Good evening, women, men. With much chimpunity we entreat you to join us for the release of this Broadside installment at a shindig scheduled for 28 Feb 2003, featuring Misters featured in the installment Eric Graf, Jeb Gleason-Allured, and Marc Baez, whose resurrection of Henry Miller is detailed below, and more (Elizabeth Crane, Michigan's Paul Toth).
To order a copy of the Broadside (featuring, in addition, Graf's cloak & dagger 'Crimestoppers!' and Gleason-Allured's 'Lyrics,' a story of Purley and Finch), please send $1, U.S.A. to:
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REPORT FROM DR. FUGUE
Henry Miller was a burst on its toes, a weirdo up to his ears in the bounce of ache. He wanted to be the cherry on top of the homeruns of sluts. He wanted a girl whose armpits smell like an overwhelming summer, a girl whose smile flushes everything in the world down the toilet except her face. He rummaged through dizziness for responsive curves. He looked for thoughts which would let the most Merry-Go-Rounds in. He was a grandiloquent stomach;teeth reacting to gorgeous hair. He liked drinking and dancing and all the filth running through it. He wrote some funny books and died.
About six months ago I decided to try and bring Henry Miller back to life, back to the world of rocks geologizing and trees treeing, men pissing and feeling in love with the feeling of it, and girls sipping rum. I went to my chemicals and my chalkboard. I theorized, experimented, played millions of possibilities off each other inside the voltage of my insomnia. At times the task seemed too much to handle. But I soon made the breakthrough I was looking for. I found the gist. And on April 29, 2002, I removed Henry Miller from his grave and transported him to my lab where, by a process I cannot divulge, I re-animated him. After keeping Miller in the lab for one month (during which time he received loads of magic nutrients, and plastic surgery), I released him into the city of Chicago. These few entries from my observation-book tell the story.
3 June 11:45AM, the Art Institute of Chicago:
5 June 1:00PM, Bar:
11 June 2:00AM, corner of Fullerton and Kimble:
12 June 7:31PM, another Bar:
13 June 2:14PM, the shore of Lake Michigan:
14 June MIDNIGHT, inside Ravenswood train:
15 June 11:27AM, Grant Park:
15 June 5:06PM, Grant Park:
As we all know, life is difficult. Your conscience shifts its urgent matters. Your mind moves through time's tenses to whatever comforts it can. You try and try to connect with people. But the more entangled you become with others the more you realize how impossible it is to be truly understood or to understand anyone else. Hell, you don't even understand yourself. And this makes you lonely. And you begin to wonder all sorts of things. Should you burrow into your loneliness to be impacted by its pressure until you are as remarkable as Pre-Cambrian rock? Or perhaps you could blow your head off with laughter desperately blooming through your clenched teeth? Yes, perhaps. But why put yourself through all this metaphysical anguish in the first place? You need to simplify things. Think about it. Who are the happiest people you know? Do they read, talk, and think a lot? No! They skydive, patting the clouds like their pets on the way down. They swim inside Seas, blowing marijuana smoke into the gills of iridescent fish. They go to ballgames, shout and gobble popcorn. And most importantly they have lots of sexual intercourse. I mean, would you rather read a book or be smirking with a naked woman inside a sphere of sweat? It's not even a contest. Of course it may be damn near impossible to meet a woman who will come home with you and allow you to sleep with her. But don't worry. Let my line of life-size, life-like-in-every-way erotic dolls come to the rescue. You may think that erotic dolls are wrong. You might tell yourself that you want love. But sticking your mouth under a faucet and drinking enough water without breathing will stun you as much as anything love can do. Whereas nothing in this world can match the feeling you get with my dolls. There's Elaine, a slender gal capable of listening, screaming, and realistic bleeding. There's the Sucking Cinderella Head. The innocent upward stare is guaranteed to get you off. There's Weepy Jane, a green-eyed babe who curls onto your lap and sobs whenever you need to feel that you're giving emotional support to someone attractive. Her eyes send tears on salty pilgrimages across her perfect cheekbones. Her mouth emits warm lotion. And for all you ladies out there, don't worry. I got male dolls too. There's Tom, a six-foot-three pal with babied muscles that twitch, and a tongue that moves with more eloquence and intensity than a Communist-Russia ballet dancer. There's Jack, a handsome doll with baby-bear-sensitive eyes who rests his chin on your leg and listens while you talk about your day's troubles. And his penis is ten inches long! So to anyone interested in what I'm saying here, a catalogue with full descriptions of my entire line of erotic dolls, as well as descriptions of my other miraculous products, can be acquired for free simply by sending me your address.
That's all I have to report for now.
Until next time,