
You might consider REMOVING the little SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS "TINKERBELL" art you
made off with for your first "sex" issue; hadn’t seen it yet when I last
wrote... "
--Robert to CRAP HOUND 3

Two days later, I replied and refunded Robert’s subscription. I told him I had
never even seen his Tinkerbell issue, let alone stolen from it. I also
accidentally referred to his publication as "small" and "locally-published." I
now realize I was begging for trouble.
His reply was both conciliatory and belligerent, backpedaling furiously and
blaming one of his "staffers." Thanks to my size comment, I was treated to
Robert’s breathtaking overestimations of himself and his place in the world:

"I mean, it’s okay for you to say YOU’VE "never heard of SUBLIMINAL
TATTOOS"--but unfortunately, EVERYONE ELSE at both the local an national
media-levels HAVE, so your claim means nothing. Except that you don’t get out
much, or read the papers."
--Robert to CRAP HOUND 4b

He claimed he had been trying to help me and other zine publishers.(2) There was
no apology, no real explanation. Just a lame cover story and a grudging comment
that perhaps we had BOTH acted a bit rashly.
On a single page in CRAP HOUND #3, I described my encounter with Robert. I
reprinted his threatening letter and significant portions of the Just Kidding
letter. By presstime, I realized I’d initially overestimated the danger of
Robert DuPree, but I was still angry that it had happened at all, and judging
from his methods and style, I suspected this wasn’t an isolated incident.
Figuring I had commented on my encounter with him, Robert had a friend in
Vancouver order CRAP HOUND #3 for him. A few days later I received a handwritten
note from Robert, thanking me for spelling his name right so many times. I took
the note, folded it carefully, placed it in the DuPree file, and closed the
drawer. I thought it was finished.
I was wrong. A month later, Robert reviewed CRAP HOUND and presented himself as
a hero. He suggested my ENTIRE ISSUE had been dedicated to demonizing him. The
kingdom in Robert’s head was obviously a magical place, and I let him enjoy it
in solitude. I sent no response to either the note or the review.
Since then, Robert has creatively reordered or omitted unflattering details.
Writing to Steve Svymbersky of Quimby’s Queer Store,(3) he related "the complete
story" of the CRAP HOUND incident. Robert’s letters are reprinted in this zine
largely due to this reference to my editorial, in which he claims I edited his
letter to make him look bad.

"SEEKING PISSED-OFF VENGEANCE, [Sean] THEN PROCEEDED TO SELECTIVELY USE MY STUFF
AND VILIFY ME IN ORDER TO CREATE CONTROVERSY..."
--Robert to Quimby’s Queer Store

The letters in question are reprinted in the back. You can read for yourself
what I omitted, and judge for yourself if I misrepresented Robert’s writing in
this instance or any other.
Finally, in his ST#8 editorial, he summarized and condensed the timing of
events. This was to be his last word. He assumed no one would go through the
trouble of contradicting him.

"So, disgusted, I zapped Sean my OWN supposed cease-and-desist
letter...[following it] two days later with ANOTHER real letter from me,
stating, "There -- how did you feel? Was that fun?" telling him that I was just
trying to SCARE him into taking this copyright/"clip art" business SERIOUSLY for
once."
--"Don’t Follow Leaders" 1b

The dates on the two letters reveal a gap of seven days, not two. It’s the
difference between the "real" letter sitting on his kitchen table, ready to go
out in next day’s mail, and Robert receiving my reply, realizing he’d fucked up,
and devising the ingenious "Just Kidding" come-back.
The sad, terrible joke of the CRAP HOUND incident (and this publication which it
eventually led to) is that Robert started it over an image he didn’t even own.
The Tinkerbell was part of a larger drawing entitled "Disneyland Memorial Orgy"
commissioned in 1967 by Paul Krassner of THE REALIST and drawn by the late Wally
Wood. It achieved underground fame and was spread around the world. Robert had
used a badly airbrushed version of Tinkerbell on the cover of SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS
#1, and had reproduced the larger drawing as his centerfold. I haven’t asked
him, but I doubt Paul Krassner knew of or would have cared about my reproduction
of the Tinkerbell. This could have ended a long time ago, before it really
began.

(1) This is a common DuPree tactic. He has repeatedly ridiculed Ashley Parker
Owens of GLOBAL MAIL for daring to give "Jordan" pointers on publishing RUDE. He
neglects to mention that Jordan had written and ASKED her for opinions,
suggestions, and guidance. (Incidentally, one of Ashley’s suggestions was that
Robert should require an age statement from anyone ordering RUDE. In his reply,
he told her he’d forgotten. A year later, Robert’s RUDE ads still contain no age
statement request.)
(2) Much of his letter elaborated on the finer points of copyright law.
Ignorance is no excuse, scolded the Good Cop. In reality, whether an alleged
infringement was intentional is definitely a factor in infringement lawsuits. In
addition, while Robert might be savvy and impeccable in his copyright affairs,
his imaginary buddy, "Jordan," is not. Several images later used prominently in
issues of RUDE were taken straight from CRAP HOUND. There was nothing in CRAP
HOUND to indicate that these images were copyright-free.
(3) Quimby’s Queer Store is a large alternative press store in Chicago. Robert
had seen a parody program to an August 1995 Chicago zine conference. Steve was
co-creator of the fake program, full of inside zine jokes and fake seminars.
Robert and ST had been scheduled on the panels of two seminars-- once in the
"What To Do With Those Unsold Zines" seminar, and once in "Fuck me? FUCK YOU!
Settling Your Differences in the Zine World," along with myself and CRAP HOUND.

"I was raised a southern gentleman, after all, and -- unlike yourself --
courtesy is important to me."

************* THE QUOTE *************

"Ripping off the Man in the Zine Revolution" is a quote Robert has been
attributing to me. It supposedly came from a letter I sent him last year before
the Tinkerbell episode. Unfamiliar with SuperDuPree, I didn’t keep a copy. My
efforts to make Robert show proof of the quote have failed. He’s gone from
boldly asserting ownership to pretending it’s been lost amidst blowing drifts of
fan mail.
For the record, there’s a good chance I wrote those words. However, also for the
record, I think I wrote them in obvious jest, as casually as one might say,
"Robert DuPree really likes fourteen year-old girls and I’m scared for his
thirteen year-old daughter." If seen in context, I believe it would be
immediately obvious that the quote was dripping in irony.
In retaliation for my CRAP HOUND #3 editorial, Robert’s "review" of my zine in
ST #6 clarified his own role as public servant/misunderstood hero and cast me as
a gushing SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS fan.

"Responding to a gushy ST fan letter from Sean in which he blathered about
"ripping off the Man" in the name of the "zine revolution...""
--SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS CRAP HOUND REVIEW

Subsequent appearances of the quote would become much more assured, and would
soon mutate and expand to include Robert’s own words as well.

"JUST WISH SOMEONE WOULD ASK SEAN ABOUT THE STUPID, CLUELESS LETTER HE WROTE
FIRST... THE NAIVE AND FAWNING LITTLE MISSIVE KISSED ST’S ASS RIGHTEOUSLY AND
ENTHUSED WILDLY ABOUT HOW WE WERE BOTH "PART OF THE ZINE REVOLUTION RIPPING OFF
THE MAN!!!""
--Robert to Quimby’s Queer Store

"YEP -- SEAN WROTE ME THIS BUTT-KISSING LITTLE LETTER, RAVING AT ME ABOUT HOW HE
AND ST WERE SO COOL, "RIPPING OFF THE MAN IN THE NAME OF THE ZINE REVOLUTION!"
OH, BROTHER."
--Robert to FACTSHEET FIVE 1a

"And this isn’t just a "how’s this feel?" warning letter threatening so-called
"legal action against that silly little Sean "We’re ripping off the Man in the
name of the Zine Revolution" Tejaratchi..."
--Robert: Memo to Cabal 1b

"SEAN -- Ah, yes... The young not-too-bright gent who publishes an art zine
labeled "the clip art encyclopedia" and rants to me about "ripping off the Man
in the name of the Zine Revolution" (oh, yes, I still have the letter...)..."
--Robert: Memo to Cabal 1c

After he reaffirmed his ownership, I called Robert on December 22 to confront
him. When I told him I couldn’t recall ever writing those words, and that I
wanted to see a copy of my original letter, his buttery voice assured me, "Oh, I
think I can do that... it’s around here somewhere..." I reminded him that it
couldn’t be too far at all, since he’d been quoting from it quite recently. I
told Robert that if the letter magically failed to appear, I didn’t want him to
quote from it again. His reply: "Oh, that seems fair..."
Six days later, the letter had failed to materialize, and I sent another
request. On December 29, Robert took time out of his busy schedule to fax a
refusal. He claimed he remembered exactly what I had written. The southern
gentleman expressed satisfaction that I wasn’t one hundred percent sure the
quote was fake, and delved into his mental storehouse of obscure Sixties music
ads to put it all into embarrassing historical perspective.

"You definitely said, exactly, in your return letter to me (after your initial
praising-ST letter) how glad you were that we were both "ripping off the Man in
the name of the zine revolution.." PUKE. That was the most blatantly-lame use of
the archaic phrase "the Man" since Columbia Records’ infamously-stupid "The Man
can’t bust our music" ad of the late sixties. (Funny -- I remember THAT dumb
quote exactly, too, even if I don’t have a copy of the actual ad next to me
constantly. Yours is no exception.) (And I’m glad, from what you wrote here,
that you CAN’T QUITE DENY having ever said it. It figures.)"
--The Quote 2, Robert to Sean

He concluded with a demand that I not contact him again.
On December 31, 1995, I wrote to tell him I didn’t believe he had misplaced my
letter, and I didn’t trust his memory. I reminded him that producing proof was a
matter of ethics, not courtesy. I asked again for proof.
My request was returned a week later. It had been opened and retaped shut, a
brilliant move on Robert’s part. On the envelope, Robert had written "REFUSED
Postal Harassment."
In early January, I received an advance copy of Robert’s upcoming ST #8
editorial, scheduled for late February. (Almost everyone mentioned had a copy
more than a month before publication. No one let on.) There was the quote again.
Robert had included it hoping to infuriate me after all that had transpired. He
also said my rabid enthusiasm over his magazine came AFTER his "copyright
warning" letter.

"And then about this time I got a rah-rah letter back from Sean, not taking my
copyright warnings seriously, and celebrating the fact that we were both
"ripping off the man in the name of the zine revolution!""
--"Don’t Follow Leaders" 1b

When SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS #8 finally hit the streets, I gave Robert a call. I told
him I’d noticed the quote, after he’d agreed not to print it again without
showing proof. His response? "Yeah, well, that’s the way it goes." I told him I
thought I deserved a retraction. "No...no... I don’t think so," said Big Rob
thoughtfully. What about journalistic ethics? I asked him. SuperDupree found
this question amusing, and asked what I would know about such things. I told him
I’d been around a few journalists, and I was almost certain that fabricating
quotes was frowned upon. At this point, Robert told me I had already made my
feelings quite clear on the matter, and he didn’t see much point in conversing
any longer. He hung up.
On the night of March 26, 1996, I faxed Robert a short message:

"Robert- I am writing to request a copy of any and all letters I sent you prior
to the Tinkerbell incident. Tonight is the 26th of March. I would like them
within 10 days, by the 5th of April. Sincerely, Sean Tejaratchi"

His telephone and fax operate on the same line. After having a friend call to
make sure his fax machine was ready, I began sending my single page. The fax
went smoothly until freezing on the last inch, cutting off the end of my
address. The receiving fax machine had gone dead. I’m guessing he realized what
was coming through, and killed the power on his machine.

"THERE ARE ABSOLUTES, THERE ARE STANDARDS, THERE ARE RIGHTS AND WRONGS. IF I
CHEAT ON MY WIFE, I FEEL BAD. I DO. I THINK IT’S WRONG. THAT DOESN’T MEAN I
DON’T TRY IT ONCE IN A BLUE MOON. (AND MMMM-BOY! IS IT FUN!!!)"
"Hmmm. So you need a cameraman for your lovemaking? You oughta write Robert, who
publishes a national culture/arts magazine, Subliminal Tattoos... He’s as honest
as the day is long (in summer yet)!"
"...and I don’t know where the fat goes as he pulls you on top of him and his
practiced fingers open you up to receive his big cock... God, you are one lucky
fucking bitch."
"Aah, love to make love to Kleenex."

***** RUDE: KRISSY & AMY *****

Krissy is a 28 year old woman living here in Portland. She and her husband Keith
have had, at times, an open marriage. Keith subscribed to RUDE in Spring 1995,
and Krissy soon began corresponding with Jordan, and eventually Robert. Her
story is included on page 45.

Starting with his second letter to Krissy, every single piece of mail from
Jordan encouraged contact with Robert DuPree.

"HMMM. SO YOU NEED A CAMERAMAN FOR YOUR LOVEMAKING? YOU OUGHTA WRITE ROBERT, WHO
PUBLISHES A NATIONAL CULTURE/ARTS MAGAZINE, SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS; WE RENT OUR BOX
FROM HIM. HE’S AS HONEST AS THE DAY IS LONG (IN SUMMER YET)!"
--Jordan to Krissy 2b

Jordan’s third letter contained another plug for Robert, and Jordan begged to
see a video Krissy and Keith had made of their lovemaking.
By Jordan’s fourth letter, the Rudeniks had watched the video and unanimously
decided it lacked the technical wizardry of-- you guessed it-- Robert DuPree. He
even made an appearance in his own story.

"WE INVITED OUR FRIEND ROBERT OVER TO WATCH IT WITH US, WHOSE CURRENT WEIGHT
PROBLEMS HAVE HIM MORE IN THE VOYEUR AND ORAL-SEX MODE AT THE MOMENT, JUST
DROPPED HIS JAW AND WISHED HE COULD BE INVITED OVER WITH A STILL CAMERA, "JUST
SO I CAN WATCH AND PHOTOGRAPH THESE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE FUCKING." [SIC]"
--Jordan to Krissy 4a

After two more recommendations of Robert as cameraman (or even participant), the
letter ended with Robert’s phone number. The Rudeniks, it seemed, were all
phone-shy.
To save stamps, several of Jordan’s letters arrived packaged with Robert’s. In
one of these combinations, Jordan expressed regrets that he could not yet meet
with Krissy, since to do so would violate some sort of sacred RUDE oath they’d
all sworn. On the other hand, their special friend Robert was mysteriously
exempt from these self-imposed restrictions...

"IT’S ROUGH, IT’S TOUGH... WE’RE ALL KIND OF IN LOVE WITH YOU, KRISSY, AND YOU,
KEITH... PRETTY HETEROSEXUALLY, MIGHT I ADD. OH WELL, MAYBE ROBERT WILL LUCK OUT
AND GET TO SUCK YOUR BREASTS..."
--Jordan to Krissy 5b

In his half of the envelope, Robert demonstrated an appropriately mature focus
on more spiritual matters. He explained his own glorious brand of Hedonistic
Christianity, taking three pages to reach the conclusion that he could do
anything he wanted, God said it was okay.
Robert’s next letter to Krissy described his publishing empire and professional
history. He discussed filming a video with the Gruvers, but suspiciously needed
basic advice and equipment. He continued his strategic retreat from Keith,
citing concerns of various STDs, which, of course, virtually all bisexuals (but
not their wives) carry. Krissy was also introduced to Robert’s incessant and
thoroughly annoying quest for free pot.

"I’M NOT ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO SMOKES AND THEN LIES AROUND; I SMOKE, GET HIGH,
AND WANT TO -- OH, I DON’T KNOW -- WRITE AN OPERA OR SOMETHING!"
--Robert to Krissy 7d

Sweet Jesus. Robert finally quit his feeble cries for marijuana long enough to
tell Krissy of certain dangerous undercurrents he had felt in her relationship
with Keith, who had apparently confided occasional feelings of boredom to
Jordan. "I’m not trying to cause trouble between you two, I promise," Robert
explained. "I just hate to see you going further down a road that isn’t
satisfying for either of you."
Robert’s July 7th letter (also enclosed with a letter from Jordan) alternated
between explanations of the Rudenik’s growing dislike of Keith and Robert’s own
more seasoned and accepting outlook.

"OKAY, I’VE HESITATED TO SHARE THIS, BUT,...LOOK, THE CHANCES OF THEM GETTING
TOGETHER WITH YOU HAS A LOT TO DO WITH THE EXTREMELY NEGATIVE REACTION THEY ALL
HAD TO KEITH ON THE TAPE; HE GIVES THEM ALL "THE CREEPS" (THEY SAY) BECAUSE OF
HOW HE COMES ACROSS ON VIDEO...
AS FOR ME, I HAD DOUBTS ABOUT KEITH, TOO -- HE DOES GIVE OFF WEIRD VIBES ON THE
TAPE -- BUT I LIKE YOU VERY MUCH, EVEN LOVE YOU IN MY WAY ALREADY, AND IF YOU
SAY KEITH’S ALL RIGHT, I’M WILLING TO LISTEN AND BELIEVE UNLESS PROVEN
OTHERWISE..."
--Robert to Krissy 8b

The weirdness escalated. Jordan sent a nude silhouette of "himself,"(1) and
reached dizzying schizophrenic heights as he first begged for pot and then
savagely railed against people who had fucked Robert over.

"GOD, MAYBE I JUST NEED SOME MARIJUANA... IF YOU INDEED KNOW ANY POT PEOPLE, LET
US KNOW. MAYBE YOU CAN LET ROBERT KNOW, SINCE HE ISN’T QUITE AS POOR AS US... I
THINK ROBERT NEEDS IT MORE THAN ME, IF YOU WANNA KNOW... OH, AND BY THE WAY:
FUCK ONE OF THE ARTISTS FOR THIS ISSUE, WHO’S SET UP APPOINTMENTS FOR DROP-OFF
TIMES WITH ROBERT TWICE THIS WEEK, AND CANCELLED OUT... HE’S SUCH A FUCKING
FLAKE, BUT I CAN’T EVEN TELL ROBERT BECAUSE HE’S SO NON-BELLIGERENT ABOUT IT. HE
JUST SIGHS, AND SEZ, "WELL, IF HE DOESN’T GET ‘EM HERE, HE’S NOT IN THE ISSUE --
PERIOD," WHICH IS COMPLETELY UPFRONT AND TRUE, BUT MAKES ME EVEN MADDER AT
FLAKES LIKE THIS ARTIST-GUY BECAUSE HE’S FUCKING ROBERT AROUND FOR NO REASON
EXCEPT THAT HE’S A LAZY ASSHOLE.
IF HE KNEW HOW TOTALLY DISPOSABLE HE WAS, HE’D JUST CRAP, I WAGER..."
--Jordan to Krissy 9a

July 13th: Robert anticipated a meeting with Krissy. He revealed his inordinate
fondness for fourteen year-old girls and presented himself as a loving,
trustworthy alternative should Keith be too sulky or distant.
July 14th: Krissy met with Robert.
July 15th: Robert wrote to thank Krissy for a wonderful time. He made plans for
the golden decades ahead-- and, more immediately, another encounter-- but was
sure to say that he wouldn’t leave his wife. (Almost needless to say, Robert’s a
stickler for family values. He has repeatedly vowed that his daughter will NEVER
be part of a divorced household.)
When Krissy returned home, she had a talk with Keith. Together they examined the
Robert/Jordan letters, and finally realized what was going on. Keith made the
first of two phone calls to Robert. He did not directly accuse him in the first
conversation, but continually brought the topic around to Robert’s involvement
in RUDE. Robert repeatedly referred to Jordan in the third person and talked
about the daily life of the RUDE characters. He would not admit it was all a
lie, although he was intentionally given countless chances.
Another letter from Jordan arrived in the mail. Robert must have mailed it just
hours before Keith called. It was probably meant to be Jordan’s last, sadly
relinquishing claim to Krissy while finding solace in the idea she was now safe
in the arms of the KOOL Man. At times, Jordan was volatile and defensive of
Robert, viciously doubting Krissy’s sincerity.

"But look, goddamn it, you’d better treat him right. You’d BETTER NOT be
planning to fuck him over or hurt him. You’d be damn idiot if you did; you’ve
found something real."
--Jordan to Krissy 12b

Keith called again and accused Robert outright. Robert denied it. Keith did not
change his approach, and Robert still refused to admit it. According to Keith,
this exchange simply repeated itself until Robert cracked.
Robert wrote and explained everything. (Although he failed to mention that he’d
been trying to pull the same maneuver on Amy.) He admitted Jordan was fake, and
claimed he had been on the verge of telling Krissy everything. You can imagine
the tiniest bit of air between Robert’s finger and thumb as he demonstrated how
close he had come to telling the truth. "Deceit was never intended," he wrote,
and then marveled at just how silly he’d been.

"...LOOK -- I THINK THIS WHOLE THING HAPPENED NOT BECAUSE I WAS TOO EVIL AND
MANIPULATIVE, BUT BECAUSE I WAS TOO NAIVE AND STUPID."
--Robert to Krissy 13d

"And this was CERTAINLY my first time in THIS particular odd territory (I was
FICTION? No, Jordan was...)..."
--Robert to Krissy 13e

Robert’s equilibrium was returning, and it was time to begin the damage control.
In various letters, he tried to minimize the affair through cute language,
describing months of insane lying as "rather odd," "oddball bullshit," and "the
whole oddball situation," as well as the classic "a big owie on my heart." He
even tried to pin it all on Jordan. "Jordan was full of shit, as usual." "...the
weird shit with ‘Jordan’ and all." "Can’t we bury the little S.O.B. and go on?"
He also presented himself as an equal victim in some sort of mysterious calamity
that had befallen them both.

"LOOK... WE’VE OBVIOUSLY BEEN VICTIMS OF MASSIVE MISCOMMUNICATIONS -- MOSTLY
CAUSED BY YOUR ACCIDENTALLY WALKING INTO THE MIDDLE OF, NOT OF A LIE, BUT OF
FICTION. "

"ESPECIALLY SINCE MY "RUDE" COHORTS HAD BEGUN THE CATALYTIC
GETTING-IN-TOUCH-WITH-MY-SEX THING... SORRY, I’VE BEEN TAKEN FOR A LITTLE RUDE
RIDE, MYSELF..."

"LOOK, I DON’T WANT TO BE CHEWING OVER ALL OF THIS RIGHT NOW... IT GIVES ME WHAT
MY FRIEND ASHLEIGH...CALLS "PSYCHIC DANDRUFF." BESIDES, WE’RE BOTH STILL
THROWING AROUND (I KNOW I HAVE BEEN) HURT-WORDS LIKE "DISGUSTED" AND "IMMATURE,"
ETC. AND IT ALL EXHAUSTS ME... REALLY.
YOU FEEL YOU’VE BEEN HURT, I FEEL THAT I’VE TRIED TO MAKE GOOD AND HAVE STILL
BEEN HURT, AND THAT MAKES ME MAD AND MAKES YOU MAD, AND WHERE THE HELL ARE WE
AFTER EXCHANGING ALL OF THESE WORDS...
YOU’RE OKAY... EXCEPT YOU CAN’T TELL ME THAT I’M OKAY, TOO."

Ladies and gentlemen, Robert DuPree. He began pretending that he had
spontaneously volunteered the truth. Accusation? What accusation? That DuPree
fellow--what a stand-up guy. It takes a big man to come right out and confess to
two people who are waving piles of damning evidence in your face.

I"’M SO SORRY YOU WERE HURT, BUT I’M GLAD I FINALLY NIPPED THIS WHOLE FUCKING
MESS IN THE BUD.
I JUST COULDN’T GO ON FOOLING YOU... IT HURT ME TOO MUCH, FOR STARTERS...
...AND THEN [I] REALIZED THAT I WAS GOING TO HAVE TO REVEAL THAT JORDAN WAS
"REALLY" ME... SO ALL THAT SHIT WOULD FALL ON MY SHOULDERS... BUT WHAT ELSE
COULD I DO EXCEPT TELL YOU THE TRUTH AND TAKE MY LUMPS?"
--Robert to Krissy 14d

"...AND THEN I REALIZED I JUST COULDN’T KEEP THIS SCHIZZY SHIT UP, THAT I JUST
HAD TO TELL KRISSY THE TRUTH..."
--Robert to Keith 15a

Robert continued to write. He described RUDE to Keith, using new and improved
reasoning and freshly convoluted explanations. His generous offer to film that
sex video was still open. And by golly, he’d still like to come over and smoke a
joint. "A promise is a promise, to me," said Robert solemnly.
Krissy met with him again. His repentant tone and appeals to her sense of
fairness convinced her to give him the benefit of the doubt. It was a mistake.
The planned confrontation degenerated into a replay of their first meeting. The
next day she wrote to challenge him on everything she’d failed to in person.
Robert’s conciliatory tone and gentle manner evaporated. He struck at every
possible fault in Krissy and asserted his right to do anything he damn well
pleased. He piled on layers of doubletalk, and mixed up responsibility and blame
until things were so jumbled that he could safely say that nobody’s perfect and
Krissy of all people shouldn’t talk.

"JORDAN MAY BE "FICTIONAL," BUT HE’S ALSO PART OF ME -- A BIG PART -- AND I’LL
DO WITH HIM WHAT I WILL.
IF YOU DON’T LIKE THE CONCEPT, DON’T DO IT YOURSELF... BUT, GIVEN YOUR OWN
CIRCUMSTANCES, YOU CERTAINLY HAVE NO BASIS ON WHICH TO NEGATIVELY JUDGE ME ANY
FURTHER."
--Robert to Krissy 17a

"IF YOU DON’T WANT TO END IT, THEN LET ME SEE YOU... MAYBE NEXT THURSDAY.
MAYBE NOT.
BUT, GODDAMN IT, LETTER WRITING JUST WON’T CUT IT.
IT’S GONE BEYOND THAT NOW, AND YOU KNOW IT.
AT LEAST I THINK SO.
MAYBE NOT.
HONESTLY, I JUST DON’T KNOW-- AND THAT’S THE TRUTH, TOO.
HELL, IT’S ALL THE TRUTH.
EVER SINCE I KILLED JORDAN WITH THAT LETTER.
IT’S ALL THE TRUTH, EXCEPT YOU WON’T ACCEPT IT.
EXCEPT I’M NOT TAKING THE BLAME FOR THAT; IT’S NOT MY FAULT NOW,
IT’S YOURS.
IF YOU BLAME YOURSELF FOR TRUSTING, THEN NO WONDER YOU WON’T TRUST ME.
AND I DON’T MEAN "CAN’T." I MEAN "WON’T.""
--Robert to Krissy 17c

"If you blame yourself for trusting, then no wonder you won’t trust me." What
the fuck does that even mean? Robert decided that this "bickering" could go on
forever, without a meaningful resolution (i.e. something favorable to Robert).
He shrugged off further criticism from such a small minded, confused little girl
who was obviously fixated on some trivial incident in the distant past.
Robert’s final letter contained twisted explanations of his idea of morality,
and delivered one of the most stunning passages in this entire collection.

"IF I TELL YOU I HAVE VALUES THAT I TAKE SERIOUSLY, YOU CHALLENGE THAT.
SORRY---- I DON’T CHANGE MY VALUES THE WAY SOME PEOPLE CHANGE SOCKS. THERE ARE
ABSOLUTES, THERE ARE STANDARDS, THERE ARE RIGHTS AND WRONGS.
IF I CHEAT ON MY WIFE, I FEEL BAD. I DO. I THINK IT’S WRONG.
THAT DOESN’T MEAN I DON’T TRY IT ONCE IN A BLUE MOON. (AND MMMM-BOY ! IS IT
FUN!!!)"
--Robert to Krissy 18c

The real tragedy in all this, Robert sobbed, was his own broken heart. Krissy
was not ready for his Christian hedonist philosophy and Jerry Garciaesque
wisdom. He had been mistaken and misled in his search for true love and respect.
He’d been looking for real intimacy, and was deeply hurt by the disappointment.
Sigh. It was all such a waste...
Unfortunately, this is just another bit of calculated melodrama. If Robert was
actually emotionally shaken, it’s because he started to believe his own
bullshit, like someone hyperventilating long enough for the process to take over
on its own. The fact is, during the same months Robert was writing as Jordan to
Krissy, he was doing the very same thing to another woman in Portland.

Amy is a 29 year old comic artist living in Portland, coincidentally only four
blocks from Krissy and Keith. When I showed her Jordan/Robert’s letters to
Krissy, she began skimming through the sequence, stopping on nearly every page
to indicate sentences and multiple paragraphs that had appeared verbatim in her
own letters from the wily Mr. Fuck. Unfortunately, though understandably, Amy
burned her letters. Her account is after Krissy’s in the back of this zine. The
quotes attributed to Robert are as she remembers them. If Robert feels like
challenging any of it, I’m sure he’ll let everyone know.
In late April/early May, Amy was introduced to Robert at a party held by a
mutual friend. She’d heard of SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS from other comic artists, and
she traded copies of her collage work in exchange for a couple of his issues.
Robert was complimentary and enthusiastic, and later asked their mutual friend
for Amy’s phone number. Two weeks later, he called to chat. Although he loved
her artwork, he said couldn’t afford to reproduce it in full color. When Amy
told him black and white would do just fine, he said he’d consider it, and began
talking about himself.
In late May, Amy received a copy of RUDE #1 in the mail. Contrary to Robert’s
assertions that a) readers were initiating correspondence and b) he didn’t send
out unsolicited copies; he mailed this unsolicited issue along with
a personal letter from Jordan. The issue was not sent to a publication for
review, this was an instance of Robert using Jordan to strike up private
correspondence.
Amy enjoyed RUDE, and wrote a complimentary letter back. She addressed her
letter to "Mr. Jordan ‘Rude.’" As he had done with Krissy, Jordan wrote back and
corrected her, saying that his name was entirely unnecessary. Robert was
probably thinking of his wife, figuring there was no sense involving the little
missus in something as trivial as his elaborate schizophrenic fantasies. In
fact, Jordan mused, Amy could probably just go ahead and address it to Robert
himself. He’s totally trustworthy, confided Jordan. Subsequent letters employed
the same methods perfected on Krissy. "Don’t tell Robert," Jordan would giggle,
before revealing one of Robert’s cute, mildly embarrassing personal details. It
was the same old story... the Rudeniks were all sleeping with Robert, he and his
wife were just friends, it’s really not adultery, and so on.
Amy told Jordan that getting laid, especially by men, was not high on her list
of things to do. Jordan, of course, took this as a challenge. Predictably, he
recommended the sensual healing magic of his rotund friend and mentor Robert.
Despite the incredible temptation, Amy didn’t take the bait, and this frustrated
Robert’s imaginary friend. She was obviously holding back. At this point, Robert
became much bolder than he had with Krissy. According to Amy, Jordan became
insulting. It was no wonder Amy couldn’t find true love, he said, she was
restraining the sexual tempest within. Let go, baby, urged Jordan, let go...
Robert also wrote as himself, although with Amy he spared no expense, splurging
on stamps and mailing his letters in different envelopes. As with Krissy, he
apologized for Jordan’s volatile behavior, citing his age and relative
inexperience, and contrasted it with his own soothing wisdom.
Jordan revealed Robert wanted to ask Amy on a date, and encouraged her to call
Mr. Fuck late at night to indulge in a bout of phone sex. As Amy continued to
decline the steady pimping for Robert, Jordan became bitter. "Guess you’re just
another girl who doesn’t want to date a fat guy," he wrote with disgust. Her
refusal to sleep with Robert was clear evidence of deep disturbances in her
psyche. Her only hope of a cure lay in embracing the erotic girth of SuperDuPree
himself. Jordan didn’t want to hear any excuses-- her dislike for sleazy married
men couldn’t possibly apply to Robert, since he and his wife were just best
friends. Sadly, Amy was agist, sexist, and "fatist," which might actually be a
brand new word. There was simply no other rational explanation for her refusal
to fuck the KOOL Man.
Robert must have been feeling quite daring. He mentioned Krissy occasionally,
telling Amy that now that he had a married lover, he wanted an unmarried one as
well.(2) He asked Amy for a pussy print to match Krissy’s. Robert was obviously
enjoying his success in the pseudonym racket. Amy’s steadfast refusal to involve
sex was the only fly in the ointment. "Poor dear... a lonely cunt in need of
heavy-duty love therapy... I wish you could let go of fantasy, and give yourself
over to beautiful, screaming REALITY."
Thanks to moments like this, Amy discontinued communications. Mail from Jordan
went unanswered, including a letter promising that Robert would no longer
interfere.
Finally, Robert called. Amy told him of her disgust with Jordan’s editorial in
the last ST, "Women, You Should Be Ashamed of Yourselves." (This was the same
piece that had infuriated Krissy.) He urged her to write a response for the next
issue of ST. She said she’d think about it, and never responded.
In September, new issues of RUDE and SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS arrived. Amy sent them
back, refused and unopened.
In mid-October 1995, as word of the RUDE deception spread in the zine community,
Robert dashed off a preemptive confession and sent it to Amy, hoping that she
hadn’t already heard the news. Robert finished his weepy confession with a final
lunge at the goods, asking his "beautiful, buxom cartoonist" if he couldn’t just
come over and explain everything in person one night. Letting this chance slip
by was one of the most difficult decisions in Amy’s life. Haunted, she struggles
to carry on.

(1) Robert later revealed this was actually a photo of "Mike H." in Vancouver.
There is a MIKE HOCKINSON listed as "Bootleg Editor" in Subliminal Tattoos #4,
as well as recurring "MJH" listings in ST’s classified ads, and "Mike H." was
the Vancouver resident who ordered Crap Hound #3 for Robert during the
Tinkerbell episode. Nice boner, Mike! Incidentally, Mike Hockinson is also the
author of a book on the Beatles, for those who think music ended when the Fab
Four split up. If this describes you, I recommend POWELL’S BOOKS, a fine
establishment in downtown PORTLAND, OR. I’m can’t seem to remember the title of
the book, but if you tell them the author’s name, I’m sure a POWELL’S EMPLOYEE
can look it up.

(2) Jordan mentioned Amy to Krissy as well. In Jordan to Krissy 4b, he referred
to Amy as one of his many conquests. "And we’ve all got a cute Jewish woman
cartoonist in Portland begging me to come over for much hot sexual hijinks..."
Needless to say, this was exciting news to Amy.

"For the sake of clarity only, I’ll occasionally refer to myself in the third
person."

***** RUDE: THE PUBLIC VERSION *****

The first known review of RUDE came in April, 1995 from BLACK SHEETS, a popular
sexzine from San Francisco. Publisher Bill Brent sent a preliminary review to
RUDE. It contained a comment that RUDE might be fake. Jordan wrote to say
thanks, and assured Bill it was all genuine.
At the end of April, Jordan sent RUDE #1 to Kathy Molloy, the publisher of
SNIPEHUNT, a Portland music zine. Kathy had experienced several earlier letters
from Robert, and immediately recognized RUDE as his work. In mid-June, she
exposed Robert in SNIPEHUNT.

"When I read the letter that accompanied the zine, my bullshit radar started
whipping around a mile a minute. The familiar aroma was becoming an unmistakable
stench. There’s only one person who could compose such a thoroughly annoying
letter and then format it in such unpleasant fashion. A mixture of horror and
fascination gripped my guts as I realized that this low-rent attempt at smutty
journalism was obviously the pet project of that publisher I love to hate:
Robert DuPree, the mastermind behind SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS, the Everclear of the
self-publishing world." --SNIPEHUNT editorial

On August 15th, the inevitable response from Robert arrived. He scoffed at the
notion that he had tried to hide his authorship of RUDE, and cheerfully pointed
out that Kathy’s "negative, negative, negative" efforts had backfired, since
RUDE had actually benefited from the attention.

"RUDE, ON THE OTHER HAND, WAS IMPACTED BY YOUR REVIEW. WE GOT SIX LOCAL
SUBSCRIBERS -- TWO OF WHOM CONTRIBUTED TO THE NEW ISSUE, WHICH IS WHY I’VE
ENCLOSED IT. (AMY AND KRISSY, THEIR REAL FIRST NAMES, CAME ON BOARD...)
BUT BECAUSE YOU GUESSED THE "SECRET" BEHIND RUDE (LIKE, I TRIED SO HARD TO HIDE
CONCEAL IT...), I WILL CLUE YOU IN, HOWEVER..." --Robert to SNIPEHUNT 1a

Bullshit. In truth, neither Krissy nor Amy had read the editorial in SNIPEHUNT,
let alone subscribed or contributed as a result of it. Both wish they had read
it, since in summer of 1995, they were being scammed by the Robert/Jordan
combination. Learning that RUDE was fake would have set them out for Robert’s
blood. Krissy subscribed between May 20th and 24th, 1995. Amy received her free
copy from "Jordan" in early May.
As a bonus (or perhaps as punishment), Kathy received a lifetime supply of
Robert’s press clippings. Sick of hearing from DuPree, she sent him the
following message on a postcard. Robert later referred to this as an apology.

"Dear Robert,
Since everybody else likes you, I guess I do too.
Now stop writing."

Another exposé of RUDE came on August 15, 1995, from Rick Hall, editor of the
zine reviews in SCREW MAGAZINE. Like Kathy, Rick recognized exactly what was
going on, and called bullshit on everything. With no previous knowledge of
Robert’s existence, Rick nevertheless described him in loving detail.

"So, what can we determine about the guy who puts this out?
...Well, he’s no 21 year old... My guess is that he’s in his mid-forties, about
the age that many under-employed men start really obsessing about teenagers....
With such a thin hold on reality, he can’t be getting laid much these days."
--SCREW MAGAZINE reviews RUDE

This time, Robert declined to step forward. Posing as Jordan, he denied it all.

"HEY, THANKS FOR THE GROOVY (WE OLD HEP CATS USE WORDS LIKE THAT, RIGHT?) REVIEW
OF RUDE YOU JUST SENT US! WE LOVE STUFF THAT COMBINES REALITY AND FICTION SO
FLAWLESSLY.
SERIOUSLY, WE APPRECIATE THE EFFORT AND VISIBILITY (ANY PUBLICITY WE DIG), EVEN
THOUGH YOU WERE SO FAR OFF IT ISN’T EVEN FUNNY. HMMM... ON THE OTHER HAND, IT
MUSTA BEEN FUNNY, ‘CAUSE WE LAUGHED OURSELVES SILLY." --Jordan to SCREW MAGAZINE

By late July, Seth Friedman at FACTSHEET FIVE and Bill at BLACK SHEETS had seen
the SNIPEHUNT editorial. FACTSHEET FIVE’S review of RUDE #2 called it a scam,
and identified Robert as the author. Robert realized the game was up, and
adopted a new strategy: indignant repentance. He acknowledged RUDE was his and
recited the first version of the soon-to-be-common List of Contributors. He
whined about Seth’s comment that the word fuck was censored from ST, and has
since created a spurious controversy over the matter. (In fact, Seth was
mistaken, Robert only censors it sometimes.)
After RUDE #3 was released in late November, Robert addressed a letter to his
subscribers and the zine community in general. Despite the SNIPEHUNT and SCREW
reviews earlier that summer, he pretended the FACTSHEET FIVE review was his
absolute first clue that anyone in the zine world was the slightest bit unhappy
with his behavior. He claimed that his adoption of a pseudonym was what got him
into trouble with the ignorant masses. Linking arms with colleagues Lewis
Carroll and Mark Twain, Robert defended his invisible friend "Jordan." Robert
has yet to admit that the problem was not that he had created a penname, it was
what he proceeded to do with it. Robert again claimed authorship of the four
RUDE characters, and even gave a veiled explanation of his dealings with Krissy,
flirting with the truth but keeping things vague enough to prevent any
verification.

"I found, however, that things became particularly troubling when I tried to
maintain the character of "Jordan" in personal correspondence that various
readers -- strangers -- tried to begin.
While Jordan in the context of the zine was one thing (and I, after all, am
named "Robert JORDAN DuPree"), Jordan as a personal correspondent was quite
another.
I quickly came to realize that trying to maintain a PERSONAL correspondence as
"Jordan" was, to put it mildly, a very bad idea. While being Jordan in the zine,
and even answering orders, etc., as Jordan didn’t seem to be a poor idea, trying
to maintain that facade much beyond that was a TERRIBLE idea; I suddenly found
myself in the role of LIAR, not actor or writer---- even though it was as both
that I tried to continue awhile with a couple of people.
That stunk. It stunk more when I couldn’t take it any more and informed them who
I actually was, and they got mad. Uh-oh." --Robert to Zine Publishers 1b

Uh-oh indeed. One of DuPree’s favorite tactics is breezing over his misdeeds and
labeling them "bad idea," or even "TERRIBLE idea." While this is obviously
correct, it does nothing to address the consequences of these actions. Once he’s
smacked himself good-naturedly in the forehead, he moves on, cleansed of all
responsibility. That sort of thing might get you into heaven, Robert, but in the
real world it doesn’t mean shit.
He claimed it was as actor and writer that he continued his relationships with
whom we must assume are Krissy and Amy. Robert "Master Thespian" DuPree
frequently couches his deceptions in artistic terms. Oh no, that wasn’t lying,
that was ACTING. I suppose cheating on his wife was merely an inspired piece of
improvisational theatre.

By December 1995, the FS5 exposure of RUDE attracted commentary on the Internet.
Frank Wallis of MANZINE acted as Robert’s cybertoad, dutifully alerting him
whenever his ratings sank too low, which was constantly. When Robert realized
his bashful explanations hadn’t convinced anyone, he shrugged and tried simple
bullying.

"Even more to the point: if you DON’T immediately STOP this silly, vicious, and
quite irrational campaign of oppressive HATRED and LIES you’re spewing out into
the mails and onto the Internet, I definitely WILL investigate the very good
possibilities of instigating legal action against each of you individually, for
both LIBEL and MALICIOUS DEFAMATION-- which other respondents are confirming
to me that this most certainly seems to be. (They’ve seen more of this crap from
you than I have.)" --Robert: Memo to Cabal 1a

In one of the Internet postings, Bill Brent coined the term "fuckbait" to
describe Robert’s use of RUDE. In his Memo to the Cabal, Robert responded
specifically to this comment, feeling bold enough to rhetorically ask:

"And by the way, Bill: how, logically, could *I* use RUDE for "fuckbait" -- if I
was so evil as to publish ANONYMOUSLY, as you repeatedly have reminded people?"
--Robert: Memo to Cabal 1b

The answer, of course, is found in his letters to Krissy. The switch was pulled
over several months, including a lengthy period where fiction and reality
overlapped and merged. What’s more, he was simultaneously trying the same
maneuver with Amy, but blew it by becoming too pushy.
Robert’s Memo to the Cabal was his most threatening letter. He behaved like a
retarded shark, disemboweling himself but continuing to attack. After four pages
designed to intimidate people into silence, he concluded with:

"It’s called the First Amendment; read it sometime. Just ONCE."
--Robert: Memo to Cabal 1d

As a triumphant last word, Robert included a three page essay in SUBLIMINAL
TATTOOS #8. Ignore the shitstorm of bad publicity, he told ST readers, he was
simply the latest target of a complex and profoundly sinister smear campaign
initiated by an undereducated cabal suffering from slack journalistic ethics and
delusions of grandeur. BE CAREFUL! he warned, IT COULD HAPPEN TO ANYONE!
His essay moved in confused loops, gathering previous rationalizations and
stringing them together into one long mess. His struggles for coherence were not
totally in vain, however, as he managed to itemize the Cabal members yet again,
and presented a unified theory of a shadowy "zine elite," drunk on power and
envious of his accomplishments in screenwriting, self-publishing, domestic life,
and Cadillac ownership. Beset on all sides by such personal and professional
jealousy, he emerged as both misunderstood victim and swaggering tough guy; the
Good Cop and the Bad Cop rolled into a single enormous package. He pulled it all
together in the final moments of the essay to express his unwavering faith in
the ultracapitalist ideals that made this country great.

"As frightening as the thought OBVIOUSLY is to these self-appointed "leaders,"
each of us is TOTALLY FREE to publish ANYTHING, write ANYTHING, print and
distribute ANYTHING, and then to have the MARKET decide if it lives or dies --
and Seth, Ashley, Bill, or Chip don’t matter at ALL, anywhere in that creative
process, ever... and now even LESS than ever."
--"Don’t Follow Leaders" 1c

Robert, although you and your view of the world are hopelessly fucked, I’m glad
that you of all people can appreciate and encourage projects like this one. Hey,
chief-- thanks for the vote of confidence-- here’s to the glory of the free
market.

"I don’t CARE, and Disney CERTAINLY won’t, who sent you the copy of Tinkerbell.
Your grandmother could have, Sister Katherine at the convent could have, Captain
Xerox could have, but that doesn’t change its legal status. To repeat: your
ignorance or not, a rip-off (legally-speaking) is STILL a rip-off under law."
--Robert DuPree, regarding my use of a two and a quarter inch tall Tinkerbell
image.

DUPREE, FANTAGRAPHICS, AND CRUMB

For all his familiarity with our nation’s glorious copyright laws, it’s
important to remember that DuPree pads every issue of his magazine with pages
lifted from independent comics publications. These are featured as reviews,
although there’s no commentary. There are simply whole pages, one from each
artist, reprinted without permission. His record is twenty one in a single
issue.
In some cases Robert is even bolder. Timed to coincide with the release of Terry
Zwigoff’s CRUMB documentary, SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS #6 was the "Crumb Issue." It
included interviews, articles, and an insulting round-table discussion of the
Crumb film by all four members of RUDE. ("Robert, what did you think of the
film? Well, Robert, I think perhaps we should ask Robert’s opinion first.
Robert? Yes, Robert, going back to what Robert said earlier...")
ST #6 used huge amounts of Crumb’s illustrations. The front and back covers, as
well as nineteen complete inner pages, featured nothing but Crumb’s strips and
sketches reproduced at full size. This count does not include additional pages
partially decorated with smaller Crumb drawings. The art was taken primarily
from collections published by Fantagraphics (a well-known Seattle publisher of
independent and alternative comics) and from AMERICAN SPLENDOR, which contained
older Crumb material.
In early April, I sent Crumb the majority of the pages in here. I asked him for
any first-hand accounts or letters he had from DuPree. He responded with the
contents of his own DuPree file, and a letter explaining his history with
Robert. Here are the events after the release of SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS #6:

Robert thought it would be an excellent idea to send Crumb himself a copy. His
accompanying letter contained no explanation, thanks, or apologies for the
amount of artwork he’d appropriated. Typically, he did express hope that he and
Crumb could collaborate on something in the near future.
Crumb sent an angry letter to Robert, blasting him for the excessive use of his
artwork. Inexplicably, Robert published it in ST #7. I imagine Robert reprinted
it because Crumb was his idol, and even a scathing letter calling him an asswipe
was better than no letter at all. Crumb called Robert on his highly questionable
Christian ethics, and his vivisection of DuPree’s personality was amazingly
precise.
Crumb ridiculed the notion that Robert had done him the favor of exposing his
work to a larger audience. Far from focusing on one of the "obscuro" comic
artists he claims to champion, Robert had padded his magazine well aware what it
would mean for sales, capitalizing on the mounting CRUMB film hype.
Idol or not, Robert predictably felt Crumb’s negativity could not be left
unanswered. With a practiced hand, he loaded his gun, flipped the safety off,
carefully aimed, and blew another gaping hole in his own foot. His rebuttal was
a brief though masterful combination of condescension and evasion.

"Gee, R., sorry you got kinda steamed and all, but your pals at Fantagraphics
(who sell the books outa which I copped those drawings of yours) seemed under
the delusion that THEY could give me all the permission I needed to print it.
Please send Gary and Kim the flaming parcels of dogshit they deserve.
--Robert to Crumb 1

He pleaded ignorance. In standard DuPree fashion, he kept his response relevant
only until he’d pinned the blame on Fantagraphics. From there, his oily reply
slid into anecdotes and lame witticisms about Christian mechanics. The other
points Crumb had brought up went completely unanswered.
Robert ended his smug commentary on an upbeat note. "Keep smiling!" he wrote,
and then added a postscript, referring to a request Crumb had made for common
courtesy.

"P.S. And if courtesy truly WERE "common," we probably wouldn’t be having this
conversation in the first place."

The flippant tone infuriated many artists who were already having doubts about
DuPree. Mary Fleener wrote Crumb to warn him that the RUDE characters were fake,
as well as to divorce herself from Robert and his publications. Wayno withdrew
his strip from future issues, prompting Robert’s spectacular tirade against
independent comic artists, his luckless throws of the cosmic dice, and God’s
crappy sense of humor.

The material Crumb sent made it clear that Robert’s published version of events
was, like so much else, bullshit. One of the pages Crumb included was from Gary
Groth, president of Fantagraphics, to Robert. After reading the reply to Crumb’s
complaints, he’d written Robert to set the record straight.(1)
The truth was that Gary had granted Robert ONE Crumb drawing for use on the
cover, partially because Robert said he would feature an interview with Crumb
himself. After Robert asked to use a second drawing on the back, Gary told him
he would need to call back, since he considered that beyond his authority to
grant without first checking with Crumb.

Robert never called back. Nor did he secure permission to run any specific
amount of Fantagraphics Crumb art on the inner pages. Finally, the Crumb
interview Robert had promised never materialized. SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS #6 simply
hit the streets with Crumb art on the front, the back, and the nineteen inner
pages. Trusting that the Lord helps those who help themselves, Robert had loaded
his issue with much more than anyone had expected or agreed to, and managed to
create an issue that actually sold well.(2)

(1) After receiving Groth’s letter, Robert called up and hit the ground
crawling, opening with "I’m calling to eat shit and grovel." In response to Gary
calling him on his ridiculously inflated sales figures. Robert explained he’d
MEANT to say ST REACHED 30,000 people, not that it SOLD 30,000 copies.
(2) Although Robert is constantly bragging that this issue sold out, Crumb has
received no compensation.

"Even pigs, left to their own devices, know better than to soil their own pens."
--Robert to SNIPEHUNT 1c
"...it’s entirely possible that SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS is finished...that DuPree
will move on to pull his sleazy hustles in some other scene...God help them,
whoever they are." --R. Crumb
"Nothing much is going on here, except for getting lotsa letters from 16-year
old female RUDE fans wanting me to write them letters that make ‘em cum...Sigh."
--Robert to Sky Ryan 1, 2, 3

********* ROBERT DUPREE: GO GRRRL ***********

His pen now thoroughly soiled, Robert is currently attempting to reinvent
himself as a male Riot Grrrl. Crumb’s prediction has come to pass, and Robert
has begun construction on a new life, one specifically designed to satisfy his
penchant for young girls.
In early April, 1996, current and past ST contributors received postcards
announcing the magazine was officially on hiatus. Robert cited financial woes
due to his wife’s back surgery, corrupt distributors charging false returns, and
dimwitted storeowners who kept sticking ST alongside the tattoo magazines.
Robert declared ST would return in September with the "grrrrlz issue," or
perhaps even change to a completely different zine entitled "GRRRLZ." His plans
steadily evolved. By the end of April, he declared that SUBLIMINAL TATTOOS would
be renamed SUBLIMINAL CULTURE, and claimed he was compiling material for a
RE/Search-style Grrrl book project. Finally, he announced his new zine for
"liberated-guys," FROG PRINCE.
To prepare for his ascension into Riot Grrrl Heaven, Robert went into overdrive.
He used listings in FACTSHEET FIVE to send out massive quantities of
introductory letters. He billed himself as a long-standing supporter of female
artists and dropped names to assure his targets of his sincerity. As submissions
and orders came in, each zine’s review section yielded additional addresses.
DuPree lives in Vancouver, Wash., just over the river from Portland. Local
correspondents are well within range of Mr. Fuck and his Magic Cadillac, so it’s
no surprise that our lucky town has received special attention. Thankfully, his
reputation as the KOOL Man has preceeded him.
Chloe Eudaly, owner of Reading Frenzy, a Portland alternative press store,
informed many zine publishers of Robert’s history and current plans. At the
store in early April, I met Moreea, a fourteen year-old publisher of three
zines. A week after I described DuPree, she received one of his form letters.
"Go, Girl!" said Mr. Fuck. The envelope held three ads for RUDE. No age
statement was required in exchange for the sexually explicit zine. Moreea
responded and expressed interest in Robert’s plans. She politely inquired about
his intentions and views, and enclosed four dollars and a request for RUDE.
Moreea received two issues. Although Robert had expressly invited her
questions, he was insulted that she dared ask for his views before cooperating.
This sort of inquiry, he pointed out, "absolutely DEFINES closemindedness." He
trotted out his wife and daughter to demonstrate his die-hard loyalty to
feminist ideals. For Christ’s sake, his own mother was a woman! What further
proof could anyone possibly need?!
Another Portland woman, Sky Ryan, responded to Robert’s search for female
writers. Genuinely interested in writing for a wider audience, she sent him
samples of her work. Several letters were exchanged. After a few phone
conversations, Robert insisted on meeting her in person. On the last day of
April, Sky drove across the river and met both Robert and his wife. She
described Robert’s little woman as just that, small and submissive, constantly
deferring to Robert. She described Robert as immense.
Robert apparently liked what he saw. After their meeting, he began sending
letters sticky with sexual innuendo at a rate of one per day. However, after
listening to Robert drone on about the zine Cabal, Sky called Seth Friedman to
get his version of events. Seth gave her my number, and we met later the same
day. Sky read my stack of DuPree letters, and showed me the pages Robert had
sent her so far. She gave me permission to reprint them, and then, armed with a
camera, kept her next date with Robert.
A "Riot Grrrl" convention is scheduled in Portland at the end of June 1996.
Robert caught wind of it, and sent Geneva, the organizer, his usual combination
of self-congratulation and bright-eyed enthusiasm. He claimed he wanted to cover
the convention for his future Grrrl projects, taking pictures and just hanging
out with his target audience of artistic young women.
Geneva was already well aware of SuperDuPree’s glorious vision of a Riot Grrrl
empire. Her two-sentence reply to his inquiries informed him that a) he was not
welcome, and b) he should not show up.
I now realize that it’s physically impossible for the King of Oral Love to just
shut the fuck up. No amount of common sense, shame, or bluntness will ever come
between Robert DuPree and his laserprinter.

Dear Geneva --
Thanks for your strangely hostile response...
If you’re NOT interested in my coming representing my zine, then PLEASE send me
information if I wish to attend as BOTH a participant interested in the various
events, AND as a zine dealer wishing to gain visibility for my new liberated-guy
zine FROG PRINCE, which debuts in June.
Also, how does one acquire a TABLE???
I hope you’re not trying to deny me entrance and/or information just because I’m
a man... We ARE trying to liberate BOTH genders.

Robert DuPree

******* NOTES **********

This zine is a combination of frontier justice and public service. It’s obvious
that scattered accusations have utterly failed to solve the problem of DuPree’s
existence, and ignoring him has only allowed him to continue unchallenged. An
exposé of this magnitude is necessary and overdue. Robert is almost 45 years
old. If he were going to go away or self-destruct, he’d have done it by now.
Although I certainly hope Robert will quit publishing forever, this is not my
goal. I think widespread awareness of his personality and methods is going to
neutralize him. Soon, a lot of people will learn exactly what he’s been up to,
and it’s going to become very difficult for him to conduct business as usual.

I’ve been warned that this project may turn Robert into some sort of antihero,
infamous for his own wretchedness. I say Robert should go for it. Being widely
known as an utter piece of shit seems to be one of the only avenues left for
him. At least he’ll be easier to spot with his new clump of like-minded,
persecuted friends. I’d like to point out that few things are more universally
recognized than dogshit, yet for all its fame, people still have no desire to
step in it.

I’ve used my name on this because I do not like the idea of an anonymous attack.
I have neither lied nor misrepresented the facts, and I don’t want to undercut
my credibility by hiding my identity. Besides, my perspective and knowledge of
certain details would be instantly recognizable to anyone aware of what’s been
going on. It would be a very brief mystery.
Robert will race to find a lawyer when he finally realizes what has happened.
Things may get very interesting. I have good reason to believe I’m standing on
remarkably firm legal ground. Truth is an absolute defense in libel cases. The
summaries I’ve written are informed by Robert’s own letters. The fact that it’s
all here in his own words is going to make a charge of libel very difficult to
pursue. Dishonesty was never needed to bury him. Robert has been digging his own
hole as if the Chinese were handing out free pot. He’s a goddamned digging
machine, in fact, and he does it faster and better when left alone.
He might take me to court on privacy issues. However, in Robert to Krissy 6c, he
brags of his transformation from a very shy and private person to "a very public
publisher/editor." In RUDE letters, Robert calls himself a "zine celebrity." In
a page not included in this collection, he states his desire to become "more
famous." The man can’t write fifty words without crowning himself king/lord of a
National/International culture/arts/music magazine etc., etc., ad infinitum. The
downside of fame is that celebrities don’t enjoy the same rights to privacy as
regular citizens. (This is no doubt especially true when the celebrity in
question is writing as his own invisible friend.) Robert checked many of his
possible protections at the door to his self-proclaimed stardom. He’s been
declaring his stature and notoriety for awhile now, and I, for one, have been
convinced.
If he goes for the privacy angle, he’ll have to abandon the notion of the entire
charade as a grand literary exercise. He’ll have to finally admit that his
outraged pseuodonym rationale was just a bullshit smokescreen. Robert has mixed
fact and fiction so thoroughly that it’s impossible to expose the Jordan
handpuppet without revealing Robert’s own bulging figure behind the curtain.

The costs of printing and postage are being paid by contributors and myself. A
sympathetic printer is allowing me to pay the debt slowly. If you feel this has
been a worthy cause, send $5 or $10. It will go directly and completely toward
paying for printing and postage, and will be accepted with sincere gratitude. I
will not be making money from this. You are free to make and distribute copies.
Again, I don’t want this sold for profit. You may charge for the cost of copying
and postage.
Robert DuPree will soon describe myself and many others as unspeakably evil for
attempting to stop him. A personal message: Save your breath and toner, Robert;
it’s too late. You’re a bad person. No one is interested in redeeming you. A
single M&M tucked deep inside a six foot mound of crap is not worth inspecting.
Look over your shoulder, Robert. There’s a fork in your ass. You’re done.

Copies of KOOL Man are $5 postpaid from Sean Tejaratchi
PO Box 40373
Portland, OR
97240-0373
No checks, please. Cash only.
Fax # (503) 222-6933

IMPORTANT!!!!! There is no way in hell that I’ve uncovered all of Robert
DuPree’s scams. If you have information on DuPree, please write me. He will be
looking into legal action, and it would be a great help to know about his
undiscovered schemes. The more of his dirt that’s known, the less likely he’ll
try to take the offensive. If you send something, please include an address or
phone number. If I want to reprint or use something you send, you have my
promise I will not use it without your written permission.

********************************************************************************
Krissy’s Account
(Krissy is one of at least two women in the Portland area who were receiving
mail last summer from first "Jordan," and then Robert. This is her description
of events.)
************************************************************************

Let me say first that the merest mention of Robert DuPree sends icy chills
through my intestinal tract. It’s such a nasty subject that I typically try to
avoid it as I would a pile of shit on the sidewalk, but maybe if I give up the
dirt I have on him, it’ll keep someone else from stepping in it.
Like most suckers in a con game, my biggest mistake was my willingness to take
at face value something that I should have questioned. Instead of taking my
doubts seriously, I put them to Jordan, and like any con man worth his salt, he
offered explanations that sounded plausible. Because I wanted to believe, I did.
My desire to meet and become friends with the RUDE kids led to my ultimate
humiliation.
My husband, Keith, subscribed to RUDE in the Spring of 1995. We’ve been together
for almost four years now, and in that time we’ve experimented a lot sexually,
engaging in a handful of threesomes. We found the concept, if not the reality,
of polyamory engaging. Since our attempts at finding long term lovers had been
disappointing, we were heartened to read about a group of four kids up in
Vancouver who were apparently living the real thing, and thought we might get
helpful insights from them.
When the first issue arrived, it was accompanied by a highly personal letter
from Jordan asking us to write and tell them about ourselves. I found the letter
more interesting than the issue itself and replied to Jordan immediately. I gave
him a thorough and enthusiastic account of our lifestyle, sexual encounters,
physical appearance, and interests, such as our past-time of modeling for local
erotic photographers. I got a reply in about three days. I was astonished, as an
avid letter writer to my friends around the country, I’m more used to a
disappointingly curt reply after a wait of a month or more. Jordan’s letter was
flattering, lengthy, intimate, and entertaining, he was a good writer and
sounded sincere, so when he asked for copies of some of our photos and a
videotape we had made of ourselves, we agreed to send them. He requested stories
from me about my sexual experiences, complimenting me on my writing style and
saying he’d use them in future issues of RUDE, and like the total amateur
wannabe, I provided these. Each time I mailed something off, I got an
ego-fluffing response immediately. My Pavlovian reaction was to start spending
all of my spare time composing letters and stories for this wonderful, inspiring
and sexy sounding guy. He, in turn, told me he loved me and wanted to make love
to me, but circumstances beyond his control, for NOW at least, prevented him.
There was always hope.
My husband didn’t have the time or inclination to write as often as I did. He
was, however, responsible for the editing and mixing of the sex video we sent
them. Ironically, this contribution led to the first dischordant notes in la-la
land. For a bunch of supposedly wildly sexual people, the spanking and sex toy
segments offended them. Jordan wrote for all of them that I must be under the
sadistic control of my creepy-looking husband to participate in these scenes,
but that my bubbly and innocent nature was still evident in other scenes. His
judgment didn’t start off as harsh as this, but grew more and more condemnatory
as I defended Keith over the course of several letters.
By this time, Robert had been introduced as a character in their lives, growing
in importance from the guy they rented their box from, to a loving, bear-like,
Sexy Christian guy like them, who came to their house to have sex with them,
smoke pot, and watch videos like ours on their Scotchgarded couch. Robert shared
their dismay over the spanking scene, which in their Christian outlook, was
punishment, not loving. Regardless, through Jordan, he offered his assistance in
helping us shoot another one, as our first attempts were limited by the fixed
camera on a tripod-- resulting in some pretty hilarious headless shots. It was
because of this offer, and Jordan’s glowing endorsements, that we eventually
contacted Robert, who spent a couple of hours late one night on the phone
telling us how great he was. Jordan was doing plenty of Robert p.r. himself,
referring to Robert as their lover, mentor, and personal guru.
I’d grown to love and trust Jordan, probably because my ego had been so enlarged
by his attentions that it clouded my rational abilities. I figured if he trusted
Robert, I should, too. So, I overlooked Robert’s amusing tendencies to promote
himself to an extreme, all the while maintaining what a shy and insecure guy he
was. It never occurred to me he was trying to gain my trust by coming off as
harmless, plagued by the same insecurities and self-doubt I was so agonizingly
familiar with.
When he talked about his weight problems, he ascribed it to the fact that his
wife wasn’t interested in having sex with him, though they loved each other very
much, and their young daughter was a big part of why they stayed together. Like
many women, I have an eating disorder in my past, and the lingering body image
problems were one of the reasons I decided to try nude modeling. I thought I
understood where he was coming from, and tried to be supportive about his
weight, telling him it didn’t matter. Eventually, when he told me I was his
sexual muse, and that I was capable of giving him the love he needed to tackle
his weight problem again, I was touched enough to believe him.
I wasn’t completely snowed; I thought it was a little peculiar that someone who
so proudly proclaimed himself a Christian was not only having sex with a bunch
of kids but apparently hiding this information from his wife. In my letters to
both Robert and Jordan I argued with them about their Christian label (which I
felt was pointless and hypocritical), their increasing hostility towards my
husband, which I didn’t feel was justified, and why Jordan and his little family
were so exclusive. They thought Keith was in a high AIDS risk category because
he was bisexual, and I tried to get them to see how absurd this sounded coming
from self-described bisexuals, particularly since it didn’t seem to affect their
interest in me despite the fact I was my husband’s sex partner. These things
should have been enough to convince me to stop then and there, but I thought I
could eventually prevail with logic. I didn’t understand that the main reason
they wanted Keith out of the picture was because as a husband who wasn’t as
entrenched as I was, he just might be capable of seeing through the farce.
Robert had described how badly the Subliminal Tattoos office needed some
organizational help, and quickly accepted my offer to help out. I thought
hanging around the ST office might lead to meeting Jordan, who received mail
there. Robert had also been begging me to find some pot for him, as had Jordan--
who wrote to me confidentially that Robert was under a lot of pressure trying to
put out the next issue and was having to deal with uncooperative artists and
contributors, financial woes and the like, but that with the help of the elusive
weed would be transformed into a calm and gracious wizard who could miraculously
juggle all of these responsibilities and stressors. Jordan said he felt terrible
because he couldn’t find any for Robert, but that I shouldn’t mention this to
him because it would just add to his problems. He made it quite clear that if I
could find some pot, he and the others would be eternally grateful and I’d be
elevated to sainthood in their eyes. I rarely smoke pot, and I tried to put them
off. The illegal aspect was bad enough, but mainly it was just a hassle and I
wasn’t exactly made of money myself. A cheap deal came along shortly thereafter,
and I figured, what the hell, sainthood was never easier. When I told him I’d
found some for him, he quickly arranged the meeting he’d been putting off for a
couple of months because of the pressures of putting out the issue.
He picked me up after work one day in his shit brown Cadillac, and the first
thing he asked me was if I thought he was too disgustingly fat. This was
precisely my first impression, but after months of the obsessive letter and
phone exchange, after assuring him sight unseen that weight didn’t matter, I
squelched my natural instincts and lied. He was enormous, and I was surprised he
was even able to get in and out of his car. None too attractive besides that,
his greasy, greying hair was tied back in a straggly pony tail and he had bad
teeth. I kept my eyes on the road as he drove to my apartment, and he
chain-smoked and never stopped talking, giving me little opportunity to say
anything.
Once at my home, I gave him a brief tour, during which he groped me familiarly,
insisting on hugs and kisses, as he later insisted I join him as he started
smoking pot. To explain a little, I basically felt at this point it was out of
my control. Not a particularly assertive person, my interest in letters as a
form of communication isn’t accidental. It’s impossible for me to say how I
really feel face to face with someone I don’t know intimately, and when that
person is several times larger than I am, the pure physicality of the situation
is enough to put me in a completely submissive position. A relative lightweight,
I had a couple hits, and if any of my resistance was still intact, it was
quickly obliterated. My roommate showed up while he was groping me, and even
that didn’t faze him, though I asked him out of embarrassment to cool it. It
wasn’t until I mentioned my husband would be home for lunch any minute that he
hurriedly suggested we drive up to Vancouver to see the "Subliminal Mansion."
Idiotically, I agreed. It was just one more in a string of incredibly stupid
decisions I made that day.
"The Subliminal Mansion" was a depressing little suburban ranch, filled with
oversized recliners and a collection of cookie jars. No one was home. The office
took up half the house, and true to description, was a random mess of books,
boxes overflowing with papers, and refuse. In the center of the chaos was
command central, his desk with its telephone, computer, and fax. Not that we
discussed this, he immediately proceeded to remove my clothes and press me
against a sofa, ultimately performing oral sex on me. Maybe I could have put up
a fight. Maybe I could have run out into the street and appealed to a
neighboring housewife. But all I kept thinking was this: if I can keep my cool
and not freak out, this, like any other really bad scene, will eventually be
over and I’ll be able to go home, take a long shower, and drink myself into
comfortable forgetfulness. To reemphasize, Robert is a very big man with an
incredibly strong grip. I didn’t feel resistance was in my best interest, so
instead I retreated to the part of the brain that keeps you sane when
unspeakable things are happening to you, and stayed there until I got home a
couple of hours later.
I told Keith all about it, and together we decided something was very wrong with
all this. We started going through the letters with a more critical eye. Keith
noticed not only the similarity in the writing styles, but also the signatures.
We realized Robert and Jordan were one and the same. Suddenly all sorts of
things fell into place, like why a young guy like Jordan had so many beliefs and
opinions in common with Robert DuPree. Why Jordan had started becoming
increasingly distant as my relationship with Robert solidified. Why it was
impossible for us to hook up with Jordan, who apparently didn’t exist.
Keith called Robert and confronted him. Robert denied everything. A rather
threatening letter then arrived from Jordan, saying I had better not fuck Robert
over, that Robert was the one who had fallen in love with me, and that he,
Jordan, had only been playing with me all along. This clinched it for our
hypothesis. Keith called Robert again, demanding that he send everything, the
photos, artwork, stories, videotape, etc, back to us, that the game was over. A
few days later, a package arrived with some of the stuff, minus my letters and
stories, and a letter from Robert explaining everything. We had a confession, of
sorts. It was a masterful mixture of plausible deniability and pained humility.
Still reeling from the embarrassment of not only having been physically intimate
with this person, but the humiliation of being duped, I wanted to accept the
excuse and apology. I was as angry at myself as I was at him-- I even shaved my
head in a puerile attempt to cleanse myself of self-loathing. I thought I could
work through this, come to an understanding with myself, him, and what had
happened. I didn’t want to hate him, and I couldn’t leave it where it was. The
pain I felt was all mixed-- I thought it came from hating him instead of from
having been made a fool and a victim. He called me several times, at first
humble and apologetic, later impatient with me for my reticence to trust him
again. We exchanged a couple of letters where I argued with him about the ethics
of presenting fiction as fact, and his response was always that it was an
accepted literary practice, and that what had occurred between us was an
isolated incident that would never be repeated. He even wanted me to assume the
character of Kerry, saying the woman who wrote her was unable to continue
because of other demands on her time (neither she nor any of the others he
claimed were co-conspirators on RUDE were ever verified). He also wanted to see
me again, assuring me the romantic nature of our relationship didn’t have to
continue if I didn’t wish it.
I did see him again. I’m not even sure why. Part of me thought it would provide
closure; another part believed if I could see him in the light of the knowledge
I now had, I could release the remaining pain that hadn’t been relieved by the
letters or phone calls. I even thought I’d be able to yell at him or something.
This time, I was armed with a pint of Jagermeister. I couldn’t quite face him
sober, and alcohol sometimes gives me honesty and bravado. Unfortunately, I
drank all of it, and caved in when he tearfully asked me for a hug. Before I
knew it, the events of the first meeting were repeated. Being drunk, the details
are foggy. I consider this a blessing. As a parting gift, he gave me several
back issue of Subliminal Tattoos.
Later, at home, I read an article in the then most recent issue, which had
several pages devoted to the voices of the RUDE characters. Jordan’s article
condemning single mothers enraged me not only because of the right-wing Jesse
Helm’s tone, but because it was Robert saying these things, hiding behind a
persona. I was disgusted, and wrote a final letter blowing him off for good. If
I couldn’t condemn him for manipulating my feelings, lying to me, using me to
find pot, taking advantage of me when I was stoned, and insulting my husband, I
could condemn him for being a fucking right-winger who had to use a pseudonym to
self-publish his despicable views. In the end, my politics saved me.
He continued to try to salvage our "friendship," but I never responded. I was
extremely surprised to receive the next issue of RUDE and find a typo-ridden
essay in it by me. He referred to me as a contributor and friend of RUDE. In the
cover letter this time, he even said he still wanted to shoot that movie for us.
Flabbergasted, but unmoved, I’ve maintained radio silence. There’s obviously no
way to get through to him. I’m convinced Robert lives in a fantasy world where
morality and ideas of right and wrong are determined solely by what works for
him. The center of his universe is the bulk crammed into an office chair amidst
piles of crap in a house of people who don’t know who or what he is. I accept my
share of the blame, and realize it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been
gullible and weak, and, in my own way, egotistical. But I’d rather be guilty of
being stupid than being a manipulative and evil bastard. If there’s a hell,
someday there’ll be a shit-load of cracklins.

Krissy, May 1, 1996
********************************************************************************
Amy’s Account
(Amy is the other woman who became entangled in Robert’s bizarre scheme to get
laid. She burned her letters, unfortunately. The quotes attributed to Robert and
Jordan are as she remembers them.)

********************************************************************************
My Amazing Life With Robert DuPree

"In the church [where I preached] the Devil had many faces, all of them one’s
own. He was not always evil, rarely was he frightening -- He was, more often,
subtle, charming, cunning, and warm. So one learned..."
James Baldwin
The Devil Finds Work

LATE APRIL/EARLY MAY 1995 A couple of friends were doing artwork for Subliminal
Tattoos. One of them enthused to me about DuPree’s ambitious projects, and his
cool, "all for one and one for all" publishing philosophy. My friend arranged
for us to meet. Friendly words were exchanged, and I gave Robert photocopies of
my artwork in exchange for two free issues of ST. He said he was "very
impressed" with me and my work, and said he’d keep in touch. He eventually put
me on the list to receive complimentary issues.
My friend later told me that Robert is "still raving" about my artwork, and
asked permission to give him my phone number. I agreed.

MAY ’95 Robert called me and gushed about how much he loved my sense of color,
but said he couldn’t afford color publishing in his magazine. I told him black
and white printing was just fine with me. He said he’d think about it. He went
on to chatter about music, and comics, and told me about his triumph over
Disney’s lawyers regarding the Tinkerbell image. "Since I ran that naked Tink
pic, lots of women have sent me nude photos of themselves," he bragged. I
apparently gave the desired response, which was none at all. I spent five years
in art school, so I know what a nude photo of a woman looks like.

LATE MAY ’95 RUDE #1 arrived in the mail, unsolicited. "Jordan" wrote, "Dear
Amy, Our friend Robert (we rent a box from him) says you’re really beautiful...
So we’re sending this to you. Please tell us what you think..."
I read RUDE, and loved it. I wrote Jordan a long, complimentary letter,
addressing points of interest to the various roomies, wishing them luck, and
adding money for a three issue subscription. I addressed the letter to "Mr.
Jordan ‘Rude.’" Later, Robert would insist that I just address the envelopes
"RUDE," or better yet, to Robert directly. "You’re a friend," said Jordan.
"Robert’ll get your mail to us." Translation: I’m hiding this scam from my wife
and daughter.
What can I say? I liked the idea, as others obviously did, of people enjoying
such an unconventional lifestyle while talking about it in such an open and
honest way. Although he never mentioned her, I figured Jordan was trying to be a
Generation X version of Nancy Friday, who has been collecting and analyzing
people’s sexual fantasies since the late sixties. Typical kid, I thought,
thinking he invented a scene that’s been around for years and years. I let it
slide. (It’s worth noting that Friday always uses her real name in her books,
and, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, has never used her contributors as a
source of potential tail.)
Robert played the character of Jordan for our entire correspondence (seven or
eight letters on either side), and well beyond. All the while, Jordan
congratulated both himself and Robert for their openness, truthfulness, and
generosity. "They" had only my best interests at heart.
"Friends don’t judge," said Jordan, "they support." Some more choice bits from
their letters to me follow, in rough chronological order.

JUNE ‘95 Jordan: "Anyway, don’t tell Robert how much I talk about him, since he
just about strangled me for repeating his "beautiful" comment to you. He didn’t
want to come across as one of those [married-but-still-running-around] creeps
you mentioned in your first letter. Actually, he and his wife live as just best
friends... but we all love Robert---REGULARLY!!! My God, he’s gonna kill me...
shhh!!!"
A couple of weeks and letter exchanges go by, with Jordan maintaining his
friendly and comforting persona. "I even want to help you like men again, dear
one...Dig, I trust you... This [correspondence] is your private stage. You can
sing, you can howl, you can dance naked, and no one but me will ever know..."
Jordan was constantly advising that all I needed to feel better was a night with
Robert. "Why am I trying to fix you two up," he mused, "like a RUDE cupid or
somesuch... just ‘cause he’s the fifth Rudenik... and you’re two of my favorite
people, and I’d love to see you make a connection."
I wrote a piece on how to give head, which he printed in RUDE #2. I disappointed
him, however, by doling out the sex stuff too sparingly. "So c’mon, get sexy
with me already, and stop bullshitting us both. I know you want to... Fuck being
‘wary’ all the time! IT’S NO WONDER YOU CAN’T FIND TRUE LOVE!!!"
Ah yes, the patented DuPree bait-and-switch. Otherwise known as "If you can’t
dazzle ‘em with
brilliance, insult their character and exploit their vulnerabilities in BIG BOLD
CAPITAL LETTERS!!!"
Robert decided to write to as himself, but in a nice, clean
of-course-I-admire-you-as-an-artist-and-person-but-you-can’t-blame-a-guy-for-
trying-and-anyway-Jordan-will-calm-down-he’s-just-a-kid kind of way. He sent his
letters separately from Jordan, though they often arrived on the same day.
Jordan, with his childlike enthusiasm and all-around heart of gold, wrote:
"...Anyway, Robert just told me that he’s planning to ask you out to various
movie and concert gigs he gets invited to, and that he basically likes you and
wants you for a friend."
I could live with that, I told myself. If the guy’s in an open relationship with
his wife, there are plenty of other fish in the sea. He’ll find someone that’s
interested. Other guys with "understanding wives" have been able to accept that
I don’t fool around, and either remained friends or moved on. Whichever.
I continued writing to Jordan every week or so, since I found talking about both
sexual and nonsexual stuff with him interesting and a welcome diversion from the
rest of my life. I also talked on the phone with Robert on occasion. He
understood that I wouldn’t do phone sex with him or anyone else, despite
Jordan’s usual glowing recommendations. "Call [Robert] late at night and get
yourself off."

LATE JUNE ‘95 My continued reluctance to meet with Robert made Jordan angry.
Naturally, my pain-in-the-ass day job, my busy and stressful personal life, my
hobbies besides RUDE, and my total lack of interest in screwing ANYONE, male or
female, young or old, fat or thin, with a spouse on the side, cut no ice with
Jordan. I explained the situation and my beliefs to both of them repeatedly, by
phone and letter, while stressing that I had no objection to socializing with
them in a nonsexual way.
Jordan: "Well, you chickened out, it seems... Guess you’re another girl who
doesn’t want to ‘date a fat guy.’ Lame, lame, lame...pretty
superficial...Robert’s a brave lad, but I think you hurt his feelings a bit. And
don’t give me that ‘married man’ crap, since it doesn’t apply in his
wife-as-friend situation and makes YOU look like just another girlie desperate
for a ‘committed relationship.’"

JULY ‘95 A pattern, not visible to me at the time, was well in place. Jordan
pulled his passive-aggressive shit through the mail, then Robert followed,
usually over the phone, as the sweet, sad, longing voice of Wisdom.
Jordan: "I think you’re an agist, a sexist, maybe even a fat-ist...You don’t
know a beautiful, wonderful opportunity when presented with one... Fucking
Robert is the closest you’ll ever get to fucking me... We’ve shown him
EVERYTHING [referring to my letters-- so much for boundaries, anonymity,
professional courtesy]! He LOVES it!! You have no secrets from him, now or
ever!!!"
Robert (following a page-and-a-half-long Ultimate Dream Fuck he’s planned for
the two of us): "Even if it won’t lead to the fabled Big Relationship... I mean,
does every movie have to be Batman Forever? ...poor dear... a lonely cunt in
need of heavy-duty love therapy... I wish you could let go of fantasy, and give
yourself over to beautiful, screaming REALITY."
Enough.

LATE JULY/EARLY AUGUST ‘95 I stopped writing Jordan. And I stopped calling
Robert. I made no announcement to either of them. As far as I was concerned,
Jordan’s joke from his first letter, "...Maybe I should sign this ‘Pimping for
DuPree!’" was not very funny at this point. I thought Jordan was an asshole, but
at least he had the excuse of being "just a kid." I thought Robert was highly
irresponsible for condoning and encouraging his behavior, but live and learn, I
felt.
Robert and Jordan had told me they were corresponding with lots of women, and I
figured some of them must enjoy it. I told myself that with so many letters to
answer, Jordan would forget about me.
Jordan wrote briefly, once or twice, after a more than a month of silence from
me. "I miss that sexy brain of yours... please write... Robert promises he’s
history. He’s outta here... I miss you... ‘nuff said."
Tough shit, you little bastard, I thought. If you and "5th Rudenik Robert"
could’ve contented yourself with just my "sexy brain," we’d still be
corresponding and having fun. If you were both as secure in your fabulous
"Hedonistic Christian" lifestyles as you claimed to be, you wouldn’t have felt
the need to bully others into it. Your greed and delusions of superiority did in
whatever "friendship" we had, and I hope you both drop dead.

LATE AUGUST ‘95 Robert called week or so before Labor Day. I was cordial as
hell, despite my anger. My friends still worked for him, after all (though it
never dawned on me that neither they, nor any artist, would ever receive any
money from ST). I was also editing a vanity magazine at the time, and a dozen
good people who knew nothing of my relationship with Robert were hoping for a
good review in his magazine. I didn’t want them to suffer just because of
Robert’s frustration that I wouldn’t put out. I think the bastard was smart
enough to know that, too. It made me angrier than ever, as did Jordan’s "Women
You Should Be Ashamed of Yourselves" article in ST.

I told Robert I thought Jordan’s article was full of shit, and he begged me to
write Jordan a response that he could print in ST. I promised to think about it,
but I was lying. Jordan, like Robert, had repeatedly proven to me that he cared
jack-shit for the women he loudly professed to love. Nothing I wrote would
change his opinion; and besides, I thought I had successfully evaded his
attention.
Thankfully, this was my last conversation with Robert. He didn’t call again.
Likewise, no more interest in my art or talk of publishing it in ST. Imagine
that.

SEPTEMBER ‘95 My previously-paid for issue of RUDE #3 arrives in the mail. So
does a new free ST, a few weeks later. I wrote "Refused" on them both and back
they went, unopened, into the mail.

OCTOBER ‘95
Robert wrote me an impassioned "confession," admitting that he was, in fact,
Jordan. Doubtless he thought, but was not 100% sure, that my severance of
correspondence meant that someone had already broken the news to me. This was
his big chance to appear noble and cover his ass at the same time.
In fact, this was the first time I’d heard that RUDE was a scam. Two weeks or so
later, I’d see it in print in Factsheet Five. Robert’s excuses for his
inexcusable behavior are well-known at this point, and I won’t hash over them
again. Suffice it to say that some people never know when to quit, for at the
end of his sob-story "self-exposé" he just could not resist adding:
"Please, my beautiful, buxom cartoonist, can’t I come by your house one night
and we can talk about this?" I might add that he expressed sadness that
his/Jordan’s repeated attempts to get into my pants "clearly annoyed" me.
Sure, Robert. Sort of the same way people are "annoyed" by common swindlers,
sexual harrassers, and pro-lifers who think birth control and unwed motherhood
are sins. Oops, these pretty much describe you, don’t they? Oh, well.

NOVEMBER ‘95 TO PRESENT Sometime in March another issue of Subliminal Tattoos
arrived at my PO Box. So did another letter from Robert. I can’t tell you what
they said, I’m afraid. I returned them refused and unopened.

"...So, one learned...whatever looked easy was almost certainly a trap. In
short, the Devil was that mirror which could never be smashed. One had to look
into the mirror every day... [many] have already kissed the bloody cross and
will not bow down before it again. And have forgotten nothing."

James Baldwin
The Devil Finds Work

I hope Baldwin would understand my use of his quote for such a frivolous
purpose. If you managed to avoid the "KOOL Man’s" bloody cross, congratulations.
If you didn’t, don’t feel bad. You’re not alone. I can assure you that if God
exists, he’s far more likely to forgive our faulty judgement than he is the
predator who worked so hard to exploit it.

Amy
May 5, 1996

[Todd D. Ellner]

Reading Frenzy here in Portland just got it's shipment
of Sean's expose of Robert Dupree. RD is an even more
reprehensible and nasty piece of work than I had thought.
Which takes some doing.

I'm a good friend of Amy who is featured prominently in
the zine. She was hurt, lied to, deceived, insulted,
brow-beaten, and abused verbally and in writing by the
self-described King Of Oral Love and "Good Christian".
Amy is one of the sweetest and dearest people in the world.
This deceitful schmuck lied to try to get into her
pants and then got nasty and spiteful when she wasn't
interested.

So, buy the zine. Send Sean a few bucks so that he can
print more. Contribute to his legal defense fund in
case RD decides to go after him. Send a few bucks to
Fantagrapics' lawyers if they want to sue RD's worthless
ass for copyright infringement.

Todd
--
Todd Ellner | The man who never alters his opinion is like the
tel...@cs.pdx.edu | stagnant water and breeds Reptiles of the mind.
(503)557-1572 | --William Blake "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell"

[Lisa Lindstrom]

In <4quko6$k...@sirius.cs.pdx.edu> tel...@cs.pdx.edu (Todd D. Ellner)
writes:

Hear, hear.

And, to add insult to injury:

"Who'd a thunk it'd take a MAN to talk about GIRL stuff?!?" -- A quote
from Robert DuPree's latest scamzine, "Frog Prince."

All hail Sean,

Lisa