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**PRINT: FRIENDS FROM CINCINNATI: Installment 24 features this part coming-of-age short by Chicago's Patrick Somerville, author of the Trouble collection of shorts out in 2006. | PAST BROADSHEETS |

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:

c/o Todd Dills
4038 Clairmont Ave.
Birmingham, AL 35222

Or buy now using any major credit card via PayPal (allow a few weeks for delivery):


Marc Baez

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.

2 June 3:25PM, Red-Line Washington Stop:
The subway air is humid. A woman fans her gargantuan son. A train heading North has just whooshed off. And Miller has begun to dance slow, in an emotionally disgusting way, like he's taking a crap he's gonna pick up and marry. So far so good.

3 June 11:45AM, the Art Institute of Chicago:
Miller tells a guard of images he would like to see on the walls. Among the images he lists are octopuses having giant, fangy intercourse, quick and purple. South America with the sun above it all going Wow! Curves sulking. Romantic veins betting dust unusual. A goon spanking the butt of a prostitute making it hotter. And so on, until, enraged by the glisten and squish of Miller's rant, the guard tells him to either move on or be escorted out of the building. Miller tips his hat to the guard and jogs down the stairs.

5 June 1:00PM, Bar:
Miller smiles at a beautiful girl and she leans against a wall like a book too big for him to read. Miller walks over to her, a glass of vodka in his hand, and delivers some line about how if they did it their love-making would flick immortal bacteria up into eternity. He then hugs her low and sniffs her vagina. For which he receives a hard smack.

11 June 2:00AM, corner of Fullerton and Kimble:
Miller drinks a bottle of wine and when it's empty he uses it as a weapon to get another one. He has been away from the lab for only nine days and already his weight has dropped significantly.

12 June 7:31PM, another Bar:
Miller is being bought drinks by a middle-aged woman in an orange empire dress. Her face, though somewhat deflated from not eating enough, owes its particular charm to the slight protrusion of a single sharp tooth, which resembling a toy-dagger, seems to stab the lip beneath it as she speaks to him, her breathless voice suggesting the stirrings of emphysema or an imitation of Marilyn Monroe. Miller listens to her prattle and grins, every now and then giving one of her breasts a meditative squeeze.

13 June 2:14PM, the shore of Lake Michigan:
Seated on the sand, Miller glances at volleyballs punched through the humidity's tranquilizing texture and gazes at the reclined bodies of young women. He seems depressed. He stares at the waves.

14 June MIDNIGHT, inside Ravenswood train:
There's now a humorlessness in Miller's eyes, as if he just slid out of Edgar Allen Poe's tear-duct. But life has things to do other than push the soft side of its depth toward him. He used to find laughs in this fact. This is not the Henry Miller I know.

15 June 11:27AM, Grant Park:
Miller is sitting on a bench. A few feet away a boy (his hair a black, quickly brushed density) is sprinkling bread crumbs for pigeons. Miller leans forward and tells the boy to spread one of the pigeon's legs apart and eat out its crotch The boy runs crying to his father, who comes over and puts Miller into a precise full-nelson. Off his feet and too weak to fight back, Miller, with a relaxed expression on his face, soils his trousers, causing the strong Dad to drop him. A couple minutes later a woman, noticing Miller crumpled on the ground, stops to see if he is okay. Grabbing her ankles he twists his head under her dress and licks her physically successful curves. But within moments this unexpected surge of ecstasy and strength subsides and Miller goes limp.

15 June 5:06PM, Grant Park:
Miller is laying on his side in the grass. If one did not know better he might appear to be posing for an erotic summer calendar. I check his pulse. It is faint. I sit him in a wheelchair, push him into the van, and return to the lab.

At 9:52PM, 15 June, despite my best efforts, Henry Miller passed away. The reasons for his rapid deterioration and death are mysterious to me. The re-animation worked, of course. But I don't understand his brutally short lifespan. Miller did not survive even one month. But I am not a quitter. I have gone back to the chalkboard. I am re-thinking my already re-thought thoughts, and will have Miller running again soon. So that is something to look forward to. But let us now get to some of my creations which are available today.

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,
Dr. Fugue