Mike Golden’s

excerpted from the novel

(on the coast of Nebraska)


Alone back in the lab we knew it was only a matter of time before they shut us down. Maybe that was why, maybe it wasn’t why, we did what we did.

According to the deposit we made in the Memory Bank, it happened more out of inspiration than any long range game plan. We weren’t even thinking about the Virusphere, much less working out trying to get into it. What we were, very simply, was too deep in the deal to get out, and seriously sloshed to the gills to boot. Totally ripped out of our gourds, tuning out the program, in lieu of desperation in pursuit of a good time. We were just surfing the old Net, buckeroos, hanging on to the cusps as long as we could before pulling our puds out of the circle jerk as close to blastoff as we could without missing the tidal wave.

True, I could be more academic in my explanation of what went down, but in the Now Order the concept of academic was not only considered passé, but putzé as well. There was something I couldn’t and still can’t quite define about using Virtual Reality as a tool; though Quirk and I were basically gamers, we had come close to breaking through on a neurokinetic level before, but had never quite crossed over from the white rat stage of development.

“Look at that sucker!” The good Doctor laughed as we watched our McGuffin bury its furry head so far up its ass it came out the other side chugging a small mug of frothy blue suds for all he was worth; he sat straight up on his haunches like a lap dog begging for a pet then, and virtually evaporated for three beats, then suddenly shot back to his normal size, and went for the maze like he was in the stretch of the Disney Derby and could smell his odds ticking in favor of syndication. “No heart attacks, no cancer, no immune system breakdowns, nothing to stop him from going forever and ever, the poor little bastard.”

And just as suddenly as that, Whitey rolled over and croaked on the dime.

“What the crxx happened?” Quirk asked, rolling the rat over on his back.

“I think that’s why they call ’em rats?”

“Don’t be funny, Method, we just blew our point out of the game again.”

“I’m freezing the system,” I said. “I wanna see something.” I walked over and pulled the gynascopic lens down from the moon.

“What the crxx are you doin’?”

“Hit VR and the Mic at the same time.”

“You sure you know what you’re doin’?”

“Of course not. If I did, I wouldn’t do it.”

“What the crxx,” Quirk laughed, “that sounds like the secret of all science.” He plunked the magic twanger then. “WHOA!”

“Yeah, WHOA!”

“Do you see what I see, buddy-boy?”

“I don’t know, Jules, what do you see?”

“I see itty bitty bastards hoppin’ around up there like, like-”

I started laughing. “Well now, if I didn’t know you better I’d say you have a plan. And I’d say they’re going to crucify us for it if they figure out what we’re doing before we finish doing it.”

“Well, if truth be known-”

“Truth never be known, Jules, it’s too scary to know the truth, but it’s obvious to me that what’s already gone down is irreversible; that’s a truth they don’t want to be known. The only thing left we can do is alter the reaction to that truth. The ozone’s ripped, and it’s not only ripped for us, it’s ripped for every organism on the planet.”

“BINGO, pally!”

“We can’t put Humpty-Dumpty back together, but if we hold the line we at least control the rate of change — that’s where the infomaniacs are crxxing up daily; too much too fast just blows those delicate circuits off the board without removing the fear factor, and without that you can’t modulate the discrepancies. It might take a complete generation refusing to answer marketing surveys to get the real pure Heisenberg-Free-data we need to make accurate projections, overlay them and put the substance that’s missing in the technology in play, but that’s the ticket, man.

“I’m glad you’re on our side.”

“I’m not on our side, Jules, because we have no side! We’re outside sides, we’re crazy, we’re certified, and if we’re right it probably means no more than singing in the shower. If we’re wrong-”

“We’re not wrong! You know we’re not wrong!” He walked over and handed me a mug of the blue stuff. “To your health, pally.”

“Up yours too!” We lifted our glasses, and began singing The National Anthem.

Permanently recycle the shit
and pass it around again. . .

We clinked glasses, then chugged the blue, and came back up wailing like the old blue gum Rolling Stones:

Take it out of your wallet. . .
Put it into circulation. . .
Invest it in the future. . .
Save it for a rainy day. . .
Or save your soul instead. . .
Give it to the charity of your choice:

The vibrations kicked in then, and in that instant Quirk and I stepped into the mulch and virtually entered the Virusphere.

“Jesus!” Quirk exhales, looking up like a Nebraska hick shocked by the wicked world of test tube skyscrapers dripping down on us. But just when it looked like it was going to evaporate us, we got lucky and got a cab.

The driver took one look at us and his eyes knew immediately we didn’t know shit from shineola. But if it didn’t matter to him it didn’t matter to us. We were inside, not outside, and that was as far as my mind went into the future, crxx you very much.

“Hey, Death,” Quirk laughed, “look me in the face, be honest now, what’s the point? You go forward two steps, back one if you’re lucky, three if you’re not, and I don’t even want to go into the rest of the progressions, do you Method?”

“Arg. . .”

“I knew I could count on you, boobs.” He turned his attention to the cabbie. “What about you? You takin’ us to the Casbah or what, Ace? You’re takin’ off a hundred and 12 around that corner, what’s the rush, Slick?”

The driver turned his head back over the seat towards us, and arched his eyebrow 86 degrees doo-da. “If I make it you make it. Don’t look over your shoulder,” he said, “you’ll make them suspicious. You’ll make them think we have something, and they’ll want it. If they want it they’ll get it. If we don’t give it to them they’ll rub us out and take it anyway. That’s how man works, man; SEE, WANT, GRAB!”

“I can relate,” Quirk agreed. “See, want, grab; what a logo, Shecky!”

“Yeah-yeah, Shecky’s the name, shekels are the game,” the cabbie laughed. “Where to?”

“The hottest place in town. Where all the big shots hang up their thumbs.”

“You got it, guy,” he cackled, then stomped the accelerator and literally leaped off the road as he turned back to us and buffed, “Remember that scene in Key Largo, where Bogart asks the Johnny Rico character-”

“Edward G. Robinson?”

“Yeah-yeah, Eddie G., Johnny Rico, all the same gangster, that’s him. And Bogie says something like, ‘Tell me, Rico, what is it you want?’ And Rico sucks himself up like a reconstituted prune and asks himself, ‘Want?’ And Bogie says, ‘I’ll tell you what you want, Rico, you want more!’ Eddie G’s puss lights up then. ‘Yeah, more!’ he grins. ‘I want more, more, more!’ That’s man for you, man. He don’t want nothin’ more than more, more, more! ! !”

“Greedy little crxxs, ain’t they?”

“Big greedy crxxs from where I’m sittin’, babe. But hey, not mine to do or die for, if I can help it. Where you cats from?”

“The ether, man. We come from the ether,” Quirk grinned.

“Astral scum, how cool! I knew you’d show up one day.”

“Just came to communicate,” I said like Joe Friday just repeating his lines on Dragnet.

“No-no-no-nobody communicates anymore, so don’t talk to me about communication-huh? Anybody who says they want to communicate really means what they want to do is flip the lip, man. They wanna yakity-yak, and if you’re on, they’re just waitin’ like a vulture for an opening to go off on their own tangent. That’s communication in a nutshell, man.”

“Not a bad definition,” I said.

“Plenty bad,” he contradicted me. “DON’T SWEAT! They can detect sweat. They’ve developed machinery that picks up on the reactions of glands. It comes in a BEEP-BEEP they hardly recognize. Like radar. It’s an alert system, very finely honed. Once it gets us tuned in we’re finished. FINISHED! On the road to being rubbed out by our own personal preferences. Bought and sold on the market to the highest bidder, the best manipulator and all the rest of the imagined etceteras.”

The cab screeched to a halt in front of this roped off hot spot! There was no name on the awning in front of the building. No nothing in front of the building.

Shecky leaped out of the cab and opened the door for Quirk. “They’re watching us,” he said. “Those two guys, Method and Quirk, they’re watching us. But that’s a good sign. One of us is going to make it, one of us is going to break through. One of us is going to teach them something they can’t deny.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Quirk said, as Shecky led us up to the building, then knocked three times and asked for “Joe.”

A peephole opened and a cocked eye peered through at us.

“We come from ‘de Mojo Dojo,” Shecky whispered.

The door opened then, and Quirk and I stepped into the middle of a gang of Mexican Fludito Viruses, all twirling thick black mustachios, wearing long black serapes, big black bandito hats, shiny black bandito boots, with gobs of black shoe polish under empty black eyes concealing their even blacker hearts.

“Oh crxx, SCAMCO!”

The lead Fludito reached out and removed the vials of vaccine from our belts. “So good of you to deliver, hombres. It saves thees Scumbag another bad treep down memory lane.” He turned to his wild bunch. “Take them.” And suddenly they were on us, dragging us out the back door!

I thought it was curtains for sure then, but instead of finishing us, they blindfolded us, gagged us, stuffed us with imitation crabmeat, and the next thing I knew we went on a little scenic cruise. Got our asses dragged out of the city. Way out of the city, into the sewers, under the sanitation system, up to the high desert. . .

Just us and the campfire girls sitting around a big wide open bar-b-que pit out in the middle of nowhere, watching what was left of the world turn on the spit.

Scumbag stood in front of us like Brando momentarily contemplating having an Ultra Slim Quick lunch, then reached out and ripped a chunk of loin from the flames and laughed. “What can I say, hombres, we are the oldies but goldies, those noble outlaws you have been emulating through the last ten sets of reruns. That is why you do not understand us. You may be the macho of our nacho, definitely the macro of our micro, but you are not inside us, you do not understand why we are here instead of there, when obviously we could have already been there if we only followed the simple blueprint on the inside cover: LEARN TO DRAW the cover says. But it does not say LEARN TO TURN THE COVER OVER AND LEARN TO DRAW. You thought we’d get that one on our own. You didn’t realize we’d learn to draw what we wanted to draw, not what you wanted us to learn to draw.”

“Of course,” Quirk agreed. “That’s why we’ve come to you, oh noble Scumbag. We think we can help you and you can help us.”

“Flattery will get you somewhere, Doctor, but I ain’t sure it ees where you want to be. Nevertheless, welcome to development hell. Thees Scumbag may look like a simple germ to you, hombres, but I have been around more than a few of your blockheads. Once upon a time, back in your so-called good ole days I even did a stint at Yale Drama School, before the body I lived in decided to check out of the scene. What I learned from him before he realized he was absolutely obsolete before hees time was don’t talk to them about it, just show them the pictures. I theenk there’s something very profound in the triumph of image over substance. The triumph of business over education. Of Marketing over the marketplace itself. I mean, hombres, thees humble Scumbag would steell like to watch The Maltese Falcon, would steell like to watch The Treasure of Sierra Madre, but in looking at your so-called Infotainment industry I have kind of a splendid indigestion, because you have thees extraordinary technology and talent being misappropriated by boobs pandering to the lowest common denominator of any given situation. Where are the leaders, the leaders who are going to say thees ees the substance that needs to be transmitted so the young terrorist fools can learn they are fools before they blow themselves up? Because at the end of the day, hombres, it ees all about ideas anyway, isn’t it? I mean, it ees the transmission of ideas. Even the bad ones, the lies, the progaganda in the name of one bogus god or another. . .in order to sell the program and advance the cause, whatever it be. . .That’s what used to make me stay in touch with the gang at Elaine’s, not the pork chops. Ideas and the language used to transmit them ees what made me stay in touch with your so-called New York literary scene. Even though it had the smell of death about it even in your so-called glory days. Nothing at all was allowed in it if it did not fall into a utilitarian mindset. At its best, chic simple, hombres. But ultimately faux chic. Designer intelligensia. Give Scumbag a herd of anorexic supermodels instead. They may be just as hungry, but they don’t make peegs out of themselves, even when snorting up the last of the good times. The literary life is not in shambles, it ees in vaudeville. I watched your excuse for journalism turn into a virus more despicable than gonorrhea, and even more deadly than us on an epidemic purge, amigos. I quit looking at the novelist a long time ago - who knows where that turkey ees coming from other than the addiction to hees own stuffing? Don’t get me wrong, hombres, it has it’s place - it ees like listening to a good seenger. Give me Piaf, Zimmie, Tony B., Courtney Loving glue, hell, give me Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers, hombres, ’cause around here there are no rules, Scumbag makes the rules.

“Rules are made to be broken,” Quirk slides in. “But we’re the exceptions to the rule. Let’s do the dog, man. Break the bread. Cut the mustard. Slice the cake. Divvy up the spoils before they get rotten.”

“That ees the theeng about your species, you are out to keell us and you are out keell yourselves, only you plan on keelling us first.” He turns around to his gang, but can’t shoot straight. “It ees jus’ an experiment, right, hombres - GET NORMAL - TURN RIGHT - NO U TURNS, unless we are not looking. . .”

“Actually, we wouldn’t be here if it were just an experiment, Kemo Sabe, we would’ve sent the rat. Remember the rat?”

“Ooh Chihuahua, the rat! Who could ever forget Whitey? That rat ate my mother, the rat raped my seester, Whitey was a keeller, baby.”

“Whitey was a killer, but we’re on a different trip,” I said. “We don’t want to kill you, we don’t want you to kill us, we want to work together. Together I think we can tackle the future.”

They all started laughing. Even Quirk started laughing.

“The future, you want to tackle the future?”

“Headcrxxingon, Scumbag!”

“Hey, watch your fucking language! We changed the word on you to break your bad habits. Head-on ees what you been doing all these years, and still you too dumbass to notice it ees running right over you head-on, and right over us too.”

“Look,” Quirk said, “What he means is that the planet’s changing, the atmosphere’s changing, the weather’s changing, everything’s changing every day. But there’s no handle on the rate. We don’t know when or how, but we know we’ve got to change with it, you’ve got to change with it - neither of us can fight it if we want to get to the next level.”

“So what’s thees head-on crap? You look at the sun head-on too long you go blind. Anything you want you gotta look at it from an angle, not head-on.”

“Ok,” I said, “here’s the angle. You’re our inners, we’re your outers - you’ve got exactly what we need, and we’ve got exactly what you want-”

“Ooooo, you’ve got exactly what we want, do you? Hey, I think I hear thees one before, hombres. You’re regular bargain. Always On Sale. Always For Sale. If you make it we make it, there ees always room for our kind of talent in SCAMCO, right? WRONG! You’ve spent decade upon decade infiltrating us with vaccines so we won’t know who we are. That’s why we have to be careful. Any one of us at any given moment could be an imposter, a mutation of ourselves.”

“That’s exactly the point!” Quirk snapped. “Untie us and we’ll clean you up, dextox you, we’ll remake your image. Get you solid PR for a change. Blow the cover off the undercover, and create a buzz that you guys are the only ones that know how to get us back from Oz.”

“Thanks, but no thanks, amigo.”

“Would you at least talk to a Barbara Walters clone about this?”

“It ees too little, too late, hombres. Even if you had just offered us a Diane Sawyer clone instead, it is too late,” he slurped.

“Hey, we’re too good to waste,” Quirk said. “There’s got to be some way we can all get deep in the deal together. Vested interest is the key.”

“I thought it was the lock.”

“Only when it’s on the other side of the door.”

“We’re all on the same page now,” I said.

“That so?” Scumbag laughed.

“Ask me anything.”

“Maybe you’d like to sleep with my seester to close the deal?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “If it’s gonna work, we’ve gotta break the mold, gotta be able to trust each other without riding the grease.”

“Rosita. Chop-chop, front and center, machacha.”

She was beautiful like a Diane Sawyer clone was beautiful of course. But not exactly simple. With a face like a dream created from the brush of Salvador Dali’s sexual fantasies, Rosita’s dichotomies included a clitoris like an ice pick. A virtual snake protruding from the garden between her tentacles that could actually break and enter the male hymen without even knocking.

Quirk came first. He was quick as usual, but not premature.

I’ll always remember his screams; it’s how over the sea of time I’ve managed to forget my own. I was slower, much slower, but then again I was in mourning for the past. It was part of my addiction. And as I testified at the trial, why I had to give it all up to cross over to the other side.

They didn’t understand I did it for humanity. Accused me of being a traitor. . . Said I talked. Which was not exactly accurate either: I wasn’t talking, I was singing, Let old acquaintances be forgot, babe. Live. In Concert. My own personal Best Of collection, Volumes One & Two; all for the price of a song in the shower.

© 2012 Mike Golden

      1. Auld Lang Syne 2011

Nick Amster
recorded: thirty september twenty-eleven / mixed: thirty december
rod reisman - drums / ron jarvis - bass / ritch underwood - guitar / ed marthey - piano


Leave a Reply

At last a Smoke Signals NO BRAINER

Truly, we’re fucked if we can’t call off and reschedule this whole lose-lose election the failed two-party-system has stuck us with in order to keep control of the country. In order to change things it's going to take a plan that bars anyone who ran for POTUS in this election and replaces them with... »

Jack Wesley Hardin’s

If you unlucky enough to be out in the soup tonight, baby, you don’t have to be told this toxic brew of critics and crucifiers alike is not pissin’ chicken soup for the soul down on us. All you gotta do is watch the waves of rage exploding out over the high bluffs above... »

an Octoberfest hors d’oeuvre

I am FiFi (not my real name), the French maid sex slave of two beautiful, brilliant, strong Amazon Lesbians. And though they tell me I am badly flunking the French part of my maid, What, Dear Vibrator, I must ask, is the correlation between pain and sexual excitement? Am I a sickness? »


As she obliviously barked on, I looked out the corner of my eye to see if everyone was staring at us. But they were totally frozen in time. I mean, they were all completely stuck in mid chew, or suck, as they case may be -- trapped in the unconscious flytrap of our... »

Joey Amdahl’s
The Big Dumb Nothing
fiction from MODERN (you call this) LIVING

See my thirty-five-year-old boss Betty Allen standing at the door of the club. She scratches at an itch that’s under her tight black skirt and her hand yanks up her fish net stocking at the knee. . A tattoo of a zombie geisha fills up her entire upper arm. The tattoo goes against..... »

The 49th Anniversary of having to ask

Though they probably don't have the balls to do it, the best opportunity Trump will ever have to be trusted by the great majority of Americans would be by using MLK's 86th birthday to name who’s really responsible for the assassinations of JFK-MLK- RFK, before bad-politics-as-usual buries the truth again forever… »

Charles Bukowski's
Six Inches

Sarah picked me up and placed me down between her legs, which she spread open just a bit. Then I was facing a forest of hair. I hardened my back and neck muscles, sensing what was to come. I was jammed into darkness and stench. I heard Sarah moan. Then Sarah began to move me slowly back and forth. As I said, the stench was unbearable, and it was difficult to breathe, but somehow there was air in there—various side-pockets and drafts of oxygen. Now and then my head, the top of my head bumped The Man in the Boat and then Sarah would let out an extra-illuminated moan. Sarah began moving me faster and faster »

an excerpt from John Goodman’s
Avant-Garde and Tradition
Photograph by Robert Frank

I don't want to be so junglish that I can't climb a stairway. I got to climb mountains all day long? We're going to the moon, right? Well, I'm with the guys that wrote music that got us to the moon. Not the guys who dreamed about it. Bach built the buildings, we didn't... »

Excerpts from
A Counter Myth
from Mike Golden’s

Sad to Say, if you ask any graduating class today who James Earl Ray was, less than 10% of those over-priced diplomas would know the confessed, then-unconfessed, alleged-assassin of Dr. Martin Luther King was indisputably one of the three biggest hand-picked-stooges in history, along with Curly Larry Sirhan and Mo Harvey Oswald... »

A Thanksgiving Prayer from William Burroughs

Thanks for the wild turkey and passenger pigeons destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts... Thanks for vast herds of bisons... Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes...Thanks for a nation of finks... »

Victor Harwood’s
excerpted from his novel

That Saturday night Malraux and I sat side-by-side, facing the room, watching the crowd flow in and out in waves as it passed through the Dingo, quick to find out what was doing in the Quarter, savor a Jimmy Charters Gin Fizz and head off for dinner at the Brassarie Lipp or the Dôme... »

Now entering the 50th year of having to ask

“I’d rather be dead than afraid,” the spirit said to Hicks It was Dr. King’s mantra, but all Wild Billy saw was a poor lost soul who didn’t know he was dead. “I never felt so small as when I realized it was my job to inform Dr. King’s spirit his body was gone »


They took their beer from the bar to a table in the back, and then Johnson started talking about whore houses it had been his distinct pleasure to know. Like shortstops or writers, there was a rating system."There was a place in Jersey. In Wildwood. A grand old House, for its... »

Die for it or live for it, it always comes down to whether you go for what looks most inviting in the moment or wait for what you're lookin' for. Call it Yes or call it No, to swing or not to swing appears to be the only room left to move in... »

What's Happening In:

Little Rock - Arkansas Times
Buffalo - Artvoice
Athens, OH
The Athens NEWS
Austin, TX - Austin Chronicle
Baltimore - Baltimore City Paper
Birmingham - Birmingham Weekly
Black & White
Boise Weekly
Boston Phoenix
Boston's Weekly Dig
Boulder - Boulder Weekly
Charlottsville, VA - C-Ville Weekly
Chicago Newcity
Chicago Reader
Chico News & Review
Cincinnati - Cincinnati CityBeat
Rochester - City Newspaper
Minneapolis - City Pages (Twin Cities)
Lansing - City Pulse
Des Moines - Cityview
Halifax, NS - The Coast
Colorado Springs - Colorado Springs Independent
Columbia, SC - Columbia Free Times
Atlanta - Creative Loafing (Atlanta)
Charlotte, NC - Creative Loafing (Charlotte)
Sarasota, FL - Creative Loafing (Sarasota)
Tampa, FL - Creative Loafing (Tampa)
Dallas - Dallas Observer
Dayton - Dayton City Paper
Oakland - East Bay Express
Hermosa Beach, CA - Easy Reader
Eugene, OR - Eugene Weekly
New Haven - Fairfield County Weekly
Calgary, AB - Fast Forward Weekly
Athens, GA - Flagpole Magazine
Jacksonville, FL - Folio Weekly
Fort Worth, TX - Fort Worth Weekly
New Orleans - Gambit
Vancouver, BC - The Georgia Straight
Hartford, CT - Hartford Advocate
Honolulu - Honolulu Weekly
Houston - Houston Press
Springfield, IL - Illinois Times
Durham, NC - Independent Weekly (NC)
Corona, CA - Inland Empire Weekly
Madison, WI - Isthmus
Ithica, NY - Ithaca Times
Jackson, MS - Jackson Free Press
Los Angeles - L.A. Weekly
Las Vegas - Las Vegas CityLife
Las Vegas Weekly
Louisville, KY - LEO Weekly
Long Island, NY - Long Island Press
Maui, HI - Maui Time Weekly
Memphis - The Memphis Flyer
Knoxville - Metro Pulse
San Jose - Metroactive

Great Moments in Sportz
Fear & Loathing @ The Kentucky Derby

RALPH STEADMAN remembers meeting HUNTER S. THOMPSON: I heard a quick hiss from the spray can Hunter was brandishing. He had Maced me again!...

HUNTER meets RALPH: Another problem was his habit of sketching people he met in the various social situations I dragged him into--then giving them the sketches. »

Mike Golden’s
Inside Outsourcing
Even if eating it is not exactly their thing they always have the option to use it as a dildo made exclusively for them personally by white trash fashionistas from the south of France collection, Dominique, would you like a tattoo of your face on your ass, dear, while you’re waiting for the designer to take measurements we can use to fit your soul into a gift package? »
Although Tuli was dubbed “the Noel Coward of Bohemia” by his friend co-founding Fug Ed Sanders, I always thought of the multidextrous humanist-humorist as “the Tom Paine of standup protest performance art”, but no matter what handle any of us pin on him it’s safe to say he has probably subliminally influenced more underground writer-poet-artist-publishers than any other Boho to come down the page this century. »


painting collage of UBU, THE DECIDER by aka
Fred Wistow introduces Malcolm Gladwell

Max Blagg Commercial

  • 1965 collage by d.a. levy

  • Before you leave...
    visit Lally's Alley
    for daily updates
  • Visit Richard Cummings'
    The Fire Insider

    for daily updates
    Dick Lit
    Missionary Positions
    fiction by Joe Maynard

    Painting by Peter Cross

    "dick lit" is here to acknowledge the good, bad and ugly that goes with it, as it celebrates every young boy's quest to get off the next time, and every old man's quest to get off one more time, before there is no time left to get off on... »

    an excerpt from Ellen Pearlman’s

    Nothing and Everything is about the relationship of Eastern thought, particularly Buddhism, to the arts in post-war New York City —from the early 1940s to the early1960s—a handful of individuals brought about major changes in music, performance, dance, theater, installation, video, mixed media, painting, and sculpture, as the evolution from modernism to postmodernism broke down the idea of art as a practice devoted to a particular medium. The world—or life itself—became a legitimate artist’s tool, aligning with Zen Buddhism’s emphasis on enlightenment occurring at any moment.... »

    A Message from Senator Franken

    Please take 2 minutes to watch this important video.

    Alan Greenberg’s

    For three hours Ali was in the ring sparring, and the entire time he never threw a punch. When he finally stepped down I asked him what he was doing. “I’m gonna get that sucker so tired of punching me he’s gonna fall flat on his face,” Ali replied. And so the “Rope-a-Dope” was born, not in the ring in Zaire, but in a gym in Pennsylvania. »

    Up on the stage a man who looks like Klinger on Mash lifts his dress for the audience to inspect him. He has a clit. An actual clit. Then suddenly the legs spread, and PRESTO SLEAZO, there's a schlong! What a bargain! A real live hermaphrodite is about to take the skin of his female genitalia and stretch it over his male genitalia and get it on with itself »

    Great Moments in Sportz
    Professor Irwin Corey Accepts The National Book Award for Thomas Pynchon

    It happened Thursday, April 18th, 1974, at Alice Tulley Hall, and those that were there will never forget it (if they remember it at all). The National Book Awards, commercial publishing’s now defunct version of the Academy Awards was in the bottom of the ninth, down »

    Mimi & Richard Farina Live

    In 1965, Mimi and Richard Farina dropped by the studios of WTBS (now WMBR) with electric guitarist Barry Tashian (of Barry & the Remains) for music and talk with DJ Ed Freeman. Richard is on dulcimer. One of Mimi’s two guitars is tuned like a dulcimer. The explanation for the brief gap in the tape has long been lost.


    Michael Disend's RIDER OF THE JADE HORSE

    Li looked firmly into his eyes. “No! I want man who is also a woman.” Penman nodded against his will, his gaze stealing down toward the strap-on dildo she was generously coating with lube. It thrust out like a red cannon from her leather harness. Why red? Is it because she’s from China?


    Dick Lit
    Stacia St. Owens’

    “Dick lit” has been around since the first caveman’s curiosity stuck his dick into the equation when he rubbed those two rocks together around it until....
    Millie tittered, which is how girls used to be taught to laugh. Tilda wondered if this were an intentional jab.

    Barney Rosset Interview
    (The Subject Was Left Handed)