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The Lackawanna Review is proud to present this excerpt from the new, independently published unauthorized autobiography of Hymen Shamrock, entitled The Clover Inside. This interactive excerpt details Mr. Shamrock’s college days, the promise that was, and the success that wasn’t.

By Tony Tugmaziti, author of I Carry Micro Fiction In My Pocket for Occasions Such As These

“Nothin’ honest or authentic of humanness is ever stated in events. Experience itself has not the actuality that lies with the seeds of truth itself buried deep into our fiction. Or even the microtruths dropped on the topsoil of our shit-ass microfiction” – Marcus Aurelius

I recently met up with Hyman Shamrock at his favorite watering hole in Rockville Center, Long Island. “Oh my Gawd,” he rasped, a little too loudly, “look at the tats on that whore.” Mr. Shamrock glances back at me, that inimitable, gee did I shit the bed again? face that little children flash their mothers from time to time – this face is Mr. Shamrock’s bread and butter . These days he is a little disheveled and a bit out of shape, but doesn’t look all that different from the pictures taken of him during his college days. He is still fairly attractive, tall, charismatic, and in conversation he can be quite engaging. One can easily tell he is well educated, and just as easily pick up on his anxiety, as he frantically jumps between film, historical, and (at times very personal) anecdotes, even while trying to tell a simple story. Of course inevitably, he will always return to the crude. “You can take the boy out of Rockville Center!” he exclaimed, partly a joke to relieve my uneasiness, partly an explanation.

“But you’re still in Rockville Center,” I quip back.

“What are you, my fucking editor?”

I delicately try to return the conversation back to the Long Island Sound, but he’s not making it easy. Between ‘why I hate living with my parents’ monologues and the tragic demise of his most recent band project, the conversation is going nowhere, and then finally Shamrock brings the dialogue to a close – “You’re just a Dago right? You sure you’re not part Hebe? You look like you’re part-Hebe, part-African.”

Five years ago this month, Mr. Shamrock, then a Sophomore at Binghamton University, seemed on the fast track to rock stardom. He was in a relationship with two girls at the same time, doing a ton of drugs, and “his” band – a unique, if unlikely foursome inspired by the schizophrenic, punk rock stream-of-consciousness of Wesley Willis – had just taken second place in a battle of the bands, and with it a cash prize of $500. As a show of good faith, the Long Island Sound had agreed to share $400, and donate $100 to the memory of Curt Slack, the lead singer of a competing band who died tragically a few days earlier. They charged the task to Shamrock, who predictably spent the money on cocaine. Days later he was arrested for narcotics possession and disorderly conduct, and before any one knew it, he was back home in Long Island.

“He wanted so bad to be creative that he tried on and adopted all the bad habits of his influences, especially those of his main influence, Wesley Willis – a schizophrenic drug addict. He felt, in order to become a creative force, he had to let his demons out. He really did confuse debauchery and bohemia for artistic creation, so he got wasted a lot and went on his own hellride and pissed everyone off, again. It really took a toll. He was a fucking asshole, and a fucking mess.”

Shamrock took the following semester off. Upon returning to school, he discovered that Patrick Beaudry, the creative leader of the Afficianadoz, had transferred to Syracuse University. Still, the band’s cult status only seemed to grow. And this time, it was Shamrock in charge of the band’s direction. For a while, it worked.

“They were so much different. They were just about rocking and partying, and they rocked, they were loud and obnoxious and you couldn’t help but love them,” recalls Matthew Kanbildit, band historian and sometime manager. “They were a lot more fun then the other bands on campus, and the other bands were better put together, had better musicians, a lot of the time, but those bands were all gimmick bands, riding on their friends and hippie music. The Afficianadoz didn’t have any friends, Shamrock made sure of that, and so they just played whatever the fuck they wanted, and they played it loud.”

“I never thought they were very good,” said computer scientist Shawn Matthews, “but Shamrock had this really odd, magnetic stage presence that drew me in. He drew everyone in.”

Weeks earlier, Hyman and I spoke about the origins of the band, its name, its demise and what he thought it all meant. “We called ourselves the Long Island Sound because a couple of us were from Long Island, and I’m a scumbag, but really we were a Binghamton band all the way. [distracted] Wanna do a shot? Yeah, well we were a rust belt band. These people had Rust belt hopes and Rust belt pain, and I took all that in, and it became my pain, their dreams became my dreams, and I spit it all up musically, and I did it with a Strong Island vibe you just can’t fake. Look at that waitress. I would fuck her even if it meant my dick would fall off.” Then, turning to me with Vaudevillian schtick, “Not that the Irish girls would nnooootttiiiiccceeee.” 

In the time since, I have solicited answers from the other band members. Not surprisingly, there are discrepancies.

How did it start?

A few guys around my computer, listening to some music, making up lyrics to amuse ourselves, you know, fooling around, and then it just evolved,” Hyman explained.

“In Patrick’s dorm room, the lineup gelled with Pat on vocals/banjo, Hyman on the blue 6-string, Bannon on the 3 string thunder stick and Tone Loc on the Pringle cans. Sophmore year we played our first coffeehouse with real instruments. I guess you can say we sold out. Actually we were drunk, we wore masks and we screamed our heads off. We were booed off stage. It’s how our last show ended, too,” explained Brian Bannon, the bass player for the Long Island Sound.

Why did it end?

“I was kicked out. Which was just as well, I got generally got blamed for everything. The day we found out we didn’t make the cut for BOTBs Junior year, Andrew threw my 40z bottle of malt liquor at me and cursed me out. After graduation I moved back to Strong Island and the band followed suit, but they were pissed because they thought I was too involved with ‘side projects.’ I quit my side projects, and made the Nadoz my priority, but they were getting power-hungry and wanted more creative input, and they brought in another guy to sing, and kicked me out. It was like Jon Bon Jovi getting kicked out of Jon Bon Jovi. But whatever, I wrote the opera after that, and we got together to record it.”

“He was never kicked out. Shamrock quit. Truth be told, he quit around ten times. I think it had to do with control, if he wasn’t the center of attention (both positive and negative), if he didn’t have complete control, he wasn’t happy. To me it seemed like Hyman enjoyed having everyone pissed at him at all times, even when things were good he’d find a way to throw a wrench into everything, his drinking, going to jail for stealing pills, the baker’s dozen of infidelity, all of that shit. I guess it made him feel like a rockstar.” – Andrew Catellie, Drums.

“I think that it was all of them. None of them were serious enough about the band. To shine, the Afficionadoz would need a seriousness of unseriousness. I’ll try to explain it but you’ll never understand it unless you’ve felt this feeling before. Sometimes you see some young band, like a college band, and they play some stuff together and they all may be talented. But you feel as if they’re going through the motions. They may all be well trained and incredibly skilled, but you get the idea that they’re just played their part playing. Sometimes you see a band, and maybe they play pretty simple music but they have attitude and swagger. The Afficionadoz had just that. No one was serious enough about it to make it last. Not one person in the band was serious enough about it. Brian didn’t practice. Andrew was too interested in side project punk/hardcore bands, and Shamrock was way too self-centered, and thought by showing up late and not listening to anyone was the best way to demonstrate his artistic superiority.” – Matthew Kanbildit

What about the antisemitism?

“I am what I am, it’s a self-hating thing. Lay off of me.”

“Well, I’ll tell you this much, this writing professor, Schaffer had heard one of our songs, entitled ‘The Count of Majecristo,’ and called Shamrock into his office. Now, Hyman loved writing, and loved Schaffer’s writing class, and I think that when he went in there – I think, every time Shamrock met up with Schaffer, he was hoping to come out with an identity, whether’s it’s that of a writer, or a poet, or even more importantly, of a Jew. Hyman was obsessed with his Irishness, but for reasons deeply imbedded, and probably pathological, he despised his Irish blood, and envied the Jews. He was always talking about how Jews raise their children, hey the Jews are so smart because when they’re kids they have to learn Hebrew, and so on. Well, he came of the office and he was all pissed off. Schaffer had told him that, as he had to tone down the anti-Semitism. And I think Marty got into, or tried to get into, a conversation about the Hebrew faith, spirituality, culture, etc. and Schaffer was having none of it. Schaffer told Hyman that, because he couldn’t prove direct lineage on the Mother’s side, had little to know knowledge of the faith and culture, and would probably never have the discipline to learn, that he was unfit to claim any heritage. Well Shamrock went nuts ‘That fucking snake kike. What does he know? I could see the horns growing as he spoke.’ You know, the horn and nose jokes were funny at first, I guess, but he just kept going. He was obsessed.” – Matthew Kanbildit

Philosophy and the study of the actual world have the same relation to one another as masturbation and sexual love. – Marshall Berman

So I’m here at a Starbucks just outside of Times Square posting to you today. I have moved into Williamsburg, Brooklyn (sorta) and I just travelled uptown to set one of my helpful family members on their proper transportation home. So far, I have no bed, no couch, no internet, and no…love. Please, Grand Mother City of the Universe, cradle me in your arms and provide security for me. Tell me, “All is well Mr. Attki, you will fly like a dove, wings outstretched, and drop soggy wet bombs on the masses that line 42nd Street.” Love me.

In addition to being the day taxes are due this year, April17th also has tremendous historical significance.  The last Union officer killed in action in the civil war was none other than Lieutenant Edward L. Stevens, who was killed in a skirmish at Boykin’s Mills, near Sumter, South Carolina on April 17th 1865.  Stevens was a New England patriot, a member of the 54th Massachusetts volunteers.  I humbly place his name here so that he may never be forgotten.  To honor the memory of this oft-forgotten hero, the Lackawanna Review staff got together this weekend for a good, old fashioned Civil War Re-enactment. 

“…Lest he shave my mustache with lead.”

“Look at Jackson’s brigade! It stands there like a stone wall”

“War is cruelty.  There is no use trying to to reform it.  The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over. ”

Fitzy’s Wicked Pissah

Baseball fans are the yardstick of American cities.   Do you love the dirty water?

MORE FITZY! (AKA Joseph Hartmanovits if he were born in Boston).  “Remember, baseball is America’s pastime, just like going and fucking yourself is.” 

Red Sox Preview part II:

It was a somewhat warm spring night in April when Lucy had called me to have a drink or two at the local watering hole.  A light rain had been showering the area, so I put on my trench and began walking to the bar.  This particular bar went by the name of “Sharon McNalley’s”, and while it shared it an Irish name, the patrons consisted mainly of buff Italian twenty-somes with greased hair and tight polo shirts that made their chest look like two hams with buttons affixed to the middle. 

When I arrived at McNalley’s, I was greeted by the Thursday bartender, Al, who never seemed grow tired of wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey.  As I made my way around the bar, I spotted Lucy sitting at a table in a dark corner just behind the pool table.  Two over serious types were playing, and I had to wait for a moment as I turned the corner so that one of them could miss a routine shot at the eight ball.

“Hey Lucy, what’s up?”

“Oh hey Mike!  How are you!”

“I’m good, very good…”

I sat down.  Lucy was looking delightful.  She was a relatively small girl, short in stature, though incredibly fit.  She was a gymnast, and I can imagine where a man’s thoughts can travel at the mention of that notion.  Twisting, turning, oh, you know the story…  However, I did not, and as you can imagine, I was wanting to discover that for myself.   

“So how was work today, Mike?”

“Just spectacular, let me tell ya, I didn’t even get a break.”

“Aww, that’s too bad, you must be exhausted…are you gonna call it an early night?”

“Yeah, probably, if that’s ok with you.”

“Oh yeah, sure, I can even give you a ride home whenever you’d like… “

Small talk continued for an hour or so, when she and I both agreed that it was time to leave.  We arrived at the front of my house.

“Ok Mike, here you are!”

“Thanks for the ride home and all.  Anyway, what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Oh, I’m probably ready for a full night out tomorrow.  Tonight I’m just, ohh…”

“Yeah, I understand, me too, well, anyway… umm…”

There was an awkward silence here.

“You can come in for a moment if you would like.”

“Ok.”

We walked up the steps and into my front door; of course the naughtiest thoughts were in my head, but I could only wonder if she felt the same.  We began watching some rerun of a network television show.  The room was like a mortuary for about ten minutes, and suddenly we began to kiss.  Our tongues tangled like two serpents in some ritual dance, and it wasn’t long before I began removing her clothing.  Not a word was uttered, and soon I was placed firmly between her legs.  The situation proved difficult at first, and that familiar thought for all men, “Is she a virgin?” had crossed my mind.  Variety was nonexistent, and the only things in which to look forward were the subtle moans that emanated from her smallish mouth.  Our experience had soon come to an end.  I had removed myself, and it was no longer than two minutes from that time when she began weeping uncontrollably.  I attempted to comfort her.

“Oh, Lucy, what is wrong?  I don’t understand!”

“Ohh, it’s just…this stuff..always…well, it always screws everything up.”

I was confused by this statement, as I am typically a compassionate man.

“Lucy, I’m not going to stop talking to you now…or whatever you’re thinking.”

She continued to weep for another hour or two.  This span of time had annoyed me, as I didn’t see the necessity or reasoning for such actions.  When it was nearing three o’clock in the morning, I finally decided that I would put a stop to it.

”You know, if you’re so upset, why don’t you go home.”

“So you don’t want me here?”

“No, I didn’t say that, I just think that you maybe need to spend some time alone.”

She wiped the tears from her face and looked at me like a fawn caught in some speeding car’s headlights.   She soon stepped outside and I heard her car emit its low rumble as it pulled away.

As humans, we are often forced to recognize the utter seriousness of life. General paranoia and worrisome habits are key aspects of the trade. We must consider paying the bills, drinking water, and doing our taxes. If we do not spend a good portion of our lives completing these annoying tasks, we are viewed as irresponsible human beings (this mainly applies to the US, as the French have some different ideas on the matter).

I’ve been lead to such thoughts by a conversation in which I was involved with a friend of my family (who we will call Judy) over the weekend.

Me: “I spoke with a woman who felt that it is extremely easy for people in situations of extreme poverty to ‘rise up’ and have a professional career in the US.”
Judy: “Oh yeah?”
Me: “Yes, she said that if she was homeless, she would collect money until she had gathered a sufficient amount for a nice suit, and then she would do job interviews once she had acquired the suit.”
Judy: “I agree with her. Those people have no excuse for failing to succeed in this country. They choose to be lazy and poor.”
Me: “That’s interesting…ah, well, I must ask, Judy, are you a Christian?”
Judy: “Yes, I’m Catholic, you know that.”
Me: “You know that Ghandi once said that he loved Christ but disliked Christians?”
Judy: “Oh, and why is that?”
Me: “Because Christians are so unlike Christ.”

At this point, Judy stormed out of the room and began complaining about me to my family.

Subsequently, at this point, I realized that I had been living life in reverse. It is commonly said that most people systematically use less of their imagination as they grow older, however, this is hardly the case for a man of my standards.

Suddenly, an elephant squeezed through the doorway, rolled me up into its trunk, and swung me about in a similar manner to which a mother rocks her babe. The elephant was enormous, and it had an ass like Roseanne Barr. As my family and guests (especially Judy) grew calm, the elephant gently placed me back onto the floor and squeezed itself through the doorway. Just as it made the final push to eject itself from the house, it let go of an enormous fart. The fart smelled like raspberry gelatin.